"Yes," said he; "and a bad country I found it; just like the
people."
"If you take me for a South Welshman," said I, "you ought to speak
civilly both of the South Welsh and their country."
"I am merely paying tit for tat," said the old fellow. "When I was
in South Wales your people laughed at my folks and country, so when
I meet one of them here I serve him out as I was served out there."
I made no reply to him, but addressing myself to the landlord
inquired whether Huw Morris was not buried in Llan Silin
churchyard. He replied in the affirmative.
"I should like to see his tomb," said I.
"Well, sir," said the landlord, "I shall be happy to show it to you
whenever you please."
Here again the old fellow put in his word.
"You never had a prydydd like Huw Morris in South Wales," said he;
"nor Twm o'r Nant either."
"South Wales has produced good poets," said I.
"No, it hasn't," said the old fellow; "it never produced one. If
it had, you wouldn't have needed to come here to see the grave of a
poet; you would have found one at home."
As he said these words he got up, took his stick, and seemed about
to depart. Just then in burst a rabble rout of game-keepers and
river-watchers who had come from the petty sessions, and were in
high glee, the two poachers whom the landlord had mentioned having
been convicted and heavily fined. Two or three of them were
particularly boisterous, running against some of the guests who
were sitting or standing in the kitchen, and pushing the landlord
about, crying at the same time that they would stand by Sir Watkin
to the last, and would never see him plundered. One of them, a
fellow of about thirty, in a hairy cap, black coat, dirty yellow
breeches, and dirty white top-boots, who was the most obstreperous
of them all, at last came up to the old chap who disliked South
Welshmen and tried to knock off his hat, swearing that he would
stand by Sir Watkin; he, however, met a Tartar. The enemy of the
South Welsh, like all crusty people, had lots of mettle, and with
the stick which he held in his hand forthwith aimed a blow at the
fellow's poll, which, had he not jumped back, would probably have
broken it.
"I will not be insulted by you, you vagabond," said the old chap,
"nor by Sir Watkin either; go and tell him so."
The fellow looked sheepish, and turning away proceeded to take
liberties with other people less dangerous to meddle with than old
crabstick. He, however, soon desisted, and sat down evidently
disconcerted.
"Were you ever worse treated in South Wales by the people there
than you have been here by your own countrymen?" said I to the old
fellow.
