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.