ented air.

"I suppose you are married?" said I.

"Oh yes," said he, "I have both a wife and family."

"A native of Llangollen?" said I.

"No," said he: "I was born at Llan Silin, a place some way off across the
Berwyn."

"Llan Silin?" said I, "I have a great desire to visit it some day or
other."

"Why so?" said he, "it offers nothing interesting."

"I beg your pardon," said I; "unless I am much mistaken, the tomb of the
great poet Huw Morris is in Llan Silin churchyard."

"Is it possible that you have ever heard of Huw Morris?"

"Oh yes," said I; "and I have not only heard of him but am acquainted
with his writings; I read them when a boy."

"How very extraordinary," said he; "well, you are quite right about his
tomb; when a boy I have played dozens of times on the flat stone with my
schoolfellows."

We talked of Welsh poetry; he said he had not dipped much into it, owing
to its difficulty; that he was master of the colloquial language of
Wales, but understood very little of the language of Welsh poetry, which
was a widely different thing. I asked him whether he had seen Owen
Pugh's translation of Paradise Lost. He said he had, but could only
partially understand it, adding, however, that those parts which he could
make out appeared to him to be admirably executed, that amongst these
there was one which had particularly struck him namely:

"Ar eu col o rygnu croch
Daranau."

The rendering of Milton's

"And on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder."

which, grand as it was, was certainly equalled by the Welsh version, and
perhaps surpassed, for that he was disposed to think that there was
something more terrible in "croch daranau," than in "harsh thunder."

"I am disposed to think so too," said I. "Now can you tell me where Owen
Pugh is buried?"

"I cannot," said he; "but I suppose you can tell me; you, who know the
burying-place of Huw Morris are probably acquainted with the
burying-place of Owen Pugh."

"No," said I, "I am not. Unlike Huw Morris, Owen Pugh has never had his
history written, though perhaps quite as interesting a history might be
made out of the life of the quiet student as out of that of the popular
poet. As soon as ever I learn where his grave is I shall assuredly make
a pilgrimage to it." Mr R--- then asked me a good many questions about
Spain, and a certain singular race of people about whom I have written a
good deal. Before going away he told