or, the lake of the little hollow, on the opposite margin of which, the wild and dismal Carrey-y-Saeth, the rock of the arrow, rears its black head in fearful grandeur. Cwm Bychan, is a grassy dell, surrounded on all sides by the most frightful sterility; which while we gazed with wonder on the sublimity of the scene, made us shudder at the utter desolation it presented. A poor cottage stands on the farther end of the valley, from which, having obtained a plentiful supply of milk, we dismounted, and, fastening our steeds to the gates, we seated ourselves under the shade of two trees, upon the inviting grass, which, like the smiles of the world, proved but too treacherous; many a scream and laugh announcing that the boggy soil had paid no respect to the garments of either sex. Stones were therefore procured, and, having ranged them in a magic circle, the whole party seated themselves to partake of the good cheer, which a sturdy Welshman had borne upon his shoulders, and who now advanced into the middle of the ring. Knives and forks began to play with astonishing celerity. Fowls, ham, tongue, &c. &c., vanished as if by enchantment; and mirth and good humour added zest to the repast.
In this hollow there dwelt a witch called Janet, and a story is told, which, as its wildness is well adapted to the scenery, I will endeavour to relate. The circumstances are said to have been confessed by old Janet, when under the last torture.
THE WITCH OF CWM BYCHAN.
In the year 1647, when the Parliamentary forces were besieging the castle of Harlech, there happened to be a sturdy trooper, named Jacob Strong-ith-arm, amongst them, a raw-boned man, of about forty years of age, who had a most sanctimonious visage, and a strong nasal twang, which the hypocrites he commanded generally affected as the acceptable tone in which the Lord delighted. He had in his youth been a butcher’s boy; but sanctity and the cutting the throats of the royalists had elevated him to the rank of captain in Oliver’s army. This man being stationed under General Mytton, during the siege of Harlech Castle, fancied himself in love with Mary Carrol, the daughter of a farmer in the neighbourhood, who was shrewdly suspected of being a favourer of the besieged party. This, however, Jacob did not choose to notice; and, whenever an assault upon the castle was repulsed by the royalists, he returned to lay siege to the heart of Mary Carrol, who had an utter abhorrence to all fanatics and sanctified faces.
“Verily, Mrs. Mary Carrol,” he would say, “I love thee!”
“And by the honour of a cavalier,” replied the maiden, “I love thee not, Jacob;” for she concealed not her attachment to the royal party, although her father constantly cautioned her to do so.
Long and vainly did Jacob endeavour to obtain the young girl’s affections. At length, he bethought himself of Janet, the witch of Cwm Bychan, whose fame was spread for many a mile the country round; and one evening in March a man muffled in a horseman’s cloak was seen stumbling over the broken rocks and patches of broom and furze that impeded his way to the cottage where she lived. The moon was obscured by the density of the atmosphere, and small dark remnants of clouds swept midway through the valley, portending heavy rain and tempest. Often did he kneel and lift his trembling hands, as if in prayer, as he approached the cottage, and many times did he turn round affrighted, believing he heard a brownie brush behind him. At length, he saw a small white dog running towards him, wagging its tail, and looking very glad to see him. Notwithstanding all these tokens of welcome, the teeth of Jacob chattered in his head, as he followed his canine conductor, and his heart sank within him.
When he came to the door, it seemed to fly open without the aid of hands, and, in the middle of the hut, over a turf fire, sat Janet the witch. “Come in!” said she, and repeated these doggerel lines:
“Thou lovest a young and a pretty bird,
And little she cares for thee;
But Mary shall carol, and love thee well,
If thou’lt give gold to me.”
“By the devil and all his imps, Janet,” said Jacob, mustering up all the courage he could to support his profanity, “I’ll give thee a hundred good pounds if thou wilt make her love me.”