d of kitchen, flagged with
stone, where were several young people, their children. I spoke some
Welsh to them which appeared to give them great satisfaction. The man
went to a shelf and taking down a book put it into my hand. It was a
Welsh book, and the title of it in English was "Evening Work of the
Welsh." It contained the lives of illustrious Welshmen, commencing with
that of Cadwalader. I read a page of it aloud, while the family stood
round and wondered to hear a Saxon read their language. I entered into
discourse with the man about Welsh poetry and repeated the famous
prophecy of Taliesin about the Coiling Serpent. I asked him if the Welsh
had any poets at the present day. "Plenty," said he, "and good
ones--Wales can never be without a poet." Then after a pause he said,
that he was the grandson of a great poet.

"Do you bear his name?" said I.

"I do," he replied.

"What may it be?"

"Hughes," he answered.

"Two of the name of Hughes have been poets," said I--"one was Huw Hughes,
generally termed the Bardd Coch, or red bard; he was an Anglesea man, and
the friend of Lewis Morris and Gronwy Owen--the other was Jonathan
Hughes, where he lived I know not."

"He lived here, in this very house," said the man. "Jonathan Hughes was
my grandfather!" and as he spoke his eyes flashed fire.

"Dear me!" said I; "I read some of his pieces thirty-two years ago when I
was a lad in England. I think I can repeat some of the lines." I then
repeated a quartet which I chanced to remember.

"Ah!" said the man, "I see you know his poetry. Come into the next room
and I will show you his chair." He led me into a sleeping-room on the
right hand, where in a corner he showed me an antique three-cornered
arm-chair. "That chair," said he, "my grandsire won at Llangollen, at an
Eisteddfod of Bards. Various bards recited their poetry, but my
grandfather won the prize. Ah, he was a good poet. He also won a prize
of fifteen guineas at a meeting of bards in London."

We returned to the kitchen, where I found the good woman of the house
waiting with a plate of bread-and-butter in one hand, and a glass of
buttermilk in the other--she pressed me to partake of both--I drank some
of the buttermilk, which was excellent, and after a little more discourse
shook the kind people by the hand and thanked them for their hospitality.
As I was about to depart the man said that I should find the lane farther
up very wet, and that I h