John Jones sat down, and I looked about the room. It exhibited no appearance of poverty; there was plenty of rude but good furniture in it; several pewter plates and trenchers in a rack, two or three prints in frames against the wall, one of which was the likeness of no less a person than the Rev. Joseph Sanders; on the table was a newspaper. “Is that in Welsh?” said I. “No,” replied the woman, “it is the _Bolton Chronicle_; my husband reads it.” I sat down in the chimney-corner. The wind was now howling abroad, and the rain was beating against the cottage panes—presently a gust of wind came down the chimney, scattering sparks all about. “A cataract of sparks!” said I, using the word Rhaiadr. “What is Rhaiadr?” said the woman; “I never heard the word before.” “Rhaiadr means water tumbling over a rock,” said John Jones—“did you never see water tumble over the top of a rock?” “Frequently,” said she. “Well,” said he, “even as the water with its froth tumbles over the rock, so did sparks and fire tumble over the front of that grate when the wind blew down the chimney. It was a happy comparison of the Gwr Boneddig, and with respect to Rhaiadr it is a good old word, though not a common one; some of the Saxons who have read the old writings, though they cannot speak the language as fast as we, understand many words and things which we do not.” “I forgot much of my Welsh, in the land of the Saxons,” said the woman, “and so have many others; there are plenty of Welsh at Bolton, but their Welsh is sadly corrupted.” She then went out and presently returned with an infant in her arms and sat down. “Was that child born in Wales?” I demanded. “No,” said she, “he was born at Bolton about eighteen months ago—we have been here only a year.” “Do many English,” said I, “marry Welsh wives?” “A great many,” said she. “Plenty of Welsh girls are married to Englishmen at Bolton.” “Do the Englishmen make good husbands?” said I. The woman smiled and presently sighed. “Her husband,” said Jones, “is fond of a glass of ale and is often at the public-house.” “I make no complaint,” said the woman, looking somewhat angrily at John Jones. “Is your husband a tall bulky man?” said I. “Just so,” said the woman. “The largest of the two men we saw the other night at the public-house at Llansanfraid,” said I to John Jones. “I don’t know him,” said Jones, “though I have heard of him, but I have no doubt that was he.” I asked the woman how her husband could carry on the trade of a clog-maker in such a remote place—and also whether he hawked his clogs about the country. “We call him a clog-maker,” said the woman, “but the truth is that he merely cuts down the wood and fashions it into squares; these are taken by an under-master who sends them to the manufacturer at Bolton, who employs hands, who make them into clogs.”