Twm escapes from Cardigan. Meets Parson Rhys at Lampeter. The tragical tale of the heiress of Maes-y-velin and the flower of Llandovery.

Having thus possessed himself of a coat without the tediousness and expence of giving measure to a tailor, and no more fastidious about a dressing room, retired to a stable, and soon came out fully dressed in his male attire; of which, a coat only was before wanting. Bent on a precipitate retreat, as the urgency of his case demanded, he bolted down St. Mary’s Street, and soon found himself on the turnpike road, with the good town of Cardigan some miles behind him. In little more than two hours he reached the small town of Dinas Emlyn, now called Newcastle-in-Emlyn, on a romantic part of the Teivy dividing the counties of Cardigan and Carmarthen, and occupying its banks on either side. Entering a small public house, he regaled himself on the fine potent ale for which that place has been so famous. Being refreshed with a little rest and food, he now, for the first time, began to enquire of himself whither he was going, and what his aims were to be; questions which he found very difficult to be resolved. Although the most serious cogitations on the subject might have availed little or nothing, chance very unexpectedly decided him, and relieved his apprehensious for the present.

Perceiving a very loquacious beer-inspired pig-drover, who vaunted his successful sale at Cardigan fair, preparing to depart, he suddenly determined to take the same route wherever it might lead, and on inquiry, found he was going to Llandovery.

Glad of company, the pig-drover received Twm’s information that he was also going to the same town with a hearty shake of the hand and a welcome to become his fellow traveller. About ten o’clock that night they arrived together at Lampeter, which Twm now visited for the second time. The geography of the country being but little known to him, he felt some alarm on finding himself so contiguous to his own native place.

While drinking a quiet pint with his companion at a tavern, and thoughts of danger occupying his mind, a friendly face appeared in smiles before him, and dissipated every feeling of unhappiness; it was the worthy Rhys the curate, who had spied him from the little parlour where he had been sitting before his arrival, and now cordially welcomed him to partake of his supper which was then preparing.

Our hero bade a merry farewell to his friend the drover, who had endeavoured to initiate him into the mysteries of pig-dealing, the latter declaring his resolution to travel all night until he reached Llandovery. Supper ended, and having heard as many of Twm’s adventures as he chose to relate, newly modelled, to suit his peculiar ear, Mr. Rhys informed him that he had also left Tregaron forever, disgusted with the treatment he had met with from old Evans, and was on his way to Llandovery to take possession of the curacy of Llandingad, to which he had been just appointed by the vicar, the reverend Rhys Prichard. The good-natured Rhys could scarce forbear smiling, when Twm informed him of the circumstance that had first led his thoughts to visit Llandovery also, and that he was determined to go there to seek his fortune, and felt a sort of presentiment that he should be successful: “Well,” said he, “your fortunes are altogether romantic, and fortitude such as yours is a virtue that becomes us all. Whatever I can do to get you into employment, when you are there, rest assured shall not be wanting.” With this understanding Twm’s hopes were buoyed up to the highest pitch, and, to his sanguine mind, became already certainties, which presented themselves in dreams of various felicitous shapes.

Rhys rose with daylight, and rousing Twm, they both sallied forth, the former leading his horse by the bridle, to be more on a par with his more humble companion. They had nearly reached the top of Pen-y-garreg hill, over which the road leads from Lampeter to Llandovery, while a bright prospect of the newly-risen sun attracted their mutual attention, when the clergyman thus addressed his companion. “We are now on a spot to be yet immortalized, perhaps, by the legendary muse, for a deed of blood perpetrated here in our own times; when the banks of the impetuous Teivy, now before us, became the scene of a lamentable tragedy. Yonder stands what remains of the once goodly mansion of Maes-y-velin, the fair seat of the ancient family of the Vaughans, once of considerable note in this part of the principality. Ten years ago, a young lady and her three brothers, the last of that race, were its possessors. The lady, named Ellen, was exceedingly beautiful, and beloved by the son of the venerable Rhys Prichard, the present Vicar of Llandovery, whose curate I am now become.

“It was customary with the young man whenever he reached this spot, to tie his hankerchief to the end of a rod, that he held as a flag-staff, which was immediately seen by the heiress of Maes-y-velin; and when she could succeed in getting her brothers out of the way, the signal of love was answered by hoisting her own kerchief to the branch of a tree above the house, on which, both ran down from their respective hills, till they stood face to face on either side of the Teivy, when the fond lover soon dashed into the river, crossed over and caught the fair one in his arms. But as these things sound better perhaps in verse, I shall submit to you a specimen of my skill at Ballad writing, in one that I have written on this occasion.” With that they took their seat on a huge stone on the side of the hill, when Rhys drew a manuscript from his pocket and read to his attentive auditor.

THE HEIRESS OF MAES-Y-FELIN,
AND
The flower of Llandovery.

What is amiss with the maiden fair,
What is the sweet one ailing?—
Why pale her cheek, and her spirits low,
And why up the hill doth she daily go,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin?—

Why are the brows of her brothers dark?
Nor mother nor sire hath Ellen;—
Her brothers whisper—her steps they watch—
The heart of her mystery eager to catch,
The maiden of Maes-y-velin.

The parents of Ellen her merits knew,
And frown’d on her brothers’ vices;
Her brothers are disinherited,
And Ellen is heiress in either’s stead;
Thereat all the land rejoices.

Her brothers one day went out to hunt,
And alone at home left Ellen;
She watched them away, then flew to her bower,
And cried “oh now for Llandovery’s Flower!
Right welcome to Maes-y-velin.”

She hoisted her silken kerchief red
To the highest branch of her bower,
To Pen-garreg hill then strain’d her eyes,
And the flag of her hope was seen to rise,
’Twas thine, oh Llandovery’s Flower!

Long had he watch’d—the faithful youth!
His wish each day unavailing,
At length, he sees with a wild delight,
His true love’s signal, the lady bright,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin.

That signal was chosen between the twain,
When absent her stern proud kindred;
And then would they rush from either hill,
The lover’s true with a right good will,
Till the waters of Teivy sunder’d.

Now as erst they rush’d, and as erst they paused,
When arrived on the banks of Teivy,
They gazed on each other across the stream,
And gestured affection’s high glow supreme,
And gayer their hearts, long heavy.

In plung’d the youth with most anxious speed,
The Flower of fair Llandovery,
The maiden is trembling with wild alarms—
She brightens—she sinks in her true-love’s arms,
Deem’d lost to her past recovery.

Oh Nature hath many warm generous glows—
But they say love’s joys are fleeting;
Most dear to the mother her new-born son,
And sweet is the fame that’s fairly won,
To the blind restor’d oh the summer’s sun’s
Less sweet than the lover’s meeting.

Sweet to the donor the generous deed,
That serves merit’s child, unweeting;
Healing is sweet to the gash’d by the sword;
To the wounded heart, the benevolent word;
Oh sweet is the breeze to the sick restored!
But sweeter true lovers’ greeting.

Each flower that flaunts in vanity’s cap,
And sets youthful hearts a gadding,
Has its charms, its zest,—but the whole above,
Is the magical thrill of sweet woman’s love,
That drives heart and brain a madding.

And fondly they loved, this youthful pair,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin,
And he whom they called Llandovery’s Flower;
Oh frequent their meeting and parting hour,
Their moments of joy and wailing.

Once when they met on the Teivy’s banks,
Canopied o’er by the wild wood,
Mid fragrance of flowers that graced the shade,
The youth sung this song, of true lovers betrayed,
An ominous song—that drew tears from the maid,
For her heart was as simple as childhood.

“‘Oh come to the banks of the Teivy with me,
To the deep woodland glade, ’neath the shady green tree,
Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,
In the face of the day and the bright eye of light,
That God and his angels may witness our troth,
That God and his angels may favor us both.’

“‘I’ll go to the green-wood,’ the lady replied,
‘Fore God and his angels be fairly affied,
Fearless of foemen, of guile, or of might,
In the face of the day and the bright eye of light;
That God and his angels may witness our troth,
That God and his angels may favor us both.’

“So sung a young chief to his dear lady love,
At the base of her tower—she answered above—
Vile vassals espied them, and flew to their lord,
The lady’s true lover soon fell ’neath his sword:
She threw herself headlong, fulfilling her troth,
And Death was the priest that united them both.”

PART II.

Over the hill of Pen-garreg, the road
Is seen that leads from Llandovery,
Maes-y-velin’s green hill is opposite,
The mansion below—oft on either height
The lovers are making discovery.—

But envious eyes were on the watch,
And the genius of evil hover’d;
The brothers, who wish’d their sister unmatch’d,
For any approach of a lover watch’d,
At length their two flags discover’d.

They have hatch’d a scheme to enmesh the youth,
And see him at length on the mountain;
His flag they answer—he runs down the hill—
Now forth rush the wretches resolved to kill,
And waste his young heart’s warm fountain.

Like prey-beasts they hide on the Teivy’s banks
In the covert of thick-leaved bushes;
The youth, he dashes across the river,
And ardent to meet his fond receiver
He seeks her fair form in the rushes.—

He deems she plays him at hide and seek,
Her heart he knew was gayful—
“Oh come from thy covert my Ellen dear!
Oh come forth and meet thy lover here!”
He cries in soft accents playful.

No Ellen appears—rustling steps he hears—
Perhaps some perfidious stranger;—
He stops in the rushes, and steals to a copse,
But there not an instant for breathing stops
Peril’s presentiment suddenly drops,
And he flies for his life from danger.

He knew not his foes, up the hill he goes,
With the speed of a hart that’s hunted;
The brothers pursue, till fatigued they grew,
To Maes-y-velin his course they knew,
And eager revenge is blunted.—

They saw him enter—“the foe is snared!”
Exclaim’d then the elder brother;
“To kill him surely be firmly prepared
Accurst be the arm by which he is spared!
Let’s stab him, or drown, or smother.”

“Let’s do him dead and no matter how,
And our sister’s fortune is ours;
No brats of her’s shall supplant our hope:
Prepare we a dagger, a sack, and rope,
For brief are the stripling’s hours.”

Now rush’d the youth through the mansion door.
And fell at the feet of Ellen;
Ere he could speak the brothers appear,
The maiden shrieks with terrific fear,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin.—

She fell in a swoon, the brothers soon
Gag his mouth and proceed to bind him,
His hands they fasten’d behind his back,
And over his head they drew a sack,
They jump on his body—his rib bones crack,
Till a corse on the ground they find him.

Oh God! ’twas a barbarous bloody deed;
’Twas piteous to hear his groaning:
A demon’s heart might relent to hear
The sobs of death and convulsions drear—
Oh Christ! is no merciful angel near,
Call’d down by this woeful moaning?—

Oh murderous fiends! the eye of God
Hath flamed on this heartless murther!
They grasp at his throat to check his breath—
With knees on his breast—oh merciful death!
Thou sav’st him from anguish further.

And dead in the sack his body they bore,
And sunk in a pool of Teivy;
After many days when the body was found,
No tongue could tell was he smother’d or drown’d,
Or crush’d by men’s buffets heavy.

Thus fell in his bloom the blameless youth;—
Insanity seized on poor Ellen,
The lovely maniac! with bosom bare,
And eyes of wildness, and streaming hair,
Roved frantic o’er Maes-y-velin.

She said he was thrown in the Teivy’s stream,
The Flower of fair Llandovery;
She cross’d o’er the hills to his father’s town,
And he bless’d the maid like a child of his own;
But Ellen was past recovery.

Rhys Prichard wept long o’er his murder’d son,
And buried the hapless Ellen;
He cursed her brothers—the land of their birth
He cursed their mansion, its hall and hearth,
And the curse is on Maes-y-velin.

Strong was the curse on the savage race,
The murderers and their kindred;
Their bosoms possess’d by the furies of hell,
Oft vented the scream, the curse, and the yell:—
All men stood aloof and wonder’d.

They quarrell’d and stood forth in mortal strife,
Each one opposed to the other;
They never, oh never! are doom’d to agree,
While dividing poor Ellen’s property—
Two murder their elder brother.

And yet the murderers still are foes,
Furious and unrelenting;
Each coveting all his sister’s share:
At length one falls in the other’s snare,
Ere yet of his crimes repenting.

Now lived the survivor, a man forbid,
For murder his brow had branded—
Shunn’d by all men, none bade him God speed,
But solitude work’d wild remorse for his deed,
In madness he seized on a poisonous weed,
And a suicide’s grave was commanded.

Maes-y-velin became a deserted spot,
The roof of the mansion tumbled;
The lawns and the gardens o’er-ran with weeds,
And reptiles, vile emblems of hellish deeds,
Bred there—and the strong walls crumbled.—

They crumbled to dust, and fell to the earth,
And strangers bought Maes-y-velin;
Vain, it is said, their attempts to rebuild,
Vain was their labour in garden or field,
Snakes, toads, baneful weeds alone they yield,
Not a stone to another adhering.

The possessors fled, and oft others came,
But all their aims unavailing;
The peasants protest that at midnight hour
The spirit of Ellen is seen in her bower,
While on Pen-garreg hill stands Llandovery’s Flower,
And shrieks burst from Maes-y-velin.

When Rhys had finished reading his ballad, Twm riveted his eyes on the ruins of Maes-y-velin, the two hills, the banks of the Teivy, and scenes now subordinate to the modern grandeur of the new college at Lampeter: and still remaining silent, seemed, by the force of his imagination, to bring before his eyes the whole action of this domestic tragedy. Rhys assured him that all the particulars of the murder, as narrated in the ballad, were well authenticated, both by the evidence of the unhappy young lady herself, and that of a countryman who beheld the murderers bearing the body by night, and who distinctly saw, as the moon shone upon them while in the act of casting their burthen into the river, the shining spurs of the murdered youth, projecting from the end of the sack which contained his body. But in so disordered a state was the country at the time, from the civil wars between the king and the parliament, that no cognizance was taken of the atrocious circumstance. The cursing of Maes-y-velin, and the perpetrators of the bloody deed, by the youth’s father, he said was no fiction; it was set forth in a pathetic and nervous poem, in his volume of Divine Carols, entitled “Canwyll y Cymry, or the Welshman’s Candle,” one of the most popular books ever published in the Welsh language. With this explanation they both rose from their stony seats, and pursued their way to Llandovery.