The first question put to the jolly landlord, was, “What can you give us to eat?” It was about three o’clock in the day.
“Why, sir, I have a nice roast duck and some peas, which were intended for John’s,” meaning our van-driver, “dinner; but I shall be able to find something else for him.”
“And how long, pray, will it be before it is ready?”
“A quarter of an hour.”
“Very well, that will do; and, in the interim, I’ll borrow one of your coats, and we will visit the church, if there is anything in it worth looking at.”
No sooner said than done; and a large blue coat, with two heavy capes, and brass buttons of the size of crown pieces, was immediately brought forth, which I slipped into, it fitting me—like a sack! No matter—my own was thoroughly drenched, and was hanging before a blazing fire in the kitchen, reeking like a leg of mutton, hot from the boiler.
“Would you like to slip into a pair of my leather breeches?” inquired my hospitable host.
This I thankfully declined, upon looking at the difference of our dimensions. My piping friend was comfortably seated in the chimney corner, and observing “that he had never frequented church since he was married, having received at that time a shock he could never recover,” he commenced playing the beautiful air of “My ain fireside,” whilst I, turning most heroically to the right about, again braved the “pelting of the pitiless storm,” accompanied by John, our driver, who, in a few minutes, conducted me to the ancient edifice.
On one side of the altar is the lid of a coffin, which has the following inscription:
“Hic jacet Jorweth Sulien, vicarius de Corvaen ora pro eo.”