Woman.—A little farmer, sir, he farms about forty acres under Mrs ---.
Myself.—Well, are you comfortable here?
Woman.—Oh dear me, no, sir, we are anything but comfortable. Here we are three poor lone creatures in a strange land, without a soul to speak to but one another. Every day of our lives we wish we had never left Shropshire.
Myself.—Why don’t you make friends amongst your neighbours?
Woman.—Oh, sir, the English cannot make friends amongst the Welsh. The Welsh won’t neighbour with them, or have anything to do with them, except now and then in the way of business.
Myself.—I have occasionally found the Welsh very civil.
Woman.—Oh yes, sir, they can be civil enough to passers-by, especially those who they think want nothing from them—but if you came and settled amongst them you would find them, I’m afraid, quite the contrary.
Myself.—Would they be uncivil to me if I could speak Welsh?
Woman.—Most particularly, sir; the Welsh don’t like any strangers, but least of all those who speak their language.
Myself.—Have you picked up anything of their language?