Such is the true characteristic of the Welsh scenery: the finest verdure and the most enchanting valleys are discovered in the bosom of sterility; where natural cascades, precipitating themselves from their rude pinnacles, alone disturb the silence which reigns in that asylum. These render it more enchanting to the inquisitive pedestrians, for these landscapes are only accessible to their steps: and the distant swell of the cataract had now long proclaimed our proximity to the object in pursuit. The Falls of the Cayne and the Moddach are at no great distance from one another, being only separated by a thick wood. Crossing a small bridge, above fifty feet from the water, formed only by the trunk of an oak, which has accidentally fallen across the rapid torrent, our conductress very judiciously selected the latter as the first object of our admiration. The computed measurement of this fall is estimated at between seventy and eighty feet, dividing itself into three distinct parts, each finely broken by the projected rocks. The quantity of water is very inconsiderable; but the whole is admirably presented to the eye in one view. The first fall, about twenty feet, precipitates itself into a deep pool, thirty feet diameter; from thence over a second ledge, thirty feet high; and, lastly, it discharges itself into a pool of considerable dimensions. The declivities of the rocks are luxuriantly clothed with wood; the oak more particularly spreading its gigantic arms across the foaming torrent: a variety of trees, indeed, profusely embellish the whole of this glen, which are finely contrasted with the dark brown rocks; constituting so finished a picture, and representing such a variety of colours, that their beauties can be better conceived than described.
We now returned to the Fall of the Cayne, infinitely superior to any in Wales, being two hundred feet perpendicular, uninterrupted by rocks, and not intercepted by the thick wood which encircles it. For a considerable time we both of us gazed with that rapt admiration, which loathes to be disturbed by the mutual exchange of ideas; and, stunned with the continual uproar, and never-ceasing tumultuous motion of the sparkling foam, we silently admired the grandeur of the landscape. On each side the horrific crags seemed to bid defiance to the goat’s activity. The Cayne, after this stunned cataract, throws its troubled waters over a rocky bed, till it unites itself with the Moddach below.
“The feelings with which we view objects of the above description,” says the author of the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature, “oppose the theory of Mr. Burke, who confines sublimity to objects of terror; those of Lord Kaimes, and Dr. Gerrad, who make it to consist in magnitude, and Dr. Blair, who places it in ‘force,’ are equally erroneous. The idea of Longinus, were we to associate sublimity in poetry with that of the material world, (which we are, however, not authorized to do,) is far from being correct. He defines it ‘a proud elevation of mind.’ When applied to material objects, this is neither cause nor consequence; for the experience of every man, from the proudest of princes to the humblest of peasants, proclaims, that the effect of all sublimity is astonishment, blended with awe: and when, at one moment, did pride and awe unite in the same bosom? The difference between sublimity of writing, and sublimity in objects, has not been sufficiently distinguished by the several writers on the subject of taste. No objects are beautiful and sublime, but by virtue of association. If they were, the Vale of Aylesbury would be beautiful to him, who had long resided in the Vale of Clwyd: and the Cliffs of Dover and the Peaks of Scotland would be equally sublime to the native of Crim Tartary and the peasant of the Tyrol. The opinions of many philosophers, in respect to the pleasure we derive from objects, which excite our pity, are equally false. The Abbé du Bos, Fontenelle, Hume, Akenside, and Burke, are all in error. We must refer to principles; and the principle in this argument resolves itself into the conclusion, that misfortune elicits sympathy, after the same manner that magnets affine, and planets gravitate. But actual final causes we have no power to define; though we frequently presume to do so. Man, indeed, has the faculty of judging, limitedly, of effects; but vain, proud, and arrogant as he is, he can only reason hypothetically, when he would treat of final causes and of final consequences.”
With reluctance we left this romantic situation; and, according to the directions of our conductress, soon found ourselves in the turnpike-road to Tan-y-bwlch, understanding that Mr. Warner’s route to Pen-street afforded indifferent walking. Stupendous mountains attended us some way; and, to borrow a description from a celebrated author, they “looked like the rude materials of creation, forming the barrier of unwrought space.” The sun was now making a “golden set:” the mountains were thrown together in noble masses, appearing to scale the heavens, to intercept its rays, and emulous to receive the parting tinge of lingering day. We were watching with admiration the mild splendour of its light, fading from the distant landscape, when we perceived the rich vale of Festiniog suddenly open itself to our view: we observed the busy group of haymakers, who had completed their day’s labour, returning to their homes:
“While heard from dale to dale,
Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice
Of happy labour, love, and social glee.”
Pleased with this rustic scene, we caught the cheerful song, which was wafted on the gentle breeze. With pleasure we anticipated a saunter through this vale, early the ensuing morning: for one tint of sober grey had now covered its various-coloured features, and the sun had now gleamed its last light upon the rivulet which winds through the bottom.
TAN-Y-BWLCH.
The “rich-hair’d youth of morn” had not long left his saffron bed, and the very air was balmy as it freshened into morn, when we hurried from our inn to enjoy the luxuries of the vale of Festiniog, so well celebrated by the pen of Lord Littleton: “With the woman one loves, with the friend of one’s heart, and a good study of books, one may pass an age there, and think it a day. If one has a mind to live long, and renew his youth, let him come and settle at Festiniog.” These are the sentiments of Lord Littleton, in which seemed to be verified the situation of Mr. Oakley, who has selected this spot for his residence. Tan-y-Bwlch hall (for by that name is Mr. Oakley’s seat dignified) is environed by a thick wood, which climbs the steep mountains behind his mansion. We followed the meandering and translucent waters of the river Dwyryd, till we arrived at the village of Maenwrog, situated about the middle of this paradise. Passing through the village we observed a small but neat cottage, which was rendered interesting to the wayfarer, by its neat simplicity. A large old-fashioned chimney-corner, with benches to receive a social party, formed a most enviable retreat from the rude storms of winter, and defied alike the weather and the world:—with what pleasure did I picture
gathering round a blazing pile of wood on the hearth, free from all the vicissitudes and cares of the world; happy in their own home, blessed in the sweet affection of kindred amity, regardless of the winter blast that struggled against the window, and the snow that pelted against the roof. On our entering, the wife, who possessed “the home of happiness, an honest breast,” invited us to take a seat under the window; which, overlooking the village, and the dark tower of the church, offered the delights of other seasons. The sweets of a little garden joined its fragrance to the honey-suckle, which enwreathed with rich drapery the windows; and here too lay the old family Bible, which had been put aside on our first entrance. We regretted our not having had an opportunity of seeing the husband, whom I make no doubt