perhaps it will do me good.'

'Well then, I remember that it was a fine old city standing on a hill
with a river running under it, and that it had a fine old church, one of
the finest in the whole of Britain; likewise a fine old castle; and last,
not least, a capital old inn, where I got a capital dinner off roast
Durham beef, and a capital glass of ale, which I believe was the cause of
my being ever after fond of ale.'

* * * * *

I was the last of the file, but I now rushed past John Jones, who was
before me, and next to the old lady, and sure enough there was the chair,
in the wall, of him who was called in his day, and still is called by the
mountaineers of Wales, though his body has been below the earth in the
quiet churchyard one hundred and forty years, Eos Ceiriog, the
Nightingale of Ceiriog, the sweet caroller Huw Morus, the enthusiastic
partizan of Charles and the Church of England, and the never-tiring
lampooner of Oliver and the Independents. There it was, a kind of hollow
in the stone wall, in the hen ffordd, fronting to the west, just above
the gorge at the bottom of which murmurs the brook Ceiriog, there it was,
something like a half barrel chair in a garden, a mouldering stone slab
forming the seat, and a large slate stone, the back, on which were cut
these letters--

H. M. B.

signifying Huw Morus Bard.

'Sit down in the chair, Gwr Boneddig,' said John Jones, 'you have taken
trouble enough to get to it.'

'Do, gentleman,' said the old lady; 'but first let me wipe it with my
apron, for it is very wet and dirty.'

'Let it be,' said I; then taking off my hat I stood uncovered before the
chair, and said in the best Welsh I could command, 'Shade of Huw Morus,
supposing your shade haunts the place which you loved so well when
alive--a Saxon, one of the seed of the Coiling Serpent, has come to this
place to pay that respect to true genius, the Dawn Duw, which he is ever
ready to pay. He read the songs of the Nightingale of Ceiriog in the
most distant part of Lloegr, when he was a brown-haired boy, and now that
he is a grey-haired man he is come to say in this place that they
frequently made his eyes overflow with tears of rapture.'

I then sat down in the chair, and commenced repeating verses of Huw
Morus. All which I did in the presence of the stout old lady, the short,
buxom and bare-armed damsel, and of John Jones the Calvinistic weaver of
Llangollen, all of whom listened patiently and appr