HARLECH
is stony and uninteresting; to the left, an unbounded view of the wide ocean; and, in front, the steep mountains of North Wales rose in endless perspective. About four miles from Barmouth, we passed the two lodges at Tal-y-bont, leading to Corsy-Gedol, the seat of Sir Thomas Mostyn. It is practicable to go by the sands; but we were given to understand that the turnpike road was, if anything, shorter, the scenery more pleasing, and the guides necessary for crossing those dangerous sands, in general, most complete villains.
Harlech, anciently called Twr-Bronwen, though formed by King Edward I. into a borough, can now be esteemed little more than a dirty village: the present castle, one of the most entire in Wales, is founded on a very high rock, projecting into the Irish sea. It consists of a square building, each side measuring about seventy yards, having at every corner a round tower. From each of these issued formerly a round turret, except one or two, all now destroyed. The fortifications, fosses, and its situation on the verge of a perpendicular rock, rendered it almost invulnerable.
This castle is one of the strongest and handsomest in Wales. It is in the possession of the Crown, and in time of war has a small garrison for the defence of the coast. From the top of the walls to the marsh the height is very considerable, and from thence the bay of Cardigan is seen to great advantage: in addition to this, the shagged summits of Cader Buchan and Snowdon, in Caernarvonshire, being enveloped in clouds, appear scarcely visible.
At the public-house we accidentally met with a well-informed man, who minutely delineated every part of the castle; and, beginning with the founder, in the true characteristic style of a Welshman, ran through his pedigree several generations: this, however, did not interest us cursory pedestrians; and, with little persuasion, we soon induced him to write down, in as concise a manner as possible, any information he was acquainted with respecting the castle: “The founder of Harlech Castle, A.D. 552, was Maelgwyn; Gwynedd; made Caer Dugoll (Shrewsbury); Caer Gyffin (Aber Conway); Caer Gollwyn (Harleck); supposed to be buried in Cirencester, and reigned thirty-four years.” Whether this information is correct, I will not take upon me to assert; but meeting with a Welshman in this part of the country capable of writing, rather surprised us, and induced me to transcribe this short paragraph.
In the year 1408 it was taken by the Earl of Pembroke, and afforded likewise shelter to Margaret of Anjou, after the battle of Northampton in 1460; and was the last in North Wales which held out for the King, being surrendered to General Mytton in 1647.
In a garden near this castle was dug up, in the year 1692, an ancient golden torques, of a round form, an inch in circumference, and weighing eight ounces. This curious relic of British antiquity, exhibited in a drawing by Mr. Pennant, still continues in the possession of the Mostyn family. As we had not an opportunity of examining the original, this account can only be gathered from the information of former authors, who represent it as “a wreathed bar, or rather three or four rods twisted together, about four feet long, flexible, but bending naturally only one way, in form of a hat-band: it originally had holes at each end, not twisted or sharp, but plain, and cut even.”
In the year 1694, the prodigious phenomenon of fire or kindled exhalation, which disturbed the inhabitants of this neighbourhood, is both singular and extraordinary: sixteen ricks of hay, and two barns, were burnt by a kindled exhalation, or blue weak flame, proceeding from the sea: this lasted about a fortnight or three weeks, poisoning the grass, and firing it for the space of a mile. It is extraordinary, that it had no effect on the men who interposed their endeavours to save the ricks from destruction, even by running into it. For a more accurate account of this singular phenomenon, I refer my readers to the Philosophical Transactions, No. 208, and likewise to the Addenda in Camden: suffice it to say, that the air and grass were so infected, that it occasioned a great mortality of cattle, horses, sheep, and goats. The various conjectures that have been formed, to account for this kindled exhalation, seem to be very unsatisfactory; something similar to this, both in the appearance and in the effect, happened in France, in the year 1734.
As, from the unfavourableness of the weather, we had not contemplated the rich scenery between Barmouth and Dolgelly, with that nice investigation which it deserved, we determined, by returning to our obliging landlady at the Corsy-Gedol arms, to seize the opportunity of again admiring its beauties; and, by taking a more circuitous route to the vale of Festiniog, pay that attention to the falls of Doll-y-mullin, Moddach, and Cayne, which they so deservedly require.
This second saunter we found by no means tedious: the scene seemed perpetually changing at every unexpected curvature of the road; and the rude features of the mountains appeared to assume new forms, as the winding presented them to the eye in different positions; whilst the shifting vapours, which partially concealed their minuter grandeur, assisted the illusions of the sight. Amidst new woods, rising in the majesty of foliage, the scattered cottage, with its bluish smoke curling high in the air, was frequently rendered interesting by its neat simplicity; and served to constitute the romantic beauties of this picturesque ramble.
This pleasing scenery varied little till we arrived within two miles of Dolgelly, when several gentlemen’s seats burst upon our sight; and leaving that enchanting spot to the left, at the Laneltyd turnpike, a different object presented itself to our view. For four miles we walked by the side of a hill, the most translucent stream attending us the whole way; for, though the road was situated so much above it, yet the sandy bottom, with the finny tribe, in considerable numbers sporting in this transparent element, were easily descried. On each side, the mountains rose to a considerable height, with the craggy summit of Cader Idris claiming the pre-eminence. We soon arrived at the small ale-house, (Traveller’s Rest), where we met the labourer of Mr. Madox, whom we were recommended to inquire for, as a proper cicerone to the water-falls in his vicinity. Having finished our scanty but wholesome repast, we repaired with an old woman (the labourer being confined to the house by indisposition), to the fall of Doll-y-mullin. There appeared to be something singular in the appearance of this “mountain elf:” destitute of shoes and stockings, in the true Cambrian style, she tripped it, occasionally singing, and sometimes discontented with the world, herself, and every thing, uttering a most dismal groan. This excited our curiosity; but, to learn much of her situation we soon found impracticable; her knowledge of the English language was very trivial; and, as she seemed not much inclined to give us any information respecting the adjacent country, we found it useless to make inquiries concerning her condition in life.
Our surly conductress first led us through Mr. Madox’s grounds; to the left of the Tan-y-bwlch road, by a most delightful walk cut through the wood, we soon reached the Fall of Doll-y-mullin, the roaring of which had a long time announced its vicinity. This cataract, though considered only as a prelude to the grand Falls of the Cayne and Moddach, is still worthy the attention of the passing traveller: for, though the river precipitates itself not more than fifty feet, yet, the projection and situation of the rocks, and the thick oak carelessly throwing its broad brown arms across the troubled waters, is singularly pleasing. We had hitherto only contemplated this scene from the foot of the fall; but how noble the effect when we began to wind up the steep ascent, and paused at every basin, which the water had formed in the excavated rock!
By a retrograde saunter we soon gained the Tan-y-bwlch road; and, passing over the romantic bridge of Pont ar Garfa, beautifully entwined with the rich drapery of ivy, we ascended a steep path over the slaty mountain of Tylyn Gwladys, two miles in extent.—Sublimity, indeed, gave place to elegance: behind us, the huge steep of Cader Idris, lifting high above the rolling cloud its shaggy head, of which, at intervals, we caught a glance through the thick mist which enveloped it; in front, Snowdon, conscious of pre-eminence, rose in the distant perspective: these were the boundaries of our view. On the opposite side a barren mountain, dignified by the name of Prince of Wales, appeared scarcely accessible, but to the steps of the enthusiast. This formerly afforded a vast quantity of ore, but it has lately so much failed, as not to produce even a sufficiency to remunerate the miners. While traversing these barren mountains, it is not less singular than interesting occasionally to meet the most delicious valleys, watered by some foaming river; these are often literally surcharged
“With weighted rains, and melted Alpine snows.”
Such is the true characteristic of the Welsh scenery: the finest verdure and the most enchanting valleys are discovered in the bosom of sterility; where natural cascades, precipitating themselves from their rude pinnacles, alone disturb the silence which reigns in that asylum. These render it more enchanting to the inquisitive pedestrians, for these landscapes are only accessible to their steps: and the distant swell of the cataract had now long proclaimed our proximity to the object in pursuit. The Falls of the Cayne and the Moddach are at no great distance from one another, being only separated by a thick wood. Crossing a small bridge, above fifty feet from the water, formed only by the trunk of an oak, which has accidentally fallen across the rapid torrent, our conductress very judiciously selected the latter as the first object of our admiration. The computed measurement of this fall is estimated at between seventy and eighty feet, dividing itself into three distinct parts, each finely broken by the projected rocks. The quantity of water is very inconsiderable; but the whole is admirably presented to the eye in one view. The first fall, about twenty feet, precipitates itself into a deep pool, thirty feet diameter; from thence over a second ledge, thirty feet high; and, lastly, it discharges itself into a pool of considerable dimensions. The declivities of the rocks are luxuriantly clothed with wood; the oak more particularly spreading its gigantic arms across the foaming torrent: a variety of trees, indeed, profusely embellish the whole of this glen, which are finely contrasted with the dark brown rocks; constituting so finished a picture, and representing such a variety of colours, that their beauties can be better conceived than described.
We now returned to the Fall of the Cayne, infinitely superior to any in Wales, being two hundred feet perpendicular, uninterrupted by rocks, and not intercepted by the thick wood which encircles it. For a considerable time we both of us gazed with that rapt admiration, which loathes to be disturbed by the mutual exchange of ideas; and, stunned with the continual uproar, and never-ceasing tumultuous motion of the sparkling foam, we silently admired the grandeur of the landscape. On each side the horrific crags seemed to bid defiance to the goat’s activity. The Cayne, after this stunned cataract, throws its troubled waters over a rocky bed, till it unites itself with the Moddach below.
“The feelings with which we view objects of the above description,” says the author of the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature, “oppose the theory of Mr. Burke, who confines sublimity to objects of terror; those of Lord Kaimes, and Dr. Gerrad, who make it to consist in magnitude, and Dr. Blair, who places it in ‘force,’ are equally erroneous. The idea of Longinus, were we to associate sublimity in poetry with that of the material world, (which we are, however, not authorized to do,) is far from being correct. He defines it ‘a proud elevation of mind.’ When applied to material objects, this is neither cause nor consequence; for the experience of every man, from the proudest of princes to the humblest of peasants, proclaims, that the effect of all sublimity is astonishment, blended with awe: and when, at one moment, did pride and awe unite in the same bosom? The difference between sublimity of writing, and sublimity in objects, has not been sufficiently distinguished by the several writers on the subject of taste. No objects are beautiful and sublime, but by virtue of association. If they were, the Vale of Aylesbury would be beautiful to him, who had long resided in the Vale of Clwyd: and the Cliffs of Dover and the Peaks of Scotland would be equally sublime to the native of Crim Tartary and the peasant of the Tyrol. The opinions of many philosophers, in respect to the pleasure we derive from objects, which excite our pity, are equally false. The Abbé du Bos, Fontenelle, Hume, Akenside, and Burke, are all in error. We must refer to principles; and the principle in this argument resolves itself into the conclusion, that misfortune elicits sympathy, after the same manner that magnets affine, and planets gravitate. But actual final causes we have no power to define; though we frequently presume to do so. Man, indeed, has the faculty of judging, limitedly, of effects; but vain, proud, and arrogant as he is, he can only reason hypothetically, when he would treat of final causes and of final consequences.”
With reluctance we left this romantic situation; and, according to the directions of our conductress, soon found ourselves in the turnpike-road to Tan-y-bwlch, understanding that Mr. Warner’s route to Pen-street afforded indifferent walking. Stupendous mountains attended us some way; and, to borrow a description from a celebrated author, they “looked like the rude materials of creation, forming the barrier of unwrought space.” The sun was now making a “golden set:” the mountains were thrown together in noble masses, appearing to scale the heavens, to intercept its rays, and emulous to receive the parting tinge of lingering day. We were watching with admiration the mild splendour of its light, fading from the distant landscape, when we perceived the rich vale of Festiniog suddenly open itself to our view: we observed the busy group of haymakers, who had completed their day’s labour, returning to their homes:
“While heard from dale to dale,
Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice
Of happy labour, love, and social glee.”
Pleased with this rustic scene, we caught the cheerful song, which was wafted on the gentle breeze. With pleasure we anticipated a saunter through this vale, early the ensuing morning: for one tint of sober grey had now covered its various-coloured features, and the sun had now gleamed its last light upon the rivulet which winds through the bottom.