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 his 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 Beth Gelert.

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 Glas 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