My good friends took their seats, the wife poured out tea for the stranger and her husband, helped us both to bread-and-butter and the watery cheese, then took care of herself. Before, however, Icould taste the tea, the wife, seeming to recollect herself, started up, and hurrying to a cupboard, produced a basin full of snow-white lump sugar, and taking the spoon out of my hand, placed two of the largest lumps in my cup, though she helped neither her husband nor herself; the sugar-basin being probably only kept for grand occasions.
My eyes filled with tears; for in the whole course of my life I had never experienced so much genuine hospitality. Honour to the miller of Mona and his wife; and honour to the kind hospitable Celts in general! How different is the reception of this despised race of the wandering stranger from that of -. However, I am a Saxon myself, and the Saxons have no doubt their virtues; a pity that they should be all uncouth and ungracious ones!
I asked my kind host his name.
"John Jones," he replied, "Melinydd of Llanfair.""Is the mill which you work your own property?" I inquired.
"No," he answered, "I rent it of a person who lives close by.""And how happens it," said I, "that you speak no English?""How should it happen," said he, "that I should speak any? I have never been far from here; my wife who has lived at service at Liverpool can speak some.""Can you read poetry?" said I.
"I can read the psalms and hymns that they sing at our chapel," he replied.
"Then you are not of the Church?" said I.
"I am not," said the miller; "I am a Methodist.""Can you read the poetry of Gronwy Owen?" said I.
"I cannot," said the miller, "that is with any comfort; his poetry is in the ancient Welsh measures, which make poetry so difficult that few can understand it.""I can understand poetry in those measures," said I.
"And how much time did you spend," said the miller, "before you could understand the poetry of the measures?""Three years," said I.
The miller laughed.
"I could not have afforded all that time," said he, "to study the songs of Gronwy. However, it is well that some people should have time to study them. He was a great poet as I have been told, and is the glory of our land - but he was unfortunate; I have read his life in Welsh and part of his letters; and in doing so have shed tears.""Has his house any particular name?" said I.
"It is called sometimes Ty Gronwy," said the miller; "but more frequently Tafarn Goch.""The Red Tavern?" said I. "How is it that so many of your places are called Goch? there is Pentraeth Goch; there is Saint Pedair Goch, and here at Llanfair is Tafarn Goch."The miller laughed.
"It will take a wiser man than I," said he, "to answer that question."The repast over I rose up, gave my host thanks, and said, "I will now leave you, and hunt up things connected with Gronwy.""And where will you find a lletty for night, gentleman?" said the miller's wife. "This is a poor place, but if you will make use of our home you are welcome.""I need not trouble you," said I, "I return this night to Pentraeth Goch where I shall sleep.""Well," said the miller, "whilst you are at Llanfair I will accompany you about. Where shall we go to first?""Where is the church?" said I. "I should like to see the church where Gronwy worshipped God as a boy.""The church is at some distance," said the man; "it is past my mill, and as I want to go to the mill for a moment, it will be perhaps well to go and see the church, before we go to the house of Gronwy."I shook the miller's wife by the hand, patted a little yellow-haired girl of about two years old on the head, who during the whole time of the meal had sat on the slate floor looking up into my face, and left the house with honest Jones.
We directed our course to the mill, which lay some way down a declivity, towards the sea. Near the mill was a comfortable-looking house, which my friend told me belonged to the proprietor of the mill. A rustic-looking man stood in the mill-yard, who he said was the proprietor. The honest miller went into the mill, and the rustic-looking proprietor greeted me in Welsh, and asked me if I was come to buy hogs.
"No," said I; "I am come to see the birth-place of Gronwy Owen;" he stared at me for a moment, then seemed to muse, and at last walked away saying, "Ah! a great man."The miller presently joined me, and we proceeded farther down the hill. Our way lay between stone walls, and sometimes over them.
The land was moory and rocky, with nothing grand about it, and the miller described it well when he said it was tir gwael - mean land.
In about a quarter of an hour we came to the churchyard into which we got, the gate being locked, by clambering over the wall.
The church stands low down the descent, not far distant from the sea. A little brook, called in the language of the country a frwd, washes its yard-wall on the south. It is a small edifice with no spire, but to the south-west there is a little stone erection rising from the roof, in which hangs a bell - there is a small porch looking to the south. With respect to its interior I can say nothing, the door being locked. It is probably like the outside, simple enough. It seemed to be about two hundred and fifty years old, and to be kept in tolerable repair. Simple as the edifice was, I looked with great emotion upon it; and could I do else, when I reflected that the greatest British poet of the last century had worshipped God within it, with his poor father and mother, when a boy?
I asked the miller whether he could point out to me any tombs or grave-stones of Gronwy's family, but he told me that he was not aware of any. On looking about I found the name of Owen in the inscription on the slate slab of a respectable-looking modern tomb, on the north-east side of the church. The inscription was as follows:
Er cof am JANE OWEN
Gwraig Edward Owen, Monachlog Llanfair Mathafam eithaf, A fu farw Chwefror 28 1842Yn 51 Oed.
