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.
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