I asked him if he had ever been in South Wales.
“Yes,” said he; “and a bad country I found it; just like the people.”
“If you take me for a South Welshman,” said I, “you ought to speak civilly both of the South Welsh and their country.”
“I am merely paying tit for tat,” said the old fellow. “When I was in South Wales your people laughed at my folks and country, so when I meet one of them here I serve him out as I was served out there.”
I made no reply to him, but addressing myself to the landlord, inquired whether Huw Morris was not buried in Llan Silin churchyard. He replied in the affirmative.
“I should like to see his tomb,” said I.
“Well, sir,” said the landlord, “I shall be happy to show it to you whenever you please.”
Here again the old fellow put in his word.
“You never had a prydydd like Huw Morris in South Wales,” said he; “nor Twm o’r Nant either.”
“South Wales has produced good poets,” said I.