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.”