I could have chosen no happier hour or season for beholding the most lovely of all the Snowdon valleys under the thousand changing hues, the now soft now brilliant touches-those deeper mingling lights and shadows of the falling year. As I passed by the margin of the broad, clear stream which joins the delightful lake Gwynant with the waters of Llyn y Dinas,—itself almost as interesting, and deeply embosomed amidst the towering rocks, I heard the distant but gradually swelling notes of the hounds, the answering bay of the sheep-dog, which, with the tinkling of the distant bells, and the occasional explosion of a mine, had a singular effect amid the deep solitude which surrounded me. Upon both sides of the noble stream stretched a pleasant greensward, so bright, so sweetly secluded,—if tradition speak correctly, -as to have been the favourite haunt, not only of the Snowdon hunters of other days, but of those more fastidious revellers, that love the moonlight to weave their deep, green circle, and their fairy spells by the flowery bank, or in the soft, fresh grass. And who but would linger by night or by day in a spot almost unrivalled for its combination of natural beauties, and which offers so many advantages to opposite tastes,-in the most pleasant and varied pursuits? Without having recourse to history or legend, the associations of heroic and feudal times, no where can the lover of science, the botanist, the angler, the artist, the antiquary, or the geologist, find more pleasing occupation for their several dispositions. On approaching the vicinity of Beddgelert the remarkable rock of Dinas Emrys presents itself, vast, insulated, and wooded,—one of those monuments which carries the thoughts back to the days of genuine British fable and romance. Its height, its inaccessible steepness, and the large stone ramparts yet visible, still point it out as the stronghold of the feeble Vortigern, who, shrinking from the daring task which his treachery had planned, vainly hoped to screen himself from its consequences, by leaguing with the enemies of his country and appealing to the stars. The no less singular and rock-girt mass adjoining to it, and known as the Groves or Caves of the Magicians, offers a curious subject for speculation, which may be pleasantly indulged by perusing some of our early British chronicles. A portion of these quaint narratives, appertaining to the origin and uses of the religious abodes, with the gigantic labours and no less gigantic superstitions of our forefathers, possess both imaginative and historical interest, and no slight fund of anecdote and amusement. Tradition will have it, that King Vortigern, or his successor, bestowed it upon the favourite soothsayer whose name it bears. By the Welsh it is called Merddin Emrys; and on its summit, from his diviner's cell, we are assured that the learned astrologer expounded the secret wisdom of the skies to the trembling monarch; and his exploits may still be read, to the no small gratification of lay and clergy, in the curious notes upon Drayton by the no less learned Selden. And thus it is said or sung: 'Here prophetic Merlin sate, when to the British King As I now drew nigh the little hamlet through the magnificent valley, which, at every point of the road between Capel Curig and Beddgelert, presents some novel charm, I was struck with the sublime and desolate aspect of the mountain scenery. The expanding hills, casting a broader and deeper shade, their majestic dark-brown foregrounds, their grey or purple summits, here the dense wood, and there the purple heath,-while rock, and stream, and fall, assuming a thousand varied and brilliant colours as they reflected the vivid noon-tide rays, told me that I was once more amidst the favourite scenes of my boyhood; and Beddgelert, revisited, inspired a feeling of tranquil delight not inferior to that with which it was first beheld. Absence, and long continued |