My uncle finished his remarks with some suggestions applying exclusively to myself, which I shall decline reporting to the reader. I hardly know whether the above directions were all given in earnest or not. I am inclined to think they were. I shall not venture to question their propriety, as I find myself daily more and more confirmed in the opinion that, whether Uncle John's notions be sound or unsound, they are sanctioned in practice by some of the most popular writers of "the present Age." B. A DAY IN WALES. "REALLY, you must not leave Wales till you have seen the Pass of Llanberris." She was very pretty, that daughter of our hostess, and had a soft, sweet, musical voice, and a way of "stating the case" that was certainly quite convincing. Our departure for Ireland was indefinitely postponed. In less than half an hour, Harry and I were comfortably lounging on a jaunting car, and rapidly rattling over the pavements of the long and narrow street of Bangor. A queer, quaint old place is Bangor, with its antiquated, sleepy looking shops and houses, drawn up each side of the straggling street, like files of drunken soldiers; and its gray, heavy, moldering old cathedral, which has stood so long, in spite of the vicissitudes of war, the ruthless assaults of an impious soldiery, and the ravages of time. It was a market day, and the country people were coming in with their produce and manufactures, to sell or to barter. Here was the stout and sturdy yeoman, the man of substance and consequence among his humbler neighbors, with his strong, sleek horse and well-laden wagon; a little further on, came the rough, sorry-looking, much-enduring donkey, bending under his bulky panniers, while his master walked slowly at his head, and looked down on him with a sympathizing, kindly fellowfeeling; and then a farmer's daughter, ruddy and buxom and gay, came trotting along on her lusty little pony, the odious black hat of the Welsh women exchanged for a jaunty little bonnet, and her light wicker-basket hung gracefully over her arm. She smiles pleasantly as she passes, and looks as though she would drop an equestrian courtesy, if any way could be invented for accomplishing such a feat. Nothing strikes the traveler so forcibly as the continual variety, the ever-changing aspects, the novel and surprising effects, of the scenery in Wales. In this consists its principal charm. It is this that gives it such a bewitching enchantment, that exerts such a powerful and irresistible influence over the mind, keeping it constantly under a wild and pleasurable excitement of surprised and delighted emotion. A ride of a few miles transferred us from the quiet streets of Bangor, to the stern, romantic valley of Nant Frangon. Here we were ushered into a scene the most solitary, wildly beautiful and magnificent. Bold and rugged mountains rose on every side around us. Huge masses of rock, which had lost their hold on their native beds, had rolled down the steep and craggy cliffs and lay strewed around in shapeless confusion. Deep and black gorges in the sides of the mountains, marked the path of the fierce and impetuous torrents, as they had rushed madly down into the lakes below. A few sheep were browsing among the mountain passes, or looking down upon us from the brow of some lofty and ragged precipice. A solitary angler was dropping his line in a little stream that came tumbling through a defile among the hills, while at a little distance a pedestrian artist, reclining under the shadow of a cliff, was making a pencil-sketch of the scene; and these were the only signs of human existence in all that wild and savage region. The iron hand of modern improvement had made no impress on those wild old mountains, and they remained undisturbed, in their grand and solemn majesty, just as they stood on the birth-day of the universejust as they had come from the hand of their Creator. Tradition too had thrown around the spot the spell of romance and superstition. The hardy mountaineer walks hurriedly and timidly by the place where the young prince Idwall fell by the hand of his infamous guardian; they tell strange tales of the ghost of the murdered man, which they think is still hovering around the hollow, and fancy they still hear the wailings of the unappeased spirit above the howlings of the storm. There is a strange sort of fascination about terror, and most people love dearly to be frightened. I jumped from the jaunting car to pluck a flower that grew by the roadside, and pressed it in my note-book for a friend across the water. Harry worried our honest driver, who clung with fond pertinacity to a belief in the supernatural, with questions and observations about the ghost;-he begged him to try to stir him up, for his particular benefit; he never had the pleasure, he said, of meeting with a gentleman of the ghostly profession, and hoped he might be induced to depart from his usual rules, and meet a few friends, in a private way, in the daytime. He couldn't of course be expected to show to quite so good advantage as he would against a darker background, but he was willing to make any reasonable allowance. Reluctantly we left Nant Frangon behind us, and rode rapidly forward to Capel Curig. The road presents many singular and diversified views of rock and valley, deep woods and mountain torrents-wild sublimity contrasting with quiet beauty. A sudden turn affords a distant view of the rural and picturesque bridge over the Llugwy. It was midsummer, and the water was low in the deep, caverned bed of the river; still the shaggy and shivered rocks, the leaping stream, and the sombre, overhanging woods, formed an assemblage striking and peculiar; while in the background rose the wild cliffs of Moel Siabod in dark and gloomy grandeur. Soon the vale and lake of Capel Curig opened before us; and what was more to the purpose, just then, more attractive, I must acknowledge, than lakes or vales or mountain torrents, a neat, comfortable little inn came into view. There is no need of stopping to prove that a ride of a dozen miles before breakfast, in the cool, bracing air of the hills, has a direct tendency to give one an appetite. The sight of the inn brought bright and rapturing visions of cakes and coffee, and eggs and trout, and we were in a mood to be -"thinking of scenery, About as much, in sooth, As a lover thinks of constancy, But, thanks to our provident host, we were soon in a state of mind to be delighted with every thing; and feeling very much as Scrooge did on Christmas morning, I strolled out to the rude, rickety little wooden bridge, which crosses the quiet stream behind the garden. A stranger had lent me a fishing-pole, with all the paraphernalia of an angler, and I dropped my line into the water. The stream was full of fish, but they were not in a mood to be caught; so the little rascals would sport around the hook, and dart up to the surface of the water, and wink hard with one eye, and if they had only had noses and thumbs, it is easy to guess what saucy things they would have done. From this little bridge is presented a vast panoramic view, unsurpassed, if not unequaled, in Britain, in all that is majestic and grand. Lofty mountains, bold and bleak, yet rich in varied and picturesque beauty, rise on every side around it. On the one hand are frowning the gray hills of Glyder; on the other rises the dark, lofty peak of Moel Siabod, while directly in front, are seen in the distance the misty and cloud-capped summits of Snowdon. From Capel Curig the road gradually ascended, as we approached the Pass of Llanberris. We rode along under the shadow of beetling crags, and on the edge of lofty precipices; while below, green and fertile meadows were spread out, in delightful contrast with the bleak and rugged cliffs that towered above them. Looking down from some lofty elevation, we could discern the neatly thatched, white-washed cottages of the Welsh peasantry, dotting the landscape, and presenting an appearance of cheerfulness and home comfort, which their internal aspect might very likely have belied. In a wild and solitary spot, just at the entrance to the Pass, stood a miserable looking inn, bearing the euphonous name of 'Penygruyd.' Our attention was called to the word as an etymological curiosity; for strange and dissonant as the Welsh language is, this certainly puzzled me more than anything I had previously met with. How singularly a nation's language seems to be affected by the external characteristics of the country-an influence or correspondence which can be clearly and distinctly traced all the world over, from the gruff and grating gutturals of the home of the grizzly bear, to the soft, mellow tones that fall on the ear like the strains of sweet music, from the regions of orange-groves, spices and palms. In wildness, sublimity, and gloomy grandeur, nothing can exceed the Pass of Llanberris. The hills seem to have been reft open, in some grand convulsion of nature. Bare, bleak precipices rise thousands of feet, each side of the narrow defile. Rough, craggy rocks jut out over the carriage-way, and look down frowningly on the traveler below. Naked, massy ridges raise their natural barriers against the sky, and the steep, indented cliffs, gray and time-worn, cast their gloomy shadows into the valley. A world of solitude stretched out before us, stamped with startling and majestic characters by an omnipotent hand. And this deep and rugged pass, where all was now so still and peaceful, had been the scene of many a wild and thrilling adventure, of many a dark and bloody crime. Here too, the fierce warriors of feudal times had mingled in wild and desperate conflict, and here, among these very glens and mountain-passes, the brave old Britons had mustered their forces against the Norman, under the banner of the great Llewellyn. For seven miles the road winds through this dark and savage region, a scenery ever varying in form and appearance, yet ever the same in its chief characteristic-a sublime, imposing, almost terrific, grandeur. At length, a turn in the road brought in view the end of the Pass. On the terminal cliff rose the solitary tower of a ruined castle; while beyond lay the green, fertile vale of Llanberris. The eye, wearied with the rough and rugged sterility of the rocky crags, dwelt with delight on the opening prospect, as it faded into distant and softening vistas; the wild sublimity of the mountains melting into the gentle beauty of the valley. The driver snapped his whip, and in a few minutes we stopped at the little yellow inn at the foot of Snowdon. Every thing about the place had a quiet and domestic look; you might easily have mistaken it for a country farm-house. A hen, with a little brood of chickens, were picking up the crumbs about the door, and a vain coxcomb of a peacock was spreading his dorsal glories in the sun. Bundles of fagots were piled up around the yard; fishing-poles leaned against the garden wall, and the garden itself, with its rows of marigolds and tulips and roses, and a bright little stream rippling among them, lay smiling under the parlor window. The great white housedog came fawning round, with the air of an old acquaintance; and, indeed, I have noticed that large dogs have always, as a general thing, seemed to have a kind of fellow-feeling for me. I found an old thumbworn guide-book lying on the table, and looked to see what it could tell me of the old castle of Dolbadern, which, centuries ago, had guarded the entrance to the Pass. I always had a fondness for ruins, those inspiring old memorials and venerable relics, which link the busy present with the dim and dreamy past. Time seems to have flung around them a kind of hallowing beauty, as if half relenting the ruin he has wrought. I had determined to visit the dilapidated and picturesque old tower, when I first got a glimpse of it, in the opening of the pass; and I asked Harry to accompany me. But he had other business on his hands just then, and he begged to be excused. He had been out on a little exploring expedition on his own account, he told me, and had discovered that there was capital fishing in the streams around the house; and, moreover, the landlord had told him there was a juvenile Niagara at the base of the mountain; so, if I had a taste for old castles, and such rubbish, I must be content to enjoy them alone. On the whole, I was glad that he had determined to investigate the water-power of the valley, for I preferred to go alone; and with a happy consciousness of superior judgment, I started for Dolbadern castle. It was farther than Î at first supposed. I asked a ragged little urchin, who I met on the road, if he could guide me by some shorter path, across the meadows. He stared at me, and shook his head, and I saw that he could not speak a word of English. With what a strange tenacity these Welsh cling to their rough and strong old language! The boy fumbled round among his rags, and thrusting his hand down into a deep, labyrinthine pocket, pulled out some beautiful specimens of spar, from the mines. I gave him a shilling for the lot, and he scampered off in great glee, leaving me alone again. Soon I met a hoary-headed peasant, toiling along under a burthen of fagots, looking very like the pictures of Christian in the Pilgrim's Progress, tottering under the weight of his sins. With that civility and courtesy which uniformly characterize the lower orders of the country, the old man directed me to a narrow path across the fields. It led directly to the foot of the cliff on which the now solitary tower was standing, and clambering up the steep acclivity, I sat down to rest among the ruins. Dolbadern was the strongest of those fortresses which in feudal times had guarded the mountain-passes into Anglesia and Caernarvon. The situation was singularly picturesque. It stood on a bold and lofty rock on the borders of the beautiful lake of Llanberris. Rude and craggy mountains towered on every side around it, while the green and peaceful valley lay slumbering below. The ruins were spread over the entire summit of the steep, projecting cliff. A single tower, nearly a hundred feet in height, was all that now remained of the once impregnable fortress. It was in this tower, in its deepest and darkest dungeon, that Prince Owen the Red was held captive for twenty-eight years, by his brother, the last Llewellyn. He had united with a younger brother, in a treasonable conspiracy against the throne, and here he paid the penalty of his crime. A spiral stairway wound round the time-dismantled walls, and I climbed up carefully over the loose and broken steps, steadying myself by the ivy vines which ran in wild and luxurious confusion over the ruins. There was little in the scene to remind the stranger of those feudal conflicts and that mad ferocity which had once distracted this peaceful valley. A landscape, wild and stern, in its rare and peculiar beauty, was spread out before me. Snowdon, once the beloved resort of the princes of the land, now lonely and deserted, reared its purple peaks in gloomy grandeur against the sky; quiet and pleasant little hamlets were nestling among the valleys; the wild crags of the Pass frowned darkly in the distance, and the silvery lake was spread out at my feet. Every thing was calm, and quiet, and peaceful; and, as if in derision of its ancient terrors, an amiable old cow was reclining at the very foot of the once dreaded donjon. Times had changed sadly with the old castle of Dolbadern, since the days of chivalry and romance, when Llewellyn, with his train of nobles, was wont to resort to its lordly towers; when often, under its now ruined walls, as Spenser tells us, The spearman heard the bugle-horn, |