"Oh yes! unless they wish to be unsociable. Those who are not
disposed to be sociable sleeps in the chimney-corners."
"Ah," said I, "I see it is a very agreeable inn; however, I shall
go on to the 'Pump Saint.'"
"I am sorry for it, your honour, for your honour's sake; your
honour won't be half so illigantly served at the 'Pump Saint' as
there above."
"Of what religion are you?" said I.
"Oh, I'm a Catholic, just like your honour, for if I am not clane
mistaken your honour is an Irishman."
"Who is your spiritual director?" said I.
"Why, then, it is just Father Toban, your honour, whom of course
your honour knows."
"Oh yes!" said I; "when you next see him present my respects to
him."
"What name shall I mention, your honour?"
"Shorsha Borroo," said I.
"Oh, then I was right in taking your honour for an Irishman. None
but a raal Paddy bears that name. A credit to your honour is your
name, for it is a famous name, (17) and a credit to your name is
your honour, for it is a neat man without a bend you are. God
bless your honour and good night! and may you find dacent quarters
in the 'Pump Saint.'"
Leaving Mary Bane I proceeded on my way. The evening was rather
fine but twilight was coming rapidly on. I reached the bottom of
the valley and soon overtook a young man dressed something like a
groom. We entered into conversation. He spoke Welsh and a little
English. His Welsh I had great difficulty in understanding, as it
was widely different from that which I had been accustomed to. He
asked me where I was going to; I replied to the "Pump Saint," and
then enquired if he was in service.
"I am," said he.
"With whom do you live?" said I.
"With Mr Johnes of Dol Cothi," he answered.
Struck by the word Cothi, I asked if Dol Cothi was ever called Glyn
Cothi.
"Oh yes," said he, "frequently."
"How odd," thought I to myself, "that I should have stumbled all of
a sudden upon the country of my old friend Lewis Glyn Cothi, the
greatest poet after Ab Gwilym of all Wales!"
"Is Cothi a river?" said I to my companion.
"It is," said he.
Presently we came to a bridge over a small river.
"Is this river the Cothi?" said I.
"No," said he, "this is the Twrch; the bridge is called Pont y
Twrch."
"The bridge of Twrch or the hog," said I to myself; "there is a
bridge of the same name in the Scottish Highlands, not far from the
pass of the Trossachs. I wonder whether it has its name from the
same cause as this, namely, from passing over a river called the
Twrch or Torck, which word in Gaelic signifies boar or hog even as
it does in Welsh." It had now become nearly dark.
