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Updated: June 4, 2025
Going up to these men I said in Welsh to one, whom I judged to be the principal, and who was rather a tall fine-looking fellow: "Have you heard a sound of Gronwy Owain?" Here occurred another instance of the strange things people do when their ideas are confused.
My mind was very much excited: I was in the birthplace of the mighty Tudors I had just seen the tomb of one of them; I was also in the land of the bard; a country which had produced Gwalchmai who sang the triumphs of Owain, and him who had sung the Cowydd of Judgment, Gronwy Owen. So no wonder I was excited. On I went reciting bardic snatches connected with Anglesey.
What more sublimely sonorous than certain hymns of Taliesin; more sharp and clashing than certain lines of Gwalchmai and Dafydd Benfras, describing battles; more diabolically grating than the Drunkard's Choke-pear by Rhys Goch, and more sweet than the lines of poor Gronwy Owen to the Muse?
Immortality to Lewis Morris! But immortality he has won, even as his illustrious pupil has said, who in his elegy upon his benefactor, written in America, in the four-and-twenty measures, at a time when Gronwy had not heard the Welsh language spoken for more than twenty years, has words to the following effect:
Honour to them all! everlasting glory to the three greatest Taliesin, Ab Gwilym and Gronwy Owen: the first a professed Christian, but in reality a Druid, whose poems fling great light on the doctrines of the primitive priesthood of Europe, which correspond remarkably with the philosophy of the Hindus, before the time of Brahma: the second the grand poet of Nature, the contemporary of Chaucer, but worth half a dozen of the accomplished word-master, the ingenious versifier of Norman and Italian tales: the third a learned and irreproachable minister of the Church of England, and one of the greatest poets of the last century, who after several narrow escapes from starvation both in England and Wales, died master of a paltry school at New Brunswick, in North America, sometime about the year 1780.
The best piece of Macintyre is an ode to Ben Dourain, or the Hill of the Water-dogs a mountain in the Highlands. The master-piece of Buchanan is his La Breitheanas or Day of Judgment, which is equal in merit, or nearly so, to the Cywydd y Farn, or Judgment Day of your own immortal Gronwy Owen.
The mill may be seen from a considerable distance; so may some of the scattered houses, and also the wood which surrounds the house of the illustrious Gronwy. Prosperity to Llanfair! and may many a pilgrimage be made to it of the same character as my own. Boxing Harry Mr Bos Black Robin Drovers Commercial Travellers.
"Well," said the old man, "I have lived here a great many years, but never before did a Saxon call upon me, asking questions about Gronwy Owen, or his birth-place. Immortality to his memory! I owe much to him, for reading his writings taught me to be a poet!" "Dear me!" said I, "are you a poet?" "I trust I am," said he; "though the humblest of Ynys Fon."
She did not understand me, for shaking her head she said that she had no English, and was rather deaf. Raising my voice to a very high tone I said: "Ty Gronwy!" A gleam of intelligence flashed now in her eyes. "Ty Gronwy," she said, "ah! I understand. Come in sir."
Start for Anglesey The Post-Master Asking Questions Mynydd Lydiart Mr Pritchard Way to Llanfair. WHEN I started from Bangor, to visit the birth-place of Gronwy Owen, I by no means saw my way clearly before me.
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