LEGEND OF DOLBADARN.
Margaret of Dolbadarn was one of the fairest damsels of whom Cambria ever boasted at court or tourney;—fair without vanity, highborn without ostentation, she exhibited the simplicity of nobility.
Like others of her rank, she had many knights who owned her power, and panted to put lance in rest for the peerless Margaret; but in the number there was but one whom her eye followed through the glittering throng, and whose approach made her heart beat, and the mounting blood turn the delicate pink upon her cheek to crimson; and William of Montgomery was the happy knight.
But her father had other views, and Hector of March-lyn-Mawr was proposed by him to be her husband—a youth of noble presence, but ignoble mind. His lands extended far and near, and skirted those of the Lord of Dolbadarn, who was, from that circumstance, doubly anxious to have the union consummated.
He was, however, a tender guardian; he loved his daughter, and was by her loved tenderly in return. Both knights had free access to Margaret, and both were anxious to deserve her favour. William was young, valiant, handsome, and honest; Hector was bold, gloomy, uncourtly and subtle. The Baron saw the decided preference his daughter gave to William of Montgomery, and grieved in his heart that it was not bestowed upon his more wealthy rival. He therefore resolved to put a proposal to his daughter, which was, that at the ensuing tournament to be given at his castle, the knights should prove their skill upon each other, and that he who was proclaimed the most accomplished master of his weapons, should receive her hand as the reward. For, though he was desirous of an alliance with the wealthy and powerful house of March Lyn Mawr, he was by no means insensible to the merits of Montgomery, whose name stood high in the lists of chivalry, and whose engaging manners won friends for him wherever he appeared. With a heavy heart did Margaret submit to the proposal of her father, although a feeling of confidence within her bosom told her the object of her attachment would prove the victor. Far different emotions agitated the hearts of the rivals, when they were informed of the Baron’s determination. William of Montgomery flung himself upon his knees before the old man, exclaiming with enthusiasm,
“By bath, and bed, and white chemise, [266] I will for ever be a true knight to thee for this especial favour, my good Lord of Dolbadarn! My lance and blade are yours at command, and,” turning to his rival, “Hector, if I bear thee not over thy charger’s croup, why say my heart and hand shook with fear in the encounter.—But, if thou gainest the field, I’ll give thee a grey palfrey for thy bride, to bear her to the church yonder, by thy side.”
“Agreed,” said Hector; “and noble Lord of Dolbadarn, if heaven desert me not in the hour of trial, I doubt not my success in winning thy daughter for my bride. Yet, should I fail, I promise thee, William of Montgomery, to give thee a steed, fleeter than any in thy stables, to bear the Lady Margaret as thy bride to church, nor will I bear thee any ill will shouldst thou prove conqueror, but drink a health to thee and thine, with a kind heart and true.”
At this time, there dwelt an old woman in the pass of Llanberis who was dreaded by all the country people, for she was accounted a witch; and on the night of that same day the storm raged furiously, and the tall trees were cracking in the forest, when a horseman was seen galloping up the pass. He stopped at the witch’s hut, and knocking loudly, he cried, “Ho! mother witch! open the door! for thy devil’s counsel is needed.”
The door was then opened, and the knight fastened his coal-black steed, dripping with rain and sweat, to a withered ash, and strode into the cabin. The fire reflected in his suit of steel made him appear a knight of flame; and, as he stamped his armed heels upon the floor, his armour rang with a muffled sound, like the death bell which tolls for the great, who die in the odour of sanctity: and the old hag laughed; her spirit was glad—for she knew that a deed of damning crime was shortly to be committed!
He sat him down upon the three-legged stool, and said, “Dame, I am ill at ease; for I love a maid whose heart I cannot win. Attend to me;—the gallant and high-minded Montgomery I must encounter for her in the lists; and, should he conquer, he will bear away the prize I am burning to possess; but, if the chance be mine, her own consent waits on her father’s choice, whose wishes are for me. Doubts on the issue urge me to seek thy aid. May my saint desert me if I would not rather shake hands with the foul fiend himself, than give a palfrey for my Margaret to ride to church upon, with any but myself.”
The witch laughed aloud, till he jumped from the stool, to see her old sides shake. “Hector of March Lyn Mawr,” quoth she, “fear not that Margaret of Dolbadarn will ever become the bride of Montgomery; for shouldst thou be overcome in the lists, (and my power will not assist thee in the joust) call aloud ‘Hell kite! hell kite!’ and presently shall a gallant palfrey come and raise thee from the ground, which being done, present it to thy foe, and thou shalt see the issue.” He thanked her, dropped his purse upon the floor, mounted his steed, and vanished down the pass.
There was a great assemblage of people at the castle of Dolbadarn, to witness the jousting; and knights from all quarters arrived, to break a lance with merry England’s best, for glory and lady love.
The tilting ground was enclosed by galleries erected for the ladies and nobles who wished to be spectators of the games. Upon the plain, at the end of the vale, fifty shields were hung up by the knights who wished to signalize themselves. Three score of coursers, with a squire of honour, first entered the lists; then followed as many knights in jousting harness, led in silver chains, by the same number of ladies, richly clad, to the sound of clarions, and trumpets, and minstrelsy. When the ladies ascended the galleries, the squires dismounted, and the knights vaulted gaily into their saddles. The scaffoldings were hung with tapestry, and embroideries of gold and silver; and the scene was animated and costly in the extreme. Joy lighted up the eyes of all, save those of Margaret and her two lovers. She sat a lily among roses, pale and dejected. Sometimes, indeed, she lifted her dark eyes, and her snowy neck took for a moment the carnation’s hue when she beheld the form of Montgomery, which yet faded as quickly as it came, and the Parian marble was left pure as before.
Sir William walked, with a bold and lofty mien, along the line of shields, glancing at them with indifference, until he stopped before that which bore the arms of Hector, and then a smile of scorn played upon his lips, and he passed on. Hector marked that smile, and his cheeks flushed with anger. Great skill was displayed by youthful knights decked in ladies’ favours. But, when the time arrived for the trial between Sir William of Montgomery and Hector of March Lyn Mawr, a hum of unusual interest arose among the gallant and beauteous auditory. From the opposed lists they passed each other, to determine the length of the course, with visors up. Sir William smiled gaily, but Hector wore a sad and mournful look, as though he feared or doubted the event of the trial.
This ceremony of preparation being over, each took his post assigned, awaiting the signal for the charge. The Lady Margaret was pale as death, but none around her noticed it, they being all intent upon the two knights, who wore no outward favours, though one possessed an amulet which he had placed near his heart, beneath his vest. It was a white rose, which the fair Margaret had taken from her bosom, and given him an hour before in secret.
The nominal prize for the victor was a jewelled sword, but the prize on which their hearts were set was a gem transcendant—the all-surpassing Margaret!
And now the heralds sounded the charge, and the combatants met in mid career. The lance of Hector was shivered upon the breast of Montgomery; but Sir William’s struck full upon the visor of Hector, which made him bend his plume backwards. In the second course, Hector struck the coronal of Sir William’s helmet a skilful stroke. Margaret fainted, and the ladies about her were busy in applying restoratives; but none attempted to remove her, being too much interested in the event of the joust. Montgomery cast a look of fire up to the spot, and then re-closed his visor for the third course. His opponent was resolved to make it a decisive one. Striking their spurs into their chargers’ sides, like arrows shot from opposing bows, they flew along. Then was a clash, a glittering flash! and the prize was won—for Hector of March Lyn Mawr lay, stunned and motionless, upon the ground, borne from his saddle by the lance of the victorious Sir William of Montgomery!
Margaret, being restored to her senses, wept tears of joy, and spoke most sweet words, when her lover riding beneath the platform, demanded from her hand the honourable prize.
But a wonder now appeared, which turned all eyes to the spot where Hector lay o’erthrown; for a milk-white palfrey, of the most exquisite form, had galloped into the lists, and drawn him from beneath his charger, which had fallen with him in the violent concussion. His helmet being loosed, he soon partially recovered, and seeing the beautiful animal frisking and curvetting, as though overjoyed at his escape, he led it by the mane to his rival, saying,
“William of Montgomery, I give to thee this palfrey. Present it to thy bride, to whom I now resign all claim, and only request that she will, for my sake, let my favourite bear her to the church, where your union is to be celebrated.”
It was a lovely thing to look upon, and the maiden promised to use no other on that happy day.
The church of Llanberis was, at this time, about a mile from the castle of Dolbadarn, and the road, upon the bridal morning, resembled a mosaic pavement, when viewed from the mountain, it was so thickly studded with the fantastic dresses of the company, spectators, and gay flags and streamers waving in the air. The minstrels struck up their boldest notes of war, or delighted the ears and hearts of the female holiday makers with the soft songs of love. All was mirth, feasting, and jollity, while the air rung with the combined names of Margaret of Dolbadarn and William of Montgomery.
At length, the bridal procession issued forth from the castle gateway; the heralds led, the minstrels followed. Then came comely maidens with baskets of flowers, which they strewed around them, as they passed along. A body of armed knights followed and after them their esquires. Then appeared a troop of dancing girls, adorned with flowers, and clad in purest white; and a second band of minstrels struck their harps before the bridegroom and the happy bride, who rode gaily, side by side. She was dressed in rich attire; jewels glittered upon her robes and in her hair; and she rode upon the beautiful steed presented by March Lyn Mawr. The palfrey seemed proud of its lovely burthen, and gentle as the unwearied lamb. The bridegroom was clad in a light tunic and hose, and peaked boots; a many-coloured plume fluttered in his bonnet, and many sweet words did he whisper in Margaret’s ear. As the assembled multitude shouted their gratulations, he bent even to his saddle bow, to thank them for their courtesy. Young Hector rode upon her left, and he laughed, too, and he bowed low; but in his laugh there was a fiendish sound, and in his bow a scorn. Then followed the Lord of Dolbadarn, his long white locks waving in the summer breeze, surrounded by his relatives and friends. A troop of squires and pages followed, while all the retainers of his noble house brought up the rear.
The bride and bridegroom passed along, and thousands cheered them on their way, with shouts and praises. The sun shone brightly above their heads, and joy was in their hearts. On they went, until a turning in the road brought them at once in sight of the church; but here the palfrey grew restive, and Sir William seized the bridle, thinking to control him. This answered but for a short distance; for they had no sooner reached the gate, over which was carved a cross, than, even while the groom held the stirrup for her to alight, away, away, away flew the palfrey, like a falcon, down the wind. The Lady Margaret was a good horsewoman, but she could not control the enchanted steed. She, however, kept her seat well, and hoped the unruly animal would soon relax his speed.
A hundred horsemen galloped after her, the bridegroom taking the lead, who, being mounted on the swiftest horse, soon left the rest behind, although unable yet to overtake the bride. The palfrey first dashed forward in the direction of Carnaervon, but suddenly turned off to the right, and galloped up the mountain. Hundreds of the peasantry were trampled under foot by the horses of the pursuers; some bruised, some crippled, and some killed, while the old Lord of Dolbadarn wrung his withered hands, and tore his grey locks, in frantic agony. He accused Hector as the author of all this misery, and vented his curses upon him, which the infuriated mob hearing, they seized upon the astonished knight, and almost in an instant tossed him upon their spikes into the air. He fell to the ground again, but not to rise; his plume, besmeared with blood, was scattered in every direction; his body, pierced with twenty wounds, spouted forth blood in fountains; blows fell upon his harness thick as hail; while a ferocious smith, with one stroke of an axe, severed the head from the body, and placing it upon a pike, bore the dripping trophy of vengeance above the applauding and infuriated wretches who had suffered in the tumult.
Those who could govern their horses flew over the broken country in pursuit, while fleeter than a startled hind, the palfrey dashed along—at times abating his swift flight, to give the laggards hope, who furiously spurred their chargers forward
After the knight,
And lady bright.
But away, away flew the enchanted steed over moss and moor, o’er hill and dale, through ford and forest; while of those who followed up the chase some were smothered, horse and rider, in the deep morass; some broke their necks in attempting to leap stone walls; some dangled from the boughs in woody dell, or perished in the river, dashed by the torrent against broken rocks; and they cursed, and died as they cursed.
But Sir William of Montgomery pricked on his horse all foaming, and, as the strength of the noble animal began to fail, he cried aloud upon his patron saint to aid him. It was a charm of power, for it was a holy one; and the creature shook the foam from his mouth, and with recovered strength, dashed on in the pursuit. That charm, too, struck upon the heart of the palfrey, which began to fail him, and he tried in vain to keep the speed he had hitherto maintained. But the impetuous knight, seeing that he gained upon his lady love, furiously urged on his charger, and with desperate rashness, burying his rowels in his side, exclaimed—“Hell kite, speed on!”—the very words the witch had given as a charm to Hector, and the name of the palfrey.
No sooner was it pronounced, than his speed returned, and away, away the enchanted steed rushed on, as swiftly as before! The lady was, by this time, nearly senseless; her eyes were dimmed from the effect of the air, as she cut through it; and her heart trembled within her, like a fluttering dove. She cast an imploring look behind upon her lover, and raised one snowy arm beseechingly. He saw the action, and fancied he heard her voice, faintly calling upon him for aid. But it was to Him who governs all, she prayed; and again the wild horse felt the sacred power. But he had nearly reached the goal. With voice and spur the gallant knight pressed on up the rising ground, the summit of which, unknown to Margaret, or the knight, looked over the broad ocean;—it was the terrific Penman Maur.
Nearer and nearer did the knight approach; his charger’s foam was on the palfrey’s flanks. Another bound, and he was at the side of Margaret—another, and there was one loud wild scream that startled the eagles from their nests. Montgomery had clasped his lady round her waist, and borne her to his saddle bow. It was the movement of an instant—but, in that instant, steeds, knight, and lady plunged from the precipice’s edge! The first fall of fifty feet crushed the palfrey and war-horse; and the foul spirit, quitting the enchanted steed, like a dark cormorant hovered over the group.
The knight still clasped the maiden in his arms, whose shrieks were answered by the eagles’ screams; and the lovers were dashed from rock to rock, battered and bloody. The maiden fainted; but Sir William held her with the tenacious grasp of despair, with one arm to his breast, and with his right hand seized a dwarfish thorn—the only one that grew out of the rifted rock! But still there was no resting place for feet to stand upon, while the broken fragments of the cliff, disturbed by the weight of the fall, thundered downwards from above, and around them in every direction. One large mass struck the unhappy knight; the fragile thorn gave way, and the next moment beheld the loving pair, mutilated carcasses, floating upon the reckless waves! The eagles gorged upon their flesh, and not a vestige of the lost ones was left. A white scarf which Margaret wore, and which streamed, like the banner of death, from the blasted thorn, alone remained to tell the fate of Sir William of Montgomery, and his blooming bride!
CHAPTER X.
The church of Llanberis—Monumental inscriptions—Story of little John Closs—The Pellings—Capel Curig—Moel Siabod—Castle of Dolwyddélan—Falls of Benclog—Llyn Ogwen—Llyn Idwal—Story of Idwal—Route to Llanrwst—Falls of Rhaiadr y Wennol—Bettws y Coed—The church—Monuments—Pont y Pair—Ogo ap Shenkin, a Legend—Glee, “Shenkin was a noble fellow!”
“Of a noble race was Shenkin!
Thrum, thrum, thrum,
Of the line of Owen Tudor,
Thrum, thrum, thrum,
But her renown was fled and gone,
Thrum, thrum, thrum,
But her renown was fled and gone,
Since cruel love pursued her!”JOHN DRYDEN.
Returning to the Victoria, I partook of the refreshments provided, and then retracing my steps, I visited the little rustic church of Llanberis, which, for its simplicity, is well worthy of attention. Upon entering the doorway, there is a small stone font placed upon a pedestal which is approached by three stone steps: it resembles a small washing tub, and its cover is much like a copper-lid. Advancing into the interior, the music loft is upon the left, under which is a dilapidated screen, opposite to the font. A doorway in the centre of the screen leads into the body of the church, where ancient oaken benches are ranged upon either side, and the pulpit and communion table are immediately in front. The old arched roof is held together by iron pins, which project on each side of the timbers, and the whole interior is whitewashed. The only pew in the church adjoins the communion table, both of which have suffered materially by the worm and time. The few monuments in this simple structure are upon small slate slabs, about the size of a school-boy’s, and are hung up on the wooden beams. There are two of wood, with letters cut deeply into the small square, thus:
Ina
Tan! hun! Ofe! mae
Gorwedd! Corph
ROE! ei oed! 60
Y Dudd! Y Cladd wud
E brill! 10! 1719.
The other, immediately facing the pulpit, is a black piece of board, ornamented with an undertaker’s tablet of gilt copper, in the centre of which, upon black japan, is—
Thos. Williams
Died Oct. 25
1836.
Aged 74.
On leaving the church, there is a monumental slate slab on the left of the path, bearing the following inscription and verses:
Underneath
Lieth the remains
Of John, the son of
Robert Closs, who was
Interred Decr. 1st.
1805, aged 7 years.Ar ben mynydd dydd-y-daith oî hoywder
A che dodd y maith
Gadewais (gwelais goeg waith)
Drueni’r Byd ar unwaith.
O erfel fu uchel a chos, i augau
Llyn ingol i’mddangos
Mantell niwl mewn lywyll nos
A dychrymad dechreunos.
Upon returning to my inn at Gwrydd, I discovered that the landlady was sister to little John Closs; and from her I learnt the story of his melancholy fate. It is as follows:
John was a pretty boy, about seven years of age, with fair hair and blue eyes, of a sweet-temper, adored by his parents, and loving them most affectionately in return. Indeed, little John Closs was the talk of the parish, and held up as a pattern of filial love and reverence to all the children in the village. His uncle had a small farm at Nant Bettwys; and John’s father having sent him to reside there, for a few months, the fond mother would often cross the mountain to see her son and her sister, returning home in the evening of the same day. Little John got tired of living away from home, and one night, after his mother had quitted the cottage to return to Llanberis, he wept so bitterly, and prayed so earnestly to be permitted to follow her home, that the good people at Bettwys permitted him to try and overtake her, which they considered he might easily do, as she had not left the house ten minutes before he started.
The mother reached Llanberis in safety; but the poor boy lost his way in a snow storm on Moel Einion, and was not heard of for more than a week afterwards; when, one day, a man crossing the mountain, found the child stretched on the ground in a slumbering position, his face towards the earth, buried in his hands, and quite dead.
On the evening when he lost his way, a shepherd, by the name of John Davis, said he had heard cries, like those of a child, upon the mountain, which in his ignorance he believed to be the voice of a fairy; and, terrified at the idea of encountering some supernatural being, he took to his heels in a contrary direction, with all the speed he could make, while the poor sufferer, cold and dying, vainly exerted himself in straining his innocent voice for succour.
The inhabitants of this neighbourhood have, from time immemorial, held a strong belief in fairies; and there are many families now living that are said to have descended from this race, from their having intermarried, in the olden time, with their ancestors. They are called Pellings, from a fairy who was named Penelope, and who, while dancing, one moonlight night, upon the shores of a lake called Cwellyn, was surprised and seized by a young farmer, who, in spite of her screams, bore her to his own house, called Yestrad, near Bettws, where he treated her with so much kindness, that she became contented to live with him; and they were married, upon the condition that he should never strike her with iron; for if he did, she would vanish, and he would never see her again. (I here thought of the tale told me by the old man in the valley of Drwstynrnt and was struck with the similarity they bore to each other.) Unfortunately, as the farmer and his wife went out into the field one day, to catch his horse, he accidentally hit her with the buckle of his bridle, and she was never seen after. Her descendants are called Pellings, as are all who imagine they derive their origin from this fabulous lady. Mr. William Williams, in his observations upon the Snowdon mountains, says—“The best blood in my own veins is this fairy’s.”
This belief, existing so strongly in the breasts of many people in this district, will account for the pusillanimity of the shepherd who fled from the cries of poor little John Closs.
The following morning, I proceeded towards Capel Curig, but this road is very uninteresting. The tourist is, however, amply gratified, if it happen to be tolerably clear weather, on his arrival at an ancient stone bridge which crosses a stream that tumbles over some black rocks on the right, and winds its way in graceful variety, forming a pleasing spot to rest upon. Looking back towards Llanberis, the mountain scenery is very fine; and I here took my farewell look of Snowdon and Snowdonia.