 | A sketch of old England |  |
LETTER XI.
The vale of Festiniog or Maentwrog is well cultivated, and
abounds in rural beauties, the very seat of musing and tranquillity.
It is all wild mountains without, and all gentleness
within. The little village of Festiniog lies somewhat elevated
above the surrounding fields, and at the foot of the mountains.
Near it are the pretty falls of Cynfael, separated by a distance
of about half a quarter of a mile, and the principal pitch about
forty feet high. Below this, the water, being confined in a
narrow pass of rocks, rushes along with considerable velocity,
exhibiting altogether a picturesque and romantic spectacle.
There is a singular rock rising out of the bed of the river like
a column, and is called Hugh Lloyd's pulpit.
This little vale, which is only about three miles long, and a
mile wide, is intersected by a rivulet, called the river Dwyrid,
on either side skirted with meadows, succeeded by cultivated
fields along the sides of the hills, which, in many places, are
covered with wood. At either end are high mountains, shutting
out this little sequestered spot from all but the skies. The
tide, at the bottom of the vale, flows in from the sea, which is
just distinguished through the opening, as you pass between the
mountains. It is indeed a beautiful scene; presenting, on
every side, a combination of objects, associated with all that
is gay, innocent, and happy, in the lot of man. I must not
omit to mention that there is an inn here, called Tan-y-Bwlch,
which is reprobated by all the picturesque travellers, and particularly
those who journeyed on foot. Each of these has had
a fling at the poor host, who, like Fielding's landlady, is not
really an ill-natured person, but he loves money so well, that
he hates every thing like poverty. There are two ways of
quieting Englishmen, particularly English landlords. One by
the jingling of money, the other by the jingling of bells.
Either of these will calm the roarings of the stoutest John
Bull. But among all the triumphs of gold, that of winning
civility from an English innkeeper, is certainly the greatest.
It is conquering both nature and habit at a blow.
Passing the southern barrier of the valley, I took a farewell
look at its beauties. The road now carried me for miles over
mountains, which afforded views of great extent and variety,
and comprehended the summit of Snowdon, which seems to
have as many heads as Hydra; for one cannot look, it would
seem, in any direction, without seeing Snowdon, or at least the
by a miserable people, I gradually descended again into a valley,
abounding in wood, the road through which leads to the famous
cascade of Dollymyllan, formed by a brook called the Gamlan,
which foams and dashes terribly in the accounts of the
tourists, but is really no more than the ordinary mountain
torrents that our country presents to every traveller, who has
leisure and taste to admire them.
After visiting two other little cascades, the Cayne and Mothwaye,
which are really worth going a couple of miles to see,
and passing through a track abounding in striking features, I
gradually descended, along the rocky and almost sublime
shelving bank of the Mawdoch, to Dolgelly, the poor capital
of Merionethshire. There was very little here to eat, but a
great deal to see; poverty, the bane of happiness, is here—I
mean beggarly poverty—want. The town lies at the base of
Cader Idris, which rises almost perpendicularly, presenting a
broken rocky face, of uncommon grimness and savage majesty.
It is only about twenty-eight hundred feet high; but its abruptness,
and, above all, its detached position, distinct from any
other range, gives it an air of great majesty. Indeed, it may
be remarked, that the Welsh scenery, particularly mountains,
derives most of its effect from its abrupt transitions, and the
frequent occurrence of hills and rocks that are nearly perpendicular.
A precipice, or very steep mountain, approaches
more near to the sublime, than a mass of rocks, or a fullswelling
hill of thrice their altitude. Another feature, which
undoubtedly contributes to render the Welsh mountains more
striking, though far less beautiful, is their general barrenness.
Destitute almost entirely of trees, they present a grim and
terrible aspect; and I was perpetually struck with the contrast
between them and our native hills, the fine foliage of whose
trees, extending quite to the summit, gives them a fleecy softness,
a feathery outline, peculiar to themselves. Nothing
indeed can be more enchantingly beautiful, than a view of the
grey rocks, and variegated foliage of one of our mountains
through the pure transparent atmosphere of an early October
morning.
The fiend, who presides over the picturesque in these regions,
tempted me to the ascent of Cader Idris. Accordingly, invited
by a fine morning of most promising aspect, I proceeded
to the house of an honest, but exceedingly poor publican,
situated just at the point for beginning this mighty task. I
chose a path gullied out by a little torrent, which, during rains,
leaps from rock to rock, through a deep winding way, from
the summit to the vale below, stopping, as it were, to rest after
perpetual action. Hic labor, hoc opus est, quoth I, as I
toiled and climbed upwards, the ascent growing more and
more difficult as I approached the summit. Nevertheless, the
anticipated prospect supported my strength, and renovated my
spirits. But the picturesque d—l, or, more politely, fiend,
brownie, or goblin, played me a trick after all; for, just about
the time I was toiling in the ravine, the vapours were gathering
at the top, and a shower of rain hailed my emerging to the
light of day. I got a wet jacket, and missed a prospect of two
hundred miles in circuit. Cader Idris tempted me, however,
and I fell into a great shower, which not only spoiled my picturesque
hunting coat, but hid all the prospect in dense mists.
When I came down I took out my book to see what I might
have seen, if it had pleased heaven, and was consoled to find
that several tourists, besides myself, had got a wet skin in
ascending the mountain, and had, like me, come down as wise
as they went up.
I shook the mud from my feet, as did the trees of Orpheus
from their roots, when that divine fiddler set them a dancing,
and turning my back to this uncourtly, inhospitable mountain,
proceeded to the junction of the Mawdoch with the Avon.
The ride from Dolgelly, along one of the most extraordinary
roads in Wales for art and labour, is singularly fine, presenting
a bold and variegated scenery, particularly on the north.
After the junction of the two rivers, the expanse of water becomes
very broad, at full tide especially, when it appears like
a broad lake encompassed with high and irregular mountains.
At low water it looks, if the truth must be told, very like a
great marsh, with a creek meandering through the mud
thereof. At the outlet of this lake is Barmouth, which is frequented
by the Welsh gentry for the purpose of sea-bathing.
Barmouth is called the Gibraltar of Wales. It is placed on a
high rock, 'tis true, but it is not Gibraltar. The town is
mean, incommodious, and difficult of access, presenting, on
the whole, nearly all the inconveniences which form the principal
attraction of watering places.
Returning to Dolgelly, I followed the course of the Avon—
not Shakespeare's Avon—through a well-cultivated region, enclosed
by high hills, dividing the basins of those streams that
water the two divisions of Merionethshire. This brought me
at length to the great Bala, Lyn-Tegid, or Pimble-Mere, the
largest lake in North Wales. It has little remarkable about it,
and the greatest wonder is, that being so small, it should be
the greatest in all this country. It is estimated at from four
to six miles long, and one mile broad. I forgot, however—
rises near the head of the lake, is affirmed, by Giraldus Cambrensis,
to pass quite from one end to the other, through this
“immense” body of water, as it is called, without mingling
its waters with those of Bala. It is quite amusing to read the
accounts of terrible dangers, of inundations, and the like,
which have frequently befallen the unfortunate people there,
from the immense swells, occasioned by the storms, upon
this immense body of water of one mile wide! I had heard
of a puddle in a storm before I came to Wales. I made an
excursion round the lake, but saw nothing remarkable, except
the vestiges of an overflow of the river, of which my guide
gave me a terrible account, concluding with the catastrophe
of ten cows that were carried away.
Leaving the little town of Bala, I reached the river Dee,
and came to the little town of Corwen, remarkable for a most
ferocious and gigantic likeness of the great Owen Glendower,
who is the hero of every impossible feat, or miraculous appearance
in this his chosen retreat. I hope, for the credit of
Owen, the likeness is not a good one. There is the impression
of a dagger in a stone, which he made by throwing it
away in a passion. This forms part of a door-way, made on
purpose for him, when he one day took it into his head, it
seems, to go to church, a rare event commemorated by this
door. Nobody must doubt these stories, for all Wales would
rise to resent it, and the very echoes turn into growls of disapprobation.
From Corwen, I again passed along the banks of
the Dee, by a charming road to Llangollan, having thus returned
to the spot, from whence I commenced my tour.
The peculiar characteristics, by which the Welsh were formerly
distinguished, are fast wearing away. Subjugation to
English rulers, and submission to English taxes, have altered
their very nature, and little of the high-spirited independence
of the followers of Llewellyn now remains. Excessive poverty,
when it begets an abject dependence upon public or private
munificence, grinds away all prominent points of character,
and almost uniformly produces a sycophant. I do not say,
this is true of all the middle and lower orders in Wales; but
there is enough of this to give a different aspect to the national
character.
Yet there is plenty of every thing, and every thing is cheap
among them. How is it then that this paradox of human misery
exists in the midst of plenty? The land they till is not
their own, my brother. They have the same rent to pay when
their produce is cheap, as when it is dear, and, consequently,
the plenty of a surplus produce, for which there is no demand
profusion would be a blessing; now it operates in the other extreme,
and is actually a misfortune. Lord Liverpool, the
premier, not long since acknowledged the truth of this strange
doctrine, when he ascribed a great portion of the miseries of
this country to the abundant harvests, bestowed by the bounty
of Providence. Thus it is, that this boasted system of British
wisdom has produced the paradox of want in the midst of profusion.
By its incessant cobbling and tinkering, and undertaking
to divert the course of nature, as well as the eternal economy
of Providence, this government has wrested the blessings
of heaven from their usual and ordinary effects, converting benign
seasons and plenteous harvests, and all the bounties of an
indulgent Benefactor, into curses and maledictions. It cannot
be that this is wisdom, that so mars and murders the mercies
of God, and distorts the very redundancies of the harvest into
famine and misery.
Of the land-proprietors, and higher orders in Wales, and
their once renowned hospitality, I can say but little. You
can get a dinner and a night's lodging of them sometimes, provided
you bring a letter from a great man they wish to oblige;
but it is not given to you—it is given to the great man. But
that noble feeling of hospitality, which springs from a liberal
heart and open hand; which is bestowed, not from vanity, ostentation,
or interest, but from love to our fellow-creatures;
that hospitality, which you and I, and every other reputable
traveller, have shared liberally in our own country, is not to
be found among the gentry of Wales or England.
| A sketch of old England | |