her, which pleased her. She said that Welsh people at the present
day were so full of fine airs that they were above speaking the old
language - but that such was not the case formerly, and that she
had known a Mrs Price, who was housekeeper to the Countess of
Mornington, who lived in London upwards of forty years, and at the
end of that time prided herself upon speaking as good Welsh as she
did when a girl. I spoke to her about the abbey, and asked if she
had ever heard of Iolo Goch. She inquired who he was. I told her
he was a great bard, and was buried in the abbey. She said she had
never heard of him, but that she could show me the portrait of a
great poet, and going away, presently returned with a print in a
frame.

"There," said she, "is the portrait of Twm o'r Nant, generally
called the Welsh Shakespeare."

I looked at it. The Welsh Shakespeare was represented sitting at a
table with a pen in his hand; a cottage-latticed window was behind
him, on his left hand; a shelf with plates, and trenchers behind
him, on his right. His features were rude, but full of wild,
strange expression; below the picture was the following couplet:-


"Llun Gwr yw llawn gwir Awen;
Y Byd a lanwodd o'i Ben."


"Did you ever hear of Twm o'r Nant?" said the old dame.

"I never heard of him by word of mouth," said I; "but I know all