poet? I have long had a respect for Cerrig y Drudion because it gave birth to, and was the residence of a poet of considerable merit.”
“I was not aware of that fact,” said the doctor, “pray what was his name?”
“Peter Lewis,” said I; “he was a clergyman of Cerrig y Drudion about the middle of the last century, and amongst other things wrote a beautiful song called ‘Cathl y Gair Mwys,’ or the melody of the ambiguous word.”
“Surely you do not understand Welsh?” said the doctor.
“I understand a little of it,” I replied.
“Will you allow me to speak to you in Welsh?” said the doctor.
“Certainly,” said I.
He spoke to me in Welsh and I replied.
“Ha, ha,” said the landlady in English; “only think, doctor, of the gentleman understanding Welsh – we must mind what we say before him.”
“And are you an Englishman?” said the doctor.
“I am,” I replied.
“And how came you to learn it?”
“I am fond of languages,” said I, “and studied Welsh at an early period.”
“And you read Welsh poetry?”
“O yes.”
“How were you enabled to master its difficulties?”
“Chiefly by going through Owen Pugh’s version of ‘Paradise Lost’ twice, with the original by my side. He has introduced into that translation so many of the poetic terms of the old bards that after twice going through it; there was little in Welsh poetry that I could not make out with a little pondering.”
“You pursued a very excellent plan,” said the doctor, “a very excellent plan indeed. Owen Pugh!”
“Owen Pugh! The last of your very great men,” said I.
“You say right, sir,” said the doctor. “He was indeed our last great man – Ultimus Romanorum. I have myself read his work, which he called ‘Coll Gwynfa,’ the ‘Loss of the Place of Bliss’ – an admirable translation, sir; highly poetical, and at the same time correct.”
“Did you know him?” said I.
“I had not the honour of his acquaintance,” said the doctor – “but, sir, I am happy to say that I have made yours.”
The landlady now began to talk to me about dinner, and presently went out to make preparations for that very important meal. I had a great, deal of conversation with the doctor, whom I found a person of great and varied information, and one who had seen a vast deal of the world. He was giving me an account of an island in the West Indies, which he had visited, when a boy coming in whispered into his ear; whereupon, getting up he said: “Sir, I am called away. I am a country surgeon, and of course an accoucheur. There is a lady who lives at some distance, requiring my assistance. It is with grief I leave you so abruptly, but I hope that some time or other we shall meet again.” Then making me an exceedingly profound bow, he left the room, followed by the boy.
I dined upstairs in a very handsome drawing-room communicating with a sleeping apartment. During dinner I was waited upon by the daughter of the landlady, a good-looking merry girl of twenty. After dinner I sat for some time thinking over the adventures of the day, then feeling rather lonely and not inclined to retire to rest, I went down to the bar, where I found the landlady seated with her daughter. I sat down with them and we were soon in conversation. We spoke of Doctor Jones – the landlady said that he had his little eccentricities, but was an excellent and learned man. Speaking of herself, she said that she had three daughters, that the youngest was with her and that the two eldest kept the principal inn at Ruthyn. We occasionally spoke a little Welsh. At length the landlady said, “There is an Italian in the kitchen who can speak Welsh too. It’s odd the only two people not Welshmen I have ever known who could speak Welsh, for such you and he are, should be in my house at the same time.”
“Dear me,” said I, “I should like to see him.”
“That you can easily do,” said the girl; “I dare say he will be glad enough to come in if you invite him.”
“Pray take my compliments to him,” said I, “and tell him that I shall be glad of his company.”
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