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Updated: June 22, 2025
With a shudder we saw him borne to his last rrest, for we realized that had yt not bbeen for Absalom's Capel Curig we had bbeen bburied yn an unpronounceable Welsh ggrave. We are in Bristol after a week's coaching in Wales; the Jack Copleys, Tommy Schuyler, Mrs. Jack's younger brother, and Miss Van Tyck, Mrs.
In som countryes anothr proofe justified by some of ye learned by casting ye pty bound into water, if she sanck counted inocent, if she sunk not yn guilty, but all those tryalls the author counts supstitious and unwarrantable and worse.
There was a silence for a moment, and then a parley ensued between two voices, one of which was that of a woman. It was not in English, but in a deep guttural tongue. ‘Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y ddaear?’ said a masculine voice. ‘Yn wirionedd—I do not know what it can be,’ said the female voice, in the same tongue. ‘Here is a cart, and there are tools; but what is that on the ground?’
"That is a house, sir, built yn yr hen dull in the old fashion, of earth, flags and wattles and in one night. It was the custom of old when a house was to be built, for the people to assemble, and to build it in one night of common materials, close at hand. The custom is not quite dead. I was at the building of this myself, and a merry building it was.
Below you now is a frightful cavity, at the bottom of which the waters of the Monks' River, which comes tumbling from a glen to the east, whirl, boil, and hiss in a horrid pot or cauldron, called in the language of the country Twll yn y graig, or the hole in the rock, in a manner truly tremendous.
You called me a witch now see me charm it away. Listen! 'Ping, ping, prash, Cur yn cadley-jiargan ass my chass." She was uttering the Manx charm in a mock-solemn ululation when a bough snapped in the orchard, and she cried, "What's that?" "It's Philip. He's waiting under the apple-tree," said Pete. "My goodness me!" said Kate, and down went the window-sash.
Our discourse turning on the latter Welsh poets I asked him if he had been acquainted with Jonathan Hughes, who the reader will remember was the person whose grandson I met and in whose arm-chair I sat at Ty yn y pistyll, shortly after my coming to Llangollen.
What d'ye think they were but, 'Yn y dyfroedd mawr a'r tònau'? My heart leapt out to him at once, and I tried hard to speak to him, but he couldn't hear me; and when I was getting better he was getting worse, till one day the black vomit came on, and then I thought 'twas all over with him.
The sun was setting when we came to a small village at the bottom of the pass. I asked my companion its name. "Ty yn y maes," he replied, adding as he stopped before a small cottage that he was going no farther, as he dwelt there. "Is there a public-house here?" said I. "There is," he replied, "you will find one a little farther up on the right hand." "Come, and take some ale," said I.
As I went away he said that both he and his family should be always happy to see me at Ty yn y Pistyll, which words, interpreted, are the house by the spout of water. I went up the field with the lane on my right, down which ran a runnel of water, from which doubtless the house derived its name.
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