I read a page of it aloud, while the family stood round and wondered to hear a Saxon read their language.

I entered into discourse with the man about Welsh poetry and repeated the famous prophecy of Taliesin about the Coiling Serpent.

I asked him if the Welsh had any poets at the present day.

"Plenty," said he, "and good ones--Wales can never be without a poet." Then after a pause he said, that he was the grandson of a great poet.
"Do you bear his name ?" said I.
"I do," he replied.
"What may it be ?" "Hughes," he answered.
"Two of the name of Hughes have been poets," said I--"one was Huw Hughes, generally termed the Bardd Coch, or red bard; he was an Anglesea man, and the friend of Lewis Morris and Gronwy Owen--the other was Jonathan Hughes, where he lived I know not." "He lived here, in this very house," said the man.

"Jonathan Hughes was my grandfather!" and as he spoke his eyes flashed fire.
"Dear me!" said I; "I read some of his pieces thirty-two years ago when I was a lad in England.