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.
I WAS dreaming 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 with the 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 memorable little 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 ruins of 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—for
_water_ drinkers.
[Picture: Font in the grounds of Plas Newydd]
LINES WRITTEN AT THE FONT.
Drink, gentle pilgrim, from the well,
Thus sacred in this hollow dell!
Drink deep!—yet ere the yearning lip
Touches the draught it longs to sip,
Pray for the souls of those who gave
This font that holds the limpid wave!—
This holy font, which lay o’erthrown
Mid Valle Crucis’ shadows brown,
And which the hands of holy men
Have 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 gave
This 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 the bustle 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 with _eau de vie_, to our sides, and started to view the
ruins of Dinas Bran, 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 outstripped me 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.
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 looked very 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 well dressed
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
others to 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
the _well_, 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 distinctly visible 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.
[Picture: 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,
AND THE MINSTREL FAY.
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!
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 his tread 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 upon the 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_, or _The Leap of Abernodwydd_.”—See Jones’s Bardic Museum,
Vol. II.
The games being finished, the lovers returned to 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
given him; 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
THE MINSTREL’S KNELL.
“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 misery
Tells what the spirit feels for thee!
Farewell, farewell! no more the pride
Of 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 me from 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 curate placed 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.