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the greatest privations. At length his friend Lewis Morris, who had always assisted him to the utmost of his ability, procured him the mastership of a government school at New Brunswick in North America with a salary of three hundred pounds a year. Thither he went with his wife and family, and there he died sometime about the year 1780.

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He was the last of the great poets of Cambria and with the exception of Ab Gwilym the greatest which she has produced. His poems which for a long time had circulated through Wales in manuscript were first printed in the year 1819. They are composed in the ancient Bardic measures, and were with one exception, namely an elegy on the death of his benefactor Lewis Morris, which was transmitted from the New World, written before he had attained the age of thirty-five. All his pieces are excellent, but his masterwork is decidedly the Cywydd y Farn or "Day of Judgment." This poem which is generally considered by the Welsh as the brightest ornament of their ancient language, was composed at Donnington a small hamlet in

Shropshire on the north-west spur of the Wrekin, at which place, as has been already said, Gronwy toiled as schoolmaster and curate under Douglas the Scot, for a stipend of three-and-twenty pounds a year.

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CHAPTER XXXI.

START FOR ANGLESEY.-THE POST MASTER. ASKING QUESTIONS. -
MYNYDD LYDIART.-MR. PRITCHARD.-WAY TO LLANFAIR.

WHEN I started from Bangor, to visit the birth-place of Gronwy Owen, I by no means saw my way clearly before me, I knew that he was born in Anglesey in a parish called Llanfair Mathafarn eithaf, that is Saint Mary's of farther Mathafarn-but as to where this Mathafarm lay, north or south, near or far, I knew positively nothing. Passing through the northern suburb of Bangor I saw a small house in front of which was written "post-office" in white letters; before this house underneath a shrub in a little garden sat an old man reading. Thinking that from this person, whom I judged to be the post-master, I was as likely to obtain information

with respect to the place of my destination as from any one, I stopped and taking off my hat for a moment, inquired whether he could tell me anything about the direction of a place called Llanfair Mathafarn eithaf. He did not seem to understand my question, for getting up he came. toward me and asked what I wanted: I repeated what I had said, whereupon his face became animated.

"Llanfair Mathafarn eithaf!" said he.. "Yes, I can tell you about it, and with good reason for it lies not far from the place where I was born."

The above was the substance of what he said, and nothing more, for he spoke in English somewhat broken.

"And how far is Llanfair from here?" said I. "About ten miles," he replied.

"That's nothing," said I; "I was afraid it was much farther."

"Do you call ten miles nothing," said he, "in a burning day like this? I think you will be both tired and thirsty before you get to Llanfair, supposing you go there on foot. But what may

your business be at Llanfair?" said he looking at me inquisitively. "It is a strange place to go to, unless you go to buy hogs or cattle."

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"I go to buy neither hogs nor cattle," said I,

'though I am somewhat of a judge of both; I go on a more important errand, namely to see the birth-place of the great Gronwy Owen."

"Are you any relation of Gronwy Owen ?" said the old man, looking at me' more inquisitively than before, through a large pair of spectacles, which he wore.

"None whatever," said I.

"Then why do you go to see his parish, it is a very poor one."

"From respect to his genius," said I; "I read his works long ago, and was delighted with them."

"Are you a Welshman?" said the old man. "No," said I, "I am no Welshman."

"Can you speak Welsh?" said he, addressing me in that language.

"A little," said I ; "but not so well as I can read it."

"Well," said the old man, "I have lived here

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