The man in grey now filled my glass, his own and that of his companion. The latter emptied his in a minute, not forgetting first to say “the best prydydd in all the world!” The man in grey was also not slow to empty his own. The jug now passed rapidly between my two friends, for the poet seemed determined to have his full share of the beverage. I allowed the ale in my glass to remain untasted, and began to talk about the bards, and to quote from their works. I soon found that the man in grey knew quite as much of the old bards and their works as myself. In one instance he convicted me of a mistake. I had quoted those remarkable lines in which an old bard, doubtless seeing the Menai Bridge by means of second sight, says:—“I will pass to the land of Mona notwithstanding the waters of Menai, without waiting for the ebb”—and was feeling not a little proud of my erudition when the man in grey, after looking at me for a moment fixedly, asked me the name of the bard who composed them—“Sion Tudor,” I replied. “There you are wrong,” said the man in grey; “his name was not Sion Tudor, but Robert Vychan, in English, Little Bob. Sion Tudor wrote an englyn on the Skerries whirlpool in the Menai; but it was Little Bob who wrote the stanza in which the future bridge over the Menai is hinted at.” “You are right,” said I, “you are right. Well, I am glad that all song and learning are not dead in Ynis Fon.” “Dead,” said the man in grey, whose features began to be rather flushed, “they are neither dead, nor ever will be. There are plenty of poets in Anglesey—why, I can mention twelve, and amongst them, and not the least—pooh, what was I going to say?—twelve there are, genuine Anglesey poets, born there, and living there for the love they bear their native land. When I say they all live in Anglesey, perhaps I am not quite accurate, for one of the dozen does not exactly live in Anglesey, but just over the bridge. He is an elderly man, but his awen, I assure you, is as young and vigorous as ever.” “I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” said I, “if he was a certain ancient gentleman, from whom I obtained information yesterday, with respect to the birth-place of Gronwy Owen.” “Very likely,” said the man in grey; “well, if you have seen him consider yourself fortunate, for he is a genuine bard, and a genuine son of Anglesey, notwithstanding he lives across the water.” “If he is the person I allude to,” said I, “I am doubly fortunate, for I have seen two bards of Anglesey.” “Sir,” said the man in grey, “I consider myself quite as fortunate in having met such a Saxon as yourself, as it is possible for you to do, in having seen two bards of Ynis Fon.” “I suppose you follow some pursuit besides bardism?” said I; “I suppose you farm?” “I do not farm,” said the man in grey, “I keep an inn.” “Keep an inn?” said I. “Yes,” said the man in grey. “The — Arms at L—.” “Sure,” said I, “inn-keeping and bardism are not very cognate pursuits?”