Part 7 (2/2)

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 circ.u.mstance 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 fort.i.tude such as yours is a virtue that becomes us all. Whatever I can do to get you into employment, when you are there, rest a.s.sured 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 princ.i.p.ality. 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 ma.n.u.script 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.

<script>