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Updated: June 13, 2025
"I cannot," said he; "but I suppose you can tell me; you, who know the burying-place of Huw Morris are probably acquainted with the burying-place of Owen Pugh." "No," said I, "I am not. Unlike Huw Morris, Owen Pugh has never had his history written, though perhaps quite as interesting a history might be made out of the life of the quiet student as out of that of the popular poet.
"The chair is really here," said the old lady, "and though Huw Morus was no prophet, we love and reverence everything belonging to him. Get on Llances, the chair can't be far off;" the girl moved on, and presently the old lady exclaimed, "There's the chair, Diolch i Duw!"
After all what a beautiful thing it is, not to be, but to have been a genius. Closing the book, I asked him whether Huw Morris was born in the house where we were, and received for answer that he was born about where we stood, but that the old house had been pulled down, and that of all the premises only a small out-house was coeval with Huw Morris.
A man like Thistlewood would have whipped it through his adversary in a twinkling. I asked the old lady if Huw Morris was born in this house; she said no, but a little farther on at Pont y Meibion; she said, however, that the ground had belonged to him, and that they had some of his blood in their veins.
What would a Suffolk miller's swain have said if I had repeated to him verses out of Beowulf or even Chaucer, and had asked him about the residence of Skelton. Huw Morris Immortal Elegy The Valley of Ceiriog Tangled Wilderness Perplexity Chair of Huw Morris The Walking Stick Huw's Descendant Pont y Meibion.
I was the last of the file, but I now rushed past John Jones, who was before me, and next to the old lady, and sure enough there was the chair, in the wall, of him who was called in his day, and still is called by the mountaineers of Wales, though his body has been below the earth in the quiet church-yard one hundred and forty years, Eos Ceiriog, the Nightingale of Ceiriog, the sweet caroller Huw Morus, the enthusiastic partizan of Charles and the Church of England, and the never-tiring lampooner of Oliver and the Independents.
"Nor I you," I replied. "I came in my official capacity," said he; "the petty sessions have been held here to-day." "I know they have," I replied; "and that two poachers have been convicted. I came here on my way to South Wales to see the grave of Huw Morris, who, as you know, is buried in the churchyard." "Have you seen the clergyman?" said R-. "No," I replied.
My mind for the last half-hour had been in a highly-excited state; I had been repeating verses of old Huw Morus, brought to my recollection by the sight of his dwelling-place; they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads.
The miller's hospitality in Mona brought tears to his eyes; so did his own verse translation of the "Ode to Sycharth," because it made him think "how much more happy, innocent and holy I was in the days of my boyhood when I translated Iolo's ode than I am at the present time." He kissed the silver cup at Llanddewi Brefi and the tombstone of Huw Morus at Llan Silin.
The body of the sacred edifice is ancient, but the steeple which bears a gilded cock on its top is modern. The innkeeper led me directly up to the southern wall, then pointing to a broad discoloured slab, which lay on the ground just outside the wall, about midway between the portico and the oriel end, he said: "Underneath this stone lies Huw Morris, sir."
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