At Caerphily we perceived a great change in the manners of the people; in the whole village, scarcely one person was capable of speaking English.
We now came to the celebrated vale of Glamorganshire, so justly styled the Garden of South-Wales; the rapid Taafe forms an almost continued uproar for many miles; on the opposite side the mountains rose almost perpendicularly in a massy wall, and sometimes to the water’s edge, finely clothed with wood. Every circumstance conspired to heighten the solitary grandeur of the scene, and to prolong the luxurious melancholy, which the views inspired. In this celebrated vale is found the famous Pont y Pridd, or New Bridge, about three quarters of a mile from the Duke of Bridgewater’s Arms, a comfortable inn, and far surpassing our miserable quarters at Caerphily. This wonderful bridge, of one arch, is the segment of a circle; the chord of it is one hundred and forty feet, and the heighth of the key-stone, from the spring of the arch, thirty-two feet and a half. It was erected, in the year 1750, by William Edwards, a country mason, who failed in his attempt three times, till, by lightening the abutments, it has resisted, for many years, the torrents of the Taafe.
The intrusion of art in this romantic valley, where nature has been so lavish of her beauties, is much to be lamented: a canal, for the purpose of conveying the iron from the Myther Works to Cardiff, renders it a place of frequent business and confusion; a place originally so well adapted to retirement and reflection.
MYTHER TIDVIL,
is a most miserable dirty place; the soil and the inhabitants both partook of a dark dingy colour: the women destitute of shoes and stockings, the men and boys the slaves of Vulcan. The Iron-works, under the direction of Mr. Cramshaw, are the largest in the kingdom; not less than one thousand hands are employed by this gentleman, who allows the person who inspects the machinery one-eighth of the profits, to keep them in repair. Four large blast furnaces, with a number of a smaller size, besides a row of forges, are continually in use. An enormous wheel has lately been constructed, with several inferior ones, acting in contrary directions, which pumps the air into a large space, from whence it is distributed, through various tubes, to each separate furnace. This wheel is fifty feet one inch in diameter, and six feet eight inches in width. The whole weight rests on gudgeons, of one hundred tons. The gudgeons of all the wheels, and of such parts of the machine where there is any friction, have water continually running over them, to prevent their taking fire. It is the particular office of one man to grease every part of the machine, whilst in motion; to accomplish which, he is frequently obliged to ride on an iron bar, similar to the lever of a pump when in motion, a considerable way from the ground. The whole of this machinery is worked by water, not more than a foot deep, which is conveyed by a long spout to the top of the wheel, where it discharges itself. The ore, flux, [23] and coals, which they use to promote the fusion of the ore, are all found on the spot. The ore, previous to its being thrown into the furnace, is burnt in a common lime-pit, the goodness of it afterwards proved, by its adhesion to the tongue; the coal is all charked, and continually put in the furnace, with certain proportions of ore. From the pigs, the iron is rolled into flat plates by a cylinder; this is performed with the greatest dispatch. The gaunt figures of the workmen excite both pity and terror, and the sallow countenances and miserable air of the people, prove it is a labour very prejudicial to their health. From hence we travelled the road to
PONT NEATH VECHAN,
inaccessible for carriages, indifferent for pedestrians, and affording nothing worthy our attention. It lay over a barren heath, with mountains on one side, and a dreary waste of land before us. About a mile and a half from Vechan, we unexpectedly descended through a wood into a rich romantic valley, watered by Neath River. In this retired situation we found the Angel Inn, of Pont Neath Vechan. Description can scarcely suggest the full grandeur and magnificence of this valley: woods, rocks, and waterfalls, all unite, to render it beautiful. Our Ciceroni first conducted us to the fall of Scotenogam, on the river Purthen, about a mile and a half from the house: this fall we saw to great advantage, the river having gathered in its course the accumulation of many torrents after the rain, precipitates itself in one majestic expanse of water, near seventy feet high; whilst the dark lowering rocks, on each side, contrasted finely with the varied vegetation around us. The descent is by no means easy, but the grandeur of the scene amply compensated for all difficulties. Our Ciceroni next conducted us to a very inferior one, called the Lady’s Cascade, on the river Neath; but of this we caught a very indifferent prospect, the ascent of the mountain being inaccessible, and the water too high to admit of our obtaining a due inspection of it. We then returned to our inn, and set out a different road, in quest of nature’s landscapes.—Having walked about three miles, we heard the angry roar of small cascades; this we considered as preludes of scenes, where the water-fall swells into a torrent; and we soon found ourselves near the fall of Lower Culhepste. The character of this cataract differs very much from that of Scotenogam; being broken in its descent from projecting rocks, of an immense size. About a quarter of a mile from hence, we descended a rugged and steep rock to examine the fall of Upper-Culhepste, about fifty feet high. The singularity of this fall invites the curiosity of the traveller more than any other in Wales: the whole river precipitates itself with such violence, as to leave a space between the rock and the fall sufficiently wide for a horse path. Though in less than two minutes we were completely wet by the spray, yet the effect was awful and sublime; and it was necessary to remember the fixed foundation of the rocks above our heads, to soften the awe they inspired. Near this fall is Porthogo Cavern, through which the river Vendre runs. The water was too high to admit our entrance; our Conductor, however, informed us, he had penetrated about half a mile, but found the river wind so many ways, he judged it safer to return, lest he should share the fate of a poor man, who lost himself in this Cavern for the space of three days. On our return, a very intelligent gentleman, staying in the neighbourhood, strenuously recommended us to descend a steep mountain, on our left, to survey a curious quadrangular strata of marble in the rock below. With some difficulty we effected our purpose, having waded twice through the river. This strata in Welch is called Bwr Maen, which signifies a Stone Bow: it is situated close to the river Dynnas, which, forcing its way through some broken fragments of the rock, forms a cascade a little above. The price offered for this grey marble, in London, is fifteen shillings a foot square.
About five miles from Vechan is the Seat of Mrs. Holbrow, on the right. We were prevented visiting the water-falls of Melincourt and Aperdulas, the river, owing to the late floods, being too deep to ford. Our route still continued through the valley we had so much admired the evening before. As we drew near
NEATH,
the Tower of Knole Castle had a pleasing effect from a distance: it was built by Sir Herbert Mackworth, and is at present in the possession of Lady Mackworth. The windows from the banqueting-room comprehend a circle of many miles diameter, composed of Neath Valley and River, with the smoky Town of Neath—the Mumbles Point—Swansea, and the Channel. The artificial cascade is well contrived, but, after the foaming torrents of Scotenogam and Culhepste, appears very tame.
The scite of the Refectory, the Chapel, the Hall, and several other rooms in the ruins of Neath Abbey, may still be traced. It stands on the