We talked of Welsh poetry; he said he had not dipped much into it, owing to its difficulty; that he was master of the colloquial language of Wales, but understood very little of the language of Welsh poetry, which was a widely different thing. I asked him whether he had seen Owen Pugh’s translation of _Paradise Lost_. He said he had, but could only partially understand it, adding, however, that those parts which he could make out appeared to him to be admirably executed, that amongst these there was one which had particularly struck him, namely: “Ar eu col o rygnu croch Daranau.” The rendering of Milton’s “And on their hinges grate Harsh thunder,” which, grand as it was, was certainly equalled by the Welsh version, and perhaps surpassed, for that he was disposed to think that there was something more terrible in “croch daranau” than in “harsh thunder.” “I am disposed to think so too,” said I. “Now can you tell me where Owen Pugh is buried?” “I cannot,” said he; “but I suppose you can tell me; you, who know the burying-place of Huw Morris, are probably acquainted with the burying-place of Owen Pugh.” “No,” said I, “I am not. Unlike Huw Morris, Owen Pugh has never had his history written, though perhaps quite as interesting a history might be made out of the life of the quiet student as out of that of the popular poet. As soon as ever I learn where his grave is, I shall assuredly make a pilgrimage to it.” Mr. R— then asked me a good many questions about Spain, and a certain singular race of people about whom I have written a good deal. Before going away he told me that a friend of his, of the name of J—, would call upon me, provided he thought I should not consider his doing so an intrusion. “Let him come by all means,” said I; “I shall never look upon a visit from a friend of yours in the light of an intrusion.” In a few days came his friend, a fine, tall, athletic man of about forty. “You are no Welshman,” said I, as I looked at him. “No,” said he, “I am a native of Lincolnshire, but I have resided in Llangollen for thirteen years.” “In what capacity?” said I. “In the wine-trade,” said he. “Instead of coming to Llangollen,” said I, “and entering into the wine-trade, you should have gone to London, and enlisted into the life-guards.” “Well,” said he, with a smile, “I had once or twice thought of doing so. However, fate brought me to Llangollen, and I am not sorry that she did, for I have done very well here.” I soon found out that he was a well-read and indeed highly accomplished man. Like his friend R—, Mr. J— asked me a great many questions about Spain. By degrees we got on the subject of Spanish literature. I said that the literature of Spain was a first-rate literature, but that it was not very extensive. He asked me whether I did not think that Lope de Vega was much overrated.