I was now descending the side of a pretty valley, and soon found myself at Pentraeth Coch. The part of the Pentraeth where I now was consisted of a few houses and a church, or something which I judged to be a church, for there was no steeple; the houses and church stood about a little open spot or square, the church on the east, and on the west a neat little inn or public-house over the door of which was written “The White Horse. Hugh Pritchard.” By this time I had verified in part the prediction of the old Welsh poet of the post-office. Though I was not arrived at Llanfair I was, if not tired, very thirsty, owing to the burning heat of the weather, so I determined to go in and have some ale. On entering the house I was greeted in English by Mr. Hugh Pritchard himself, a tall bulky man with a weather-beaten countenance, dressed in a brown jerkin and corduroy trowsers, with a broad low-crowned buff-coloured hat on his head, and what might be called half shoes, and half high-lows on his feet. He had a short pipe in his mouth which when he greeted me he took out, but replaced as soon as the greeting was over, which consisted of “Good day, sir,” delivered in a frank hearty tone. I looked Mr. Hugh Pritchard in the face and thought I had never seen a more honest countenance. On my telling Mr. Pritchard that I wanted a pint of ale a buxom damsel came forward and led me into a nice cool parlour on the right-hand side of the door and then went to fetch the ale. Mr. Pritchard meanwhile went into a kind of taproom, fronting the parlour, where I heard him talking in Welsh about pigs and cattle to some of his customers. I observed that he spoke with some hesitation; which circumstance I mention as rather curious, he being the only Welshman I have ever known who, when speaking his native language, appeared to be at a loss for words. The damsel presently brought me the ale, which I tasted and found excellent; she was going away when I asked her whether Mr. Pritchard was her father; on her replying in the affirmative I inquired whether she was born in that house. “No!” said she; “I was born in Liverpool; my father was born in this house, which belonged to his fathers before him, but he left it at an early age and married my mother in Liverpool, who was an Anglesey woman, and so I was born in Liverpool.” “And what did you do in Liverpool?” said I. “My mother kept a little shop,” said the girl, “whilst my father followed various occupations.” “And how long have you been here?” said I. “Since the death of my grandfather,” said the girl, “which happened about a year ago. When he died my father came here and took possession of his birthright.” “You speak very good English,” said I; “have you any Welsh?” “O yes, plenty,” said the girl; “we always speak Welsh together, but being born at Liverpool, I of course have plenty of English.” “And which language do you prefer?” said I.