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Updated: June 13, 2025
The quiet scene from the bridge, however, produced a sedative effect on my mind, and when I resumed my journey I had forgotten Huw, his verses, and all about Roundheads and Cavaliers. I reached Llanarmon, another small village, situated in a valley through which the Ceiriog or a river very similar to it flows. It is half-way between Llangollen and Llan Rhyadr, being ten miles from each.
"To Llan Rhyadr," said I, "from which I came this morning." "Which way did you come?" said the man. "By Llan Gedwin," I replied, "and over the hill. Is there another way?" "There is," said the man, "by Llan Silin." "Llan Silin!" said I; "is not that the place where Huw Morris is buried?" "It is," said the man.
"Farewell, brother," said I; "I am not a carpenter, but like you I read the works of Huw Morris and am of the Church of England." I then shook him by the hand and departed. I passed a village with a stupendous mountain just behind it to the north, which I was told was called Moel Vrith or the party-coloured moel. I was now drawing near to the western end of the valley.
"No," said he: "I was born at Llan Silin, a place some way off across the Berwyn." "Llan Silin?" said I, "I have a great desire to visit it some day or other." "Why so?" said he, "it offers nothing interesting." "I beg your pardon," said I; "unless I am much mistaken, the tomb of the great poet Huw Morris is in Llan Silin churchyard." "Is it possible that you have ever heard of Huw Morris?"
The letter is dated 1705, and is from one Huw Jones, born of Welsh parents in Pensilvany country, to a cousin of his of the same name residing in the neighbourhood of this very town of Bala in Merionethshire, where you and I, Mr, now are. It is in answer to certain inquiries made by the cousin, and is written in pure old Welsh language.
I was therefore obliged to content myself with peeping through a window into the interior, which had a solemn and venerable aspect. "Within there," said I to myself, "Huw Morris, the greatest songster of the seventeenth century, knelt every Sunday during the latter thirty years of his life, after walking from Pont y Meibion across the bleak and savage Berwyn.
"You never had a prydydd like Huw Morris in South Wales," said he; "nor Twm o'r Nant either." "South Wales has produced good poets," said I. "No, it hasn't," said the old fellow; "it never produced one. If it had, you wouldn't have needed to come here to see the grave of a poet; you would have found one at home." As he said these words he got up, took his stick, and seemed about to depart.
Forthwith taking off my hat I went down on my knees and kissed the cold slab covering the cold remains of the mighty Huw, and then, still on my knees, proceeded to examine it attentively. It is covered over with letters three parts defaced. All I could make out of the inscription was the date of the poet's death, 1709.
Whilst drinking our ale Jones asked some questions about Huw Morris of the woman who served us; she said that he was a famous poet, and that people of his blood were yet living upon the lands which had belonged to him at Pont y Meibion.
Llan Silin Church Tomb of Huw Morris Barbara and Richard Welsh Country Clergyman The Swearing Lad Anglo-Saxon Devils. HAVING discussed my ale I asked the landlord if he would show me the grave of Huw Morris. "With pleasure, sir," said he; "pray follow me."
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