I had
patronised a house which I believed to be the poet's; if I
patronised the wrong one, the fault was his, not mine - he should
have been more explicit. I had performed my promise, at least in
intention.
Perfectly satisfied with the conclusion I had come to, I rang the
bell. "The bill?" said I to the handmaid.
"Here it is!" said she, placing a strip of paper in my hand.
I looked at the bill, and, whether moderate or immoderate, paid it
with a smiling countenance, commanded the entertainment highly, and
gave the damsel something handsome for her trouble in waiting on
me.
Reader, please to bear in mind that as all bills must be paid, it
is much more comfortable to pay them with a smile than with a
frown, and that it is much better by giving sixpence, or a shilling
to a poor servant, which you will never miss at the year's end, to
be followed from the door of an inn by good wishes, than by giving
nothing to be pursued by cutting silence, or the yet more cutting
Hm!
"Sir," said the good-looking, well-ribboned damsel, "I wish you a
pleasant journey, and whenever you please again to honour our
establishment with your presence, both my master and myself shall
be infinitely obliged to you."
CHAPTER XXXIX
Oats and Methodism - The Little Girl - Ty Gwyn - Bird of the Roof -
Purest English - Railroads - Inconsistency - The Boots.
IT might be about four in the afternoon when I left L- bound for
Pen Caer Gybi, or Holyhead, seventeen miles distant. I reached the
top of the hill on the west of the little town, and then walked
briskly forward. The country looked poor and mean - on my right
was a field of oats, on my left a Methodist chapel - oats and
Methodism! what better symbols of poverty and meanness?
I went onward a long way, the weather was broiling hot, and I felt
thirsty. On the top of a long ascent stood a house by the
roadside. I went to the door and knocked - no answer - "Oes neb yn
y ty?" said I.
"Oes!" said an infantine voice.
I opened the door and saw a little girl. "Have you any water?"
said I.
"No," said the child, "but I have this," and she brought me some
butter-milk in a basin. I just tasted it, gave the child a penny
and blessed her.
"Oes genoch tad?"
"No," said she; "but I have a mam." Tad in mam; blessed sounds; in
all languages expressing the same blessed things.
After walking for some hours I saw a tall blue hill in the far
distance before me. "What is the name of that hill?" said I to a
woman whom I met.
"Pen Caer Gybi," she replied.
Soon after I came to a village near to a rocky gully. On inquiring
the name of the village, I was told it was Llan yr Afon, or the
church of the river. I passed on; the country was neither grand
nor pretty - it exhibited a kind of wildness, however, which did
not fail to interest me - there were stones, rocks and furze in
abundance. Turning round the corner of a hill, I observed through
the mists of evening, which began to gather about me, what seemed
to be rather a genteel house on the roadside; on my left, and a
little way behind it a strange kind of monticle, on which I thought
I observed tall upright stones. Quickening my pace, I soon came
parallel with the house, which as I drew nigh, ceased to look like
a genteel house, and exhibited an appearance of great desolation.
It was a white, or rather grey structure of some antiquity. It was
evidently used as a farm-house, for there was a yard adjoining to
it, in which were stacks and agricultural implements. Observing
two men in the yard, I went in. They were respectable, farm-
looking men, between forty and fifty; one had on a coat and hat,
the other a cap and jacket. "Good evening," I said in Welsh.
"Good evening," they replied in the same language, looking
inquiringly at me.
"What is the name of this place?" said I.
"It is called Ty gwyn," said the man of the hat.
"On account of its colour, I suppose?" said I.
"Just so," said the man of the hat.
"It looks old," said I.
"And it is old," he replied. "In the time of the Papists it was
one of their chapels."
"Does it belong to you?" I demanded.
"Oh no, it belongs to one Mr Sparrow from Liverpool. I am his
bailiff, and this man is a carpenter who is here doing a job for
him."
Here ensued a pause, which was broken by the man of the hat saying
in English, to the man of the cap:
"Who can this strange fellow be? he has not a word of English, and
though he speaks Welsh his Welsh sounds very different from ours.
Who can he be?"
"I am sure I don't know," said the other.
"I know who he is," said the first, "he comes from Llydaw, or
Armorica, which was peopled from Britain estalom, and where I am
told the real old Welsh language is still spoken."
"I think I heard you mention the word Llydaw?" said I, to the man
of the hat.
"Ah," said the man of the hat, speaking Welsh, "I was right after
all; oh, I could have sworn you were Llydaweg. Well, how are the
descendants of the ancient Britons getting on in Llydaw?"
"They are getting on tolerably well," said I, "when I last saw
them, though all things do not go exactly as they could wish."
"Of course not," said he of the hat.
