DERWEN CEUBREN YR ELLYLL,
which translated, means, “the hollow oak, the haunt of demons.” In this oak, it is said Owen Glyndwr immured the body of Howell Sele, the proprietor of this estate, who, while they were walking together, treacherously shot an arrow at the breast of Glyndwr, who, however, having armour beneath his doublet, fortunately received no hurt. The cause of this treachery is said to have been the indignation expressed by Owen at his kinsman’s refusal to join his cause to redress his country’s wrongs. Glyndwr forced his body into the hollow of this oak, most likely after having slain him, where, forty years after this event, a skeleton was discovered. The chieftain, after laying waste the mansion and domain of Sele, hastened to join his friends. Sir W. Scott has written a very beautiful poem upon this legend, which will be found in the fifth note to his sixth canto of Marmion, and is called the “spirit’s blasted tree.” In 1813, this monarch of the wood fell to the ground.
The country from Dolgelly to the mouth of the river is well worth a journey of three hundred miles to visit, even though there were no other objects worthy of notice in North Wales, and will amply compensate the most eager researcher after the sublime and beautiful.
At a turn of the coach road from a place called Te-gwyn, a splendid view of Cader Idris is obtained, particularly in the evening, when the mists arise from the numerous lakes in the vicinity, like volumes of smoke from a domain of fire, curling in fantastic forms around the mountain’s waist, leaving its summit stern and clear in an unclouded sky—like a proud giant surveying with disdain the dwarfish host of which he is the leader.
Thou mighty Cader, whose commanding head
Is alway canopied with winter’s snow,
Whose form is rent in many a chasm dread,
Adown whose sides the dashing torrents flow,
And in primeval majesty still throw
Their flakes of foam into the gulph below!
Mine eyes dwell on thy terrors, and my heart
Expands and trembles with a nameless glow!
Wildest of all the mountain kind thou art,
The rampart that protects old Cambria’s heart.Land of the free! amid thy giant hills,
Whose regal heads appear to prop the skies,
Oh what a thrilling awe my bosom fills
While gazing on thy dark sublimities!
Mountains on mountains, peaks on peaks arise,
Like tents belonging to some Titan race,
Who choosing highest ground, nighest the God,
Again defy the thunderer, face to face,
From heights more vast than Alpine foot e’er trod,
And undismayed await his dreadful nod.
Another noble view attracts attention, at a place called Glan Mawddach—the broad arm of the sea, stretching for miles between the rugged mountains, which, shrouded in veils of silvery mist, fling their dark shadows into the depths of the water. Proceeding onwards, the seat of the late A. Wynne, Esq., called Athog, now the residence of Mr. Fowden, becomes conspicuous upon the south side of the mouth of the Mawddach, and beyond the extremity of the Bay Celylin point, and the church of which the Rev. J. Parry is rector. The bishop has the power of appointing a curate; but Mr. Parry retains the tithes to himself. Arriving at