, the portico being in
that direction. The body of the sacred edifice is ancient, but the
steeple which bears a gilded cock on its top is modern. The innkeeper
led me directly up to the southern wall, then pointing to a broad
discoloured slab, which lay on the ground just outside the wall, about
midway between the portico and the oriel end, he said:

"Underneath this stone lies Huw Morris, sir." Forthwith taking off my
hat I went down on my knees and kissed the cold slab covering the cold
remains of the mighty Huw, and then, still on my knees, proceeded to
examine it attentively. It is covered over with letters three parts
defaced. All I could make out of the inscription was the date of the
poet's death, 1709. "A great genius, a very great genius, sir," said the
inn-keeper, after I had got on my feet and put on my hat.

"He was indeed," said I; "are you acquainted with his poetry?"

"Oh yes," said the innkeeper, and then repeated the four lines composed
by the poet shortly before his death, which I had heard the intoxicated
stonemason repeat in the public-house of the Pandy, the day I went to
visit the poet's residence with John Jones.

"Do you know any more of Huw's poetry?" said I.

"No," said the innkeeper. "Those lines, however, I have known ever since
I was a child and repeated them, more particularly of late since age has
come upon me and I have felt that I cannot last long."

It is very odd how few of the verses of great poets are in people's
mouths. Not more than a dozen of Shakespear's lines are in people's
mouths: of those of Pope not more than half that number. Of Addison's
poetry two or three lines may be in people's mouths, though I never heard
one quoted, the only line which I ever heard quoted as Addison's not
being his but Garth's:

"'Tis best repenting in a coach and six."

Whilst of the verses of Huw Morris I never knew any one but myself, who
am not a Welshman, who could repeat a line beyond the four which I have
twice had occasion to mention, and which seem to be generally known in
North if not in South Wales.

From the flagstone I proceeded to the portico and gazed upon it
intensely. It presented nothing very remarkable, but it had the greatest
interest for me, for I remembered how many times Huw Morris had walked
out of that porch at the head of the congregation, the clergyman yielding
his own place to the inspired bard. I would fain have entered the
church, but the landlor