different in the making as the regional cheeses used in them, and she
says that while doctors prescribed the toasted Welsh as salubrious for
invalids, the stewed cheese of Olde England was "only adapted to
strong digestions."

English literature rings with praise for the toasted cheese of Wales
and England. There is Christopher North's eloquent "threads of
unbeaten gold, shining like gossamer filaments (that may be pulled
from its tough and tenacious substance)."

Yet not all of the references are complimentary.

Thus Shakespeare in _King Lear_:

Look, look a mouse!
Peace, peace;--this piece of toasted cheese will do it.

And Sydney Smith's:

Old friendships are destroyed by toasted cheese, and hard salted
meat has led to suicide.

But Khys Davis in _My Wales_ makes up for such rudenesses:

_The Welsh Enter Heaven_

The Lord had been complaining to St. Peter of the dearth of good
singers in Heaven. "Yet," He said testily, "I hear excellent
singing outside the walls. Why are not those singers here with
me?"