Turned away with a loud chuckle, and said
something to another wench near her, who, grinning yet more
uncouthly, said something to a third, who grinned too, and lifting
up her hands and spreading her fingers wide, said: "Dyn oddi dir y
Gogledd - a man from the north country, hee, hee!" Forthwith there
was a general shout, the wenches crying: "A man from the north
country, hee, hee!" and the fellows crying: "A man from the north
country, hoo, hoo!"
"Is this the way you treat strangers in the south?" said I. But I
had scarcely uttered the words when with redoubled shouts the
company exclaimed: "There's Cumraeg! there's pretty Cumraeg. Go
back, David, to shire Fon! That Cumraeg won't pass here."
Finding they disliked my Welsh I had recourse to my own language.
"Really," said I in English, "such conduct is unaccountable. What
do you mean?" But this only made matters worse, for the shouts
grew louder still, and every one cried: "There's pretty English!
Well, if I couldn't speak better English than that I'd never speak
English at all. No, David; if you must speak at all, stick to
Cumraeg." Then forthwith, all the company set themselves in
violent motion, the women rushing up to me with their palms and
fingers spread out in my face, without touching me, however, as
they wheeled round me at about a yard's distance, crying: "A man
from the north country, hee, hee!" and the fellows acting just in
the same way, rushing up with their hands spread out, and then
wheeling round me with cries of "A man from the north country, hoo,
hoo!" I was so enraged that I made for a heap of stones by the
road-side, intending to take some up and fling them at the company.
Reflecting, however, that I had but one pair of hands and the
company at least forty, and that by such an attempt at revenge I
should only make myself ridiculous, I gave up my intention, and
continued my journey at a rapid pace, pursued for a long way by
"hee, hee," and "hoo, hoo," and: "Go back, David, to your goats in
Anglesey, you are not wanted here."
I began to descend a hill forming the eastern side of an immense
valley, at the bottom of which rolled the river. Beyond the valley
to the west was an enormous hill, on the top of which was a most
singular-looking crag, seemingly leaning in the direction of the
south. On the right-hand side of the road were immense works of
some kind in full play and activity, for engines were clanging and
puffs of smoke were ascending from tall chimneys. On inquiring of
a boy the name of the works I was told that they were called the
works of Level Vawr, or the Great Level, a mining establishment;
but when I asked him the name of the hill with the singular peak,
on the other side of the valley, he shook his head and said he did
not know. Near the top of the hill I came to a village consisting
of a few cottages and a shabby-looking church. A rivulet
descending from some crags to the east crosses the road, which
leads through the place, and tumbling down the valley, joins the
Ystwyth at the bottom. Seeing a woman standing at the door, I
inquired the name of the village.
"Spytty Ystwyth," she replied, but she, no more than the boy down
below, could tell me the name of the strange-looking hill across
the valley. This second Spytty or monastic hospital, which I had
come to, looked in every respect an inferior place to the first.
Whatever its former state might have been, nothing but dirt and
wretchedness were now visible. Having reached the top of the hill
I entered upon a wild moory region. Presently I crossed a little
bridge over a rivulet, and seeing a small house on the shutter of
which was painted "cwrw," I went in, sat down on an old chair,
which I found vacant, and said in English to an old woman who sat
knitting by the window: "Bring me a pint of ale!"
"Dim Saesneg!" said the old woman.
"I told you to bring me a pint of ale," said I to her in her own
language.
"You shall have it immediately, sir," said she, and going to a
cask, she filled a jug with ale, and after handing it to me resumed
her seat and knitting.
"It is not very bad ale," said I, after I had tasted it.
"It ought to be very good," said the old woman, "for I brewed it
myself."
"The goodness of ale," said I, "does not so much depend on who
brews it as on what it is brewed of. Now there is something in
this ale which ought not to be. What is it made of?"
"Malt and hop."
"It tastes very bitter," said I. "Is there no chwerwlys (13) in
it?"
"I do not know what chwerwlys is," said the old woman.
"It is what the Saxons call wormwood," said I.
"Oh, wermod. No, there is no wermod in my beer, at least not
much."
"Oh, then there is some; I thought there was. Why do you put such
stuff into your ale?"
"We are glad to put it in sometimes when hops are dear, as they are
this year. Moreover, wermod is not bad stuff, and some folks like
the taste better than that of hops."
"Well, I don't. However, the ale is drinkable. What am I to give
you for the pint?"
"You are to give me a groat."
"That is a great deal," said I, "for a groat I ought to have a pint
of ale made of the best malt and hops."
"I give you the best I can afford.
