We went into the cottage, which was kept by a man and his wife, both of whom seemed to be perfectly well acquainted with my two new friends. We sat down on stools, by a clean white table in a little apartment with a clay floor—notwithstanding the heat of the weather, the little room was very cool and pleasant owing to the cottage being much protected from the sun by its situation. The man in grey called for a jug of ale, which was presently placed before us along with three glasses. The man in grey, having filled the glasses from the jug which might contain three pints, handed one to me, another to his companion, and then taking the third drank to my health. I drank to his, and that of his companion; the latter, after nodding to us both, emptied his at a draught, and then with a kind of half-fatuous leer, exclaimed “Da iawn, very good.” The ale, though not very good, was cool and neither sour nor bitter; we then sat for a moment or two in silence, my companions on one side of the table, and I on the other. After a little time the man in grey looking at me said: “Travelling I suppose in Anglesey for pleasure?” “To a certain extent,” said I; “but my chief object in visiting Anglesey was to view the birth-place of Gronwy Owen; I saw it yesterday and am now going to Holyhead chiefly with a view to see the country.” “And how came you, an Englishman, to know anything of Gronwy Owen?” “I studied Welsh literature when young,” said I, “and was much struck with the verses of Gronwy: he was one of the great bards of Wales, and certainly the most illustrious genius that Anglesey ever produced.” “A great genius I admit,” said the man in grey, “but pardon me, not exactly the greatest Ynis Fon has produced. The race of the bards is not quite extinct in the island, sir, I could name one or two—however, I leave others to do so—but I assure you the race of bards is not quite extinct here.” “I am delighted to hear you say so,” said I, “and make no doubt that you speak correctly, for the Red Bard has said that Mona is never to be without a poet—but where am I to find one? Just before I saw you I was wishing to see a poet; I would willingly give a quart of ale to see a genuine Anglesey poet.” “You would, sir, would you?” said the man in grey, lifting his head on high, and curling his upper lip. “I would, indeed,” said I, “my greatest desire at present is to see an Anglesey poet, but where am I to find one?” “Where is he to find one?” said he of the tattered hat; “where’s the gwr boneddig to find a prydydd? No occasion to go far, he, he, he.” “Well,” said I, “but where is he?” “Where is he? why there,” said he pointing to the man in grey—“the greatest prydydd in tîr Fon or the whole world.” “Tut, tut, hold your tongue,” said the man in grey. “Hold my tongue, myn Diawl, not I—I speak the truth,” then filling his glass he emptied it exclaiming, “I’ll not hold my tongue. The greatest prydydd in the whole world.”