Besides these instruments John Jones has an equatorial which is mounted on a tripod stand, made by himself. It contains the right ascension, declination, and azimuth index, all neatly carved upon slate. In his spectroscope he makes his prisms out of the skylights used in vessels. These he grinds down to suit his purpose. I have not been able to go into the complete detail of the manner in which he effects the grinding of his glasses. It is perhaps too technical to be illustrated in words, which are full of focuses, parabolas, and convexities. But enough may be gathered from the above account to give an idea of the wonderful tenacity of this aged student, who counts his slates into the ships by day, and devotes his evenings to the perfecting of his astronomical instruments. But not only is he an astronomer and a philologist; he is also a bard, and his poetry is much admired in the district. He writes in Welsh, not in English, and signs himself "Ioan, of Bryngwyn Bach," the place where he was born. Indeed, he is still at a loss for words when he speaks in English. He usually interlards his conversation with passages in Welsh, which is his mother-tongue. A friend has, however, done me the favour to translate two of John Jones's poems into English. The first is 'The Telescope':-- "To Heaven it points, where rules the Sun In golden gall'ries bright; And the pale Moon in silver rays Makes dalliance in the night. "It sweeps with eagle glances The sky, its myriad throng, That myriad throng to marshal And bring to us their song. "Orb upon orb it follows As oft they intertwine, And worlds in vast processions As if in battle line. "It loves all things created, To follow and to trace; And never fears to penetrate The dark abyss of space." The next is to 'The Comet':-- "A maiden fair, with light of stars bedecked, Starts out of space at Jove's command; With visage wild, and long dishevelled hair, Speeds she along her starry course; The hosts of heaven regards she not,-- Fain would she scorn them all except her father Sol, Whose mighty influence her headlong course doth all control." The following translation may also be given: it shows that the bard is not without a spice of wit. A fellow-workman teased him to write some lines; when John Jones, in a seemingly innocent manner, put some questions, and ascertained that he had once been a tailor. Accordingly this epigram was written, and appeared in the local paper the week after: "To a quondam Tailor, now a Slate-teller":-- "To thread and needle now good-bye, With slates I aim at riches; The scissors will I ne'er more ply, Nor make, but order, breeches."[12]