"
"Indeed!" said she; "well, I am sorry to say that I never heard of
him."
"Are you Welsh?" said I.
"I am," she replied.
"Did you ever hear of Thomas Edwards?"
"Oh, yes," said she; "I have frequently heard of him."
"How odd," said I, "that the name of a great poet should be unknown
in the very place where he is buried, whilst that of one certainly
not his superior, should be well known in that same place, though
he is not buried there."
"Perhaps," said she, "the reason is that the poet, whom you
mentioned, wrote in the old measures and language which few people
now understand, whilst Thomas Edwards wrote in common verse and in
the language of the present day."
"I daresay it is so," said I.
From the church she led us to other parts of the ruin - at first
she had spoken to us rather cross and loftily, but she now became
kind and communicative. She said that she resided near the ruins,
which she was permitted to show, that she lived alone, and wished
to be alone; there was something singular about her, and I believe
that she had a history of her own. After showing us the ruins she
conducted us to a cottage in which she lived; it stood behind the
ruins by a fish-pond, in a beautiful and romantic place enough; she
said that in the winter she went away, but to what place she did
not say.
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