MY curiosity having been rather excited with respect to the country
beyond the Berwyn, by what my friend, the intelligent flannel-
worker, had told me about it, I determined to go and see it.
Accordingly on Friday morning I set out. Having passed by Pengwern
Hall I turned up a lane in the direction of the south, with a brook
on the right running amongst hazels, I presently arrived at a small
farm-house standing on the left with a little yard before it.
Seeing a woman at the door I asked her in English if the road in
which I was would take me across the mountain - she said it would,
and forthwith cried to a man working in a field who left his work
and came towards us. "That is my husband," said she; "he has more
English than I."
The man came up and addressed me in very good English: he had a
brisk, intelligent look, and was about sixty. I repeated the
question, which I had put to his wife, and he also said that by
following the road I could get across the mountain. We soon got
into conversation. He told me that the little farm in which he
lived belonged to the person who had bought Pengwern Hall. He said
that he was a good kind of gentleman, but did not like the Welsh.
I asked him, if the gentleman in question did not like the Welsh,
why he came to live among them. He smiled, and I then said that I
liked the Welsh very much, and was particularly fond of their
language. He asked me whether I could read Welsh, and on my
telling him I could, he said that if I would walk in he would show
me a Welsh book. I went with him and his wife into a neat kind of
kitchen, flagged with stone, where were several young people, their
children. I spoke some Welsh to them which appeared to give them
great satisfaction. The man went to a shelf and taking down a book
put it into my hand. It was a Welsh book, and the title of it in
English was "Evening Work of the Welsh." It contained the lives of
illustrious Welshmen, commencing with that of Cadwalader. I read a
page of it aloud, while the family stood round and wondered to hear
a Saxon read their language. I entered into discourse with the man
about Welsh poetry and repeated the famous prophecy of Taliesin
about the Coiling Serpent. I asked him if the Welsh had any poets
at the present day. "Plenty," said he, "and good ones - Wales can
never be without a poet." Then after a pause he said, that he was
the grandson of a great poet.
"Do you bear his name?" said I.
"I do," he replied.
"What may it be?"
"Hughes," he answered.
"Two of the name of Hughes have been poets," said I - "one was Huw
Hughes, generally termed the Bardd Coch, or red bard; he was an
Anglesea man, and the friend of Lewis Morris and Gronwy Owen - the
other was Jonathan Hughes, where he lived I know not."
"He lived here, in this very house," said the man. "Jonathan
Hughes was my grandfather!" and as he spoke his eyes flashed fire.
"Dear me!" said I; "I read some of his pieces thirty-two years ago
when I was a lad in England. I think I can repeat some of the
lines." I then repeated a quartet which I chanced to remember.
"Ah!" said the man, "I see you know his poetry. Come into the next
room and I will show you his chair." He led me into a sleeping-
room on the right hand, where in a corner he showed me an antique
three-cornered arm-chair. "That chair," said he, "my grandsire won
at Llangollen, at an Eisteddfod of Bards. Various bards recited
their poetry, but my grandfather won the prize. Ah, he was a good
poet. He also won a prize of fifteen guineas at a meeting of bards
in London."
We returned to the kitchen, where I found the good woman of the
house waiting with a plate of bread-and-butter in one hand, and a
glass of buttermilk in the other - she pressed me to partake of
both - I drank some of the buttermilk, which was excellent, and
after a little more discourse shook the kind people by the hand and
thanked them for their hospitality. As I was about to depart the
man said that I should find the lane farther up very wet, and that
I had better mount through a field at the back of the house. He
took me to a gate, which he opened, and then pointed out the way
which I must pursue. As I went away he said that both he and his
family should be always happy to see me at Ty yn y Pistyll, which
words, interpreted, are the house by the spout of water.
I went up the field with the lane on my right, down which ran a
runnel of water, from which doubtless the house derived its name.
I soon came to an unenclosed part of the mountain covered with
gorse and whin, and still proceeding upward reached a road, which I
subsequently learned was the main road from Llangollen over the
hill. I was not long in gaining the top which was nearly level.
Here I stood for some time looking about me, having the vale of
Llangollen to the north of me, and a deep valley abounding with
woods and rocks to the south.
Following the road to the south, which gradually descended, I soon
came to a place where a road diverged from the straight one to the
left. As the left-hand road appeared to lead down a romantic
valley I followed it.
