The most honourable men I have ever known have
been lawyers; they were men whose word was their bond, and who
would have preferred ruin to breaking it. There was my old master,
in particular, who would have died sooner than broken his word.
God bless him! I think I see him now with his bald, shining pate,
and his finger on an open page of 'Preston's Conveyancing.'"
"Sure you are not a limb of the law?" said Mr R-.
"No," said I, "but I might be, for I served an apprenticeship to
it."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mr R-, shaking me by the hand. "Take
my advice, come and settle at Llangollen and be my partner."
"If I did," said I, "I am afraid that our partnership would be of
short duration; you would find me too eccentric and flighty for the
law. Have you a good practice?" I demanded after a pause.
"I have no reason to complain of it," said he, with a contented
air.
"I suppose you are married?" said I.
"Oh yes," said he, "I have both a wife and family."
"A native of Llangollen?" said I.
"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?"
"Oh yes," said I; "and I have not only heard of him but am
acquainted with his writings; I read them when a boy."
"How very extraordinary," said he; "well, you are quite right about
his tomb; when a boy I have played dozens of times on the flat
stone with my schoolfellows."
We talked of Welsh poetry; he said he had not dipped much into it,
owing to its difficulty; that he was master of the colloquial
language of Wales, but understood very little of the language of
Welsh poetry, which was a widely different thing. I asked him
whether he had seen Owen Pugh's translation of Paradise Lost. He
said he had, but could only partially understand it, adding,
however, that those parts which he could make out appeared to him
to be admirably executed, that amongst these there was one which
had particularly struck him namely:
"Ar eu col o rygnu croch
Daranau."
The rendering of Milton's
"And on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder."
which, grand as it was, was certainly equalled by the Welsh
version, and perhaps surpassed, for that he was disposed to think
that there was something more terrible in "croch daranau," than in
"harsh thunder."
"I am disposed to think so too," said I. "Now can you tell me
where Owen Pugh is buried?"
"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.
