



                        THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS


                          by Elizabeth Gaskell




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.