orfa a Welsh Welsh village; it is so
national in its ways, and buildings, and inhabitants, and so different
from the towns and hamlets into which the English throng in summer. How
these said inhabitants of Pen-Morfa ever are distinguished by their
names, I, uninitiated, can not tell. I only know for a fact, that in a
family there with which I am acquainted, the eldest son's name is John
Jones, because his father's was John Thomas; that the second son is
called David Williams, because his grandfather was William Wynn, and
that the girls are called indiscriminately by the names of Thomas and
Jones. I have heard some of the Welsh chuckle over the way in which they
have baffled the barristers at Caernarvon Assizes, denying the name
under which they had been subpoenaed to give evidence, if they were
unwilling witnesses. I could tell you of a great deal which is peculiar
and wild in these true Welsh people, who are what I suppose we English
were a century ago; but I must hasten on to my tale.

I have received great, true, beautiful kindness from one of the members
of the family of whom I just now spoke as living at Pen-Morfa; and when
I found that they wished me to drink tea with them, I gladly did so,
though my friend was the only one in the house, who could speak English
at all fluently. After tea, I went with them to see some of their
friends; and it was then I saw the interiors of the houses of which I
have spoken. It was an autumn evening; we left mellow sunset-light in
the open air when we entered the houses, in which all seemed dark save
in the ruddy sphere of the firelight, for the windows were very small,
and deep set in the thick walls. Here were an old couple, who welcomed
me in Welsh, and brought forth milk and oat-cake with patriarchal
hospitality. Sons and daughters had married away from them; they lived
alone; he was blind, or nearly so; and they sat one on each side of the
fire, so old and so still (till we went in and broke the silence), that
they seemed to be listening for Death. At another house, lived a woman
stern and severe-looking. She was busy hiving a swarm of bees, alone and
unassisted. I do not think my companion would have chosen to speak to
her, but seeing her out in her hill-side garden, she made some inquiry
in Welsh, which was answered in the most mournful tone I ever heard in
my life; a voice of which the freshness and "timbre" had been choked up
by tears long years ago. I asked who she was. I