I passed some immense edifices, probably manufactories, and was soon convinced that, whether I was in Wales or not, I was no longer amongst Welsh. The people whom I met did not look like Welsh. They were taller and bulkier than the Cambrians, and were speaking a dissonant English jargon. The women had much the appearance of Dutch fisherwomen; some of them were carrying huge loads on their heads. I spoke in Welsh to two or three whom I overtook.
“No Welsh, sir!”
“Why don’t you speak Welsh?” said I.
“Because we never learnt it. We are not Welsh.”
“Who are you then?”
“English; some calls us Flamings.”
“Ah, ah!” said I to myself; “I had forgot.”
Presently I entered the town, a large, bustling, dirty, gloomy place, and inquiring for the first hotel, was directed to the “Mackworth Arms,” in Wine Street.
As soon as I was shown into the parlour I summoned the “boots,” and on his making his appearance I said in a stern voice: “My boots want soling; let them be done by to-morrow morning.”
“Can’t be, sir; it’s now Saturday afternoon, the shoemaker couldn’t begin them to-night!”