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
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
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.
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.