Bangor, July 23, 1828.

Chere et bonne,

One little defect in this otherwise so beautiful landscape is caused by the ebb and flow. During a considerable part of the day a large portion of the channel of the Menai (as this strait is called) is dry, and exhibits only a tract of sand and mud. Probably the indescribably persecuting swarms of flies which infest this place, pouring forth in thousands in search of prey, attacking man and beast, and pursuing their victims with relentless pertinacity, may be ascribed to the same cause. In vain do you put your horse to his full speed: the swarm, congregated into a ball like the Macedonian phalanx, accompany your flight, and disperse themselves over their prey the moment you stop; nor will anything but their complete destruction deliver you from them. Even a house does not always afford secure refuge. I have found in some of my expeditions that when once they have seized upon a victim, they will wait patiently at the door till he comes out again. The only way is to seek out some place through which a strong current of wind passes. This they cannot resist. The cows which graze on the hilly shores are quite aware of this fact, and are always to be seen standing perfectly still, ruminating, in such spots. I watched one to-day for a long time, as she stood on a solitary point of rock, her outline thrown out sharply on the sky behind; motionless, but for the slight working of her jaw, or the occassional sweep of her tail against her sides. How well, thought I, might an ingenious mechanic frame a colossal image of this animal, and provide it with the simple mechanical apparatus necessary to imitate that slight motion,—and what an acquisition were this for a German-English garden at home! for instance at Cassel, opposite to the Hercules, or at WÖrlitz, where she might be set to graze on the burning mountain. This meritorious conception you must try to put in execution.

Do you remember Clementi Brentano? When the amiable and kind-hearted grandson of Count L—— was showing him the view from his hunting-seat over a flat but beautifully wooded country, the Count joined them, and asked Brentano rather absurdly, “what great improvement he could suggest?” Brentano fell into a profound meditation, and after some time replied, looking earnestly at the attentive and expecting Count, “What think you, Count, of making some hills of boards and painting them blue?” Improvements in this taste, though perhaps not quite so absurd and palpable, are still daily perpetrated in our beloved fatherland, in spite even of the Berlin Horticultural Society.

Dearest Julia, will you drive with me to PlÂs Newydd, Lord Anglesea’s park in Anglesea? The horses of fancy are soon harnessed.

We repass the giant bridge, follow the high-road to Ireland for a short time, and soon see from afar the summit of the pillar which a grateful country has raised to General Paget, then Lord Uxbridge, and now Marquis of Anglesea, in memory of the leg which he left on the field of Waterloo. About a mile and a half further on, we arrive at the gate of PlÂs Newydd. The most remarkable things here are the cromlechs, whose precise destination is unknown; they are generally believed to be druidical burial places. They are huge stones, commonly three or four in number, forming a sort of rude gateway. Some are of such enormous size that it is inexplicable how they could be brought to such elevated situations without the most mechanical aid. It is, however, difficult to say what is possible to human strength, excited by unfettered will or by religious fanaticism. I remember reading that a captain of a ship coasting along the shore of Japan, saw two junks of the largest size, that is, nearly as big as frigates, carried by thousands of men across a chain of hills.

The cromlechs of Anglesea, which are not of the largest class, have probably suggested the thought of building a druidical cottage in an appropriate spot, commanding a beautiful view of Snowdon. It is, however, a strange heterogeneous chaos of ancient and modern things. In the small dark rooms light is very prettily introduced, by means of looking-glass doors, which answer the double purpose of reflecting the most beautiful bits of the landscape like framed pictures. In the window stood a large sort of show-box, a camera-obscura, and a kaleidescope of a new kind—not filled like the old one, but exhibiting under countless changes any object beheld through it. Flowers especially produce a most extraordinary effect, by the constantly varying brilliancy of their colours. If you wish for one I will send it you from London: it costs eight guineas. The house and grounds contain nothing remarkable, and are seldom inhabited by the proprietor, whose principal residence is in England.

July 23rd.

To-day I received, with great delight, a long letter from you * * *

* * * I am very glad that you are not offended at L——’s jest, and that you do not, like Herr von FrÖmmel,[116] consider him an impious wretch. You must see, in the first place, that he aims his wit only at the servile credulity of those men who convert the Unutterable, the Being of all Beings,—who is ever present to us in a deep and dim consciousness, but whom we can never comprehend,—into a strange compound of tyrant, pedagogue, and attendant spirit: who think themselves constantly guided by him in leading-strings, and regard all they see and hear, or whatever happens to them, as an interposition of God, and regarding their own littleness alone. If, for instance, they fall into the water, or if they win a prize in the lottery, they see the finger of God incontestably in that incident; if they escape any danger, they pour out the most vehement thanks to God, as if some strange power had sent the danger, and God, like a careful and prompt guardian, had flown to their succour and deliverance. They might reflect, that whence the deliverance comes, thence comes also the danger; whence the pleasure, the pain; whence life, death. The whole is one scheme of existence, bestowed and governed not according to momentary caprice, but to immutable laws. Such petty views as those he satirizes, bring down the idea of Omnipotence to our own mutability and frailty. Our thanks, be they even speechless, are due to Eternal Love, for all that is; and perhaps no prayer offered by man can be more worthy of the Deity, than that mute and rapturous feeling of gratitude. But it is childish to be ever ascribing to the intervention of Omnipotence common-place and external individual occurrences; such as lucky and unlucky accidents, riches, poverty, death, and the like, which are subjected to the laws of nature; or (according to the measure of our powers) to our own control. Such an intervention on the behalf of our beloved selves, would be no less strange and ill-adapted, with a view to our instruction and improvement, than experience proves it to be useless.

His satire is also directed against Christians—who are no Christians—and are neither so-called Atheists (almost always a senseless denomination), nor yet genuine sincere fanatics; but that odious race of modern pietists, who are either feeble creatures with irritable nerves, or hypocrites of the most impious sort, and further removed from the elevated purity of Christ than the Dalai Lama. These are the true Pharisees and dealers in the temple, whom Christ would cast out were he now on earth. These are they who, were he now to appear, under a new and obscure name, would be the first to cry out, ‘Crucify him!’[117]

In the main I confess I agree with L——; though, with regard to the subject of the ‘Reflections,’ every opinion can be but hypothetical, and in truth, what relates to another state of existence must, of necessity, be totally different from all that we have the capacity of understanding in this. Had we been able to know it, or had it been designed that we should do so, the Author of our nature would have rendered it as clear, as obvious to us, as it is that we feel, or think, or exist. What is needful, is revealed to us inwardly; and this has been declared from all time, in words more or less plain and significant, by the great spirits whom He has sent on earth.

That the human race is not destined to stand still like a machine devoid of will, or to revolve in one perpetual circle,—but, on the contrary, continually to advance, till it has ended its cycle of existence, and attained the highest perfection of which it is capable, I never for an instant doubt. But my hypothesis is this;—that our earth, like a vessel loosened from her moorings, is left, under the protection and coercion of the immutable laws of nature, to the management of her own crew. We ourselves, thenceforth, are the framers of our own destiny, (insofar as it depends on human operation, and not on those immutable laws,) and of our own history, whether great or small, by our own moral strength or weakness.

It is not, in my opinion, necessary to suppose the extraordinary and special interposition of any power who causes a hard winter in Russia for the special overthrow of Napoleon;—Napoleon rather is overthrown by the vicious principle which guides him; and which, in the long run, must inevitably wreck him upon some such external and immediate cause or other. The physical incident happens, with reference to him, only accidentally; with reference to itself, doubtless, in that necessary series of laws to which it is subject, although these laws are unknown to us.

On the same grounds, Providence will generally favour the virtuous, the industrious, the frugal, the prudent, and grant many or most of their desires; while the foolish and the wicked, who set themselves in opposition and hostility to the world, are not ordinarily so successful or so happy. If a man lets his hand lie in the ice, it is probable that Providence will ordain it to be frozen; or if he holds it in the fire, to be burnt. Those who go to sea, Providence will sometimes permit to be drowned; those, on the other hand, who never quit dry ground, Providence will hardly suffer to perish in the sea.

It is therefore justly said, “Help yourself, and Heaven will help you.” The truth is, that God has helped us from the beginning: the work of the master is completed; and, as far as it was intended to be so, perfect: it requires, therefore, no further extraordinary aids and corrections from above; its further development and improvement in this world is placed in our own hands. We may be good or bad, wise or foolish, not always perhaps in the degree which we, as individuals, might choose, were our wills perfectly free, but so far as the state of the human race immediately preceding us has formed us to decide.

Virtue and vice, wisdom and folly, are indeed words which receive their meaning solely from human society, and apart from that would have no signification. The ideas of the good and the wicked are excited solely by the effect of our actions upon others; for a man who never saw a fellow-man can act neither well nor ill,—nay, can scarcely feel or think, well or ill: he possesses, indeed, all the requisite capacities which form the groundwork of his higher moral and intellectual nature; but it is only by means of creatures of a like nature, that these capacities can be brought into activity; as fire can only exist, or become sensible, when combustible materials are present. The ideas of prudent and imprudent arise indeed earlier, and with reference to the individual alone; for a single man in conflict with inanimate nature may either injure himself foolishly, or employ the materials given him with prudence and skill; and may have a full perception of these qualities or modes of action in himself. To be good, therefore, in every point of view, means nothing but to love other men, and to submit to the laws and rules imposed by society: to be wicked, to rebel against those laws, to disregard the weal of others, and in our conduct to have only our own momentary gratification in view. To be prudent, on the other hand, is only to have the power of perceiving and securing our own advantage by the best and aptest means: to be imprudent, to neglect these means, or to form a false estimate concerning them.

It is evident also that good and prudent—wicked and imprudent—are in the highest sense nearly synonymous: for a man who is good, will, in the common order of events, please his fellow-men, consequently will be beloved by them, and consequently will be found to be prudent,—that is, to have secured his own greatest happiness and advantage: while the bad man, engaged in an interminable conflict, must at length have the worst, and consequently suffer loss and injury.

But when once the moral sense has received its last development and highest culture, the virtuous man, though insulated, frames laws to himself, which he follows, unheeding of advantage, danger, or the opinion of others. The bases of these laws will, however, always be what I have described;—consideration of the well-being of his fellow-men, and of the duty thence deduced, which follows as a consequence of the way he has traced out to himself. But when this point is reached, the inward consciousness of having fulfilled this duty, gives the moral man purer and higher satisfaction than the possession of all earthly enjoyments could confer upon him. It is therefore permanently, and in both views of the subject, true, that it is the highest prudence to be virtuous, the greatest folly to be wicked.

But here, indeed, from the busy and complicated nature of human life, arise many and varied shades and distinctions. It is very easy, even with great prudence, where the earthly and external is concerned, to seize upon appearance instead of reality. It is possible for one man to deceive others, and to make them believe that he does them good, that he deserves their respect and their thanks, when he only uses them as instruments of his own advantage, and does them the bitterest injury. Folly too often produces the opposite effect, and imputes to others wicked designs and bad motives, where the very contrary have place. Hence arises the maxim,—painful indeed! but too firmly based on universal experience,—that in worldly connections and affairs, folly and imprudence are productive of more certain disadvantage to the individual than vice and wickedness. The external consequences of the latter may be kept off, perhaps entirely prevented, by prudence; but nothing can ward off the consequences of folly, which is perpetually working against itself.

The want, and the existence, of positive religions are mainly attributable to the general persuasion of this truth, and of the consequent insufficiency of penal laws of human institution. Hence arises the doctrine of future rewards and punishments, awarded by an All-seeing Power, against whose eye the precautions of prudence are vain, and from whom the imprudent expects pity and compensation: for truly he who has combined prudence and virtue needs no further recompense,—he finds it rich and overflowing in himself. Who would not, without a moment’s hesitation, give everything in the world to enjoy the blessedness of being perfectly good? A time may perhaps come, when all church and state religions may be buried and forgotten; but Poetry and Love, whose flower is true religion, whose fruit Virtue, must forever rule the human heart in their holy Tri-unity,—the adoration of God as the source of all existence, the admiration of nature as his high work, and love to men as our brethren. And this is the true doctrine of Christ,—by none more purely, touchingly, simple, and deeply expressed, although its forms and premises are adapted to the times in which he lived. And therefore is he become the seed from which the fruit of after-times shall arise; the true Mediator, whose doctrine, as we must hope, will, in time, become Christianity in deed and in truth, and not in words alone. * * *

[Here occurs a chasm in the letters, which begin again on the 28th.]

Capel Cerig, July 28th, late in the evening.

As the weather cleared up, and the friends whom I expected did not arrive, I hastened to take advantage of the first ray of sun to penetrate deeper amid the mountains; and set off about seven in the evening, in an Irish car drawn by one horse, for Capel Cerig. I left my servant, and took only a light travelling-bag containing a little linen and a change of clothes.—This carriage consists of an open box, standing on two wheels, resting on four horizontal springs, and containing two opposite benches, on which four persons can commodiously sit. You ascend from behind, as the door is between the wheels;—the whole is very light and convenient. The moment was unusually propitious;—nearly a week of rain had so swollen all the waterfalls, brooks, and rivers, that they appeared in their fullest beauty; trees and grass were clothed in their softest green, and the air was transparent and pure as crystal. I admired the rich masses of gay mountain flowers and heaths which grew luxuriantly in the clefts of the rocks, and regretted that I did not know enough of botany to enjoy them with more than my eye. I soon reached that sterner region in which flowers are rarely seen, and trees never.

I alighted at the waterfall of Idwal to visit a little lake, which might serve as the entrance to Hades.

The dreary and wild aspect of the deep mountain enclosure is really awful. I had read that it was possible to reach Capel Cerig from hence, going in a straight line over Trivaen (the mountain with basaltic columns, of which I have spoken) and the surrounding rocks. The passage was represented as very difficult, but surpassingly beautiful. At this moment I saw a shepherd descending from the mountain, and I felt the strongest inclination to attempt the expedition with the guide which chance thus so opportunely threw in my way. I got the postilion to act as interpreter of my wishes. The man thought it was too late, and that the descent on the other side by night would be hazardous. On my pressing him further, he said, however, that there would be a moon, and that if I could follow him at a brisk rate, he thought we might manage to cross the mountain in two hours,—but that there were some very awkward places to pass. I had tried my strength too well on Snowdon to shrink from the enterprise; I therefore closed the bargain, only taking the precaution to order the driver to wait for me an hour, lest any unforeseen difficulties should cause me to return, and then to drive back to Capel Cerig.

The path along which we had to climb was from the outset very steep, and lay over a boggy soil between enormous detached masses of rock strewed in wild disorder. It might be about half past seven o’clock:—there was no trace of any beaten path; Trivaen reared its grotesque peak like an embattled wall before us, nor was it easy to discover how we were to cross it. The mountain sheep here rendered us good service; they climbed before us, and showed the often uncertain guide the most practicable places. After a quarter of an hour of very wearisome climbing, with many a giddy glance into the chasms beneath, to which, however, the eye became gradually familiarized, we came to a little swampy ‘plateau’ through which we were obliged to wade knee-deep in a bog. Here we had a beautiful view of the sea, the Isle of Man, and Ireland dimly appearing in the distance.

Immediately above the bog a completely different sort of ground awaited us; a wall of perpendicular and compact sharp and ragged rocks, over which we scrambled on hands and feet. The sun had already sunk behind a high mountain sideward of us, and reddened the whole wild scenery around, as well as the wall on which we hung, with a dark and fiery glow—one of the strangest effects of sunlight I ever beheld. It was like a theatrical representation of Hell. Our way now lay across a swollen mountain-stream, over which a fallen block of stone had formed a natural bridge; and then over bare rocks wholly unmixed with earth, till at length we reached the high crest which had so long stood right before us, and at which I expected an end of all our difficulties. I was therefore not a little disappointed when I saw another defile before me, which we must first descend and then climb up the opposite side, for no human foot could have found a sure hold on the semicircular edge of the crest, across which lay a shorter road.

We had now entirely lost sight of the sea; our view lay landward, where the mountain region of Wales lay before us in its whole breadth; peak above peak, solitary, silent, and mighty. The sterile valley beneath us was filled with giant stones hurled about in wild disorder; and truly the game which was here played, with rocks for balls, must have been a spectacle for Gods. While I stood lost in contemplation of this chaos, I heard a shrill reiterated cry close to me, and looking up saw two majestic eagles soaring over our heads with outstretched wings—a rarity in these mountains. Welcome faithful birds[118] of my house, exclaimed I,—here, where there are only hard rocks, but no false hearts; are you come to carry me, like the Roc bird, into some valley of diamonds? or do you bring me tidings from my far distant home? The noble creatures seemed as if they answered me by their cries; but unfortunately I am not skilled in the language of birds: and they left me, wheeling higher, till they disappeared among the columns of Trivaen. I look upon the repeated attentions paid me by birds of prey as a good omen. It was extremely inconvenient that I could no more speak with my guide than with the eagles, for he understood not a word of English. We could therefore only converse by signs. After we had for some time descended with comparative ease, he pointed to a place to which we must now turn our steps:—we had arrived at the ‘bad passage.’ This consisted of a perfectly perpendicular wall, certainly not less than six hundred feet in depth; and above it a scarcely less steep ascent of earth, washed over by the rain, and strewed with small loose stones. Across this we were to make our way—a distance of fifteen hundred paces. Formerly, I should have regarded this undertaking as impracticable; but being urged by necessity, after the first few steps I found it quite easy.

It certainly looked most terrific, but the numerous stones and the moist soft earth afforded a firmer footing than might have been expected: indeed these things, even in an unexaggerated description, always sound more perilous than they are. It is very true that one false step would cause inevitable destruction; but this is exactly what one takes good care not to set: so a man must be drowned in the water, if he leaves off swimming. Any body who can walk, and has a steady head, may perform such exploits without the slightest danger. Twilight now began to close in; the mountains became dim and indistinct; under us lay, like steaming cauldrons, the misty lakes of Capel Cerig and Beddgelert. We had reached the highest point, and hastened as much as possible to reach the former lake. We waded through another bog, and scrambled down over rocks, till we came to the part of our way which looked the least difficult, but was in fact the most fatiguing;—a firm and smooth hill covered with turf, very steep, and with a substratum of rock which in many parts presented itself at the surface in broad smooth shelves. Down this declivity we rather slid than walked; and the effort was at length followed by such pain in the knees, that both the guide and I fell several times, though without sustaining any hurt. The lofty mountains around us had hitherto concealed the moon, which now arose large and bloody-red above their wavy line. We soon lost her again. Near our journey’s end she once more rose upon us, golden, clear, and small, mirrored in the still waters of the lake, on whose shores the inn stood. The last part of the way lay along a level high-road, and offered such a contrast to what had preceded it, that I felt as if I could have walked along it sleeping. It was as if my steps were not the result of any act of the will, but rather of some mechanical power; like children’s toys, which when wound up run round and round the table without stopping. We completed our expedition in an hour and three quarters; and proud of my achievement, I entered Capel Cerig, where my host would hardly believe we had accomplished the distance by night in so short a time.—I had lived such an indolent, effeminate life for some years, that I fancied myself grown almost old; but to-day’s experience proved, to my great joy, that I want nothing but stimulus and opportunity, to recover all the freshness and vigour of my bodily and mental powers;—danger and difficulty had always been my most kindred element when fate threw them in my way.

My driver had not yet returned with the carriage, and I was obliged to equip myself in the clothes of my portly host, in which I now doubtless cut a very extraordinary figure; while my own are drying at the kitchen-fire; and I am alternately occupied in writing to you, and in drinking tea.

To-morrow morning I shall leave my pillow at four o’clock,—guess in search of what;—the rock of the enchanter Merlin, where he prophesied to king Vortigern the history of coming times, and where his wondrous treasures, the golden throne and diamond sword, still lie buried in its hidden caves. Here is a new and most safe object of speculation to the mining companies of London and Elberfield.

Beddgelert, July 29th, early.

Admire Merlin’s vale with me, dearest Julia. It is indeed enchanting; but its rocks—Dinas Emrys, I shall long remember. But let me begin at the beginning. I went to bed at one, rose again punctually at four, and in ten minutes was ready to start: for as soon as you bid adieu to servants and luxuries, everything goes at an easier and quicker pace. The fine weather had given place to the usual mists of these mountains; and I was glad to avail myself of my mountain walking-stick of yesterday in its other capacity of umbrella, as well as of that venerable cloak, the honoured relic of my warlike services against France, which I was once forced to throw out of a balloon, together with all other ballast, to avoid ending my aerial excursion in the water.

At first the road was dull and uninteresting enough, till we came to the foot of Snowdon, which reared its uncovered head majestically above the clouds, by which we were encircled and bedewed. Its aspect is peculiarly grand and sublime from this point. It rises in nearly perpendicular height from the vale of Gwynant, which commences here. This richly watered valley unites the most luxuriant vegetation with the sublimest views. The loftiest mountains of Wales are grouped around it in manifold forms and colours. The river which flows through it forms, in its course, two lakes, not broad but deep, the valley being narrow throughout, a circumstance which greatly contributes to enhance the colossal air of the mountains which enclose it. In the richest part of it a merchant of Chester has a park, which he justly calls Elysium.

On a high and thickly wooded ridge, out of whose deep verdure rocks which rival each other in wildness of form break forth, overlooking the mountain river which flows through a beautiful stretch of meadows, stands the unpretending and lovely villa. Below lies the lake, behind which stands Merlin’s solitary rock, apparently closing the valley, which here makes an abrupt turn.

Dinas Emrys is doubly impressed on my memory: first, for its romantic beauty; secondly, because on it I literally hung between life and death. Although not above four or five hundred feet high, it is considered accessible only on one side. I had taken a little boy with me as guide, but when we reached the spot he seemed to know very little about the matter. The way which he took through an oak copse appeared to me from the first suspicious, from its uncommon steepness; but he tranquillized my fears in broken English, and I could do nothing but follow the little fellow, (who sprang before me like a chamois,) as well as I could. Merlin appeared to frown upon us: a violent wind had arisen, and the sun, which had shone upon us for a moment, imbedded himself behind black clouds; while the long wet grass which hung over the blocks of stone made climbing very dangerous. This did not much impede the barefooted little boy, but was a serious obstacle to my limbs, somewhat stiff from my yesterday’s exploits. The higher we went, the steeper the rocks became; often we were obliged to swing ourselves up by the help of the shrubs which grew out of the clefts, avoiding as well as we could to look behind us. At length I observed that the boy himself was quite irresolute, and creeping on his belly looked anxiously around. We now wriggled right and left through some clefts, and suddenly found ourselves standing on the peak of a smooth and lofty wall, with scarcely room to set our feet, and above us a similar wall, out of which grew some tufts of grass. The summit of this appeared to overtop the whole.

The prospect was not encouraging: the child began to cry, and I considered not without some uneasy feelings what was to be done. Willingly, I confess, should I have climbed down again, and left Merlin’s rock to witches and gnomes, if I had thought it possible to descend without dizziness, or indeed to find the way by which we had ascended. Before us there lay no chance of escape but by scaling the wall as we best might. The boy, as the lightest and most practised, went first; I followed him step by step, holding by the slight support of tufts of grass, clinging with hand and foot in every little cleft; and thus hanging between heaven and earth we reached the giddy summit in safety. I was quite exhausted. A more daring climber may laugh at me; but I honestly confess to you, that when a tuft of grass or root seemed unsteady, and threatened to give way before I had raised myself up by it, I felt what terror is. As I lay now panting with fatigue and fright on the turf, I saw a large black lizard couched just opposite to me, who appeared to look at me with scornful, malicious eyes, as if he were the enchanter himself in disguise. I was however glad to see him, and in high good humour at having got out of the scrape so cheaply; though I thought fit to threaten the little imp, who like a mischievous gnome had enticed me into such perils, with all sorts of terrible punishments, if he did not make out the right way back. In his absence I examined the remains of the area, as it is here called,—the ruined walls, where

I grubbed among the stones, I crept into the fallen caverns—but from me, as from others, the treasures remained hidden;—the moment has not yet arrived. As a compensation, the boy reappeared jumping gaily along, and boasting of the beauty of the way, which he had at length found.

If it was not quite so smooth and easy as that of sin, it was at least not like the last, inaccessible. Merlin’s displeasure, however, pursued us in the shape of torrents of rain, which obliged me again to send my clothes to the kitchen fire, at which I am reposing.

The inn, completely shaded by high trees, is most delightful. Just before my window is a fresh-mown meadow, behind which a huge mountain rears itself, covered from top to bottom with deep purple heather, glowing like the morning sky, in spite of the sheets of rain and of the clouded heavens. While my dinner was preparing, (for I dine like Suwarroff at eight o’clock in the morning), a harper, the humble relic of Welsh bards, played on his curious and primitive instrument. He is blind, and so is his dog, who stands behind him on his hind legs, waiting with unwearied patience, till one bestows a piece of money on his master, and of bread on himself. Beddgelert means “Gelert’s grave,” bed and grave being poetically expressed in Welsh by the same word. Gelert was no other than a greyhound, whose history is, however, so touching, that as soon as my ‘dÉjeunÉ dinatoire’ is removed, I will tell it you.

Caernarvon, July 30th.

I had kept the harper playing during the whole time of dinner at Beddgelert, and had amused myself, like a child, with his dog, with whom it had become so much a second nature to stand on two legs, that he would have been a better representative of man than Plato’s plucked fowl. The perfect ease of his attitude, together with his serious countenance, had something so whimsical, that one had only to imagine him in a petticoat, with a snuff-box in his paw, to take him for a blind old lady.

In the same proportion as this dog resembles the heroic Gelert, do the modern Welsh seem to resemble their ancestors. Without the energy or activity of the English, still less animated by the fire of the Irish, they vegetate, poor and obscure, between both. They have, however, retained the simplicity of mountaineers, and they are neither so rude and boorish, nor do they cheat so impudently, as the Swiss. ‘Point d’argent, point de Suisse’ is not yet applicable here. On the contrary, living is so cheap that bankrupt Englishmen often retire hither: I am assured that a man may have good board and lodging, the use of a poney, and leave to shoot, for fifty guineas a year.

The environs of Beddgelert are the last continuation of the magnificent valley which I have described to you. It was now alive with a hundred waterfalls, which dashed foaming and white as milk from every chasm and gorge. About a mile and a half in the rear of the village the rocks stand so near together that there is scarce room for road and river to run side by side. Here rises the Devil’s bridge, and closes the valley, or rather the defile. You now again approach the sea, and the country assumes a gayer character. In two hours I reached the great resort of tourists, Tan y Bwlch, whose chief attraction is a beautiful park extending over two rocky mountains overgrown with lofty wood, between which gushes a mountain stream forming numerous cascades. The walks are admirably cut, leading, through the best chosen gradations and changes, to the various points of view; from which you catch now an island in the sea, now a precipice, with a foaming waterfall, now a distant peak, or solitary group of rock under the night of primeval oaks.

I wandered for above an hour along these walks; but was greatly surprised to see them in so neglected a state, that in most places I had to wade through the deep grass, and to toil through the rank and overgrown vegetation. Even the house seemed in decay. I afterwards learned that the proprietor had lost his fortune at play in London.

As I feared I should spend too much time here, I gave up my visit to Festiniog and its celebrated waterfall, hired an airy ‘Sociable’ (a sort of light four-seated ‘calÊche’ without a roof) from my host, and set out for Tremadoc, distant about ten miles. I was richly rewarded, although the road is the very worst I have yet met with in Great Britain; for some miles it runs in the sea, that is to say, through a part of it which Mr. Maddox, a rich land owner here, has cut off by a monstrous dam; he has thus redeemed from the ocean a tract of fertile land equal in extent to a rittergut (a knight’s fee). From this dam, twenty feet high and two miles long, you command the most magnificent views: the drained land forms a nearly regular semicircle, whose walls appear to be formed by the whole amphitheatre of the mountains. Here the art of man has drawn aside the veil from the bottom of the deep; and instead of the ship, the plough now tracks the broad expanse. But on the left, the ocean still hides all the secrets of “the fathomless profound” under his liquid mountains. The line of coast is terminated at no great distance by a bold headland, on which the ruins of Harlech Castle, with its five mouldering towers, overhang the waves. In front, at the end of the dam, a quiet cheerful valley opens before you, cradled amid lofty mountains, with a small but busy harbour, near which Tremadoc seems to grow out of the rock.

In spite of all this, you, my Julia, would hardly bring yourself to ride across this dam, which is indeed better fitted for foot-passengers. It is, as I have already said, twenty feet high, and consists of rude, angular, and jagged blocks of stone, heaped on one another. The road at the top is only four ells wide, without any thing like a railing. On one side the breakers dash furiously against it; and if your horses shyed at them, you would infallibly be thrown on the points of rocks which bristle like pikes on the other. The mountain horses alone can cross such a road with safety, as they seem to estimate the danger and to be familiar with it: nevertheless a carriage is seldom seen here. Wagons of stone cross the dam on a railroad, which makes it still worse for all other vehicles. Tremadoc itself stands on land formerly redeemed by a similar process. The resemblance which this land, reclaimed some centuries since, has to the sandy banks of northern Germany, which were gained from the sea perhaps a thousand years ago, is very striking: the little town itself and its inhabitants—as if like soil produced like character of people—as completely resembled the melancholy villages of that country. It is dreary, neglected, and dirty; the men ill-clad; the inn not better than a Silesian one, nor less filthy; and, that nothing might be wanting, the post-horses out at field, so that I had to wait an hour and a half for them. When they appeared, their condition, the wretched state of their tackle, and the dress of the postilion, were all perfectly true to their model. This applies only to the part redeemed from the sea: as soon as you have gone four or five miles further, and reached the surrounding heights, the country changes to the fruitful and the beautiful. It had, indeed, lost its wild and gigantic character; but after so long a stay among the rocks, this change refreshed me, especially as the most brilliant and lovely evening shone over the landscape.

The sun gleamed so brightly on the emerald meadows, woody hills lay so peacefully as if at rest around the crystal stream, and scattered cottages hung so temptingly on their shady sides, that I felt as if I could have staid there forever. I had dismounted from the carriage; and throwing myself on the soft moss under a large nut-tree, I gave myself up with delight to my dreams. The evening light glittered like sparks through the thick-leaved branches, and a hundred gay insects sported in its ruddy light; while the gentle wind sighed in its topmost boughs, in melodies which are understood and felt by the initiated.

The carriage arrived. Once more I cast a longing glance on the dark blue sea; once more I drank in the fragrance of the mountain flowers, and the horses bore the loiterer quickly to the plains.

From this point the romantic wholly ceases; I rode along a well-tilled country till the towers of Caernarvon castle rose in the twilight above the trees.—Here I intend to rest some days, having performed seventy-four English miles to-day, partly on foot, between four in the morning and ten at night.

August 1st.

This morning I received letters from you, which make me melancholy.—Yes, indeed, you are right; it was a hard destiny which troubled the calmest and cheerfullest happiness, the most perfect mutual understanding, and tore asunder the best suited minds (both too in the full enjoyment of their respective tastes and pursuits), as a storm troubles and tears up the peaceful sea. At one time, indeed, this was well-nigh destruction to both; condemning the one to restless wandering, the other to comfortless solitude; both to grief, anxiety, and vain longings. But was not this storm necessary for the dwellers on the deep? would not, perhaps, the stagnant and motionless air have been yet more destructive to them? Let us not therefore give way to excessive grief: let us never regret the past, which is always vain; let us only stretch forward to what is better, and even in the worst exigencies let us be true to ourselves. How often are the evils created by our own imaginations the hardest to bear! What burning pains are caused by wounded vanity! what agonizing shame by notions of false honour! I am not much the better for perceiving this, and am often tempted to wish for Falstaff’s philosophy. Nature has however endowed me with one precious gift, which I would most gladly share with you. In every situation, I promptly, and as it were by instinct, discover the good side of things and enjoy it, be it what it may, with a freshness of feeling, a childlike Christmas-day delight in trifles, which I am convinced will never grow old in me.

And in what situation does not the good, in the long run, outweigh the evil?—this persuasion is the ground-work of my piety. The gifts of God are infinite; and we might almost say we are inexcusable if we are not happy. How often indeed we have it in our power to be so, every one may see, who looks back at his past life;—he cannot escape the conviction that he might easily have turned almost every evil to good. As I have long ago and often said to you, We are the makers of our own destiny. It is true, however, that ourselves we have not made, and therein lies a wide unknown Past, concerning which we perplex our spirits in vain: our speculations can lead to no practical end. Let every one only do his utmost to be of good courage, and to regard the outward things of this world, without exception, as of light moment,—for the things of this world are really light and unimportant, in good as in evil. There is no better weapon against unhappiness; only we must not on that account cross our hands, and do nothing.

Your womanish fault, my dear Julia, is, in evil times to abandon yourself to Heaven and its assistance, as ‘Deus ex machinÂ,’ with a feeble and helpless sort of piety. For if this assistance fails us, our ruin is then certain and inevitable.

Both, pious hope and energetic action, consist perfectly well together, and indeed mutually aid each other. No man can doubt that the former greatly lightens the latter: for if that sort of piety which is common in the world,—that confident expectation of earthly and peculiar protection from above, that supplication for good and against evil,—is merely a self-delusion, still it is a beneficent one, and perhaps grounded in our very nature, subject as we are to so many illusions, which, when they take fast hold on our minds, become to us individual truth. It appears that our nature has the power of creating to itself a factitious reality, as a sort of auxiliary support, where reality itself is unattainable. Thus a pious confidence in special interpositions, though but a form of superstition, gives courage. A man who goes into battle with a talisman which he believes renders him invulnerable, will see bullets rain around him with indifference. But still more powerful and exalting is the enthusiasm excited by ideas which place us above the external world; thus religious fanatics have frequently been seen animated by a spirit which enabled them to brave the most horrible bodily tortures with truly miraculous power:—thus do the afflicted and oppressed create to themselves blissful hopes of a future state of felicity, which indemnify them even here. All these are effects of the potent instinct of self-preservation in its widest sense,—which brings the abovenamed power of our nature into operation wherever it is needed. Hence, lastly, in feeble characters, those death-bed conversions, useless indeed in themselves, but tranquillizing.

Every being must pay his tribute to this want in one form or other: every one creates to himself his earthly god; and thus is the descent of God to us under human attributes ever repeated.

The conception of the all-loving Father is certainly the noblest and most beautiful of these images, nor can the human imagination rise higher. And it must be conceded, that the mere idea of the Highest Principle of all things, exalted, sublimated, and I might almost say, evaporated, to the Incomprehensible, the Unutterable, no longer warms the human heart, conscious of its own weakness, with the same fervent emotion.

It often appears to me that all which is fashioned by nature or by man, may be reduced to two primary elements, Love and Fear, which might be called the Divine and the Earthly principles. All thoughts, feelings, passions and actions arise from these: either from one, or from a mixture of the two. Love is the divine cause of all things;—Fear seems to be their earthly preserver. The words, ‘Ye shall love God and fear him,’ must be so interpreted, or they have no meaning; for absolute and unmixed love cannot fear, because it is the absence of all self-regarding thoughts and feelings; and indeed, if it truly inspired us, would make us one with God and the universe; and we have moments in which we feel this.

When I use this notion as a standard or measure by which to try all human actions, I find it constantly confirmed. Love fertilizes,—fear preserves and destroys. In all nature, too, I see the principle of self-preservation or fear, (it is one and the same,) in what we call, according to our system of morals, crime or wickedness; that is, founded on the annihilation of another’s individuality. One race lives by the destruction of another; life is fed by death, to all eternity of reproduction and reappearance, which, precisely by this kind of unity, continues in perpetual change.

It is also worthy of note, that this fear, although so indispensably necessary to all of us for our earthly support and preservation, is even here so little esteemed by our diviner part, that scarcely any possible crime is covered with such deep contempt as cowardice.

On the other hand, nothing so effectually conquers fear, as a great and lofty idea springing from the dominion of love. A man inspired by such a feeling, even hurries along others with him; and whole nations devote themselves under its influence, although nothing earthly can remain pure from all admixture of the baser principle. Fear has reference to the future in time and space: Love, to the present, eternally; and knows neither time nor space. Love is endless and blessed—Fear dies an eternal death.

K—— Park, August 2nd.

On my return to Bangor, I made acquaintance with the possessor of —— Castle, (the black Saxon castle which I described to you,) a man to whom I am strongly attracted by our common building mania.

It is now seven years since the castle was begun, in which time 20,000l. have been spent upon it; and it will probably take four years more to complete it. During all this time, this wealthy man lives with his family in a humble hired cottage in the neighbourhood, with a small establishment; he feasts once a week on the sight of his fairy castle, which, after the long continuance of such simple habits, he will probably never bring himself to inhabit. It appeared to give him great pleasure to show and explain everything to me; and I experienced no less from his enthusiasm, which was agreeable and becoming in a man otherwise cold.

In compliance with an invitation which I had received in London, and which had since been pressingly renewed, I came hither yesterday morning. My road lay at first through fertile fields, between the lake and the foot of the mountains; sometimes crossed by a sudden defile or glen, and by rapid brooks hurrying to the sea. On Penman Mawr, the road, which is blasted in the rock, contracts into a narrow and fearful pass, the left side of which overhangs the sea at a perpendicular height of five hundred feet. A most necessary parapet wall guards carriages. I sat on the imperial, a place which I frequently take in fine weather, and enjoyed the wide sea-view in full freedom: the wind meanwhile sighed and whistled in every variety of tone, and I with difficulty kept my cloak about me. In an hour I reached Conway, whose site is most beautiful. Here stands the largest of those strong castles which Edward built, and Cromwell demolished. It is likewise the most remarkable for the picturesque beauty both of its position and structure.

The outer walls, though ruinous, are still standing, with all their towers, to the number, it is said, of fifty-two. The whole town, a strange, but not unpicturesque mixture of old and new, is contained within the enclosure of these walls. A chain-bridge, with pillars in the form of Gothic towers, has lately been thrown over the river Conway, on whose banks the castle stands: it increases the grandeur and strangeness of the scene. The surrounding country is magnificent: woody hills rise opposite to the ruins, and behind them appears a yet higher range. Numerous country-houses adorn the sides of the hills; among others a most lovely villa, which is for sale, and bears the seducing name of ‘Contentment.’

In the castle, the imposing remains of the banqueting-hall, with its two enormous fire-places are still visible, as is also the king’s chamber. In the queen’s closet there is an altar of beautiful workmanship, in tolerably good preservation, and a splendid oriel window. The town also contains very remarkable old buildings, with strange fantastic devices in wood. One of these houses was built, as a tombstone in the church testifies, in the fourteenth century, by a man named Hooke, the forty-first son of his father—a rare instance in Christendom. A large child in swaddling-clothes, carried by a stork, was carved in oak, and occurred in various parts of the building.

Conway is a laudable place in a gastronomic point of view: it abounds with a fish, the firm yet tender flesh of which is delicious. Its name is Place,[119] as who should say, Place for me, who am the worthiest! And truly I shall always be glad to give him the place of honour at my table.

I quitted Conway early, driving across the chain-bridge, which serves as a most noble ‘point d’appui’ to the ruined castle. The monstrous chains lose themselves so romantically in the solid rock-like towers, that one would scarcely be reminded of their newness, if there were not unluckily a tollhouse on the other side, built exactly in the form of a diminutive castle, and looking like a harlequin apeing the other.

The nearer you approach to St. Asaph, the softer the character of the country becomes. In a semicircular bay, which the eye can scarcely traverse, the tranquil sea washes fruitful fields and meadows, richly studded with towns and villages. All the country gentlemen seem lovers of the Gothic style of architecture. The taste is carried so far, that even an inn by the road-side was provided with portcullis, loopholes and battlements, though there was no garrison to defend it, except geese and hens. Don Quixote might have been excused here; and the host would not do amiss to hang out the knight of the sorrowful countenance, with couched lance and brazen helmet, as his sign. At some distance I saw what appeared to be a ridge of hills crowned with a Gothic castle:—it had such a striking aspect that I was duped into dismounting and climbing the toilsome ascent. It was at once ridiculous and vexatious to find that the kernel of the jest was only a small and insignificant house, and that which had attracted me were mere walls, which, built on the summits and declivities of the mountain, represented towers, roofs, and large battlements, half hidden in wood; but served, in fact, only to enclose a kitchen and fruit garden. A lucky dog, a shopkeeper, who had suddenly become rich, had built this harmless fortress, as I was told, in two years—a perfect satire on the ruling taste.

Towards evening I arrived at the house of my worthy Colonel, a true Englishman, in the best sense of the word. He and his amiable family received me in the friendliest manner. Country gentlemen of his class, who are in easy circumstances (with us they would be thought rich,) and fill a respectable station in society; who are not eager and anxious pursuers of fashion in London, but seek to win the affection of their neighbours and tenants; whose hospitality is not mere ostentation; whose manners are neither ‘exclusive’ nor outlandish; but who find their dignity in a domestic life polished by education and adorned by affluence, and in the observance of the strictest integrity;—such form the most truly respectable class of Englishmen. In the great world of London, indeed, they play an obscure part; but on the wide stage of humanity, one of the most noble and elevated that can be allotted to man. Unfortunately, however, the predominance and the arrogance of the English aristocracy is so great, and that of fashion yet so much more absolute and tyrannous, that such families, if my tribute of praise and admiration were ever to fall under their eye, would probably feel less flattered by it, than they would be if I enumerated them among the leaders of ‘ton.’

To what a pitch this weakness reaches, even amongst the worthiest people in this country, is not to be believed without actual observation and experience;—without seeing all classes of society affected by it in a most ludicrous manner.—But I have written you enough on this subject from the ‘foyer’ of European Aristocracy, and will not therefore repeat myself. It is, moreover, high time to close this letter, otherwise I fear my correspondence will be too long even for you; for though the heart is never weary, the head puts in other claims.

But I know how much I may trust to your indulgence in this point.

Your ever truly devoted L.