“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 innkeeper, after I had got on my feet and put on my hat.
“He was indeed,” said I; “are you acquainted with his poetry?”
“O 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 was 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 have 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.”
Whilst of the verses of Huw Morris I never knew any one but myself, who am not a Welshman, who could repeat a line beyond the four which I have twice had occasion to mention, and which seem to be generally known in North, if not in South Wales.
From the flagstone I proceeded to the portico, and gazed upon it intensely. It presented nothing very remarkable, but it had the greatest interest for me, for I remembered how many times Huw Morris had walked out of that porch at the head of the congregation, the clergyman yielding his own place to the inspired bard. I would fain have entered the church, but the landlord had not the key, and told me that he imagined there would be some difficulty in procuring it. I was therefore obliged to content myself with peeping through a window into the interior, which had a solemn and venerable aspect.
“Within there,” said I to myself, “Huw Morris, the greatest songster of the seventeenth century, knelt every Sunday during the latter thirty years of his life, after walking from Pont y Meibion across the bleak and savage Berwyn. Within there was married Barbara Wynn, the Rose of Maelai, to Richard Middleton, the handsome cavalier of Maelor, and within there she lies buried, even as the songster who lamented her untimely death in immortal verse lies buried out here in the graveyard. What interesting associations has this church for me, both outside and in; but all connected with Huw; for what should I have known of Barbara the Rose and gallant Richard but for the poem on their affectionate union and untimely separation, the dialogue between the living and the dead, composed by humble Huw, the farmer’s son of Pont y Meibion?”