“Then you are not of the Church?” said I.
“I am not,” said the miller; “I am a Methodist.”
“Can you read the poetry of Gronwy Owen?” said I.
“I cannot,” said the miller, “that is with any comfort; his poetry is in the ancient Welsh measures, which make poetry so difficult, that few can understand it.”
“I can understand poetry in those measures,” said I.
“And how much time did you spend,” said the miller, “before you could understand the poetry of the measures?”
“Three years,” said I.
The miller laughed.
“I could not have afforded all that time,” said he, “to study the songs of Gronwy. However, it is well that some people should have time to study them. He was a great poet as I have been told, and is the glory of our land—but he was unfortunate; I have read his life in Welsh and part of his letters; and in doing so have shed tears.”
“Has his house any particular name?” said I.