WOMAN. - The Lord above only knows, sir!
MYSELF. - Do you think they are hatching treason against Queen
Victoria?
WOMAN. - Oh dear no, sir.
MYSELF. - Is there much murder going on amongst them?
WOMAN. - Nothing of the kind, sir.
MYSELF. - Cattle-stealing?
WOMAN. - Oh no, sir!
MYSELF. - Pig-stealing?
WOMAN. - No, sir!
MYSELF. - Duck or hen stealing?
WOMAN. - Haven't lost a duck or hen since I have been here, sir.
MYSELF. - Then what secrets can they possibly have?
WOMAN. - I don't know, sir! perhaps none at all, or at most only a
pack of small nonsense that nobody would give three farthings to
know. However, it is quite certain they are as jealous of
strangers hearing their discourse as if they were plotting
gunpowder treason or something worse.
MYSELF. - Have you been long here?
WOMAN. - Only since last May, sir! and we hope to get away by next,
and return to our own country, where we shall have some one to
speak to.
MYSELF. - Good-bye!
WOMAN. - Good-bye, sir, and thank you for your conversation; I
haven't had such a treat of talk for many a weary day.
The Vale of the Dyfi became wider and more beautiful as I advanced.
The river ran at the bottom amidst green and seemingly rich
meadows. The hills on the farther side were cultivated a great way
up, and various neat farm-houses were scattered here and there on
their sides. At the foot of one of the most picturesque of these
hills stood a large white village. I wished very much to know its
name, but saw no one of whom I could inquire. I proceeded for
about a mile, and then perceiving a man wheeling stones in a barrow
for the repairing of the road I thought I would inquire of him. I
did so, but the village was then out of sight, and though I pointed
in its direction and described its situation I could not get its
name out of him. At last I said hastily, "Can you tell me your own
name?"
"Dafydd Tibbot, sir," said he.
"Tibbot, Tibbot," said I; "why, you are a Frenchman."
"Dearie me, sir," said the man, looking very pleased, "am I,
indeed?"
"Yes, you are," said I, rather repenting of my haste, and giving
him sixpence, I left him.
"I'd bet a trifle," said I to myself, as I walked away, that this
poor creature is the descendant of some desperate Norman Tibault
who helped to conquer Powisland under Roger de Montgomery or Earl
Baldwin. How striking that the proud old Norman names are at
present only borne by people in the lowest station. Here's a
Tibbot or Tibault harrowing stones on a Welsh road, and I have
known a Mortimer munching poor cheese and bread under a hedge on an
English one. How can we account for this save by the supposition
that the descendants of proud, cruel, and violent men - and who so
proud, cruel and violent, as the old Normans - are doomed by God to
come to the dogs?"
Came to Pont Velin Cerrig, the bridge of the mill of the Cerrig, a
river which comes foaming down from between two rocky hills.
