Jones, the Calvinistic Methodist of Llangollen.

CHAPTER XIII

Divine Service--Llangollen Bells--Iolo Goch--The Abbey--Twm o'r
Nant--Holy Well--Thomas Edwards

Sunday arrived--a Sunday of unclouded sunshine. We attended Divine
service at church in the morning. The congregation was very numerous,
but to all appearance consisted almost entirely of English visitors, like
ourselves. There were two officiating clergymen, father and son. They
both sat in a kind of oblong pulpit on the southern side of the church,
at a little distance below the altar. The service was in English, and
the elder gentleman preached; there was good singing and chanting.

After dinner I sat in an arbour in the perllan, thinking of many things,
amongst others, spiritual. Whilst thus engaged, the sound of the church
bells calling people to afternoon service came upon my ears. I listened,
and thought I had never heard bells with so sweet a sound. I had heard
them in the morning, but without paying much attention to them, but as I
now sat in the umbrageous arbour, I was particularly struck with them.
Oh how sweetly their voice mingled with the low rush of the river, at the
bottom of the perllan. I subsequently found that the bells of Llangollen
were celebrated for their sweetness. Their merit indeed has even been
admitted by an enemy; for a poet of the Calvinistic Methodist persuasion,
one who calls himself Einion Du, in a very beautiful ode, commencing
with--

"Tangnefedd i Llangollen,"

says that in no part of the world do bells call people so sweetly to
church as those of Llangollen town.

In the evening, at about half-past six, I attended service again, but
without my family. This time the congregation was not numerous, and was
composed principally of poor people. The service and sermon were now in
Welsh, the sermon was preached by the younger gentleman, and was on the
building of the second temple, and, as far as I understood it, appeared
to me to be exceedingly good.

On the Monday evening, myself and family took a walk to the abbey. My
wife and daughter, who are fond of architecture and ruins, were very
anxious to see the old place. I too was anxious enough to see it, less
from love of ruins and ancient architecture, than from knowing that a
certain illustrious bard was buried in its precincts, of whom perhaps a
short account will not be unacceptable to the reader.

This man, whose poetical appellation was Iolo