 | A sketch of old England |  |
LETTER X.
From Llanrwst I made an excursion up the vale of Conway,
to where the mountains approach so near each other,
that there is just room for the river to pass. All the rest of
the valley was completely shut in by the curving hills. This
is the neighbourhood of Snowdon, which is never spoken of
except in the extreme of high-wrought superlative. Its “astonishing
height,” 3,600 feet—its abrupt sides and fantastic
heads—its “horrible beauties,”—and the “incredible velocity
of its torrents,” which, like most other mountain streams, are
apt to run pretty fast down hill, and to tumble when they come
to a perpendicular—all these, brother, are described by the
picturesque travellers in such terms, that you would suppose
every cascade a Niagara, and every hill a Mont Blanc or a
Peak of Teneriffe. The scenery, however, in spite of all their
exaggerations, which of course must necessarily diminish the
effect of the reality, is very striking. The misty mountain
tops, the rugged and confused masses of rocks, the occasional
torrents, and the rushing of the river through the pass, together
with those rugged and savage features, which almost every
where accompany the passage of rivers through mountains, all
unite to form a scene of glorious variety.
Following a wild track, I came to the ruins of an ancient
castle, called Dolwyddellan, which, mounted upon a high
Below these ruins, and about a mile distant, is the little village
of Dolwyddellan, situated in one of the most sequestered spots
in the world. It consists of a few small cottages, inhabited
by the simplest race, who speak no other language but the
Welsh, and never, except when broken in upon by a picturesque
tourist, see any new faces. They pride themselves,
however, (for no people, however insignificant, can live without
something to be proud of)—they pride themselves upon an
old tradition, that Llewellyn was a native of their town. This
I learned from my professor of languages, who, I beg you to
understand, though I do not mention it, is always at my heels.
I found him particularly useful here, as an interpreter, having
begun to understand his English lately. I spent the night here
among these rural innocents, in a thatched hut; and I do assure
you, that never since I left America have I passed one more
pleasantly. To the eye, the whole world was centred in this
little valley. The breezy stillness of twilight, disturbed only
by rural sounds, the most homely of which (such is the charm
of association), sounded musically sweet, lulled me into a train
of reflections, that centred at last in home. The calling of
the cows; the voices of the women and children talking or
singing; even the squeaking of the pigs, were all harmonious
to the scene and the hour. The moon by and by rose, and
hovering along the tops of the mountains, divided the little
valley into spots of light and shade, beautifully contrasted, yet
harmoniously blending with each other. All was peace, serenity,
and confidence. For the first time in England, among
strangers, I was received without inquiry or suspicion, and
nothing could exceed the simple reliance with which they
placed their house, and all it afforded, at my command. True,
they had nothing to lose worth taking; yet still it was a rare
and pleasing trait of character, and as such I have remembered
it, and shall do so as long as I live.
Their mode of living in this little village, and indeed
throughout all this sequestered region, is such, as our beef,
ham, and turkey-eating villains at home, would call starvation.
They would not even put up with it in the poor house or state
prison. The cow and the goat furnish them with most of
their food, and it is very seldom they get a meal of flesh among
them. Yet they are far happier than most of the lower English
peasantry, and a hundred times happier than a large portion
of the labouring manufacturers. Their wants are few, and
their habits are virtuous. Labour is there combined with
health, wholesome, though simple food, and pure elastic air.
In a word, they are apparently happy in their situation, whatever
for them. I met here but with one family, the one where I
slept, who talked of going to America when they could get
there. Through the medium of the professor, I told them of
the old Welsh woman and her husband, who kept your dairy
and garden; and when assured that these ate as much fresh
meat as they liked, morning, noon, and night, they cast up
their eyes, and clapped their hands in utter astonishment.
When I also made them comprehend, that this good couple
had saved money enough, in a few years, to buy a hundred
and fifty acres of land for themselves and their children, to
have and to hold for ever, without lords, rents, tithes, or
taxes, they almost shed tears, and for the first time seemed
sensible that something was wanting to their happiness. I
almost reproached myself for what I had done. On going
away I gave the father your address; and as God shall prosper
you, my brother, should they ever find their way to your
door, I would have you recollect that they treated me kindly
in the mountains of Wales.
From Dolwyddellan, I went, through a succession of interesting
scenery, to the little village of Aber, which is a good
place to halt at, for the purpose of ascending Penmanmuir.
From this village I explored a little glen, deep and romantic,
which leads to a famous fall, called Maes-y-Gair, or Rhryadr
Mawr, I cannot say which, as my note is rather obscure.
Here, to use the proper elevation of language, which all the
tourists indulge, whenever they want to make a mountain of
a molehill—here, the water, a small brook, rushing with indescribable
velocity, foams and dashes over a tremendous slate
rock, fifty feet high! I made a drawing of this, and some other
great falls, with a scrupulous regard to the size and dimensions
of objects, which I send with this letter. From these, which
I assure you, are rather heightened than otherwise, you will
perceive, how we in America are misled by the high-sounding
superlative of tourists, and the unjustifiable hyperbole of picturesque
pencils. The Rhrydr Mawr is what we call a pretty
little cascade at home. During a dry season, I am told, it is
apt to disappear entirely. The winter is the best time for
visiting them, only nobody can get there in that season.
Near the village of Aber once stood a castle or palace of
Llewellyn ap Gryffyd, Prince of Wales. Tradition has preserved
the following tale connected with these ruins. At the
siege of some place, Llewellyn took prisoner an English baron,
of the name of William de Breos, or de Bruce, whom he carried
home, and treated with great hospitality, insomuch, that a
strong friendship grew up between them. Llewellyn's wife,
captive knight, who was said to be very accomplished and
beautiful, realized the affinity between compassion and love,
and finally carried on a clandestine intercourse with De Breos.
The English knight was afterwards set free, but before Llewellyn
had discovered the wrong he had done him. When,
however, it came to his knowledge not long afterwards, he
invited De Breos to pay him a visit, threw him into a dungeon,
and afterwards hanged him at a short distance from the
castle upon a little knoll, full in sight. He then drew Joan to
the window, and in the words of the legend—
“What will you give to see your William?”
“Wales and England and Llewellyn,
“I'd freely give to see my William.”
pointed out, with horrible satisfaction, the body of De Breos,
hanging full in view. The lady did not expire at the sight,
but lived several years afterwards with her husband, who, it
seems, was satisfied with his revenge upon the lover. You
must excuse me for troubling you with this stuff; but the fact
is, there is little else to be told about these old castles, but tales
of unprincipled love and outrageous revenge.
Nothing occurred worthy of record between Aber and Caernarvon,
whither I next bent my way. This last is one of the
finest towns in North Wales. It is surrounded by walls, which,
together with the castle, were more entire than any I had observed
in this country. The castle was built by Edward the
First, and is admirably situated for “curbing the Welsh,” as
the phrase then was. In one of the small dark rooms was
born Edward the Second, in consequence of the Queen being
taken there to give the Welshmen a native Prince. He did
them very little honour by his birth, for he was, beyond doubt,
one of the most weak and worthless monarchs that ever
reigned in England. The views of, and from this castle, are
highly picturesque and beautiful; and its preservation, for more
than five hundred years, gives it a degree of sublimity approaching
to the idea of perpetual duration.
Near to Caernarvon are the remains of the ancient Segontium,
a Roman station; and parts of a Roman road are still to
be traced in the vicinity. The road to Beddgelert passes
through it. There are also the vestiges of a Roman fort, consisting
of walls of great thickness, and perhaps ten feet high.
Here I had the satisfaction of seeing, that the Romans built
stone walls in Wales exactly as we do in America, and as they
brother, one learns something by travelling. It is said, however,
that they used boiling water for cement, which is, undoubtedly,
one great reason of the durability of their works.
The mortar, being thus in a sort of liquid state, insinuated
itself into every vacancy between the stones, and formed a
solid wall. In the walls of this fort are a number of round
holes, about three inches in diameter, and passing quite through.
These holes have puzzled the antiquaries very much, and given
occasion to various conjectures. If it might be permitted me
to make a yankee guess, I would say, they were left there to
look through, as occasion required, at the enemy, or any thing
else. From the eminences in the neighbourhood of Caernarvon,
are seen the Isle of Anglesea, and a great variety of
mountain peaks ranged along for a considerable distance. The
view of Anglesea was quite inviting, and almost tempted me to
cross the ferry. Other considerations, however, prevented me,
and I passed into what is called, by the picturesque tourists,
the wonders of Snowdonia. The mention of this mountain reminds
me of an omission, in not telling you, that from Conway
I ascended to the summit of Penmanmuir, which rises fourteen
hundred feet, almost perpendicular, from the sea. It was the
only place that at all realized the magnificent descriptions of
the tourists, that I had yet seen in Wales. A walled road
passes close around the edge of this tremendous ocean barrier;
and the boundless prospect, as well as the sublime precipice,
caused a glowing fluttering of the heart, partaking of elevation
and apprehension combined. This place is all simplicity and
sublimity, There are but three ingredients, all purely grand
—the sky, the ocean, and the tremendous precipice. It is beyond
doubt the noblest spot in all England, and makes an impression
never to be forgotten.
I contented myself with viewing Snowdon from Beddgelert,
from whence it makes rather a striking appearance, presenting
a high peak, generally, however, encircled with vapours. Indeed,
this is the region of humidity; and nine times in ten a
traveller ascending the mountain gets wet in going up, and
when he gains the summit, can see nothing but a Welsh mist,
equal in obscurity to a genuine Welsh pedigree. I therefore
turned my back on Snowdon, who very modestly retired behind
his veil of vapours, and did not appear again the whole
day. This region, which is called Snowdonia, is composed of
subsidiary hills, lying about the base of Snowdon, and constituting
properly the different steps in the ascent to that mountain,
although there are valleys between. It is a wild and
dreary region, with scarcely a vestige of agriculture, and presenting
nature. But I must caution you once more against the superlative
phraseology of the tourists, when speaking of these
places. They set out from London, where perhaps they have
lived all their lives, without seeing a hill higher than Hampstead
or Highgate, or any object of nature more sublime than
the Thames and Rosamond's Pond, and coming into Wales,
are fully assured that every thing they behold is on a scale of
immensity, because it exceeds all they have ever seen before.
I assure you, brother, I have not half the opinion of Welsh
scenery that I had, when reading tours and looking at pictures
of Llangollan, &c. by your fire-side in America. The mountains
of Switzerland present objects on a far greater scale;
and nothing I have yet seen, in England or Wales, can rival
the scenery of the Rhine and its neighbourhood for sublimity
and beauty combined. All England can produce nothing to
compare with the Rhinegau, any more than all England can
produce such wine.
Still you are not to understand me to mean, that the Welsh
scenery is not very pretty, very respectable indeed, in point of
variety at least. By one, who has never been out of England,
it will undoubtedly be considered wonderful and unequalled.
It is under this impression that the tourists have deceived themselves
and their readers, by adopting the superlative, when they
should modestly have confined themselves to the positive, and
not even ventured upon the comparative. Excepting the pass
of Penmanmuir, the higher class of sublimity is no where to
be seen in Wales. For my part, it was neither the mountains,
the rivers, the cataracts, nor the magnitude, indeed, of any
particular feature of nature that struck me. It was the beautiful,
romantic, and solitary little vales, deeply embosomed in
the mountains—the softer and more latent beauties, that caught
my heart, and awakened the rural feeling in its highest state.
Such scenery abounds in Wales, and to those who have a taste
for it, few countries present more frequent or more entire gratification.
The view of the vale of Festiniog, on emerging from the
defiles among the ruins and rugged tributaries of Snowdon,
was of this character, and carried with it also the charm of
novelty, as well as the sight of a comfortable looking little inn,
to a weary and hungry traveller. This last is a prospect in
which all true lovers of the picturesque delight.
| A sketch of old England | |