"What is the name of this place?" said I.
"It is called Ty gwyn," said the man of the hat.
"On account of its colour, I suppose?" said I.
"Just so," said the man of the hat.
"It looks old," said I.
"And it is old," he replied. "In the time of the Papists it was
one of their chapels."
"Does it belong to you?" I demanded.
"Oh no, it belongs to one Mr Sparrow from Liverpool. I am his
bailiff, and this man is a carpenter who is here doing a job for
him."
Here ensued a pause, which was broken by the man of the hat saying
in English, to the man of the cap:
"Who can this strange fellow be? he has not a word of English, and
though he speaks Welsh his Welsh sounds very different from ours.
Who can he be?"
"I am sure I don't know," said the other.
"I know who he is," said the first, "he comes from Llydaw, or
Armorica, which was peopled from Britain estalom, and where I am
told the real old Welsh language is still spoken."
"I think I heard you mention the word Llydaw?" said I, to the man
of the hat.
"Ah," said the man of the hat, speaking Welsh, "I was right after
all; oh, I could have sworn you were Llydaweg. Well, how are the
descendants of the ancient Britons getting on in Llydaw?"
"They are getting on tolerably well," said I, "when I last saw
them, though all things do not go exactly as they could wish.
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