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Updated: June 13, 2025
"Let it be," said I; then taking off my hat I stood uncovered before the chair, and said in the best Welsh I could command, "Shade of Huw Morus, supposing your shade haunts the place which you loved so well when alive a Saxon, one of the seed of the Coiling Serpent, has come to this place to pay that respect to true genius, the Dawn Duw, which he is ever ready to pay.
His companion now looking at our habiliments which were in rather a dripping condition asked John Jones if we had come from far. "We have been to Pont y Meibion," said Jones, "to see the chair of Huw Morris," adding that the Gwr Boneddig was a great admirer of the songs of the Eos Ceiriog.
Cut on the top surface of the wall, which was of slate, and therefore easily impressible by the knife, were several names, doubtless those of tourists, who had gazed from the look-out on the prospect, amongst which I observed in remarkably bold letters that of T . . . . "Eager for immortality, Mr T.," said I; "but you are no H. M., no Huw Morris."
I asked him if he was a descendant of Huw Morus; he said he was; I asked him his name, which he said was Huw . "Have you any of the manuscripts of Huw Morus?" said I. "None," said he, "but I have one of the printed copies of his works." He then went to a drawer, and taking out a book, put it into my hand, and seated himself in a blunt, careless manner.
He read the songs of the Nightingale of Ceiriog in the most distant part of Lloegr, when he was a brown-haired boy, and now that he is a grey- haired man he is come to say in this place that they frequently made his eyes overflow with tears of rapture." I then sat down in the chair, and commenced repeating verses of Huw Morris.
"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.
At the entrance of this valley and just before you reach the Pandy, which it nearly overhangs, is an enormous crag. After I had looked at the place for some time with considerable interest we proceeded towards the south, and in about twenty minutes reached a neat kind of house, on our right hand, which John Jones told me stood on the ground of Huw Morris.
Feeling a great desire to know what verses of Huw Morris the intoxicated youth would repeat, I took out my pocket-book and requested Jones, who was much better acquainted with Welsh pronunciation, under any circumstances, than myself, to endeavour to write down from the mouth of the young fellow any verses uppermost in his mind.
Two or three respectable-looking lads, probably the miller's sons, came out, and listened to us. One of them said we were both good Welshmen. After a little time the man asked me if I had heard of Huw Morris, I told him that I was well acquainted with his writings, and enquired whether the place in which he had lived was not somewhere in the neighbourhood.
"What is the name of the river, which runs beneath the bridge?" "The Ceiriog, sir." "The Ceiriog," said I; "the Ceiriog!" "Did you ever hear the name before, sir?" "I have heard of the Eos Ceiriog," said I; "the Nightingale of Ceiriog." "That was Huw Morris, sir; he was called the Nightingale of Ceiriog." "Did he live hereabout?"
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