s turn asked after
Jasper--"Lord!" was the answer, "you can't think what grand folks he and
his wife have become of late years, and all along of a trumpery lil which
somebody has written about them." He also met an Italian whose friends
he had last seen at Norwich, one whom he had found at Corunna. It is no
wonder that it seemed to him he had always had "the health of an
elephant," and could walk thirty-four miles a day, and the last mile in
ten minutes. He took his chance for a night's lodging, content to have
someone else's bed, but going to the best inn where he had a choice, as
at Haverfordwest.

He was very much moved by the adventure. "I have a wonderful deal to say
if I once begin; I have been everywhere," he said to the old man at
Gutter Fawr. He gave the shepherd advice about his sheep. "I am in the
habit," he said to the landlord at Pont Erwyd, "of talking about
everything, being versed in all matters, do you see, or affecting to be
so, which comes much to the same thing." Even in the company of his
stepdaughter--as they were not in Hyde Park--he sang in Welsh at the top
of his voice. The miller's hospitality in Mona brought tears to his
eyes; so did his own verse translation of the "Ode to Sycharth," because
it made him think "how much more happy, innocent and holy I was in the
days of my boyhood when I translated Iolo's ode than I am at the present
time." He kissed the silver cup at Llanddewi Brefi and the tombstone of
Huw Morus at Llan Silin. When the chair of Huw Morus was wiped and he
was about to sit down in it, he uncovered and said in his best Welsh:

"'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 approvingly though the
rain was pouring down upon them, and the branches of the trees