The Tourist's Guide through North Wales

The Author’s object in offering to the Public the following pages is, that all who have a desire to examine the beauties of Welsh scenery may also have an opportunity of seeing the most interesting portion of it in a tour which will not occupy more than a month.  The route described in this volume presents a variety of pictures which can scarcely be equalled, and certainly not surpassed, in any quarter of the globe.  It is true there are hills higher far than any in Snowdonia, and valleys more extensive; but, while we are astonished at a description of the enormous magnitude of the Asiatic and American mountains, and the noble rivers, and sea-like lakes of the latter, let us take into our consideration which is the most desirable country to explore; that in which nature’s prodigies are so extensive that we can neither ascend the eminences, ford the rivers, nor view the opposite shores of the extensive lakes; or that where mountains may be scaled with ease, from the summits of which a series of glorious panoramas burst upon the eye,—wherein the valleys, glens, and wild ravines present an endless variety of sublimity and beauty, and the loud torrent and the waterfall pour forth their melody of never-tiring sweetness, to delight the ear?

Seas must be crossed, and miles of dreary and uninteresting country traversed, in wandering from one grand object to another in the former; while, in the route here represented to the Public—within the reach of all—repose and admiration charm the heart by turns, in the rich fertile valleys, lofty and wood-clad hills, or heather-mantled mountains, of North Wales.  The traveller is likewise insured the comfort of a good inn, where he may rest his wearied limbs after a day’s ramble in whatever part of the district he chooses to select for his excursion; and the healthy and active should decidedly make use of their limbs, to bear them through this tour, in preference to the more easy and luxurious vehicle, and even to the equestrian mode of conveyance.  A good horsewoman may venture into the dark defiles, or climb the craggy heights upon the ponies, which are always in readiness at the inns for that purpose; but between a man and his steed there will most assuredly be a strong feeling of sympathy created by a conviction that the one is a most unnecessary burthen to the other.

The peasantry are simple, honest, and obliging; and, as they trudge along, a spirit of freedom sparkles in their eyes, and seems to animate every action of their unfettered limbs.  Though their fare is humble, they enjoy it with an appetite to which the bracing air of their hills, and their happy ignorance of luxuries, gives an enviable zest.  Drunkenness is a vice almost unknown among these primitive mountaineers: milk is their common beverage, oatmeal cakes, and potatoes, with a plentiful supply of trout from their native streams, form their chief summer food; while, in winter, dry salted beef and mutton serve to satisfy their utmost wishes.

“Though poor the peasant’s hut, his feasts tho’ small,
He sees his little lot the lot of all.

* * * *

Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms.
And, as a child, when scaring sounds molest,
Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast,
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind’s roar,
But bind him to his native mountains more.”

A knowledge of the Welsh alphabet is indispensable to those who are desirous of correctly pronouncing the necessary questions and answers that transpire upon the road.  The names of places must effectually puzzle any tourist, who is not acquainted with the peculiar sound of each letter particularly where there are many consonants in a word.  In order, therefore, to aid the traveller in Wales, I have selected the following rules.

In the Welsh alphabet there are no mutes; and all letters that are circumflex must be pronounced long, as

Bôn like the English bone.

Bin, as been.

C, always as K in English.

Ch, is pronounced as the Greek Χ.

Dd, as the English th in this, that, thou.

F, as V in English.

Ff as F and double F in English.

G, as G in good, but never soft as in genial.

I, as I in king, but never as in fire.

Ll, as L aspirated.

Th, as in thought.

U, as I in the English words bliss, kiss, &c.

W, as double O in good, wood.

Y, as U in burn; but in the last syllable of a word, and in all monosyllables except Y, Ydd, Ym, Yn, Yr, Ys, Fy, Dy, Myn, it is like I in Sin.

By attending to these rules, the stranger will easily make himself understood by the peasantry, and on his tours, in enquiring for any place to which he may be journeying.

Ab, (or Ap,) the son of.

Aber, the junction of a river with the sea.

Allt, a hill; a mutation of gallt.

Annedd, a dwelling place.

Am, about.

Ar, upon.  Arvon, bordering upon Môn, or Anglesey.

Ardal, a region.

Argae, an embankment.

Avon, a river.

Bâch, little; when joined to a substantive feminine, it is written vâch.

Bala, an outlet.

Ban, high, lofty.  Plur. banau, heights, or eminences.

Banc, a bank.

Bâs, shallow.

Bedd, a grave.

Blaen, a point, upper end, or extremity.

Bôd, an abode, residence, habitation.

Bôn, the base.

Braenar, fallow land.

Braich, an arm.

Brîg, top, summit.

Brîth, speckled, mottled.

Bron, a breast, the slope of a hill.

Bryn, a hill, or mount.  Pl. bryniau.

Buwch, a cow.

Bwlch, a pass, or defile.  Pl. bylchau.

Câd, battle, war.

Cader, a chair.

Cae, a field.  Pl. caeau.

Caer, a fortress, or fortified town.

Cantrev, a district containing 100 townships.  A canton, a hundred.

Capel, a chapel.

Careg, a stone.  Pl. ceryg.

Carn, a heap of stones.  The hoof of a horse.

Carnedd, a heap of stones.  Pl. carneddau.

Castell, a castle.  Pl. cestyll.

Ceulan, bank of a river.

Cevn, the bank, ridge of a hill.

Cîl, a recess.  Cilvach, a small recess.

Clawdd, a hedge, dyke.  Clawdd Offa, Offa’s dyke.

Clogwyn, a precipice.

Côch, red.

Coed, trees.  Sing. coeden, a tree.

Côr, a circle, a choir.  Bangor, high choir.

Corlan, a sheepfold.

Cors, a bog, or fen.

Craig, a rock, a crag.  Pl. creigiau.

Croes, a cross.

Crug, a hillock.  Pl. crugion.

Cwm, a valley, dingle, glen.

Cymmer, the junction of two rivers.

Dau, two.

Dehau, south, the right side.

Din, dinas, a city, a fort, a fortified place on a hill.

Dôl, a meadow.

Drws, a doorway.

Du, black; hence dwrdu, the river Dee; literally, Black-water.

Dwy, two. (fem.)

Dwr, or dwvr, water.  Pl. dyvroedd.

Eglwys, a church.

Erw, an acre.

Esgair, a leg, a long ridge of mountain.

Fordd, a road.

Fynnon, a fountain, a well.

Gaer, a mutation of caer, as y gaer, the fortress.

Gallt, a hill; in construction, allt.

Gardd, a garden.

Garth, a promontory.

Gelli, a grove of hazels.

Glan, the brink, bank; glan y môr, the sea side.

Glâs, blue, grey, green.

Glyn, a glen.

Gorsav, a station, stand.

Grug, heath.

Gwaelod, a bottom.

Gwaen, a large plain.

Gwern, watery meadow.  Alder.

Gwydd, wood.

Gwyn, white.  Fem. gwen, wen.

Gwyrdd, green.  Fem. gwerdd, werdd.

Havod, a summer dwelling.

Hen, old.  Hendre, old mansion.

Heol, a street.

Hir, long.

Iâl, open country.

Is, lower.  Isav, lowest.

Llain, a long piece.

Llan, a church; a village with a church.

Llawr, a floor.

Llech, a flat stone, slate, slab.

Lluest, an encampment.

Llwyd, grey, hoary.

Llwyn, a grove, a bush, a copse.

Llyn, a lake, pool.

Llys, a court, a palace.

Maen, a stone.  Pl. meini.

Maenor, a manor.

Maes, an open field.

Mall, bad, rotten.

Man, a place.

Mawn, peat.  Mawnog, a turbary.

Mawr, great, large.

Melin, a mill.

Melyn, yellow.

Merthyr, a martyr.

Moel, bald, bare; a bare hill.

Môn, Anglesey.

Môr, the sea.

Morva, a marsh.

Mynach, a monk.

Mynydd, a mountain.

Nant, a brook, ravine, glen.

Neuadd, a hall.

Newydd, new.

Ochr, a side.

Pant, a hollow.

Parth, a division, a part.

Pen, a head.

Penmaen, a promontory, a rocky head.

Penrhyn, a promontory, a cape.

Pentrev, a village, a hamlet.

Perth, a brake, a thornbush.

Pistyll, a spout of water.

Plâs, a mansion, a hall.

Plwyv, a parish.

Pont, a bridge.

Porth, a gate, a ferry.

Pwll, a pit, a pool.

Rhaiadr, a cataract, a waterfall.

Rhiw, a slope.

Rhôs, a moor.

Rhudd, crimson, ruddy.

Rhyd, a ford.  Rhydycroesau, the ford of the Crosses.

Sarn, a causeway.

Serth, steep, abrupt.

Swydd, an office, a county.

Tal, the head or front.  Talcen, the forehead.

Tan, under.

Tervyn, the boundary.

Tir, the earth.

Tommen, a tumulus.

Traeth, a sand.

Trev, a town.

Tri, three.

Troed, a foot.  Pl. traed, feet.

Trwyn, a nose.

Twr, a tower.

Ty, a house.  Pl. Tai, houses.

Tyddyn, a farm.

Tywyn, a strand, a sandy shore.

Uchav, highest.

Uwch, higher.

Y, the.

Yn, in.

Ynys, an island.

Yspytty, a hospital.

Ystlys, the side, the flank.

Ystrad, a flat, a vale.

Ystum, a bend.

Ystwyth, flexible.

First Day.—Chester or Shrewsbury to Llangollen Road Station by rail, 20 miles; Llangollen, 5 m; Corwen, 10 m.

Second Day.—Bettws y Coed, 22½ m; Llanrwst, 5 m; Capel Curig, 10 m.

Third Day.—Llanberis, 10 m; Dolbadarn Castle and back, 4 m; Beddgelert, 12 m; Pont Aber Glaslyn and back, 3 m; Carnarvon, 13 m.

Fourth Day.—Bangor, 8 m; Plas Newydd, 5 m; Beaumaris, 6½ m.

Fifth Day.—Conwy, 14¼ m; Llandudno, Orme’s Head, back to Conwy, 10; and per rail to Chester, 45½ m.

First Day.—Chester to Hawarden, 7 m; Flint, 7 m; Holywell, 5 m.

Second Day.—Rhyl, 13½ m; Rhuddlan, 2 m; St. Asaph, 3½ m; Denbigh, 6 m.

Third Day.—Abergele, 13 m; Conwy, 11 m.; Llandudno and back, 10 m.

Fourth Day.—Bangor, 14½ m.; Plas Newydd, 5 m; Beaumaris, 6 m.  (See Bridges.)

Fifth Day.—Holyhead and back, 50 m; Carnarvon, 8.

Sixth Day.—Beddgelert, 13 m; Pont Aber Glaslyn and back, 3 m; Llanberis, 12 m; Dolbadarn and back, 4 m.

Seventh Day.—Capel Curig, 10 m.; Rhaiadr y Wennol, 3½ m.; Bettws y Coed, 1½ m; Llanrwst, 5 m.

Eighth Day.—Corwen, 26 m; Llangollen, 10 m.  (See Valle Crucis Abbey, Castell Dinas Brân, and Plâs Newydd.)

Ninth Day.—Pont y Cysylltau Aqueduct, 3 m; Chirk, 3 m; (see Chirk Castle and Brynkinalt;) Ruabon, 6; (see Wynnstay); Wrexham, 4½; Chester, 12 m.

^*_*^* For objects of interest, angling stations, and hotels, see first Route.

Preliminary Observations.—Preparations for a Tour.—Rail to Shrewsbury.—Battlefield Church.—Chirk.—The Castle.—Brynkinalt.—Viaducts and Aqueducts.—A Delightful Walk.—Llangollen.

“Like brethren now do Welshmen still agree
In as much love as any men alive;
The friendship there and concord that I see
I doe compare to bees in honey hive,
Which keep in swarme, and hold together still,
Yet gladly showe to stranger great good will;
A courteous kinde of love in every place
A man may finde, in simple people’s face.”

Churchyard.

Various, as the features of human nature, are the sources of human happiness.  Some derive their choicest pleasure from historical accounts of men who lived in by-gone ages, and in re-creating events that have long since been engulphed in the abyss of time,—breaking down the barrier of intervening years, and mingling, in idea, with those who were once deemed the glorious of the earth, who now lie blended with its grossest atoms, or are confounded with the purer elements.  Some, parching with the thirst of knowledge, seek to slake the fever of their minds with most laborious research; explore the utmost regions of the globe to find a shorter marine passage; or pierce into its depths to seek for treasures which only exist in their heated fancies.  The vast ocean is fathomed to satisfy the ruling principle of their natures,—curiosity; and the realms of air traversed with the same motive to insure the universally desired result, self-gratification.  While some, leaving the elements to perform the destined changes, are willing to agree with the poet, who in the warmth of his philanthropy exclaims:

“The proper study of mankind is man;”

and among this class of beings the author of these pages may be ranked, although he willingly confesses nature has the power of charming him in her most minute as in her most stupendous works, from the curious and confined instinct of the ant and of the bee to the wonderful and exhaustless energies of the human mind,

            “That source
Whence learning, virtue, wisdom, all things flow.”

The court, the city, and the country, present an endless variety of subjects for contemplation; and the latter being the region of delight to those whose business confines them to the metropolis for the winter months, the author of this volume is anxious to be thought a useful and amusing companion to such tourists who, in pursuit of health and the charms of nature, may wander

“In the Welsh vales ’mid mountains high.”

where the sublime and beautiful present themselves at every turn to captivate the eye, and ruddy health colours the smiling faces of every peasant girl and shepherd boy, from Chirk to Holyhead.

To a mind capable of estimating fine scenery, how delightful are the hurry and bustle which usually take place on the morning of departure, in fond expectation of realizing the anticipated pleasure of viewing those beauties of nature the imagination has but weakly painted!  The sun is scarcely sooner up than the traveller; and, although, perhaps, it is yet three hours to the time of departure, his anxiety preponderates over the now slighted comforts of his bed of down, and with an agile leap he quits his restless pillow, and hastily despatching the business of his toilet, with his heart beating high, and his knapsack already stuffed with three shirts, as many pairs of stockings, guide books, and as few other necessaries as may be, in order to make his walking wardrobe as light as possible, he prepares to take the road.  If a disciple of old Izaac Walton and Cotton, he will not fail to have his book of flies, lines, reels, &c., and a light fly-rod to carry in his hand, and for which he is sure to have use whenever he feels inclined for piscatory pastime on his tour.  So stocked and provided, he bids defiance to the evils of life; and may exclaim with the poet

“Warly cares and warly men
May a’ gae tapsalteeree O!”

“The cab is at the door, Sir.”

“Very good.”

“Is everything I want put into it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, good-bye!”

“Now, my man, drive to Euston-square Station.”

“All right, Sir.”  And away we went,

What a scene of bustle and confusion a metropolitan railway station presents a few minutes before the starting of a train, and more especially in holiday time.  Men, women, and children, in every direction, hurriedly traversing the crowded platform; luggage barrows, with porters, rushing to and fro; newspaper venders bawling “Times!  Chronicle!  Punch!”  Cabs galloping into the yard with anxious passengers; others, after having deposited their living burthens, slowly quitting it; the crowd of persons pressing forward for their tickets, jamming and jostling each other, as if the existence of each individual depended upon his or her obtaining that necessary passport.  At length all are supplied and seated in their various carriages.  Phiz! goes the steam, and the train slowly and majestically quits the station, gathering fresh speed in its progress, until the travellers find themselves whirled along at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour; station after station appear and disappear like the lightning flash of a summer’s cloud—

“A moment bright, then lost for ever,”

and in the short space of a few hours the journey to Shrewsbury is accomplished.

Within two miles of Shrewsbury, and nearly the same distance from the railway, upon the right of the line, the traveller will behold Battlefield Church, built by Henry the Fourth to commemorate the celebrated Battle of Shrewsbury, which, like that of Bosworth, has been immortalised by the magic pen of Shakspere.  Who cannot call to remembrance the gallant and fiery Hotspur, or the future Hero of Agincourt?—“Young Harry with his beaver on,”—and last, not least, fat Jack Falstaff, his humourous catechism upon “Honour;” with whom discretion was the better part of valour, notwithstanding his “long hour’s fight by Shrewsbury clock?”  Here, covered with wounds, the ambitious Hotspur fell, and his dead body, which had been buried on the field, was unearthed, and barbarously bruised between two millstones, and afterwards beheaded and quartered.

The old town of Shrewsbury contains many objects of considerable interest and historical association, which will afford to the antiquary or the curious abundant gratification for the few hours he may devote to them.  Those to which the traveller should in particular direct his attention are the Castle, the Abbey, and St. Giles’s Church; the two former were built by the first Norman Earl of Shrewsbury, Roger de Montgomery.

The town is beautifully situated on the Severn, on a peninsula made by the bend of the river; and, standing upon gentle eminences, it presents a bold and commanding appearance.  Upon the west side of the town, stretching along upon the banks of the river, and over-arched with magnificent lime trees, is a most delightful promenade—called the Quarry.

Having stayed the night in Shrewsbury, the following morning I once more placed myself in a railway carriage for a short ride upon the line to Chirk, at which place I had made up my mind to commence my pedestrian tour.  I think it necessary, however, to impress upon the minds of tourists that the Llangollen Road Station (which is a mile beyond Chirk) is unquestionably the key upon this side of the country to the very heart of the finest scenery in Wales, and that from thence he can obtain public conveyances which run daily to Capel Curig, Snowdon, Bala, Barmouth, Dolgelley, and a hundred other enchanting places in the Principality.

Arriving at Chirk Station, I, like the Honourable Dick Dowlas, with my wardrobe on my back, and a light heart, proceeded on the road to the village.  Bees hummed, birds sang, and blossoms sent forth their fragrance, to delight the traveller as he gaily trudged “the footpath way.”  Cheerfulness was above, beneath, and around me, and in my heart.  I had not taken many paces when I was accosted by an elderly person, in a straw hat, fustian shooting coat, knee breeches, gaiters, and shoes, he had a stout cudgel in his hand, and knapsack more capacious than mine strapped over his shoulders.  He appeared to be about fifty-five years of age, and being furnished like myself, it struck me that a passing traveller might naturally take us for father and son.

Fortunately, we were pursuing the same route, and a desultory dialogue commenced with the never-failing observation—

“A fine morning, Sir.”

“Very.”

“A great admirer of the charms of nature, I presume?”

“An enthusiastic one.”

“You’re for the Welsh vales, I suppose?”

“And mountains high,” I exclaimed, warming to my loquacious companion—

“In the Welsh vales ’mid mountains high,”

sang he, in a round-toned voice, with which I chimed in, and we were the best friends on a sudden.

There certainly is no society so interesting as that picked up by the tourist, who leaves with contempt the starched formalities of a great city behind him, and walks forth unencumbered by care, to enjoy the society of mankind in its varied and unsophisticated nature.  Every person we meet affords us information and delight; for a kindred spirit animates almost every individual whom you may chance to encounter in countries remarkable for beauties of scenery, and especially in a region like North Wales, where inns of the best kind are situated at the most convenient points, and the foot passenger is treated with as much respect as a lord in his carriage.  The landlords of inns here think that a man may make the proper use of his legs without being a beggar; and that the costume of a pedestrian may cover the form of a gentleman.  This philanthropic conception contributes to form that happy combination, civil hosts and merry travellers.

There is no want of society, nor any difficulty in selecting that with which you are best pleased; for every evening brings in fresh comers from various quarters to the different places of rest and refreshment.  The exchange of information respecting routes, the different adventures of the day, the peculiar feelings displayed in their recital, and countenances lit up with pleasure, give a degree of animation to the evening, never to be equalled in the brilliant drawing-room, the blaze of which seems to put out the eyes of reason,—

“And men are—what they name not to themselves
And trust not to each other.”

is agreeably situated upon the northern bank of the river Ceiriog, which divides England from Wales.  The village church is dedicated to St. Mary, and is an impropriation belonging to Valle Crucis Abbey, and contains some monuments erected to the memories of the Chirk families.  The most interesting is that of the famous Sir Thomas Myddelton.  In the churchyard are some fine aged yew trees.

Taking the road upon the left of the church, we entered the charming park of Brynkinalt, and visited one of the most picturesque seats in the Principality.  This elegant mansion, with its ivy-covered walls, is the principal residence of the Viscount Dungannon, who is descended from Tudor Trevor, Earl of Hereford, founder of one of the fifteen tribes of North Wales.  Valle Crucis Abbey, as well as many of the churches in the neighbourhood, have been greatly improved at his lordship’s expense, who is distinguished for archæological taste and research.  The house was built during the reign of James the First, from a design by Inigo Jones, and is delightfully situated upon the brow of a hill, from which circumstance it derives its name.  The park is divided by the river Ceiriog.

The late Duke of Wellington was maternally descended from this house.  His mother, the Countess of Mornington, who was a daughter of Arthur Hill-Trevor, first Viscount Dungannon, spent much of her time here during the boyhood of our illustrious hero, who frequently visited his noble parent during the Eton holidays.  There are yet living those who remember the boyish frolics of him who was at a later period destined to act so conspicuous a part in the world’s history.

By permission of the noble proprietor, the house and grounds are accessible to strangers during the summer months, and the paintings by Claude, Titian, Salvator Rosa, Carravaggio, Zucharelli, &c., are well worthy the inspection of the connoisseur and artist.

   “In Cambria’s noon of story,
   Ere bright she set in glory,
The brave and great, in princely state,
      All hail’d Chirk Castle walls.
   With splendid arms returning,
   The flaring torches burning,
’Mid armour’s clang the clarions rang,
   And search’d the sounding halls.”

SONG BY F. M. DOVASTON, A.M.

Chirk Castle is delightfully situated on the spacious domain, spreading over the summit of, what would be deemed, by a southern, a lofty mountain, but which is here only designated a hill, projecting from the range of the Berwyn Mountains, and is well calculated to recall the stories of the days of old, when flourished—

   “The good old rule, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power,
   And they should keep who can.”

It is built of solid stone; and the ivy, mantling over the walls, gives them an appearance of solemnity and grandeur peculiarly interesting.  It is quadrangular, and is strengthened by five massive towers, one at each corner, and the fifth projecting from the principal front, through which is a lofty entrance into the court-yard, 165 feet in length, and 100 feet in breadth, surrounded on every side by noble suites of apartments.  The picture gallery measures 100 feet in length, by twenty-two in breadth, and contains some very excellent paintings, and several portraits of the Myddelton family.  Amongst the latter is that of Sir Thomas Myddelton, who defended himself gallantly against the forces of Cromwell.  He was rewarded for his loyalty by Charles the Second, who granted him £30,000 for the loss he had sustained, besides many valuable presents; amongst others, a cabinet, which is shewn in the gallery, valued at £7000, richly ornamented with silver; in various compartments of which are paintings, said to have been executed by Rubens.  The monarch offered to elevate Sir Thomas to the peerage, which he declined.

The walls of the castle are eighteen feet in thickness; but sleeping and other apartments have been cut into them, for the accommodation of the family.

The celebrated picture of Pistyll Rhaiadr, in the dining-room, shows that noble waterfall tumbling into the sea, where several ships are quietly riding at anchor.  “Pistyll Rhaiadr,” i.e. “The Spout of the Cataract,” is considered the largest fall in Wales.  In the valley of Mochnant, about four miles from Llanrhaiadr, the river falls over an almost perpendicular rock, 240 feet high; thence rushing furiously under a natural arch towards the bottom, it plunges into a deep black pool, overhung with impervious shaggy wood.

The story of the artist’s introducing the ocean, with ships, is rather curious.  He was a foreigner, and but little acquainted with the English language; and when he had completed the picture, one of the persons to whom it was first shown observed, that “a few sheep placed near the foot of the fall would be a great improvement.”  Misunderstanding sheep for ship, his amazement was extreme.  He, however, took the picture to his easel, and introduced ships, with the necessary element to float them!  A mistake so humourous determined the purchaser to allow of no further alteration.

The present building was completed in two years.  The first stone being laid in the year 1011, and in 1013 the castle frowned defiance to the foe.

It was built by Roger Mortimer, Earl of Wigmore, as a stronghold to defend him from the just vengeance he had created by the murder of the sons of Gruffydd ab Madoc, to whom he was appointed guardian, in conjunction with John, Earl of Warren, in the hope of inheriting their joint estates.  Mortimer was to seize upon Nanheudwy and Chirk, the property of the youngest; and Warren upon the lands of Bromfield, Yale, and Dinas Bran, belonging to the eldest.  Travellers should not neglect to visit this noble specimen of warlike architecture.  Its picture gallery and dungeon will, in their different styles, excite admiration.

On the foundation of the present castle anciently stood Castle Crogen; and the territory around bore the name of Trev-y Waun, the property of the lords of Dinas Bran, which continued in their possession up to the death of Gruffydd ab Madoc, in the reign of Edward the First.

The view from the highlands of the park is very extensive, and commands a prospect of seventeen different counties.

The vale beneath, which winds along the foot of the vast Berwyn Mountains, was the scene of a desperate conflict between Henry the Second and the Welsh.  Henry having determined once more to attempt the subjugation of Wales, and to revenge the ravages carried through the borders by its gallant prince, Owen Gwynedd, assembled a vast army at Oswestry.  Owen, on the contrary, collected all the chieftains and their dependents at Corwen.  The two armies met on the banks of the Ceiriog.  The conflict was obstinate and bloody, and numbers of brave men perished.  In the end the Welsh retired to Corwen.  Henry reached the summit of the Berwyn, but was so distressed by dreadful rains, and by the activity and prudence of Owen, who cut him off from all supplies, that he was obliged to return ingloriously, with considerable loss of men and equipage.  The place is still called Adwy’r Beddau, or the Pass of the Graves—of the men who were slain there.

The remains of Offa’s Dyke, the ancient boundary between England and Wales, are still visible near the castle, and may be traced a considerable distance through the park.

The Vale of the Ceiriog at Chirk, like that of the Dee between Chirk and Llangollen, is distinguished by two specimens of architectural skill and enterprise, each valley being crossed by the Ellesmere Canal and the Shrewsbury and Chester Railway, upon long ranges of arches, at a considerable elevation.

The aqueducts of Chirk and Pont y Cysylltau have long been the objects of general admiration, but for elegance of design, as well as magnitude, they must now yield the palm to the viaducts of the railway, which are, in truth, most noble structures.

In this lovely village we put up at the Chirk Castle Arms to take luncheon, which was served with much civility—cold meat, a cream salad, and a capital Cheshire cheese, with the best of Shropshire ale.  This excellent inn is kept by Mr. Moses.

After proceeding about a mile and a half on the Llangollen Road, and leaving Wynnstay, the noble mansion of Sir Watkin Williams Wynn, Bart., M.P., on the right, we were conducted along the banks of a beautiful canal (the same that crosses the valley at Chirk), which was here planted with laurel and hazel in pleasing variety on either side.  On a sudden, an opening in the foliage presented us with a splendid view of the Vale of the Dee, with the two noble structures, the viaduct and aqueduct, gracefully stretching from hill to hill, and the waters of the river making their way amongst the broken rocks and embowering trees, and rolling under their arches with that delightful sound which is only heard in mountain scenery.

Seldom had I experienced so delightful a sensation as the present prospect occasioned.  All was so calm, so quiet, it seemed, indeed, “the Happy Valley.”  Shortly after, however, we found that no golden pleasure is entirely free from alloy, for on turning a projection upon the road, we were nearly stifled from a lime furnace, and what was worse, another and another still succeeded, resembling a line of batteries blazing and vomiting forth smoke and destruction, while upon the opposite mountain an uniform body of iron works were firing away from their tall chimneys, and steadily maintained the never-ceasing conflict.

At length, however, having happily passed these belligerents, my companion led me in triumph into a little public house on the road side, which overlooked a precipice, the Aqueduct Tavern, the exterior of which promised little better accommodation than is met with in an Irish cabin.  We entered, nevertheless, and although the floor was of brick, it was very clean, and the household utensils glittered along the walls.

“Pray, gentlemen, walk into the back parlour,” said a comely-looking, good-natured landlady of forty-three.

We gladly accepted her invitation, and were agreeably surprised to find a neat room, carpeted, with a sofa, and half-a-dozen hair-bottomed chairs, and every thing rurally comfortable.  The window looked upon the aqueduct, and commanded a beautiful prospect.

Having discussed our beverage, and lighted cigars, we quitted the comfortable little cottage, and bent our steps towards the aqueduct, to cross by it to the opposite side of the Vale.

A cigar in the cool of the evening is delightful,—

“Glorious tobacco, that from east to west,
Cheers the tar’s labour, and the Turk-man’s rest.”

So sang the noble bard, the music of whose lyre is left to charm the race of mankind for ages yet to come.

We soon reached the centre of the aqueduct; it extends, from hill to hill, in length 980 feet; it is sustained by twenty piers, 115 feet in height from the bed of the river Dee, and the span of the arches is forty-five feet.

The length of the viaduct is 1,538 feet; its height 147 feet, the number of arches nineteen, and the span of each arch is sixty feet.

I never felt the influence of the sublime mingled with the beautiful so deeply as when I stood upon this wonderful work of art; wherever I turned my eyes the scene was calculated to excite the warmest feelings of admiration.  The Dee flowing beneath, shadowed by the rich tints of the summer foliage; the ruined bridge; the dark mountain masses upon either side, patched with gloomy pines, intermingled with the relieving brightness of the graceful larch.  Here waves the lovely blooming heather, there stands the blasted rock in its naked majesty, the noble amphitheatre at the extremity of the vale, with a distant view of the viaduct; the twittering of the birds, as they settled to repose upon the trees around, altogether gave a charm to the evening which can only be felt while witnessing the scene, and which exceeds the power of description.

Having crossed the aqueduct, we proceeded by the left bank of the canal, passing a forge, that nearly stifled us with gaseous smoke, along a pathway made of cinders and small coal, the refuse of the adjacent iron-smelting foundry.

Trees of every description hung over our heads, and sloped down a deep declivity to the margin of the Dee, while on the opposite bank the mountain frowned above us.  The partial glances we obtained of the vale through the woods, discovered scenes which the artist’s fancy might vainly attempt to equal.

At length we reached the Bridge of Llangollen, whence the river is seen to great advantage, tumbling over its rocky bed, and rushing beneath the dark shelter of the over-hanging trees.  The village is small, and contains two respectable hotels, viz., the Hand, at which we stopped by the advice of my companion, and the Royal Hotel.

We were shown into a very good parlour, and after ordering a tea and supper dinner, my friend, somewhat exhausted by the day’s march, flung himself upon a sofa, while I resumed my journal, and soon afterwards retired to my bed-room, where the murmurs of the flowing Dee were distinctly heard beneath the window.

“Here I am, then,” said I, soliloquising, as I pressed the pillow; “here am I, at length, in the Vale of Llangollen; in the village of Llangollen,—a spot which I have so often longed to visit!”

“Flow on, thou shining river!”

and in a few moments I sank soundly to sleep.

Plas Newydd.—Castell Dinas Brân.—Valle Crucis Abbey.—Pillar of Eliseg.—Vale of the Dee.—Corwen.—Route to Llandrillo.—Vale of Edeyrnion.—Arrival at Bala.

“I crossed in its beauty the Dee’s druid water,
The waves as I passed rippled lonely and lone,
For the brave on their borders had perished in slaughter,
The noble were banished, the gifted were gone.”

W. Wiffen.

I was dreaming of home, and happiness, and a thousand lovely things, when I was awakened by my new acquaintance, who stood before me dressed for a sturdy walk.  “A lovely morning,” said my companion, rubbing his hands with much delight; “come, bustle, bustle, my young friend; you are not in London, now.  Permit me to open the lattice; you will find no perfume at your chamber window in town like this; and, as he spoke, he flung open the casement, and a rush of fragrance poured into the room from hundreds of roses that clustered upon the wall without; nor was my friend at all deficient in praising its sweetness, for, taking a long breath, he stood, for a moment, with his mouth wide open, and then sent forth a sigh, long enough to form a bridge over the river for the fairies to cross upon.

“Shall we breakfast before we set out upon our ramble?  I think we had better give orders for it, and visit the cottage where Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby so long resided, while it is preparing.”

This being agreed to, we gave directions for a breakfast, that would enable us to undergo the subsequent fatigue with cheerfulness, and then struck into the road for Plas Newydd.  This memorable little dwelling is pleasantly situated upon a rising knoll, and commands a delightful prospect of mountain scenery.

The front of the cottage is ornamented with an oaken palisade, curiously carved with grotesque figures, giving a very tasty and aristocratic appearance to the building.  At the back of the house is a neat grass plot, with a birdcote, where the robins find a grateful shelter in the winter season, and where the ladies fed them every morning.  It is surrounded with a fence of evergreens.  From thence, the gardener conducted us under an archway, to a very pleasant and winding path, which leads to a well-stocked fruit garden.  We then descended by a shady walk, arched over with tall trees, to the primrose vale, through which a refreshing stream rushes over rocks, where the sun but rarely gilds it with its beams.  It is a delightful cool retreat, and well calculated to awaken the dormant spirit of poesy, in any heart where it had ever deigned to dwell.  We passed over a rustic bridge which led us to the verandah, from which we had a fine view of the valley, and the Pengwern and Berwyn Mountains; and then proceeding a little farther up the glen, we seated ourselves opposite a most picturesque font, brought hither from the ruins of Valle Crucis, by the late proprietors of this spot.  It is enclosed in a small arched niche, and supplied with the purest water from a murmuring rill, which falls in a thin stream into the bowl, a draught from which is an exquisite treat—for water drinkers.

The flower garden is laid out with great taste, and the little circular dairy, sunk in the ground, on the left at the front entrance, gives a most pleasing and picturesque effect.  Altogether it is a place to which any person, wearied with the bustle of society, would willingly fly for refuge, and find repose.

Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby were young ladies of beauty and rank, who loved each other with so true an affection that they could never bear the afflicting idea of a separation which the marriage of either might occasion.  They, therefore, resolved upon lives of celibacy, refusing many handsome offers, and remaining deaf to the persuasions of their friends, they retired to the beautiful Vale of Llangollen to enjoy the happiness of each other’s company, that as their friendship began in infancy it might be perpetuated through life.

These celebrated ladies were the pride of Llangollen for more than half a century, and by their numerous charities and general kindness of disposition, had endeared themselves to the hearts of the whole neighbourhood.  It is worthy of remark that during the long period of their residence in Wales, they never, for a single night slept from home.  They occasionally visited the theatres at Wrexham and Oswestry, on charitable occasions, or when a “star” was engaged; but their invariable custom was to return home after the performances, whatever might be the state of the weather.

In the lively Memoirs of the late Mr. Charles Matthews, the celebrated comedian, is the following description of “the Ladies of Llangollen,” but it must be remembered that at that time

“Age, with stealing, stealing steps,
Had clawed them in his clutch.”

“Oswestry, Sept. 4, 1820.

“The dear inseparable inimitables, Lady Butler and Miss Ponsonby were in the boxes here on Friday.  They came twelve miles from Llangollen, and returned, as they never sleep from home.  Oh! such curiosities!  I was nearly convulsed.  I could scarcely get on for the first ten minutes after my eye caught them.  Though I had never seen them, I instantly knew them.  As they are seated, there is not one point to distinguish them from men; the dressing and powdering of the hair; their well-starched neckcloths; the upper part of their habits, which they always wear even at a dinner-party, made precisely like men’s coats, and regular black beaver hats.  They exactly looked like two respectable superannuated clergymen.”

In returning through the churchyard we passed the monument to the memory of Lady Eleanor Butler, Miss Ponsonby, and their faithful servant, Mary Carroll.

The church is of considerable antiquity, but has very little left of architectural beauty; some fine carvings on the roof and in the interior still attest its former consequence.  It is noteworthy, however, inasmuch as the remains of the saint to whom it is dedicated are buried under its sacred roof.  Pennant gives his name in full, which is Saint Collen ab Gwynnawg, ab Clydawg, ab Cowrda, ab Caradog Vreicvhras, ab Llyr Merim, ab Einion Yrth, ab Cunedda Wledig, by Ethni Wyddeles, daughter to Matholwch, lord of Cwl, in the kingdom of Ireland.

We now returned with good appetites to do justice to the fare provided by our host of the Hand, and here I was first destined to hear the sounds of the Welsh harp.  As we discussed our fare, the harper in the hall played up his liveliest tunes.

Breakfast being despatched, we slung our pistols, i.e., leathern bottles, filled with eau de vie, to our sides, and started to view the ruins of Dinas Brân, an ancient fortress up the summit of a conical mountain, which forms the principal feature of this portion of the vale, and is indeed a striking object from almost every part of the neighbourhood.  The ascent begins near the foot of the ancient bridge opposite to the town, which was built in the early part of the fourteenth century, by the first John Trevor, Bishop of St. Asaph.  The view through the arches, either up or down the river, is extremely picturesque.

My companion was strongly built, and being accustomed to rambling amongst the Welsh vales and over its steepest mountains, far outstripped me in the ascent, which was by no means easy.  We took a zig-zag direction up the hill, which was too precipitous to mount in a direct way, and as we approached the summit the ascent became more difficult; at length, after some little toil, we stood by the side of the Well, whose pure water gave joy to the inhabitants of this ancient fortress many hundred years ago, and still offers a welcome draught to the pilgrim who possesses sufficient perseverance to seek it.

The view from the summit of this mountain is beautiful in the extreme; commanding the vale east to west, with the widely spreading plains beyond its eastern extremity, and the grand and picturesque mountain scenery which forms the western boundary.  Chirk Castle, Wynnstay, Valle Crucis Abbey, and Glyndwrdu, are distinctly visible from this elevation, while the romantic Dee is seen winding beneath, in light and shadow beautifully varied by the hills and woods that droop over its banks.

The present remains of this ancient fortress are a few scattered walls.  There is little doubt that it is of British origin, but the period of its erection, as well as the name of its founder is buried in oblivion.  The original dimensions of its walls were about 300 feet long and 150 feet broad.

In the reign of Henry the Third it afforded an asylum from his enraged countrymen to Gruffydd ab Madoc, who basely betrayed his country to that monarch.

In 1390 this castle was inhabited by Myvanwy Vechan, a most beautiful and accomplished female.  She was of the house of Tudor Trevor, and her father, Ednyved Vychan, then held the castle under the noble Earl of Arundel, in the reign of the unfortunate Richard the Second.  She was beloved by Howel ab Einion Lygliw, a celebrated bard, who addressed her in a most charming ode.

On the north-west side of the hill is an adjacent rock called Craig Eglwyseg, or the Eagle’s Rock.  For more than half a mile this rock lies stratum upon stratum, in such a manner as to form a kind of steps, parallel with the horizon, called by naturalists saxa sedilia, affording a remarkable geological phenomenon.

Like most abbeys, is beautifully situated.  The monks of old well appreciated the value of rich lands and clear streams.  This exquisite relic of a past age was founded in the year 1200, by Gruffydd ab Madoc, Lord of Bromfield and Yale, and of the neighbouring castle, Dinas Brân; and in conformity with the rule of the Cistercian fraternity, was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary.  The remains of the abbey at present existing consist of the church, and of a building on the southern side, part of which seems to have formed the abbot’s lodgings, the refectory, and the dormitory above, now tenanted by a farmer.  The church is a cruciform building, of which the northern side has been almost destroyed, and no vestige remains of the roof except in the eastern aisle of the southern transept.

In the midst of these hallowed precincts, and until the last twelvemonths, the rubbish was heaped up to a great height, probably by the fall of the northern wall, and by the remains of the roof, but through the praiseworthy exertions of a nobleman in the neighbourhood, Viscount Dungannon, the whole has been cleared away, leaving the pavement and sides as they existed in former days.

The eastern end is most ancient, and it is adorned by three lancet arches, forming one grand window.

The entrance was in the west, under a broad and beautiful window, above which is a smaller one of marigold form, decorated with tracery and fret work, and beneath it may be deciphered the following inscription:—

Quiescat ame

+ Adam Abbas fecit hoc Opus i Pace.

The intelligent cicerone of this ancient building is Miss Jane Lloyd, who has lived in this retired but delightful spot for some years.  She has a perfect knowledge of the Welsh language, and of the history of these interesting ruins, which no one who has visited them can cease to remember with admiration and regret.

Not far from the abbey, in a field called Llwyn-y-Groes, or the Grove of the Cross, stands this famous pillar, which was erected above a thousand years ago to the memory of Eliseg, the father of a Prince of Powis, called Brochwel Ysgythrog, who met his death at the Battle of Chester, in 607.

It is among the first lettered stones that succeed the Meini-Hirion, Meini-Gwyr, and Llechau, and stood on a great tumulus, perhaps always environed with wood, according to the custom of the most ancient times.  During the civil wars it was thrown down and broken, and the shaft, which was originally twelve feet, is now reduced to eight.  At the suggestion of Mr. Price, Bodleian Librarian, and a great antiquary, Mr. Lloyd, of Trevor Hall, had it placed in its present position.

From Valle Crucis Abbey we proceeded to the banks of the Dee, and crossing the rude bridge over the river, struck into the high road to Corwen.  The country became highly interesting.  The mountains are lofty; and beneath, upon the right, Glyndwrdu the Valley of the Dee, discloses its picturesque beauty.

The vale is so serpentine that it presents a succession of most exquisite views, and after a walk of three miles, on looking back, Castell Dinas Brân seems placed upon a lower eminence.  The Valley of Llangollen may be seen likewise from hence for many miles, terminated by the distant horizon.

The Valley of the Dee was the patrimony of the renowned Glyndwr—Shakspere’s Glendower—and with many a mountain side and summit do the natives delight to associate his name.  Just beyond the seventh mile-stone, will be seen a kind of tumulus crested with a clump of firs; this is Glyndwr’s Mount, and is, we believe, fixed upon as the site of his palace.

After passing the picturesque village of Llansaintfraid, nothing occurs to arrest the attention till Corwen is reached.  The hotel is named after the mighty Owen, and has a gigantic head over the door, much resembling the Saracen’s, of Snow Hill notoriety.

The first question put to the jolly landlord was, “What can you give us to eat?”—It was about three o’clock in the day.

“Why, sir, there is a nice roast duck, and some peas.”

“And how long, pray, will it be before it is ready?”

“A quarter of an hour.”

“Very well, that will do; and in the interim I will visit the church.”

In a few minutes I was conducted to the ancient edifice.

On one side of the altar is the lid of a coffin, which bears the following inscription:—

“Hic jacet Jorwerth Sulien, Vicarius de Corvaen.  Ora pro eo.”

In the church wall is shewn the private doorway through which Owen Glyndwr entered the building whenever he attended divine worship, and in the rock which overhangs the churchyard, there is a recess which bears the name of Owen Glyndwr’s Chair; and the stone which now forms the lintel of the doorway leading to his pew, is said to retain the mark of his dagger, half an inch in depth, which he threw from the said chair; but upon what occasion it is not stated.

In the cemetery there is a Cross, fixed in a circular stone, westward of the steeple; and it is supposed that the name of Corwen is a corruption of Corvaen, and derived from this Cross.  Cor signifies a circle, and maen (which is likewise considered to have been changed into vaen) if joined to cor, means a cross in the circle.

Having satisfied my curiosity here, I returned to the inn, and the first object which met my delighted eyes, was the promised duck, accompanied by a dish of most elegant trout: a dainty for which I had been longing ever since I entered this territory of rocks and torrents.  My friend was already placed at the table, and he clapped his hands, and rubbed them with evident delight and satisfaction at seeing me arrive so opportunely.

The fish despatched, duck and green peas, in close column brought up the rear.  But I and my gallant comrade—a better trencherman ne’er poised a fork—attacked in line, cut up the one, and routed the other with the most determined bravery.  The right and left wings were attacked and cut off from the main body, which, with all its materials, we dispersed in the glorious conflict, remaining masters of the field.

Although I thus warmly express my satisfaction at partaking of this not-easily-to-be-forgotten luxury, let me not be mistaken for a gourmand; but a wet and tired traveller, however much his mind may be enchanted by the scenery through which he passes, never beholds a more delightful prospect than a comfortable meal at his journey’s end.

It so happened, however, that this was not to be my journey’s end, as it was my intention to reach Bala before nightfall.

At this spot my companion and I were to separate: his path lay towards Cerrig-y-druidion, and mine towards Llandrillo and the Vale of Edeyrnion.

With a feeling of regret I never before experienced at quitting a new acquaintance of so short a standing, I squeezed his hand, and once more took the road for another walk of ten miles.

At a short distance from Corwen, a road branches off to the left, along which the traveller should trudge to the village of Llandrillo, and he will be repaid by the sight of one of the most fertile valleys in Wales.  It is a mile farther to Bala by this route, but the superior beauty of the scenery will amply recompence him for the extra distance, for, with the exception of a view of Bala Lake, obtained from an eminence, the road, which runs along the opposite side of the valley, is dull and uninviting.  But on the contrary, by the Llandrillo route, the eye is delighted with a succession of scenes varied and interesting in the extreme.  Huge masses of rock hang over the road upon the left, in threatening grandeur, while waving woods and falling streams give endless variety to the picture.

After proceeding five miles, I crossed a bridge over a fine trout-stream, the banks of which are shaded with trees, and turning into an avenue upon the right, seated myself by the margin of the brook, secured from the hot rays of the mid-day sun, I fancied myself the melancholy Jacques.  There only wanted a wounded stag, to make the illusion perfect.

As I entered the village of Llandrillo, I was much delighted with the lively scene.  The long street was crowded with peasantry, in their holiday clothes.  On each side were stalls, formed of tubs turned upside down, and boards placed upon them, to support their merchandise; square patches strewed with straw and covered with crockery and glass; tables well stored with woollen hose and mittens; and stands of gingerbread and ginger-pop were liberally stationed in different quarters, to gratify and refresh the happy throng.  At times, a sudden opening in the crowd took place, the whole mass of people jamming each other upon either side of the street, to make way for a trotting pony, or an ambling nag, to curvet and prance down the middle and up again, to show his paces.  At the upper end of the fair, a hardware man harangued a crowd of people from his travelling warehouse (a covered cart,) endeavouring to persuade them that he came to Llandrillo solely for their benefit, and for no selfish motive upon earth, and labouring to convince them, in brazier-like eloquence, that the articles he offered to their notice were considerably under prime cost, and could not be purchased elsewhere for treble the money; but, though he sold at a great sacrifice to himself, he begged them not to consider his loss, but their gain; such an opportunity would never again present itself, therefore now was their only time to buy cheap!

A party of Welsh girls attracted my attention, gathered together in front of a wall, upon which a line of men’s hats were ranged, of various qualities and prices; and great glee and laughter were elicited as each fitted the new beaver upon her head, it being considered the ne plus ultra of taste, and a powerful auxiliary to the coquetry of a Welsh girl.

Leaving Llandrillo, and proceeding towards Bala, the traveller enters the

The mountains here, upon either side, are covered with plantations, and the beautiful Dee winds gracefully in the centre of the valley, through delightful meadows, while corn fields wave upon the sloping banks, and everything presents to the eye the appearance of freshness and fertility, cheerfulness and content.  At the bridge near Llanddervel, a small village, which is first observed upon the opposite bank of the Dee, a splendid view presents itself.  The river here is broad, shallow, and deep, by turns, and looking up or down the vale, its meandering sportiveness charms the eye.  At the extremity of the valley is a lofty mountain, planted to the summit, which seems so closely to envelope it as to prevent all egress.  To stand upon this bridge at sunset, and listen to the whistle of the sheep-boy as he trudges merrily along the road, the song of the husbandman, or the joyous laugh of the milkmaids—sounds that float upon the silent air for miles, at such an hour—the twittering of the birds—the low crake of the rail, amidst the corn—and sweeter than all, the music of the river, discharging liquid sounds from its transparent bosom—creates a sensation which we are at a loss how to express.  Excess of pleasure becomes painful; and, overpowered with delight, nature asserts her influence, and we experience the luxury of tears!—at least, I did, and I pity from my soul the man who is unfortunately incapable of a similar feeling.

Passing through the little village of Llanvor, and crossing a stream over the bridge close by the lodge of Mr. Price, of Rhiwlas, I at length arrived at the White Lion, in the town of Bala; and, tired with my day’s exertions, called for a tea-dinner and slippers, and early retired to rest.

Bala.—The Lake.—A Jolter.—Glan y Llyn.—Vale of Drws y Nant.—Cader Idris.—Dolgelley.—The Town Hall.—Parliament House.—St. Mary’s Church.—Inns.—Angling Stations.—The Cataracts of Rhaiadr Du and Pistyll y Cain.—Nannau Park.—Anecdote of Owen Glyndwr and Owen Sele.—Road to Barmouth.—Arrival.—Inns.—A Walk on the Sands.

“I lay on the rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birth-place of phantoms, the home of the cloud,
Around it for ever deep music is swelling—
The voice of the mountain wind, solemn and loud.”

Mrs. Hemans.

On the following morning I found myself unable to walk, from the effect produced by a sprained ancle, and I had the delightful prospect of being confined to the room of an inn in a country town, without a being to converse with, or a book to enliven me; but my kind landlord, a fine, portly, rosy-cheeked, round-headed, honest-hearted Boniface, as ever drew spigot, kindly offered me a pony, to take me to the lake, which, he said, contained plenty of perch.  This offer I thankfully accepted, and, by the aid of mine host and his ostler, was soon seated upon the back of a quiet not-to-be-put-out-of-his-way animal, as any clerical gentleman could desire to ride upon, and

“With slow and solemn pace,”

proceeded to catch fish, and view the scenery around

Seated upon a rock that projects into the lake (under the shadow of which is the boat-house of Mr. Price, of Rhiwlas,) I commenced my solitary pastime; but my eyes continually wandered from the float to the surrounding scenery, which is of a pleasing rather than an imposing nature.  The lake was slightly ruffled by a refreshing breeze, which fortunately sprang up, and prevented me from dissolving in the heat of the sun.  It is about four miles in length, and in some parts it is forty yards in depth.  The shores are sloping, the soil gravelly, and delightfully variegated with plantations of trees and shrubs.  Towards the head of the lake the mountains are upon a very grand scale, and rival Snowdon in their altitude; Arran Vowddwy is the loftiest of these, near the summit of which, upon its eastern side, beneath a huge crag, is situated a lake, which affords excellent sport to the angler, although the fish are not of the finest quality.

Arrenig Vawr, (or great,) which is nearly as lofty as Arran Vowddwy, and rises upon the N.W. side of the Llyn, has also a lake, containing trout of a large size, which are noted for rejecting the artificial fly; but, about half way up the Arrenig Vâch, (or little,) is a lake, which, when a light breeze sweeps along its surface, will amply reward the angler for his trouble in reaching it.  A morning and an evening, at each of these places, enable me to state thus much, for the benefit of the disciples of Izaac Walton.

I was suddenly aroused from a dream of pleasure, which I was enjoying with my eyes open, by a tug at my line, reminding me that a fish had swallowed the hook.  After a little coquetting, which lovers usually make use of, I brought it to my arms, and then thrust it into my bag: a fine perch!  I now resolved to begin in earnest, and in an hour, by my temptation and insinuation, contrived to obtain a very handsome dish, with which I returned upon my pony to the inn, resigning them and myself to the care of mine hostess.

The town of Bala consists of one long street, has about 2500 inhabitants, and is celebrated for its manufacture of woollen articles, such as stockings, gloves, and formerly Welsh wigs.  Upon an eminence at the S.E. end of the town, the old women and young girls assemble in considerable numbers, during the summer months, to pursue their industrious avocations in the open air.  The mound is called Tommen y Bala; it is said to be of Roman construction, and from the summit a very fine view may be obtained of Llyn Tegid and the mountains.  There is a town hall, and a chapel of ease to the parish church at Llanycil, about a mile distant, where the morning service is read in English only upon the first Sunday in each month.

Rising early the following morning I found no inconvenience from my ancle, and after a good breakfast took leave of my host and his wife, both of whom appeared anxious to see me comfortably seated in the vehicle.

The car in which I was bumped along the road, in every respect resembled those delightful conveyances that rattle the astonished traveller from Cork to Blarney.  It is a sort of oval box, placed upon two wheels, with a door behind, and with good wedging will contain four persons; but being springless and cushionless, the passenger is jolted to his heart’s content, that is, if his heart has been set on jolting; and, without doubt, it is fine exercise for persons of sedentary habits, if by any chance, their bones happen to escape dislocation.  My knapsack (my opposite, and only fellow passenger) and I, looked very black at each other, as we bobbed up and down, like a cockney grocer’s apprentice upon a high trotting horse; but I soon became resigned, and my knapsack having shifted its berth for the bottom of the vehicle, seemed to rest more comfortably than on the seat.  Notwithstanding the inconvenience I suffered from this carriage, I could not help admiring the extreme beauty of the lake, as we pursued our course along its borders; sometimes only catching a glimpse of it through the trees that shaded its delightful margin.  Its waters were smooth and motionless; not a ripple was visible upon its surface; the lofty mountains reflected in its breast gave a sombre tinge to the otherwise golden scene, and as I looked into the clear depths of the shadows, I thought how peacefully one shattered by the storms of life might sink beneath, and be at rest!

After passing Glan y Llyn (an estate belonging to Sir W. W. Wynn, who claims the whole fishing of this beautiful piece of water, and has, by putting a quantity of pike therein, destroyed all the trout and gwynniad with which it once abounded) the scenery became wild, and cheerless, until we reached

where, to my great satisfaction, the car stopped at the sign of the Welsh Prince, a distance of ten miles from Bala, and eight from Dolgelley.  Being thoroughly tired with my ride, I thought I would endeavour to obtain the proper use of my limbs, and rest myself by walking the remainder of the journey.  Dismissing the car, therefore, and strapping my knapsack to my shoulders, I once more took the road.

About a mile beyond the Welsh Prince the valley becomes truly beautiful.  Waving woods adorn the mountains upon either side.  The Wnion here begins to be an important stream; and, though in its course towards Dolgelley it is swelled by numerous mountain tributaries into a broad river, the trees upon its banks form an impenetrable screen, which conceal it from the traveller, and its hoarse murmur, as it dashes over the rocks that vainly endeavour to intercept its way, alone remind him of its vicinity.  At length I arrived at a spot where a road leads over a bridge to the opposite side of the river.  Thinking this would be a proper place to see the Wnion to advantage, I advanced to the centre of the bridge.  The effect is beautiful; hanging woods adorn the banks of the stream, lofty-ash trees (around the trunks of which the ivy winds itself in snakelike folds, feeding upon the tree that supports it), spread their proud heads above, and form a pleasing shade, while below the river roars, as it is precipitated beneath the arch in two large falls, that form a deep pool on the opposite side.

Nearly the whole of this lovely valley is the property of Sir Robert Vaughan.  Pursuing my journey towards Dolgelley, a sudden turn in the road and an opening in the dell revealed to my delighted eyes the celebrated mountain called Cader Idris.

the loftiest mountain in Merionethshire, and the second in North Wales, is said to be 950 yards in perpendicular height from Dolgelley Green.  Cader Idris literally means “Idris’s chair,” where he is supposed to have studied astrology; and Idris is a name attributed to Enoch, the founder of astronomy.  Mr. Edward Jones, to whom the public are indebted for his learned and ingenious work, entitled “The Bardic Museum,” observes that “Caer Idris implies the city of the learned;” and Mr. Rowland, in his “Mona Antiqua,” mentions a place in Anglesey called Caer Idris, also Bôd Idris, or “Idris’s abode or mansion,” in Yale, Denbighshire, which still retains the name, as well as that of Llêch Idris, or “the shelter of Idris,” a farm so called, at Trawsvynydd in Merionethshire, which also may imply the grave of Idris.  Idris is supposed to have flourished in the third or fourth century, and his genealogy from an old manuscript, runs thus:—“Idris Gawr ab Gwyddno, ab Tibion, ab Cunedda Wledig.”

Snowdon and Cader Idris were formerly supposed to be the Parnassian hills of Wales, and none but good bards could claim so elevated a seat.

Idris, the champion or bard, invented the harp; or if the Gomerian Britons brought that instrument into the country, when they first inhabited the island, it seems to have been lost and forgotten; for Idris is said to have invented something similar; but it is probable he only made some improvement on the ancient harp, or perhaps his superior skill in performing on it might have gained him that reputation.  From all that can be gathered from tradition, he was a learned man, an astrologer, and a bard; and it is likely that the summit of this mountain was chosen by him, to examine from thence the movements of the heavenly bodies, to write his inspired verses, or to frame laws for the government and benefit of his country.

The walk from this spot to Dolgelley is exceedingly beautiful; and as the tourist approaches the town before crossing the bridge which is flung over the river Mawddach, a sign of some importance attracts his attention upon the right: it runs thus:—

R. PUGH,
Guide General
To the Waterfalls, Cader Idris,
And all the curious scenery in
The vicinity of Dolgelley.
N.B.  Licenced to let saddled horses.

or Dolgelleu, the Dale of the Hazel, is the principal market town in Merionethshire, and the assizes are held here, alternately with Bala.  The town hall, the most important building, is a neat stone edifice, erected in the year 1825, and cost £3000.  It is built near the banks of the river Wnion, (pronounced Oonion) and the court room is fitted up with every necessary accommodation for the officers of justice.  In the hall is a very fine portrait of Sir R. W. Vaughan, Bart., painted by Sir M. A. Shee, F.R.A.

Part of an old building, called “Cwrt Plâs yn-y Drêv,” or the Town-hall Court, is still remaining amongst a range of wretched hovels at the back of the post office, in which a parliament was held by Owen Glyndwr.  The county jail at the outskirts of the town is of a semi-circular form, built of stone, and was erected in 1811, at an expense of £5000.

St. Mary’s Church is a neat limestone edifice, of Grecian architecture, with a handsome tower, and an expansive nave.  In it is an ancient monument of an armed knight, who is represented in a suit of mail, helmet, a neck guard, a sword in his hand, and a dog at his feet; a lion passant gardant is on his shield, upon which is inscribed: “Hic jacet Mauric Filius Ynyr Vychan.”  There is a modern one lately erected to the memory of Baron Richards.

The town is celebrated for a manufacture of coarse woollen cloths and flannels, called webs.  The old town-hall is used for various purposes; English church service is performed there every other Sunday; it is also used as a national school, and children are there taught to sing the church psalms.  It is likewise known as the theatre.

Those fond of fine scenery should ascend the mountain from the north side of the vale, to obtain the best view of the town, as it lies sheltered at the foot of the majestic Cader Idris, which rears its lofty shoulders in the clouds.

Clustering woods adorn the opposite range of mountains, as they slope in irregular masses westward to the ocean.  The river beautifully meandering through the green meadows, the solemn quietude that prevails around, disturbed only by the sound of the church clock, marking the progress of the fleeting hours with lengthened tone, which, like the music of another world, sweeps through the enchanting vale, combine to render this a place where those not wedded to routs, masquerades, gambling, and licentiousness, might wish to live and die.

Dolgelley contains several good inns, of which the most frequented are the Golden Lion, the Angel, and the Ship.  Comfortable lodgings may likewise be obtained, at a cheap rate, by those who desire to remain in the neighbourhood for the purpose of making excursions to the Falls, Kymmer Abbey, and Nannau Park, the fishing stations, Dol y Gamedd on the Aran, Llyn-tri-Graienyn, Llyn y Gader, Llyn Geirw, Tal y Llyn, &c.

The tourist should not quit Dolgelley without visiting the Waterfalls, which, after heavy rains, are very magnificent.  As I was still suffering from the severe sprain, I was accommodated by my friend, who also obliged me with his company, with a very fine horse to carry me to the falls; and, bold and sure-footed, he performed his duty nobly, in spite of crags, cliffs, hills, and hollows.

is situated in the grounds belonging to Miss Madock, called Dôl Melynllyn.  Here the torrent leaps from a height of sixty feet over precipitous rocks, and plunges with a violence that seems to shake the crags and trees around, into a deep pool, from which it proceeds down the dingle, over black and broken fragments, to the river Mawddach.  A footpath conducts the tourist to the bottom of the falls, from which, stepping upon some loose stones in the middle of the stream, he will obtain the best view of the cataract.  A walk of about three miles brings him to the falls of the Mawddach and Pistyll y Cain, returning from which, he may visit Y Vanner, or Kymmer Abbey, founded in 1198, by Meredith and Gruffydd, lords of Merioneth, dedicated to St. Mary, and inhabited by monks of the Cistercian order.  It is not now, however, worthy of the tourist’s attention.  But Nannau Park, the seat of Sir Robert William Vaughan, will afford much pleasure to those who visit it.  The grounds are thickly wooded, and the mansion is supposed to occupy the highest ground of any residence in Britain.  The approach to it is five miles in length; it stands 702 feet above the level of the sea, and the park is celebrated for its venison.  Previously to the year 1814, there stood an oak in this park which bore a name terrible to the ears of the peasantry; it was called

which translated, means, “the hollow oak, the haunt of demons.”  In this oak, it is said, Owen Glyndwr immured the body of Howell Sele, the proprietor of this estate, who, while they were walking together, treacherously shot an arrow at the breast of Glyndwr, who, however, having armour beneath his doublet, fortunately received no hurt.  The cause of this treachery is said to have been the indignation expressed by Owen at his kinsman’s refusal to join his cause to redress his country’s wrongs.  Glyndwr forced his body into the hollow of this oak, most likely after having slain him, where, forty years after this event, a skeleton was discovered.  The chieftain, after laying waste the mansion and domain of Sele, hastened to join his friends.  Sir W. Scott has written a very beautiful poem upon this legend, which will be found in the fifth note to his sixth canto of Marmion, and is called the “spirit’s blasted tree.”  In 1813, this monarch of the wood fell to the ground.

The country from Dolgelley to the mouth of the river is well worth a journey of three hundred miles to visit, even though there were no other objects worthy of notice in North Wales, and will amply compensate the most eager researcher after the sublime and beautiful.

At a turn of the coach road from a place called Ty-gwyn, a splendid view of Cader Idris is obtained, particularly in the evening, when the mists arise from the numerous lakes in the vicinity, like volumes of smoke from a domain of fire, curling in fantastic forms around the mountain’s waist, leaving its summit stern and clear in an unclouded sky—like a proud giant surveying with disdain the dwarfish host of which he is the leader.

Another noble view attracts attention, at a place called Glan Mawddach—the broad arm of the sea, stretching for miles between the rugged mountains, which, shrouded in veils of silvery mist, fling their dark shadows into the depths of the water.  Arriving at

the coach stopped at the Corsygedol Arms; but I proceeded to the Commercial Inn, where there is very good accommodation, and a good look-out seaward.  A warm bath of sea water refreshed me; and by the star light I strolled upon the sands, which are very hard and pleasant to walk upon, while my repast was preparing at the inn.  The night was calm and serene, and my mind naturally adapted itself to the surrounding scene.  “The brave o’erhanging firmament—the majestical roof fretted with golden fire,” appeared to me far from being “a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.”  My soul took wing, and bounded from star to star, leaping the realms of space, and plunging into infinity, till wearied with its immeasurable flight, it resought its earthly tenement, and my body, which it left immoveable, as if transformed to marble, resumed its functions.  The low moan of the ocean swam on my ear, like heavenly music.  A light breeze brought with it delicious freshness; and, as I looked towards the land, all seemed as quiet as the abode of peace.  The lights from the houses had a pleasing effect, as they streamed through the windows, row above row, under and upon the side of the overhanging cliffs.

I returned to “mine inn,” and my meal being despatched, retired to bed.

Description of Barmouth.—Sketch of the Town.—The Estuary.—Friar’s Island,—Dinas Gortin.—Earl of Richmond.—Anecdote of the Men of Ardudwy, and the Men of Denbighshire.—Corsygedol Hall.—A Pic-nic Party.—Llyn Cwm Bychan.—Carreg y Saeth.—Bwlch Tyddiad.—A Mountain Ride and a Regretful Farewell.

“The mountayne men live longer many a year
Then those in vale, in plaine, or marrish soyle;
A lustie hart, a cleene complexion cleere,
They have on hill that for hard living toyle;
With ewe and lambe, with goats and kinds they play,
In greatest toyles to rub out wearie day;
And when to house and home good fellowes draw,
The lads can laugh at turning of a strawe.”

Churchyard.

Barmouth, or Aber-Maw, derives its name from being situated at the embouchure of the river Maw or Mawddach, which at the entrance is obstructed by a bar.  The old town, viewed from the sea, resembles a fortress of some strength, hanging immediately over the sands.  In most cases a lofty situation is an advantage, but here it is the reverse; for so steep is the side of the cliff on which it stands, that the inhabitants of the upper regions are completely smoke-dried from the chimneys of all the dwellings beneath.

The new town stands at the base of the rock, and but for some mounds of sand, that appear likely to grow into mountains by the influence of the winds and waves, would inevitably be washed away by the spring tides.  Some of the fishermen’s habitations on the beach are at times buried in the drifting sands; and, after a strong wind from the seaward, the inhabitants generally labour hard to clear the obstruction from their doors.

Barmouth had few visitors during my stay, and from the report of those I met with, is greatly decreasing in popularity, which says but little in favour of the lovers of fine scenery.  When the tide is at full, the panorama around the estuary cannot be surpassed in beauty.  The majestic river winds amongst rocks, clad with purple heather, or projecting in barren grandeur, that lift their jagged summits tier over tier, and peak overtopping peak, while still tremendous, towering over all, the lofty Idris looms in the back ground.  Green hills and woody promontories, forests that stretch into the dark recesses of the mountains, villas and copsewood glens, give an endless variety to the romantic scene.

The town contains about 2000 inhabitants, and there is a manufactory of flannels and woollen stockings.

At noon, as I was basking upon the sands, or Friar’s Island, which is situated at the mouth of the river, I had the pleasure to see my new acquaintance and friend gallop into the town, and old Charon having ferried me from the island to the main land once more, I hastened to welcome him, as fast as my damaged limb would suffer me.  He proposed driving me to Corsygedol Hall, the seat of the Hon. E. M. L. Mostyn; which being agreed to, I ordered dinner to be ready at our return, and we started.  The drive upon the Harlech road is bleak; upon the right, the hills are barren; and seaward, beneath the road, is an extensive flat, consisting chiefly of bog land and far from interesting.  About a mile and a half from the town stands the Church of Llan Aber, upon the extreme verge of a cliff which overlooks the ocean.  The Carnarvonshire mountains have a fine effect stretching into the sea; of which the Rivals, with their lofty peaks, are noble objects in the distance.  Following the chain, the eye rests for a moment upon Carn Bodean, and in the flat between it and Carn Madryn is the town of Pwllheli.  The chain is resumed at Rhiw mountain, and terminates at Aberdaron point, three leagues from which is Bardsey Island, a conspicuous and interesting object; for there dwelt the bards of old, amongst whom were numbered the fathers of science, the national interpreters, musicians, and legislators, priests, and princes of Cambria.  With their oratory they soothed the savage ignorance of mankind into civilization and knowledge, and polished their minds with the powerful aid of music and poetry.  After the dreadful slaughter of the monks of Bangor, those who survived took shelter upon this island.  A few ruined walls alone remain of the ancient abbey; and the inhabitants, who do not exceed one hundred persons, support themselves chiefly by fishing.

About three miles from Barmouth, upon the summit of the mountain called Dinas Gortin, are the remains of a military encampment, and near to the town there stood a tower, where it is said the Earl of Richmond used to conceal himself, when he visited his secret allies in this part of the country.

Near the military station, are the tombs of the celebrated men of Ardudwy; who, in imitation of the Roman robbers, made an incursion into Denbighshire, and overcoming the men, forcibly tore the women from their families, and returned in triumph with them to their own country.

But the men of Denbighshire, rallying, pursued the spoilers, and overtaking them in the pass of Drws Ardudwy, routed them with great slaughter.  But the infatuated women had by this time conceived so extraordinary a passion for their violators, that rather than survive their loss, or perhaps more probably, to escape the fury of their former husbands, they drowned themselves in a lake, which is called the Llyn y Morwynion, or Pool of the Maidens.

About two miles further, a road up a steep ascent conducted us to a fine avenue of trees, through which we passed, and at the termination of it came to a handsome gateway called Porth Mawr, which admitted us into the mansion of Corsygedol, which has nothing in it to interest the tourist.  The interior of the building is incommodious and inelegant.  The drawing-room contains a few wretched portraits and high-backed chairs; and the rest of the apartments are meanly furnished.

We returned to Barmouth by the sea shore, and after a most delightful drive upon Neptune’s boundaries, arrived at the inn, where the evening was passed in conviviality, tempered with prudence, and sweetened by social and interesting conversation.  As I had determined upon proceeding to Harlech the following day, my companion was resolved to make the journey as agreeable as possible, and requesting me to forward my knapsack, &c., by the coach, informed me that he would be ready to accompany me in the morning.  Requesting him, therefore, to be early at breakfast, we parted for the night.

After despatching a hasty meal next morning, the word was given “to horse and away.”  My old favourite who bore me so gallantly to the black cataract, was again resigned to my care, and I to his, gentle as a lamb, proud as a war horse, and agile as an antelope.  I felt like an Arab, on his steed, and I thought I could defy the winds to overtake me.  We proceeded once more to Corsygedol Hall, which was the appointed spot of rendezvous for a pic-nic party.  Here I had the happiness of meeting some of the choicest flowers of the Welsh Highlands.  Youth, beauty, freedom, and innocence, beamed from the laughing eyes and unsullied cheeks of our fair companions.  The “how d’ye do’s?” “glad to see you,” “fine morning,” &c., &c., being ended, we moved forward in a formidable cavalcade.  Mirth, wit, and pleasure played on the lips and sparkled in the eyes of the whole party; and the animals that bore us seemed to partake of the general feeling, by pricking up their glossy ears, and bounding over the rugged road with more spirit than prudence.  Much mirth was occasioned by the opening of gates and crossing of brooks.  At length the party plunged into a beautiful wood.  I paused upon an eminence to mark the effect as they descended; it was picturesque in the extreme, as at intervals, through the openings, I caught a partial glimpse of the troop, pursuing their cheerful way down the steep path.  Pleased with the sight, I passed the party at a gallop, and arriving at the foot of the hill, remained upon a bridge, close by the woodman’s cottage, which crosses a mountain stream, watching their approach.

It was delightful to see them advancing one by one through the thick foliage which hung on either side of the path, and arching over their heads.  On arriving at the foot of the descent, the party drew up, and, had an artist been among us, I am confident he would have produced a picture which, even on the lifeless canvass, would have delighted the connoisseurs of Somerset House.

The variety of costume, the colour of the horses, the general sensation of delight which lighted up the features of the gay group; the picturesque cottage and bridge, the broad rushing stream, the waving woods, with now and then a glimpse of the sterile mountains, peeping above the beautiful fertility, formed a landscape which Salvator Rosa himself would have been delighted to delineate.

Penetrating through a woody maze, a glen upon our right, and huge wild masses of rock towering above our heads, we passed Cravnant, a house situated in the deep shade of the lonely wood.  The rocks now assumed a wild and threatening aspect upon our left, as we emerged into a more open track, and entered upon the domain of Dolwreiddiog, a little beyond which commences perhaps the wildest scenery in North Wales.  Descending by a rocky path, we came to

or, the lake of the little hollow, on the opposite margin of which, the wild and dismal Carreg-y-Saeth, the rock of the arrow, rears its black head in fearful grandeur.  Cwm Bychan, is a grassy dell, surrounded on all sides by the most frightful sterility; which, while we gazed with wonder on the sublimity of the scene, made us shudder at the utter desolation it presented.  A poor cottage stands at the further end of the valley, from which, having obtained a plentiful supply of milk, we dismounted, and, fastening our steeds to the gates, we seated ourselves under the shade of two trees, upon the inviting grass, which, like the smiles of the world, proved but too treacherous; many a scream and laugh announcing that the boggy soil had paid no respect to the garments of either sex.  Stones were therefore procured, and, having ranged them in a magic circle, the whole party seated themselves to partake of the good cheer, which a sturdy Welshman had borne upon his shoulders, and who now advanced into the middle of the ring.  Knives and forks began to play with astonishing celerity.  Fowls, ham, tongue, &c., vanished as if by enchantment, and mirth and good humour added zest to the repast.

Our lunch being concluded, we again mounted our horses, and commenced an ascent up a dank, cheerless hollow, called Bwlch Tyddiad.  Nothing can exceed the wildness of the scenery by which we were surrounded.  Huge masses of rock, riven by the thunderbolt, or loosened by the frost, lay scattered in every direction, while towering upon either side, the herbless mountains frowned, barren, black, grey, and terrible.

Our horses, accustomed, I presume, to such excursions, picked their way with the greatest care and safety, and my “gallant brown” cleared every impediment, as if he had been foaled amongst the Alps, and loved them better than the verdant plain.  Drawing nearer to the top of the cliff, the shepherds had made a stair-like path of flat stones, along which our Cavalcade proceeded with caution; when suddenly we halted upon hearing the distant halloos of travellers ascending the opposite side of the mountain, and presently three persons, one of whom was leading a wearied animal by the bridle, became distinctly visible.  A shout of recognition from our party roused all the echoes of the surrounding hills.  The figures, as they became more distinct, seemed magically transported with myself into the heart of the Sierra Morena, where Cardenio, Don Quixote, and Sancho Panza, appeared to me in their proper persons; for never was description better realized than in the figures that now presented themselves.  The first was a handsome, well formed man, with light brown hair, which hung in plentiful thickness upon his shoulders; his untrimmed beard, joined by overhanging mustachios, and the two being united to the upper growth by a pair of whiskers, the luxuriance of which showed they were permitted to grow in uninterrupted freedom.  His throat was bare, and his dress negligent.  The second figure that attracted my attention, was a very tall and extremely thin young man, with a serious cast of features that would have done honour to the knight of the woful countenance.  In his hand he led a jaded hack, which in the ascent seemed to have yielded up three parts of its existence.  Here then was the Rosinante of Cervantes in a breathing form; while, by his side, a short good-humoured little man, with a large portmanteau buckled on his back, walked like a faithful squire, and made an admirable substitute for the immortal Sancho; and, as he turned his eyes from precipice to glen, it required no great stretch of imagination to think they were wandering in search of his beloved Dapple.  We met upon a patch of green moss; and here our hamper was again unpacked, to cheer the hearts of these toil-worn travellers.

By their advice we ascended to the summit of the mountain, the view from which was grand and extensive.  To the eastward, a vast country lies beneath, bounded by Cader Idris, the two Arrenigs, and a long range of mountains.  Immediately under the lofty eminence upon which we rested, was a small round lake and the pass Ardudwy, which exceeds even the celebrated Llanberis in rugged grandeur.  The way by which our new companions ascended was both laborious and dangerous; but they would not have sacrificed the prospect now presented to them on any account.  North and south the eye glances over the summits of wild mountains, and to the west the Carnarvonshire chain, cut in two, as it were, by a high mountain, immediately before us, forms the shore of a noble sheet of water, resembling a spacious lake, where the sea stretches its arm into the Vale of Maentwrog, out of Cardigan Bay.  The declining sun gave us warning that it was time to quit these wilds, and make the best of our way to the foot of the mountain.

The return is extremely hazardous on horseback.  The ladies of the party therefore, resigning their steeds to the conduct of some mountaineers, and the gentlemen leading their horses by the bridle, commenced the descent.  But as I could not from lameness advantage myself by like caution, and feeling confident in the tact, strength, and docility of my favourite, I led the way, without experiencing the slightest symptom of uneasiness.

When we had proceeded about half way down, a circumstance occurred that occasioned some unpleasantness.  A horse had broken loose from one of the leaders, and at full speed came galloping down the steep and rugged descent.  The animal conducted by the tall, thin gentlemen before described, started as his fellow quadruped rushed by him, and, freeing himself from control, dashed after him at an alarming pace, leaving his late master, with eyes starting out of their sockets, and mouth wide open with affright, his arms spread out, and his whole frame in convulsions of terror, upon the top of a large stone, ludicrously bewildered.  My steed, evincing the truth of the proverb, “evil communications,” &c., for a moment lost his presence of mind, and despising my efforts to restrain him, bounded over sundry perilous rocky fragments in desperate pursuit.  However, by divers forcible arguments, I at length succeeded in convincing him of his error, and he returned to his duty.

The two runaways were soon out of sight, and as we concluded they had broken their necks, we moved rather solemnly to the bottom of the hollow, where our fears were dissipated, by finding them quietly browsing in the green meadows, where we had before seated ourselves at pic-nic.  All here remounted; the sun’s rays still lingering upon the heights of Carreg-y-Saeth, but the pool below looked black and cheerless.  As we proceeded, the beautiful calm light of evening, the cool and refreshing air, “the shard borne beetle, with his drowsy hum,” the forest flies and midges dancing in the clear ether, the murmuring of mountain streams, and the joyous notes of our little party, uniting with the sharp tones of our horses’ shoes, clinking against the rocky fragments, formed a combination of pleasing sounds and images in this romantic solitude, which I shall ever remember with feelings of interest and delight.  After riding about three miles, surrounded by every charm that could make the time pass pleasantly, we arrived at the place of parting.  A road branching to the right led directly to Harlech, a distance of about two miles; and here, with a feeling of regret, I hardly ever before experienced, I took leave of my kind conductor, and his agreeable friends, a man being appointed to walk with me as far as Harlech, for the purpose of taking back his master’s horse.

Slowly and sadly I pursued my solitary ride, nor did I once address my attendant, until I arrived at the inn, where, dismounting, I committed to his charge my gallant supporter throughout the day.

Harlech.—The Inn.—The Castle.—Anecdote of Davydd ab Ivan ab Einion.—Road to Maentwrog.—View.—A Persevering Cobbler.—The Oakeley Arms.—Angling Stations.—Road to Tremadoc.—Tan y Bwlch.—Port Madoc Breakwater and Mountain Scenery described.—Tremadoc.—Tan yr Allt.—Pont Aber Glas Lyn.—Beddgelert.—The Inn.

“Rise from thy haunt, dread genius of the clime,
Rise, magic spirit of forgotten time!
’Tis thine to burst the mantling clouds of age,
And fling new radiance on Tradition’s page:
See at thy call from Fable’s varied store,
In shadowy train the mingled visions pour;
Here the wild Briton ’mid his wilder reign,
Spurns the proud yoke and scorns the oppressor’s chain,
Here wizard Merlin, where the mighty fell,
Waves the dark wand and chants the thrilling spell.”

Prize Poem, T. S. S.

The Blue Lion Inn, built by Sir R. W. Vaughan, for the accommodation of travellers and tourists, is most delightfully situated.  A carriage road from the north leads round to the front, which faces the sea; and forming a semicircle, permits the vehicles to drive, through a gate on the south end of the house, again into the high road.  Great taste is displayed in the erection of this pleasant building; the parapet wall, with its circular turrets, in which seats are placed for the accommodation of visitors, and the terrace with its neat shrubberies.  I must also acknowledge, that the kind attention of the landlord and his servants deserves the highest commendation.

The view from the terrace is indescribably beautiful.  The sea lies stretched beneath; the majestic ruins of Harlech Castle stand upon a rocky base, frowning in solitary grandeur upon the right; and beyond, the long line of Carnarvonshire hills projects, like Cambria’s lance, forbidding the waves to make further inroads upon her territories.

Pwllheli and Port Madoc are distinctly visible from this spot; and the lovers of fine prospects may remain at the Blue Lion for a week, without wishing to stray further than the terrace in search of the sublime and beautiful.  The continual variety of light and shadow, with which the mountains are alternately robed, the freshness of the air, and the solemn majesty of the ruined fortress, form altogether a volume for the mind to peruse with intense and unwearied interest.

The present castle was built by Edward the First in 1283, upon the ruins of one erected by Maelgwn Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales, in 530.  It was seized by the Welsh hero, Owen Glyndwr, during his struggle for freedom against Henry the Fourth, and was retaken, about four years afterwards, by an army sent by that monarch into Wales.  After the defeat of Henry the Sixth at Northampton, this castle afforded a retreat for his queen; but being hotly pursued by the Lord Stanley, she was compelled to fly from hence with great precipitation, leaving her jewels and other valuables behind her.

In 1468, this place was in possession of Davydd ab Ivan ab Einion, a man of singular strength and beauty, and of unconquerable bravery.  Being a firm friend to the Lancastrian line, the Earl William of Pembroke was despatched to reduce the fortress; and after encountering incredible difficulties, marching through the very heart of the British Alps, he at length invested the castle, and committed the management of the siege to his brother Sir Richard Herbert, a man equal in size and prowess to the British commandant.  The reply of the Welshman, when called upon to surrender, deserves to be handed down as a specimen of bravery and loyalty.  He had never acknowledged the sovereignty of Edward; and for nine years had defied his threats.  His answer was in keeping with the line of conduct he had adopted: “Tell your leader,” said he to the messenger, “that some years ago I held a castle in France against its besiegers so long, that all the old women in Wales talked of me: tell your commander, that I intend to defend this Welsh castle now, until all the old women in France shall hear of it.”

Famine, however, at last subdued him; but he yielded only upon honourable terms, Sir Richard pledging himself for his safety.  The king at first refused to subscribe to the conditions; but Sir Richard, with a spirit that cannot be sufficiently applauded, instantly informed his majesty that he must take his own life first; for if he lived he would certainly replace the Welsh chieftain in his strong hold again.  The king was too well acquainted with the value of Sir Richard’s services and scrupulous honour, to persist in his unjust intentions.  He, therefore, ratified the conditions, and pardoned the chief.  But the brave Englishman was soon after recalled from his military command.

In the civil wars of Charles I. Harlech Castle was the last that held out for the king, under the command of William Owain, who surrendered on the 9th of March, 1647.

Upon the side which faces the sea, the castle must have been impregnable; the walls are scarcely distinguishable from the rocky base, the whole being a continued surface of dark grey masonry; and the north and south sides appear nearly as inaccessible.  The gateway upon the eastward side is situated between two immense rounders, resembling those of Conway and Carnarvon.  The form of the castle is a square, each side measuring seventy yards, and at each corner is a round tower; but the turrets that were once attached to them the unsparing hand of Time has destroyed.  Before the entrance is a deep fosse, cut in the solid rock; across which a drawbridge was constructed for security and convenience.

The principal apartments are on the eastward, or entrance, side of the inner court.  The banqueting hall is opposite; the windows of which look out upon the green surface of the sea; and, on the right of the court, there formerly stood a small chapel; the ruins of which are still visible, the pointed windows remaining entire.  It is impossible to conceive a finer view than is obtained from the towers of Harlech Castle.  With a clear atmosphere, the monarch of the Welsh mountains may be distinctly seen, towering above his subject hills.  The promontories of Lleyn, and Cricaeth Castle, are likewise objects of considerable interest; the latter forming a head to a long neck of land that juts into the sea from the Carnarvonshire coast, backed by a chain of noble mountains.  This castle likewise owes its foundation to Edward I.

Harlech is one of those places the traveller leaves with regret, and a feeling that he can never see any so beautiful again; and from this place to the village of Maentwrog, the road increases in beauty every mile.

The Bay of Cardigan, expanding to the ocean, lies beneath, on the left; upon the right, wild rocks and woody hills alternately diversify the prospect, and, approaching the northern extremity of the bay, the Traeth Mawr and Traeth Bâch, two arms of the sea (the former running up to Port Madoc, and the latter into the Vale of Maentwrog), are noble objects.

The Traeth Bâch, bounded by mountains upon either side, prepares the tourist for the heavenly quietude which reigns eternally in the bosom of this earthly paradise; and about two miles from the village, near a farm house called Cemlyn, one of the most beautiful views of the valley lies stretched before him.  A woody dingle opens on the right, down which the Velin Rhyd rushes impetuously, mingling its bright waters with the smoothly meandering Dwyryd, which commingling, flow gracefully into Cardigan Bay.

In front, and upon the right of the vale, lies the little picturesque village of Maentwrog, reposing at the foot of a lofty mountain.  Fine green meadow lands enrich the centre of the valley, through which the river, like a silver serpent, “drags its slow length along.”  Upon the opposite side is seen the mansion of Tan y Bwlch, backed by a mountain forest, and ornamented by a noble terrace in front, with pleasure grounds and walks, which the eye loves to rest upon.

The road to Festiniog, at the extreme point of the landscape, winds up the enclosing hills that fill up the back ground.  To be appreciated, the view must be seen: the most glowing description would fall incalculably short of the reality.

At this spot I was accosted by a very inquisitive personage.

“Fine evening, sir.”

“Yes.”

“Walking far to-day, sir?”

“Yes.”

“A great many gentlemen come from London to see this valley, sir.”

“I suppose so,” (trying to shake him off, but it would not do.)

“You come from London, I think, sir.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Only because a great many London people come this way, sir.”

“But do not many other travellers come this road, who are not Londoners?”

“Oh, yes, sir! but I took you for a Londoner by the cut of your coat.  You’ve come a long way to-day, sir?”

“I have, but how should you know that?”

“By the condition of your boots, sir.”

This was a hit I did not anticipate; for, truth to say I was nearly bootless, at least the soles had nearly left their bodies, upper leathers I mean, and stood mortally in need of regeneration; and, as I had not provided myself with a second pair, thinking they would prove cumbersome in my knapsack, his remark was felt from toe to heel.

“You’ll want these repaired, I dare say, sir, while you remain at the Oakeley Arms—comfortable inn—capital beds, sir.”

“Why I think I shall, my friend; perhaps you can recommend me to a cobbler, in the village yonder,” (pointing to Maentwrog.)

“I am a boot maker, sir, in the village, and have cobbled, as you are pleased to call it, the soles of all strangers in need, for the last twenty years.  My father performed that office before me; and I may say my all (awl) of life depends upon the gentlemen who visit our beautiful valley.”

“You are not employed then by the inhabitants of your native village?”

“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.

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.

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—

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

“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.

Is built at the foot of a huge mass of rock which projects into the sea, called the Great Orme’s Head.  The old church is dedicated to St. Tudno, who lived in the beginning of the sixth century.  There is a curious old screen in the church of great antiquity: it is made of wood, and supposed to have been brought from the chapel at Gogarth.

On an eminence above the village is Dinas, which, as its name implies, was a fortified post of the Ancient Britons.  A wall of great thickness encircles the summit of the hill, and within the area are great numbers of hollow circles, edged with stones about twelve feet in diameter.  This fortification is exactly similar to that on Conwy town mountain, on Penmaen Mawr, and in many other places; and it answered the same purpose: not for a constant residence, but only as a place of refuge on the approach of an enemy.

Near this place is a maen sigl, or rocking stone, called Cryd Tudno, or St. Tudno’s Cradle.  It is an immense stone, which is so equally poised that a very slight degree of pressure will enable a person to put it in motion.

The greater part of the inhabitants of Llandudno derive their livelihood from the copper mines, which have been carried on in every direction.  The discovery of rude implements in old closed up shafts, such as hammers of stone, and chisels of bones thoroughly impregnated with copper, is an evidence of their having been worked at a very remote period.

This village has become, within the last few years, a favourite resort for sea-bathing, and is rapidly increasing in population and importance.

We arrived at the Castle, in Conwy, greatly fatigued, and equally delighted with our day’s journey.  The following morning we proceeded by railway to Bangor.

Bangor.—Inns.—The Cathedral.—Penrhyn Castle.—The Britannia and Menai Bridges.—Carnarvon.—The Castle.—Rhyl.—Holywell.—St. Winefred’s Well.—Basingwerk.—Flint.—Chester.—Conclusion.

“When the heathen trumpet’s clang
Round beleaguer’d Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar grey
March’d from Bangor’s fair Abbaye;
High their holy Anthem sounds,
Cestria’s vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the silver Dee,
               O Miserere Domine!”

Sir Walter Scott.

This town derives its name from Ban Cor, which means the high choir.

We stopped at the Penrhyn Arms, a most commodious inn, which is capable, it is said, of making up one hundred beds nightly.  It occupies a commanding situation, and from the back premises embraces a noble prospect;—the Straits, the Shore of Anglesey, the Bay of Beaumaris, Penrhyn Castle, Puffin Island, Penmaen Mawr, and the Great Orme’s Head, with the ocean in the distance.

There are other excellent inns in the town, namely the Castle, the Liverpool Arms, and the Albion; the latter is extremely comfortable, and the landlord civil and obliging, as I most willingly testify from experience.  There is no place in Wales so well calculated for a tourist to make his head quarters as Bangor.  The various spots he may visit by appropriating a day to each, would supply him with gratification for a month at least.

Near the spot where the London road branches off from the Chester, is the grand entrance to Penrhyn Castle, the property of Col. the Hon. D. Pennant, M.P.  The lodge is a beautiful specimen of substantial architecture; it is protected by a corresponding gateway, massive and imposing.  The park wall extends circularly seven miles, and is thirteen feet high.  To describe the magnificence of the interior of the castle I feel would prove a vain effort, and I earnestly recommend all tourists who take this route not to quit the neighbourhood without seeing it, or they will be reproached for slighting one of the grandest treats old Cambria can afford them.

Was founded by Maelgwn Gwynedd, King of Wales, of whom I have had occasion to speak before, as the patron of Taliesin, the celebrated Welsh bard.

The original edifice, which was erected in 525, was destroyed in 1071, and rebuilt shortly after, but was again reduced to ruins by Owen Glyndwr, and for ninety years was neglected, until Bishop Dean restored the choir, and the body of the tower was rebuilt by Bishop Skeffington, in 1532, which still remains in a perfect state of preservation.  The free school was founded in 1557, by Dr. Jeffrey Glynn, upon the site of an ancient parish church, built by King Edgar, within about 400 yards of the present cathedral, and is considered an excellent preparatory seminary for Oxford and Cambridge.

The remains of an ancient castle, built by Hugh Lupus, Earl of Chester, in the reign of Henry the Second, are still visible upon a rock opposite to the free school, and some pieces of scoria, found on the spot, lead us to suppose arrows were manufactured there.  At the back of the Friar’s School is another hill, and on the top of it are the remains of a British encampment.

The town, within the last twenty years, has been extended to nearly four times its original magnitude, and possesses an appearance of cleanliness particularly gratifying.

The great lions of Bangor are the Menai and Britannia Tubular Bridges.

The principal opening between the supporting pillars is 560 feet in breadth, through which the vessels pass with all their canvas set, without the least danger of their masts touching the overhanging bridge.  There are four stone arches upon the Anglesey side, and three upon the Carnarvon, which complete the roadway, and have each a span of fifty feet.  The length of the bridge is 800 feet, and its height is 100 feet above the surface of the Menai at high water.  The weight of the bridge and its suspending chains, between the pyramids is six hundred and thirty-nine tons, nineteen hundred and nine pounds; and that of the iron work from one extremity of the chains to the other is estimated at 2130 tons, 1800 consisting of wrought, and three hundred and thirty of cast iron.

The first stone of this astonishing work was laid by W. A. Provis, Esq., on the 10th August, 1820; and on the 20th April, 1825, the first main chain was thrown across the strait.  This important step being completed, three of the workmen, in the height of their enthusiasm, ventured to walk along the chain from pier to pier; and a cobbler no less daring and enthusiastic, seated himself in the centre of the curve, and, while suspended at the fearful height, with sky above and the deep water of the strait gliding beneath him, drove the last sparable into one of those convenient comforts called clogs.

The view from the centre of the bridge beggars description.  Waving woods, barren precipices, distant mountains, Bangor, and Beaumaris, Penrhyn Castle, Penmaen Mawr, the Great Orme’s Head, the ocean, and the strait, are objects that dazzle and astonish from the exquisite beauty of their natural arrangement.

But even this, the noblest specimen of hanging bridges in the world, is eclipsed by the monster

which crosses the Straits about a mile above it on the Carnarvonshire side.  Fully to appreciate this monster work of human ingenuity, the traveller should ascend the Britannia Tower, which rises from a rock in the centre of the Straits, and gaze upon the glorious panorama which surrounds him.  Upon the Carnarvonshire side he will behold the mountains of Snowdonia veiling their lofty summits in the clouds.  Along their sides, and through their mighty bulks, the railroad train now rolls its dragon form, shaking their rocky ribs, and awakening their echoes in its swift and thundering course; beneath him are the Menai Straits, through which the imprisoned waters of the Irish Sea and St. George’s Channel vibrate everlastingly backwards and forwards, at the same time successively rise and fall, occasioning an endless succession of aqueous changes.  Upon the shores of Anglesey a rich and fertile country studded with villas, surrounded by luxuriant woods, and waving corn, presents itself, forming a pleasing contrast to the wild grandeur of the Snowdon Hills, and exhibiting an example of the perfection of cultivation, cheerful labour, and undisturbed tranquillity.

It was originally intended to carry the Chester and Holyhead line across the Suspension Bridge, and to detach the trains at each end of the bridge, leaving the carriages to be drawn over by horses, but the government objected to this arrangement, considering that it would be proved to be a public inconvenience.  A bridge of two cast iron arches, to be supported on piers of masonry, was next proposed: this second project was objected to by the masters of the Carnarvon harbour, upon the plea that it would seriously interfere with the navigation of the Straits.  At length Mr. Robert Stephenson offered to construct a mode of transit which should entirely do away with all objections.  He had come to the conclusion that a tube, or tunnel of wrought iron, sufficiently large for the passage of trains, would be the most plausible plan, as it would neither endanger the navigation nor cause any delay to the railway carriages in crossing over the Straits.  His plan was adopted, and the stupendous work of art which now awakens the astonishment of the beholder, will bear the name of Stephenson down to remote posterity, attached as it is to one of the brightest ornaments of the nineteenth century.

From Bangor the traveller can proceed by rail to

which is one of the best towns in North Wales, the transit is performed in less than half an hour, and he will reap unqualified pleasure by examining the numerous interesting objects which render that celebrated place so remarkable.

The present town of Carnarvon is sprung from the ruins of the ancient Roman city of Segontium, which name the Welsh had changed into the apt one of Caer yn Arvon, or the Fortress in Arvon, the district bordering on Môn, the Welsh name for Anglesey.  The site, which for the natural strength of its position, was admirably chosen by our first Edward, is bounded on the one side by the Menai, and by the estuary of the Seiont on the other, and on the third and part of the fourth by the creek of the Menai.

The castle is the chief object of attraction, and excites the admiration of all who gaze upon its time-worn but majestic walls.  The entrance to it is beneath a huge tower, upon the front of which is carved the statue of Edward, the founder, who grasps his dagger as if menacing his newly acquired and most unwilling subjects.  Unlike the towers of Conwy Castle, which are round, those of Carnavon are polygonal, hexagonal, and octagonal, and the tourist should notice especially the Eagle Tower, which is the loftiest of them all, and which at one time possessed a double interest, created by the popular belief that Edward the Second was born within its walls; unfortunately, however, there are records in the national archives which prove that the Eagle Tower was not finished until that unhappy monarch was thirty years of age.

The castle covers about two and a half acres of ground, and forms an oblong irregular square.  The walls, which are at present exactly in the same state as they were in the time of Edward, are defended by thirteen great towers, the masonry of which is about seven feet nine inches in thickness, and have within them a series of galleries with narrow œillets or slips for the discharge of arrows.  The walls of the Eagle Tower are about nine feet six inches in thickness, and the view from its summit, of the Menai and Anglesey on the one side, and Snowdonia on the other, is extremely fine.  The mutilated eagle upon the tower is supposed to be Roman, and that Edward found it at Old Segontium.

Near the steep bank of the Seiont, at a short distance from the castle are rather extensive remains of an ancient Roman fort, which, it would seem, was intended to secure a landing place in the event of an attack.  A little above this, and about a quarter of a mile from the Menai, is the site of the ancient Roman station Segontium, of which some fragments of a wall are the only visible remains, but underground the relics are more numerous; at the depth of a few feet occur foundations of buildings, broken pottery, ashes, and so forth—while numerous coins (some of them gold) and other Roman remains have, at various times, been exhumed.  According to Mathew of Westminster, Constantius, the father of Constantine the Great, was interred here, and the same historian further asserts that Edward found the body and caused it to be honourably buried in the Church (it is supposed) of St. Publicius, or Llanbeblig.

Having gratified his curiosity, the traveller may once more take the rails for Bangor, and, accompanied by pleasing visions of past greatness, return to his inn well satisfied with his day’s excursion.

After remaining three days in this interesting neighbourhood, I took my departure from Bangor towards Chester.  The tourist who may be inclined to follow my track, and has sufficient time to spare, should leave the train at

A pretty watering place at the termination of the beautiful Vale of Clwyd, and near the mouth of the river from which it derives its name.  The town is neat, and is yearly increasing in importance.  From hence the visitor will obtain a view of the Great Orme’s Head, the Puffin Island, and the wide expanse of the Irish Sea.  The sands are extensive, and admirably adapted for sea bathing; the hotels are both commodious and excellent.

I may mention that Rhuddlan, St. Asaph, and Denbigh, are within easy distance from Rhyl, and will afford a pleasant day’s excursion.  Quitting Rhyl, a short ride conveys the traveller to

So celebrated for its miraculous spring.  The church of this place is dedicated to Saint Winefred, and stands at the foot of a steep hill, but it is so far removed from the upper town that the bells cannot be heard by the people above, for which reason a very ancient custom is continued, namely, a ringer is employed to go about the town with a large bell slung around his shoulder, and a cushion fastened to his knees, against which the bell beats as he walks, to summon the inhabitants to the house of prayer; but the chief object of interest to visitors in this town is St. Winefred’s Well, from which it takes its name of Holywell.  The Roman Catholic clergymen of ancient days, knew well how to impose on the credulity of the ignorant laymen, when they were desirous of enriching their establishments, as well perhaps as they do at the present period, and for this purpose they invented amongst other absurd fallacies the ridiculous fable of St. Winefred, which is carved upon a pendant projection over the fountain, with the arms of England at the bottom.

The legend is told thus:—Winefred was a beautiful and devout virgin, of noble birth, and it is supposed lived in the early part of the seventh century, under the guardianship of her uncle, the good Bueno, who had founded a church here, and was conspicuous for his great piety.  A young prince of the country, of the name of Caradoc, saw the damsel, and was enamoured with the beauty of her person, and resolved to attempt her virtue; seizing an opportunity, when all but the fair Winefred were at prayers, he declared to her his passion.  She fled from his presence, but before she could reach the sacred edifice, which stood at the foot of the hill, even, as at the present day, the prince overtook her, and in a paroxysm of rage and disappointment, he struck off her head, which bounded down the hill, through the door of the church, to the foot of the altar.  Bueno raised up the head, and instead of a pool of blood, which appeared for a moment, a fountain of clear water gushed forth.  His horror was great, when he found that the beautiful features, and golden hair of the head he gazed upon, were those of his beloved niece.  The saint, for such Bueno afterwards became, took up the head, and with devout prayers, joined it to the body, and to the wonder of all present it immediately re-united, the place of separation being marked only by a white line encircling the neck.  The cruel Prince Caradoc fell dead on the spot where he had committed the atrocious act.  Winefred lived fifteen years after this event, and founded a nunnery at Gwytherin, Denbighshire, of which she became abbess, and died there.

The well is an oblong square, about twelve feet by seven, and the water passes into a small square court, through an arch under which, it is said, the Roman Catholics used to swim as an act of penance.  Innumerable are the miracles said to have been performed through the intervention of the saint, and as countless is the list of devotees who have paid their homage at her holy shrine, standing up to their chins in the water, and pouring forth their prayers for hours together.

Putting aside all superstitious notions, the waters of the well possess many sanative properties.  Katherine of Arragon, the wife of Henry the Eighth, was a benefactress to this building, and here her arms appear, viz.: three pomegranates in a shield surmounted by a crown, the badge of the House of Grenada.  Isabel, Countess of Warwick, left to St. Winefred, in 1439, her gown of russet velvet.  In the church there is a bell which was christened in honour of the saint, and at the ceremony a string of virgins took hold of the rope, bestowed a name upon the bell, whilst the priest sprinkling holy water baptised it, and put it into petticoats; after which the ladies gave a grand feast, and made great presents, which the priests received on behalf of the bell.

There are several good inns in the town, the principal ones are the White Horse, the King’s Arms, the King’s Head, and the Red Lion.  About a mile eastward of Holywell, situated in a beautiful meadow, are the ruins of Basingwerk Abbey, formerly a building of considerable importance.  It is surrounded by groves of tall trees, and commands a fine view of the Cheshire shore.  The next place on the Chester line of railway, to which the traveller should direct his attention, is

At which place his historical recollections will be awakened by the ancient castle, which is situated upon a rock in the marsh at the bottom of the town.

The castle is a square building, with a large round tower at three of the corners, and a fourth a little disjoined from the others, and much larger than the rest.  This is called the double tower.  It was formerly joined to the castle by a drawbridge, and is of great thickness.  Here the unfortunate Edward the Second received from exile his imperious favourite Piers Gaveston, and here it was that the equally unfortunate Richard the Second was betrayed by the Earl of Northumberland into the power of Bolingbroke.  Northumberland had met Richard at Conwy, to which place he had retired after his return from Ireland, and they were journeying together when, amid the recesses of the mountains, near Penmaen Rhôs, the king descried a large body of soldiers with the Percy banners.  The unhappy monarch attempted to escape, but Northumberland seizing the bridle of his horse, compelled him to proceed towards Rhuddlan Castle, where they dined, and in the evening conducted him to Flint.  Upon the following morning Richard was astonished by the appearance of a numerous army, commanded by Bolingbroke, in full march along the sands, which speedily surrounded the castle.  Richard descended from the keep to meet his rival, who fell upon his knees, and for a short time assumed a respectful appearance, but he soon discarded the mask, and “with a high sharp voice,” says Stowe, “badde bring forth the king’s horses; and then two little naggs, not worth fortie franks, were brought forthe.  The king was set on the one, and the Earl of Salisbury on the other, and thus the duke brought them from Flint to Chester.”

Is six miles from Flint, and lying two miles on the right of the Queen’s Ferry Station; it is a neat and comfortable town, consisting of one street of about half a mile in length, and wears a cheerful aspect.  The Glynne Arms will receive the visitor, and afford him every attention and comfort he can possibly desire.  Hawarden Park is one of the most picturesque and beautiful domains in the principality.  Its lofty trees and velvet grass, its swelling knolls and solitary glens, cannot fail to awaken the most pleasing emotions in the breast of the tourist, while the ivy-clad ruins of the ancient castle give a solemnity and grandeur to the scene indescribably interesting.  In the year 1280 a general insurrection took place among the Welsh, under their prince, Llewelyn, and his brother David, for the recovery of their liberties and ancient form of government.  It was commenced by David, on the 22nd of March, Palm Sunday, in a stormy night, which favoured his design so well, that he surprised this castle, put the garrison to the sword, and took Roger De Clifford, the Justiciary of Chester, prisoner.  After the death of Llewelyn, and the subjugation of Wales, he suffered for this in a most exemplary manner, being condemned to four species of punishment, viz., to be drawn by a horse to the place of execution as a traitor to the king who had made him a knight; to be hanged for murdering Fulk Trigald, and other knights, in this fortress; for his sacrilege in committing those murders on Palm Sunday, his bowels were to be burnt, and finally his body was to be quartered and hung in different parts of the kingdom, because he had in different parts conspired the death of the king.  In 1495 this castle belonged to Margaret, Countess of Richmond, the mother of Henry the Seventh, and that monarch honoured it with his presence for some time, in order that he might here enjoy the pleasures of the chase.  During the civil wars it suffered the usual vicissitudes of fortune.  It was besieged in 1643 by the King’s troops, when it was garrisoned by one hundred and twenty men of Sir Thomas Myddelton’s regiment.

The remains of the castle consist of a fine circular tower, or keep, situated upon the summit of a mount, a few walls, and the foundations of some rooms.  On all sides it was surrounded by deep chasms and fosses, and from its extensive plan and broad foundations it has the appearance of having been erected at different periods.  The modern mansion of Hawarden Park belongs to Sir S. R. Glynne, Baronet, a member of parliament, and lord-lieutenant of Flintshire.  It is a stately structure, with antique-looking windows and turrets, and commands a view of the city of Chester and the entire course of the silvery Dee from that station to the Irish Channel.  Leaving this most interesting and lovely place, and casting many a lingering look behind, I once more reached the railway station, and after a short ride of seven miles, arrived at the far-famed city of

This city still bears marks of its Roman origin.  The laying out of the streets is Roman; the two principal thoroughfares crossing at right angles in the centre of the city.  Its fortifications are reasonably supposed to be on a Roman basis.  Remains of Roman masonry have been discovered, and the usual vestiges of the Romans have, at different times, been turned up—such as coins, fibulæ, inscribed tiles, stones, and altars.  In 1653 a votive altar to Jupiter was dug up, which had been raised by an officer of the twentieth legion, called the Victorious.  In fact, the city was named in honour of this legion, Legecestria; and after the Romans ceased to occupy it, the Britons called it Caer Lleon vawr ar Ddyvrdwy: or, “the camp of the great Legion on the Dee.”  In the time of the Romans Chester was the termination of the celebrated Watling Street, the great military road which extended from Dover across the island.

It was in this city that the Welsh, in the year 1300, acknowledged the sovereignty of the English, the homage of the freeholders being received by the infant Prince of Wales, afterwards Edward the Second.  In the year 1506, Chester was afflicted with that remarkable disease the sweating sickness, which carried off ninety-one householders in three days; and a few years afterwards made such ravages that the streets of the city were overgrown with grass.

In 1558, a circumstance occurred in Chester which was of the greatest importance to the Protestants of those days.  Dr. Henry Cole, Dean of St. Paul’s, is said to have been entrusted with the commission issued by Mary to empower the Lord Deputy of Ireland to prosecute those who refused to observe the ceremonies of the Roman Catholic religion.  The Doctor, on his way to Ireland, stopped at Chester, and having put up at the Blue Posts Inn, in Bridge Street, was visited by the Mayor, to whom he communicated the business in which he was engaged: opening his cloak bag, he took out a leathern box, observing, with exultation, “he had that within it, which would lash the heretics of Ireland.”  The hostess, Mrs. Elizabeth Mottershead, overheard this by accident, and, having a brother in Ireland, who was a Protestant, she became alarmed for his safety, and took the opportunity, while the Doctor was attending the Mayor down stairs, to open the box, take out the commission, and leave in its place a pack of cards, with the knave of clubs uppermost.  The Dean arrived in Ireland on the 7th of December, 1558.  Being introduced to the Lord-Deputy Fitzwalter and the Privy Council, he explained the nature of his embassy at greater length, and then presented the box, containing, as he thought, the commission.  His Lordship took it, and, having opened it, beheld, with considerable surprise, the pack of cards with the knave on the top.  The Doctor was thunderstruck; and, in much confusion, said that he certainly had a commission, and that some artful person must have made the exchange.  “Then,” said his Lordship, “you have nothing to do but to return to London, and get it renewed: meanwhile we will shuffle the cards.”  The Doctor was obliged to follow this unwelcome advice, but before he could reach Ireland a second time the Queen died, and her sanguinary commission became useless.  The woman, whose presence of mind and dexterity had thus providentially interposed, was rewarded by Elizabeth with a pension of forty pounds a year.

During the civil war in the reign of Charles the First, Chester stood several sieges, which lasted about three years.  The inhabitants, who had sided with the king, endured great privations, but at last, when the siege was converted into a blockade, they surrendered on honourable terms to the parliamentary army.  The city is situated on a dry rock above the stream of the Dee, which flows round it on two sides.  The neighbouring district is a rich but level plain, presenting, however, some interesting views from the ancient walls of the town, which form one among the many remarkable features of Chester.  These walls, which are now used as a healthful and favourite promenade, are especially interesting, as being the only perfect military work of the kind remaining in England, and the circuit of them is somewhat more than a mile and three quarters.  They command many interesting prospects, and amongst them may be mentioned the views towards the forest hills, from the eastern point, towards North Wales and the Dee from the opposite side, and a fine view of the bridge and the river, with the surrounding country, from the south-east angle.  At the sides of the walls are the remains of several ancient towers, and at the north-east angle is one which bears the name of the Phœnix Tower, remarkable from the circumstance of Charles the First having witnessed a part of the battle of Rowton Heath, from its leads, in 1645.

The four principal gates of the city are the terminations of the four principal streets, named respectively Eastgate Street, Northgate Street, Bridge Street, and Foregate Street.  These four streets, as described by Pennant, are excavated and sunk many feet beneath the surface.  The carriages are driven far below the level of the kitchens, on a line with ranges of shops, over which, on each side of the streets, passengers may walk from end to end, secure from wet or heat, in galleries, (or rows, as they are called,) purloined from the first floor of each house, open in front, and balustraded.  The back courts of all these houses are level with the rows, but to go into any of these four streets it is necessary to descend a flight of several steps: the rows certainly form the most remarkable peculiarity of Chester, and the opinion of Mr. Ormerod is that they were first erected as galleries from which the citizens might defend themselves against those sudden inroads of armed cavalry, to which they were so much exposed in ancient times, in consequence of their position on the frontier of the English and Welsh.

The most remarkable feature of Chester is its Cathedral, which was founded within the site of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Werburgh.  It is a spacious irregular building, composed of the red sandstone of the country, and was built, or rather rebuilt, during the reigns of Henry the Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth.  In the cloisters, and buildings adjacent, occur some interesting specimens of Norman architecture, and the early decorations of the pointed style.  The western front, and some other detached parts, exhibit equally beautiful specimens of the enriched Gothic, and the space occupied by the entire range of the conventual buildings furnishes a magnificent idea of the grandeur of the establishment.

The old Norman castle was removed in 1790, to make room for the modern castle, which is, indeed, a noble structure, and contains the county courts, the gaol, the barracks, and the armoury.  The citizens of Chester were formerly as celebrated as those of Coventry for their dramatic performances, founded chiefly on scripture history.  They are attributed to one Randall, a monk of Chester Abbey, and are said to have been first performed between 1268 and 1273.

My task is done, and I must now quit this lovely land—never perhaps to see it more.  But let me hope the sketches I have given of its various charms will induce others to take the path which I have pursued with so much pleasure.  It leads through the most interesting portion of the country.  For the artist, there is an inexhaustible store of beauty.  The geologist and mineralogist will find the lore they thirst for, in almost every hill and valley, through which they pass.  The smoke-dried citizen may have the London blacks blown from his garments by the healthful mountain breeze, and drink huge draughts of the pure air until he feels intoxicated with pleasure, while he is enabled to supply himself cheaply with a valuable stock of delightful recollections that will enable him, at any time, to raise a visionary paradise around him—to banish painful thoughts; for, in fine, pain must give place to pleasure, gloom to sunshine, and sickness to invigorating health, in the enchanting principality of North Wales.

1.  Red Fly.—Middle of February, until the middle of October.  Fine days.

2.  Dark Dun.—Middle of February, and continues through the Season.  Fine days.

3.  Blue Dun.—Beginning of March to the end of April.  Gloomy and wet days, from 10 to 3.

4.  March Brown.—Middle of March, to the end of April.  Dark gloomy days, from 11 to 2.

5.  Light Dun.—Beginning of March, and continues through the season.  Gloomy days.

6.  Oak, or Down-head Fly.—Middle of March and continues through the season.  Gloomy and wet days.

7.  Hofland’s Fancy.—Woodcock’s Wing—brown cinnamon body, red legs, and two fibres of red hackle for tail.  Will do for Tal y Llyn, and if dressed larger, for Llyn Ogwen.

8.  Greentail.—Beginning of April for about ten days.  Warm bright mornings from 6 to 11.

9.  Gravel Fly.—Latter end of April to end of May.  Fine days.

10.  Small Stone Fly.—Middle of April to the end of May.  All weathers, and at any time of the day.  Does best in smaller brooks, and in rapid streams in rivers.

11.  Marlow Buzz, or Coch y Bonddu.—All the season, but particularly in May, June, and July.  Gloomy and wet days.

12.  May Fly.—All May and June.  Gloomy and wet days.

13.  Horse Flesh, or the Cabin Fly.—May, June, and July.  All weathers.

14.  Brook Fly.—The first of May to the latter end of September.  Hot weather.

15.  Iron Blue.—About the 7th of May to the middle of June.  Will never kill except the wind is from the North or East.

16.  Sand Fly.—About the middle of May, and continues for three months, all weathers, after 7 at night.

17.  Green Drake.—About the 20th of May for 9 or 10 days, from 10 in the morning until dusk.

18.  Gray Drake.—From the 27th or 28th of May, to middle of June, from 6 or 7 in the evening to sunset.

19.  Orl Fly.—Latter end of May to the latter end of June, from 4 o’Clock in the morning until 7 in the evening.  Hot weather.

20.  Red Spinner.—Middle of June to the latter end of August.  In the evenings of very hot days, from seven o’clock, as long as you can see.

21.  Hazle Fly.—About the latter end of June for nine or ten days.  Wet and gloomy weather.

22.  Red Ant.—About the 10th or 12th of August, to the latter end of September.  Warm days, from noon until four.

23.  Black Ant.—Same in every respect as Red Ant.

24.  Little Pale Blue.—Middle of August to the latter end of September, from 10 in the morning till 3 in the afternoon.  Rough cold days.

Aber Glas Lyn, 88.

Ardudwy, Pass of, 65, 71.

Arran Vowddwy, 50.

Arrenig Vawr, 50.

Bala, 51.

Bangor, 128, 129.

Basingwerk Abbey, 139.

Bardsey Island, Bards of, 64.

Barmouth, 60, 62.

Battlefield, 21.

Berwyn Mountains, 29.

Beddgelert, 89.

Bettws y Coed, 106.

Brynkinalt, 25.

Britannia Tubular Bridge, 132.

Butler, Lady, and Miss Ponsonby, 35.

Bwlch Tyddiad, 69.

Cader Idris, 54, 55, 60, 71.

Carnarvon, 133, 134.

Carreg y Gwalch, 107.

Capel Curig, 100.

Car, Jaunting, in Wales, 52.

Cardigan Bay, Scenery and Views of, 78, 79.

Carreg y Saeth, 68.

Cave of Shenkin, 107.

Ceiriog, River of, 24.

„ Vale of the, 29.

Chester, 143–147.

Chirk, 24, 26, 29.

Closs, John, Story of, and Monument, 99.

Conwy, 118, 119–125.

Corwen, 43.

Constantinus, 135.

Constantine, 135.

Cors y gedol Hall, 63.

Cricaeth Castle and Promontory, 78.

Crogen Castle, 28.

Cwm Bychan, Llyn y, 68.

Cwmorddin Pool, 83.

Cynvael Falls, 83.

Dee, Vale of the, 32, 39, 43.

„ Aqueduct and Viaduct, 32.

Dinas Brân, Castell, 39.

Dinas Gortin, 65.

Dinas Gonwy, 126.

Dinas Llyn, 92.

Dolbadarn Castle, 97.

Dolgelley, Vale of, 53–55.

„ Town of, 56.

Dolwyddelan Castle, 101.

Drws y Nant, 53.

Dwyryd, Valley of the River, 82.

Edeyrnion, Vale of, 47.

Edward First, his Wars in Wales, and Strongholds built by, 75, 78, 119, 134.

Einion, Gallantry of Davydd ab Ivan ab, 76.

— Howel ab, 40.

Eliseg, Pillar of, 43.

Festiniog, 83.

Flies used in North Wales, 149.

Flint Castle, 139.

Gelert, Llewelyn’s Hound, 90.

Geirionydd Llyn, Antiquities of, 116.

Glan y Llyn, 53.

Gloddaeth, the Mansion of the Hon. Lloyd Mostyn, 126.

Glossary, Welsh, ix.

Glyndwr, Owen, 43, 44, 56, 59, 75.

Gôch, Owen, his imprisonment, 97.

Gôch, Gruffydd, Tomb of, 114.

Gwydir Castle, 108.

„ Chapel, 111.

Gwynant Llyn, 92.

Gwynedd, Owen, 29, 103.

Hawarden, 141.

Harlech Castle, 74, 75.

Herbert, Sir Richard, 76.

Howel, Coetmore, 114.

Holywell, 136.

Idwal, Llyn, and Cleft of Idwal Du, 103.

Iorwerth, Llewelyn ab, Tomb of, 114.

Kymmer Abbey, 58.

Llan Tegai Parish, 104.

Llandudno, 126.

Llangollen Road Station, 22.

Llanberis Pass, 96.

„ Church, 98.

Llandrillo, Village of, 46.

Llangollen, Vale and Town of, 34, 34.

Llanrwst, 110.

Llewelyn, Prince of Wales, 97, 141.

Lloyd, Griffith, the Rector of Llanrwst, 115.

Llugwy River, 105.

Llyanyrch, Llyn, 83.

Madoc, Port, 84.

Mannod Llyn, 83.

Maentwrog Village, 80.

Mawddach River, 62.

Menai Bridge, 130.

Moel Siabod, 101.

Mortimer, Roger, Earl of Wigmore, 28.

Morwynion, Llyn, 65.

Nannau Park, 59.

Offa’s Dyke, 29.

Ogwen Llyn, and Falls of Benclog, 101, 102.

Orme’s Head, the Great, 126.

Padarn Llyn, 97.

Peris Llyn, 97.

Pedestrians, Fashionable in Wales, 23.

Penrhyn Castle, 129.

Pembroke, William Herbert, Earl of, 76.

Pistyll y Cain, and Falls of the River Mawddach, 58.

Pistyll Rhaiadr, 27.

Pont y Pair, Bridge of the Caldron, 107.

Pwllheli, 64.

Rhaiadr y Wennol, 103.

Rhaiadr y Parc Mawr, 116.

Rhaiadr Du, 58.

Rhys Gôch o’r Eryri, 89.

Rhyl, 136.

Richard the Second, 121, 140.

Scott, Sir Walter, Note to his “Marmion,” 60.

Segontium, 135.

Shrewsbury, 21.

Snowdon and Snowdonia, 92, 94.

Taliesin, the Bard’s Abode, 116.

Tan y Bwlch, 82.

Tegid, Llyn, 50.

Tevi, River, 102.

Tommen y Bala, 51.

Traeth Mawr, and Traeth Bâch, Arms of the Sea, 78.

Trevriew, Village of, 117.

Tremadoc, the Town of, 86.

Trivaen, the Crags of, 103.

Trout Fishing in Wales, 19, 58, 83, 95, 149.

Tudor Trevor, Family of, 25, 40.

Tudno, St., Cradle of, 127.

Valle Crucis Abbey, 40.

Vortigern’s Hill, 91.

Wellington, Duke of, 25.

Winefred’s Well & Legend, 137.

Wnion, the, River of, 54.

Wynne, Account of the family, 111.

JOHN MORGAN; PRINTER, OSWESTRY.

[The book contains a large folding map of North Wales, which the transcriber could not scan as a single piece.  It’s produced as four parts below.—DP.]