Escape of Twm from Cardigan. Meets an old friend. The heiress of Maes-y-velin, a most tragical legendary ballad.

The addition to his wardrobe pleased Twm exactly, and he had no qualms of conscience to prevent him from using it, for he remembered how easily he had been despoiled of his own. Not being fastidious about a dressing-room, Twm retired to a stable, and soon came out fully clad 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 New-castle-in-Emlyn, on a romantic part of the Teivy, dividing the counties of Cardigan and Carmarthen, and occupying its banks on each side. Entering a small public-house, he regaled himself on the fine potent ale for which that place has been so long famous.

After addressing himself steadily for a good half hour to the pleasures of the table, he commenced a little private conversation with himself regarding his present and future prospects, and came to the conclusion that, on the whole, they were not worth much. Although the most serious cogitations on the subject might have availed little or nothing, chance very unexpectedly decided him, and relieved his apprehensions for the present.

He could hear, in the adjoining room, a pig-drover, whose potations had not only loosened his tongue, but invested it with unusual power, boasting of his roaring trade at Cardigan fair, and he determined to take the same route, wherever it might lead, and on inquiry, found he was going to Llandovery.

The inebriated dealer in cattle, glad of company, stretched out his hand at once and welcomed him as a 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.

Twm and the pig-drover were getting thoroughly jolly and comfortable over a pot of foaming ale, when Twm caught sight of an old friend. It was 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.

Shaking hands with the elated pig-jobber, from whom he had heard all the mysteries of his calling, and bidding him good night and wishing him success in his future dealings, Twm joyously accepted the curate’s invitation to partake of his evening repast. Supper dispatched, Mr. Rhys informed him that he had left Tregaron for ever, 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.

In return, Twm recited his late adventures, colouring them in such a manner as to create a favourable impression on the curate, who laughed heartily at many points of his story, and finished by saying that he had also determined to visit Llandovery in quest of his fortune, which, somehow or another, he thought he should find there.

“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.

They were both early astir the following morning, and were soon on the road, the curate leading his horse by the bridle, that (generous and considerate soul) he might be on a level with Twm. 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 the 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. The towers in the distance, are all that now remain of the family 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.

“On the very place where we now stand, the young man tied his handkerchief 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 handkerchief to a 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, whenever the stream was unfordable, dashed into the river, crossed over, and caught the fair one in his arms. Perhaps you would like to hear the tragical story at further length; if so, I have employed my leisure time lately in versifying it, and will now read it to you.”

Twm signifying his willing assent, they took their seats 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-VELIN
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 watch’d 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 strained 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 wild delight,
His true love’s signal, the lady bright,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin.

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

Now as ers’t they rush’d, and as ers’t they paused,
When arrived on the banks of Teivy,
They gazed at each other across the stream,
And gestured affection’s high glow supreme,
Till the two hearts grew less heavy.

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

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

Sweet to the donor the generous deed,
That serves merit’s child, unweeting;
Healing is sweet when gashed by the sword;
To the wounded heart, the benevolent word:
Oh sweet is the breeze to the sick restored;
But sweeter true lover’s 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 loved this youthful pair,
The heiress of Maes-y-velin,
And he to whom they called Llandovery’s Flower;
Oh frequent their meeting and parting hour,
Their moments of joy and wailing.

Once when they met on Teivy’s banks,
Canopied o’er by the wild wood,
Mid fragrance of flowers that graced the shade,
The youth sung his 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 favour us both.

“‘I’ll go 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 favour us both.

“So sung a young chief to his 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 hurled herself headlong, fulfilling her troth,
And Death was the priest that united them both.”

PART II.

Over the hill of Pen-garreg 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 flags discover’d.

They 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 youth 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 seek his fond receiver,
He seeks her 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 quits 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 the 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!”
Exclaimed the elder brother;
“To kill him surely be firmly prepared,
Accursed 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 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 corpse on the ground they find him.

Oh God! ’twas a barbarous, bloody deed;
’Twas piteous to hear him 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 tearless murder!
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 the Teivy;
After many days when the corpse was found,
No tongue could tell whether smother’d or drown’d,
Or crush’d by men’s buffets heavy.

Thus fell in its bloom the blameless youth;
Insanity seized on 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 curs’d her brothers—the land of their birth—
He curs’d 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 oppos’d to the other:
They never, oh never! are doom’d to agree,
While sharing poor Ellen’s property,
To 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 seiz’d on a poisonous weed,
And in a suicide’s grave he landed.

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-gorreg stands Llandovery’s Flower,
And shrieks burst from Maes-y-velin.

Twm had listened with the most earnest attention to the terrible account, and rivetted his eyes on Maes-y-velin, the two hills, the banks of the Teivy, and scenes now subordinate to the modern grandeur of the new college of 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 burden into the river, the shining spurs of the murdered youth, projecting from the end of the sack which contained his body. But in so disorderly 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. [165] After these remarks, they got up from their grassy resting-place, and re-commenced their walk to Llandovery.