We returned to the inn and dined. The duck was capital, and I asked John Jones if he had ever tasted a better. “Never, sir,” said he, “for to tell you the truth, I never tasted a duck before.” “Rather singular,” said I. “What that I should not have tasted duck? O, sir, the singularity is, that I should now be tasting duck. Duck in Wales, sir, is not fare for poor weavers. This is the first duck I ever tasted, and though I never taste another, as I probably never shall, I may consider myself a fortunate weaver, for I can now say I have tasted duck once in my life. Few weavers in Wales are ever able to say as much.” CHAPTER XVI Baptist Tomb-Stone—The Toll-Bar—Rebecca—The Guitar. The sun was fast declining as we left Ruthyn. We retraced our steps across the fields. When we came to the Baptist chapel I got over the wall of the little yard to look at the gravestones. There were only three. The inscriptions upon them were all in Welsh. The following stanza was on the stone of Jane, the daughter of Elizabeth Williams, who died on the second of May, 1843:— “Er myn’d i’r oerllyd annedd Dros dymher hir i orwedd, Cwyd i’r lan o’r gwely bridd Ac hyfryd fydd ei hagwedd,” which is “Though thou art gone to dwelling cold, To lie in mould for many a year, Thou shalt, at length, from earthy bed, Uplift thy head to blissful sphere.” As we went along I stopped to gaze at a singular-looking hill forming part of the mountain range on the east. I asked John Jones what its name was, but he did not know. As we were standing talking about it, a lady came up from the direction in which our course lay. John Jones, touching his hat to her, said: “Madam, this gwr boneddig wishes to know the name of that moel; perhaps you can tell him.” “Its name is Moel Agrik,” said the lady, addressing me in English. “Does that mean Agricola’s hill?” said I. “It does,” said she; “and there is a tradition that the Roman general Agricola, when he invaded these parts, pitched his camp on that moel. The hill is spoken of by Pennant.” “Thank you, madam,” said I; “perhaps you can tell me the name of the delightful grounds in which we stand, supposing they have a name.” “They are called Oaklands,” said the lady. “A very proper name,” said I, “for there are plenty of oaks growing about. But why are they called by a Saxon name, for Oaklands is Saxon.” “Because,” said the lady, “when the grounds were first planted with trees they belonged to an English family.” “Thank you,” said I, and, taking off my hat, I departed with my guide. I asked him her name, but he could not tell me. Before she was out of sight, however, we met a labourer, of whom John Jones inquired her name. “Her name is W—s,” said the man, “and a good lady she is.” “Is she Welsh?” said I. “Pure Welsh, master,” said the man. “Purer Welsh flesh and blood need not be.”