CHAPTER LXVIII
Llan Silin Church—Tomb of Huw Morris—Barbara and Richard—Welsh Country Clergyman—The Swearing Lad—Anglo-Saxon Devils.
Having discussed my ale I asked the landlord if he would show me the grave of Huw Morris. “With pleasure, sir,” said he; “pray follow me.” He led me to the churchyard, in which several enormous yew trees were standing, probably of an antiquity which reached as far back as the days of Henry the Eighth, when the yew bow was still the favourite weapon of the men of Britain. The church fronts the south, the portico being in that direction. The body of the sacred edifice is ancient, but the steeple which bears a gilded cock on its top is modern. The innkeeper led me directly up to the southern wall, then pointing to a broad discoloured slab, which lay on the ground just outside the wall, about midway between the portico and the oriel end, he said:
“Underneath this stone lies Huw Morris, sir.” Forthwith taking off my hat I went down on my knees and kissed the cold slab covering the cold remains of the mighty Huw, and then, still on my knees, proceeded to examine it attentively. It is covered over with letters three parts defaced. All I could make out of the inscription was the date of the poet’s death, 1709. “A great genius, a very great genius, sir,” said the inn-keeper, after I had got on my feet and put on my hat.
“He was indeed,” said I; “are you acquainted with his poetry?”
“Oh yes,” said the innkeeper, and then repeated the four lines composed by the poet shortly before his death, which I had heard the intoxicated stonemason repeat in the public-house of the Pandy, the day I went to visit the poet’s residence with John Jones.
“Do you know any more of Huw’s poetry?” said I.
“No,” said the innkeeper. “Those lines, however, I have known ever since I was a child and repeated them, more particularly of late since age has come upon me and I have felt that I cannot last long.”
It is very odd how few of the verses of great poets are in people’s mouths. Not more than a dozen of Shakespear’s lines are in people’s mouths: of those of Pope not more than half that number. Of Addison’s poetry two or three lines may be in people’s mouths, though I never heard one quoted, the only line which I ever heard quoted as Addison’s not being his but Garth’s:
“’Tis best repenting in a coach and six.”