"You say so," said I, "because you do not understand Welsh."
"I not understand Welsh!" said she. "I'll soon show you that I do.
Come, you have asked me the word for salmon in Welsh, I will now
ask you the word for salmon-trout. Now tell me that, and I will
say you know something of the matter."
"A tinker of my country can tell you that," said I. "The word for
salmon-trout is gleisiad."
The countenance of the woman fell.
"I see you know something about the matter," said she; "there are
very few hereabouts, though so near to the Vale of Clwyd, who know
the word for salmon-trout in Welsh, I shouldn't have known the word
myself, but for the song which says:
Glan yw'r gleisiad yn y llyn."
"And who wrote that song?" said I.
"I don't know," said the woman.
"But I do," said I; "one Lewis Morris wrote it.'
"Oh," said she, "I have heard all about Huw Morris."
"I was not talking of Huw Morris," said I, "but Lewis Morris, who
lived long after Huw Morris. He was a native of Anglesea, but
resided for some time in Merionethshire, and whilst there composed
a song about the Morwynion bro Meirionydd or the lasses of County
Merion of a great many stanzas, in one of which the gleisiad is
mentioned. Here it is in English:
"'Full fair the gleisiad in the flood,
Which sparkles 'neath the summer's sun,
And fair the thrush in green abode
Spreading his wings in sportive fun,
But fairer look if truth be spoke,
The maids of County Merion.'"
The woman was about to reply, but I interrupted her.
"There," said I, "pray leave us to our breakfast, and the next time
you feel inclined to talk nonsense about no Englishman's
understanding Welsh, or knowing anything of Welsh matters, remember
that it was an Englishman who told you the Welsh word for salmon,
and likewise the name of the Welshman who wrote the song in which
the gleisiad is mentioned."
The ale was very good and so were the bread and cheese. The ale
indeed was so good that I ordered a second jug. Observing a large
antique portrait over the mantel-piece I got up to examine it. It
was that of a gentleman in a long wig, and underneath it was
painted in red letters "Sir Watkin Wynn: 1742." It was doubtless
the portrait of the Sir Watkin who, in 1745 was committed to the
tower under suspicion of being suspected of holding Jacobite
opinions, and favouring the Pretender. The portrait was a very
poor daub, but I looked at it long and attentively as a memorial of
Wales at a critical and long past time.
