path: root/64203-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64203 ***

Transcribed from the 1838 Henry Colburn edition by David Price.  Many
thanks to Mold Library for allowing their copy to be consulted.

                [Picture: Caernarvonshire, from Anglesea]





                                   THE
                            PEDESTRIAN’S GUIDE
                                 THROUGH
                               NORTH WALES.


                                  A TOUR
                            PERFORMED IN 1837.

                                    BY
                           G. J. BENNETT, ESQ.

                          WITH TWENTY ETCHINGS,

                               BY A. CLINT.

                                * * * * *

                                 LONDON:
                         HENRY COLBURN PUBLISHER,
                      13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
                                  1838.

                                * * * * *

                                 LONDON:
                   SCHULZE AND CO., 13, POLAND STREET.




ILLUSTRATIONS, &c.

                                                       Page
     1  Caernarvonshire, from Anglesea.               Title
     2  Chirk Castle.                                    68
     3  Llangollen.                                      93
     4  Font in the grounds of Plas Newydd.              99
     5  Castle Dinas, Bran.                             108
     6  Valle Crucis Abbey.                             121
     7  Pillar of Eliseg.                               128
     8  Bala Lake.                                      155
     9  Cader Idris, from the Bala Road.                171
    10  Parliament House of Owen Glyndwr.               174
    11  View from Carreg y Saeth.                       209
    12  Harlech Castle.                                 215
    13  The Vale of Maentwrog.                          219
    14  The Raven Fall, near Maentwrog.                 231
    15  Pont Aber Glaslyn.                              237
    16  Snowdon, from the Pass of Llyn Gwynant.         251
    17  Pass of Llanberis.                              254
    18  The Coffin of Leolinus Magnus.                  319
    19  Conway Castle.                                  325
    20  Aber.                                           362
                   WELSH MELODIES, ETC.
    21  Guide for the Pedestrian.                        11
    22  The Fairy’s Serenade.                           109
    23  Battle Song.                                    131
    24  Jenny Davies.                                   143
    25  Mountain Mary.                                  176
    26  Dafydd ap Shenkin.                              305
    27  Farewell to North Wales.                        384




CONTENTS.


                              CHAPTER I.
                                                                  Page
Preliminary observations—Preparations for a tour—Coach              11
conversation—A breakfast and an American traveller—Route to
Birmingham—A dinner—Road to Wolverhampton—Eccentric
passengers—Lord Hill’s monument—Shrewsbury.
                             CHAPTER II.
Walk to Montford Bridge—The Severn—An agreeable                     30
companion—Delights of a Tourist—Histrionic
Ambition—Wittington—The Castle—The Church—Curious Epitaphs.
                             CHAPTER III.
Chirk—The Aqueduct—The Deserted, a legend—Description of            57
Chirk Castle—Sketch—The Park—Legend of the enchanted
Stag—The Vale of Llangollen—Account of the Aqueduct called
Pont-y-Cysylltau—Stanzas for music—Llangollen—The Hand in
Hand—A view of the village.
                             CHAPTER IV.
Waking prospect—Plas Newydd and the grounds—Lines written           96
at the font—Castle Dinas, Bran—Legend of Mick Mallow—View
of the Castle—Legend of the Minstrel Fay—Original
Air—Festival.
                              CHAPTER V.
Valle Crucis—The Abbey—Lines written in the ruins—A                121
loquacious porteress—A view of the Abbey—The pillar of
Eliseg—A parting—Road to Corwen—Vale of the Dee—The musical
pedestrian—War song—Over the hills and far away—An
adventure—Corwen—The Church—College—Cross and Circle—Air
Llwyn-own—Route to Llandrillo—An old soldier and his
son—Village of Llandrillo—A fair—Vale of Edeyrnion—Arrival
at Bala.
                             CHAPTER VI.
Bala—The Lake—A Meeting of Magistrates—The                         154
Doctor—Rhewlas—Lines written at Rhewlas—Farewell to the
Bull’s Head—A Jolter—Llanthyn—Vale of Drwstynrnt—Legend of
handsome Hugh and the Fairy—Cader Idris—Dolgelley—Song
“Mountain Mary”—The Town Hall—Parliament House—St. Mary’s
Church—Inns—Angling Station, Doluwcheogryd—The Cataracts of
Rhaiadr Du and Pistyll y Cain—Nannau Park—Anecdote of Owen
Glyndwr and Howell Sele—Road to Barmouth—Arrival—Inns—A
Walk on the sands.
                             CHAPTER VII.
Description of Barmouth—Sketch of the Town—The                     183
Estuary—Friar’s Island—Dinas Gortin—Earl of
Richmond—Anecdote of the men of Ardudwy, and the men of
Denbighshire—Mostyn Hall—A pic-nic party—Llyn Cwm
Bychan—Carreg y Saeth—The Witch of Cwm Bychan—Legendary
Tale—Bwlch Tyddiad—A mountain ride and a regretful farewell
                            CHAPTER VIII.
Harlech—The Inn—The Castle—Anecdote of Dafydd ap Ivan ap           213
Einion—Road to Maentwrog—View—A persevering Cobbler—The
Oakley Arms—Pleasures of Fly fishing—New Companions—Angling
Stations—An Adventure—Road to Tremadoc—Tan y Bwlch—Port
Madoc Breakwater and Mountain Scenery
described—Tremadoc—Tan yr Allt—Pont Aber Glas Llyn—Lines
written at the Bridge—Beddgelert—The Inn—Story of a
Pointer.
                             CHAPTER IX.
Departure from Beddgelert—Vortigern’s Hill—Snowdon—Llynn           246
Gwynant—Lines written upon Llynn Gwynant—Gwrydd—Public
House—Lake Fishing—A Night Adventure—Pass of
Llanberis—Legend of the Giant’s Night-Cap—The Lakes—The
Castle of Dolbadarn and Legend—View of Llanberis.
                              CHAPTER X.
The church of Llanberis—Monumental inscriptions—Story of           280
little John Closs—The Pellings—Capel Curig—Moel
Siabod—Castle of Dolwyddélan—Falls of Benclog—Llyn
Ogwen—Llyn Idwal—Story of Idwal—Route to Llanrwst—Falls of
Rhaiadr y Wennol—Bettws y Coed—The church—Monuments—Pont y
Pair—Ogo ap Shenkin, a Legend—Glee, “Shenkin was a noble
fellow!”
                             CHAPTER XI.
A Mistake—Road to Llanrwst—Gwydir Castle—Llanrwst Shaking          306
Bridge—Inn—The Theatre—Town Hall—Free Schools—Alms
Houses—Rhaiadr y Parc Mawr—Llyn
Gierionydd—Taliesin—Trefriw—Slate Quarries—Conway—The
Suspension Bridge—The Castle—Local Customs—A
Phrenologist—Excursion to the Ormes’ Head—The Smuggler—The
Bump of _Order_.
                             CHAPTER XII.
Route to Aber—Penmaen Mawr—The pet Goat—Aber—Legend of             352
Llywelyn and the Captive Knight—Road from Aber to
Bangor—Penrhyn Castle—Bangor—Inns—The Cathedral—The
Castle—Free Schools—The Menai Bridge—Song, Farewell to
North Wales, air, Ar Hyd y Nos—Conclusion
Appendix                                                           375




PREFACE.


THE Author’s object in offering to the Public the following pages is,
that all who have a desire to examine the beauties of Welsh scenery may
also have an opportunity of seeing the most _interesting_ portion of it
in a tour which will not occupy more than a month.  The route described
in this volume presents a variety of pictures which can scarcely be
equalled, and certainly not surpassed, in any quarter of the globe.  It
is true there are hills higher far than any in Snowdonia, and valleys
more extensive; but, while we are astonished at a description of the
enormous magnitude of the Asiatic and American mountains, and the noble
rivers, and sea-like lakes of the latter, let us take into our
consideration which is the most desirable country to explore; that in
which nature’s prodigies are so extensive that we can neither ascend the
eminences, ford the rivers, nor view the opposite shores of the extensive
lakes; or _that_ where mountains may be scaled with ease, from the
summits of which, a series of glorious panoramas burst upon the
eye,—wherein the valleys, glens and wild ravines present an endless
variety of sublimity and beauty, and the loud torrent and the waterfall
pour forth their melody of never tiring sweetness, to delight the ear?

Seas must be crossed, and miles of dreary and uninteresting country
traversed, in wandering from one grand object to another in the _former_;
while, in the route here represented to the Public,—within the reach of
all—repose and admiration charm the heart by turns, in the rich fertile
valleys, lofty and wood-clad hills, or heather-mantled mountains, of
North Wales.  The traveller is likewise insured the comfort of a good
inn, where he may rest his wearied limbs, after a day’s ramble in
whatever part of the district he chooses to select for his excursion; and
the healthy and active should decidedly make _use_ of their _limbs_, to
bear them through this tour, in preference to the more easy and luxurious
vehicle, and even to the equestrian mode of conveyance.  A good
horsewoman may venture into the dark defiles, or climb the craggy heights
upon the ponys, which are always in readiness at the inns for that
purpose; but between a man and his steed there will most assuredly be a
strong feeling of sympathy created by a conviction, that the one is a
most unnecessary burthen to the other.

For the etchings which illustrate this little work, the Author is
indebted to his friend Mr. Alfred Clint, who accompanied him in his
second tour, and whose judicious selection of subjects has given a value
to the volume, which, without his aid, would have been deficient in its
principal ornaments.  There is no composition in any of the
illustrations; they are the scenes of nature reflected in the mirror of
art.  Not a mountain or valley, grey ruin or waterfall, but is
represented as it really _is_; and for the best reason in the world, viz.
that any attempt to improve upon the subjects, would destroy their real
beauty.

The peasantry are simple, honest, and obliging; and, as they trudge
along, a spirit of freedom sparkles in their eyes, and seems to animate
every action of their unfettered limbs.  Though their fare is humble,
they enjoy it with an appetite to which the bracing air of their hills,
and their happy ignorance of luxuries, give an enviable zest.
Drunkenness is a vice almost unknown among these primitive mountaineers:
milk is their common beverage, oatmeal cakes, and potatoes, with a
plentiful supply of trout from their native streams, form their chief
summer food; while, in winter, dry salted beef and mutton serve to
satisfy their utmost wishes.

    “Though poor the peasant’s hut, his feasts tho’ small,
    He sees his little lot the lot of all.

                                  * * * * *

    Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
    And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms.
    And, as a child, when scaring sounds molest,
    Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast,
    So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind’s roar,
    But bind him to his native mountains more.”




DIRECTIONS
TO THOSE UNACQUAINTED WITH THE WELSH LANGUAGE.


A knowledge of the Welsh alphabet is indispensable to those who are
desirous of correctly pronouncing the necessary questions and answers
that transpire upon the road.  The names of places must effectually
puzzle any tourist, who is not acquainted with the peculiar sound of each
letter, particularly where there are many consonants in a word.  In order
therefore to aid the traveller in Wales, I have selected the following
rules.

In the Welsh alphabet there are no mutes; and all letters that are
circumflex must be pronounced long, as

Bôn like the English Bone.
Bin, as Been.
C, as Can, but never soft as in City.
Ch, is pronounced as the Greek χ.
Dd, as the English Th in theme.
F, as V in English.
Ff, as F and double F in English.
G, as G in good, but never soft as in genial.
I, as I in king but never as in fire.
Ll, as L aspirated.
Th, as in thought.
U, as I in the English words bliss, kiss &c.
W, as double O in good, wood.
Y, as U in burn, but in the last syllable of a word; and in all
monosyllables except Y, Ydd, Ym, Yn, Yr, Ys, Fy, Dy, Myn, it is like I in
Sin.

                                * * * * *

By attending to these rules, the stranger will easily make himself
understood by the peasantry, and on his tours, in enquiring for any place
to which he may be journeying.



GLOSSARY.


Ap, or Ab, is prefixed to proper names, and signifies, the son of.
Aber, the fall of one water into another, a confluence.
Am, about, around.
Ar, upon, or bordering upon.
Avon, or Afon, a river.
Ban, high, lofty, tall.
Bach, little, small.
Bedd, a grave, a sepulchre.
Bettws, a station between hill and vale.
Blaen, a point or end.
Bôd, a residence.
Braich, a branch.
Bron, the breast or slope of a hill.
Bryn, a hill, a mount.
Bychan, little.
Bylch, a gap or pass.
Cader, a chair.
Caer, a city.
Capel, a chapel.
Carn, a heap.
Carnedd, a heap of stones.
Careg, a stone.
Castell, a castle, fortress.
Cil, (pronounced keel) a retreat, a recess.
Clawdd, a hedge, a dyke.
Clogwyn, a precipice.
Coed, a wood.
Cors, a bog, a fen.
Craig, a rock or craig.
Croes, a cross.
Cym, a valley or glen.
Dinas, a fort, a city, or a fortified place.
Dol, a meadow or dale in the bend of the river.
Drws, a doorway, a pass.
Dû, black.
Dwfr or Dwr, water.
Dyffryn, a valley.
Eglwys, a church.
Ffordd, away, a road a passage.
Ffynnon, a well, a spring.
Garth, a hill bending round.
Glàn, a brink or shore.
Glâs, bluish or greyish green.
Glyn, a glen or valley through which a river runs.
Gwern, a watery meadow.
Gwydd, a wood.
Gwyn, white, fair.
Llan, a church, a smooth area, an inclosure.
Llwyn, a grove.
Maen, a stone.
Mawr, great.
Moel, a smooth conical hill.
Mynydd, a mountain.
Nant, a ravine, a brook.
Newydd, new, fresh.
Pant, a hollow or valley.
Pistyll, a spout, a cataract.
Plas, a hall or palace.
Plwyf, a parish.
Pont, a bridge.
Porth, a ferry, a port, a gateway.
Pwll, a pit or pool.
Rhaiadr, a cataract.
Rhiw, an ascent.
Ryhd, a ford.
Sarn, a causeway, a pavement.
Tal, the front or head, also tall.
Traeth, a sand or shore.
Tre or Tref, a home, a town.
Twr, a tower.
Ty, a house.
Y, the, of.
Yn, in, at, into.
Ynys, an island.
Ystrad, a vale, a dale.
Yspytty, a hospital, an almshouse.

                                * * * * *

By referring to this short Glossary, the tourist will find no difficulty
in understanding the meanings of the different names given to the
different places through which he will have to pass.



INTERJECTIONS.


As there are many interjectional adverbs made use of in the following
pages, a glossary of them might prove useful.

Aro! stop!
Dacw! yonder!
Dyna, dyna! there, there.
Dyt, dyt! hold, hold!
Fwrz! away!
Gwae, woe.
Hai how! heigho!
Hwnt! avaunt!
O dyn! oh dear!
Oia! oh pray!
Oio! hear me!
Truan bac! poor little thing!
Truan hyny! poor thing, that it was!
Twt! pshaw!
Wela, wela! well, well!
Ysywaeth! the more the pity!




GUIDE FOR THE PEDESTRIAN.

         ROUTE.               COUNTIES.        MILES.     PRINCIPAL INNS.      OBJECTS OF           ANGLING
                                                                                INTEREST.          STATIONS.
From LONDON to            Salop                     154  The                The House of       The Severn.
SHREWSBURY,                                              Talbot—Raven—      Industry—
                                                         Lion, and the      Military
                                                         Fox.               Depôt—Lord
                                                                            Hill’s
                                                                            Column—Quarry
                                                                            Walk—and the
                                                                            Castle.
thence to WITTINGTON      Do.                        16                     The Castle, and    The Severn.
                                                                            the Church.
CHIRK                     Denbighshire                6  The Hand.          The Castle—The     The Ceiriog.
                                                                            Aqueduct and
                                                                            Vale.
LLANGOLLEN                Do.                         7  The Hand—King’s    Bran—Church—Plas   The Dee—to
                                                         Head, and Royal    Newydd—Pont        Corwen or
                                                         Oak.               Cysylltan.         Overton.
CORWEN                    Merionethshire             10  The Owen           The                Between Corwen
                                                         Glyndwr.           Church—Cross—      and Llan St.
                                                                            Glyndwys           Ffraid bridge.
                                                                            Seat—Vale of
                                                                            Edeyrnion.
BALA                      Do.                        12  White Lion &       The Lake—Aran      Bala lake and
                                                         Bull’s Head.       Fowddwy—Arrenig    pool, halfway up
                                                                            Vawr—Arrenig       the Arrenig
                                                                            Vach.              Vach—R. Dee.
DOLGELLEY                 Do.                        18  Golden             Nannau             Lanvachreth 3½
                                                         Lion—Angel, &      Park—Kymmer        miles—Dol-y-
                                                         Ship.              Abbey—County       gammed, on the
                                                                            gaol—Parliament    Avon, 4
                                                                            House of Owen      miles—Llyn
                                                                            Glyndwr—The        Cregnan, S.W. 4
                                                                            Falls of Rhaiadr   miles—Llyn
                                                                            Mawddach—Rhaiadr   Gader, 1½ m—Llyn
                                                                            Du, and            Griew, 5
                                                                            Pistyll-y-Cain.    m—Tal-y-llyn, on
                                                                                               Cader Idris, 6
                                                                                               m.
BARMOUTH                  Do.                        10  Commercial Inn,    Old Town—Sarn      Llyn Raithlyn,
                                                         and Cors-y-gedol   Badric—Cors-y-     near
                                                         Arms.              gedol.             Trawsfynydd—
                                                                                               Arthog Chapel, 3
                                                                                               m. distant—Llyn
                                                                                               Bodlyn, 4 M.
                                                                                               from
                                                                                               Barmouth—Llyn
                                                                                               Teddin and Llyn
                                                                                               Gierw, near the
                                                                                               town.
HARLECH                   Do.                        10  The Blue Lion.     The Castle—Cwm     Llanvihangel, on
                                                                            Bychan—The         Dwyryd, 5
                                                                            Cromlech, 2        m—Llanbedr on
                                                                            miles S. in a      the Bychan, 3
                                                                            farm called        m—Llyn-y-Vedw,
                                                                            Gwern Einion—A     Llyn Eiddaw,
                                                                            Druidical circle   Llyn
                                                                            between the Farm   Glyn—Llyn-y-cwm
                                                                            and Harlech.       Bychan—Llyn
                                                                                               Trewyn.
MAENTWROG                 Do.                        10  Maentwrog Inn,     Tan-y-Bwlch—       Llyn Llanyrch,
                                                         and Oakley Arms.   Slate Quarries,    3½ m (good
                                                                            5 m—Rhaiadr Du     trout)—
                                                                            and Raven fall,    Cwmmorthin Lake
                                                                            2 m—Festiniog, 3   (in the pass of
                                                                            m—Falls of         Cwmmorthin) 4½
                                                                            Cynfall—Roman      m—Llyn Mannot, 6
                                                                            encampment         m (large
                                                                            (Toman Mur) 3 m    trout)—Llyn
                                                                            from Festiniog.    Murionion, 6
                                                                                               m—Llyn Tackwyn.
                                                                                               3 m.
TREMADOC                  Caernarvonshire.          10½  Madoc Arms.        The Breakwater     Angling from
                                                                            at Port            Tremadoc.
                                                                            Madoc—The
                                                                            Church.
BEDDGELERT                Do.                       10½  The Goat.          Gelert’s           Nant
                                                                            grave—The chair    Gwynnant—Llyn
                                                                            of Rhys Gocho’r’   Dinas—Cwm
                                                                            Ryri—Pont Aber     Llan—Llyn
                                                                            Glas Llyn.         Gwynnant—Llyn
                                                                                               Llydan.
LLANBERIS                 Do.                        14  The Victoria,      Dolbadarn          Upper and lower
                                                         and Snowdonia.     Castle—The         lakes (bad
                                                                            Church—The Tomb    sport)—Llyn Cwm
                                                                            of little John     Dwythog, 2
                                                                            Closs—Well of      m—Llyn Llydan
                                                                            St.                (on Snowdon), 5
                                                                            Peris—Lakes—       m—Glaslyn, on
                                                                            Pass.              the W. of
                                                                                               Snowdon.
CAPEL CURIG               Do.                        10  Capel Curig Inn.   Rhaiadr-y-Wennol
                                                                            waterfall—Moel-Siabod—
                                                                            Dolwyddelan
                                                                            Castle, 5 m.
BETTWS-Y-COED             Do.                         5                     Pont-y-pair—       Lake Ogwen—Nant
                                                                            Shenkin’s          Francon—Llyn
                                                                            Cave—Church—       Idwal—R. Llugwy.
                                                                            Monument to
                                                                            Davyd Goch.
LLANRWST                  Denbighshire.               5  The Eagles.        The
                                                                            Bridge—Gwydir
                                                                            Castle—The
                                                                            Church—Gwydir
                                                                            Chapel.
CONWAY                    Caernarvonshire.           12  The Castle, and    The                Bettws-y-Coed, 3
                                                         the Newborough     Castle—Church—     m—Trevriw, 2 ½
                                                         Arms.              Curious            m—Dol-garrog, 4
                                                                            monuments—Plas     m—Llanbedr, 5
                                                                            Mawr—Ormes-head.   m—Dolwyddelan, 8
                                                                                               m—Tal-y-Llyn,
                                                                                               and Llyn
                                                                                               Crafnant, near
                                                                                               Llanrwst.
ABER-GWYNGREGYN           Do.                         9  The Bulkley        The Waterfall      Llyn Ogwen—Llyn
                                                         Arms.              and Glen—Penmaen   Idwal, and Ogwen
                                                                            Mawr.              river.
BANGOR                    Do.                        5½  The Penrhyn        Penrhyn            The fishing
                                                         Arms—The           Castle—Slate       stations as
                                                         Castle—the         quarries—          above.
                                                         Liverpool Arms,    Caenarvon—Menai
                                                         and Albion.        Bridge—Beaumaris
                                                                            and
                                                                            Castle—Penmon
                                                                            Monastery—Plas
                                                                            Newydd—Baron
                                                                            Hill—Puffin
                                                                            Island, and the
                                                                            Cathedral.

CHAPTER I.


Preliminary observations—Preparations for a tour—Coach conversation—A
breakfast and an American traveller—Route to Birmingham—A dinner—Road to
Wolverhampton—Eccentric passengers—Lord Hill’s monument—Shrewsbury.

    “Like brethren now do Welshmen still agree
    In as much love as any men alive;
    The friendship there and concord that I see
    I doe compare to bees in honey hive,
    Which keep in swarme, and hold together still,
    Yet gladly showe to stranger great good will;
    A courteous kinde of love in every place
    A man may finde, in simple people’s face.”

                                                               CHURCHYARD.

VARIOUS, as the features of human nature, are the sources of human
happiness.  Some derive their choicest pleasure from historical accounts
of men who lived in by-gone ages, and in re-creating events that have
long since been engulphed in the abyss of time,—breaking down the
barriers of intervening years, and mingling, in idea, with those who were
once deemed the glorious of the earth, who now lie blended with its
grossest atoms, or are confounded with the purer elements.  Some,
parching with the thirst of knowledge, seek to slake the fever of their
minds with most laborious research; explore the utmost regions of the
globe to find a shorter marine passage; or pierce into its depths to seek
for treasures which only exist in their heated fancies.  The vast ocean
is fathomed to satisfy the ruling principle of their natures,—curiosity;
and the realms of air traversed with the same motive to insure the
universally desired result, self-gratification.  While some, leaving the
elements to perform the destined changes, are willing to agree with the
poet, who in the warmth of his philanthropy exclaims:

    “The proper study of mankind is man;”

and among this class of beings the author of these pages may be ranked,
although he willingly confesses nature has the power of charming him in
her most minute as in her most stupendous works, from the curious and
confined instinct of the ant and of the bee to the wonderful and
exhaustless energies of the human mind,

                “That source
    Whence learning, virtue, wisdom, all things flow.”

The court, the city, and the country, present an endless variety of
subjects for contemplation; and the latter being the region of delight to
those whose business confines them to the metropolis for the winter
months, the author of this volume is anxious to be thought a useful and
an amusing companion to such tourists who, in pursuit of health and the
charms of nature, may wander

    “In the Welsh vales ’mid mountains high,”

where the sublime and beautiful present themselves at every turn to
captivate the eye, and ruddy health colours the smiling faces of every
peasant girl and shepherd boy, from Chirk to Holyhead.

To a mind capable of estimating fine scenery, how delightful are the
hurry and bustle which usually take place on the morning of departure, in
fond expectation of realizing the anticipated pleasure of viewing those
beauties of nature the imagination has but weakly painted!  The sun is
scarcely sooner up than the traveller; and, although the coach in which
he is to be rolled some hundred and fifty miles will not start for
perhaps three hours, his anxiety preponderates over the now slighted
comforts of his bed of down, and with an agile leap he quits his restless
pillow, and hastily despatching the business of his toilet, with his
heart beating high, and his knapsack already stuffed with three shirts,
as many pairs of stockings, guide books, and as few other necessaries as
may be, in order to make his walking wardrobe as light as possible, he
prepares to “take the road.”  If a disciple of old Isaac Walton and
Cotton, he will not fail to have his book of flies, lines, reel, &c., and
a light fly rod to carry in his hand, and for which he is sure to have
use whenever he feels inclined for piscatory pastime on his tour.  So
stocked and provided, he bids defiance to the evils of life; and may
exclaim with the poet

    “Warly cares and warly men
    May a’ gae tapsalteeree O!”

“Do you ride upon the box, sir?”

“To be sure I do—paid that fellow to keep it for me.”

“All right, sir: mount if you please,—not a minute to spare.  All right
behind there?”

“All right.”

“Hold fast, sir!—let ’em go, Joey!  Blow avay, Bill,” then addressing the
near wheeler; “eh, vot, you’re at your tantarums again!  I’ll vork ’em
out of you before ve gets to the end of the stage.  Do you know, sir, it
vas all along of this here varmint that ve’d the upset last veek.”

“Indeed! we’ve a pleasant prospect before us, then.”

“Oh there’s no fear, sir; I vas never upset in my life, and I’ve been
upon this here road for five and twenty years come next Christmas; but it
vas all along of a gemman as had the reins in hand, ven poor Ned Burkem
just vent in for his mornins, at the King’s Arms—yonder you may see the
sign just afore us; ve alvays stops there for our mornins, case you see,
sir, the landlord vas von of us, and his daughter is a main pretty girl.
I suppose, sir, you’ve no objection to look at a pretty girl, ha, ha!”

“None in the world, James.”

“Veil, here ve are; and now, sir, if you’ll just lay hold of the ribbons
for von minute, I’ll leave ’em this here parcel.”

To this proposition I agreed, with the proviso that one ostler should
hold the tricksey mare, and another stand at the leaders’ heads, having
no wish for a repetition of poor old Ned Burkem’s mishap.  The parcel
being delivered, the half pint of purl swallowed, and James again seated,
like ruddy Phœbus, on the coach box, the horses were put in motion to the
tune of eleven miles an hour.

“Very pretty travelling this, Mr. —, I beg your pardon, sir, but your
name is —”

“Yes, you’re right, James.”

“Veil, I thought I vas, sir; it’s not always that I can remember names,
sir; for you must know that, although I’ve drove some thousands in my
time, just seated where you are, sir, at this present, I don’t think I
could remember one half of their names.”

“Very surprising indeed, for a man of your observation.”

“Lord bless you, sir, vy my observation is nothing to Squire —, that’s
his house you see on your left; they say he can see the Eclipse (coach)
in the moon.  But they can’t tool ’em along as ve does here, I take it,
sir.  Go along, snarler!”

James’s tongue and the coach continued in rapid progress; and in due time
we reached the Sportsman Inn at Whetstone, when the passengers had an
opportunity of displaying the extraordinary effects produced by the
morning air upon fasting stomachs.  A lady and her daughter, who were
inside passengers, did ample justice to the fare; the latter, in
particular, payed away at the cold fowl and ham in a manner truly
surprising.  “Coach ready, ladies,” cried James; and up jumped mother and
pet, with mouths full of fowl, toast, etc., which they washed down,
unmasticated, with the dregs of their tea; and in a minute were again
seated inside the coach, opposite to two gentlemen, one rather a
corpulent man, with “spectacles on nose,” the other a gay young citizen,
who was to leave us at Barnet.

The coach had not started above five minutes, before fragrant wreaths of
smoke were making their escape out of the window, and delighting the
outside passengers with the refreshing odour: for this we were indebted
to the stout gentleman before mentioned, who having lately arrived from
America, could not be expected to understand the civilized customs of
travellers in England, and who inconsiderately concluded that his cigar
was as agreeable to the ladies as to himself.  It proved otherwise,
however: the cold fowl lay uneasy, and the ham seemed to object to being
smoked.  This, both ladies endeavoured to intimate to their opposite
neighbour, by sundry wry faces and beseeching looks.  At length, his
cigar being nearly finished, the smoker could no longer pretend blindness
to the distressing condition to which he had reduced his companions—and
he then asked “if they had any objection to smoking?”

The elderly lady, whose politeness had extended to the utmost limits of
her nature, with a forced smile replied (while the ashy paleness of her
face spoke the tumult that was stirring within,) “Not the—slightest, sir,
if you have no objection to—to—” open the other window, she would have
said, but the daughter could no longer support the motion of the coach
and the fumes of tobacco, and, to the horror of the American gentleman,
he instantly found himself in no very enviable situation.

He started from his seat, and almost lifted the roof of the coach off by
the concussion between it and his head.  “No objection, madam!” cried he
in great wrath; “but I wish you to understand that I have a very great
objection to this, I calculate!—Here, coachman! stop! let me get out!
will you?”

Coachee complied, and the ladies were doubly relieved.

“I’m in a pretty considerable pickle, I’m thinking!” said he, as he
seated himself behind us on the roof.

The more agreeable rattle of the wheels prevented our hearing more of his
complaints, and we arrived at Barnet.

About a mile and a half from Barnet, upon the right, is the estate of Mr.
Byng, and a little further, on the left, that of Mr. Trotter.  The town
of St. Albans with its ancient Abbey, which creates pleasing ideas of
bygone times, of monks and friars, “fat pullets and clouted cream,” was
passed through; and descending the hill, on leaving the town, fresh
objects became interesting to the eye.

After leaving Gorham Bury, Earl Verulam’s seat on the left, we came to
Market Street and passed a delightful residence called Market Cell, the
property of a Mr. Johnson, and beyond Sir F. P. Turner’s on the right,
and Mr. Duncombe’s on the left, are places that make a man desirous of
possessing £10,000 per annum.

Dunstable is rattled through next, and then comes _Fenny Stratford_,
_Stony Stratford_, _Easton Neston_, and then _Lord Pomfret’s_ noble
domain.  _Towcester_ comes next upon the list, and _Weedon Barracks_,
where a view of the rail road presents itself.

Then the coach enters Dunchurch, changing horses at the Dun Inn; where
being pretty well roasted in the hot sun, some of the passengers
endeavoured to obtain a draught of something to moisten their parched
throats; but if the garrison of Weedon had discharged all their powder in
firing an alarm, and the bells of Dunchurch had joined in the uproar, I
do not think a single soul would have answered the summons in the Dun
Inn.  We were obliged therefore to ascend again, with throats unquenched.

From Dunchurch the coach passes through a noble avenue of elms and firs
which stretches for six miles beyond the village, certainly the finest
avenue, in extent, I ever beheld; and the size of the trees is not the
least interesting object, spreading their luxuriant branches until they
form almost a continuous bower.

Coventry sends forth her store of ragged urchins to see the London coach
come in, and peeping Tom, in effigy, looks as inquisitive as peeping Tom
himself could have done.

_Aylesley Church_ is a very beautiful structure; and a little beyond is
Packington Hall, the Mansion of Lord Aylesford.

At Bucknell, another view of the railroad is obtained; and at length, to
the infinite joy of hungry passengers, Birmingham, and dinner, appear in
the distance.

We drew up to the inn.  I was the only passenger who entered the dining
room.  The coach was to stop for twenty minutes; and after waiting ten
with the patience of a stoic, the waiter entered with a calf’s head,
cold, over which some boiling water had been poured, by way of sauce.  I
am fond of a mealy potatoe, and some were placed before me thoroughly
saturated; a cauliflower, boiled in the scented waters of fifty other
vegetables, completely scared away my appetite, and fully answered the
purposes both of landlord and coachman.

The latter at that moment popping his head in at the door, “Coach ready,
sir, if you please!”

“I’m glad of it; what’s to pay, my girl?”

“Three and sixpence for dinner, sir, if you please, and threepence for
ale.”

    “Experience makes fools wise,”

I exclaimed, as with an empty stomach I reseated myself upon the box.

“St—st—go along! a fine town this, sir!”

“Is it?”

“Don’t you think so, sir?

“I never was in such a half starved, hungry looking place in my life,”
cried I, at that time feeling the cravings of nature strong within me,
and fancying I saw the ghost of a London cook shop, flitting before my
eyes.

The road from Birmingham to Shrewsbury, if travelled by night, gives a
stranger a glowing idea of the “fiery regions,” never mentioned to “ears
polite.”  No description can come up to the flaming reality exhibited in
the appearance of this country; hundreds of hills of burning coke blaze
in all directions, and the air is scarcely endurable from the gaseous
qualities of the smoke, which sweeps across the road in huge columns,
almost suffocating every passenger who ventures upon that dismal tract.

But increasing horrors gather round the devoted tourist as he advances
further, on the road to Wolverhampton: thousands of indistinct forms move
in the glare of the distant fires, or flit, like a legion of black
devils, over the burning coals; sometimes standing in bold relief before
the blazing chimneys of fifty or sixty steam engines, that send up bursts
of flame glaring in all directions; and imagination might picture
thousands of fallen angels, tossing their flaming brands above their
heads, in frantic sport and direful revelry.

Groups of grinning imps sat scattered near the road side, whose yellings
made the welkin ring again as we passed by them.  Roaring Bacchanals
filled the air with their drunken shouts; and withered hags held out
their bony hands for alms, to be expended in liquid fire for their
throats.

Behind me, on the roof of the coach, were two most eccentric travellers
who had taken their places at Birmingham for Shrewsbury.  The night was
cold, and one, whom I discovered to be of the Emerald Isle, had, with
national foresight, provided himself with a dacent drop of “the mountain
dew,” just to keep the wind off his stomach; and next to him was seated a
demure looking personage, who by his peculiar dialect proved to be a son
of Scotia—

    “Land of the mountain and the flood.”

“By the honor of Erin!” exclaimed the first, “I’m not at all surprised to
find you such a silent companion, for it’s a mighty cowld night, and your
conversation must nat’rally freeze before its spoken.  Will you take a
drop of comfort to thaw it, my darlint?” at the same time presenting a
flask of potheen to the party he addressed.

It must be observed that this sprig of shamrock was dressed in a blue
jacket, with a light summer waistcoat, and a pair of duck trowsers, which
suited admirably the mid-day ride, but were inefficient to exclude the
cold night air.  But I suppose he went, like the generality of his
countrymen, upon the philosophical principle, that “a light heart and a
thin pair of breeches goes thorough the world, my brave boys.”  His
companion was dressed in a velvet shooting jacket, thick plush trowsers,
and waistcoat of the same, over which he wore a heavy box coat, which was
encased in a cloth cloak of unusual dimensions: over this was a
mackintosh cape, and his head was enveloped in a fur cap, fastened by an
Indian silk handkerchief tied round the chin—and altogether he seemed to
defy wind and weather.

This bundle of comfort, pulling down for an instant the neckerchief,
which was also rolled round the aperture of speech, emphatically stated
that he had no need of the offer.

“For ye ken,” said he, “that I’m a prudent mon, and never venture outside
o’ the coach, unless I have a’ the comforts o’ the inside about me;
there’s ne’er a mon, sir, shut up in that unhealthy box, ye may ken, but
is caulder than mysel; and I guess, fra’ the garments on your person,
that ye’re no quite sae warm.”

“Why thin if I was, I’d be thinking myself nearer to a certain personage
than I have any inclination to be for the next half century.”

“But ye ken that extremes meet; and I think by that calculation ye may be
nearer to the friend ye mention than I am, seeing that I am but just
comfortable, and ye are near the freezing point.”

Having uttered this sarcasm upon his shivering companion, the canny Scot
replaced the muffler over his lips, as a signal for silence, while the
Irishman, taking another draught from his pocket pistol, sang a stanza of
Erin go bragh, and consoled himself with striking a light for his cigar,
from which he sent clouds of smoke, which made our travelling convenience
resemble, in the gloom, a steam carriage, as it flew along, with nearly
as great rapidity; the lighted end serving, as a warming pan to his nose,
which thus illuminated, seemed not much unlike a blue light, such as
mariners burn for signals of distress.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Boxer,” said he, touching me on the shoulder,
“but are you a politician?”

“Why, to say the truth, sir,” I replied, “I interfere as little as
possible with what, I conceive, wiser heads than mine are greatly
puzzled.”

“Why that’s true, sure enough,” continued he, “but may be you’ve heard of
the—holloa!”

Here he was interrupted by his bulky companion, whom a lurch of the coach
had flung heavily upon him as he was leaning forward to reach my ear.
The Scotchman had fallen asleep, and effectually prevented his neighbour
from regaining his sitting posture, by the weight of his body and its
envelopes.

“Blood an’ ’ounds, man, what are ye about?” roared my friend in the thin
inexpressibles.  “Sure I might as well be porter to Atlas himself, and
carry his load.  Will you get up, if you please?  By the shade of
O’Donahue, but I’ll create a connexion betwixt your nose and the lighted
end of my cigar, if you don’t let me up.”

A sonorous grunt, which drowned the rattle of the coach wheels, was the
only reply to this appeal, and Paddy being unacquainted with the
language, immediately put his threat into execution.  I have said before
it was a cold night, and Sandy, who naturally enough started, at the
application of the cigar to his proboscis, from his ideal world to a
dreamy consciousness of his real situation, placing his hand on the
injured part, exclaimed, still half bewildered, “Eh! that’s vera true,
indeed.  It’s a cauld night, and I verily believe that my nose is
frost-bitten.  I maun pit t’other shawl round it;” saying which he
dragged one from his pocket, and was completely enveloped, apparently to
suffocation.

“Why then, I’ve heard of salamanders, but Scotland must be mighty cauld
since you left it,” said my thinly clad fellow traveller, when a half
smothered voice spoke through the rolls of shawls and silk handkerchiefs.
“Do you find yoursel’ sae hot in my company?”

The castinet-like sounds of the Irishman’s teeth was the only reply to
this question, and silence ensued.

“What column is that we are approaching, coachman?”

“Why that, sir, is a pillar.”

“Thank ye; but what was it placed there for?”

“Why, sir, it was put there by subscription, as a compliment to Lord
Hill.”

“Oh, indeed!”

The column is of the Doric order, rising from a base.  The angles are
ornamented with lions couchant, and the height of the pillar is 132 feet;
upon its summit was placed a figure which old Push-along assured me was a
fine likeness of old Rowley; it was erected in 1814.

“Blow the horn, Ned, will you!”  And now, rattling over stones, through
streets crowded with youthful idlers assembled to catch a sight of the
new comers, we rapidly approached the inn.  In a moment more we were at
the gate of the Lion.

A good supper and a comfortable bed made amends for the bad dinner and
the cold ride, and in the morning I arose much refreshed, and sallied
forth to view the town.




CHAPTER II.


Walk to Montford Bridge—The Severn—An agreeable companion—Delights of a
Tourist—Histrionic Ambition—Wittington—The Castle—The Church—Curious
Epitaphs.

    “Oh Wittington, among thy towers
    Pleas’d did my early childhood stray,
    Bask’d on thy walls in sunny hours
    And pull’d thy moss and pluck’d thy flowers
    Full many a truant day.”

                                                             FITZ-GWARINE.

AFTER breakfasting at the inn, I, like the honorable Dick Dowlass, with
my wardrobe on my back, and a light heart, proceeded on the road to
Chirk.

The Severn, to the right, winded beautifully towards the ancient town I
left behind.  Bees hummed—birds sang—and blossoms sent forth their
fragrance to delight the traveller as he gaily trudged “the footpath
way.”  Cheerfulness was above, beneath, around me, and in my heart.  I
paused upon the bridge at Montford, to take a lingering farewell of the
sweet flowing Severn, its wooded banks and meadows gay; and was about to
commence a sublime soliloquy, when I was accosted by an elderly personage
in a straw hat, fustian shooting coat, knee-breeches, gaiters and shoes.
He had a stout cudgel in his hand, and a knapsack, more capacious than
mine, strapped across his shoulders.  He appeared to be about fifty-five
years of age, and being furnished like myself, it struck me that a
passing traveller might naturally enough take us for father and son.

Fortunately we were both pursuing the same route, and a desultory
dialogue commenced with the never failing observation:

“A fine morning, sir.”

“Very.”

“A noble river this, sir?”

“Beautiful.”

“A great admirer of the charms of nature, I presume, sir?”

“An enthusiastic one.”

“You’re for the Welsh vales, I suppose?”

“And mountains high!” I exclaimed, warming to my loquacious companion.

    “In the Welsh vales ’mid mountains high,”

sang he, in a hearty, round-toned voice, with which I chimed in, and we
were the best friends, on a sudden.

There certainly is no society so interesting as that picked up by the
tourist, who leaves with contempt the starched formalities of a great
city behind him, and walks forth, unencumbered by care, to enjoy the
society of mankind in its varied and unsophisticated nature.  Every
person we meet affords us information and delight; for a kindred spirit
animates almost every individual whom you may chance to encounter in
countries remarkable for beauties of scenery, and especially in a region
like North Wales, where inns of the best kind are situated at the most
convenient points, and the foot passenger is treated with as much respect
as a lord in his carriage with four post horses.  The landlords of inns
here, think that a man may make the proper use of his legs without being
a beggar; and that the costume of a pedestrian may cover the form of a
gentleman.  And this philanthropic conception contributes to form that
happy combination, civil hosts and merry travellers.

There is no want of society, nor any difficulty in selecting that with
which you are best pleased, for every evening brings in fresh comers from
various quarters to the different places of rest and refreshment.  The
exchange of information respecting routes, the different adventures of
the day, the peculiar feelings displayed in their recital, and
countenances lit up with pleasure, give a degree of animation to the
evening, never to be equalled in the brilliant drawing-room, the blaze of
which seems to put out the eyes of reason,

    “And men are—what they name not to themselves,
    And trust not to each other.”

I soon discovered that my companion was a traveller of no common
information; that he was a collector of legends, an antiquarian, and a
geologist; and congratulated myself upon meeting with one who, as he gave
me to understand, was intimately acquainted with a variety of
circumstances, not generally known, which had taken place in “days of
yore,” upon the very ground we were about to traverse, and which he had
frequently visited before.

He had been an actor in his youth, and as the scenery between Mountford
Bridge and the village of Wittington has little to engage the attention,
I will here relate a portion of his early history, with which he amused
me during our journey.



HISTRIONIC AMBITION.


It was a foggy morning when Triptolemus,—for so I shall designate my new
acquaintance,—who had unfortunately been deeply bitten by a mad actor,
arose, feverish from his sleepless pillow, to awaken the cocks of the
surrounding neighbourhood with the loud rattle of his histrionic tongue.
He had, with some difficulty, prevailed upon the manager of the theatre
to permit him to make his appearance on the stage, and the character
selected for his attempt was Richmond—the gallant Richmond!

In the centre of the filthy town of — stands an ancient castle, situated
upon a lofty hill, which is now turned into a county jail.  There was
around it formerly a deep moat, which having for many years been dried
up, is now converted into pleasure gardens for the corporation.  From the
top of the hill there was, at this time, an opening, much like a trap
door, where commenced a descent by winding steps, leading to the gardens
beneath, and to some gates made in the iron railings that encompassed the
moat upon the other side.

Upon the summit of the hill, Triptolemus walked with all the dignity of
an English baron.  The ancient fortress, that frowned above him, gave
additional fire to his excited imagination; and, as he spoke of knights
and fellows in arms, and mused of war, banners, and crop ear’d steeds,
the present peaceful times were dead to him, and nothing lived within his
gallant thoughts but those whose bones have long since whitened in the
dust.

Triptolemus had walked round, and round again, about the distance of half
a mile, spouting Shakespeare to “the unconscious wind,” when, as he was
about to take “round the third,” instead of looking at the earth, his
inspired glance was directed to the sky; and at the instant he exclaimed,
“thus far into the bowels of the land,” he vanished into the earth
through the before mentioned trap door! and awakening from his surprize,
he found himself half smothered in a bed of manure, at the bottom of the
steps.—When he had in some degree recovered from his alarm, and
ascertained that his person had escaped injury, his first reflection was
upon the fall of Lucifer,

    “From night to morn—from morn to dewy eve,
    A summer’s day!”

He then looked round him and fancied himself in Johnson’s happy valley,
himself the prince, and, like him, discontented with his lot, when he was
suddenly aroused to a sense of his real situation by the pointed
application of a pitchfork, unceremoniously handled by a sturdy boor, who
saluted him with, “Where the devil didst thee come from?”  His indignant
spirit now gave vent to its uncontrollable fury, in a torrent of blank
verse!  He felt that, like Hamlet, he could

             “Do such deeds
    As hell itself would quake to look upon.”

But, like Posthumous, he was doubtful which to select.  His soul was in
arms!—and the thrice valiant embryo Richmond exclaimed,

    “Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just;
    And he but naked, tho’ lock’d up in steel,
    Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.”

“I fell into this damned place through your neglect in leaving the trap
door open, you bloody and devouring boar,”—eyeing him all the while with
a glance that seemed to say, “If I thought you wholesome, I’d turn
cannibal.”

The bumkin, however, took no further notice of it than to assure him, if
he did not presently take to his heels, he would toss him out on the
prongs of his fork.

O! what a field for fancy did this threat open to his susceptible mind!
The tattered hat of the unceremonious gardener was converted into a
coronet of snakes that reared their threatening crests and hissed
furiously at the astonished hero.  His ruddy face assumed the Gorgon’s
look, turning him almost into stone.  The weapon in his hand grew fiery
red, and for a foot there seemed a cloven hoof.

An attempted application of the torturing steel however, gave motion to
his limbs;—away he scampered up the steep ascent, not daring to turn a
solitary glance behind, until he reached the spot from whence he fell.

This accident conjured up a train of reflections upon the vanity of human
wishes!  “Alas!” exclaimed he, “it is but a few minutes since I fancied
myself a hero at the head of a victorious army, before which thousands
would turn and fly, or grimly bite the dust; and now I find myself a
wretched thing! routed by a base born hind with a muck fork in his hand!
Oh! vile disgrace!  I only wish that fellow may see me on the boards
to-morrow night—I’ll frown him into a liquid.”

Upon the night of this eventful morning the stage-struck Triptolemus had
very unquiet dreams; his head was filled, he said, with a chaotic mass of
indistinct and indescribable objects.  The last thought he had while
awake was how he should look when dressed as the gallant Richmond;—and
having settled that point to his own satisfaction, he resigned himself to

    “Sweet Nature’s second course.”

He waves aloft his glittering steel—he spurs his coal black charger to
the field.—Forward! he cries—and the hostile ranks advance in terrible
array, inspired by their heroic leader!  All then becomes hubbub, turmoil
and confusion, higglety pigglety, up and down, slash away work.  He meets
the tyrant king—fiercely they struggle for the mastery—slap bang go their
battle axes; when suddenly a number of shadowy forms, with blood-red
cabbage-heads, encircle the enfuriated pair, yelling and dancing at the
white-rose king;—the gallant Richmond staggers beneath the prowess of his
vigorous opponent, and half believes the field is lost, when through the
spectre group a headless horseman breaks with furious speed.—’Tis
Buckingham!—he waves his gory head aloft in his red hand, and as Tydides
whirled the fragment of a rock upon his foe, even with such fury flung
the shade his head, full upon the visage of his fated Richard;—he
falls—the shadows vanish with loud cries of joy! when suddenly a dreadful
blow is dealt upon the temples of the conquering Richmond;—the chains of
sleep are broken, and Triptolemus lies stretched upon the floor.

He arose confused; he pondered upon his dream, rubbed his bruised
forehead, and began conclusions from the visions of the night.  These
proving satisfactory, he descended to the breakfast parlour, inwardly
exclaiming,

    “May good digestion wait on appetite.”

The rehearsal in the morning gave additional confidence, the manager
having pronounced it a very promising specimen of his ability.

Night came—and he was at his post three hours before his presence would
be required upon the stage.  His hair, of which he had a great profusion,
was twisted into innumerable curls by a one-eyed frizzeur who received a
payment of twelve pence per night from the manager for decorating the
heads of his talented performers; his limbs were cased in the warlike
habiliments of the 15th century, which (with the trifling inconvenience,
occasioned by their being made for a person of nearly double his
dimensions some twenty years before, and the few dilapidations they had
received from the numberless falls, thwacks, rents, etc. during their
long and faithful servitude) gave him the appearance of a warrior of some
personal endowments.  The helmet was peculiarly formed, resembling that
worn in the 14th century; for this appendage to the son of Mars had been
neglected until the very last moment, when it was supposed to be
impossible to procure one; but Triptolemus, ever fertile in resources,
seized upon a shining tin saucepan, in which the Duke of Buckingham had
brought some barley water to the theatre for the purpose of clearing his
voice, emptied its contents, and having divested it of its handle, made
of it an admirable completion to his costume.  At the end of the first
act, he walked, with all the self possession of a veteran stager, into an
apartment called the green-room, but which exhibited a clear face of
white-wash, emblematic of those who frequented its chaste precincts.  It
was furnished with chairs, stools, and a huge family sofa, evidently the
work of the “olden time.”  This seemed a seat suited to Triptolemus,
puffed out as he was with the pride of his appearance; but unfortunately
the light comedian, when playing the part of Doricourt, fell so heavily
upon it, in the mad scene, that he made a fatal breach in the bottom,
which as yet had not undergone a repair.  King Henry the sixth (a short,
stout, pompous man, who never moved but one arm in acting, and that with
the exact motion of a pump handle) was seated on one side of the fire
place, in an altitude of deep thought.  Triptolemus remembered his dream,
and was astonished at the close resemblance between the red cabbage head
of the shadow and the rubicund visage of the portly personage in the
chimney corner.  His surprise was the greater for that he had not met
this gentleman at the rehearsal, he having sent an apology for his
absence, being hotly engaged (as he termed it) in _making his benefit_,
i.e. paying his respects to the different taverns in the town, where his
merry associates congregated to drink porter, smoke tobacco, and
distribute as many tickets as an insinuating address and consummate
assurance would enable them to dispose of amongst their boon companions.

The fourth act is over; and Triptolemus experiences a strange sensation
rising from the bottom of his abdomen and gradually spreading itself over
his whole body!—he feels less valiant than when first he donned the
shining helmet (alias saucepan) and fastened the glittering falchion to
his mailed side.  Ting a ring ting! goes the prompter’s bell!
Triptolemus was trembling at his post.  The music ceases—the curtain
rises—the martial music is played loudly behind the scenes, and the
audience with breathless anxiety await the entrance of the dauntless
hero, the brave Earl of Richmond.

The trumpeters have almost split their cheeks,—the troops march on, two
and two—the Earl of Oxford then advances, next Sir James Blunt, and then
Sir Walter Herbert.  Triptolemus who had been advised to appear last, and
with a rush to “take the natives by surprise,” as it is termed in
theatrical phraseology, now darted forward to the footlights, “swift as
an arrow from the Tartar bow.”  The applause was deafening, and made him
fancy that the gods were at war above him; nor was he much out in his
conceit, for a chimney sweeper who had edged himself into the centre of
the gallery at that moment, caused such a commotion amongst the
goddesses, that they assisted, with their screams, the general uproar,
and shouts and cat calls “shook the pond’rous roof.”  This state of
commotion was too violent to last, and at length silence was obtained,
and the hero commenced—

    “Thus far into the bowels of the land—”

Here the figure of the uncivil gardener met his eyes, seated in the front
row of the pit, and grinning like a Scotch terrier with a hair-lip.  He
made a full stop at this apparition!  “Have we marched on,” came the word
from the prompter—“Have we marched on,”—echoed Oxford.  But all was mist
before Richmond’s eyes, indignation was in his heart and silence upon his
tongue.  Unable to utter a word more, with a flourish of his truncheon he
made a furious exit.  “Have we marched off,” said the gallant Blunt—and
stalked off with the whole army (six in number) after his heroic leader.
The scene changed for Richard’s entrance.—Shame and fury battledoor’d our
hero about with unmerciful rapidity behind the scenes!  He split his
wooden truncheon upon the scull of an unlucky lamplighter who stood in
his way, and then the call boy’s awful voice was heard bidding him
prepare for his second scene.  This he managed to get through tolerably
well, taking especial care to avoid another glance at the gardener’s
fatal countenance.

All went on smoothly enough, until the scene where Richard rushes on the
stage in the midst of alarums, crying out.  “What ho! young Richmond ho!”
Here, as ill luck would have it, Richmond could not find his _fighting
sword_, and his confusion was so great, when Richard again roared out,
“’Tis Richard calls!” Richmond rebellowed from behind the scenes, “Call
and be d—d,” thinking the actor was taking an unwarrantable liberty in
calling for him before so many people in such an authoritative style.

_Richard_.  “I say come forth, and singly face me.”

_Richmond_, (behind) “What the devil’s the use of my coming, when I can’t
find my sword?”

At length, the combatants met, Richmond having picked up a powerful
weapon, instead of the short, blunt and harmless sword intended for the
encounter.  It was keen, long, and pointed, like a lancet—a terrible
weapon in unpractised hands.

_Richard_.  “Do you remember the cuts?” (in an undertone, with doubting
fear).

_Richmond_.  “Oh, d—n the cuts!” at the same time dealing a blow that
laid open the shin of the crook backed tyrant, who, thinking it better to
die at once in jest, than to be killed outright in earnest, fell down
exclaiming, “Perdition catch thy arm! you’ve cut my leg open!”

_Richmond_.  “Upon my soul, I could’nt help it!”

_Richard_.  “But oh—! the vast renown thou hast acquired—”

This was too much for the audience to bear—“their visible muscles
unmasterly grew,” and the champions were mutually discomposed.

_Richmond_.  “What the devil are they laughing at?”

_Richard_.  “At you to be sure, ‘in conquering Richard.’”

Here another burst of merriment broke from the spectators, and
Triptolemus, turning his head, to check, with a high tragedy look, their
ill timed mirth, beheld, to his horror and dismay, the inveterate
gardener standing upon the front bench of the pit, waving his arms like
the sails of a windmill, and who no sooner caught a full view of his
countenance than he roared out, “I’m blest if it bea’nt he that I turned
up wi’ my pitch fork out of the muck heap!”

“All’s over!” exclaimed Richard, and gave up the ghost, with his back
turned to the audience, which created a fresh peal of laughter, groans
and hisses.  Richmond, shocked at the un-Cesarian position of the
monarch, strove to obtain silence, while he spoke the tag, by turning him
over with his face to the footlights—which he did with his foot, placing
Richard’s nose within half an inch of the burning oil, who grinned his
disapprobation of such usage, till the audience shrieked with mirth.

“Ring down the curtain, for God’s sake!” shrieked the manager.

“Stop till I’ve spoken the tag!” cried Richmond.

“Ring down for the sake of my nose,” bawled the corpse.  Ting a ring
ting! went the prompter’s bell, and down fell the curtain, leaving one
half of Richard’s body in view of the laughter-weeping spectators, which
was at last dragged by the heels from their sight by the indignant
Richmond, vowing, he never would again act with so diabolical a
_Richard_.

                                * * * * *

This story, which amused me exceedingly, was during the recital often
interrupted by my hearty bursts of laughter, and beguiled the time
admirably, until we arrived at a miserable place called _New Inn_, where
we refreshed ourselves with a glass of ale, and proceeded on our journey.

Branching off from the Oswestry road, to the right, we pursued our way to
Wittington, beguiling the time with anecdote and song, light hearts and
heels carrying us along the road like things of air.  Nothing worthy of
notice took place until we reached the village of Wittington, and there
the first objects that attracted our mutual attention, were two brick
houses, perfectly plain in their exterior, upon the front of the first of
which was written, in prodigious characters, _Search the Scriptures_, and
upon the second, _Remember thou keep holy the Sabbath day_, with
underneath, _Morrison’s pills sold here_.

The village is beautifully intersected with trees, and the houses are
examples of neatness and simplicity.  The people look cheerful and
contented; and every shrub or flower which here profusely expands, seems
proudly to rejoice and flourish in this charming retreat.

A walk through this village will make the tourist thoroughly acquainted,
in his own belief, with the persons who inhabit it, although he never
heard the history of one of them, from the rector to the tinker.  The
first portrait that rises in his imagination is the venerable curate,
with contentment beaming in his mild eyes, his silver locks flowing over
his well-brushed thread-bare coat, with snow-white neck-cloth, mended
small clothes, black hose and polished shoes, visiting the cottage of
some invalid—a lovely girl, scarce sixteen, the rose of the village, who
had long been stretched upon a bed of sickness, but now blessed with
returning health, seated at the door, the fresh evening air playing with
her fair locks, the woodbine clustering over her head, a slight tinge of
vermilion spreading on her cheeks, her eyes upraised in pious gratitude
to heaven, and to him who prayed beside her, and for her, morning and
evening, and who now with grateful heart holds up his hands to the
Creator, in thankfulness for her convalescence.

The next object is the village surgeon; a busy, merry, bustling, prying,
talkative, little gentleman, who amuses one patient with all the scandal
he has been able to pick up about another; but, notwithstanding, a most
important person, and people feign illness for the gratification his
visits communicate; constant in his morning calls from house to house, he
continues to pick up all the flying rumours of the day; and at night is,
of course, the object looked up to, in all parties, as the oracle, in
whom all the secrets of the village are deposited, while he is cautious
not to commit himself, by imprudent exposures.

Then comes the lawyer, with snuff-coloured riding coat with brass
buttons, top-booted, and spurred, who does very well for himself, by
_doing_ his neighbours in a professional way.

Then come the ladies, who are of course all nature, no art, sweetness,
simplicity, and all that; but as I am not going to write a volume upon
rural life, I will just give a short description of

                              WITTINGTON CASTLE.

    “In ancient days, of high renown,
    Not always did yon castle frown
       With ivy crested brow;
    Nor were its walls with moss embrowned,
    Nor hung the lanky weeds around
       That fringe its ruins now.”

                                                             FITZ-GWARINE.

In the year 843, when Roderick the Great was King of Wales, a British
noble, named Ynyr ap Cadfarch, built the Castle of Wittington.  He was
succeeded by his son Tudor Trevor, whose descendants possessed it for
many generations; and many families at this day trace their origin to
him.

At the Conquest, Wittington became the property of Pain Peveril, who
dying without issue, it was seized by Roger, Earl of Shrewsbury, and
passed into the hands of Hugh, his son, who was succeeded by his brother
Robert; but he being defeated by Henry I, the castle was restored to the
Peverils, in the person of Sir William Peveril, who was a great warrior,
and is said to have miraculously recovered from a (supposed) _mortal
wound_ by eating the shield of a wild boar.  He had a daughter named
Mellet, whose exceeding beauty attracted many suitors; but, being of
Amazonian mind, she declared she would marry none but the knight who
proved himself best and bravest in the field.  Her father published this
declaration, and promised the Castle of Wittington as her dower.  The
trial took place at the Peak in Derbyshire, and Guarine de Metz, who had
a shield of silver, and a peacock crest, overcame all his rivals, and
obtained the beautiful Mellet.  His posterity, for nine generations,
assumed the name of Fulk, a race of heroes who performed extraordinary
feats of arms, and for a full account of which the reader is referred to
the history of Wittington, a little book of forty-one pages, by William
Davies, L.M.W.S., Head Master of Caernarven School.

The ninth, and last Fulk Fitz Gwarine, died here in his minority, in the
reign of Henry IV, and his sister Elizabeth, the heiress to the estates,
married Richard Hankfdd, who left his possessions to his only daughter
Thomasine, who married Sir William Bourchire, brother to Henry, the first
Earl of Essex; and the title of Lord Fitz Warine was given to Sir
William, in consequence of his marriage.

John, the third in descent from him, exchanged Wittington with Henry VIII
for other landed property.  This John was the first Earl of Bath, and his
family retained the name of Fitz-Warren until the race became extinct,
which took place at the death of Henry, the fifth Earl of Bath.  This
place was presented by Elizabeth, to Henry Grey Duke of Suffolk, who
fortified it in consequence of several crimes imputed to him by the bigot
Mary, who granted it to Fitz-Alan, the last Earl of Arundel, who
mortgaged it to a number of London citizens, and William Albany, the
chief amongst them was appointed sole possessor of it, and by the
marriage of whose grand daughter it fell into the hands of Thomas Lloyd
Aston Esq. in whose family it now remains.

The castle underwent fortification soon after its original establishment;
and must have been alternately in the hands of the Welsh and Saxons in
these wars.  It is well supplied with spring water, and the moats, and
entrenchments surrounding the castle are still discernible.  The keep was
fortified with five round towers, each 40 feet in diameter and 100 in
height, the walls being 12 feet in thickness.—All are now in ruins.

In 1809, a well was discovered in the Keep, at the bottom of which was
found a pair of iron fetters for the legs, and a jug, stags’ heads,
swords, a head curiously carved, and a number of richly gilt glass
bottles.  In the trenches there are growing some very fine tall wych
trees.  The castle is situated in the midst of fertile meadows; and a
rapid stream, which a mile above takes a subterranean course, here breaks
into light again, amidst fringing poplars, and entering the moat,
encompasses the walls, which are richly festooned with ivy, and adorned
with wild flowers and woodbines.  It there enters the Perry, in the
meadows below, which were formerly an extensive lake, and the ancient
fosses and entrenchments may be traced to where the lake terminated, at a
surprising distance westward, beyond the castle.

The church is a rectory, and was originally designed as a chapel to the
castle.  It is dedicated to St. John the Baptist.  The body of the church
was rebuilt in 1806, and in the register are the following curious
epitaphs:

                             March 13, 1766, died
                                THOMAS EVANS,
                           Parish Clerke, Aged 72.

    Old Stanhold’s lines or Vicar of Bray.
    Which he tuned best, ’twas hard to say.

                                SAMUEL PEATE,
                          Of Wittington Castle, died
                                   Aged 84.

    Here lies Governor Peate,
    Whom no man did hate.
    At the age of fourscore,
    And four years more.
    He pretended to wrestle
    With Death for his castle,
    But was soon out of breath,
    And surrendered to Death,
    Who away did him take
    At the eve of our wake,
    One morn about seven,
    To keep wake in Heaven.

                               ANDREW WILLIAMS
                                     was
                   Born A.D 1692, and died April 18, 1776.
                                   Aged 84.
                         Of which time he lived under
                  The Aston family, as decoy man, 60 years.

    Here lies the decoy man, who lived like an otter,
    Dividing his time betwixt land and water.
    His hide he oft soaked in the waters of Perry,
    Whilst Aston old beer his spirits kept cherry.
    Amphibious his trim, death was puzzled they say
    How to dust to reduce such well moistened clay,
    So death turned decoy man, and decoyed him to land,
    Where he fixed his abode till quite dried to the hand.
    He then found him fitting for crumbling to dust,
    So here he lies mouldering, as you and I must.

In this lovely village, we put up at a small inn, the Crown, to take
luncheon, which was served with much civility—cold meat, a cream salad,
and a capital Cheshire cheese, with the very best of Shropshire ale.  The
name of the host I have forgotten, but it is the first inn on the left on
entering the village from Shrewsbury.  It has a delightful garden
attached to it, with grottos and arbours; roses and woodbines distribute
their fragrance in prodigal gratuity, and the _tout ensemble_ gives an
admirable idea of fairy land.




CHAPTER III.


Chirk—The Aqueduct—The Deserted, a legend—Description of Chirk
Castle—Sketch—The Park—Legend of the enchanted Stag—The Vale of
Llangollen—Account of the Aqueduct called Pont-y-Cyssyltau—Stanzas for
music—Llangollen—The Hand in Hand—A view of the village.

       “In Cambria’s noon of story,
       Ere bright she set in glory,
    The brave and great in princely state
       All hail’d Chirk Castle walls.
       With splendid arms returning,
       The flaring moonbeams burning,
    Mid armour’s clang the clarions rang,
       And searched the sounding halls.”

                                              SONG BY F. M. DOVASTON, A.M.

A PLEASANT walk of six miles brought us to Chirk; agreeably situated upon
the northern bank of the river Ceriog, which divides England from Wales.
The village church is dedicated to St. Mary, and is an impropriation
belonging to Valle Crucis Abbey, and contains some monuments erected to
the memory of the members of the Chirk families.  The most interesting is
that of the famous Sir Thomas Myddleton.  The church-yard is planted with
yew trees, and the Hand Inn is a very comfortable house of entertainment.

The aqueduct is the great _lion_ of this place; consisting of ten arches,
the piers of which are sixty-five feet high.  The Ellesmere canal is
continued across the valley by this beautiful specimen of art, then
enters a tunnel 220 yards long; emerging from which it proceeds on its
course through the parish, and then enters another tunnel, which having
traversed, its waters are transported over the vale of the Dee by the
stupendous aqueduct of Pont-y-Cysylltau.  The village of Chirk is seven
miles from Llangollen, and five from Oswestry, from Knaton six, and from
London 171.

“Upon this spot,” said my amusing companion, “a legend was repeated to
me, which I thought rather amusing; and, as you say you are a collector
of strange stories, I will relate it to you as we pass along, with as
much accuracy as my memory will permit.”



THE DESERTED.


Mary Griffith was a tall, raw-boned, bouncing girl, whose skin had felt
the influence of nineteen summers: with red ropy hair, which fell in
mop-like luxuriance about her face and back, partially hiding two
gooseberry eyes, that looked, or seemed to look, in opposite directions.
Roger ap Morgan was a stout, sturdy, hard-working peasant: and once,
while under the influence of his master’s strong harvest ale, bestowed on
Mary such tender melting words, as had never before been addressed to her
beauty, and which her unaccustomed ear drank with astonishment and
delight.  She greedily banqueted on the honey of his tongue, and in short
was never so pleased in her life before.

It was remarked, that from this night Mary and Roger were more intimate
than ever; and they were therefore looked upon as a couple shortly to be
united in the bands of matrimony.

Mary’s charms, however, were not of a nature to be unappreciated by
others; and Roger’s friends were exceedingly forward in praising her
various perfections, and more especially the beauty of her eyes and face,
and the silky softness of her auburn hair, three fibres of which were
sufficient to have made an exceeding good twine of tolerable strength.

Roger bore all these bursts of admiration without the slightest tinge of
jealousy, and even sometimes, with a good humoured laugh, joined in the
jests of his companions.  But there is such a thing as over fondness in
adoring woman: and Roger began to discover, that if Mary would only love
him half as much as she did, he might perhaps have a far greater liking
for her than he had; but unfortunately Mary knew no measure in her love.
She vowed he should marry her; Roger swore heartily he would not.  At
length, it became apparent that Mary had yielded up not only her heart
but her honour, also, to the too insidious and fascinating Roger.  His
ingratitude, in refusing to keep his word, and make an honest woman of
her, sank deep into her heart.  She resolved, however, not to let him off
so easily; and determined, if he persisted in denying his person, she
would at least have some of his goods and chattels.

At this period, a number of baronial laws, although dormant, might still
be enforced on occasion, and amongst them was one which furnished Mary
with a promising prospect of recompense.  It decreed, that in cases of
seduction, the injured fair, on making application to the presiding
magistrate, was entitled to remuneration by submitting to the following
ordeal:—The tail of a three years old bull, the property of the seducer,
being well shaven, greased and introduced through a wicker door, if the
applicant could, by so treacherous a handle, detain the animal for a
certain period with both hands, while two men goaded it to escape, it
became hers, by right of conquest, in satisfaction for her lost virtue;
and, in case of failure, she forfeited all further claim, and was
rewarded for her attempt with so much of the grease and soap as remained
in her hands.

Women know no medium in the master-passion: “Where most they love, there
most they hate when slighted:”—and so with Molly.  All nature seemed to
change: the beautiful valley no longer heard the soft murmurings of
Roger’s “love breathed vows;” the waters of the Ceriog flowed on without
a rival sound; and Molly vowed vengeance amid their peaceful banks, where
once she swore eternal love and constancy.

One morning after a long expostulation, with her inconstant, she summoned
him before the magistrate of the district, and, accompanied by her
friends, demanded the ordeal, which was the right, from time immemorial,
of the victims of seduction and desertion.  The magistrate, being a lover
of old laws and customs, and also somewhat of a humorist, readily acceded
to her wishes, and the following morning was appointed for the
accomplishment of her vengeance, verifying the Welsh proverb—“Gnawd
rhygas wedi rhysere.”  Common is extreme hate after extreme fondness.

This was woful intelligence for Roger, whose farming stock consisted of
an only cow, which was sentenced to be substituted for the _bull_, which
the original act specified should be liable to confiscation.  This cow
was the chief source of his livelihood; her butter furnished him with the
means of procuring clothes, and other necessaries, and the skimmed milk,
a pleasant beverage to wash down his vegetable fare—for animal food was a
stranger to the table of Roger, as it was indeed to almost all the
peasantry of the country, except upon days of rejoicing, viz. marriages
and funerals, when friends and relations clubbed together to furnish a
sumptuous meal for the assembled guests.  Still, however, he resolved to
hazard this severe loss, rather than be encumbered with a wife, whose
industry and affection were but a poor compensation for the defects of
her person and conversation.

On the following day, the peaceful inhabitants of this lovely spot were
startled from their various occupations by a loud shout which issued from
the thick woods of the vale, and then

    “There rose so wild a yell
    From out yon dark and hollow dell,
    As all the fiends from heaven that fell
    Had pealed the banner cry of hell.”

The clamour was raised by the revilings of Roger’s friends against Mary,
and Mary’s friends against Roger, as the object of interest (Roger’s cow)
approached the dwelling of the deceived and neglected fair one, who
mounted astride upon its back, turned her fierce glances or benignant
smiles, upon her enemies or friends, as they alternately hooted and
hurrahed her.

Mary’s mother, an ancient gammer, whose sun-tanned skin seemed, as
Shakspeare has it, capable of

    “Keeping out water a long while,”

armed with a branch of tough ash, was urging the progress of the beast,
and at every push she made, a yell of indignation burst from the opposite
party, which was answered by a shout of exultation from the friends of
Mary.  At length the barber, one Gryffyd, was called on to lend his aid,
which he did, in a masterly manner by lathering, and shaving the beast’s
tail of every hair that adorned it, from the insertion to the tuft, and
afterwards greasing and soaping it thoroughly.  Mary eyed it, meanwhile,
as though she longed to convert it into soup.

These preparations being completed, Mary addressed her false-hearted
swain, and even then, generously offered to give up the chance if he
would repent and make her an honest woman.  This noble proposition
excited murmurs of applause.  But all in vain,—Roger remained inexorable.

“Then may I never be married,” cried she, “if ever you take your cow home
again!”

“That’s yet to be tried,” cried Roger.

Molly then bared her brawny arms, and held up her ten fingers—as much as
to say, “Let her escape my grip if she can!”—and, with a countenance
flashing anger and resolution, she took her station at the wicket,
“screwed up to the sticking point,” and resolved to “stand the hazard of
the die.”

With the grasp of a vice, she seized the pendant ornament; and now it was
pull cow, pull Molly!—for the two sturdy brothers of Roger belaboured the
animal most unmercifully.

“Hold your own!” shrieked Mary’s mother.

“Go it, you old devil!” cried the brothers of Roger, as they thrashed and
goaded the poor cow.  Still with heroic firmness Mary kept her hold.

    “But who can rule the uncertain chance of war?”

The period of detention had nearly arrived;—half a minute more, and Mary
would be victorious—her vengeance complete—and Roger quite undone!—when
lo! the tortured animal leaped suddenly from the wicket—and Mary,
wretched Mary!—fell upon her brawny back, with the cow’s tail extended in
her hands!—’Twas all the spoil her valiant attempt had left her!—Twisting
and capering, the beast was seen speeding its way to Roger’s well known
home;—and

    “Thus was she (poor Molly)!
    Of cow, of virtue, everything, bereft.”

It was rumoured that foul play had been committed by Roger’s brothers;
and that a stick, with a sharp instrument at the end of it, had caused
the catastrophe;—but, as there was no means of ascertaining the fact, the
affair dropped.

A rustic bard, who had been hospitably received in Mary’s dwelling,
presented to her the following Lament, which he composed, in gratitude,
for her consolation.

                                   LAMENT.

    Oh mournful day! oh mournful day!
    Base Roger’s cow has run away,
    And left poor Molly to bewail
    The sorrows she cannot _re-tail_.

    The grateful cabbage, greens, and leek
    Her hands have reared, could they but speak,
    Would thus hold converse with the ground,
    Which daily her attention found.

    “Oh mother earth, how hard you get,
    Since Molly’s left to pine and fret;
    You drain our tops, our bottoms pinch,
    We cannot grow another inch!

    “Your bed, so lately soft and warm,
    To stony hardness you transform;
    If ’tis for Molly this you do,
    Oh think of leek and cabbage too!”

    “My children,” then said mother earth,
    “I ever loved ye from your birth;
    But know that I, as well as you,
    Am doomed to pine and suffer too.

    “And if your bottoms feel uneasy,
    ’Tis not from want of will to please ye;
    And if your green tops droop and pine,
    ’Tis not from any fault of mine.

    “For I am thirsting for a sup,
    And Molly never stirs me up.
    Forsaken love hath made her sore—
    She cultivates the ground no more!”

    Oh mournful day! oh mournful day!
    Base Roger’s cow has run away,
    And left poor Molly to bewail
    The sorrows she cannot _re-tail_!

                                * * * * *

After proceeding about a mile and a half on the Llangollen road, we
turned off, to the left, up a lane, which led us to the noble domain of
Mrs. Middleton Biddulph.



CHIRK CASTLE


Is delightfully situated on the spacious domain, spreading over the
summit of, what would be deemed, by a southern, a lofty mountain, but
which is here only designated a hill, projecting from the range of Berwyn
mountains; and is well calculated to recall the stories of the days of
old, when flourished

       “The good old rule, the simple plan,
    That they should take who have the power,
       And they should keep who can.”

                         [Picture: Chirk Castle]

It is built of solid stone; and the ivy, mantling over the walls, gives
them an appearance of solemnity and grandeur, peculiarly interesting.  It
is quadrangular, and is strengthened by five massive towers, one at each
corner, and the fifth projecting from the principal front, through which
is a lofty entrance into the court-yard, 165 feet in length, and 100 feet
in breadth, surrounded on every side by noble suites of apartments.  The
picture gallery measures 100 feet in length, by twenty-two in breadth;
and contains some very excellent paintings, and several portraits of the
Middleton family.  Amongst the latter is that of Sir Thomas Middleton,
who defended himself gallantly against the forces of Cromwell, and was
rewarded for his loyalty by Charles II, who granted him £30,000 for the
loss he had sustained, besides many valuable presents; amongst others, a
cabinet, which is shewn in the gallery, valued at £7,000, richly
ornamented with silver; in various compartments of which are paintings,
said to have been executed by Rubens.  The monarch offered to elevate Sir
Thomas to the peerage, which he declined.

The walls of the castle are eighteen feet in thickness; but sleeping and
other apartments have been cut into them, for the accommodation of the
family.

The celebrated picture of Pystil Rhaidar, in the dining-room, shows that
noble waterfall tumbling into the _sea_, _where several ships are quietly
riding at anchor_.  “Pystil Rhaidar,” _i.e._ “The spout of the Cataract,”
is considered the largest fall in Wales.  In the valley of Mochnant,
about four miles from the village, the river falls over an almost
perpendicular rock, 240 feet high; thence rushing furiously under a
natural arch towards the bottom, it plunges into a deep black pool,
overhung with impervious shaggy wood.

The story of the artist’s introducing the ocean with ships, is rather
curious.  He was a foreigner, and but little acquainted with the English
language; and when he had completed the picture, one of the persons to
whom it was first shown observed, that “a few _sheep_ placed near the
foot of the fall would be a great improvement.”  Misunderstanding _sheep_
for _ship_, his amazement was extreme.  He, however, took the picture to
his easel, and introduced _ships_ with the necessary element to float
them!  A mistake so humorous determined the purchaser to allow of no
further alteration.

The present building was completed in two years.  The first stone being
laid in the year 1011, and in 1013 the castle frowned defiance to the
foe.

It was built by Roger Mortimer, Earl of Wigmore, as a stronghold to
defend him from the just vengeance he had created by the murder of the
sons of Gryffydd ap Madoc, to whom he was appointed guardian, in
conjunction with John, Earl of Warren, in the hope of inheriting their
joint estates.  Mortimer was to seize upon Nanheuddwg and Chirk, the
property of the youngest; and Warren upon the lands of Broomfield, Yale,
and Dinas Bran, belonging to the eldest.  Travellers should not neglect
to visit this noble specimen of warlike architecture.  Its picture
gallery and dungeon will, in their different styles, excite admiration.

On the foundation of the present castle anciently stood Castle Crogen;
and the territory around bore the name of Tref-y-Waun, the property of
the lords of Dinas Bran, and continued in their possession up to the
death of Gryffydd ap Madoc, in the reign of Edward the First.

The view from the highlands of the park is very extensive, commanding a
prospect of seventeen different counties.  “The ground upon which we now
stand,” said my companion, “is remarkable for a melancholy circumstance,
which caused much grief and sorrow in the castle and its neighbourhood.
The story of Owen-ap-Mylton and Mary Fuller will perhaps interest you, as
it gave a name to this part of the estate, which it still retains, ‘The
Black Park.’”



THE ENCHANTED STAG.


In a poor hut, which formerly stood upon the site of a few cottages, upon
the right of the lane leading to the castle from the high road, lived an
aged woman, who kept no society, and was considered, from her reserved
habits, drooping gait, and smoke-dried visage, to have strange dealings
with the Evil One; and upon whom the neighbours looked with fear and
trembling, whenever they met her in the evening twilight, or when

    “— the morn in russet mantle clad,
    _Walk’d_ o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.”

Her patch of ground she cultivated without help from any; and no one knew
by what means she obtained clothing, as her garden stock only consisted
of a few eatables, which she could ill afford to part with for wool to
supply her spinning wheel; and yet her hose were good and clean, and her
woollen petticoat and russet gown well fitted to endure the weather’s
extremes.  Strange stories were, however, reported respecting her, as it
was said she had come from the Devil’s Peak in Derbyshire, where she had
the credit of being a witch, and was nearly apprehended, upon a special
order from King James himself, by the officers of justice, who, when they
would have laid hands upon her, were astonished to find that they had
seized each other, she having vanished suddenly from betwixt them, and,
on the same day, it was said, appeared at Chirk Castle, offering to pay a
half year’s rent in advance for the little hut, which was then to let, by
the hedge-side in the lane, and which the steward accepted.  She
regularly, afterwards paid in advance; but none could tell how she came
by the money, and the gossips reviled her as a limb of the Devil.  This
absurd notion obtained for her the odium of having performed a principal
part in the following simple and melancholy tale.

Owen, the ranger, was a tall, handsome, light-hearted, well-meaning lad,
as any in the country, much esteemed amongst his associates, and admired
by all the lasses from Chirk to Llangollen, from whom he had selected
Mary Fuller for his bride, a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired, pretty lass, who
lived as servant in the castle.

Owen’s cottage, situated where now stands a handsome house, was a neat
building, consisting of four rooms; it was thatched, and the interior was
adorned with implements of the chase.  It commanded a pleasant and
romantic prospect; the view down the valley being extremely picturesque.
Upon the trunk of an elm tree, the stump of which is almost all that time
has spared, are still to be traced, although faintly discernible, the
widely expanded initials, O. M. and M. F. which in former days were
doubtless deeply cut in its bark.  It was the favourite tree of Owen and
Mary; and beneath its spreading branches they used to sit many a
moonlight evening, and whisper rustic vows of constancy and truth.

One night, as they were walking, with arms clasped round each other’s
waist, near the hut of the old strange woman, they were surprised at
beholding her patting a noble stag, which had strayed from the park, and
which seemed fond of his new acquaintance, for it licked her face and
capered before her, and put its mouth close to her ear, while she
continued to pat him with her hand, and speak to him in a language
totally unknown to the peasantry.  Owen, enraged at seeing one whom he
considered a witch, seducing one of his noblest stags from the park,
raised his cross-bow and shook his head at her, as if to intimate that he
would shoot her, should she dare to fondle the deer again.  The old
beldame, frightened at his looks and gestures, retreated into her hut,
but shook her hand at him in a threatening manner; while the stag,
bounding suddenly from her door, made towards the park, like lightning,
and leaping the high fence, began to browze as usual on its native
pasture.  Mary noticed the look and threatening action of the old woman
with fear, and for sometime they continued their walk in silence, neither
being anxious to _speak_ upon the subject, but both unable to _think_ of
any thing else.  At length, when they reached the bottom of the lane, and
turned into the high road (which at this period was rough and only used
by horsemen and foot passengers who were dreadfully inconvenienced by the
state it was suffered to remain in), the cloud that hung over their
spirits began to disperse itself, and Owen, eager to resume the theme
which the appearance of the old woman had interrupted, again spoke of
their approaching marriage and the proposed arrangements he had formed.
Mary listened with attention, for only one day was to intervene before
the happy morning was to open on their joys.

Owen informed her that his master had promised him the finest buck he
could kill in the park, and a couple of barrels of his old October, to
regale his friends and guests; he had likewise, he said, presented him
with a new bed and furniture, fit for a baron to lie upon, and large
enough for six to sleep in!  Mary was happy, and Owen more animated, as
he spoke of the bounty of his gracious master.  Mary, eager to enumerate
the presents she had received, began the catalogue of articles necessary
for their domestic economy and comfort, and had nearly ran through the
names of fifty by the time they arrived at her cottage door, which was
the signal for parting, and with many a kiss and promise of meeting again
early in the morning, the lovers separated.

Owen went whistling along the road with a light heart, in fond
anticipation of future felicity, when suddenly, as he turned into the
dark lane, upon his way to his own lodge, he was startled by the
appearance of a dark form, with glaring eyes of fire, squatted upon the
trunk of an old alder tree, that had been blasted by the lightning a few
days before; and an unearthly _mew_! broke from its lips; and it spat a
quantity of saliva in his face.  Hot, hot, and burning, seemed the filthy
rheum!  A low growl increased his terrors; and a wild squall gave him the
speed of a deer, as he darted along the dark and narrow lane, his hair
standing on end.  When he had reached the solitary’s door, he saw her
seated by her iron pot, stirring the contents with the handle of a broom,
while the glare from the crackling fagot shot frequent but transient
streams of light upon her time-worn visage.  Being now more convinced
than ever that sorcery was at work, he redoubled his speed, and heated
with fright and fear, reached his welcome home, where he sank breathless
into a chair in the chimney corner.

Strange dreams afflicted him during the night; and he arose at daybreak
feverish and unrefreshed.  The usual summons at the door was given by his
fellow ranger, who, upon being admitted, presented him with a venison
pasty, on which he felt his courage and appetite rapidly returning.  A
second friend brought a flagon of wine from the kind rector of the
village; a third brought a quarter of mountain lamb; a fourth the haunch
of a well fatted kid; and many other tokens of kindness from his
neighbours entirely banished the memory of the disagreeables of the
preceding night, and universal smiles and congratulations ushered in the
merry morning.

Mary’s friends, meanwhile, were no less anxious to evince their regard
for her; and presents poured in from all parts of the neighbourhood, from
warm hearted and considerate well-wishers relations and acquaintances, in
consideration of the happy morrow which was to unite two beings
universally respected and beloved.  There was a happy congregation in the
valley of Chirk, upon the evening previous to the appointed bridal morn.
The minstrel struck up his liveliest notes; the maidens danced joyfully;
and even grand-sires and their dames exerted themselves in the dance,
evincing that though time had somewhat burthened their bodies, their
“hearts were all light and merry.”

Evening at length drew near to a close, and the shadows of the mountains
spreading over the peaceful valley, gave signal to depart.  It was
pleasing to listen to the distant and retiring notes of the minstrel’s
harp, and the hum of laughter, echoed from the beetling cliff and dying
in the gorge of the Ceriog valley.  Sometimes the wild halloo of the
mountaineer was heard shouting above the heads of those beneath; until at
length only two persons stood upon the sloping sides of the castle hill,
with fixed attention, looking in each others face, and with arms entwined
around their youthful forms.

There are few who have not felt the power of love: but very few perhaps
have stood as these two stood, upon the slope of a dark mountain rock,
listening to the parting accents of their friends as they subsided into
silence, while beneath them roared the never quiet-waters, brawling
through rocky fragments, and shaking the wild tangled shrubs that grew
upon their banks; with limpid kisses pure and fresh.  And there they
paused, and looked, and sighed, and loved, and murmured sweet words of
anticipated happiness; when suddenly the sky, serene before, was overcast
with clouds, and the wind rushed by them with a fury powerful as
unexpected.  The night grew darker and darker, and they were nearly half
a league from Mary’s house.  They cautiously pursued their way through
the dew-dripping heather, when presently a light appeared on the opposite
side of the valley; and shadowy forms were distinctly seen moving behind
it in slow procession.  They had reached the spot where the aqueduct now
crosses the vale, within a short distance of Mary’s dwelling, but terror
prevented them from moving, while the procession with the corpse-light at
its head, glided along without a sound, becoming more distinct as it
approached within a hundred paces of the spot where the terrified lovers
stood almost breathless.  Four shadowy, headless figures followed the
light, and were succeeded by a hearse, which moved without the aid of
horses or creature of any kind to draw or propel it forward, upon which
lay extended the form of a man, bloody, as newly slain.  Owen fancied he
saw a resemblance of himself in that bloody corpse, and the increasing
weight of Mary upon his arm, assured him she had likewise recognised the
likeness, for she had fainted.  With eyes that almost burst from their
sockets, he continued to gaze on, and saw, or thought he saw, many of his
kind friends weeping, in the long train that followed.  The corpse-light
still advanced, and he distinctly saw it leading towards the churchyard
of the village, where it vanished amongst the old yew trees, and with it
the phantoms that made up the procession.

Owen bore his senseless burthen to the cottage, where he acquainted her
mother that a sudden fright had caused her to be thus overcome, desiring
that she should be put to bed upon the instant, and that when she
recovered she might be persuaded, what she had seen was merely the
illusion of a dream; and he quitted the cottage with a heavy heart.

The night was a sleepless one both to Mary and to her lover; but with the
rising beams of the morning their gloom dispersed; and, as the rays
gilded the mountain tops, they were both up, and waiting for the numerous
friends of both sexes, that usually, on such occasions, are anxious to be
foremost in paying their salutations.  The bride’s cottage being of the
smallest class, Owen’s was agreed upon to be the place of rendezvous, and
a plentiful store of viands was ready for the guests to partake of at an
early hour.  The gay friends of the preceding evening were seen decorated
in their holiday garments, fresh and fair as the cool breeze and the
sweetest wild flowers of their native hills, clustering together before
their cottages, and tripping in various groups towards Owen’s pleasant
dwelling.  Eight o’clock in the morning was the time appointed for the
ceremony to take place in the little church of Chirk, and all were eager
to attend the young couple, and—to eat their breakfast, which on such
occasions was far from frugal.  Owen’s relatives were all ready mounted
at his door, prepared for the wedding hunt, and, when he joined them,
away they galloped towards the cottage of Mary.  She was seated upon her
favourite Merlin, surrounded by her friends, who set up a shout as Owen
and his party came in sight.  The bridegroom having arrived, and made his
claim to Mary, he was refused; and then a mock fight took place between
the parties, and sundry thwacks upon the head were given and received in
sport.  At length, the bride and her kinsmen started off at full speed in
the direction of Chirk Castle.  The bridegroom following, worse mounted,
but eager in the pursuit, shouting for them to stop; until at last the
flying party having reached the park, they permitted Owen to overtake
them, according to the custom, who then led his bride to the cottage,
where everything was in readiness for their reception.

The bride, habited in a snow white dress, with some white heath flowers
bound in her braided hair, was the admiration of all.  Owen in his new
suit, made for the occasion, looked handsomer than ever.  They danced
together upon the new mown grass, while Jordan, the minstrel, played his
blithest tunes.  At length, the party sat down to the repast, and rustic
jests were given and returned with glee and good humour; when suddenly,
the bridegroom being called aside, Mary took that opportunity to steal
away, meaning to run off to the church, and laugh at Owen’s and his
friend’s perplexity at her absence, and their astonishment at finding her
at the church porch before them.

She was soon missed; and, suspecting it was a trick to perplex them, away
the whole party ran in different directions in search of the runaway.

Mary had nearly arrived at the old woman’s cottage when Owen descried
her.  He had not forgotten the scene of the preceding night, and his
heart had some painful misgivings that all was not right when he first
missed his bride so suddenly from the breakfast table.  Owen shouted and
shouted! but the more he exercised his lungs, the faster she made use of
her heels, when suddenly the “stag of six,” which he had seen the night
before, darted from the old woman’s cottage, and ran furiously at Mary,
who turned round and retraced her steps with fear and terror, but with
the speed of the wind.  She flew past Owen, who endeavoured to stop the
deer, but all in vain.  The interposing trees at times prevented the
animal from pursuing, by entangling his branches with the lower boughs;
but these impediments seemed only to redouble his fury when he again
released himself, and Owen had not yet come up with him, though Mary kept
the lead.  Other friends now joined in the attempt to drive the creature
in another direction, and with hands joined they formed a barrier,
shouting and hallooing to frighten the stag as he approached the park;
but all in vain; he bounded on more furiously than before, scattering the
crowd in every direction.  Owen at length overtook the furious stag, and
was just in time to succour Mary.  His coat, which he had taken off in
the race, he dexterously managed to fling over the antlers of the brute,
which, falling over its eyes, for a minute confounded the deer, and
taking his Mary by the arm, he hurried her away in the direction of the
cottage, but not in time to elude the pursuit of the infuriated animal,
which having shaken off the blind followed them at full speed.  Owen had
no means of defence; the stag approached rapidly; he bade Mary continue
her speed and reach the cottage, and then, with desperate valour, awaited
the attack; in an instant after, he had grasped the horns and was dashed
to the ground with violence: he rose again and with a bound leaped upon
its back.  The creature flung his antlers back, whirled round and round,
but still Owen sat immoveable, and new hopes arose in the breasts of his
friends, who gathered near and hemmed them round, when suddenly the beast
rushed sideways against the trunk of a huge oak, and violently fractured
Owen’s leg; but with persevering bravery he still kept his seat.  At
length, unable to rid itself of its burthen, the creature rolled upon the
earth, and in the fall Owen’s right arm was shattered, and his foe once
again free.  It reared and placed its fore feet on the chest of Owen;
and, as he raised himself once more to grapple with his enemy, its
pointed antlers struck into his heart, and with a groan he instantly
expired, while the fierce animal took to the mountains, and was seen no
more.

Mary, who had entered the cottage of the ranger, in the midst of her
terrors spoke of the old woman, who she said had bewitched the stag;—but,
when her friends reached the door of the hut, and found they could not,
by knocking, obtain admission, they broke it open, and found its inmate
dead upon the floor.  Rumour said that she had infused her spirit into
the deer to revenge the threats of Owen on the preceding night; and her
remains were treated with a ferocity which it would be as painful to
listen to as to narrate.

Poor Mary never recovered from the shock; and in a few weeks after the
mangled remains of her lover were deposited in the church yard of Chirk,
the fresh flowers and evergreens were also placed around _her_ grave.

For many years this tribute of friendship was regularly paid to their
memories.  In summer, flowers of the sweetest perfume breathed their
dying odours around their graves, and, in winter, the holly and laurel
spread their shining leaves to adorn their final resting place.  Time,
however, took away by degrees, the kind friends of the ill fated lovers,
and no sign now points out the spot where, side by side, they slumber.

                                * * * * *

We now got once more into the coach road, and pushed on for Llangollen,
leaving Wynstay, the seat of Sir Watkin William Wynn, upon the right.
Almost every guide book will furnish the tourist with a description of
this costly mansion and its beautiful grounds; but the wild scenery of
nature, and the ruins of former grandeur, which yield an inexhaustible
fund for contemplation and delight, together with the wild legends of the
peasant or wandering minstrel, which render every spot you tread upon in
this country enchanted ground, are more congenial to the feelings of the
writer of this little work than all the gorgeous display of modern art
and luxury.  Therefore Wynstay, with Eaton Hall, the magnificent
residence of the Marquis of Westminster, he resigns to those whose tastes
are more refined (by luxury) to describe.

Leaving Wynstay on the right, we were conducted along the banks of a
beautiful canal (the same that crossed the valley at Chirk) which was
here planted with larch and hazel in pleasing variety on either side.  On
a sudden, an opening in the foliage presented us with a splendid view of
the vale of the Dee, with the grand aqueduct stretching from hill to hill
and the waters of the river making their way among broken rocks, amid
embowering trees, and rolling under the arches of the aqueduct, with that
delightful sound which is only heard in mountain scenery.

Seldom had I experienced so delightful a sensation as the present
prospect occasioned.  All was so calm, so quiet, it seemed indeed “the
happy valley.”  Shortly after, however, we found that no golden pleasure
is entirely free from alloy, for on turning a projection upon the road,
we were nearly stifled by the smoke from a lime furnace, and what was
worse, “another and another still succeeded,” resembling a line of
batteries blazing and vomiting forth smoke and destruction, while on the
opposite mountain an uniform body of iron works were firing away from
their tall chimneys, and steadily maintaining the never ceasing conflict.

At length, however, having happily passed these belligerents, my
companion led me in triumph into a little public house on the road side,
(which overlooked a precipice) _the Aqueduct Tavern_, the exterior of
which promised little better accommodation than is to be met with in an
Irish cabin.  We entered, nevertheless, and, although the floor was of
brick, it was very clean and the household utensils glittered along the
walls.

“Pray, gentlemen, walk into the back parlour,” said a comely looking,
good natured landlady of about forty-three.

We gladly accepted her invitation, and were agreeably surprised to find a
neat room, carpeted, with a sofa, and half a dozen hair-bottomed chairs,
and every thing rurally comfortable.  The window looked upon the
aqueduct, and commanded a beautiful view.

Here I became musical, and hummed “the woodpecker tapping,” to the no
small annoyance of my companion, who had stretched himself upon the sofa
with the intention, doubtless, of taking a nap after his long walk.

    “And I said, if there’s peace to be found in the world,
    The heart that is humble might hope for it here.”

“And here will I take up my quarters for the night.  A glass of gin and
water, cold and weak, if you please, Mrs. —, for I am thirsty.  Very
good, indeed;—now, a sheet of paper, to take down my notes of the day’s
ramble.  Very good again, Mrs. —, and now if you have good beds you may
get us a lamb chop, with some tea, etc. etc. and leave us to enjoy this
lovely prospect.”

“No beds, I am sorry to say.”

“No beds, Mrs. —!”

“No, sir, I hope to get some by next summer.”

“Why then, Mrs. —, I am afraid we shall have to proceed to the village.
How far is Llangollen from this?”

“Six miles, sir.”

“And it is now—”

“Just six o’clock, sir.”

“Then bring in two screeching hot tumblers of punch, there’s a good lady,
and

    “Let us take the road.”

Here the trumpet of my companion began to sound; but I thought it would
be advisable for him to rise before he became too stiff to resume his
walk; therefore, with “yoicks! yoicks!” I startled the heavy god from his
eyelids, and informed him of our unfortunate situation.

“It matters but little,” said he; “there is sufficient upon the road to
interest us, and perhaps the twilight of such an evening as this is
preferable to the morning.”

Having discussed our punch and lighted our cigars, we quitted the
comfortable little cottage, and bent our steps towards the aqueduct,
intending to cross by it to the opposite side of the vale.

A cigar in the cool of the evening is delightful.

    “Glorious tobacco, that from east to west
    Cheers the tar’s labour, and the Turk-man’s rest.”

So sang the Noble Bard, the music of whose lyre is left to charm the race
of mankind for ages yet to come.

We soon reached the centre of the aqueduct; it extends from mountain to
mountain in length 980 feet; it is sustained by twenty piers, 116 feet in
height from the bed of the river Dee, and the span of the arches is
forty-five feet.

“Do you observe yon house?” inquired my companion, with a grave air,
pointing to a building which seemed to have belonged to some opulent
person in times gone by, although it was now in a state of decay.  Having
replied in the affirmative, he proceeded:—“In that house lived a creature
who was called ‘the Pride of the Valley.’  She was the daughter of a rich
merchant of Bristol, and was beloved by a poor but honest and
well-educated youth, who was, and has been since, a wanderer from his
birth.  Her christian name was Eveleen; no matter for her father’s.  The
following verses were written upon her untimely fate:

    “In the days of my boyhood, when pleasures pass’d by,
    Like the fragrance of flowers on morning’s first sigh,
    In the vale of Llangollen there dwelt a fair rose
    More lovely than daybreak, and sweet as its close.
             Her step was light
             As fays by night:
    More thrilling her voice than the streamlet that flows
    And mild as the moonlight and blue as the sky
    Was the beam and the colour of Eveleen’s eye.

    “But Eveleen’s friends were of wealthy degree,
    And tyranny forced her to cross the wide sea.
    She faded, alas! as she drooped o’er the wave,
    And died! but no blossom was strewed on her grave.
             The waters deep,
             Roll o’er her sleep,
    And sea-stars now light up her billowy cave;
    The winds moan above her, and Peris deplore
    Round the rose of Llangollen, which charms us no more.”

“She was ordered to the Indies,” he said, vainly endeavouring to hide a
tear, which told me the secret of his heart.  I know not how it is, love
tales are generally a great bore to the listener, but there was something
so true, so heartfelt, in that single drop which glistened in the eye of
my companion, that if delicacy would have permitted me, I should
certainly have taxed him as being the hero of his own tale, and have
requested him to give me a more minute relation of the affair.

I never felt the influence of the sublime mingled with the beautiful so
deeply as when I stood upon this wonderful work of art; wherever I turned
my eyes, the scene was calculated to excite the warmest feelings of
admiration.  The Dee flowing beneath, shadowed by the rich tints of the
summer foliage; the ruined bridge; the dark mountain masses upon either
side, patched with gloomy pines, intermingled with the relieving
brightness of the graceful larch;—here tracing the lovely blooming
heather, there the blasted rock in its naked majesty, and the noble
amphitheatre at the extremity of the vale, with a view of the beautiful
stream, as it came winding from the opposite point—the twittering of the
birds as they prepared their mossy nests for repose, gave a charm to the
evening, which can only be felt while witnessing the scene, and exceeds
the power of description.

Having crossed the aqueduct, we proceeded by the left bank of the canal,
passing a forge that nearly stifled us with gaseous smoke, along a
pathway made of cinders and small coal, the refuse of the foundry.  Trees
of every description hung over our heads, and sloped down a deep
declivity to the margin of the Dee, while on the opposite bank the
mountain frowned above us.  The partial glances we obtained of the vale
through the woods, discovered scenes which the artist’s fancy might
vainly attempt to equal.  The water-flies, darting along the surface of
the canal, and leaving long streaks of light behind them in myriad
flashes, likewise engaged our attention; and we walked on in
contemplative silence, my mind full of the crowd of natural beauties that
surrounded me; while my companion seemed rapt in reflections upon the
past—sometimes pausing to gaze upon a drooping willow, at others scanning
a majestic oak that grew apart from the rest of the waving multitude, as
if recollections of a painful nature crossed his mind.

At length, we reached the bridge of Llangollen, where the river is seen
to great advantage, tumbling over its rocky bed, and rushing beneath the
dark shelter of the overhanging trees.  The village is small, and
contains three respectable inns; viz.: the Hand, at which we stopped by
the advice of my companion, the King’s Head, and the Royal Hotel.  We
were shewn into a very good parlour, and, after ordering a tea and supper
dinner, my friend, somewhat exhausted by the day’s march, flung himself
once more upon a sofa, while I resumed my journal.  Supper or dinner, or
whatever it may be termed being over, inquiries were made about our bed
rooms.

                          [Picture: Llangollen]

“Your bed, sir, is made over the way.”

“Over the way!”

“Yes; my mistress has but one bed unoccupied, and she thought you would
resign that to the elderly gentleman.”

“Oh certainly, my good girl; and who is to guide me ‘over the way,’ eh!
for it’s as dark as Erebus?”

“Oh, sir, John, the ostler.  Here, John!  John!”

And away went the girl.  I confess I have a strong aversion, after having
taken off my boots, put on my slippers, and made up my mind to be
comfortable for the night, to be obliged to walk some hundred yards from
the parlour fireside, across or along a damp street, in a dark night, to
my bedchamber; chilling work it is.  At length, however, the deed was
done, and I was shewn into a bedroom, where the murmurs of the flowing
Dee were distinctly heard beneath the window.  I felt cold and
uncomfortable.

“Here am I, then,” said I, soliloquizing, as I pressed the pillow, “here
am I, at length, in the vale of Llangollen—in the village of Llangollen!
the spot which I have so often longed to visit!

    “Flow on, thou shining river!”

And how fortunate, too, to meet with such an agreeable old gentleman!—and
that Bristol merchant’s daughter, poor girl!—and that old
witch!—corpse-light!—greased cow’s tail!—and, in a few moments, I sank
soundly to sleep.




CHAPTER IV.


Waking prospect—Plas Newydd and the grounds—Lines written at the
font—Castle Dinas Bran—Legend of Mick Mallow—View of the Castle—Legend of
the Minstrel Fay—Original Air—Festival.

    “I crossed in its beauty the Dee’s druid water,
    The waves as I passed rippled lowly and lone,
    For the brave on their borders had perished in slaughter,
    The noble were banished, the gifted were gone.”

                                                                W. WIFFEN.

I WAS dreaming of home, and happiness, and a thousand lovely things, when
I was awakened by my new acquaintance, who stood before me dressed for a
sturdy walk, with a glass of brandy and milk in his hand, which he
advised me to finish before I quitted my room.  I however, contented
myself with tasting it, and returning him the remainder, which he quaffed
off with the alacrity of one who thought example was better than precept.

“A lovely morning,” said Triptolemus, rubbing his hands with much
delight; “come, bustle, bustle, my young friend; you are not in London,
now.  Permit me to open the lattice; you will find no perfume at your
chamber window in town like this;” and, as he spoke, he flung open the
casement, and a rush of fragrance poured into the room from hundreds of
roses that clustered upon the wall without.  It was a draught of delight
which far surpassed the brandy and milk, in my estimation; nor was my
friend at all deficient in praising its sweetness, for, taking a long
breath, he stood, for a moment, with his mouth wide open, and then sent
forth a sigh, long enough to form a bridge over the river for the fairies
to cross upon.

“Shall we breakfast before we set out upon our ramble?  I think we had
better give orders for it, and visit the cottage where Lady Elinor Butler
and Miss Ponsonby so long resided, while it is preparing.”

This being agreed to, we crossed over to the Hand Inn, and gave
directions for a breakfast, that would enable us to undergo the
subsequent fatigue with cheerfulness; and then struck into the road for
Plas Newydd.  This memorable little dwelling is pleasantly situated upon
a rising knoll, and commands a delightful prospect of mountain scenery.

The front of the cottage is ornamented with an oaken palisade, curiously
carved with grotesque figures, giving a very tasty and aristocratic
appearance to the building.  At the back of the house is a neat grass
plot, with a birdcote, where the robins find a grateful shelter in the
winter season, and where the ladies fed them every morning.  It is
surrounded with a fence of evergreens.  From thence, the gardener, who is
still retained upon the grounds, conducted us under an archway, to a very
pleasant and winding path, which leads to a well stocked fruit garden.
We then descended by a shady walk, arched over with tall trees, to the
primrose vale, through which a refreshing stream rushes over rocks, where
the sun but rarely gilds it with its beams.  It is a delightful cool
retreat, and well calculated to awaken the dormant spirit of poesy, in
any heart where it had ever deigned to dwell.  We passed over a rustic
bridge which led us to the veranda, from which we had a fine view of the
valley of Cewynn and the Pegwerm mountains; and then proceeding a little
farther up the glen, we seated ourselves opposite a most picturesque
font, brought hither from the ruins of Valle Crucis, by the late
proprietors of this spot.  It is enclosed in a small arched niche, and
supplied with the purest water from a murmuring rill, which falls in a
thin stream into the bowl, a draught from which is an exquisite treat—for
_water_ drinkers.

              [Picture: Font in the grounds of Plas Newydd]



LINES WRITTEN AT THE FONT.


    Drink, gentle pilgrim, from the well,
    Thus sacred in this hollow dell!
    Drink deep!—yet ere the yearning lip
    Touches the draught it longs to sip,
    Pray for the souls of those who gave
    This font that holds the limpid wave!—
    This holy font, which lay o’erthrown
    Mid Valle Crucis’ shadows brown,
    And which the hands of holy men
    Have blest, but ne’er can bless again!
    Drink, happy pilgrim, drink and pray,
    At morning dawn or twilight grey,—
    Pray for the souls of those who gave
    This font, that holds the limpid wave!

The flower garden is laid out with great taste; and the little circular
dairy, sunk in the ground, on the left at the front entrance, affords a
most pleasing and picturesque effect.  Altogether, it is a place where
any person, wearied with the bustle of society, would willingly fly for
refuge, and find repose.

After rewarding the gardener for his attention in shewing us the retreat,
we returned, with good appetites, to do justice to the fare provided by
our host of the Hand.  And here I was first destined to hear the sounds
of the Welsh harp.  As we discussed our fare, the harper in the hall
played up his liveliest tunes.  There was not an original Welsh air in
the whole collection; for it consisted of all the popular songs that had
been bawled about the streets of London for the last three years; and
though probably new to the ears of the dwellers in this secluded valley,
were to me anything but gratifying.  I sent out the waiter, therefore,
requesting the minstrel to play a few of his national melodies; when he
immediately commenced an air, to which I have heard a song, I think of
old Charles Dibdin’s, called “The Tortoise-shell Tom Cat.”  After a
second attempt, I gave the thing up as hopeless, and was obliged to
content myself with the anticipation of hearing some Welsh airs when I
returned to London, as they seemed to be exiled from their native
valleys.

Breakfast being despatched, we slung our pistols, _i.e._ leathern
bottles, filled with _eau de vie_, to our sides, and started to view the
ruins of Dinas Bran, an ancient fortress, upon the summit of a conical
mountain, which forms the principal feature of this portion of the vale,
and is indeed a striking object, from almost every part of the
neighbourhood.  The ascent begins near the foot of the bridge opposite to
the town.

As we passed along the street, we perceived the following notice pasted
upon the gable of a house:

    “The Annual Festival of the Llangollen and Llandysilio Female Club
    will be held, as usual, at the Hand Inn gardens, on Tuesday, 27th of
    June.  The members will walk in procession to church, exactly at
    three o’clock, &c., &c.”

“This festival,” said my companion, “is well worthy of notice.  The
promoters of this valuable institution are Mrs. Cunluff, and Mrs. Ayton,
the rector’s wife.  It was formed for the support of the aged and
afflicted, who have the benefit of food and medical attendance in
sickness and calamity, by contributing a trifle out of their weekly
wages, when in health and employment.”  We had sufficient time to ascend
the mountain, and return before the procession quitted the churchyard.

Triptolemus was strongly built, and, being accustomed to rambling amongst
the Welsh vales, and over its steepest mountains, far outstripped me in
the ascent, which was by no means easy.  We took a zig-zag direction up
the hill, which was too precipitate to mount in a direct way, and about
half way up I made a pause.

“I wish some one would invent a steam pocket apparatus, for dragging
tourists up mountains,” said I, as I seated myself to take breath, upon a
mossy knoll.

“The circular hollow, by which you have taken your seat,” said
Triptolemus, “is dignified by a legend, which, as you seem to be somewhat
fatigued, I will relate to you.”



MICK MALLOW.


Mick Mallow was a shepherd lad, a fond narrator of strange stories, and a
firm believer in knockers, brownies, and other spirits that are supposed
to hover about and under our mountains.  He declared that one night, as
he sat quietly meditating what part of the mountain he should select for
his bed, he was startled by hearing a tinkling sound near him, and
raising his head, he saw, perched upon this stone, a little man with a
pair of moss breeches, birch-leaf coat, heather-bloom waistcoat, a yellow
cap of the blossom of a furze bush, shining stockings, and beetle-wing
pumps.  Thus equipped, he looked very smart; and in his left hand he held
a fiddle, while with his right he twanged the strings, and made the hairs
of Mick’s head stand on end,

    “Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.”

“Hôs da i chwi!” said the little fairy, speaking in Welsh; which means,
“good night to you!”

“The same to you,” said Mick, “and many of them.”

“You’re fond of a dance, Mick, I believe, and if you stay here, you’ll
have an opportunity of seeing the finest dancers in the world, or out of
the world, and I’m the musician!”

“Then where’s your harp?” said Mick, “and what’s that ugly outlandish
thing you’ve got under your arm?”

“Oh! it’s my fiddle,” said the little man, “and you shall bear me play
it, presently.”

And now Mick saw hundreds of little spirits ascending the mountain; some
of them carrying glow-worms in their hands for torches; some dressed in
white, some in green, and some in brown.  But all the females were in
white, and on they came, dancing and singing; but so lightly did they
trip, that not a drop of dew was seen to be displaced by their weight;
and every one saluted Mick with a “good night to ye, Mick Mallow,” and to
every one he made a suitable reply, marvelling how so many well dressed
spirits should know him so well; and he was, to say the truth, greatly
frightened and astonished at his new acquaintance.

At length the little man, who had invited him to remain where he was,
drew his bow thrice across the strings of his instrument and produced
such exquisite tones, that Mick opened his eyes still wider, and pricked
up his ears with delight.  This multitude of spirits had now ranged
themselves in fantastic groups, forming altogether a spacious circle
round the stone upon which their musician stood, who then waved his
fiddle stick, and striking three chords on the fiddle, away they went
dancing round and round, slowly at first, and Mick thought Peg Willis,
the drover’s daughter, couldn’t hold a candle to any one of them, though
she was generally considered the best dancer at any festival for many
miles round.  Now Mick was fond of a dance himself, and could hardly
forbear joining them; but his fears prevented him, for he thought that
dancing on a mountain at night, to perhaps the devil’s fiddle, was not
the likeliest way to get to heaven.  But, when the dance became more
spirited, he felt his heels knocking together, and he snapped his fingers
and joined in the air with his voice.

“Well done, well done,” cried the little man who played, “come and join
in the dance Mick, I’ll warrant you never saw such dancing at any
wedding, as you see here!”

“Never! never! never!” cried Mick, and all the company laughed softly,
and danced faster and faster.

“Come and join us,” cried they; and Mick rubbed his head, while his heels
kept time; at length, he was so delighted by the motions of a fairy, who
threw her bright glances at him now and then, that with an irresistable
desperation he called out for them to stop, till he got into the centre
of them, which he had no sooner done than he roared out, “Now, you old
devil, play up Brimstone and Water!”

No sooner had he uttered these words, than the figure of the little man
underwent a change!  The yellow cap vanished from his head, and a pair of
goat’s horns, branched out from his head; his face turned black as soot,
his leafy coat, heather-bloom waistcoat and moss breeches, with shining
stockings, vanished, and left a black body with a long tail! while his
beetle-wing shoes disappeared as suddenly and left nothing but the cloven
feet.  Mick’s heart was heavy, but his heels were light; horror was in
his breast, but mirth was in every motion.  The fays assumed a variety of
forms, some like goats, others like crows; some changed to beetles and
others to batts! all the varieties of flesh and fowl seemed to be the
grand movers of the revel, from the moment he entered the enchanted
circle.  The dance, at length, became so furious that he could not
perceive the forms of the dancers distinctly.  The rapidity with which
they flew round and round made them resemble a wheel of fire at a white
heat.  Still he danced on, although he would very willingly have stopped,
but his legs capered in spite of his will, while old Nick, in the centre,
continued to play with unceasing vigour and seemingly much diverted with
the entertainment.

Mick’s master, an honest early-rising man, roamed up the mountain, at
break of day, to view his sheep and goats, which he saw quietly browsing
in various parts, but, on nearing this spot, you may imagine his
astonishment, when he beheld his shepherd dancing in that most
extraordinary manner; leaping, twisting and turning in every direction;
for some time, he stood mute with astonishment.  At length, he drew near,
and no sooner did Mick perceive his master, than he roared out.  “Stop
me! stop me! oh master, stop me!” upon which the master came close up to
him, and was knocked down by an extra fling of Mick’s leg, as he roared
still louder, “Stop me, master, stop me!”

Having recovered his feet, the old man stared quite bewildered and
exclaimed, “Why, what in the name of the Virgin!—”

But no sooner had he uttered the word, than the charm was broken, and
poor Mick sank senseless to the earth.  When sufficiently recovered, he
recounted the marvellous tale, and declared that all appeared to him as a
dream.  But the circle remains, round the edge of the hollow, where the
fairies disappeared, which the peasants assert to be the fairy’s foot
mark to this day. {107}

                                * * * * *

We now proceeded on our ascent, which became more difficult, as we
approached the summit, and after a little toil we stood by the side of
the _well_, whose pure waters gave joy to the inhabitants of this ancient
fortress many hundred years ago, and still offer a welcome draught to the
pilgrim who has sufficient enterprise and perseverance to seek it.

The view from the summit of this mountain is beautiful in the extreme;
commanding the vale from east to west, with the widely spreading plains
beyond its eastern extremity, and the grand and picturesque mountain
scenery which forms the western boundary.  Chirk Castle, Wynstay, Valle
Crucis and Glyndwrdwy are distinctly visible from this elevation, while
the romantic Dee is seen winding beneath, in light and shadow beautifully
varied by the hills, and the woods that droop over its banks.

                      [Picture: Castle Dinas, Bran]

Standing amid the ruins of this ancient British fortress, I observed it
was surely impossible that a spot so romantic could be without its
legends.

“You are right,” said my companion, “and I will relate one of a young
lady, who once resided within these walls.  That she did live here, and
was esteemed very beautiful, there is little reason to doubt, since the
Welsh bards have handed her down to posterity.”



MY FAWNY VYCHAN,
AND THE MINSTREL FAY.


My Fawny Vychan was a celebrated beauty of the fourteenth century, and
was the inspirer of many a bard’s most admired effusions.  She was of the
house of Tudor Trevor, and her father Ednyfed Vychan then held the
castle, under the noble Earl of Arundel, in the reign of the unfortunate
Richard II.  Among her numerous admirers was Evan, a youthful bard of
great beauty, but of mysterious birth; but her heart was given to a
valiant knight, named Howell Einion, the son of Gwalchmai, the son of
Meilir, the Lord of Tre Veilir in Anglesea, who was esteemed the greatest
ornament of chivalry.  He was daring, young and handsome, three
qualifications that find grace in the eyes of all ladies, at all periods;
but added to these he was a celebrated bard and a fine musician.  Evan
was gentle, delicate and retiring, and she could only yield him her
esteem.  Yet nightly did he hover near her casement, and, with the voice
of love, pour forth his soul in melody beneath it.  One evening, at the
close of autumn, she listened, while tears of pity fell from her bright
eyes, to the well known voice of Evan.

    The breeze had left the Berwyn hills,
    The dew was on the flower,
    The bee had sought his honeycomb,
    The bird was in his bower;
    When swifter than the mountain gale,
    And fresh as sparkling dew,
    My bee, I sought thy honey-home,
    My bird, to thee I flew!

    My Alban steed is white with foam,
    And droops his arched neck;
    The flood, the mountain, moor, and glen,
    He cross’d without a check!
    Oh listen, while my harp I strike,
    And rouse its sweetest tone,
    And hear the language of a heart,
    Which beats for thee alone!

    Oh, dearest of the mortal race!
    How peerless must thou be,
    When spirits quit their happy homes,
    To love, and gaze on thee!
    Arise, bright star of beauty, rise!
    And when from thee I roam,
    Send forth the lustre of thine eyes,
    To light me to my home!

Evan, after this touching appeal, remained for some time beneath the
window, gazing upwards, in the hope that she would grant him one
farewell; but disappointed, he turned sorrowfully to depart, when his
progress was arrested, by the sudden grasp of an armed hand, and Einion
stood before him.  Howell had often observed, that the eyes of the young
minstrel filled with tears as he gazed upon the beautiful face of his
mistress, and was not pleased with the discovery.  His fine eyes, now
flashed with anger upon Evan, who returned the glance as haughtily, and,
but for the delicate frame of the minstrel, the knight would have
revenged himself upon the object of his jealousy.  Evan’s eyes were black
as jet, his face was femininely fair, and his transparent skin was tinged
with that beautiful, but fatal hue, which brightens the cheeks of those
already doomed to the consumptive fiend, who flatters while he destroys.

He was slightly formed, but exquisitely moulded, and so light was his
footstep, that his tread was scarcely heard, so that he obtained the
application of the Minstrel Fay.

No one knew his parents, or from whence he came.  His dress was of the
best though plainest materials of the time; destitute of all the
absurdities that marked the costume of the period; and his steed, which
brought him to the castle, and bore him away from it again, was of the
purest white, and fleeter than any in the baron’s stables.

“Your steed stands in the valley, Minstrel Fay,” said Howel; “descend and
vanish on his back, swifter than you came hither, or I shall hurl you
from the battlements, and—why!—have I been dreaming!” continued the
astonished knight, with an exclamation of disappointment, mingled with
fear, as he stood with his arm outstretched and his hand clenched, as
though he still retained the minstrel in his hold; instead of whom, it
grasped an aspen branch, which, broken by the gripe, he dashed on the
ground.  Suddenly, an unearthly strain of melody arose from the woody
dell, and he distinctly heard the following words:

    “One glance from those seraphic eyes,
    To light me o’er the plain;
    One silver word to cheer my soul,
    And I am gone again!”

“What ho!” cried the knight, “Maldor! d’Espard!”  Two squires were
instantly at his side.  “By heaven, witchery is at work, d’Espard! saddle
brown Terror.  The Minstrel Fay is in the valley, and find him this night
I am determined.”

The horse was quickly brought, and, attended by his two followers, he
descended the mountain, at a desperate pace, in the direction from whence
the sounds proceeded.  The whole of that night did he gallop over hills,
and through deep glens, in pursuit of Evan; but no trace of him could he
find, and at length, wearied and exhausted with fatigue, he returned to
Dinas Bran, believing all that he had seen a dream.

At the morning’s meal, he related the story to My Fawny and her father.
The venerable lord jested with him upon his sleep-walking, as he termed
it, and bade him, “have better thoughts of poor Evan, for,” said he, “our
land does not contain a sweeter minstrel, or a finer bard.  He is the
pride of my hall, and the delight of all my noble friends.  The only
thing I am inclined to censure him for, is his absence.  He must belong
to noble blood, for his garb bespeaks him gentle, and his attainments are
those of one who has received an education such as few of us can boast.”

“I trust, baron,” said Einion, (a little piqued at this high
commendation), “you will allow, he would be loath to enter the lists with
me, in mortal encounter; and, for the accomplishments which belong to men
of rank, I have laboured to be considered no mean scholar.”

“Why as a knight and bard, I grant you, few can equal Howel ap Einion; at
feast and tourney, you ever shine amongst the first of England’s youth,”
said the good natured baron; “but, my brave boy, do not dislike poor
Howell, because his education has been different from yours.”

“Not I, my lord; I only wish he would not look so meltingly at your
daughter.”

My Fawny turned pale, but not from guilt; it was for fear that her
lover’s suspicious mind might prove dangerous to the poor youth, of whose
hopeless affection she was aware, and vainly regretted.  Her lover
noticed the change; and so did her father, who instantly said,

“Well, well, to end the dispute about who is most fitted to be my
daughter’s husband, I have resolved that of all her suitors, he who shall
prove best leaper in the approaching British Olympic at Plas-Gwynn, shall
have my daughter’s hand.  Will you enter the lists?”

“I will venture to risk my happiness upon the leap, or upon my success in
any one in the whole list of games; and, I doubt not, but love will
assist me to bear off the prize.  But, should I fail—” said he, in a tone
of tenderness, as he took the maiden’s hand, “would My Fawny drop a tear
upon my grave?”

The lovely girl lifted her dark eyes to those of her lover’s, and the
impetuous knight felt at once assured of her undivided affection.

The intervening days passed rapidly, while costly preparations were made
for the games that were to take place at Plas Gwynn.

During this time, Evan was never seen, although Einion often fancied, at
the still hour of night, he heard a harp, and the soft voice of the
minstrel, near the window of his mistress.

It is sufficient to say that Howell’s belief in his superiority over the
rest of the competitors was justly founded; and he won the lady by
covering the immense distance of fifty feet at a hop, step, and jump,
over the brook called Abernodwydd; in commemoration of which feat three
stones, at the precise intervals, were immediately erected on the spot,
where they still remain to this day, in a dingle called, “_Naid
Abernodwydd_, or _The Leap of Abernodwydd_.”—See Jones’s Bardic Museum,
Vol. II.

The games being finished, the lovers returned to Dinas Bran, and the
happy day at length arrived.

Bards of the highest order were seated in the banqueting hall, and
minstrels tuned their harps to joy and gratulation; but Evan was not
there.  The baron sat at the head of the board, his daughter and
son-in-law on either hand.  And many an anxious wish he felt, for his
favourite bard, and many an eager glance did he cast around the
illuminated hall, hoping to discover him amongst the crowd; but in vain;
and he felt uneasy at his absence.  Every guest expressed wonder that he
was not there to celebrate so happy an event, and he became the topic of
conversation with all assembled.

At length, the time for departure arrived, and the last bard had recited
his complimentary verses, when the door was flung open at the lower end
of the room, and Evan, his harp hung behind him, with a tottering step
advanced towards the upper end of the hall, where the new married couple
sat gazing in speechless wonder at his altered form.  There was an
unearthly expression in his face; the bloom which used to mantle on his
cheeks, was no longer there; his eyes were sunk deeply in their sockets,
and the vermilion of his lip was turned to ashy paleness.  A seat was
given him; and, without speaking, he placed his harp before him, and
touching its strings, a sound of heavenly music swelled up to the lofty
roof.  None ventured to breathe audibly, while he sang



THE MINSTREL’S KNELL.


    “My Fawny Vechan! brightest maid,
    In scarlet robes and gold array’d!
    My Fawny Vechan! fairest fair,
    That ever breath’d the mountain air!
    For thee do spirits pine and fade,
    As blossoms in the chilling shade,
    Debarr’d from Phœbus’ genial light,
    Sink victims to the withering blight.
    My Fawny Vechan! hear my prayer!
    Thy lover’s—tho’ _a child of air_!
    May peace on earth, and bliss above,
    Wait on the mortal whom I love!
    My outward form of misery
    Tells what the spirit feels for thee!
    Farewell, farewell! no more the pride
    Of sweet Dwrdwy’s mossy side,
    In distant vales, I’ll breathe my woes,
    And seek, ah, vain, vain hope! repose!
    Ah! cou’d I die, I’d not repine,
    If Evan’s name might live with thine.”

From the commencement of his song, the figure of Evan became fainter and
fainter, and the torches and huge candles that illuminated the ball
assumed a dimmer light.  The guests, terror stricken, were riveted to
their seats; none presumed to speak their fears; and the whole assembly
appeared, as they had been transformed, in the positions they occupied
while living, into cold marble, so immoveable and inanimate did they
seem.  On a sudden, the figure of Evan vanished!—The substantial harp
falling upon the floor restored the guests to motion; while Einion’s
attention was called to the restoration of his lovely bride, who, at the
melancholy close of the fairy’s song, had fainted, and still lay
insensible in the arms of her father, the baron.

The stone, at the upper end of the banqueting hall, is said to mark the
spot upon which, for the last time, was heard the melody of “THE MINSTREL
FAY!”

                                * * * * *

“A very pretty fable; and now let us return, to witness the procession at
Llangollen,” said I.

Having taken refreshment, we proceeded to the church-yard, and stationed
ourselves near a monument to the memory of Lady Eleanor Butler, Miss
Ponsonby, and their faithful servant, Mrs. Mary Carrol.  From this
interesting spot, we beheld a novel sight.  Two or three hundred
villagers had assembled, and were scattered about the churchyard in
groups; some, stretched upon their backs, were sleeping on the flat
tombstones, their hardy features protected from the scorching rays of the
sun by the gay cotton handkerchief or the straw hat; some stood in knots,
conversing upon the results likely to take place from petticoat
government (for the proclamation had been received only the day
previous); others gazing with eager eyes, upon a flight of steps, up
which a number of smart village girls, with laughing eyes and ruddy
faces, tripped lightly to a doorway, which entering, they, one by one,
like shadows, disappeared.  Every moment, the cemetery became more
crowded, and, as I noticed, principally with the infirm and aged.  Before
me stood a palsy stricken creature, whose white locks waved about her
face at every motion of her feeble head.  Then came a form, once,
doubtless, erect and handsome, but now by age so bent, that his head
found a melancholy parallel with his hips, and a beechen staff supported
his debilitated body.  Another and another still pressed on, the sick,
the lame, thronging to the gay scene, anticipating joy!  As they passed,
however, my busy fancy led them one by one, into a separate grave,
realizing the awful conception of the Dance of Death!

A strange, discordant sound, awakened me from my reverie, and, although
horribly harsh, I gave it welcome, for it banished a gloomy spirit from
my mind.  Turning my eyes towards the flight of steps, I saw the girls
descending, each decorated with a white shawl with a blue border, and
bearing a wand, (it being the symbol and costume of the society), at the
top of which were laurel, and laurestinus leaves, intermingled with
roses, lillies, etc., etc.  The beadle of the parish, who on these
occasions is no insignificant personage, was seen bustling about,
arranging the form of procession, bringing forward this one, pushing back
that, keeping order, and knocking the boys’ hats over their eyes for
having approached the lines too closely; while the motley band, in
various keys played, “Oh the roast Beef of Old England;” rather
mal-à-propos, as I thought, as they were about to enter the church, and
hear a sermon which is regularly preached on this day.

The line now stretched to a considerable extent, and the lady patronesses
appeared to be much delighted at viewing the busy scene, as they hurried
to and fro, with benevolence beaming in their eyes; while old age, and
decrepitude, cast away their sorrows and hailed the jocund scene.

All being ready, the rector and his curate placed themselves in the van,
the lady patronesses followed, and to the sound of the inspiring bassoon,
drum, keyed bugle, and cracked trumpet, they proceeded by the iron gate,
through ranks of happy human beings ranged on either side, like old oaks,
young saplings, nettles and pea blossoms, huddled together in
“promiscuous alliance.”  Having taken a prescribed circuit, they again
entered the churchyard by another gate, and passed into the church; when
a discourse, very much to the purpose, was given by the rector; after
which, they adjourned to the Hand hotel, where they had a tea-total
entertainment, and passed the evening in strolling about the gardens,
listening to the inimitable band of wind instruments, which brayed out an
execrable accompaniment to the exquisite music of the Dee, as it swept
beneath them, overshadowed by the drooping foliage of the opposite bank.
Altogether, it was a most gratifying sight—for the simple souls were
happy.




CHAPTER V.


Valle Crucis—The Abbey—Lines written in the ruins—A loquacious
porteress—A view of the Abbey—The pillar of Eliseg—A parting—Road to
Corwen—Vale of the Dee—The musical pedestrian—War song—Over the hills and
far away—An adventure—Corwen—The Church—College—Cross and Circle—Air
Llwyn-own—Route to Landrillo—An old soldier and his son—Village of
Landrillo—A fair—Vale of Edeyrnion—Arrival at Bala.

    “Fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
    Nor let the tuneful lips be dry
       That warble Owen’s praise;
    Whose walls with warlike spoils are hung,
    And open wide his gates are flung,
       In Cambria’s peaceful days.

    “This hour bright is meant for joy,
    Then fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
       That shineth like the sea,
    Whose azure handles, tipt with gold,
    Invite the grasp of Britons bold,
       The sons of Liberty!”

                        _From the Welsh of Prince Owen Cyveilog_, by R. W.

ON the following morning, we bade adieu to Llangollen, and proceeded
first to Valle Crucis.

                      [Picture: Valle Crucis Abbey]

Like most abbeys, it is beautifully situated.  The monks of old well
appreciated the value of rich lands and clear streams.  An old woman
received us at the gate, and instantly began to retail her information.
“Gryffyd ap Madoc, Lord of Bromfield and Yale, founded this abbey in the
year 1200.”  There are parts of both church and abbey still remaining;
the former was cruciform, and exhibits several styles of architecture.
The eastern end is the most ancient; it is adorned by three lancet slips,
forming one grand window.  The entrance was in the west, under a broad
and beautiful window, above which is a smaller one, of a marigold form,
decorated with tracery and fret-work, and beneath it may be deciphered
the following inscription:

    A.D.A.M.D.N.S fecit hoc opus, pace beatâ quiescat Amen.

The cloisters are turned into a farmhouse and offices.

This noble edifice was dismantled by Henry VIII.  My companion, feeling
desirous to bathe in the clear waters, left me to my contemplations,
encompassed by the ruined walls of the abbey, and tall ash trees, which
shaded the area of the church.  I wandered from thence to the fish pond,
which is near to the abbey, and, while my companion was enjoying his
ablutions, my muse jogged my arm, and reminded me that some tribute was
due from me to this lovely spot.  Taking out my pocket book and pencil, I
produced the following



LINES WRITTEN AT VALLE CRUCIS.


    Monastic Valle Crucis! while I linger in thy shade,
    The spirits of the olden time seem moving in the glade;
    Rebuilt appear thy ruined walls, and thou art strong again,
    As when the organ through those aisles poured forth its solemn
    strain.

    Here reigneth peace and solitude, as if some holy spell
    Still charmed the blessed region where religion loved to dwell;
    No music, save the streamlet’s voice, disturbs the deep serene,
    And breezy sounds sweet murmuring throughout the woodlands green.

    Oh fallen Valle Crucis! full six hundred years are gone
    Since the warlike lord of Dinas Bean laid thy foundation stone;
    And mighty didst thou flourish, till that fell destroyer came,
    Than mouldering time more ruthless, and of sacrilegious name.

    Then, holy Valle Crucis! was thy sacred roof thrown down,
    Thy peaceful inmates scattered, rent the sacerdotal gown;
    The mournful ivy clustered o’er thy grey and ruined walls,
    And ash trees sprang, where torches blazed, within thy sainted halls.

    Hushed are the lips of all who dwelt within that cloistered fane;
    And holy feet will never press the polished floors again,
    At morning prayer and vesper hymn, which thrilled thy very stones—
    Forgotten now those pious ones, and whitened are their bones!

    Yet ivy’d Valle Crucis! thou art fairer in decay
    Than all the splendid structures which adorn our modern day;
    In every mouldering fragment of thy consecrated pile
    There’s a charm to all who view thy walls, or tread thy broken aisle.

    Peace dwell around thee ever! may no heedless hand molest
    The solemn bird which builds in thee its ivy-mantled nest,
    Whose breathings seem the deep-drawn sighs of bosoms fraught with
    pain,
    Lamenting the departed, who will ne’er return again.

The porteress of this ancient building is Ann Dale, who has lived in this
solitary but delightful spot for two years; and, although a Shropshire
woman, has made herself, during that period, sufficiently acquainted with
the Welsh language to discourse fluently with the country people, in
their native tongue; and has moreover committed to memory everything
interesting, relative to the spot where she resides.  It is evidently her
delight to point out to strangers the objects most worthy their
attention; and her love of the venerable pile has induced her to take
spade in hand, and clear away the rubbish that perhaps had for centuries
been accumulating round the columns, leaving them clear to their
foundations.  Time has been over busy with her features; but her limbs
are as active as those of a girl of sixteen, and her spirits are as light
as her heels.

“Ah, sir!” said she, after enumerating the good offices she had received
from the neighbouring gentry, and the friendly feelings of the more
humble classes, “I’ve always made it a rule, throughout my life, to be
civil to every body.  Civility costs nothing, you know, and I’m always
surprised to hear people, when they are asked a simple question, if they
chance to have a better coat on their backs than the person who addresses
them, give an answer as if they were speaking to cattle, or worse brutes,
when you know, sir, (approaching the cottage at the head of the pond) we
are all the same flesh and blood, (pausing on the second step.)  I don’t
say but there ought to be distinctions, for we can’t be all gentlefolks,
(entering.)  But then, where’s the difference, when we are as them that
lie in the abbey there? or like these poor bones that I have in a box
here, (opening it and displaying some human relics.)  They all comed out
of the abbey ground, Sir.  Why these might be a bishop’s, or a great
warrior’s, for aught we know to the contrary.  Well, sir, after all,
there’s nothing like good common sense.  Solomon prayed for good sense,
and he had it; and, thank God, I have it, too.  Now, sir, come this way
(leading back to the margin of the monks’ pond) and I’ll show you
something that shows what a thing Providence is.  You see that stone jar
there, sir—just there in the water; well, sir, you know there are no
flies in the winter; so the poor fish would be sorely put about for food,
but for Providence.  Well, upon that jar I’ve seen thousands and
thousands of things like shells and patches of grey moss; and I’ve seen
the trout cluster about it, and feed upon ’em often.  And, whenever I
thinks of that, sir, it brings to my mind the 104th Psalm.”

“What is the name of that mountain, my good lady, to S.E. of the abbey?”
I inquired.

“Why that, sir, is called Fron Fawr.  It is 1328 feet above the level of
the sea, sir.”

I thanked her for her information; and, prompted by an incontrollable
appetite, ventured to ask if she could supply us with anything eatable.

“Why, I’m afraid,” said she “that I have nothing that you’ll like, sir;
for I’m a poor lone woman, and what suits me, wouldn’t perhaps sit upon
your honour’s stomach.  But there _were_ a party here this morning, and
they left behind ’em a pork-pie, because the dish got broke, and a piece
of apple tart; and I have gotten a piece of oatcake, and a piece of
cheese; if you could manage to put up with that, sir, you’re quite
welcome.”

Talk of Christmas times, of roast beef and plum pudding!  Give me June,
with cold pork-pie, apple tart, and cheese, in a summer-house overlooking
a monk’s pond, and surrounded by waving woods and lofty trees, in view of
the ruined abbey,

       “Where monks of old
       As I’ve been told
    Quaffed the merry, merry nut brown ale.”

By the time my travelling friend had returned from his bath, the table
was furnished with fare calculated to satisfy his appetite, at the
expense of pork-pie, tart, etc.  Mixing the contents of our united flasks
with the pure cool waters of the refreshing spring, inhaling the perfume
of Havannah, and making a sofa out of two wooden chairs, we amused
ourselves with a retrospective view of the scenes we had passed through
since we met.  It was now twelve o’clock, and, as it was my intention to
reach Bala by nightfall, we rose to depart; and with many thanks and kind
wishes from the old porteress of Valle Crucis, quitted that interesting
ruin, and proceeded to



THE PILLAR OF ELISEG.


It stands in a meadow, a short distance from the abbey, and was a
memorial of the dead; an improvement on the rude columns of Druidical
times, sculptured into form, and surrounded with inscriptions.  It is
among the first lettered stones that succeed the Meini-Hirion, Meini-Gwyr
and Llechan, and stood on a great tumulus, perhaps always environed with
wood, according to the custom of the most ancient times, when standing
pillars were placed under every green tree.

                       [Picture: Pillar of Eliseg]

This pillar was erected above a thousand years ago, to the memory of
Eliseg, the father of a Prince of Powis, called Rochwel Yscythrog, who
met his death at the battle of Chester, in 607.  During the civil wars,
this pillar was thrown down, and broken, and the shaft which was
originally above twelve feet in length, is now only eight.  At the
suggestion of the Rev. John Price, Bodleian librarian, and great
antiquary, Mr. Lloyd, of Trevor Hall, had it placed in its present
position.

At this spot, my companion and I were to separate.  I felt the
approaching loss severely; for where could I expect to find another so
amusing and so kind?

“You’ll come and see me at Rhuthyn?” said he.  “I have a snug cottage, a
good housekeeper, a bed, and as good a glass of port as you will find in
the neighbourhood;—promise to visit me at your return.”

I promised not to forget his hospitable invitation, and, with a feeling
of regret I never before experienced at quitting a new acquaintance of so
short standing, I squeezed his hand—and we parted.

From Valle Crucis Abbey, I proceeded to the banks of the Dee, and
crossing the rude bridge over the river struck into the high road to
Corwen, and proceeded at a brisk pace.  The country became highly
interesting.  The mountains are lofty; and beneath, upon the right,
Glyndwrdwy, _the valley of the Dee_, discloses its picturesque beauty.
This was the property of the celebrated Owen Glyndwr.

The vale is so serpentine that it presents a succession of most exquisite
views, and after a walk of three miles, on looking back, Castle Dinas
Bran seems placed upon a lower eminence.  The valley of Llangollen may be
seen likewise from hence for many miles, terminated by the distant
mountains.

After passing the fourth mile stone, the road takes a straight direction;
and at this spot I came up with a person who, seated upon the road, was
extracting some very tolerable music from one end of his walking cane.
He was a tall thin man, with sharp features and large blue eyes.  He had
on a broad brimmed glazed hat, a blue frock coat, with nankeen
pantaloons, short gaiters, and shoes.  The rest of his wardrobe was
wrapped in a pocket handkerchief; and his name, as I afterwards learnt,
was Whiffler.

Upon my approaching him, he withdrew his musical cane from his mouth, and
observed that it seemed likely to rain; and, by the misty appearance of
the atmosphere before us, I concluded he was right in his observations;
for in that direction the country was nearly obscured, while behind us,
the sun sent forth his brightest beams upon mountain and stream; though
the valleys partly slept in shadow, as he slowly journeyed to his western
couch.

“Travelling far, sir?” inquired my new companion.

“At my leisure,” I replied.

“Fine road, this, sir.”

“Capital.”

“Are you fond of music?”

“Passionately.”

This was sufficient encouragement to make my new acquaintance turn his
staff once more into an instrument of sound, and he played a wild kind of
march, which he assured me was called “The War Tramp of Owen Glyndwr,”
the Welsh chieftain, who was so formidable an enemy to Henry IV.—Taking
up the idea, I endeavoured to compose some appropriate lines for the air.
(See music plate.) {130}

“Have the kindness, sir,” said my companion, “to step out with your left
foot at the beginning of the bar, and you will find it excellent marching
time.”

I complied with the whimsical request, and he seemed much pleased at my
readiness to oblige his humour; for he blew away unceasingly, and I dare
say would never have thought of stopping, had I not pointed out a
handsome house to him, upon the opposite hill, and requested him to tell
me the name of its proprietor.

“Do you mean that semibreve, in the middle of that forest of
demi-semi-quavers?”

I laughed at his conceit, and replied in the affirmative.

“Oh! that belongs to Mr. Jones, and is called Llandysilio Hall—a very
worthy man.  This glen, sir, has been the scene of many sanguinary
conflicts.”

Here he struck up “The Battle of Prague,” and we marched on for about a
mile further, when he suddenly stopped short before a small public house,
upon the road side.

“I have an idea,” said he, “that a small drop of brandy, mixed with a
little mulled ale, sugar and nutmeg, would make us get over the next four
miles—prestissimo—eh?  Con spirito, um?”

I agreed to the con spirito, but assured him a moderato movement would
suit my inclination better for the remainder of the walk to Corwen.  He
then led the way into the house; and certainly, of all the comforts a
tourist can experience, that of seeing a neatly sanded room, with shining
oaken seats and tables, walls white as snow, pans and pots glittering in
well ordered arrangement against them, a fine polished kitchen range
enclosing a good fire, and a smiling, civil, hospitable hostess anxious
to attend your commands, however trifling they may be, is the most
desirable.  I never saw any country where so much attention is paid to
the cleanliness of the interior of their cottages, if I except Holland,
and in this respect the peasantry resemble each other.

Having despatched this agreeable beverage, we resumed our walk, and in
about ten minutes, the rain, which had long been threatening us, fell in
torrents, and we resembled a couple of half drowned rats as we faced the
storm.

My companion, with a half-comic and half melancholy cast of countenance,
observed, “I declare, I can hardly make my instrument speak, although I
have got a natural shake in my voice, as you may hear.  Very cold, sir;
isn’t it?  Look yonder,” continued he, pointing to a clump of fir trees.
“There, sir, once stood the celebrated wooden house, attached to the
mansion of that mighty warrior and magician who could

    “Call spirits from the vasty deep—”

for the purpose of lodging the guests.  The mansion stood upon our left,
and was formerly of grand dimensions, they say; though now alas! not a
vestige of it remains.  The site of the visitor’s lodging rooms commands
a fine prospect of the valley.  Perhaps you would like to walk up to it?”

“Certainly;” and, accordingly, we jumped over a stile and climbed to the
summit of the mound, from which a glorious view of the valley was
obtained.  Upon reaching the top, the traveller is surprised to find,
that what he looked upon as a mere mound, when viewed from the road,
assumes the form of a tremendous precipice as he looks down upon the dark
waters of the Dee, (which wind around its base), and glances over the
fertile valley stretched far beneath, where Glyndwr vanquished the
oppressor Grey.  I had fallen into a reverie, from which I was awakened
by the shrill sounds of the musician’s fife stick, which startled me with
its discordant notes, and brought me back from the fourteenth century to
the nineteenth, with a celerity far from pleasing.

As we resumed our walk, we heard the rumbling of wheels, and the tramp of
horses behind us, and pausing to see what vehicle was approaching, we
beheld a kind of van, drawn by two enormous animals, as large as any of
the breed employed in some of the London breweries.  They were driven by
a young man, of about nineteen years of age.

“Will you ride as far as Corwen?” said he, at the same time pulling up
his horses.

As the rain was falling fast, and this conveyance promised to carry us to
the town in half the time it would take us to walk thither, we gladly
accepted the offer.  I mounted by the side of the driver, having always a
predilection for that seat; while my more prudent musical acquaintance
jumped into the body of the cart, and was presently lost sight of beneath
a dozen coal sacks, that covered several ale casks.

I soon found that my situation was far from being enviable.  In the first
place, there was no foot board, and I kept slipping forward, every now
and then, at the hazard of falling upon the horses’ heels.  The air
became more keen, the rain rattled upon my visage with greater violence
than ever, and silently I confessed—forgive me ye gnomes and demons of
the storm!—that notwithstanding the grandeur of the mountain-torrent, I
should at that time have given a preference to a little of the “mountain
dew.”

Presently, I heard the shrill sound of the fife issuing from underneath
the sacks, to the tune of “Over the hills and far away,” and was about
requesting the driver to stop, until I joined my companion in his lair,
when a smart lash upon the flank of the near horse made him dart off at a
pace which defied all the efforts of the Welsh boor to check.  With his
right arm holding fast by the front rail of the caravan, he with his left
pulled with all his strength to keep the horses in the road, and we
dashed along, first upon one side, and then upon the other, for the
middle was never kept, until I began to look out for the most comfortable
landing place.  I then caught hold of the near horse’s rein, while he
tugged away at the other.  The seat was slippery, and the reins were wet,
and our united efforts would have failed in checking their speed; but
espying a hill about half a mile a-head of us,

“Now then, keep ’em together,” said I, “and let them have their race out,
for they must stop at yonder hill.”

All this time the fife was whistling like mad, “Go to the devil and shake
yourselves;” and Mr. Whiffler was luxuriating in blessed ignorance of our
danger.

Having made up my mind to the worst, but hoping for the best, I regaled
myself with a sup of brandy from the pistol at my side, and then handed
it to the driver, who drank—as if he liked it.  We by this time reached
the foot of the hill, at the same slashing pace, and began the ascent in
a first rate style; but, when we had got about half way up, we were
startled by a loud cry behind us, and, upon turning my head, I saw poor
Mr. Whiffler seated in the middle of the road, flourishing his musical
cane, and shouting most vociferously for us to stop.  It seemed that he
was amusing himself with his favourite airs, and never felt the gradual
retiring motion of the sacks as we ascended the hill, until he was fairly
shot out at the tail of the van, where he lay sprawling; but, thanks to
the friendly sacks, unhurt.

Our frisky Flander’s steeds, coming to the push at the steep rising
ground, relaxed in their rapid course, became quiet as lambs, and at the
summit of the bill were very glad to come to a dead halt to recover their
breath; giving my musical friend ample time to come up with us, which he
had no sooner done, than, as if nothing had occurred worth mentioning, he
resumed his situation in the van, and struck up “Drops of brandy.”  I
took the hint, and presented him with my reserve, which he emptied with
much apparent satisfaction, and returned the flask with thankfulness.
Then resuming his unwearying amusement, he never ceased until we reached
the inn at Corwen; not the principal one, but a small house on the right
of the street opposite to the Owen Glyndwr; which latter has a gigantic
head over the door, much resembling the Saracen’s of Snow Hill notoriety.

I discovered the landlord of “The Welsh Harp” to be the proprietor of the
van, and that the driver was his son.  He also followed the occupation of
watch and fishing tackle maker, and I willingly, therefore, took up my
quarters with this specimen of Welsh rusticity, when invited, in
preference to quartering at the great inn with the great head, as also
did Mr. Whiffler.

The first question put to the jolly landlord, was, “What can you give us
to eat?”  It was about three o’clock in the day.

“Why, sir, I have a nice roast duck and some peas, which were intended
for John’s,” meaning our van-driver, “dinner; but I shall be able to find
something else for him.”

“And how long, pray, will it be before it is ready?”

“A quarter of an hour.”

“Very well, that will do; and, in the interim, I’ll borrow one of your
coats, and we will visit the church, if there is anything in it worth
looking at.”

No sooner said than done; and a large blue coat, with two heavy capes,
and brass buttons of the size of crown pieces, was immediately brought
forth, which I slipped into, it fitting me—like a sack!  No matter—my own
was thoroughly drenched, and was hanging before a blazing fire in the
kitchen, reeking like a leg of mutton, hot from the boiler.

“Would you like to slip into a pair of my leather breeches?” inquired my
hospitable host.

This I thankfully declined, upon looking at the difference of our
dimensions.  My piping friend was comfortably seated in the chimney
corner, and observing “that he had never frequented church since he was
married, having received at that time a shock he could never recover,” he
commenced playing the beautiful air of “My ain fireside,” whilst I,
turning most heroically to the right about, again braved the “pelting of
the pitiless storm,” accompanied by John, our driver, who, in a few
minutes, conducted me to the ancient edifice.

On one side of the altar is the lid of a coffin, which has the following
inscription:

    “Hic jacet Jorweth Sulien, vicarius de Corvaen ora pro eo.”

In the church wall is shewn the private doorway through which Owen
Glyndwr entered the building whenever he attended divine worship, and in
the rock, which overhangs the churchyard, there is a recess, which bears
the name of Glyndwr’s chair; and the stone which now forms the lintel of
the doorway leading to his pew, is said to retain the mark of his dagger,
half an inch in depth, which he threw from the said chair; but upon what
occasion it is not stated.

In the churchyard is a range of building called Corwen College, having
over the archway the following inscription:

                               Corwen College,
                       For six widows of the Clergymen
                          Of the church of England,
                    Who died possessed of cures of souls,
                       In the county of Merionethshire.
                              Built and endowed
                          A.D MDCCL by the legacy of
                              William Egton Esq.
                               Of Plas-warren.

In the cemetery there is a cross, fixed in a circular stone, westward of
the steeple; and it is supposed that the name of Corwen is a corruption
of Corvaen, and derived from the cross.  Cor signifies a circle, and maen
(which is likewise considered to have been changed into vaen) if joined
to cor, means a cross in the circle.

Having satisfied my curiosity here, I returned to the public house, and
the first object which met my delighted eyes was the promised duck,
accompanied by a dish of most elegant trout; a dainty for which I had
been longing ever since I entered this territory of rocks and torrents.
My friend was already placed at the table, and he clapped his hands, and
rubbed them with evident delight and satisfaction at seeing me arrive so
opportunely.  The fish despatched, duck and green peas in close column
brought up the rear.  But I and my gallant comrade—a better trencherman
ne’er poised a fork—attacked in line, cut up the one, and routed the
other, with the most determined bravery.  The right and left wings were
attacked and cut off from the main body, which with all its material we
dispersed in the glorious conflict, remaining masters of the field.

Although I thus warmly express my satisfaction at partaking of this not
easily-to-be-forgotten luxury, let me not be mistaken for a gourmand; but
a wet and tired traveller, however much his mind may be enchanted by the
scenery through which he passes, never beholds a more delightful prospect
than a comfortable meal at his journey’s end.  It so happened, however,
that this was not to be my journey’s end, for a blaze of light darted
into the room at the moment John had carried off the spoils from our
field of battle, and the glorious orb of day shone forth in cloudless
majesty.

Wine in such a house, being out of the question, we ordered a jug of warm
punch, and having drank success to my musical friend in a brimming
goblet, I began to think, as my time was limited, and his path lay
towards Cerrig-y-Drudion, and mine towards Bala, I had better reach that
place before dark.  My companion having divested himself of his shoes and
stockings, and adopted those of the landlord, and feeling himself
comfortable before the fire, resolved upon remaining where he was until
bedtime.  Wishing him, therefore, a pleasant evening, and a good night’s
repose, I once more took the road for another walk of ten miles; while I
heard the shrill sounds of his fife stick playing the Welsh air of
“Farewell Glanddyn.”

At the end of the village, I was attracted by the eyes of the prettiest
little Welsh lass that I remember having seen in the country.  Health
bloomed in her cheek, and animation darted from her sloe-black eyes.  She
was talking to a village lad, who appeared to be much abashed by some
reproof she had given him; and presently, with a significant nod of the
head and an admonitory glance of the eye, she turned briskly from him,
and frisked by me, humming a Welsh air—the first that I had heard since I
entered the principality—while the youth, with a smile and a sigh, turned
in a contrary direction, exclaiming, “Ah, Jenny, if you refuse so many,
you may happen to pray for one yet.”

I afterwards discovered that the Welsh air was called after the mansion
of Mr. Edward Jones, the compiler of that most interesting book of
Cambrian lore, the Bardic Museum.  I instantly determined to put the idea
I had formed in my mind of the Welsh lass into verse, and to adapt the
lines to the music. (See plate.) {143}

Every thing looked cheerful; the birds carroled joyously from the trees
and bushes; and I joined in the chorus.  A robin appeared to be much
taken with my vocal powers, and for a good while kept me company,
alighting constantly some ten or twelve yards before me, and listening
attentively until I had passed as far; then, passing me again in his
flight, he took up his station as before.  “Poor bird!” thought I, “I
remember in my boyhood I have followed some of your race as eagerly as
you now follow me; and my ears drank in their notes, intoxicating my
senses with delight.  I shall never forget the old mulberry tree that
grew in our play grounds, shadowing a pretty little hermitage in which I
used to sit apart from my schoolfellows and listen to the notes of that
delightful warbler, with whom I grew familiar, and fed every evening with
crumbs of bread, saved from my dinner.”

How extraordinary it appears that the past should always seem more
delightful than the present!  I am convinced, that I was more miserable
during my school-boy days than I have been since, and yet my mind returns
to the brighter portions of the picture only.  The April beams that dried
up the tears of my youth live in the memory, while the clouds and showers
are buried in oblivion.  Youth, youth!—why should we ever grow old? why
are we not as fresh and green at sixty as we are at twenty?—why may we
not enjoy the blessings of vigour, the elastic bound, the rosy tint, the
boundless flow of spirits, the freshness of imagination, until the moment
when we drop into the grave?—But sentimentalism is a bad subject for
sale, and therefore I have no business to introduce any chapters of such
a nature in this little work.

At a short distance from Corwen, a road branches off to the left, along
which the traveller should trudge to the village of Llandrillo, and he
will be repaid by the sight of one of the most fertile valleys in Wales.
It is a mile farther to Bala by this route, but the superior beauty of
the scenery will amply recompense him for the extra distance; for, with
the exception of a view of Bala lake, obtained from an eminence on the
road, which runs along the opposite side of the valley, it is dull and
uninviting.  But, on the contrary, by the Llandrillo route, the eye is
delighted with a succession of scenes, varied and interesting in the
extreme.  Huge masses of rock hang over the road, upon the left, in
threatening grandeur, while waving woods, and falling streams, give
endless variety to the picture.

After proceeding four miles, I crossed a bridge over a fine trout stream,
the banks of which are shaded with trees; and, turning into an avenue
upon the right, seated myself by the margin of the brook, secured from
the hot rays of the mid-day sun, and fancied myself the melancholy
Jacques.  There only wanted a wounded stag, to make the illusion perfect.

Here I was shortly after joined by an old man and his son, who, after
some hours’ fishing, had contrived to fill a moderately sized basket with
very fine trout.  The father was tall and thin, with prominent features,
sharp grey eyes, and grey locks; his port was erect, “stiff as a ramrod,”
and if he had been unfortunate enough to have had a lame leg, he would
have made an excellent representation of Corporal Foss.  The son, a youth
of about nineteen, was clad in a suite of clothes so tattered, that my
curiosity was excited to learn at which rent he got into them.  His
fishing basket was slung at his back, and his rod was composed of odds
and ends; his hat, from long exposure to the weather, had lost its crown,
while the rim was torn into ribands.  If ever the god of love assumed the
disguise of ragged poverty, he could not have chosen a better model, both
in person and attire.  His height was about five feet, nine inches; his
face a perfect oval; his hair, which stole in clustering curls from
beneath its wretched covering, was of the brightest auburn; his forehead
was broad and high; his eyebrows finely arched, and his dark blue eyes
were lighted up with the fire of animation; his nose, teeth, and chin
were perfectly beautiful; his neck and shoulders would be invaluable to a
sculptor; and his whole graceful frame seemed formed for strength and
activity.  His demeanour was respectful and modest, and the contrast
between the noble creature and his sorry garb was painfully striking.
There was, however, a look of independence and a freedom in his gait,
which suited well with the surrounding scene.

The old man seated himself near me, and lamented that he could not obtain
any fire to light his pipe.  This element I quickly supplied him with,
and, lighting a cigar for myself, we resembled a knot of Indian warriors
smoking “the calumet of peace.”  I entered into conversation, offering my
flask, by way of making a favourable impression.  They thankfully availed
themselves of my offer, and my expectations were not disappointed.  The
old man told me that he had been a soldier in his youth, and fought in
many battles, both in Egypt and Spain, and was now in the receipt of a
pension from government, for honourable wounds, which at various times he
had received in the service of his country.

While his father whiffed his tobacco, the youth angled down the stream,
but soon returned and, respectfully and gracefully declining my
invitation to renew his draught, he stood looking down upon us, his arms
folded across his chest, embracing his rod, and listening modestly to the
old man’s narration.  I sat an hour with these two beings, and, having
purchased a casting line and some flies from the elder fisherman, he put
two extra ones into my hands, saying: “There, sir, are two flies, with
which I killed some fine trout, yesterday.  I’ll make you a present of
them; and, when you are killing your fish, perhaps you’ll think of the
old soldier.”  So, with mutual thanks, we parted.

As I entered the village of Llandrillo, I was much delighted with the
lively scene.  The long street was crowded with peasantry, in their
holiday clothes.  On each side were stalls, formed of tubs turned upside
down, and boards placed upon them, to support their merchandise; square
patches strewed with straw and covered with crockery and glass; tables
well stored with woollen hose and mittens; and stands of gingerbread and
ginger-pop were liberally stationed in different quarters, to gratify and
refresh the happy throng.  At times, a sudden opening in the crowd took
place, the whole mass of people jamming each other upon either side of
the street, to make way for a trotting pony, or an ambling nag, to curvet
and prance down the middle and up again, to show his paces.  At the upper
end of the fair, a hardware man harangued a crowd of people from his
travelling warehouse (a covered cart,) endeavouring to persuade them that
he came to Llandrillo solely for their benefit, and for no selfish motive
upon earth, and labouring to convince them, in brazier-like eloquence,
that the articles he offered to their notice were considerably under
prime cost, and could not be purchased elsewhere for treble the
money;—but, though he sold at a great sacrifice to himself, he begged
them not to consider his loss, but their own gain; such an opportunity
would never again present itself, therefore now was their only time to
buy cheap!

A party of Welsh girls attracted my attention, gathered together in front
of a wall, upon which a line of men’s hats were ranged, of various
qualities and prices; and great glee and laughter were elicited, as each
fitted the new beaver upon her head, it being considered the ne plus
ultra of taste, and a powerful auxiliary to the coquetry of a Welsh girl.

Leaving Llandrillo, and proceeding towards Bala, the traveller enters the



VALE OF EDEYRNION.


The mountains here, upon either side, are covered with plantations, and
the beautiful Dee winds gracefully in the centre of the valley, through
delightful meadows, while corn fields wave upon the sloping banks, and
everything presents to the eye the appearance of freshness and fertility,
cheerfulness and content.  At the bridge near Llandderfel, a small
village, which is first observed upon the opposite bank of the Dee, a
splendid view presents itself.  The river here is broad, shallow, and
deep, by turns, and looking up or down the vale, its meandering
sportiveness charms the eye.  At the extremity of the valley is a lofty
mountain, planted to the summit, which seems so closely to envelop it, as
to prevent all egress.  To stand upon this bridge at sunset, and listen
to the whistle of the sheep boy as he trudges merrily along the road, the
song of the husbandman, or the joyous laugh of the milkmaids—sounds that
float upon the silent air for miles, at such an hour,—the twittering of
the birds, before they hide their heads beneath their wings to seek
repose—the low craik of the rail, amidst the corn—and sweeter than all,
the music of the river, discharging liquid sounds from its transparent
bosom,—creates a sensation which we are at a loss how to express.  Excess
of pleasure becomes painful; and, overpowered with delight, nature
asserts her influence, and we experience the luxury of tears!—at least, I
did, and I pity from my soul the man who is unfortunately incapable of a
similar feeling.

Passing through the little village of Llanver, and crossing a stream over
the bridge close by the lodge of Mr. Price of Rhewlas, I at length
arrived at the Bull’s Head in the town, to which house I had been
recommended by a passing traveller; and, tired with my day’s exertions,
called for a tea-dinner and slippers.



BALA.


Both these luxuries were furnished me by the fair hands of Martha Jones,
the landlady’s unmarried sister, a lively, black-eyed, pretty lass, who,
in being a spinster, proves that the Bala lads are greatly deficient in
taste, or that Martha has set her cap at something better than is to be
found in Bala.

Two gentlemen were seated in the room when I entered, each of whom were
discussing the merits of a glass of brandy and water.  One of them (a
young man who I afterwards discovered was a captain’s clerk in the East
India service, upon leave,) was making himself particularly entertaining
to his companion, by relating a number of anecdotes about a relative, a
clergyman, whose residence is somewhere in the neighbourhood.

“Ha! ha! ha! you remember the time when the dinner was given at —; well,
the old boy as usual, had got too much grog aboard, and without a rudder,
began to crowd sail for the stable—my eyes! how he did traverse! but at
last, a gale took his topsail right aback, and capsising him into the
kennel, he began to roar out for help.  ‘What’s the matter?’ cried twenty
voices at a time.  ‘Oh help! help me up,’ cried the old boy, ‘for I’m the
Lord’s servant!’  ‘Ay, ay,’ cried one, ‘and you’re like all the rest of
’em, want a good deal of looking after.’  Ha, ha, ha!”

This anecdote, required another glass of brandy and water to wash it
down; which being brought, this irreverend humorist rehearsed a number of
other circumstances concerning his eccentric relative, amongst which was
a story of his ascending the pulpit, to preach a sermon, “and kneeling
down,” said he, “he placed his hand upon the cushion, in the attitude of
prayer, closed his port holes, and fell into a—sound sleep!  The
congregation waited—and waited—until their patience was quite exhausted,
and one after another began to heave anchor.  The clerk, at last,
ventured to awaken his pastor just in time for him to see the last of his
parishioners leaving the church.”

I was truly sorry to find, upon inquiry, that this was but too true a
tale of the old man, whose years are many, and who must be well aware,
that a very short time can elapse, before he will become a tenant of the
grave.

Wearied with the conversation, I rang for my bed candle, and retired to
rest.




CHAPTER VI.


Bala—The Lake—A Meeting of Magistrates—The Doctor—Rhewlas—Lines written
at Rhewlas—Farewell to the Bull’s Head—A Jolter—Llanthyn—Vale of
Drwstynrnt—Legend of handsome Hugh and the Fairy—Cader
Idris—Dolgelley—Song “Mountain Mary”—The Town Hall—Parliament House—St.
Mary’s Church—Inns—Angling Station, Doluwcheogryd—The Cataracts of
Rhaiadr Du and Pistyll y Cain—Nannau Park—Anecdote of Owen Glyndwr and
Howell Sele—Road to Barmouth—Arrival—Inns—A Walk on the sands.

    “I lay on the rock where the storms have their dwelling,
    The birth place of phantoms, the home of the cloud,
    Around it for ever deep music is swelling—
    The voice of the mountain wind, solemn and loud.”

                                                              MRS. HEMANS.

ON the following morning, I found myself unable to walk, from the effect
produced by a sprained ancle, and I had the delightful prospect of being
confined to the room of an inn in a country town, without a being to
converse with, or a book to enliven me; but my kind landlord, a fine
portly, rosy-cheeked, round-headed, honest-hearted Boniface, as ever drew
spigot, kindly offered me a pony, to take me to the lake, which, he said,
contained plenty of perch.  This offer, I thankfully accepted, and, by
the aid of mine host and his ostler, was soon seated upon the back of a
quiet not-to-be-put-out-of-his-way animal, as any clerical gentleman
could desire to ride upon, and

    “With slow and solemn pace,”

proceeded to catch fish, and view the scenery around



LLYN TEGID, OR BALA LAKE.


                           [Picture: Bala Lake]

Seated upon a rock that projects into the lake (under the shadow of which
is the boat house of Mr. Price, of Rhewlas, of whom, more anon) I
commenced my solitary pastime; but my eyes continually wandered from the
float, to the surrounding scenery, which is of a pleasing rather than an
imposing nature.  The lake was slightly ruffled by a refreshing breeze,
which fortunately sprang up, and prevented me from dissolving in the heat
of the sun.  It is about four miles in length, and in some parts it is
forty yards in depth.  The shores are sloping, the soil gravelly, and
delightfully variegated with plantations of trees and shrubs.  Towards
the head of the lake, the mountains are upon a very grand scale, and
rival Snowdon in their altitude; _Arran Fowddwy_ is the loftiest of
these, near the summit of which, upon its eastern side, beneath a huge
crag, is situated a lake, which affords excellent sport to the angler,
although the fish are not of the finest quality.

_Arrenig Vawr_, (or great), which is nearly as lofty as Arran Fowddwy,
and rises upon the N.W. side of the Llyn, has also a lake, containing
trout of a large size, which are noted for rejecting the artificial fly;
but, about half way up the _Arrenig Vâch_, (or little) is a lake, which
when a light breeze sweeps along its surface, will amply reward the
angler for his trouble, in reaching it.  A morning, and an evening, at
each of these places, enable me to state thus much, for the benefit of
the disciples of Isaac Walton.

I was suddenly aroused from a dream of pleasure, which I was enjoying,
with my eyes open, by a tug at my line, reminding me, that a fish had
swallowed the hook.  After a little coquetting, which lovers usually make
use of, I brought it to my arms, and then thrust it into my bag; a fine
perch!  I now resolved, to begin in earnest, and in an hour, by my
temptation and insinuation, contrived to obtain a very handsome dish,
with which I returned upon my pony to the inn, resigning them and myself
to the care of Martha Jones.  This was the only uncomfortable evening I
passed at the Bull—and with respect be it spoken, all my uneasiness was
occasioned, by the magistrates of the county, who had met to discuss the
important business of their various districts, and to join in the

    “Feast of dainties and the flow of port.”

All the while, the honest landlord, who resembled a “turtle on his hind
fins,” waddled about in high glee.  It was a great day for the Bull’s
Head! and his joy resembled Dennis Bulgruddery’s, of the Red Cow, when he
saw a traveller on the heath, walking in the direction of his long
neglected hostelry.  The confusion of sounds distracted my brain, and I
was almost tempted to exclaim, in the language of Falstaff,

    “Is hell broke loose?”

However, remembering that it was occasioned, by a meeting of magistrates,
my reverence for the laws, and the distributors of them, made me place my
disabled foot upon a chair, “like patience on a monument, smiling at
grief.”

I was informed that Mr. Price was among the assembly, to whom, through
the kindness of Mr. W—, I had a letter of introduction.  My accident,
however, would prevent my dining with the party, and I concluded it would
be better to wait until the ensuing morning, to pay my respects to him.
A couple of ducks, with green peas, and a pint of pale sherry, assisted
to restore my good humour; and, after poring over the pages of an old
magazine, till the book became a pillow for my head, I had my foot
dressed and resigned myself to the influence of Morpheus.  My bed room
window (the blinds of which, I had neglected to pull down, before I
retired to bed) permitted the full blaze of the morning sun to shine upon
my slothful pillow, and rouse me from my slumber.  A great fault, in all
the Welsh inns, is that Morpheus seems to have complete and undisputed
prevalence over the whole household.  After satisfying myself that I
could walk across the room, I thought I would endeavour to see something
more of the town, and stroll about, until such time as breakfast could be
prepared.  I accordingly dressed, put on the spacious slippers I had been
provided with on the previous night, took a strong ash stick in my hand,
by way of crutch, and hobbled into the pure air.

The town of Bala consists of one long street, has about 2500 inhabitants,
and is celebrated for its manufacture of woollen articles, such as
stockings, gloves, and, formerly, Welsh wigs.  Upon an eminence at the S.
E. end of the town, the old women and young girls assemble in
considerable numbers during the summer months, to pursue their
industrious avocations in the open air.  The mound is called, _Tommen y
Bala_; it is said to be of Roman construction; and, from the summit, a
very fine view may be obtained of Llyn Tegid and the mountains.  There is
a town hall, and a chapel of ease to the parish church at Llanycil, about
a mile distant, where the morning service is read in English only upon
the first Sunday in each month.  Finding my exertion too great for my
ease, I was glad to hobble into the shop of the village apothecary and
surgeon.  It was half past eight o’clock, and the drowsy shop boy, who
appeared but recently to have left his bed, informed me, that perhaps his
master would be down in a short time.  This indefinite period did not
suit my patience, and I requested him to give his master a call.  Still
he came not.  I became fidgetty, and began to be indignant, half
resolving to leave the shop, when a little, stiff, consequential looking
personage made his appearance, gazing upon me with a look in which much
dissatisfaction was manifest.  My travelling garb (for I had not
discarded my shooting jacket, at this early hour, in favour of a more
appropriate morning costume) did not inspire him with much suavity; but,
after a minute survey, he, with all the dignity of five feet, pointed to
a chair, which I a short time before had quitted to look at some maps
that adorned the walls of the room, I bared my ancle for his inspection,
and he informed me truly, that rest alone could be of service to me.
With this comfortable advice, which I had previously determined not to
follow, I returned to the inn, breakfasted, ordered out the pony, and set
off to visit Mr. Price, of Rhewlas.

A handsome gateway opens into the grounds of Rhewlas; a neat lodge is
situated upon the right of the avenue, and upon the left, a fine mountain
stream dashes over its black, rocky bed.  Half way up the avenue, upon
the right, is a beautiful dingle, over which a bridge is thrown for the
accommodation of passengers, and under it a murmuring rill, glides on its
course to the principal stream.  A profusion of rhododandrums, of a kind,
are interspersed amongst the trees, and shrubs, forming a delightful
contrast.  Here the noble oak, the beech, and birch, flourish luxuriously
in common with the other numerous leafy tenants of the forest, whose ever
varying hues delight the eye.

The house is situated on a rising ground, backed by the mountain and
extensive woods, and commands a noble prospect.

After dinner, I accompanied Mr. Price in his phaeton, to take a survey of
the estate, and was much delighted with the evident pleasure he took, in
improving the roads in the neighbourhood.  Under his auspices, a new line
of road is joined to Corwen, which, although deficient in picturesque
beauty, is shorter by one mile than that by Llandrillo, and affords far
better travelling.

Mr. Price has planted, during his residence at this lovely spot, no less
than 650 acres, and the domain altogether presents a picture of beauty
and happiness, seldom to be met with.  He is much respected; is a
magistrate, and a resident; and, in consequence, knows the value of his
land.  He considers, and administers to the wants of his tenants, and,
instead of extorting from them a rent they would be compelled to starve
themselves to pay, he limits it to a sum which will enable them to live
in comfort.

It was twilight when I left Rhewlas, and by the side of the dingle I have
before mentioned, I paused to gaze once more upon the beauty of the
scene, and traced a few lines, expressive of my feelings, upon quitting
so delightful a solitude.

    Farewell to fair Rhewlas! and farewell to thee,
    Thou pride of the vallies, thou fast flowing Dee!
    Whose stream glides in brightness from Bala’s fair breast,
    And wanders in beauty through regions of rest.
    Farewell to thee, Rhewlas! how blest were my lot,
    With friends round and near me, the gay world forgot,
    Here, here, in the soft lap of quiet to dwell,
    Farewell to thee Rhewlas! sweet Rhewlas, farewell!

    The bright golden summer hath fill’d thee with glee—
    The song of the thrush, and the boom of the bee,
    The wild flowers’ fragrance, the breath of the rose,
    And green woods that kiss the dark stream as it flows:
    To scenes grand and gloomy my footsteps may stray,
    Where terror frowns dreadful along the wild way,
    But beauty for aye in this region shall dwell,
    Farewell to thee, Rhewlas! sweet Rhewlas, farewell!

I returned to the inn, much pleased with my day’s entertainment, happy to
find that my ancle was comparatively easy, and ordered a car to be ready
on the following morning to convey me ten miles on the road to Dolgelly.

Rising early, I found no inconvenience from my ancle; and, after a good
breakfast, took leave of my host, and his wife, of Martha Jones, and the
Bull’s Head, all of whom appeared anxious to see me comfortably seated in
the vehicle, and with kindest farewells, expressed a desire of speedily
seeing me again—all excepting the Bull’s Head, poor thing, which being a
dummy only looked a good bye; and taking every thing into consideration,
he looked it very well.

The car in which I was bumped along the road, in every respect resembled
those delightful conveyances that rattle the astonished traveller from
Cork to Blarney.  It is a sort of oval box, placed upon two wheels, with
a door behind, and with good wedging will contain four persons; but being
springless and cushionless, the passenger is jolted to his heart’s
content, that is, if his heart has been set on jolting; and, without
doubt, it is fine exercise for persons of sedentary habits, if by any
chance, their bones happen to escape dislocation.  My knapsack (my
opposite, and only fellow passenger) and I, looked very black at each
other, as we bobbed up and down, like a cockney grocer’s apprentice upon
a high trotting horse; but I soon became resigned, and my knapsack having
shifted its berth for the bottom of the vehicle, seemed to rest more
comfortably than on the seat.  Notwithstanding the inconvenience I
suffered from this carriage, I could not help admiring the extreme beauty
of the lake, as we pursued our course along its borders; sometimes, only
catching a glimpse of it, through the trees that shaded its delightful
margin.  Its waters were smooth and motionless; not a ripple was visible
upon its surface; the lofty mountains reflected in its breast gave a
sombre tinge to the otherwise golden scene, and, as I looked into the
clear depths of the shadows, I thought, how peacefully one shattered by
the storms of life might sink beneath, and be at rest!

After passing Llanthyn, (an estate belonging to Sir W. W. Wynn, who
claims the whole fishing of this beautiful piece of water, and has, by
putting a quantity of pike therein, destroyed all the trout and gwynniad
with which it once abounded), the scenery became wild, and cheerless,
until we reached



THE VALE OF DRWSTYNRNT,


where, to my great satisfaction, the car stopped at the sign of the Welsh
Prince, a distance of ten miles from Bala, and eight from Dolgelly.
Being thoroughly tired with my ride, I thought I would endeavour to
obtain the proper use of my limbs, and rest myself by walking the
remainder of the journey.  Dismissing the car, therefore, and strapping
my knapsack to my shoulders, I once more took the road.

About a mile beyond the Welsh Prince, the valley becomes truly beautiful.
Waving woods adorn the mountains upon either side.  The Wnion here begins
to be an important stream; and, though in its course towards Dolgelly it
is swelled by numerous mountain tributaries into a broad river, the trees
upon its banks form an impenetrable screen, which conceal it from the
traveller, and its hoarse murmur, as it dashes over the rocks that vainly
endeavour to intercept its way, alone remind him of its vicinity.  At
length, I arrived at a spot, where a road leads over a bridge to the
opposite side of the river.  Thinking this would be a proper place to see
the Wnion to advantage, I advanced to the centre of the bridge.  The
effect is beautiful; hanging woods adorn the banks of the stream, lofty
ash trees, (around the trunks of which the ivy winds itself in snakelike
folds, feeding upon the tree that supports it), spread their proud heads
above, and form a pleasing shade, while below the river roars, as it is
precipitated beneath the arch in two large falls, that form a deep pool
on the opposite side.

“It was in that pool,” said a voice at my shoulder, “that Hugh Evans
first saw the fairy.”  Upon turning round, I saw an old man, much bent
with age, knitting hose.

“What fairy, my good man?” said I, “and who was Hugh Evans?”

“Ah! you are a stranger here, sir.  Why, it’s a tale my grandfather used
to tell me, of a lad, who worked with him in the fields yonder.”



HUGH EVANS, AND THE FAIRY.


Hugh was a handsome lad, and all the girls were mad for love of him; but
he was a prudent youth, and would not notice any of them, for he thought
as he could hardly earn enough to support himself, he had no chance of
supporting others.  Well, one day as he was returning from work, he leant
over the bridge, where you are now standing, sir, and what should he see,
but a beautiful young creature, bathing in the deep water there.  Well,
he knew it was a fairy, for he never had seen any thing half so beautiful
before; and he couldn’t for the life of him take his eyes from her,
though she was as naked (saving your presence) as when she was born.  She
had long black hair, streaming down her shoulders, as glossy as a crow’s
wing, and the smallest feet, and hands, he ever beheld! and the beautiful
fairy said to him, “Hugh, handsome Hugh, why did you come hither? but,
since you are here, turn your head aside, till I get out of the stream,
and then I’ll come and talk to you.”  And Hugh did as he was bid, for he
was too much in love to deny her any thing; and, before he could recover
his surprise, there was the fairy, close by his side, in the dress of a
neat country lass.  And her snowy feet, and her raven locks, red lips,
and sparkling eyes, made Hugh’s heart knock at his ribs, like a smith’s
hammer on the anvil.  So what does he do, but drop down upon his knees,
and swore he was dying for love of the angel.  “I’m no angel at all,”
says she, “but a foolish body of a fairy, that has fallen in love with
handsome Hugh, and, if you’ll consent to my wishes in one respect, I’ll
be a fond wife to you all the days of your life.”  Hugh was delighted to
hear her talk, and he promised to do every thing she wished.  “All I
desire,” said she, “is that you will permit me to leave you every night
at twelve o’clock for one hour, and never attempt to follow me, or ask
where I have been.  But, if you follow me, you will never see me again,
and you will only have to thank your own folly and rashness for it.”
Hugh promised faithfully, and the fairy provided him with money enough to
buy a neat little cottage on the hill yonder, and to stock it with a cow,
pigs, and poultry.  He likewise bought ten acres of land, and every body
wondered how Hugh Evans became so rich on a sudden, but they supposed it
was his wife’s fortune, though they never could find out who she was.
For many years they lived together, and she bore him two girls, both
resembling the mother, and their comeliness was the talk of the country.
Marriage had no power to destroy the beauty of the fairy’s form or face,
for eternal youth and loveliness were part of her portion.

But Hugh got jealous of a neighbour, whom he used to invite to his house
in the winter evenings, and he fancied that his wife paid him more
attention than was necessary.  Until that time, he never cared about her
absence at midnight but the “green eyed monster;” whispered to him that
she had other than honest motives, for absenting herself from home at
that late hour.  And one night, when his neighbour, Davie Jones, happened
to be more animated than usual with the good woman his hostess, who was
always desirous of making Hugh’s friends welcome, he gave her a kiss at
parting that went to the heart of poor Hugh; and he determined to look
after her that night when she left his bed, to discover if his suspicions
were well founded.  Accordingly, pretending to sleep, he watched his wife
when she rose up.  The first thing she did was to go to her children,
whom she kissed, and by the light of the moon, which shone brightly
through the casement, he saw her suddenly (without the aid of toilet
labour) arrayed in a gossamer robe of rose coloured pink, through which
her beautiful skin was dimly perceptible, and her exquisite form fully
displayed to his astonished eyes; the right arm and breast were bare,
while the drapery was secured upon the left shoulder, and at the waist
with clasps of costly gems.

“Her black luxuriant ringlets, contrasted with her snowy neck, her dark
eyes flashing with delight, and her red pouting lips,” said poor Hugh,
“made me motionless with admiration, which was increased by seeing her
leap, through the open casement!  Terrified lest she should be dashed to
pieces by the fall—filled with fury at her being thus decked out to meet
her paramour, with desperate eagerness I darted out of the window in
pursuit.  The height was considerable.  I caught a glimpse in my descent,
of her fairy form as she reached the summit of the hill, and then all
sense forsook me.  When restored to consciousness, I found myself
stretched upon my bed; both my legs broken by the fall, and my head
sorely bruised.  Upon asking for Lleucu, my wife, I was told she had
never been seen since I beheld her.  My friend Davie was attending me
affectionately, bathing my temples with cold lotions; and my heart smote
me for my suspicions.  Night came, and, as the hour approached when
Lleucu departed, I became restless and feverish, when a voice, which I
knew to be Lleucu’s, entered my chamber; it sang as follows:

    “Farewell Hugh, handsome Hugh,
    Don’t forget thy poor Lleucu!
    O’er thy limbs I spread a charm,
    And to-morrow, free from harm,
    To thine honest labour hie,
    To support our progeny.
    Oh, protect their tender years,
    Bless my hopes and soothe my fears!
    Farewell, Hugh, handsome Hugh,
    Don’t forget thy poor Lleucu!”

“I would have given my life to have seen her again,” continued Hugh; “but
I lost her for ever.  The next morning, faithful to her promise, I was
indeed perfectly free from pain; my limbs were as strong as at the moment
when I sprang from the window; but my heart was broken.”

“May be, sir, you’d like to buy a pair of stockings or mittens,” said the
old man, without pausing to notice the effect his tale had upon me, and
pulling the articles out of his coat pocket as he spoke.  I could not
resist the appeal, and, giving him the price he demanded, I pursued my
journey towards Dolgelly.  Nearly the whole of this lovely valley is the
property of Sir Robert Vaughan.

I was meditating upon the romantic tale of the old man, when suddenly a
turn in the road and an opening in the dell revealed to my delighted eyes
the celebrated mountain called Cader Idris.

                [Picture: Cader Idris, from the Bala Road]



CADER IDRIS,


the loftiest mountain in Merionethshire, and the second in North Wales,
is said to be 950 yards in perpendicular height from Dolgelly Green.
Cader Idris literally means “Idris’s chair,” where he is supposed to have
studied astrology; and Idris is a name attributed to Enoch, the founder
of astronomy.  Mr. Edward Jones, to whom the public are indebted for his
learned and ingenious work, entitled “The Bardic Museum,” observes that
“Cær Idris implies the city of the learned:” and Mr. Rowland, in his
“Mona Antiqua,” mentions a place in Anglesea called Cær Idris, also Bôd
Idris, or “Idris’s abode or mansion,” in Yale, Denbighshire, which still
retains the name, as well as that of Llêch Idris, or “the shelter of
Idris,” a farm so called, at Trawsoynydd in Merionethshire, which also
may imply the grave of Idris.  Idris is supposed to have flourished in
the third or fourth century, and his genealogy from an old manuscript,
runs thus:—“Idris Gawr ab Gwyddno, ab Tibion, ab Cunedda Wledig.”

Snowdon and Cader Idris were formerly supposed to be the Parnassian hills
of Wales, and none but good bards could claim so elevated a seat.

Idris, the champion or bard, invented the harp; or, if the Gomerian
Britons brought that instrument into the country when they first
inhabited the island, it seems to have been lost and forgotten; for Idris
is said to have invented something similar; but it is probable he only
made some improvement on the ancient harp, or perhaps his superior skill
in performing on it might have gained him that reputation.  From all that
can be gathered from tradition, he was a learned man, an astrologer, and
a bard; and it is likely that the summit of this mountain was chosen by
him, to examine from thence the movements of the heavenly bodies, to
write his inspired verses, or to frame laws for the government and
benefit of his country.

The walk from this spot to Dolgelly is exceedingly beautiful; and as the
tourist approaches the town before crossing the bridge which is flung
over the river Mawddach, a sign of some importance attracts his attention
upon the right: it runs thus:

                                   R. PUGH,
                                Guide General
                       To the Waterfalls, Cader Idris,
                        And all the curious scenery in
                          The vicinity of Dolgelly.

                    N.B.  Licenced to let saddled horses.



DOLGELLY,


or Dolgellen, the Dale of the Hazel, is the principal market town in
Merionethshire, and the assizes are held here, alternately with Bala.
The town hall, the most important building, is a neat stone edifice,
erected in the year 1825, and cost £3000.  It is built near the banks of
the river Wnion, (pronounced Oonion) and the court room is fitted up with
every necessary accommodation for the officers of justice.  In the hall
is a very fine portrait of Sir R. W. Vaughan, Bart., painted by Sir M. A.
Shee, F.R.A.

               [Picture: Parliament House of Owen Glyndwr]

Part of an old building, called “Cwrt Plâs yn-y Drêv,” or the Town-hall
Court is still remaining, amongst a range of wretched hovels, at the back
of the post office, in which a parliament was held by Owen Glyndwr.  The
county jail at the outskirts of the town is of a semicircular form, built
of stone, and was erected in 1811, at an expense of £5000.

St. Mary’s Church is a neat limestone edifice, of Grecian architecture,
with a handsome tower, and an expansive nave.  In it is an ancient
monument of an armed knight, who is represented in a suit of mail,
helmet, a neck guard, a sword in his hand, and a dog at his feet; a lion
passant gardant is on his shield, upon which is inscribed: “Hic jacet
Mauric Filius Ynyr Vychan.”  There is a modern one lately erected to the
memory of Baron Richards.

The town is celebrated for a manufacture of coarse woollen cloths and
flannels, called webs.  The old town hall is used for various purposes;
English church service is performed there every other Sunday; it is also
used as a national school, and children are there taught to sing the
church psalms.  It is likewise known as the theatre, and a Mr. Glover
(son of Mrs. Glover, of the London theatres) is the manager.  It is kept
open sometimes for two months successively; admittance to boxes 2_s_, pit
1_s_.

Those fond of fine scenery should ascend the mountain from the north side
of the vale, to obtain the best view of the town, as it lies sheltered at
the foot of the majestic Cader Idris, which rears its lofty shoulders in
the clouds.

Clustering woods adorn the opposite range of mountains, as they slope in
irregular masses westward to the ocean; and in the midst may be
distinguished the residences of Mr. Reveley and Captain Anwyl.

The river beautifully meandering through the green meadows, the solemn
quietude that prevails around, disturbed only by the sound of the church
clock, marking the progress of the fleeting hours with lengthened tone,
which, like the music of another world, sweeps through the enchanting
vale, combine to render this a place where those not wedded to routs,
masquerades, gambling and licentiousness, might wish to live and die.

Dolgelly contains several good inns, of which the most frequented are the
Golden lion, the Angel and the Ship.  Comfortable lodgings may likewise
be obtained, at a cheap rate, by those who desire to remain in the
neighbourhood for the purpose of making excursions to the falls, Kymmer
Abbey, and Nannau Park, the fishing stations, Dol y Gamedd on the Avon,
Llyn Cregenan, Llyn Gador, Llyn Geirw, Tal y llyn, &c. {176}



DOLUWCHEOGRYD,


the residence of Mr. Roland Williams, is delightfully situated on the
side of a mountain rising from this vale.  I have read of a man who made
search through the world for true hospitality, and returned to his cell
without finding it.  It is certain that he never entered the abode of Mr.
R. Williams, which is the habitation of unaffected kindness, unpresuming
intelligence, and unostentatious hospitality—the retreat of peace, love
and friendship, where the stranger is received with warmth and
cordiality, his wants anxiously anticipated and administered to, where
the cheerful glass is rendered doubly valuable by the accompaniment of a
hearty welcome, and where the administering hands of the fair inmates
render every species of generosity doubly dear to the favoured individual
who is admitted into that happy sanctuary.  The only feeling of regret I
experienced while at Doluwcheogryd was occasioned by the necessity of
leaving it so soon.

The tourist should not quit Dolgelly without visiting the waterfalls,
which, after heavy rains, are very magnificent.  As I was still suffering
from the severe sprain, I was accommodated by Mr. Williams, who also
obliged me with his company, with a very fine horse to carry me to the
falls; and bold and sure-footed, he performed his duty nobly, in spite of
crags, cliffs, hills and hollows.

Passing the house of Miss Madock, daughter of the late William Alexander
Madock, Esq., we came to the cataract.



THE RHAIADR DU


is situated in the grounds belonging to this lady, called Dôl melynllyn.
Here the torrent leaps from a height of sixty feet over precipitous
rocks, and plunges with a violence that seems to shake the crags and
trees around, into a deep pool, from which it proceeds adown the dingle,
over black and broken fragments, to the river Mawddach.  A footpath
conducts the tourist to the bottom of the falls, from which, stepping
upon some loose stones in the middle of the stream, he will obtain the
best view of the cataract.  A walk of about three miles brings him to the
falls of the Mawddach and Pistyll y Cain, returning from which, he may
visit Y Vanner, or Kymmer Abbey, founded in 1198, by Meredith and
Griffith, lords of Merioneth, dedicated to St. Mary, and inhabited by
monks of the Cistertian order.  It is not now, however, worthy of the
tourist’s attention.  But Nannau Park, the seat of Sir Robert William
Vaughan, will afford much pleasure to those who visit it.  The grounds
are thickly wooded, and the mansion is supposed to occupy the highest
ground of any residence in Britain.  The approach to it is five miles in
length; it stands 702 feet above the level of the sea; and the park is
celebrated for its venison.  Previously to the year 1814, there stood an
oak in this park which bore a name terrible to the ears of the peasantry:
it was called



DERWEN CEUBREN YR ELLYLL,


which translated, means, “the hollow oak, the haunt of demons.”  In this
oak, it is said Owen Glyndwr immured the body of Howell Sele, the
proprietor of this estate, who, while they were walking together,
treacherously shot an arrow at the breast of Glyndwr, who, however,
having armour beneath his doublet, fortunately received no hurt.  The
cause of this treachery is said to have been the indignation expressed by
Owen at his kinsman’s refusal to join his cause to redress his country’s
wrongs.  Glyndwr forced his body into the hollow of this oak, most likely
after having slain him, where, forty years after this event, a skeleton
was discovered.  The chieftain, after laying waste the mansion and domain
of Sele, hastened to join his friends.  Sir W. Scott has written a very
beautiful poem upon this legend, which will be found in the fifth note to
his sixth canto of Marmion, and is called the “spirit’s blasted tree.”
In 1813, this monarch of the wood fell to the ground.

The country from Dolgelly to the mouth of the river is well worth a
journey of three hundred miles to visit, even though there were no other
objects worthy of notice in North Wales, and will amply compensate the
most eager researcher after the sublime and beautiful.

At a turn of the coach road from a place called Te-gwyn, a splendid view
of Cader Idris is obtained, particularly in the evening, when the mists
arise from the numerous lakes in the vicinity, like volumes of smoke from
a domain of fire, curling in fantastic forms around the mountain’s waist,
leaving its summit stern and clear in an unclouded sky—like a proud giant
surveying with disdain the dwarfish host of which he is the leader.

    Thou mighty Cader, whose commanding head
    Is alway canopied with winter’s snow,
    Whose form is rent in many a chasm dread,
    Adown whose sides the dashing torrents flow,
    And in primeval majesty still throw
    Their flakes of foam into the gulph below!
    Mine eyes dwell on thy terrors, and my heart
    Expands and trembles with a nameless glow!
    Wildest of all the mountain kind thou art,
    The rampart that protects old Cambria’s heart.

    Land of the free! amid thy giant hills,
    Whose regal heads appear to prop the skies,
    Oh what a thrilling awe my bosom fills
    While gazing on thy dark sublimities!
    Mountains on mountains, peaks on peaks arise,
    Like tents belonging to some Titan race,
    Who choosing highest ground, nighest the God,
    Again defy the thunderer, face to face,
    From heights more vast than Alpine foot e’er trod,
    And undismayed await his dreadful nod.

Another noble view attracts attention, at a place called Glan
Mawddach—the broad arm of the sea, stretching for miles between the
rugged mountains, which, shrouded in veils of silvery mist, fling their
dark shadows into the depths of the water.  Proceeding onwards, the seat
of the late A. Wynne, Esq., called Athog, now the residence of Mr.
Fowden, becomes conspicuous upon the south side of the mouth of the
Mawddach, and beyond the extremity of the Bay Celylin point, and the
church of which the Rev. J. Parry is rector.  The bishop has the power of
appointing a curate; but Mr. Parry retains the tithes to himself.
Arriving at



BARMOUTH,


the coach stopped at the Cors-y-gedol arms; but I proceeded to the
Commercial inn, where there is very good accommodation, and a good
look-out seaward.  A warm bath of sea water refreshed me; and by the star
light I strolled upon the sands, which are very hard and pleasant to walk
upon, while my repast was preparing at the inn.  The night was calm and
serene, and my mind naturally adapted itself to the surrounding scene.
“The brave o’erhanging firmament—the majestical roof fretted with golden
fire,” appeared to me far from being “a foul and pestilent congregation
of vapours.”  My soul took wing, and bounded from star to star, leaping
the realms of space, and plunging into infinity, till wearied with its
immeasurable flight, it resought its earthly tenement, and my body, which
it left immoveable, as if transformed to marble, resumed its functions.
The low moan of the ocean swam on my ear, like heavenly music.  A light
breeze brought with it delicious freshness; and, as I looked towards the
land, all seemed as quiet as the abode of peace.  The lights from the
houses had a pleasing effect, as they streamed through the windows, row
above row, under and upon the side of the overhanging cliffs.

I returned to “mine inn,” and my meal being despatched, retired to bed.




CHAPTER VII.


Description of Barmouth—Sketch of the Town—The Estuary—Friar’s
Island—Dinas Gortin—Earl of Richmond—Anecdote of the men of Ardudwy, and
the men of Denbighshire—Mostyn Hall—A pic-nic party—Llyn Cwm
Bychan—Carreg y Saeth—The Witch of Cwm Bychan—Legendary Tale—Bwlch
Tyddiad—A mountain ride and a regretful farewell.

    “The mountayne men live longer many a yeare
    Then those in vale, in plaine, or marrish soyle;
    A lustie hart, a cleene complexion cleere,
    They have on hill that for hard living toyle;
    With ewe and lambe, with goats and kinds they play,
    In greatest toyles to rub out wearie day;
    And when to house and home good fellowes draw
    The lads can laugh at turning of a strawe.”

                                                               CHURCHYARD.

BARMOUTH, or Aber-Maw, derives its name from being situated at the
embouchure of the river Maw or Mawddach, which at the entrance is
obstructed by a bar.  The old town, viewed from the sea, resembles a
fortress of some strength, hanging immediately over the sands.  In most
cases a lofty situation is an advantage, but here it is the reverse; for
so steep is the side of the cliff on which it stands, that the
inhabitants of the upper regions are completely smoke-dried from the
chimneys of all the dwellings beneath.

The new town stands at the base of the rock, and but for some mounds of
sand, that appear likely to grow into mountains by the influence of the
winds and waves, would inevitably be washed away by the spring tides.
Some of the fishermen’s habitations on the beach are at times buried in
the drifting sands; and, after a strong wind from the seaward, the
inhabitants generally labour hard to clear the obstruction from their
doors.

Barmouth had few visitors during my stay, and from the report of those I
met with, is greatly decreasing in popularity, which says but little in
favour of the lovers of fine scenery.  When the tide is at full, the
panorama around the estuary cannot be surpassed in beauty.  The majestic
river winds amongst rocks, clad with purple heather, or projecting in
barren grandeur, that lift their jagged summits tier over tier, and peak
overtopping peak, while still tremendous, towering over all, the lofty
Idris looms in the back ground.  Green hills and woody promontories,
forests that stretch into the dark recesses of the mountains, villas and
copsewood glens, give an endless variety to the romantic scene.

The town contains about 2,000 inhabitants, and there is a manufactory of
flannels and woollen stockings.

At noon, as I was basking upon the sands, or Friar’s island, which is
situated at the mouth of the river, I had the pleasure to see my new
acquaintance and friend gallop into the town, and old Charon having
ferried me from the island to the main land once more, I hastened to
welcome him, as fast as my damaged limb would suffer me.  He proposed
driving me to Mostyn Hall, the seat of the Hon. E. M. L. Mostyn; which
being agreed to, I ordered dinner to be ready at our return, and we
started.  The drive upon the Harlech road is bleak; upon the right, the
hills are barren; and seaward, beneath the road, is an extensive flat,
consisting chiefly of bog land and far from interesting.  About a mile
and a half from the town, stands the church of Llan Aber, upon the
extreme verge of a cliff which overlooks the ocean.  The Carnaervonshire
mountains have a fine effect stretching into the sea; of which the
Rivals, with their lofty peaks, are noble objects in the distance.
Following the chain, the eye rests for a moment upon Garn Bodean, and in
the flat between it and Garn Madryn is the town of Pwllhely.  The chain
is resumed at Rhew mountain, and terminates at Aberdarron point, three
leagues from which is Bardsey Island, a conspicuous and interesting
object; for there dwelt the bards of old, amongst whom were numbered the
fathers of science, the national interpreters, musicians, and
legislators, priests, and princes of Cambria.  With their oratory they
soothed the savage ignorance of mankind into civilization and knowledge,
and polished their minds with the powerful aid of music and poetry.
After the dreadful slaughter of the monks of Bangor, those who survived
took shelter upon this island.  A few ruined walls alone remain of the
ancient abbey; and the inhabitants, who do not exceed one hundred
persons, support themselves chiefly by fishing.

About three miles from Barmouth, upon the summit of the mountain called
Dinas Gortin, are the remains of a military encampment, and near to the
town there stood a tower, where it is said the Earl of Richmond used to
conceal himself, when he visited his secret allies in this part of the
country.

Near the military station, are the tombs of the celebrated men of
Ardudwy; who, in imitation of the Roman robbers, made an excursion into
Denbighshire, and overcoming the men, forcibly tore the women from their
families, and returned in triumph with them to their own country.

But the men of Denbighshire, rallying, pursued the spoilers, and
overtaking them in the pass of Drws ardydwy, routed them with great
slaughter.  But the infatuated women had by this time conceived so
extraordinary a passion for their violators, that rather than survive
their loss, or perhaps more probably, to escape the fury of their former
husbands, they drowned themselves in a lake, which is called the pool of
Morwynion.

About two miles further, a road up a steep ascent, conducted us to a fine
avenue of trees, through which we passed, and at the termination of it
came to a handsome gateway, called Pat Mawr, which admitted us into the
mansion of Cors y gedol, which has nothing in it to interest the tourist.
The interior of the building is incommodious and inelegant.  The
drawing-room contains a few wretched portraits and high-backed chairs;
and the rest of the apartments are meanly furnished.  The only object of
interest is a window, out of which the Earl of Richmond, afterwards Henry
VII, is said to have leaped, when a party of Richard III’s soldiers
attempted to apprehend him; it is called the king’s window.

We returned to Barmouth by the sea shore, and, after a most delightful
drive upon Neptune’s boundaries, arrived at the inn, where the evening
was passed in conviviality, tempered with prudence, and sweetened by
social and interesting conversation.  As I had determined upon proceeding
to Harlech the following day, my companion was resolved to make the
journey as agreeable as possible, and requesting me to forward my
knap-sack &c., by the coach, informed me that he would be ready to
accompany me in the morning.  Requesting him, therefore, to be early at
breakfast, we parted for the night.

After despatching a hasty meal next morning, the word was given “to horse
and away.”  My old favourite who bore me so gallantly to the black
cataract, was again resigned to my care, and I to his, gentle as a lamb,
proud as a war horse and agile as an antelope.  I felt like an Arab, on
his steed, and I thought I could defy the winds to overtake me.  We
proceeded once more to Mostyn Hall, which was the appointed spot of
rendezvous for a pic-nic party.  Here I had the happiness of meeting some
of the choicest flowers of the Welsh Highlands.  Youth, beauty, freedom,
and innocence, beamed from the laughing eyes and unsullied cheeks of our
fair companions.  The “how d’ye do’s?” “glad to see you,” “fine morning,”
&c. &c., being ended, we moved forward in a formidable cavalcade.  Mirth,
wit and pleasure played on the lips and sparkled in the eyes of the whole
party; and the animals that bore us seemed to partake of the general
feeling, by pricking up their glossy ears, and bounding over the rugged
road with more spirit than prudence.  Much mirth was occasioned by the
opening of gates, and crossing of brooks.  At length, the party plunged
into a beautiful wood.  I paused upon an eminence, to mark the effect as
they descended; it was picturesque in the extreme, as at intervals,
through the openings, I caught a partial glimpse of the troop, pursuing
their cheerful way down the steep path.  Pleased with the sight, I passed
the party at a gallop, and arriving at the foot of the hill, remained
upon a bridge, close by the woodman’s cottage, which crosses a mountain
stream, watching their approach.

It was delightful to see them advancing one by one through the thick
foliage which hung on either side of the path, and arching over their
heads.  On arriving at the foot of the descent, the party drew up, and,
had an artist been among us, I am confident he would have produced a
picture, which, even on the lifeless canvass, would have delighted the
connoisseurs of Somerset House.

The variety of costume, the colour of the horses, the general sensation
of delight which lighted up the features of the gay group; the
picturesque cottage and bridge, the broad rushing stream, the waving
woods, with now and then a glimpse of the sterile mountains, peeping
above the beautiful fertility, formed a landscape which Salvator Rosa
himself would have been delighted to delineate.

Penetrating through a woody maze, a glen upon our right, and huge wild
masses of rock towering above our heads, we passed Crafnant; a house
situated in the deep shade of the lonely wood, the residence of Mr. Owen,
a surgeon; who, from our not having for a long range of country
encountered a civilized residence, barring the woodman’s cottage, I felt
half inclined to think was only attendant on the quadrupeds of the
mountain.  The rocks now assumed a wild and threatening aspect upon our
left, as we emerged into a more open track, and entered upon the domain
of Dolwreiddiog, where Mr. Mawhans has a snug shooting box, a little
beyond which, commences perhaps the wildest scenery in North Wales.
Descending by a rocky path, we came to



LLYN Y CWM BYCHAM,


or, the lake of the little hollow, on the opposite margin of which, the
wild and dismal Carrey-y-Saeth, the rock of the arrow, rears its black
head in fearful grandeur.  Cwm Bychan, is a grassy dell, surrounded on
all sides by the most frightful sterility; which while we gazed with
wonder on the sublimity of the scene, made us shudder at the utter
desolation it presented.  A poor cottage stands on the farther end of the
valley, from which, having obtained a plentiful supply of milk, we
dismounted, and, fastening our steeds to the gates, we seated ourselves
under the shade of two trees, upon the inviting grass, which, like the
smiles of the world, proved but too treacherous; many a scream and laugh
announcing that the boggy soil had paid no respect to the garments of
either sex.  Stones were therefore procured, and, having ranged them in a
magic circle, the whole party seated themselves to partake of the good
cheer, which a sturdy Welshman had borne upon his shoulders, and who now
advanced into the middle of the ring.  Knives and forks began to play
with astonishing celerity.  Fowls, ham, tongue, &c. &c., vanished as if
by enchantment; and mirth and good humour added zest to the repast.

In this hollow there dwelt a witch called Janet, and a story is told,
which, as its wildness is well adapted to the scenery, I will endeavour
to relate.  The circumstances are said to have been confessed by old
Janet, when under the last torture.



THE WITCH OF CWM BYCHAN.


In the year 1647, when the Parliamentary forces were besieging the castle
of Harlech, there happened to be a sturdy trooper, named Jacob
Strong-ith-arm, amongst them, a raw-boned man, of about forty years of
age, who had a most sanctimonious visage, and a strong nasal twang, which
the hypocrites he commanded generally affected as the acceptable tone in
which the Lord delighted.  He had in his youth been a butcher’s boy; but
sanctity and the cutting the throats of the royalists had elevated him to
the rank of captain in Oliver’s army.  This man being stationed under
General Mytton, during the siege of Harlech Castle, fancied himself in
love with Mary Carrol, the daughter of a farmer in the neighbourhood, who
was shrewdly suspected of being a favourer of the besieged party.  This,
however, Jacob did not choose to notice; and, whenever an assault upon
the castle was repulsed by the royalists, he returned to lay siege to the
heart of Mary Carrol, who had an utter abhorrence to all fanatics and
sanctified faces.

“Verily, Mrs. Mary Carrol,” he would say, “I love thee!”

“And by the honour of a cavalier,” replied the maiden, “I love thee not,
Jacob;” for she concealed not her attachment to the royal party, although
her father constantly cautioned her to do so.

Long and vainly did Jacob endeavour to obtain the young girl’s
affections.  At length, he bethought himself of Janet, the witch of Cwm
Bychan, whose fame was spread for many a mile the country round; and one
evening in March a man muffled in a horseman’s cloak was seen stumbling
over the broken rocks and patches of broom and furze that impeded his way
to the cottage where she lived.  The moon was obscured by the density of
the atmosphere, and small dark remnants of clouds swept midway through
the valley, portending heavy rain and tempest.  Often did he kneel and
lift his trembling hands, as if in prayer, as he approached the cottage,
and many times did he turn round affrighted, believing he heard a brownie
brush behind him.  At length, he saw a small white dog running towards
him, wagging its tail, and looking very glad to see him.  Notwithstanding
all these tokens of welcome, the teeth of Jacob chattered in his head, as
he followed his canine conductor, and his heart sank within him.

When he came to the door, it seemed to fly open without the aid of hands,
and, in the middle of the hut, over a turf fire, sat Janet the witch.
“Come in!” said she, and repeated these doggerel lines:

    “Thou lovest a young and a pretty bird,
    And little she cares for thee;
    But Mary shall carol, and love thee well,
    If thou’lt give gold to me.”

“By the devil and all his imps, Janet,” said Jacob, mustering up all the
courage he could to support his profanity, “I’ll give thee a hundred good
pounds if thou wilt make her love me.”

“It’s a bargain!” quoth Janet, and she griped his hand till he thought he
felt all the blood in his body running out at his fingers ends, and then
she gave him this warning:

    “When the change is wrought, shouldst thou in aught
    ’Gainst thy free oath rebel,
    Soon shall, in dole, Harlech’s bell toll
    A sinner’s parting knell!”

“Go thou to Mary’s cottage to-morrow morning by the ninth hour; thou
shalt find her mind altered, and on the third morning will I call on thee
for the fulfilment of thy promise.  Away!”

As she spoke, he found himself suddenly whisked away into the centre of a
furze bush, where, stuck fast, he stood gaping at the door of the
cottage, which closed against him, as if by enchantment, and all was as
quiet as before he had entered it, save the whistling wind and the
driving rain, which the clouds now discharged in torrents.

A festival was to be held that night on the side of Mount Atlas, and all
witches were desired to attend and join in the revelry, at the command of
his imperious majesty, Satan himself; and, no sooner had Jacob departed,
than old Janet began to anoint herself, singing her incantations all the
while.

    “To thee, to thee, thou mighty one!
    Whose name is big with fear,
    I pay my adoration deep,
    While I anoint me here;

    And in this ointment I have put
    Mixtures of mighty power,
    To aid my flight, through the night,
    To thee, at trysting hour.

    The Lady Gordon’s fav’rite child
    I’ve roasted for this night,
    And thus its fat upon my lids
    I drop to aid my sight.

    Come dance around, my fav’rite imps,
    Robin and Prick-ear come!
    Twice must the ocean wide be crossed
    Ere we again come home.

    With serpents’ oil I smear my cheeks,
    To smooth my wrinkled skin,
    And outward wear the show of youth,
    Though all is old within.

    With blood of matricide I dye
    My lips to ruby red,
    And with the deep black soot of hell
    The white locks of my head;

    With tints from murdered virgin’s face
    I gaily deck my own,
    Till either cheek appears to wear
    A rose flower newly blown;

    Come dance around, my favourite imps,
    Robin and Prick-ear come,
    Twice must the ocean wide be crossed,
    Ere we again come home.”

Her preparations being completed, she mounted upon the back of Robin, and
attended by Prick-ear, flew through the air to the witches’ festival.

The inhabitants of Mauritania, who resided in the vicinity of Mount
Atlas, were struck with fear and wonder at the flickering lights and
fitful sounds of numerous instruments that were seen and heard upon the
mountain’s sides.  Loud peals of laughter and shouts of merriment
astonished the peasantry, for many miles around!  Glad enough was the
arch-fiend to see old Janet, who was a favourite, and he knew she had
done his service ably.  She knelt down, and did him homage, repeated the
accursed prayer, and recounted to him the deeds she had performed since
the last merry meeting,—at which he smiled, and gave her a smack that
sounded like the report of a piece of ordnance; and back to back, with
arms locked together, did they whisk it about, to the great delight of
the assembly; after which, Prick-ear, who had assumed his human shape,
led her to the feast, and whispered soft words into his mistress’s ear;
and they kissed and toyed, as did the rest; and in mirth, love, and
jollity, the night passed rapidly away.  But Janet forgot not in her
mirth, to beg a boon of Satan, which was, that he would turn the
inclinations of Mary Carrol upon the trooper, Jacob Strong-ith-arm, which
being granted, the usual ceremony at parting was performed, and again
crossing the ocean, she arrived at Cwm Bychan before the dawn, with her
attendant imps.

With a fluttering heart, Jacob knocked at the door of his mistress, on
the morning after his adventure with old Janet, and could scarcely
believe his good fortune, when he saw Mary, with smiles of delight,
hasten to the door, to welcome him; and he inwardly blessed the old witch
for having performed her promise so faithfully.  He spoke of love to
Mary, and she heard him without a frown; and so impatient was the
accepted lover, that the third day was appointed for the marriage to take
place.  But Jacob thought no more of the witch who had brought about his
good fortune.

The third morning came, and the bells were ringing merrily the wedding
peal for Mary Carrol and Jacob Strongith-arm, and all their friends were
seated at breakfast in the bride’s cottage, when, as the clock struck
nine, three distinct and heavy knocks were heard at the door, which being
opened, old Janet presented herself before the astonished party, for they
all believed she had evil communication with Satan.

The bridegroom grew red with shame and passion, and when Janet told him
she had come for the payment he promised, he vowed, if she did not quit
the house, he would tie her neck and heels, and fling her out of the
window.  This threat made Janet wrathful, and with heavy maledictions
that struck terror into the hearts of all the company, she turned her
back upon them, and departed from the house.

No sooner had she quitted it, than a new wonder arose—the bride flew
hastily to her apartment, nor could all her friends prevail upon her to
quit it.  Her former dislike to Jacob returned with redoubled violence.
She refused to become his bride, and kneeling down returned thanks to
heaven for the fate she had escaped.  All was confusion.  The
disappointed bridegroom with dreadful threats of vengeance, dashed
furiously out of the house, in the direction of Cwm Bychan.

Rage subdued fear in his breast, and the pathless rocks, over which he
had to scramble, seemed to add fresh fuel to his flames.  Long and loudly
did he knock at the door of Janet’s hut, until maddened with delay, he
with his foot sent it flying from its hinges, and there he saw a figure
resembling himself modelled in wax, with a needle passed through the
body, placed before a fire—and on a sudden Jacob began to sweat with
fear.  All the horrors attached to this well known ceremony amongst
witches, rushed to memory.  He remembered the story of King Duncan of
Scotland, which he had often read over, with pious terror, in the pages
of Hollingshed, who was in this way tortured by a witch, and, with
prayers and ejaculations, he ran from his effigy, stumbling and breaking
his knees over the rugged stones, while thorns and briars tore his
quivering flesh, as, unconscious of the pain, he scrambled through.  At
length, in horrid plight, breathless and faint, he reached his quarters
in the town of Harlech, where he was shortly after put to bed in extreme
agony, both of body and mind.

    “Weary seven nights, nine times nine,
    Did he dwindle, peak, and pine.”

Meanwhile, General Mytton was hotly besieging the castle, which was
defended, with almost unprecedented bravery, by William Owain, the
governor, with no more than twenty-eight followers.  In vain did the
clang of arms strike upon the warlike ears of Jacob;—he might have
exclaimed, in the language of Othello—

    “Farewell the plumed troop, and the big war
    Which makes ambition virtue—oh farewell!”

But, as he never read such profane authors, he contented himself with a
pious curse or two every second on the witch who had reduced him to such
a state of feebleness.  He who was once foremost in the onset, whose
voice would animate his soldiers with a religious zeal, and oft reclaim
the fortune of the fight—the brawny, fearless Presbyterian lay like a
puling infant on his bed, wasted and pale, with scarcely breath enough to
render himself audible to those around him.

Sorely did Mytton need his aid, his reckless daring in leading an
assault—for the stimulating energy of his example was electric.

One night, when he heard the loud shouts of the enemy, and the declining
voices of his friends, Jacob grasped his sword, and, starting from his
bed, rushed, or rather staggered, to the barbican, which had been scaled
by a small body of the parliament forces, who surprised the warders at
the drawbridge, which crossed the fosse upon the inside, when, from the
interior a body of the royalists rushed with desperate valour, the
assailing party were forced to retreat by opening the massy gate of the
barbican, but not without leaving many wounded and dying comrades in the
deep fosse, into which they had been thrown during the struggle on the
drawbridge.  At this critical moment, when disgrace appeared to hang over
the banner of his leader, Jacob, _en chemise_, forced his way into the
scene of action, striking terror to the foe, who took him for an
apparition, and invigorating the hearts of his friends.  The royalists,
who had advanced, were driven back again in their turn.

But the hope of victory betrayed the besiegers to their ruin.  Jacob,
determined to take the castle or die, with a huge axe was cutting through
the drawbridge to deprive his followers of all hope of escape, by
retreating that way; and the battle became furious beneath the double
portcullis which crowns the principal entrance.  The besieged were driven
nearly into the inner court, when the mighty voice of Owain cried
aloud—“Let fall the portcullis!”  So promptly was this order obeyed, that
the outer and inner grating enclosed the besiegers, as in a cage, and
left them entirely at the mercy of their conquerors.

Fortunately for Jacob, his weakness prevented him from carrying his
purpose into effect, and he retired, covered with confusion, to his bed,
while his companions whom he was forced to leave behind, resigned their
arms, through the inner grating, to their enemies, and were then
committed to the dungeons of the fortress.

On the morning after this defeat, a party of men, who had been sent into
the mountains to forage for goats, sheep, or provender of any kind that
might fall in their way, chanced to pass near old Janet’s dwelling, and
they resolved to revenge the cruel persecution of their captain, if they
could light upon the witch, who had occasioned his long sufferings.
Accordingly, they entered the cottage, where they perceived, before the
dying embers of a turf fire, the waxen image with which she worked the
charm, almost wasted away, but still bearing a strong resemblance to
Jacob Strongith-arm.  This they seized, and instantly committed to the
water, placing, at the same time, some dried wood upon the turf, which,
with the aid of some gunpowder, was ignited.  A quantity of dried furze
and heather was then piled upon it, and, in a short time, the flames
communicated with the rafters of every part of the building.

As they turned from the cottage, one of the party perceived an old woman
floating upon a plank on the lake, twisting and jumping, capering and
splashing, in a manner that made his hair stand on end.  It was old Janet
herself, whose imps had deserted her, or he would never have been able to
detect her at her pastime.  There she floated, twirling about, sometimes
on one leg, and then upon the other, till all of them being convinced it
was the witch, they resolved to seize her, and convey her to the General.

Three of them, named John Brown, James Haddock, and Joseph Stilt, being
the most courageous of the party, volunteered to capture her, though the
devil himself stood at her elbow, while she, not knowing that her imp,
Robin, whose power made her invisible to mortal eyes, had quitted her,
kept dancing on, without dreaming of any harm that could befall her from
the approach of mortals, although the plank upon which she stood nearly
touched the border of the pool.  Suddenly, Joseph Stilt, who was the
foremost, roared out—“The witch! the witch!—we have her!”  Janet then,
for the first time, felt afraid; but she still had some power left, and
Joseph Stilt, as he made a spring to come up with her, stuck fast in a
quagmire as deep as his chin, close to the edge of the lake, where he
remained storming, without the power to extricate himself.  James
Haddock, who leaped over his head, sank to the bottom, and narrowly
escaped drowning.  But John Brown, who always carried a verse of
scripture in front of his hat, calling on the Virgin for support,
alighted on the plank by the witch’s side, and, seizing her by the hair,
ferried her to a safe landing place, when his comrades, James Haddock,
and Joseph Stilt, having been assisted, by their fellows, out of
jeopardy, assisted him to convey her to Harlech, where they were told
that the dreadful exudations of Jacob had ceased, and, upon comparing
their accounts, they found that his recovery commenced at the very moment
when they flung his waxen effigy into the water, and set fire to the
witch’s hut.

When Janet was brought before the General and Jacob Strongith-arm, she
laughed to see his once stout frame dwindled as it was, and her laugh
frightened them all; so they tied her to a stake, and then began to
question her; but she disdained to make any reply.  They then tried the
torture of the thumb-screw, but Janet only spat in their faces, for the
devil was strong within her; and James Haddock lost his eye, from the
heat of her saliva.  The soldiers marvelled at her obstinacy, and Jacob,
growing full of ire, commanded them to fire a harquebuss at her, if she
persisted in her stubbornness.  But this threat only increased the
fiendish laugh of old Janet into a yell of scorn.  All threats proving
useless, the harquebussier fired his piece.  But how were they astonished
to see the witch grinning defiance at them all, and holding the ball up
between her right finger and thumb!  Another was fired at her, which she
caught in the left!  Stilt, mad to see her triumph thus, ran at her with
his sword, which shivered to pieces upon her breast; and all this time
the witch laughed, and spat at, and reviled them.  At length, Brown, who
had first arrested her, remembering he had been told that a witch, if
bled in any of the veins that cross the temples would soon give up the
ghost, walked boldly up to her, when the devil, scared at his intentions,
instantly quitted his votaress, and she, left helpless, could only storm,
and rave, and curse, and beg for life.  But Brown drew the keen blade
across the full purple veins, and, with a scream of terror, she fell to
the ground.

Many crimes did she confess to the holy man, who attended her last
moments; besides the one just related, which render “the little hollow,”
a spot of fearful interest to the mountaineer, who, as he passes the lake
at nightfall, turns many an anxious glance behind, and fancies that he
hears, at times, the sound of unearthly voices in the gale, that sweeps
by him in this wild and lonely dell.

The castle was soon after surrendered to the Parliament forces, by its
brave commander, who had the honor of knowing, that he was the last, who
yielded up the trust confided to him, by his sovereign.

                                * * * * *

Our repast being concluded, we again mounted our horses, and commenced an
ascent up a dank, cheerless hollow, called _Bwlch Tyddiad_.  Nothing can
exceed the wildness of the scenery, by which we were surrounded.  Huge
masses of rock, riven by the thunder bolt, or loosened by the frost, lay
scattered in every direction, while, towering upon either side, the
herbless mountains frowned, barren, black, grey, and terrible.

Our horses, accustomed, I presume, to such excursions, picked their way
with the greatest care and safety, and my “Gallant Brown,” cleared every
impediment, as if he had been foaled amongst the Alps, and loved them
better than the verdant plain.  Drawing nearer to the top of the cliff,
the shepherds had made a stair-like path of flat stones, along which our
cavalcade proceeded with caution; when suddenly we halted upon hearing
the distant halloos of travellers ascending the opposite side of the
mountain; and presently three persons, one of whom was leading a wearied
animal by the bridle, became distinctly visible.  A shout of recognition
from our party roused all the echoes of the surrounding hills.  The
figures, as they became more distinct, seemed magically transported with
myself into the heart of the Sierra Morena, where Cardenio, Don Quixote,
and Sancho Panza, appeared to me in their proper persons; for never was
description better realized, than in the figures that now presented
themselves.  The first was a handsome, well formed man, with light brown
hair, which hung in plentiful thickness upon his shoulders; his untrimmed
beard, joined by overhanging moustachios, and the two being united to the
upper growth, by a pair of whiskers, the luxuriance of which shewed they
were permitted to grow in uninterrupted freedom.  His throat was bare,
and his dress negligent.  The second figure that attracted my attention,
was a very tall and extremely thin young man, with a serious cast of
features, that would have done honor to the knight of the woful
countenance.  In his hand he led a jaded hack, which in the ascent seemed
to have yielded up three parts of its existence.  Here then was the
Rosinante of Cervantes in a breathing form; while, by his side, a short
good humoured little man, with a huge portmanteau buckled on his back,
walked like a faithful squire, and made an admirable substitute for the
immortal Sancho; and, as he turned his eyes from precipice to glen, it
required no great stretch of imagination, to think they were wandering in
search of his beloved Dapple.  We met upon a patch of green moss; and
here our hamper was again unpacked, to cheer the hearts of these toil
worn travellers.

                   [Picture: View from Carreg y Saeth]

By their advice, we ascended to the summit of the mountain, the view from
which was grand and extensive.  To the eastward, a vast country lies
beneath, bounded by Cader Idris, the two Arrenigs, and a long range of
mountains.  Immediately under the lofty eminence, upon which we rested,
was a small round lake, and the pass Ardudwy, which exceeds even the
celebrated Llanberris in rugged grandeur.  The way by which our new
companions ascended was both laborious and dangerous; but they would not
have sacrificed the prospect now presented to them on any account.  North
and south the eye glances over the summits of wild mountains, and to the
west the Carnaervonshire chain, cut in two, as it were, by a high
mountain, immediately before us, forms the shore of a noble sheet of
water, resembling a spacious lake, where the sea stretches its arm, into
the vale of Maentwrog, out of Cardigan Bay.  The declining sun gave us
warning that it was time to quit these wilds, and make the best of our
way to the foot of the mountain.

The return is extremely hazardous on horseback.  The ladies of the party,
therefore, resigning their steeds to the conduct of some mountaineers,
and the gentlemen leading their horses by the bridle, commenced the
descent.  But as I could not, from lameness, advantage myself by like
caution, and feeling confident in the tact, strength, and docility of my
favourite, I led the way, without experiencing the slightest symptom of
uneasiness.

When we had proceeded about half way down, a circumstance occurred, that
occasioned some unpleasantness.  A horse had broken loose from one of the
leaders, and at full speed came galloping down the steep and rugged
descent.  The animal conducted by the tall, thin gentlemen, before
described, started as his fellow quadruped rushed by him, and, freeing
himself from control, dashed after him, at an alarming pace; leaving his
late master, with eyes starting out of their sockets, and mouth wide
open, with affright, his arms spread out, and his whole frame in
convulsions of terror, upon the top of a large stone, ludicrously
bewildered.  My steed, evincing the truth of the proverb, “evil
communications” etc. for a moment lost his presence of mind, and
despising my efforts to restrain him, bounded over sundry perilous rocky
fragments, in desperate pursuit.  However, by divers forcible arguments,
I at length succeeded in convincing him of his error, and he returned to
his duty.

The two runaways were soon out of sight, and as we concluded they had
broken their necks, we moved rather solemnly to the bottom of the hollow,
where our fears were dissipated, by finding them quietly browsing in the
green meadows, where we had before seated ourselves at pic-nic.  All here
remounted; the sun’s rays still lingering upon the heights of
_Carreg-y-Saeth_, but the pool below looked black and cheerless.  As we
proceeded, the beautiful calm light of evening, the cool and refreshing
air, “the shard borne beetle, with his drowsy hum,” the forest flies and
midges dancing in the clear ether, the murmuring of mountain streams, and
the joyous notes of our little party, uniting with the sharp tones of our
horses’ shoes, clinking against the rocky fragments, formed a combination
of pleasing sounds and images in this romantic solitude, which I shall
ever remember with feelings of interest and delight.  After riding about
three miles, surrounded by every charm that could make the time pass
pleasantly, we arrived at the place of parting.  A road branching to the
right led directly to Harlech, a distance of about two miles; and here,
with a feeling of regret, I hardly ever before experienced, I took leave
of my kind conductor, and his agreeable friends, a man being appointed to
walk with me as far as Harlech, for the purpose of taking back his
master’s horse.

Slowly and sadly I pursued my solitary ride, nor did I once address my
attendant, until I arrived at the inn, where dismounting, I committed to
his charge my gallant supporter throughout the day.




CHAPTER VIII.


Harlech—The Inn—The Castle—Anecdote of Dafydd ap Ivan ap Einion—Road to
Maentwrog—View—A persevering Cobbler—The Oakley Arms—Pleasures of Fly
fishing—New Companions—Angling Stations—An Adventure—Road to Tremadoc—Tan
y Bwlch—Port Madoc Breakwater and Mountain Scenery described—Tremadoc—Tan
yr Allt—Pont Aber Glas Llyn—Lines written at the Bridge—Beddgelert—The
Inn—Story of a Pointer.

    “Rise from thy haunt, dread genius of the clime,
    Rise, magic spirit of forgotten time!
    ’Tis thine to burst the mantling clouds of age,
    And fling new radiance on Tradition’s page:
    See at thy call from Fable’s varied store,
    In shadowy train the mingled visions pour;
    Here the wild Briton ’mid his wilder reign,
    Spurns the proud yoke and scorns the oppressor’s chain,
    Here wizard Merlin, where the mighty fell,
    Waves the dark wand and chaunts the thrilling spell.”

                                                    _Prize Poem_, T. S. S.



HARLECH.


THE Blue Lion Inn, built by Sir R. W. Vaughan, for the accommodation of
travellers and tourists, is most delightfully situated.  A carriage road
from the north leads round to the front, which faces the sea; and forming
a semicircle, permits the vehicles to drive, through a gate on the south
end of the house, again into the high road.  Great taste is displayed in
the erection of this pleasant building; the parapet wall, with its
circular turrets, in which seats are placed for the accommodation of
visitors, and the terrace with its neat shrubberies.  I must also
acknowledge, that the kind attention of the landlord and his servants,
deserves the highest commendation.

The view from the terrace is indescribably beautiful.  The sea lies
stretched beneath; the majestic ruins of Harlech Castle stand upon a
rocky base, frowning in solitary grandeur upon the right; and beyond, the
long line of Carnaervonshire hills projects, like Cambria’s lance,
forbidding the waves to make further inroads upon her territories.

Pwlhelli and Port Maddock are distinctly visible from this spot; and the
lovers of fine prospects may remain at the Blue lion for a week, without
wishing to stray further than the terrace in search of the sublime and
beautiful.  The continual variety of light and shadow, with which the
mountains are alternately robed, the freshness of the air, and the solemn
majesty of the ruined fortress, form altogether a volume for the mind to
peruse with intense and unwearied interest.



HARLECH CASTLE.


The present castle was built by Edward I. in 1283, upon the ruins of one
erected by _Maelgwn Gwynedd_, Prince of North Wales, in 530.  It was
seized by the Welsh hero, Owen Glyndwr, during his struggle for freedom
against Henry IV, and was retaken about four years afterwards, by an army
sent by that monarch into Wales.  After the defeat of Henry VI. at
Northampton, this castle afforded a retreat for his queen, but being
hotly pursued by the Lord Stanley, she was compelled to fly from hence
with great precipitation, leaving her jewels and other valuables behind
her.

                        [Picture: Harlech Castle]

In 1468, this place was in possession of Dafydd-ap-Ivan-ap-Einion, a man
of singular strength and beauty, and of unconquerable bravery.  Being a
firm friend to the Lancastrian line, the Earl William of Pembroke was
despatched to reduce the fortress; and, after encountering incredible
difficulties, marching through the very heart of the British Alps, he at
length invested the castle, and committed the management of the siege to
his brother Sir Richard Herbert, a man equal in size and prowess to the
British commandant.  The reply of the Welshman, when called upon to
surrender, deserves to be handed down as a specimen of bravery and
loyalty.  He had never acknowledged the sovereignty of Edward; and for
nine years, had defied his threats.  His answer was in keeping with the
line of conduct he had adopted: “Tell your leader,” said he to the
messenger, “that some years ago I held a castle in France against its
besiegers so long, that all the old women in Wales talked of me: tell
your commander, that I intend to defend this Welsh castle now, until all
the old women in France shall hear of it.”

Famine, however, at last subdued him; but he yielded only upon honourable
terms, Sir Richard pledging himself for his safety.  The king at first
refused to subscribe to the conditions; but Sir Richard, with a spirit
that cannot be sufficiently applauded, instantly informed his majesty
that he must take his own life first; for if he lived he would certainly
replace the Welsh chieftain in his strong hold again.  The king was too
well acquainted with the value of Sir Richard’s services and scrupulous
honour, to persist in his unjust intentions.  He therefore, ratified the
conditions, and pardoned the chief.  But the brave Englishman was soon
after recalled from his military command.

In the civil wars of Charles I. Harlech Castle was the last that held out
for the king, under the command of William Owain, who surrendered on the
ninth of March, 1647.

Upon the side which faces the sea, the castle must have been impregnable;
the walls are scarcely distinguishable from the rocky base, the whole
being a continued surface of dark grey masonry; and the north and south
sides appear nearly as inaccessible.  The gateway upon the eastward side
is situated between two immense rounders, resembling those of Conway and
Carnaervon.  The form of the castle is a square, each side measuring
seventy yards, and at each corner is a round tower; but the turrets that
were once attached to them the unsparing hand of Time has destroyed.
Before the entrance is a deep fosse, cut in the solid rock; across which
a drawbridge was constructed for security and convenience.

The principal apartments are on the eastward, or entrance, side of the
inner court.  The banqueting hall is opposite; the windows of which look
out upon the green surface of the sea; and, on the right of the court,
there formerly stood a small chapel; the ruins of which are still
visible, the pointed window remaining entire.  It is impossible to
conceive a finer view than is obtained from the towers of Harlech Castle.
With a clear atmosphere, the monarch of the Welsh mountains may be
distinctly seen, towering above his subject hills.  The promontories of
Lleyn and Cricaeth Castle, are likewise objects of considerable interest;
the latter forming a head to a long neck of land that juts into the sea
from the Carnaervonshire coast, backed by a chain of noble mountains.
This castle likewise owes its foundation to Edward I.

Harlech is one of those places the traveller leaves with regret, and a
feeling that he can never see any so beautiful again; and from this place
to the village of Maentwrog, the road increases in beauty every mile.

The Bay of Cardigan, expanding to the ocean, lies beneath, on the left;
upon the right, wild rocks and woody hills alternately diversify the
prospect, and, approaching the northern extremity of the bay, the Traith
Mawr and Traith Bach, two arms of the sea (the former running up to Port
Madoc, and the latter into the vale of Maentwrog), are noble objects.

The Traith Bach, bounded by mountains upon either side, prepares the
tourist for the heavenly quietude which reigns eternally in the bosom of
this earthly paradise; and, about two miles from the village, near a farm
house called Cemlyn, one of the most beautiful views of the valley lies
stretched before him.  A woody dingle opens on the right, down which the
Velin Rhyd rushes impetuously, mingling its bright waters with the
smoothly meandering Dwyryd, which commingling, flow gracefully into
Cardigan Bay.

In front, and upon the right of the vale, lies the little picturesque
village of Maentwrog, reposing at the foot of a lofty mountain.  Fine
green meadow lands enrich the centre of the valley, through which the
river, like a silver serpent, “drags its slow length along.”  Upon the
opposite side is seen the mansion of Tan y Bwlch, backed by a mountain
forest, and ornamented by a noble terrace in front, with pleasure grounds
and walks, which the eye loves to rest upon.

                     [Picture: The Vale of Maentwrog]

The road to Festiniog, at the extreme point of the landscape, winds up
the enclosing hills that fill up the back ground.  To be appreciated, the
view must be seen: the most glowing description would fall incalculably
short of the reality.

At this spot I was accosted by a very inquisitive personage.

“Fine evening, sir.”

“Yes.”

“Walking far to-day, sir?”

“Yes.”

“A great many gentlemen come from London to see this valley, sir.”

“I suppose so,” (trying to shake him off, but it would not do).

“You come from London, I think, sir?”

“Why do you think so?”

“Only because a great many London people come this way, sir.”

“But do not many other travellers come this road, who are not Londoners?”

“Oh yes, sir, but I took you for a Londoner by the cut of your coat.
You’ve come a long way to-day, sir?”

“I have, but how should you know that?”

“By the condition of your boots, sir.”

This was a hit I did not anticipate; for, truth to say I was nearly
bootless, at least the _soles_ had nearly left their _bodies_, upper
leathers I mean, and stood mortally in need of regeneration; and, as I
had not provided myself with a second pair, thinking they would prove
cumbersome in my knapsack, his remark was felt from toe to heel.

“You’ll want these repaired, I dare say, sir, while you remain at the
Oakley Arms—comfortable inn—capital beds, sir.”

“Why I think I shall, my friend; perhaps you can recommend me to a
cobbler, in the village yonder,” (pointing to Maen Twrog).

“I am a boot maker, sir, in the village, and have cobbled, as you are
pleased to call it, the soles of all strangers in need, for the last
twenty years.  My father performed that office before me; and I may say,
my all (awl) of life depends upon the gentlemen who visit our beautiful
valley.”

“You are not employed then by the inhabitants of your native village?”

“I _was_, sir; but a new comer, who wrote over his door ‘leather cutter,’
cut me out; for I never found business enough to set up a shop, and so,
sir, I am obliged to watch for customers, to keep up my trade.  Those
boots of yours, sir, will give me dinners for half the week, if you will
only let me give them welts, soles, and heel-taps.  You’ve got a fine
foot, sir.”

This piece of gross flattery did not prevent my telling him to follow me
to the inn, and receive the reward of his perseverance and industry.



THE OAKLEY ARMS.
TAN Y BWLCH.


I was tired, and gladly resigned my dilapidated boots to the care of my
_soles’_ physician; who, with a most respectful bow, promised to let me
have them by eight o’clock on the following morning.

Having partaken of a most excellent dish of fish, a small portion of
roasted mutton, strawberry tartlet, cheese, celery, &c., I thought I
should like to try my fortune in the lovely stream of Dwyryd.  I
therefore requested the waiter to procure me the loan of a pair of shoes
or boots, suitable for the purpose, proposing to pay for the
accommodation.  I was soon supplied, and, anticipating a delightful
evening’s sport, sallied forth with complete apparatus.

How deceitful are the views of man!  I cast my line—it was a fatal cast—I
struck at an imaginary or real rise, and in an instant all my hopes were
crushed; for my rod broke off at the second joint, and sailing down the
stream, was suddenly brought up by one of the flies hooking a fragment of
rock.  With much trouble I recovered the shattered top pieces, but in
endeavouring to extricate my fly, my foot slipped, and I found myself up
to my waist in water, and my foot jammed between two pieces of rock at
the bottom, from whence I was glad to extricate it by leaving my shoe
behind.  It was very unfortunate.  I cursed my ill-luck, sat down upon
the bank, put up my flies, put my broken rod in its case, and prepared to
return to my inn.  But—I had only one shoe!  I endeavoured to recover the
lost one, but in vain.  Doubtless it was buffetting its way amongst
rushing waters and fragments of rock, full half a mile off by this time.
How I should get to the Oakley Arms, through all the uneven stony ways, I
knew not.  I could not hop all the way, it was very evident; and to
attempt to walk with but one shoe, would deprive me of the sole of my
foot.  At this moment, taking out my silk handkerchief to wipe my
brows—ah!—the thing was settled.  I bound it as many times doubled as I
could round my foot, tying it about with a part of my fishing line, and
in this lamentable state, I reached the house.

No routed warrior from the field of battle ever looked more chop-fallen
than I, in re-entering my late happy dining-room.  It was not an hour—no,
not an hour ago—when, all elate and joyous, I walked forth, pregnant with
hope and jollity.  Look at me now—’twas lamentable!  I rang the bell; the
waiter came in, and no sooner cast his eyes on me, than he broke into an
uncontrollable laugh.  I confess I expected a very different reception,
and my first impulse was to kick him out of the room; but casting my eyes
upon my handkerchief-bound foot, turned the whole current of my feelings,
and I could not forbear joining in the laugh, for the soul of me.

The waiter’s view of the case was undoubtedly the correct one.  I felt
it, and it was actually with difficulty I accounted to him for my present
appearance, my ideas had undergone so complete a revolution from tragic
to comic!

“Well—’tis a funny world,” said I; “bring me a pair of slippers, water to
wash, a bottle of port, and a cigar.”

I was just in the marrow of my cigar, when two young gentlemen, who had
pedestrianized from Llanrwst since the morning, entered the room.  They
were fair-haired Saxons, and particularly unacquainted with all they had
seen in their route.  I requested them to join me, and they were pleased
to honour me with their company.  But their stock of information being
remarkably small, I resolved within myself to avoid the route they
intended to pursue on the following morning, and understanding they meant
to visit Harlech Castle, I informed them I should pursue my way to
Tremadoc.  As I could not extract any information from these tourists, I
called for pen, ink and paper, and amused myself with putting down the
events of the day, while one of the young men flung his legs upon the
sofa, and the other placed his feet on the fender.  Deep sonorous notes
soon succeeded this arrangement, and I pursued my task without any other
interruption, until my attention was drawn to the heavy pattering of rain
against the window, and the whistling of a keen wind through the passage.
I felt chilly, and drew nearer the fire.  The task I imposed upon myself
being finished, and the servant having brought me my bed candlestick, I
retired to rest, leaving my agreeable companions in the midst of a nasal
duet.

Oh, the comforts of a clean room, clean sheets, and a good bed!  These I
experienced at the Oakley Arms; and I arose refreshed, and eager to
commence my walk; but I was doomed to disappointment, for on drawing up
the blind of my window, a dark and dismal morning presented itself, the
rain falling in torrents, and the lovely valley transformed into a gloomy
gorge of rolling clouds.  What’s to be done? thought I; jump into bed
again, answered my careful spirit.  I obeyed the suggestion, and slept
another hour, when I again awoke, and on inspection found the day still
melancholy and tearful.

I descended to the breakfast room, and there I found my quondam
companions in precisely the same attitudes I had left them on the
preceding night;—as motionless and silent, but their musical instruments
were out of order, I suppose, as they no longer sent forth their former
deep tones, and their eyes indeed were differently directed; the
gentleman on the sofa inspecting the ceiling; the other profoundly
scrutinizing a Dutch figure on the chimney-piece, with a foaming pot of
porter in one hand, and a short pipe in the other.  It was neither Souter
Johnny, nor Toby Philpot; but I involuntarily roared out “dear Tom, this
brown jug,” &c.  It was like an electric shock to the tourists.  One
leaped from the sofa, and the other withdrew his feet from the fender
with precipitation; first stared at each other, and then both at me, in
mute astonishment.  I cheerfully bade them good-morrow, and we sat down
to breakfast.

Never did I pray more heartily for a shelter from the storm, than I did
now for a gleam of sunshine to cheer me in this horrid calm.  These rival
Incubuses fretted me.—Ha! who’s that curtseying to me as she passes?—Oh
she opens her basket, intimating she has something to sell; they are
hose, I perceive.  The rain increases rather than abates its violence.

“Come hither, my girl,” said I, as I beckoned her to come in.  “She will
assist in beguiling the tedious morning,

    “That like a foul and ugly witch
    Does limp so tediously away.”

And, having nothing better to do, I put the events of our interview into
rhyme.

                                  TRAVELLER.

    “Where art thou going, pretty lass?
    The rain falls thick and fast;
    Come in, and dry thy mantle, maid,
    And shun the bleak cold blast.”

                                    GIRL.

    “I heed not, sir, the mountain gale,
    Nor thickly falling rain;
    For my poor mother lies at home
    In sickness and in pain;
       And I must haste to sell my work,
       And much I have to spare,
       That I may purchase winter store
       To free her mind from care.
    For she is old, and quite infirm,
    And child hath none but me,
    And oh her heart is yearning now
    My face again to see.”

                                  TRAVELLER.

    “Cold is the heart that would not beat
    To see that face of thine,
    Where sweet simplicity hath traced
    Her lineaments divine.”
       She turned away her head to hide
       A tear upon her cheek;
       While piety beamed in her eye,
       And resignation meek.

                                    GIRL.

    “Oh do not, do not stay me, sir,
    For I must to the fair,
    To sell my hose, and purchase food,
    And things for winter wear.”

                                  TRAVELLER.

    “I’ll buy thy hose; thou shalt not walk
    Beneath the drenching rain,
    But tarry here until the sun
    Shines brightly forth again.”
       Her hose were bought, she sought her home
       With smiles upon her face;
       Her heart was light, her eyes were bright
       Her every motion, grace.
    And happy was the traveller’s heart
    When bidding her farewell;
    Her glance of gratitude, said all,
    And more, than tongue could tell.

By the time I had committed this little effusion to paper, the sun shone
out gloriously; and it had the astonishing effect of giving a sort of
animation to the mute gentlemen, who absolutely rose from their drowsy
postures and walked to the window.  Thank heaven! I mentally exclaimed; I
have a chance now of getting rid of my “musty superfluity;” but I was
mistaken.

“You will now be able to start for Harlech,” said I.

“Why a—” drawled one, “I am afraid it’s too late, as we wish to get to
bed early to-night.  What do you say, Tom?”

“Why I think so too, Dick; and so we’ll be happy to join you, sir, in
your walk, as I think you said you intended proceeding to Tremadoc.”

I said I should be happy, with a smile, that extracted from one of them
the question, “Ain’t you well, sir?”

Without replying, I proceeded to put up my little all in the knapsack;
having first desired the waiter to bring my bill.

“You’d better put it all together, and we can divide it,” said they.

I agreed, and it being discharged, after paying for the shoes which I
borrowed for my evening’s sport, and for the repairing, which was
excellently performed by my loquacious cobbler, I started with my two
hopeful friends for Tremadoc.  We however, first went to view the grounds
of Tan-y-bwlch, the seat of W. G. Oakley Esq.  The name signifies “below
the pass:” it is situated on the side of a hill which overlooks the vale.

From the terrace of this mansion you command one of the most romantic
views in Wales.  Harlech Castle is visible upon the right; the
Merionethshire mountains tower in the distance, and the entire valley,
from Festiniog to Traeth Bychen, watered by the river Dwyryd, is
interesting beyond description.  Lord Lyttleton tells us, in his
observations upon this valley, that an honest Welsh farmer, who died
there at 105 years of age, had by his first wife thirty children, ten by
his second, and four by his third.  His eldest son was eighty-one years
older than his youngest, and 800 persons, descended from his body,
attended his funeral.

I should be doing injustice to the worthy landlord of the Maentwrog Inn,
whose house I used upon my second visit to this delightful valley, did I
not speak in praise of his attention to the comforts of all travellers.
Good beds, civil waiters, excellent fare, and cheap charges, render this
one of the very best inns in Wales.  And hear, ye lingering tourists! you
may have bed and board for the inconsiderable sum of one guinea per week;
which I think a very considerable temptation to remain at it a month, for
there is sufficient in the neighbourhood to interest the most phlegmatic
of Adam’s progeny.  From hence may be visited the following interesting
places.  The village of Festiniog, three miles, where there are two good
inns, the Pengwern Arms, and the Newborough Arms, where post horses and
cars are always in readiness; there is also a good boarding-house kept by
Miss Owen.  The falls of Cynfael, two and a half; the slate quarries,
five and a half; the cataracts of the Rhaiadr Du and Ravenfall, two
miles; Llyn Llyanyrch, three and a half, where the trout are excellent;
Cwmorddin Pool, lies to the northward, about four and a half miles, to
which the tourist may be conducted by the railroad.  There is a house at
each end of the lake where the angler will find accommodation from the
hospitable owners for a trifling remuneration.  Lynn Mannot contains very
large trout, and is six miles from Maentwrog, and Llyn Morwynion is about
the same distance.

                [Picture: The Raven Fall, near Maentwrog]

We proceeded along the lower road by the north side of the salts, as the
inhabitants of the valley call the arm of the sea, which here has the
appearance of a lake begirt with mountains, craggy cliffs, and shadowing
woods.  Here we bade adieu to the delightful valley of Festiniog, and,
after walking about four miles along a pleasant road, a noble sheet of
water met our eyes, which appeared to be hemmed in by inaccessible
mountains, differing in form from those we had left behind, being more
conical, and some shooting upwards like pyramids into the clouds.

As we proceeded, we discovered it to be the Traeth Mawr, which as the sea
is hidden from us by a breakwater, has the appearance of a broad lake.

Upon this breakwater, which extends across the bay, is a railroad which
conveys slates from the quarries at Festiniog to Port Madoc, where it is
calculated ten thousand tons are shipped annually.  Port Madoc receives
its name from the late William Alexander Maddoc Esq., of Tan-y-allt, as
does the town of Tremadoc.

The extraordinary efforts of this enterprising man caused him to be
looked up to as the Prince of the soil.  He redeemed, by constructing an
embankment of nearly one mile in length from north to south, across the
Traeth Mawr, at the eastern extremity of Cardigan Bay, a tract of more
than 2,700 acres of land.  This enterprise was completed in 1811, and
cost upwards of £100,000; so that, with the lands previously recovered,
no less than 7000 acres have been regained, 6000 of which are cultivated.

The view from the breakwater is perhaps the finest in North Wales for
distant mountain scenery.  When the tourist has reached the centre of it,
let him turn his back upon the sea, and upon his right he will perceive a
hill, called Plas Newedd, from which a range of Alpine scenery stretches
up to the monarch of Snowdonia, who towers pre-eminent in the distance.
Upon his left another range, commencing with a hill called Moel Ghaist,
leads up to the same grand object, and the extraordinary variety
displayed in the formation of these wonderful masses with varying lights
and shadows that adorn them with sunny crowns or misty mantles, produce a
sublimity of effect I never before experienced.  A bridge joins the
breakwater to the quay at Port Madoc, under which the tide rushes with
great impetuosity, covering a vast extent of ground at the flood, which
is left nearly dry at the ebb.  About half a mile from Port Madoc, upon a
rising ground, stands a handsome house, once the property, though not the
principal residence, of the great speculator, which is now inhabited by
Mr. Williams, a solicitor, and agent to the creditors of the deceased.
Proceeding along the road, in a short time the tourist obtains a peep at
the little town of Tremadoc; but before reaching it he perceives the
church, an elegant building, with a tower and lofty spire, which forms a
principal object in the landscape.  The archway, under which the church
is approached, is a beautiful specimen of workmanship, and does equal
credit to the taste of the founder and execution of the builder.  Divine
service is read here in the English language every Sunday, which is a
great accommodation to the English families residing in the
neighbourhood, as there is no other church within twenty miles where it
is so performed.



TREMADOC


or the town of Madoc, is built quadrangularly, and in the centre of the
square is a column with a pedestal, round which are twelve steps.  On the
eastern side is a commodious market house, above which are the assembly
rooms.  A market is held here on Fridays, and the Barmouth and Carnaervon
coach passes through three times a-week.

Having refreshed ourselves with a luncheon of salad and cold meat, we
three trudged off together, in spite of wind and weather, which
threatened a speedy commencement of hostilities.  Large masses of vapoury
clouds were driven above our heads; the swallows skimmed the surface of
the river, and brushed the standing corn with their swift wings, as they
flew along in the pursuit of their prey; and the wind blew loud and
shrilly, as in the month of November.  At a short distance from the town,
upon the Beddgelert road, is a lofty hill, the base of which is planted
with fir trees; through which a path winds up to the mansion of
Tan-yr-allt, the late beautiful residence of Mr. Madocks.  We had not
proceeded far, when we were compelled to seek shelter in a hollow, of
which there are many at the feet of the enormous precipices which
overhang the road.

The transient storm having passed away, and sunshine once more lighting
up the valley, we again pushed forward.  The Merionethshire mountains
upon the right, decked in their countless hues of rock and heather, over
which the departing storm swept with its rolling clouds, in dark
magnificence, formed a noble subject for the artist’s pencil.  The road
is elevated above the meadows which enrich the centre of the vale; and
the river, which flows through them, having risen above its banks and
spread itself over a considerable tract of country, resembled an
extensive lake.

About half way between Tremadoc and Beddgelert, is a small dingle upon
the left of the road, with a neat lodge at the entrance, and a path
leading up to the shrubbery, beneath which a mountain stream flows
rapidly, and empties itself into the Rhine.  The path leads up to the
residence of Capt. Parry.  As we proceeded, numerous falls dashed down
the mountains and plunging into hollows underneath the road, emerged
again upon the other side.  We were several times forced to take shelter
from the heavy showers under fallen blocks of rock; and once as the storm
abated, and we looked anxiously out to see if it was clear enough to
pursue our journey, a glorious rainbow, stretching across the valley, its
points resting upon the mountains on either side, struck even my
snow-models of men with something like sensibility; for as they crept out
of their sheltering rock, they observed with infantine simplicity, “Well,
really that’s very pretty.”  We now proceeded at a rapid pace, and the
river became more deep and narrow, and the circling eddies, as they
floated down the stream, announced to us that we were approaching the
fall of a great body of water, when suddenly—whizz, whirr, clash, splash,
dash, astounding and astonishing—



ABER GLAS LLYNN,


                       [Picture: Pont Aber Glaslyn]

with all its world of horrors, burst at once upon our view.  I felt a
tremulous sensation within me; a contraction of the muscles of my throat;
an hysterical sob, and a desire to weep.  I stood stone still; while my
edifying companions pursued their way without making a single
observation.  I halted upon the centre of the bridge, and gave vent to my
feelings in pencilling down the following



LINES
WRITTEN ON THE BRIDGE AT ABER GLAS LLYNN.


    Thou of the stormy soul, who left behind
    The love of sunny skies and smiling vales,
    With thy fresh boyhood; thou upon whose brow
    Stern care hath written gloom, and worldly wrongs
    Made darksome; hither bend thy leaden steps,
    And find a home here in this wild abyss!—
    Abode congenial to thy lightless mind.
    Ye black huge rocks, drear, mountainous, and stern,
    First-born of chaos, everlasting piles
    And monuments of the creation—hail!
    Around your heads the thunder rolls in vain,
    And the fierce lightnings from your summits bare
    Turn harmless.  Frown, frown on, ye giants stern,
    Majestic emblems of eternity!
    The torrents are your tongues, and with their roar
    Talk of your dignity for ever.  Hail!
    White foaming, thundering, falls the boiling flood;
    Rocks clash, and echo mocks the horrid din,
    While man appalled, stands breathless, in amaze,
    And, filled with awe, exalts his thoughts to Him,
    Who was, who is, and aye must be supreme!

Just above the bridge is a semicircular rock, which forms a salmon-leap,
over which the salmon, at spawning time, first lodge themselves at the
height of five or six yards.  Proceeding through the pass, at every step
new wonders met the eye.  The late heavy rains had swollen the mountain
waterfalls, and caused a terrific torrent to roar and struggle through a
narrow channel; for the mountains, forming this southern end of the vale,
approach so near to each other, that they only afford a contracted flow
for the river, and a narrow road, while their rocky sides rise so
perpendicularly, that their summits are scarcely farther distant from
each other than their foundations.  The rushing river was a pure sheet of
white; furious, uncontrollable; nothing but the immense blocks riven from
the mountain’s craggy sides could withstand its dreadful impetuosity.  A
few stunted fir and larch trees at the commencement of the pass were seen
starting from the dark clefts upon either side, which threw a deeper
shade upon this awful valley.

Cradock calls this pass “the noblest specimen of the _finely horrid_ the
eye can possibly behold.  The poet,” he continues, “has not described,
nor the painter pictured so gloomy a retreat.  ’Tis the last approach to
the mansion of Pluto, through the regions of Despair.”  I could have
stopped for hours to admire this splendid example of the sublimity of
Nature, but time pressed, so I pushed on to Beddgelert which is not more
than a mile and a half from the bridge.  A solitary mountain ash which
grows about half way up the pass, is the sole bright thing in this abode
of terror, and looks like Beauty in desolation.  Emerging from the pass
there is a stone which is called the chair of Rhys Gôch o’r’ Ryri; a
famous mountain bard who lived in the time of Owen Glyndwr.  He resided
at the entrance into the Traeth Mawr Sands, from whence he used to walk,
and sitting upon this stone compose his poems.  He died in 1420, at the
advanced age of 120 years; he was a gentleman of property, and was buried
in the ancient priory at



BEDDGELERT.


Some are of opinion that this word should be written Celert or Cilert,
Bedd-Cilert, or Cilert’s grave; supposing that a monk or saint of that
name was buried here.  Another celebrated bard was entombed at this
place, named Daffydd Nanmor, who died about the year 1460.

The Goat is an excellent inn, and every attention the traveller can
desire is paid with the greatest celerity.  Twenty post horses are kept
at this inn for travellers, and eight or ten ponys for the accommodation
of those visitors who wish to ascend Snowdon with ease and safety. {240}

At nine o’clock, I strolled from the inn to the bridge, where I was
joined by a peasant, who, by his appearance, promised to be
communicative.  It was a lovely evening; there was no moon, but the clear
sky displayed its burning host, in beautiful array.  No breath of air
disturbed the silent slumbers of the peaceful woods.  The lull of
rippling waters alone struck upon the ear, yielding a solemn tone like
the deep swell of the organ, breaking upon the deepest solitude.

In such a situation how indescribable is the feeling which takes
possession of us!  What language can express, what tongue can utter it?
My very breathing seemed to disturb the excessive sweetness of nature’s
melody.

“This is a very pretty place, sir,” said the peasant, interrupting my
reverie.

“It is indeed,” I replied.

“I suppose, sir, you’ve been to visit the grave of Gelert, Llewellyn’s
hound?”

“I have.  Do you believe the legend?”

“Indeed, sir, I do,” said he with a sigh; “but I never thought a man
could feel so much for the death of a brute, until last year—_hai how_!”

This observation made me inquisitive to know what had so suddenly changed
his opinions.  “What has caused you, my friend, to believe in a legend so
suddenly, which you never gave any credence to before?”

“Why sir, I’ll tell you; you must know that I had a favourite pointer
bitch, _Truan Bac_.  Oh, she was the beautifullest creature you ever saw.
She was the pride of the country; and gentlemen would come to me and say,
‘William, will you lend me your little bitch to go a shooting on the
mountains—_only for a day_?  Because you see, sir, there was not her
equal in all Wales, for a single dog; ay, and she’d back as staunch as
any on ’em, and a better retriever never went into a field.  Such a nose!
ah! poor wench; I never knew thy equal!  You must think, sir, I was very
loath to let her go without me, for I bred her, and broke her in—though
very little breaking she wanted;—and you know, sir, a good dog is soon
spoilt by a bad sportsman, and the creatures be as fond of a good shot,
as he be fond of shooting to a good dog.  No day was too long for her
when the scent lay.  The motion of your hand was enough for her; to the
right, or left, or take the fences.  She’d never baulk her game, or make
a false point; if the birds had just gone off, you might know she was
doubtful by a _leetle_ motion in her tail.  But, if she stood stiff and
staunch, you might bet a guinea to a mushroom that there was game before
her, and you’d nothing to do but to go up and take your shot.  Down she
was to charge, and, if you bade her, she would bring your bird without
ruffling a feather.  Well, sir, the beginning of last August
unfortunately she had a litter of pups.  ’Twas a cross breed,
_ysywaith_!—and I got the butcher’s boy to destroy them, which he did,
and buried them in the muck heap, at the back of the stable.  From that
time, she would never stir from her bed, that was under the manger.  My
dame took her her food as usual, and placed it just inside the stable
door.  My little boy, Billy, went next day, with a mess of potatoes and
barley meal, but told his mother that Rose had’nt eat up her yesterday’s
mess.  Ah! she cried, she’ll eat it when she’s hungry, I warrant her.
Billy went next evening, but her victuals were untouched, and, when he
went to coax her, she growled at him, and showed her teeth—a thing she
never in her life had done before to any living being; so he was
frightened, and told me of it next morning, and I went to the stable to
see her.  Her meat was all dried up in the tub, and, when I went to her,
she seemed nothing but skin and bones.  I called her Rose! poor Rose! she
slowly raised up her head, opened her bloodshot eyes, and moaned so
piteously!  I thought she was dying.  I held her a little milk; she just
moistened her tongue, and gave one wag of her tail, as much as to say,
thank you, master; and her head dropt again, and her eyes closed.  I knew
’twas four days since she had eaten any thing.  I put some food by her,
and went to my work.  When I returned at night, the first thing I did was
to go into the stable, where I found the food untouched and my poor
little bitch dead, cold and stiff.  I shall never forget it—_wela_!
_wela_!—I drew her from under the manger, and what do you think, sir?
I’ll be shot, if there warn’t her five little pups that the butcher’s boy
had kill’d!—she had dug them out of the dung-hill one by one, and laid
them in her kennel, and, fearing they would be taken from her again she
concealed them with her body, and died through starvation, rather than
give ’em up!  Wasn’t that nature, sir?  I’m almost ashamed to say it; but
indeed, sir, I wiped away tears from my cheeks, when I saw that sight.  I
took her up in my arms, and buried her and her young litter in the same
grave; and since that time I never refuse my belief to the stories I hear
of surprising instances of devoted affection, gratitude, and instinct, in
any of her race.  _Wela_! _wela_!

“But sir, if you should come this way on your return, and should want a
day or two’s good sport on the mountains, I’ve got a dog that’s second to
none in the country, and I shall be proud to serve you.”

I promised, if I should find it convenient to return by the first of
September, to engage his dog, if not previously hired; and bidding him
follow me to the Goat, I ordered for him a tumbler of whiskey-punch,
which spirit is as much esteemed in Snowdonia as in the mountains of
Wicklow.




CHAPTER IX.


Departure from Beddgelert—Vortigern’s Hill—Snowdon—Llynn Gwynant—Lines
written upon Llynn Gwynant—Gwrydd—Public Houses—Lake Fishing—A Night
Adventure—Pass of Llanberis—Legend of the Giant’s Night-Cap—The Lakes—The
Castle of Dolbadarn and Legend—View of the Lakes.

    “Oh, who hath stood on Snowdon’s side,
    And glanced o’er Mona’s virgin pride;
    And gazed on fatal Moel y don,
    But thought of those once there undone?
    When Saxons, and their foreign band,
    Were crushed by the sons of the mountain land.”

                                                _T. J. Llewelyn Grichard_.

ON the following morning I quitted the inn, where every attention was
shewn that a traveller could desire, and proceeded over the Ivy bridge,
through which the Gwynant flowed, deep and smooth as glass, without an
obstruction to ruffle its clear waters, that glided along, kissing its
verdant banks, like the stream of a happy life.  Quietude reigned in this
region uninterrupted.  About half a mile from Beddgelert, a rocky
eminence projects into the road, called _Vortigern’s Hill_, or _Dinas
Emrys_, a magician, who was sent for to this place by Vortigern, when he
found himself hated by his subjects, and fled from their just anger to
this secluded spot.  Passing this memorable place, a round clump of rock
attracts the eye, rising as it were in the centre of the valley, and
called _Moel Wynn_.  Looking backward, _Moel Hebog_, the Hawk hill, rises
majestically and closes up the entrance to Beddgelert.  Moel Shebbod
towers in front, and, as we pursued our delightful path, about two miles
and a half from Beddgelert, an opening of the hills upon the left
displayed a deep gorge, and the base of Snowdon, whose high peak, rising
in the unclouded skies, held up the holy symbol of Christianity, as in
adoration of the Creator.  At length, I reached _Llynn Dinas_, a lake of
about three quarters of a mile in extent, through which the Gwynant runs;
it is surrounded by lofty mountains of a deeper tint than is usually seen
upon the Welsh hills.  A beautifully situated cottage here at the far end
of the lake, belonging to Mr. Sampson, nestles among the protecting
woods, and forms a delightful object.  The river which feeds the lake,
winds through the verdant and undulating grounds which form a miniature
park, between the cottage and the lake.  Following up the course of the
stream, I left Llynn Dinas behind me, and proceeded by a gradual ascent
through the most delightful scenery I ever beheld, until I caught
glimpses through the plantations of



LLYNN GWYNANT,


and after a while beheld it stretching beneath me upon my left hand.  The
valley forms a bowl among the hills.  The bottom is a small grassy plain,
dotted with trees, which has obtained the appellation of Beauty sleeping
in the lap of Terror.  The mountains that surround the vale, have a wild
and rugged appearance.  As I proceeded along the road towards the head of
the valley, a horn was sounded from the mountain, and I perceived a Welsh
girl standing upon a projecting eminence: bare headed and bare footed,
was this nymph of Cambria; her cheeks were swelled out with her
occupation, and she looked like a female _Boreas_, bursting with the wind
she was sending forth by degrees to alarm the _world_.

She eyed me with glances of curiosity all the while, and I thought she
could perhaps give me some information about the valley, which might be
interesting; so quitting the direct road, I scrambled up the hill side,
and asked her the meaning of her sounding the horn so loudly?  But she
either did not, or would not, understand me; and after vainly
endeavouring to extract any thing from her, I quietly sat myself down,
delighted by the splendid view beneath me, and gave vent to my feelings
in the following lines:



LLYNN GWYNANT.


    Llynn Gwynant, Llynn Gwynant! how bless’d should I be,
    When the winter of life crowns my temples with snow,
    To rest on thy margin, with her who loves me,
    And children whose love gathers strength as they grow.

    There are mountains whose peaks rise more lofty by far,
    And valleys more spacious and fertile to view,
    But of all the high hills and green glens that there are,
    Llynn Gwynant give me, with its waters of blue.

    Lynn Gwynant, Lynn Gwynant! I bid thee farewell,
    Where peace in the beauty of solitude glows,
    Again in the cold hearted city to dwell,
    And pine for the calm of thy blissful repose.

    Farewell to the lake with the surface of glass,
    Brown heath and blue mountains—abode of the free!
    This heart, like the flood from the high _Ffynnon Las_, {250}
    Will leap from its gloom to find rapture in thee.

Having nearly reached the extremity of this valley, I gazed, from my
elevated situation, upon the dark and perpendicular rocks on the opposite
side; and towering in the air immediately over the centre of the valley
was an eagle with expanded wings, apparently motionless.  Presently it
rose a little higher, but without the slightest visible exertion, then
stooped again, mounted once more, and, as fast as the eye could follow,
swept round the huge buttresses of sharp ridged cliffs, that hang over
the entrance of the pass of Llanberis.

As Llynn Gwynant is gradually shut out from the lingering gaze of the
traveller, (who it may be said during the whole of the ascent, should
turn his eyes behind him), and he at length looks forward in the
direction of Llanberris, a new scene of grandeur bursts upon him.  He has
left beauty behind in its loveliest form;—but the sublime and wonderful
now call forth all the springs of admiration.

            [Picture: Snowdon, from the Pass of Llyn Gwynant]

Snowdon again appears in all his splendor!  Mountains that by comparison
looked like hillocks rise round his regal waist, in groups numerous and
picturesque.  The deep black crags that form the western side of the
valley make a magnificent fore-ground, and open here like nature’s gates,
to disclose the secrets of her bosom.

The accompanying etching, gives an admirable idea of this imposing scene.
About a mile from hence is a place called Gwrydd, where there is a small
public house, with a sign signifying nothing.  Here I resolved to “rough
it” for a day, intending to fish the lakes, situated immediately above
this spot, as nature’s cisterns to water the pleasant valleys.

The public house possesses a small parlour, carpetted, with half a dozen
hair-bottomed chairs, and a mahogany table.  A silent but most
importunate monitor urged me to discover what food this mountain chalet
could produce.  “Eggs and bacon,” was the expected reply to my question;
and I soon had the pleasure of seeing this humble, but most grateful,
fare placed before me, and in spite of the indifferent style of the
cooking, I partook of it eagerly, having that incomparable sauce “a good
appetite.”

After I had repaired my broken rod, I ascended the mountain at the back
of the house, and arrived at a large oval lake, in which the black and
sterile rocks that form inaccessible ramparts on one side are reflected
in its generally unruffled surface.  The scene is wild and desolate, such
as Despair herself would select for her abode.  There are plenty of fish
in this lake, but they are all small and extremely shy.  I remained upon
its margin until the shadows of night gave me warning to attend to my
safety, and make the best of my way to my lodging, where I speedily
ascended by a ladder-like staircase to a kind of cock-loft which was
divided into two compartments, one for the accommodation of the family,
man, wife, children and servants, the other fitted up for travellers.
Sleep soon overtook me, and I should have continued to sleep, I have no
doubt, until breakfast time, had I not been awakened by a trifling
accident.

    “At the mid hour of night, when stars were weeping,”

and ghosts of the mighty walk upon the hills, with a variety of other
interesting objects that poets and nursery maids have described
infinitely better than I can pretend to do, I was visited by a dream in
which the ghost of a lobster popped his head out of a salad bowl, and
demanded upon what authority I had presumed to make mince-meat of his
body, when a loud crash roused me from my slumber, and I found myself
with my knees, doubled up to my chin upon the floor; the bedstead having
broken in the middle, and deposited me in this unenviable position.  I
need not say that for the remaining part of the night, I was wholly left
to waking reveries, and uncontrollable desires for the blessings of
daylight, which at last greeted my longing eyes, and hurrying on my
clothes, I descended and walked forth to scent the morning air, in the
direction of Llanberris.  The mists rolled like troubled lakes in the
valleys, and the black bleak rocks looked cheerless and forbidding.  The
breeze was keen and piercing, and I started at a round pace to get myself
warm by exercise.  Having reached the summit of the roadway, I plunged at
once into the pass of Llanberis, wild and gloomy.  The precipices on my
left looked truly terrible, like the shadow of death wrapped in a vapoury
shroud.  This pass is above four miles in length, and is a fine specimen
of rugged grandeur.  Not a single tree enlivens with its verdure this
tremendous chasm.  Range above range of rocks tower over the traveller
upon either side, bearing various tints of black, brown, green and
purple, according to the disposition of the sun’s rays, and the distances
of the ponderous masses.  The rocks on both sides are nearly
perpendicular; and, about two miles down the pass, the tourist will
perceive some prodigious masses of rock upon his right hand that have
fallen from the overhanging cliffs, which, when he pauses to look upon,
will strike a feeling of terror into his heart, as he inwardly exclaims,
“could any one have witnessed the descent of this tremendous mass?”  The
accompanying sketch gives a most accurate description.

                       [Picture: Pass of Llanberis]

I stood contemplating this scene, and suddenly a wild shout roused me
from my reverie.

“Halloo, halloo! over—over—over!”

I turned my eyes up the mountain to my left, and there saw a shepherd,
forming a speaking trumpet with his hands, and shouting to a dog (of what
kind heaven knows, but in my opinion a thorough bred mongrel), and the
fleet animal was dashing down the hill in the direction to where I stood.
In an instant, he had passed me.  It was a perfect nondescript! a thing
that looked like the offspring of a French poodle and a Welsh goat; such
a mass of hair, rags and wool, I never before beheld.  I sat watching his
progress, which was exceedingly rapid, and as I marked him, as he
scrambled up the opposite craggs, I could not help admiring the instinct
(or training) of the wretched looking animal.  Sheep after sheep did it
pursue, and drive down into the hollow from which they had strayed—some
of them leading him a chase (of no enviable description) nearly to the
summit of the barren mountain; but, with untired feet and unceasing bark,
he tracked and outstripped them all, and, in conclusion, forced them into
the bounds allotted for them at the bottom of the vale, where a scanty
supply of grass served for them to browse upon.  This duty done, the
faithful animal left them, and again crossing the valley, rushed by me
and rejoined his master.

I was about to pursue my journey, when I perceived a man fishing in the
stream beneath.  I descended to learn what sport he had met with, and
found he had not been fortunate.  I asked him if he remembered the time,
when the huge rock, I have before noticed, fell from the brow of the
precipice?

“It would be hard for me to do that, sir,” said the fisherman, who laying
his rod upon the ground, seemed desirous of saying something more upon
the subject.

“Is there any legend about it?” I inquired.

“Indeed, sir, there is,” replied he; “and, if you’ll only stop till I put
up my tackle, as I suppose you’re going to Llanberis, I’ll tell you as
much as I know about the matter.”

I remarked, as he spoke, an expression of countenance that told me he
thought tale telling might prove more profitable than trout fishing; but
I readily agreed to his proposition, and in a few minutes we were
trudging, side by side, along the road towards the village.

I dare say, sir, you havn’t come so far, without seeing _Cader Idris_, or
the _Chair of Idris_, as it is called, for Idris _Gawr_ you must know,
sir, was a famous giant of his day, but whether you have or not, he had a
brother, sir, as I’ve been told, _Dyn Ddu o’r’ Craig_, which means the
black man of the craig, who had a very fine castle upon the top of that
precipice, at the foot of which you noticed those large pieces of rock.
Well, sir, he never loved his brother, but he had a great liking for his
niece; one of the prettiest girls, ’twas thought, ever seen in this part
of the country; but she was to be married to a fine young hero, one of
the knights of King Arthur’s round table, who had done wonders for her
sake, and made all the world confess _Merch Idris_ was the most beautiful
creature in the world.

Well, sir, she was mortally afraid of her uncle, for he had a head as big
as the top of Snowdon, and a forest of whiskers, and a beard that a man
might take a day’s shooting in, without tearing his coat with the
branches; so that he never could be conquered, having so much game in
him, ha! ha! ha!—You’ll excuse me, sir, but what a comfortable thing it
must be for a man to catch birds enough in his whiskers, to serve him for
dinner!—Well, sir, it happened that Merch Idris was benighted between
Capel Curig and her father’s castle, and, as she had only one attendant,
and he was a poor weak coward, you may easily suppose she was for getting
home as fast as possible; but a storm came on, and the night closed round
them, and by some means or other they lost their way; for you know, sir,
at that time there were no turnpike roads, as there are now, and they
wandered about upon their merlins until nightfall, without knowing what
part of the world they were in; when all of a sudden, the servant’s
beast, who went first, sank into a bog, up to his neck; and his rider
began to roar for help so loudly, that the lady’s animal took fright, set
off at full speed, and never stopped until they came to the gates of a
large castle.  The night was so dark, she couldn’t make out whether she
had ever seen it before or not; however, she thought it would be better
to blow the horn at the gate, and ask for shelter, than wander about the
mountains all night, at the risk of breaking her neck, or being smothered
in a quagmire.  So she blew a blast (for at that time o’ day every great
lady played upon some instrument or other, and this young lady surpassed
all others upon the horn) so loud, that presently a warden called out
from the top of a tower.  “Who’s there?”  Well, she mustered up courage
enough to say, she was “A lady in great distress.”

“Oho!” says the warden, and off he set.  Now the young lady scarcely knew
how to take the salutation of the warden, whether it was meant friendly
or otherwise.  She had not pondered long upon those mysterious sounds,
when the portcullis was raised, and the first living thing she saw was
her tremendous uncle Dyn Ddu o’r’ Craig! with a hundred torches behind
him, ready to welcome her into his castle.  You may be sure she was not
much pleased at his presence, and regretted that she had not held out
till the morning.  But she had gone too far, and so she went in, and the
iron grating was closed again, with a sound that struck terror into her
pretty heart.  Now it so happened that Sir Tristram (that was the name of
her lover) was staying with her father, Idris Gawr; and they were both of
them puzzled what to think when Merch Idris didn’t reach home at the time
they expected her.  So the knight mounted his charger and gallopped off
one way, and Idris took up his club and walked off the other, to search
for her.  All this time, the villain of an uncle was trying to wheedle
the fair maid, his niece, to marry him; and, when he found her deaf to
his monstrous wishes, he flew into a mighty passion, and dragged her to
the top of the precipice, by the hair of her head, and swore, in a most
unchristian manner, that he would pitch her over, if she didn’t consent.

But just as he was about to put his threat into execution, he heard a
horse at full gallop behind him; so he turned round just time enough to
avoid the slashing sword of Sir Tristram, who made a determined cut at
his head, that would have taken it clean off, if he hadn’t have ducked.
Well, he was fain to let go the lady to save himself from the fury of the
knight, although he didn’t think much of him.  But he pulled up a tree,
and he made a mighty blow at him, which the knight, by the blessing of
providence, escaped; but the horse wasn’t so fortunate, for it fell upon
the poor creature’s head, and smashed it to atoms.  Well, the knight
began to think the giant “too much of a horse” for him; and so he blew
three notes upon his bugle, which was the appointed signal between him
and Idris, and no sooner had he done so, than it was answered.

“And now,” said Sir Tristram, “my fine fellow, you’ll have your match in
a minute; and sure enough, as he spoke, Dyn Ddu o’r’ Craig saw his
brother running at the rate of half a mile a stride.  Well, he was
greatly perplexed what to do; but he thought he had better get into the
castle.  So, he took Merch Idris under his left arm, and kept the knight
off with the roots of the tree.  However, he couldn’t reach the gates in
time.

“And now,” says Idris to his brother, “you ruffian,” says he, “what are
you going to do with my daughter?  Put her down, or I’ll smash you, as I
do this tower!” and with that he hit a turret of the castle, and it flew
about in all directions.  “Why then,” says the other, “I think I can do
as great a feat as that.”  So he knocked the other turret on the head,
and drove it clean down into the earth, so that not a brick of it was
seen above ground!  Well, with that the two giants began to bang each
other with their cudgels, till they were black and blue, while Sir
Tristram and the lady ran off to Cader Idris, as fast as they could, to
get out of harm’s way.

Idris was the stronger giant of the two, and after three hours’ hard
fighting, you wouldn’t have known them for human beings; but Idris having
got Dyn with his back to the precipice, (where he threatened to throw the
poor young lady over) hit him, with all his force, such a blow on the
nose as made him stagger back and roll right over the edge of the craig.
Well, he rolled and he rolled, till he got to the place where you were
standing, and then he stopped; but he was quite dead.  Then the famous
Idris, seeing his brother lie like a huge bundle of rags, without motion,
by the side of the stream, tore off a large piece from the top of the
mountain, and throwing it with great force, it lit full upon the giant as
he lay, while his conqueror roared out, in a voice that was heard at
Carnaervon,—“Good rest to you, brother Dyn! there’s a nightcap for you!”

And ever since, that piece of rock has been called “the Giant’s
Nightcap.”

                                * * * * *

We soon obtained a view of the lakes that spread themselves before
us—viz.: Lyn Peris and Lyn Padarn, with the romantic castle of Dolbadarn
upon its rocky promontory.  On issuing from a pass on our left, as my
companion informed me, is a valuable copper mine, and a stream of water
conveyed over the road, by the aid of a wooden conduit, into the lake,
which stream, he said, was for the use of the mine.

At length, I reached the inn, called Victoria, and satisfying my
companion with a gratuity which was more profitable than fishing, I
entered and ordered breakfast, and procured an admittance to the castle
of Dolbadarn.  This ancient fortress is supposed to have been built by
one Padarn Beisrydd ap Idwal, for the purpose of guarding the mountain
pass which I had just quitted.  A single round tower is all that remains
of the castle, although traces are left of a much more extensive
building.  Here Owen Goch was imprisoned twenty years by his brother
Llewellyn, the last Prince of Wales of the British line; and an ode is
still extant, written by Howel-Voel, wherein his captivity is
affectionately lamented.

The view from the castle is truly sublime, comprising the two lakes, and
the tremendous range of mountains, that seem to admit no outlet from the
vale.  But the most beautiful prospect is from the lake in front of the
promontory on which the castle stands, and is reflected in the smooth
waters beneath, while the majestic Snowdon towers in the distance.

In the twelfth century, it is said there lived a celebrated beauty, whose
father was the lord of this castle, and of whom something like the
following legend is related:



LEGEND OF DOLBADARN.


Margaret of Dolbadarn was one of the fairest damsels of whom Cambria ever
boasted at court or tourney;—fair without vanity, highborn without
ostentation, she exhibited the simplicity of nobility.

Like others of her rank, she had many knights who owned her power, and
panted to put lance in rest for the peerless Margaret; but in the number
there was but one whom her eye followed through the glittering throng,
and whose approach made her heart beat, and the mounting blood turn the
delicate pink upon her cheek to crimson; and William of Montgomery was
the happy knight.

But her father had other views, and Hector of March-lyn-Mawr was proposed
by him to be her husband—a youth of noble presence, but ignoble mind.
His lands extended far and near, and skirted those of the Lord of
Dolbadarn, who was, from that circumstance, doubly anxious to have the
union consummated.

He was, however, a tender guardian; he loved his daughter, and was by her
loved tenderly in return.  Both knights had free access to Margaret, and
both were anxious to deserve her favour.  William was young, valiant,
handsome, and honest; Hector was bold, gloomy, uncourtly and subtle.  The
Baron saw the decided preference his daughter gave to William of
Montgomery, and grieved in his heart that it was not bestowed upon his
more wealthy rival.  He therefore resolved to put a proposal to his
daughter, which was, that at the ensuing tournament to be given at his
castle, the knights should prove their skill upon each other, and that he
who was proclaimed the most accomplished master of his weapons, should
receive her hand as the reward.  For, though he was desirous of an
alliance with the wealthy and powerful house of March Lyn Mawr, he was by
no means insensible to the merits of Montgomery, whose name stood high in
the lists of chivalry, and whose engaging manners won friends for him
wherever he appeared.  With a heavy heart did Margaret submit to the
proposal of her father, although a feeling of confidence within her bosom
told her the object of her attachment would prove the victor.  Far
different emotions agitated the hearts of the rivals, when they were
informed of the Baron’s determination.  William of Montgomery flung
himself upon his knees before the old man, exclaiming with enthusiasm,

“By bath, and bed, and white chemise, {266} I will for ever be a true
knight to thee for this especial favour, my good Lord of Dolbadarn!  My
lance and blade are yours at command, and,” turning to his rival,
“Hector, if I bear thee not over thy charger’s croup, why say my heart
and hand shook with fear in the encounter.—But, if thou gainest the
field, I’ll give thee a grey palfrey for thy bride, to bear her to the
church yonder, by thy side.”

“Agreed,” said Hector; “and noble Lord of Dolbadarn, if heaven desert me
not in the hour of trial, I doubt not my success in winning thy daughter
for my bride.  Yet, should I fail, I promise thee, William of Montgomery,
to give thee a steed, fleeter than any in thy stables, to bear the Lady
Margaret as thy bride to church, nor will I bear thee any ill will
shouldst thou prove conqueror, but drink a health to thee and thine, with
a kind heart and true.”

At this time, there dwelt an old woman in the pass of Llanberis who was
dreaded by all the country people, for she was accounted a witch; and on
the night of that same day the storm raged furiously, and the tall trees
were cracking in the forest, when a horseman was seen galloping up the
pass.  He stopped at the witch’s hut, and knocking loudly, he cried, “Ho!
mother witch! open the door! for thy devil’s counsel is needed.”

The door was then opened, and the knight fastened his coal-black steed,
dripping with rain and sweat, to a withered ash, and strode into the
cabin.  The fire reflected in his suit of steel made him appear a knight
of flame; and, as he stamped his armed heels upon the floor, his armour
rang with a muffled sound, like the death bell which tolls for the great,
who die in the odour of sanctity: and the old hag laughed; her spirit was
glad—for she knew that a deed of damning crime was shortly to be
committed!

He sat him down upon the three-legged stool, and said, “Dame, I am ill at
ease; for I love a maid whose heart I cannot win.  Attend to me;—the
gallant and high-minded Montgomery I must encounter for her in the lists;
and, should he conquer, he will bear away the prize I am burning to
possess; but, if the chance be mine, her own consent waits on her
father’s choice, whose wishes are for me.  Doubts on the issue urge me to
seek thy aid.  May my saint desert me if I would not rather shake hands
with the foul fiend himself, than give a palfrey for my Margaret to ride
to church upon, with any but myself.”

The witch laughed aloud, till he jumped from the stool, to see her old
sides shake.  “Hector of March Lyn Mawr,” quoth she, “fear not that
Margaret of Dolbadarn will ever become the bride of Montgomery; for
shouldst thou be overcome in the lists, (and my power will not assist
thee in the joust) call aloud ‘Hell kite! hell kite!’ and presently shall
a gallant palfrey come and raise thee from the ground, which being done,
present it to thy foe, and thou shalt see the issue.”  He thanked her,
dropped his purse upon the floor, mounted his steed, and vanished down
the pass.

There was a great assemblage of people at the castle of Dolbadarn, to
witness the jousting; and knights from all quarters arrived, to break a
lance with merry England’s best, for glory and lady love.

The tilting ground was enclosed by galleries erected for the ladies and
nobles who wished to be spectators of the games.  Upon the plain, at the
end of the vale, fifty shields were hung up by the knights who wished to
signalize themselves.  Three score of coursers, with a squire of honour,
first entered the lists; then followed as many knights in jousting
harness, led in silver chains, by the same number of ladies, richly clad,
to the sound of clarions, and trumpets, and minstrelsy.  When the ladies
ascended the galleries, the squires dismounted, and the knights vaulted
gaily into their saddles.  The scaffoldings were hung with tapestry, and
embroideries of gold and silver; and the scene was animated and costly in
the extreme.  Joy lighted up the eyes of all, save those of Margaret and
her two lovers.  She sat a lily among roses, pale and dejected.
Sometimes, indeed, she lifted her dark eyes, and her snowy neck took for
a moment the carnation’s hue when she beheld the form of Montgomery,
which yet faded as quickly as it came, and the Parian marble was left
pure as before.

Sir William walked, with a bold and lofty mien, along the line of
shields, glancing at them with indifference, until he stopped before that
which bore the arms of Hector, and then a smile of scorn played upon his
lips, and he passed on.  Hector marked that smile, and his cheeks flushed
with anger.  Great skill was displayed by youthful knights decked in
ladies’ favours.  But, when the time arrived for the trial between Sir
William of Montgomery and Hector of March Lyn Mawr, a hum of unusual
interest arose among the gallant and beauteous auditory.  From the
opposed lists they passed each other, to determine the length of the
course, with visors up.  Sir William smiled gaily, but Hector wore a sad
and mournful look, as though he feared or doubted the event of the trial.

This ceremony of preparation being over, each took his post assigned,
awaiting the signal for the charge.  The Lady Margaret was pale as death,
but none around her noticed it, they being all intent upon the two
knights, who wore no outward favours, though one possessed an amulet
which he had placed near his heart, beneath his vest.  It was a white
rose, which the fair Margaret had taken from her bosom, and given him an
hour before in secret.

The nominal prize for the victor was a jewelled sword, but the prize on
which their hearts were set was a gem transcendant—the all-surpassing
Margaret!

And now the heralds sounded the charge, and the combatants met in mid
career.  The lance of Hector was shivered upon the breast of Montgomery;
but Sir William’s struck full upon the visor of Hector, which made him
bend his plume backwards.  In the second course, Hector struck the
coronal of Sir William’s helmet a skilful stroke.  Margaret fainted, and
the ladies about her were busy in applying restoratives; but none
attempted to remove her, being too much interested in the event of the
joust.  Montgomery cast a look of fire up to the spot, and then re-closed
his visor for the third course.  His opponent was resolved to make it a
decisive one.  Striking their spurs into their chargers’ sides, like
arrows shot from opposing bows, they flew along.  Then was a clash, a
glittering flash! and the prize was won—for Hector of March Lyn Mawr lay,
stunned and motionless, upon the ground, borne from his saddle by the
lance of the victorious Sir William of Montgomery!

Margaret, being restored to her senses, wept tears of joy, and spoke most
sweet words, when her lover riding beneath the platform, demanded from
her hand the honourable prize.

But a wonder now appeared, which turned all eyes to the spot where Hector
lay o’erthrown; for a milk-white palfrey, of the most exquisite form, had
galloped into the lists, and drawn him from beneath his charger, which
had fallen with him in the violent concussion.  His helmet being loosed,
he soon partially recovered, and seeing the beautiful animal frisking and
curvetting, as though overjoyed at his escape, he led it by the mane to
his rival, saying,

“William of Montgomery, I give to thee this palfrey.  Present it to thy
bride, to whom I now resign all claim, and only request that she will,
for my sake, let my favourite bear her to the church, where your union is
to be celebrated.”

It was a lovely thing to look upon, and the maiden promised to use no
other on that happy day.

The church of Llanberis was, at this time, about a mile from the castle
of Dolbadarn, and the road, upon the bridal morning, resembled a mosaic
pavement, when viewed from the mountain, it was so thickly studded with
the fantastic dresses of the company, spectators, and gay flags and
streamers waving in the air.  The minstrels struck up their boldest notes
of war, or delighted the ears and hearts of the female holiday makers
with the soft songs of love.  All was mirth, feasting, and jollity, while
the air rung with the combined names of Margaret of Dolbadarn and William
of Montgomery.

At length, the bridal procession issued forth from the castle gateway;
the heralds led, the minstrels followed.  Then came comely maidens with
baskets of flowers, which they strewed around them, as they passed along.
A body of armed knights followed and after them their esquires.  Then
appeared a troop of dancing girls, adorned with flowers, and clad in
purest white; and a second band of minstrels struck their harps before
the bridegroom and the happy bride, who rode gaily, side by side.  She
was dressed in rich attire; jewels glittered upon her robes and in her
hair; and she rode upon the beautiful steed presented by March Lyn Mawr.
The palfrey seemed proud of its lovely burthen, and gentle as the
unwearied lamb.  The bridegroom was clad in a light tunic and hose, and
peaked boots; a many-coloured plume fluttered in his bonnet, and many
sweet words did he whisper in Margaret’s ear.  As the assembled multitude
shouted their gratulations, he bent even to his saddle bow, to thank them
for their courtesy.  Young Hector rode upon her left, and he laughed,
too, and he bowed low; but in his laugh there was a fiendish sound, and
in his bow a scorn.  Then followed the Lord of Dolbadarn, his long white
locks waving in the summer breeze, surrounded by his relatives and
friends.  A troop of squires and pages followed, while all the retainers
of his noble house brought up the rear.

The bride and bridegroom passed along, and thousands cheered them on
their way, with shouts and praises.  The sun shone brightly above their
heads, and joy was in their hearts.  On they went, until a turning in the
road brought them at once in sight of the church; but here the palfrey
grew restive, and Sir William seized the bridle, thinking to control him.
This answered but for a short distance; for they had no sooner reached
the gate, over which was carved a cross, than, even while the groom held
the stirrup for her to alight, away, away, away flew the palfrey, like a
falcon, down the wind.  The Lady Margaret was a good horsewoman, but she
could not control the enchanted steed.  She, however, kept her seat well,
and hoped the unruly animal would soon relax his speed.

A hundred horsemen galloped after her, the bridegroom taking the lead,
who, being mounted on the swiftest horse, soon left the rest behind,
although unable yet to overtake the bride.  The palfrey first dashed
forward in the direction of Carnaervon, but suddenly turned off to the
right, and galloped up the mountain.  Hundreds of the peasantry were
trampled under foot by the horses of the pursuers; some bruised, some
crippled, and some killed, while the old Lord of Dolbadarn wrung his
withered hands, and tore his grey locks, in frantic agony.  He accused
Hector as the author of all this misery, and vented his curses upon him,
which the infuriated mob hearing, they seized upon the astonished knight,
and almost in an instant tossed him upon their spikes into the air.  He
fell to the ground again, but not to rise; his plume, besmeared with
blood, was scattered in every direction; his body, pierced with twenty
wounds, spouted forth blood in fountains; blows fell upon his harness
thick as hail; while a ferocious smith, with one stroke of an axe,
severed the head from the body, and placing it upon a pike, bore the
dripping trophy of vengeance above the applauding and infuriated wretches
who had suffered in the tumult.

Those who could govern their horses flew over the broken country in
pursuit, while fleeter than a startled hind, the palfrey dashed along—at
times abating his swift flight, to give the laggards hope, who furiously
spurred their chargers forward

    After the knight,
    And lady bright.

But away, away flew the enchanted steed over moss and moor, o’er hill and
dale, through ford and forest; while of those who followed up the chase
some were smothered, horse and rider, in the deep morass; some broke
their necks in attempting to leap stone walls; some dangled from the
boughs in woody dell, or perished in the river, dashed by the torrent
against broken rocks; and they cursed, and died as they cursed.

But Sir William of Montgomery pricked on his horse all foaming, and, as
the strength of the noble animal began to fail, he cried aloud upon his
patron saint to aid him.  It was a charm of power, for it was a holy one;
and the creature shook the foam from his mouth, and with recovered
strength, dashed on in the pursuit.  That charm, too, struck upon the
heart of the palfrey, which began to fail him, and he tried in vain to
keep the speed he had hitherto maintained.  But the impetuous knight,
seeing that he gained upon his lady love, furiously urged on his charger,
and with desperate rashness, burying his rowels in his side,
exclaimed—“Hell kite, speed on!”—the very words the witch had given as a
charm to Hector, and the name of the palfrey.

No sooner was it pronounced, than his speed returned, and away, away the
enchanted steed rushed on, as swiftly as before!  The lady was, by this
time, nearly senseless; her eyes were dimmed from the effect of the air,
as she cut through it; and her heart trembled within her, like a
fluttering dove.  She cast an imploring look behind upon her lover, and
raised one snowy arm beseechingly.  He saw the action, and fancied he
heard her voice, faintly calling upon him for aid.  But it was to Him who
governs all, she prayed; and again the wild horse felt the sacred power.
But he had nearly reached the goal.  With voice and spur the gallant
knight pressed on up the rising ground, the summit of which, unknown to
Margaret, or the knight, looked over the broad ocean;—it was the terrific
Penman Maur.

Nearer and nearer did the knight approach; his charger’s foam was on the
palfrey’s flanks.  Another bound, and he was at the side of
Margaret—another, and there was one loud wild scream that startled the
eagles from their nests.  Montgomery had clasped his lady round her
waist, and borne her to his saddle bow.  It was the movement of an
instant—but, in that instant, steeds, knight, and lady plunged from the
precipice’s edge!  The first fall of fifty feet crushed the palfrey and
war-horse; and the foul spirit, quitting the enchanted steed, like a dark
cormorant hovered over the group.

The knight still clasped the maiden in his arms, whose shrieks were
answered by the eagles’ screams; and the lovers were dashed from rock to
rock, battered and bloody.  The maiden fainted; but Sir William held her
with the tenacious grasp of despair, with one arm to his breast, and with
his right hand seized a dwarfish thorn—the only one that grew out of the
rifted rock!  But still there was no resting place for feet to stand
upon, while the broken fragments of the cliff, disturbed by the weight of
the fall, thundered downwards from above, and around them in every
direction.  One large mass struck the unhappy knight; the fragile thorn
gave way, and the next moment beheld the loving pair, mutilated
carcasses, floating upon the reckless waves!  The eagles gorged upon
their flesh, and not a vestige of the lost ones was left.  A white scarf
which Margaret wore, and which streamed, like the banner of death, from
the blasted thorn, alone remained to tell the fate of Sir William of
Montgomery, and his blooming bride!




CHAPTER X.


The church of Llanberis—Monumental inscriptions—Story of little John
Closs—The Pellings—Capel Curig—Moel Siabod—Castle of Dolwyddélan—Falls of
Benclog—Llyn Ogwen—Llyn Idwal—Story of Idwal—Route to Llanrwst—Falls of
Rhaiadr y Wennol—Bettws y Coed—The church—Monuments—Pont y Pair—Ogo ap
Shenkin, a Legend—Glee, “Shenkin was a noble fellow!”

    “Of a noble race was Shenkin!
             Thrum, thrum, thrum,
    Of the line of Owen Tudor,
             Thrum, thrum, thrum,
    But her renown was fled and gone,
             Thrum, thrum, thrum,
    But her renown was fled and gone,
    Since cruel love pursued her!”

                                                              JOHN DRYDEN.

RETURNING to the Victoria, I partook of the refreshments provided, and
then retracing my steps, I visited the little rustic church of Llanberis,
which, for its simplicity, is well worthy of attention.  Upon entering
the doorway, there is a small stone font placed upon a pedestal which is
approached by three stone steps: it resembles a small washing tub, and
its cover is much like a copper-lid.  Advancing into the interior, the
music loft is upon the left, under which is a dilapidated screen,
opposite to the font.  A doorway in the centre of the screen leads into
the body of the church, where ancient oaken benches are ranged upon
either side, and the pulpit and communion table are immediately in front.
The old arched roof is held together by iron pins, which project on each
side of the timbers, and the whole interior is whitewashed.  The only pew
in the church adjoins the communion table, both of which have suffered
materially by the worm and time.  The few monuments in this simple
structure are upon small slate slabs, about the size of a school-boy’s,
and are hung up on the wooden beams.  There are two of wood, with letters
cut deeply into the small square, thus:

                                     Ina
                             Tan! hun!  Ofe! mae
                               Gorwedd!  Corph
                               ROE! ei oed! 60
                             Y Dudd!  Y Cladd wud
                              E brill! 10! 1719.

The other, immediately facing the pulpit, is a black piece of board,
ornamented with an undertaker’s tablet of gilt copper, in the centre of
which, upon black japan, is—

                                Thos. Williams
                                 Died Oct. 25
                                    1836.
                                   Aged 74.

On leaving the church, there is a monumental slate slab on the left of
the path, bearing the following inscription and verses:

                                  Underneath
                              Lieth the remains
                             Of John, the son of
                            Robert Closs, who was
                             Interred Decr. 1st.
                             1805, aged 7 years.

    Ar ben mynydd dydd-y-daith oî hoywder
             A che dodd y maith
       Gadewais (gwelais goeg waith)
       Drueni’r Byd ar unwaith.
    O erfel fu uchel a chos, i augau
    Llyn ingol i’mddangos
    Mantell niwl mewn lywyll nos
    A dychrymad dechreunos.

Upon returning to my inn at Gwrydd, I discovered that the landlady was
sister to little John Closs; and from her I learnt the story of his
melancholy fate.  It is as follows:

John was a pretty boy, about seven years of age, with fair hair and blue
eyes, of a sweet-temper, adored by his parents, and loving them most
affectionately in return.  Indeed, little John Closs was the talk of the
parish, and held up as a pattern of filial love and reverence to all the
children in the village.  His uncle had a small farm at Nant Bettwys; and
John’s father having sent him to reside there, for a few months, the fond
mother would often cross the mountain to see her son and her sister,
returning home in the evening of the same day.  Little John got tired of
living away from home, and one night, after his mother had quitted the
cottage to return to Llanberis, he wept so bitterly, and prayed so
earnestly to be permitted to follow her home, that the good people at
Bettwys permitted him to try and overtake her, which they considered he
might easily do, as she had not left the house ten minutes before he
started.

The mother reached Llanberis in safety; but the poor boy lost his way in
a snow storm on Moel Einion, and was not heard of for more than a week
afterwards; when, one day, a man crossing the mountain, found the child
stretched on the ground in a slumbering position, his face towards the
earth, buried in his hands, and quite dead.

On the evening when he lost his way, a shepherd, by the name of John
Davis, said he had heard cries, like those of a child, upon the mountain,
which in his ignorance he believed to be the voice of a fairy; and,
terrified at the idea of encountering some supernatural being, he took to
his heels in a contrary direction, with all the speed he could make,
while the poor sufferer, cold and dying, vainly exerted himself in
straining his innocent voice for succour.

The inhabitants of this neighbourhood have, from time immemorial, held a
strong belief in fairies; and there are many families now living that are
said to have descended from this race, from their having intermarried, in
the olden time, with their ancestors.  They are called Pellings, from a
fairy who was named Penelope, and who, while dancing, one moonlight
night, upon the shores of a lake called Cwellyn, was surprised and seized
by a young farmer, who, in spite of her screams, bore her to his own
house, called Yestrad, near Bettws, where he treated her with so much
kindness, that she became contented to live with him; and they were
married, upon the condition that he should never strike her with iron;
for if he did, she would vanish, and he would never see her again.  (I
here thought of the tale told me by the old man in the valley of
Drwstynrnt and was struck with the similarity they bore to each other.)
Unfortunately, as the farmer and his wife went out into the field one
day, to catch his horse, he accidentally hit her with the buckle of his
bridle, and she was never seen after.  Her descendants are called
Pellings, as are all who imagine they derive their origin from this
fabulous lady.  Mr. William Williams, in his observations upon the
Snowdon mountains, says—“The best blood in my own veins is this fairy’s.”

This belief, existing so strongly in the breasts of many people in this
district, will account for the pusillanimity of the shepherd who fled
from the cries of poor little John Closs.

The following morning, I proceeded towards Capel Curig, but this road is
very uninteresting.  The tourist is, however, amply gratified, if it
happen to be tolerably clear weather, on his arrival at an ancient stone
bridge which crosses a stream that tumbles over some black rocks on the
right, and winds its way in graceful variety, forming a pleasing spot to
rest upon.  Looking back towards Llanberis, the mountain scenery is very
fine; and I here took my farewell look of Snowdon and Snowdonia.



CAPEL CURIG


Is in the parish of Llandegai.  It derives its name from a man who was
canonized, and founded a chapel in this mountainous region.  He was the
son of Llendden Llenddog, of Edinburgh.  There are here two lakes, and
some tolerable fishing may be had, if you take a boat; but from the banks
it is quite useless to attempt it.  From this spot, excursions may be
made to Llanberis and



MOEL SIABOD,


From the summit of which a magnificent view is obtained of the mountains
of Snowdonia, of nine different lakes, and the sea beyond Carnaervon.
The distance from the inn to the apex of this mountain does not exceed
three miles and a half.



DOLWYDDELAN CASTLE,


Situated about five miles from Capel Curig, and on the eastward side of
Moel Siabod, deserves notice.  It is built upon a lofty rock, which on
one side is inaccessible.  There are two square towers, and a court in
the middle.  It is surrounded by mountains, and must in ancient days have
been a fortress of considerable importance.  It is said, Llewellyn the
great was born in the castle; and this fact is sufficient to interest the
stranger who is capable of appreciating and feeling reverence for a hero,
who so long struggled with unwearied assiduity and unconquerable bravery,
for his native land, and who fought and died in the sacred cause of
liberty.

                                * * * * *

Within four miles of Capel Curig is an oval lake, of about three miles in
circumference, called _Llyn Ogwen_, which must by no means be overlooked.
The scenery around is delightful, and the waters are well stored with
excellent trout of fine flavour, and surpassing all others in that
respect, in the Carnaervonshire lakes.

At the western end of this lake, are the falls of _Benglog_, (being three
in number and upwards of one hundred feet in height) from whence the
waters take their course through Beavers’ Hollow, a wild and romantic
glen, rocky and barren.

Powel, in his History of North Wales, says, “In Tevi, above all the
rivers in Wales, were, in Giraldus’s time, a great number of castels,
which may be Englished beavers, and are called in Welsh avane, which name
onlie remaineth in Wales at this daie, but what it is, very few can tell.
It is a beast not much unlike an otter, but that it is bigger, all hearie
saving the taile, which is like a fishe taile as broad as a man’s hand.
This beast useth as well the water as the land; and hath a voice, sharp
teeth, and biteth cruellie till he perceives the bones cracke * * * * He
that will learn what strong nests they make, which Giraldus calleth
castells, which they build upon the face of the water with great bowes,
which they cut with their teeth, and how some lie upon their backs
holding the wood with their fore feet, which the other draweth with a
crosse stick, the which he holdeth in his mouth, to the water’s side, and
other particularities of their natures, let him read Giraldus in his
Topographie of Wales.”

In this stream are found the fresh water muscle, which the country people
call _cregyn deluw_, i.e. _shells of the deluge_, supposed to have been
brought into it by Noah’s flood.

On the left of the lake are the _Crags of Trifaen_; huge shattered
ridges, which overhang the pool and keep it in continual shadow, while
the sides of Braich-ddu slope gradually to the lake’s margin.  The
Francôn mountains, in the distance, are astonishingly grand, and
altogether this lake scene may be considered the finest in
Caernarvonshire.

A gentleman in the winter of 1831, was driving along the road which
skirts the borders of the lake, when upwards of a thousand tons of rock
fell from the heights of Benclog, a little below the falls into Nant
Francôn, a short time after he had passed them, and he beheld one portion
roll into the valley and river, while the other rested upon the road he
had just travelled, rendering it impossible for any carriage to proceed
by that route, until the obstruction was removed.

A mile distant from Llyn Ogwen is another lake, well worthy of being
visited, which lies in a deep hollow of the Glyder mountains called



LLYN IDWAL,


where the gloomy horror of the scenery is most appalling; particularly
the terrific chasm of _Twll Ddu_, or the Black Cleft.  This spot derived
its name from the following crime, which was perpetrated here.

Prince Owain Gwynedd, who reigned in the twelfth century, had a favourite
called _Nefydd Hardd_, to whose care he intrusted his son _Idwal_, and
who betraying his trust, commanded his son _Dunawt_ to destroy the young
prince, a crime which he too faithfully obeyed, perpetrating the cruel
deed at this place.  But, being discovered, Nefydd, and his posterity,
were degraded from the rank of nobles to bondsmen, and Rhun, the son of
Dunawt, who again became possessed of the property of his ancestors,
granted the ground upon which the church of Llanrwst now stands, as an
expiatory gift for the foul crime imputed to his father.  The grave of
Idwal is still pointed out by the inhabitants, close to the lake.

The scenery around is well calculated to inspire fear in the timid, as
being adapted to the committal of atrocity of any kind.  Bleak, black,
desolate and stern, it thrills the beholder with an indescribable
sensation of terror.

The lake is well stored with fish, of a darker colour than those in the
Ogwen, and of a less delicate flavour.  These lakes are in the parish of
Llan Tegai, so called from its patron saint _Tegai_, the son of _Ithol
Hael_, a nobleman of Amorica, brother to Credifael and Flewin, who built
Penmynydd and Llanflewin, in Anglesea, about the year 636.  _See Roland’s
Mona Antiqua Rest_. _p._ 189.

After a delightful day’s ramble amongst this wild and sublime scenery, I
returned to the inn at Capel Curig, and on the following morning took the
road to Llanrwst, which in a short time becomes particularly interesting.
The dark and comfortless sterility is exchanged for a delightful valley,
with luxuriant woods, which stretch to the summit of the hills upon
either side; and near the two mile stone is one of the most picturesque
cottages imaginable, placed on the side of a hill above the bridge, which
crosses the river Llugwy, and gives additional beauty to the romantic
dell.  Half a mile beyond is an observatory, which stands upon the
highest point of a towering cliff, a portion of whose summit is clothed
with purple heath, and the remainder presents a face of grey barren rock,
while beneath a forest of rich foliage creeps from its base far up the
craggy sides.

Within a mile of this place are the celebrated waterfalls, called



RHAIADR Y WENNOL,


i.e. the Spout of the Swallow—a cataract of about sixty feet in width.
The river, at the top of the first fall, flows in an unbroken sheet, but
soon becomes dispersed in various streams that dash and struggle through
the impending masses of rock, charming the ear with their complicated
roar.  At the second fall, it rushes in a collected volume into the
boiling vortex, from whence, at the third, it is dispersed in spray.  A
small wicket gate by the road side, leads to a footpath through the
grounds, to the falls, where the visitor cannot fail to find an adequate
reward for his digression.  The old oak trees that overhang the ravine
are beautifully grouped.  On one side, a large rock rises perpendicularly
nearly 500 feet, and the earth is clothed with velvet moss and decked
with wild flowers.  Fancy would picture just such a retreat, for a
wandering sylph! while the rays of light, darting through the greenwoods,
remind us of the flittings of Sir John Wynne’s ghost, which was said to
haunt this glen for many years, but is now laid at rest in the depths of
the lower fall.  Journeying onward, I reached the village of



BETTWS Y COED,


which being translated is the Station in the Wood; and a most delightful
station it is.  The Shrewsbury and Holyhead road run through it, and the
junction of the Llugwy and the Conway rivers is at no great distance.
The church is a venerable structure, and contains an old monument,
erected to the memory of Griffith, the son of David Gôch, who was a
natural son of David, the brother of Llywellyn, the last Prince of Wales.
He died in the fourteenth century, and a stone statue of him is in a
recess on the north side of the church, with this inscription: “Hic jacet
Gruffydd ap Davyd Gôch, agnus Dei misere mei.”

At about a mile from Bettws is an iron bridge of one arch, which carries
the Holyhead road over the river Conway.  Its span is 105 feet, and it is
called the Waterloo Bridge, from its having been erected in the year that
tremendous battle was fought.  But the principal object is,



PONT-Y-PAIR,


the Bridge of the Caldron.  It has four arches, and the natural rock
supplies it with piers, that seem to defy the efforts of time or the fury
of the waters.  Immediately above the bridge is the fall and salmon leap.
The river rolls and plunges into a deep reservoir below.  The grandeur of
the scene during the floods, I was informed, surpasses imagination, and,
unfortunately for me, the heat of the sun had dried them up, when I
visited this celebrated spot.

For this bridge the inhabitants are indebted to one Howell, a mason, who
resided at Penllyn in the year 1468; and, having occasion to attend the
assizes at Conway, he was unexpectedly prevented from passing the Lleder
by the fury of the flood.  That a similar disappointment might not occur
to others, he erected a wooden bridge across that river, and trusted to
the generosity of travellers to remunerate him.  The success of this
attempt encouraged him to erect the bridge at Bettws y Coed, which is now
called Pont y Pair, but he died before it was completed.

Upon the right of this bridge is Carrey y Gwalch, or the Rock of the
Falcon, well clothed with trees, through which the bald cliffs peep, like
a body of sharp shooters from a brush wood, anxious to escape detection.
In this rock is a recess called the cave of Shenkin, a celebrated outlaw,
who found shelter here from the unremitting efforts of justice during the
reign of Edward IV.

The entrance to this spot is blocked up by a large piece of rock, and the
following legend is seriously related by the old women of the
neighbourhood.



OGO AP SHENKIN.


In the reign of our seventh Henry, when the civil wars which desolated
the hearths of rich and poor, ceased to afflict the nation, and peace and
plenty once more spread their smiling influence throughout the land,
there lived near this village a man, called Jordan ap Jordan, a
wood-cutter and goatherd, whose time was occupied between watching his
goats upon the mountains, and felling trees in the forest.  He was a
short square built man, with a squint eye and a blue nose.  He was
thought to be half distracted between the desires of a miser, and the
vices of a drunkard; for, whenever one passion predominated, he raved
like a bedlamite at the other, and he who shunned him in the morning for
his sordid qualities would fairly take to his heels at full speed, to
avoid him in the evening when he was in his cups.

Jordan was, therefore, generally shunned by his neighbours, and would
often repair to the bridge of the Caldron, to meditate upon future
wealth, or to roar out his bacchanalian stanzas to his unwearied
companion the waterfall.  He was fond of a thundering accompaniment, and
here he was gratified to his heart’s fondest wish.  The superstitious
peasantry were often alarmed, as they passed the bridge after twilight,
to their several homes, to hear his unearthly raving mingled with the
sound of the cataracts, and to see his ungainly form perched upon the
parapet of the bridge, which they often mistook for an evil spirit.  One
morning, before daybreak, as he was gradually recovering from his
evening’s excess, the grasping fiend of avarice seized upon his heart, as
was often the case, when he reflected on his extravagance on the
foregoing night; and, after venting many bitter curses upon all earthly
spirits (alias drams) prayed most devoutly to all spirits, celestial, for
a plentiful accession of worldly pelf, to add to his store, which he had
concealed in the hollow of a certain tree; when “a still small voice,”
which even the roar of the torrent permitted him to hear, whispered to
him that Ogo ap Shenkin might contain “something worth seeking for.”

This cave, as I have before mentioned, was the retreat of the celebrated
Shenkin; and, although the bold outlaw had long ceased to commit his
depredations, the place of his resort was held in dread by the
superstitious peasantry, who firmly believed that his spirit was to be
seen every night, prowling about the gap, to terrify and torment all poor
souls who ventured to wander near this haunted ground.

The woodman pricked up his ears at the sound of the voice, and, after
turning the thing over and over again in his mind, and weighing the pros
and cons in the scale of his bewildered judgment, he determined to
venture on the experiment.  “For,” thought he, “though ghosts walk by
night, I never heard of their venturing out by day;” and hastening home
he replenished his bottle, which he thought it prudent to take with him
in case of frights and sights, which an application to it might enable
him to endure with fortitude.

It was yet grey morning, and the mist still lay in the valley, as Jordan
ap Jordan advanced his _blue light_ in the direction of Shenkin’s cave;
one eye peering in the direction of the hollow, and the other traversing
the craggy mountain tops and down the hills’ sides, like a vagrant scout
watching the enemy’s motions or looking out for squalls.

The heavy fog was now fast rising on the mountain’s side, obscuring the
mouth of the cave so completely that Jordan was very often compelled to
apply his mouth to the flask, in order to rectify the effects of the
unwholesome dew, which he inhaled by gallons.

Thicker and thicker came on the fog, and lighter and lighter became the
flask; until what with one thing, and the other, he scarce knew whether
his track lay to the right, or to the left; and, but for the consolation
of the spirit, he would infallibly have been _routed by terror_; but as
it was, he only acknowledged to being _overcome with liquor_, and his
reluctance to confess so much was only conquered on finding himself
stretched half way into the cave, without the power of resuming his
standing position.  While he lay thus sprawling and unable to rise,
gazing with “lack lustre eye” into the gloomy recess, he fancied he
beheld some lights flickering at a distance, dancing up and down, and
running to and fro!  His hair stood on end with fright, his eyes almost
started from his head with curiosity, and the liquor evaporating, as his
terror became stronger, he miraculously recovered the use of his legs,
which he instantly endeavoured to make use of in escaping from the
cavern.  But, to his utter consternation, he discovered that the entrance
was closed up, and an appalling noise of a long drawn, ba-a-a-a-a! made
him look once more in the direction of the lights.

He now fancied he saw only two, but they grew larger and larger, till
they resembled two moons.  And presently he heard a buzzing sound, as if
a thousand bees were about his ears; and on a sudden the cave became
lighted up with a thousand torches, for it seemed to have expanded to an
incredible magnitude; and, in the centre, upon a huge oaken chest well
bound with iron clasps, stood a goat of prodigious size, with a beard
which seemed to be of ten times the magnitude commonly given by artists
to Aaron the high priest.  Full, shaggy, and venerable did it appear.
His horns, like mighty corkscrews, issued from his forehead, terminating
in two portentous points; and his eyes,—for they were his eyes, which
Jordan’s disconcerted vision had mistaken for moons—were fixed upon a
clasped book, the leaves of which he was deliberately turning over with
his right fore hoof, as if he cared no more for Jordan ap Jordan’s
proximity, than if he had been one of his own species.

The woodman being by this time perfectly sober, felt his desire of wealth
grow stronger than fear; and he could not help thinking that the oaken
chest contained the treasure he so much coveted.

“You’re perfectly right,” said the goat, answering to the thought of
Jordan, without taking his eyes off the book he was perusing; “and you
shall see the treasure.”  Then touching a spring with his fore paw, the
side of the chest flew open, and Jordan saw more gold than he ever
thought the world contained, and every piece stamped with the king’s
head.  Jordan, with his natural impulse, rushed forward to grasp some of
the shining coin! but, the goat presented his horns to him, saying, “If
you touch any of this coin before it is properly prepared, instant death
will be your fate,” and then, with a loud ba-a-a-a-a, he summoned a
number of grave elders about him, to whom he gave suitable directions,
and these presently kindled some dry wood upon a slab of rock, and put an
iron pot with a spout to it over the flames, while Jordan wondered to see
them use their cloven feet so cleverly in adjusting matters as occasion
required.  These preparations being completed, they took from the chest
large bags full of gold, and emptied them into the iron pot, one after
the other, until it was completely full; and then commenced dancing round
it on their hinder legs, ba-a-a-a-ing most inharmoniously.  This ceremony
continued some time, when lo! the coin being fusible, melted, and became
a burning liquid.

“Now,” said the monster goat to Jordan-ap-Jordan, “I will make thee a man
of gold!  Thou dost thirst for gold and shalt have more than thou
desirest.  Swallow thou this pot of boiling metal, and fear not.  The
heat will have no effect upon thee—so drink—drink and be wealthy!”

Jordan looked upon the molten gold as it sparkled and became agitated in
the vessel, and, stooping to take a closer inspection, was surprised to
find it destitute of heat, though still retaining its liquidity!  Having
ascertained this fact, he made no hesitation in obeying the goat’s
commands, and took huge draughts of the precious fluid, which, like warm
jelly, flowed smoothly and agreeably into his capacious maw.  No sooner
had he drained the measure, than the venerable goat leaped from the
chest, and presenting his terrific horns, cried, “Now Jordan, fly for
your life;” at the same time, making a charge upon his rear, which
completely ejected him from the cavern at full speed.  No sooner had he
passed the cavern’s mouth, than he tumbled with violence to the ground;
and at the same moment a huge mass of rock fell from the summit of the
hill, and effectually blocked up the entrance of Ogo ap Shenkin.

It was mid-day when Jordan quitted the cave, and the sun shone in all its
brilliant beauty.  Filled with wealth and wonder, he hastened towards his
cottage, calculating all the way the prodigious extent of his riches.

“I must take care of myself now,” said Jordan, “for, if by any chance, my
secret should be discovered, I shall share the fate of the goose that
laid the golden eggs.”

This reflection made him uneasy; and as he was frequently hailed, in
sport or ridicule, by the shepherd lads from the mountains, he quickened
his speed to avoid observation.

For ten years after this, Jordan was never seen except at night, and then
it was only for a moment and upon the bridge.  He was like a phantom
there—and gone in an instant.  No one saw him in his former occupation;
his cottage was deserted, and he lived, no one knew where.

The gradual decay of his wardrobe was noticed, as at various times he was
recognised by those to whom he was formerly known; until, at length, he
was entirely destitute of every article of clothing; and a village curate
was, one bleak and wintry night, roused from his bed, by the moaning of
some human creature, apparently at the threshold of his door.  He let him
in, pale, emaciated, naked, and ghost like.  He placed him, shivering, on
his bed; and the dying creature glared wildly about the apartment, as he
exclaimed in terror,

“Take care they don’t steal me.”

“Who?” inquired the good curate.

“The world—all the world, are looking for me,” replied the wretch; “but I
shall escape them yet.  You are a good man; you would not rob the dead,
would you?”

“Heaven forbid,” he replied.

“Ay, ay, you fear Heaven—you fear its curses here, and its vengeance
hereafter.  I think I may trust you, as I have not above an hour to live.
Look at me! don’t you see what they hunt me for?  I’m all gold!—a man of
gold!—robbers seek for me, to buy them food!—Spendthrifts hunt after me,
to pay their debts!—Women grasp at me, to purchase jewels!—And kings lay
snares for me, to gorge and fatten!”

He then related his wonderful adventure in Ogo ap Shenkin; and, as he
concluded it, exclaimed,

“Bury me safely.  You make take my little finger, that will pay all
expenses, but don’t break up my body—to—to—to—” and the hypochondriac
expired. {304}

                                * * * * *

There is no doubt that the vision of the goat and the chest of wealth,
was a dream after one of Jordan’s drunken bouts, which produced so
powerful an impression upon his mind, that it banished the few wits
intoxication had left him.




CHAPTER XI.


A Mistake—Road to Llanrwst—Gwydir Castle—Llanrwst Shaking Bridge—Inn—The
Theatre—Town Hall—Free Schools—Alms Houses—Rhaiadr y Parc Mawr—Llynn
Giwionydd—Taliesin—Trefriw—Slate Quarries—Conway—The Suspension
Bridge—The Castle—Local Customs—A Phrenologist—Excursion to the Ormes’
Head—The Smuggler—The Bump of _Order_.

    “On a rock whose haughty brow
    Frowned o’er old Conway’s foaming flood,
    Rob’d in a sable garb of woe,
    With haggard eye, the poet stood.”

                                                                     GRAY.

As I stood taking a farewell look of this beautiful village, with my
knapsack on my back, and fishing rod in my hand, I was suddenly roused
from my reverie, by a slap on the shoulder, and, on turning my head, I
perceived an old woman, who held out to me some half dozen, much soiled,
silver tea spoons, addressing me at the same time in Welsh: she might as
well have spoken to me in the language of the ancient Chaldees.  However,
I took the spoons in my hands, and, after turning them over and over for
some time, and endeavouring to elicit her meaning without success, I
shook my head as gravely as my Lord Burleigh is made to do, in Sheridan’s
entertainment of the Critic, and returned them to their venerable owner.
Disappointment made the wrinkles of her aged forehead deeper than usual,
and I was turning to resume my journey, when a flash of intelligence
crossed her smoke-dried visage, and, making a sign for me to stop, she
ran into her cottage, and presently returned, her face glowing like a hot
coal, with an old umbrella in her hand, which she displayed fantastically
in every way she thought likely to attract my notice, making use of
sundry pantomimic gestures, none of which could I understand; and I began
to think myself in company with some unhappy creature escaped from
Bedlam.  I again attempted to proceed with more earnestness than before,
when, to my astonishment, a pair of grey, much worn, inexpressibles were
held up to my eyes, while the gesticulations of the old woman became
stronger and stronger, and I at length discovered, that I had been
mistaken for a travelling pedlar by the old beldam, who wished to
exchange the articles she produced for something with which she imagined
my knapsack was furnished!

Within half a mile from the town of Llanrwst is



GWYDIR CASTLE,


the property of Lord Willoughby d’Eresby, a family mansion of no very
attractive appearance.  It is situated on the right of the road, which
winds between it and a lofty wood-clad precipice, called Carreg-y-Gwalch,
or the Rock of the Falcon.  It was built by John Wynne ab Meredydd, in
1555, and has lately undergone some alteration.  The breakfast parlour
contains a curious carving of the arms of the Gwydir family, supported by
Julius Cæsar and Augustus; the former holding his commentaries in one
hand, and his sword in the other; the latter, his sword only.  The
dining-room has some specimens of carving, that are worthy of
observation; but throughout the mansion there is very little of what
belonged to it originally.  The chairs, panelling, and even tables, being
coloured for the purpose of giving the apartments the appearance of
antique splendour, which, until lately, they wanted.

The drawing-room is spacious and lofty, and is lighted by a double row of
windows, which gives it a heavy look: this unusual arrangement was caused
by the removal of the dormitory, to give height to this room.  Over the
fire place is a finely executed carving of Julius Cæsar in oak.  At the
N.W. end of the room, a piece of tapestry represents a vintage, and at
the S.E. another specimen of needlework commemorates the landing of
Charles V at Grenada.

The coronation chair of George II is shewn in this apartment, and the
footstool used by Queen Caroline on her trial at Westminster Hall.  There
is a centre table, very richly ornamented with carved work; and another,
which in shape exactly resembles the slab and pedestal of a tombstone, so
that the visitor, naturally enough walks up to it, expecting to see the
customary, “Hic jacet” etc.

The cradle of Sir Richard Wynne, bearing the date 1634, completes the
list of curiosities contained in this room.

The garden, which is extensive, contains some valuable plants and shrubs,
and the terrace is a pleasant promenade, sloping from which are beds of
exceedingly beautiful flowers, of various classes and descriptions.
After satisfying the housekeeper with a trifling gratuity, I proceeded to
Llanrwst, but halted upon the bridge to take a view of the Conway (over
which beautiful river its arches expand), and the town to which it leads.
I was here accosted by an old man, who asked me, “if I should like to
feel the bridge shake?”  As I answered in the affirmative, he desired me
to place my back against the side over the centre arch, and striking the
opposite parapet rather heavily with his own, a tremulous motion was
distinctly felt; on this account, it is called the Shaking Bridge.  It
was built in 1636, from a plan of the celebrated Inigo Jones, and cost
£1000, which was defrayed by the counties of Denbighshire and
Caenarvonshire, which it unites.



LLANRWST


is built upon the Denbighshire side of the river.  The Three Eagles is
the most commodious inn in the town; and, being rather fatigued, I threw
my limbs upon a sofa, and resigned myself to the drowsy god, first taking
especial care to order a substantial repast to be in readiness for me on
my return from the land of Nod.  My last waking recollection was the
words of Mr. Lover’s favourite song,

    “There’s no use at all in my going to bed,
    For it’s dhrames and not sleep, that comes into my head.”

Dreams, however, did not picture my slumbers, and I awoke to the
unrivalled delight of a weary and hungry traveller—an excellent hot
dinner.  While the waiter cleared the table, and put on the desert, I
took a glance from the windows at the market-place and town-hall; against
the latter were pasted sundry bills, some of which bore, I thought, a
strong resemblance to the dramatic announcements.

“What bills are those?” said I to the waiter, as he placed my pint of
port before me.

“Play bills, sir.”

“What, have you a theatre here?” said I, opening my eyes with
astonishment.

The man stared, appeared confused and stammered, and, supposing me
shocked at the immoral announcement, proceeded to assure me, that
although the players were tolerated, they had very little patronage,
“Indeed, sir,” continued he, “such vagabonds do a great deal of harm to
business; we feel it, sir.  Now to-night there is a bespeak, which will
do us a serious injury, for we have no less than six visitors who are
going!”

“A bespeak, eh! and who bespoke the play?”

“Oh, sir, ’tis Mr. —.”

“Mr. —!” I exclaimed, with a sort of inquiring glance, which occasioned
the waiter to look more ridiculous than ever.

“Do you mean Mr. —, of Belmont?”

“Yes, sir, that’s the gentleman.”

No sooner had I received this information, than filling my glass, “His
honored health!” I cried, adding the words of the bard,

    “May never-fading laurels flourish round him,
    And consecrate his name ev’n to Time’s end!”

“Bring me a bill of the play,” said I.  The man withdrew with much
apparent reluctance, but shortly returned with one, which, snatching from
his hand, I began eagerly to peruse, until perceiving the increasing
wonderment which stupified the eyes of the waiter, I followed up the
foregoing quotation with another, which I addressed to him in seeming
wrath.

    “The Devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!
    Where got’st thou that goose look?”

which had the desired effect, and relieved me from his presence.

A month had passed away since I had visited a temple dedicated to Thalia
or Melpomene, and, with all the enthusiasm such divinities inspire, I
hastened to arrange my dress in the best manner possible, to pay them my
devoirs.

The play was announced to begin at half past seven o’clock.  The time had
nearly arrived, and fully anticipating much gratification I reached the
Town Hall.  A staircase, not of the cleanest, led to the theatre on the
first floor, and passing some hanging of green-baize, which formed a
narrow passage to the pit and gallery, I was ushered into the former,
which being set apart for the _gentry_, consisted of about six forms,
such as are used in schools, and ranged behind each other.  A barrier of
the most unostentatious fabric stretched across the room from wall to
wall, behind which were about the same number of forms, arranged in like
manner, this back portion being denominated the gallery.  As I entered, I
perceived a fine portly gentleman, seated in a large elbow chair at the
extremity of the first form, whose countenance was lighted up by half a
dozen candles, that flared magnificently within three feet of the front
row, and divided the stage from the audience.  “There needed no ghost” to
tell me that this was the gentleman who had honored the theatre by his
patronage on that occasion, and to whom I was the bearer of a letter of
introduction, then in my pocket-book.  The proscenium was of painted
canvass, and a green curtain of the same material scantily screened the
mysteries which were preparing on the stage.  Upon the right of the room,
a temporary box contained the band.  Those who have heard the burst of
melodious sounds thunder forth from the orchestra of the opera, which
startles the uninitiated, in an overture of Mozart’s, or in the wild and
stormy grandeur which characterizes the compositions of Weber, may have
some idea of the overpowering effect produced by a violin, played by a
boy about twelve years of age, who was leader of the band, consisting of
one old man of sixty, who rasped fearfully on a violincello, and an
enthusiastic trombone player, who successfully drowned the unskilful
efforts of the other two with the tremendous roar of his elongating
distracter.  The front of the house was illuminated by three tallow
candles, one on each side, stuck in tin candlesticks and nailed against
the wall, and one at the extremity of the room.  The first piece to be
acted was the _Mid’ night Hour_; after which, I thought it high time to
retire.

The following morning I employed in paying my respects to the different
gentlemen to whom I had letters, and in gaining what information I could
respecting the objects most worthy of notice in the town, and surrounding
neighbourhood.

The church and chapel adjoining, were the first subjects to engage my
attention.  In the former there is nothing interesting, excepting an
oaken screen, exquisitely carved, which was taken from the Abbey of
Maenan, the gallery for the singers being above it.  On the opposite side
is the



GWYDIR CHAPEL.


This beautiful structure was erected in the year 1633, by Sir Richard
Wynne, of Gwydir, from a design of Inigo Jones, and was for many years
the burial place of the illustrious family of Gwydir.  At the sides of
the chapel, fixed in panels of wood, are several engravings on brass,
illustrative of the personages who are interred below; and in the east
corner is a tablet of white marble, containing the following remarkable
pedigree, comprising a period of 500 years.

    “This chapel was erected A.D. 1633, by Sir Richard Wynne of Gwydir,
    in the county of Carnaervon, Knight and Baronet, Treasurer to the
    High and Mighty Princess Henrietta Maria, Queen of England, Daughter
    of Henry the Fourth, King of France, and Wife to our Sovereign Lord
    King Charles; where lyeth buried his father Sir John Wynne, of
    Gwydir, Knight and Baronet, son and heir to Morris Wynne, son and
    heir to John Wynne, son and heir to Meredith Wynne, which three lie
    buried in the Church of Dolwyddelen, with tombs over them.  This
    Meredith was son and heir to Evan, son and heir to Robert, son and
    heir to Meredith, son and heir to Howell, son and heir to David, son
    and heir to Griffith, son and heir to Cradock, son and heir to
    Roderick, Lord of Anglesea, son to Owen Gwynedd, Prince of Wales, and
    younger brother to David, Prince of Wales, who married Emma
    Plantaginet, sister to King Henry the Second.  There succeeded this
    David three princes; His nephew Leolinus Magnus, who married Joan
    daughter to King John,—David his son, nephew to King Henry the
    Third,—and Llewelyn the last Prince of Wales of that House and line,
    who lived in King Edward the First’s time.  Sir John Wynne married
    Sydney, who lyeth buried here, daughter of Sir William Gerrard,
    Knight, Lord Chancellor of Ireland, by whom he had issue, Sir John
    Wynne, who died at Lucca, in Italy, Sir Richard Wynne now living,
    Thomas Wynne who lyeth here, Owen Wynne now living, Robert Wynne who
    lyeth here, Roger Wynne who lyeth here, William Wynne now living,
    Maurice Wynne now living, Ellis Wynne who lyeth buried at Whitford,
    in the county of Flint, Henry Wynne now living, Roger Wynne who lyeth
    here, and two daughters, Mary now living, married to Sir Roger
    Mostyn, in the county of Flint, Knight, and Elizabeth now living,
    married to Sir John Bodville, in the County of Carnaervon, Knight.”

Beneath this is a superb engraving of Dame Sarah Wynne, one of the
daughters of the old Chevalier Sir Thomas Middleton of Chirk Castle, and
wife of the above mentioned Sir Richard Wynne; she died June 16th, 1671.
This piece of engraving was executed by one William Vaughan, in a style
of elegance hardly to be met with, and may be justly reckoned among the
first productions of the age in which he lived.

On the south side are two stately pyramidical columns of variegated
marble, decorated with martial insignias; one to the memory of Meredith
Wynne, the other to Sir John Wynne and Sydney his wife; on their
pedestals are Latin inscriptions on black marble, which have been thus
translated:

    “To the Memory of Meredith Wynne, a descendant of Owen Gwynedd,
    Prince of Wales, who, under happy auspices, founded the House of
    Gwydir, removed and endowed the Church of Sant Gwyddelen, during the
    third tournean expedition, in the fifth year of Henry the Eighth.  He
    died in the month of March 1525.”

    “To the Memory of John Wynne of Gwydir, Knight and Baronet, with
    Sydney the daughter of William Gerrard, Knight, Chancellor of the
    Kingdom of Ireland, the wife of his youth, to whom she bore eleven
    sons, and two daughters; they lie here waiting the appearance of
    Christ in Glory.”

Between the above Monuments is a small Tablet of white marble to the
Memory of John Wynne ap Meredith, with a Latin inscription to the
following effect:

                 “John Wynne ap Meredith, an Inheritor of his
                  Father’s virtues, a just and pious Man, to
                     whom Euna his wife brought five sons
                       and two daughters.  He died the
                              9th of July 1559.”

On the floor is a stone effigy in armour, with the feet resting on a lion
couchant, of Howell Coetmore ap Griffith Vychan ap Dafydd Gam, alias
Gôch, natural son to David, Prince of Wales, from whose descendants,
according to tradition, Gwydir was purchased by the Wynnes.

                 [Picture: The Coffin of Leolinus Magnus]

Near to the effigy of Howell Coetmore is the underpart of a stone coffin
in which Llewelyn ap Iorwerth, surnamed the Great, the son-in-law of King
John, was buried at the Abbey of Conwy; to the coffin is fixed a piece of
brass with this inscription:

                “This is the coffin of Leolinus Magnus, Prince
                   of Wales, who was buried at the Abbey of
                      Conwy, which upon the dissolution
                             was removed thence.”

On going from the chapel to the church, you pass over a large square flag
of free stone, having on its sides a Latin inscription thus translated:

    “To the Memory of the Sons of John Wynne of Gwydir, Knight and
    Baronet, who died during their father’s life time: John Knight, was
    buried at Lucca, in the free State of Italy, in the year of his age
    30, of our Lord 1613.  Robert, who had entered into holy orders, in
    the year of his age 24, of our Lord 1617.  Thomas, Roger, Thomas, in
    their minority.—Death! a vapour!  Behold! we have existed.”

In the chancel, between the reading desk and the communion table, is a
flag of freestone on the remains of Margaret Vaughan, heiress of Caergai;
she was esteemed the Sappho of her age; many of her poetical productions
are still extant.

The gallery over the reading desk is said to have been removed here from
the Abbey of Aberllechog or Maenan Abbey, upon the dissolution of that
religious house.

Under the reading desk in the Church, in a pew belonging to Kyffdy, is a
Latin epitaph to the memory of Griffith Lloyd, of Bryniog, Rector of this
parish; this is said to have been written by himself, and has been much
admired for its singularity:—it runs thus:

             “Once the undeserving School-master,
             Then the more undeserving Lecturer,
    And last of all, the most undeserving Rector of this Parish.
       Do not think, speak, or write any thing evil of the Dead.”

There is a Market Hall, Town Hall, free schools and alms houses.  The
latter were erected by Sir John Wynne, in 1610, and received the name of
Jesus Hospital.  He endowed them for the reception of twelve poor men, by
ceding the rectorial tithes of Eglwys Fach, which are valued at £200 per
annum.  Within a mile of Llanrwst there is a spring, which is much
esteemed for its healthful qualities.  The water is soft, and a drop of
sal-volatile mixed with a cup of it, turns it white as milk, while oil of
tartar causes it to assume a pearl colour.  If during the tourist’s visit
to Llanrwst there should chance to fall much rain, I would advise him by
all means to view the cataract called



RHAIADR-Y-PARC MAWR,


in the valley of Nant Bwlch yr Haiarn, near Gwydir, but otherwise the
minuteness of the stream occasions no extraordinary effect from this
fall, which is about one hundred feet in height.  The chief object of
interest, however, in this vicinity, is the celebrated lakes, called



LLYN GEIRIONYDD,


upon the borders of which once lived the chief of the Welsh bards,
_Taliesin_.  At the eastern side of the lake is a mound, upon the summit
of which there is a kind of hollow, and in it are the remains of an
ancient edifice, which was probably the residence of Taliesin, in the
reign of Maelgwn Gwynedd, king of Britain.  Taliesin when an infant was
found by Prince Elphin by the side of a wear belonging to his father
Gwyddno Garanhir, lord of Cantrev Gwaelod.  The prince fostered the
infant, and had it liberally educated; and, at a proper age, introduced
him to the court of his father Gwyddno.  Upon this occasion, Taliesin
presented the king with a poem, the subject of which was his own history,
and another to the prince, which he called Dyhuddiant Elphin, or the
consolation of Elphin, a translation of which is in Evan’s specimens of
Welsh poetry.

Taliesin had an opportunity of being serviceable to his benefactor; for
once, when the prince was imprisoned by his uncle Maelgwn, in the castle
of Tejanwy, the magic of his muse effected his release.

This celebrated bard was the preceptor of Myrddin ap Merfryn, and to him
the lovers of poetry are indebted for five new metres, while the
historian and antiquary are equally benefitted by his accurate
description of the manners and customs of the ancient Britons.

I quitted Llanrwst on the following morning, and took the road to Conway:
two miles and a half brought me to the pretty village of



TREFRIW,


which presents an animated scene.  It is situated upon the banks of the
beautiful river Conway, which is navigable up to this point for vessels
of fifty tons burthen, that supply the town and neighbourhood with coals,
lime, groceries, &c. &c. and return laden with slate, supplied from the
adjacent mines and quarries.

A number of small boats, called coracles, used by the fishermen, are seen
studding the delightful stream, while the larger vessels, towed against
the wind or sailing before it, present a pleasing picture.

From this place to Conway there is nothing particularly to attract
attention, until you arrive within a mile of that celebrated town, when
from the brow of a hill, is obtained a view of the venerable fortress
erected by the first Edward, and the strongly fortified walls, completely
encompassing the town, and strengthened by massive towers.  They are
coeval with the castle, and are built in the form of a Welsh harp, like
those of Caernarvon; but here there are no environs, and the town
presents the same appearance as when the chivalric monarch first
fortified it.



CONWAY.


The town derives its name from Cyn (chief) and Wy (river).

The principal inn is the Castle, which affords every accommodation the
traveller can desire.  The Wynnes are celebrated here, as in all parts of
North Wales.  In the interior of the town stands _Plas Mawr_, which was
erected in 1585, and is still a remarkable structure; its founder was
Robert Wynne of Gwydir, the uncle of Sir John Wynne the historian.  Over
the grand entrance is inscribed, in Greek characters, “_bear and
forbear_,” over which in Roman characters, “J. H. S. X. P. S.”  (Jesus
Hominum Salvator et populi salus).  The old college is in Castle Street,
and the church is built from the remains of the ancient Cistercian Abbey,
which was founded here by Llewellyn ap Jorwerth, 1185.  It contains a
rich baptismal font of gothic structure, with a tablet to the memory of
Nicholas Hookes of the town of Conway, who was the forty-first child of
William and Alice Hookes, and who was himself the father of twenty-seven
children.

                         [Picture: Conway Castle]

During my short stay in Conway, I endeavoured to discover the best view
of the town, which I think is from the eastern side of the river, about
midway between the chain bridge and the mansion of Sir John Hilton.
Nothing can be more interesting.  The variety of small craft, sailing and
anchored, before its warlike screen; the castle, with its towers and
turrets, rising in hostile grandeur upon its rocky base; the bridge, and
lovely scenery beyond of purple hills and thriving villages; and the
bright waters sporting with the luxuriant foliage of its woody margin,
create a sensation of delight in the pursuer of picturesque scenery,
which he has probably seldom before experienced.

Another delightful view may be obtained by ascending the rock, which
overhangs the lodge of the bridge upon its eastern side.  A flight of
steps conducts to the summit, where a seat is most conveniently placed
for the accommodation of the lovers of romantic beauty; and the bridge,
although inferior in magnitude to the stupendous work of art which
stretches over Bangor Ferry, commands the admiration of the spectator.
But the chief object of interest is the castle, which surpasses in
picturesque grandeur any building of the kind I ever beheld.  I thought
Carnaervon Castle the most beautiful of ruins, but it is not, in my
opinion, to be compared with Conway.  The solidity of its structure, and
its expansive site, resembling the fortresses of Syria and the Holy Land,
give to its exterior all that the most romantic imagination could desire.
Its foundation is a rock of slate, and its works are impregnable.
Nothing but famine could, at the time it was erected, have had power to
subdue it.  Its walls are from ten to twelve feet in thickness, and it
had formerly a deep and broad moat, on the west and north west sides;
which with the sea washing its base on the east and south, formed
insurmountable barriers to the assailants.

It was evening when I first entered this noble ruin.  The porteress very
ungraciously left me to my meditations after admitting me, locking the
gate after her, and leaving me like a state prisoner in the royal
fortress.  I confess I was little pleased with the manners of my
conductress and the solitary situation in which I was placed, and
sensations arose within me like those which a school boy feels when
passing a churchyard at midnight.

The sun had set, and the deep shadows of eve were darkening into night,
as I stood alone in the court yard, and flitting visions arose before me
of those who crossed its space in distant bygone ages—“the plumed
troops,” and courtly dames, and all the glitter of the olden times.  As I
thus stood amongst the ruins, a deep drawn sigh, close by my ear, made my
heart leap into my throat, as I turned to discover from whence it
proceeded.  But all was solitude around.  The huge festoons of ivy,
unruffled by a breath of air, hung heavily in funereal grandeur on the
walls.  As I passed into what had been the banqueting hall, the darkness
increased.  It was a noble apartment, and measured 130 feet in length,
and thirty in breadth, in height twenty.  Nine windows looked southward,
up the river, and two into the courtyard.  In the recesses were stone
seats, capable of accommodating twelve persons; and, as I seated myself
in one of these, my delusion of other days came over me.  Here sat the
first Edward, the hero of Palestine; here was the monarch besieged, and
almost reduced by famine; here Hotspur and King Richard held a
conference; and the latter, putting himself into the power of
Northumberland, was betrayed by him, and sent a prisoner to the usurper
Bolingbroke.

    “Life’s but a walking shadow—a poor player,
    That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
    And then is heard no more!”

As I made this apt quotation, another deep and heavy sigh, and a rustling
in the ivy, startled me, and the bird of solitude, the lonely owl,
flapped his heavy wings, and flew past me to a remoter corner of the
ruined hall.  I arose, and walked to a small chamber, where there was an
open ornamented casement, and which, as I was afterwards informed, bears
the name of the queen’s oriel; from which there is a pleasant prospect of
part of the ruin and scenery beyond.

I then proceeded to the terrace, at the south western extremity, which is
on the surface of the rock; and the prospect from this spot, interesting
at all times, is doubly so by moonlight.  The suspension bridge beneath,
the ocean on the left, and this fertile valley on the right, with the
sparkling Conway meandering through it, compose a scene of unexampled
beauty.

In the year 1290, when Edward was engaged in a dispute with the King of
France, and was determined to revenge himself upon that potentate, in
order to obtain supplies, he made the experiment of taxing his newly
acquired Welsh subjects; which they resented by hanging Roger de
Pulesdon, who had been appointed to collect the tax; and by defeating the
English forces, who attempted to enforce them.

Alarmed at a revolt, which was now rising into importance, and which
threatened to wrest from him his new dominions, Edward entered North
Wales, to conduct the war in person.

Having proceeded in his march to Conway, he crossed that arm of the sea
with a part of his forces, and retiring into the castle with them,
awaited the arrival of the remainder.  In his passage he lost many
waggons, and other carriages, loaded with provisions, which were
intercepted by the Welsh, who came down in multitudes from the mountains,
and invested the castle, upon the land side, while a sudden rise in the
Conway, which prevented his troops from crossing the river and rendering
him assistance, made his situation extremely alarming.  He was surrounded
by water and the enemy, cut off from his army, and threatened with
famine.

The good fortune of Edward, however, returned to him in the hour of need.
The river subsided, and his forces being able to cross to his relief, the
Welsh again retired to the mountains, and the English monarch passed his
Christmas holidays without interruption at the castle.

In 1665, the Earl of Conway, under pretence of its being for his
majesty’s service, stripped the castle of all its furniture, iron and
lead, and shipped them off to Ireland, otherwise it might have remained
as firm and entire at the present day, as when it was first erected.

If these Goths were aware of the ignominy they attached to their shields
by acts so disgraceful, they might perhaps have permitted beauty and
grandeur to remain undefiled by their sacrilegious touch.

The young men still keep up many of the ancient local customs; amongst
which, on Nos Calanmai, or, the eve of the first of May, they hang on the
houses of their sweethearts bunches of rosemary and ribbons.

At the door of a prude they tie a penglog, or part of a horse’s skeleton.
There is likewise a custom preserved called Stocsio.  Upon Easter Sunday,
a great number of boys and men assemble on Pentwthil, with wands of
gorse, to proclaim the laws and regulations which are to be observed upon
the following morning.  The last married person is sought to perform this
office, who, mounted on a heap of stones, issues his mandate, while the
rest listen with silent attention.  He decrees that all men under sixty
years of age are to appear in the street before six o’clock on the
following morning; and all under forty, before four; and all under twenty
are commanded not to go to bed at all, under penalty of being put into
the stocks.

The orator then descends, amidst loud cheering, and the assembled parties
separate; the younger branches to form plans of amusement, and the graver
to secure their carts, waggons, and wheelbarrows, with chains and locks,
to prevent their being seized upon the following day; a very necessary
precaution, as every vehicle, unmanacled, or otherwise unsecured, is sure
of being pressed before dawn of day into the service of the light-hearted
youths, who are not over careful of their neighbour’s property during the
uproarious period of their festivity.

Early in the morning, the stocks are placed at one end of the street, and
a party, marching to the inspiring music of a drum and fife, parade the
town, in order to convey to the place of punishment all seceders from
this ancient law of custom.  When they arrive at a house where a rebel
resides, the storming party endeavour by all practicable means to gain
admittance; such as climbing in at the windows, forcing open the back
door, &c., and they generally secure the culprit; who, if he be caught in
bed, is allowed sufficient time to dress himself, and then hurried away
to the stocks, amid the exulting shouts of the assembled multitude.

His feet being secured, one of the party gives him a severe lecture upon
the sin of idleness, and of breaking old established customs.  Then
taking his right hand, he puts questions to him; such as, whether he
would rather kiss the mistress or the maid?—whether he prefers buttermilk
or strong ale?—and the more satisfactory his answers are to the party,
the more thickly his hand is plaistered with mud, until at length he is
released, and, with loud cheering, permitted to join the forces, as they
march off in search of another rebel.

There is a pearl fishery at Conway, and many poor families are supported
by gathering the muscles, which contain these gems.

The fish is called by Linnæus _myd margaritefera_.  The produce is
transmitted to London in the pure natural state, and easily finds a
market amongst the jewellers, who purchase them by weight, but in the
neighbourhood of Conway the purposes they are appropriated to are
unknown.

It was my good fortune to meet with a brother tourist at the Castle Inn;
who, after acquainting me with the above facts, offered to conduct me in
the morning to Llandudno, which offer I thankfully accepted; and, before
the sun had finished his draught of mountain dew, we had crossed the
bridge, and were pursuing our course to the appointed spot.  The tide was
at low ebb, and a pleasant walk of three quarters of a mile upon the hard
sand brought us to



DINAS GONWY


“The fort of the Conway.”  By the English, it is called the Gannoc and by
the common people in the neighbourhood “Y Faer dre.”

The ruins of an ancient castle are to be seen at a short distance,
situated upon two hillocks, near the shore.  From thence we crossed by
Eglwy’s Rhôs, where Maelgwn Gwynedd is said to have taken refuge to avoid
the yellow fever, which was committing great havoc in all parts of
Europe.  Gloddaeth, the residence of Lady Mostyn Champneys, is sweetly
situated near this place.  It was built by her ancestors in the reign of
Elizabeth, and is celebrated for the Welsh manuscripts contained in the
library.  The grounds are most tastefully laid out, and the tourist will
find himself amply rewarded for his pains while viewing the extreme
beauty of the scenes around.



LLANDUDNO


is built upon a huge mass of rock which projects into the sea, called The
Great Orme’s Head; a small village, where formerly a great deal of
smuggling was carried on; and, as we stood gazing upon the frightful
precipice beneath us, at the base of which the ocean breaks its mighty
bulk, and foams as if enraged at opposition, my companion related a story
of a fisherman’s daughter and her lover, the circumstances of which took
place within view of the position we then occupied.



THE SMUGGLER.


“It was my fortune, or rather my misfortune,” said my companion, “some
forty years ago, to take up my quarters at a fisherman’s hut in the
village, who was a widower with one child, a lovely girl of about sixteen
years of age.  She performed all the household duties for her father with
the greatest neatness and cheerfulness, and at evening was looked upon by
the youth of the surrounding neighbourhood, as the gayest and handsomest
lass that tripped upon the hard sands to the music of a blind harper, who
lived in the vicinity.  Many a time as I stood and saw her light feet
moving in the inspiring dance, have I said to myself, it would be a pity
now if so light a foot should ever carry a heavy heart.  Poor Jane! she
was the sweetest wild flower of the cliff—nursed in storm and tempest,
yet in her simplicity more winning to the heart and eye than the proudest
exotic luxury could produce.  I took a pleasing interest in her; and for
the attention she paid me, resolved upon improving her education to the
extent of my ability, which I considered an easy task, for the organ of
veneration, I observed, was large, which induced me to think she
respected those who took an interest in her welfare.  Benevolence and
hope were equally prominent, and, when this happy association appears,
the leading feature of such persons’ characters may be perceived in the
religious obedience they pay to all those who are anxious to instruct
their minds and purify their thoughts.  I felt notwithstanding,
considerable anxiety for her future welfare; for at the lower part and
back of the head, between the _mastoid processes_ and the _occipital
bone_, I had noticed an enlargement, which I knew, combined as it was
with the moral sentiments and the organs of adhesiveness, strongly
developed, would either prove the blessing or the bane of her existence,
as these opposites depended not only upon the man’s disposition to whom
she might yield her affections, but to the destiny of that man,
successful or disastrous.  And I had frequent opportunities of observing
that she had a strong partiality for a youth who was possessed of
personal and mental qualifications far beyond those of his associates,
but who was wild, with the bump of marvellousness extremely prominent.”

“Zounds,” said I, “if you cover your story with so many excrescences, I
shall never be able to remember one half of it.”

My companion smiled benevolently, as he replied, I perceive you lack the
organ of _individuality_; and then resumed the thread of his discourse.
After remaining with them nearly three months, during which I may give
myself credit for having made good use of my time in improving the
manners and intellect of my docile pupil, I took leave of the fisherman
and his daughter, promising to pay them a visit in the course of a month,
before I returned to merry England.  Tears stood in the eyes of poor Jane
as I turned to quit the cottage, and the old father squeezed my hand with
a cordiality that effectually stopped the circulation of my blood in that
extremity.  Mark, her lover, seemed neither sorry nor pleased, but
leaning his broad back against the white-washed wall of the cottage,
whistled with the greatest composure, “The jovial fellow’s farewell.”

After a month’s ramble, I returned to this spot on a dark, stormy day in
October;—it was indeed a dreary evening.  The rain fell in torrents, and
the hoarse sound of the surge came heavily upon my ear as I approached
the cottage of my late worthy host; when suddenly, as I lifted my eyes
from the ground, I perceived a number of persons walking in slow
procession, as from a funeral, and a cold shudder came over me as I
recognised the father of Jane; his white locks exposed to the beating
rain, his head bent to the ground, and his hands clasped upon his breast,
in the action of mental agony.

Thinking my visit would prove ill-timed, I proceeded to a small
public-house, and, while my garments were drying at the fire, I managed
to extract from the landlord, that the funeral of Jane Morgan had just
taken place.  Astonishment and sorrow chained my tongue for some time; I
shall never forget the sensations I experienced at this mournful
relation.  I sat motionless in my chair, without uttering a syllable for
a full hour, or noticing anything that transpired around me during that
time.  I could think of nothing but Jane Morgan; I could see nothing but
her young blooming face and yellow locks, which used to glitter like
threads of gold in the sunbeams, as the fresh sea breeze blew them into a
thousand fantastic waves; her airy form, as it flew along the sand on
which her light foot scarcely left a print; her simple dress; all this I
brought to my “mind’s eye,” and afterwards the church-yard where she was
laid a corpse—I burst into tears.

Her lover, Mark Bratts, who had for more than a twelvemonth paid
courtship to poor Jane, had obtained her father’s consent to their union,
whenever he could realize a sufficient sum to begin the world with in a
prudent and respectable way.  The precarious life of a fisherman,
however, appeared to Mark to hold out but little prospect of wealth
enough either to gain or to support a wife; and he resolved upon
obtaining the object of his wishes as speedily as possible in some other
way.

A man named Simpson, a notorious smuggler in the neighbourhood, was known
to have amassed a considerable property, and Mark resolved to offer
himself to serve as one of the crew on board his lugger; hoping, that in
a trip or two, he might earn sufficient to claim his promised bride.  He
was accepted aboard; and the day following the little vessel spread her
light sails to the breeze, and took her course for Holland.  Mark
possessed a little money which he laid out in a venture, trusting thereby
to clear so much as would enable him to claim as his bride the object of
his love.

It was a stormy day when the inhabitants of Llandudno were roused by the
report of guns from seaward, the wind blowing furiously right on shore.
It was about the time that the smuggler’s vessel was expected, and those
interested in her safe arrival hastily ran to this promontory to
ascertain if she was in sight, or in danger, for a king’s cutter was
known to be cruising on the coast.  It was just dawn; the sea was running
mountains high; and within a league of the rocks they perceived two
vessels within half a mile of each other.  The first was a small lugger,
carrying a press of canvass that seemed to run her hull under as she made
directly for the headland, and her masts bent like reeds to the fury of
the tempest.  As she approached the headland, a number of kegs piled one
upon another on the decks, were observed to vanish into the deep by
dozens, being flung overboard by the busy crew.  They were within a mile
of the shore, when the revenue cutter, hauling her wind, poured a
broadside of grape shot into the smuggler, so well directed that several
were seen to fall from their stations in various parts of the vessel.
Still they carried every stitch of canvass, knowing that there was water
enough for the light lugger to cross the bar after they had rounded the
point, and that the revenue cutter would be sure to strike upon the sands
if she attempted to follow them half a mile further, being of much
heavier tonnage.  Besides, she was already in some peril, by venturing so
far in shore, with a gale blowing heavily from the north east.

She was soon within hail of the head, and the cliffs were covered with
human beings, gazing eagerly upon the little craft beneath it, when
suddenly, a chain shot from the cutter carried away her mainmast, which
fell over the side.  To cut away the stays and clear the wreck, was the
work of a minute, and the smuggler’s bark swept like a sea bird round the
great Ormes head into the Bay of Conway, but not until their pursuers had
sent another broadside into her hull as they stood off shore.  As the
Typhon, the name of the king’s vessel turned from the pursuit; the daring
outlaws sent up a shout of triumph, which was echoed from those upon the
rocks, and after a slight shock which the lugger received, as she crossed
the sand-bank, they floated safely in smooth water.

But where was Jane?  Foremost of that crowd which gathered on the rocks,
when the firing was first heard, flew the light form of the loving
maiden, like a young eagle glaring for its mate.  She stood upon the
extreme verge of the cliff, unconscious of every thing, save the peril of
her lover, her eyes fixed upon the vessels, straining as they would crack
their strings, to discover the form of him who had her heart in keeping;
and, as the vessel glided under the headland, she hung over the brink of
the precipice, gazing upon the dead and dying, with whom the decks were
strewed.  But she saw him not.  With the swiftness of the seamew, she
followed the course of the smuggler along the shore; and when at last she
saw the white sails gathered to the yards, and the vessel riding safely
at anchor in the rocky bay, she leaped into a boat, and rowed herself to
its side.  A moment, and she jumped upon the deck, calling wildly for
poor Mark.  But no one answered her.  With hair dishevelled, and eyes
glancing fire, she turned each dead man’s face up to the sky.  At length,
a headless trunk met her distracted gaze.  A bright gold ringlet of hair,
tinged with the smuggler’s blood, and fastened to the breast of his
shirt, the blue pea-jacket she gave Mark at his departure, and the brass
buckles which her father wore, and presented to him as a pledge of future
favour, all flashed conviction on her mind, that it was the mutilated
form of her lover.  A wild scream, which struck terror into the hearts of
the daring crew, proclaimed her heart was broken; and falling on his
mangled corse she instantly expired.

This was the melancholy end of the lovers.  And you may remember that I
said her happiness or misery would depend not only on the disposition of
the man she loved, but upon his future destiny; the organs of amativeness
and adhesiveness being so largely developed.

                                * * * * *

Here an object attracted his attention at a short distance, and he
suddenly left off speaking to examine the scull of a melancholy donkey,
which stood gazing upon the waste of waters.

Having carefully examined the animal’s pericranium, on which he made some
scientific remarks, elaborately pointing out the distinguishing
characteristics of the quadruped and biped race, I reminded him that it
was high time to retrace our steps to Conway, and, as we trudged along,
he related a story of rather a whimsical nature, which, as it tended to
illustrate his favorite science, afforded me much amusement.



THE BUMP OF ORDER.


He lived, he said, at one time opposite to a house where resided a newly
married couple.  The house had the appearance of particular neatness, the
flag stones before the door being white as snow, as were those supporting
the railing of the area.  The ledges of the windows were in keeping with
the rest, and the windows themselves were perfectly unstained.  The
curtains below were of green damask, and above of elegant chintz, with
pink linings.  A variety of plants bloomed in the balcony, and the pots
were ranged in precise order.

It greatly excited his curiosity, that every week, for upwards of a
twelvemonth, he saw one or two new servants.  It appeared that one week
was the longest period the lady ever permitted any menial to remain in
the house.

This circumstance created some surprise, as, during the time, he had
never observed a single gentleman or lady knock at their door.

He had an opera glass, through which he took every opportunity of
examining their heads across the street.  At length, his bump of
curiosity over-mastering every other consideration, determined him to
seek an occasion of becoming acquainted with the lady of the house.  For
this purpose, he dressed himself with peculiar nicety, and stepping over,
intimated by a rat-tat-tat that he was at the door.  A female servant
answered the summons, and ushered him into the parlour, where the lady
was seated gazing with a vacant stare upon some pots of geraniums, which
occupied a niche in the apartment.  When a lady receives a visit from a
gentleman she has never been introduced to, it is natural for her to look
in his face, and an opinion is too frequently formed by the
Lavater-loving sex, of the character, at first sight, of the being before
them.  But Mrs. — took a very different view of my philosophical friend;
for her eyes fell from the geraniums to the toes of her visitor, as if
she had the art of discovering the character of a man by the state of his
boots.

“I hope you will excuse the appearance of a stranger at”—

The lady interrupted him with, “None of the cleanest, indeed, Mr.
Thingumbob.  Good God, Susan, why did’nt you tell him to wipe his feet on
the mat!”

“I beg you will excuse,”—continued my friend, apologizing.

“Well, I suppose I must excuse.  My gracious! what are you doing, sir?
you’ve put your nasty wet hat upon my beautiful rose-wood table!  Why,
Susan, I say, bring a cloth—who could ever believe that any man would
bring his hat into a parlour! you stupid girl, is that the way to rub a
table? use a little elbow grease, you intolerable slow coach—there, get
away and let me do it myself!” and with that the lady snatched the cloth
from the hands of her domestic, and began rubbing and puffing in a style
which sufficiently proved she was capable of _giving_, if not _receiving_
a polish.

After ten minutes’ exercise, the lady returned the rubber to the servant,
and with a face ruddy as the full moon at its rising, seated herself upon
the chair, and cast a look of satisfaction round the room at the peculiar
neatness of its appearance.

“I perceive, madam,” said my friend, “you take particular delight in
seeing your apartments kept clean and neat, and the arrangement of this
room does honour to your taste;” he had touched the string that vibrated
to her heart.

“I confess, sir, I feel a pride in seeing every thing in its place, and
cleanliness is an indispensable qualification in the servant I engage.
Will you believe me, sir, when I tell you that this girl you just saw, is
the forty-ninth I have had in the last twelvemonth, and I have no more
idea of keeping her than I have of taking back any of her predecessors.”

“Ah madam, servants are sad plagues!”

“Plagues, sir, they are devils.  Why, it was but yesterday, when I
thought my house, from the attic to the kitchen, was so clean, that not a
speck of dirt could be visible to a fly, I was obliged to upset a whole
boiler full of the most delicious pea-soup into the middle of the
kitchen!”

The phrenologist lifted up his legs, by instinct, as if he felt the
sprinkling of it upon them, and exclaimed, “How unfortunate!”

“Unfortunate, sir, it was insupportable,” cried the lady; “but I made her
clean it up again!”

My learned friend was then put to a nonplus; he could not for the life of
him, make out why Mrs. — should have taken the trouble to upset a boiler
of pea-soup into the middle of the clean kitchen; and this he politely
requested her to explain.

“Why, I’ll tell you, sir, it is my pleasure to see every thing in its
place, and a grease spot to me is as bad as a plague spot to many.  Now,
sir, although the kitchen looked better, I’ll be bound to say, than any
other kitchen in town, yet I was anxious to see if my servant had obeyed
my orders in taking a spot of grease out of the boards, which by accident
fell upon them the day before; so lifting up the oil-cloth—judge of my
horror and dismay to find it untouched!  I inquired the reason.  The
servants had the impudence to tell me, they had not time, at which, I
made no more ado, but threw the boiler of soup upon it, which took them a
good two hours to clean up again.  I _will_ have every thing done, and in
order.”

“Indeed, madam,” said my friend, “I perceive the admirable effects of
your system—this room is in admirable order.”

“This room, sir! have the goodness to walk into my bed-room up stairs!”

My phrenological friend, although he had passed the meridian of life,
could not help thinking this invitation rather extraordinary, more
particularly so, when the lady desired him to take off his shoes.

“For,” said she, “I never allow even my husband to come up stairs in his
shoes.”

Now it so happened that my friend had a particular reason for wishing to
avoid this ceremony, having walked a hole in one of his stockings the day
before, and the laundress was in possession of his _other_ pair.
Nothing, however, could alter her determination of exhibiting her
cleanliness.  She protested he should see her bed-room, and insisted on
his taking off his shoes!

With a shrug _à la française_, he submitted, but had not ascended half
way up the stair-case before the lady who followed, perceived the injury
his hose had sustained, and with a cry of horror exclaimed, “Susan! bring
up a needle and thread!” the words were scarcely uttered, when the girl
appeared, and without hesitation (without asking him to draw off his
hose) seizing him by the foot, compelled him to submit to her needle’s
operation; blushing and confounded at the awkward position his
unjustifiable curiosity had drawn him into; having completed her orders,
the girl descended to the kitchen, while he ascended to a square landing
place on the first floor.  On the outside of the window was a veranda
filled with the choicest plants and flowers; the casement being open a
delightful breeze entered the house, bringing with it the odours of the
little garden; and he was about making a complimentary observation upon
the admirable arrangement of her bough-pots, when, helter-skelter, in,
through the casement, bolted a large tabby cat, and with a spring,
clearing my friend’s shoulders, alighted upon the elegantly laced cap of
the precise Mrs. —.  They had not time to recover from their first alarm,
when down tumbled all the roses, lignum vitæs, rhododandrums, geraniums
and myrtles, being dislodged by a huge tom-cat rushing in, in pursuit of
the aforesaid timid feline intruder.  Crash, crash! went the
bough-pots—squall, squall, went the lady.  Damnation! exclaimed the
gentleman.  The lady’s foot slipped, and she slid and bumped to the
bottom of the stairs; the phrenologist, endeavouring to save her,
blundered completely over the lady.  The two cats scampered round and
athwart the elegantly arranged parlour, dislodging every ornament from
the chimney-piece; and at length, my friend, having recovered his shoes,
hastily snatched up his hat and cane, and made a precipitate escape from
the house of a lady, who was unfortunate in having the bump of _order_
too strongly developed.

                                * * * * *

We arrived at the castle in Conway greatly fatigued, and equally
delighted with our day’s ramble.




CHAPTER XII.


Route to Aber—Penmaen Mawr—The pet Goat—Aber—Legend of Llewllyn and the
Captive Knight—Road from Aber to Bangor—Penrhyn Castle—Bangor—Inns—The
Cathedral—The Castle—Free Schools—The Menai Bridge—Song, Farewell to
North Wales, air, Ar Hyd y Nos—Conclusion.

    “When the heathen trumpets clang
    Round beleaguer’d Chester rang,
    Veiled nun and friar grey
    March’d from Bangor’s fair Abbaye:
    High their holy Anthem sounds,
    Cestria’s vale the hymn rebounds,
    Floating down the silver Dee,
                   O Miserere Domine!”

                                                         SIR WALTER SCOTT.

ON the following morning, we started for Aber.  The coast scenery is
extremely grand; and passing, the promontory of Penmaen Bach, a
semicircular range of mountains, stretching to the overpeering height of
Penmaen Mawr, from a delightful shelter to one of the most beautiful
coast retreats in North Wales.

The present road winds round the waist of Penmaen Mawr, and nothing can
exceed the terrors that, above and underneath it, meet the eye of the
traveller.  A few goats are generally seen wandering among the shingly
surface; and their motions, though so light, send the loose fragments
down, like the fall of a glacier.  As I stood gazing on the awful depth
beneath, four large pieces of rock rolled into the centre of the road,
not ten yards from the place where I was standing, the smallest of which,
had it touched me, would have caused instant death, or disabled me in
such a manner as to have prevented my venturing upon a second tour.  I
turned my eyes above, and thought upon the legend of Dolbadarn; and my
blood chilled to think, if, by any chance, a steed and rider should be
precipitated over its brow—what a spectacle they would exhibit at its
base!  But, at the time of the legend, there was scarce footing for a
goat to pass along, and nothing to interrupt the parties from finally
plunging into the sea.

“When last I visited this spot,” said my companion, “I observed a man
sitting by the road side, with his hands clasped, his elbows resting upon
his knees, and his face bespeaking feelings of deep sorrow.  I have a
strong aversion to intruding on the secrets of others; but this lorn man,
seated in such a solitary situation, and forming so interesting a
foreground in the picture, made me desirous of entering into conversation
with him, in order to discover the source of his grief.

“‘You seem to be in grief, my friend; can I do anything to relieve it?’

“‘God bless you, sir, you cannot.’

“‘May be otherwise, if you will tell me the cause.’

“‘I’ll tell you, sir; but it is out of your power to repair my loss.’

“He then feelingly related the following simple tale.”



THE PET GOAT.


About three years ago, sir, I married one of the prettiest girls you ever
saw—an inhabitant of the neighbouring village.  Her good heart was light,
and her hand always open to the stranger and the poor, as far as our
means could afford.  We were married in the little church of Aber, and a
merry one was our wedding day.  Her mother gave me a young kid upon the
occasion, which we took home with us and brought up in the cottage, as
you would a dog that you loved for the giver’s sake; and for its own sake
I loved the pretty animal.  It was as playful and as gentle as a kitten;
and I taught it a number of tricks that greatly amused all our
neighbours.  Truan hyny!  At length, my poor Mary brought me a boy, but
she, poor girl, was too delicate to suckle the infant, and my gentle
goat, that had lately brought forth two kids, supplied us with milk for
the child, who did well, and God be praised, still does well;—my poor pet
was the saving of his life.  Well, I went to my work, as usual, and Mary
made my home a heaven upon earth;—for she was an angel, and furnished me
with every comfort that mortal could desire.  God bless her!—and she is
blessed, if goodness finds bliss in heaven, which no one doubts.

Well, sir, a second year flew away quickly, and my partner brought me
forth twins—the sweetest babes eyes ever looked upon, and so like each
other, you couldn’t tell which was which; so we tied a ribbon upon Mary’s
arm, to distinguish her from Kate.  Well, my poor pet goat again stood
wet nurse to the offspring; and my wife recovered her health and
beautiful looks; our evenings passed in talking of what we should do for
them, when they grew up.  Ah, sir, it would have done your heart good to
have seen her blue eyes turned up to the sky, imploring blessings upon
their innocent heads, and every night kneel down to pray to her Creator,
for mercy on herself and me! although He knows better than I do, that she
was as free from soil as the waters of the rocky rill, and you might see
her heart as clearly as the pebbles at its bottom.  Ah! that was a sight
for good men to look upon, and be thankful that they had seen it.  You’ll
excuse me, sir; but I can’t help shedding tears, when I think upon the
fate of poor Mary!—gwae! gwae!

The pet goat, sir, was wandering upon the shelving rocks which now hang
over us, and there were many others above.  Do you see that, sir, with
one of its horns nearly straight, just upon the edge of that projecting
mass?  Just beneath that she was browsing, when, all of a sudden, a large
piece fell from the brow of the mountain, and, lighting upon the body of
my favourite, she was dashed into the centre of the road, just where we
are now standing; and, when I ran to her the look of her bright grey eyes
went to my heart—poor thing!  I never saw anything more affectionate in a
christian; for her looks spoke more than any words I ever heard in the
way of gratitude; and she licked my hand, poor dumb beast! and sighed,
and died without a groan, poor thing! poor thing! (and he wept in the
bitterness of his feeling.)

You may wonder, sir, that I should cry so, when I tell you about the
death of a goat; but it is the consequences attendant upon it that wring
the tears from my eyes.  When poor pet died, my wife was obliged to nurse
her young twins, for no woman could be found in the neighbourhood to
assist her, and I couldn’t afford to buy another goat, and I couldn’t
bear to ask for milk which I wasn’t able to pay for, for all somehow went
wrong with me after the loss of our favourite.  Mary grew weaker and
weaker every day, and I couldn’t go to my work, and leave her, without
any one to watch over her.  My spirit was broken, and I cared for nothing
in the world, but attending the sick bed of Mary and the children.  To be
sure, I managed to get enough for the support of life; but the twins
couldn’t eat the food I brought them.  The mother had not milk enough to
support them; and I saw her, day by day, sinking under the affliction I
had no power to soften.  At length, my two pretty babes died, one after
the other, and Mary’s heart broke to see the stroke of Providence.  She
died too, sir, and with her all that made life dear to me, except my poor
little boy.  I shall never, never recover! and I know that the sod will
shortly be laid upon my head, by the side of the grave where rest the
bones of my dear Mary.

                                * * * * *

The numerous accidents that have happened on this mountain render it an
object of awful interest.  Mr. Pennant, in his tour, relates the
following circumstances:

    “The Rev. Mr. Jones, who in 1762 was the Rector of Llanelian in the
    Isle of Anglesea, fell, with his horse and a midwife behind him, down
    the steepest part.  The _sage-femme_ perished, as did the nag.  The
    divine, however, with great philosophy, unsaddled the steed, and
    marched off with the trappings, exulting at his preservation.”

He relates another accident, that occurred here, in the following words:

    “I have often heard of another accident, attended with such romantic
    circumstances, that I would not venture to mention it, had I not the
    strongest traditional authority to this day, in the mouth of every
    one in the parish of Llanfair Fechan, in which this promontory
    stands.  Sion Humphreys, of this parish, paid his addresses to Ann
    Thomas, of Creuddyn, on the other side of the Conway river.  They had
    made an appointment to meet at a fair in the town of Conway.  He in
    his way fell over Penmaen Mawr.  She was overset in the ferry boat,
    and was the only person saved out of fourscore!  They were married,
    and lived very long together in the parish of Llanfair.  She was
    buried April 11th, 1744, aged 116.  He survived her five years, and
    was buried Dec. 1749, close by her in the parish church yard, where
    their graves are familiarly shown to this day.”

On the summit of a hill, in the neighbourhood of Penmaen Mawr, are the
ruins of an ancient British camp, of vast magnitude, which was deemed
impregnable.  It is a site of considerable interest, as well for its
antiquity, as for the magnificent prospect which it commands of the
ocean, the Isle of Anglesea, the straits, the Ormes head, the island of
Priestholm, the beautiful town of Beaumauris, and the chain of Snowdonia,
of which it is the terminating link.

Having passed round the frightful promontory of Penmaen Mawr, by the
admirable road which, with incredible labour, has been cut by government,
at the expense of £10,000, and forms a belt to the mountain, the country
becomes more fertile; the plantations are larger, and more numerous, and
the hills are clothed with verdure, which never appears upon the wild
forehead of that frowning mass; and hedges rise on either side of the
road, through which the eye is pleased with the sight of waving fields of
grain, until we reach the picturesque village of



ABER.


The name of the inn here is the Bulkley Arms, and a more comfortable
hostel, for one who travels in search of the beauties of nature, cannot
be desired; although, to the fastidious, it may, perhaps, be thought too
small, and to the luxurious it may not offer the viands which he covets.
For myself, give me the room overlooking the beautiful little garden
which sends its thousand perfumes into the apartment, when the sun goes
down and the moon lights up the Menai with her silver beams!  Let me sit,
silent and alone, there—there, where “heavenly pensive contemplation
dwells.”  At the entrance to the glen, upon its eastern side, is a very
high artificial mound, flat at the top, which is said to be the site of a
castle belonging to Llewellyn the great.  On it stands the house of Mr.
Crawley, a sketch of which, with the glen, is annexed.  It was taken from
under the arch of the bridge, and gives a better idea of the scene than
words have power to convey.

The mountain, on the eastern side of the vale is clothed with oak and ash
trees; but, upon the west, there is no foliage.  The river rushes with
great impetuosity after a flood, from its mountain fall, into the Menai
straits, winding through the glen, and encircling several rocky islets in
its course.  The fall is about a mile and a half up the stream, and, at
the extremity of the vale, a convex mountain rises, down which it leaps,
from a height of about sixty feet; and there is said to be a large stone
here, on which the army of Llewellyn sharpened their spears and arrows;
and the marks are still shown to the tourist.

But the prospect from the bridge, which crosses the stream, on the road
to Conway, is the most interesting; from this spot you command a view of
the river, at its greatest magnitude, sparkling along its rock-impeded
course, and behold it dancing and foaming, as if with joy, into the
salts, like a child bounding to its mother.

                             [Picture: Aber]

The following short poem is founded upon a tradition connected with this
place.  It was twilight when the muse flew in at the window, and at that
endearing time I yielded to her influence.  The story is well known to
every villager of this delightful neighbourhood.



LLEWELYN AND THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT.


    Oh! who is he that rides along
    So proudly on his charger strong,
    Amid yon gay and gallant throng
       Through Aber’s lonely vale?

    With plumed casque upon his head,
    And mace at saddle bow so red,
    And battle brand, the foeman’s dread,
       And glittering shirt of mail?

    ’Tis ancient Cambria’s pride and boast,
    Her hope, her strength, her chief, her host,
    Whose fame she spreads from coast to coast.
       And trumpets to the sky!

    And Saxon blood is on his mace,
    And gouts his shining blade deface,
    Hail, bravest of the bravest race!
       And pride of chivalry!

    And who is she, so peerless fair,
    With full dark eye, of lustre rare,
    And snowy neck, and raven hair,
       On palfrey by his side?

    With native gems upon her vest,
    Snowdonia’s own—Snowdonia’s best,
    Rising and sinking on her breast,
       And glance of royal pride?

    The noblest lady of the land,
    (For she with him joined hand to hand
    In wedlock’s stout and holy band),
       Llewelyn’s noble dame.

    For her do bards their praises sing,
    And minstrels strike the sounding string,
    Till mountains high and valleys ring
       With fair Johanna’s name!

    And who is he with drooping plume,
    And golden locks, and brow of gloom,
    Whose cheek hath lost its manly bloom,
       And sorrow speaking eye?

    William de Breos is he hight,
    A courtier fair and gallant knight,
    Ta’en by Llewelyn in the fight
       Before Montgomery.

    Oh! ’tis a glorious sight to see
    The marshalled ranks of liberty,
    With banners waving high and free,
       Wind down the hollow vale;

    Their broad swords flashing in the sun,
    And spears too bright to look upon,
    Returning from the field they’ve won,
       And from the foeman pale.

    The prince within his castle wall,
    There rose a shout from one and all,
    That shook the mountain’s rocky hall,
       And made the welkin ring.

    And gaily passed the wassail bowl,
    While bards poured out the song of soul,
    And martial music crowned the whole,
       Time moved on pleasure’s wing.

    But pleasure’s wing may sometimes lose
    Its plumage bright, of varied hues,
    And time grow dark with sorrow’s dews,
       And cloak itself in care.

    And eyes that wanton love inspire,
    And blaze with light of fierce desire
    Be quenched in floods of anguish dire,
       And wither in despair!

    Months rolled away, and while in war,
    Llewelyn shone the leading star,
    The knight and dame, in pleasure’s car,
       Rolled rapidly along.

    Guilt smiled upon their couch of down,
    But o’er them was an angel’s frown,
    Till their adult’ry, bolder grown,
       Became a ribald song.

    Llewelyn to his home returned,
    Unconscious of his wrong, and burn’d
    To meet the welcome he had earned
       In glory’s sanguine field.

    Cold was the heart he thought his own,
    And colder had his welcome grown,
    And on his forehead sat a frown,
       Which half his fears revealed.

    Unransomed to his Saxon home,
    With promises of gifts to come,
    Southward he bade De Breos roam,
       And gave him friendly grasp.

    The lady wept, Llewelyn smiled,
    “Yield not, sweet wife, to sorrow wild,
    For friendship is a feeling mild;
       Her hand De Breos clasp.”

    The Knight departed on his steed,
    With twenty horsemen for his need,
    To guard him over mount and mead,
       To fair Montgomory.

    But, when he saw the Knight depart,
    Full jealous grew Llewelyn’s heart,
    “Oh can dissimulation’s dart
       Live in Johanna’s eye?”

    Dark rumours reached his tortured ear,
    He gazed upon his lady near,
    And vengeance whispered “Chieftain, here
       Must the foul spoiler die.”

    A month had scarcely rolled away,
    When to the Knight, so proud and gay,
    Predestined for revenge’s prey
       He sent a Herald light.

    With soothing speech, and present rare,
    And invitation to repair
    With speed of horse, and heedful care,
       To Aber’s Castle bright.

    The Herald well De Breos knew,
    On wings of guilty love he flew,
    His foul dishonour to renew
       With great Llewelyn’s dame.

    But fatal was the meeting now,
    Llewelyn knit his dreadful brow,
    His angry blood began to glow,
       And in his eye was flame.

    “Down with the slave to dungeon dark!
    Disgrace to knighthood, hear and mark!
    Upon the gibbet, cold and stark,
       To-morrow shalt thou hang.

    “No more to whisper, fawn and lie—
    No more to gaze with wanton eye,
    No more to mix with chivalry,
       Or hear its martial clang.”

    Johanna knows not of the fate
    That on her paramour doth wait;
    But e’er the sun through heaven’s gate
       Rolls forth to gild the sea;

    Three taps upon her chamber door,
    Hath roused her from her dreams of yore,
    And stern upon her rush-strewn floor
       Llewelyn doth she see.

    He seized her by the raven hair
    “What wouldst thou give, my lady fair.
    To see that Knight, so debonair,
       De Breos, once again?”

    “Strong Aber’s castle which we dwell in,
    Wales, fair England, and Llewelyn,
    All I’d give to see my Gwilym,
       But all I wish in vain.”

    He dragged her from her secret bower,
    While thunder on his brow did lower,
    And pointed to the falcon tower,
       “Behold, false dame,” he cried,

    “Behold once more the traitor fell,
    On gallows hung, while fiends in hell
    Are shouting forth his passing knell.”
       The lady looked—and died.

The road from Aber to Bangor is replete with interesting scenery.  The
mountains assume a dark and gloomy grandeur, half clad in rolling
vapours, which at intervals reveal their black and purple forms, their
barren summits and deep hollows, to the eye.  Towering above them all,
Benclog rises conspicuous, into whose threatening gorge the road to Capel
Curig winds, like a snake venturing into some monster’s jaws which
appears ready to devour it.  Upon the right, the shores of Anglesea, with
its luxuriant woods, are seen stretching down to the Menai, and agreeably
diversify the scene.  Before us rose the lofty towers of Penrhyn Castle,
with Port Penrhyn and its shipping in the distance.  Altogether, the
prospect is glorious, and the finest effects I ever saw produced by
mountain scenery are continually varying here; for, however bright the
day may be upon the straights, and along their shores, the Canaervonshire
mountains are generally half concealed by mists, upon which the sunbeams
fall, causing them to assume countless hues of the most brilliant nature,
which contrast finely with the ponderous forms round which they play in
never ceasing variety.

Near the spot where the London road branches off from the Chester, is the
grand entrance to Penrhyn Castle, the property of G. H. D. Pennant Esq.
The lodge is a beautiful specimen of substantial architecture; it is
protected by a corresponding gateway, massive and imposing.  The park
wall extends circularly seven miles, and is thirteen feet high.  To
describe the magnificence of the interior of the castle I feel would
prove a vain effort, and I earnestly recommend all tourists who take this
route not to quit the neighbourhood without seeing it, or they will be
reproached for slighting one of the grandest treats old Cambria can
afford them.



BANGOR.


This town derives its name from Ban Cor, which means the high choir.

We stopped at the Penrhyn Arms, a most commodious inn, which is capable,
it is said, of making up one hundred beds nightly.  It occupies a
commanding situation, and from the back premises embraces a noble
prospect—the straights, the shore of Anglesea, the bay of Beaumauris,
Penrhyn Castle, Puffin Island, Paenman Mawr, and the Great Orme’s Head,
with the ocean in the distance.

There are other excellent inns in the town, namely the Castle, the
Liverpool arms, and the Albion: the latter, kept by Hughs, is extremely
comfortable, and the landlord civil and obliging, as I most willingly
testify from experience.  There is no place in Wales so well calculated
for a tourist to make his head quarters as Bangor.  The various spots he
may visit by appropriating a day to each, would supply him with
gratification for a month at least.



THE CATHEDRAL


was founded by Maelgwn Gwynedd, King of Wales, of whom I have had
occasion to speak before, as the patron of Taliesin, the celebrated Welsh
bard.

The original edifice, which was erected in 525, was destroyed in 1071,
and rebuilt shortly after, but was again reduced to ruins by Owen
Glyndwr, and for ninety years was neglected, until Bishop Dean restored
the choir, and the body of the tower was rebuilt by Bishop Skeffington,
in 1532, which still remains in a perfect state of preservation.  The
free school was founded in 1557, by Dr. Jeffry Glynn, upon the site of an
ancient parish church, built by King Edgar, within about 400 yards of the
present cathedral, and is considered an excellent preparatory seminary
for Oxford and Cambridge.

The remains of an ancient castle, built by Hugh Lupus, Earl of Chester,
in the reign of Henry II, are still visible upon a rock opposite to the
free school, and some pieces of scoria, found on the spot, lead us to
suppose arrows were manufactured there.  At the back of the friar’s
school is another hill, and on the top of it are the remains of a British
encampment.

The town, within the last twenty years, has been extended to nearly four
times its original magnitude, and possesses an appearance of cleanliness
particularly gratifying.  The London mail passes to and fro every day, as
does the Chester and Liverpool; and two daily coaches also start for
London, one to Chester and Liverpool, two to Caernarvon, and a mail to
Pwllheli.  The great lion of Bangor is



THE MENAI BRIDGE.


The principal opening between the supporting pyramids is 560 feet in
breadth, through which the vessels pass with all their canvass set,
without the least danger of their masts touching the overhanging bridge.
There are four stone arches upon the Anglesea side, and three upon the
Carnaervon, which complete the road way, and have each a span of fifty
feet.  The length of the bridge is 800 feet, and its height is 100 feet
above the surface of the Menai at high water.  The weight of the bridge
and its suspending chains, between the pyramids, is six hundred and
thirty-nine tons, nineteen hundred and nine pounds; and that of the
ironwork from one extremity of the chains to the other is estimated at
2130 tons, 1800 consisting of wrought, and three hundred and thirty of
cast iron.

The first stone of this astonishing work was laid by W. A. Provis Esq.,
on the 10th August, 1820; and on the 20th April, 1825, the first main
chain was thrown across the strait.  This important step being completed,
three of the workmen, in the height of their enthusiasm, ventured to walk
along the chain from pyramid to pyramid; and a cobbler no less daring and
enthusiastic, seated himself in the centre of the curve, and, while
suspended at the fearful height, with sky above and the deep water of the
strait gliding beneath him, drove the last sparable into one of those
convenient comforts called clogs.

The view from the centre of the bridge beggars description.  Waving
woods, barren precipices, distant mountains, Bangor and Beaumauris,
Penrhyn Castle, Paenman Mawr, the Great Orme’s Head, the ocean, and the
strait, are objects that dazzle and astonish from the exquisite beauty of
their natural arrangement.

My task is done.  I have taken leave of my phrenological friend; the
steam boat is dropping slowly to Garth point to take in passengers for
Liverpool; and I must now quit this lovely land—never perhaps to see it
more.  But let me hope the sketches I have given of its various charms
will induce others to take the path which I have pursued with so much
pleasure.  It leads through the most interesting portion of the country.
For the artist, there is an inexhaustible store of beauty.  The geologist
and mineralogist will find the lore they thirst for, in almost every hill
and valley, through which they pass.  The smoke-dried citizen may have
the London _blacks_ blown from his garments by the healthful mountain
breeze, and drink huge draughts of the pure air until he feels
intoxicated with pleasure, while he is enabled to supply himself cheaply
with a valuable stock of delightful recollections that will enable him,
at any time, to raise a visionary paradise around him—to banish painful
thoughts; for, in fine, pain must give place to pleasure, gloom to
sunshine, blue devils to hilarity, and sickness to invigorating health,
in the enchanting principality of NORTH WALES.




APPENDIX.


SNOWDON


FIRST received its name from the Saxons, and signifies a mountain covered
with snow.  It was held sacred by the Ancient Britons, who believed that
those who slept upon it became inspired.  The perpendicular height of the
mountain is 1190 yards, and, as the state of the atmosphere hindered me
from attempting the ascent, I have selected the accounts of the most
celebrated tourists for the benefit of those who may be more fortunate
than I was.



MR. PENNANT’S ASCENT.


“Ascend above _Cwm Brwynog_ a very deep bottom.  In the course of our
ascent, saw on the left above the Cwm, _Moel y Cynghorion_, or the Hill
of Council; pass through _Bwlch Maes-y-cwm_, and skirt the side of
Snowdon, till we reach _Bwlch Cwm Brwynog_, where the ascent becomes very
difficult on account of its vast steepness; people here usually quit
their horses.  We began a toilsome march, clambering among the rocks.  On
the left were the precipices over _Brwynog_ with _Llyn Du yr Arddwy_ at
their foot; on our right, were those over the small lakes _Llyn Glâs_,
_Llyn y Naddroed_, and _Llyn Côch_.  The last is the highest on this side
the mountain; and on whose margins, we were told that in fairy days,
those diminutive gentry kept their revels.

“This space between precipice and precipice formed a short and no very
agreeable isthmus, till we reached a verdant expanse which gave us some
respite before we laboured up another series of broken crags; after these
is a second smooth tract, which reaches almost to the summit, and by way
of pre-eminence is styled _Y Wyddfa_, or The Conspicuous.  It rises
almost to a point, or at least there is but room for a circular wall of
loose stones, within which travellers usually take their repast.

“The view from this exalted situation is unbounded.  In a former tour I
saw from it the hills of Yorkshire, part of the north of England,
Scotland, and Ireland; a plain view of the Isle of Man, and that of
Anglesey lay extended like a map beneath me with every rill visible.  I
took much pains to see this prospect to advantage, sat up at a farm on
the west till about twelve, and walked up the whole way.  The night was
remarkably fine and starry: towards morn, the stars faded away, and left
a short interval of darkness, which soon dispersed by the dawning of the
day.  The body of the sun appeared most distinct with the rotundity of
the moon, before it rose high enough to render its beams too brilliant
for our sight.  The sea which bounded the western part was gilt by its
rays, first in slender streaks, at length glowing with redness.  The
prospect was disclosed like the gradual drawing up of a curtain in a
theatre.  We saw more and more till the heat became so powerful as to
attract the mists from the various lakes, which in a slight degree
obscured the prospect.  The shadow of the mountain was flung many miles,
and shewed its bicapitated form; the _Wyddfa_ making one, _Crib y
Dysdyll_ the other head.  I counted this time between twenty and thirty
lakes either in this county, or Merionethshire.  The day proved so
excessively hot, that my journey cost me the skin of the lower part of my
face before I reached the resting place.”

At another visit, the same celebrated traveller remarks—“On this day, the
sky was obscured very soon after I got up; a vast mist enveloped the
whole circuit of the mountain; the prospect down was horrible.  It gave
an idea of numbers of abysses concealed by a thick smoke, furiously
circulating round us.  Very often a gust of wind formed an opening in the
clouds, which gave a fine and distinct view of lake and valley.
Sometimes, they opened only in one place, at others in many at once,
exhibiting a most strange and perplexing view of water, fields, rocks or
chasms, in fifty different places.  They then closed at once, and left us
involved in darkness; in a short time, they would separate again, and fly
in wild eddies round the middle of the mountains, and expose in parts
both tops and bases clear to our view.  We descended from this various
scene with great reluctance, but before we reached our horses a thunder
storm overtook us.  Its rolling among the mountains was inexpressibly
awful, the rain uncommonly heavy.  We remounted our horses, and gained
the bottom with great hazard.  The little rills which on our ascent
trickled along the gullies on the sides of the mountain, were now swelled
into torrents, and we and our steeds passed with the utmost risk of being
swept away by these sudden waters.  At length, we arrived safe, yet
sufficiently wet and weary, to our former quarters.

“It is very seldom that the traveller gets a propitious day to ascend
Snowdon; for often when it appears clear, it becomes suddenly and
unexpectedly enveloped in mist by its attraction of clouds, which just
before seemed remote and at great heights.  At times, I have observed
them lower to half their heights, and notwithstanding they have been
dispersed to the right and to the left, yet they have met from both sides
and united to involve the summit in one great obscurity.  The quantity of
water which flows from the lakes of Snowdonia is very considerable; so
much, that I doubt not but collectively they would exceed the waters of
the Thames before it meets the conflux of the ocean.”



MR. BINGLEY’S ASCENT.


This industrious and persevering traveller observes: “I had made a
determination soon after I came into Wales, that I would ascend Snowdon
by all the tracks that are usually pointed out to travellers.”  This
gentleman had already accomplished the task in three instances, his
routes being first from Dôlbadarn Castle, secondly from Llanberis, and
thirdly from Llyn Cwellyn.  The fourth, the description of which we are
about to borrow, as more descriptive than any of the others, is the route
from Bedd-gelert.  He says: “The distance from Bedd-gelert to the summit,
being reckoned not less than six miles, and a lady being one of our
number, it was thought most eligible for her to ride as far as she could
without danger, and for the rest to walk the whole of the way.  In this
manner therefore, we set out, commencing our _mountain_ journey by
turning to the right, from the Caernarvon road, at the distance of about
two miles and a half from the village.  We left the horse at a cottage,
about half way up, from whence taking a bottle of milk to mix with some
rum that we had brought along with us, we continued our route over a
series of pointed and craggy rocks.

“Stopping at different times to rest, we enjoyed to the utmost the
prospects that by degrees were opening round us.  Caernarvon and the Isle
of Anglesey, aided by the brightness of the morning, were seen to great
advantage; and Cwellyn below us, shaded by the vast Mynydd Mawr, with
Castell Cidwu at its foot, appeared extremely beautiful.

“In ascending the mountains, which from below seemed of immense height,
they began now to appear beneath us; the lakes and valleys were more
exposed, and all the little rills and mountain streams by degrees became
visible to us, like silver lines intersecting the hollows around.
Towards the upper part of the mountain, we passed over a tremendous ridge
of rock, called _Clawdd Côch_, the Red Ridge.  This narrow pass, not more
than ten or twelve feet across, and two or three hundred yards in length
was so steep that the eye reached on each side, down the whole extent of
the mountain.  And I am persuaded that in some parts of it if a person
held a large stone in each hand, and let them both fell at once, each
might roll above a quarter of a mile, and thus when they stopped they
might be more than half a mile asunder.

“The lady who accompanied us, to my great surprise, passed the ridge
without the least apparent signs of fear or trepidation.  There is no
danger whatever in passing Clawdd Côch in the day-time, but I must
confess that I should by no means like to venture along this tract in the
night, as many do who have never seen it.  If the moon shone very bright,
we might, it is true, escape unhurt, but a dark cloud coming suddenly
over would certainly expose us to much danger.  Many instances have
occurred of persons who having passed over it in the night were so
terrified at seeing it by daylight the next morning, that they have not
dared to return the same way, but have gone a very circuitous round by
Bettws.  I was informed that one gentleman had been so much alarmed, that
he crawled over it back again on his hands and knees.  In the hollow on
the left of the ascent are four small pools, called _Llyn Côch_, the red
pool; _Llyn Glâs_, the blue pool; _Llyn y Nadroedd_, the adder’s pool;
and _Llyn Ffynnon y Gwâs_, the servant’s pool.

“Soon after we had passed Clawdd Côch, we became immersed in light
clouds, till we arrived at the summit of the mountain, when a single
gleam of sunshine, which lasted but for a moment, presented us with the
majestic scenery on the west of our station.  It served only, however, to
tantalize our hopes; for a smart gust of wind again obscured us in
clouds.  We now sheltered ourselves from the cold, under some of the
projecting rocks near the top, and ate our dinners, watching with anxiety
the dark shades in the clouds, in hopes that a separation might take
place, and that we should be once more delighted with a sight of the
grand objects around us.  We did not watch in vain, for the clouds by
degrees cleared away, and left us at full liberty to admire the numerous
beauties in this expansive scene.  The steep rock of _Clogwn y Garnedd_,
whose dreadful precipices are some of them above two hundred yards in
perpendicular height, and the whole rock, a series of precipices, was an
object which first struck one of my companions with terror, and he
exclaimed almost involuntarily,

                How fearful
    And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eye so low!
    The crows and choughs that wing the mid-way air
    Scarce shew so gross as beetles.

“We now stood on a point which commanded the whole dome of the sky.  The
prospects below, each of which we had before considered separately as a
grand scene, were now only miniature parts of the immense landscape.  We
had around us such a variety of mountains, valleys, lakes, and streams,
each receding behind the ether, and bounded only by the far distant
horizon, that the eye almost strained itself with looking upon them.
These majestic prospects were soon shut from our sight by the gathering
clouds, which now began to close in much heavier than they had done
before; and it was in vain that we waited near an hour for another
opening.

“We were, therefore, at length obliged to descend, in despair of being
any more gratified with these sublime prospects.  We again passed Clawd
Côch, and soon afterwards, turning to the left, descended into the
mountain vale, called _Cwm Llan_.  We followed the course of a stream,
which flows from thence into Llyn y Dinas, in Nant Gwynant.  This little
rivulet entertained us much in its descent, being in many places thrown
over low rocks, forming small but sometimes elegant cascades.  After a
walk of two hours, we arrived in Nant Hwynan, the vale that I had
traversed with so much pleasure a day or two before; and passing by Llyn
y Dinas, and Dinas Emrys, soon afterwards reached Bedd-gelert, not a
little fatigued with our mountain ramble.

“I observed near a cottage in Cwm Llan, that several children were
employed in gathering the berries of the mountain ash.  On inquiring of
the guide to what purpose this was done, he informed me that the Welsh
people brew from them a liquor which they call _Dïod Grïafol_.  This, he
said, was done by merely crushing the berries, and putting water to them,
which, after remaining a fortnight, is drawn off for use.  The flavour,
as I understood him, was somewhat like that of perry.”



ASCENT FROM DOLBADARN.


This account is taken from a small useful publication, entitled “Guide to
Bangor, Beaumaris, and Snowdonia,” by Mr. John Smith, of Liverpool.  The
narrative is written by a friend of Mr. Smith, who, the latter informs
us, was a companion of the late lamented Belzoni, and the period when the
ascent was performed was the summer of 1825.

“It was about half-past twelve when we left our inn at Dôlbadarn, and I
think a more lovely morning we could not be favoured with: nature did
indeed seem at rest; not a cloud appeared to move, and a bright and
nearly full moon, which had passed the meridian, seemed as if waiting to
light us on our way.  Our party consisted of three of the ladies, (the
fourth not having strength for the task) Mr. M., myself, two gentlemen
who joined us at Dôlbadarn, our guide, and his faithful dog.  The ladies
were furnished with a stout pony each, but the gentlemen preferred
climbing on foot the steep ascent, and I believe, before they returned,
repented heartily having done so.  The guide was equipped with a leathern
belt, to which was buckled a tin vessel containing water, and a staff
which seemed well worn with the hard service in which it was employed.

“We proceeded across a small rivulet a short distance from the inn, and
soon entered on a kind of mountain horse-path, composed of loose slate
and stones, of which our pedestrians soon began to be weary.  After
ascending this about a mile, we arrived at a rough fence of turf and
stones, where the road wound round the side of a mountain, and entered a
kind of defile, through which we had to proceed.  Here our guide desired
us to look back at the view beneath us, and when we did so, our feelings
and expressions of delight and astonishment were general.  Below us, the
lake of Llanberis lay stretched like an immense mirror in the shade, with
one bright silvery ray resting on its glassy surface, in which part of
the steep mountains that surrounded it appeared reflected.  To attempt to
describe the beautiful and varying tints on those mountains would be as
useless a task, as the most vivid colours would be foolishly employed in
trying to represent them.  In the distance and on our right, Dôlbadarn
tower was just visible at the head of the lower lake, and on our left the
inn, surrounded with the only trees in the neighbourhood, formed a
striking object: we reflected with pleasure, as we looked towards it,
that the lady whose health would not allow her to accompany us, was there
enjoying a refreshing sleep, and would, when awake, be anxiously waiting
for our return, and to hear the various accounts we should give of our
expedition.

“We again turned our faces towards Snowdon, on the same road I have
before mentioned, and the mild, yet awful and magnificent scene before us
afforded abundant themes for conversation and remark.  In three or four
places light fleecy clouds, edged with silver by the moonbeam, and which
at first appeared resting on the sides of the mountains, now seemed to be
slowly rolling down their steep sides, and generally mixing with the deep
gloom of the valleys below us.  Though surrounded by nature’s grandest
works, I fancy some of the party were tired even here, as many inquiries
had been made relative to the distance we had still to proceed.  However,
the guide, suddenly stopping, informed us we were now at the ‘half-way
house;’ but no house was to be seen, and on looking round for it, we
could perceive nothing but a small stream which trickled down the steep,
and which replenished our guide’s water vessel, which had been emptied
some time before by the continual demands upon it. {384}

“We had proceeded now about three miles, and left our slate road by
passing through a small wicket which opened on the heath, near which the
sagacity of one of the ponys surprised us.  The poor animal was blind,
and on arriving within three feet of the wicket, which was open, it drew
up, and would not proceed till led through by the bridle.  One would
fancy it had almost numbered its paces.  It is surprising with what
safety and agility these animals walk over the steep paths and stones
they have to pass; and the guide assured us that he had been in the habit
of going with travellers nearly twenty years, and never knew a single
accident occasioned by them.

“The soft heath we were now passing was a relief to our feet, though it
was so steep that we were sometimes obliged to wait to regain breath.  At
this time, we were on the top of a hill, which we fancied was the last we
had to mount before the peak of Snowdon, and willingly thought the summit
of the bold front before us was to be the end of our journey.  Thence the
way was over a kind of ridge, perhaps forty yards wide, one side of which
was perpendicular for several hundred feet, and the other so steep that
no one could stop or steady himself upon it.  Daylight now began to
appear, to show us more distinctly the steeps we were amongst; and,
though we well knew the breadth of the ridge was such that there could be
no danger, yet I am sure we all felt that unpleasant sensation which few
can approach the edge of a precipice without experiencing in some degree.
Tremendous gusts of wind, too, which passed the long heath with a
singular whizzing noise, giving warning of their approach, and almost
blowing us off our feet as they assailed us, did not make any of us feel
easier.

“However, we went boldly on without accident, except a hat and bonnet
blowing off, which were fortunately recovered, and nearly reached the top
of what we had all taken to be our journey’s end, when the guide
exclaimed, pointing to a high peak before us, “There is Snowdon top;” and
we had the mortification to find that we had still a climbing of
three-quarters of a mile before us.  This powerfully reminded us of a
couplet by Pope:

    ‘The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes,
    Hills peep o’er hills, and alps on alps arise.’

A few minutes more brought us to a small inclosure of stones, where the
horses were put up, as they could proceed no further, and now the ladies
were obliged to foot it.  Here one of the gentlemen gave in, declaring he
would proceed no further, and laid down on the moss, saying he would wait
our return.  Perhaps a little rest was of service to him, for he
afterwards joined us on the top of Snowdon.  The road here is along the
edge of the steep side of the mountain, which is almost perpendicular,
and is broken with large fragments of slate, stone, and spar, of various
kinds, to the very summit, which to our great joy, we at last attained
about half-past four o’clock.  Had we waited for months we could not have
had a more beautiful time; as the guide expressed himself, ‘Snowdon has
its days, and this is one of them.’  We sat down; in a few minutes the
moon, which had so favoured us, declined behind one of the western
mountains, and almost at the same instant the red tints on the eastern
horizon foretold the approach of the king of day, the effect of whose
rising on such a scene as that below and around us, was the most
magnificent sight we ever beheld.”

The descent is not related by the writer of the above description.  I
understand, however, it was merrily performed by all the party, whose
fatigue in the expedition well qualified them to feel the luxury of a few
hours’ repose at Dôlbadarn.



PROSPECT FROM THE SUMMIT.


In the foregoing descriptions by three of our most respectable tourists,
sufficient is contained to afford the traveller a tolerably good idea of
the nature of the ascent to the top of Snowdon; and we shall only add the
subjoined animated description of a view from its summit, by the author
of the “Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature.”

“After climbing over masses of crags and rocks, we ascended the peak of
Snowdon.  Arrived at its summit, a scene presented itself, magnificent
beyond the powers of language!  Indeed, language is indigent and impotent
when it would presume to sketch scenes on which the Great Eternal has
placed his matchless finger with delight.  Faint are thy broad and deep
delineations, immortal Salvator Rosa!  Powerless and feeble are your
inspirations, genius of Thompson, Virgil, and Lucretius!

“From this point are seen five-and-twenty lakes.—Seated on one of the
crags, it was long before the eye, unaccustomed to measure such
elevations, could accommodate itself to scenes so admirable:—the whole
appearing as if there had been a war of the elements; and as if we were
the only inhabitants of the globe permitted to contemplate the ruins of
the world.  Rocks and mountains, which when observed from below, bear all
the evidence of sublimity, when viewed from the summit of Snowdon, are
blended with others as dark, as rugged, and as elevated as themselves;
the whole resembling the swellings of an agitated ocean.

“The extent of this prospect appears almost unlimited.  The four kingdoms
are seen at once: Wales, England, Scotland, and Ireland! forming the
finest panorama the empire can boast.  The circle begins with the
mountains of Cumberland and Westmorland; those of Ingleborough and
Penygent, in the county of York, and the hills of Lancashire follow; then
are observed the counties of Chester, Flint, Denbigh, and a portion of
Montgomeryshire.  Nearly the whole of Merioneth succeeds; and drawing a
line with the eye along the diameter of the circle, we take in the
regions stretching from the triple crown of Cader Idris to the sterile
crags of Carnedds-David and Llewellyn.  Snowdon, rising in the centre,
appears as if he could touch the south with his right hand, and the north
with his left.  ‘Surely,’ thought Colonna, ‘Cæsar sat upon these crags
when he formed the daring conception of governing the world!’

“From Cader Idris the eye, pursuing the orbit of the bold geographical
line, glances over the bay of Cardigan, and reposes for a while on the
summit of the Rivals.—After observing the indented shores of
Caernarvonshire, it travels over a long line of ocean, till in the
extremity of the horizon the blue mountains of Wicklow terminate the
perspective.  Those mountains gradually sink along the coast till they
are lost to the eye; which ranging along the expanse, at length, as weary
of the journey, reposes on the Island of Man, and the distant mountains
of Scotland.  The intermediate space is occupied by the sides and summits
of mountains, hollow crags, masses of rocks, the towers of Caernarvon,
the fields of Anglesea, with woods, lakes, and glens, scattered in
magnificent confusion.

“A scene like this commands our feelings to echo, as it were, in unison
to its grandeur and sublimity.  The thrill of astonishment, and the
transport of imagination seem to contend for the mastery, and nerves are
touched that never thrilled before.  We seem as if our former existence
were annihilated, and as a new epoch were commenced.  Another world opens
upon us; and an unlimited orbit appears to display itself as a theatre
for our ambition.”

                                * * * * *



Page 266, line 5.


Among other ceremonies performed in the preparations for knighthood, the
candidate went into a bath, which was symbolical of the purity of the
soul.  He was then placed in a bed, which signified the rest he was
hereafter to enjoy in Paradise; and when he had slept, the Neophyte was
clothed in a shirt, which white dress betokened the purity of his new
character.—_See Miles’s History of Chivalry_.

                                * * * * *



Page 367.


    “The lady looked—and died.”

According to poetical justice she certainly should have died.  But the
lady recovered, and her good natured lord not only forgave her this slip,
but many others of a similar nature, and for her _earthly virtues_ had
her proclaimed a _heavenly saint_, after she had paid the debt of nature.




INDEX.


Aber, the ‘Bulkely Arms,’ at, 360; scenery near, 360, 367.
Aber Glas Llynn, bridge at, 237.
Abernodwydd, brook of, 114.
Actor, adventures related by an, 34.
Alphabet, Welsh, power of some letters of the, 5.
Appendix, 385.
Ardudwy, pass of, 187.
Arran Fowddwy mountain, 150.
Arrenig Vawr, hill of, 156, 187.

                                * * * * *

Bala, scenery near, 145; inn at, 151, 157; Llyn Tegid, 155, 159; the town
of, 159; Tommen-y-Bala, _ib._
Bardsey Island, bards of, 186.
Barmouth, the ‘Commercial Inn’ at, 81; town of, 183.
Beddgelert, the ‘Goat Inn’ at, 240; the grave of Llewellyn’s hound,
Gelert, 241.
Bettwys-y-Coed, iron bridge near, 293.
Birmingham, halt at, 21.
Butler, Lady Elinor, and Miss Ponsonby, their residence described, 97.
Bwlch Tyddiad, romantic scenery of, 207.

                                * * * * *

Cader Idris, altitude of, 171; traditions of, 172; views of, 179, 209.
Caernarvonshire chain of hills described, 185, 210.
Capel Curig, chapel, etc. at, 286, 291.
Car, jaunting, in Wales, 163.
Cardigan Bay, scenery and rivers of, 219, 233.
Carreg-y-Saeth, 191; its summit visited, 209.
Celylin Point and Bay, 181.
Chirk and the Ceriog river, 57.
— castle, 68.
Closs, John, story of and monument to, 282.
Conway, the ‘Castle Inn’ at, 324; venerable buildings at, 325;
description of the castle, 326; old customs at, 331; muscle pearl
fishery, 333; ford at Dynas Gonway, 334.
— river, scenery of the, 293, 310, 323, 331.
Corwen, ‘the Welsh Harp’ and ‘Owen Glyndwr’ inns, 138; church and
monuments, 139; new road, 161.
Crafnant, the residence of Mr. Owen, 190.
Cricaeth Castle and Promontory, 218.
Cwym Bychan, Llyn-y, 191; traditional story, 192.

                                * * * * *

Dale, Ann, 124.
Dee, vale of the, 86, 96, 121, 129; the river described, 150.
Dinas Bran Castle, Llangollen, 114.
— Gorten, _see_ Gorten.
Dolbadarn Castle, and Llyns Peris and Padarn, 262.
— legend of, 264, 279.
Dolgelly, vale of, 165, 171, 173; town of, 173; best inns at, 175.
Doluwcheogryd, the residence of Roland Williams Esq. 179.
Dolwyddelan castle, 287.
Drwstynrnt vale, 164, inn of, _ib._
Dunchurch, the inn at, 20.
Dwyryd, valley of the river, 230.

                                * * * * *

Edeyrnion, vale of, 149.
Edward I. his wars in Wales, and strongholds built by, 215, 218, 328.
Einion, gallantry of Dafydd-ap Ivan-ap, 215.
— Howel-ap-, 109, 112.
Eliseg, pillar of, 128.
Ellesmere canal, and aqueduct at Chirk, 58.
Elphin, the Consolation of, a poem, by Taliesin, 323.
Evans, Hugh, story of, 166.

                                * * * * *

Festiniog, inns of the village of, 231.
Fron Fawr, the mountain of, 126.

                                * * * * *

Geirionydd, Llyn, antiquities at, 322.
Giant’s Nightcap, tradition of the stone so named, 262.
Giraldus, Topography of Wales, 288.
Glan Mawddach, loch at, 180.
Gloddarth, the mansion of Lady Mostyn Champneys, 334.
Glossary, Welsh, 6.
Glyndwr, Owen, his manorial possessions, 129: War Tramp of, 131;
traditions of, 134, 174, 178; warfare of, 215.
Gôch Owen, his imprisonment, 263; tomb of Griffith Gôch, 293; Howel
Coetmore, 319.
Gorten Dinas, encampment on, 186; traditions relative to, 187.
Griffith, Mary, or ‘the Deserted,’ 59.
Gwarine, Fitz, or the family of Warrenne, 51.
Gwrydd, public-house at, 251; romantic scenery at, 252.
Gwydir castle, estate of Willoughby d’Eresby, 308.
— chapel, built by the Wynne family, 315.
Gwynant Llyn, and Llyn Dinas described, 247, 248.
Gwynedd, Prince Owain, 290.

                                * * * * *

Harlech Castle, 214; description of, 215; besieged by the parliament
forces, 192, 207; the ‘Blue Lion’ 283; beauty of the scenery near, 218.
Herbert, Sir Richard, 216.
Hill, Lord, pillar to, 28.
Howel Coetmore, 319.
— Voel, ode by, 263.
— ap-Eynion, 109, 112.

                                * * * * *

Idris, _see_ Cader Idris.
—, and Dyn Ddu, giant brethren, the legend of, 256.
Idwal, Llyn, and cleft of Twll Du, 290.

                                * * * * *

Jones’s Edward, ‘Bardic Museum,’ 171.
— Rev. Mr. his escape at Penmaen Mawr, 358.
Jorweth, Llewellyn-ap-, tomb of, 319, 325.

                                * * * * *

Llyn Tegai parish, 291.
Llanberis church and tombs, 253, 280, 281.
Llanderfell, view from the bridge of, 150.
Llandrillo, village of, 148.
Llandysilio Hall, 132.
Llangollen, vale of, 88; ‘Aqueduct Tavern’ near, 87; inns at, 93; female
club at, 101.
Llanthyn, the estate of Sir W. W. Wynne, 164.
Llanrwst, ‘Three Eagles’ inn at, 310; plays at the Town Hall, 311; town
of, described, 310, 321.
Llewellyn, Prince of Wales, 263, 361.
— and the captive knight, 362.
Lloyd, Griffith, the rector of Llanrwst, 321.
Llugwy river, 291.

                                * * * * *

Madoc, port, slate exported from, 232.
Madock, William Alexander, Esq. 232; his mansion, Tan-y-allt, 232, 235.
— Miss, mansion of, 177.
Maentwrog, village of, 218, 219; the shoemaker of, 220; the ‘Oakley arms’
at, 221; the Maentwrog inn at, 230.
Mallow, Mick, story of, 102.
Mawddach, river, 173, 178; embouchure of, 183.
Menai strait, the, 361, 368.
Merionethshire mountains, 230, 235.
Minstrel Fay, the ‘My Fawny Vychan,’ 108.
Moel Siabod, view from, 247, 286.
Mortimer, Roger, Earl of Wigmore, 70.
Mostyn Hall, the mansion of the Hon. E. M. L. Mostyn, 185, 188.
Myttwn, General, besieges the castle of Harlech, 192, 200.

                                * * * * *

Nannau park, 171, 178.

                                * * * * *

Ogo-ap-Shenkin, cave of, 295; adventure of Jordan-ap-Jordan at, 305.
Ogwen, Llyn, and falls of Benclog, 287.
Orme’s Head, the Great, the promontory described, 335.
Owain, William, account of, 201, 217.

                                * * * * *

Pedestrians, fashionable, in Wales, 32.
Pembroke, William Herbert, earl of, 215.
Penmaen Bach, promontory of, 353.
Penmaen Mawr, precipice of, 277; the pass, and modern road, 353; fearful
accidents at, 358; ancient British camp near, 359.
Penrhyn Castle, and Port Penrhyn, described, 368.
Peveril family, the, 51.
Phrenologist, adventure of a, 344, 351.
Pistyl-y-Cain, and falls of the river Mawddach, 178.
— Rhaidadr, waterfalls of, 69; _see_ Rhaiadr.
Pont-y-Pair, bridge of the cauldron, 294.
Powell’s History of North Wales, 288.
Price, Mr. his estate and mansion of Rhewlas, 151, 155, 158, 160, his
plantations, 161.
Pwllhely, town of, 186.
                                * * * * *
Rhaiadr-y-Wennot, or Spout of the Swallow, 292.
Rhaiadr-y-Parc Mawr, time to view the fall of, 322.
Rhaiadr Du, cataract of, 177, 231.

                                * * * * *

Scott, Sir Walter, note to his Marmion, 179; quotation from, 352.
Severn, river, Mountford bridge, etc. 31.
Shrewsbury, and vicinity of the town, 29.
Smuggler’s daughter, the, 335, 343.
Snowdon and Snowdonia, 172, 286, 172, 240, 251, 360, 286; _see_ Appendix.
Songs, etc.:—The Lament, 66; the Rose of Llangollen, 90; the Minstrel’s
Knell, 115; Lines at Valle Crucis, 123; Farewell to fair Rewlas, 162;
Farewell Hugh, handsome Hugh, 170; Witch of Cwm Bychan, 194, 196;
dialogue, the Traveller, 227; Lines written at Aber Glas Llyn, 237; Llyn
Gwynant, 249; Poem of Llewellyn and the Captive Knight, 362.
Stag, the enchanted, a legend, 71.
Stage-coach, society of a, 15.

                                * * * * *

Taliesin, the bard’s abode, 322; poem extant relative to, 323.
Tan-y-Bwlch, mansion of W. G. Oakley Esq. 230.
Tevi, river, 288.
Traeth Mawr and Traeth bach, arms of the sea, 218, 232, 233.
Trefriw, village of, 323.
Tremadoc, the town of Madoc, 232, 234.
Trifaen, crags of, 289.
Trout fishing in Wales, 14, 145, 156, 222, 231, 252.
Tudor-Trevor, family of, 109.

                                * * * * *

Valle Crucis, Abbey of, 121.
Vaughan, Margaret, poems by, 320.
— Sir R. W. Bart. estates of, 171, 178.
Vortigern’s Hill, near Beddgelert, 247.

                                * * * * *

Welshwomen, particulars relative to, 143, 149.
Whiffler, Mr., an amateur traveller, 130.
Wittington, village of, 48; the castle described, 50; church and tombs
at, 54.
Wnion, the river, 165, 173.
Wolverhampton, the road to, 22.
Wynne, account of the family of, 293, 309, 315, 316, 320, 325.
Wynnstay, mansion of Sir Watkin W. Wynne, Bart., 85.

                                * * * * *

                                   END.

                                * * * * *

                                 LONDON:
                    SCHULZE AND CO. 13, POLAND STREET.




FOOTNOTES.


{107}  THE FAIRY’S SERENADE.  (With an Accompaniment for the Pianoforte.)
Arranged by W. FORDE.  _Allegretto_.  G. BENNETT.

             [Picture: Music Score for The Fairy’s Serenade]

    The breeze hath left the Berwyn hills,
    The dew was on the flower;
    The bee had sought his honey comb,
    The bird was in his bower;
    When swifter than the mountain gale,
    On Alban steed I flew
    My bee I sought your honey home;
    My bird I flew to you.
    My bee I sought your honey home;
    My bird I flew to you.

    My peerless steed is white with foam
    And droops his arched neck;
    The flood, the mountain, and the glen,
    He crossed without a cheek.
    Oh! listen while my harp I strike,
    And rouse its sweetest tone;
    And hear the language of a heart,
    Which beats for you alone.

    The breeze hath left the Berwyn hills,
    The dew is on the flower;
    And I must hie to fairy land,
    Ere chimes the midnight hour.
    Arise bright star of beauty rise,
    And when from you I roam,
    Send forth the lustre of your eyes
    To light me to my home.

{130}  BATTLE SONG.  (_Air_—“The Swan’s Note.”)  Arranged by W. FORDE.
_Bold and expressive_.

                  [Picture: Music score for Battle song]

    March to the battle,
    Drums loudly rattle,
    Trumpets are braying,
    Proud steeds are neighing,
       And armour clashing,
       While torrents dashing,
          Loudly thunder down below.

    Bright helms are glancing,
    Gay plumes are dancing,
                Brave hearts are beating,
    For the death meeting;
    And Freedom rallies,
    Sons of the valleys,
       Forward then and face the foe!
       Scion said Father round us come,
          Gather bare the sword and strike the blow.

    From rock and heather,
    Spring up together,
       Fierce as the eagle,
       Staunch as the beagle;
    From the heart’s fountain,
    Sons of the mountain,
                Shout the war cry of Glyndoor!
    England advances,
    Proud of her lances,
       Gallant and sightly,
       Noble and knightly,
    Wales frowns before her,
    Death hovers o’er her—
                Forward to the battle moor;—
    Fate hath decreed ’em,
    Victims to freedom;
       And banners flying,
       O’er dead and dying—
          Wave for Cambria’s great Glyndoor!

{143}  JENNY DAVIES.  (_Air_—“Llwyn-onn.”)  Arranged by W. FORDE.
_Allegretto_.

                 [Picture: Music score for Jenny Davies]

       I’m call’d Jenny Davies,
       The fairest of Ladies,
    And dwell on the bank-side where primroses grow;
       My cheeks are like cherries,
       My lips sweet strawberries,
    My eyes are as black as the wild mountain sloe.
       My heart’s warm and tender,
       My waist small and slender,
    I bound o’er the hills like the young mountain row;
       I’m blithesome and witty,
       Then sure ’tis a pity,
    That I for a husband should sight forth heigh ho!

       With sighing and suing,
       Young Arthur came wooing,
    But he was too shy for a buxom young lass,
       Then came handsome Harry,
       Who press’d me to marry,
    But he was too fond of his toilet and glass;
       Then followed brave Rowland,
       Who lives in the low-land,
    But he was too rough for a delicate maid;
          Sure, sure ’tis a pity,
          A young girl so pretty,
    Should sigh for a husband and pine in the shade.

       Young Carlie abused me,
       And sadly misused me,
    He vow’d to be mine and ran off with Miss Jones;
       And last came a Quaker,
       A grave undertaker,
    Who promis’d he’d soon make me bone of his bones;
       But he late and early
       Is peevish and surly,
    No longer I smile, and to dance I’m afraid;
          I can’t bear to choose him,
          And yet if I lose him,
    Perhaps, (Oh, my stars!) I shall die an old maid.

{176}  MOUNTAIN MARY.  (_Air_—“Cader Idris.”)   Arranged by W. FORDE.
_Allegretto_.

                 [Picture: Music score for Mountain Mary]

   The sun had gone down, and the monarch of mountains
      Had robed his dark form in a mantle of cloud;
   The primroses slept by the summer dried fountains,
      And beauty’s own river seem’d dreaming aloud.
   In the dale of the Hazel all nature seem’d weeping,
      And mild was the moon-light that silver’d the grove;
   But wakeful was morn flew my own mountain Mary,
      To gladden my heart with the breathings of love.

   She looked down to blush, from the gaze of her lover,
      Her snowy lids veiling her heaven-blue eyes;
   More sweet was her breath than the dew-sprinkled clover,
      When morning first breaks through the gates of the skies.
   The land-breeze sprang up, and my bark tripp’d her anchor,
      Ah me, how we started to feel that fair wind,
   “Remember,” she cried, “the dear dale of the Hazel
      And poor mountain Mary left weeping behind.”

   Far, far did I wander in climes hotly burning,
      Till fortune repaid me with wealth in good store;
   Then swift as a bird’s flight o’er high waves returning,
      Our vessel was wafted to Abermaw’s shore.
   With the speed of the roe-buck I flew to my Mary,
      Joy’s tears from her eyes fell like midsummer rain;
   And now in Dolgelley by wedlock united,
      The world and its wealth shall ne’er part us again.

{240}  See appendix.

{250}  The Blue Well, one of the pools in the recesses of the great
mountain, which discharges its waters into Llynn Gwynant.

{266}  See appendix.

{304}  DAFYDD AP SHENKIN.  (For Three Voices.)  Arranged by W. FORDE.

               [Picture: Music score for Dafydd ap Shenkin]

   Oh! Shenkin was a noble fellow,
   As ever rov’d in Conway vale;
   He drank till he was mellow, drank till he was mellow,
   He drank till he was mellow,
   And fought till his foes turn’d pale.

   Well did he strike for merry freedom,
   And England fear’d his great renown,
   For laws—himself decreed ’em,
   And gallantly held his own.

   Then drink boys to the outlaw’d ranger,
   And let us seek old Dafydd’s cave,
   Where oft he cheer’d the stranger,
   And dug for his foes a grave.

{384}  FAREWELL TO NORTH WALES.  (_Air_—“Ar hyd y nos.”)  Arranged by W.
FORDE.  _Andante espressivo_.

            [Picture: Music score for Farewell to North Wales]

   Mountain, glen, wild rock, and heather,
                                    Now farewell!
   Lakes and fairy dells for ever,
                                    All farewell.
   Land of love and softest blisses,
   Casket of my dearest wishes,
   I would cover thee with kisses,
                                    But farewell.

   Burning tears proclaim my anguish,
                                    Fare—farewell.
   When away from thee I languish,
                                    Fare—farewell.
   Friends and kindred when I’m sleeping,
   To my beating heart come creeping
   Morning brings me woe and weeping,
                                    Fare—farewell.

   Land where beauty ever glances,
                                    Fare—farewell.
   And where joy for ever dances,
                                    Fare—farewell.
   Surly winds are round me blowing,
   Wildly are my white locks flowing,
   Drear and dark the day is growing,
                                    Fare—farewell.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 64203 ***