The Doom of the Griffiths by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
Transcribed from the 1896 “Lizzie Leigh and Other Tales” Macmillan andCo. edition. Scanned and proofed by David Price, email [email protected]
THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
CHAPTER I.
I HAVE always been much interested by the traditions which are scatteredup and down North Wales relating to Owen Glendower (Owain Glendwr is thenational spelling of the name), and I fully enter into the feeling whichmakes 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 orsixteen years ago, was announced to be “Owain Glendwr.” It was the mostproudly national subject that had been given for years.
Perhaps, some may not be aware that this redoubted chieftain is, even inthe present days of enlightenment, as famous among his illiteratecountrymen for his magical powers as for his patriotism. He sayshimself—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 askingHotspur’s irreverent question in reply.
Among other traditions preserved relative to this part of the Welshhero’s character, is the old family prophecy which gives title to thistale. When Sir David Gam, “as black a traitor as if he had been born inBuilth,” sought to murder Owen at Machynlleth, there was one with himwhose name Glendwr little dreamed of having associated with his enemies.Rhys ap Gryfydd, his “old familiar friend,” his relation, his more thanbrother, had consented unto his blood. Sir David Gam might be forgiven,but one whom he had loved, and who had betrayed him, could never beforgiven. 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, andthe victim of bitter remorse. The mark of Cain was upon him.
But before he went forth—while he yet stood a prisoner, cowering beneathhis conscience before Owain Glendwr—that chieftain passed a doom upon himand his race:
“I doom thee to live, because I know thou wilt pray for death. Thoushalt live on beyond the natural term of the life of man, the scorn ofall 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 Iloved thee more than a brother, oh Rhys ap Gryfydd! Thou shalt live onto see all of thy house, except the weakling in arms, perish by thesword. Thy race shall be accursed. Each generation shall see theirlands melt away like snow; yea their wealth shall vanish, though they maylabour night and day to heap up gold. And when nine generations havepassed from the face of the earth, thy blood shall no longer flow in theveins of any human being. In those days the last male of thy race shallavenge me. The son shall slay the father.”
Such was the traditionary account of Owain Glendwr’s speech to hisonce-trusted friend. And it was declared that the doom had beenfulfilled in all things; that live in as miserly a manner as they would,the Griffiths never were wealthy and prosperous—indeed that their worldlystock diminished without any visible cause.
But the lapse of many years had almost deadened the wonder-inspiringpower of the whole curse. It was only brought forth from the hoards ofMemory when some untoward event happened to the Griffiths family; and inthe eighth generation the faith in the prophecy was nearly destroyed, bythe marriage of the Griffiths of that day, to a Miss Owen, who,unexpectedly, by the death of a brother, became an heiress—to noconsiderable amount, to be sure, but enough to make the prophecy appearreversed. The heiress and her husband removed from his small patrimonialestate in Merionethshire, to her heritage in Caernarvonshire, and for atime the prophecy lay dormant.
If you go from Tremadoc to Criccaeth, you pass by the parochial church ofYnysynhanarn, situated in a boggy valley running from the mountains,which shoulder up to the Rivals, down to Cardigan Bay. This tract ofland has every appearance of having been redeemed at no distant period oftime from the sea, and has all the desolate rankness often attendant uponsuch marshes. But the valley beyond, similar in character, had yet moreof gloom at the time of which I write. In the higher part there werelarge plantations of firs, set too closely to attain any size, andremaining stunted in height and scrubby in appearance. Indeed, many ofthe smaller and more weakly had died, and the bark had fallen down on thebrown soil neglected and unnoticed. These trees had a ghastlyappearance, with their white trunks, seen by the dim light whichstruggled through the thick boughs above. Nearer to the sea, the valleyassumed a more open, though hardly a more cheerful character; it lookeddark and overhung by sea-fog through the greater part of the year, andeven a farm-house, which usually imparts something of cheerfulness to alandscape, failed to do so here. This valley formed the greater part ofthe estate to which Owen Griffiths became entitled by right of his wife.In the higher part of the valley was situated the family mansion, orrather dwelling-house, for “mansion” is too grand a word to apply to theclumsy, but substantially-built Bodowen. It was square andheavy-looking, with just that much pretension to ornament necessary todistinguish 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 wasentered at Jesus College, was, that the elder was invariably indulged byall around him, while Robert was thwarted and indulged by turns; thatLlewellyn never learned anything from the poor Welsh parson, who wasnominally his private tutor; while occasionally Squire Griffiths made agreat point of enforcing Robert’s diligence, telling him that, as he hadhis bread to earn, he must pay attention to his learning. There is noknowing how far the very irregular education he had received would havecarried Robert through his college examinations; but, luckily for him inthis respect, before such a trial of his learning came round, he heard ofthe death of his elder brother, after a short illness, brought on by ahard drinking-bout. Of course, Robert was summoned home, and it seemedquite as much of course, now that there was no necessity for him to “earnhis bread by his learning,” that he should not return to Oxford. So thehalf-educated, but not unintelligent, young man continued at home, duringthe short remainder of his parent’s lifetime.
His was not an uncommon character. In general he was mild, indolent, andeasily managed; but once thoroughly roused, his passions were vehementand fearful. He seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself, and in commonhardly dared to give way to justifiable anger—so much did he dread losinghis self-control. Had he been judiciously educated, he would, probably,have distinguished himself in those branches of literature which call fortaste and imagination, rather than any exertion of reflection orjudgment. As it was, his literary taste showed itself in makingcollections of Cambrian antiquities of every description, till his stockof Welsh MSS. would have excited the envy of Dr. Pugh himself, had hebeen alive at the time of which I write.
There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which I have omitted tonote, and which was peculiar among his class. He was no hard drinker;whether it was that his head was easily affected, or that hispartially-refined taste led him to dislike intoxication and its attendantcircumstances, I cannot say; but at five-and-twenty Robert Griffiths washabitually sober—a thing so rare in Llyn, that he was almost shunned as achurlish, unsociable being, and paused much of his time in solitude.
About this time, he had to appear in some case that was tried at theCaernarvon assizes; and while there, was a guest at the house of hisagent, a shrewd, sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who hadcharms enough to captivate Robert Gr
She soon made him the father of a blooming little daughter, calledAugharad after her mother. Then there came several uneventful years inthe household of Bodowen; and when the old women had one and all declaredthat the cradle would not rock again, Mrs. Griffiths bore the son andheir. His birth was soon followed by his mother’s death: she had beenailing and low-spirited during her pregnancy, and she seemed to lack thebuoyancy of body and mind requisite to bring her round after her time oftrial. Her husband, who loved her all the more from having few otherclaims on his affections, was deeply grieved by her early death, and