The inn, or hotel, at Bethgelert, was a large and commodious building, and was anything but thronged with company; what company, however, there was, was disagreeable enough, perhaps more so than that in which I had been the preceding evening, which was composed of the scum of Manchester and Liverpool; the company amongst which I now was consisted of some seven or eight individuals, two of them were military puppies, one a tallish fellow, who, though evidently upwards of thirty, affected the airs of a languishing girl, and would fain have made people believe that he was dying of ennui and lassitude. The other was a short spuddy fellow, with a broad, ugly face, and with spectacles on his nose, who talked very consequentially about “the service” and all that, but whose tone of voice was coarse, and his manner that of an under-bred person; then there was an old fellow about sixty-five, a civilian, with a red, carbuncled face; he was father of the spuddy military puppy, on whom he occasionally cast eyes of pride and almost adoration, and whose sayings he much applauded, especially certain double entendres, to call them by no harsher term, directed to a fat girl, weighing some fifteen stone, who officiated in the coffee-room as waiter. Then there was a creature to do justice to whose appearance would require the pencil of a Hogarth. He was about five feet three inches and a quarter high, and might have weighed, always provided a stone weight had been attached to him, about half as much as the fat girl. His countenance was cadaverous, and was eternally agitated, by something between a grin and a simper. He was dressed in a style of superfine gentility, and his skeleton fingers were bedizened with tawdry rings. His conversation was chiefly about his bile and his secretions, the efficacy of licorice in producing a certain effect, and the expediency of changing one’s linen at least three times a day; though had he changed his six I should have said that the purification of the last shirt would have been no sinecure to the laundress. His accent was decidedly Scotch: he spoke familiarly of Scott, and one or two other Scotch worthies, and more than once insinuated that he was a member of Parliament. With respect to the rest of the company I say nothing, and for the very sufficient reason that, unlike the above described batch, they did not seem disposed to be impertinent towards me.

Eager to get out of such society, I retired early to bed. As I left the room the diminutive Scotch individual was describing to the old simpleton, who, on the ground of the other’s being a “member,” was listening to him with extreme attention, how he was labouring under an excess of bile, owing to his having left his licorice somewhere or other. I passed a quiet night, and in the morning breakfasted, paid my bill, and departed. As I went out of the coffee-room, the spuddy, broad-faced military puppy with spectacles was vociferating to the languishing military puppy, and to his old simpleton of a father, who was listening to him with his usual look of undisguised admiration, about the absolute necessity of kicking Lieutenant P – out of the army for having disgraced “the service.” Poor P – , whose only crime was trying to defend himself with fist and candlestick from the manual attacks of his brutal messmates.

CHAPTER XLVI

The Valley of Gelert – Legend of the Dog – Magnificent Scenery – The Knicht – Goats in Wales – The Frightful Crag – Temperance House – Smile and Curtsey.

Bethgelert is situated in a valley surrounded by huge hills, the most remarkable of which are Moel Hebog and Cerrig Llan; the former fences it on the south, and the latter, which is quite black and nearly perpendicular, on the east. A small stream rushes through the valley, and sallies forth by a pass at its south-eastern end. The valley is said by some to derive its name of Beddgelert, which signifies the grave of Celert, from being the burial-place of Celert, a British saint of the sixth century, to whom Llangeler in Carmarthenshire is believed to have been consecrated; but the popular and most universally received tradition is that it has its name from being the resting-place of a faithful dog called Celert, or Gelert, killed by his master, the warlike and celebrated Llywelyn ab Jorwerth, from an unlucky misapprehension. Though the legend is known to most people, I shall take the liberty of relating it.

Llywelyn, during his contests with the English, had encamped with a few followers in the valley, and one day departed with his men on an expedition, leaving his infant son in a cradle in his tent, under the care of his hound Gelert, after giving the child its fill of goat’s milk. Whilst he was absent, a wolf from the neighbouring mountains, in quest of prey, found its way into the tent, and was about to devour the child, when the watchful dog interfered, and after a desperate conflict, in which the tent was torn down, succeeded in destroying the monster. Llywelyn, returning at evening, found the tent on the ground, and the dog, covered with blood, sitting beside it. Imagining that the blood with which Gelert was besmeared was that of his own son, devoured by the animal to whose care he had confided him, Llywelyn, in a paroxysm of natural indignation, forthwith transfixed the faithful creature with his spear. Scarcely, however, had he done so, when his ears were startled by the cry of a child from beneath the fallen tent, and hastily removing the canvas, he found the child in its cradle quite uninjured, and the body of an enormous wolf, frightfully torn and mangled, lying near. His breast was now filled with conflicting emotions; joy for the preservation of his son, and grief for the fate of his dog, to whom he forthwith hastened. The poor animal was not quite dead, but presently expired, in the act of licking its master’s hand. Llywelyn mourned over him as over a brother, buried him with funeral honours in the valley, and erected a tomb over him as over a hero. From that time the valley was called Bethgelert.

Such is the legend, which, whether true or fictitious, is singularly beautiful and affecting.

The tomb, or what is said to be the tomb, of Gelert, stands in a beautiful meadow just below the precipitous side of Cerrig Llan; it consists of a large slab lying on its side, and two upright stones. It is shaded by a weeping willow, and is surrounded by a hexagonal paling. Who is there acquainted with the legend, whether he believes that the dog lies beneath those stones or not, can visit them without exclaiming, with a sigh, “Poor Gelert!”

After wandering about the valley for some time, and seeing a few of its wonders, I inquired my way for Festiniog, and set off for that place. The way to it is through the pass at the south-east end of the valley. Arrived at the entrance of the pass, I turned round to look at the scenery I was leaving behind me; the view which presented itself to my eyes was very grand and beautiful. Before me lay the meadow of Gelert, with the river flowing through it towards the pass. Beyond the meadow the Snowdon range; on the right the mighty Cerrig Llan; on the left the equally mighty, but not quite so precipitous, Hebog. Truly, the valley of Gelert is a wondrous valley – rivalling for grandeur and beauty any vale either in the Alps or Pyrenees. After a long and earnest view, I turned round again, and proceeded on my way.

Presently I came to a bridge bestriding the stream, which a man told me was called Pont Aber Glâs Lyn, or the bridge of the debouchement of the grey lake. I soon emerged from the pass, and after proceeding some way, stopped again to admire the scenery. To the west was the Wyddfa; full north was a stupendous range of rocks; behind them a conical peak, seemingly rivalling the Wyddfa itself in altitude; between the rocks and the road, where I stood, was beautiful forest scenery. I again went on, going round the side of a hill by a gentle ascent. After a little time I again stopped to look about me. There was the rich forest scenery to the north, behind it were the rocks, and behind the rocks rose the wonderful conical hill impaling heaven; confronting it to the south-east was a huge lumpish hill. As I stood looking about me, I saw a man coming across a field which sloped down to the road from a small house. He presently reached me, stopped and smiled. A more open countenance than his I never saw in all the days of my life.

“Dydd dachwi, sir,” said the man of the open countenance, “the weather is very showy.”

“Very showy, indeed,” said I; “I was just now wishing for somebody, of whom I might ask a question or two.”

“Perhaps I can answer those questions, sir?”

“Perhaps you can. What is the name of that wonderful peak sticking up behind the rocks to the north?”

“Many people have asked that question, sir, and I have given them the answer which I now give you. It is called the ‘Knicht,’ sir; and a wondrous hill it is.”

“And what is the name of yonder hill opposite to it, to the south, rising like one big lump?”

“I do not know the name of that hill, sir, farther than that I have heard it called the Great Hill.”

“And a very good name for it,” said I; “do you live in that house?”

“I do, sir, when I am at home.”

“And what occupation do you follow?”

“I am a farmer, though a small one.”

“Is your farm your own?”

“It is not, sir; I am not so far rich.”

“Who is your landlord?”

“Mr. Blicklin, sir. He is my landlord.”

“Is he a good landlord?”

“Very good, sir; no one can wish for a better landlord.”

“Has he a wife?”

“In truth, sir, he has; and a very good wife she is.”

“Has he children?”

“Plenty, sir; and very fine children they are.”

“Is he Welsh?”

“He is, sir! Cumro pur iawn.”

“Farewell,” said I; “I shall never forget you; you are the first tenant I ever heard speak well of his landlord, or any one connected with him.”

“Then you have not spoken to the other tenants of Mr. Blicklin, sir. Every tenant of Mr. Blicklin would say the same of him as I have said, and of his wife and his children too. Good day, sir!”

I wended on my way; the sun was very powerful; saw cattle in a pool on my right, maddened with heat and flies, splashing and fighting. Presently I found myself with extensive meadows on my right, and a wall of rocks on my left, on a lofty bank below which I saw goats feeding; beautiful creatures they were, white and black, with long, silky hair, and long, upright horns. They were of large size, and very different in appearance from the common race. These were the first goats which I had seen in Wales; for Wales is not at present the land of goats, whatever it may have been.

I passed under a crag, exceedingly lofty, and of very frightful appearance. It hung menacingly over the road. With this crag the wall of rocks terminated; beyond it lay an extensive strath, meadow, or marsh, bounded on the east by a lofty hill. The road lay across the marsh. I went forward, crossed a bridge over a beautiful streamlet, and soon arrived at the foot of the hill. The road now took a turn to the right, that is, to the south, and seemed to lead round the hill. Just at the turn of the road stood a small, neat cottage. There was a board over the door with an inscription. I drew nigh and looked at it, expecting that it would tell me that good ale was sold within, and read “Tea made here, the draught which cheers but not inebriates.” I was before what is generally termed a temperance house.

“The bill of fare does not tempt you, sir,” said a woman, who made her appearance at the door, just as I was about to turn away with an exceedingly wry face.

“It does not,” said I, “and you ought to be ashamed of yourself to have nothing better to offer a traveller than a cup of tea. I am faint; and I want good ale to give me heart, not wishy-washy tea to take away the little strength I have.”

“What would you have me do, sir? Glad should I be to have a cup of ale to offer you, but the magistrates, when I applied to them for a license, refused me one; so I am compelled to make a cup of tea in order to get a crust of bread. And if you choose to step in, I will make you a cup of tea, not wishy-washy, I assure you, but as good as ever was brewed.”

“I had tea for my breakfast at Bethgelert,” said I, “and want no more till to-morrow morning. What’s the name of that strange-looking crag across the valley?”

“We call it Craig yr hyll ddrem, sir; which means – I don’t know what it means in English.”

“Does it mean the Crag of the frightful look?”

“It does, sir,” said the woman; “ah, I see you understand Welsh. Sometimes it is called Allt Traeth.”

“The high place of the sandy channel,” said I. “Did the sea ever come up here?”

“I can’t say, sir; perhaps it did; who knows?”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if there was once an arm of the sea between that crag and this hill. Thank you! Farewell!”

“Then you won’t walk in, sir?”

“Not to drink tea,” said I; “tea is a good thing at a proper time, but were I to drink it now it would make me ill.”

“Pray, sir, walk in,” said the woman, “and perhaps I can accommodate you.”

“Then you have ale?” said I.

“No, sir; not a drop; but perhaps I can set something before you which you will like as well.”

“That I question,” said I; “however, I will walk in.”

The woman conducted me into a nice little parlour, and, leaving me, presently returned with a bottle and tumbler on a tray.

“Here, sir,” said she, “is something which, though not ale, I hope you will be able to drink.”

“What is it?” said I.

“It is – , sir; and better never was drunk.”

I tasted it; it was terribly strong. Those who wish for either whiskey or brandy far above proof should always go to a temperance house.

I told the woman to bring me some water, and she brought me a jug of water cold from the spring. With a little of the contents of the bottle, and a deal of the contents of the jug, I made myself a beverage tolerable enough; a poor substitute, however, to a genuine Englishman for his proper drink, the liquor which, according to the Edda, is called by men ale, and by the gods, beer.

I asked the woman whether she could read; she told me that she could, both Welsh and English; she likewise informed me that she had several books in both languages. I begged her to show me some, whereupon she brought me some half-dozen, and placing them on the table, left me to myself. Amongst the books was a volume of poems in Welsh, written by Robert Williams of Betws Fawr, styled in poetic language, Gwilym Du O Eifion. The poems were chiefly on religious subjects. The following lines, which I copied from “Pethau a wnaed mewn Gardd,” or things written in a garden, appeared to me singularly beautiful: —

“Mewn gardd y cafodd dyn ei dwyllo;

Mewn gardd y rhoed oddewid iddo;

Mewn gardd bradychwyd Iesu hawddgar;

Mewn gardd amdowyd ef mewn daeār.”

“In a garden the first of our race was deceived;

In a garden the promise of grace he received;

In a garden was Jesus betray’d to His doom;

In a garden His body was laid in the tomb.”

Having finished my glass of “summut” and my translation, I called to the woman and asked her what I had to pay.

“Nothing,” said she; “if you had had a cup of tea I should have charged sixpence.”

“You make no charge,” said I, “for what I have had.”

“Nothing, sir; nothing.”

“But suppose,” said I, “I were to give you something by way of present, would you – ” and here I stopped.

The woman smiled.

“Would you fling it in my face?” said I.

“O dear, no, sir,” said the woman, smiling more than before.

I gave her something – it was not a sixpence – at which she not only smiled, but curtseyed; then bidding her farewell I went out of the door.

I was about to take the broad road, which led round the hill, when she inquired of me where I was going, and on my telling her to Festiniog, she advised me to go by a by-road behind the house, which led over the hill.

“If you do, sir,” said she, “you will see some of the finest prospects in Wales, get into the high road again, and save a mile and a half of way.”

I told the temperance woman I would follow her advice, whereupon she led me behind the house, pointed to a rugged path, which with a considerable ascent seemed to lead towards the north, and after, giving certain directions, not very intelligible, returned to her temperance temple.

CHAPTER XLVII

Spanish Proverb – The Short Cut – Predestination – Rhys Goch – Old Crusty – Undercharging – The Cavalier.

The Spaniards have a proverb: “No hay atajo sin trabajo,” there is no short cut without a deal of labour. This proverb is very true, as I know by my own experience, for I never took a short cut in my life, and I have taken many in my wanderings, without falling down, getting into a slough, or losing my way. On the present occasion I lost my way, and wandered about for nearly two hours amidst rocks, thickets, and precipices, without being able to find it. The temperance woman, however, spoke nothing but the truth, when she said I should see some fine scenery. From a rock I obtained a wonderful view of the Wyddfa towering in sublime grandeur in the west, and of the beautiful, but spectral, Knicht shooting up high in the north; and from the top of a bare hill I obtained a prospect to the south, noble indeed – waters, forests, hoary mountains, and in the far distance the sea. But all these fine prospects were a poor compensation for what I underwent: I was scorched by the sun, which was insufferably hot, and my feet were bleeding from the sharp points of the rocks, which cut through my boots like razors. At length, coming to a stone wall, I flung myself down under it, and almost thought that I should give up the ghost. After some time, however, I recovered, and, getting up, tried to find my way out of the anialwch. Sheer good fortune caused me to stumble upon a path, by following which I came to a lone farm-house, where a good-natured woman gave me certain directions, by means of which I at last got out of the hot, stony wilderness – for such it was – upon a smooth, royal road.

“Trust me again taking any short cuts,” said I, “after the specimen I have just had.” This, however, I had frequently said before, and have said since after taking short cuts – and probably shall often say again before I come to my great journey’s end.

I turned to the east, which I knew to be my proper direction, and being now on smooth ground, put my legs to their best speed. The road by a rapid descent conducted me to a beautiful valley, with a small town at its southern end. I soon reached the town, and on inquiring its name, found I was in Tan y Bwlch, which interpreted signifieth “Below the Pass.” Feeling much exhausted, I entered the Grapes Inn.

On my calling for brandy-and-water, I was shown into a handsome parlour. The brandy-and-water soon restored the vigour which I had lost in the wilderness. In the parlour was a serious-looking gentleman, with a glass of something before him. With him, as I sipped my brandy-and-water, I got into discourse. The discourse soon took a religious turn, and terminated in a dispute. He told me he believed in Divine predestination; I told him I did not, but that I believed in divine prescience. He asked me whether I hoped to be saved; I told him I did, and asked him whether he hoped to be saved. He told me he did not, and as he said so, he tapped with a silver tea-spoon on the rim of his glass. I said that he seemed to take very coolly the prospect of damnation; he replied that it was of no use taking what was inevitable otherwise than coolly. I asked him on what ground he imagined he should be lost; he replied on the ground of being predestined to be lost. I asked him how he knew he was predestined to be lost; whereupon he asked me how I knew I was to be saved; I told him I did not know I was to be saved, but trusted I should be so by belief in Christ, who came into the world to save sinners, and that if he believed in Christ he might be as easily saved as myself, or any other sinner who believed in Him. Our dispute continued a considerable time longer; at last, finding him silent, and having finished my brandy-and-water, I got up, rang the bell, paid for what I had had, and left him looking very miserable, perhaps at finding that he was not quite so certain of eternal damnation as he had hitherto supposed. There can be no doubt that the idea of damnation is anything but disagreeable to some people; it gives them a kind of gloomy consequence in their own eyes. We must be something particular, they think, or God would hardly think it worth His while to torment us for ever.

I inquired the way to Festiniog, and finding that I had passed by it on my way to the town, I went back, and, as directed, turned to the east up a wide pass, down which flowed a river. I soon found myself in another and very noble valley intersected by the river, which was fed by numerous streams rolling down the sides of the hills. The road which I followed in the direction of the east, lay on the southern side of the valley, and led upward by a steep ascent. On I went, a mighty hill close on my right. My mind was full of enthusiastic fancies; I was approaching Festiniog, the birthplace of Rhys Goch, who styled himself Rhys Goch of Eryri, or Red Rhys of Snowdon, a celebrated bard, and a partisan of Owen Glendower, who lived to an immense age, and who, as I had read, was in the habit of composing his pieces seated on a stone which formed part of a Druidical circle, for which reason the stone was called the chair of Rhys Goch; yes, my mind was full of enthusiastic fancies, all connected with this Rhys Goch, and as I went along slowly I repeated stanzas of furious war songs of his, exciting his countrymen to exterminate the English, and likewise snatches of an abusive ode composed by him against a fox who had run away with his favourite peacock, a piece so abounding with hard words, that it was termed the Drunkard’s chokepear, as no drunkard was ever able to recite it, and ever and anon I wished I could come in contact with some native of the region, with whom I could talk about Rhys Goch, and who could tell me whereabouts stood his chair.

Strolling along in this manner, I was overtaken by an old fellow with a stick in his hand, walking very briskly. He had a crusty, and rather conceited look. I spoke to him in Welsh, and he answered in English, saying, that I need not trouble myself by speaking Welsh, as he had plenty of English, and of the very best. We were from first to last at cross purposes. I asked him about Rhys Goch and his chair. He told me that he knew nothing of either, and began to talk of Her Majesty’s ministers, and the fine sights of London. I asked him the name of a stream which, descending a gorge on our right, ran down the side of a valley, to join the river at its bottom. He told me that he did not know, and asked me the name of the Queen’s eldest daughter. I told him I did not know, and remarked that it was very odd that he could not tell me the name of a stream in his own vale. He replied that it was not a bit more odd than that I could not tell him the name of the eldest daughter of the Queen of England; I told him that when I was in Wales I wanted to talk about Welsh matters, and he told me that when he was with English he wanted to talk about English matters. I returned to the subject of Rhys Goch and his chair, and he returned to the subject of Her Majesty’s ministers, and the fine folks of London. I told him that I cared not a straw about Her Majesty’s ministers and the fine folks of London, and he replied that he cared not a straw for Rhys Goch, his chair, or old women’s stories of any kind.

Regularly incensed against the old fellow, I told him he was a bad Welshman, and he retorted by saying I was a bad Englishman. I said he appeared to know next to nothing. He retorted by saying I knew less than nothing, and, almost inarticulate with passion, added that he scorned to walk in such illiterate company, and suiting the action to the word, sprang up a steep and rocky footpath on the right, probably a short cut to his domicile, and was out of sight in a twinkling. We were both wrong; I most so. He was crusty and conceited, but I ought to have humoured him, and then I might have got out of him anything he knew, always supposing that he knew anything.

About an hour’s walk from Tan y Bwlch brought me to Festiniog, which is situated on the top of a lofty hill looking down from the south-east, on the valley which I have described, and which, as I know not its name, I shall style the Valley of the numerous streams. I went to the inn, a large old-fashioned house, standing near the church; the mistress of it was a queer-looking old woman, antiquated in her dress, and rather blunt in her manner. Of her, after ordering dinner, I made inquiries respecting the chair of Rhys Goch, but she said that she had never heard of such a thing; and after glancing at me askew for a moment, with a curiously formed left eye which she had, went away muttering chair, chair, leaving me in a large and rather dreary parlour, to which she had shown me. I felt very fatigued, rather I believe from that unlucky short cut than from the length of the way, for I had not come more than eighteen miles. Drawing a chair towards a table, I sat down, and placing my elbows upon the board, I leaned my face upon my upturned hands, and presently fell into a sweet sleep, from which I awoke exceedingly refreshed, just as a maid opened the room door to lay the cloth.

After dinner I got up, went out, and strolled about the place. It was small, and presented nothing very remarkable. Tired of strolling, I went and leaned my back against the wall of the churchyard, and enjoyed the cool of the evening, for evening, with its coolness and shadows, had now come on.

As I leaned against the wall, an elderly man came up and entered into discourse with me. He told me he was a barber by profession, had travelled all over Wales, and had seen London. I asked him about the chair of Rhys Goch. He told me that he had heard of some such chair a long time ago, but could give me no information as to where it stood. I know not how it happened that he came to speak about my landlady, but speak about her he did. He said that she was a good kind of woman, but totally unqualified for business, as she knew not how to charge. On my observing that that was a piece of ignorance with which few landladies, or landlords either, were taxable, he said that, however other publicans might overcharge, undercharging was her foible, and that she had brought herself very low in the world by it – that to his certain knowledge she might have been worth thousands instead of the trifle which she was possessed of, and that she was particularly notorious for undercharging the English, a thing never before dream