“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.”
“It is—, sir; and better never was drunk.”
I tasted it; it was terribly strong. Those who wish for either whiskey 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:—
“Mewn gardd y cafodd dyn ei dwyllo;
Mewn gardd y rhoed oddewid iddo;
Mewn gardd bradychwyd Iesu hawddgar;
Mewn gardd amdowyd ef mewn daeār.”“In a garden the first of our race was deceived;
In a garden the promise of grace he received;
In a garden was Jesus betray’d to His doom;
In a garden His body was laid in the tomb.”
Having finished my glass of “summut” and my translation, I called to the woman and asked her what I had to pay.