"Not a word," said she. "We always speak English together."
John Jones sat down, and I looked about the room. It exhibited no
appearance of poverty; there was plenty of rude but good furniture
in it; several pewter plates and trenchers in a rack, two or three
prints in frames against the wall, one of which was the likeness of
no less a person than the Rev. Joseph Sanders, on the table was a
newspaper. "Is that in Welsh?" said I.
"No," replied the woman, "it is the BOLTON CHRONICLE, my husband
reads it."
I sat down in the chimney-corner. The wind was now howling abroad,
and the rain was beating against the cottage panes - presently a
gust of wind came down the chimney, scattering sparks all about.
"A cataract of sparks!" said I, using the word Rhaiadr.
"What is Rhaiadr?" said the woman; "I never heard the word before."
"Rhaiadr means water tumbling over a rock," said John Jones - "did
you never see water tumble over the top of a rock?"
"Frequently," said she.
"Well," said he, "even as the water with its froth tumbles over the
rock, so did sparks and fire tumble over the front of that grate
when the wind blew down the chimney. It was a happy comparison of
the Gwr Boneddig, and with respect to Rhaiadr it is a good old
word, though not a common one; some of the Saxons who have read the
old writings, though they cannot speak the language as fast as we,
understand many words and things which we do not."
"I forgot much of my Welsh in the land of the Saxons," said the
woman, "and so have many others; there are plenty of Welsh at
Bolton, but their Welsh is sadly corrupted."
She then went out and presently returned with an infant in her arms
and sat down.
