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.

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.