The old town of Llantrissent appeared within a small distance of us, long before we arrived at it: for, perched upon the summit of a high hill of remarkable steepness, it was only by a circuitous road, then of sufficiently fatiguing ascent, that it could be approached. This place, comprised nearly in one narrow irregular street, and made up of poor Gothic habitations, has so little of modern appearance engrafted on it, that it may be interesting as a specimen of ancient times, but scarcely in any other respect. The castle is nearly all destroyed; the fragment of a lofty round tower, and the vestiges of its outworks, nearly concealed by tangled shrubs, being all the remains of it. The church is a large Norman edifice, and from the cemetery a wonderful prospect is obtained of the surrounding country: although a hazy state of the atmosphere denied us the whole of its extent, enough remained to assure us that it must be considerable.
Pont-y-pridd, or New Bridge, was our next destination. My companion went forward to secure accommodation at the Bridgewater Arms, a comfortable inn about half a mile beyond it, while I was engaged in sketching some subjects about Llantrissent; at which task I incautiously protracted my stay
—“until the approach of night,
The skies warm blushing with departing light
When falling dews with spangles deck’d the glade,
And the low sun had lengthen’d ev’ry shade.”
As I proceeded from Llantrissent, cultivation diminished; and from that fertile and populous district, bordering the Severn, I found myself entering upon the unfrequented wilds of the interior country. It soon became so dark, that I could but just distinguish the broken road that I was travelling; which, although a Welch turnpike, a modern farmer in England would be ashamed to own for his cartway. Not a human face or habitation presented itself, nor any relief from silence, except the uncheering note of the screech owl. At length, however, the distant murmur of a waterfall saluted me; which, growing louder as I advanced, presently accumulated to a hoarse roar; and, by the direction of the sound, it appeared that I was travelling on a precipice above the torrent. A plentiful shower falling at this instant did not add to the comforts of my situation; and I found by the motion of the horse, that I was on a steep descent; while his frequent slides and stumbles proved that he was on very rugged ground, and probably out of any track. In this dilemma imagination, ever active in magnifying concealed danger, pictured my situation as tottering on the brink of some such chasm as that of the Devil’s bridge. Here I might have exclaimed with Ossian’s Colma: “It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the Mountains; the torrent shrieks down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds.” But to remain under such apprehensions were worse than to encounter danger, and I slowly moved on in almost total darkness; until, making a sudden turn, I beheld the tops of the neighbouring hills illumined in a strange manner. In a few moments a gleam of light, transmitted by reflection through an opening in some trees, shone on my track, and discovered a dark huge figure standing at my horse’s head. I was scarcely collected from my surprize when my bridle was forcibly arrested, and a loud but unintelligible voice seemed to demand that I should stop. Already was I conceiving how to repel the attack, when the man, observing that I did not understand Welch, civilly accosted me in imperfect English, and assured me that I was on the edge of a precipice. Nor did he leave me with this service, but kindly led my horse to the little village of Pont-y-pridd, then within a short distance. Here, while regaling over a mug of ale, my conductor accounted for the light that surprized me: it proceeded from an immense bonfire of a party of colliers in some distant mountains, rejoicing at the blessing of peace. At this place I determined to fix my quarters; nor could the offer of a guide and lanthorn, to conduct me to the superior accommodation of the Bridgewater arms, induce me to tempt again the dangers of the night, or quit the coarse barley bread, salt butter, and miserable beer of the village alehouse.
Early in the morning my companion rejoined me, when we visited Pont-y-pridd, the celebrated bridge of Glamorganshire. This extraordinary piece of masonry consists of a single arch, whose chord is 147 feet, thrown across the Taffe. William Edward, an ingenious mason of this country, who built it, failed in two preceding attempts, which would have proved his ruin; but the gentry in the neighbourhood laudably supported ported his ingenuity, although at first unsuccessfully exerted, and enabled him to complete the present structure. The great beauty of this arch arises from the simplicity of its construction, and indeed from its very defect as a roadway; for the passage over the bridge is not sloped away into the adjoining roads, as it might be; but precipitately descends on each side, following the line of the arch. This circumstance, and its being defended with only a very low parapet, gives the bridge a remarkably light appearance. Situated in a romantic hollow, and abruptly jetting from the bold woody banks of the river, it looks a magic bow thrown across by the hands of fairies.
Two waterfalls in this neighbourhood deserve notice. One occurs about half a mile above the bridge. We proceeded to it through a delightful sylvan path on the bank of the river, and under the beetling brow of Craig-er-esk. The river is seen for a considerable distance struggling through a region of rocks, which in some places rise in large masses above its surface, and in others appear through the transparency of the stream shelving to a considerable depth; wearing throughout the odd appearance of a vast assemblage of cubes, variously heaped, but with one face constantly horizontal: at length the river breaks over a compact strata; yet only in a fall of eight or ten feet, which is divided into several streams. The white foam of the river, and the light grey tint of the rocks, afford a strong contrast to the mixed verdure and dark shadows of its banks; but upon the whole the subject is rather to be noticed for its singularity than for any leading points of picturesque beauty. More agreeably composed appeared to us the other cascade of the tributary river Rhayder, about two miles distant from the bridge. The dark rocks that occasion the fall; the surrounding craigs; the light and pendant foliage that adorns them, and the vigorous trees that emerge from the banks, are all disposed with the utmost symmetry, and form a highly-pleasing picture, though of inconsiderable dimensions.
CHAP. XII.
SCENERY OF THE TAFFE—STUPENDOUS RUINS OF CAERPHILLY CASTLE—THE LEANING TOWER—FINE VIEW FROM THORNHILL—CARDIFF CASTLE—ECCLESIASTICAL DECAY OF LANDAFF—THE CATHEDRAL.
From Pont-y-pridd we made another excursion toward Merthyr-tidvill; less to witness the lately-acquired importance of the town in consequence of the great iron-works established in its neighbourhood, than to trace the beauties of the Taffe through its romantic valley. At one time, a towering hill completely mantled with wood lifted its shaggy summit to the clouds; in succession, naked rocks perpendicularly descended to the water; or, through favoured hollows, a stripe of green meadow would gently slope and mix its verdure with the stream. As we advanced, the narrow valley still further contracted, and the river, confined by the approaching bases of the mountains, assumed the character of a torrent. Our road continued on one margin of the river, and a canal, singularly abounding with locks, kept pace with us on the other; to the Cyclopean region of Merthyr-tidvill. [173] We did not enter the town, but re-measured our steps to Pont-y-pridd; and about four miles below it bade adieu to the romantic course of the Taffe, in deviating up a steep confine of its valley towards the town and castle of Caerphilly.
