A respectable-looking man and woman were seated at tea at a table in a nice clean kitchen. I sat down on a chair near the table, and called for ale—the ale was brought me in a jug—I drank some, put the jug on the table, and began to discourse with the people in Welsh—a handsome dog was seated on the ground; suddenly it laid one of its paws on its master’s knee.
“Down, Perro,” said he.
“Perro!” said I; “why do you call the dog Perro?”
“We call him Perro,” said the man, “because his name is Perro.”
“But how came you to give him that name?” said I.
“We did not give it to him,” said the man—“he bore that name when he came into our hands; a farmer gave him to us when he was very young, and told us his name was Perro.”
“And how came the farmer to call him Perro?” said I.
“I don’t know,” said the man—“why do you ask?”
“Perro,” said I, “is a Spanish word, and signifies a dog in general. I am rather surprised that a dog in the mountains of Wales should be called by the Spanish word for dog.” I fell into a fit of musing. “How Spanish words are diffused! Wherever you go you will find some Spanish word or other in use. I have heard Spanish words used by Russian mujiks, and Turkish fig-gatherers—I have this day heard a Spanish word in the mountains of Wales, and I have no doubt that were I to go to Iceland I should find Spanish words used there. How can I doubt it? when I reflect that more than six hundred years ago, one of the words to denote a bad woman was Spanish. In the oldest of Icelandic domestic sagas, Skarphedin, the son of Nial the seer, called Hallgerdr, widow of Gunnar, a puta—and that word so maddened Hallgerdr, that she never rested till she had brought about his destruction. Now, why this preference everywhere for Spanish words, over those of every other language? I never heard French words or German words used by Russian mujiks and Turkish fig-gatherers. I question whether I should find any in Iceland forming part of the vernacular. I certainly never found a French or even a German word in an old Icelandic saga. Why this partiality everywhere for Spanish words? the question is puzzling; at any rate it puts me out—”
“Yes, it puts me out!” I exclaimed aloud, striking my fist on the table with a vehemence which caused the good folks to start half up from their seats—before they could say anything, however, a vehicle drove up to the door, and a man, getting out, came into the room. He had a glazed hat on his head, and was dressed something like the guard of a mail. He touched his hat to me, and called for a glass of whiskey. I gave him the sele of the evening, and entered into conversation with him in English. In the course of discourse I learned that he was the postman, and was going his rounds in his cart—he was more than respectful to me, he was fawning and sycophantic. The whiskey was brought, and he stood with the glass in his hand. Suddenly he began speaking Welsh to the people; before, however, he had uttered two sentences, the woman lifted her hands with an alarmed air, crying “Hush! he understands.” The fellow was turning me to ridicule. I flung my head back, closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and laughed aloud. The fellow stood aghast; his hand trembled, and he spilt the greater part of the whiskey upon the ground. At the end of about half-a-minute I got up, asked what I had to pay, and on being told two pence, I put down the money. Then going up to the man, I put my right fore-finger very near to his nose, and said, “Dwy o iaith dwy o wyneb; two languages, two faces, friend!” Then after leering at him for a moment, I wished the people of the house good evening, and departed.