Part 4

THE village of Beddgelert, the Goodesberg of Cambria, is situated on a little plain reposing amidst wild and awful mountains, and adorned by the conflux of two bright streams, the Glaslyn and the Colwyn. The agreeable and fascinating character of the scene is more immediately and vividly impressed upon the traveller who approaches it from the Caernarvon hills. After traversing a wild heathy district, and coasting along the banks of many gloomy lakes, the little village of Beddgelert, in the centre of a verdant mead, with its cheerful accompaniments of inhabitation, breaks suddenly on the view amidst all the horrors of untamed nature. No situation could be more happily chosen for the inspiration of religious meditation, or more wisely selected for the maintenance of an institution of human beings, in a region so savage and unproductive as this must have been when the vale was occupied by a college of monks. The village consists of a few huts coarsely and substantially built, deriving all their charms from the beauty of their position, a handsome inn, embosomed high in tufted trees, and the old parish church. Moel Hebog, or the hill of the falcon, known in the world of elegant literature as “Lord Lyttleton’s Hill,” hangs over the valley on the opposite side to the village, and at its base was discovered, in the year 1784, a Roman shield of a circular shape, and formed of thin brass.

The church, which is dedicated to St. Mary, was anciently conventual, and belonged to a priory of Augustines, conjectured to be also of the class called Gilbertines. The regulations of this last order permitted the residence of men and women beneath the same roof, their convents being separated by a wall; and this opinion receives some support from the circumstances of a tract of land adjoining the church being known to this day by the appellation of “The Nun’s Meadow,” in Welsh Dol y Lleian. Beddgelert is the oldest monastic establishment in North Wales, Bardsey excepted. Llewellyn the Great, who commenced his reign in 1184, appears to have bestowed upon it certain grants of land, and David ap Llewellyn granted others which were afterwards resumed, an investigation establishing the property of them to have been originally in Tudor ap Madoc, and not in the reigning prince. Besides many granges in Caernarvon and Anglesea, an allowance of fifty cows and twenty-two sheep, the Prior had a certain tithe or proportion of bees, or rather of their honey and wax. It is extremely probable that all the preceding were not intended for the sustenance of the few religious of this house, but for the maintenance and extension of a liberal hospitality to all persons travelling this way from North to South Wales, and England to Ireland. Mead was the favourite drink of those times, the nectar of that age, whence the veneration in which bees were held of so vain a character, that the priests fabled them to have been blessed by the Almighty at their departure from Paradise, and that therefore no mass ought to be celebrated but by the light of wax. This conceit is mentioned in the laws of Howel Dda. A farther and rather substantial testimony of the hospitality practised here in by-gone days, was afforded in the existence of a pewter drinking mug, capable of containing about two quarts, which remained until within a very few years in an old tenement called the Prior’s House. Any traveller who could grasp the Beddgelert pint with one hand, when filled with good ale (_cwrw dda_) and quaff it at a single draught, was entitled to the liquor _gratis_. The tenant was to charge the value to the lord of the manor, who deducted the amount from the ensuing rent. It was also for the further continuance of such an useful hospitality that Edward the First munificently repaired the damages which the convent had sustained by an accidental fire in 1283; and Bishop Anian granted indulgences to other benefactors. At the dissolution of monasteries the revenues of Beddgelert were estimated at seventy pounds, Edward Conway was its last Prior, and its lands in Caernarvonshire were granted to the Bodvells.

Here are interred two eminent bards, Rhys Gôch Eryri, who flourished about the year 1420, and Dafydd Nanmor, whose death is placed in 1460. The poet attributes the foundation of Beddgelert church to a later date, and to a different prince, and rests his proof upon the following tradition. Llewellyn the Great came to reside here, during the hunting season, accompanied by his princess and their children; and one day while the family were abroad a fierce wolf was seen to approach the palace. The prince, upon his return from the chase, was met at his entrance by his faithful dog Gelert all smeared with blood, though still using his accustomed indications of happiness upon seeing his master. Llewellyn alarmed ran with haste into the nursery, and there finding the cradle overturned and the floor stained with blood, concluded that Gelert had been the destroyer of his child, and drawing his sword instantly plunged it into the heart of his favourite dog. But upon restoring the cradle to its proper position the infant was discovered wrapped confusedly in the clothing, and a monstrous wolf lying dead by its side. Llewellyn, says tradition, immediately erected a church upon the spot, in thankfulness to God, and placed a tomb over the remains of poor Gelert, who lies buried in the centre of the valley, called from that day Beddgelert, or Gelert’s Grave. This interesting tale forms the subject of the following pleasing ballad, by the Hon. W. R. Spencer—

The spearman heard the bugle sound, And cheerly smiled the morn, And many a brach 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?

“Oh where does faithful Gelert roam? The flower 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 served, he cheer’d his lord, And sentinel’d his bed.

In sooth he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John; {46} 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 loved The chase of hart or hare, And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, When near the royal seat, His truant Gelert be espied, Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gain’d his castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood; The bound was smear’d with gouts of gore, His lips and fangs ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, Unused such looks to meet, His favourite check’d his joyful guise, And crouch’d and lick’d his feet.

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

O’erturn’d 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 no where found the child!

“Hell-hound, by thee my child’s devour’d,” The frantic father cried: And to the hilt the 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 Pass’d heavy o’er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert’s dying yell, Some slumberer waken’d nigh; What words the parent’s joy can tell To hear his infant cry?

Conceal’d between a mingled heap His hurried search had miss’d: All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kiss’d!

Nor 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 which 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 spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved, Here oft the tear besprinkled grass, Llewellyn’s sorrow proved.

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.

[Picture: Llyn Ogwen; Pont y-Pair; Llanberis lake. London. Published by T. T. & J. Tegg, Cheapside, Oct. 1st 1832]

LLYN OGWEN.

OGWEN Lake is contained within a circumference of about three miles, presenting itself in rather an oval form. It is encircled by mountains, except at the eastern extremity, which fall abruptly into the water, and afford scenery in the highest degree romantic. On the left the broken shattered crags of Trifaen {48} hang over the margin of the lake, and throw the surface into an everlasting shadow. The distant forms of Francôn mountains are, if possible, still more grand and picturesque; but the side skreen of Braich-ddû slopes down more smoothly and gradually to the water’s surface. Perhaps there are too many broken summits hovering over Ogwen; probably the mind of true taste may think the simplicity and grandeur of the scene interrupted by their repetition, but this is too refined a criticism. Ogwen is generally acknowledged to present the finest lake scene in Caernarvonshire, the very Derwent of North Wales, and, like it, well described as “Beauty sleeping in the lap of Horror.” The waters of Llyn Ogwen abound in a species of red trout, easily taken with the fly, and not inferior in flavour to salmon. The surplus waters discharge themselves at the western end of the pool through a chasm in the rocks, and tumbling in three noble cataracts down a height of about one hundred feet, are concentrated into a bed in the green meadows of Nant Francon; flowing by Dolawen and Penrhyn Castle, they are lost at length in the Mænai straits.

The noble line of road constructed through the Welsh mountains, under the surveillance of parliamentary commissioners, is carried along the very margin of Llyn Ogwen, amidst the great debris that continue annually falling from the rocky sides of Trifaen. In the winter of 1831 upwards of one thousand tons of rock fell from the dizzy heights of Benclog, a little below the Ogwen cataracts; part rolling straight across the road fell into the valley and river in the bottom, while another part having acquired a less momentum rested on the ledge the road supplied them. The intercourse of travellers was for some days impeded, although one hundred miners were engaged in clearing and restoring the surface of the road. A gentleman from the vale of Llanrwst had just passed along in his phaeton, on his way to Bangor, when the terrific sound of the dissolving mountain fell upon his astonished ear.

About one mile from Llyn Ogwen, in a deep hollow of the Glyder mountains, lies the dark pool, called Llyn Idwal. The gloomy horrors of the surrounding scene exceed even those of Ogwen; the encircling cliffs are overhanging, broken, and dark; in one part the whole mountain is rent asunder, and the chasm of “Twll ddû,” or the “black cleft,” gapes between the terrific masses. The solitude of Cwm Idwal proved favourable to the perpetration of a deed of blood, and it was here that young Idwal, the infant heir of Prince Owen Gwynedd, was treacherously assassinated by order of his foster-father Nefydd, to whose care his father had consigned him:—

And thou, O Idwal, of immortal fame, Dying, to the vale hath left thy name.

PONT-Y-PAIR {50a}.

THIS curious and picturesque bridge is thrown over the rapid river Llugwy, {50b} at the village of Bettws-y-Coed, {50c} in the county of Caernarvon. Though flung high above the surface of the water it consists of but little masonry, the natural rock supplying piers the most solid and enduring. One of the arches affords an open transit for the waters which flow from the noble fall and salmon leap above the bridge, and produce by their impetuous rotatory motion a deep reservoir or caldron below it, whence this graceful structure derives its appropriate name. Four of the arches are dry except in rainy seasons, when the torrent rises with such rapidity as would endanger a less substantial work, at which period these openings are found perfectly necessary.

The history of the origin of Pont-y-Pair possesses a singular though simple interest. Howel, a mason, from Penllyn, having occasion to attend the assizes then, A.D. 1468, held at Conway, found his passage over the Lleder, which flows through Dolwydellan, obstructed by the violence and greatness of the flood. This suggested to him the idea of removing to the spot and of erecting a bridge there, at his own expense, trusting to the generosity of travellers for compensation. The success of one project engendered a second, and Howel next resolved upon the erection of the beautiful bridge at Bettws-y Coed, called now the Pont-y-Pair; but he did not live to see its final completion.

To the right of the Pont-y-Pair is the “Carreg y gwalch,” or rock of the Falcon, a beautiful hill of singular and broken forms, clothed with wood for the most part, a few fine bold rocks occasionally elevating their fronts above the foliage, and producing a noble and great effect. In this rock is a deep recess, called Ogo ap Shenkin, or the Cave of Jenkin, in which that famous outlaw took shelter during the Lancastrian wars. A large rock now blocks up the entrance, like the grotto of Polyphemus, and there is a tradition that this was once rolled away by some inquisitive persons, who, advancing a few yards, discovered a huge oak chest clasped with iron, on the top of which stood a monstrous goat bowing his aged head, and following with his horns the direction of those who had the courage to approach. The chest of course continues in this dreary treasury, and the character of its guardian is hinted at by the discoverers, but never openly declared.

Dafydd ap Shenkin held the fastnesses of Nant-conway for fifteen years, during which period he was unrelentingly pursued by the captains of Edward the Fourth. From their persecution, when he could no longer keep the open country, he sought refuge in his mountain cave. Howel ap Jevan ap Rhys Gethyn, a contemporary of Jenkin, and the Robin Hood of those times and this country, was also Shenkin’s or Jenkin’s mortal foe. Being expelled from the castle of Dolwydellan, and from his strong hold at Penanmen, he was compelled to flee into Ireland, where he continued for a year or more, and then returning appeared with his followers all clad in green, spent the residue of his life as an outlaw, seeking a fortuitous existence amongst the mountains and forests of his native land. There is a township in the parish of Bettws-y-Coed still bearing the name of Hendre-Rhys-Gethyn; it is the estate of Dafydd D. Price, Esq., and was once probably part of the possessions of the brave but unfortunate Howel, the consistency of whose politics constituted his greatest offence.

The village of Bettws, an attractive and fascinating spot, is situated near the meeting of the Llugwy and Conway rivers. The few cottages composing it, though poor in detail, are rich in composition, no village in the principality presenting a more beautiful landscape than Bettws, viewed from the road to Coed Cynheliar. The village church stands in a little cemetery in the centre of the vale, resembling in some degree the church of Beddgelert. It is enclosed by a few stately forest trees, and forms a venerable and interesting object. Within is shown a fine effigiated tomb of Gryffydd ap Dafydd Goch, son of Dafydd Goch, who was a natural son of Dafydd, brother to the last reigning Prince of Wales. The figure is recumbent, clad in armour, and the outside border of the torus is inscribed with these words,

Hic jacet Grufud ap Davyd Coch, Agnus Dei misêre mei.

Above the village, on the stream of the Llugwy, is the famous waterfall called Rhaidar y Wennol, or the cataract of the swallow. It consists of three noble falls, differing in character, though all conspicuous in picturesque interest; the highest consists of innumerable frothy streams, gliding with great velocity down a sloping rock but little broken; the second is a concentrated volume, rushing with impetuosity into a foaming caldron; and in the third the whole is dashed away in spray. A huge perpendicular rock rises abruptly from one side to a height of five hundred feet and upwards, while the opposite side is formed of broken banks and rocky patches, clothed with noble aged oaks. In the solemn depths of the lowest fall the spirit of the turbulent Sir John Wynne, of Gwydyr, which had haunted the glen for many years, is supposed to be laid at rest beneath the waters.

LLANBERIS LAKE.

THESE lakes, though not remarkable for extent of surface, are distinguished by the solemn grandeur of their rocks and mountains, that rise in very bold and awful characters. On the northern shore the mountain rises to a towering height, and with great abruptness. The hills on the opposite side are more rugged and sterile, but recede more gradually, while they aspire to an equal elevation. Between the lakes a bold promontory issues from the mountain and shoots into the water, adorned by the majesty of Dolbadarn’s ruined castle, whose ivy-mantled walls seem part of the very rock on which they stand. Beyond this a second expanse of waters is disclosed, enveloped in scenery yet more terrific and sublime than the former, the perspective being terminated by the dark blue heads of innumerable mountains, projections merely of great Snowdon and the Glydyr, where the mountains appear to meet and shut in the scene. Amidst scattered rocks, at the entrance of Bwlch y Gwyddol, and where fragments from the heights almost choke up the pass, stands the little church of Llanberis. If solitude and simplicity be inseparable characters of a religious edifice, then is Llanberis Church most entirely suited to its pious destination. Saint Peris, to whom the church is dedicated, lived in the thirteenth century, and this is supposed to have been his retreat. Here he founded a church, blessed a well, which now bears his name, and to which miraculous qualities were ascribed. The most singular circumstance however, connected with the later history of this holy well is, that here a monstrous trout has continued for upwards of twenty years, and become so familiar, that it will take a worm from the hand of a poor person, who appears to have adopted that privilege as her own. Peris was a legate from the church of Rome, and accompanied in his mission by Saint Padarn. Our saint chose the little meadows on the upper lake, in Nant y Monach, or the Monk’s Vale; and Padarn, his friend, settled on the lower lake, which is still called after his name.

Dolbadarn Castle consists at this day of a single round tower or keep; but traces of a greater occupation are sufficiently distinct around. Time has rolled its dark waves over the date of foundation and name of founder, and, one incident excepted, nothing but conjecture remains as to its history. Padarn Beisrydd, the son of Idwal, was the supposed builder of this fortress, the obvious utility of which was to guard the mountain pass behind it. The date of its erection, in that case, would be some time previous to the eleventh century; a conjecture supported by the style of architecture, which is clearly Welsh. Owen Goch was imprisoned here by his brother Llewellyn ap Gryffydd, last Prince of Wales, of the British line, for the term of twenty years, and his merits are celebrated in an ode composed by Howel-Voel, bewailing the captivity of the unhappy prince.

The following translation of the opening stanzas embraces the meaning, but does not pretend to imitate the bold spirit of Howel’s lamentation.

Ye powers, that rule both earth and sea, Release from dark captivity, Snatch from an inglorious grave The lion-hearted, mild yet brave, Owen,—a prince of matchless strength, Whose bright lance dripped, for all its length, With the best blood of the bravest men That dared to foray his mountain glen. ’Twas his to succour,—relieve distress, The proud to humble, the foe to oppress. His charity measureless, his bounty great, His gifts well suited such wide estate. But now these vales seem dark and dreary, No hall to shelter the weak, the weary, Since Owen has changed his lordly bower For the darksome dungeon of Padarn’s tower: Its dark gray walls their prince now sever From those who have lost their glory for ever. Their pride, their honour, their fame is fled, Their light is extinguished, their hopes are dead. Oh! Owen, dauntless, valiant and bright, Chieftain of Cambria,—warrior knight, &c. &c.

The seclusion of Llanberis has been broken by the formation of a new line of road along Llyn Padarn to the town of Caernarvon, and the charms of its solitude dissipated by the erection of two spacious inns in the immediate vicinity of the ancient castle.

To scenes like these, a tale of wonder is a welcome introduction; it awakes the mind, and adds new interest to every rock and precipice. The melancholy fate of little John Closs, who was overtaken by a mist, and perished in the snows upon Moel Eilio, calls forth a tear, but excites no wonder. The _feats_ of Margaret uch Evan, though very singular, are as certainly well attested: she dwelt near the margin of the lower lake, and was the last specimen of the strength and spirit of the ancient Briton. Her biographer asserts that “she was the greatest hunter, fisher, shooter of her time: she kept a dozen of dogs, terriers, greyhounds, and spaniels, all excellent in their kind. She killed more foxes in one year than all the confederate hunts did in ten: rowed stoutly, and was queen of the lakes: fiddled excellently, and was acquainted with all the old British music: was also a good joiner: and at the age of seventy years, was so expert a wrestler, that few young men dared try a fall with her. She was a blacksmith, shoemaker, and manufacturer of harps. She shod her own horses, made her own shoes, and built her own boats while under contract to convey the copper ore down the lakes. Contemporary bards celebrated her praises in strains purely British. She gave her hand, at length, to the most effeminate of her suitors, as if determined to exert that physical superiority which nature had bestowed on her even in the married state. Foulk Jones, of Ty Dû, was also a person of singular powers; the tales related of his prowess recall the poet’s character of Entellus.

—“he then confronts the bull, And on his ample forehead, aiming fall, The deadly stroke descending, pierced the skull.”

ÆNEID, v. 666.