R. RICE DAVIES.
Swansea, July, 1875.
CONTENTS.
| PAGE | |
| Ascent of Snowdon | [3] |
| A Story of Dunraven Castle in the Olden Times | [21] |
| Parson Jones | [79] |
| Cadwgan Wynn | [121] |
| Traditions of Llyn Savathan | [227] |
| Treffynon; or, Legends of Saint Winifred | [243] |
| The Visit of Elidorus to the Fairy Kingdom beneath the Bay | [269] |
| Cefn-y-Bedd | [319] |
ASCENT OF SNOWDON.
“How high and swift flits the thin rack along,
Skirted with rainbow dyes; now deep below—
While the fierce sun strikes the illumined top,
Slow sails the gloomy storm, and all beneath,
By vaporous exhalation hid, is lost
In darkness: save at once where drifted mists,
Cut by strong gusts of eddying winds, expose
The transitory scene.
Now swift on either side the gathered clouds,
As by a sudden touch of magic, wide
Recede, and the fair face of heaven and earth
Appears. Amid the vast horizon’s stretch,
In restless gaze the eye of wonder darts
O’er the expanse,—mountains on mountains piled,
And winding bays and promontories huge,
And lakes and wandering rivers from their source
Traced to the distant ocean.”Bingley’s Tour.
It was a bright and glorious August morning, in the year 18—, when, having a few weeks’ freedom from the busy toils of official labour, I resolved to have an “out,” as they call it in the north of England, where I then resided—a brief tour of pleasure. Never in these northern latitudes had I witnessed a more lovely morning. The sun shone brightly, and with a dazzling splendour only surpassed by the gorgeous brilliancy of an Eastern clime. When we looked upwards, not a cloud could be seen in the concave hemisphere above. Far, far away, the most distant objects could be plainly and distinctly seen. In the forest not a spray moved, nor was there a sweet kiss of the leaves on that breezeless morn. Neither on river nor lake could there be discerned a single ripple. Everywhere, except in the adjacent grove, did quietude and stillness reign. There, however, the birds sent forth their merry and joyous notes, and the tone of their voices, and the songs they sung, told of joys, and proclaimed the existence of happy feelings, which but few among the sons of men are permitted to realize. Oh, how calm and how still was the scene around! Indeed, all nature, except the winged songsters of the grove, appeared to repose quietly and peacefully on the bosom of its God.
A grand morning this, said I, for starting on an “out;” but the pressing question was, whither should I go. During my brief preparation, I fancied I heard the voice of the eagle, and the voice said, “Come to me. Come and behold the high mountain whereon I dwell, and the great rocks in which I build my nest. Come and see, from my high elevation and Alpine heights, the magnificent lochs whose waters spread far and wide in the broad and expansive valleys. Oh, come, and behold the land of the brave and heroic Wallace.”
A moment before deciding whether or not I should accept the invitation of the king of birds, there was wafted on the gentle breeze that had just sprung up, the voice of a little bird which inhabits the far west; and the little bird said, “Come and visit the land in which I dwell. In this land you will behold some of the greatest wonders of the world. Were you to visit the North or the South, the East or the West, the sunny fountains of Africa, the coral strands of India, or the icy regions of the frigid zone, yet in no part of the wide world could you discover objects so grand and majestic as our Giant’s Causeway; while Killarney is unrivalled for sublime and beautiful scenery.” Well, little bird, said I, I love your nation; your people have warm hearts and generous sympathies. Just, however, as I was about saying “aye” to the invitation of the little bird of the Green Isle, there came from the south—o’er moorland valley, o’er mighty rivers and hills, o’er cities, towns, and villages, the charming and enchanting voice of the lark, and its tones were so winning and so sweet, that I was almost moved to shed tears of joy. But what was the purport of her song? The burden of her song was Cambria! the beautiful and the blest; the land of Poetry and the Ideal. “Come,” carolled the lark, “and behold some of the beauties of Wild Wales. In no land are glades so verdant, are rocks so rugged and bold, are cwms and dells so exquisitely beautiful and lovely as are to be seen here. Nowhere but here can you behold hill after hill, and mountain after mountain, rise above each other, presenting a picture so awfully wild, so grand, and so majestically sublime. Besides,” said the lark, “this is your own land. It is the place of your birth. It is the home of your father’s sepulchre. Oh! come here, for here are generous hearts, ready to bid you welcome. In the border land is many an old friend who will rejoice and kill the fatted calf when he sees you approach his dwelling.” I could no longer resist the irresistible voice, and replied to her, Oh, sweet songster of the moorland, thither will I go, and to-morrow I will listen to your heavenly strains among your own hills.
I need not describe the journey from the North to Conway, as it is familiar to most travellers. Nor shall I refer to the beautiful Menai, or the magnificent ruins and historic renown of the good old town of Carnarvon. Nor shall I refer, with a view to depict the scene, to many other deeply-interesting spots, some of which I could not but gaze upon with feelings of profound reverence, the rather as they told the tales of other times, which rolled before me with their deeds. As I looked upon and contemplated these scenes, I was deeply affected, while my vision was dimmed by the tears that welled up from my heart. Moreover, as I still gazed upon the historic fields of blood and battle, I thought I saw the shadow of my country’s martyrs and heroes passing before my eyes—the shadows of the great and heroic men who, strong in the righteousness of their cause, fought for the liberty of our brave, courageous, and lion-hearted ancestors, and for the independence and the freedom of the land of my love and my sympathies. Since the days of that long and sanguinary struggle, time and the disposition of men and nations have immeasurably changed for the better. Happily for us, we have now a ruler who loves her subjects, whose sway is the very opposite of that despotic tyrant’s rule, who loved to imbrue his hands in the blood of contemporary princes. Edward, however, has gone to his place. Oh that his memory and his deeds of blood had perished with him! As I looked upon the scene around Conway, and viewed it in relation to and in connection with the dark deeds of Edward, the following lines of the poet Gray came to my remembrance:—