Coming to the small village about a mile from Rhiwabon, I felt thirsty, and seeing a public-house, in which all seemed to be quiet, I went in. A thick-set man, with a pipe in his mouth, sat in the tap-room, and also a woman.
“Where is the landlord?” said I.
“I am the landlord,” said the man huskily. “What do you want?”
“A pint of ale,” said I.
The man got up, and, with his pipe in his mouth, went staggering out of the room. In about a minute he returned, holding a mug in his hand, which he put down on a table before me, spilling no slight quantity of the liquor as he did so. I put down three-pence on the table. He took the money up slowly, piece by piece, looked at it, and appeared to consider; then taking the pipe out of his mouth, he dashed it to seven pieces against the table, then staggered out of the room into the passage, and from thence apparently out of the house. I tasted the ale, which was very good; then turning to the woman, who seemed about three-and-twenty, and was rather good-looking, I spoke to her in Welsh.
“I have no Welsh, sir,” said she.
“How is that?” said I; “this village is, I think, in the Welshery.”
“It is,” said she; “but I am from Shropshire.”
“Are you the mistress of the house?” said I.
“No,” said she, “I am married to a collier;” then getting up, she said, “I must go and see after my husband.”