"By your English," said the old fellow; "anybody may know you are
South Welsh by your English; it is so cursedly bad. But let's hear
you speak a little Welsh; then I shall be certain as to who you
are."
I did as he bade me, saying a few words in Welsh.
"There's Welsh," said the old fellow, "who but a South Welshman
would talk Welsh in that manner? It's nearly as bad as your
English."
I asked him if he had ever been in South Wales.
"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.
