"We do," said he of the hat. "You speak Welsh very well
considering you were not born in Wales. It is really surprising
that the men of Llydaw should speak the iaith so pure as they do."
"The Welsh when they went over there," said I, "took effectual
means that their descendants should speak good Welsh, if all tales
be true."
"What means?" said he of the hat.
"Why," said I; "after conquering the country they put all the men
to death, and married the women, but before a child was born they
cut out all the women's tongues, so that the only language the
children heard when they were born was pure Cumraeg. What do you
think of that?"
"Why, that it was a cute trick," said he of the hat.
"A more clever trick I never heard," said the man of the cap.
"Have you any memorials in the neighbourhood of the old Welsh?"
said I.
"What do you mean?" said the man of the hat.
"Any altars of the Druids?" said I; "any stone tables?"
"None," said the man of the hat.
"What may those stones be?" said I, pointing to the stones which
had struck my attention.
"Mere common rocks," said the man.
"May I go and examine them?" said I.
"Oh yes!" said he of the hat, "and we will go with you."
We went to the stones, which were indeed common rocks, and which
when I reached them presented quite a different appearance from
that which they presented to my eye when I viewed them from afar.
"Are there many altars of the Druids in Llydaw?" said the man of
the hat.
"Plenty," said I, "but those altars are older than the time of the
Welsh colonists, and were erected by the old Gauls."
"Well," said the man of the cap, "I am glad I have seen the man of
Llydaw."
"Whom do you call a man of Llydaw?" said I.
"Whom but yourself?" said he of the hat.
"I am not a man of Llydaw," said I in English, "but Norfolk, where
the people eat the best dumplings in the world, and speak the
purest English. Now a thousand thanks for your civility. I would
have some more chat with you, but night is coming on, and I am
bound to Holyhead."
Then leaving the men staring after me, I bent my steps towards
Holyhead.
I passed by a place called Llan something, standing lonely on its
hill. The country round looked sad and desolate. It is true night
had come on when I saw it.
On I hurried. The voices of children sounded sweetly at a distance
across the wild champaign on my left.
It grew darker and darker. On I hurried along the road; at last I
came to lone, lordly groves. On my right was an open gate and a
lodge. I went up to the lodge. The door was open, and in a little
room I beheld a nice-looking old lady sitting by a table, on which
stood a lighted candle, with her eyes fixed on a large book.
"Excuse me," said I; "but who owns this property?"
The old lady looked up from her book, which appeared to be a Bible,
without the slightest surprise, though I certainly came upon her
unawares, and answered:
"Mr John Wynn."
I shortly passed through a large village, or rather town, the name
of which I did not learn. I then went on for a mile or two, and
saw a red light at some distance. The road led nearly up to it,
and then diverged towards the north. Leaving the road I made
towards the light by a lane, and soon came to a railroad station.
"You won't have long to wait, sir," said a man, "the train to
Holyhead will be here presently."
"How far is it to Holyhead?" said I.
"Two miles, sir, and the fare is only sixpence."
"I despise railroads," said I, "and those who travel by them," and
without waiting for an answer returned to the road. Presently I
heard the train - it stopped for a minute at the station, and then
continuing its course passed me on my left hand, voiding fierce
sparks, and making a terrible noise - the road was a melancholy
one; my footsteps sounded hollow upon it. I seemed to be its only
traveller - a wall extended for a long, long way on my left. At
length I came to a turnpike. I felt desolate and wished to speak
to somebody. I tapped at the window, at which there was a light; a
woman opened it. "How far to Holyhead?" said I in English.
"Dim Saesneg," said the woman.
I repeated my question in Welsh.
"Two miles," said she.
"Still two miles to Holyhead by the road," thought I. "Nos da,"
said I to the woman and sped along. At length I saw water on my
right, seemingly a kind of bay, and presently a melancholy ship. I
doubled my pace, which was before tolerably quick, and soon saw a
noble-looking edifice on my left, brilliantly lighted up. "What a
capital inn that would make," said I, looking at it wistfully, as I
passed it. Presently I found myself in the midst of a poor, dull,
ill-lighted town.
"Where is the inn?" said I to a man.
"The inn, sir; you have passed it. The inn is yonder," he
continued, pointing towards the noble-looking edifice.
"What, is that the inn?" said I.
"Yes, sir, the railroad hotel - and a first-rate hotel it is."
"And are there no other inns?"
"Yes, but they are all poor places.
