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The next day's expedition must be more briefly narrated. Somewhat tired by the mountain climbing, we were content with a quiet walk up Nant Gwynant, descending by the eastern half of the Pass of Llanberis to Cape! Curig, and thence, beside the river Lugwy, to Bettws-y-Coed. Two lakes, passed soon after leaving Beddgelert, are of the most exquisite beauty, and the views of Snowdon, opened up a little beyond them, are of splendour unsurpassed.
Reaching Pen-y-gwryd a little below the head of the Llanberis Pass, we pursued a route of a totally different character to Capel Curig. For the luxuriant beauty of Nant Gwynant we had now the sublimity of bare rock and crag; but there was something, we must suppose, uncongenial with our mood in the bleakness of the scene; at any rate, this part of the pass disappointed us. We have since found that the true grandeur of the defile is in the other, or western part, between Pen-y-gwryd and Llanberis. The rest at Capel Curig was specially welcome, and thence there was no want of interest in the route, on the bank of the romantic Lugwy. The Swallow waterfall must by all means be visited, repelled as is the true lover of nature by all those little arrangements that make the place a show—the urchin who points out the locked gate, for fear it should be missed, the keen-eyed dame with the keys, the guide to the torrent s brink, apparently solicitous lest any visitor should discover for himself the chief points of view, the miscellaneous guard of children, with a general expectancy of coppers.
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All this we did not like; and yet nothing could well be finer than the plunge of the river, with roar and foam, over the vast mass of rocks, slanting in rugged, picturesque confusion from the summit to the foot of the fall, and breaking the stream in its descent into numberless cascades and tiny rapids. The picture is one of marvellous diversity, and when the river is swollen by rain the rush and roar are tremendous.
Our day's journey was nearly over, and another hours walk, or a little mure, brought us to that "paradise of painters," the Royal Oak at Bettws y-Coed. Happily there was room for us, though the inn seemed crowded by artists—many of them men of world-wide reputation—who come again and again to this fair valley, always to find something new in form or colour, light or shade. The next day was spent in rambling about the neighbourhood; and almost everywhere we found artists at work with easel and umbrella. Pont-y-pair was to us as an old friend, so often had we seen its semblance in exhibition-rooms and books of "landscape scenery." Few subjects, indeed, could be more adapted to the painter.