Welsh Scenery and Antiquities.
The railway between Conway and Bangor runs along the sea-shore, close under the lee of the bold and rocky promontories, that defy the waves, on this imperial coast. Often indeed we found ourselves plunged into the black night of the tunnels which become necessary, in many places, from the precipitous nature of these cliffs, but, in general, I found even the distasteful confusion of a railway train incompetent to detract much from the emotions of sublimity inspired by the passage along such a shore. On one side, the sea was foaming under us, and on the other Penmaenmawr lifted its gigantic bulk to the clouds. Occasionally, as at Aber, we passed a beautiful glen, descrying waterfalls and other picturesque scenery; and by keeping a good look-out, I had a full view of the cavern called Ogo, which opens to the sea, high up in a calcareous cliff, with a mouth, singularly like the arched entrance of a gothic minster. It is said to have afforded a retreat, in ancient times, to the invading army of England. At last, we descried the baronial towers of Penrhyn Castle, beautifully situated, on the foundations of an old Welsh palace, the fame of whose bold chiefs has, for ages, been the theme of bardic eulogy in Wales; and soon after, we were set down, at Bangor. It is a city in a vale, enclosed by an amphitheatre of hills, and opening to the sea, with a fine view of the Menai Straits, and of the very striking water-front of Beaumaris, on the opposite shore of Anglesea.
I found the cathedral, though an important feature in a view of the town, a very humble specimen of its class; and the service which I attended, during a pouring rain, was indifferently performed. I retreated to the finely-situated hotel on the straits, and near the Menai Bridge, where, in the company of many other disappointed tourists, I was forced to grumble away an afternoon, from which I had expected no little pleasure. An angry wind was chafing the surface of the Menai water, and the little steamers, and other vessels, that went furiously by, were the only objects to animate the otherwise gloomy spectacle, on which I gazed listlessly, from the windows of the George Hotel.
The next morning, though with an unsettled sky, gave us better weather, and I went forth to view the scenery, and to cross the Menai Suspension-Bridge, which, though now eclipsed by its neighbour, the far-famed Tubular, is to me much the more interesting of the two, as really a beautiful specimen of art, and not unworthy of the surrounding scenery. Crossing this bridge, and finding on the other shore of Anglesea a little steamer, with a load of Whitsuntide excursionists, going down to Caernarvon, I lost no time in getting on board, and soon had the satisfaction of passing under both the chain-bridge and the tube, and of realizing, from that position, the immense height at which they overhang the tides of the Menai. As creations of genius, they are indeed sublime; and when a coach is seen creeping over the one, in bigness as it were a fly; or when a railway train thunders through the other, and yet seems in comparison with it a mere toy, as it emerges and smokes along its way, one gets an idea of the immensity of each conception, which invests mechanic art with something like the attractive splendours of the painting and the poem. In the evening, as the sun was near its setting, I surveyed the great tube at my leisure, and walked over its roof, while a train was passing under me. It was surprising to observe its untrembling strength, and its security at so great a height, and with a span so vast: but I was even more delighted with the views it afforded me, of the glorious scenery, mountain and marine, with which it is encompassed. They are singularly enriched with the charms of art and nature. The shipping, the suspension-bridge, with its arches and festoons; the towns of Beaumaris and Bangor; the tall column of the Marquis of Anglesea, and many pleasant villages and seats, as you look towards Caernarvon, afford a pleasing addition to the richly wooded shores, the flowing waters, the indented line of coast, the swelling hills, and last, but not least, the glorious succession of peaks that stretch along the eastern background from Snowdon, to the Great Orme’s Head, which rises like a wall from the sea.
But I must not forget my excursion to Caernarvon, through these straits, which resemble so much the picturesque rivers of my own land. Many objects of interest enlivened the trip; but when, at last, the old walls of Caernarvon Castle rose before my sight, in all their feudal grandeur and historic dignity, I felt like one inspired with rapture, though not the less impressed with a sense of something awful and august. The character of Edward as a tyrant and a conqueror, seemed to stand before me in monumental gloom and massive solemnity—and when I thought of the feeble cries of the first Prince of Wales, as he came to light in this stronghold of feudal tyranny, and coupled them with those midnight shrieks, at Berkeley, on the Severn, in which his inglorious life was extinguished, I realized afresh all those creeping chills of terror, with which the wildest imagery of romance affects the sensitive imagination of childhood. There it stood, magnificently irregular in outline, frowning over the little town beneath, like a coarse bully domineering over a timid boy. Its towers are really stupendous, and the aspiring parapets and embattled turrets, that bristle up from their grim summit, make a strangely confused, but self-consistent figure, against the mountain back-ground, or the clear blue sky overhead. With such a fortress in full sight, it was most thrilling to give its history a mental review. Piled there by a cruel conqueror, to overawe the Welsh people, six hundred years ago, it seems less terrible with regard to them, than with reference to the story of his Queen, and his child. Such a nest for a new-made mother, and her babe! In the depth of winter, the stern husband sent Queen Eleanor here, to give birth to her child. In one of its most gloomy recesses the royal infant was born; and thus the insulting victor was enabled to continue the sovereignty of Wales, in his own family, while literally fulfilling his pledge, to give the Welsh a prince—born in their own country, who could speak no English, and whose character was without fault! Such a sovereign they had promised to accept, and to obey; and hence the title of the eldest son of British sovereigns ever since. Thus, what is morally a mean and knavish fraud, is clothed, in historic narrative, with the glory of a warlike stratagem, and survives in imperial heraldry as if there were no truth in the saying of the poet, that the herald’s art can never “blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.”
I was not altogether fortunate in my holiday, for the weather was alternating, continually, between shower and sunshine, and when I was fairly on the top of a stage-coach, for Llanberis, I found, to my sorrow, that shower was about to predominate for a time. However, to Llanberis I went, reserving a close inspection of the castle to my return. At intervals, I could get some idea of the loveliness of that charming lake, and of the wild glories of its surrounding scenery; but ill-luck prevailed, and Snowdon wore his cap of clouds, nearly all the time, and I was forced to retire at last, somewhat surly with disappointment. I visited, however, the ruins of Dolbardan Castle, the central fortress of a chain of similar muniments, by which the ancient clans of Wales endeavoured to secure these mountain passes against the invaders. It stands, in picturesque dignity, upon the peninsula, which divides the waters of Llanberis into twin lakes, and is apparently the guardian of both. Here some Welsh lads, with a donkey, were sheltering themselves from the rain, and, by dint of much entreaty, and a very tempting appliance of money, I gained from them a Welsh song, which growing somewhat animated as they proceeded, cheered up the sombre scene, and gave to those antiquated ruins a moment’s restoration of the echoes of minstrelsy, and of the musical tongue with which they resounded of yore, in peace and war, when the figures of bards and heroes were the familiar tenants of the spot. As I returned to Caernarvon, the rain began to abate, and gradually the clouds withdrew, to my great satisfaction. The castle again rose before me, reviving the impressions with which I had first beheld it, but less stern, perhaps, from the land side, than when beheld from the sea. I was soon beneath its walls, which I first surveyed, in circuit, with increased astonishment and pleasure. The materials for this vast structure are said to have been furnished, in part, by the ruins of Segontium, the neighbouring station of the ancient Roman army; but the feudal character now impressed on the old stones is, to me, far more interesting than their primitive history. The eagle-tower, in which the young Prince is said to have been born, is itself a fortress of massive solidity, and presents to the waters a front of bold defiance; while on the other side, now blocked up and forlorn of aspect, beneath a lofty arch, is the gate, by which the expectant mother entered the gloomy hold, and which still goes by her name. The remains of a moat and drawbridge are visible, and so are the grooves in which the iron-toothed portcullis once rose and fell. I entered by a gate which looks toward the town, and over which is sculptured a rude effigy of the royal builder, deeply scarred by time. Within, the huge walls appear as an empty shell; they rise, like those of the great Roman amphitheatre, around an area of desolation. Here and there, indeed, are the remains of state apartments, and of royal chambers, still marked by delicate architectural tracery and handsome enrichment; but you tread on hillocks and grassy verdure, which swell above their buried splendours, and everywhere the ruin appears absolute and complete. By time-worn and dangerous stairways of stone, you wind up to the summits of the towers, and your guide constantly cautions you to beware of slipping, or of setting foot upon treacherous places. To me, the greatest interest was presented by the narrow corridors, which run between the inner and outer walls of the entire circuit, lighted only by the loop-holes, through which the signal horn was once sounded, and the arrow shot forth, and which open into embrasures that were filled of yore with armed men. Here is the projecting battlement, by which they protected the gateway below, its floor is perforated for the discharge of missiles, and to enable the defenders of the castle to pour down scalding water, and melted lead, upon the heads of its assailants. In perambulating these gloomy recesses, I gained distinct ideas of mediæval life and warfare, from which my knowledge of history, such as it is, received a vast augmentation of freshness and reality.
Dismissing my guide, I sat down on the summit of the eagle-tower and lost myself in revery. The daws, chattering amid the battlements, alone interrupted the solemn stillness of the moment. Before me was Snowdon, now disrobed of the clouds he had worn through the day, and lifting a bald crown of snow to the skies. The serried outline of his dependant mountains beautifully varied the scenes toward which they stretched away on every side. I turned, and there was the broad glare of the descending sun upon the sea: I was looking towards my own dear home. In the midst of meditative pleasures, I longed for the companionship of many, between whom and me there rolled a thousand leagues of ocean; and, for awhile I forgot, in the melancholy of that reflection, the romantic impressions which are peculiar to the spot. When I recovered my thoughts, it was only to feel more forcibly the solemnity of the short life, in which we stand between so dread a past, and so momentous a future; and before I descended from that lofty station, I knelt and worshipped Him who, alone, is Everlasting.
The weather increased in serenity as the day declined. I heard the clatter of hoofs, and a coach-horn sounding in the streets, and hastily took my seat, for a drive to Bangor, relinquishing a projected tour through Beddgelert and Tremadoc, which I had found impracticable, with reference to other plans. My drive in return was not less agreeable than my sail in coming. Everywhere the scene was beautiful, and I was amused with the chatter of a couple of Welsh peasant women, in short petticoats and men’s hats, who had mounted the coach-top and sat by my side.
We had bright moonlight that evening, on the waters of the Menai, and a band amused us, with music, in the grounds of the hotel. I was agreeably surprised to hear, in close connection with the national air of England, the sprightly strain of “Hail Columbia,” which, however inferior as a musical composition, had a strong power over me, as I heard it then, and I breathed a warm aspiration to God for a blessing on my native land.
We were favoured with a glorious morning, and I took stage-coach, soon after breakfast, for a drive through North Wales. After whirling through the suburbs of Bangor, and traversing the “Bethesda slate-quarries,” we entered the terrific pass of Nant Ffrancon. On a reduced scale, the scenery here is quite Swiss. The rains had swelled the mountain torrents, and everywhere they were leaping down the steeps, in beautiful threads of silver, which terminated in fine cascades. The road wound along the side of a mountain, with a deep descent beneath; and there was spread out a broad green valley, level as a floor, with a river winding through, and the figure of an angler stalking along its bank. On the further side of the vale rose another mountain, abruptly, to the skies. I was reminded of Nant Ffrancon afterwards, in the Swiss Oberland, after crossing the Brunig into the Vale of Meyringen, as I was making my way towards Interlachen. These Welsh Alps are indeed destitute of snowy tops and descending glaciers. Yet they are full of sublime features; and the flocks which climb their sides, with fleeces of milky whiteness, give a pastoral air to the solitude, which subdues the otherwise repulsive aspect of some of their features.