, "for the pieces which he wrote, and which he
called Interludes, had a great run, and he got a great deal of money by
them, but I should say the lines beneath the portrait are more applicable
to the real Shakespeare than to him."

"What do the lines mean?" said the old lady; "they are Welsh, I know, but
they are far beyond my understanding."

"They may be thus translated," said I:

"God in his head the Muse instill'd,
And from his head the world he fill'd."

"Thank you, sir," said the old lady. "I never found any one before who
could translate them." She then said she would show me some English
lines written on the daughter of a friend of hers who was lately dead,
and put some printed lines in a frame into my hand. They were an Elegy
to Mary, and were very beautiful, I read them aloud, and when I had
finished she thanked me and said she had no doubt that if I pleased I
could put them into Welsh--she then sighed and wiped her eyes.

On our enquiring whether we could see the interior of the abbey she said
we could, and that if we rang a bell at the gate a woman would come to
us, who was in the habit of showing the place. We then got up and bade
her farewell--but she begged that we would stay and taste the dwr
santaidd of the holy well.

"What holy well is that?" said I.

"A well," said she, "by the road's side, which in the time of the popes
was said to perform wonderful cures."

"Let us taste it by all means," said I; whereupon she went out, and
presently returned with a tray on which were a jug and tumbler, the jug
filled with the water of the holy well; we drank some of the dwr
santaidd, which tasted like any other water, and then after shaking her
by the hand, we went to the gate, and rang at the bell.

Presently a woman made her appearance at the gate--she was genteelly
drest, about the middle age, rather tall, and bearing in her countenance
the traces of beauty. When we told her the object of our coming she
admitted us, and after locking the gate conducted us into the church. It
was roofless, and had nothing remarkable about it, save the western
window, which we had seen from without. Our attendant pointed out to us
some tombs, and told us the names of certain great people whose dust they
contained. "Can you tell us where Iolo Goch lies interred?" said I.

"No," said she; "indeed I never heard of such a person."

"He was the bard of Owen Glendower," said I, "and assisted his cause
wonde