"
"Can you speak English?" said I.
"Oh yes," said she, "I lived eleven years in England, at a place
called Bolton, where I married my husband, who is an Englishman."
"Can he speak Welsh?" said I.
"Not a word," said she. "We always speak English together."
John Jones sat down, and I looked about the room. It exhibited no
appearance of poverty; there was plenty of rude but good furniture
in it; several pewter plates and trenchers in a rack, two or three
prints in frames against the wall, one of which was the likeness of
no less a person than the Rev. Joseph Sanders, on the table was a
newspaper. "Is that in Welsh?" said I.
"No," replied the woman, "it is the BOLTON CHRONICLE, my husband
reads it."
I sat down in the chimney-corner. The wind was now howling abroad,
and the rain was beating against the cottage panes - presently a
gust of wind came down the chimney, scattering sparks all about.
"A cataract of sparks!" said I, using the word Rhaiadr.
"What is Rhaiadr?" said the woman; "I never heard the word before."
"Rhaiadr means water tumbling over a rock," said John Jones - "did
you never see water tumble over the top of a rock?"
"Frequently," said she.
"Well," said he, "even as the water with its froth tumbles over the
rock, so did sparks and fire tumble over the front of that grate
when the wind blew down the chimney.
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