the chair, Diolch i Duw!"

I was the last of the file, but I now rushed past John Jones, who was
before me, and next to the old lady, and sure enough there was the chair,
in the wall, of him who was called in his day, and still is called by the
mountaineers of Wales, though his body has been below the earth in the
quiet church-yard one hundred and forty years, Eos Ceiriog, the
Nightingale of Ceiriog, the sweet caroller Huw Morus, the enthusiastic
partizan of Charles and the Church of England, and the never-tiring
lampooner of Oliver and the Independents. There it was, a kind of hollow
in the stone wall, in the hen ffordd, fronting to the west, just above
the gorge at the bottom of which murmurs the brook Ceiriog, there it was,
something like a half barrel chair in a garden, a mouldering stone slab
forming the seat, and a large slate stone, the back, on which were cut
these letters--

H. M. B.

signifying Huw Morus Bard.

"Sit down in the chair, Gwr Boneddig," said John Jones, "you have taken
trouble enough to get to it."

"Do, gentleman," said the old lady; "but first let me wipe it with my
apron, for it is very wet and dirty."

"Let it be," said I; then taking off my hat I stood uncovered before the
chair, and said in the best Welsh I could command, "Shade of Huw Morus,
supposing your shade haunts the place which you loved so well when
alive--a Saxon, one of the seed of the Coiling Serpent, has come to this
place to pay that respect to true genius, the Dawn Duw, which he is ever
ready to pay. He read the songs of the Nightingale of Ceiriog in the
most distant part of Lloegr, when he was a brown-haired boy, and now that
he is a grey-haired man he is come to say in this place that they
frequently made his eyes overflow with tears of rapture."

I then sat down in the chair, and commenced repeating verses of Huw
Morris. All which I did in the presence of the stout old lady, the
short, buxom and bare-armed damsel, and of John Jones the Calvinistic
weaver of Llangollen, all of whom listened patiently and approvingly,
though the rain was pouring down upon them, and the branches of the trees
and the tops of the tall nettles, agitated by the gusts from the mountain
hollows, were beating in their faces, for enthusiasm is never scoffed at
by the noble simple-minded, genuine Welsh, whatever treatment it may
receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish Saxon.

After some time, ou