the old time a man of the name of Sam kept a gwestfa, or inn, at the
place where Wrexham flow stands; when he died he left it to his wife, who
kept it after him, on which account the house was first called Ty wraig
Sam, the house of Sam's wife, and then for shortness Wraig Sam, and a
town arising about it by degrees, the town too was called Wraig Sam,
which the Saxons corrupted into Wrexham.

I was much diverted with this Welsh derivation of Wrexham, which I did
not attempt to controvert. After we had had some further discourse John
Jones got up, shook me by the hand, gave a sigh, wished me a "taith
hyfryd," and departed. Thus terminated my last day at Llangollen.

CHAPTER LXIV

Departure for South Wales--Tregeiriog--Pleasing Scene--Trying to
Read--Garmon and Lupus--The Cracked Voice--Effect of a Compliment--Llan
Rhyadr.

The morning of the 21st of October was fine and cold; there was a rime
frost on the ground. At about eleven o'clock I started on my journey for
South Wales, intending that my first stage should be Llan Rhyadr. My
wife and daughter accompanied me as far as Plas Newydd. As we passed
through the town I shook hands with honest A---, whom I saw standing at
the door of a shop, with a kind of Spanish hat on his head, and also with
my venerable friend old Mr Jones, whom I encountered close beside his own
domicile. At the Plas Newydd I took an affectionate farewell of my two
loved ones, and proceeded to ascend the Berwyn. Near the top I turned
round to take a final look at the spot where I had lately passed many a
happy hour. There lay Llangollen far below me, with its chimneys
placidly smoking, its pretty church rising in its centre, its blue river
dividing it into two nearly equal parts, and the mighty hill of Brennus
overhanging it from the north.

I sighed, and repeating Einion Du's verse

"Tangnefedd i Llangollen!"

turned away.

I went over the top of the hill and then began to descend its southern
side, obtaining a distant view of the plains of Shropshire on the east.
I soon reached the bottom of the hill, passed through Llansanfraid, and
threading the vale of the Ceiriog at length found myself at Pont y
Meibion in front of the house of Huw Morris, or rather of that which is
built on the site of the dwelling of the poet. I stopped and remained
before the house thinking of the mighty Huw, till the door opened, and
out came the dark-featured man, the poet's descendant, whom