I entered the kitchen of an old-fashioned public-house, and sitting down by a table, told the landlord, a red-nosed, elderly man, who came bowing up to me, to bring me a pint of ale. The landlord bowed and departed. A bluff-looking old fellow, somewhat under the middle size, sat just opposite to me at the table. He was dressed in a white frieze coat, and had a small hat on his head, set rather consequentially on one side. Before him on the table stood a jug of ale, between which and him lay a large crabstick. Three or four other people stood or sat in different parts of the room. Presently the landlord returned with the ale.
“I suppose you come on sessions business, sir?” said he, as he placed it down before me.
“Are the sessions being held here to-day?” said I.
“They are,” said the landlord, “and there is plenty of business; two bad cases of poaching. Sir Watkin’s keepers are up at court, and hope to convict.”
“I am not come on sessions business,” said I; “I am merely strolling a little about to see the country.”
“He is come from South Wales,” said the old fellow in the frieze coat to the landlord, “in order to see what kind of country the north is. Well, at any rate, he has seen a better country than his own.”
“How do you know that I come from South Wales?” said I.
“By your English,” said the old fellow; “anybody may know you are South Welsh by your English; it is so cursedly bad! But let’s hear you speak a little Welsh; then I shall be certain as to who you are.”
I did as he bade me, saying a few words in Welsh.
“There’s Welsh,” said the old fellow, “who but a South Welshman would talk Welsh in that manner? It’s nearly as bad as your English.”