have been surprised. The Welsh have much to say of the Tylwyth Teg, or fair family, and many believe in them.”
“And do you believe in them?” said I.
“I scarcely know what to say. Wise and good men have been of opinion that they are nothing but devils, who, under the form of pretty and amiable spirits, would fain allure poor human beings; I see nothing irrational in the supposition.”
“Do you believe in devils, then?”
“Do I believe in devils, young man!” said Peter, and his frame was shaken as if by convulsions. “If I do not believe in devils, why am I here at the present moment?”
“You know best,” said I; “but I don’t believe the fairies are devils, and I don’t wish to hear them insulted. What learned men have said they are devils?”
“Many have said it, young man, and, amongst others, Master Ellis Wyn, in that wonderful book of his, the ‘Bardd Cwsg.’”
“The ‘Bardd Cwsg,’” said I; “what kind of book is that? I have never heard of that book before.”
“Heard of it before; I suppose not; how should you have heard of it before! By-the-bye, can you read?”
“Very tolerably,” said I; “so there are fairies in this book. What do you call it—the ‘Bardd Cwsg?’”