“I was, sir; but a new comer, who wrote over his door ‘leather cutter,’ cut me out; for I never found business enough to set up a shop, and so, sir, I am obliged to watch for customers, to keep up my trade. Those boots of yours, sir, will give me dinners for half the week, if you will only let me give them welts, soles, and heel-taps. You’ve got a fine foot, sir.”
This piece of gross flattery did not prevent my telling him to follow me to the inn, and receive the reward of his perseverance and industry.
THE OAKELEY ARMS. TAN Y BWLCH.
I was tired, and gladly resigned my dilapidated boots to the care of my soles’ physician; who, with a most respectful bow, promised to let me have them by eight o’clock on the following morning.
Oh the comforts of a clean room, clean sheets, and a good bed! These I experienced at the Oakeley Arms; and I arose refreshed, and eager to commence my walk; but I was doomed to disappointment, for on drawing up the blind of my window, a dark and dismal morning presented itself, the rain falling in torrents, and the lovely valley transformed into a gloomy gorge of rolling clouds. What’s to be done? thought I; jump into bed again, answered my careful spirit. I obeyed the suggestion, and slept another hour, when I again awoke, and on inspection found the day still melancholy and tearful.
I descended to the breakfast room, and by the time I had finished that necessary meal the sun shone out gloriously. Having discharged my bill, and paid the loquacious cobbler for repairing my boots, I proceeded to view the grounds of Tan y Bwlch, the seat of Mrs. Oakeley. The name signifies “Below the Pass;” it is situated on the side of a hill which overlooks the vale.
From the terrace of this mansion you command one of the most romantic views in Wales. Harlech Castle is visible upon the right; the Merionethshire mountains tower in the distance, and the entire valley, from Festiniog to Traeth Bychan, watered by the river Dwyryd, is interesting beyond description. Lord Lyttleton tells us, in his observations upon this valley, that an honest Welsh farmer, who died there at 105 years of age, had by his first wife thirty children, ten by his second, and four by his third. His eldest son was eighty-one years older than his youngest, and 800 persons, descended from his body, attended his funeral.
I should be doing injustice to the worthy landlord of the Maentwrog Inn, whose house I used upon my second visit to this delightful valley, did I not speak in praise of his attention to the comforts of all travellers. Good beds, civil waiters, excellent fare, and cheap charges, render this one of the very best inns in Wales. And hear, ye lingering tourists! you may have bed and board for the inconsiderable sum of one guinea per week, which I think a very considerable temptation to remain at it a month, for there is sufficient in the neighbourhood to interest the most phlegmatic of Adam’s progeny. From hence may be visited the following interesting places. The village of Festiniog, three miles, where there are two good inns, the Pengwern Arms, and the Newborough Arms, where post horses and cars are always in readiness; there is also a good boarding-house kept by Miss Owen. The Falls of Cynvael, two and a half; the slate quarries, five and a half; the cataracts of the Rhaiadr Du and Ravenfall, two miles; Llyn Llyanyrch, three and a half, where the trout are excellent; Cwmorddin Pool, lies to the northward, about four and a half miles, to which the tourist may be conducted by the railroad. There is a house at each end of the lake where the angler will find accommodation from the hospitable owners for a trifling remuneration. Llyn Mannod contains very large trout, and is six miles from Maentwrog, and Llyn Morwynion is about the same distance.
I proceeded along the lower road by the north side of the salts, as the inhabitants of the valley call the arm of the sea, which here has the appearance of a lake begirt with mountains, craggy cliffs, and shadowing woods. Here I bade adieu to the delightful valley of Festiniog, and after walking about four miles along a pleasant road, a noble sheet of water met my eyes, which appeared to be hemmed in by inaccessible mountains, differing in form from those I had left behind, being more conical, and some shooting upwards like pyramids into the clouds.
As I proceeded I discovered it to be the Traeth Mawr, which, as the sea is hidden from us by a breakwater, has the appearance of a broad lake.
Upon this breakwater, which extends across the bay, is a railroad which conveys slates from the quarries at Festiniog to Port Madoc, where it is calculated ten thousand tons are shipped annually. Port Madoc receives its name from the late William Alexander Maddocks, Esq., of Tan-yr-allt, as does the town of Tremadoc.
The extraordinary efforts of this enterprising man caused him to be looked up to as the Prince of the soil. He redeemed, by constructing an embankment of nearly one mile in length from north to south, across the Traeth Mawr, at the eastern extremity of Cardigan Bay, a tract of more than 2,700 acres of land. This enterprise was completed in 1811, and cost upwards of £100,000; so that, with the lands previously recovered, no less than 7000 acres have been regained, 6000 of which are cultivated.
The view from the breakwater is perhaps the finest in North Wales for distant mountain scenery. When the tourist has reached the centre of it, let him turn his back upon the sea, and upon his right he will perceive a hill, called Plâs Newydd, from which a range of Alpine scenery stretches up to the monarch of Snowdonia, who towers pre-eminent in the distance. Upon his left another range, commencing with a hill called Moel y Gêst, leads up to the same grand object, and the extraordinary variety displayed in the formation of these wonderful masses with the varying lights and shadows that adorn them with sunny crowns or misty mantles, produces a sublimity of effect I never before experienced. A bridge joins the breakwater to the quay at Port Madoc, under which the tide rushes with great impetuosity, covering a vast extent of ground at the flood, which is left nearly dry at the ebb. Proceeding along the road, in a short time the tourist obtains a peep at the little town of Tremadoc; but before reaching it he perceives the church, an elegant building, with a tower and lofty spire, which forms a principal object in the landscape. The archway, under which the church is approached, is a beautiful specimen of workmanship, and does equal credit to the taste of the founder and execution of the builder. Divine service is read here in the English language every Sunday, which is a great accommodation to the English families, residing in the neighbourhood, as there is no other church within twenty miles where it is so performed.
TREMADOC,
or the town of Madoc, is built quadrangularly, and in the centre of the square is a column with a pedestal, round which are twelve steps. On the eastern side is a commodious market house, above which are the assembly rooms. A market is held here on Fridays, and the Barmouth and Carnarvon coach passes through three times a-week.
Having refreshed myself with a luncheon of cold meat and a salad, I trudged off, in spite of wind and weather, which threatened a speedy commencement of hostilities. Large masses of vapoury clouds were driving over head; the swallows skimmed the surface of the river, and brushed the standing corn with their swift wings, as they flew along in the pursuit of their prey; and the wind blew loud and shrilly, as in the month of November. At a short distance from the town, upon the Beddgelert road, is a lofty hill, the base of which is planted with fir trees, through which a path winds up to the mansion of Tan-yr-Allt, the late beautiful residence of Mr. Maddocks. I had not proceeded far when I was compelled to seek shelter in a hollow, of which there are many at the feet of the enormous precipices which overhang the road.
The transient storm having passed away, and sunshine once more lighting up the valley, I again pushed forward. The Merionethshire mountains upon the right, decked in their countless hues of rock and heather, over which the departing storm swept with its rolling clouds, in dark magnificence, formed a noble subject for the artist’s pencil. The road is elevated above the meadows which enrich the centre of the vale; and the river, which flows through them, having risen above its banks, and spread itself over a considerable tract of country, resembled an extensive lake.
About half way between Tremadoc and Beddgelert, is a small dingle upon the left of the road, with a neat lodge at the entrance, and a path leading up to the shrubbery, beneath which a mountain stream flows rapidly, and empties itself into the Dwyryd. As I proceeded, numerous falls dashed down the mountains, and plunging into hollows underneath the road, emerged again upon the other side, I was several times forced to take shelter from the heavy showers under fallen blocks of rock; and once, as the storm abated, and I looked anxiously out to see if it was clear enough to pursue my journey, a glorious rainbow stretched across the valley, its points resting upon the mountains on either side. I now proceeded at a rapid pace, and the river became more deep and narrow, and the circling eddies, as they floated down the stream, announced that I was approaching the fall of a great body of water when suddenly—whizz, whirr, clash, splash, dash, astounding and astonishing—
ABER GLAS LYN
with all its world of horrors, burst at once upon the view. I felt a tremulous sensation within, me; a contraction of the muscles of my throat; an hysterical sob and a desire to weep.
“White foaming, thundering, falls the boiling flood;
Rocks clash, and echo mocks the horrid din,
While man appalled, stands breathless, in amaze,
And, filled with awe, exalts his thoughts to Him,
Who was, who is, and aye must be supreme!”
Just above the bridge is a semi-circular rock, which forms a salmon leap, over which the salmon, at spawning time, first lodge themselves at the height of five or six yards. Proceeding through the pass, at every step new wonders met the eye. The late heavy rains had swollen the mountain waterfalls, and caused a terrific torrent to roar and struggle through a narrow channel; for the mountains, forming this southern end of the vale, approach so near to each other, that they only afford a contracted flow for the river, and a narrow road, while their rocky sides rise so perpendicularly, that their summits are scarcely farther distant from each other than their foundations. The rushing river was a pure sheet of white; furious, uncontrollable; nothing but the immense blocks riven from the mountain’s craggy sides could withstand its dreadful impetuosity. A few stunted fir and larch trees at the commencement of the pass were seen starting from the dark clefts upon either side, which threw a deeper shade upon this awful valley.
Cradock calls this pass “the noblest specimen of the finely horrid the eye can possibly behold. The poet,” he continues, “has not described, nor the painter pictured so gloomy a retreat. ’Tis the last approach to the mansion of Pluto, through the regions of Despair.” I could have stopped for hours to admire this splendid example of the sublimity of Nature, but time pressed, so I pushed on to Beddgelert which is not more than a mile and a half from the bridge. A solitary mountain ash which grows about half way up the pass, is the sole bright thing in this abode of terror, and looks like Beauty in desolation. Emerging from the pass there is a stone which is called the chair of Rhys Gôch o’r Eryri; a famous mountain bard who lived in the time of Owen Glyndwr. He resided at the entrance into the Traeth Mawr Sands, from whence he used to walk, and sitting upon this stone compose his poems. He died in 1420, at the advanced age of 120 years; he was a gentleman of property, and was buried in the ancient priory at
BEDDGELERT.
Some are of opinion that this word should be written Celert, or Cilert, Bedd-Cilert, or Cilert’s Grave; supposing that a monk or saint of that name was buried here. Another celebrated bard was entombed at this place, named Davydd Nanmor, who died about the year 1460.
The Goat is an excellent inn, and every attention the traveller can desire is paid with the greatest celerity. Twenty post horses are kept at this inn for travellers, and eight or ten ponies for the accommodation of those visitors who wish to ascend Snowdon with ease and safety.
At nine o’clock, I strolled from the inn to the bridge. It was a lovely evening; there was no moon, but the clear sky displayed its burning host in beautiful array. No breath of air disturbed the silent slumbers of the peaceful woods. The lull of rippling waters alone struck upon the ear, yielding a solemn tone like the deep swell of the organ, breaking upon the deepest solitude.
In such a situation how indescribable is the feeling which takes possession of us! What language can express, what tongue can utter it! My very breathing seemed to disturb the excessive sweetness of nature’s melody.
In a field near the church yard are two grey stones overhung with bushes, pointing out the grave of “Gelert,” Llewelyn’s hound.
CHAPTER VI.
Departure from Beddgelert.—Vortigern’s Hill.—Snowdon.—Llyn Gwynant.—Gwrydd.—Public Houses.—Lake Fishing.—Pass of Llanberis.—The Lakes.—The Castle of Dolbadarn.—View of the Lakes.—The Church of Llanberis.—Story of little John Closs.—Capel Curig.—Moel Siabod.—Castle of Dolwyddelan.—Falls of Benglog.—Llyn Ogwen.—Llyn Idwal.—Route to Llanrwst.—Falls of Rhaiadr y Wennol.—Bettws y Coed.—The Church.—Monuments.—Pont y Pair.
“Oh, who hath stood on Snowdon’s side,
And glanced o’er Mona’s virgin pride;
And gazed on fatal Moel y don,
But thought of those once there undone?
When Saxons and their foreign band,
Were crushed by the sons of the mountain land.”T. J. Llewelyn Prichard.
On the following morning I quitted the inn, where every attention was shown that a traveller could desire, and proceeded over the Ivy bridge, through which the Gwynant flowed, deep and smooth as glass, without an obstruction to ruffle its clear waters, that glided along, kissing its verdant banks, like the stream of a happy life. Quietude reigned in this region uninterrupted. About half a mile from Beddgelert, a rocky eminence projects into the road, called Vortigern’s Hill, or Dinas Emrys, a magician, who was sent for to this place by Vortigern, when he found himself hated by his subjects, and fled from their just anger to this secluded spot. Passing this memorable place, a round clump of rock attracts the eye, rising as it were in the centre of the valley, and called Moel Wyn. Looking backward, Moel Hebog, the Hawk Hill, rises majestically and closes up the entrance to Beddgelert. Moel Siabod towers in front, and, as we pursued our delightful path about two miles and a half from Beddgelert, an opening of the hills upon the left displayed a deep gorge, and the base of Snowdon, whose high peak, rising in the unclouded skies, held up the holy symbol of Christianity, as if in adoration of the Creator. At length I reached Llyn Dinas, a lake of about three quarters of a mile in extent, through which the Gwynant runs; it is surrounded by lofty mountains of a deeper tint than is usually seen upon the Welsh hills. A beautifully situated cottage here at the far end of the lake, belonging to Mr. Sampson, nestles among the protecting woods, and forms a delightful object. The river which feeds the lake, winds through the verdant and undulating grounds which form a miniature park between the cottage and the lake. Following up the course of the stream, I left Llyn Dinas behind me, and proceeded by a gradual ascent through the most delightful scenery I ever beheld, until I caught glimpses through the plantations of
LLYN GWYNANT,
and after a while beheld it stretching beneath me upon my left hand. The valley forms a bowl among the hills. The bottom is a small grassy plain, dotted with trees, which has obtained the appellation of Beauty sleeping in the lap of Terror. The mountains that surround the vale have a wild and rugged appearance. As I proceeded along the road towards the head of the valley, a horn was sounded from the mountain, and I perceived a Welsh girl standing upon a projecting eminence: bare headed and bare footed was this nymph of Cambria; her cheeks were swelled out with her occupation, and she looked like a female Boreas, bursting with the wind she was sending forth by degrees to alarm the world.
She eyed me with glances of curiosity all the while, and I thought she could perhaps give me some information about the valley, which might be interesting; so quitting the direct road, I scrambled up the hill side, and asked her the meaning of her sounding the horn so loudly? But she either did not, or would not, understand me; and after vainly endeavouring to extract anything from her, I quietly sat myself down, delighted by the splendid view beneath me.
Having nearly reached the extremity of this valley, I gazed, from my elevated situation, upon the dark and perpendicular rocks on the opposite side; and towering in the air immediately over the centre of the valley was a hawk with expanded wings, apparently motionless. Presently it rose a little higher, but without the slightest visible exertion, then stooped again, mounted once more, and, as fast as the eye could follow, swept round the huge buttresses of sharp ridged cliffs, that hang over the entrance of the Pass of Llanberis.
As Llyn Gwynant is gradually shut out from the lingering gaze of the traveller, (who, it may be said, during the whole of the ascent, should turn his eyes behind him,) and he at length looks forward in the direction of Llanberis, a new scene of grandeur bursts upon him. He has left beauty behind in its loveliest form;—but the sublime and wonderful now call forth all the springs of admiration.
Snowdon again appears in all his splendour! Mountains that by comparison looked like hillocks rise round his regal waist, in groups numerous and picturesque. The deep black crags that form the western side of the valley make a magnificent fore-ground, and open here like nature’s gates, to disclose the secrets of her bosom. The accompanying etching gives an admirable idea of this imposing scene. About a mile from hence is a place called Gwrydd, where there is a small public house, with a sign signifying nothing. Here I resolved to “rough it” for a day, intending to fish the lakes, situated immediately above this spot, as nature’s cisterns to water the pleasant valleys.
The public house possesses a small parlour, carpeted, with half a dozen hair-bottomed chairs, and a mahogany table. A silent but most importunate monitor urged me to discover what food this mountain chalet could produce. “Eggs and bacon,” was the expected reply to my question; and I soon had the pleasure of seeing this humble, but most grateful, fare placed before me, and in spite of the indifferent style of the cooking, I partook of it eagerly, having that incomparable sauce “a good appetite.”
After I had repaired my broken rod, I ascended the mountain at the back of the house, and arrived at a large oval lake, in which the black and sterile rocks that form inaccessible ramparts on one side are reflected in its generally unruffled surface. The scene is wild and desolate, such as Despair herself would select for her abode. There are plenty of fish in this lake, but they are all small and extremely shy. I remained upon its margin until the shadows of night gave me warning to attend to my safety, and make the best of my way to my lodging, where I speedily ascended by a ladder-like staircase to a kind of cock-loft, which was divided into two compartments, one for the accommodation of the family, man, wife, children, and servants, the other fitted up for travellers. Sleep soon overtook me, and I should have continued to sleep, I have no doubt, until breakfast time, had I not been awakened by a trifling accident
“At the mid hour of night, when stars were weeping,”
and ghosts of the mighty walk upon the hills, with a variety of other interesting objects that poets and nursery-maids have described infinitely better than I can pretend to do, I was visited by a dream in which the ghost of a lobster popped his head out of a salad bowl, and demanded upon what authority I had presumed to make mince-meat of his body, when a loud crash roused me from my slumber, and I found myself, with my knees doubled up to my chin, upon the floor; the bedstead having broken in the middle, and deposited me in this unenviable position. I need not say that for the remaining part of the night I was wholly left to waking reveries, and uncontrollable desires for the blessings of daylight, which at last greeted my longing eyes, and hurrying on my clothes, I descended, and walked forth to scent the morning air in the direction of Llanberis. The mists rolled like troubled lakes in the valleys, and the black bleak rocks looked cheerless and forbidding. The breeze was keen and piercing, and I started at a round pace to get myself warm by exercise. Having reached the summit of the roadway, I plunged at once into the pass of Llanberis, wild and gloomy. The precipices on my left looked truly terrible, like the shadow of death wrapped in a vapoury shroud. This pass is above four miles in length, and is a fine specimen of rugged grandeur. Not a single tree enlivens with its verdure this tremendous chasm. Range above range of rocks tower over the traveller upon either side, bearing various tints of black, brown, green, and purple, according to the disposition of the sun’s rays, and the distances of the ponderous masses. The rocks on both sides are nearly perpendicular; and, about two miles down the pass, the tourist will perceive some prodigious masses of rock upon his right hand that have fallen from the overhanging cliffs, which, when he pauses to look upon, will strike a feeling of terror into his heart, as he inwardly exclaims, “could any one have witnessed the descent of this tremendous mass?” The accompanying sketch gives a most accurate description.
We soon obtained a view of the lakes that spread themselves before us—viz.: Llyn Peris and Llyn Padarn, with the romantic castle of Dolbadarn upon its rocky promontory. On issuing from a pass on our left, as I was informed, is a valuable copper mine, and a stream of water conveyed over the road, by the aid of a wooden conduit, into the lake, which stream was for the use of the mine.
At length, I reached the inn, called Victoria, ordered breakfast, and procured an admittance to the Castle of Dolbadarn. This ancient fortress is supposed to have been built by one Padarn Beisrudd ab Idwal, for the purpose of guarding the mountain pass which I had just quitted. A single round tower is all that remains of the castle, although traces are left of a much more extensive building. Here Owen Gôch was imprisoned twenty years by his brother Llewelyn, the last Prince of Wales of the British line; and an ode is still extant, written by Howel Voel, wherein his captivity is affectionately lamented.
The view from the castle is truly sublime, comprising the two lakes, and the tremendous range of mountains, that seem to admit of no outlet from the vale. But the most beautiful prospect is from the lake in front of the promontory on which the castle stands, and is reflected in the smooth waters beneath, while the majestic Snowdon towers in the distance.
Returning to the Victoria, I partook of the refreshments provided, and then retracing my steps, I visited the little rustic church of Llanberis, which, for its simplicity, is well worthy of attention. Upon entering the doorway, there is a small stone font placed upon a pedestal which is approached by three stone steps: it resembles a small washing tub, and its cover is much like a copper-lid. Advancing into the interior, the music loft is upon the left, under which is a dilapidated screen, opposite to the font. A doorway in the centre of the screen leads into the body of the church, where ancient oaken benches are ranged upon either side, and the pulpit and communion table are immediately in front. The old arched roof is held together by iron pins, which project on each side of the timbers, and the whole interior is whitewashed. The only pew in the church adjoins the communion table, both of which have suffered materially by the worm and time. The few monuments in this simple structure are upon small slate slabs, about the size of a school-boy’s, and are hung up on the wooden beams.
On leaving the church, there is a monumental slate slab on the left of the path, bearing the following inscription and verses:—
Underneath
Lieth the remains
Of John, the son of
Robert Closs, who was
Interred Decr. 1st,
1805, aged 7 years.Ar ben mynydd dydd-y-daith oî howyder
A che dodd y maith
Gadewais (gwelais goeg waith)
Drueni’r Byd ar unwaith.
Oerfel fu uchel a chos, i angau
Llyn ingol i’mddangos
Mantell niwl mewn tywyll nos
A dychryniad dechreunos.
Upon returning to my inn at Gwrydd, I discovered that the landlady was sister to little John Closs; and from her I learnt the story of his melancholy fate. It is as follows:—
John was a pretty boy, about seven years of age, with fair hair and blue eyes, of a sweet temper, adored by his parents, and loving them most affectionately in return. Indeed little John Closs was the talk of the parish, and held up as a pattern of filial love and reverence to all the children in the village. His uncle had a small farm at Nant Bettws; and John’s father having sent him to reside there for a few months, the fond mother would often cross the mountain to see her son and her sister, returning home in the evening of the same day. Little John got tired of living away from home, and one night, after his mother had quitted the cottage to return to Llanberis, he wept so bitterly, and prayed so earnestly to be permitted to follow her home, that the good people at Bettws permitted him to try and overtake her, which they considered he might easily do, as she had not left the house ten minutes before he started.
The mother reached Llanberis in safety; but the poor boy lost his way in a snow storm on Moel Einion, and was not heard of for more than a week afterwards; when, one day, a man crossing the mountain, found the child stretched on the ground in a slumbering position, his face towards the earth, buried in his hands, and quite dead.
The following morning, I proceeded towards Capel Curig, but this road is very uninteresting. The tourist is, however, amply gratified, if it happen to be tolerably clear weather, on his arrival at an ancient stone bridge which crosses a stream that tumbles over some black rocks on the right, and winds its way in graceful variety, forming a pleasing spot to rest upon. Looking back towards Llanberis, the mountain scenery is very fine; and I here took my farewell look of Snowdon arid Snowdonia.
CAPEL CURIG,
is in the parish of Llandegai. It derives its name from a man who was canonized, and founded a chapel in this mountainous region. He was the son of Llawdden Lluyddog, of Edinburgh. There are here two lakes, and some tolerable fishing may be had, if you take a boat; but from the banks it is quite useless to attempt it. From this spot, excursions may be made to Llanberis, and
MOEL SIABOD,
from the summit of which a magnificent view is obtained of the mountains of Snowdonia, of nine different lakes, and the sea beyond Carnarvon. The distance from the inn to the apex of the mountain does not exceed three miles and a half.
DOLWYDDELAN CASTLE,
situated about five miles from Capel Curig, and on the eastward side of Moel Siabod, deserves notice. It is built upon a lofty rock, which on one side is inaccessible. There are two square towers, and a court in the middle. It is surrounded by mountains, and must in ancient days have been a fortress of considerable importance. It is said, Llewelyn the Great was born in the castle; and this fact is sufficient to interest the stranger who is capable of appreciating and feeling reverence for a hero, who so long struggled with unwearied assiduity and unconquerable bravery for his native land, and who fought and died in the sacred cause of liberty.
Within four miles of Capel Curig is an oval lake, of about three miles in circumference, called Llyn Ogwen which must by no means be overlooked. The scenery around is delightful and the waters are well stored with excellent trout of fine flavour, and surpassing all others in that respect, in the Carnarvonshire lakes.
At the western end of this lake, are the Falls of Benglog, (being three in number and upwards of one hundred feet in height) from whence the waters take their course through Beavers’ Hollow, a wild and romantic glen, rocky and barren.
Powell, in his History of North Wales, says, “In Tevi, above all the rivers in Wales, were, in Giraldus’s time, a great number of castells, which may be Englished beavers, and are called in Welsh avanc, which name onlie remaineth in Wales at this day, but what it is, very few can tell. It is a beast not much unlike an otter, but that it is bigger, all hearie saving the taile, which is like a fish taile as broad as a man’s hand. This beast useth as well the water as the land; and hath a voice, sharp teeth, and biteth cruellie till he perceives the bones cracke. * * * * He that will learn what strong nests they make, which Giraldus calleth castells, which they build upon the face of the water with great bowes, which they cut with their teeth, and how some lie upon their backs holding the wood with their fore feet, which the other draweth with a crosse stick, the which he holdeth in his mouth, to the water’s side, and other particularities of their natures, let him read Giraldus in his Topographie of Wales.”
In this stream are found the fresh water muscle, which the country people call cregyn diluw, i.e. shells of the deluge, supposed to have been brought into it by Noah’s flood.
On the left of the lake are the Crags of Trivaen, huge shattered ridges, which overhang the pool and keep it in continual shadow, while the sides of Braich-ddu slope gradually to the lake’s margin. The Francon Mountains, in the distance, are astonishing, and altogether this lake scene may be considered the finest in Carnarvonshire.
A gentleman, in the winter of 1831, was driving along the road which skirts the borders of the lake, when upwards of a thousand tons of rock fell from the heights of Benglog, a little below the Falls, into Nant Francon, a short time after he had passed them, and he beheld one portion roll into the valley and river, while the other rested upon the road he had just travelled, rendering it impossible for any carriage to proceed by that route, until the obstruction was removed.
A mile distant from Llyn Ogwen is another lake, well worthy of being visited, which lies in a deep hollow of the Glyder Mountains, called
LLYN IDWAL,
where the gloomy horror of the scenery is most appalling; particularly the terrific chasm of Twll Du, or the Black Cleft. This spot derived its name from the following crime which was perpetrated here.
Prince Owain Gwynedd, who reigned in the twelfth century, had a favourite called Nevydd Hardd, to whose care he intrusted his son Idwal, and who betraying his trust, commanded his son Dunawt to destroy the young prince, a crime which he too faithfully obeyed, perpetrating the cruel deed at this place. But, being discovered, Nevydd and his posterity were degraded from the rank of nobles to bondsmen, and Rhun, the son of Dunawt, who again became possessed of the property of his ancestors, granted the ground upon which the Church of Llanrwst now stands, as an expiatory gift for the foul crime imputed to his father. The grave of Idwal is still pointed out by the inhabitants, close to the lake.
The scenery around is well calculated to inspire fear in the timid, as being adapted to the committal of atrocity of any kind. Bleak, black, desolate, and stern, it thrills the beholder with an indescribable sensation of terror.
The lake is well stored with fish, of a darker colour than those in the Ogwen, and of a less delicate flavour. These lakes are in the parish of Llan Tegai, so called from its patron saint Tegai, the son of Ithel Hael, a nobleman of Armorica, brother to Credivael and Flewin, who built Penmynydd and Llanflewin, in Anglesey, about the year 636. See Rowland’s Mona Antiqua Rest. p. 189.
After a delightful day’s ramble amongst this wild and sublime scenery, I returned to the inn at Capel Curig, and on the following morning took the road to Llanrwst, which in a short time becomes particularly interesting. The dark and comfortless sterility is exchanged for a delightful valley, with luxuriant woods, which stretch to the summit of the hills upon either side; and near the two mile stone is one of the most picturesque cottages imaginable, placed on the side of a hill above the bridge, which crosses the river Llugwy, and gives additional beauty to the romantic dell.
Half a mile beyond is an Observatory, which stands upon the highest point of a towering cliff, a portion of whose summit is clothed with purple heath, and the remainder presents a face of grey barren rock, while beneath a forest of rich foliage creeps from its base far up the craggy sides.
Within a mile of this place are the celebrated waterfalls, called
RHAIADR Y WENNOL,
i.e. the Cataract of the Swallow—a fall of about sixty feet in width. The river, at the top of the first fall, flows in an unbroken sheet, but soon becomes dispersed in various streams that dash and struggle through the impending masses of rock, charming the ear with their complicated roar. At the second fall, it rushes in a collected volume into the boiling vortex, from whence, at the third, it is dispersed in spray. A small wicket gate by the road side, leads to a footpath through the grounds to the Falls, where the visitor cannot fail to find an adequate reward for his digression. The old oak trees that overhang the ravine are beautifully grouped. On one side, a large rock rises perpendicularly nearly 500 feet, and the earth is clothed with velvet moss and decked with wild flowers. Fancy would picture just such a retreat, for a wandering sylph! while the rays of light, darting through the greenwoods, remind us of the flittings of Sir John Wynne’s ghost, which was said to haunt this glen for many years, but is now laid at rest in the depths of the Lower Fall. Journeying onward, I reached the village of
BETTWS Y COED,
which, being translated, is the Station in the Wood; and a most delightful station it is. The Shrewsbury and Holyhead road runs through it, and the junction of the Llugwy and the Conwy rivers is at no great distance. The church is a venerable structure, and contains an old monument, erected to the memory of Gruffydd, the son of David Gôch, who was a natural son of David, the brother of Llewelyn, the last Prince of Wales. He died in the fourteenth century, and a stone statue of him is in a recess on the north side of the church, with this inscription: “Hic jacet Gruffydd ap Davyd Gôch, agnus Dei miserere mei.”
At about a mile from Bettws is an iron bridge of one arch, which carries the Holyhead road over the river Conwy. Its span is 105 feet, and it is called the Waterloo Bridge, from its having been erected in the year that tremendous battle was fought. But the principal object is
PONT-Y-PAIR,
the Bridge of the Caldron. It has four arches, and the natural rock supplies it with piers, that seem to defy the efforts of time or the fury of the waters. Immediately above the bridge is the fall and salmon-leap. The river rolls and plunges into a deep reservoir below. The grandeur of the scene during the floods, I was informed, surpasses imagination, and unfortunately for me, the heat of the sun had dried them up, when I visited this celebrated spot.
For this bridge the inhabitants are indebted to one Howell, a mason, who resided at Penllyn in the year 1468; and having occasion to attend the assizes at Conway, he was unexpectedly prevented from passing the Lleder by the fury of the flood. That a similar disappointment might not occur to others, he erected a wooden bridge across that river, and trusted to the generosity of travellers to remunerate him. The success of this attempt encouraged him to erect the bridge at Bettws y Coed, which is now called Pont y Pair, but he died before it was completed.
Upon the right of this bridge is Carreg y Gwalch, or the Rock of the Falcon, well clothed with trees, through which the bald cliffs peep, like a body of sharp shooters from a brush wood anxious to escape detection. In this rock is a recess called the Cave of Shenkin, a celebrated outlaw, who found shelter here from the unremitting efforts of justice during the reign of Edward IV. It is blocked up by a piece of rock.
CHAPTER VIII.
Gwydir Castle.—Llanrwst Shaking Bridge.—Inn.—Town Hall.—Free Schools.—Alms Houses.—Rhaiadr y Parc Mawr.—Llyn Geirionydd.—Taliesin.—Trevriw.—Slate Quarries.—Conway.—The Suspension Bridge.—The Castle.—Local Customs.—Excursion to the Orme’s Head.
“On a rock whose haughty brow
Frowned o’er old Conway’s foaming flood,
Rob’d in a sable garb of woe,
With haggard eye, the poet stood.”Gray.
Within half a mile from the town of Llanrwst is
GWYDIR CASTLE,
the property of Lord Willoughby d’Eresby, a family mansion of no very attractive appearance. It is situated on the right of the road which winds between it and a lofty wood-clad precipice, called Carreg y Gwalch, or the Rock of the Falcon. It was built by John Wynne ab Meredydd, in 1555, and has lately undergone some alteration. The breakfast parlour contains a curious carving of the arms of the Gwydir family, supported by Julius Cæsar and Augustus; the former holding his commentaries in one hand, and his sword in the other; the latter, his sword only. The dining room has some specimens of carving, that are worthy of observation; but throughout the mansion there is very little of what belonged to it originally. The chairs, panelling, and even tables, being coloured for the purpose of giving the apartments the appearance of antique splendour, which, until lately, they wanted.
The drawing-room is spacious and lofty, and is lighted by a double row of windows, which gives it a heavy look: this unusual arrangement was caused by the removal of the dormitory, to give height to this room. Over the fire-place is a finely executed carving of Julius Cæsar in oak. At the N.W. end of the room, a piece of tapestry represents a vintage, and at the S.E. another specimen of needlework commemorates the landing of Charles the Fifth at Grenada.
The coronation chair of George the Second is shewn in this apartment, and the footstool used by Queen Caroline on her trial at Westminster Hall. There is a centre table, very richly ornamented with carved work; and another, which in shape exactly resembles the slab and pedestal of a tombstone, so that the visitor naturally enough walks up to it, expecting to see the customary “Hic jacet,” &c.
The cradle of Sir Richard Wynne, bearing the date of 1634, completes the list of curiosities contained in this room.
The garden, which is extensive, contains some valuable plants and shrubs, and the terrace is a pleasant promenade, sloping from which are beds of beautiful flowers, of various classes and descriptions. After satisfying the housekeeper with a trifling gratuity, I proceeded to Llanrwst, but halted upon the bridge to take a view of the Conwy, (over which beautiful river its arches expand) and the town to which it leads. I was here accosted by an old man, who asked me, “if I should like to feel the bridge shake?” As I answered in the affirmative, he desired me to place my back against the side over the centre arch, and striking the opposite parapet rather heavily with his own, a tremulous motion was distinctly felt; on this account it is called the Shaking Bridge. It was built in 1636, from a plan of the celebrated Inigo Jones, and cost £1000, which was defrayed by the counties of Denbighshire and Carnarvonshire, which it unites.
LLANRWST
is built upon the Denbighshire side of the river. The Three Eagles is the most commodious inn in the town; and, being rather fatigued, I threw my limbs upon a sofa, and resigned myself to the drowsy god, first taking especial care to order a substantial repast to be in readiness for me on my return from the land of Nod. My last waking recollection was the words of Mr. Lover’s favourite song,
“There’s no use at all in my going to bed,
For its dhrames and not sleep, that comes into my head.”
Dreams, however, did not picture my slumbers, and I awoke to the unrivalled delight of a weary and hungry traveller—an excellent hot dinner.
The following morning I employed in paying my respects to the different gentlemen to whom I had letters, and in gaining what information I could respecting the objects most worthy of notice in the town and surrounding neighbourhood.
The church and chapel adjoining were the first subjects to engage my attention. In the former there is nothing interesting, excepting an oaken screen, exquisitely carved, which was taken from the Abbey of Maenan, the gallery for the singers being above it. On the opposite side is the
GWYDIR CHAPEL.
This beautiful structure was erected in the year 1633, by Sir Richard Wynne, of Gwydir, from a design of Inigo Jones, and was for many years the burial place of the illustrious family of Gwydir. At the sides of the chapel, fixed in panels of wood, are several engravings on brass, illustrative of the personages who are interred below; and in the east corner is a tablet of white marble, containing the following remarkable pedigree, comprising a period of 500 years.
“This chapel was erected A.D. 1633, by Sir Richard Wynne, of Gwydir, in the county of Carnarvon, Knight and Baronet; Treasurer to the High and Mighty Princess Henrietta Maria, Queen of England, Daughter of Henry the Fourth, King of France, and wife to our Sovereign Lord King Charles; where lieth buried his father Sir John Wynne, of Gwydir, Knight and Baronet, son and heir to Morris Wynne, son and heir to John Wynne, son and heir to Meredith Wynne, which three lie buried in the church of Dolwyddelen, with tombs over them. This Meredith was son and heir to Evan, son and heir to Robert, son and heir to Meredith, son and heir to Howell, son and heir to David, son and heir to Griffith, son and heir to Cradock, son and heir to Roderick, Lord of Anglesea, son to Owen Gwynneth, Prince of Wales, and younger brother to David, Prince of Wales who married Emma Plantagenet, sister to King Henry the Second. There succeeded this David three princes; his nephew Leolinus Magnus, who married Joan, daughter to King John,—David, his son, nephew to King Henry the Third,—and Llewelyn the last Prince of Wales of that house and line, who lived in King Edward the First’s time. Sir John Wynne married Sydney, who lyeth buried here, daughter of Sir William Gerrard, Knight, Lord Chancellor of Ireland, by whom he had issue, Sir John Wynne, who died at Lucca, in Italy, Sir Richard Wynne, now living, Thomas Wynne, who lyeth here, Owen Wynne, now living, Robert Wynne, who lyeth here, Roger Wynne, who lyeth here, William Wynne, now living, Maurice Wynne, now living, Ellis Wynne, who lyeth buried at Whitford, in the County of Flint, Henry Wynne, now living, Roger Wynne, who lyeth here, and two daughters, Mary, now living, married to Sir Roger Mostyn, in the County of Flint, Knight, and Elizabeth, now living, married to Sir John Bodville, in the County of Carnarvon, Knight.”
Beneath this is a superb engraving of Dame Sarah Wynne, one of the daughters of the old Chevalier Sir Thomas Myddelton, of Chirk Castle, and wife of the above-mentioned Sir Richard Wynne; she died June 16th, 1671. This piece of engraving was executed by one William Vaughan, in a style of elegance hardly to be met with, and may be justly reckoned among the first productions of the age in which he lived.
On the south side are two stately pyramidal columns of variegated marble, decorated with martial insignia; one to the memory of Meredith Wynne, the other to Sir John Wynne and Sydney his wife; on their pedestals are Latin inscriptions on black marble which have been thus translated:—
“To the Memory of Meredith Wynne, a descendant of Owen Gwynedd, Prince of Wales, who under happy auspices, founded the House of Gwydir, removed and endowed the Church of Sant Gwyddelen, during the third Tournean expedition, in the fifth year of Henry the Eighth. He died in the month of March, 1525.”
“To the Memory of John Wynne of Gwydir, Knight and Baronet, with Sydney the daughter of William Gerrard, Knight, Chancellor of the Kingdom of Ireland, the wife of his youth, to whom she bore eleven sons and two daughters; they lie here waiting the appearance of Christ in Glory.”
Between the above monuments is a small tablet of white marble to the memory of John Wynne ab Meredith with a Latin inscription to the following effect:—
“John Wynne ab Meredith,
an inheritor of his Father’s virtues, a just and pious
man, to whom Euna, his wife, brought five
sons and two daughters. He died
the 9th of July, 1559.”
On the floor is a stone effigy in armour, with the feet resting on a lion couchant, of Howel Coetmore ap Gruffydd Vychan ap Dafydd Gam, alias Gôch, natural son to David, Prince of Wales, from whose descendants according to tradition, Gwydir was purchased by the Wynnes.
Near to the effigy of Howel Coetmore is the under-part of a stone coffin in which Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, surnamed the Great, the son-in-law of King John, was buried at the Abbey of Conwy; to the coffin is fixed a piece of brass with this inscription:—
“This is the coffin of Leolinus Magnus, Prince
of Wales, who was buried at the Abbey of
Conwy, which upon the dissolution
was removed thence.”
On going from the chapel to the church, you pass over a large square flag of free stone, having on its sides a Latin inscription thus translated:—
“To the Memory of the Sons of John Wynne of Gwydir, Knight and Baronet, who died during their father’s life time; John, Knight, was buried at Lucca, in the free State of Italy, in the year of his age 30, of our Lord 1613. Robert, who had entered into holy orders, in the year of his age 24, of our Lord 1617. Thomas, Roger, Thomas, in their minority.—Death! a vapour! Behold! we have existed.”
In the chancel, between the reading desk and the communion table, is a flag of free stone on the remains of Margaret Vaughan, heiress of Caergai; she was esteemed the Sappho of her age; many of her poetical productions are still extant.
The gallery over the reading desk is said to have been removed here from the Abbey of Aberllechog, or Maenan Abbey, upon the dissolution of that religious house.
Under the reading desk in the Church, in a pew belonging to Kyffdy, is a Latin epitaph to the memory of Griffith Lloyd, of Bruniog, Rector of this parish; this is said to have been written by himself, and has been much admired for its singularity: it runs thus:—
“Once the undeserving School-master,
Then the more undeserving Lecturer,
And last of all, the most undeserving Rector of this Parish.
Do not think, speak, or write any thing evil of the dead.”
There is a Market Hall, Town Hall, Free Schools, and Alms Houses. The latter were erected by Sir John Wynne, in 1610, and received the name of Jesus Hospital. He endowed them for the reception of twelve poor men, by ceding the rectorial tithes of Eglwys Vâch, which are valued at £200 per annum. Within a mile of Llanrwst there is a spring, which is much esteemed for its healthful qualities. The water is soft, and a drop of sal-volatile mixed with a cup of it turns it white as milk, while oil of tartar causes it to assume a pearl colour. If during the tourist’s visit to Llanrwst there should chance to fall much rain, I would advise him by all means to view the cataract called
RHAIADR Y PARC MAWR,
in the valley of Nant Bwlch yr Haiarn, near Gwydir, but otherwise the minuteness of the stream occasions no extraordinary effect from this fall, which is about one hundred feet in height. The chief object of interest, however, in this vicinity, is the celebrated lake, called
LLYN GEIRIONYDD,
upon the borders of which once lived the chief of the Welsh bards, Taliesin. At the eastern side of the lake is a mound, upon the summit of which there is a kind of hollow, and in it are the remains of an ancient edifice, which was probably the residence of Taliesin, in the reign of Maelgwn Gwynedd, King of Britain. Taliesin when an infant was found by Prince Elphin by the side of a wear belonging to his father, Gwyddno Garanhir, Lord of Cantrev Gwaelod. The Prince fostered the infant, and had it liberally educated; and, at a proper age, introduced him to the court of his father, Gwyddno. Upon this occasion, Taliesin presented the king with a poem, the subject of which was his own history, and another to the prince, which he called Dyhuddiant Elphin, or the consolation of Elphin, a translation of which is in Evan’s Specimens of Welsh Poetry. Taliesin had an opportunity of being serviceable to his benefactor; for once, when the Prince was imprisoned by his uncle, Maelgwn, in the castle of Dyganwy, the magic of his muse effected his release. This celebrated bard was the preceptor of Merddin ab Morvryn, and to him the lovers of poetry are indebted for five new metres, while the historian and antiquary are equally benefited by his accurate description of the manners and customs of the Ancient Britons.
I quitted Llanrwst on the following morning, and took the road to Conwy; two miles and a half brought me to the pretty village of
TREVRIW,
which presents an animated scene. It is situated upon the banks of the beautiful river Conwy, which is navigable up to this point for vessels of fifty tons burthen, that supply the town and neighbourhood with coals, lime, groceries, &c., &c., and return laden with slate, supplied from the adjacent mines and quarries. A number of small boats, called coracles, used by the fishermen, are seen studding the delightful stream, while the larger vessels, towed against the wind or sailing before it, present a pleasing picture. From this place to Conwy there is nothing particularly to attract attention, until you arrive within a mile of that celebrated town, when, from the brow of a hill, is obtained a view of the venerable fortress erected by the first Edward, and the strongly fortified walls, completely encompassing the town, and strengthened by massive towers. They are coeval with the castle, and are built in the form of a Welsh harp, like those of Carnarvon; but here there are no environs, and the town presents the same appearance as when the chivalric monarch first fortified it.
CONWY.
The town derives its name from Cyn (chief) and Wy river.
The principal inn is the Castle, which affords every accommodation the traveller can desire. The Wynnes are celebrated here, as in all parts of North Wales. In the interior of the town stands Plâs Mawr, which was erected in 1585, and is still a remarkable structure; its founder was Robert Wynne, of Gwydir, the uncle of Sir John Wynne, the historian. Over the grand entrance is inscribed, in Greek characters “bear and forbear,” over which in Roman characters, “J. H. S. X. P. S.” (Jesus Hominum Salvator et Populi Salus.) The Old College is in Castle Street, and the Church is built from the remains of the ancient Cistercian Abbey, which was founded here by Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, 1185. It contains a rich baptismal font of gothic structure, with a tablet to the memory of Nicholas Hookes, of the town of Conwy, who was the forty-first child of William and Alice Hookes, and who was himself the father of twenty-seven children.
During my short stay in Conwy, I endeavoured to discover the best view of the town, which, I think, is from the eastern side of the river, about midway between the chain bridge and the mansion of Dyganwy. Nothing can be more interesting. The variety of small craft, sailing and anchored, before its warlike screen; the castle, with its towers and turrets, rising in hostile grandeur upon its rocky base; the bridges, and lovely scenery beyond of purple hills and thriving villages; and the bright waters sporting with the luxuriant foliage of its woody margin, create a sensation of delight in the pursuer of picturesque scenery which he has probably seldom before experienced.
Another delightful view may be obtained by ascending the rock which overhangs the lodge of the suspension bridge upon its eastern side. This very beautiful specimen of art has however lost a great portion of its attraction since the completion of the more wonderful structure of the Tubular Bridge, which, like a mighty conqueror, looks proudly conscious of its own importance, and compels the former to take a secondary position in the estimation of the visitor. It consists of only one span of 400 feet, and two abutments of masonry, which are in perfect harmony with the venerable appearance of the Castle. But the chief object of interest is the Castle, which surpasses in picturesque grandeur any building of the kind I ever beheld. I thought Carnarvon Castle the most beautiful of ruins, but it is not, in my opinion, to be compared with Conwy. The solidity of its structure, and its expansive site, resembling the fortresses of Syria and the Holy Land, give to its exterior all that the most romantic imagination could desire. Its foundation is a rock of slate, and its works are impregnable. Nothing but famine could, at the time it was erected, have had power to subdue it. Its walls are from ten to twelve feet in thickness, and it had formerly a deep and broad moat, on the west and north-west sides; which, with the sea washing its base on the east and south, formed insurmountable barriers to the assailants.
It was evening when I first entered this noble ruin. The porteress very ungraciously left me to my meditations after admitting me, locking the gate after her, and leaving me like a state prisoner in the royal fortress. I confess I was little pleased with the manners of my conductress, and the solitary situation in which I was placed, and sensations arose within me like those which a school boy feels when passing a churchyard at midnight. The sun had set, and the deep shadows of eve were darkening into night, as I stood alone in the court yard, and flitting visions arose before me of those who had crossed its space in distant by-gone ages—“the plumed troops,” and courtly dames, and all the glitter of the olden times. As I thus stood amongst the ruins, a deep drawn sigh, close by my ear, made my heart leap into my throat, as I turned to discover from whence it proceeded. But all was solitude around. The huge festoons of ivy, unruffled by a breath of air hung in funereal grandeur on the walls. As I passed into what had been the banqueting hall, the darkness increased. It was a noble apartment, and measured 130 feet in length, and thirty in breadth, in height twenty. Nine windows looked southward, up the river, and two into the courtyard. In the recesses were stone seats, capable of accommodating twelve persons; and, as I seated myself in one of these, my delusion of other days came over me. Here sat the first Edward, the hero of Palestine; here was the monarch besieged, and almost reduced by famine; here Hotspur and King Richard held a conference; and the latter, putting himself into the power of Northumberland, was betrayed by him, and sent a prisoner to the usurper, Bolingbroke.
“Life’s but a walking shadow—a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more!”
As I made this apt quotation, another deep and heavy sigh, and a rustling in the ivy, startled me, and the bird of solitude, the lonely owl, flapped his heavy wings, and flew past me to a remoter corner of the ruined hall. I arose, and walked to a small chamber, where there was an open ornamented casement, and which, as I was afterwards informed, bears the name of the Queen’s Oriel; from which there is a pleasant prospect of part of the ruin and scenery beyond.
I then proceeded to the terrace, at the south-western extremity, which is on the surface of the rock, and the prospect from this spot, interesting at all times, is doubly so by moonlight. The suspension and tubular bridges beneath, the ocean on the left, and this fertile valley on the right, with the sparkling Conwy meandering through it, compose a scene of unexampled beauty.
In the year 1290, when Edward was engaged in a dispute with the King of France, and was determined to revenge himself upon that potentate, in order to obtain supplies, he made the experiment of taxing his newly-acquired Welsh subjects; which they resented by hanging Roger de Pulesdon, who had been appointed to collect the tax; and by defeating the English forces, who attempted to enforce them. Alarmed at a revolt, which was now rising into importance, and which threatened to wrest from him his new dominions, Edward entered North Wales, to conduct the war in person. Having proceeded in his march to Conwy, he crossed that arm of the sea with a part of his forces, and retiring into the castle with them, awaited the arrival of the remainder. In his passage he lost many waggons, and other carriages loaded with provisions, which were intercepted by the Welsh, who came down in multitudes from the mountains, and invested the castle upon the land side, while a sudden rise in the Conwy, which prevented his troops from crossing the river and rendering him assistance, made his situation extremely alarming. He was surrounded by water and the enemy, cut off from his army, and threatened with famine. The good fortune of Edward, however, returned to him in the hour of need. The river subsided, and his forces being able to cross to his relief, the Welsh again retired to the mountains, and the English monarch passed his Christmas holidays without interruption at the castle.
In 1665, the Earl of Conwy, under pretence of its being for his majesty’s service, stripped the castle of all its furniture, iron, and lead, and shipped them off to Ireland, otherwise it might have remained as firm and entire at the present day, as when it was first erected. If these Goths were aware of the ignominy they attached to their shields by acts so disgraceful, they might perhaps have permitted beauty and grandeur to remain undefiled by their sacrilegious touch.
The young men still keep up many of the ancient local customs; amongst which, on Nos Calanmai, or, the eve of the first of May, they hang on the houses of their sweethearts bunches of rosemary and ribbons.
At the door of a prude they tie a penglog, or part of a horse’s skeleton. There is likewise a custom preserved called Stocsio. Upon Easter Sunday, a great number of boys and men assemble on Pentwthil, with wands of gorse, to proclaim the laws and regulations which are to be observed upon the following morning. The last married person is sought to perform this office, who, mounted on a heap of stones, issues his mandate, while the rest listen with silent attention. He decrees that all men under sixty years of age are to appear in the street before six o’clock on the following morning; and all under forty, before four; and all under twenty are commanded not to go to bed at all, under penalty of being put into the stocks. The orator then descends, amidst loud cheering, and the assembled parties separate; the younger branches to form plans of amusement, and the graver to secure their carts, waggons, and wheelbarrows, with chains and locks, to prevent their being seized upon the following day; a very necessary precaution, as every vehicle, unchained, or otherwise unsecured, is sure of being pressed before dawn of day into the service of the light-hearted youths, who are not over careful of their neighbours’ property during the uproarious period of their festivity. Early in the morning, the stocks are placed at one end of the street, and a party, marching to the inspiring music of a drum and fife, parade the town, in order to convey to the place of punishment all seceders from this ancient law of custom. When they arrive at a house where a rebel resides, the storming party endeavour, by all practicable means, to gain admittance; such as climbing in at the windows, forcing open the back door, &c., and they generally secure the culprit; who, if he be caught in bed, is allowed sufficient time to dress himself, and then hurried away to the stocks, amid the exulting shouts of the assembled multitude. His feet being secured, one of the party gives him a severe lecture upon the sin of idleness, and of breaking old established customs. Then taking his right hand, he puts questions to him; such as, whether he would rather kiss the mistress or the maid?—whether he prefers buttermilk or strong ale?—and the more satisfactory his answers are to the party, the more thickly his hand is plastered with mud, until at length he is released, and with loud cheering, permitted to join the forces, as they march off in search of another rebel.
There is a pearl fishery at Conwy, and many poor families are supported by gathering the muscles which contain these gems. The fish is called by Linnæus mya margaritifera. The produce is transmitted to London in the pure natural state, and easily finds a market amongst the jewellers, who purchase them by weight, but in the neighbourhood of Conwy the purposes they are appropriated to are unknown. It was my good fortune to meet with a brother tourist at the Castle Inn; who after acquainting me with the above facts, offered to conduct me in the morning to Llandudno, which offer I thankfully accepted; and, before the sun had finished his draught of mountain dew, we had crossed the bridge, and were pursuing our course to the appointed spot. The tide was at low ebb, and a pleasant walk of three-quarters of a mile upon the hard sand brought us to
DINAS GONWY,
“The fort of the Conwy.” By the English, it is called the Gannoc, and by the common people in the neighbourhood “Y Vaer dre.”
The ruins of an ancient castle are to be seen at a short distance, situated upon two hillocks, near the shore. From thence we crossed by Eglwys Rhôs, where Maelgwn Gwynedd is said to have taken refuge to avoid the yellow fever, which was committing great havoc in all parts of Europe. Gloddaeth, the residence of the Hon. Lloyd Mostyn, is sweetly situated near this place. It was built by his ancestors in the reign of Elizabeth, and is celebrated for the Welsh manuscripts contained in the library, now removed to Mostyn. The grounds are most tastefully laid out, and the tourist will find himself amply rewarded for his pains while viewing the extreme beauty of the scenes around.