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“ Oct. 15th, given at Penbryn, 1760. “Dear Sir,—The minute I put this pen to paper, my wife tells me, in great ffwdan, that her boys want breeches, stockings, and shirts, and her maid must go this minute to Ystrad Meurig; so if I have a mind to write to Mr. Richards it must be instantly. So I will. The matter of the greatest concern I have to impart to-day, that the first .... son of David John Oliver, called here yesterday as drunk as a slater, who told me he had no letter from you, but he had his message in his head. What is that', said I ? Here it is', said he, and sung out, with a loud voice, an excellent song made on Pontfendigaid ; and before I could thank him, he brought me out another, saying, 'Dyma un arall a wnaeth ef i hoelion rhod; and that being scarce done, Dyna un arall i nhad oedd a darn o drwyn ganddo a dreuliwyd gan y Flagen, a dyma un arall i Bob, a dyma un arall i Gutto, a dyma un i Sionir Golau a dyma un i,' &c., &c. The Datgenydd delivered them all with great justice, and gave me great pleasure; and I could not help thinking of the Druidical bards of old, who spoke all in verse, and the man looked wild, as if he had been possessed at Delphos. He promised to get me a copy on paper of some of those I admired most, and that he would bring them me next Sunday in exchange for a belly full of bottled ale. I long to hear from you. I am almost in the hyp, the worst of all diseases. I am extremely obliged to the discoverer of the waters of Llandrindod. I am twenty years younger than I was last winter ; but I shall grow old by and by
“I am, yours sincerely,
“ LEWIS MORRIS.
“I have got lately a parcel of curious Roman coins”.
Penbryn, Dec. 2nd, 1760.
“Dear Sir,—This comes to call for my Suckers home. The old tree was like to have been blown down by a hurricane, and is now scarce alive-scarce indeed. On the 14th Nov. a fiery pleuritic fever knocked me down flat. God left me my senses; and I bled about half a hundred ounces, until I got it under, and also a spitting of blood attended it. Mr. Pryse was of great help to me; I could trust nobody else to bleed me. But, says you, what is all this to me, fevers, colics, &c. ? Now, if you were a goose, as I am, I would compare myself to our feathered geese, who, when they escape a danger, will gabble for an hour together; and it certainly gives them pleasure, and so it does me, tho' writing is extreme painful to my head. Well, to continue my Clegar : On the 22nd, at ten at night, being in a violent sweat in the height of my fever, the chimney of my bedroom took fire, which in a few minutes blazed up to the clouds, or several yards high at least, with great noise. It threw lumps of fire on a thatched house adjoining, and down the chimney, even all over the room and under my bed. As it pleased God, my servants were not gone to bed; they followed my directions and immediately my room was all afloat, and the fire extin. guished. I was as little able to bear water as fire, but both I was obliged, which gave my fever a complicated turn, and for aught I know for the best. I have got over it, thank God; but my head is as giddy as a drunkard's, and my body weak, and can scarce creep, having lost whole collops of flesh, if it is loss. I had an excellent nurse, whose interest was to save my life; and there is no stronger demonstration in the world than this, that no nurse is equal to a wife. Consider of this seriously. My case may be yours, and you may lose your life foolishly for want of such, or at least bear very great hardships. In the midst of my terrors in fire and water
I could not help thinking of David ap Gwilym's expression :
Tân aml a dwr tew'n ymladd,
Tan o lid, dwr tew 'n ei ladd. “In such a case you would have thought of Homer; but God defend you from such an accident, and take care of your chimneys. I shall endeavour to guard against such accidents for the future. This fever and fire were two heavy blows; but they were rods which God thought proper to shew with a gentle hand, for my good no doubt. I am glad your mother is on the recovery. An old tree will be long recovering new fibrous roots. I wish you would let me see a catalogue of your books in your library; I may have some duplicates or other which possibly I may throw in. I have also begun a library (no, a closet) for my few books; but the pleurisy stood at the door with a drawn sword and threatened me. Nay, I have laid a plan for a cabinet to put up my natural curiosities of fossils, shells, &c.; but that same pleurisy told me, with a stern countenance, go to bed, and bleed and sweat, and consider of it. Now, I intend to have the other touch at it. My cabinet is to contain five or six thousand articles, which I have ready to put up. I hope I shall see you when that happens. Is not Mr. Pegge long a considering about an answer to my letter? I cannot go to my bureau to return you his and the doctor's letters. Onid oes berw rhyfeddol yn fy mhen i o ddyn claf heb allu na bwytta nag yfed ? I can write no more to-night. God be with you.
“I am, yours sincerely,
“ LEWIS MORRIS.”
" December 3rd, 1760.-I am much better if the weather would permit me; but as my head is a barometer I cannot expect to be well till the weather is good. Your observation about Mr. Pegge's Argolicum is just. His etymon is not according to analogy. The doctor has a great opinion of him, and too great, indeed, of me! I really blush at the high encomiums he gives me, though I see what it is owing to, viz., an excessive love of my country. You say that no trout equals that of Llyn Teifi, and I say no oysters equal those of Rhos Colyn (in Anglesey); and so said the people of Rome of those of the Lucrine Lake. Do not fail to send me your catalogue. Make no excuses, and as soon as I can get an amanuensis you shall have a catalogue of my poor collection. I have had a present made me lately of a manuscript on vellum, but my head is not yet solid enough to make a right judgment of it, and it belongs more to a writer of ecclesiastical history than to me. I am afraid there is little in it that suits my taste, though curious in its kind. I am tired once more, so must leave off, and perhaps shall have no further opportunity to write any more before my messenger goes.
“ Yours as before."
Saturday, about 3 in the morning, in bed. “Yesterday a diarrhea took me, which made me extream uneasy; but by the help of my own garden rhubarb I hope it is carried off, for I feel the effects of it. This is like a cobler patching an old shoe which may last one winter more, or make a closen, or something. David John Oliver has not been a man of his word; I have not one song to divert me. Last post has brought me a letter from Mr. Pegge, which I suppose opens a correspondence for life. I have sent to London for a book he has published, that I may see him in the book.
“ Yours very crazy,
“ LEWIS MORRIS.”
THE FOUNTAIN AT PORTMADOC.
In accordance with the intention we expressed in page 37 of the first volume of Y Cymmrodor, we revert to the subject of the development of the fine arts in their practical uses and bearing upon the Principality. We then recorded the “opening" of the Castlereagh Tower at Machynlleth, and expressed our admiration of the beautiful edifice. We have now to record the erection of another, though less pretentious, architectural structure at Portmadoc-a fountain erected not only for adornment, but for the purpose of supplying the town with a flowing rill of pure mountain water. Its style is admirably adapted to the locality in which it stands, and to its intended purpose. The pedestal, six feet in height, is formed of two large blocks of Cornish granite, each weighing upwards of three tons, the front face being polished. The "axed” portion sparkles with felspar and mica. The basin is of highly polished Sicilian marble, and receives its jet of water from a bronzed lion's head. The whole is surmounted by an elaborate ornamental pillar with brackets supporting three octagonal gas lamps.
The fountain was designed by Messrs. W. and T. Wills, and has been erected as a memorial of Mr. William Alexander Maddocks, the founder of Portmadoc, and in commemoration of the coming of age of his grandson, Mr. Francis William Alexander Roche.
The ceremony of “the opening” was more than usually interesting. The water was turned on by Mrs. Breese, of Morfa Lodge, with a quiet grace that won her the applause of the crowd collected around. The fountain being thus proved to be complete, Mr. Breese, with a short but excellent