Mountain; from which, and from the opposite mountain, huge blocks of stone have fallen, and lie scattered over the valley; a stern and desolate scene, rendered, if possible, more so, from the presence of two or three wretched cottages which, far apart, spot the boggy level. This leads to Llyn Ogwen-which, as we shall return to it presently, we may pass unnoticed now. compare The Ogwen river, which issues from Llyn Ogwen, flows through a short but close and savage gorge, called the Pass of Benglog, and then precipitates itself over a lofty wall of broken rocks, forming the famous Falls of Benglog-the object of our journey. The entire height is said to be, and no doubt is, above a hundred feet; but it is broken up into a number of separate falls. Nothing hardly can exceed the severe rugged character of the scene. On either hand are the grim black slate rocks, and along the bed of the stream are huge detached fragments of a similar kind: in front tower the lofty sides of the Pass, while the shattered Trevaen fills up the opening, lifting its dark bare peaks to the clouds. Not a tree, hardly a shrub, is within ken: all is barren, naked, shattered rock. Were there a sufficient body of water to unite the separate falls into one mighty cataract, Benglog might most fearlessly with any waterfall in the kingdom for a savage grandeur approaching to sublimity. As it is, the Fall appears almost insignificant from the magnitude of its accompaniments. A waterfall around which plays rich and graceful foliage, while the bright wild flowers start from every crevice of the rocky sides, and cluster on the margin of the channel below, may be lovelier and more pleasing when only a comparatively small stream is leaping lightly from ledge to ledge, and all the surrounding beauty is reflected in the deep and lustrous pool, into which the pellucid water gently falls, than when, swollen by storms, the broader bed is filled by a discoloured and almost unbroken flood: but one where all around is naked rock, and all the permanent forms are on a scale of vastness and grandeur, requires that the water shall be of correspondent greatness and force, or a feeling of incompleteness is inevitably experienced. Hence it is, that while Benglog never fails to produce a powerful impression, it is yet unsatisfactory and disappointing-at least in ordinary seasons: we can easily imagine that, during or immediately after a great storm, or on the melting of the snows, it must be, with the surrounding objects, a magnificent scene. The valley into which the Ogwen flows from Benglog is the celebrated Nant-Francon--the Hollow of Beavers. The scenery along it is very striking. On both sides rise to a great height bare and precipitous crags; in the hollow lies a strip of marshy meadow of brightest verdure, with the stream winding quietly through the midst. As you descend towards Bangor the vale becomes gradually tamer; but upwards it increases in boldness and majesty at every step, as the Pass of Benglog, with the Glydyr and Trevaen Mountains beyond, rise into importance, and at length seem to close in the head of the valley. When Pennant wrote, the road through Nant-Francon was scarcely practi cable, while the Pass of Benglog was the most dread ful horse-path in Wales;" now the great Holyhead road runs through it, and the way is as level as along almost any of the roads out of London: to the loss, unquestionably, of much of the ancient grandeur. Llyn Ogwen, though not one of the largest, is one of the very finest lakes in Wales. It is encompassed with mountains of bold form and noble proportions, which rise abruptly from its shadowy surface. Like the scenes we have just left, all is barren, desolate, savage grandeur. Not a tree waves on either bank : only here and there a scanty herbage obtains lodgment on the sides of the mountains. The occasional movement of a boat, in which a busy angler is plying his craft, almost alone breaks the perfect quiet, without, however, disturbing the repose of the scene. (Cut, No. 13.) This Llyn Ogwen we ought, perhaps, to mention in passing, is famous for a trout of small size, but delicious flavour, which is taken in it in large quantities. The tourist may partake of some of them (or of others as good) at Capel Curig; and we suppose it is hardly needful to remind him that it is "matter of breviary," as Friar John des Entommeures would say, to order a dish of lake trout when they can be transferred direct from the lake to the pan-that is, of course, if he esteem such a dish a dainty. But to come back to the lakes. A mile or so from Llyn Ogwen, up the Glydyr mountains, there is a smaller lake, Llyn Idwal, which, except in magnitude, is of even nobler character. Of its size, Llyn Idwal is probably without a rival. It lies in a deep gloomy hollow; bare rocks rise precipitously from it, and darken by their heavy shadows and sombre reflections its calm and quiet surface into intensest blackness. On one side the vast rock is split, as though cleft by a giant's blow it bears the name of the 'Black Chasm' Twll ddu. There is something almost awful in the stillness, the solitude, and the gloom. The native tradition that the lake received its name from a youthful prince of Wales, who was murdered here by his fosterfather, seems but appropriate to the place. These lesser mountain lakes are an important and characteristic feature of Snowdonia, which the tourist who can wander at leisure over the district ought not to neglect. To notice all of them, if desirable, which it is not, would be quite impossible; for there are in the district some fifty, of various sizes. But a few general remarks may not be out of place. In Wales all the lakes and pools, of whatever size, or wherever situated, are called llyns; but it would be as well if, as in Cumberland, the small mountain lakes bore a different title: there they are called tarns. They are too much neglected by the mountain rambler, these mountain llyns. Happy would it be if the young tourist would learn to draw from such objects the enjoyment and the poetry they are capable of inspiring. In Wordsworth's 'Scenery of the Lakes,' there is a passage descriptive of the Cumberland tarns, so beautiful in itself, and with the change of that one word so exactly applicable to the Welsh mountain llyns, that we are tempted to extract it, instead of enlarging on the subject in our own feeble phraseology: admirably will it instruct the tourist who has not been used to regard steadily and thoughtfully, the various classes of natural objects, how much of beauty and poetry there is in every piece of Nature's handiwork, if contemplated in the light of a trustful imagination. He says:-"The mountain tarns can only be recommended to the notice of the inquisitive traveller who has time to spare. They are difficult of access and naked; yet some of them are, in their permanent forms, very grand; and there are accidents of things which would make the meanest of them interesting. At all events, one of these pools is an acceptable sight to the mountain wanderer; not merely as an incident that diversifies the prospect, but as forming in his mind a centre or conspicuous point to which objects, otherwise disconnected or insubordinate, may be referred. Some few have a varied outline, with bold heath-clad promontories; and, as they mostly lie at the foot of a steep precipice, the water, where the sun is not shining upon it, appears black and sullen; and, round the margin, huge stones and masses of rock are scattered; some defying conjecture as to the means by which they came thither; and others obviously fallen from on highthe contribution of ages! A not unpleasing sadness is induced by this perplexity and these images of decay; while the prospect of a body of pure water, unattended with groves and other cheerful rural images by which fresh water is usually accompanied, and unable to give furtherance to the meagre vegetation around it, excites a sense of some repulsive power strongly put forth, and thus deepens the melancholy natural to such scenes. Nor is the feeling of solitude often more forcibly or more solemnly impressed than by the side of one of these mountain pools: though desolate and forbidding, it seems a distinct place to repair to; yet where the visitants must be rare, and there can be no disturbance. Waterfowl flock hither; and the lonely angler may here be seen; but the imagination, not content with this scanty allowance of society, is tempted to attribute a voluntary power to every change which takes place in such a spot, whether it be the breeze that wanders over the surface of the water, or the splendid lights of evening resting upon it in the midst of awful precipices. There, sometimes does a leaping fish Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud, without staying to bestow on any thing or place more than a passing and cursory glance. On leaving Capel Curig you proceed along Nant-yGwryd, and by the Llyniu Mymbyr-a vale of whose beauties we have already spoken. When Gorfwysfa is reached, the tourist will not do amiss to make it, for a few moments, his resting-place;' for that is the meaning of the name of the eminence. From it there is a fine peep into the Pass of Llanberris. Onwards is the Nant-y-Gwynant,-a vale that lies quiet and peacefully under the shadow of the mighty Snowdon : a pleasant vale as a man might desire to wander about at leisure, and penetrate at will into its recesses. Up high on this side it is that the grim black Cwm Dyli lies--one of the deepest cwms on old Snowdonnursing in its ample bosom Llyn Llydaw, the largest and finest of the giant's tarns. The huge mountain, with its dark red precipices, is a noble object as seen from many parts of this vale. The stream that comes down from Llyn Llydaw forms a cataract in its descent, then flows along the bottom of Nant-y-Gwynant, and presently expands into one of the very loveliest little lakes in Wales. Llyn Gwynant is not above a mile in length, and about a quarter of a mile broad, but is of the richest character. The mountains around are of fine and pleasing form; the banks of the llyn are gently varied and clad in many places with luxuriant foliage; the water is clear and silvery; the whole aspect is one of soft, graceful, and placid beauty. Just below the fine woods of Plas Gwynant is another lake, Llyn-yDinas, also very beautiful, but not equal to Gwynant. By the river-side, along here, there are many admirable passages of river scenery, with the vast mass of Snowdon rising up as a noble background. On the right, a short distance below Llyn Dinas, will be seen a rocky eminence: this is Dinas Emrys, and is affirmed to be the spot whereon Vortigern attempted to erect a tower, and met with such strange hindrances, and where he was sitting when the two dragons, white and red, came out of the lake and fought before the British king till the red dragon was beaten and forced to take to flight. Then the king, being troubled at what he saw, called unto Merlin, son of the Devil, and commanded him to declare what these things portended; and Merlin, seeing in this combat foreshadowed the misfortunes that were about to befall his country-for though his father was a demon, his mother was a very worthy Welsh princess-lifted up his voice and wept, and made haste to tell the king all those things which are written in the book of the prophecies of Merlin, as contained in the Chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth. The first view of Beddgelert, as you approach the village on this side, is certainly very picturesque. Before you is the clear shallow river, spanned by the rude old ivy-clad bridge, with a tall clump of dusky trees beyond, and the bulky form of Moel Hebog rising high above all, its summit partaking of an aërial hue, while the lower slopes are black and strongly defined against the bright south-western sky. By the bridge are the irregular unpretending houses of the villagers; and if it be morning or evening, most likely there will be seen down by the water-side a group of old village wives and young children, come there to fetch water, or to dabble their clothes in the clear stream, and to exchange some village scandal. (Cut, No. 14.) But Beddgelert hardly maintains its promise; in itself it is neither picturesque nor beautiful: yet as it has an hotel of general popularity among Welsh tourists, and there is a great deal both of picturesque and beautiful scenery in the vicinity, it is not at all surprising that it is a general halting-place. Here was once a residence of the famous Llewellyn the Great; and it received its name—if song and story may be trusted-from the circumstance in his history which painters, and poets, and story-tellers, have so much delighted to commemorate. The reader will doubtless recollect the tale. The prince, returning one day from hunting, was met at the door of his house by Gelert, his favourite hound, smeared over with blood. On entering, he saw his child's cradle overturned and empty, with blood upon it and about the room. Supposing the dog had destroyed his son, he drew his sword and slew him. Hardly had he done so, when he heard the child's voice, and then discovered that the faithful hound had really killed a wolf which had attempted to seize the child. The prince erected a church upon the spot where he killed his dog, and raised a tomb over the creature's remains. The village which grew up around the church in time received the name of Bedd-Gelert- the grave of Gelert; and so perpetuated the memory of the faithfulness of the animal and of the rashness and remorse of the prince. In a field behind the village the grave is still pointed out a couple of stones mark the spot, which a few trees overshadow; a path leads to it from the 'Goat' Inn. In the village itself, it has been said, there is little to be found. Once there was a considerable monastery there; but no vestiges of it are left. Near the inn is a small waterfall. A day may be agreeably spent in a ramble to Nantle Pools and Carnarvon Bay. You take the Carnarvon road, along which are some good views, though the scenery generally is not remarkably interesting. About three miles up this road, near the rock which is called Pitt's Profile, from a fancied resemblance it bears to that great statesman, is the place whence the ascent of Snowdon from Beddgelert is generally made: we should prefer that on the other side of the village, near Llyn Gwynant. Somewhat farther, on the left of the road, will be noticed a small circular lake, Llyn-yGader, and soon afterwards the bye-road which leads over to Nantle Pools. But it is certainly worth while to proceed a mile farther to Llyn Llewellyn, a fine lake, somewhat above a mile in length, and encompassed with wild craggy mountains. Some way farther is Nant Mill, where is a singularly picturesque waterfall; and still farther, about four miles from Carnarvon, is Bettws Garmon, whence may be found a road over to the coast, or by the low mountains to the Pools. The more picturesque route, however, is unquestionably that before-mentioned. Here, on the western side of Drws-y-Coed Mountain, will be observed a small tarn, called Llyn-yDywarchen, in which we have been told there is a buoyant mossy islet, that occasionally rises to the surface: this has been thought to be the floating island Giraldus speaks of; which is quite possible, as there is frequently some foundation for popular stories; and the stories of Giraldus were mostly gathered from the natives. The Nantle Pools are three or four miles further, by a mountain road. The Nantle Valley is close and narrow, yet a good deal varied in character, and in places affords some remarkably fine views. It is comparatively little visited; but, to the pedestrian at any rate, it affords much more interesting and characteristic scenery than many of the more popular and beaten tracks. The swelling mountain sides are bold, and often grand. Nantle Pools, as they are usually termed by Englishmen, but which the Welsh call the Llyniau Nant-y-llef, are only separated by a narrow slip of land, through which the connecting streamlet flows. Seen together, and in connection with the surrounding scenery, they are very beautiful. The finest view of them is from the lower end, where Snowdon is seen rising in all his majesty in the distance. In some respects this is without an equal among the Welsh llyn scenery. Wilson is always said to have painted his view of Snowdon from this spot; but if the painting belonging to Sir R. W. Vaughan be meant, we confess to having fancied, when looking at it, that it must have been from the other side of the mountain-from the Llyniau Mymbyr, at the back of Capel Curig. Be that as it may, this is a very fine view, and the whole neighbourhood abounds in fine views. Here, too, are extensive slate-quarries; and the blasting of the rocks causes some fine reverberations among the mountains and over the lakes. About the mountains are two or three copper-mines. There is a considerable population in this wild, sequestered valley, consisting almost entirely of miners and quarrymen, and those connected with them. This, and the return by a somewhat different route, will perhaps be quite enough for a day's stroll, especially if the road be occasionally quitted, as it will be, of course, by any one used to mountain walks. This side of Carnarvon Bay may be very well visited from Carnarvon. But it should be visited. It is best seen from the water. Delightful is the sail in Carnarvon Bay and some distance out to sea. The semicircular bay would be considered, in itself, very beautiful; but with the magnificent amphitheatre of mountains, including the Rivals (Yr-Eiff) and the Snowdon range, it is without rival in this country for picturesqueness. During the summer, excursions are occasionally made from Carnarvon in steam-vessels to the end of the promontory: allowing the passengers to land, and remain for awhile ashore on Bardsey Island-the island famous for its ancient monastery and fabulous population of saints. Ten, or, as some say, twenty thousand saints were buried in it. The coast-scenery is, in parts, very striking. The same might be said of the coast of the noble Cardigan Bay, on the other side of the promontory, but it must remain unnoticed here. FFESTINIOG. It is hardly needful to point out other walks around Beddgelert: we will renew our journey. About a mile from the village commences the famous Pass of Aberglaslyn. It is a narrow gorge between lofty precipitous rocks. The cliffs of bare purple rock rise to an immense height-some five or six hundred feet-on either hand; a rapid stream runs along the bottom in a channel full of scattered blocks of stone which have fallen from the heights above. The winding of the Pass precludes a distant prospect, and adds to the savage character of the scene. As the evening draws on, and the deep hollow lies in the heavy shadow, while the highest portions of the rocky wall are illumined by the declining sun, the appearance is exceedingly grand. But it is still more grand-in truth, magnificent-if seen by the light of a full autumnal With At the end of the Pass is Pont Aberglaslyn, a bridge which spans the stream where it breaks finely down the sloping rocky channel. The banks are high rocks, of most picturesque character, and richly varied with trees and shrubs which find lodgment in the crevices. It is a charming scene: the more so from its contrast with the grim bare Pass just quitted, whose rugged crags, indeed, form a striking feature in this picture. The lover of river scenery will do well to scramble down the bank, and make his way for a little distance along the bed of the river. (Cut, No. 15.) The appearance of the scene varies a good deal according to the quantity of water in the river; when "roaring in spate" it is a furious torrent; but commonly it is a gladsome, changeful, transparent streamlet. anglers it is a favourite for both trout and salmon. The mail-coach road leads to Tremadoc, a modern town, built by W. A. Madocks, Esq., whence its name, which is equivalent to Madocks' Town. Mr. Madocks carried the great embankment across Traeth Mawr, and recovered about seven thousand acres of land from the sea the embankment was only partially successful, as the sea soon found a way through it, and the land remains marshy, but a good part of it is cultivated. Before the embankment, when the sea covered Traeth Mawr, it is said that the view up it was of surpassing splendour. Traeth Mawr at full tide presented the appearance of a great lake, some five or six miles long and a mile across; on each side were precipitous mountains, and the head of the lake was encompassed by a magnificent array of mountains, rising tier above tier, and crowned by the lofty Snowdon. If in the kingdom it had a rival, it must have been sought for in Scotland. The mountains of course remain; but in place of the blue water is a sickly-looking marsh, and an air of formality has been imparted to the whole scene; but the unquestionable utility of the undertaking must overweigh any regret that may be felt for the change. Tremadoc, Port Madoc, and the works around have a busy appearance. The nearer and pleasanter road from Pont Aberglaslyn to Maentwrog is to leave the river on the right and to keep the road, which winds under the mountains: but this way Tremadoc will not of course be seen. There is a good deal of rich and varied mountain scenery along this road, but it is needless to particularize. A hardy walker would prefer to make his way over the mountains, taking either the summit or shoulder of Moelwyn: the views are grand, but the way is rough. Just before reaching Maentwrog, is Tan-y-Bwlch, a spot celebrated for its beauty. The mansion is the residence of the Ockleys, who permit access to the grounds under certain restrictions. The Vale of Ffestiniog is very beautiful. It varies greatly in breadth and character; hardly anywhere, perhaps, grand, but beautiful in every part. The mountains rise high on both sides, but slope gently away; the vale is soft, verdant, cultivated, and fertile. All along are scattered villas with their cheerful grounds, farm-houses, which seem to be inhabited by prosperous tenants, and cottages, either clustered in little hamlets, or standing singly and apart. The stream which flows through the midst, at first but small in size, in the course of a few miles opens into a broad river, and from that passes rapidly into an arm of the A good deal of nonsense has been talked, about Ffestiniog being quite Italian in character-a Frascati, a Tivoli, another Tempé, nay, even a St. Helena! and one hardly knows what besides. The plain truth is, that it is a thoroughly Welsh valley, and a very lovely one too. It is about as much like an Italian or a Greek scene as a Welsh peasant is like one of the Abruzzi or an Albanian. sea. The village of Ffestiniog is seated on the summit of a high hill, at the head and a little on one side of the vale. It is quite a little place, with a neat church and school-house, which have been recently erected on the highest piece of ground; a couple of inns, and a few poor houses. The scenery all around is full of interest. Besides the vale and the divergent valleys there is in every direction a good wild mountain tract to ramble over, and one that may be traversed without danger by the most inexperienced mountain traveller. Not far from the village are the famous Falls of Cynfael. The stream is one of the wildest and most romantic of Welsh mountain streams. It comes rattling down the mountain side in right joyous mood, till it enters the long close dingle, where it has to surmount many a bold barrier, and force its way through or over many a shattered mass of stone. There are a couple of falls, both of great beauty and wildness; neither rocky bank, |
