"If so," said he, "let me hear you translate the two lines on the
title-page."

"Are you a Welshman?" said I.

"I am!" he replied.

"Good!" said I, and I translated into English the two lines which
were a couplet by Edmund Price, an old archdeacon of Merion,
celebrated in his day for wit and poetry.

The man then asked me from what part of Wales I came, and when I
told him that I was an Englishman was evidently offended, either
because he did not believe me, or, as I more incline to think, did
not approve of an Englishman's understanding Welsh.

The book was the life of the Rev. Richards, and was published at
Caerlleon, or the city of the legion, the appropriate ancient
British name for the place now called Chester, a legion having been
kept stationed there during the occupation of Britain by the
Romans.

I returned to the inn and dined, and then yearning for society,
descended into the kitchen and had some conversation with the Welsh
maid. She told me that there were a great many Welsh in Chester
from all parts of Wales, but chiefly from Denbighshire and
Flintshire, which latter was her own country. That a great many
children were born in Chester of Welsh parents, and brought up in
the fear of God and love of the Welsh tongue. That there were some
who had never been in Wales, who spoke as good Welsh as herself, or