“I never heard of him by word of mouth,” said I; “but I know all about him—I have read his life in Welsh, written by himself, and a curious life it is. His name was Thomas Edwards, but he generally called himself Twm o’r Nant, or Tom of the Dingle, because he was born in a dingle, at a place called Pen Porchell in the vale of Clwyd—which, by the bye, was on the estate which once belonged to Iolo Goch, the poet I was speaking to you about just now. Tom was a carter by trade, but once kept a toll-bar in South Wales, which, however, he was obliged to leave at the end of two years, owing to the annoyance which he experienced from ghosts and goblins, and unearthly things, particularly phantom hearses, which used to pass through his gate at midnight without paying, when the gate was shut.” “Ah,” said the Dame, “you know more about Twm o’r Nant than I do; and was he not a great poet?” “I dare say he was,” said I, “for the pieces which he wrote, and which he called Interludes, had a great run, and he got a great deal of money by them, but I should say the lines beneath the portrait are more applicable to the real Shakespear than to him.” “What do the lines mean?” said the old lady; “they are Welsh, I know, but they are far beyond my understanding.” “They may be thus translated,” said I: “God in his head the Muse instill’d, And from his head the world he fill’d.” “Thank you, sir,” said the old lady; “I never found any one before who could translate them.” She then said she would show me some English lines written on the daughter of a friend of hers who was lately dead, and put some printed lines in a frame into my hand. They were an Elegy to Mary, and were very beautiful. I read them aloud, and when I had finished she thanked me and said she had no doubt that if I pleased I could put them into Welsh. She then sighed and wiped her eyes. On our inquiring whether we could see the interior of the abbey she said we could, and that if we rang a bell at the gate a woman would come to us, who was in the habit of showing the place. We then got up and bade her farewell—but she begged that we would stay and taste the dwr santaidd of the holy well. “What holy well is that?” said I. “A well,” said she, “by the road’s side, which in the time of the popes was said to perform wonderful cures.” “Let us taste it by all means,” said I; whereupon she went out, and presently returned with a tray on which were a jug and tumbler, the jug filled with the water of the holy well; we drank some of the dwr santaidd, which tasted like any other water, and then after shaking her by the hand, we went to the gate, and rang at the bell.