THE ENCHANTED STAG.
In a poor hut, which formerly stood upon the site of a few cottages, upon the right of the lane leading to the castle from the high road, lived an aged woman, who kept no society, and was considered, from her reserved habits, drooping gait, and smoke-dried visage, to have strange dealings with the Evil One; and upon whom the neighbours looked with fear and trembling, whenever they met her in the evening twilight, or when
“— the morn in russet mantle clad,
Walk’d o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.”
Her patch of ground she cultivated without help from any; and no one knew by what means she obtained clothing, as her garden stock only consisted of a few eatables, which she could ill afford to part with for wool to supply her spinning wheel; and yet her hose were good and clean, and her woollen petticoat and russet gown well fitted to endure the weather’s extremes. Strange stories were, however, reported respecting her, as it was said she had come from the Devil’s Peak in Derbyshire, where she had the credit of being a witch, and was nearly apprehended, upon a special order from King James himself, by the officers of justice, who, when they would have laid hands upon her, were astonished to find that they had seized each other, she having vanished suddenly from betwixt them, and, on the same day, it was said, appeared at Chirk Castle, offering to pay a half year’s rent in advance for the little hut, which was then to let, by the hedge-side in the lane, and which the steward accepted. She regularly, afterwards paid in advance; but none could tell how she came by the money, and the gossips reviled her as a limb of the Devil. This absurd notion obtained for her the odium of having performed a principal part in the following simple and melancholy tale.
Owen, the ranger, was a tall, handsome, light-hearted, well-meaning lad, as any in the country, much esteemed amongst his associates, and admired by all the lasses from Chirk to Llangollen, from whom he had selected Mary Fuller for his bride, a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired, pretty lass, who lived as servant in the castle.
Owen’s cottage, situated where now stands a handsome house, was a neat building, consisting of four rooms; it was thatched, and the interior was adorned with implements of the chase. It commanded a pleasant and romantic prospect; the view down the valley being extremely picturesque. Upon the trunk of an elm tree, the stump of which is almost all that time has spared, are still to be traced, although faintly discernible, the widely expanded initials, O. M. and M. F. which in former days were doubtless deeply cut in its bark. It was the favourite tree of Owen and Mary; and beneath its spreading branches they used to sit many a moonlight evening, and whisper rustic vows of constancy and truth.
One night, as they were walking, with arms clasped round each other’s waist, near the hut of the old strange woman, they were surprised at beholding her patting a noble stag, which had strayed from the park, and which seemed fond of his new acquaintance, for it licked her face and capered before her, and put its mouth close to her ear, while she continued to pat him with her hand, and speak to him in a language totally unknown to the peasantry. Owen, enraged at seeing one whom he considered a witch, seducing one of his noblest stags from the park, raised his cross-bow and shook his head at her, as if to intimate that he would shoot her, should she dare to fondle the deer again. The old beldame, frightened at his looks and gestures, retreated into her hut, but shook her hand at him in a threatening manner; while the stag, bounding suddenly from her door, made towards the park, like lightning, and leaping the high fence, began to browze as usual on its native pasture. Mary noticed the look and threatening action of the old woman with fear, and for sometime they continued their walk in silence, neither being anxious to speak upon the subject, but both unable to think of any thing else. At length, when they reached the bottom of the lane, and turned into the high road (which at this period was rough and only used by horsemen and foot passengers who were dreadfully inconvenienced by the state it was suffered to remain in), the cloud that hung over their spirits began to disperse itself, and Owen, eager to resume the theme which the appearance of the old woman had interrupted, again spoke of their approaching marriage and the proposed arrangements he had formed. Mary listened with attention, for only one day was to intervene before the happy morning was to open on their joys.
Owen informed her that his master had promised him the finest buck he could kill in the park, and a couple of barrels of his old October, to regale his friends and guests; he had likewise, he said, presented him with a new bed and furniture, fit for a baron to lie upon, and large enough for six to sleep in! Mary was happy, and Owen more animated, as he spoke of the bounty of his gracious master. Mary, eager to enumerate the presents she had received, began the catalogue of articles necessary for their domestic economy and comfort, and had nearly ran through the names of fifty by the time they arrived at her cottage door, which was the signal for parting, and with many a kiss and promise of meeting again early in the morning, the lovers separated.
Owen went whistling along the road with a light heart, in fond anticipation of future felicity, when suddenly, as he turned into the dark lane, upon his way to his own lodge, he was startled by the appearance of a dark form, with glaring eyes of fire, squatted upon the trunk of an old alder tree, that had been blasted by the lightning a few days before; and an unearthly mew! broke from its lips; and it spat a quantity of saliva in his face. Hot, hot, and burning, seemed the filthy rheum! A low growl increased his terrors; and a wild squall gave him the speed of a deer, as he darted along the dark and narrow lane, his hair standing on end. When he had reached the solitary’s door, he saw her seated by her iron pot, stirring the contents with the handle of a broom, while the glare from the crackling fagot shot frequent but transient streams of light upon her time-worn visage. Being now more convinced than ever that sorcery was at work, he redoubled his speed, and heated with fright and fear, reached his welcome home, where he sank breathless into a chair in the chimney corner.
Strange dreams afflicted him during the night; and he arose at daybreak feverish and unrefreshed. The usual summons at the door was given by his fellow ranger, who, upon being admitted, presented him with a venison pasty, on which he felt his courage and appetite rapidly returning. A second friend brought a flagon of wine from the kind rector of the village; a third brought a quarter of mountain lamb; a fourth the haunch of a well fatted kid; and many other tokens of kindness from his neighbours entirely banished the memory of the disagreeables of the preceding night, and universal smiles and congratulations ushered in the merry morning.
Mary’s friends, meanwhile, were no less anxious to evince their regard for her; and presents poured in from all parts of the neighbourhood, from warm hearted and considerate well-wishers relations and acquaintances, in consideration of the happy morrow which was to unite two beings universally respected and beloved. There was a happy congregation in the valley of Chirk, upon the evening previous to the appointed bridal morn. The minstrel struck up his liveliest notes; the maidens danced joyfully; and even grand-sires and their dames exerted themselves in the dance, evincing that though time had somewhat burthened their bodies, their “hearts were all light and merry.”
Evening at length drew near to a close, and the shadows of the mountains spreading over the peaceful valley, gave signal to depart. It was pleasing to listen to the distant and retiring notes of the minstrel’s harp, and the hum of laughter, echoed from the beetling cliff and dying in the gorge of the Ceriog valley. Sometimes the wild halloo of the mountaineer was heard shouting above the heads of those beneath; until at length only two persons stood upon the sloping sides of the castle hill, with fixed attention, looking in each others face, and with arms entwined around their youthful forms.
There are few who have not felt the power of love: but very few perhaps have stood as these two stood, upon the slope of a dark mountain rock, listening to the parting accents of their friends as they subsided into silence, while beneath them roared the never quiet-waters, brawling through rocky fragments, and shaking the wild tangled shrubs that grew upon their banks; with limpid kisses pure and fresh. And there they paused, and looked, and sighed, and loved, and murmured sweet words of anticipated happiness; when suddenly the sky, serene before, was overcast with clouds, and the wind rushed by them with a fury powerful as unexpected. The night grew darker and darker, and they were nearly half a league from Mary’s house. They cautiously pursued their way through the dew-dripping heather, when presently a light appeared on the opposite side of the valley; and shadowy forms were distinctly seen moving behind it in slow procession. They had reached the spot where the aqueduct now crosses the vale, within a short distance of Mary’s dwelling, but terror prevented them from moving, while the procession with the corpse-light at its head, glided along without a sound, becoming more distinct as it approached within a hundred paces of the spot where the terrified lovers stood almost breathless. Four shadowy, headless figures followed the light, and were succeeded by a hearse, which moved without the aid of horses or creature of any kind to draw or propel it forward, upon which lay extended the form of a man, bloody, as newly slain. Owen fancied he saw a resemblance of himself in that bloody corpse, and the increasing weight of Mary upon his arm, assured him she had likewise recognised the likeness, for she had fainted. With eyes that almost burst from their sockets, he continued to gaze on, and saw, or thought he saw, many of his kind friends weeping, in the long train that followed. The corpse-light still advanced, and he distinctly saw it leading towards the churchyard of the village, where it vanished amongst the old yew trees, and with it the phantoms that made up the procession.
Owen bore his senseless burthen to the cottage, where he acquainted her mother that a sudden fright had caused her to be thus overcome, desiring that she should be put to bed upon the instant, and that when she recovered she might be persuaded, what she had seen was merely the illusion of a dream; and he quitted the cottage with a heavy heart.
The night was a sleepless one both to Mary and to her lover; but with the rising beams of the morning their gloom dispersed; and, as the rays gilded the mountain tops, they were both up, and waiting for the numerous friends of both sexes, that usually, on such occasions, are anxious to be foremost in paying their salutations. The bride’s cottage being of the smallest class, Owen’s was agreed upon to be the place of rendezvous, and a plentiful store of viands was ready for the guests to partake of at an early hour. The gay friends of the preceding evening were seen decorated in their holiday garments, fresh and fair as the cool breeze and the sweetest wild flowers of their native hills, clustering together before their cottages, and tripping in various groups towards Owen’s pleasant dwelling. Eight o’clock in the morning was the time appointed for the ceremony to take place in the little church of Chirk, and all were eager to attend the young couple, and—to eat their breakfast, which on such occasions was far from frugal. Owen’s relatives were all ready mounted at his door, prepared for the wedding hunt, and, when he joined them, away they galloped towards the cottage of Mary. She was seated upon her favourite Merlin, surrounded by her friends, who set up a shout as Owen and his party came in sight. The bridegroom having arrived, and made his claim to Mary, he was refused; and then a mock fight took place between the parties, and sundry thwacks upon the head were given and received in sport. At length, the bride and her kinsmen started off at full speed in the direction of Chirk Castle. The bridegroom following, worse mounted, but eager in the pursuit, shouting for them to stop; until at last the flying party having reached the park, they permitted Owen to overtake them, according to the custom, who then led his bride to the cottage, where everything was in readiness for their reception.
The bride, habited in a snow white dress, with some white heath flowers bound in her braided hair, was the admiration of all. Owen in his new suit, made for the occasion, looked handsomer than ever. They danced together upon the new mown grass, while Jordan, the minstrel, played his blithest tunes. At length, the party sat down to the repast, and rustic jests were given and returned with glee and good humour; when suddenly, the bridegroom being called aside, Mary took that opportunity to steal away, meaning to run off to the church, and laugh at Owen’s and his friend’s perplexity at her absence, and their astonishment at finding her at the church porch before them.
She was soon missed; and, suspecting it was a trick to perplex them, away the whole party ran in different directions in search of the runaway.
Mary had nearly arrived at the old woman’s cottage when Owen descried her. He had not forgotten the scene of the preceding night, and his heart had some painful misgivings that all was not right when he first missed his bride so suddenly from the breakfast table. Owen shouted and shouted! but the more he exercised his lungs, the faster she made use of her heels, when suddenly the “stag of six,” which he had seen the night before, darted from the old woman’s cottage, and ran furiously at Mary, who turned round and retraced her steps with fear and terror, but with the speed of the wind. She flew past Owen, who endeavoured to stop the deer, but all in vain. The interposing trees at times prevented the animal from pursuing, by entangling his branches with the lower boughs; but these impediments seemed only to redouble his fury when he again released himself, and Owen had not yet come up with him, though Mary kept the lead. Other friends now joined in the attempt to drive the creature in another direction, and with hands joined they formed a barrier, shouting and hallooing to frighten the stag as he approached the park; but all in vain; he bounded on more furiously than before, scattering the crowd in every direction. Owen at length overtook the furious stag, and was just in time to succour Mary. His coat, which he had taken off in the race, he dexterously managed to fling over the antlers of the brute, which, falling over its eyes, for a minute confounded the deer, and taking his Mary by the arm, he hurried her away in the direction of the cottage, but not in time to elude the pursuit of the infuriated animal, which having shaken off the blind followed them at full speed. Owen had no means of defence; the stag approached rapidly; he bade Mary continue her speed and reach the cottage, and then, with desperate valour, awaited the attack; in an instant after, he had grasped the horns and was dashed to the ground with violence: he rose again and with a bound leaped upon its back. The creature flung his antlers back, whirled round and round, but still Owen sat immoveable, and new hopes arose in the breasts of his friends, who gathered near and hemmed them round, when suddenly the beast rushed sideways against the trunk of a huge oak, and violently fractured Owen’s leg; but with persevering bravery he still kept his seat. At length, unable to rid itself of its burthen, the creature rolled upon the earth, and in the fall Owen’s right arm was shattered, and his foe once again free. It reared and placed its fore feet on the chest of Owen; and, as he raised himself once more to grapple with his enemy, its pointed antlers struck into his heart, and with a groan he instantly expired, while the fierce animal took to the mountains, and was seen no more.
Mary, who had entered the cottage of the ranger, in the midst of her terrors spoke of the old woman, who she said had bewitched the stag;—but, when her friends reached the door of the hut, and found they could not, by knocking, obtain admission, they broke it open, and found its inmate dead upon the floor. Rumour said that she had infused her spirit into the deer to revenge the threats of Owen on the preceding night; and her remains were treated with a ferocity which it would be as painful to listen to as to narrate.
Poor Mary never recovered from the shock; and in a few weeks after the mangled remains of her lover were deposited in the church yard of Chirk, the fresh flowers and evergreens were also placed around her grave.
For many years this tribute of friendship was regularly paid to their memories. In summer, flowers of the sweetest perfume breathed their dying odours around their graves, and, in winter, the holly and laurel spread their shining leaves to adorn their final resting place. Time, however, took away by degrees, the kind friends of the ill fated lovers, and no sign now points out the spot where, side by side, they slumber.
We now got once more into the coach road, and pushed on for Llangollen, leaving Wynstay, the seat of Sir Watkin William Wynn, upon the right. Almost every guide book will furnish the tourist with a description of this costly mansion and its beautiful grounds; but the wild scenery of nature, and the ruins of former grandeur, which yield an inexhaustible fund for contemplation and delight, together with the wild legends of the peasant or wandering minstrel, which render every spot you tread upon in this country enchanted ground, are more congenial to the feelings of the writer of this little work than all the gorgeous display of modern art and luxury. Therefore Wynstay, with Eaton Hall, the magnificent residence of the Marquis of Westminster, he resigns to those whose tastes are more refined (by luxury) to describe.
Leaving Wynstay on the right, we were conducted along the banks of a beautiful canal (the same that crossed the valley at Chirk) which was here planted with larch and hazel in pleasing variety on either side. On a sudden, an opening in the foliage presented us with a splendid view of the vale of the Dee, with the grand aqueduct stretching from hill to hill and the waters of the river making their way among broken rocks, amid embowering trees, and rolling under the arches of the aqueduct, with that delightful sound which is only heard in mountain scenery.
Seldom had I experienced so delightful a sensation as the present prospect occasioned. All was so calm, so quiet, it seemed indeed “the happy valley.” Shortly after, however, we found that no golden pleasure is entirely free from alloy, for on turning a projection upon the road, we were nearly stifled by the smoke from a lime furnace, and what was worse, “another and another still succeeded,” resembling a line of batteries blazing and vomiting forth smoke and destruction, while on the opposite mountain an uniform body of iron works were firing away from their tall chimneys, and steadily maintaining the never ceasing conflict.
At length, however, having happily passed these belligerents, my companion led me in triumph into a little public house on the road side, (which overlooked a precipice) the Aqueduct Tavern, the exterior of which promised little better accommodation than is to be met with in an Irish cabin. We entered, nevertheless, and, although the floor was of brick, it was very clean and the household utensils glittered along the walls.
“Pray, gentlemen, walk into the back parlour,” said a comely looking, good natured landlady of about forty-three.
We gladly accepted her invitation, and were agreeably surprised to find a neat room, carpeted, with a sofa, and half a dozen hair-bottomed chairs, and every thing rurally comfortable. The window looked upon the aqueduct, and commanded a beautiful view.
Here I became musical, and hummed “the woodpecker tapping,” to the no small annoyance of my companion, who had stretched himself upon the sofa with the intention, doubtless, of taking a nap after his long walk.
“And I said, if there’s peace to be found in the world,
The heart that is humble might hope for it here.”
“And here will I take up my quarters for the night. A glass of gin and water, cold and weak, if you please, Mrs. —, for I am thirsty. Very good, indeed;—now, a sheet of paper, to take down my notes of the day’s ramble. Very good again, Mrs. —, and now if you have good beds you may get us a lamb chop, with some tea, etc. etc. and leave us to enjoy this lovely prospect.”
“No beds, I am sorry to say.”
“No beds, Mrs. —!”
“No, sir, I hope to get some by next summer.”
“Why then, Mrs. —, I am afraid we shall have to proceed to the village. How far is Llangollen from this?”
“Six miles, sir.”
“And it is now—”
“Then bring in two screeching hot tumblers of punch, there’s a good lady, and
“Let us take the road.”
Here the trumpet of my companion began to sound; but I thought it would be advisable for him to rise before he became too stiff to resume his walk; therefore, with “yoicks! yoicks!” I startled the heavy god from his eyelids, and informed him of our unfortunate situation.
“It matters but little,” said he; “there is sufficient upon the road to interest us, and perhaps the twilight of such an evening as this is preferable to the morning.”
Having discussed our punch and lighted our cigars, we quitted the comfortable little cottage, and bent our steps towards the aqueduct, intending to cross by it to the opposite side of the vale.
A cigar in the cool of the evening is delightful.
“Glorious tobacco, that from east to west
Cheers the tar’s labour, and the Turk-man’s rest.”
So sang the Noble Bard, the music of whose lyre is left to charm the race of mankind for ages yet to come.
We soon reached the centre of the aqueduct; it extends from mountain to mountain in length 980 feet; it is sustained by twenty piers, 116 feet in height from the bed of the river Dee, and the span of the arches is forty-five feet.
“Do you observe yon house?” inquired my companion, with a grave air, pointing to a building which seemed to have belonged to some opulent person in times gone by, although it was now in a state of decay. Having replied in the affirmative, he proceeded:—“In that house lived a creature who was called ‘the Pride of the Valley.’ She was the daughter of a rich merchant of Bristol, and was beloved by a poor but honest and well-educated youth, who was, and has been since, a wanderer from his birth. Her christian name was Eveleen; no matter for her father’s. The following verses were written upon her untimely fate:
“In the days of my boyhood, when pleasures pass’d by,
Like the fragrance of flowers on morning’s first sigh,
In the vale of Llangollen there dwelt a fair rose
More lovely than daybreak, and sweet as its close.
Her step was light
As fays by night:
More thrilling her voice than the streamlet that flows
And mild as the moonlight and blue as the sky
Was the beam and the colour of Eveleen’s eye.“But Eveleen’s friends were of wealthy degree,
And tyranny forced her to cross the wide sea.
She faded, alas! as she drooped o’er the wave,
And died! but no blossom was strewed on her grave.
The waters deep,
Roll o’er her sleep,
And sea-stars now light up her billowy cave;
The winds moan above her, and Peris deplore
Round the rose of Llangollen, which charms us no more.”
“She was ordered to the Indies,” he said, vainly endeavouring to hide a tear, which told me the secret of his heart. I know not how it is, love tales are generally a great bore to the listener, but there was something so true, so heartfelt, in that single drop which glistened in the eye of my companion, that if delicacy would have permitted me, I should certainly have taxed him as being the hero of his own tale, and have requested him to give me a more minute relation of the affair.
I never felt the influence of the sublime mingled with the beautiful so deeply as when I stood upon this wonderful work of art; wherever I turned my eyes, the scene was calculated to excite the warmest feelings of admiration. The Dee flowing beneath, shadowed by the rich tints of the summer foliage; the ruined bridge; the dark mountain masses upon either side, patched with gloomy pines, intermingled with the relieving brightness of the graceful larch;—here tracing the lovely blooming heather, there the blasted rock in its naked majesty, and the noble amphitheatre at the extremity of the vale, with a view of the beautiful stream, as it came winding from the opposite point—the twittering of the birds as they prepared their mossy nests for repose, gave a charm to the evening, which can only be felt while witnessing the scene, and exceeds the power of description.
Having crossed the aqueduct, we proceeded by the left bank of the canal, passing a forge that nearly stifled us with gaseous smoke, along a pathway made of cinders and small coal, the refuse of the foundry. Trees of every description hung over our heads, and sloped down a deep declivity to the margin of the Dee, while on the opposite bank the mountain frowned above us. The partial glances we obtained of the vale through the woods, discovered scenes which the artist’s fancy might vainly attempt to equal. The water-flies, darting along the surface of the canal, and leaving long streaks of light behind them in myriad flashes, likewise engaged our attention; and we walked on in contemplative silence, my mind full of the crowd of natural beauties that surrounded me; while my companion seemed rapt in reflections upon the past—sometimes pausing to gaze upon a drooping willow, at others scanning a majestic oak that grew apart from the rest of the waving multitude, as if recollections of a painful nature crossed his mind.
At length, we reached the bridge of Llangollen, where the river is seen to great advantage, tumbling over its rocky bed, and rushing beneath the dark shelter of the overhanging trees. The village is small, and contains three respectable inns; viz.: the Hand, at which we stopped by the advice of my companion, the King’s Head, and the Royal Hotel. We were shewn into a very good parlour, and, after ordering a tea and supper dinner, my friend, somewhat exhausted by the day’s march, flung himself once more upon a sofa, while I resumed my journal. Supper or dinner, or whatever it may be termed being over, inquiries were made about our bed rooms.
“Your bed, sir, is made over the way.”
“Over the way!”
“Yes; my mistress has but one bed unoccupied, and she thought you would resign that to the elderly gentleman.”
“Oh certainly, my good girl; and who is to guide me ‘over the way,’ eh! for it’s as dark as Erebus?”
“Oh, sir, John, the ostler. Here, John! John!”
And away went the girl. I confess I have a strong aversion, after having taken off my boots, put on my slippers, and made up my mind to be comfortable for the night, to be obliged to walk some hundred yards from the parlour fireside, across or along a damp street, in a dark night, to my bedchamber; chilling work it is. At length, however, the deed was done, and I was shewn into a bedroom, where the murmurs of the flowing Dee were distinctly heard beneath the window. I felt cold and uncomfortable.
“Here am I, then,” said I, soliloquizing, as I pressed the pillow, “here am I, at length, in the vale of Llangollen—in the village of Llangollen! the spot which I have so often longed to visit!
“Flow on, thou shining river!”
And how fortunate, too, to meet with such an agreeable old gentleman!—and that Bristol merchant’s daughter, poor girl!—and that old witch!—corpse-light!—greased cow’s tail!—and, in a few moments, I sank soundly to sleep.
CHAPTER IV.
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.
