“Do you mean Sir Charles Morgan?”
“I don’t know. I only know that it belongs to Sir Charles, the kindest-hearted and richest man in Wales and in England too.”
Passing some cottages I heard a group of children speaking English. Asked an intelligent-looking girl if she could speak Welsh.
“Yes,” said she, “I can speak it, but not very well.” There is not much Welsh spoken by the children hereabout. The old folks hold more to it.
I saw again the Rhymni river, and crossed it by a bridge; the river here was filthy and turbid, owing of course to its having received the foul drainings of the neighbouring coal works. Shortly afterwards I emerged from the coom or valley of the Rhymni, and entered upon a fertile and tolerably level district. Passed by Llanawst and Machen. The day which had been very fine now became dark and gloomy. Suddenly, as I was descending a slope, a brilliant party, consisting of four young ladies in riding-habits, a youthful cavalier and a servant in splendid livery—all on noble horses, swept past me at full gallop down the hill. Almost immediately afterwards, seeing a road-mender who was standing holding his cap in his hand—which he had no doubt just reverentially doffed—I said in Welsh: “Who are those ladies?”
“Merched Sir Charles—the daughters of Sir Charles,” he replied.
“And is the gentleman their brother?”
“No! the brother is in the Crim—fighting with the Roosiaid. I don’t know who yon gentleman be.”
“Where does Sir Charles live?”
“Down in the Dyfryn, not far from Basallaig.”