After gazing through the window till my eyes watered, I turned to the innkeeper, and inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr. Having received from him the desired information, I thanked him for his civility, and set out on my return.
Before I could get clear of the town, I suddenly encountered my friend R—, the clever lawyer and magistrate’s clerk of Llangollen.
“I little expected to see you here,” said he.
“Nor I you,” I replied.
“I came in my official capacity,” said he; “the petty sessions have been held here to-day.”
“I know they have,” I replied; “and that two poachers have been convicted. I came here in my way to South Wales to see the grave of Huw Morris, who, as you know, is buried in the churchyard.”
“Have you seen the clergyman?” said R—.
“No,” I replied.
“Then come with me,” said he; “I am now going to call upon him. I know he will be rejoiced to make your acquaintance.”
He led me to the clergyman’s house, which stood at the south-west end of the village within a garden fenced with iron paling. We found the clergyman in a nice comfortable parlour, or study, the sides of which were decorated with books. He was a sharp, clever-looking man, of about the middle age. On my being introduced to him, he was very glad to see me, as my friend R— told me he would be. He seemed to know all about me, even that I understood Welsh. We conversed on various subjects: on the power of the Welsh language; its mutable letters; on Huw Morris, and likewise on ale, with an excellent glass of which he regaled me. I was much pleased with him, and thought him a capital specimen of the Welsh country clergyman. His name was Walter Jones.