nected with wild "Camber's Lande."

CHAPTER XIX

The Vicar and his Family--Evan Evans--Foaming Ale--Llam y
Lleidyr--Baptism--Joost Van Vondel--Over to Rome--The Miller's Man--Welsh
and English.

We had received a call from the Vicar of Llangollen and his lady; we had
returned it, and they had done us the kindness to invite us to take tea
with them. On the appointed evening we went, myself, wife, and
Henrietta, and took tea with the vicar and his wife, their sons and
daughters, all delightful and amiable beings--the eldest son a fine
intelligent young man from Oxford, lately admitted into the Church, and
now assisting his father in his sacred office. A delightful residence
was the vicarage, situated amongst trees in the neighbourhood of the Dee.
A large open window in the room, in which our party sat, afforded us a
view of a green plat on the top of a bank running down to the Dee, part
of the river, the steep farther bank covered with umbrageous trees, and a
high mountain beyond, even that of Pen y Coed clad with wood. During tea
Mr E. and I had a great deal of discourse. I found him to be a
first-rate Greek and Latin scholar, and also a proficient in the poetical
literature of his own country. In the course of discourse he repeated
some noble lines of Evan Evans, the unfortunate and eccentric Prydydd
Hir, or tall poet, the friend and correspondent of Gray, for whom he made
literal translations from the Welsh, which the great English genius
afterwards wrought into immortal verse.

"I have a great regard for poor Evan Evans," said Mr E., after he had
finished repeating the lines, "for two reasons: first, because he was an
illustrious genius, and second, because he was a South-Wallian like
myself."

"And I," I replied, "because he was a great poet, and like myself fond of
a glass of cwrw da."

Some time after tea the younger Mr E. and myself took a walk in an
eastern direction along a path cut in the bank, just above the stream.
After proceeding a little way amongst most romantic scenery, I asked my
companion if he had ever heard of the pool of Catherine Lingo--the deep
pool, as the reader will please to remember, of which John Jones had
spoken.

"Oh yes," said young Mr E.: "my brothers and myself are in the habit of
bathing there almost every morning. We will go to it if you please."

We proceeded, and soon came to the pool. The pool is a beautiful sheet
of water, seemingly about one hundred and f