THE MINSTREL’S KNELL.
“My Fawny Vechan! brightest maid,
In scarlet robes and gold array’d!
My Fawny Vechan! fairest fair,
That ever breath’d the mountain air!
For thee do spirits pine and fade,
As blossoms in the chilling shade,
Debarr’d from Phœbus’ genial light,
Sink victims to the withering blight.
My Fawny Vechan! hear my prayer!
Thy lover’s—tho’ a child of air!
May peace on earth, and bliss above,
Wait on the mortal whom I love!
My outward form of misery
Tells what the spirit feels for thee!
Farewell, farewell! no more the pride
Of sweet Dwrdwy’s mossy side,
In distant vales, I’ll breathe my woes,
And seek, ah, vain, vain hope! repose!
Ah! cou’d I die, I’d not repine,
If Evan’s name might live with thine.”
From the commencement of his song, the figure of Evan became fainter and fainter, and the torches and huge candles that illuminated the ball assumed a dimmer light. The guests, terror stricken, were riveted to their seats; none presumed to speak their fears; and the whole assembly appeared, as they had been transformed, in the positions they occupied while living, into cold marble, so immoveable and inanimate did they seem. On a sudden, the figure of Evan vanished!—The substantial harp falling upon the floor restored the guests to motion; while Einion’s attention was called to the restoration of his lovely bride, who, at the melancholy close of the fairy’s song, had fainted, and still lay insensible in the arms of her father, the baron.
The stone, at the upper end of the banqueting hall, is said to mark the spot upon which, for the last time, was heard the melody of “The Minstrel Fay!”
“A very pretty fable; and now let us return, to witness the procession at Llangollen,” said I.
Having taken refreshment, we proceeded to the church-yard, and stationed ourselves near a monument to the memory of Lady Eleanor Butler, Miss Ponsonby, and their faithful servant, Mrs. Mary Carrol. From this interesting spot, we beheld a novel sight. Two or three hundred villagers had assembled, and were scattered about the churchyard in groups; some, stretched upon their backs, were sleeping on the flat tombstones, their hardy features protected from the scorching rays of the sun by the gay cotton handkerchief or the straw hat; some stood in knots, conversing upon the results likely to take place from petticoat government (for the proclamation had been received only the day previous); others gazing with eager eyes, upon a flight of steps, up which a number of smart village girls, with laughing eyes and ruddy faces, tripped lightly to a doorway, which entering, they, one by one, like shadows, disappeared. Every moment, the cemetery became more crowded, and, as I noticed, principally with the infirm and aged. Before me stood a palsy stricken creature, whose white locks waved about her face at every motion of her feeble head. Then came a form, once, doubtless, erect and handsome, but now by age so bent, that his head found a melancholy parallel with his hips, and a beechen staff supported his debilitated body. Another and another still pressed on, the sick, the lame, thronging to the gay scene, anticipating joy! As they passed, however, my busy fancy led them one by one, into a separate grave, realizing the awful conception of the Dance of Death!
A strange, discordant sound, awakened me from my reverie, and, although horribly harsh, I gave it welcome, for it banished a gloomy spirit from my mind. Turning my eyes towards the flight of steps, I saw the girls descending, each decorated with a white shawl with a blue border, and bearing a wand, (it being the symbol and costume of the society), at the top of which were laurel, and laurestinus leaves, intermingled with roses, lillies, etc., etc. The beadle of the parish, who on these occasions is no insignificant personage, was seen bustling about, arranging the form of procession, bringing forward this one, pushing back that, keeping order, and knocking the boys’ hats over their eyes for having approached the lines too closely; while the motley band, in various keys played, “Oh the roast Beef of Old England;” rather mal-à-propos, as I thought, as they were about to enter the church, and hear a sermon which is regularly preached on this day.
The line now stretched to a considerable extent, and the lady patronesses appeared to be much delighted at viewing the busy scene, as they hurried to and fro, with benevolence beaming in their eyes; while old age, and decrepitude, cast away their sorrows and hailed the jocund scene.
All being ready, the rector and his curate placed themselves in the van, the lady patronesses followed, and to the sound of the inspiring bassoon, drum, keyed bugle, and cracked trumpet, they proceeded by the iron gate, through ranks of happy human beings ranged on either side, like old oaks, young saplings, nettles and pea blossoms, huddled together in “promiscuous alliance.” Having taken a prescribed circuit, they again entered the churchyard by another gate, and passed into the church; when a discourse, very much to the purpose, was given by the rector; after which, they adjourned to the Hand hotel, where they had a tea-total entertainment, and passed the evening in strolling about the gardens, listening to the inimitable band of wind instruments, which brayed out an execrable accompaniment to the exquisite music of the Dee, as it swept beneath them, overshadowed by the drooping foliage of the opposite bank. Altogether, it was a most gratifying sight—for the simple souls were happy.
CHAPTER V.
Valle Crucis—The Abbey—Lines written in the ruins—A loquacious porteress—A view of the Abbey—The pillar of Eliseg—A parting—Road to Corwen—Vale of the Dee—The musical pedestrian—War song—Over the hills and far away—An adventure—Corwen—The Church—College—Cross and Circle—Air Llwyn-own—Route to Landrillo—An old soldier and his son—Village of Landrillo—A fair—Vale of Edeyrnion—Arrival at Bala.
“Fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
Nor let the tuneful lips be dry
That warble Owen’s praise;
Whose walls with warlike spoils are hung,
And open wide his gates are flung,
In Cambria’s peaceful days.“This hour bright is meant for joy,
Then fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
That shineth like the sea,
Whose azure handles, tipt with gold,
Invite the grasp of Britons bold,
The sons of Liberty!”From the Welsh of Prince Owen Cyveilog, by R. W.
On the following morning, we bade adieu to Llangollen, and proceeded first to Valle Crucis.
Like most abbeys, it is beautifully situated. The monks of old well appreciated the value of rich lands and clear streams. An old woman received us at the gate, and instantly began to retail her information. “Gryffyd ap Madoc, Lord of Bromfield and Yale, founded this abbey in the year 1200.” There are parts of both church and abbey still remaining; the former was cruciform, and exhibits several styles of architecture. The eastern end is the most ancient; it is adorned by three lancet slips, forming one grand window. The entrance was in the west, under a broad and beautiful window, above which is a smaller one, of a marigold form, decorated with tracery and fret-work, and beneath it may be deciphered the following inscription:
A.D.A.M.D.N.S fecit hoc opus, pace beatâ quiescat Amen.
The cloisters are turned into a farmhouse and offices.
This noble edifice was dismantled by Henry VIII. My companion, feeling desirous to bathe in the clear waters, left me to my contemplations, encompassed by the ruined walls of the abbey, and tall ash trees, which shaded the area of the church. I wandered from thence to the fish pond, which is near to the abbey, and, while my companion was enjoying his ablutions, my muse jogged my arm, and reminded me that some tribute was due from me to this lovely spot. Taking out my pocket book and pencil, I produced the following