About half-past eight o’clock at night John Jones came to bid me farewell. I bade him sit down, and sent for a pint of ale to regale him with. Notwithstanding the ale, he was very melancholy at the thought that I was about to leave Llangollen, probably never to return. To enliven him I gave him an account of my late expedition to Wrexham, which made him smile more than once. When I had concluded, he asked me whether I knew the meaning of the word Wrexham; I told him I believed I did, and gave him the derivation which the reader will find in an early chapter of this work. He told me that with all due submission he thought he could give me a better, which he had heard from a very clever man, gwr deallus iawn, who lived about two miles from Llangollen, on the Corwen road. In the old time a man of the name of Sam kept a gwestfa, or inn, at the place where Wrexham now stands; when he died he left it to his wife, who kept it after him, on which account the house was first called Tŷ 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.