Walk to Montford Bridge—The Severn—An agreeable companion—Delights of a Tourist—Histrionic Ambition—Wittington—The Castle—The Church—Curious Epitaphs.
“Oh Wittington, among thy towersPleas’d did my early childhood stray,Bask’d on thy walls in sunny hoursAnd pull’d thy moss and pluck’d thy flowersFull many a truant day.”FITZ-GWARINE.
“Oh Wittington, among thy towersPleas’d did my early childhood stray,Bask’d on thy walls in sunny hoursAnd pull’d thy moss and pluck’d thy flowersFull many a truant day.”
FITZ-GWARINE.
Afterbreakfasting at the inn, I, like the honorable Dick Dowlass, with my wardrobe on my back, and a light heart, proceeded on the road to Chirk.
The Severn, to the right, winded beautifully towards the ancient town I left behind. Bees hummed—birds sang—and blossoms sent forththeir fragrance to delight the traveller as he gaily trudged “the footpath way.” Cheerfulness was above, beneath, around me, and in my heart. I paused upon the bridge at Montford, to take a lingering farewell of the sweet flowing Severn, its wooded banks and meadows gay; and was about to commence a sublime soliloquy, when I was accosted by an elderly personage in a straw hat, fustian shooting coat, knee-breeches, gaiters and shoes. He had a stout cudgel in his hand, and a knapsack, more capacious than mine, strapped across his shoulders. He appeared to be about fifty-five years of age, and being furnished like myself, it struck me that a passing traveller might naturally enough take us for father and son.
Fortunately we were both pursuing the same route, and a desultory dialogue commenced with the never failing observation:
“A fine morning, sir.”
“Very.”
“A noble river this, sir?”
“Beautiful.”
“A great admirer of the charms of nature, I presume, sir?”
“An enthusiastic one.”
“You’re for the Welsh vales, I suppose?”
“And mountains high!” I exclaimed, warming to my loquacious companion.
“In the Welsh vales ’mid mountains high,”
“In the Welsh vales ’mid mountains high,”
sang he, in a hearty, round-toned voice, with which I chimed in, and we were the best friends, on a sudden.
There certainly is no society so interesting as that picked up by the tourist, who leaves with contempt the starched formalities of a great city behind him, and walks forth, unencumbered by care, to enjoy the society of mankind in its varied and unsophisticated nature. Every person we meet affords us information and delight; for a kindred spirit animates almost every individual whom you may chance to encounter in countries remarkable for beauties of scenery, and especially in a region like North Wales, where inns of the best kind are situated at the most convenient points, and the foot passenger is treated with as much respect as a lord in his carriage with four post horses. The landlords of inns here, think that a man may make the proper use of his legs without being a beggar; and thatthe costume of a pedestrian may cover the form of a gentleman. And this philanthropic conception contributes to form that happy combination, civil hosts and merry travellers.
There is no want of society, nor any difficulty in selecting that with which you are best pleased, for every evening brings in fresh comers from various quarters to the different places of rest and refreshment. The exchange of information respecting routes, the different adventures of the day, the peculiar feelings displayed in their recital, and countenances lit up with pleasure, give a degree of animation to the evening, never to be equalled in the brilliant drawing-room, the blaze of which seems to put out the eyes of reason,
“And men are—what they name not to themselves,And trust not to each other.”
“And men are—what they name not to themselves,And trust not to each other.”
I soon discovered that my companion was a traveller of no common information; that he was a collector of legends, an antiquarian, and a geologist; and congratulated myself upon meeting with one who, as he gave me to understand, was intimately acquainted with a variety of circumstances,not generally known, which had taken place in “days of yore,” upon the very ground we were about to traverse, and which he had frequently visited before.
He had been an actor in his youth, and as the scenery between Mountford Bridge and the village of Wittington has little to engage the attention, I will here relate a portion of his early history, with which he amused me during our journey.
It was a foggy morning when Triptolemus,—for so I shall designate my new acquaintance,—who had unfortunately been deeply bitten by a mad actor, arose, feverish from his sleepless pillow, to awaken the cocks of the surrounding neighbourhood with the loud rattle of his histrionic tongue. He had, with some difficulty, prevailed upon the manager of the theatre to permit him to make his appearance on the stage, and the character selected for his attempt was Richmond—the gallant Richmond!
In the centre of the filthy town of — stands an ancient castle, situated upon a lofty hill, which is now turned into a county jail. Therewas around it formerly a deep moat, which having for many years been dried up, is now converted into pleasure gardens for the corporation. From the top of the hill there was, at this time, an opening, much like a trap door, where commenced a descent by winding steps, leading to the gardens beneath, and to some gates made in the iron railings that encompassed the moat upon the other side.
Upon the summit of the hill, Triptolemus walked with all the dignity of an English baron. The ancient fortress, that frowned above him, gave additional fire to his excited imagination; and, as he spoke of knights and fellows in arms, and mused of war, banners, and crop ear’d steeds, the present peaceful times were dead to him, and nothing lived within his gallant thoughts but those whose bones have long since whitened in the dust.
Triptolemus had walked round, and round again, about the distance of half a mile, spouting Shakespeare to “the unconscious wind,” when, as he was about to take “round the third,” instead of looking at the earth, his inspired glance was directed to the sky; and at the instant he exclaimed, “thus far into thebowels of the land,” he vanished into the earth through the before mentioned trap door! and awakening from his surprize, he found himself half smothered in a bed of manure, at the bottom of the steps.—When he had in some degree recovered from his alarm, and ascertained that his person had escaped injury, his first reflection was upon the fall of Lucifer,
“From night to morn—from morn to dewy eve,A summer’s day!”
“From night to morn—from morn to dewy eve,A summer’s day!”
He then looked round him and fancied himself in Johnson’s happy valley, himself the prince, and, like him, discontented with his lot, when he was suddenly aroused to a sense of his real situation by the pointed application of a pitchfork, unceremoniously handled by a sturdy boor, who saluted him with, “Where the devil didst thee come from?” His indignant spirit now gave vent to its uncontrollable fury, in a torrent of blank verse! He felt that, like Hamlet, he could
“Do such deedsAs hell itself would quake to look upon.”
“Do such deedsAs hell itself would quake to look upon.”
But, like Posthumous, he was doubtful which toselect. His soul was in arms!—and the thrice valiant embryo Richmond exclaimed,
“Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just;And he but naked, tho’ lock’d up in steel,Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.”
“Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just;And he but naked, tho’ lock’d up in steel,Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.”
“I fell into this damned place through your neglect in leaving the trap door open, you bloody and devouring boar,”—eyeing him all the while with a glance that seemed to say, “If I thought you wholesome, I’d turn cannibal.”
The bumkin, however, took no further notice of it than to assure him, if he did not presently take to his heels, he would toss him out on the prongs of his fork.
O! what a field for fancy did this threat open to his susceptible mind! The tattered hat of the unceremonious gardener was converted into a coronet of snakes that reared their threatening crests and hissed furiously at the astonished hero. His ruddy face assumed the Gorgon’s look, turning him almost into stone. The weapon in his hand grew fiery red, and for a foot there seemed a cloven hoof.
An attempted application of the torturing steelhowever, gave motion to his limbs;—away he scampered up the steep ascent, not daring to turn a solitary glance behind, until he reached the spot from whence he fell.
This accident conjured up a train of reflections upon the vanity of human wishes! “Alas!” exclaimed he, “it is but a few minutes since I fancied myself a hero at the head of a victorious army, before which thousands would turn and fly, or grimly bite the dust; and now I find myself a wretched thing! routed by a base born hind with a muck fork in his hand! Oh! vile disgrace! I only wish that fellow may see me on the boards to-morrow night—I’ll frown him into a liquid.”
Upon the night of this eventful morning the stage-struck Triptolemus had very unquiet dreams; his head was filled, he said, with a chaotic mass of indistinct and indescribable objects. The last thought he had while awake was how he should look when dressed as the gallant Richmond;—and having settled that point to his own satisfaction, he resigned himself to
“Sweet Nature’s second course.”
“Sweet Nature’s second course.”
He waves aloft his glittering steel—he spurs hiscoal black charger to the field.—Forward! he cries—and the hostile ranks advance in terrible array, inspired by their heroic leader! All then becomes hubbub, turmoil and confusion, higglety pigglety, up and down, slash away work. He meets the tyrant king—fiercely they struggle for the mastery—slap bang go their battle axes; when suddenly a number of shadowy forms, with blood-red cabbage-heads, encircle the enfuriated pair, yelling and dancing at the white-rose king;—the gallant Richmond staggers beneath the prowess of his vigorous opponent, and half believes the field is lost, when through the spectre group a headless horseman breaks with furious speed.—’Tis Buckingham!—he waves his gory head aloft in his red hand, and as Tydides whirled the fragment of a rock upon his foe, even with such fury flung the shade his head, full upon the visage of his fated Richard;—he falls—the shadows vanish with loud cries of joy! when suddenly a dreadful blow is dealt upon the temples of the conquering Richmond;—the chains of sleep are broken, and Triptolemus lies stretched upon the floor.
He arose confused; he pondered upon his dream, rubbed his bruised forehead, and beganconclusions from the visions of the night. These proving satisfactory, he descended to the breakfast parlour, inwardly exclaiming,
“May good digestion wait on appetite.”
“May good digestion wait on appetite.”
The rehearsal in the morning gave additional confidence, the manager having pronounced it a very promising specimen of his ability.
Night came—and he was at his post three hours before his presence would be required upon the stage. His hair, of which he had a great profusion, was twisted into innumerable curls by a one-eyed frizzeur who received a payment of twelve pence per night from the manager for decorating the heads of his talented performers; his limbs were cased in the warlike habiliments of the 15th century, which (with the trifling inconvenience, occasioned by their being made for a person of nearly double his dimensions some twenty years before, and the few dilapidations they had received from the numberless falls, thwacks, rents, etc. during their long and faithful servitude) gave him the appearance of a warrior of some personal endowments. The helmet was peculiarly formed, resembling that worn inthe 14th century; for this appendage to the son of Mars had been neglected until the very last moment, when it was supposed to be impossible to procure one; but Triptolemus, ever fertile in resources, seized upon a shining tin saucepan, in which the Duke of Buckingham had brought some barley water to the theatre for the purpose of clearing his voice, emptied its contents, and having divested it of its handle, made of it an admirable completion to his costume. At the end of the first act, he walked, with all the self possession of a veteran stager, into an apartment called the green-room, but which exhibited a clear face of white-wash, emblematic of those who frequented its chaste precincts. It was furnished with chairs, stools, and a huge family sofa, evidently the work of the “olden time.” This seemed a seat suited to Triptolemus, puffed out as he was with the pride of his appearance; but unfortunately the light comedian, when playing the part of Doricourt, fell so heavily upon it, in the mad scene, that he made a fatal breach in the bottom, which as yet had not undergone a repair. King Henry the sixth (a short, stout, pompous man, who never moved but one arm in acting, and that with the exact motion of a pumphandle) was seated on one side of the fire place, in an altitude of deep thought. Triptolemus remembered his dream, and was astonished at the close resemblance between the red cabbage head of the shadow and the rubicund visage of the portly personage in the chimney corner. His surprise was the greater for that he had not met this gentleman at the rehearsal, he having sent an apology for his absence, being hotly engaged (as he termed it) inmaking his benefit, i.e. paying his respects to the different taverns in the town, where his merry associates congregated to drink porter, smoke tobacco, and distribute as many tickets as an insinuating address and consummate assurance would enable them to dispose of amongst their boon companions.
The fourth act is over; and Triptolemus experiences a strange sensation rising from the bottom of his abdomen and gradually spreading itself over his whole body!—he feels less valiant than when first he donned the shining helmet (alias saucepan) and fastened the glittering falchion to his mailed side. Ting a ring ting! goes the prompter’s bell! Triptolemus was trembling at his post. The music ceases—the curtain rises—the martial music is played loudly behindthe scenes, and the audience with breathless anxiety await the entrance of the dauntless hero, the brave Earl of Richmond.
The trumpeters have almost split their cheeks,—the troops march on, two and two—the Earl of Oxford then advances, next Sir James Blunt, and then Sir Walter Herbert. Triptolemus who had been advised to appear last, and with a rush to “take the natives by surprise,” as it is termed in theatrical phraseology, now darted forward to the footlights, “swift as an arrow from the Tartar bow.” The applause was deafening, and made him fancy that the gods were at war above him; nor was he much out in his conceit, for a chimney sweeper who had edged himself into the centre of the gallery at that moment, caused such a commotion amongst the goddesses, that they assisted, with their screams, the general uproar, and shouts and cat calls “shook the pond’rous roof.” This state of commotion was too violent to last, and at length silence was obtained, and the hero commenced—
“Thus far into the bowels of the land—”
“Thus far into the bowels of the land—”
Here the figure of the uncivil gardener methis eyes, seated in the front row of the pit, and grinning like a Scotch terrier with a hair-lip. He made a full stop at this apparition! “Have we marched on,” came the word from the prompter—“Have we marched on,”—echoed Oxford. But all was mist before Richmond’s eyes, indignation was in his heart and silence upon his tongue. Unable to utter a word more, with a flourish of his truncheon he made a furious exit. “Have we marched off,” said the gallant Blunt—and stalked off with the whole army (six in number) after his heroic leader. The scene changed for Richard’s entrance.—Shame and fury battledoor’d our hero about with unmerciful rapidity behind the scenes! He split his wooden truncheon upon the scull of an unlucky lamplighter who stood in his way, and then the call boy’s awful voice was heard bidding him prepare for his second scene. This he managed to get through tolerably well, taking especial care to avoid another glance at the gardener’s fatal countenance.
All went on smoothly enough, until the scene where Richard rushes on the stage in the midst of alarums, crying out. “What ho! young Richmond ho!” Here, as ill luck would have it, Richmond could not find hisfighting sword,and his confusion was so great, when Richard again roared out, “’Tis Richard calls!” Richmond rebellowed from behind the scenes, “Call and be d—d,” thinking the actor was taking an unwarrantable liberty in calling for him before so many people in such an authoritative style.
Richard. “I say come forth, and singly face me.”
Richmond, (behind) “What the devil’s the use of my coming, when I can’t find my sword?”
At length, the combatants met, Richmond having picked up a powerful weapon, instead of the short, blunt and harmless sword intended for the encounter. It was keen, long, and pointed, like a lancet—a terrible weapon in unpractised hands.
Richard. “Do you remember the cuts?” (in an undertone, with doubting fear).
Richmond. “Oh, d—n the cuts!” at the same time dealing a blow that laid open the shin of the crook backed tyrant, who, thinking it better to die at once in jest, than to be killed outright in earnest, fell down exclaiming, “Perdition catch thy arm! you’ve cut my leg open!”
Richmond. “Upon my soul, I could’nt help it!”
Richard. “But oh—! the vast renown thou hast acquired—”
This was too much for the audience to bear—“their visible muscles unmasterly grew,” and the champions were mutually discomposed.
Richmond. “What the devil are they laughing at?”
Richard. “At you to be sure, ‘in conquering Richard.’”
Here another burst of merriment broke from the spectators, and Triptolemus, turning his head, to check, with a high tragedy look, their ill timed mirth, beheld, to his horror and dismay, the inveterate gardener standing upon the front bench of the pit, waving his arms like the sails of a windmill, and who no sooner caught a full view of his countenance than he roared out, “I’m blest if it bea’nt he that I turned up wi’ my pitch fork out of the muck heap!”
“All’s over!” exclaimed Richard, and gave up the ghost, with his back turned to the audience, which created a fresh peal of laughter, groans and hisses. Richmond, shockedat the un-Cesarian position of the monarch, strove to obtain silence, while he spoke the tag, by turning him over with his face to the footlights—which he did with his foot, placing Richard’s nose within half an inch of the burning oil, who grinned his disapprobation of such usage, till the audience shrieked with mirth.
“Ring down the curtain, for God’s sake!” shrieked the manager.
“Stop till I’ve spoken the tag!” cried Richmond.
“Ring down for the sake of my nose,” bawled the corpse. Ting a ring ting! went the prompter’s bell, and down fell the curtain, leaving one half of Richard’s body in view of the laughter-weeping spectators, which was at last dragged by the heels from their sight by the indignant Richmond, vowing, he never would again act with so diabolical aRichard.
This story, which amused me exceedingly, was during the recital often interrupted by my hearty bursts of laughter, and beguiled the time admirably, until we arrived at a miserable place calledNew Inn, where we refreshed ourselves with a glass of ale, and proceeded on our journey.
Branching off from the Oswestry road, to the right, we pursued our way to Wittington, beguiling the time with anecdote and song, light hearts and heels carrying us along the road like things of air. Nothing worthy of notice took place until we reached the village of Wittington, and there the first objects that attracted our mutual attention, were two brick houses, perfectly plain in their exterior, upon the front of the first of which was written, in prodigious characters,Search the Scriptures, and upon the second,Remember thou keep holy the Sabbath day, with underneath,Morrison’s pills sold here.
The village is beautifully intersected with trees, and the houses are examples of neatness and simplicity. The people look cheerful and contented; and every shrub or flower which here profusely expands, seems proudly to rejoice and flourish in this charming retreat.
A walk through this village will make the tourist thoroughly acquainted, in his own belief, with the persons who inhabit it, although he never heard the history of one of them, from the rector to the tinker. The first portrait that rises in his imagination is the venerable curate, with contentment beaming in his mild eyes, his silverlocks flowing over his well-brushed thread-bare coat, with snow-white neck-cloth, mended small clothes, black hose and polished shoes, visiting the cottage of some invalid—a lovely girl, scarce sixteen, the rose of the village, who had long been stretched upon a bed of sickness, but now blessed with returning health, seated at the door, the fresh evening air playing with her fair locks, the woodbine clustering over her head, a slight tinge of vermilion spreading on her cheeks, her eyes upraised in pious gratitude to heaven, and to him who prayed beside her, and for her, morning and evening, and who now with grateful heart holds up his hands to the Creator, in thankfulness for her convalescence.
The next object is the village surgeon; a busy, merry, bustling, prying, talkative, little gentleman, who amuses one patient with all the scandal he has been able to pick up about another; but, notwithstanding, a most important person, and people feign illness for the gratification his visits communicate; constant in his morning calls from house to house, he continues to pick up all the flying rumours of the day; and at night is, of course, the object looked up to, in all parties, as the oracle, in whom all thesecrets of the village are deposited, while he is cautious not to commit himself, by imprudent exposures.
Then comes the lawyer, with snuff-coloured riding coat with brass buttons, top-booted, and spurred, who does very well for himself, bydoinghis neighbours in a professional way.
Then come the ladies, who are of course all nature, no art, sweetness, simplicity, and all that; but as I am not going to write a volume upon rural life, I will just give a short description of
WITTINGTON CASTLE.“In ancient days, of high renown,Not always did yon castle frownWith ivy crested brow;Nor were its walls with moss embrowned,Nor hung the lanky weeds aroundThat fringe its ruins now.”Fitz-Gwarine.
WITTINGTON CASTLE.
“In ancient days, of high renown,Not always did yon castle frownWith ivy crested brow;Nor were its walls with moss embrowned,Nor hung the lanky weeds aroundThat fringe its ruins now.”
Fitz-Gwarine.
In the year 843, when Roderick the Great was King of Wales, a British noble, named Ynyr ap Cadfarch, built the Castle of Wittington. He was succeeded by his son Tudor Trevor,whose descendants possessed it for many generations; and many families at this day trace their origin to him.
At the Conquest, Wittington became the property of Pain Peveril, who dying without issue, it was seized by Roger, Earl of Shrewsbury, and passed into the hands of Hugh, his son, who was succeeded by his brother Robert; but he being defeated by Henry I, the castle was restored to the Peverils, in the person of Sir William Peveril, who was a great warrior, and is said to have miraculously recovered from a (supposed)mortal woundby eating the shield of a wild boar. He had a daughter named Mellet, whose exceeding beauty attracted many suitors; but, being of Amazonian mind, she declared she would marry none but the knight who proved himself best and bravest in the field. Her father published this declaration, and promised the Castle of Wittington as her dower. The trial took place at the Peak in Derbyshire, and Guarine de Metz, who had a shield of silver, and a peacock crest, overcame all his rivals, and obtained the beautiful Mellet. His posterity, for nine generations, assumed the name of Fulk, a race of heroes who performed extraordinary feats of arms, and fora full account of which the reader is referred to the history of Wittington, a little book of forty-one pages, by William Davies, L.M.W.S., Head Master of Caernarven School.
The ninth, and last Fulk Fitz Gwarine, died here in his minority, in the reign of Henry IV, and his sister Elizabeth, the heiress to the estates, married Richard Hankfdd, who left his possessions to his only daughter Thomasine, who married Sir William Bourchire, brother to Henry, the first Earl of Essex; and the title of Lord Fitz Warine was given to Sir William, in consequence of his marriage.
John, the third in descent from him, exchanged Wittington with Henry VIII for other landed property. This John was the first Earl of Bath, and his family retained the name of Fitz-Warren until the race became extinct, which took place at the death of Henry, the fifth Earl of Bath. This place was presented by Elizabeth, to Henry Grey Duke of Suffolk, who fortified it in consequence of several crimes imputed to him by the bigot Mary, who granted it to Fitz-Alan, the last Earl of Arundel, who mortgaged it to a number of London citizens, and William Albany, the chief amongst them was appointedsole possessor of it, and by the marriage of whose grand daughter it fell into the hands of Thomas Lloyd Aston Esq. in whose family it now remains.
The castle underwent fortification soon after its original establishment; and must have been alternately in the hands of the Welsh and Saxons in these wars. It is well supplied with spring water, and the moats, and entrenchments surrounding the castle are still discernible. The keep was fortified with five round towers, each 40 feet in diameter and 100 in height, the walls being 12 feet in thickness.—All are now in ruins.
In 1809, a well was discovered in the Keep, at the bottom of which was found a pair of iron fetters for the legs, and a jug, stags’ heads, swords, a head curiously carved, and a number of richly gilt glass bottles. In the trenches there are growing some very fine tall wych trees. The castle is situated in the midst of fertile meadows; and a rapid stream, which a mile above takes a subterranean course, here breaks into light again, amidst fringing poplars, and entering the moat, encompasses the walls, which are richly festooned with ivy, and adorned with wild flowersand woodbines. It there enters the Perry, in the meadows below, which were formerly an extensive lake, and the ancient fosses and entrenchments may be traced to where the lake terminated, at a surprising distance westward, beyond the castle.
The church is a rectory, and was originally designed as a chapel to the castle. It is dedicated to St. John the Baptist. The body of the church was rebuilt in 1806, and in the register are the following curious epitaphs:
March 13, 1766, diedThomas Evans,Parish Clerke, Aged 72.Old Stanhold’s lines or Vicar of Bray.Which he tuned best, ’twas hard to say.Samuel Peate,Of Wittington Castle, diedAged 84.Here lies Governor Peate,Whom no man did hate.At the age of fourscore,And four years more.He pretended to wrestleWith Death for his castle,But was soon out of breath,And surrendered to Death,Who away did him takeAt the eve of our wake,One morn about seven,To keep wake in Heaven.Andrew WilliamswasBorn A.D 1692, and died April 18, 1776.Aged 84.Of which time he lived underThe Aston family, as decoy man, 60 years.Here lies the decoy man, who lived like an otter,Dividing his time betwixt land and water.His hide he oft soaked in the waters of Perry,Whilst Aston old beer his spirits kept cherry.Amphibious his trim, death was puzzled they sayHow to dust to reduce such well moistened clay,So death turned decoy man, and decoyed him to land,Where he fixed his abode till quite dried to the hand.He then found him fitting for crumbling to dust,So here he lies mouldering, as you and I must.
March 13, 1766, diedThomas Evans,Parish Clerke, Aged 72.
Old Stanhold’s lines or Vicar of Bray.Which he tuned best, ’twas hard to say.
Samuel Peate,Of Wittington Castle, diedAged 84.
Here lies Governor Peate,Whom no man did hate.At the age of fourscore,And four years more.He pretended to wrestleWith Death for his castle,But was soon out of breath,And surrendered to Death,Who away did him takeAt the eve of our wake,One morn about seven,To keep wake in Heaven.
Andrew WilliamswasBorn A.D 1692, and died April 18, 1776.Aged 84.Of which time he lived underThe Aston family, as decoy man, 60 years.
Here lies the decoy man, who lived like an otter,Dividing his time betwixt land and water.His hide he oft soaked in the waters of Perry,Whilst Aston old beer his spirits kept cherry.Amphibious his trim, death was puzzled they sayHow to dust to reduce such well moistened clay,So death turned decoy man, and decoyed him to land,Where he fixed his abode till quite dried to the hand.He then found him fitting for crumbling to dust,So here he lies mouldering, as you and I must.
In this lovely village, we put up at a small inn, the Crown, to take luncheon, which wasserved with much civility—cold meat, a cream salad, and a capital Cheshire cheese, with the very best of Shropshire ale. The name of the host I have forgotten, but it is the first inn on the left on entering the village from Shrewsbury. It has a delightful garden attached to it, with grottos and arbours; roses and woodbines distribute their fragrance in prodigal gratuity, and thetout ensemblegives an admirable idea of fairy land.
Chirk—The Aqueduct—The Deserted, a legend—Description of Chirk Castle—Sketch—The Park—Legend of the enchanted Stag—The Vale of Llangollen—Account of the Aqueduct called Pont-y-Cyssyltau—Stanzas for music—Llangollen—The Hand in Hand—A view of the village.
“In Cambria’s noon of story,Ere bright she set in glory,The brave and great in princely stateAll hail’d Chirk Castle walls.With splendid arms returning,The flaring moonbeams burning,Mid armour’s clang the clarions rang,And searched the sounding halls.”SONG BY F. M. DOVASTON, A.M.
“In Cambria’s noon of story,Ere bright she set in glory,The brave and great in princely stateAll hail’d Chirk Castle walls.With splendid arms returning,The flaring moonbeams burning,Mid armour’s clang the clarions rang,And searched the sounding halls.”
SONG BY F. M. DOVASTON, A.M.
Apleasantwalk of six miles brought us to Chirk; agreeably situated upon the northern bank of the river Ceriog, which divides Englandfrom Wales. The village church is dedicated to St. Mary, and is an impropriation belonging to Valle Crucis Abbey, and contains some monuments erected to the memory of the members of the Chirk families. The most interesting is that of the famous Sir Thomas Myddleton. The church-yard is planted with yew trees, and the Hand Inn is a very comfortable house of entertainment.
The aqueduct is the greatlionof this place; consisting of ten arches, the piers of which are sixty-five feet high. The Ellesmere canal is continued across the valley by this beautiful specimen of art, then enters a tunnel 220 yards long; emerging from which it proceeds on its course through the parish, and then enters another tunnel, which having traversed, its waters are transported over the vale of the Dee by the stupendous aqueduct of Pont-y-Cysylltau. The village of Chirk is seven miles from Llangollen, and five from Oswestry, from Knaton six, and from London 171.
“Upon this spot,” said my amusing companion, “a legend was repeated to me, which I thought rather amusing; and, as you say you are a collector of strange stories, I will relate itto you as we pass along, with as much accuracy as my memory will permit.”
Mary Griffith was a tall, raw-boned, bouncing girl, whose skin had felt the influence of nineteen summers: with red ropy hair, which fell in mop-like luxuriance about her face and back, partially hiding two gooseberry eyes, that looked, or seemed to look, in opposite directions. Roger ap Morgan was a stout, sturdy, hard-working peasant: and once, while under the influence of his master’s strong harvest ale, bestowed on Mary such tender melting words, as had never before been addressed to her beauty, and which her unaccustomed ear drank with astonishment and delight. She greedily banqueted on the honey of his tongue, and in short was never so pleased in her life before.
It was remarked, that from this night Mary and Roger were more intimate than ever; and they were therefore looked upon as a couple shortly to be united in the bands of matrimony.
Mary’s charms, however, were not of a nature to be unappreciated by others; and Roger’s friends were exceedingly forward in praising her various perfections, and more especially the beauty of her eyes and face, and the silky softness of her auburn hair, three fibres of which were sufficient to have made an exceeding good twine of tolerable strength.
Roger bore all these bursts of admiration without the slightest tinge of jealousy, and even sometimes, with a good humoured laugh, joined in the jests of his companions. But there is such a thing as over fondness in adoring woman: and Roger began to discover, that if Mary would only love him half as much as she did, he might perhaps have a far greater liking for her than he had; but unfortunately Mary knew no measure in her love. She vowed he should marry her; Roger swore heartily he would not. At length, it became apparent that Mary had yielded up not only her heart but her honour, also, to the too insidious and fascinating Roger. His ingratitude, in refusing to keep his word, and make an honest woman of her, sank deep into her heart. She resolved, however, not to let him off so easily; and determined, if he persisted in denyinghis person, she would at least have some of his goods and chattels.
At this period, a number of baronial laws, although dormant, might still be enforced on occasion, and amongst them was one which furnished Mary with a promising prospect of recompense. It decreed, that in cases of seduction, the injured fair, on making application to the presiding magistrate, was entitled to remuneration by submitting to the following ordeal:—The tail of a three years old bull, the property of the seducer, being well shaven, greased and introduced through a wicker door, if the applicant could, by so treacherous a handle, detain the animal for a certain period with both hands, while two men goaded it to escape, it became hers, by right of conquest, in satisfaction for her lost virtue; and, in case of failure, she forfeited all further claim, and was rewarded for her attempt with so much of the grease and soap as remained in her hands.
Women know no medium in the master-passion: “Where most they love, there most they hate when slighted:”—and so with Molly. All nature seemed to change: the beautiful valley no longer heard the soft murmurings of Roger’s“love breathed vows;” the waters of the Ceriog flowed on without a rival sound; and Molly vowed vengeance amid their peaceful banks, where once she swore eternal love and constancy.
One morning after a long expostulation, with her inconstant, she summoned him before the magistrate of the district, and, accompanied by her friends, demanded the ordeal, which was the right, from time immemorial, of the victims of seduction and desertion. The magistrate, being a lover of old laws and customs, and also somewhat of a humorist, readily acceded to her wishes, and the following morning was appointed for the accomplishment of her vengeance, verifying the Welsh proverb—“Gnawd rhygas wedi rhysere.” Common is extreme hate after extreme fondness.
This was woful intelligence for Roger, whose farming stock consisted of an only cow, which was sentenced to be substituted for thebull, which the original act specified should be liable to confiscation. This cow was the chief source of his livelihood; her butter furnished him with the means of procuring clothes, and other necessaries, and the skimmed milk, a pleasant beverageto wash down his vegetable fare—for animal food was a stranger to the table of Roger, as it was indeed to almost all the peasantry of the country, except upon days of rejoicing, viz. marriages and funerals, when friends and relations clubbed together to furnish a sumptuous meal for the assembled guests. Still, however, he resolved to hazard this severe loss, rather than be encumbered with a wife, whose industry and affection were but a poor compensation for the defects of her person and conversation.
On the following day, the peaceful inhabitants of this lovely spot were startled from their various occupations by a loud shout which issued from the thick woods of the vale, and then
“There rose so wild a yellFrom out yon dark and hollow dell,As all the fiends from heaven that fellHad pealed the banner cry of hell.”
“There rose so wild a yellFrom out yon dark and hollow dell,As all the fiends from heaven that fellHad pealed the banner cry of hell.”
The clamour was raised by the revilings of Roger’s friends against Mary, and Mary’s friends against Roger, as the object of interest (Roger’s cow) approached the dwelling of the deceived and neglected fair one, who mounted astride upon its back, turned her fierce glances orbenignant smiles, upon her enemies or friends, as they alternately hooted and hurrahed her.
Mary’s mother, an ancient gammer, whose sun-tanned skin seemed, as Shakspeare has it, capable of
“Keeping out water a long while,”
“Keeping out water a long while,”
armed with a branch of tough ash, was urging the progress of the beast, and at every push she made, a yell of indignation burst from the opposite party, which was answered by a shout of exultation from the friends of Mary. At length the barber, one Gryffyd, was called on to lend his aid, which he did, in a masterly manner by lathering, and shaving the beast’s tail of every hair that adorned it, from the insertion to the tuft, and afterwards greasing and soaping it thoroughly. Mary eyed it, meanwhile, as though she longed to convert it into soup.
These preparations being completed, Mary addressed her false-hearted swain, and even then, generously offered to give up the chance if he would repent and make her an honest woman. This noble proposition excited murmurs of applause.But all in vain,—Roger remained inexorable.
“Then may I never be married,” cried she, “if ever you take your cow home again!”
“That’s yet to be tried,” cried Roger.
Molly then bared her brawny arms, and held up her ten fingers—as much as to say, “Let her escape my grip if she can!”—and, with a countenance flashing anger and resolution, she took her station at the wicket, “screwed up to the sticking point,” and resolved to “stand the hazard of the die.”
With the grasp of a vice, she seized the pendant ornament; and now it was pull cow, pull Molly!—for the two sturdy brothers of Roger belaboured the animal most unmercifully.
“Hold your own!” shrieked Mary’s mother.
“Go it, you old devil!” cried the brothers of Roger, as they thrashed and goaded the poor cow. Still with heroic firmness Mary kept her hold.
“But who can rule the uncertain chance of war?”
“But who can rule the uncertain chance of war?”
The period of detention had nearly arrived;—half a minute more, and Mary would be victorious—her vengeance complete—and Roger quite undone!—when lo! the tortured animal leapedsuddenly from the wicket—and Mary, wretched Mary!—fell upon her brawny back, with the cow’s tail extended in her hands!—’Twas all the spoil her valiant attempt had left her!—Twisting and capering, the beast was seen speeding its way to Roger’s well known home;—and
“Thus was she (poor Molly)!Of cow, of virtue, everything, bereft.”
“Thus was she (poor Molly)!Of cow, of virtue, everything, bereft.”
It was rumoured that foul play had been committed by Roger’s brothers; and that a stick, with a sharp instrument at the end of it, had caused the catastrophe;—but, as there was no means of ascertaining the fact, the affair dropped.
A rustic bard, who had been hospitably received in Mary’s dwelling, presented to her the following Lament, which he composed, in gratitude, for her consolation.
LAMENT.Oh mournful day! oh mournful day!Base Roger’s cow has run away,And left poor Molly to bewailThe sorrows she cannotre-tail.The grateful cabbage, greens, and leekHer hands have reared, could they but speak,Would thus hold converse with the ground,Which daily her attention found.“Oh mother earth, how hard you get,Since Molly’s left to pine and fret;You drain our tops, our bottoms pinch,We cannot grow another inch!“Your bed, so lately soft and warm,To stony hardness you transform;If ’tis for Molly this you do,Oh think of leek and cabbage too!”“My children,” then said mother earth,“I ever loved ye from your birth;But know that I, as well as you,Am doomed to pine and suffer too.“And if your bottoms feel uneasy,’Tis not from want of will to please ye;And if your green tops droop and pine,’Tis not from any fault of mine.“For I am thirsting for a sup,And Molly never stirs me up.Forsaken love hath made her sore—She cultivates the ground no more!”Oh mournful day! oh mournful day!Base Roger’s cow has run away,And left poor Molly to bewailThe sorrows she cannotre-tail!
LAMENT.
Oh mournful day! oh mournful day!Base Roger’s cow has run away,And left poor Molly to bewailThe sorrows she cannotre-tail.
The grateful cabbage, greens, and leekHer hands have reared, could they but speak,Would thus hold converse with the ground,Which daily her attention found.
“Oh mother earth, how hard you get,Since Molly’s left to pine and fret;You drain our tops, our bottoms pinch,We cannot grow another inch!
“Your bed, so lately soft and warm,To stony hardness you transform;If ’tis for Molly this you do,Oh think of leek and cabbage too!”
“My children,” then said mother earth,“I ever loved ye from your birth;But know that I, as well as you,Am doomed to pine and suffer too.
“And if your bottoms feel uneasy,’Tis not from want of will to please ye;And if your green tops droop and pine,’Tis not from any fault of mine.
“For I am thirsting for a sup,And Molly never stirs me up.Forsaken love hath made her sore—She cultivates the ground no more!”
Oh mournful day! oh mournful day!Base Roger’s cow has run away,And left poor Molly to bewailThe sorrows she cannotre-tail!
After proceeding about a mile and a half on the Llangollen road, we turned off, to the left, upa lane, which led us to the noble domain of Mrs. Middleton Biddulph.
Is delightfully situated on the spacious domain, spreading over the summit of, what would be deemed, by a southern, a lofty mountain, but which is here only designated a hill, projecting from the range of Berwyn mountains; and is well calculated to recall the stories of the days of old, when flourished
“The good old rule, the simple plan,That they should take who have the power,And they should keep who can.”
“The good old rule, the simple plan,That they should take who have the power,And they should keep who can.”
Chirk Castle
It is built of solid stone; and the ivy, mantling over the walls, gives them an appearance of solemnity and grandeur, peculiarly interesting. It is quadrangular, and is strengthened by five massive towers, one at each corner, and the fifth projecting from the principal front, through which is a lofty entrance into the court-yard, 165 feet in length, and 100 feet in breadth, surrounded on every side by noble suites of apartments. The picture gallery measures 100 feet in length, by twenty-two in breadth; and contains some very excellent paintings, and severalportraits of the Middleton family. Amongst the latter is that of Sir Thomas Middleton, who defended himself gallantly against the forces of Cromwell, and was rewarded for his loyalty by Charles II, who granted him £30,000 for the loss he had sustained, besides many valuable presents; amongst others, a cabinet, which is shewn in the gallery, valued at £7,000, richly ornamented with silver; in various compartments of which are paintings, said to have been executed by Rubens. The monarch offered to elevate Sir Thomas to the peerage, which he declined.
The walls of the castle are eighteen feet in thickness; but sleeping and other apartments have been cut into them, for the accommodation of the family.
The celebrated picture of Pystil Rhaidar, in the dining-room, shows that noble waterfall tumbling into thesea,where several ships are quietly riding at anchor. “Pystil Rhaidar,”i.e.“The spout of the Cataract,” is considered the largest fall in Wales. In the valley of Mochnant, about four miles from the village, the river falls over an almost perpendicular rock, 240 feet high; thence rushing furiously under a natural arch towards the bottom, it plunges into a deep black pool, overhung with impervious shaggy wood.
The story of the artist’s introducing the ocean with ships, is rather curious. He was a foreigner, and but little acquainted with the English language; and when he had completed the picture, one of the persons to whom it was first shown observed, that “a fewsheepplaced near the foot of the fall would be a great improvement.” Misunderstandingsheepforship, his amazement was extreme. He, however, took the picture to his easel, and introducedshipswith the necessary element to float them! A mistake so humorous determined the purchaser to allow of no further alteration.
The present building was completed in two years. The first stone being laid in the year 1011, and in 1013 the castle frowned defiance to the foe.
It was built by Roger Mortimer, Earl of Wigmore, as a stronghold to defend him from the just vengeance he had created by the murder of the sons of Gryffydd ap Madoc, to whom he was appointed guardian, in conjunction with John, Earl of Warren, in the hope of inheriting their joint estates. Mortimer was to seize upon Nanheuddwg and Chirk, the property of the youngest; and Warren upon the lands of Broomfield, Yale, and Dinas Bran, belonging to the eldest. Travellers should not neglect to visit this noble specimen of warlike architecture. Itspicture gallery and dungeon will, in their different styles, excite admiration.
On the foundation of the present castle anciently stood Castle Crogen; and the territory around bore the name of Tref-y-Waun, the property of the lords of Dinas Bran, and continued in their possession up to the death of Gryffydd ap Madoc, in the reign of Edward the First.
The view from the highlands of the park is very extensive, commanding a prospect of seventeen different counties. “The ground upon which we now stand,” said my companion, “is remarkable for a melancholy circumstance, which caused much grief and sorrow in the castle and its neighbourhood. The story of Owen-ap-Mylton and Mary Fuller will perhaps interest you, as it gave a name to this part of the estate, which it still retains, ‘The Black Park.’”
In a poor hut, which formerly stood upon the site of a few cottages, upon the right of the lane leading to the castle from the high road, lived an aged woman, who kept no society, and was considered, from her reservedhabits, drooping gait, and smoke-dried visage, to have strange dealings with the Evil One; and upon whom the neighbours looked with fear and trembling, whenever they met her in the evening twilight, or when
“— the morn in russet mantle clad,Walk’do’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.”
“— the morn in russet mantle clad,Walk’do’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.”
Her patch of ground she cultivated without help from any; and no one knew by what means she obtained clothing, as her garden stock only consisted of a few eatables, which she could ill afford to part with for wool to supply her spinning wheel; and yet her hose were good and clean, and her woollen petticoat and russet gown well fitted to endure the weather’s extremes. Strange stories were, however, reported respecting her, as it was said she had come from the Devil’s Peak in Derbyshire, where she had the credit of being a witch, and was nearly apprehended, upon a special order from King James himself, by the officers of justice, who, when they would have laid hands upon her, were astonished to find that they had seized each other, she having vanished suddenly from betwixt them, and, on the same day, it was said, appeared at Chirk Castle, offering to pay a halfyear’s rent in advance for the little hut, which was then to let, by the hedge-side in the lane, and which the steward accepted. She regularly, afterwards paid in advance; but none could tell how she came by the money, and the gossips reviled her as a limb of the Devil. This absurd notion obtained for her the odium of having performed a principal part in the following simple and melancholy tale.
Owen, the ranger, was a tall, handsome, light-hearted, well-meaning lad, as any in the country, much esteemed amongst his associates, and admired by all the lasses from Chirk to Llangollen, from whom he had selected Mary Fuller for his bride, a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired, pretty lass, who lived as servant in the castle.
Owen’s cottage, situated where now stands a handsome house, was a neat building, consisting of four rooms; it was thatched, and the interior was adorned with implements of the chase. It commanded a pleasant and romantic prospect; the view down the valley being extremely picturesque. Upon the trunk of an elm tree, the stump of which is almost all that time has spared, are still to be traced, although faintly discernible, the widely expanded initials, O. M. and M. F. which in former days were doubtless deeply cut in its bark. It was the favourite tree of Owenand Mary; and beneath its spreading branches they used to sit many a moonlight evening, and whisper rustic vows of constancy and truth.
One night, as they were walking, with arms clasped round each other’s waist, near the hut of the old strange woman, they were surprised at beholding her patting a noble stag, which had strayed from the park, and which seemed fond of his new acquaintance, for it licked her face and capered before her, and put its mouth close to her ear, while she continued to pat him with her hand, and speak to him in a language totally unknown to the peasantry. Owen, enraged at seeing one whom he considered a witch, seducing one of his noblest stags from the park, raised his cross-bow and shook his head at her, as if to intimate that he would shoot her, should she dare to fondle the deer again. The old beldame, frightened at his looks and gestures, retreated into her hut, but shook her hand at him in a threatening manner; while the stag, bounding suddenly from her door, made towards the park, like lightning, and leaping the high fence, began to browze as usual on its native pasture. Mary noticed the look and threatening action of the old woman with fear, and for sometime they continued their walk in silence, neither being anxious tospeakupon the subject, but both unabletothinkof any thing else. At length, when they reached the bottom of the lane, and turned into the high road (which at this period was rough and only used by horsemen and foot passengers who were dreadfully inconvenienced by the state it was suffered to remain in), the cloud that hung over their spirits began to disperse itself, and Owen, eager to resume the theme which the appearance of the old woman had interrupted, again spoke of their approaching marriage and the proposed arrangements he had formed. Mary listened with attention, for only one day was to intervene before the happy morning was to open on their joys.
Owen informed her that his master had promised him the finest buck he could kill in the park, and a couple of barrels of his old October, to regale his friends and guests; he had likewise, he said, presented him with a new bed and furniture, fit for a baron to lie upon, and large enough for six to sleep in! Mary was happy, and Owen more animated, as he spoke of the bounty of his gracious master. Mary, eager to enumerate the presents she had received, began the catalogue of articles necessary for their domestic economy and comfort, and had nearly ran through the names of fifty by the time they arrived at her cottage door, which was the signalfor parting, and with many a kiss and promise of meeting again early in the morning, the lovers separated.
Owen went whistling along the road with a light heart, in fond anticipation of future felicity, when suddenly, as he turned into the dark lane, upon his way to his own lodge, he was startled by the appearance of a dark form, with glaring eyes of fire, squatted upon the trunk of an old alder tree, that had been blasted by the lightning a few days before; and an unearthlymew! broke from its lips; and it spat a quantity of saliva in his face. Hot, hot, and burning, seemed the filthy rheum! A low growl increased his terrors; and a wild squall gave him the speed of a deer, as he darted along the dark and narrow lane, his hair standing on end. When he had reached the solitary’s door, he saw her seated by her iron pot, stirring the contents with the handle of a broom, while the glare from the crackling fagot shot frequent but transient streams of light upon her time-worn visage. Being now more convinced than ever that sorcery was at work, he redoubled his speed, and heated with fright and fear, reached his welcome home, where he sank breathless into a chair in the chimney corner.
Strange dreams afflicted him during the night; and he arose at daybreak feverish and unrefreshed.The usual summons at the door was given by his fellow ranger, who, upon being admitted, presented him with a venison pasty, on which he felt his courage and appetite rapidly returning. A second friend brought a flagon of wine from the kind rector of the village; a third brought a quarter of mountain lamb; a fourth the haunch of a well fatted kid; and many other tokens of kindness from his neighbours entirely banished the memory of the disagreeables of the preceding night, and universal smiles and congratulations ushered in the merry morning.
Mary’s friends, meanwhile, were no less anxious to evince their regard for her; and presents poured in from all parts of the neighbourhood, from warm hearted and considerate well-wishers relations and acquaintances, in consideration of the happy morrow which was to unite two beings universally respected and beloved. There was a happy congregation in the valley of Chirk, upon the evening previous to the appointed bridal morn. The minstrel struck up his liveliest notes; the maidens danced joyfully; and even grand-sires and their dames exerted themselves in the dance, evincing that though time had somewhat burthened their bodies, their “hearts were all light and merry.”
Evening at length drew near to a close, and the shadows of the mountains spreading over the peaceful valley, gave signal to depart. It was pleasing to listen to the distant and retiring notes of the minstrel’s harp, and the hum of laughter, echoed from the beetling cliff and dying in the gorge of the Ceriog valley. Sometimes the wild halloo of the mountaineer was heard shouting above the heads of those beneath; until at length only two persons stood upon the sloping sides of the castle hill, with fixed attention, looking in each others face, and with arms entwined around their youthful forms.
There are few who have not felt the power of love: but very few perhaps have stood as these two stood, upon the slope of a dark mountain rock, listening to the parting accents of their friends as they subsided into silence, while beneath them roared the never quiet-waters, brawling through rocky fragments, and shaking the wild tangled shrubs that grew upon their banks; with limpid kisses pure and fresh. And there they paused, and looked, and sighed, and loved, and murmured sweet words of anticipated happiness; when suddenly the sky, serene before, was overcast with clouds, and the wind rushed by them with a fury powerful as unexpected. The night grew darker and darker, and they werenearly half a league from Mary’s house. They cautiously pursued their way through the dew-dripping heather, when presently a light appeared on the opposite side of the valley; and shadowy forms were distinctly seen moving behind it in slow procession. They had reached the spot where the aqueduct now crosses the vale, within a short distance of Mary’s dwelling, but terror prevented them from moving, while the procession with the corpse-light at its head, glided along without a sound, becoming more distinct as it approached within a hundred paces of the spot where the terrified lovers stood almost breathless. Four shadowy, headless figures followed the light, and were succeeded by a hearse, which moved without the aid of horses or creature of any kind to draw or propel it forward, upon which lay extended the form of a man, bloody, as newly slain. Owen fancied he saw a resemblance of himself in that bloody corpse, and the increasing weight of Mary upon his arm, assured him she had likewise recognised the likeness, for she had fainted. With eyes that almost burst from their sockets, he continued to gaze on, and saw, or thought he saw, many of his kind friends weeping, in the long train that followed. The corpse-light still advanced, and he distinctly saw it leading towards the churchyardof the village, where it vanished amongst the old yew trees, and with it the phantoms that made up the procession.
Owen bore his senseless burthen to the cottage, where he acquainted her mother that a sudden fright had caused her to be thus overcome, desiring that she should be put to bed upon the instant, and that when she recovered she might be persuaded, what she had seen was merely the illusion of a dream; and he quitted the cottage with a heavy heart.
The night was a sleepless one both to Mary and to her lover; but with the rising beams of the morning their gloom dispersed; and, as the rays gilded the mountain tops, they were both up, and waiting for the numerous friends of both sexes, that usually, on such occasions, are anxious to be foremost in paying their salutations. The bride’s cottage being of the smallest class, Owen’s was agreed upon to be the place of rendezvous, and a plentiful store of viands was ready for the guests to partake of at an early hour. The gay friends of the preceding evening were seen decorated in their holiday garments, fresh and fair as the cool breeze and the sweetest wild flowers of their native hills, clustering together before their cottages, and tripping in various groups towards Owen’s pleasant dwelling.Eight o’clock in the morning was the time appointed for the ceremony to take place in the little church of Chirk, and all were eager to attend the young couple, and—to eat their breakfast, which on such occasions was far from frugal. Owen’s relatives were all ready mounted at his door, prepared for the wedding hunt, and, when he joined them, away they galloped towards the cottage of Mary. She was seated upon her favourite Merlin, surrounded by her friends, who set up a shout as Owen and his party came in sight. The bridegroom having arrived, and made his claim to Mary, he was refused; and then a mock fight took place between the parties, and sundry thwacks upon the head were given and received in sport. At length, the bride and her kinsmen started off at full speed in the direction of Chirk Castle. The bridegroom following, worse mounted, but eager in the pursuit, shouting for them to stop; until at last the flying party having reached the park, they permitted Owen to overtake them, according to the custom, who then led his bride to the cottage, where everything was in readiness for their reception.
The bride, habited in a snow white dress, with some white heath flowers bound in her braided hair, was the admiration of all. Owen in his new suit, made for the occasion, looked handsomerthan ever. They danced together upon the new mown grass, while Jordan, the minstrel, played his blithest tunes. At length, the party sat down to the repast, and rustic jests were given and returned with glee and good humour; when suddenly, the bridegroom being called aside, Mary took that opportunity to steal away, meaning to run off to the church, and laugh at Owen’s and his friend’s perplexity at her absence, and their astonishment at finding her at the church porch before them.
She was soon missed; and, suspecting it was a trick to perplex them, away the whole party ran in different directions in search of the runaway.
Mary had nearly arrived at the old woman’s cottage when Owen descried her. He had not forgotten the scene of the preceding night, and his heart had some painful misgivings that all was not right when he first missed his bride so suddenly from the breakfast table. Owen shouted and shouted! but the more he exercised his lungs, the faster she made use of her heels, when suddenly the “stag of six,” which he had seen the night before, darted from the old woman’s cottage, and ran furiously at Mary, who turned round and retraced her steps with fear and terror, but with the speed of the wind. Sheflew past Owen, who endeavoured to stop the deer, but all in vain. The interposing trees at times prevented the animal from pursuing, by entangling his branches with the lower boughs; but these impediments seemed only to redouble his fury when he again released himself, and Owen had not yet come up with him, though Mary kept the lead. Other friends now joined in the attempt to drive the creature in another direction, and with hands joined they formed a barrier, shouting and hallooing to frighten the stag as he approached the park; but all in vain; he bounded on more furiously than before, scattering the crowd in every direction. Owen at length overtook the furious stag, and was just in time to succour Mary. His coat, which he had taken off in the race, he dexterously managed to fling over the antlers of the brute, which, falling over its eyes, for a minute confounded the deer, and taking his Mary by the arm, he hurried her away in the direction of the cottage, but not in time to elude the pursuit of the infuriated animal, which having shaken off the blind followed them at full speed. Owen had no means of defence; the stag approached rapidly; he bade Mary continue her speed and reach the cottage, and then, with desperate valour,awaited the attack; in an instant after, he had grasped the horns and was dashed to the ground with violence: he rose again and with a bound leaped upon its back. The creature flung his antlers back, whirled round and round, but still Owen sat immoveable, and new hopes arose in the breasts of his friends, who gathered near and hemmed them round, when suddenly the beast rushed sideways against the trunk of a huge oak, and violently fractured Owen’s leg; but with persevering bravery he still kept his seat. At length, unable to rid itself of its burthen, the creature rolled upon the earth, and in the fall Owen’s right arm was shattered, and his foe once again free. It reared and placed its fore feet on the chest of Owen; and, as he raised himself once more to grapple with his enemy, its pointed antlers struck into his heart, and with a groan he instantly expired, while the fierce animal took to the mountains, and was seen no more.
Mary, who had entered the cottage of the ranger, in the midst of her terrors spoke of the old woman, who she said had bewitched the stag;—but, when her friends reached the door of the hut, and found they could not, by knocking, obtain admission, they broke it open, and found its inmate dead upon the floor. Rumour said that she had infused her spirit into thedeer to revenge the threats of Owen on the preceding night; and her remains were treated with a ferocity which it would be as painful to listen to as to narrate.
Poor Mary never recovered from the shock; and in a few weeks after the mangled remains of her lover were deposited in the church yard of Chirk, the fresh flowers and evergreens were also placed aroundhergrave.
For many years this tribute of friendship was regularly paid to their memories. In summer, flowers of the sweetest perfume breathed their dying odours around their graves, and, in winter, the holly and laurel spread their shining leaves to adorn their final resting place. Time, however, took away by degrees, the kind friends of the ill fated lovers, and no sign now points out the spot where, side by side, they slumber.