"From respect to his genius," said I; "I read his works long ago,
and was delighted with them."
"Are you a Welshman?" said the old man.
"No," said I, "I am no Welshman."
"Can you speak Welsh?" said he, addressing me in that language.
"A little," said I; "but not so well as I can read it."
"Well," said the old man, "I have lived here a great many years,
but never before did a Saxon call upon me, asking questions about
Gronwy Owen, or his birth-place. Immortality to his memory! I owe
much to him, for reading his writings taught me to be a poet!"
"Dear me!" said I, "are you a poet?"
"I trust I am," said he; "though the humblest of Ynys Fon."
A flash of proud fire, methought, illumined his features as he
pronounced these last words.
"I am most happy to have met you," said I; "but tell me how am I to
get to Llanfair?"
"You must go first," said he, "to Traeth Coch which in Saxon is
called the 'Red Sand.' In the village called the Pentraeth which
lies above that sand, I was born; through the village and over the
bridge you must pass, and after walking four miles due north you
will find yourself in Llanfair eithaf, at the northern extremity of
Mon. Farewell! That ever Saxon should ask me about Gronwy Owen,
and his birth-place! I scarcely believe you to be a Saxon, but
whether you be or not, I repeat farewell."
Coming to the Menai Bridge I asked the man who took the penny toll
at the entrance, the way to Pentraeth Coch.
"You see that white house by the wood," said he, pointing some
distance into Anglesey; "you must make towards it till you come to
a place where there are four cross roads and then you must take the
road to the right."
Passing over the bridge I made my way towards the house by the wood
which stood on the hill till I came where the four roads met, when
I turned to the right as directed.
The country through which I passed seemed tolerably well
cultivated, the hedge-rows were very high, seeming to spring out of
low stone walls. I met two or three gangs of reapers proceeding to
their work with scythes in their hands.
In about half-an-hour I passed by a farm-house partly surrounded
with walnut trees. Still the same high hedges on both sides of the
road: are these hedges relics of the sacrificial groves of Mona?
thought I to myself. Then I came to a wretched village through
which I hurried at the rate of six miles an hour. I then saw a
long, lofty, craggy hill on my right hand towards the east.
"What mountain is that?" said I to an urchin playing in the hot
dust of the road.
"Mynydd Lydiart!" said the urchin, tossing up a handful of the hot
dust into the air, part of which in descending fell into my eyes.
I shortly afterwards passed by a handsome lodge. I then saw
groves, mountain Lydiart forming a noble background.
"Who owns this wood?" said I in Welsh to two men who were limbing a
felled tree by the road-side.
"Lord Vivian," answered one, touching his hat.
"The gentleman is our countryman," said he to the other after I had
passed.
I was now descending the side of a pretty valley, and soon found
myself at Pentraeth Coch. The part of the Pentraeth where I now
was consisted of a few houses and a church, or something which I
judged to be a church, for there was no steeple; the houses and
church stood about a little open spot or square, the church on the
east, and on the west a neat little inn or public-house over the
door of which was written "The White Horse. Hugh Pritchard." By
this time I had verified in part the prediction of the old Welsh
poet of the post-office. Though I was not yet arrived at Llanfair,
I was, if not tired, very thirsty, owing to the burning heat of the
weather, so I determined to go in and have some ale. On entering
the house I was greeted in English by Mr Hugh Pritchard himself, a
tall bulky man with a weather-beaten countenance, dressed in a
brown jerkin and corduroy trowsers, with a broad low-crowned buff-
coloured hat on his head, and what might he called half shoes and
half high-lows on his feet. He had a short pipe in his mouth,
which when he greeted me he took out, but replaced as soon as the
greeting was over, which consisted of "Good-day, sir," delivered in
a frank, hearty tone. I looked Mr Hugh Pritchard in the face and
thought I had never seen a more honest countenance. On my telling
Mr Pritchard that I wanted a pint of ale, a buxom damsel came
forward and led me into a nice cool parlour on the right-hand side
of the door, and then went to fetch the ale.
Mr Pritchard meanwhile went into a kind of tap-room, fronting the
parlour, where I heard him talking in Welsh about pigs and cattle
to some of his customers. I observed that he spoke with some
hesitation; which circumstance I mention as rather curious, he
being the only Welshman I have ever known who, when speaking his
native language, appeared to be at a loss for words. The damsel
presently brought me the ale, which I tasted and found excellent;
she was going away when I asked her whether Mr Pritchard was her
father; on her replying in the affirmative I inquired whether she
was born in that house.
"No!" said she; "I was born in Liverpool; my father was born in
this house, which belonged to his fathers before him, but he left
it at an early age and married my mother in Liverpool, who was an
Anglesey woman, and so I was born in Liverpool."
"And what did you do in Liverpool?" said I.
