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Another, named Sir John, it appears was a gay character in his youth. In the eve of life he made a visit to the Court of Queen Anne. Here he met, after many years absence, his old schoolfellow, the apostolic Beveridge, of St. Asaph. Ah, Sir John,' said the bishop, recognising him, when I knew you first the Devil was very great with you.' 'Yes,

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my Lord, and I wish I could say

he was half so great with me now,' replied Sir John.

There is one more amusing trait respecting a Mr. Wynn, who was member for Caernarvonshire, and was famed in the annals of hospitality for his plentiful long tables. It happened that his old acquaintance, Bishop Sherlock, was on a visit with him, and observing, while at dinner, to the curate, that he was surprised he had given them no sermon that morning, Ah! my Lord,' said poor Ellis, in his broad, simple manner, ‘had I prached when Master Wynne is in church, I shall have nothing but small-beer; but when I do not prach when Master is in church, I may have my belly-full of good ale, and welcome!'

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From the same princely stock sprung the Lloyds of Rhiwardog, and one or two laughable anecdotes are related of their worthy kinsman, Roderic. He was related to the great chancery-lawyer Trevor, who, among his other qualities, was a great lover of economy. He had dined by himself one day, at the Rolls, and was drinking his wine, when his cousin Roderic was unexpectedly introduced by a side door. You rascal!' exclaimed Trevor to the servant, have you brought my cousin, Roderic Lloyd, Prothonotary of North Wales, Marshal to Baron Price, and a hundred grand things, up my back stairs? Take him instantly down my back stairs, and bring him up my front stairs.' In vain Roderic remonstrated; and while he was being conveyed down the back and up the front, his Honour removed the bottle and glasses. Still, it seems, he could not keep Roderic sober, if we may believe another adventure that befel him. As he was returning rather elevated from the club one night, he ran against the pump in Chancery-lane; and, conceiving that some one had suddenly struck him, he drew, and made a lounge at

the pump. Aiming a direct thrust, his sword entered the spout, and the pump, being somewhat crazy with age, fell down. Concluding that he had killed his man, Roderic left the sword sticking, as he thought, in the man's back-bone, and hastily retreated to his Honour's house at the Rolls, where he lay concealed for the night. In the morning, after hearing the story, and ascertaining the extent of the misfortune, his Honour came himself to relieve Roderic from his durance, not without some dry strictures on the danger of duelling by night.

CHAPTER VII.*

OWEN GLENDOWER, &c.

REFULGENT in thy golden bower,
As morning in her eastern tower;
Thy name the echoing valleys round-
Thy name a thousand hills resound.

Howel ap Einion.

THE principal charm of Welsh scenery lies in its continual variety, its varied aspects, and novel effects. For this reason, perhaps, few people have visited Wales only once; and no one with the eye of a painter, or one feeling of the genuine traveller, studies its characteristics without deriving pleasure from that singular change of tone, that succession of colours, lights, and forms, which, investing the grandest no less than the minutest objects, paints mountain, vale, and stream, like the flower, the lichen, and the rock, in a thousand dark or brilliant evanescent hues. It is this distinctive feature, doubtless, (admitted by travellers from every land who have traversed the Snowdon hills,)

* In now dismissing the name of the 'Wanderer,' who, it was observed by a high critical authority, had cruelly put the Author's I (eye) out, the latter wishes it to be understood, that notwithstanding such an occurrence naturally produced no very pleasant feeling on one side, he is not actuated by any motives of revenge. He has, in fact, most excellent precedents for treating the Wanderer in any manner which he may deem most expedient. Addison assigns as a good reason for killing off that amusing old gentleman, Sir Roger de Coverley, that he did it to prevent any less privileged person from murdering him; Shakspeare put to death his pleasantest characters without remorse; and Lord Byron was more than suspected of having thrown Childe Harold overboard in some part of the Egæian Sea. But the Author, less desperate in his remedy, merely persuaded the Wanderer to take a sail with him as far as the South-Stack Light House, Holyhead, where they dined; but, unfortunately, owing to some blunder of the Irish Sea, on their return the Wanderer lost his balance, and was seen no more.

which more irresistibly recommends it to English taste and imagination, inducing us to seek again and again the ever fresh and delightful scenes which assume, in their rapidly-passing phases, so many features to interest all those who are fond of change.

Thus, often as I had beheld the lovely region around Llangollen, it now exhibited itself arrayed in bolder lights and shadows, as novel as they were surprising. The autumnal morning rose brilliantly clear, displaying the surrounding scenery under the fairest and warmest colours,-the softest touches of the season scarcely yet variegating the rich green tints of the summer foliage.

It

The sky was cloudless, and the air serene; yet a few hours produced a change, almost instantaneously affording a scene, on entering the valley, as singular as it was wild and impressive. strikingly contrasted with the appearances I had just before remarked: the sky grew dark and lowering; the deepening mists came sweeping on both sides from the Berwyn and the Brynelys heights, stretching above and before us, and all the milder features of the landscape, undefined and lost in the dim obscure, conveyed an impression of vastness and extent-embracing hill, and stream, and valley-which bore more of the character of wild Alpine scenery than any I had witnessed in my former rambles. the distant windings of the vale, and along the sides of the Denbigh hills, the thin rack and clouds came driving before the wind, and the continually changing aspect now veiled now gave to view fresh breaks of prospect, under a succession of the boldest hues and forms.

Up

To behold the valley in its gloomier lights and shadows, I rapidly ascended the lofty sides of Dinas Bran, where the storm seemed brooding at my feet, while the magnificence of the more distant scenes lay still fully revealed to the eye. The low, distant roll of the thunder, the big uncertain drops of rain, and the driving mists, portended the gathering tempest; yet soon, to my surprise, the black shadows which rested on the hill-sides, as if endued with living power, began to rise and disperse, sailing away under the heavy

clouds, and threatening rain following the lighter rack and mists, which, rapidly as they had first obscured the morning skies, fled before the freshening breeze. The sun broke forth, streaking the fleeting clouds in a variety of splendid hues,—the mutterings of the tempest died away, and thick volumes of mist bore down the valley far away, till the prospect behind-Chirk, Wynnstay, and Ruabon -appeared like that of some dim, immeasurable sea.

As from the summit of Dinas Bran I eagerly beheld a succession of the wildest, the sternest, and the most lovely landscapes spread below me, I recalled the no less strange and varied fortunes of that lordly castle, now a heap of ruins beneath my feet. Here the pride of feudal chivalry had frowned defiance; and the light of high-born beauty had rained love and inspiration from her moon-lit bower upon the breast of her poet and lover, the fanciful and impassioned Howel.* How much more interesting on such a spot seemed the following mournful lines, and the wild, ardent strain of eulogy on the bright-eyed heiress of Dinas Bran:'Far from Myfanwy's marble towers,

I pass my solitary hours.

O thou that shinest like the sky,

Behold the faithful Howel die!

In golden verse, in flowery lays,

Sweetly I sing Myfanwy's praise.

What though thine eyes, as black as sloes,

Vie with the arches of thy brows;

Must thy desponding lover die,

Slain by the glances of that eye?
Pensive as Tristan did I speed

To Bran upon a stately steed,

E'en at a distance to behold

Her these fond arms would fain enfold;

Howel ap Einion Lygliw is known to have flourished about the year 1390, and became passionately attached to the beautiful heiress of Castle Dinas Bran. Her name was Myfanwy Fechan, and he addressed to her some exquisitely touching verses, which deplore the inseparable barrier which rank and pride had placed between the lovers.

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