can you speak Welsh?”
“O, yes, and the best.”
“Then why did you not bring what I asked for?”
“Because I did not understand you.”
“Tell her,” said I to John Jones, “to bring us some bread, cheese and ale.”
“Come, aunt,” said John, “bring us bread and cheese and a quart of the best ale.”
The woman looked as if she was going to reply in the tongue in which he addressed her, then faltered, and at last said in English that she did not understand.
“Now,” said I, “you are fairly caught: this man is a Welshman, and moreover understands no language but Welsh.”
“Then how can he understand you?” said she.
“Because I speak Welsh,” said I.
“Then you are a Welshman?” said she.
“No I am not,” said I, “I am English.”
“So I thought,” said she, “and on that account I could not understand you.”
“You mean that you would not,” said I. “Now do you choose to bring what you are bidden?”
“Come, aunt,” said John, “don’t be silly and cenfigenus, but bring the breakfast.”
The woman stood still for a moment or two, and then biting her lips went away.
“What made the woman behave in this manner?” said I to my companion.
“O, she was cenfigenus, sir,” he replied; “she did not like that an English gentleman should understand Welsh; she was envious; you will find a dozen or two like her in Wales; but let us hope not more.”
Presently the woman returned with the bread, cheese and ale, which she placed on the table.
“Oh,” said I, “you have brought what was bidden, though it was never mentioned to you in English, which shows that your pretending not to understand was all a sham. What made you behave so?”
“Why I thought,” said the woman, “that no Englishman could speak Welsh, that his tongue was too short.”
“Your having thought so,” said I, “should not have made you tell a falsehood, saying that you did not understand, when you knew that you understood very well. See what a disgraceful figure you cut.”
“I cut no disgraced figure,” said the woman: “after all, what right have the English to come here speaking Welsh, which belongs to the Welsh alone, who in fact are the only people that understand it.”
“Are you sure that you understand Welsh?” said I.
“I should think so,” said the woman, “for I come from the vale of Clwyd, where they speak the best Welsh in the world, the Welsh of the Bible.”
“What do they call a salmon in the vale of Clwyd?” said I.
“What do they call a salmon?” said the woman.
“Yes,” said I, “when they speak Welsh.”
“They call it – they call it – why a salmon.”
“Pretty Welsh!” said I. “I thought you did not understand Welsh.”
“Well, what do you call it?” said the woman.
“Eawg,” said I, “that is the word for a salmon in general – but there are words also to show the sex – when you speak of a male salmon you should say cemyw, when of a female hwyfell.”
“I never heard the words before,” said the woman, “nor do I believe them to be Welsh.”
“You say so,” said I, “because you do not understand Welsh.”
“I not understand Welsh!” said she. “I’ll soon show you that I do. Come, you have asked me the word for salmon in Welsh, I will now ask you the word for salmon-trout. Now tell me that, and I will say you know something of the matter.”
“A tinker of my country can tell you that,” said I. “The word for salmon-trout is gleisiad.”
The countenance of the woman fell.
“I see you know something about the matter,” said she; “there are very few hereabouts, though so near to the vale of Clwyd, who know the word for salmon-trout in Welsh. I shouldn’t have known the word myself, but for the song which says:
“‘Glân yw’r gleisiad yn y llyn.’”
“And who wrote that song?” said I.
“I don’t know,” said the woman.
“But I do,” said I; “one Lewis Morris wrote it.”
“Oh,” said she, “I have heard all about Huw Morris.”
“I was not talking of Huw Morris,” said I, “but Lewis Morris, who lived long after Huw Morris. He was a native of Anglesea, but resided for some time in Merionethshire, and whilst there composed a song about the Morwynion bro Meirionydd, or the lasses of County Merion, of a great many stanzas, in one of which the gleisiad is mentioned. Here it is in English:
“‘Full fair the gleisiad in the flood,
Which sparkles ’neath the summer’s sun,
And fair the thrush in green abode
Spreading his wings in sportive fun,
But fairer look if truth be spoke,
The maids of County Merion.’”
The woman was about to reply, but I interrupted her.
“There,” said I, “pray leave us to our breakfast, and the next time you feel inclined to talk nonsense about no Englishman’s understanding Welsh, or knowing anything of Welsh matters, remember that it was an Englishman who told you the Welsh word for salmon, and likewise the name of the Welshman who wrote the song in which the gleisiad is mentioned.”
The ale was very good, and so were the bread and cheese. The ale indeed was so good that I ordered a second jug. Observing a large antique portrait over the mantel-piece I got up to examine it. It was that of a gentleman in a long wig, and underneath it was painted in red letters “Sir Watkin Wynn 1742.” It was doubtless the portrait of the Sir Watkin who in 1745 was committed to the Tower under suspicion of being suspected of holding Jacobite opinions, and favouring the Pretender. The portrait was a very poor daub, but I looked at it long and attentively as a memorial of Wales at a critical and long past time.
When we had dispatched the second jug of ale, and I had paid the reckoning, we departed and soon came to where stood a turnpike house at a junction of two roads, to each of which was a gate.
“Now, sir,” said John Jones, “the way straight forward is the ffordd newydd and the one on our right hand, is the hen ffordd. Which shall we follow, the new or the old?”
“There is a proverb in the Gerniweg,” said I,
