. On his return, which was not till he
was upwards of eighty, he was received with great favour by William the
Fourth, who amongst other things made him a field-marshal. As often as
October came round did this interesting and venerable gentleman make his
appearance at Llangollen to pay his respects to the ladies, especially to
Lady Eleanor, whom he had known at Court as far back they say as the
American war. It was rumoured at Llangollen that Lady Eleanor's death
was a grievous blow to Sir Alured, and that he would never be seen there
again. However, when October came round he made his appearance at the
Vicarage, where he had always been in the habit of taking up his
quarters, and called on and dined with Miss Ponsonby at Plas Newydd, but
it was observed that he was not so gay as he had formerly been. In the
evening, on his taking leave of Miss Ponsonby, she said that he had used
her ill. Sir Alured coloured, and asked her what she meant, adding that
he had not to his knowledge used any person ill in the course of his
life. 'But I say you have used me ill, very ill,' said Miss Ponsonby,
raising her voice, and the words 'very ill' she repeated several times.
At last the old soldier waxing rather warm demanded an explanation.
'I'll give it you,' said Miss Ponsonby; 'were you not going away after
having only kissed my hand?' 'Oh,' said the general, 'if that is my
offence, I will soon make you reparation,' and instantly gave her a
hearty smack on the lips, which ceremony he never forgot to repeat after
dining with her on subsequent occasions."

We got on the subject of bards, and I mentioned to him Gruffydd
Hiraethog, the old poet buried in the chancel of Llangollen church. The
old clerk was not aware that he was buried there, and said that though he
had heard of him he knew little or nothing about him.

"Where was he born?" said he.

"In Denbighshire," I replied, "near the mountain Hiraethog, from which
circumstance he called himself in poetry Gruffydd Hiraethog."

"When did he flourish?"

"About the middle of the sixteenth century."

"What did he write?"

"A great many didactic pieces," said I in one of which is a famous
couplet to this effect:

"He who satire loves to sing
On himself will satire bring."

"Did you ever hear of William Lleyn?" said the old gentleman.

"Yes," said I; "he was a pupil of Hiraethog, and wrote an elegy on his
death, in which he alludes to Gruffydd's skill in an old