[Here there is a break in the narrative owing to the loss of several folios of the original manuscript. From the contents of the remaining portion, we infer that the missing pages contained an account of several other visits paid to the people of the fairy kingdom, and the incidents of the respective journeys. We learn, too, that the Princess Mervyna became greatly attached to our hero, but that an estrangement subsequently took place between them. But the remaining narrative contains no record of the cause which led to the estrangement. The following is the concluding portion of the history.]
* * * * *
Ah, me! ah, me! what a strange race and people is that who inhabit the fairy kingdom. They live in a beautiful country, speak a language which is full of poetry, they are a virtuous and truth-loving race. Moreover, their land abounds with treasures; gems, gold, and precious stones are there. Oh, what a noble and loving spirit is that of the dear princess, loving and lovable is she. To be with her, was like a heaven upon earth. I loved her as I never loved human being. To me she was more precious than all the world. In my various visits the tie between us became dearer and dearer. Had it not been for — I’ll not mention his name, I should be longingly looking forward to another tender embrace. But the tie is now broken—I did not mean to take the gold. Justly have I been punished. Had I not done this, had I refused to listen to the suggestive temptations of my mother,—the door would not have been closed. It was I who did the deed, and I repent in dust and ashes. What I have suffered on account of this, no tongue can tell, nor can language set forth. But my deepest grief arises from the thought that I shall never again embrace the dear M—, the object of my heart’s fondest affection.
CEFN-Y-BEDD;
OR, A
VISIT TO THE SHRINE OF LLEWELYN AB
GRUFFYDD, THE LAST CAMBRIAN KING.
Frequent is heard the voice of woe,
Frequent the tears of sorrow flow;
Such sounds as erst, in Camlan heard,
Roused to wrath old Arthur’s bard;
Cambria’s warrior we deplore;
Our Llewelyn is no more.
Who like Llewelyn now remains,
To shield from wrong his native plains?
My soul with piercing grief is filled;
My vital blood with horror chilled:
Nature herself is changed, and lo!
Now all things sympathize below.
Hark! how the howling wind and rain,
In loud symphony complain!
Hark! how the consecrated oaks,
Unconscious of the woodman’s strokes,
With thundering crash proclaim he’s gone;
Fall in each others’ arms and groan!
Hark! how the sullen tempests roar!
See! how the white waves lash the shore!
See! how eclipsed the sun appears!
See! how the stars fall from their spheres!
Each awful Heaven-sent prodigy
Ye sons of infidelity,
Believe and tremble! Guilty land,
Lo, thy destruction is at hand!
Thou great Creator of the world,
Why are not thy red lightnings hurled?
Will not the sea, at Thy command,
Swallow up this guilty land?
Why are we left to mourn in vain
The guardian of our country slain?
No place, no refuge for us left,
Of homes, of liberty bereft;
Where shall we flee, to whom complain,
Since our dear Llewelyn’s slain?Translated from a Welsh poem.
It was a calm and balmy evening in the month of July, 18—, when all nature appeared hushed in still quietude and death-like repose, when not a zephyr breeze, causing the leaves of the trees to murmur or wave, was felt: such was the character of the lovely and sunny evening on which I left the beautiful valley in which the little village of Llanwrtyd nestles among the hills, for the purpose of paying a special visit to Cefn-y-Bedd, the spot to which the finger of tradition points as the resting-place, the sacred ground, the hallowed earth in which were deposited—amid the universal wail and lamentation of the Cambrian people, when widows, fathers, brothers and sisters, heroes not a few, men who never dreaded danger, and who were always foremost in battle—strong, fearless, and valiant warriors, wept and sorrowed, and refused to be comforted because their Prince, their champion, and their idol was not. It was at Cefn-y-Bedd, which is now a respectable farm homestead, where no monument of any kind marks the spot, that the mortal remains of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, the last reigning sovereign of Wales, were interred. If no Parian marble marks the ground beneath whose sacred sod lies the dust of the dear departed, his name still survives, his virtues still live, his memory is still fondly cherished by hundreds and thousands of his descendants; and though nearly six centuries have come and gone since the fall of our great captain, prince, and patriot, he still speaks to the people and the nation. Yes; his name is still dear to Cambria’s sons and daughters. His memory is even now, after the lapse of so many years, fresh and green. If the poor flesh, which contained one of the purest and manliest souls that ever dwelt in a tabernacle of clay, has long, long ago crumbled into dust, the man, the hero, and the patriot survive, and will live in the annals of his country, and be an idol in the heart of his descending race until time shall be no more.
I have remarked that the above visit was a “special visit.” A few days previous I had passed Cefn-y-Bedd, on my way to the little border town of Builth, but in passing by the sacred shrine of our illustrious ancestor, I knew not that I was on hallowed ground. A lady companion called my attention to an admirable husbandry arrangement of the homestead, the like of which I had not previously seen in Breconshire. The observation of my companion and the scene around led me into a train of thought relating to bygone years, to the deeds of old, the revolution of kingdoms, the decline and fall of empires, and the changes which are daily taking place in families, in governments, and in the homes of both rich and poor. I said to myself, every house, every cottage, every mountain and valley has a history peculiar to itself—a history full of interest, replete with romantic doings and sayings far more wonderful,—embodying events and circumstances of more profound interest and of deeper and far more pathetic story—than is often found in the works of fiction. Who can tell, for I am sure I cannot, but that, perhaps, that house, with its farm-yard and out-buildings, its garden and flowers, possesses a history peculiar to itself? and it may be that long, long ago heroes and mighty men of valour took shelter here from the fury of the tempest or from the burning sun of mid-day July heat, in their march from one battle-field to another. But why travel to the land of shadows? Why draw ideal pictures of events that are past, of heroes, warriors, and statesmen, of battles, conquests, and defeats? The dead cannot be called to life. The past cannot be revived. The work done cannot be undone. The past can never be recalled. Well, if these things are among the impossibilities of life, there is one thing at any rate which I can do. I can drop a tear on the grave which contains the hallowed dust. I can recall the memories of the dear departed; I can paint and set forth their virtues, can photograph their manliness and bravery, can sketch and limn their life and deeds; so that this and succeeding generations may learn to live more wisely, be more true, more faithful to the dearest interests of their country, especially with reference to those measures which lie at the basis of national progress and the comfort and weal of the people.
The situation of Cefn-y-Bedd is exquisitely beautiful, and the scenery is richly diversified. From it one beholds a wide expanse of country, with varied and magnificent views, which are finely alternated with luxuriant fertile meadows, groves of thriving timber, and flourishing plantations. In the distance we have views of the rocky hills of Llanelwedd, at whose base flows the poetic and majestic Wye, the beautifullest of rivers. To the south-east is the far-famed Eppynt Forest, and down through a luxuriant sylvan dell runs the meandering Irvon. From this sacred spot one beholds at a glance scenery in which are combined the bold and soft, the sterile and woody, bare and rocky hills and verdant glades. It is a scene on which the eye delights to dwell. In the far distance the bald rocks of Aberedw appear in view. It was among those rocks that Llewelyn encamped before his departure for Builth. Little did he fancy when he left that stronghold on the cold winter’s morning that his life was so near its close. That he was surrounded by enemies, he was well aware. That the armies of King Edward were in the immediate vicinity of his camp he was fully cognizant of. His spies had brought him information of the several posts occupied by the English, and of his being in imminent danger of an attack from various quarters of the combined hosts. Aberedw, though admirably formed by nature for resisting an attack, when directed from the Wye banks, was yet wholly untenable in the face of the terrible odds with which he had now to cope—a combined army moving from various military posts. Seeing his danger, the Cambrian prince resolved to break up his camp, and march along the sylvan Wye to Builth. Crossing the bridge, he moved on in a southwesterly direction to Pont Orewyn, where the Prince, unarmed, received the deadly spear. He was killed on the 10th of December, 1282.
Having introduced to the notice of my readers the hero of my story—the man whom Heaven, in its wisdom, specially raised up to meet the demands of the most trying emergency which had befallen a great and an heroic people—the man who, when placed at the head of affairs, found his country prostrate, the national treasury empty, and the people dispirited by reason of sad reverses—I shall proceed now to sketch the career of the man; to set forth his virtues; to paint, but with no exaggerated colouring, his character as a prince, as a ruler, as a military commander, and as a friend; and shall show, what history clearly proves, that he inspired his countrymen with an amount of confidence and trust which no previous sovereign had been able to infuse into them; that the veneration with which his name was so universally held was traceable to virtues in his public acts and private life; further, that had it not been for the treason of the faithless few, Llewelyn would have transmitted the sovereignty of Wales to his posterity. He died, not on the field of battle, but alone and unarmed was he when the fatal blow was struck. By-and-by I shall show that he had done his work, and for him to die was gain.
On the right bank of the sylvan Wheeler,—a small crystal stream which flows through the luxuriant and richly wooded vale of Caerwys,—there stands the modern mansion of Maesmynen. In a meadow near the present hall there was, in the thirteenth century, an ancient palace, which from time immemorial had been one of the royal residences of the Cambrian Princes. Beautiful was the situation of this ancient mansion. All that the eye loves to rest on could be seen from the elevated spot on which it stood. This palace was the favourite residence of the unfortunate Prince Llewelyn. Here he spent his boyhood. Here he principally lived until his country called him to occupy a more conspicuous and more prominent position. In the neighbouring woods of Yseiefiog, Caerwys, Trev-Edwyn, and Bodfari, he and his trusty friends were accustomed to follow the chase. Indeed, he lived here among friends and dependents, for the circumjacent cantrevs of Rhos, Dyffryn Clwyd, Rhyfoniog, and Englefield—which cantrevs included the country between Conway and Chester—were his own property and possessions. About midway between the two extreme points was the royal palace of Maesmynen. Here he breathed the pure air of heaven. Here he was free from the turmoil of life’s cares and life’s battles. Here he felt but little anxiety in connection with the terrible war then being carried on between his countrymen, headed by Llewelyn the Great, and, subsequent to the death, in 1240, of that illustrious monarch, by his son and successor, Prince Davydd; because the Prince of Maesmynen felt that the right men were at the head of affairs, and that Heaven would defend the cause of the just. Though Llewelyn, the last prince, was not anxious as to the result of the struggle, yet that he was not an indifferent spectator of the scene, and its consequences to the nation, is evident from the annals of those momentous times. Why then did he keep aloof from the struggle? Why did he remain inactive? Why did he continue to live a life of ease and pleasure, when duty called him to the front? The reason is apparent when we consider the then existing relation between members of the royal house. His father had been cruelly treated, and had been made a prisoner by his own brother Davydd; and when liberated, through the intervention of mutual friends, he simply exchanged the castle of Criccaeth for the Tower of London. In that stronghold he was securely guarded by King Henry’s soldiers. Some of his noble compatriots, illustrious Cambrian chieftains, successfully effected his release from the Tower, but Prince Gruffydd, the father of our hero, in an endeavour to accomplish his own liberation, fell from a great height and was killed on the spot. It appears that that prince had made a cord with the linen of his bed and table, and when he had descended about midway between the window and the ground, the cord broke, and the unhappy prince was precipitated into the Tower ditch, and was killed. This sad event took place in the year 1244. During the two following years, King Davydd, being wholly free from anxiety on account of his brother’s superior claim to the throne, which his death had annulled, pursued a vigorous policy, displaying traits of character and versatility of genius of the highest order. He was brave as a lion, and was ever foremost in the struggle; thus he secured the confidence of his friends, the admiration of his followers, the love of his soldiers, and the dread of his enemies. His reign, however, was but of brief duration. In 1216 he died at Aber Palace. Though this prince was hated by many during his reign, his death was generally lamented.