At the public-house we accidentally met with a well-informed man, who minutely delineated every part of the castle; and, beginning with the founder, in the true characteristic style of a Welshman, ran through his pedigree several generations: this, however, did not interest us cursory pedestrians; and, with little persuasion, we soon induced him to write down, in as concise a manner as possible, any information he was acquainted with respecting the castle: “The founder of Harlech Castle, A.D. 552, was Maelgwyn; Gwynedd; made Caer Dugoll (Shrewsbury); Caer Gyffin (Aber Conway); Caer Gollwyn (Harleck); supposed to be buried in Cirencester, and reigned thirty-four years.” Whether this information is correct, I will not take upon me to assert; but meeting with a Welshman in this part of the country capable of writing, rather surprised us, and induced me to transcribe this short paragraph.
In the year 1408 it was taken by the Earl of Pembroke, and afforded likewise shelter to Margaret of Anjou, after the battle of Northampton in 1460; and was the last in North Wales which held out for the King, being surrendered to General Mytton in 1647.
In a garden near this castle was dug up, in the year 1692, an ancient golden torques, of a round form, an inch in circumference, and weighing eight ounces. This curious relic of British antiquity, exhibited in a drawing by Mr. Pennant, still continues in the possession of the Mostyn family. As we had not an opportunity of examining the original, this account can only be gathered from the information of former authors, who represent it as “a wreathed bar, or rather three or four rods twisted together, about four feet long, flexible, but bending naturally only one way, in form of a hat-band: it originally had holes at each end, not twisted or sharp, but plain, and cut even.”
In the year 1694, the prodigious phenomenon of fire or kindled exhalation, which disturbed the inhabitants of this neighbourhood, is both singular and extraordinary: sixteen ricks of hay, and two barns, were burnt by a kindled exhalation, or blue weak flame, proceeding from the sea: this lasted about a fortnight or three weeks, poisoning the grass, and firing it for the space of a mile. It is extraordinary, that it had no effect on the men who interposed their endeavours to save the ricks from destruction, even by running into it. For a more accurate account of this singular phenomenon, I refer my readers to the Philosophical Transactions, No. 208, and likewise to the Addenda in Camden: suffice it to say, that the air and grass were so infected, that it occasioned a great mortality of cattle, horses, sheep, and goats. The various conjectures that have been formed, to account for this kindled exhalation, seem to be very unsatisfactory; something similar to this, both in the appearance and in the effect, happened in France, in the year 1734.
As, from the unfavourableness of the weather, we had not contemplated the rich scenery between Barmouth and Dolgelly, with that nice investigation which it deserved, we determined, by returning to our obliging landlady at the Corsy-Gedol arms, to seize the opportunity of again admiring its beauties; and, by taking a more circuitous route to the vale of Festiniog, pay that attention to the falls of Doll-y-mullin, Moddach, and Cayne, which they so deservedly require.
This second saunter we found by no means tedious: the scene seemed perpetually changing at every unexpected curvature of the road; and the rude features of the mountains appeared to assume new forms, as the winding presented them to the eye in different positions; whilst the shifting vapours, which partially concealed their minuter grandeur, assisted the illusions of the sight. Amidst new woods, rising in the majesty of foliage, the scattered cottage, with its bluish smoke curling high in the air, was frequently rendered interesting by its neat simplicity; and served to constitute the romantic beauties of this picturesque ramble.
This pleasing scenery varied little till we arrived within two miles of Dolgelly, when several gentlemen’s seats burst upon our sight; and leaving that enchanting spot to the left, at the Laneltyd turnpike, a different object presented itself to our view. For four miles we walked by the side of a hill, the most translucent stream attending us the whole way; for, though the road was situated so much above it, yet the sandy bottom, with the finny tribe, in considerable numbers sporting in this transparent element, were easily descried. On each side, the mountains rose to a considerable height, with the craggy summit of Cader Idris claiming the pre-eminence. We soon arrived at the small ale-house, (Traveller’s Rest), where we met the labourer of Mr. Madox, whom we were recommended to inquire for, as a proper cicerone to the water-falls in his vicinity. Having finished our scanty but wholesome repast, we repaired with an old woman (the labourer being confined to the house by indisposition), to the fall of Doll-y-mullin. There appeared to be something singular in the appearance of this “mountain elf:” destitute of shoes and stockings, in the true Cambrian style, she tripped it, occasionally singing, and sometimes discontented with the world, herself, and every thing, uttering a most dismal groan. This excited our curiosity; but, to learn much of her situation we soon found impracticable; her knowledge of the English language was very trivial; and, as she seemed not much inclined to give us any information respecting the adjacent country, we found it useless to make inquiries concerning her condition in life.
Our surly conductress first led us through Mr. Madox’s grounds; to the left of the Tan-y-bwlch road, by a most delightful walk cut through the wood, we soon reached the Fall of Doll-y-mullin, the roaring of which had a long time announced its vicinity. This cataract, though considered only as a prelude to the grand Falls of the Cayne and Moddach, is still worthy the attention of the passing traveller: for, though the river precipitates itself not more than fifty feet, yet, the projection and situation of the rocks, and the thick oak carelessly throwing its broad brown arms across the troubled waters, is singularly pleasing. We had hitherto only contemplated this scene from the foot of the fall; but how noble the effect when we began to wind up the steep ascent, and paused at every basin, which the water had formed in the excavated rock!
By a retrograde saunter we soon gained the Tan-y-bwlch road; and, passing over the romantic bridge of Pont ar Garfa, beautifully entwined with the rich drapery of ivy, we ascended a steep path over the slaty mountain of Tylyn Gwladys, two miles in extent.—Sublimity, indeed, gave place to elegance: behind us, the huge steep of Cader Idris, lifting high above the rolling cloud its shaggy head, of which, at intervals, we caught a glance through the thick mist which enveloped it; in front, Snowdon, conscious of pre-eminence, rose in the distant perspective: these were the boundaries of our view. On the opposite side a barren mountain, dignified by the name of Prince of Wales, appeared scarcely accessible, but to the steps of the enthusiast. This formerly afforded a vast quantity of ore, but it has lately so much failed, as not to produce even a sufficiency to remunerate the miners. While traversing these barren mountains, it is not less singular than interesting occasionally to meet the most delicious valleys, watered by some foaming river; these are often literally surcharged
“With weighted rains, and melted Alpine snows.”