Caernarvon, July 19th, 1828.

My Beloved Friend,

I am now returned, dog-tired, from ascending Snowdon, the highest mountain in England, Scotland, and Wales, which indeed is not saying much. Excuse me till morning, when I will give you a faithful relation of my ‘fata’. Meantime, good night.

July 20th.

As soon as I had committed the packet for you to Mr. S——, with the strongest injunctions to care, I left Bangor as quickly as four post-horses could convey me. On the way I visited some iron-foundries, which, however, I shall spare you, as I observed nothing new in them. I was rather unwell when I arrived at the inn at Caernarvon, where a most beautiful girl with long black hair, the daughter of the absent host, did the honours with great grace and sweetness. The following morning at nine o’clock I set out in tolerable weather on a ‘char-À-banc,’ drawn by two horses of the country. My driver was a little boy who did not understand a word of English. He drove like mad, ‘en train de chasse,’ over the narrow cross-roads of this rocky country. All my shouts and expostulations were vain, or seemed to be interpreted by him in the very contrary sense from what I intended; so that we went nine miles from the lake of Llanberis in less than half an hour, over stock and stone: I do not understand how the horses and carriages bore it. By the fishermen’s huts which lie scattered along the shore, I found a gentler mode of conveyance, a pretty little boat, in which I embarked with two robust mountaineers. Snowdon now lay before us, but unfortunately had, as the country-people say, put on his night-cap, while the lower mountains around shone in the brightest sunshine. It is not more than about four thousand feet high, but has a very imposing aspect, in consequence of its immediate rise from the shore of the lake, whereas most other mountains of the same class spring from a base of considerable elevation. From the point where we embarked, to the little inn at the foot of Snowdon, the lake is three miles over; and as the wind was very high, our voyage was rough and tedious. The water of the lake is black as ink; the mountains bare and strewed with rock, and only varied by occasional small green glens: here and there are a few stunted trees, but the general aspect is wild and desert. Not far from the small church of Llanberis is the so-called Holy Well, inhabited by a solitary trout of enormous size, who has for centuries been exhibited to strangers. Frequently, however, he will not be tempted from his hiding-place; and the country-people think it an unlucky omen if he appears immediately. As I am an enemy of all oracles, I did not visit it. My companions also told me a history of a wondrous amazon of gigantic strength, who long led a wild masculine sort of life here: and described to me certain enormous bees, which the Welsh admire and venerate so much that they think them natives of Paradise. Excellent salmon are caught here: the manner of catching them is strange; they are hunted by small dogs trained to the sport, who drag them out of the mud into which they occasionally creep.

As soon as I arrived at the inn I secured a ‘poney’ (a small mountain horse), and a guide, and hastened to set out, in hope that the threatening clouds would break about noon. Unfortunately, the very contrary happened; it grew darker and darker, and before I had climbed half an hour, followed by my guide leading the poney, one uniform mantle enshrouded hill and valley; and a heavy rain, against which my umbrella did not long protect me, beat upon us. We at length took refuge in the ruins of an old castle; and after I had laboriously climbed a decayed winding staircase I reached the remains of a balcony, where I found shelter under a dense mass of ivy. Everything around me wore an air of profound gloom; the crumbling walls, the wind which moaned plaintively through their fissures, the monotonous dropping of the rain, and the disagreeable termination of my hopes conspired to throw me into a melancholy frame of mind. I thought with a sigh, how nothing,—not even the smallest trifle,—falls out as I wish it;—how all that I undertake looks ill-timed and eccentric as soon as I undertake it; so that everywhere, as here, what others accomplish in light and sunshine, I must toil through in storm and rain. Impatiently I left the old walls, and once more climbed the mountain. The weather was, however, now so terrible, and the increasing storm so dangerous even, that we were once more compelled to seek shelter in a miserable ruinous hut. The inside was filled with smoke, in the midst of which sat an old woman spinning in silence, while some half-naked children lay on the ground, gnawing dry crusts of bread. The whole family seemed hardly conscious of my entrance; at least they made no pause or change in their occupations. For a moment the children stared stupidly and incuriously at me, and then fell again into the apathy of wretchedness. I seated myself on the round table, the only piece of furniture in the house, and once more gave audience to my thoughts, which were not the most exhilarating. Meanwhile, as the storm raged more furiously, my guide earnestly advised me to turn back. This would doubtless have been the most reasonable course, particularly as we had not yet ascended a third way up the mountain. But as I had long resolved to drink your health, dear Julia, on the summit of Snowdon, in champagne, and had brought a bottle with me from Caernarvon for that express purpose, it seemed to me of ill omen to give it up. With the cheerfulness which a firm determination and fixed purpose, whether in great things or small, never fails to impart, I said, laughing, to my guide, “If it were to rain stones instead of water, I would not turn back till I had been at the top of Snowdon.” I made the poor old woman a little present, which she received with apathy. The road was become extremely difficult; it lay over loose and smooth stones washed by the rain, or over very slippery turf. I admired how my active sturdy little beast, shod as he was with smooth English shoes, could step so securely forward on such a road.

Meanwhile it soon became so piercingly cold, that, drenched as I was by the rain, I could keep my seat no longer. I am so out of practice in climbing, that I was sometimes nearly overpowered by weariness; but as the Knight in the Romance of old Spiess was cheered by the sound of the bells of the twelve sleeping virgins, so I was continually exhorted to perseverance by the “ma—ma” of the mountain sheep, who were feeding in hundreds on the thin herbage around me. I thought of our pet lamb at home, and stepped vigorously onward, till at the end of an hour I had recovered from my fatigue, and felt fresher than at setting out. I was not compensated for my sufferings by the view, for, shrouded as I was in clouds, I could hardly see twenty paces before me. In this mysterious ‘clair obscur’ I reached the wished-for summit, the way to which lies over a narrow irregular wall of rocks. A pile of stones, in the centre of which is a wooden pillar, marks the highest point.

I thought I met my wraith, as a young man emerged from the mist who precisely resembled me, that is to say what I was when I wandered over the Swiss Alps sixteen years ago. He had, like myself, a light knapsack on his back, a sturdy staff in his hand, and a substantial dress, which may be called the classical costume of mountain travellers, contrasting as strongly with my London boots, stiff cravat, and tight frock-coat, as the youthful freshness of his face with the yellow, city hue of mine. He looked like the young son of Nature; I like the ‘ci-devant jeune homme.’ He had ascended the mountain from the other side, and, without stopping, asked me eagerly how far it was to the inn and what sort of road it was. As soon as I had given him the information he desired, he bounded away over the rocks, singing carelessly, and soon disappeared from my sight. I scratched my name near a thousand others on a block of stone, took out the drinking-horn which my host had lent me, and ordered the guide to draw the cork out of my bottle of Champagne. It must have contained an unusual portion of fixed air, for the cork flew higher than the top of the pillar by which we stood; and you may therefore, without imitating MÜnchausen, assert, that when I drank your health on the 17th of July, 1828, the cork of the Champagne bottle flew four thousand feet above the level of the sea. I filled the horn, to the foaming brim, and shouted with stentor voice into the dim obscure, ‘Long life to Julia!’ with nine times nine (in the English style). Three times I emptied the cup; and thirsty and exhausted as I was, never did I relish Champagne more. After my libation was completed, the prayers I sent up were not words, but profound emotions; the most fervent among which was the wish, that it might be Heaven’s will to grant happiness on earth to you, and then ‘if possible,’ to me;—and see, a pretty lamb sprang forth from the cloudy veil, and the mist opened and rolled away, and before us lay the earth suddenly gilded by a momentary gleam of sunshine. But in a minute the curtain fell again,—an emblem of my destiny: the beautiful and the desirable—the gilded earth—appear now and then like delusive meteors before me: as soon as I seek to grasp them, they vanish like dreams.

As there was no hope that the weather would become permanently clear in these elevated regions, we resolved to return. I found myself so strengthened that I not only felt no trace of weariness, but experienced a feeling unknown for years, in which walking and running, so far from being irksome, are in themselves a source of elastic enjoyment. I sprang, therefore, like my youthful double, so rapidly over the rocks and down the wet rushy slopes, that in a few minutes I accomplished a portion of the way which it had taken me an hour and a half to ascend. I emerged at length from the interminable cloud; and if the prospect were less magnificent than from the summit, it still afforded me great delight. It was still about seven hundred feet above the level of the sea, which lay in boundless extent before me. The Island of Anglesea reposed on its bosom; and in the mountain-gorges, which intersected each other in every direction, I counted above twenty small lakes; some dark, some so brightly illumined by the sun that the eye could scarcely bear to rest on their mirror-like surface. Meanwhile the guide had overtaken me; but as I could now perfectly distinguish the ‘terrain,’ the evening was beautiful, and I felt no fatigue, I let him and his clever little horse return home by the straight road, and determined to take my solitary way across the most striking points, ‘et bien m’en,’ for since I was in Switzerland I remember no more delicious walk.—I followed a defile along the wild pass of Llanberis, celebrated in the wars between the English and the Welsh, and where the latter, under their great prince Llewellyn, often contemplated the destruction of their foreign invaders, perhaps from the very spot where I then stood.

The jagged walls of rock which in many places sank perpendicularly to the pass, are a good exercise for heads subject to giddiness. I gradually ascended many considerable peaks of the same kind, and found only an enjoyment the more in the slight shudder which my perilous station excited. “L’Émotion du danger plait À l’homme,” says Madame de StaËl. My solitude was not complete. The mountain sheep which I have already mentioned, much smaller than the ordinary breeds, wild and agile as the chamois, often bounded before me like roes, and in their flight leaped down crags and precipices where it would not have been easy for any one to follow them. The wool of these sheep is as remarkable for coarseness, as their flesh for tenderness and delicacy. The London ‘gourmands’ set a high value upon it, and maintain that a man who has not eaten roast mutton from Snowdon has no conception of the ideal in that kind.

I came almost into collision with a large bird of prey, which hovering slowly with out-spread wings, had fixed his eyes so intently on something beneath, and had so little calculated on making my acquaintance in this impracticable path, that I could almost have seized him with my hands before he perceived me. He darted away with the velocity of an arrow, but did not for a moment lose sight of the object of his eager pursuit; and I saw him for a long time like a point, poised in the blue ether, till the sun sunk behind the surrounding mountain.

I now endeavoured to reach the hut at which I had before stopped, in as straight a line as possible. Not far from it a girl was milking her cow, which afforded me a refreshing draught. Here too I found my guide, and thankfully availed myself of his services during the rest of my way, wrapt in my cloak and resting most luxuriously on my sure-footed ‘poney.’ After returning to my inn and changing my clothes, I set out afresh and embarked on the lake, now splendidly burnished with the glow of evening. The air was become mild and soft; fish leaped sportively from the water, and herons wheeled their graceful flight around the sedgy shores; while here and there a fire gleamed upon the mountains, and the heavy thunder of blasted rocks resounded from the distant quarries.

Long had the moon’s sickle stood aloft in the deep blue heavens, when the dark-locked Hebe welcomed me back to Caernarvon.

July 21st.

I was still somewhat fatigued by my yesterday’s expedition, and contented myself with a walk to the celebrated castle built by Edward I. the conqueror of Wales, and destroyed by Cromwell. It is one of the most magnificent ruins in England. The only thing to regret is, that it stands so near the town, and not in solitary grandeur amid the mountains. The outer walls, although in ruins, still form an unbroken line, enclosing nearly three acres of ground. The interior space, overgrown with grass and filled with rubbish and with thistles, is nearly eight hundred paces long. It is surrounded by seven slender but strong towers, of different forms and sizes. One of them may still be ascended, and I climbed by a crumbling staircase of a hundred and forty steps to its platform, whence I enjoyed a magnificent view over sea, mountains, and town. On descending, my guide showed me the remains of a vaulted chamber, in which, according to tradition, Edward II., the first prince of Wales, was born. The Welsh, in consequence of the oppression of English governors in the earlier times of partial and momentary conquest, had declared to the king that they would obey none but a prince of their own nation. Edward therefore sent for his wife Eleanor in the depth of winter that she might lie-in in Caernarvon castle. She bore a prince: upon which the king summoned the nobles and chiefs of the land, and asked them solemnly whether they would submit to the rule of a prince who was born in Wales, and could not speak a word of English. On their giving a joyful and surprised assent, he presented to them his new-born son, exclaiming in broken Welsh, Eich dyn! i. e. “This is your man!” which has been corrupted into the present motto of the English arms, Ich Dien.

Over the great gate still stands the statue of Edward, with a crown on his head and a drawn dagger in his right hand, as if after six centuries he were still guarding the crumbling walls of his castle. He might justly have broken out into indignant complaint at the desecration I witnessed. In the midst of these majestic ruins, a camel and some monkeys in red jackets were performing their antics, while a ragged multitude stood shouting and laughing around, unconscious of the wretched contrast which they formed with these solemn remains of past ages.

The tower in which the prince was born is called the Eagle Tower; not from that circumstance, but from four colossal eagles which crowned its pinnacles, one of which is still remaining. It is believed to be Roman, for Caernarvon stands on the site of the ancient Segontium, which.... But I am wandering too far, and am in the high road to fall into the tone of a tour-writer by profession, who thinks himself privileged to bore if he does not instruct, although his information is generally the result of a weary search through road-books and local descriptions. ‘Je n’ai pas cette prÉtension, vous le savez, je laisse errer ma plume,’ heedless whither it leads me.

The Marquis of Anglesea has lately established a sea-bath here, which is supplied by a steam-engine, and very elegantly fitted up. I availed myself of it on my way back from the castle, and observed in the entertaining-room a billiard-table of metal set in stone. It is impossible to desire one more accurate;—whether the steam-engine performed the office of marking, I forgot to ask. This is by no means impossible, in a country in which somebody has gravely proposed to establish steam-waiters in coffee-houses, and in which affairs would go on much the same if a forty-horsepower steam-engine sat upon the throne.

Dear Julia, a traveller must be allowed to speak often and much of weather and of eating. The Novels of the Illustrious, erst Unknown, or the Illustrious Unknown, derive no inconsiderable part of their attractions from the masterly pictures of this kind they contain. Whose mouth does not water when he sees Dalgetty, the soldier of fortune, display at the table a prowess even greater than in the fight? I am really not in joke when I assure you that when I have lost my appetite, I often read an hour or two in the works of the Great Unknown, and find it completely restored. To-day I wanted no stimulus of this or any kind. It was sufficient to see the most excellent fresh fish and the far-famed ‘mountain mutton’ smoking on the table, to induce me to fall on them with ravenous hunger; for a sea-bath and the ascent of Snowdon have a yet greater influence on the stomach than Walter Scott. My dark-locked maiden, who, as I was the only guest in the house, waited on me herself, was at length impatient of my reiterated attacks on the mutton; and said somewhat sullenly that I did nothing but eat, except when I was rambling about. She was of a much more ethereal nature, and in the short time I had been here, had read through half my portable Novel library. Every time I saw her she presented me with a newly devoured volume, and begged so earnestly for another, that I must have had a hard heart to refuse her.

July 22.

A large packet has been sent after me to-day from Bangor. I vainly searched it for tidings from you; but could not refrain from laughing heartily over a letter from L——, who writes to me in despair at the scrape he is in. He tells me that he suffered his “Reflections” (the beginning of which I sent you,) to be printed in fragments, and a certain party which feels itself too sore not to be over-sensitive ‘y a entendu malice.’ They have inserted a furious article against him in the Lamb’s Journal; and poor L——, who knows the people he has to deal with, is afraid that he will certainly be rejected at his examination. As this philippic is not long, and is very characteristic of our times, and as I have a holiday to-day, I shall transcribe it with some abridgments.

“High and high-well born, pious brethren and sisters! Truly is it said there be many wolves in sheep’s clothing! The author of these reflections is doubtless the wearer of such a sheepskin. It is not difficult to discover that under the mask of godliness, and of a simplicity approaching to silliness, are heard the hissings of that same mischievous serpent who seduced our pious mother Eve, who has since incessantly vented his venom upon our holy Religion, and still labours to overthrow the throne and the altar. But we, my brethren, will not resemble our, alas! too credulous Mother, but will exterminate the satellites of the Devil wherever we find them, with fire and sword.

“Yes, my friends, you know and are certain that the Devil is, and lives—not as the unbelieving herd say, in us, as the demon of anger, of vanity, of hatred, of sin;—no, bodily he roams over the earth, like a roaring lion, with goat’s horns and a long tail and pestilential stench, wherever he chooses to show himself. He who does not thus believe on the Devil, has no true religion. But wherefore do I urge this? We are no reasoners—no worldly-wise: here are none but simple lambs, one flock under one shepherd.

“A warning is, however, necessary; and therefore I now give the alarm. We have as yet seen only fragments of these poisonous ‘Reflections,’ and know not how far the author means to go;—but they are aimed at us; of that there is no doubt; and, God be praised! we find already enough fully to justify our denouncing him as an Atheist. Is it not obvious that he jests at Providence and its omnipotence? We hope, we pray, therefore, confidently and earnestly, that Omnipotence will speedily avenge itself, and give this presumptuous soul a foretaste of what awaits him in the everlasting flames. And may the all-merciful God do this promptly and fearfully, that no innocent lamb of our flock may be led astray by that unclean one. Certainly, my friends, a fiend, a vampire, an atheist wrote these words. Nothing is sacred to him. He attacks not alone the Creator, but even the Redeemer of the world.

“Oh my brethren and sisters! horrible—we may reckon upon it assuredly—horrible will be the lot of such an one at the last day! when the dead shall arise in the body, and his carnal ear shall hear again, only to listen to the thunders of the trumpets which announce to him his eternal damnation. There will be no pity! There will be weeping and gnashing of teeth! And let us follow that example, and be inexorable towards him, as will be that eternal condemnation.

“We could scarcely have believed that after all our Christian labours in our so truly—I say it with pride—Christian city, in which everything is done to destroy the poison of toleration and of mad confidence in our own judgment, men could be found amongst us, who would dare, unrestrained by all authority, to go their own way in search of truth;—these free-thinkers and heathens spring up only because the constituted authorities (even our otherwise so active Censorship at their head) are far too indulgent towards the greatest of all crimes, unbelief. It would perhaps have been expedient and beneficial to introduce a moderate Inquisition, together with the new prayer book, for the defence of true believers, those genuine Christians, those sole predestined favourites of God, who believe whatever their King and their Church order, without hesitation or examination. Only such can have any real value for Church or State. Away then with all others! Be they damned for ever! like all the unbaptized children of Jews and Heathens. Oh could we but for ever expunge from our annals that disgraceful period in which a philosopher (and not merely an ideological but a practical philosopher) sat on a German throne,—and, my Christian brethren, would you believe it? received the name of the Great! The mildest that we, converted to the grace of godliness with tears of blood, can now say of him is, the Lord be merciful to his poor soul! Long however must the pious and their sacred legion struggle, before the seed which this great (!!!) man sowed will be wholly trodden down; before the last trace of that miserable Reason which he fostered will be entirely eradicated. Nevertheless, despair not, my Christian brethren; to such holy zeal as ours nothing is impossible, and this world’s rewards await you in various forms here, from those exalted sources from which we daily draw; and hereafter yet greater glories in the Palace of the Lord. Only beware of reasoning, in every shape: believe—not upon your own inquiry—but as it is prescribed to you; and above all, beware of Toleration! Love your Redeemer not only above all, but solely and alone. But he who is not for him is against him, and upon such have no mercy. Persecute them without intermission. And if this cannot be done openly, undermine him with calumnies, with secret detraction; yea, shun not the rankest lies, provided you can disseminate them with security to yourselves; for remember that the end sanctifies all means. Ah, were we but in such a frame of mind as never to wax cool in our zeal! It is only because we are luke-warm, that these philosophers have dared to preach that virtue of heathens, toleration. We have seen to what it brought us when the delirious raving about freedom seized the mob, and universal anarchy threatened to overthrow the throne, the church, our old nobility, and everything venerable. Therefore away with every thought of mischievous tolerance towards those who think otherwise! Christ indeed has said, “Bless those who curse you:” and further, “If any man strike you on one cheek, offer him the other also.” But upon this subject I have my own thoughts. Passages of this sort ought certainly to be differently understood: for how could they be reconciled with the indispensable laws of our station? Does not the honour of our rank, and of our uniform, command us instantly and without hesitation, to strike again a man who should dare to lay hands upon us? Yes, I know not whether even I, the favourite of my prince, should dare to show myself at court or in the highest places, after publicly receiving a slap on the face. It is therefore highly probable that our Saviour intended these words to be taken with one limitation,—that is, for the common people, in whom it is unquestionably meritorious when struck on one cheek, instead of giving way to wrath and bitterness, to offer the other. Let it be remembered also, that when Christ became man, he sought out not only a noble but a royal race. And who knows whether the disciples were really of such mean extraction as they are represented, and not perhaps men of old Jewish families of high descent? the matter is wrapt in so much historical darkness. And doth not Christ say, “My coming is not to bring peace, but rather the sword?” These two passages would seem to contradict each other, if we did not understand that patience is enjoined to one class and warfare to the other. For is not that the primitive destination of the nobility?—formerly with the sword, now with the pen and the word. For this cause, my brethren and sisters, strive against the unbelieving. Gird on the sword of the times, and strive for the Lord with the Bible and Jacob BÖhmen, with the Chamberlain’s Key and the Field Marshal’s Baton, with the Prayer-book and the Surplice. Believe me, my dear friends, soon shall we earn the fruits of our holy zeal; soon shall we begin to stand on the brazen floor.

“People yield more and more to our secret influence and strong union: the powerful support which we give to all our fellow-labourers when their labours in the vineyard deserve it; the many favours from exalted sources, of which we are the sharers; above all, the inexorable piety we are known to possess, hold even the most daring within bounds, and lay the timid in shoals at our feet.

“But whenever an Antichrist dares to attack us, (and whoever dares to do so is one,) I exhort you again,—watch, strive, destroy, and rest not till your victim is fallen. It is all for Charity’s sake, the last effort for a poor erring mortal, to force him, if possible, to acknowledge Christ.—Amen.

“It will perhaps be agreeable to this noble congregation in Christ, and moving to their hearts, if I hereby communicate to them, that we have been so happy in the course of the present month as to bring seven and a half condemned souls to the true faith, which has cost us not more than a hundred reichsthalers. As we are obliged to keep a worldly account of these matters, we have agreed to reckon children under twelve years of age as half souls. And may Heaven in like manner bless our further pious efforts, and the disinterested zeal with which the unconverted are drawn to the lap of Jesus.—Amen.”

I had read thus far when the little Eliza appeared with my breakfast, and with an arch good-nature bid me good morning “after my long sleep.” She had just been to church, had all the consciousness of being well-dressed, and was waiting upon a foreigner; three things which greatly incline women to be tender-hearted. She accordingly seemed almost embarrassed when I inquired about my departure early the following morning; but was soon consoled when I promised to leave her my travelling library, and to bring her a fresh assortment of books in a week.

After dinner I went, under her guidance, to visit the walks around the town. One of these is most romantically placed on a large rock. We saw from hence to Snowdon, in almost transparent clearness, undimmed by a single cloud; and I could not restrain some feelings of vexation at having so exactly missed the right day.

After this pastoral walk, ‘tender mutton’ closed a day of which I am sorry to have nothing more interesting to record.

But I now recollect a somewhat singular incident which my host told me to-day. On the night of the 5th of August, 1820, the boat which crossed a ferry at this place was lost, and out of twenty-six persons only one man was saved. Exactly thirty-seven years before, the same disaster occurred, and out of sixty-nine persons only one survived. What renders the coincidence the more perfect is, that on both occasions the name of the sole survivor was Hugh Williams.

Bangor, July 22d.

Bangor is also a bathing place; that is, every body may jump into the sea who likes it. The artificial arrangements for the purpose are reduced to the private tub-establishment of one old woman, who lives in a wretched hovel on the shore; and if an order is given an hour before, heats the sea-water in pots and kettles on her hearth, and proceeds ‘sans faÇon,’ to undress and afterwards to rub down and dress again any stranger who may come unprovided with a servant. I entered her hut accidentally, and after I had taken a bath of this sort, ‘pour la raritÉ du fait,’ I hired a boat to take me across the arm of the sea which divides Wales from the island of Anglesea. Here is another castle built by Edward I., and destroyed by Cromwell; it was originally even of greater extent than that at Caernarvon, and covered five acres of ground; but the ruins are less picturesque, in consequence of its having lost all its towers. To see it thoroughly one must walk along the narrow and lofty walls, which are wholly unprotected. The boy who keeps the keys ran along like a squirrel; but the barber of the town, who offered his services as guide when I landed, left me in the lurch at the first step. The ruin stands in the park of a Mr. Bulkley: with singular bad taste he has made a tennis-court within its enclosure. His house commands a very celebrated view. It is, however, far surpassed by one I met with about a mile and a half further on, from a simple and elegant cottage called Craig y Don. This is a true gem,—one of those blessed spots which leave nothing to wish. It lies between thickly wooded rocks close to the sea: not too large, but adorned like a boudoir, surrounded by the greenest turf, and by the blended beauty of flowers of all colours; the whole house, with its thatched roof and verandah tapestried with China roses and blue convolvuluses, forms a picture which, enclosed as it is between wood and rock, formed the most indescribably beautiful contrast with the sublime scenery around it. Labyrinthine footpaths wind in all directions through the cool and shady thicket, subdividing into many and exquisite fragments the rich treasures of landscape beauty afforded by the situation. Beneath and in front lies the deep blue sea, whose surf beats against the sharp pointed rocks upon which I stood; while further away on its smooth mirror a hundred fishing-boats and other vessels glided to and fro. Among them I descried the cutter of the proprietor of Craig y Don lying at anchor, and two steam-boats, one of which, far in the distance, left a long line of smoke; the other, close to shore, sent up a slender column of white vapour. On the right, a deep bay stretches into the land, studded with little islands of every character and form; some clothed with brushwood, others bare and almost polished by the waves; some covered with little huts, others crowned with upright tower-like rocks. On turning again toward the strait, and following its gradual contraction, my eye rested with amazement on that stupendous chain-bridge which closes the prospect: that giant work which is justly called the eighth wonder of the world, and which, bidding defiance to nature, has united two portions of land which she had severed by the ocean. I shall have an opportunity hereafter of describing it more nearly; from this point it looks as if spiders had woven it in the air.

After I had satisfied myself with gazing at this romantic specimen of human power and skill, I turned to one of the greatest and most varied works of nature;—the entire range of the Welsh mountains, which rises immediately from the water, distinct and near enough clearly to distinguish woods, villages and valleys, and stretches along an extent of ten miles. The mountains grouped themselves in every variety of light and shadow; some were wrapped in clouds, some gleamed brightly in the sun, others stretched their blue heads even above the clouds; and villages, towns, white churches, handsome country-houses and castles, were visible in their gorges, while shifting gleams of light played on the green slopes at their foot. The eye, wearied with a variety, turns to the north, which is on my left. Here nothing distracts the gaze: the wide ocean alone blends with the sky. For a short time you follow the retreating shore of Anglesea at your side, on which large nut-trees and oaks droop their pliant boughs into the sea, and then you are alone with air and water; or at most you fancy you descry the sails of a distant vessel, or shape fantastic pictures in the clouds.

After an hour of intense enjoyment, I rode at the full speed of a pony, which I hired in Anglesea, to the great bridge. The best point of view is from the beach, near some fishing huts about a hundred paces from the bridge. The more thoroughly and minutely I viewed it, the greater was my astonishment. I thought I beheld in a dream a filagree work suspended by fairies in the air. In short, the fancy cannot exhaust itself in comparisons; and as a stage-coach with four horses drove rapidly over the arch a hundred feet high and six hundred wide, half concealed by the intertexture of the chains on which the bridge is suspended, I thought I saw larks fluttering in a net. The men who were seated in various parts of the chain-work, giving it its first coat of paint, were like captive insects. Those who know the castle at Berlin will be able to form some idea of the enormous dimensions of this bridge, when they hear that it would stand perfectly well under the centre arch: and yet the chains hold the latter so firmly, that even driving at the quickest rate or with the heaviest burden, which is by no means forbidden, does not excite the smallest perceptible vibration. The bridge is divided at the top into three roads, one for going, another for returning, and a third for foot-passengers. The planks rest on an iron grating, so that they are easily removed when out of repair, and no danger is to be apprehended when they break. Every three years the whole iron work receives a fresh coat of paint, to prevent rust. The name of the architect, who has earned a high and lasting reputation, is Telford. ‘Sur ce, n’ayant plus rien À dire,’ I close my epistle, and wish you, my dear Julia, all the happiness and blessings you deserve, ‘et c’est beaucoup dire.’

Ever your most faithful

L——.