In the church wall is shewn the private doorway through which Owen Glyndwr entered the building whenever he attended divine worship, and in the rock, which overhangs the churchyard, there is a recess, which bears the name of Glyndwr’s chair; and the stone which now forms the lintel of the doorway leading to his pew, is said to retain the mark of his dagger, half an inch in depth, which he threw from the said chair; but upon what occasion it is not stated.
In the churchyard is a range of building called Corwen College, having over the archway the following inscription:
Corwen College,
For six widows of the Clergymen
Of the church of England,
Who died possessed of cures of souls,
In the county of Merionethshire.
Built and endowed
A.D MDCCL by the legacy of
William Egton Esq.
Of Plas-warren.
In the cemetery there is a cross, fixed in a circular stone, westward of the steeple; and it is supposed that the name of Corwen is a corruption of Corvaen, and derived from the cross. Cor signifies a circle, and maen (which is likewise considered to have been changed into vaen) if joined to cor, means a cross in the circle.
Having satisfied my curiosity here, I returned to the public house, and the first object which met my delighted eyes was the promised duck, accompanied by a dish of most elegant trout; a dainty for which I had been longing ever since I entered this territory of rocks and torrents. My friend was already placed at the table, and he clapped his hands, and rubbed them with evident delight and satisfaction at seeing me arrive so opportunely. The fish despatched, duck and green peas in close column brought up the rear. But I and my gallant comrade—a better trencherman ne’er poised a fork—attacked in line, cut up the one, and routed the other, with the most determined bravery. The right and left wings were attacked and cut off from the main body, which with all its material we dispersed in the glorious conflict, remaining masters of the field.
Although I thus warmly express my satisfaction at partaking of this not easily-to-be-forgotten luxury, let me not be mistaken for a gourmand; but a wet and tired traveller, however much his mind may be enchanted by the scenery through which he passes, never beholds a more delightful prospect than a comfortable meal at his journey’s end. It so happened, however, that this was not to be my journey’s end, for a blaze of light darted into the room at the moment John had carried off the spoils from our field of battle, and the glorious orb of day shone forth in cloudless majesty.
Wine in such a house, being out of the question, we ordered a jug of warm punch, and having drank success to my musical friend in a brimming goblet, I began to think, as my time was limited, and his path lay towards Cerrig-y-Drudion, and mine towards Bala, I had better reach that place before dark. My companion having divested himself of his shoes and stockings, and adopted those of the landlord, and feeling himself comfortable before the fire, resolved upon remaining where he was until bedtime. Wishing him, therefore, a pleasant evening, and a good night’s repose, I once more took the road for another walk of ten miles; while I heard the shrill sounds of his fife stick playing the Welsh air of “Farewell Glanddyn.”
At the end of the village, I was attracted by the eyes of the prettiest little Welsh lass that I remember having seen in the country. Health bloomed in her cheek, and animation darted from her sloe-black eyes. She was talking to a village lad, who appeared to be much abashed by some reproof she had given him; and presently, with a significant nod of the head and an admonitory glance of the eye, she turned briskly from him, and frisked by me, humming a Welsh air—the first that I had heard since I entered the principality—while the youth, with a smile and a sigh, turned in a contrary direction, exclaiming, “Ah, Jenny, if you refuse so many, you may happen to pray for one yet.”
I afterwards discovered that the Welsh air was called after the mansion of Mr. Edward Jones, the compiler of that most interesting book of Cambrian lore, the Bardic Museum. I instantly determined to put the idea I had formed in my mind of the Welsh lass into verse, and to adapt the lines to the music. (See plate.) [143]
Every thing looked cheerful; the birds carroled joyously from the trees and bushes; and I joined in the chorus. A robin appeared to be much taken with my vocal powers, and for a good while kept me company, alighting constantly some ten or twelve yards before me, and listening attentively until I had passed as far; then, passing me again in his flight, he took up his station as before. “Poor bird!” thought I, “I remember in my boyhood I have followed some of your race as eagerly as you now follow me; and my ears drank in their notes, intoxicating my senses with delight. I shall never forget the old mulberry tree that grew in our play grounds, shadowing a pretty little hermitage in which I used to sit apart from my schoolfellows and listen to the notes of that delightful warbler, with whom I grew familiar, and fed every evening with crumbs of bread, saved from my dinner.”