CHAPTER IV.

We now got once more into the coach road, and pushed on for Llangollen, leaving Wynstay, the seat of Sir Watkin William Wynn, upon the right. Almost every guide book will furnish the tourist with a description of this costly mansion and its beautiful grounds; but the wild scenery of nature, and the ruins of former grandeur, which yield an inexhaustible fund for contemplation and delight, together with the wild legendsof the peasant or wandering minstrel, which render every spot you tread upon in this country enchanted ground, are more congenial to the feelings of the writer of this little work than all the gorgeous display of modern art and luxury. Therefore Wynstay, with Eaton Hall, the magnificent residence of the Marquis of Westminster, he resigns to those whose tastes are more refined (by luxury) to describe.

Leaving Wynstay on the right, we were conducted along the banks of a beautiful canal (the same that crossed the valley at Chirk) which was here planted with larch and hazel in pleasing variety on either side. On a sudden, an opening in the foliage presented us with a splendid view of the vale of the Dee, with the grand aqueduct stretching from hill to hill and the waters of the river making their way among broken rocks, amid embowering trees, and rolling under the arches of the aqueduct, with that delightful sound which is only heard in mountain scenery.

Seldom had I experienced so delightful a sensation as the present prospect occasioned. All was so calm, so quiet, it seemed indeed “the happy valley.” Shortly after, however, we found that no golden pleasure is entirely free from alloy, for on turning a projection upon theroad, we were nearly stifled by the smoke from a lime furnace, and what was worse, “another and another still succeeded,” resembling a line of batteries blazing and vomiting forth smoke and destruction, while on the opposite mountain an uniform body of iron works were firing away from their tall chimneys, and steadily maintaining the never ceasing conflict.

At length, however, having happily passed these belligerents, my companion led me in triumph into a little public house on the road side, (which overlooked a precipice)the Aqueduct Tavern, the exterior of which promised little better accommodation than is to be met with in an Irish cabin. We entered, nevertheless, and, although the floor was of brick, it was very clean and the household utensils glittered along the walls.

“Pray, gentlemen, walk into the back parlour,” said a comely looking, good natured landlady of about forty-three.

We gladly accepted her invitation, and were agreeably surprised to find a neat room, carpeted, with a sofa, and half a dozen hair-bottomed chairs, and every thing rurally comfortable. The window looked upon the aqueduct, and commanded a beautiful view.

Here I became musical, and hummed “the woodpecker tapping,” to the no small annoyance of my companion, who had stretched himself upon the sofa with the intention, doubtless, of taking a nap after his long walk.

“And I said, if there’s peace to be found in the world,The heart that is humble might hope for it here.”

“And here will I take up my quarters for the night. A glass of gin and water, cold and weak, if you please, Mrs. —, for I am thirsty. Very good, indeed;—now, a sheet of paper, to take down my notes of the day’s ramble. Very good again, Mrs. —, and now if you have good beds you may get us a lamb chop, with some tea, etc. etc. and leave us to enjoy this lovely prospect.”

“No beds, I am sorry to say.”

“No beds, Mrs. —!”

“No, sir, I hope to get some by next summer.”

“Why then, Mrs. —, I am afraid we shall have to proceed to the village. How far is Llangollen from this?”

“Six miles, sir.”

“And it is now—”

“Just six o’clock, sir.”

“Then bring in two screeching hot tumblers of punch, there’s a good lady, and

“Let us take the road.”

Here the trumpet of my companion began to sound; but I thought it would be advisable for him to rise before he became too stiff to resume his walk; therefore, with “yoicks! yoicks!” I startled the heavy god from his eyelids, and informed him of our unfortunate situation.

“It matters but little,” said he; “there is sufficient upon the road to interest us, and perhaps the twilight of such an evening as this is preferable to the morning.”

Having discussed our punch and lighted our cigars, we quitted the comfortable little cottage, and bent our steps towards the aqueduct, intending to cross by it to the opposite side of the vale.

A cigar in the cool of the evening is delightful.

“Glorious tobacco, that from east to westCheers the tar’s labour, and the Turk-man’s rest.”

So sang the Noble Bard, the music of whose lyreis left to charm the race of mankind for ages yet to come.

We soon reached the centre of the aqueduct; it extends from mountain to mountain in length 980 feet; it is sustained by twenty piers, 116 feet in height from the bed of the river Dee, and the span of the arches is forty-five feet.

“Do you observe yon house?” inquired my companion, with a grave air, pointing to a building which seemed to have belonged to some opulent person in times gone by, although it was now in a state of decay. Having replied in the affirmative, he proceeded:—“In that house lived a creature who was called ‘the Pride of the Valley.’ She was the daughter of a rich merchant of Bristol, and was beloved by a poor but honest and well-educated youth, who was, and has been since, a wanderer from his birth. Her christian name was Eveleen; no matter for her father’s. The following verses were written upon her untimely fate:

“In the days of my boyhood, when pleasures pass’d by,Like the fragrance of flowers on morning’s first sigh,In the vale of Llangollen there dwelt a fair roseMore lovely than daybreak, and sweet as its close.Her step was lightAs fays by night:More thrilling her voice than the streamlet that flowsAnd mild as the moonlight and blue as the skyWas the beam and the colour of Eveleen’s eye.“But Eveleen’s friends were of wealthy degree,And tyranny forced her to cross the wide sea.She faded, alas! as she drooped o’er the wave,And died! but no blossom was strewed on her grave.The waters deep,Roll o’er her sleep,And sea-stars now light up her billowy cave;The winds moan above her, and Peris deploreRound the rose of Llangollen, which charms us no more.”

“But Eveleen’s friends were of wealthy degree,And tyranny forced her to cross the wide sea.She faded, alas! as she drooped o’er the wave,And died! but no blossom was strewed on her grave.The waters deep,Roll o’er her sleep,And sea-stars now light up her billowy cave;The winds moan above her, and Peris deploreRound the rose of Llangollen, which charms us no more.”

“She was ordered to the Indies,” he said, vainly endeavouring to hide a tear, which told me the secret of his heart. I know not how it is, love tales are generally a great bore to the listener, but there was something so true, so heartfelt, in that single drop which glistened in the eye of my companion, that if delicacy would have permitted me, I should certainly have taxed him as being the hero of his own tale, and have requested him to give me a more minute relation of the affair.

I never felt the influence of the sublime mingled with the beautiful so deeply as when I stood upon this wonderful work of art; wherever I turned my eyes, the scene was calculated to excite the warmest feelings of admiration. TheDee flowing beneath, shadowed by the rich tints of the summer foliage; the ruined bridge; the dark mountain masses upon either side, patched with gloomy pines, intermingled with the relieving brightness of the graceful larch;—here tracing the lovely blooming heather, there the blasted rock in its naked majesty, and the noble amphitheatre at the extremity of the vale, with a view of the beautiful stream, as it came winding from the opposite point—the twittering of the birds as they prepared their mossy nests for repose, gave a charm to the evening, which can only be felt while witnessing the scene, and exceeds the power of description.

Having crossed the aqueduct, we proceeded by the left bank of the canal, passing a forge that nearly stifled us with gaseous smoke, along a pathway made of cinders and small coal, the refuse of the foundry. Trees of every description hung over our heads, and sloped down a deep declivity to the margin of the Dee, while on the opposite bank the mountain frowned above us. The partial glances we obtained of the vale through the woods, discovered scenes which the artist’s fancy might vainly attempt to equal. The water-flies, darting along the surface of the canal, and leaving long streaks of lightbehind them in myriad flashes, likewise engaged our attention; and we walked on in contemplative silence, my mind full of the crowd of natural beauties that surrounded me; while my companion seemed rapt in reflections upon the past—sometimes pausing to gaze upon a drooping willow, at others scanning a majestic oak that grew apart from the rest of the waving multitude, as if recollections of a painful nature crossed his mind.

At length, we reached the bridge of Llangollen, where the river is seen to great advantage, tumbling over its rocky bed, and rushing beneath the dark shelter of the overhanging trees. The village is small, and contains three respectable inns; viz.: the Hand, at which we stopped by the advice of my companion, the King’s Head, and the Royal Hotel. We were shewn into a very good parlour, and, after ordering a tea and supper dinner, my friend, somewhat exhausted by the day’s march, flung himself once more upon a sofa, while I resumed my journal. Supper or dinner, or whatever it may be termed being over, inquiries were made about our bed rooms.

Llangollen

“Your bed, sir, is made over the way.”

“Over the way!”

“Yes; my mistress has but one bed unoccupied, and she thought you would resign that to the elderly gentleman.”

“Oh certainly, my good girl; and who is to guide me ‘over the way,’ eh! for it’s as dark as Erebus?”

“Oh, sir, John, the ostler. Here, John! John!”

And away went the girl. I confess I have a strong aversion, after having taken off my boots, put on my slippers, and made up my mind to be comfortable for the night, to be obliged to walk some hundred yards from the parlour fireside, across or along a damp street, in a dark night, to my bedchamber; chilling work it is. At length, however, the deed was done, and I was shewn into a bedroom, where the murmurs of the flowing Dee were distinctly heard beneath the window. I felt cold and uncomfortable.

“Here am I, then,” said I, soliloquizing, as I pressed the pillow, “here am I, at length, in the vale of Llangollen—in the village of Llangollen! the spot which I have so often longed to visit!

“Flow on, thou shining river!”

And how fortunate, too, to meet with such anagreeable old gentleman!—and that Bristol merchant’s daughter, poor girl!—and that old witch!—corpse-light!—greased cow’s tail!—and, in a few moments, I sank soundly to sleep.

Waking prospect—Plas Newydd and the grounds—Lines written at the font—Castle Dinas Bran—Legend of Mick Mallow—View of the Castle—Legend of the Minstrel Fay—Original Air—Festival.

“I crossed in its beauty the Dee’s druid water,The waves as I passed rippled lowly and lone,For the brave on their borders had perished in slaughter,The noble were banished, the gifted were gone.”W. WIFFEN.

W. WIFFEN.

Iwasdreaming of home, and happiness, and a thousand lovely things, when I was awakened by my new acquaintance, who stood before me dressed for a sturdy walk, with a glass of brandy and milk in his hand, which he advised me to finish before I quitted my room. I however, contented myself with tasting it, and returning him the remainder, which he quaffed off withthe alacrity of one who thought example was better than precept.

“A lovely morning,” said Triptolemus, rubbing his hands with much delight; “come, bustle, bustle, my young friend; you are not in London, now. Permit me to open the lattice; you will find no perfume at your chamber window in town like this;” and, as he spoke, he flung open the casement, and a rush of fragrance poured into the room from hundreds of roses that clustered upon the wall without. It was a draught of delight which far surpassed the brandy and milk, in my estimation; nor was my friend at all deficient in praising its sweetness, for, taking a long breath, he stood, for a moment, with his mouth wide open, and then sent forth a sigh, long enough to form a bridge over the river for the fairies to cross upon.

“Shall we breakfast before we set out upon our ramble? I think we had better give orders for it, and visit the cottage where Lady Elinor Butler and Miss Ponsonby so long resided, while it is preparing.”

This being agreed to, we crossed over to the Hand Inn, and gave directions for a breakfast, that would enable us to undergo the subsequent fatigue with cheerfulness; and then struck into the road for Plas Newydd. This memorablelittle dwelling is pleasantly situated upon a rising knoll, and commands a delightful prospect of mountain scenery.

The front of the cottage is ornamented with an oaken palisade, curiously carved with grotesque figures, giving a very tasty and aristocratic appearance to the building. At the back of the house is a neat grass plot, with a birdcote, where the robins find a grateful shelter in the winter season, and where the ladies fed them every morning. It is surrounded with a fence of evergreens. From thence, the gardener, who is still retained upon the grounds, conducted us under an archway, to a very pleasant and winding path, which leads to a well stocked fruit garden. We then descended by a shady walk, arched over with tall trees, to the primrose vale, through which a refreshing stream rushes over rocks, where the sun but rarely gilds it with its beams. It is a delightful cool retreat, and well calculated to awaken the dormant spirit of poesy, in any heart where it had ever deigned to dwell. We passed over a rustic bridge which led us to the veranda, from which we had a fine view of the valley of Cewynn and the Pegwerm mountains; and then proceeding a little farther up the glen, we seated ourselves opposite a most picturesque font, brought hither from the ruinsof Valle Crucis, by the late proprietors of this spot. It is enclosed in a small arched niche, and supplied with the purest water from a murmuring rill, which falls in a thin stream into the bowl, a draught from which is an exquisite treat—forwaterdrinkers.

Font in the grounds of Plas Newydd

Drink, gentle pilgrim, from the well,Thus sacred in this hollow dell!Drink deep!—yet ere the yearning lipTouches the draught it longs to sip,Pray for the souls of those who gaveThis font that holds the limpid wave!—This holy font, which lay o’erthrownMid Valle Crucis’ shadows brown,And which the hands of holy menHave blest, but ne’er can bless again!Drink, happy pilgrim, drink and pray,At morning dawn or twilight grey,—Pray for the souls of those who gaveThis font, that holds the limpid wave!

The flower garden is laid out with great taste; and the little circular dairy, sunk in the ground, on the left at the front entrance, affords a most pleasing and picturesque effect. Altogether, it is a place where any person, wearied with thebustle of society, would willingly fly for refuge, and find repose.

After rewarding the gardener for his attention in shewing us the retreat, we returned, with good appetites, to do justice to the fare provided by our host of the Hand. And here I was first destined to hear the sounds of the Welsh harp. As we discussed our fare, the harper in the hall played up his liveliest tunes. There was not an original Welsh air in the whole collection; for it consisted of all the popular songs that had been bawled about the streets of London for the last three years; and though probably new to the ears of the dwellers in this secluded valley, were to me anything but gratifying. I sent out the waiter, therefore, requesting the minstrel to play a few of his national melodies; when he immediately commenced an air, to which I have heard a song, I think of old Charles Dibdin’s, called “The Tortoise-shell Tom Cat.” After a second attempt, I gave the thing up as hopeless, and was obliged to content myself with the anticipation of hearing some Welsh airs when I returned to London, as they seemed to be exiled from their native valleys.

Breakfast being despatched, we slung our pistols,i.e.leathern bottles, filled witheau de vie, to our sides, and started to view the ruins of DinasBran, an ancient fortress, upon the summit of a conical mountain, which forms the principal feature of this portion of the vale, and is indeed a striking object, from almost every part of the neighbourhood. The ascent begins near the foot of the bridge opposite to the town.

As we passed along the street, we perceived the following notice pasted upon the gable of a house:

“The Annual Festival of the Llangollen and Llandysilio Female Club will be held, as usual, at the Hand Inn gardens, on Tuesday, 27th of June. The members will walk in procession to church, exactly at three o’clock, &c., &c.”

“This festival,” said my companion, “is well worthy of notice. The promoters of this valuable institution are Mrs. Cunluff, and Mrs. Ayton, the rector’s wife. It was formed for the support of the aged and afflicted, who have the benefit of food and medical attendance in sickness and calamity, by contributing a trifle out of their weekly wages, when in health and employment.” We had sufficient time to ascend the mountain, and return before the procession quitted the churchyard.

Triptolemus was strongly built, and, being accustomed to rambling amongst the Welsh vales, and over its steepest mountains, far outstrippedme in the ascent, which was by no means easy. We took a zig-zag direction up the hill, which was too precipitate to mount in a direct way, and about half way up I made a pause.

“I wish some one would invent a steam pocket apparatus, for dragging tourists up mountains,” said I, as I seated myself to take breath, upon a mossy knoll.

“The circular hollow, by which you have taken your seat,” said Triptolemus, “is dignified by a legend, which, as you seem to be somewhat fatigued, I will relate to you.”

Mick Mallow was a shepherd lad, a fond narrator of strange stories, and a firm believer in knockers, brownies, and other spirits that are supposed to hover about and under our mountains. He declared that one night, as he sat quietly meditating what part of the mountain he should select for his bed, he was startled by hearing a tinkling sound near him, and raising his head, he saw, perched upon this stone, a little man with a pair of moss breeches, birch-leaf coat, heather-bloom waistcoat, a yellow cap of the blossom of a furze bush, shining stockings, and beetle-wing pumps. Thus equipped, he lookedvery smart; and in his left hand he held a fiddle, while with his right he twanged the strings, and made the hairs of Mick’s head stand on end,

“Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.”

“Hôs da i chwi!” said the little fairy, speaking in Welsh; which means, “good night to you!”

“The same to you,” said Mick, “and many of them.”

“You’re fond of a dance, Mick, I believe, and if you stay here, you’ll have an opportunity of seeing the finest dancers in the world, or out of the world, and I’m the musician!”

“Then where’s your harp?” said Mick, “and what’s that ugly outlandish thing you’ve got under your arm?”

“Oh! it’s my fiddle,” said the little man, “and you shall bear me play it, presently.”

And now Mick saw hundreds of little spirits ascending the mountain; some of them carrying glow-worms in their hands for torches; some dressed in white, some in green, and some in brown. But all the females were in white, and on they came, dancing and singing; but so lightly did they trip, that not a drop of dew was seen to be displaced by their weight; and every one saluted Mick with a “good night to ye, Mick Mallow,” and to every one he made a suitable reply, marvelling how so many welldressed spirits should know him so well; and he was, to say the truth, greatly frightened and astonished at his new acquaintance.

At length the little man, who had invited him to remain where he was, drew his bow thrice across the strings of his instrument and produced such exquisite tones, that Mick opened his eyes still wider, and pricked up his ears with delight. This multitude of spirits had now ranged themselves in fantastic groups, forming altogether a spacious circle round the stone upon which their musician stood, who then waved his fiddle stick, and striking three chords on the fiddle, away they went dancing round and round, slowly at first, and Mick thought Peg Willis, the drover’s daughter, couldn’t hold a candle to any one of them, though she was generally considered the best dancer at any festival for many miles round. Now Mick was fond of a dance himself, and could hardly forbear joining them; but his fears prevented him, for he thought that dancing on a mountain at night, to perhaps the devil’s fiddle, was not the likeliest way to get to heaven. But, when the dance became more spirited, he felt his heels knocking together, and he snapped his fingers and joined in the air with his voice.

“Well done, well done,” cried the little man who played, “come and join in the dance Mick,I’ll warrant you never saw such dancing at any wedding, as you see here!”

“Never! never! never!” cried Mick, and all the company laughed softly, and danced faster and faster.

“Come and join us,” cried they; and Mick rubbed his head, while his heels kept time; at length, he was so delighted by the motions of a fairy, who threw her bright glances at him now and then, that with an irresistable desperation he called out for them to stop, till he got into the centre of them, which he had no sooner done than he roared out, “Now, you old devil, play up Brimstone and Water!”

No sooner had he uttered these words, than the figure of the little man underwent a change! The yellow cap vanished from his head, and a pair of goat’s horns, branched out from his head; his face turned black as soot, his leafy coat, heather-bloom waistcoat and moss breeches, with shining stockings, vanished, and left a black body with a long tail! while his beetle-wing shoes disappeared as suddenly and left nothing but the cloven feet. Mick’s heart was heavy, but his heels were light; horror was in his breast, but mirth was in every motion. The fays assumed a variety of forms, some like goats, others like crows; some changed to beetles and othersto batts! all the varieties of flesh and fowl seemed to be the grand movers of the revel, from the moment he entered the enchanted circle. The dance, at length, became so furious that he could not perceive the forms of the dancers distinctly. The rapidity with which they flew round and round made them resemble a wheel of fire at a white heat. Still he danced on, although he would very willingly have stopped, but his legs capered in spite of his will, while old Nick, in the centre, continued to play with unceasing vigour and seemingly much diverted with the entertainment.

Mick’s master, an honest early-rising man, roamed up the mountain, at break of day, to view his sheep and goats, which he saw quietly browsing in various parts, but, on nearing this spot, you may imagine his astonishment, when he beheld his shepherd dancing in that most extraordinary manner; leaping, twisting and turning in every direction; for some time, he stood mute with astonishment. At length, he drew near, and no sooner did Mick perceive his master, than he roared out. “Stop me! stop me! oh master, stop me!” upon which the master came close up to him, and was knocked down by an extra fling of Mick’s leg, as he roared still louder, “Stop me, master, stop me!”

Having recovered his feet, the old man stared quite bewildered and exclaimed, “Why, what in the name of the Virgin!—”

But no sooner had he uttered the word, than the charm was broken, and poor Mick sank senseless to the earth. When sufficiently recovered, he recounted the marvellous tale, and declared that all appeared to him as a dream. But the circle remains, round the edge of the hollow, where the fairies disappeared, which the peasants assert to be the fairy’s foot mark to this day.[107]

We now proceeded on our ascent, which became more difficult, as we approached the summit, and after a little toil we stood by the side of thewell, whose pure waters gave joy to the inhabitants of this ancient fortress many hundred years ago, and still offer a welcome draught to the pilgrim who has sufficient enterprise and perseverance to seek it.

The view from the summit of this mountain is beautiful in the extreme; commanding the vale from east to west, with the widely spreading plains beyond its eastern extremity, and the grand and picturesque mountain scenery which forms the western boundary. Chirk Castle, Wynstay, Valle Crucis and Glyndwrdwy are distinctlyvisible from this elevation, while the romantic Dee is seen winding beneath, in light and shadow beautifully varied by the hills, and the woods that droop over its banks.

Castle Dinas, Bran

Standing amid the ruins of this ancient British fortress, I observed it was surely impossible that a spot so romantic could be without its legends.

“You are right,” said my companion, “and I will relate one of a young lady, who once resided within these walls. That she did live here, and was esteemed very beautiful, there is little reason to doubt, since the Welsh bards have handed her down to posterity.”

My Fawny Vychan was a celebrated beauty of the fourteenth century, and was the inspirer of many a bard’s most admired effusions. She was of the house of Tudor Trevor, and her father Ednyfed Vychan then held the castle, under the noble Earl of Arundel, in the reign of the unfortunate Richard II. Among her numerous admirers was Evan, a youthful bard of great beauty, but of mysterious birth; but her heart was given to a valiant knight, named Howell Einion,the son of Gwalchmai, the son of Meilir, the Lord of Tre Veilir in Anglesea, who was esteemed the greatest ornament of chivalry. He was daring, young and handsome, three qualifications that find grace in the eyes of all ladies, at all periods; but added to these he was a celebrated bard and a fine musician. Evan was gentle, delicate and retiring, and she could only yield him her esteem. Yet nightly did he hover near her casement, and, with the voice of love, pour forth his soul in melody beneath it. One evening, at the close of autumn, she listened, while tears of pity fell from her bright eyes, to the well known voice of Evan.

The breeze had left the Berwyn hills,The dew was on the flower,The bee had sought his honeycomb,The bird was in his bower;When swifter than the mountain gale,And fresh as sparkling dew,My bee, I sought thy honey-home,My bird, to thee I flew!My Alban steed is white with foam,And droops his arched neck;The flood, the mountain, moor, and glen,He cross’d without a check!Oh listen, while my harp I strike,And rouse its sweetest tone,And hear the language of a heart,Which beats for thee alone!Oh, dearest of the mortal race!How peerless must thou be,When spirits quit their happy homes,To love, and gaze on thee!Arise, bright star of beauty, rise!And when from thee I roam,Send forth the lustre of thine eyes,To light me to my home!

My Alban steed is white with foam,And droops his arched neck;The flood, the mountain, moor, and glen,He cross’d without a check!Oh listen, while my harp I strike,And rouse its sweetest tone,And hear the language of a heart,Which beats for thee alone!

Oh, dearest of the mortal race!How peerless must thou be,When spirits quit their happy homes,To love, and gaze on thee!Arise, bright star of beauty, rise!And when from thee I roam,Send forth the lustre of thine eyes,To light me to my home!

Evan, after this touching appeal, remained for some time beneath the window, gazing upwards, in the hope that she would grant him one farewell; but disappointed, he turned sorrowfully to depart, when his progress was arrested, by the sudden grasp of an armed hand, and Einion stood before him. Howell had often observed, that the eyes of the young minstrel filled with tears as he gazed upon the beautiful face of his mistress, and was not pleased with the discovery. His fine eyes, now flashed with anger upon Evan, who returned the glance as haughtily, and, but for the delicate frame of the minstrel, the knight would have revenged himself upon the object of his jealousy. Evan’s eyes were black as jet, his face was femininely fair, and his transparent skin was tinged with that beautiful, but fatal hue, which brightens the cheeks of those already doomed to the consumptive fiend, who flatters while he destroys.

He was slightly formed, but exquisitely moulded, and so light was his footstep, that histread was scarcely heard, so that he obtained the application of the Minstrel Fay.

No one knew his parents, or from whence he came. His dress was of the best though plainest materials of the time; destitute of all the absurdities that marked the costume of the period; and his steed, which brought him to the castle, and bore him away from it again, was of the purest white, and fleeter than any in the baron’s stables.

“Your steed stands in the valley, Minstrel Fay,” said Howel; “descend and vanish on his back, swifter than you came hither, or I shall hurl you from the battlements, and—why!—have I been dreaming!” continued the astonished knight, with an exclamation of disappointment, mingled with fear, as he stood with his arm outstretched and his hand clenched, as though he still retained the minstrel in his hold; instead of whom, it grasped an aspen branch, which, broken by the gripe, he dashed on the ground. Suddenly, an unearthly strain of melody arose from the woody dell, and he distinctly heard the following words:

“One glance from those seraphic eyes,To light me o’er the plain;One silver word to cheer my soul,And I am gone again!”

“What ho!” cried the knight, “Maldor! d’Espard!” Two squires were instantly at his side. “By heaven, witchery is at work, d’Espard! saddle brown Terror. The Minstrel Fay is in the valley, and find him this night I am determined.”

The horse was quickly brought, and, attended by his two followers, he descended the mountain, at a desperate pace, in the direction from whence the sounds proceeded. The whole of that night did he gallop over hills, and through deep glens, in pursuit of Evan; but no trace of him could he find, and at length, wearied and exhausted with fatigue, he returned to Dinas Bran, believing all that he had seen a dream.

At the morning’s meal, he related the story to My Fawny and her father. The venerable lord jested with him upon his sleep-walking, as he termed it, and bade him, “have better thoughts of poor Evan, for,” said he, “our land does not contain a sweeter minstrel, or a finer bard. He is the pride of my hall, and the delight of all my noble friends. The only thing I am inclined to censure him for, is his absence. He must belong to noble blood, for his garb bespeaks him gentle, and his attainments are those of one who has received an education such as few of us can boast.”

“I trust, baron,” said Einion, (a little piqued at this high commendation), “you will allow, he would be loath to enter the lists with me, in mortal encounter; and, for the accomplishments which belong to men of rank, I have laboured to be considered no mean scholar.”

“Why as a knight and bard, I grant you, few can equal Howel ap Einion; at feast and tourney, you ever shine amongst the first of England’s youth,” said the good natured baron; “but, my brave boy, do not dislike poor Howell, because his education has been different from yours.”

“Not I, my lord; I only wish he would not look so meltingly at your daughter.”

My Fawny turned pale, but not from guilt; it was for fear that her lover’s suspicious mind might prove dangerous to the poor youth, of whose hopeless affection she was aware, and vainly regretted. Her lover noticed the change; and so did her father, who instantly said,

“Well, well, to end the dispute about who is most fitted to be my daughter’s husband, I have resolved that of all her suitors, he who shall prove best leaper in the approaching British Olympic at Plas-Gwynn, shall have my daughter’s hand. Will you enter the lists?”

“I will venture to risk my happiness uponthe leap, or upon my success in any one in the whole list of games; and, I doubt not, but love will assist me to bear off the prize. But, should I fail—” said he, in a tone of tenderness, as he took the maiden’s hand, “would My Fawny drop a tear upon my grave?”

The lovely girl lifted her dark eyes to those of her lover’s, and the impetuous knight felt at once assured of her undivided affection.

The intervening days passed rapidly, while costly preparations were made for the games that were to take place at Plas Gwynn.

During this time, Evan was never seen, although Einion often fancied, at the still hour of night, he heard a harp, and the soft voice of the minstrel, near the window of his mistress.

It is sufficient to say that Howell’s belief in his superiority over the rest of the competitors was justly founded; and he won the lady by covering the immense distance of fifty feet at a hop, step, and jump, over the brook called Abernodwydd; in commemoration of which feat three stones, at the precise intervals, were immediately erected on the spot, where they still remain to this day, in a dingle called, “Naid Abernodwydd, orThe Leap of Abernodwydd.”—See Jones’s Bardic Museum, Vol. II.

The games being finished, the lovers returnedto Dinas Bran, and the happy day at length arrived.

Bards of the highest order were seated in the banqueting hall, and minstrels tuned their harps to joy and gratulation; but Evan was not there. The baron sat at the head of the board, his daughter and son-in-law on either hand. And many an anxious wish he felt, for his favourite bard, and many an eager glance did he cast around the illuminated hall, hoping to discover him amongst the crowd; but in vain; and he felt uneasy at his absence. Every guest expressed wonder that he was not there to celebrate so happy an event, and he became the topic of conversation with all assembled.

At length, the time for departure arrived, and the last bard had recited his complimentary verses, when the door was flung open at the lower end of the room, and Evan, his harp hung behind him, with a tottering step advanced towards the upper end of the hall, where the new married couple sat gazing in speechless wonder at his altered form. There was an unearthly expression in his face; the bloom which used to mantle on his cheeks, was no longer there; his eyes were sunk deeply in their sockets, and the vermilion of his lip was turned to ashy paleness. A seat was givenhim; and, without speaking, he placed his harp before him, and touching its strings, a sound of heavenly music swelled up to the lofty roof. None ventured to breathe audibly, while he sang

“My Fawny Vechan! brightest maid,In scarlet robes and gold array’d!My Fawny Vechan! fairest fair,That ever breath’d the mountain air!For thee do spirits pine and fade,As blossoms in the chilling shade,Debarr’d from Phœbus’ genial light,Sink victims to the withering blight.My Fawny Vechan! hear my prayer!Thy lover’s—tho’a child of air!May peace on earth, and bliss above,Wait on the mortal whom I love!My outward form of miseryTells what the spirit feels for thee!Farewell, farewell! no more the prideOf sweet Dwrdwy’s mossy side,In distant vales, I’ll breathe my woes,And seek, ah, vain, vain hope! repose!Ah! cou’d I die, I’d not repine,If Evan’s name might live with thine.”

From the commencement of his song, the figure of Evan became fainter and fainter, and the torches and huge candles that illuminated the ball assumed a dimmer light.The guests, terror stricken, were riveted to their seats; none presumed to speak their fears; and the whole assembly appeared, as they had been transformed, in the positions they occupied while living, into cold marble, so immoveable and inanimate did they seem. On a sudden, the figure of Evan vanished!—The substantial harp falling upon the floor restored the guests to motion; while Einion’s attention was called to the restoration of his lovely bride, who, at the melancholy close of the fairy’s song, had fainted, and still lay insensible in the arms of her father, the baron.

The stone, at the upper end of the banqueting hall, is said to mark the spot upon which, for the last time, was heard the melody of “The Minstrel Fay!”

“A very pretty fable; and now let us return, to witness the procession at Llangollen,” said I.

Having taken refreshment, we proceeded to the church-yard, and stationed ourselves near a monument to the memory of Lady Eleanor Butler, Miss Ponsonby, and their faithful servant, Mrs. Mary Carrol. From this interesting spot, we beheld a novel sight. Two or three hundred villagers had assembled, and were scattered about the churchyard in groups;some, stretched upon their backs, were sleeping on the flat tombstones, their hardy features protected from the scorching rays of the sun by the gay cotton handkerchief or the straw hat; some stood in knots, conversing upon the results likely to take place from petticoat government (for the proclamation had been received only the day previous); others gazing with eager eyes, upon a flight of steps, up which a number of smart village girls, with laughing eyes and ruddy faces, tripped lightly to a doorway, which entering, they, one by one, like shadows, disappeared. Every moment, the cemetery became more crowded, and, as I noticed, principally with the infirm and aged. Before me stood a palsy stricken creature, whose white locks waved about her face at every motion of her feeble head. Then came a form, once, doubtless, erect and handsome, but now by age so bent, that his head found a melancholy parallel with his hips, and a beechen staff supported his debilitated body. Another and another still pressed on, the sick, the lame, thronging to the gay scene, anticipating joy! As they passed, however, my busy fancy led them one by one, into a separate grave, realizing the awful conception of the Dance of Death!

A strange, discordant sound, awakened mefrom my reverie, and, although horribly harsh, I gave it welcome, for it banished a gloomy spirit from my mind. Turning my eyes towards the flight of steps, I saw the girls descending, each decorated with a white shawl with a blue border, and bearing a wand, (it being the symbol and costume of the society), at the top of which were laurel, and laurestinus leaves, intermingled with roses, lillies, etc., etc. The beadle of the parish, who on these occasions is no insignificant personage, was seen bustling about, arranging the form of procession, bringing forward this one, pushing back that, keeping order, and knocking the boys’ hats over their eyes for having approached the lines too closely; while the motley band, in various keys played, “Oh the roast Beef of Old England;” rather mal-à-propos, as I thought, as they were about to enter the church, and hear a sermon which is regularly preached on this day.

The line now stretched to a considerable extent, and the lady patronesses appeared to be much delighted at viewing the busy scene, as they hurried to and fro, with benevolence beaming in their eyes; while old age, and decrepitude, cast away their sorrows and hailed the jocund scene.

All being ready, the rector and his curateplaced themselves in the van, the lady patronesses followed, and to the sound of the inspiring bassoon, drum, keyed bugle, and cracked trumpet, they proceeded by the iron gate, through ranks of happy human beings ranged on either side, like old oaks, young saplings, nettles and pea blossoms, huddled together in “promiscuous alliance.” Having taken a prescribed circuit, they again entered the churchyard by another gate, and passed into the church; when a discourse, very much to the purpose, was given by the rector; after which, they adjourned to the Hand hotel, where they had a tea-total entertainment, and passed the evening in strolling about the gardens, listening to the inimitable band of wind instruments, which brayed out an execrable accompaniment to the exquisite music of the Dee, as it swept beneath them, overshadowed by the drooping foliage of the opposite bank. Altogether, it was a most gratifying sight—for the simple souls were happy.

Valle Crucis—The Abbey—Lines written in the ruins—A loquacious porteress—A view of the Abbey—The pillar of Eliseg—A parting—Road to Corwen—Vale of the Dee—The musical pedestrian—War song—Over the hills and far away—An adventure—Corwen—The Church—College—Cross and Circle—Air Llwyn-own—Route to Landrillo—An old soldier and his son—Village of Landrillo—A fair—Vale of Edeyrnion—Arrival at Bala.

“Fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,Nor let the tuneful lips be dryThat warble Owen’s praise;Whose walls with warlike spoils are hung,And open wide his gates are flung,In Cambria’s peaceful days.“This hour bright is meant for joy,Then fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,That shineth like the sea,Whose azure handles, tipt with gold,Invite the grasp of Britons bold,The sons of Liberty!”From the Welsh of Prince Owen Cyveilog, by R. W.

“Fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,Nor let the tuneful lips be dryThat warble Owen’s praise;Whose walls with warlike spoils are hung,And open wide his gates are flung,In Cambria’s peaceful days.

“This hour bright is meant for joy,Then fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,That shineth like the sea,Whose azure handles, tipt with gold,Invite the grasp of Britons bold,The sons of Liberty!”

From the Welsh of Prince Owen Cyveilog, by R. W.

Onthe following morning, we bade adieu to Llangollen, and proceeded first to Valle Crucis.

Valle Crucis Abbey

Like most abbeys, it is beautifully situated. The monks of old well appreciated the value ofrich lands and clear streams. An old woman received us at the gate, and instantly began to retail her information. “Gryffyd ap Madoc, Lord of Bromfield and Yale, founded this abbey in the year 1200.” There are parts of both church and abbey still remaining; the former was cruciform, and exhibits several styles of architecture. The eastern end is the most ancient; it is adorned by three lancet slips, forming one grand window. The entrance was in the west, under a broad and beautiful window, above which is a smaller one, of a marigold form, decorated with tracery and fret-work, and beneath it may be deciphered the following inscription:

A.D.A.M.D.N.S fecit hoc opus, pace beatâ quiescat Amen.

The cloisters are turned into a farmhouse and offices.

This noble edifice was dismantled by Henry VIII. My companion, feeling desirous to bathe in the clear waters, left me to my contemplations, encompassed by the ruined walls of the abbey, and tall ash trees, which shaded the area of the church. I wandered from thence to the fish pond, which is near to the abbey, and, while my companion was enjoying his ablutions, my muse jogged my arm, and remindedme that some tribute was due from me to this lovely spot. Taking out my pocket book and pencil, I produced the following

Monastic Valle Crucis! while I linger in thy shade,The spirits of the olden time seem moving in the glade;Rebuilt appear thy ruined walls, and thou art strong again,As when the organ through those aisles poured forth its solemn strain.Here reigneth peace and solitude, as if some holy spellStill charmed the blessed region where religion loved to dwell;No music, save the streamlet’s voice, disturbs the deep serene,And breezy sounds sweet murmuring throughout the woodlands green.Oh fallen Valle Crucis! full six hundred years are goneSince the warlike lord of Dinas Bean laid thy foundation stone;And mighty didst thou flourish, till that fell destroyer came,Than mouldering time more ruthless, and of sacrilegious name.Then, holy Valle Crucis! was thy sacred roof thrown down,Thy peaceful inmates scattered, rent the sacerdotal gown;The mournful ivy clustered o’er thy grey and ruined walls,And ash trees sprang, where torches blazed, within thy sainted halls.Hushed are the lips of all who dwelt within that cloistered fane;And holy feet will never press the polished floors again,At morning prayer and vesper hymn, which thrilled thy very stones—Forgotten now those pious ones, and whitened are their bones!Yet ivy’d Valle Crucis! thou art fairer in decayThan all the splendid structures which adorn our modern day;In every mouldering fragment of thy consecrated pileThere’s a charm to all who view thy walls, or tread thy broken aisle.Peace dwell around thee ever! may no heedless hand molestThe solemn bird which builds in thee its ivy-mantled nest,Whose breathings seem the deep-drawn sighs of bosoms fraught with pain,Lamenting the departed, who will ne’er return again.

Here reigneth peace and solitude, as if some holy spellStill charmed the blessed region where religion loved to dwell;No music, save the streamlet’s voice, disturbs the deep serene,And breezy sounds sweet murmuring throughout the woodlands green.

Oh fallen Valle Crucis! full six hundred years are goneSince the warlike lord of Dinas Bean laid thy foundation stone;And mighty didst thou flourish, till that fell destroyer came,Than mouldering time more ruthless, and of sacrilegious name.

Then, holy Valle Crucis! was thy sacred roof thrown down,Thy peaceful inmates scattered, rent the sacerdotal gown;The mournful ivy clustered o’er thy grey and ruined walls,And ash trees sprang, where torches blazed, within thy sainted halls.

Hushed are the lips of all who dwelt within that cloistered fane;And holy feet will never press the polished floors again,At morning prayer and vesper hymn, which thrilled thy very stones—Forgotten now those pious ones, and whitened are their bones!

Yet ivy’d Valle Crucis! thou art fairer in decayThan all the splendid structures which adorn our modern day;In every mouldering fragment of thy consecrated pileThere’s a charm to all who view thy walls, or tread thy broken aisle.

Peace dwell around thee ever! may no heedless hand molestThe solemn bird which builds in thee its ivy-mantled nest,Whose breathings seem the deep-drawn sighs of bosoms fraught with pain,Lamenting the departed, who will ne’er return again.

The porteress of this ancient building is Ann Dale, who has lived in this solitary but delightful spot for two years; and, although a Shropshire woman, has made herself, during that period, sufficiently acquainted with the Welsh language to discourse fluently with the country people, in their native tongue; and has moreover committed to memory everything interesting, relative to the spot where she resides. It is evidently her delight to point out to strangersthe objects most worthy their attention; and her love of the venerable pile has induced her to take spade in hand, and clear away the rubbish that perhaps had for centuries been accumulating round the columns, leaving them clear to their foundations. Time has been over busy with her features; but her limbs are as active as those of a girl of sixteen, and her spirits are as light as her heels.

“Ah, sir!” said she, after enumerating the good offices she had received from the neighbouring gentry, and the friendly feelings of the more humble classes, “I’ve always made it a rule, throughout my life, to be civil to every body. Civility costs nothing, you know, and I’m always surprised to hear people, when they are asked a simple question, if they chance to have a better coat on their backs than the person who addresses them, give an answer as if they were speaking to cattle, or worse brutes, when you know, sir, (approaching the cottage at the head of the pond) we are all the same flesh and blood, (pausing on the second step.) I don’t say but there ought to be distinctions, for we can’t be all gentlefolks, (entering.) But then, where’s the difference, when we are as them that lie in the abbey there? or like these poor bones that I have in a box here, (openingit and displaying some human relics.) They all comed out of the abbey ground, Sir. Why these might be a bishop’s, or a great warrior’s, for aught we know to the contrary. Well, sir, after all, there’s nothing like good common sense. Solomon prayed for good sense, and he had it; and, thank God, I have it, too. Now, sir, come this way (leading back to the margin of the monks’ pond) and I’ll show you something that shows what a thing Providence is. You see that stone jar there, sir—just there in the water; well, sir, you know there are no flies in the winter; so the poor fish would be sorely put about for food, but for Providence. Well, upon that jar I’ve seen thousands and thousands of things like shells and patches of grey moss; and I’ve seen the trout cluster about it, and feed upon ’em often. And, whenever I thinks of that, sir, it brings to my mind the 104th Psalm.”

“What is the name of that mountain, my good lady, to S.E. of the abbey?” I inquired.

“Why that, sir, is called Fron Fawr. It is 1328 feet above the level of the sea, sir.”

I thanked her for her information; and, prompted by an incontrollable appetite, ventured to ask if she could supply us with anything eatable.

“Why, I’m afraid,” said she “that I have nothing that you’ll like, sir; for I’m a poor lone woman, and what suits me, wouldn’t perhaps sit upon your honour’s stomach. But therewerea party here this morning, and they left behind ’em a pork-pie, because the dish got broke, and a piece of apple tart; and I have gotten a piece of oatcake, and a piece of cheese; if you could manage to put up with that, sir, you’re quite welcome.”

Talk of Christmas times, of roast beef and plum pudding! Give me June, with cold pork-pie, apple tart, and cheese, in a summer-house overlooking a monk’s pond, and surrounded by waving woods and lofty trees, in view of the ruined abbey,

“Where monks of oldAs I’ve been toldQuaffed the merry, merry nut brown ale.”

By the time my travelling friend had returned from his bath, the table was furnished with fare calculated to satisfy his appetite, at the expense of pork-pie, tart, etc. Mixing the contents of our united flasks with the pure cool waters of the refreshing spring, inhaling the perfume of Havannah, and making a sofa out of two wooden chairs, we amused ourselves with a retrospectiveview of the scenes we had passed through since we met. It was now twelve o’clock, and, as it was my intention to reach Bala by nightfall, we rose to depart; and with many thanks and kind wishes from the old porteress of Valle Crucis, quitted that interesting ruin, and proceeded to

It stands in a meadow, a short distance from the abbey, and was a memorial of the dead; an improvement on the rude columns of Druidical times, sculptured into form, and surrounded with inscriptions. It is among the first lettered stones that succeed the Meini-Hirion, Meini-Gwyr and Llechan, and stood on a great tumulus, perhaps always environed with wood, according to the custom of the most ancient times, when standing pillars were placed under every green tree.

Pillar of Eliseg

This pillar was erected above a thousand years ago, to the memory of Eliseg, the father of a Prince of Powis, called Rochwel Yscythrog, who met his death at the battle of Chester, in 607. During the civil wars, this pillar was thrown down, and broken, and the shaft which was originally above twelve feet in length, is now only eight. At the suggestion of the Rev. JohnPrice, Bodleian librarian, and great antiquary, Mr. Lloyd, of Trevor Hall, had it placed in its present position.

At this spot, my companion and I were to separate. I felt the approaching loss severely; for where could I expect to find another so amusing and so kind?

“You’ll come and see me at Rhuthyn?” said he. “I have a snug cottage, a good housekeeper, a bed, and as good a glass of port as you will find in the neighbourhood;—promise to visit me at your return.”

I promised not to forget his hospitable invitation, and, with a feeling of regret I never before experienced at quitting a new acquaintance of so short standing, I squeezed his hand—and we parted.

From Valle Crucis Abbey, I proceeded to the banks of the Dee, and crossing the rude bridge over the river struck into the high road to Corwen, and proceeded at a brisk pace. The country became highly interesting. The mountains are lofty; and beneath, upon the right, Glyndwrdwy,the valley of the Dee, discloses its picturesque beauty. This was the property of the celebrated Owen Glyndwr.

The vale is so serpentine that it presents a succession of most exquisite views, and aftera walk of three miles, on looking back, Castle Dinas Bran seems placed upon a lower eminence. The valley of Llangollen may be seen likewise from hence for many miles, terminated by the distant mountains.

After passing the fourth mile stone, the road takes a straight direction; and at this spot I came up with a person who, seated upon the road, was extracting some very tolerable music from one end of his walking cane. He was a tall thin man, with sharp features and large blue eyes. He had on a broad brimmed glazed hat, a blue frock coat, with nankeen pantaloons, short gaiters, and shoes. The rest of his wardrobe was wrapped in a pocket handkerchief; and his name, as I afterwards learnt, was Whiffler.

Upon my approaching him, he withdrew his musical cane from his mouth, and observed that it seemed likely to rain; and, by the misty appearance of the atmosphere before us, I concluded he was right in his observations; for in that direction the country was nearly obscured, while behind us, the sun sent forth his brightest beams upon mountain and stream; though the valleys partly slept in shadow, as he slowly journeyed to his western couch.

“Travelling far, sir?” inquired my new companion.

“At my leisure,” I replied.

“Fine road, this, sir.”

“Capital.”

“Are you fond of music?”

“Passionately.”

This was sufficient encouragement to make my new acquaintance turn his staff once more into an instrument of sound, and he played a wild kind of march, which he assured me was called “The War Tramp of Owen Glyndwr,” the Welsh chieftain, who was so formidable an enemy to Henry IV.—Taking up the idea, I endeavoured to compose some appropriate lines for the air. (See music plate.)[130]

“Have the kindness, sir,” said my companion, “to step out with your left foot at the beginning of the bar, and you will find it excellent marching time.”

I complied with the whimsical request, and he seemed much pleased at my readiness to oblige his humour; for he blew away unceasingly, and I dare say would never have thought of stopping, had I not pointed out a handsome house to him, upon the opposite hill, and requested him to tell me the name of its proprietor.

“Do you mean that semibreve, in the middle of that forest of demi-semi-quavers?”

I laughed at his conceit, and replied in the affirmative.

“Oh! that belongs to Mr. Jones, and is called Llandysilio Hall—a very worthy man. This glen, sir, has been the scene of many sanguinary conflicts.”

Here he struck up “The Battle of Prague,” and we marched on for about a mile further, when he suddenly stopped short before a small public house, upon the road side.

“I have an idea,” said he, “that a small drop of brandy, mixed with a little mulled ale, sugar and nutmeg, would make us get over the next four miles—prestissimo—eh? Con spirito, um?”

I agreed to the con spirito, but assured him a moderato movement would suit my inclination better for the remainder of the walk to Corwen. He then led the way into the house; and certainly, of all the comforts a tourist can experience, that of seeing a neatly sanded room, with shining oaken seats and tables, walls white as snow, pans and pots glittering in well ordered arrangement against them, a fine polished kitchen range enclosing a good fire, and a smiling, civil, hospitable hostess anxious to attend your commands, however trifling they may be, is themost desirable. I never saw any country where so much attention is paid to the cleanliness of the interior of their cottages, if I except Holland, and in this respect the peasantry resemble each other.

Having despatched this agreeable beverage, we resumed our walk, and in about ten minutes, the rain, which had long been threatening us, fell in torrents, and we resembled a couple of half drowned rats as we faced the storm.

My companion, with a half-comic and half melancholy cast of countenance, observed, “I declare, I can hardly make my instrument speak, although I have got a natural shake in my voice, as you may hear. Very cold, sir; isn’t it? Look yonder,” continued he, pointing to a clump of fir trees. “There, sir, once stood the celebrated wooden house, attached to the mansion of that mighty warrior and magician who could

“Call spirits from the vasty deep—”

for the purpose of lodging the guests. The mansion stood upon our left, and was formerly of grand dimensions, they say; though now alas! not a vestige of it remains. The site of the visitor’s lodging rooms commands a fine prospectof the valley. Perhaps you would like to walk up to it?”

“Certainly;” and, accordingly, we jumped over a stile and climbed to the summit of the mound, from which a glorious view of the valley was obtained. Upon reaching the top, the traveller is surprised to find, that what he looked upon as a mere mound, when viewed from the road, assumes the form of a tremendous precipice as he looks down upon the dark waters of the Dee, (which wind around its base), and glances over the fertile valley stretched far beneath, where Glyndwr vanquished the oppressor Grey. I had fallen into a reverie, from which I was awakened by the shrill sounds of the musician’s fife stick, which startled me with its discordant notes, and brought me back from the fourteenth century to the nineteenth, with a celerity far from pleasing.

As we resumed our walk, we heard the rumbling of wheels, and the tramp of horses behind us, and pausing to see what vehicle was approaching, we beheld a kind of van, drawn by two enormous animals, as large as any of the breed employed in some of the London breweries. They were driven by a young man, of about nineteen years of age.

“Will you ride as far as Corwen?” said he, at the same time pulling up his horses.

As the rain was falling fast, and this conveyance promised to carry us to the town in half the time it would take us to walk thither, we gladly accepted the offer. I mounted by the side of the driver, having always a predilection for that seat; while my more prudent musical acquaintance jumped into the body of the cart, and was presently lost sight of beneath a dozen coal sacks, that covered several ale casks.

I soon found that my situation was far from being enviable. In the first place, there was no foot board, and I kept slipping forward, every now and then, at the hazard of falling upon the horses’ heels. The air became more keen, the rain rattled upon my visage with greater violence than ever, and silently I confessed—forgive me ye gnomes and demons of the storm!—that notwithstanding the grandeur of the mountain-torrent, I should at that time have given a preference to a little of the “mountain dew.”

Presently, I heard the shrill sound of the fife issuing from underneath the sacks, to the tune of “Over the hills and far away,” and was about requesting the driver to stop, until I joinedmy companion in his lair, when a smart lash upon the flank of the near horse made him dart off at a pace which defied all the efforts of the Welsh boor to check. With his right arm holding fast by the front rail of the caravan, he with his left pulled with all his strength to keep the horses in the road, and we dashed along, first upon one side, and then upon the other, for the middle was never kept, until I began to look out for the most comfortable landing place. I then caught hold of the near horse’s rein, while he tugged away at the other. The seat was slippery, and the reins were wet, and our united efforts would have failed in checking their speed; but espying a hill about half a mile a-head of us,

“Now then, keep ’em together,” said I, “and let them have their race out, for they must stop at yonder hill.”

All this time the fife was whistling like mad, “Go to the devil and shake yourselves;” and Mr. Whiffler was luxuriating in blessed ignorance of our danger.

Having made up my mind to the worst, but hoping for the best, I regaled myself with a sup of brandy from the pistol at my side, and then handed it to the driver, who drank—as if he liked it. We by this time reached the foot ofthe hill, at the same slashing pace, and began the ascent in a first rate style; but, when we had got about half way up, we were startled by a loud cry behind us, and, upon turning my head, I saw poor Mr. Whiffler seated in the middle of the road, flourishing his musical cane, and shouting most vociferously for us to stop. It seemed that he was amusing himself with his favourite airs, and never felt the gradual retiring motion of the sacks as we ascended the hill, until he was fairly shot out at the tail of the van, where he lay sprawling; but, thanks to the friendly sacks, unhurt.

Our frisky Flander’s steeds, coming to the push at the steep rising ground, relaxed in their rapid course, became quiet as lambs, and at the summit of the bill were very glad to come to a dead halt to recover their breath; giving my musical friend ample time to come up with us, which he had no sooner done, than, as if nothing had occurred worth mentioning, he resumed his situation in the van, and struck up “Drops of brandy.” I took the hint, and presented him with my reserve, which he emptied with much apparent satisfaction, and returned the flask with thankfulness. Then resuming his unwearying amusement, he never ceased until we reached the inn at Corwen; not the principal one, but asmall house on the right of the street opposite to the Owen Glyndwr; which latter has a gigantic head over the door, much resembling the Saracen’s of Snow Hill notoriety.

I discovered the landlord of “The Welsh Harp” to be the proprietor of the van, and that the driver was his son. He also followed the occupation of watch and fishing tackle maker, and I willingly, therefore, took up my quarters with this specimen of Welsh rusticity, when invited, in preference to quartering at the great inn with the great head, as also did Mr. Whiffler.

The first question put to the jolly landlord, was, “What can you give us to eat?” It was about three o’clock in the day.

“Why, sir, I have a nice roast duck and some peas, which were intended for John’s,” meaning our van-driver, “dinner; but I shall be able to find something else for him.”

“And how long, pray, will it be before it is ready?”

“A quarter of an hour.”

“Very well, that will do; and, in the interim, I’ll borrow one of your coats, and we will visit the church, if there is anything in it worth looking at.”

No sooner said than done; and a large blue coat, with two heavy capes, and brass buttonsof the size of crown pieces, was immediately brought forth, which I slipped into, it fitting me—like a sack! No matter—my own was thoroughly drenched, and was hanging before a blazing fire in the kitchen, reeking like a leg of mutton, hot from the boiler.

“Would you like to slip into a pair of my leather breeches?” inquired my hospitable host.

This I thankfully declined, upon looking at the difference of our dimensions. My piping friend was comfortably seated in the chimney corner, and observing “that he had never frequented church since he was married, having received at that time a shock he could never recover,” he commenced playing the beautiful air of “My ain fireside,” whilst I, turning most heroically to the right about, again braved the “pelting of the pitiless storm,” accompanied by John, our driver, who, in a few minutes, conducted me to the ancient edifice.

On one side of the altar is the lid of a coffin, which has the following inscription:

“Hic jacet Jorweth Sulien, vicarius de Corvaen ora pro eo.”

In the church wall is shewn the private doorwaythrough which Owen Glyndwr entered the building whenever he attended divine worship, and in the rock, which overhangs the churchyard, there is a recess, which bears the name of Glyndwr’s chair; and the stone which now forms the lintel of the doorway leading to his pew, is said to retain the mark of his dagger, half an inch in depth, which he threw from the said chair; but upon what occasion it is not stated.

In the churchyard is a range of building called Corwen College, having over the archway the following inscription:

Corwen College,For six widows of the ClergymenOf the church of England,Who died possessed of cures of souls,In the county of Merionethshire.Built and endowedA.D MDCCL by the legacy ofWilliam Egton Esq.Of Plas-warren.

In the cemetery there is a cross, fixed in a circular stone, westward of the steeple; and it is supposed that the name of Corwen is a corruption of Corvaen, and derived from the cross. Cor signifies a circle, and maen (which is likewiseconsidered to have been changed into vaen) if joined to cor, means a cross in the circle.

Having satisfied my curiosity here, I returned to the public house, and the first object which met my delighted eyes was the promised duck, accompanied by a dish of most elegant trout; a dainty for which I had been longing ever since I entered this territory of rocks and torrents. My friend was already placed at the table, and he clapped his hands, and rubbed them with evident delight and satisfaction at seeing me arrive so opportunely. The fish despatched, duck and green peas in close column brought up the rear. But I and my gallant comrade—a better trencherman ne’er poised a fork—attacked in line, cut up the one, and routed the other, with the most determined bravery. The right and left wings were attacked and cut off from the main body, which with all its material we dispersed in the glorious conflict, remaining masters of the field.

Although I thus warmly express my satisfaction at partaking of this not easily-to-be-forgotten luxury, let me not be mistaken for a gourmand; but a wet and tired traveller, however much his mind may be enchanted by the scenery through which he passes, never beholds a more delightful prospect than a comfortable meal at his journey’s end. It so happened, however,that this was not to be my journey’s end, for a blaze of light darted into the room at the moment John had carried off the spoils from our field of battle, and the glorious orb of day shone forth in cloudless majesty.

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