BEDDGELERT.
Some are of opinion that this word should be written Celert or Cilert, Bedd-Cilert, or Cilert’s grave; supposing that a monk or saint of that name was buried here. Another celebrated bard was entombed at this place, named Daffydd Nanmor, who died about the year 1460.
The Goat is an excellent inn, and every attention the traveller can desire is paid with the greatest celerity. Twenty post horses are kept at this inn for travellers, and eight or ten ponys for the accommodation of those visitors who wish to ascend Snowdon with ease and safety. [240]
At nine o’clock, I strolled from the inn to the bridge, where I was joined by a peasant, who, by his appearance, promised to be communicative. It was a lovely evening; there was no moon, but the clear sky displayed its burning host, in beautiful array. No breath of air disturbed the silent slumbers of the peaceful woods. The lull of rippling waters alone struck upon the ear, yielding a solemn tone like the deep swell of the organ, breaking upon the deepest solitude.
In such a situation how indescribable is the feeling which takes possession of us! What language can express, what tongue can utter it? My very breathing seemed to disturb the excessive sweetness of nature’s melody.
“This is a very pretty place, sir,” said the peasant, interrupting my reverie.
“It is indeed,” I replied.
“I suppose, sir, you’ve been to visit the grave of Gelert, Llewellyn’s hound?”
“I have. Do you believe the legend?”
“Indeed, sir, I do,” said he with a sigh; “but I never thought a man could feel so much for the death of a brute, until last year—hai how!”
This observation made me inquisitive to know what had so suddenly changed his opinions. “What has caused you, my friend, to believe in a legend so suddenly, which you never gave any credence to before?”
“Why sir, I’ll tell you; you must know that I had a favourite pointer bitch, Truan Bac. Oh, she was the beautifullest creature you ever saw. She was the pride of the country; and gentlemen would come to me and say, ‘William, will you lend me your little bitch to go a shooting on the mountains—only for a day? Because you see, sir, there was not her equal in all Wales, for a single dog; ay, and she’d back as staunch as any on ’em, and a better retriever never went into a field. Such a nose! ah! poor wench; I never knew thy equal! You must think, sir, I was very loath to let her go without me, for I bred her, and broke her in—though very little breaking she wanted;—and you know, sir, a good dog is soon spoilt by a bad sportsman, and the creatures be as fond of a good shot, as he be fond of shooting to a good dog. No day was too long for her when the scent lay. The motion of your hand was enough for her; to the right, or left, or take the fences. She’d never baulk her game, or make a false point; if the birds had just gone off, you might know she was doubtful by a leetle motion in her tail. But, if she stood stiff and staunch, you might bet a guinea to a mushroom that there was game before her, and you’d nothing to do but to go up and take your shot. Down she was to charge, and, if you bade her, she would bring your bird without ruffling a feather. Well, sir, the beginning of last August unfortunately she had a litter of pups. ’Twas a cross breed, ysywaith!—and I got the butcher’s boy to destroy them, which he did, and buried them in the muck heap, at the back of the stable. From that time, she would never stir from her bed, that was under the manger. My dame took her her food as usual, and placed it just inside the stable door. My little boy, Billy, went next day, with a mess of potatoes and barley meal, but told his mother that Rose had’nt eat up her yesterday’s mess. Ah! she cried, she’ll eat it when she’s hungry, I warrant her. Billy went next evening, but her victuals were untouched, and, when he went to coax her, she growled at him, and showed her teeth—a thing she never in her life had done before to any living being; so he was frightened, and told me of it next morning, and I went to the stable to see her. Her meat was all dried up in the tub, and, when I went to her, she seemed nothing but skin and bones. I called her Rose! poor Rose! she slowly raised up her head, opened her bloodshot eyes, and moaned so piteously! I thought she was dying. I held her a little milk; she just moistened her tongue, and gave one wag of her tail, as much as to say, thank you, master; and her head dropt again, and her eyes closed. I knew ’twas four days since she had eaten any thing. I put some food by her, and went to my work. When I returned at night, the first thing I did was to go into the stable, where I found the food untouched and my poor little bitch dead, cold and stiff. I shall never forget it—wela! wela!—I drew her from under the manger, and what do you think, sir? I’ll be shot, if there warn’t her five little pups that the butcher’s boy had kill’d!—she had dug them out of the dung-hill one by one, and laid them in her kennel, and, fearing they would be taken from her again she concealed them with her body, and died through starvation, rather than give ’em up! Wasn’t that nature, sir? I’m almost ashamed to say it; but indeed, sir, I wiped away tears from my cheeks, when I saw that sight. I took her up in my arms, and buried her and her young litter in the same grave; and since that time I never refuse my belief to the stories I hear of surprising instances of devoted affection, gratitude, and instinct, in any of her race. Wela! wela!
“But sir, if you should come this way on your return, and should want a day or two’s good sport on the mountains, I’ve got a dog that’s second to none in the country, and I shall be proud to serve you.”
I promised, if I should find it convenient to return by the first of September, to engage his dog, if not previously hired; and bidding him follow me to the Goat, I ordered for him a tumbler of whiskey-punch, which spirit is as much esteemed in Snowdonia as in the mountains of Wicklow.
CHAPTER IX.
Departure from Beddgelert—Vortigern’s Hill—Snowdon—Llynn Gwynant—Lines written upon Llynn Gwynant—Gwrydd—Public Houses—Lake Fishing—A Night Adventure—Pass of Llanberis—Legend of the Giant’s Night-Cap—The Lakes—The Castle of Dolbadarn and Legend—View of the Lakes.
“Oh, who hath stood on Snowdon’s side,
And glanced o’er Mona’s virgin pride;
And gazed on fatal Moel y don,
But thought of those once there undone?
When Saxons, and their foreign band,
Were crushed by the sons of the mountain land.”T. J. Llewelyn Grichard.
On the following morning I quitted the inn, where every attention was shewn that a traveller could desire, and proceeded over the Ivy bridge, through which the Gwynant flowed, deep and smooth as glass, without an obstruction to ruffle its clear waters, that glided along, kissing its verdant banks, like the stream of a happy life. Quietude reigned in this region uninterrupted. About half a mile from Beddgelert, a rocky eminence projects into the road, called Vortigern’s Hill, or Dinas Emrys, a magician, who was sent for to this place by Vortigern, when he found himself hated by his subjects, and fled from their just anger to this secluded spot. Passing this memorable place, a round clump of rock attracts the eye, rising as it were in the centre of the valley, and called Moel Wynn. Looking backward, Moel Hebog, the Hawk hill, rises majestically and closes up the entrance to Beddgelert. Moel Shebbod towers in front, and, as we pursued our delightful path, about two miles and a half from Beddgelert, an opening of the hills upon the left displayed a deep gorge, and the base of Snowdon, whose high peak, rising in the unclouded skies, held up the holy symbol of Christianity, as in adoration of the Creator. At length, I reached Llynn Dinas, a lake of about three quarters of a mile in extent, through which the Gwynant runs; it is surrounded by lofty mountains of a deeper tint than is usually seen upon the Welsh hills. A beautifully situated cottage here at the far end of the lake, belonging to Mr. Sampson, nestles among the protecting woods, and forms a delightful object. The river which feeds the lake, winds through the verdant and undulating grounds which form a miniature park, between the cottage and the lake. Following up the course of the stream, I left Llynn Dinas behind me, and proceeded by a gradual ascent through the most delightful scenery I ever beheld, until I caught glimpses through the plantations of