On my telling
Mr Pritchard that I wanted a pint of ale, a buxom damsel came
forward and led me into a nice cool parlour on the right-hand side
of the door, and then went to fetch the ale.
Mr Pritchard meanwhile went into a kind of tap-room, fronting the
parlour, where I heard him talking in Welsh about pigs and cattle
to some of his customers. I observed that he spoke with some
hesitation; which circumstance I mention as rather curious, he
being the only Welshman I have ever known who, when speaking his
native language, appeared to be at a loss for words. The damsel
presently brought me the ale, which I tasted and found excellent;
she was going away when I asked her whether Mr Pritchard was her
father; on her replying in the affirmative I inquired whether she
was born in that house.
"No!" said she; "I was born in Liverpool; my father was born in
this house, which belonged to his fathers before him, but he left
it at an early age and married my mother in Liverpool, who was an
Anglesey woman, and so I was born in Liverpool."
"And what did you do in Liverpool?" said I.
