M. de St Priest’s third volume brings Charles to the zenith of his fortunes. Invested for life with the high dignity of sole Roman senator, he had the full support and hearty alliance of Martin IV.—a French pope, whose election had been compelled from the conclave by the intimidation of the sword. It was the first time since Charles had entered Italy that the pontifical chair had been occupied by a man on whose docility he could entirely reckon. Papal mistrust and jealousy had been the bane of many of his projects. All apprehensions from that quarter were now removed, and, strong in this holy alliance, he again prepared for his eastern expedition. All was ready; at the head of five thousand men, without counting infantry, and of a hundred and thirty ships, he had only to give the order to steer for the Bosphorus. But in Sicily, the storm, long brewing, was on the eve of bursting forth; and the powerful armament intended for distant conquest, was found insufficient to retain present possessions. The decline of Charles’s life was also that of his power: his last days were days of heaviness, disaster, and grief.
TRAVELLING IN TAFFYLAND.
People wander into Wales principally in search of health and amusement; a few for business; many without any purpose whatever, except the desire of changing place and doing something. Any one who finds himself in either of these classes need not fear being disappointed in the results of his visit; for there is motion and change enough throughout the country; sufficient business to make it worth the while of those who know how to buy and sell; amusement for all who are worth amusing, and health enough for all the world. Let no man, however, deceive himself with the vain expectation that he shall have no ups and downs in his pilgrimage through the country; let no one suppose that it is perpetual sunshine there; nor let any one fondly think that, because he does himself the honour of whipping a stream with fly and line, therefore, at every throw a sixpound trout is sure to swallow his bait. Far otherwise. The tourist in Wales must not be a man of many expectations, and then he will not be disappointed; he must be content to go many a weary mile to see some choice bit of scenery, and then to come as many or more miles home again; he must make up his mind to have plenty of rain, wind and cold, in the hottest day in summer; and he may cast his fly all the way up from Conwy to Penmachno without having “one single glorious rise.” In fact, he must be a patient reasonable man, and then he may adventure himself in Taffyland without fear.
But if he is an acute observer of nature—if he loves to see the wildest forms that mountains, and streams, and lakes can assume—if he likes to make himself a denizen of the clouds, and to hold converse with the children of the mist—if he can appreciate primitive national manners—if he has ever so small a smattering of English history—if he can listen to simple, plaintive music, and can be content to see birds, beasts, and fishes all enjoying themselves in their original freedom, then let him hasten to the mountain side, wander up the valley, stroll along the river, or dream away his day by the shingle bank on the sea shore; he will never repent of a visit to Wales.
The old road from Chester to Holyhead has been, and now is more than ever, the main line of entry for Saxons and other foreigners into the Cimbric land; but there are others quite as good. From Salop to Bangor by Telford’s Parliamentary road, through some of the finest scenery the country affords; or from Wrexham by Llangollen’s Vale and Bala’s Lake, athwart the land to Dolgelly; or from Aberystwyth, creeping along the sea-coast by Barmouth and Tremadoc to Caernarvon; or from Liverpool by the fast-going steamers close under Orme’s Head to the Menai Bridge; any of these ways is good. The main thing is once to get the foot fairly planted on Welsh soil; the natural attractions of the country will be sure to lead the traveller onward, and can scarcely lead him amiss.
Let no one come into Wales with a superfluity of luggage; the lighter the impediments of travelling, the quicker and the cheaper is that travelling performed. Let no one, unless absolutely forced to it, pretend to travel alone; solitude is sweet no doubt, but Montaigne remarks that it is still sweeter if there be somebody to whisper this to; add to which that society enlivens the journey, and, as the Scotch song has it,
“Company is aye the best, crossing owre the heather.”
Seeing too that conveyances are not so plentiful in the principality as they might be; and that a car or chaise costs no more for four than it does for one; let all those who are wise in their designs of Welsh travel come by pairs, or double couples. Four is an excellent number for a travelling party, since in case of dispute the votes are either even, or are three to one; four make up a parti carré at dinner; four balance a car well; four can split into two parties if need be; and four coming together to an inn are sure to fare much better than one solitary traveller.
Don’t go to Wales in July, the wettest and windiest month of the twelve that the principality has the honour of knowing. May is a sweet month; the colours of the woods and mountains gay and delicate, with little rain, and generally as much sun as is wanted. In June, every thing is in full perfection, and there are long days to boot, and you may then remain out under a rock all night without damage. August corresponds to June, but the days are shorter, and the company to be met with is commonly more select. September is generally the equivalent of May, but the colours are glowing with the rich tints of autumn; and though the days are still shorter, yet the sights to be seen in them will make up for this falling off. No person goes among the mountains in winter, except those who cannot help it; yet this is not their least advantageous period for being witnessed; and those who can brave frost and snow, and the unchained force of all the winds of heaven, will be repaid for the labours and discomforts of such a visit.
For those who are fond of the rod, the gun, and the chase, North Wales is a land of choice. Whether they bob for whales in Bardsey Sound, or hunt up the brooks and prattling streams of Merionethshire, or seek the banks of many a glassy mountain pool, they will find enough to repay them for their trouble. The shooter will find, from the grouse of Montgomeryshire and Caernarvonshire to the partridges and the snipes of Anglesey, abundant occupation for his gun. And the huntsman, though he cannot gallop over Caddir-Idris, will find many a wily fox more than a match for him and all his dogs, among the desolate cairns of the mountain tops, or may find hares as big as sheep, and fleet enough to try the mettle of the best horse he will dare to ride after them.