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 state
All 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.
A PLEASANT walk of six miles brought us to Chirk; agreeably situated upon
the northern bank of the river Ceriog, which divides England from 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 great _lion_ of 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 it to you as we pass along, with as
much accuracy as my memory will permit.”
THE DESERTED.
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 denying his 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 the _bull_, 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 beverage to 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 yell
From out yon dark and hollow dell,
As all the fiends from heaven that fell
Had 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 or benignant
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,”
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?”
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 leaped suddenly 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.”
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 bewail
The sorrows she cannot _re-tail_.
The grateful cabbage, greens, and leek
Her 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 bewail
The sorrows she cannot _re-tail_!
* * * * *
After proceeding about a mile and a half on the Llangollen road, we
turned off, to the left, up a lane, which led us to the noble domain of
Mrs. Middleton Biddulph.
CHIRK CASTLE
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.”
[Picture: 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 several portraits 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 the _sea_, _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 few _sheep_ placed near the
foot of the fall would be a great improvement.” Misunderstanding _sheep_
for _ship_, his amazement was extreme. He, however, took the picture to
his easel, and introduced _ships_ with 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. Its picture
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.’”
THE ENCHANTED STAG.
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 reserved
habits, 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’d_ o’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
half year’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 Owen and
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 to _speak_ upon the subject, but both unable to _think_ of
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 signal for 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 unearthly _mew_! 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 were nearly 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 churchyard
of 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 handsomer than 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. She flew 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
the deer 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 around _her_ grave.
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.
* * * * *
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 legends of 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 the road,
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 west
Cheers the tar’s labour, and the Turk-man’s rest.”
So sang the Noble Bard, the music of whose lyre is 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 rose
More lovely than daybreak, and sweet as its close.
Her step was light
As fays by night:
More thrilling her voice than the streamlet that flows
And mild as the moonlight and blue as the sky
Was 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 deplore
Round 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. The Dee 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 light behind 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.
[Picture: 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 an agreeable 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.