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.
