

Transcribed from the 1896 “Lizzie Leigh and Other Tales” Macmillan and
Co. edition.  Scanned and proofed by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                        THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.


CHAPTER I.


I HAVE always been much interested by the traditions which are scattered
up and down North Wales relating to Owen Glendower (Owain Glendwr is the
national spelling of the name), and I fully enter into the feeling which
makes the Welsh peasant still look upon him as the hero of his country.
There was great joy among many of the inhabitants of the principality,
when the subject of the Welsh prize poem at Oxford, some fifteen or
sixteen years ago, was announced to be “Owain Glendwr.”  It was the most
proudly national subject that had been given for years.

Perhaps, some may not be aware that this redoubted chieftain is, even in
the present days of enlightenment, as famous among his illiterate
countrymen for his magical powers as for his patriotism.  He says
himself—or Shakespeare says it for him, which is much the same thing—

                ‘At my nativity
    The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes
    Of burning cressets...
   ... I can call spirits from the vasty deep.’

And few among the lower orders in the principality would think of asking
Hotspur’s irreverent question in reply.

Among other traditions preserved relative to this part of the Welsh
hero’s character, is the old family prophecy which gives title to this
tale.  When Sir David Gam, “as black a traitor as if he had been born in
Builth,” sought to murder Owen at Machynlleth, there was one with him
whose name Glendwr little dreamed of having associated with his enemies.
Rhys ap Gryfydd, his “old familiar friend,” his relation, his more than
brother, had consented unto his blood.  Sir David Gam might be forgiven,
but one whom he had loved, and who had betrayed him, could never be
forgiven.  Glendwr was too deeply read in the human heart to kill him.
No, he let him live on, the loathing and scorn of his compatriots, and
the victim of bitter remorse.  The mark of Cain was upon him.

But before he went forth—while he yet stood a prisoner, cowering beneath
his conscience before Owain Glendwr—that chieftain passed a doom upon him
and his race:

“I doom thee to live, because I know thou wilt pray for death.  Thou
shalt live on beyond the natural term of the life of man, the scorn of
all good men.  The very children shall point to thee with hissing tongue,
and say, ‘There goes one who would have shed a brother’s blood!’  For I
loved thee more than a brother, oh Rhys ap Gryfydd!  Thou shalt live on
to see all of thy house, except the weakling in arms, perish by the
sword.  Thy race shall be accursed.  Each generation shall see their
lands melt away like snow; yea their wealth shall vanish, though they may
labour night and day to heap up gold.  And when nine generations have
passed from the face of the earth, thy blood shall no longer flow in the
veins of any human being.  In those days the last male of thy race shall
avenge me.  The son shall slay the father.”

Such was the traditionary account of Owain Glendwr’s speech to his
once-trusted friend.  And it was declared that the doom had been
fulfilled in all things; that live in as miserly a manner as they would,
the Griffiths never were wealthy and prosperous—indeed that their worldly
stock diminished without any visible cause.

But the lapse of many years had almost deadened the wonder-inspiring
power of the whole curse.  It was only brought forth from the hoards of
Memory when some untoward event happened to the Griffiths family; and in
the eighth generation the faith in the prophecy was nearly destroyed, by
the marriage of the Griffiths of that day, to a Miss Owen, who,
unexpectedly, by the death of a brother, became an heiress—to no
considerable amount, to be sure, but enough to make the prophecy appear
reversed.  The heiress and her husband removed from his small patrimonial
estate in Merionethshire, to her heritage in Caernarvonshire, and for a
time the prophecy lay dormant.

If you go from Tremadoc to Criccaeth, you pass by the parochial church of
Ynysynhanarn, situated in a boggy valley running from the mountains,
which shoulder up to the Rivals, down to Cardigan Bay.  This tract of
land has every appearance of having been redeemed at no distant period of
time from the sea, and has all the desolate rankness often attendant upon
such marshes.  But the valley beyond, similar in character, had yet more
of gloom at the time of which I write.  In the higher part there were
large plantations of firs, set too closely to attain any size, and
remaining stunted in height and scrubby in appearance.  Indeed, many of
the smaller and more weakly had died, and the bark had fallen down on the
brown soil neglected and unnoticed.  These trees had a ghastly
appearance, with their white trunks, seen by the dim light which
struggled through the thick boughs above.  Nearer to the sea, the valley
assumed a more open, though hardly a more cheerful character; it looked
dark and overhung by sea-fog through the greater part of the year, and
even a farm-house, which usually imparts something of cheerfulness to a
landscape, failed to do so here.  This valley formed the greater part of
the estate to which Owen Griffiths became entitled by right of his wife.
In the higher part of the valley was situated the family mansion, or
rather dwelling-house, for “mansion” is too grand a word to apply to the
clumsy, but substantially-built Bodowen.  It was square and
heavy-looking, with just that much pretension to ornament necessary to
distinguish it from the mere farm-house.

In this dwelling Mrs. Owen Griffiths bore her husband two sons—Llewellyn,
the future Squire, and Robert, who was early destined for the Church.
The only difference in their situation, up to the time when Robert was
entered at Jesus College, was, that the elder was invariably indulged by
all around him, while Robert was thwarted and indulged by turns; that
Llewellyn never learned anything from the poor Welsh parson, who was
nominally his private tutor; while occasionally Squire Griffiths made a
great point of enforcing Robert’s diligence, telling him that, as he had
his bread to earn, he must pay attention to his learning.  There is no
knowing how far the very irregular education he had received would have
carried Robert through his college examinations; but, luckily for him in
this respect, before such a trial of his learning came round, he heard of
the death of his elder brother, after a short illness, brought on by a
hard drinking-bout.  Of course, Robert was summoned home, and it seemed
quite as much of course, now that there was no necessity for him to “earn
his bread by his learning,” that he should not return to Oxford.  So the
half-educated, but not unintelligent, young man continued at home, during
the short remainder of his parent’s lifetime.

His was not an uncommon character.  In general he was mild, indolent, and
easily managed; but once thoroughly roused, his passions were vehement
and fearful.  He seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself, and in common
hardly dared to give way to justifiable anger—so much did he dread losing
his self-control.  Had he been judiciously educated, he would, probably,
have distinguished himself in those branches of literature which call for
taste and imagination, rather than any exertion of reflection or
judgment.  As it was, his literary taste showed itself in making
collections of Cambrian antiquities of every description, till his stock
of Welsh MSS. would have excited the envy of Dr. Pugh himself, had he
been alive at the time of which I write.

There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which I have omitted to
note, and which was peculiar among his class.  He was no hard drinker;
whether it was that his head was easily affected, or that his
partially-refined taste led him to dislike intoxication and its attendant
circumstances, I cannot say; but at five-and-twenty Robert Griffiths was
habitually sober—a thing so rare in Llyn, that he was almost shunned as a
churlish, unsociable being, and paused much of his time in solitude.

About this time, he had to appear in some case that was tried at the
Caernarvon assizes; and while there, was a guest at the house of his
agent, a shrewd, sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who had
charms enough to captivate Robert Griffiths.  Though he remained only a
few days at her father’s house, they were sufficient to decide his
affections, and short was the period allowed to elapse before he brought
home a mistress to Bodowen.  The new Mrs. Griffiths was a gentle,
yielding person, full of love toward her husband, of whom, nevertheless,
she stood something in awe, partly arising from the difference in their
ages, partly from his devoting much time to studies of which she could
understand nothing.

She soon made him the father of a blooming little daughter, called
Augharad after her mother.  Then there came several uneventful years in
the household of Bodowen; and when the old women had one and all declared
that the cradle would not rock again, Mrs. Griffiths bore the son and
heir.  His birth was soon followed by his mother’s death: she had been
ailing and low-spirited during her pregnancy, and she seemed to lack the
buoyancy of body and mind requisite to bring her round after her time of
trial.  Her husband, who loved her all the more from having few other
claims on his affections, was deeply grieved by her early death, and his
only comforter was the sweet little boy whom she had left behind.  That
part of the squire’s character, which was so tender, and almost feminine,
seemed called forth by the helpless situation of the little infant, who
stretched out his arms to his father with the same earnest cooing that
happier children make use of to their mother alone.  Augharad was almost
neglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; still next to his
father, none tended him so lovingly as his sister.  She was so accustomed
to give way to him that it was no longer a hardship.  By night and by day
Owen was the constant companion of his father, and increasing years
seemed only to confirm the custom.  It was an unnatural life for the
child, seeing no bright little faces peering into his own (for Augharad
was, as I said before, five or six years older, and her face, poor
motherless girl! was often anything but bright), hearing no din of clear
ringing voices, but day after day sharing the otherwise solitary hours of
his father, whether in the dim room, surrounded by wizard-like
antiquities, or pattering his little feet to keep up with his “tada” in
his mountain rambles or shooting excursions.  When the pair came to some
little foaming brook, where the stepping-stones were far and wide, the
father carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when the
lad was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father’s arms, or the
Squire would lift him up and carry him to his home again.  The boy was
indulged (for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his wish of
sharing his meals and keeping the same hours.  All this indulgence did
not render Owen unamiable, but it made him wilful, and not a happy child.
He had a thoughtful look, not common to the face of a young boy.  He knew
no games, no merry sports; his information was of an imaginative and
speculative character.  His father delighted to interest him in his own
studies, without considering how far they were healthy for so young a
mind.

Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware of the prophecy which was to
be fulfilled in his generation.  He would occasionally refer to it when
among his friends, with sceptical levity; but in truth it lay nearer to
his heart than he chose to acknowledge.  His strong imagination rendered
him peculiarly impressible on such subjects; while his judgment, seldom
exercised or fortified by severe thought, could not prevent his
continually recurring to it.  He used to gaze on the half-sad countenance
of the child, who sat looking up into his face with his large dark eyes,
so fondly yet so inquiringly, till the old legend swelled around his
heart, and became too painful for him not to require sympathy.  Besides,
the overpowering love he bore to the child seemed to demand fuller vent
than tender words; it made him like, yet dread, to upbraid its object for
the fearful contrast foretold.  Still Squire Griffiths told the legend,
in a half-jesting manner, to his little son, when they were roaming over
the wild heaths in the autumn days, “the saddest of the year,” or while
they sat in the oak-wainscoted room, surrounded by mysterious relics that
gleamed strangely forth by the flickering fire-light.  The legend was
wrought into the boy’s mind, and he would crave, yet tremble, to hear it
told over and over again, while the words were intermingled with caresses
and questions as to his love.  Occasionally his loving words and actions
were cut short by his father’s light yet bitter speech—“Get thee away, my
lad; thou knowest not what is to come of all this love.”

When Augharad was seventeen, and Owen eleven or twelve, the rector of the
parish in which Bodowen was situated, endeavoured to prevail on Squire
Griffiths to send the boy to school.  Now, this rector had many congenial
tastes with his parishioner, and was his only intimate; and, by repeated
arguments, he succeeded in convincing the Squire that the unnatural life
Owen was leading was in every way injurious.  Unwillingly was the father
wrought to part from his son; but he did at length send him to the
Grammar School at Bangor, then under the management of an excellent
classic.  Here Owen showed that he had more talents than the rector had
given him credit for, when he affirmed that the lad had been completely
stupefied by the life he led at Bodowen.  He bade fair to do credit to
the school in the peculiar branch of learning for which it was famous.
But he was not