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 and the
tops of the tall nettles, agitated by the gusts from the mountain
hollows, were beating in their faces, for enthusiasm is never scoffed at
by the noble, simple-minded, genuine Welsh, whatever treatment it may
receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish Saxon."

Unless we count the inn at Cemmaes, where he took vengeance on the
suspicious people by using his note-book in an obvious manner, "now
skewing at an object, now leering at an individual," he was only once