I said nothing, but I thought to myself:—“I wonder how long a cup like this would have been safe in a crazy chest in a country church in England.”
I kissed the sacred relic of old times with reverence, and returned it to the old sexton.
“What became of the horns of Hu Gadarn’s bull?” said I, after he had locked the cup again in its dilapidated coffer.
“They did dwindle away, sir, till they came to nothing.”
“Did you ever see any part of them?” said I.
“Oh no, sir; I did never see any part of them, but one very old man who is buried here did tell me shortly before he died that he had seen one very old man who had seen of dem one little tip.”
“Who was the old man who said that to you?” said I.
“I will show you his monument, sir,” then taking me into a dusky pew he pointed to a small rude tablet against the church wall and said:—“That is his monument, sir.”
The tablet bore the following inscription, and below it a rude englyn on death not worth transcribing:—
Coffadwriaeth am
Thomas Jones
Diweddar o’r Draws Llwyn yn y Plwyf hwn:
Bu farw Chwefror 6 fed 1830
Yn 92 oed.To the memory of
Thomas Jones
Of Traws Llwyn (across the Grove) in this
parish who died February the sixth, 1830.
Aged 92.