“You must not go till you have eaten and drunk. What will you have?”
“Merely a cup of ale, sir,” said the lad.
“That won’t do,” said I; “you shall have bread and cheese and as much ale as you can drink. Pray,” said I to the landlord, “let this young man have some bread and cheese and a large quart of ale.”
The landlord looked at me for a moment, then turning to the lad he said:
“What do you think of that, Shon? It is some time since you had a quart of ale to your own cheek.”
“Cheek,” said I, “cheek! Is that a Welsh word? Surely it is an importation from the English, and not a very genteel one.”
“O come, sir!” said the landlord, “we can dispense with your criticisms. A pretty thing indeed for you, on the strength of knowing half-a-dozen words of Welsh, to set up for a Welsh critic in the house of a person who knows the ancient British language perfectly.”
“Dear me!” said I, “how fortunate I am! a person thoroughly versed in the ancient British language is what I have long wished to see. Pray what is the meaning of Darfel Gatherel?”
“O sir,” said the landlord, “you must answer that question yourself; I don’t pretend to understand gibberish!”
“Darfel Gatherel,” said I, “is not gibberish; it was the name of the great wooden image at Ty Dewi, or Saint David’s, in Pembrokeshire, to which thousands of pilgrims in the days of popery used to repair for the purpose of adoring it, and which at the time of the Reformation was sent up to London as a curiosity, where it eventually served as firewood to burn the monk Forrest upon, who was sentenced to the stake by Henry the Eighth for denying his supremacy. What I want to know is, the meaning of the name, which I could never get explained, but which you who know the ancient British language perfectly can doubtless interpret.”