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.

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.

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.

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,

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.