Twm escapes from Cardigan. Meets Parson Rhys at Lampeter. The tragical
tale of the heiress of Maes-y-velin and the flower of Llandovery.
HAVING thus possessed himself of a coat without the tediousness and
expence of giving measure to a tailor, and no more fastidious about a
dressing room, retired to a stable, and soon came out fully dressed in
his male attire; of which, a coat only was before wanting. Bent on a
precipitate retreat, as the urgency of his case demanded, he bolted down
St. Mary’s Street, and soon found himself on the turnpike road, with the
good town of Cardigan some miles behind him. In little more than two
hours he reached the small town of Dinas Emlyn, now called
Newcastle-in-Emlyn, on a romantic part of the Teivy dividing the counties
of Cardigan and Carmarthen, and occupying its banks on either side.
Entering a small public house, he regaled himself on the fine potent ale
for which that place has been so famous. Being refreshed with a little
rest and food, he now, for the first time, began to enquire of himself
whither he was going, and what his aims were to be; questions which he
found very difficult to be resolved. Although the most serious
cogitations on the subject might have availed little or nothing, chance
very unexpectedly decided him, and relieved his apprehensious for the
present.
Perceiving a very loquacious beer-inspired pig-drover, who vaunted his
successful sale at Cardigan fair, preparing to depart, he suddenly
determined to take the same route wherever it might lead, and on inquiry,
found he was going to Llandovery.
Glad of company, the pig-drover received Twm’s information that he was
also going to the same town with a hearty shake of the hand and a welcome
to become his fellow traveller. About ten o’clock that night they
arrived together at Lampeter, which Twm now visited for the second time.
The geography of the country being but little known to him, he felt some
alarm on finding himself so contiguous to his own native place.
While drinking a quiet pint with his companion at a tavern, and thoughts
of danger occupying his mind, a friendly face appeared in smiles before
him, and dissipated every feeling of unhappiness; it was the worthy Rhys
the curate, who had spied him from the little parlour where he had been
sitting before his arrival, and now cordially welcomed him to partake of
his supper which was then preparing.
Our hero bade a merry farewell to his friend the drover, who had
endeavoured to initiate him into the mysteries of pig-dealing, the latter
declaring his resolution to travel all night until he reached Llandovery.
Supper ended, and having heard as many of Twm’s adventures as he chose to
relate, newly modelled, to suit his peculiar ear, Mr. Rhys informed him
that he had also left Tregaron forever, disgusted with the treatment he
had met with from old Evans, and was on his way to Llandovery to take
possession of the curacy of Llandingad, to which he had been just
appointed by the vicar, the reverend Rhys Prichard. The good-natured
Rhys could scarce forbear smiling, when Twm informed him of the
circumstance that had first led his thoughts to visit Llandovery also,
and that he was determined to go there to seek his fortune, and felt a
sort of presentiment that he should be successful: “Well,” said he, “your
fortunes are altogether romantic, and fortitude such as yours is a virtue
that becomes us all. Whatever I can do to get you into employment, when
you are there, rest assured shall not be wanting.” With this
understanding Twm’s hopes were buoyed up to the highest pitch, and, to
his sanguine mind, became already certainties, which presented themselves
in dreams of various felicitous shapes.
Rhys rose with daylight, and rousing Twm, they both sallied forth, the
former leading his horse by the bridle, to be more on a par with his more
humble companion. They had nearly reached the top of Pen-y-garreg hill,
over which the road leads from Lampeter to Llandovery, while a bright
prospect of the newly-risen sun attracted their mutual attention, when
the clergyman thus addressed his companion. “We are now on a spot to be
yet immortalized, perhaps, by the legendary muse, for a deed of blood
perpetrated here in our own times; when the banks of the impetuous Teivy,
now before us, became the scene of a lamentable tragedy. Yonder stands
what remains of the once goodly mansion of MAES-Y-VELIN, the fair seat of
the ancient family of the Vaughans, once of considerable note in this
part of the principality. Ten years ago, a young lady and her three
brothers, the last of that race, were its possessors. The lady, named
Ellen, was exceedingly beautiful, and beloved by the son of the venerable
Rhys Prichard, the present Vicar of Llandovery, whose curate I am now
become.
“It was customary with the young man whenever he reached this spot, to
tie his hankerchief to the end of a rod, that he held as a flag-staff,
which was immediately seen by the heiress of Maes-y-velin; and when she
could succeed in getting her brothers out of the way, the signal of love
was answered by hoisting her own kerchief to the branch of a tree above
the house, on which, both ran down from their respective hills, till they
stood face to face on either side of the Teivy, when the fond lover soon
dashed into the river, crossed over and caught the fair one in his arms.
But as these things sound better perhaps in verse, I shall submit to you
a specimen of my skill at Ballad writing, in one that I have written on
this occasion.” With that they took their seat on a huge stone on the
side of the hill, when Rhys drew a manuscript from his pocket and read to
his attentive auditor.
THE HEIRESS OF MAES-Y-FELIN,
AND
The flower of Llandovery.
What is amiss with the maiden fair,
What is the sweet one ailing?—
Why pale her cheek, and her spirits low,
And why up the hill doth she daily go,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin?—
Why are the brows of her brothers dark?
Nor mother nor sire hath Ellen;—
Her brothers whisper—her steps they watch—
The heart of her mystery eager to catch,
The maiden of Maes-y-velin.
The parents of Ellen her merits knew,
And frown’d on her brothers’ vices;
Her brothers are disinherited,
And Ellen is heiress in either’s stead;
Thereat all the land rejoices.
Her brothers one day went out to hunt,
And alone at home left Ellen;
She watched them away, then flew to her bower,
And cried “oh now for Llandovery’s Flower!
Right welcome to Maes-y-velin.”
She hoisted her silken kerchief red
To the highest branch of her bower,
To Pen-garreg hill then strain’d her eyes,
And the flag of her hope was seen to rise,
’Twas thine, oh Llandovery’s Flower!
Long had he watch’d—the faithful youth!
His wish each day unavailing,
At length, he sees with a wild delight,
His true love’s signal, the lady bright,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin.
That signal was chosen between the twain,
When absent her stern proud kindred;
And then would they rush from either hill,
The lover’s true with a right good will,
Till the waters of Teivy sunder’d.
Now as erst they rush’d, and as erst they paused,
When arrived on the banks of Teivy,
They gazed on each other across the stream,
And gestured affection’s high glow supreme,
And gayer their hearts, long heavy.
In plung’d the youth with most anxious speed,
The Flower of fair Llandovery,
The maiden is trembling with wild alarms—
She brightens—she sinks in her true-love’s arms,
Deem’d lost to her past recovery.
Oh Nature hath many warm generous glows—
But they say love’s joys are fleeting;
Most dear to the mother her new-born son,
And sweet is the fame that’s fairly won,
To the blind restor’d oh the summer’s sun’s
Less sweet than the lover’s meeting.
Sweet to the donor the generous deed,
That serves merit’s child, unweeting;
Healing is sweet to the gash’d by the sword;
To the wounded heart, the benevolent word;
Oh sweet is the breeze to the sick restored!
But sweeter true lovers’ greeting.
Each flower that flaunts in vanity’s cap,
And sets youthful hearts a gadding,
Has its charms, its zest,—but the whole above,
Is the magical thrill of sweet woman’s love,
That drives heart and brain a madding.
And fondly they loved, this youthful pair,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin,
And he whom they called Llandovery’s Flower;
Oh frequent their meeting and parting hour,
Their moments of joy and wailing.
Once when they met on the Teivy’s banks,
Canopied o’er by the wild wood,
Mid fragrance of flowers that graced the shade,
The youth sung this song, of true lovers betrayed,
An ominous song—that drew tears from the maid,
For her heart was as simple as childhood.
“‘Oh come to the banks of the Teivy with me,
To the deep woodland glade, ’neath the shady green tree,
Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,
In the face of the day and the bright eye of light,
That God and his angels may witness our troth,
That God and his angels may favor us both.’
“‘I’ll go to the green-wood,’ the lady replied,
‘Fore God and his angels be fairly affied,
Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,
In the face of the day and the bright eye of light;
That God and his angels may witness our troth,
That God and his angels may favor us both.’
“So sung a young chief to his dear lady love,
At the base of her tower—she answered above—
Vile vassals espied them, and flew to their lord,
The lady’s true lover soon fell ’neath his sword:
She threw herself headlong, fulfilling her troth,
And Death was the priest that united them both.”