I have always been much interested by the traditions which are scattered up anddown North Wales relating to Owen Glendower (Owain Glendwr is the nationalspelling of the name), and I fully enter into the feeling which makes the Welshpeasant still look upon him as the hero of his country. There was great joyamong many of the inhabitants of the principality, when the subject of theWelsh prize poem at Oxford, some fifteen or sixteen years ago, was announced tobe “Owain Glendwr.” It was the most proudly national subject thathad been given for years.
Perhaps, some may not be aware that this redoubted chieftain is, even in thepresent days of enlightenment, as famous among his illiterate countrymen forhis magical powers as for his patriotism. He says himself—or Shakespearesays 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. Rhysap Gryfydd, his “old familiar friend,” his relation, his more thanbrother, had consented unto his blood. Sir David Gam might be forgiven, but onewhom he had loved, and who had betrayed him, could never be forgiven. Glendwrwas too deeply read in the human heart to kill him. No, he let him live on, theloathing and scorn of his compatriots, and the victim of bitter remorse. Themark 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. Thou shaltlive 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 Iloved thee more than a brother, oh Rhys ap Gryfydd! Thou shalt live on to seeall of thy house, except the weakling in arms, perish by the sword. Thy raceshall 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 upgold. And when nine generations have passed from the face of the earth, thyblood shall no longer flow in the veins of any human being. In those days thelast male of thy race shall avenge 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 been fulfilled inall things; that live in as miserly a manner as they would, the Griffiths neverwere wealthy and prosperous—indeed that their worldly stock diminishedwithout any visible cause.
But the lapse of many years had almost deadened the wonder-inspiring power ofthe whole curse. It was only brought forth from the hoards of Memory when someuntoward event happened to the Griffiths family; and in the eighth generationthe faith in the prophecy was nearly destroyed, by the marriage of theGriffiths of that day, to a Miss Owen, who, unexpectedly, by the death of abrother, became an heiress—to no considerable amount, to be sure, b