All that the most indefatigable industry could accomplish was done by Mr. Johnes, to replace the losses he had sustained; but the Welsh manuscripts, and many other valuable works and specimens of art here destroyed, no labour or money could restore. The actual pecuniary loss suffered by Mr. Johnes, over and above the 20,000l. he was insured, amounted to between 50 and 60,000l.; but, like the destruction of the labours of Lord Mansfield and Dr. Priestley, no estimate can be put on the loss the proprietor and the world experienced, in thus rendering abortive forty years of study, research, and expenditure on literary valuables. Prior to the decease of Mr. Johnes, who did not long survive his loss, the exterior of the building was nearly restored to its former appearance; but the interior arrangement was considerably altered. He likewise again established a most sumptuous collection of books, &c. part of which, the Pesaro library, was on its way from Italy, having been purchased by Mr. Johnes prior to the conflagration: it comprises many very valuable books in the Spanish, French, and particularly the Italian language, rare editions of the classics, and almost all the productions of the Aldine press.
A minute description of the interior of Havod, prior to the fire, is given by Mr. Malkin, which is now particularly interesting. Unfortunately no catalogue of the books and manuscripts was ever taken, Mr. Johnes not having completed his collection.
THE GENIUS OF HAVOD.
Formal slaves of art, avaunt!
This is Nature’s secret haunt:
The Genius of the landscape, I
Guard it, with a jealous eye—
Guard it, that no footstep rude
Upon her privacy intrude.
Here, with mystic maze, her throne
Is girt, accessible to none:
But to the highly-honour’d few
To whom I deign to lend my clue;
And chief to him, who in this grove,
Devotes his life to share her love:
From whom she seeks no charms to hide,
For whom she throws her veil aside,
Instructing him to spread abroad
Scenes for Salvator—or for Claude.
Far, oh far hence, let Brown and Eames
Zig-zag their walks, and torture streams!
But let them not my dells profane,
Or violate my Naiad train:
Nor let their arrogance invade
My meanest Dryad’s secret shade,
And with fantastic knots disgrace
The native honours of the place—
Making the vet’ran oak give way,
Some spruce exotic to display:
Their petty labours he defy’d,
Who Taste and Nature would divide!Anon.
We now for many miles passed a barren, dreary country, completely encircled with hills; and we only climbed one to observe others still rising in the distant perspective: not even a house or tree appeared to interrupt the awfulness of the mountains, which, after the copious fall of rain in the night, teemed with innumerable cataracts. According to our directions, we enquired at the foot of Plinlimmon for Rhees Morgan, as a proper man to be our conductor over the heights of the “fruitful father of rivers.” This man being absent, the whole family appeared thunderstruck at our appearance, and ran with all haste imaginable into their miserable cot. One apartment served for the inhabitants of every description, with only one small hole to admit the light; the entrance unprotected by a door, but with a blanket as a substitute, was exposed to the pitiless blast of the winter’s storm.
“Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround:
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;
Ah! little think they while they dance along,
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery. Sore pierced by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty.”Thomson.
With some difficulty we prevailed on the female part of the family to give us proper directions to the source of the meandering Wye, [119] and rapid Severn. The latter they only understood by the name of Halfren, its original British name; it is likewise called in Latin, Sabrina. From the top of Plinlimmon we for the first time discovered the shaggy summit of Cader Idris, and the spiral head of Snowdon. “With respect to Plinlimmon mountain,” says Mr. Malkin, “it is inferior only to Snowdon and Cader Idris; if to the latter, in point of size and height. It takes its name from five beacons; many of which, if not all, still remain, and are seen at some distance. We may indeed compare Plinlimmon with those formidable personages of poetical creation, who walk with their feet upon the earth, and their heads in the region of the heavens.” There is nothing particularly engaging in the character of this mountain, except in its giving rise to no less than six or eight rivers, and, on this account, has frequently been celebrated by the Poet. Though its summit commands a circle of many miles diameter, yet the prospect by no means answered our expectations. We descended into a swampy bottom, which afforded us unpleasant walking for two or three miles, when a most delightful and well-cultivated valley unexpectedly enlivened our spirits. The sun was making
. . . . “a golden set,
And by the bright track of his fiery car
Gave signal of a goodly day to-morrow,”
just as we entered this interesting vale; the hay-makers, in the coolness of the evening, were returning to their homes,
“Each by the lass he loved.”