"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:
