"I never found any one before
who could translate them." She then said she would show me some
English lines written on the daughter of a friend of hers who was
lately dead, and put some printed lines in a frame into my hand.
They were an Elegy to Mary, and were very beautiful, I read them
aloud, and when I had finished she thanked me and said she had no
doubt that if I pleased I could put them into Welsh - she then
sighed and wiped her eyes.
On our enquiring whether we could see the interior of the abbey she
said we could, and that if we rang a bell at the gate a woman would
come to us, who was in the habit of showing the place. We then got
up and bade her farewell - but she begged that we would stay and
taste the dwr santaidd of the holy well.
"What holy well is that?" said I.
"A well," said she, "by the road's side, which in the time of the
popes was said to perform wonderful cures."
"Let us taste it by all means," said I; whereupon she went out, and
presently returned with a tray on which were a jug and tumbler, the
jug filled with the water of the holy well; we drank some of the
dwr santaidd, which tasted like any other water, and then after
shaking her by the hand, we went to the gate, and rang at the bell.
Presently a woman made her appearance at the gate - she was
genteelly drest, about the middle age, rather tall, and bearing in
her countenance the traces of beauty. When we told her the object
of our coming she admitted us, and after locking the gate conducted
us into the church. It was roofless, and had nothing remarkable
about it, save the western window, which we had seen from without.
Our attendant pointed out to us some tombs, and told us the names
of certain great people whose dust they contained. "Can you tell
us where Iolo Goch lies interred?" said I.
"No," said she; "indeed I never heard of such a person."
"He was the bard of Owen Glendower," said I, "and assisted his
cause wonderfully by the fiery odes, in which he incited the Welsh
to rise against the English."
"Indeed!" said she; "well, I am sorry to say that I never heard of
him."
"Are you Welsh?" said I.
"I am," she replied.
"Did you ever hear of Thomas Edwards?"
"Oh, yes," said she; "I have frequently heard of him."
"How odd," said I, "that the name of a great poet should be unknown
in the very place where he is buried, whilst that of one certainly
not his superior, should be well known in that same place, though
he is not buried there."
"Perhaps," said she, "the reason is that the poet, whom you
mentioned, wrote in the old measures and language which few people
now understand, whilst Thomas Edwards wrote in common verse and in
the language of the present day."
"I daresay it is so," said I.
