daughter and sole heir of Thomas ap Thomas, of Wenvoe Castle. This castle, with other estates, got into possession by marriage of the Cromwellian General Ludlow, from whence it returned again by a marriage of a Mr. Thomas, to the General's widow. This family are nearly allied to the Earl of Albermarle, and other distinguished families. I believe the latter baronet, John Thomas, sold this estate to Mr. Jenner, who now inhabits the castle.

15. Mr. Vaughan, was of Cefn bodig, near Bala, and a branch of the Vaughans of Glanllyn. His tomb is extant in the churchyard of Llanycil.

16. Sir John Pryce, bart. of Newtown Hall, near the town. The title of this highly ancient and respectable family is, I believe, extinct. There is hardly a pedigree of any respectable family in days of yore, where there is not an intermarriage with the Pryces of this Hall,--a portion of the once extensive property of these baronets, and the old mansion, is owned and occupied by the Rev. Mr. Evors, who proved himself an heir by the female line. He is a highly respectable clergyman, and has a benifice in the county of Pembroke, and is a magistrate in Montgomeryshire.

17. Sir Erasmus Phillips, bart., of Picton Castle, in this county, only son of Sir Richard Phillips, bart., of the same place. His mother was a daughter of Sir Erasmus Dryden, of Canons Ashby, in the county of Northampton, bart. Sir Erasmus married two wives; the first was the Lady Cecily, daughter of Thomas Finch, earl of Winchelsea, by whom he had issue; secondly, to Catherine, daughter and coheir of the Honourable Edward Darcey, esq. by lady Elizabeth, daughter to Philip Stanhope, earl of Chesterfield, by whom he had issue. Of the public character of Sir Erasmus, neither history nor tradition will afford me any aid; both he and his ancestors, as well as descendants, have represented some parts of this county often in parliament, and when they could not be accommodated with seats, the borough of Plympton, in Devon, has been represented by them.

Sir Erasmus's father garrisoned Picton castle for King Charles I. in the civil wars, yet his near relation, a son-in-law, James Phillips, esq. M. P. for Cardigan, was a great favorite of Cromwell's, hence I conclude that it was by the latter's influence that Cromwell issued an order not to destroy any of the Picton castle property. Mr. Thomas Jones, solicitor, of Caermarthen, informed me that he had seen the original order.

18. Mr. Arthur Owen was the second son of Sir Hugh Owen, bart., by Catherine, daughter of Evan Lloyd, of Yale, in the county of Denbigh, esq., relict of John Lewis, of Prescood, esq. He married two wives, his sister married William Scourfield, of the Mote, in the county of Pembroke, whose descendants

now possess Robertson hall. I am glad to find that the present Mr. Scourfield is rebuilding the ancient seat of his ancestors at Mote, where they have resided ever since the Conquest, I believe without any interruption of the name.

Of Mr. Arthur Owen, my small means of knowledge does not afford me any information of his political character. That of this family, generally speaking, have been ever since they were seated in Pembrokeshire, in the reign of Elizabeth, stanch royalists, and supporters of the Protestant religion, which has endeared them greatly to the freeholders of the county, which they have represented oftener, and for a longer period, than any other family residing therein. I find in Mr. George Moore's History of the Revolution of 1688-9, p. 193, that a Mr. Hugh Owen, of Wilton, went to Holland to carry despatches, hastening King William's arrival in this country. I have also heard that in Queen Anne's reign one of this family was the means of preserving the blessings of the protestant religion to this realm. Either he or his descendant was offered an earldom, which he declined.

19. Mr. John Upton appears to be a commissioner of customs. He represented Fowey in the long parliament, and Haverfordwest for four years. How he came there not even tradition will assist me, nor can I trace what part of England he came from, saving that an inference may be drawn, that a Mr. Arthur Upton represented Devonshire in the same parliament, which induces me to suppose that he was either from Devon or Cornwall.

JEU DE MOTS, or old Punning Englyn

Priddyn wyv o'r prudda-a'r Pryv,

A'r pryved a'm hysa,

Prudd yw meddwl mai pridd vydda,

O'r pridd yr wyv i'r pridd yr a.

INCERTI AUCTORIS.

Translation.

Of dust I am, or heavy clay,

And swiftly hasten to decay,

And sad to think-how soon I may

Be yet converted into clay.

THE DELIVERANCE OF RHYS.

Who spake of brotherhood? who spake of love?—SHAKSPEARE.

"TIS Autumn-on Caermarddyn's woods

A few wan leaves are ling'ring still-the last;
And dismally the spoiled trees

Are wailing in the evening breeze,

As if they mourned their Summer glories past.
Oh, sadd'ning season! thou dost bring

Home thy trite moral to the weary heart:
And some who slight thy lessons old,
When first they see thy tinging gold,

Learn their deep truth, ere thy last leaf depart.
Night's shadows deepen fast around,

But there is light in Dinevor's princely towers,
And revelry, and minstrel string.

Oh, conscience! can they blunt thy sting?
Or doth it slumber in the festal hours?
Not with the revel bides my lay;

I seek a dungeon, desolate and chill,
Where Dinevor's lord, with fetters bound,
Lies helpless, stretched upon the ground,
Only his haughty spirit chainless still.
Calmly the warrior lies and listens

To the swoln river's ceaseless wail;
Or watches where a lonely moonbeam glistens
On some foul reptile's loathsome trail.

And still, at intervals, a far off tone

Of festal music, in the distance dying,

Blends with the stream's hoarse din, a sadder moan,

Than e'en the night wind's hollow sighing.

He looks and listens, till each anxious sense,

O'er wearied, yields to fancy's vague dominion;
Then, far away, his spirit strays

To other scenes, and brighter days,

On sleep's untiring pinion.

The moon's pale gleam he sees no more;
The daybeam gilds Morganwg's shore,
Where, spreading wide, as eye may trace,
Are helmet, shield, and glittering lance;
And many an old familiar face

Meets joyously his searching glance;

And proudly, on a hillock near,

He sees his own broad banner fly;

The river's murmur, in his ear,

Has deepened to a battle cry;

• Maelgwn, son of Rhys, Prince of South Wales, put out the eyes of his brother Howell, and, fearing his father's vengeance, made him a prisoner; but Rhys, by means of Howell, who was blind, escaped from Maelgwn's prison.

His hand is on his charger's mane-
He springs-alas! that galling chain
Has dragged him back to earth again.
Away the blissful dream has flown,
And, leaning on his couch of stone,
To lure it back he vainly tries,
While darker thoughts unbidden rise,
And into wild conjectures flow,
Of who may be the hidden foe
That holds him thus in ling'ring thrall,
And lords it in his father's hall.

Sudden he starts-Ho! is he dreaming still?

Or did a light touch on his eyelids thrill?

No; 'twas no dream; for now, distinct and near,
A gentle voice falls softly on his ear:
"Father, 'tis Howel calls, awake!
This file will soon thy fetters break.
"Tis done, and quickly must we flee,
Tread lightly, speak not, follow me."
He is obeyed; the captive waits

No second bidding to be free;
Silent they pass the pond'rous gates,
Which yield before a master-key.
They tread, with cautious steps and slow,
A vaulted passage, long and low;
Then mount a steep and broken stair,
And breathe once more the upper air.

One moment's pause the chieftain made, to raise
His eyes to Heav'n, in meek, but fervent praise;
Breathed one brief blessing on that young bright head,
And onward through the forest depths they sped.
Silent awhile, as lost in anxious thought,
Until Prince Rhys, by varied questions, sought
From his bewildering doubts to break ;

But still the youth unwillingly replied,
As if his mind were less on what he spake,
Than something that he fain would hide.
""Twere tedious now," he said, "to tell
How my captivity befell;

But never, through its dreary space,
Did I behold my keeper's face.
A bondsman, who of old was ours,
And still has dwelt in Dinevor's towers,
Grateful for ancient kindness, gave
Our freedom, though himself a slave."
"Thou know'st not then our secret foe?
It matters not; for we shall know,
When soon we grapple in the strife,
Strong hand to hand, and life for life;
Then, Howell, at thy father's side,
Thou'lt boldly stem the battle's tide."
"No, father, no; the battle's roar
Shall rouse this sinking heart no more;

No more my throbbing breast shall swell
To see thy pennon proudly fly;
To count my beads in monkish cell,
Were fitter doom for such as I."
"For such as thou!-what! fair and young,
And from a tribe of heroes sprung?
Degenerate boy! and thou wouldst dwell,
Inglorious, in a convent cell?

I loved thee, that, of all my race
Thou only wore thy mother's face;
And now, it shames my age, to find
Thou bear'st a woman's feeble mind."
He paused, in wrath; but no reply
Was given, save one heart-broken sigh,
That smote upon the father's ear,
As if some deep distress were near.
"Nay, nay, I felt thy trembling hand,

And marked thy weak uncertain tread,
And knew full well their iron band

Had bound my darling's youthful head;
But deemed not ought their hate could do,
Might crush the daring spirit too.
Yet, grieve not for my hasty word,
Thou wert but now a caged bird,
With drooping crest and ruffled wing,
'Tis all too soon to bid thee sing;
And thou wilt tell another tale,
When peals our war-cry on the gale:
But rest we here awhile," he said :-
They halted in a forest glade.

"Twas a fair scene; the moonlight strayed
Among the leafless branches round,
And o'er the stripling's ringlets played,
And eyes, for ever bent upon the ground.
Bright on the warrior's silvered locks it fell,
And poured a lustre, holy and sublime,
On the dark brow, where care had mimicked well
The deeply-graven characters of Time.
"My son, to me this wintry air

Seems laden with the Spring's perfume;
And yon bright moon shines doubly fair,

In eyes long strained through prison gloom." Young Howell sighed, and answered low, In broken accents, falt'ring slow,

"Dear father, while I hear thee speak,
I seem to feel the moonlight ray

Fall softly on my burning cheek,
And chase its fever-flush away;
And I rejoice, that our unpitying foe

Wreaked not his fiercest cruelty on thee:
But look on these unlighted orbs, and know,
Midnight and noon alike are dark for me."