"Because I speak Welsh," said I.
"Then you are a Welshman?" said she.
"No I am not," said I, "I am English."
"So I thought," said she, "and on that account I could not
understand you."
"You mean that you would not," said I. "Now do you choose to bring
what you are bidden?"
"Come, aunt," said John, "don't be silly and cenfigenus, but bring
the breakfast."
The woman stood still for a moment or two, and then biting her lips
went away.
"What made the woman behave in this manner?" said I to my
companion.
"Oh, she was cenfigenus, sir," he replied; "she did not like that
an English gentleman should understand Welsh; she was envious; you
will find a dozen or two like her in Wales; but let us hope not
more."
Presently the woman returned with the bread, cheese and ale, which
she placed on the table.
"Oh," said I, "you have brought what was bidden, though it was
never mentioned to you in English, which shows that your pretending
not to understand was all a sham. What made you behave so?"
"Why I thought," said the woman, "that no Englishman could speak
Welsh, that his tongue was too short."
"Your having thought so," said I, "should not have made you tell a
falsehood, saying that you did not understand, when you knew that
you understood very well. See what a disgraceful figure you cut."
"I cut no disgraced figure," said the woman: "after all, what
right have the English to come here speaking Welsh, which belongs
to the Welsh alone, who in fact are the only people that understand
it."
"Are you sure that you understand Welsh?" said I.
"I should think so," said the woman, "for I come from the Vale of
Clwyd, where they speak the best Welsh in the world, the Welsh of
the Bible."
"What do they call a salmon in the Vale of Clwyd?" said I.
"What do they call a salmon?" said the woman. "Yes," said I, "when
they speak Welsh."
"They call it - they call it - why a salmon."
"Pretty Welsh!" said I. "I thought you did not understand Welsh."
"Well, what do you call it?" said the woman.
"Eawg," said I, "that is the word for a salmon in general - but
there are words also to show the sex - when you speak of a male
salmon you should say cemyw, when of a female hwyfell."
"I never heard the words before," said the woman, "nor do I believe
them to be Welsh."
"You say so," said I, "because you do not understand Welsh."
"I not understand Welsh!" said she. "I'll soon show you that I do.
Come, you have asked me the word for salmon in Welsh, I will now
ask you the word for salmon-trout. Now tell me that, and I will
say you know something of the matter."
"A tinker of my country can tell you that," said I. "The word for
salmon-trout is gleisiad."
The countenance of the woman fell.
"I see you know something about the matter," said she; "there are
very few hereabouts, though so near to the Vale of Clwyd, who know
the word for salmon-trout in Welsh, I shouldn't have known the word
myself, but for the song which says:
Glan yw'r gleisiad yn y llyn."
"And who wrote that song?" said I.
"I don't know," said the woman.
"But I do," said I; "one Lewis Morris wrote it.'
"Oh," said she, "I have heard all about Huw Morris."
"I was not talking of Huw Morris," said I, "but Lewis Morris, who
lived long after Huw Morris. He was a native of Anglesea, but
resided for some time in Merionethshire, and whilst there composed
a song about the Morwynion bro Meirionydd or the lasses of County
Merion of a great many stanzas, in one of which the gleisiad is
mentioned. Here it is in English:
"'Full fair the gleisiad in the flood,
Which sparkles 'neath the summer's sun,
And fair the thrush in green abode
Spreading his wings in sportive fun,
But fairer look if truth be spoke,
The maids of County Merion.'"
The woman was about to reply, but I interrupted her.
"There," said I, "pray leave us to our breakfast, and the next time
you feel inclined to talk nonsense about no Englishman's
understanding Welsh, or knowing anything of Welsh matters, remember
that it was an Englishman who told you the Welsh word for salmon,
and likewise the name of the Welshman who wrote the song in which
the gleisiad is mentioned."
The ale was very good and so were the bread and cheese. The ale
indeed was so good that I ordered a second jug. Observing a large
antique portrait over the mantel-piece I got up to examine it. It
was that of a gentleman in a long wig, and underneath it was
painted in red letters "Sir Watkin Wynn: 1742." It was doubtless
the portrait of the Sir Watkin who, in 1745 was committed to the
tower under suspicion of being suspected of holding Jacobite
opinions, and favouring the Pretender. The portrait was a very
poor daub, but I looked at it long and attentively as a memorial of
Wales at a critical and long past time.
When we had dispatched the second jug of ale, and I had paid the
reckoning, we departed and soon came to where stood a turnpike
house at a junction of two roads, to each of which was a gate.
"Now, sir," said John Jones, "the way straight forward is the
ffordd newydd, and the one on our right hand is the hen ffordd.
Which shall we follow, the new or the old?"
"There is a proverb in the Gerniweg," said I, "which was the
language of my forefathers, saying, 'ne'er leave the old way for
the new,' we will therefore go by the hen ffordd."
"Very good, sir," said my guide, "that is the path I always go, for
it is the shortest." So we turned to the right and followed the
old road.
