At
the entrance of a small village a poor, sickly-looking woman asked
me for charity.
"Are you Welsh or English?" said I.
"Welsh," she replied; "but I speak both languages, as do all the
people here."
I gave her a halfpenny; she wished me luck, and I proceeded. I
passed some huge black buildings which a man told me were
collieries, and several carts laden with coal, and soon came to
Rhiwabon - a large village about half way between Wrexham and
Llangollen. I observed in this place nothing remarkable, but an
ancient church. My way from hence lay nearly west. I ascended a
hill, from the top of which I looked down into a smoky valley. I
descended, passing by a great many collieries, in which I observed
grimy men working amidst smoke and flame. At the bottom of the
hill near a bridge I turned round. A ridge to the east
particularly struck my attention; it was covered with dusky
edifices, from which proceeded thundering sounds, and puffs of
smoke. A woman passed me going towards Rhiwabon; I pointed to the
ridge and asked its name; I spoke English. The woman shook her
head and replied "Dim Saesneg."
"This is as it should be," said I to myself; "I now feel I am in
Wales." I repeated the question in Welsh.
