Montgomery—Offa’s Dyke—The castle—George Herbert—The church and its screen—The “Robber’s Grave”—Story of John Newton—Situation of Welshpool—The Severn Valley—Buttington—Parish church of Welshpool—Cottage of Grace Evans—Escape of Lord Nithsdale from the Tower—Powysland Museum—Castell Coch—Cadwgan ab Bleddyn—Iorwerth ab Bleddyn—Ghost story—Guilsfield—The church—Old yews—Holy wells—Meifod—Charles Lloyd—S. Tyssilio—His story—His cook and the conger—Mathrafal—Meifod Church—Lake Vyrnwy—Anne Griffiths—The spirit-stone—The wishing-stone.

THE luckless town of Montgomery has taken a back seat. The railway runs at a distance of two miles from it, and it is uncertain whether at the station a visitor will find a conveyance to take him to it. And at that station there is no hotel at which a trap can be hired. A bus does, I believe, make an occasional trip to it, but as it only now and then finds anyone there wanting to go to Montgomery it is discouraged and reluctant to go again.

Montgomery is out of the question as a centre, but it would be a delightful corner into which to creep from the swirl of business, curl up, and go to sleep.

The active, vigorous life of the county has been drawn away to Newtown and to Welshpool, and the condition of Montgomery, to all appearances, is hopeless, unless the line be continued from Minsterley, in which case it will be put into direct communication with Shrewsbury. It lies very close to the English frontier, and Offa’s Dyke runs along the edge of Long Mountains, and through Lymore, close to it, and that was the boundary set in the eighth century, beyond which no Welshman was to pass. It is a pity it was not to be a line of demarcation which every Norman-English ruffian was forbidden to transgress.

Curiously enough, when Offa, king of Mercia, drew this line he did not appreciate the importance of Montgomery, and so left it to the Welsh; but the Normans perceived the advantages of such a position in a moment, seized it, and constructed a formidable castle therein. The ridge on which the castle stands dominated the country round and must have had an oppidum on it, or camp of refuge, from the earliest time. Whether the earthworks to the west of the ruins belong to a prehistoric camp, or to the structure built by Baldwin de Bollers in 1121, is uncertain; they go by the name of Ffridd Faldwyn, bear his name, but have the look of having been old when he was born. The castle had been accorded before him by the Conqueror to Earl Roger de Montgomeri. It has undergone siege after siege, has changed hands, been demolished and rebuilt, and was finally destroyed by the Roundheads after the siege in 1644, when it had been held for the King by Lord Herbert.

The ridge rises steeply from the town clothed in woods; the ruins themselves are inconsiderable. In this castle, not then in ruins, according to Izaak Walton, was born the saintly George Herbert, in 1593. He was the fifth son of Richard Herbert, a younger brother of the celebrated Lord Herbert of Cherbury. In his fourth year his father died, so that, with his brothers and sisters, he was left under the sole charge of that excellent woman his mother, who subsequently married Sir John Danvers. He grew up to be a good scholar, and became an attendant at court, in expectation of preferment. But at length, weary of such dancing attendance on court favour, he retired into Kent, “where,” says his biographer, “he lived very privately. In this time he had many conflicts with himself, whether he should return to the painted pleasures of a Court life or betake himself to a study of divinity and enter into sacred orders, to which his dear mother had often persuaded him. At last God inclined him to put on a resolution to serve at His altar.” He was offered the prebend of Layton Ecclesia, in the diocese of Lincoln, whilst still a layman.

In 1628 he married Jane, daughter of Mr. Charles Danvers, a near relative of his stepfather.

“Mr. Danvers having known him long and familiarly did so much affect him that he often declared a desire that Mr. Herbert would marry any of his nine daughters, but rather his daughter Jane, because Jane was his beloved daughter. Mr. Danvers had so much commended Mr. Herbert to her, that Jane became so much a Platonick as to fall in love with Mr. Herbert unseen. This was a fair preparation for a marriage; but, alas! her father dyed before Mr. Herbert’s retirement; yet some friends to both parties procured their meeting, at which time a mutual affection entered both their hearts, and love having got such possession governed, insomuch that she changed her name into Herbert the third day after this first interview.”

A few months after the marriage, the Earl of Pembroke obtained for him from the King the living of Bemerton, whilst he was still in deacon’s orders, but he was speedily ordained priest.

“When, at his induction he was shut into Bemerton Church, being left there to toll the bell, as the law requires him, he staid so much longer than an ordinary time before he returned to his friends, that staid expecting him at the church door, that his friend Mr. Woodnot looked in at the church window, and saw him lie prostrate on the ground before the altar; at which time and place (as he after told Mr. Woodnot) he set rules to himself for the future manage of his life; and then and there made a vow to labour to keep them.”

He died of consumption in 1632, aged 39.

It is remarkable that Wales should have given to England two of her sweetest sacred singers, George Herbert and Henry Vaughan.

The church of Montgomery, an interesting building with Early English arcade, is cruciform with a modern tower at the extremity of the northern transept. It possesses a superb carved-oak screen with rood-loft and good stalls, but the quaint misereres have been badly mutilated. The church contains a good deal of Early English work, but the east and west windows are Perpendicular.

In the graveyard, in a remote corner, is “The Robber’s Grave,” a bare space even with the surrounding ground, and it remains bare, although the grass grows luxuriantly about it.

Fresh soil has been frequently spread over it, and seeds of various kinds have been sown, but not a blade for many years was known to spring there—the soil remained sterile. Until recently the bare patch was of the size and shape of a coffin, but of late the surrounding grass has somewhat encroached; nevertheless the coffin-shape remains. The date of the grave is 1821.

The story relating to it is this. A widow named Morris and her daughter occupied a farm called Oakfield in the parish. The farmer, James Morris, had been a dissipated, neglectful man, and had left his wife and child in distressed circumstances. The little estate had formerly belonged to a yeoman farmer named Pearce, and Thomas, who now represented this family, hoped with his savings to be able, when the Morrises were down, to recover Oakfield.

Jane Morris, the daughter, was a comely wench, and a farmer of the neighbourhood named Robert Parker had taken a fancy to her, but as he was much her senior, she did not receive his addresses cordially. Shortly before the death of James Morris, a young man named John Newton had been taken into service at Oakfield. He was a shy, reserved man, but honest and hardworking, and with his energetic help the widow’s affairs began to mend, and the prospect of a sale of the property became remote. Moreover, Jane and John Newton fell in love with each other, and the mother considered that the match would be altogether what was best for the farm. Both Parker and Pearce were incensed and disappointed, and determined upon being revenged on John Newton.

An opportunity for accomplishing this purpose occurred. Newton had been attending a fair in the neighbourhood, and had been detained by business to a late hour. He did not leave till six in the evening, and the night was one in November. At some little distance from the town Pearce and Parker awaited him, and after a struggle overmastered him, brought him back into the town, and took him before a magistrate, charging him with an attempt to rob them on the highway. Newton was committed and tried.

At the assizes he employed no counsel for his defence, did not cross-question the witnesses, but contented himself with solemnly protesting his innocence. However, the testimony of the two men Pearce and Parker was clear, positive, and unshaken. They were men of respectability and repute, and he was pronounced “Guilty.”

When Newton was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon him, he repeated his assertion that he was guiltless. “But, my lord,” he said, “if it be true that I am guiltless in this matter, I am not so in another with which I am not charged, and of which none know but myself. And I ask of Almighty God to bear testimony to my innocence of the crime wherewith I am charged, by not suffering the grass, for one generation at least, to cover my grave.”

Newton was executed and buried in this corner of the churchyard, and his grave is the blank spot spoken of.

Parker soon after left the neighbourhood, became a dissolute and drinking man, and was killed by the blasting of the rock in the limeworks in which he had found employment. Pearce became low, dissipated, and gradually wasted away.

Curiously enough, the English county border of Shropshire does not follow Offa’s Dyke south of Montgomery, but stretches inwards a mile and three-quarters in length, forming a tongue half a mile across.

A chain of camps extends north and south from Montgomery above the Severn Valley.

The towns where there is real activity in Montgomeryshire are Welshpool and Newtown.

Welshpool is a pleasantly situated little place among the hills, about half a mile from the Severn. It takes its name from the Llyndu, in the park of Powis Castle; but the Welsh name for it is Trallwng, or Trallwm, “across the vortex”—that is to say, the llyn, which tradition says will some day burst its bounds and overwhelm the town.

On the west are the wooded slopes of Bron y Buckley and Gungrog. The little stream that waters the town is the Lledau.

The Severn for some miles above and below Welshpool flows through a broad valley that is a dead level, and stretches to the bases of two ranges of flanking hills which start abruptly from the broad expanse of river flat. That beyond the river is the Long Mynd and then comes the Breidden. This stretch of level is caused by the overflow of the Severn, which floods it all at times, giving to the basin the appearance of a tidal estuary.

North-east of Welshpool is the quaintly shaped Rallt, with the steep side towards the Severn, and dividing that valley from the basin in which stands Guilsfield.

Below the town by Buttington was the scene of a complete overthrow of the Danes by the allied English and Welsh forces, in 894, under Ethelred, Ethelm, and Ethelnoth, eorldermen, whilst King Alfred was engaged in fighting another body of them in Devon. The Danes had formed a camp near the river on low ground, and the Anglo-Welsh army surrounded it. The Danes were in such distress that they ate their horses. Then they burst forth from their camp and fought desperately. Several thanes were slain, “and of the Danishmen was made great slaughter.”

The parish church of Welshpool stands on high ground, and was built about the year 1275. But very little remains of the original church; the lower stages of the tower, with its archway into the nave, and an Early English window in the north gable behind the organ are all. At the beginning of the sixteenth century the nave was rebuilt, with a north and a south aisle; but in the eighteenth century the arcade on the south was removed, and the outer walls rebuilt.

This gives to the church a lop-sided appearance internally, as the chancel arch is thrown on one side of the unusually broad nave. The fine rood-screen was destroyed in or about 1738, when the parishioners appealed to the bishop for permission to remove it, because “a great number of the very common sorte of people sit in it (under pretence of psalm-singing), who run up and down there; some of them spitting upon the people’s heads below.” Hanoverian windows and galleries were added, and the church made as ugly as well could be. It has, however, been taken in hand since, and made more decent. It still retains a fine carved-oak roof in the chancel, supposed to have come from Strata Marcella Abbey.

The key of the church—in Wales nearly every church is kept locked—is kept at a picturesque little black and white cottage at the east end, in which once lived Grace Evans, who assisted Lady Nithsdale, a daughter of the Duke of Powis, in effecting her husband’s escape from the Tower of London.

Lady Nithsdale wrote an account of the whole affair to her sister, and in it she always speaks of the humble Welsh girl Grace as “My dear Evans.”

William Maxwell, fifth Earl of Nithsdale, had been involved in the Jacobite cause, was taken prisoner, and committed to the Tower. “As a Roman Catholic upon the frontiers of Scotland, who headed a very considerable party, a man whose family had signalised itself by its loyalty to the royal house of Stuart would become an agreeable sacrifice to the opposite party,” wrote Lady Nithsdale.

But one day was left before the execution. She appealed to Parliament for permission to intercede with the King for a pardon, and this was granted. She flew to the Tower, and “I told the guards as I passed by that the petition had passed the House—I gave them some money to drink to the Lords and to His Majesty.”

But she had doubts that a pardon would be granted.

“I then sent for Mrs. Mills, with whom I lodged, and acquainted her with my design of attempting my lord’s escape, as there was no prospect of his being pardoned, and that this was the last night before the execution. I told her that I had everything in readiness, and that I trusted she would not refuse to accompany me, that my lord might pass for her. At the same time I sent to Mrs. Morgan, to whose acquaintance my dear Evans had introduced me, and I immediately communicated my resolutions to her. She was of a very tall slender make, so I begged her to put under her own riding-hood one that I had prepared for Mrs. Mills, as she was to lend hers to my lord, that in coming out he might be taken for her. When we were in the coach, I never ceased talking, that they might have no leisure to reflect. On our arrival at the Tower, the first that I introduced was Mrs. Morgan (for I was only allowed to take in one at a time). She brought in the clothes that were to cover Mrs. Mills when she left her own behind her. When Mrs. Morgan had taken off what she had brought for the purpose, I conducted her back to the staircase, and, in going, I begged her to send me my maid to dress me; that I was afraid of being too late to present my last petition that night if she did not come immediately. I despatched her safe, and went downstairs to meet Mrs. Mills, who had the precaution to hold her handkerchief to her face, as is natural for a woman to do when she is going to take her last farewell of a friend on the eve of his execution. Her eyebrows were inclined to be sandy, my lord’s were very dark and thick; however, I had prepared some paint of the colour of hers to disguise his with; I also brought an artificial head-dress (wig) of the same coloured hair as hers; and I painted his face with white, and his cheeks with rouge, to hide his beard, which he had not time to shave. The guards, whom my slight liberality the day before had endeared me to, let me go quietly out with my companion, and were not so strictly on the watch as they had been. I made Mrs. Mills take off her own hood, and put on that which I had brought for her; I then took her by the hand, and led her out of my lord’s chamber, and in passing through the next room, in which were several people, I said, ‘My dear Mrs. Catherine, go in all haste, and send me my waiting-maid. I am to present my petition to-night, and if I let slip this opportunity I am undone, for to-morrow will be too late.’ Everybody in the room, chiefly the guards’ wives and daughters, seemed to compassionate me exceedingly, and the sentinel officiously opened me the door. When I had seen her safe out, I returned to my lord, and finished dressing him. When I had almost finished dressing my lord in all my petticoats except one, I perceived it was growing dark, and was afraid that the light of the candles might betray us, so I resolved to set off. I went out leading him by the hand, whilst he held his handkerchief to his eyes. I spoke to him in the most piteous tone of voice, bewailing the negligence of Evans, who had ruined me by her delay. Then I said, ‘My dear Mrs. Betty, for the love of God, run quickly and bring her with you; I am distracted with this disappointment.’ The guards opened the door, and I went downstairs with him, still conjuring him to make all possible despatch. At the bottom of the stairs I met my dear Evans, into whose hands I confided him.”

Grace Evans managed a place of concealment for Lord Nithsdale till he could be smuggled to the Venetian ambassador’s, and thence to Dover, dressed as a lacquey, behind the ambassador’s coach and six. There he was put on board a boat and conveyed to Calais.

The Powysland Museum deserves a visit. It contains many objects connected with local history and antiquities, among others a bronze bell of Celtic character from Llangystennin Church, Roman remains from Caersws, and mediÆval from Strata Marcella.

But the chief object of interest in the district is Castell Coch, the Red Castle of Powys.

This stands boldly out on a rock that has been hewn into terraces. It is a stately Elizabethan mansion, but underwent injudicious handling by Sir Robert Smirke, the architect, at a period when the true characteristics of mediÆval architecture and that of the Tudor period were not grasped. The walls are older than the Elizabethan period, when it was remodelled. It contains much that is worth seeing—tapestries, old furniture, and paintings.

James II. raised William Lord Powis to a dukedom after his flight from England in 1689. The second Duke of Powis was implicated in the rebellion of 1715, and was sent to the Tower. The dukedom became extinct in 1748.

Cadwgan ab Bleddyn, prince of Powys, began to build a castle here in 1110. He and his brothers Madog and Rhirid ruled in the three portions of Powys. Filled with ambition, they combined to attack South Wales, and drove away King Rhys, who fled to Ireland, but returned, and in a battle with the sons of Bleddyn the brothers of Cadwgan were killed. He had, however, two more—Iorwerth and Meredydd.

In 1102 Robert de Belesme, Earl of Shrewsbury, rebelled against Henry I., and induced Cadwgan and his brothers to make common cause with him. King Henry, however, opened secret communications with Iorwerth, and by large promises bribed him to arrest and deliver over his brother Meredydd to him. Iorwerth did this, but when he appealed to Henry for his stipulated reward the King contemptuously refused to ratify his engagement, and had Iorwerth seized and imprisoned.

In 1103 Meredydd found means of escaping, and returned to Wales. Then ensued the troubles with Owen, son of Cadwgan, who carried off Nest, wife of Gerald of Windsor, as has been related elsewhere.

The wily Bishop of Hereford entered into negotiations with Ithel and Madog, sons of the deceased Rhirid, and nephews of Cadwgan and Iorwerth, to stir up civil war in Powys and Ceredigion.

Iorwerth had by this time also left his prison, and had returned to Powys, and from Mathrafal issued a proclamation against these turbulent princes. But Madog, hearing that his uncle Iorwerth was at Caereinion, near Welshpool, with few attendants, stealthily surrounded the building and set fire to it. Iorwerth attempted to escape from the flames, but was thrust back into them by the spears of his nephew’s followers, and perished.

Not long after, Cadwgan was looking at the works in progress at Castell Coch, when Madog, with his attendants, crept through the woods, fell on him, and murdered him also.

In reward for having done to death his two uncles Henry I. received him favourably, and invested him with lands and paid him a large sum of money. But Meredydd, another uncle, remained, and in 1111 he entered the lands of his nephew Madog, discovered his whereabouts by torturing one of his servants, captured him, and handed him over to Owen, son of Cadwgan, who put out his eyes.

Owen would have killed him but that he and Madog had previously sworn friendship and fidelity to each other.

A rather curious ghost story attaches to Powis Castle. It occurs in the autobiography of the grandfather of the late Mr. Thomas Wright, a well-known antiquary. It was told to Mr. Wright in 1780 by Mr. John Hampson, a Methodist preacher.

Mr. Hampson, having heard rumours that a poor unmarried woman who had attended on his ministry had conversed with a spirit, sent for her and took down her deposition. It was to this effect. She was accustomed to get her livelihood by spinning hemp and flax, and she was wont to go from farm to farm to inquire for work, and whilst employed was given meat, drink, and lodging.

One day she called at Castell Coch for this purpose, and was received by the steward and his wife, who set before her a heap of material that would occupy her some days to spin.

The earl and family were at that time away in London.

When bed-time arrived two or three of the servants, each with a lighted candle, conducted the woman to her bedroom, which was on the ground floor, and handsomely furnished. They gave her a good fire, and left a candle alight on the table, and then wished her good night.

She was somewhat surprised at so many servants attending her, as also at being accorded so grand a room. Before retiring to bed, she pulled out of her pocket a Welsh Bible, and began to read a chapter. Whilst thus engaged she heard the room door open, and turning her head, saw a gentleman enter in a gold-laced hat and waistcoat; he walked to one of the windows, and resting his elbow on the sill, stood in a leaning posture with his head in his palm.

Not knowing what to make of this, she watched the apparition for some time, and then kneeling said her prayers. Presently the figure turned and left the room.

After the lapse of a short time, he again appeared and walked across the room. Then the woman said, “Pray, sir, who are you, and what do you want?” He raised his finger and said, “Follow me.” She at once took the candle and obeyed. He led her through a long panelled passage to the door of a chamber, which he opened and entered.

“As the room was small, and I believed him to be a spirit,” she said, “I halted at the door. He turned and said, ‘Walk in; I will not hurt you.’ So I walked in. He said, ‘Observe what I do.’ I said, ‘I will.’ He stooped and tore up one of the boards of the floor, and there appeared under it a box with an iron handle in the lid. ‘Do you see that box?’ I said, ‘Yes, I do.’ He then stepped to one side of the room and showed me a crevice in the wall, where, said he, a key was hid that would open it. He said, ‘This box and key must be taken out, and sent to the Earl in London. Will you see it done?’ I said, ‘I will do my best to get it done.’ He said, ‘Do, and I will trouble this house no more.’ He then walked out of the room and left me. I stepped to the door and set up a shout. The steward and his wife and the other servants came in to me immediately, all clung together, with a number of lights in their hands. They asked me what was the matter. I told them the foregoing circumstances, and showed them the box. The steward durst not meddle with it, but his wife had more courage, and with the help of the other servants lugged it out, and found the key.”

The box was afterwards forwarded to the earl in London, and he sent down orders to his steward to inform the hemp-spinner that he would provide for her during the rest of her days. And Mr. Hampson said it was a well-known fact that she had been so provided for, and was still so at the time she gave him the account.

The country around Welshpool is marvellously rich and is splendidly timbered, and the black-and-white old mansions and farms nestling among the foliage are most picturesque. But one wonders, among the gentlemen’s seats adjoining one another, where is room for farmers and cottiers to come in?

Guilsfield, or Cegidfa, the Hemlock field, is situated in a basin, rich and fertile, and on the way to it the delightful timber-and-plaster house of Old Garth is passed on the right.

The church dedicated to S. Aelhaiarn is Decorated, with a Perpendicular east window, and a fine carved ceiling in the chancel. The modern pitch-pine roofing of the nave and aisles is mean and out of character with the old work, as is also the modern screen, which is not only coarse in design, but has been carried half-way up the doorway that gave access to the ancient loft.

In the churchyard are some fine yews. By one is a tombstone with the inscription:—

“Under this yew tree
Buried would he be,
For his father and he
Planted this yew tree,”

and the monument is to Richard Jones, who died, aged ninety years, on December 10th, 1707.

The font has on it some curious carving, and in the porch is an oak chest hewn out of a single trunk.

A holy well a mile and a half distant is in a pretty dingle; it is frequented on Trinity Sunday, when its water is drunk with sugar, and is still regarded as possessing curative properties.

A more interesting holy well is at Llanerfyl. Under a grand old yew tree in the churchyard, said to be the staff of the saint which rooted itself there, is the only Romano-British inscribed stone in the county. Some fragments of the saint’s shrine remain.

The well, Pistyll y Cefn, Bedwog, lies in a field a quarter of a mile distant from the village. It is in fair preservation, built up and covered with large granite slabs, but the water has been drained away. Formerly people assembled there on Whit Sunday and Trinity Sunday to drink sugar and water at the well.

Meifod, in the valley of the Vyrnwy, is also in a fertile neighbourhood. Above the village rises the mountain called the Hill of the Anchorite, with a bald head, blushing with heather, and crowned with ancient earthworks.

Meifod was the summer residence of the kings of Powys, but was given by Brochwel to his son Tyssilio when he entered religion, and he founded here an abbey which became important.

His mother was Arddun, daughter of Pabo Post Prydain, whose monument we have seen in Anglesey. He was great-grandson of Cadell Deyrnllwg, who founded the dynasty of the kings of Powys after the expulsion of Benlli by S. Germanus.

The first Abbot of Meifod was Gwyddfarch. Tyssilio found the old man one day full of the project of going to Rome. But he was too advanced in age for such a journey, and Tyssilio said to him, “I know what this journey to Rome means; you want to see the palaces and churches there. Dream of them instead of going.” Then he took the abbot a long mountain trudge, till he was thoroughly exhausted and declared that he could go no further. So Tyssilio bade him lie down on a grassy bank and rest. And there Gwyddfarch fell asleep.

When he awoke, Tyssilio asked how he could endure a journey to Rome if such a country stroll tired him. And then the abbot informed him that he had dreamed of seeing a magnificent city, and that sufficed him.

Some time after this Gwyddfarch died, and Tyssilio succeeded him as abbot.

On the death of Brochwel this prince was succeeded by a son, who, however, died two years later without issue. This son’s widow was a strong and determined character, and after consulting with the chief men of Powys, resolved on withdrawing Tyssilio from his monastery, marrying him, and making him king of Powys.

The times were full of peril, and a strong and able man was necessary for the post. But Tyssilio was not the right person for the occasion; he hated war, knew nothing of its practice, and, above all, objected to marrying his deceased brother’s wife, and she such a masterful woman. So he refused. His sister-in-law took this as a personal affront. She was incapable of understanding that Tyssilio had a vocation for the monastic life, could not believe that he was intellectually and morally unfit for a life of war, and assumed that his refusal was due to personal dislike of herself. Therefore, as an offended woman, she did all in her power to injure and annoy the monks of Meifod.

The position of Tyssilio, close to Mathrafal, where the slighted widow resided, became intolerable. She seized the revenues of the abbey; and Tyssilio, to free his monks from persecution, fled with a few attached to his person and left Wales, crossed the sea, and entered the estuary of the Rance, near where now stands S. Malo. The river forms a broad estuary of blue glittering water, up which the mighty tides heave gently, the waves broken and torn by a natural breakwater. Ascending this river for four miles, he found a point of high land with a long creek on the north, making of it a narrow peninsula. On this point of land Tyssilio drew up his boat, and there resolved on settling.

Tyssilio, like a prudent man, had not left Wales without taking his chef de cuisine with him, and this master of the kitchen, monk though he was, had an amour with a girl on the opposite side of the Rance. He was wont, Leander-like, to swim across and visit her. On one occasion as he was crossing, a monstrous conger eel curled itself about him, and the poor cook was in dire alarm. He invoked all the saints to come to his aid—Samson, Malo, his own master Tyssilio—none could deliver him till he thought on Maglorius of Sark, and called on him for assistance. At the same moment it occurred to him that he had his knife attached to his girdle, and unsheathing that, he hacked and sliced at the conger till it relaxed its hold, and so the poor fellow got across alive, and vowed he would never again go a-courting.

Whilst Tyssilio was in Brittany, news reached him that his sister-in-law was dead, and his monks wished him to return to Meifod. However, he was content to remain where he was, and he declined the invitation. The name by which he is known in Brittany is Suliau, or Suliac. His statue is over the high altar of his church on the Rance, and represents him as a monk in a white habit, a bald head, and holding his staff. It is a popular belief that as the staff is turned so is changed the direction of the wind. The old woman who cleans the church informed me that her husband, a fisherman, was returning, but could not enter the harbour owing to contrary winds. She turned the crozier in the hand of the saint, and at once the wind shifted, and the boat arrived with full sails in the harbour. Tyssilio’s ring is preserved in the church.

About three miles up the valley above the junction of the Banw and Vyrnwy, but on the former, are the mounds that mark the site of Mathrafal, the former palace of the kings of Powys after they were driven from Shrewsbury. They form a quadrangle with a tump at one angle immediately above the river, and there are indications of more extended earthworks cut through by the road and mostly levelled.

Meifod Church stands in an extensive yard, planted with avenues of fine trees. It has been much altered by rebuilding, but on the south side are round-headed arches, very rude, of early Norman work. The east window of the south aisle is Decorated, but that of the chancel is Perpendicular. Within the church is a richly carved late Celtic pillar with figures on it. The screen has been removed; it was late in character, and is now stuck as a decoration against the wall of the chancel, and portions are worked into a partition shutting off the vestry from the church. This vestry occupies the site of the original church of S. Tyssilio.

Here is buried Madog, eldest son of Meredydd ab Bleddyn, prince of Powys, from whom is named one of the two divisions of Powys—Powys Fadog. He is not a man for whom one can feel any respect. He sided with Henry II. against his own countrymen, and took the command of the English fleet in the invasion of Anglesey, and was defeated with great loss. His second wife was Matilda Verdun, an Englishwoman; she had a temper, and he was of an amorous complexion, and they led a cat-and-dog life. At last he deserted her. She appealed to the English king, who ordered each party to appear at Winchester before him, and it was stipulated that each should have as retinue no more than twenty-four horses. Madog arrived with his horses and one man on each, but the lady with twenty-four horses and two men riding on each horse. The result was that she overbore him, and he was ordered to entail the lordships of Oswestry upon her and her heirs male, by whomsoever begotten; and he was thrown into prison, where he was murdered at her instigation. Thereupon she married John Fitz-Alan, Earl of Arundel, and carried the lordship of Oswestry to the English house. Madog died in 1161. His body was transported to Meifod.

Meifod is the parish whence came Charles Lloyd, the founder of Lloyd’s Bank. He was born in 1637, and was a member of a very ancient family that was estated at Meifod, and his father was a county magistrate. Whilst a student at Oxford he took up with the new notions promulgated by George Fox, and became a Quaker. In 1662 he was arrested and required to take the oath of allegiance. As he refused, the oppressive laws against sectaries were enforced against him with the utmost rigour. For ten years he was detained in prison at Welshpool, his possessions were placed under prÆmunire, his cattle sold, and the family mansion of Dolobran allowed to go to wreck and ruin. He was confined in “a little smoky room, and did lie upon a little straw himself for a considerable time.” His wife, who had been tenderly nurtured, “was made willing to lie upon straw with her dear and tender husband.”

When released he made over the family property to his son, and removed to Birmingham, where he became an ironmaster, realised much money, and founded Lloyd’s Bank.

William Penn is thought to have visited him at Dolobran, and portions of the panels of oak have been removed as relics and carried to America.

A contemporary thus describes Charles Lloyd:—

“He was a comely man in person, of an amiable countenance, quick of understanding, of a sound mind, and would not be moved about on any account to act contrary to his conscience, very merciful and tender, apt to forgive and forget injuries (even to such as were his enemies), and did good for evil, hated nothing but Satan, Sin, and Self.”

He died in 1698.

His brother Thomas accompanied William Penn to Pennsylvania; another brother, John, was the ancestor of that very staunch Churchman, Bishop Lloyd, of Oxford, who is regarded as the initiator of the Oxford or Tractarian Movement.

Dolobran is still in the possession of the Lloyd family.

At Llangynyw, in the church, is a screen in position; there is no loft. The old oak porch is fine.

The adjoining parish is Llanfair Caereinion, the scene of the burning of Iorwerth by his nephew Madog.

The upper waters of the Vyrnwy have been dammed and converted into a lake to supply Liverpool with water. Now it fell out that when the dam was in course of construction there was a stone in the river called Carreg yr Ysbryd, or the Ghost Rock, and it had to be removed. This was supposed to cover an evil spirit that had been laid and banned beneath it. The Welsh labourers engaged on the works would have nothing to do with shifting the block; but the English navvies had no scruples, and they blasted the rock, and with crowbars heaved out of place the fragments that remained.

Then was revealed a cavity with water in it; and, lo! the surface was agitated, and something rose out of it. The Taffies took to their heels. Then an old toad emerged, hopped on to a stone, yawned, and passed its paws over its eyes, as though rousing itself after a long sleep.

“It’s nobbut a frog,” said the Yorkshire navvies. “It’s Cynon himself,” retorted the Welshmen. “Look how he gapes and rubs his face. You may see by that he has been in prison.”

After that, whenever a Taffy was observed to yawn, “Ah, ha!” said his mates; “clearly you have but recently come out of prison.”

Lake Vyrnwy is nearly four miles long, and is fed not only by the river that gives its name to the reservoir, but also by many torrents that dance down the mountain-sides, forming pretty waterfalls. The work of impounding this sheet of water was commenced in 1881, and the water was stopped by closing the valves on November 28th, 1888. It has all the appearance of a natural lake, except from the lower end, where shows the magnificent dam, 161 feet high, but with 60 feet below of foundation.

Llanfyllin is the nearest station to Lake Vyrnwy. Near this is Llanfihangel yn Nghwnfa, where was born and lived one of the sweetest hymn-composers of Wales, Anne Griffiths. She first saw light at Dolwar Fechan, a farmhouse in this parish, in 1776, and was the youngest daughter of Mr. John Thomas, a farmer. She received such education as was to be obtained in a country school at that period, and acquired a smattering of English, some arithmetic, and a knowledge of reading and writing Welsh. She grew up to be a fresh-faced, comely, dark-eyed, and dark-haired young woman, and was fond of dancing and other innocent pleasures.

When aged about twenty she joined the Calvinistic Methodist sect, and thenceforth her life was distinguished for its devotional character and deep piety. In October, 1804, she married a Thomas Griffiths, of Cefn-du, Guilsfield, who came to live with her at Dolwar. In July, 1808, she gave birth to a child, that lived but a fortnight, and she survived it but another fortnight, dying at the age of thirty.

“Thus living and dying in the seclusion and obscurity of a lonely mountain farmhouse, Anne Griffiths composed some of the sweetest and most precious hymns in the Welsh language, if not, indeed, in any language. They are not numerous—all that have been preserved being only about seventy-five verses—and they are too often marred by faults of composition and the transgression of the simplest rules of prosody, yet many of them are so rich in poetic fancy, sublime imagery, holy sentiment, and seraphic fervour, that they can never be forgotten so long as hymns are sung in the Welsh language. Mothers teach their babes to lisp them, and many a pious Christian has been heard faintly to whisper them in the hour of death.”[6]

None of them were published during her life, and, indeed, it did not occur to her that they would ever appear in print, or would be esteemed beyond the circle of her own most intimate friends. She committed very few of them to writing, but she recited them to Ruth Hughes, a farm-servant with her, who treasured them in her memory; and they were taken down from Ruth’s repetition some time after the death of Anne Griffiths. They were first published at Bala in 1806. They have recently been translated into English, but they do not bear rendering out of the Welsh in which they were composed.

In the churchyard of Welshpool is a stone—the Maen Llog. It is shapeless, and is said formerly to have stood in the abbey of Strata Marcella, and on it the abbots were installed. After the Dissolution it was brought to S. Mary’s Church, and those who had to do penance were required to stand on it in a white sheet with a candle in one hand. During the Commonwealth the Puritan Vavasour Powell turned it out of the church, as an object of superstition; but in the graveyard it continued to be regarded with some respect, and was in request as a Wishing Stone. Those very ardently desiring something mounted it, and turning thrice sunways framed their wish; and so, before quitting Welshpool, I took care to mount it, turned the right way about, and wished prosperity to this cheerful little town and to its Powysland Club.