Walking rapidly on towards the east, I soon drew near the termination of the valley. The valley terminates in a deep gorge, or pass, between Mount Eilio—which, by the bye, is part of the chine of Snowdon—and Pen Drws Coed. The latter, that couchant elephant with its head turned to the north-east, seems as if it wished to bar the pass with its trunk; by its trunk I mean a kind of jaggy ridge which descends down to the road. I entered the gorge, passing near a little waterfall which with much noise runs down the precipitous side of Mount Eilio—presently I came to a little mill by the side of a brook running towards the east. I asked the miller-woman, who was standing near the mill, with her head turned towards the setting sun, the name of the mill and the stream. “The mill is called the mill of the river of Lake Cwellyn,” said she, “and the river is called the river of Lake Cwellyn.”
“And who owns the land?” said I.
“Sir Richard,” said she. “I Sir Richard yw yn perthyn y tîr. Mr. Williams, however, possesses some part of Mount Eilio.”
“And who is Mr. Williams?” said I.
“Who is Mr. Williams?” said the miller’s wife. “Ho, ho! what a stranger you must be to ask me who is Mr. Williams.”
I smiled and passed on. The mill was below the level of the road, and its wheel was turned by the water of a little conduit supplied by the brook at some distance above the mill. I had observed similar conduits employed for similar purposes in Cornwall. A little below the mill was a weir, and a little below the weir the river ran frothing past the extreme end of the elephant’s snout. Following the course of the river, I at last emerged with it from the pass into a valley surrounded by enormous mountains. Extending along it from west to east, and occupying its entire southern part, lay an oblong piece of water, into which the streamlet of the pass discharged itself. This was one of the many beautiful lakes, which a few days before I had seen from the Wyddfa. As for the Wyddfa, I now beheld it high above me in the north-east, looking very grand indeed, shining like a silver helmet whilst catching the glories of the setting sun.
I proceeded slowly along the road, the lake below me on my right hand, whilst the shelvy side of Snowdon rose above me on the left. The evening was calm and still, and no noise came upon my ear save the sound of a cascade falling into the lake from a black mountain, which frowned above it on the south, and cast a gloomy shadow far over it.
This cataract was in the neighbourhood of a singular-looking rock, projecting above the lake from the mountain’s side. I wandered a considerable way without meeting or seeing a single human being. At last, when I had nearly gained the eastern end of the valley, I saw two men seated on the side of the hill, on the verge of the road, in the vicinity of a house which stood a little way up the hill. The lake here was much wider than I had hitherto seen it, for the huge mountain on the south had terminated, and the lake expanded considerably in that quarter, having instead of the black mountain a beautiful hill beyond it.
I quickened my steps, and soon came up to the two individuals. One was an elderly man, dressed in a smock frock, and with a hairy cap on his head. The other was much younger, wore a hat, and was dressed in a coarse suit of blue, nearly new, and doubtless his Sunday’s best. He was smoking a pipe. I greeted them in English, and sat down near them. They responded in the same language, the younger man with considerable civility and briskness, the other in a tone of voice denoting some reserve.
“May I ask the name of this lake?” said I, addressing myself to the young man, who sat between me and the elderly one.