So I turned back and entered the railway hotel with lofty port and with sounding step, for I had twelve sovereigns in my pocket, besides a half one, and some loose silver, and feared not to encounter the gaze of any waiter or landlord in the land. “Send boots!” I roared to the waiter, as I flung myself down in an arm-chair in a magnificent coffee-room. “What the deuce are you staring at? send boots, can’t you, and ask what I can have for dinner.” “Yes, sir,” said the waiter, and with a low bow departed. “These boots are rather dusty,” said the boots, a grey-haired, venerable-looking man, after he had taken off my thick, solid, square-toed boots. “I suppose you came walking from the railroad?” “Confound the railroad!” said I: “I came walking from Bangor. I would have you know that I have money in my pocket, and can afford to walk. I am fond of the beauties of nature; now it is impossible to see much of the beauties of nature unless you walk. I am likewise fond of poetry, and take especial delight in inspecting the birth-places and haunts of poets. It is because I am fond of poetry, poets and their haunts, that I am come to Anglesey. Anglesey does not abound in the beauties of nature, but there never was such a place for poets; you meet a poet, or the birth-place of a poet, everywhere.” “Did your honour ever hear of Gronwy Owen?” said the old man. “I have,” I replied, “and yesterday I visited his birth-place; so you have heard of Gronwy Owen?” “Heard of him, your honour; yes, and read his works. That ‘Cowydd y Farn’ of his is a wonderful poem.” “You say right,” said I; “the ‘Cowydd of Judgment’ contains some of the finest things ever written—that description of the toppling down of the top crag of Snowdon, at the day of Judgment, beats anything in Homer.” “Then there was Lewis Morris, your honour,” said the old man, “who gave Gronwy his education and wrote ‘The Lasses of Meirion’—and—” “And ‘The Cowydd to the Snail,’” said I, interrupting him—“a wonderful man he was.” “I am rejoiced to see your honour in our house,” said boots; “I never saw an English gentleman before who knew so much about Welsh poetry, nor a Welsh one either. Ah, if your honour is fond of poets and their places you did right to come to Anglesey—and your honour was right in saying that you can’t stir a step without meeting one; you have an example of the truth of that in me—for to tell your honour the truth, I am a poet myself, and no bad one either.” Then tucking the dusty boots under his arm, the old man, with a low congee, and a “Good-night, your honour!” shuffled out of the room. CHAPTER XL Caer Gybi—Lewis Morris—Noble Character.