“Then you have ale?” said I.
“No, sir; not a drop, but perhaps I can set something before you which you will like as well.”
“That I question,” said I, “however, I will walk in.”
The woman conducted me into a nice little parlour, and, leaving me, presently returned with a bottle and tumbler on a tray.
“Here, sir,” said she, “is something, which though not ale, I hope you will be able to drink.”
“What is it?” said I.
“It is ---, sir; and better never was drunk.”
I tasted it; it was terribly strong. Those who wish for either whisky or brandy far above proof, should always go to a temperance house.
I told the woman to bring me some water, and she brought me a jug of water cold from the spring. With a little of the contents of the bottle, and a deal of the contents of the jug, I made myself a beverage tolerable enough; a poor substitute, however, to a genuine Englishman for his proper drink, the liquor which, according to the Edda, is called by men ale, and by the gods beer.
I asked the woman whether she could read; she told me that she could, both Welsh and English; she likewise informed me that she had several books in both languages. I begged her to show me some, whereupon she brought me some half dozen, and placing them on the table left me to myself. Amongst the books was a volume of poems in Welsh, written by Robert Williams of Betws Fawr, styled in poetic language, Gwilym Du O Eifion. The poems were chiefly on religious subjects. The following lines which I copied from “Pethau a wnaed mewn Gardd,” or things written in a garden, appeared to me singularly beautiful:—