He took his chance for a night's lodging, content to have someone else's bed, but going to the best inn where he had a choice, as at Haverfordwest. He was very much moved by the adventure. "I have a wonderful deal to say if I once begin; I have been everywhere," he said to the old man at Gutter Fawr. He gave the shepherd advice about his sheep. "I am in the habit," he said to the landlord at Pont Erwyd, "of talking about everything, being versed in all matters, do you see, or affecting to be so, which comes much to the same thing." Even in the company of his stepdaughter--as they were not in Hyde Park--he sang in Welsh at the top of his voice. The miller's hospitality in Mona brought tears to his eyes; so did his own verse translation of the "Ode to Sycharth," because it made him think "how much more happy, innocent and holy I was in the days of my boyhood when I translated Iolo's ode than I am at the present time." He kissed the silver cup at Llanddewi Brefi and the tombstone of Huw Morus at Llan Silin. When the chair of Huw Morus was wiped and he was about to sit down in it, he uncovered and said in his best Welsh: "'Shade of Huw Morus, supposing your shade haunts the place which you loved so well when alive--a Saxon, one of the seed of the Coiling Serpent, has come to this place to pay that respect to true genius, the Dawn Duw, which he is ever ready to pay. He read the songs of the Nightingale of Ceiriog in the most distant part of Lloegr, when he was a brown-haired boy, and now that he is a grey-haired man he is come to say in this place that they frequently made his eyes overflow with tears of rapture.' "I then sat down in the chair, and commenced repeating verses of Huw Morus. All which I did in the presence of the stout old lady, the short, buxom, and bare-armed damsel, and of John Jones, the Calvinistic weaver of Llangollen, all of whom listened patiently and approvingly though the rain was pouring down upon them, and the branches of the trees and the tops of the tall nettles, agitated by the gusts from the mountain hollows, were beating in their faces, for enthusiasm is never scoffed at by the noble, simple-minded, genuine Welsh, whatever treatment it may receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish Saxon." Unless we count the inn at Cemmaes, where he took vengeance on the suspicious people by using his note-book in an obvious manner, "now skewing at an object, now leering at an individual," he was only once thoroughly put out, and that was at Beth Gelert by a Scotchman: which suggests a great deal of amiability, on one side, considering that Borrow's Welsh was book-Welsh, execrably pronounced.