Well, well! I know you for a sturdy soldier, the old gentleman replied; so take your course: ’tis not the first time you have served me thus. Perhaps ’tis natural to a mind like your’s to find that kind of arrogance in money, which establishes a sort of patronage in the giver, not quite consistent with your sense of independant friendship; and if such be your construction of the case, wait, my good fellow, till the time shall come, when I can have no use for what I bestow, and you no longer any motive for declining to receive it—
Death shall soon furnish that conclusive plea,
Which ends the contest betwixt you and me.
Whilst time passed in this manner at Glen Morgan the interment of poor Nancy Ap Rees, as regulated by the Reverend Mr. Wilson, took place at Denbigh. A great concourse of people assembled; the whole corps of harpers from all the neighbouring parts attended in honour of their illustrious compatriot, and formed themselves in his train as he followed the bearers of the coffin, led by his son. The minstrels of Kray Castle and Glen Morgan, in their professional habits, and distinguishable by the attributes of their respective patrons, both men of eminence in their art and favourites of the muse, were present and attracted general notice and respect.
As it was known that the venerable father of the deceased purposed to speak to the people after the solemn service was concluded, the body was no sooner committed to the earth than the crowd formed themselves into a circle, of which he became the centre, and, having passed the word for silence, heard themselves addressed, as follows.
Friends and my countrymen!—A dark old man, whose eyes no ray of light hath visited these threescore years, stands here beside the grave of his new-buried child, and wishes you to hear with patience a few plain and pacifying words, to which, amidst the sorrows of his heart, he feels himself in conscience bound to pray you for your own sakes to attend.
My station in the family of the deceased Sir Owen Ap Owen is well known to all: from my youth up I have fulfilled the duties of his household minstrel, and though it becomes me to speak modestly of my services, let me hope they have been such, as do not disgrace the patronage of that worthy master and his ancient venerable house. In the course of my servitude having taken to wife a daughter of the celebrated Owen Gwynn, whose name yet lives amongst us, I became the father of two children, the elder of whom, a son, stands now at my side, the sharer of my sorrows and the staff of my declining age: the younger, a daughter dear to my sad heart as the blood that visits it, lies low at my feet in the narrow chamber, whither we must all repair.
Friends, I beseech you, move me not to unfold the dreadful dealings, that conspired the death of this most innocent and much injured child. Be satisfied to know her wrongs are not within the reach of human justice; God will avenge them; God will not permit the violator to escape unpunished. Why should I name him? he is not of us; he was not born of unmixed British blood! he is gone, self-banished, fled, and never will he dare to return amongst us, and abide the perilous inquisition, that awaits him.
Be patient therefore, my dear countrymen! stir not a hand in my redress, and reverence the tombs of Penruth Abbey, where sleep the fathers and the heroes of your ancient race: account yourselves rather so far fortunate as you are henceforth rescued from a wretch without humanity, an alien to your nation, one who respects no laws divine or human, so void of honour, so abandoned of all virtue, so surrendered to all villainy, that, when the purity of my child repulsed his guilty passion, he scrupled not to make her mind a ruin, and levelled the defences of her reason in order to accomplish the destruction of her innocence—And now, my friends, you, who are fathers, will dismiss your fears; he, that has destroyed my peace, cannot harm you—My daughter dies, that your’s may be in safety.
Here I should end, for he, of whom you all expect to hear, seeks not the praise of men, and modestly requires me to conceal the wondrous bounties, he has heaped upon me: but I cannot obey him; I will speak his praise, and in the ears of this assembly declare aloud, that to the charity of John, the young De Lancaster, sole heir of his paternal and maternal houses, I owe as much as man can owe to man—a grave for my child, a patron for my cause and an asylum for my age—Heaven’s best of blessings light upon his heart!—I have said.”
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
Harding and Wright, Printers, St. John’s Square.