"Is the mill which you work your own property?" I inquired.
"No," he answered, "I rent it of a person who lives close by."
"And how happens it," said I, "that you speak no English?"
"How should it happen," said he, "that I should speak any? I have
never been far from here; my wife who has lived at service at
Liverpool can speak some."
"Can you read poetry?" said I.
"I can read the psalms and hymns that they sing at our chapel," he
replied.
"Then you are not of the Church?" said I.
"I am not," said the miller; "I am a Methodist."
"Can you read the poetry of Gronwy Owen?" said I.
"I cannot," said the miller, "that is with any comfort; his poetry
is in the ancient Welsh measures, which make poetry so difficult
that few can understand it."
"I can understand poetry in those measures," said I.
"And how much time did you spend," said the miller, "before you
could understand the poetry of the measures?"
"Three years," said I.
The miller laughed.
"I could not have afforded all that time," said he, "to study the
songs of Gronwy. However, it is well that some people should have
time to study them. He was a great poet as I have been told, and
is the glory of our land - but he was unfortunate; I have read his
life in Welsh and part of his letters; and in doing so have shed
tears."
"Has his house any particular name?" said I.
