ed on a hill about half a mile distant. The present
castle is partly modern and partly ancient. It belongs to a family of
the name of W--- who reside in the modern part, and who have the
character of being kind, hospitable and intellectual people. We only
visited the ancient part, over which we were shown by a woman, who
hearing us speaking Welsh, spoke Welsh herself during the whole time she
was showing us about. She showed us dark passages, a gloomy apartment in
which Welsh kings and great people had been occasionally confined, that
strange memorial of the good old times, a drowning pit, and a large
prison room, in the middle of which stood a singular-looking column,
scrawled with odd characters, which had of yore been used for a
whipping-post, another memorial of the good old baronial times, so dear
to romance readers and minds of sensibility. Amongst other things which
our conductor showed us was an immense onen or ash; it stood in one of
the courts and measured, as she said, pedwar y haner o ladd yn ei gwmpas,
or four yards and a half in girth. As I gazed on the mighty tree I
thought of the Ash Yggdrasill mentioned in the Voluspa, or prophecy of
Vola, that venerable poem which contains so much relating to the
mythology of the ancient Norse.

We returned to the inn and dined. The duck was capital, and I asked John
Jones if he had ever tasted a better. "Never, sir," said he, "for to
tell you the truth, I never tasted a duck before." "Rather singular,"
said I. "What, that I should not have tasted duck? Oh, sir, the
singularity is, that I should now be tasting duck. Duck in Wales, sir,
is not fare for poor weavers. This is the first duck I ever tasted, and
though I never taste another, as I probably never shall, I may consider
myself a fortunate weaver, for I can now say I have tasted duck once in
my life. Few weavers in Wales are ever able to say as much."

CHAPTER XVI

Baptist Tomb-Stone--The Toll-Bar--Rebecca--The Guitar.

The sun was fast declining as we left Ruthyn. We retraced our steps
across the fields. When we came to the Baptist Chapel I got over the
wall of the little yard to look at the grave-stones. There were only
three. The inscriptions upon them were all in Welsh. The following
stanza was on the stone of Jane, the daughter of Elizabeth Williams, who
died on the second of May, 1843:

"Er myn'd i'r oerllyd annedd
Dros dymher hir i orwedd,
Cwyd i'r lan o'r gwely