Part 3

Conway (from _Cynwy_, great river) is a fine old fortified town, situated at the northern corner of Carnarvonshire. The Castle was built in 1284, by Edward I. as a security against insurrections. He was besieged in it, and only rescued by the arrival of his fleet. In the civil wars in the seventeenth century it was garrisoned by the Archbishop of York, and afterwards by Prince Rupert. The town and Castle were taken by storm in 1646, but the parliamentary forces did not injure the Castle, which was never greatly damaged, until the Earl of Conway, who received a grant of it from Charles II. despoiled it of timber, lead, iron, &c. for his own use. A stranger will be much struck by the general appearance of Conway, which forms an interesting picture, and is very unlike any other place in the kingdom.—See page 16.

[Picture: Graphic of a hand pointing right] The writer of “the Trip” had no opportunity of visiting Capel Cerig, or Beddgelert; but no person should omit to do so when time will permit. From Carnarvon a most delightful tour may be made to Beddgelert, Capel Cerig, Snowdon, Llanberris lake, and back to Carnarvon.

CAPEL CERIG.

This village is said to have been called Capel Curig, in consequence of St. Curig being the patron of the chapel. From this place Snowdon and all the contiguous mountains burst at once full in view, marking this the finest approach to our boasted Alps. The scenery in the neighbourhood is full of variety and beauty.

BEDDGELERT.

This romantic village is said to derive its name from a singular occurrence. Tradition says, that Llewellyn the Great came to reside at Beddgelert during the hunting season, with his wife and children, and one day, the family being absent, a wolf had entered the house. On returning, his greyhound, called Cilihart, met him, wagging his tail, but covered with blood. The prince being alarmed, ran into the nursery, and found the cradle in which the child had lain overturned, and the ground covered with gore. Imagining the greyhound had killed the child, he immediately drew his sword and slew him; but, on turning up the cradle, he found under it the child alive, and the wolf dead. This so affected the prince, that he erected a tomb over his faithful dog’s grave, where, afterwards, the parish-church was built, and called from this accident, Bedd-Cilihart, or The Grave of Cilihart. This incident gave rise to the following pathetic verses:

THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheer’ly smiled the morn, And many a breach, and many a hound Attend Llewellyn’s horn.

And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer, “Come, Gelert, why art thou the last Llewellyn’s horn to hear?

“O where does faithful Gelert roam! The flow’r of all his race: So true, so brave,—a lamb at home, A lion in the chase!”

’Twas only at Llewellyn’s board The faithful Gelert fed; He watch’d, he serv’d, he cheer’d his lord, And sentinel’d his bed.

In sooth he was a peerless hound, The gift of Royal John: But now no Gelert could be found, And all the chase rode on.

And now as over rocks and dells The gallant chidings rise. All Snowdon’s craggy chaos yells, With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little lov’d The chase of hart or hare, And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there.

Unpleas’d Llewellyn homeward hied, When, near the portal seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding, his lord to greet.

But when he gain’d the Castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood— The hound was smear’d with gouts of gore His lips and fangs ran blood!

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise; Unus’d such looks to meet; His fav’rite check’d his joyful guise, And crouch’d and lick’d his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn past, And on went Gelert too; And still where’er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood gouts shock’d his view.

O’erturned his infant’s bed he found, The blood-stain’d covert rent; And all around the walls and ground, With recent blood besprent.

He call’d his child—no voice replied— He search’d with terror wild; Blood, blood, he found on every side, But nowhere found the child;

“Hell-hound, by thee my child’s devour’d,” The frantic father cried, And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert’s side.

His suppliant, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gelert’s dying yell, Past heavy o’er his heart.

Arous’d by Gelert’s dying yell, Some slumb’rer waken’d nigh; What words the parent’s joy can tell, To hear his infant cry!

Conceal’d beneath a mangled heap; His hurried search had miss’d, All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kiss’d.

No scratch had he, nor harm nor dread; But, the same couch beneath, Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead, Tremendous still in death!

Ah, what was then Llewellyn’s pain, For now the truth was clear; The gallant hound the wolf had slain, To save Llewellyn’s heir.

Vain, vain, was all Llewellyn’s woe: “Best of thy kind adieu: The frantic deed that laid thee low, This heart shall ever rue.”

And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture deck’d; And marbles storied with his praise, Poor Gelert’s bones protect.

Here never could the spearmen pass, Or forester unmov’d; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass, Llewellyn’s sorrow prov’d.

And here he hung his horn and spear— And oft as evening fell, In fancy’s piercing sounds would hear Poor Gelert’s dying yell!

And till great Snowdon’s rocks grow old, And cease the storm to brave, The consecrated spot shall hold The name of Gelert’s grave!

FINIS.