[Greek text] Sprung from what line, adorns the maid

These, valleys deep in mountain-shade?

PIND. Pyth. IX

Mr. Chainmail forgot the Captain and the route of Giraldus de Barri. He became suddenly satisfied that the ruined castle in his present neighbourhood was the best possible specimen of its class, and that it was needless to carry his researches further.

He visited the farm daily: found himself always welcome; flattered himself that the young lady saw him with pleasure, and dragged a heavier chain at every new parting from Miss Susan, as the children called his nymph of the mountains. What might be her second name, he had vainly endeavoured to discover.

Mr. Chainmail was in love: but the determination he had long before formed and fixed in his mind, to marry only a lady of gentle blood, without a blot in her escutcheon, repressed the declarations of passion which were often rising to his lips. In the meantime he left no means untried to pluck out the heart of her mystery.

The young lady soon divined his passion, and penetrated his prejudices. She began to look on him with favourable eyes; but she feared her name and parentage would present an insuperable barrier to his feudal pride.

Things were in this state when the Captain returned, and unpacked his maps and books in the parlour of the inn.

MR. CHAINMAIL. Really, Captain, I find so many objects of attraction in this neighbourhood, that I would gladly postpone our purpose.

CAPTAIN FITZCHROME. Undoubtedly this neighbourhood has many attractions; but there is something very inviting in the scheme you laid down.

MR. CHAINMAIL. No doubt there is something very tempting in the route of Giraldus de Barri. But there are better things in this vicinity even than that. To tell you the truth, Captain, I have fallen in love.

CAPTAIN FITZCHROME. What! while I have been away?

MR. CHAINMAIL. Even so.

CAPTAIN FITZCHROME. The plunge must have been very sudden, if you are already over head and ears.

MR. CHAINMAIL. As deep as Llyn-y-dreiddiad-vrawd.

CAPTAIN FITZCHROME. And what may that be?

MR. CHAINMAIL. A pool not far off: a resting-place of a mountain stream which is said to have no bottom. There is a tradition connected with it; and here is a ballad on it, at your service.
LLYN-Y-DREIDDIAD-VRAWD. THE POOL OF THE DIVING FRIAR.

Gwenwynwyn withdrew from the feasts of his hall:

He slept very little, he prayed not at all:

He pondered, and wandered, and studied alone;

And sought, night and day, the philosopher’s stone.

He found it at length, and he made its first proof

By turning to gold all the lead of his roof:

Then he bought some magnanimous heroes, all fire,

Who lived but to smite and be smitten for hire.

With these on the plains like a torrent he broke;

He filled the whole country with flame and with smoke;

He killed all the swine, and he broached all the wine;

He drove off the sheep, and the beeves, and the kine;

He took castles and towns; he cut short limbs and lives;

He made orphans and widows of children and wives:

This course many years he triumphantly ran,

And did mischief enough to be called a great man.

When, at last, he had gained all for which he held striven,

He bethought him of buying a passport to heaven;

Good and great as he was, yet he did not well know,

How soon, or which way, his great spirit might go.

He sought the grey friars, who beside a wild stream,

Refected their frames on a primitive scheme;

The gravest and wisest Gwenwynwyn found out,

All lonely and ghostly, and angling for trout.

Below the white dash of a mighty cascade,

Where a pool of the stream a deep resting-place made,

And rock-rooted oaks stretched their branches on high,

The friar stood musing, and throwing his fly.

To him said Gwenwynwyn, “Hold, father, here’s store,

For the good of the church, and the good of the poor;”

Then he gave him the stone; but, ere more he could speak,

Wrath came on the friar, so holy and meek.

He had stretched forth his hand to receive the red gold,

And he thought himself mocked by Gwenwynwyn the Bold;

And in scorn of the gift, and in rage at the giver,

He jerked it immediately into the river.

Gwenwynwyn, aghast, not a syllable spake;

The philosopher’s stone made a duck and a drake;

Two systems of circles a moment were seen,

And the stream smoothed them off, as they never had been.

Gwenwynwyn regained, and uplifted his voice,

“Oh friar, grey friar, full rash was thy choice;

The stone, the good stone, which away thou hast thrown,

Was the stone of all stones, the philosopher’s stone.”

The friar looked pale, when his error he knew;

The friar looked red, and the friar looked blue;

And heels over head, from the point of a rock,

He plunged, without stopping to pull off his frock.

He dived very deep, but he dived all in vain,

The prize he had slighted he found not again;

Many times did the friar his diving renew,

And deeper and deeper the river still grew.

Gwenwynwyn gazed long, of his senses in doubt,

To see the grey friar a diver so stout;

Then sadly and slowly his castle he sought,

And left the friar diving, like dabchick distraught.

Gwenwynwyn fell sick with alarm and despite,

Died, and went to the devil, the very same night;

The magnanimous heroes he held in his pay

Sacked his castle, and marched with the plunder away.

No knell on the silence of midnight was rolled

For the flight of the soul of Gwenwynwyn the Bold.

The brethren, unfeed, let the mighty ghost pass,

Without praying a prayer, or intoning a mass.

The friar haunted ever beside the dark stream;

The philosopher’s stone was his thought and his dream:

And day after day, ever head under heels

He dived all the time he could spare from his meals.

He dived, and he dived, to the end of his days,

As the peasants oft witnessed with fear and amaze.

The mad friar’s diving-place long was their theme,

And no plummet can fathom that pool of the stream.

And still, when light clouds on the midnight winds ride,

If by moonlight you stray on the lone river-side,

The ghost of the friar may be seen diving there,

With head in the water, and heels in the air.

CAPTAIN FITZCHROME. Well, your ballad is very pleasant: you shall show me the scene, and I will sketch it; but just now I am more interested about your love. What heroine of the twelfth century has risen from the ruins of the old castle, and looked down on you from the ivied battlements?

MR. CHAINMAIL. You are nearer the mark than you suppose. Even from those battlements a heroine of the twelfth century has looked down on me.

CAPTAIN FITZCHROME. Oh! some vision of an ideal beauty. I suppose the whole will end in another tradition and a ballad.

MR. CHAINMAIL. Genuine flesh and blood; as genuine as Lady Clarinda. I will tell you the story.

Mr. Chainmail narrated his adventures.

CAPTAIN FITZCHROME. Then you seem to have found what you wished. Chance has thrown in your way what none of the gods would have ventured to promise you.

MR. CHAINMAIL. Yes, but I know nothing of her birth and parentage. She tells me nothing of herself, and I have no right to question her directly.

CAPTAIN FITZCHROME. She appears to be expressly destined for the light of your baronial hall. Introduce me in this case, two heads are better than............