THE PET GOAT.
About three years ago, sir, I married one of the prettiest girls you ever saw—an inhabitant of the neighbouring village. Her good heart was light, and her hand always open to the stranger and the poor, as far as our means could afford. We were married in the little church of Aber, and a merry one was our wedding day. Her mother gave me a young kid upon the occasion, which we took home with us and brought up in the cottage, as you would a dog that you loved for the giver’s sake; and for its own sake I loved the pretty animal. It was as playful and as gentle as a kitten; and I taught it a number of tricks that greatly amused all our neighbours. Truan hyny! At length, my poor Mary brought me a boy, but she, poor girl, was too delicate to suckle the infant, and my gentle goat, that had lately brought forth two kids, supplied us with milk for the child, who did well, and God be praised, still does well;—my poor pet was the saving of his life. Well, I went to my work, as usual, and Mary made my home a heaven upon earth;—for she was an angel, and furnished me with every comfort that mortal could desire. God bless her!—and she is blessed, if goodness finds bliss in heaven, which no one doubts.
Well, sir, a second year flew away quickly, and my partner brought me forth twins—the sweetest babes eyes ever looked upon, and so like each other, you couldn’t tell which was which; so we tied a ribbon upon Mary’s arm, to distinguish her from Kate. Well, my poor pet goat again stood wet nurse to the offspring; and my wife recovered her health and beautiful looks; our evenings passed in talking of what we should do for them, when they grew up. Ah, sir, it would have done your heart good to have seen her blue eyes turned up to the sky, imploring blessings upon their innocent heads, and every night kneel down to pray to her Creator, for mercy on herself and me! although He knows better than I do, that she was as free from soil as the waters of the rocky rill, and you might see her heart as clearly as the pebbles at its bottom. Ah! that was a sight for good men to look upon, and be thankful that they had seen it. You’ll excuse me, sir; but I can’t help shedding tears, when I think upon the fate of poor Mary!—gwae! gwae!
The pet goat, sir, was wandering upon the shelving rocks which now hang over us, and there were many others above. Do you see that, sir, with one of its horns nearly straight, just upon the edge of that projecting mass? Just beneath that she was browsing, when, all of a sudden, a large piece fell from the brow of the mountain, and, lighting upon the body of my favourite, she was dashed into the centre of the road, just where we are now standing; and, when I ran to her the look of her bright grey eyes went to my heart—poor thing! I never saw anything more affectionate in a christian; for her looks spoke more than any words I ever heard in the way of gratitude; and she licked my hand, poor dumb beast! and sighed, and died without a groan, poor thing! poor thing! (and he wept in the bitterness of his feeling.)
You may wonder, sir, that I should cry so, when I tell you about the death of a goat; but it is the consequences attendant upon it that wring the tears from my eyes. When poor pet died, my wife was obliged to nurse her young twins, for no woman could be found in the neighbourhood to assist her, and I couldn’t afford to buy another goat, and I couldn’t bear to ask for milk which I wasn’t able to pay for, for all somehow went wrong with me after the loss of our favourite. Mary grew weaker and weaker every day, and I couldn’t go to my work, and leave her, without any one to watch over her. My spirit was broken, and I cared for nothing in the world, but attending the sick bed of Mary and the children. To be sure, I managed to get enough for the support of life; but the twins couldn’t eat the food I brought them. The mother had not milk enough to support them; and I saw her, day by day, sinking under the affliction I had no power to soften. At length, my two pretty babes died, one after the other, and Mary’s heart broke to see the stroke of Providence. She died too, sir, and with her all that made life dear to me, except my poor little boy. I shall never, never recover! and I know that the sod will shortly be laid upon my head, by the side of the grave where rest the bones of my dear Mary.
The numerous accidents that have happened on this mountain render it an object of awful interest. Mr. Pennant, in his tour, relates the following circumstances:
“The Rev. Mr. Jones, who in 1762 was the Rector of Llanelian in the Isle of Anglesea, fell, with his horse and a midwife behind him, down the steepest part. The sage-femme perished, as did the nag. The divine, however, with great philosophy, unsaddled the steed, and marched off with the trappings, exulting at his preservation.”
He relates another accident, that occurred here, in the following words:
“I have often heard of another accident, attended with such romantic circumstances, that I would not venture to mention it, had I not the strongest traditional authority to this day, in the mouth of every one in the parish of Llanfair Fechan, in which this promontory stands. Sion Humphreys, of this parish, paid his addresses to Ann Thomas, of Creuddyn, on the other side of the Conway river. They had made an appointment to meet at a fair in the town of Conway. He in his way fell over Penmaen Mawr. She was overset in the ferry boat, and was the only person saved out of fourscore! They were married, and lived very long together in the parish of Llanfair. She was buried April 11th, 1744, aged 116. He survived her five years, and was buried Dec. 1749, close by her in the parish church yard, where their graves are familiarly shown to this day.”
On the summit of a hill, in the neighbourhood of Penmaen Mawr, are the ruins of an ancient British camp, of vast magnitude, which was deemed impregnable. It is a site of considerable interest, as well for its antiquity, as for the magnificent prospect which it commands of the ocean, the Isle of Anglesea, the straits, the Ormes head, the island of Priestholm, the beautiful town of Beaumauris, and the chain of Snowdonia, of which it is the terminating link.