VALE OF EDEYRNION.
The mountains here, upon either side, are covered with plantations, and the beautiful Dee winds gracefully in the centre of the valley, through delightful meadows, while corn fields wave upon the sloping banks, and everything presents to the eye the appearance of freshness and fertility, cheerfulness and content. At the bridge near Llanddervel, a small village, which is first observed upon the opposite bank of the Dee, a splendid view presents itself. The river here is broad, shallow, and deep, by turns, and looking up or down the vale, its meandering sportiveness charms the eye. At the extremity of the valley is a lofty mountain, planted to the summit, which seems so closely to envelope it as to prevent all egress. To stand upon this bridge at sunset, and listen to the whistle of the sheep-boy as he trudges merrily along the road, the song of the husbandman, or the joyous laugh of the milkmaids—sounds that float upon the silent air for miles, at such an hour—the twittering of the birds—the low crake of the rail, amidst the corn—and sweeter than all, the music of the river, discharging liquid sounds from its transparent bosom—creates a sensation which we are at a loss how to express. Excess of pleasure becomes painful; and, overpowered with delight, nature asserts her influence, and we experience the luxury of tears!—at least, I did, and I pity from my soul the man who is unfortunately incapable of a similar feeling.
Passing through the little village of Llanvor, and crossing a stream over the bridge close by the lodge of Mr. Price, of Rhiwlas, I at length arrived at the White Lion, in the town of Bala; and, tired with my day’s exertions, called for a tea-dinner and slippers, and early retired to rest.
CHAPTER III.
Bala.—The Lake.—A Jolter.—Glan y Llyn.—Vale of Drws y Nant.—Cader Idris.—Dolgelley.—The Town Hall.—Parliament House.—St. Mary’s Church.—Inns.—Angling Stations.—The Cataracts of Rhaiadr Du and Pistyll y Cain.—Nannau Park.—Anecdote of Owen Glyndwr and Owen Sele.—Road to Barmouth.—Arrival.—Inns.—A Walk on the Sands.
“I lay on the rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birth-place of phantoms, the home of the cloud,
Around it for ever deep music is swelling—
The voice of the mountain wind, solemn and loud.”Mrs. Hemans.
On the following morning I found myself unable to walk, from the effect produced by a sprained ancle, and I had the delightful prospect of being confined to the room of an inn in a country town, without a being to converse with, or a book to enliven me; but my kind landlord, a fine, portly, rosy-cheeked, round-headed, honest-hearted Boniface, as ever drew spigot, kindly offered me a pony, to take me to the lake, which, he said, contained plenty of perch. This offer I thankfully accepted, and, by the aid of mine host and his ostler, was soon seated upon the back of a quiet not-to-be-put-out-of-his-way animal, as any clerical gentleman could desire to ride upon, and
“With slow and solemn pace,”