Soon after I came to a village near to a rocky gulley. On inquiring the name of the village, I was told it was Llan yr Afon, or the church of the river. I passed on; the country was neither grand nor pretty—it exhibited a kind of wildness, however, which did not fail to interest me—there were stones, rocks, and furze in abundance. Turning round the corner of a hill, I observed through the mists of evening, which began to gather about me, what seemed to be rather a genteel house on the road-side, on my left, and a little way behind it a strange kind of monticle, on which I thought I observed tall upright stones. Quickening my pace, I soon came parallel with the house, which, as I drew nigh, ceased to look like a genteel house, and exhibited an appearance of great desolation. It was a white, or rather grey structure of some antiquity. It was evidently used as a farm-house, for there was a yard adjoining to it, in which were stacks and agricultural implements. Observing two men in the yard, I went in. They were respectable, farming-looking men, between forty and fifty; one had on a coat and hat, the other a cap and jacket. “Good evening,” I said in Welsh. “Good evening,” they replied in the same language, looking inquiringly at me. “What is the name of this place?” said I. “It is called Tŷ gwyn,” said the man of the hat. “On account of its colour, I suppose?” said I. “Just so,” said the man of the hat. “It looks old,” said I. “And it is old,” he replied. “In the time of the Papists it was one of their chapels.” “Does it belong to you?” I demanded. “O no, it belongs to one Mr. Sparrow from Liverpool. I am his bailiff, and this man is a carpenter who is here doing a job for him.” Here ensued a pause, which was broken by the man of the hat saying in English to the man of the cap— “Who can this strange fellow be? he has not a word of English, and though he speaks Welsh, his Welsh sounds very different from ours. Who can he be?” “I am sure I don’t know,” said the other. “I know who he is,” said the first; “he comes from Llydaw, or Armorica, which was peopled from Britain estalom, and where I am told the real old Welsh language is still spoken.” “I think I heard you mention the word Llydaw?” said I to the man of the hat. “Ah,” said the man of the hat, speaking Welsh, “I was right after all; oh, I could have sworn you were Llydaweg. Well, how are the descendants of the ancient Britons getting on in Llydaw?” “They were getting on tolerably well,” said I, “when I last saw them, though all things do not go exactly as they could wish.” “Of course not,” said he of the hat. “We too have much to complain of here; the lands are almost entirely taken possession of by Saxons, wherever you go you will find them settled, and a Saxon bird of the roof must build its nest in Gwyn dŷ.” “You call a sparrow in your Welsh a bird of the roof, do you not?” said I.