The Deaf Man - Funeral Procession - The Lone Family - The Welsh and their Secrets - The Vale of the Dyfi - The Bright Moon.
A LITTLE way from Cemmaes I saw a respectable-looking old man like a little farmer, to whom I said:
"How far to Machynlleth?"
Looking at me in a piteous manner in the face he pointed to the side of his head, and said - "Dim clywed."It was no longer no English, but no hearing.
Presently I met one yet more deaf. A large procession of men came along the road. Some distance behind them was a band of women and between the two bands was a kind of bier drawn by a horse with plumes at each of the four corners. I took off my hat and stood close against the hedge on the right-hand side till the dead had passed me some way to its final home.
Crossed a river, which like that on the other side of Cemmaes streamed down from a gulley between two hills into the valley of the Dyfi. Beyond the bridge on the right-hand side of the road was a pretty cottage, just as there was in the other locality. A fine tall woman stood at the door, with a little child beside her. Istopped and inquired in English whose body it was that had just been borne by.
"That of a young man, sir, the son of a farmer, who lives a mile or so up the road."MYSELF. - He seems to have plenty of friends.
WOMAN. - Oh yes, sir, the Welsh have plenty of friends both in life and death.
MYSELF. - A'n't you Welsh, then?
WOMAN. - Oh no, sir, I am English, like yourself, as I suppose.
MYSELF. - Yes, I am English. What part of England do you come from?
WOMAN. - Shropshire, sir.
MYSELF. - Is that little child yours?
WOMAN. - Yes, sir, it is my husband's child and mine.
MYSELF. - I suppose your husband is Welsh.
WOMAN. - Oh no, sir, we are all English.
MYSELF. - And what is your husband?
WOMAN. - A little farmer, sir, he farms about forty acres under Mrs -.
MYSELF. - Well, are you comfortable here?
WOMAN. - Oh dear me, no, sir, we are anything but comfortable.
Here we are three poor lone creatures in a strange land, without a soul to speak to but one another. Every day of our lives we wish we had never left Shropshire.
MYSELF. - Why don't you make friends amongst your neighbours?
WOMAN. - Oh, sir, the English cannot make friends amongst the Welsh. The Welsh won't neighbour with them, or have anything to do with them, except now and then in the way of business.
MYSELF. - I have occasionally found the Welsh very civil.
WOMAN. - Oh yes, sir, they can be civil enough to passers-by, especially those who they think want nothing from them - but if you came and settled amongst them you would find them, I'm afraid, quite the contrary.
MYSELF. - Would they be uncivil to me if I could speak Welsh?
WOMAN. - Most particularly, sir; the Welsh don't like any strangers, but least of all those who speak their language.
MYSELF. - Have you picked up anything of their language?