This being agreed to, we crossed over to the Hand Inn, and gave directions for a breakfast, that would enable us to undergo the subsequent fatigue with cheerfulness; and then struck into the road for Plas Newydd. This memorable little dwelling is pleasantly situated upon a rising knoll, and commands a delightful prospect of mountain scenery.
The front of the cottage is ornamented with an oaken palisade, curiously carved with grotesque figures, giving a very tasty and aristocratic appearance to the building. At the back of the house is a neat grass plot, with a birdcote, where the robins find a grateful shelter in the winter season, and where the ladies fed them every morning. It is surrounded with a fence of evergreens. From thence, the gardener, who is still retained upon the grounds, conducted us under an archway, to a very pleasant and winding path, which leads to a well stocked fruit garden. We then descended by a shady walk, arched over with tall trees, to the primrose vale, through which a refreshing stream rushes over rocks, where the sun but rarely gilds it with its beams. It is a delightful cool retreat, and well calculated to awaken the dormant spirit of poesy, in any heart where it had ever deigned to dwell. We passed over a rustic bridge which led us to the veranda, from which we had a fine view of the valley of Cewynn and the Pegwerm mountains; and then proceeding a little farther up the glen, we seated ourselves opposite a most picturesque font, brought hither from the ruins of Valle Crucis, by the late proprietors of this spot. It is enclosed in a small arched niche, and supplied with the purest water from a murmuring rill, which falls in a thin stream into the bowl, a draught from which is an exquisite treat—for water drinkers.
LINES WRITTEN AT THE FONT.
Drink, gentle pilgrim, from the well,
Thus sacred in this hollow dell!
Drink deep!—yet ere the yearning lip
Touches the draught it longs to sip,
Pray for the souls of those who gave
This font that holds the limpid wave!—
This holy font, which lay o’erthrown
Mid Valle Crucis’ shadows brown,
And which the hands of holy men
Have blest, but ne’er can bless again!
Drink, happy pilgrim, drink and pray,
At morning dawn or twilight grey,—
Pray for the souls of those who gave
This font, that holds the limpid wave!
The flower garden is laid out with great taste; and the little circular dairy, sunk in the ground, on the left at the front entrance, affords a most pleasing and picturesque effect. Altogether, it is a place where any person, wearied with the bustle of society, would willingly fly for refuge, and find repose.
After rewarding the gardener for his attention in shewing us the retreat, we returned, with good appetites, to do justice to the fare provided by our host of the Hand. And here I was first destined to hear the sounds of the Welsh harp. As we discussed our fare, the harper in the hall played up his liveliest tunes. There was not an original Welsh air in the whole collection; for it consisted of all the popular songs that had been bawled about the streets of London for the last three years; and though probably new to the ears of the dwellers in this secluded valley, were to me anything but gratifying. I sent out the waiter, therefore, requesting the minstrel to play a few of his national melodies; when he immediately commenced an air, to which I have heard a song, I think of old Charles Dibdin’s, called “The Tortoise-shell Tom Cat.” After a second attempt, I gave the thing up as hopeless, and was obliged to content myself with the anticipation of hearing some Welsh airs when I returned to London, as they seemed to be exiled from their native valleys.
Breakfast being despatched, we slung our pistols, i.e. leathern bottles, filled with eau de vie, to our sides, and started to view the ruins of Dinas Bran, an ancient fortress, upon the summit of a conical mountain, which forms the principal feature of this portion of the vale, and is indeed a striking object, from almost every part of the neighbourhood. The ascent begins near the foot of the bridge opposite to the town.
As we passed along the street, we perceived the following notice pasted upon the gable of a house:
“The Annual Festival of the Llangollen and Llandysilio Female Club will be held, as usual, at the Hand Inn gardens, on Tuesday, 27th of June. The members will walk in procession to church, exactly at three o’clock, &c., &c.”