“Please to let me have a glass of ale!—and hearkee; as I have been walking along the road, I should be glad of the services of the ‘boots.’”
“Very good, sir,” said the landlady with a curtsey.
Then showing me into a nice little sanded parlour, she brought me the glass of ale, and presently sent in a lad with a boot-jack to minister to me. O, what can’t a little money effect? For sixpence in that small nice inn I had a glass of ale, my boots cleaned and the excrescences cut off, my clothes wiped with a dwile, and then passed over with a brush, and was myself thanked over and over again. Starting again with all the spirited confidence of one who has just cast off his slough, I soon found myself in the suburbs of Swansea. As I passed under what appeared to be a railroad bridge I inquired in Welsh of an ancient-looking man, in coaly habiliments, if it was one. He answered in the same language that it was, then instantly added in English—
“You have taken your last farewell of Wales, sir; it’s no use speaking Welsh farther on.”
I passed some immense edifices, probably manufactories, and was soon convinced that, whether I was in Wales or not, I was no longer amongst Welsh. The people whom I met did not look like Welsh. They were taller and bulkier than the Cambrians, and were speaking a dissonant English jargon. The women had much the appearance of Dutch fisherwomen; some of them were carrying huge loads on their heads. I spoke in Welsh to two or three whom I overtook.
“No Welsh, sir!”
“Why don’t you speak Welsh?” said I.
“Because we never learnt it. We are not Welsh.”
“Who are you then?”
“English; some call us Flamings.”