Emerging from the hollow way I found myself on a moor over which the road lay in the direction of the north. Towards the west at an immense distance rose a range of stupendous hills, which I subsequently learned were those of Snowdon – about ten minutes’ walking brought me to Cerrig y Drudion, a small village near a rocky elevation, from which, no doubt, the place takes its name, which interpreted, is the Rock of Heroes.
CHAPTER XXIV
Cerrig y Drudion – The Landlady – Doctor Jones – “Coll Gwynfa” – The Italian – Men of Como – Disappointment – Weather-Glasses – Filicaia.
The inn at Cerrig y Drudion was called the Lion – whether the white, black, red or green Lion I do not know, though I am certain that it was a lion of some colour or other. It seemed as decent and respectable a hostelry as any traveller could wish to refresh and repose himself in, after a walk of twenty miles. I entered a well-lighted passage and from thence a well-lighted bar room, on the right hand, in which sat a stout, comely, elderly lady dressed in silks and satins, with a cambric coif on her head, in company with a thin, elderly man with a hat on his head, dressed in a rather prim and precise manner. “Madam!” said I, bowing to the lady, “as I suppose you are the mistress of this establishment, I beg leave to inform you that I am an Englishman walking through these regions in order fully to enjoy their beauties and wonders. I have this day come from Llangollen, and being somewhat hungry and fatigued hope I can be accommodated, here with a dinner and a bed.”
“Sir!” said the lady, getting up and making me a profound curtsey, “I am as you suppose the mistress of this establishment, and am happy to say that I shall be able to accommodate you – pray sit down, sir;” she, continued handing me a chair, “you must indeed be tired, for Llangollen is a great way from here.”
I took the seat with thanks, and she resumed her own.
“Rather hot weather for walking, sir!” said the precise-looking gentleman.
“It is,” said I; “but as I can’t observe the country well without walking through it I put up with the heat.”
“You exhibit a philosophic mind, sir,” said the precise-looking gentleman – “and a philosophic mind I hold in reverence.”
“Pray, sir,” said I, “have I the honour of addressing a member of the medical profession?”
“Sir,” said the precise-looking gentleman, getting up and making me a bow, “your question does honour to your powers of discrimination – a member of the medical profession I am, though an unworthy one.”
“Nay, nay, doctor,” said the landlady briskly; “say not so – every one knows that you are a credit to your profession – well would it be if there were many in it like you – unworthy? marry come up! I won’t hear such an expression.”
“I see,” said I, “that I have not only the honour of addressing a medical gentleman, but a doctor of medicine – however, I might have known as much by your language and deportment.”
With a yet lower bow than, before he replied, with something of a sigh, “No, sir, no, our kind landlady and the neighbourhood are in the habit of placing doctor before my name, but I have no title to it – I am not Doctor Jones, sir, but plain Geffery Jones at your service,” and thereupon with another bow he sat down.
“Do you reside here?” said I.
“Yes, sir, I reside here in the place of my birth – I have not always resided here – and I did not always expect to spend my latter days in a place of such obscurity, but, sir, misfortunes – misfortunes.”
“Ah,” said I, “misfortunes! they pursue every one, more especially those whose virtues should exempt them from them. Well, sir, the consciousness of not having deserved them should be your consolation.”
“Sir,” said the doctor, taking off his hat, “you are infinitely kind.”
“You call this an obscure place,” said I – “can that be an obscure place that has produced a poet? I have long had a respect for Cerrig y Drudion because it gave birth to, and was the residence of a poet of considerable merit.”
“I was not aware of that fact,” said the doctor, “pray what was his name?”
“Peter Lewis,” said I; “he was a clergyman of Cerrig y Drudion about the middle of the last century, and amongst other things wrote a beautiful song called ‘Cathl y Gair Mwys,’ or the melody of the ambiguous word.”
“Surely you do not understand Welsh?” said the doctor.
“I understand a little of it,” I replied.
“Will you allow me to speak to you in Welsh?” said the doctor.
“Certainly,” said I.
He spoke to me in Welsh and I replied.
“Ha, ha,” said the landlady in English; “only think, doctor, of the gentleman understanding Welsh – we must mind what we say before him.”
“And are you an Englishman?” said the doctor.
“I am,” I replied.
“And how came you to learn it?”
“I am fond of languages,” said I, “and studied Welsh at an early period.”
“And you read Welsh poetry?”
“O yes.”
“How were you enabled to master its difficulties?”
“Chiefly by going through Owen Pugh’s version of ‘Paradise Lost’ twice, with the original by my side. He has introduced into that translation so many of the poetic terms of the old bards that after twice going through it; there was little in Welsh poetry that I could not make out with a little pondering.”
“You pursued a very excellent plan,” said the doctor, “a very excellent plan indeed. Owen Pugh!”
“Owen Pugh! The last of your very great men,” said I.
“You say right, sir,” said the doctor. “He was indeed our last great man – Ultimus Romanorum. I have myself read his work, which he called ‘Coll Gwynfa,’ the ‘Loss of the Place of Bliss’ – an admirable translation, sir; highly poetical, and at the same time correct.”
“Did you know him?” said I.
“I had not the honour of his acquaintance,” said the doctor – “but, sir, I am happy to say that I have made yours.”
The