“It does, sir,” said the woman; “ah, I see you understand Welsh. Sometimes it is called Allt Traeth.” “The high place of the sandy channel,” said I. “Did the sea ever come up here?” “I can’t say, sir; perhaps it did; who knows?” “I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if there was once an arm of the sea between that crag and this hill. Thank you! Farewell!” “Then you won’t walk in, sir?” “Not to drink tea,” said I; “tea is a good thing at a proper time, but were I to drink it now it would make me ill.” “Pray, sir, walk in,” said the woman, “and perhaps I can accommodate you.” “Then you have ale?” said I. “No, sir; not a drop; but perhaps I can set something before you which you will like as well.” “That I question,” said I; “however, I will walk in.” The woman conducted me into a nice little parlour, and, leaving me, presently returned with a bottle and tumbler on a tray. “Here, sir,” said she, “is something which, though not ale, I hope you will be able to drink.” “What is it?” said I. “It is—, sir; and better never was drunk.” I tasted it; it was terribly strong. Those who wish for either whiskey or brandy far above proof should always go to a temperance house. I told the woman to bring me some water, and she brought me a jug of water cold from the spring. With a little of the contents of the bottle, and a deal of the contents of the jug, I made myself a beverage tolerable enough; a poor substitute, however, to a genuine Englishman for his proper drink, the liquor which, according to the Edda, is called by men ale, and by the gods, beer. I asked the woman whether she could read; she told me that she could, both Welsh and English; she likewise informed me that she had several books in both languages. I begged her to show me some, whereupon she brought me some half-dozen, and placing them on the table, left me to myself. Amongst the books was a volume of poems in Welsh, written by Robert Williams of Betws Fawr, styled in poetic language, Gwilym Du O Eifion. The poems were chiefly on religious subjects. The following lines, which I copied from “Pethau a wnaed mewn Gardd,” or things written in a garden, appeared to me singularly beautiful:— “Mewn gardd y cafodd dyn ei dwyllo; Mewn gardd y rhoed oddewid iddo; Mewn gardd bradychwyd Iesu hawddgar; Mewn gardd amdowyd ef mewn daeār.” “In a garden the first of our race was deceived; In a garden the promise of grace he received; In a garden was Jesus betray’d to His doom; In a garden His body was laid in the tomb.” Having finished my glass of “summut” and my translation, I called to the woman and asked her what I had to pay. “Nothing,” said she; “if you had had a cup of tea I should have charged sixpence.” “You make no charge,” said I, “for what I have had.” “Nothing, sir; nothing.” “But suppose,” said I, “I were to give you something by way of present, would you—” and here I stopped. The woman smiled. “Would you fling it in my face?” said I.