“Yes, it puts me out!” I exclaimed aloud, striking my fist on the table with a vehemence which caused the good folks to start half up from their seats—before they could say anything, however, a vehicle drove up to the door, and a man, getting out, came into the room. He had a glazed hat on his head, and was dressed something like the guard of a mail. He touched his hat to me, and called for a glass of whiskey. I gave him the sele of the evening, and entered into conversation with him in English. In the course of discourse I learned that he was the postman, and was going his rounds in his cart—he was more than respectful to me, he was fawning and sycophantic. The whiskey was brought, and he stood with the glass in his hand. Suddenly he began speaking Welsh to the people; before, however, he had uttered two sentences, the woman lifted her hands with an alarmed air, crying “Hush! he understands.” The fellow was turning me to ridicule. I flung my head back, closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and laughed aloud. The fellow stood aghast; his hand trembled, and he spilt the greater part of the whiskey upon the ground. At the end of about half-a-minute I got up, asked what I had to pay, and on being told two pence, I put down the money. Then going up to the man, I put my right fore-finger very near to his nose, and said, “Dwy o iaith dwy o wyneb; two languages, two faces, friend!” Then after leering at him for a moment, I wished the people of the house good evening, and departed. Walking rapidly on towards the east, I soon drew near the termination of the valley. The valley terminates in a deep gorge, or pass, between Mount Eilio—which, by the bye, is part of the chine of Snowdon—and Pen Drws Coed. The latter, that couchant elephant with its head turned to the north-east, seems as if it wished to bar the pass with its trunk; by its trunk I mean a kind of jaggy ridge which descends down to the road. I entered the gorge, passing near a little waterfall which with much noise runs down the precipitous side of Mount Eilio—presently I came to a little mill by the side of a brook running towards the east. I asked the miller-woman, who was standing near the mill, with her head turned towards the setting sun, the name of the mill and the stream. “The mill is called the mill of the river of Lake Cwellyn,” said she, “and the river is called the river of Lake Cwellyn.” “And who owns the land?” said I. “Sir Richard,” said she. “I Sir Richard yw yn perthyn y tîr. Mr. Williams, however, possesses some part of Mount Eilio.” “And who is Mr. Williams?” said I. “Who is Mr. Williams?” said the miller’s wife. “Ho, ho! what a stranger you must be to ask me who is Mr. Williams.”