them is very difficult; that from Dolbadern is the easiest. The tourist must not reckon on a perfectly clear day; for Snowdon might, in Homeric phrase, be styled the cloud-former: but if one does occur while anywhere in the neighbourhood, the tourist should on no account neglect to avail himself of it; another may not offer. Yet a dull day need not deter any one. If a guide be employed-and, unless accustomed to the mountains, it is scarcely prudent to go without one—his judgment as to the fitness of the day may be trusted: a wet or cloudy morning often clears off, so as to afford the most brilliant prospects. The road commences near the hotel by Dolbadern Castle, and is, for the better part of the way, a well-beaten one. Horses ascend to within three-quarters of a mile of the summit: and they will of course be used by ladies and dandies; but men, who can climb a mountain, will not require their assistance. There is a perennial spring some distance short of the summit, where the thirsty climber may refresh himself. or a gleam of sunshine touches it, and causes it to start forth from the neighbouring gloom! And then the soft, almost invisible distance—the glittering sea-the placid llyns-no, we do not envy those who have only been here on a clear day. It is said to be a noble spectacle to behold the sunrise from Snowdon: and so doubtless it is. But we never saw Snowdon clear of clouds in the morning, and are a little sceptical whether it ever has been seen, though we once met one person who vowed he saw a glorious sunrise from the summit. The tourist may try his fortune. There are a couple of huts on the summit, erected especially for the accommodation of wanderers, wherein all plain provision is made for their comfort. And there may be compensation found, if the sunrise be not witnessed; for it is affirmed that the Druids proclaimed that the man who stayed all night on Yr Wyddfa would certainly become, for the nonce, inspired. These huts are really pleasant things to find in this bleak spot, even in the day-time. A snug fire-side, with a cigar and a noggin of whisky, if that way inclined; or a cup of coffee, if it be preferred, is a real luxury, while the mountain-top is wrapped in a dense damp cloud. We will whisper to the traveller, however, that he had better carry his own cigars; for the host's are of detestable flavour, and The prospects on this side of Snowdon are not considered equal to those met with in ascending from Beddgelert; but there are some glorious views notwithstanding. Exquisite prospects are occasionally obtained of the lakes and valley of Llanberris; and, presently, noble ones of Glydyr Fawr, and the vales beyond. Snowdon himself, with his enormous but--sixpence a piece. tresses, is often a magnificent object: and as one and another of the shadowy cwms opens with an inky tarn lying in its bosom, and a far-reaching glimpse of distant country is caught sight of, you are tempted to wonder what the finer prospects on the other side can possibly be. 66 The descent from Snowdon may be very well made to Beddgelert, if it be desired to visit that place. The views in that direction are very different from those on the side by which we ascended, and exceedingly fine. You have to pass over on one side of what Mr. Bingley describes as a tremendous ridge of rock, called Clawdd Coch, the Red Ridge. This narrow pass," he continues, "not more than ten or twelve feet across, and two or three hundred yards in length, was so steep that the eyes reached, on each side, down the whole extent of the mountain. And I am persuaded that in some parts of it, if a person held a large stone in each hand, and let them fall both at once, each might roll The summit of Snowdon-Yr Wyddfa, the Conspicuous, is the name of the highest peak-is 3,571 feet above the sea. The view from it embraces the Ingleborough mountains in Yorkshire; the mountains of Westmorland and Cumberland; the Highlands of Scotland; the Isle of Man; the mountains of Wicklow, and a good deal of the Irish coast; a large part of the principality, with the sea of mountains, and five-and-above a quarter of a mile; and thus, when they stopped, twenty lynns; and a wide range of country besides. All, of course, cannot be seen at any one time while the sun is above the horizon; but a large portion may be seen on a clear, calm day. We have not been fortunate enough to be on the summit on a clear day, yet the views from Snowdon will dwell in our memory among the most cherished of our recollections of mountain prospects. Marvellously beautiful is the scene, when, in a moment, the clouds are rent asunder, and let in the view of a wide stretch of distant country smiling softly in the gentle sunshine: it is like the revelation of a new land. Then, too, what a magnificent gathering of majestic mountains are around you, the clouds rolling away one after another, and displaying ever new wonders-peaks and chasms and glassy lakes! Again, as the shadows fly swiftly over the seemingly level champaign, how does one and another mountain appear to rise into existence, as a shadow rests upon it, while all around is vivid light— they might be more than half a mile asunder." Clawdd Coch is certainly a rough bit, but far less "tremendous" than Striding Edge on Helvellyn. And as for what is said of the falling stones, we carried some with usgood rollers-and hurled them with all our might;and though not so strong or so skilful as in our younger days, our arm has not quite lost its cunning ;yet we could not induce them to go, even one at a time, within a mortifying distance of a quarter of a mile and we are constrained to say that this is, like the difficulties and dangers of the way, much magnified. We have two or three times spoken of Snowdonia : it may be as well to explain the term. What is generally known as Snowdonia is the mountain district, of which Snowdon is the highest point and leading feature. Its boundaries are not very precisely defined; for our purpose it may be enough to say that it includes the whole of the mountains of Carnarvonshire, from Penmaen Mawr on the north to Moel Hebog on the south,-or | changed since then: "I really can't make out what from sea to sea. In this range are the highest and the most magnificent mountains of Wales: it is a tract of wild rocky passes and ravines, of lofty precipices, deep chasms, foaming rivers, bold waterfalls, numerous Hyns, gloomy and gay vallies. Now it is traversed in every direction by good roads, though between them lie yet many secluded and seldom-visited spots. Once a vast and thick forest spread over a considerable portion of the district, and the whole was a savage and unreclaimed region. Snowdonia was the last stronghold of the Britons. To its fastnesses, inaccessible to the foe, the princes and the warriors of Wales retreated, and there held out, long after the open country was wrested from them. Every pass was fortified; and it was a difficult undertaking to beard the native lion in such a den but Edward united caution and perseverance with military skill. The stronghold of the Britons was rather blockaded than forced, and the last Prince of Wales was at length compelled to submit. When Snowdonia was gained, Edward felt that his conquest was assured. He celebrated his victory by gathering here the chivalry of Europe to a magnificent tournament. It was only in comparatively recent times that strangers penetrated into the district-if they could keep out of it. Old Speed shows pretty plainly in what light it was regarded in his day: "But for the heart of Carnarvonshire," he says, "it is altogether mountainous, as if Nature had a purpose here, by rearing up these craggy hills so thick together, strongly to compact the joints of this our island, and to frame the inland part thereof for a fit place of refuge to the Britons, against those times of adversity which afterwards did fall upon them; for no army, though never so strongly, or scarce any travellers, though never so lightly appointed, can find passage among these so many rough and hard rocks, so many vales and pools here and there crossing all the ways, as ready obstacles to repel any inroads of foreign assailants." Again, after speaking of some of the marvellous tales told by Giraldus Cambrensis, of this part of Wales, he adds: "Touching those two other miracles, famoused by Giraldus and Gervasius, that on those high Snowdon hills there are two pools, called the Mears, the one of which produceth great store of fish, but all having only one eye; and in the other there is a moveable island, which as soon as a man treadeth thereon, it forthwith floateth a great way off, whereby the Welsh are said to have often 'scaped and deluded their enemies assailing them these matters are out of my creed," writes Master Speed, intending to wind up with a smart hit: “and yet, I think, the reader had rather believe them than go to see whether it be so or no."* Times are * Giraldus has some other marvels quite equal to that of these monoculous fishes, belonging to this district; but it is the mountains of Merionethshire which he affirms are so lofty, and yet so precipitous, that two choleric shepherds upon neighbouring summits may, from their proximity, very easily fall at odds in the morning, and challenge each so many ladies and gentlemen come into this rough wild place to see," said a Snowdon farmer to us one day: "if all the mountains were polished silver, I doubt if more fine folks would come to stare at them; and if all the crevices were full of gold, I don't think some of them could pore closer into them... there they go, climbing, and toiling, and chipping at the crags, as if they were paid for it; instead of paying, as they do, pretty smartly at our hotels into the bargain. Prospects! Beauty! well, I was once in Lincolnshire, and there was a prospect, if you like! My heart! it was all as flat and smooth as your hand as far as you could see in every direction: and such crops! I call that beauty." As Crabbe sings: "It is the soul that sees: the outward eyes Present the object, but the mind descries— The forest spoken of above was chiefly around Snowdon. It was so dense, in the tenth century, that Howell Dha is reported to have offered to any one who would clear any portion of it, the freehold of the land so cleared; notwithstanding, it is said by native authorities, that it might already be the property of any other individual. This was a part of "the good old plan." As late as the time of Henry VIII., a keeper of Snowdon Forest was duly appointed; and it continued to be a deer forest some time later. Now all that remains of Snowdon Forest is the name: its existence is matter of history and tradition. Every one comes to Wales mainly for the sake of the mountains and the mountain scenery; and whatever is grandest and most characteristic in Welsh mountain scenery is brought together and concentred in Snowdonia. A month devoted to this district alone would provide food for the intellect and the imagination for years to come. Few tourists are able or willing to give more time than this to the whole of North Wales, and that time is expended in visiting in succession every object that, for any reason, is celebrated; and the arrangements are so made, as to devote to every place and object as little time as it can possibly be examined in. Not so can a mountainous country be fitly explored or understood. It is not merely bare other to fight, and yet the day would be spent before they could meet to settle the quarrel: a happy thing, Speed thinks, as thereby many a broken head is spared. By the way, it would seem that Giraldus's marvels tempted some to visit Snowdon in search of them, long before touring was fashionable. Thomas Fuller, mentioning the floating island, remarks: "But it seemeth that it either always swimmeth away from such who endeavour to discover it, or else that this vagrant, wearied with long wandering, hath at last fixed itself to the continent." He adds, moreover, that "the one-eyed fishes are too nimble for any men with two eyes to behold them." The rising of a buoyant island to the surface of a lake is by no means an uncommon phenomenon; there may have been one here: its floating away, so as to enable the Welsh to escape from an enemy, may stand out of our creed, as it did out of honest Speed's. then by the valley of Nant-y-Gwryd, and consequently along much splendid scenery. But the Pass we may suppose to have been already sufficiently seen, and Nant-y-Gwryd Vale will be traversed on the way to Beddgelert. It will be better, therefore, for the pedestrian to make his way from Llanberris over the shoulder or summit of Glydyr Fawr, and thence by Llyn Idwall, or along somewhat more to the right. He will obtain some new and very grand views; those from the summit of Glydyr Fawr are among the very finest in the district; but it is a rough route, and hardly to be hazarded, perhaps, by a timid traveller, or one unused to wander alone about the mountains. Capel Curig, so called from its little chapel, dedicated to the Welsh saint, Curig, is a wild, lonely spota tiny village of half a dozen houses, about half a mile from the Holyhead-road, but having a capacious hotel, where is good accommodation, good fare, and an indefatigable harper. From it, as a centre, an almost endless variety of mountain strolls may be made: moreover, in the rivers and llyns close at hand or within easy distance, there is as good trout-fishing as, perhaps, anywhere in Wales. From the garden of the hotel, or still better from the picturesque old bridge, a little farther on, there is a splendid view of Snowdon, with the double lake-the Llyniau Mymbyr-in front. (Cut, No. 7, ante, p. 124.) The walks beside these llyns, in themselves an exquisite picture, and on the hills which border them, are singularly beautiful. hills and white waterfalls that are of interest and value. | last station lies through the Pass of Llanberris, and The poetry of the mountains lies more in the everchangeful phenomena that are their inseparable attendants. A mountain is in itself the same to-day that it was yesterday; but the appearance it presents to an observant eye is very different: it has become another, though the same. Many of the circumstances which are most annoying to the mere sight-seer are really what afford the richest enjoyment to one watchful of the varying phases of Nature. The grandeur and the gloom of the mountains and the lakes, the most glorious phenomena of which the mind, in such localities, is cognizant, are transitory, evanescent, fitful. If you would enjoy them, you must wait for them in patience; be abroad at all seasons to observe; and then, often when least anticipated, and in places seemingly the least likely, they reveal themselves to the willing eye and heart. Day and night, summer and autumn, fair weather and foul, every hour and every season has its own charms and utters its own voice. Stormy weather, against which, not unreasonably, tourists generally declaim, is, in truth, a thing to be especially coveted. Never do the mountains and the shadowy valleys so emphatically speak home to the heart as then. Whether it be as the gathering clouds herald the coming storm; or when half the landscape is wrapped in darkness and in tempest; as the lightning is breaking upon the sharp peaks and the thunder echoing along the hollows; when the struggle between sunshine and gloom proclaims that the storm is passing away; or later, when a soft rainbow is spanning the valley-alike is there in the sublimity or the loveliness a power which is never felt amid the quiet beauty attendant on an unclouded sky. And though the mists are hardly to be admired when they envelope both hill and vale in a garment of uniform gray; yet he knows little of mountain scenery, who does not recognize in them perhaps the most valuable of poetic and picturesque auxiliaries. Let but a gleam of sunlight into the landscape, and how beautiful do the mists appear, whether congregating about the summits or rolling along the slopes of the mountains, hanging over the watercourses, or filling the hollow ravines. What knows he of the mountains, who has not wandered alone in some solitary nook, “When underneath the young gray dawn A multitude of dense white fleecy clouds Were wandering in thick flocks among the mountains, Shepherded by the slow unwilling wind?" SHELLEY. But we repeat, thoroughly to enjoy and appreciate this district, it is not enough to keep merely to the beaten roads. Let the tourist wander at will wherever he can find a way, and everywhere he will discover unanticipated wealth. Scenes, whether of grandeur or beauty, or solitary desolation, will be alike recognized as of distinct individuality, complete and perfect in themselves, yet linked by imperceptible gradations into harmony with surrounding scenes. Capel Curig is another of the chief centres for exploring Snowdonia from. The road to it from the Moel Siabod, which lies just on the south, may be ascended from Capel Curig: the summit is 2,878 feet above the sea: it is reckoned to be nearly four miles from the inn-a rough climb, but the view on a fair day will repay the labour. On the summit is a tarn; and in a hollow just under the summit on the east, is a curious little llyn, with three islets in it. Either over or round Moel Siabod a way may be found to Dolwyddelan; by the direct road, the distance is about five miles. Dolwyddelan itself is a rude and quite sequestered village. Tourists come into the vale merely to visit the remains of Dolwyddelan Castle,— a picturesque ruined tower, standing on a bluff rock, and encompassed by bold mountains. The castle was in the 12th century the residence of Iorwerth Drwndwn -Edward Brokennose. The disfigurement of his prominent feature was a double misfortune to him; for not only was he thereby rendered less amiable in the eyes of the ladies—no small evil in the days of Welsh chivalry-but he was pronounced to be, in consequence, disqualified to wear the Welsh coronet; to which, else. he would have been entitled, as eldest son of Owen Gwynedd. He retired to Dolwyddelan, to conceal at once his chagrin and the cause of it. His son, famous in Welsh history as Llewellyn the Great, was born at Dolwyddelan Castle. Through the long winding valley the Afon Lledr flows from its source on Moel Lledr, the huge mountain mass which blocks up the head of the valley. This is not exactly a drawingroom district, but there is much characteristic scenery to Its be found by those who will search after it. Running | of rocks, in three or four distinct streams, which redirectly south from the village of Dolwyddelan, there unite before plunging into the pool below; then in one is a Roman road distinctly traceable for some miles. wide foaming mass it rushes over the next rocky ledge, The are also other objects of archæological interest in and down a long and broad slope shattering into spray, the immediate vicinity. Hereabout, too, are several as it descends against the black projecting crags. copper-mines. base is veiled by a shifting cloud of mist, over which, as a straggling sunbeam glances upon it, plays the tremulous iris. Fragments of black rock, gemmed with many-coloured mosses, contrast with the translucent water and snowy spray. The sides of the ravine are steep, and grandly formed. Rich foliage impends from them above the chasm, and climbs along the ledges of purple slate. Nought is seen that interferes with the impression of solitary grandeur and majesty; nought is heard but the roar of the falling On entering the Holyhead road from Capel Curig, and turning to the right with the little river which issues from the Llyniau Mymbyr, you have before you the valley of the Llugwy, a vale well known to the artist and the angler: it leads to Betwys-y-Coed. The Llugwy is, throughout its short course, a lively, changeful, rapid streamlet; at one moment careering gaily along in broad daylight, presently hiding itself in a narrow glen, or beneath a rich canopy of trees, and again leaping over rocky barriers in sparkling waterbreaks or bolder cascades. So it goes on, gathering strength in its way, till it reaches a spot where it flings itself fearlessly down a deep ravine: and thither the tourist must not fail to bend his steps to witness the spectacle. Rhaiadr-y-Wennol, the Cataract of the Swallow, is not only one of the largest, but, to our thinking, the finest of the waterfalls in Wales: but so much depends on the circumstances under which such places are seen, that we would not have our meaning extended beyond the literal expression; other of the Welsh waterfalls may be even grander; this is our favourite. Except when in flood, the river breaks over the highest ledge waters. This waterfall may be readily compared with one of very different character, but of equal height and extent, though not of equal quantity of water. Let us visit it. You return past Capel Curig by way of the Vale of Llugwy. The valley appeared very beautiful in descending it, but it is much finer in ascending. Lofty mountains are on either hand: on the left is the vast form of Moel Siabod; on the right are the Carneddiau David, and Llewellyn; but at every turn, one or the other of them seems to march out directly before you. On passing from the Llugwy, you enter upon a more open and somewhat boggy tract, lying at the base of the bare, precipitous, and broken Trevaen 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. 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 compare 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 dreadful 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. Like 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. 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 |