“Afon — something,” said he. And on my thanking him, he went forward to the woman, who was waiting for him by the bridge. “Is that man Welsh or English?” I heard her say when he had rejoined her. “I don’t know,” said the man—“he was civil enough; why were you such a fool?” “O, I thought he would speak to me in English,” said the woman, “and the thought of that horrid English puts me into such a flutter; you know I can’t speak a word of it.” They proceeded on their way, and I proceeded on mine, and presently coming to a little inn on the left side of the way, at the entrance of a village, I went in. A respectable-looking man and woman were seated at tea at a table in a nice clean kitchen. I sat down on a chair near the table, and called for ale—the ale was brought me in a jug—I drank some, put the jug on the table, and began to discourse with the people in Welsh—a handsome dog was seated on the ground; suddenly it laid one of its paws on its master’s knee. “Down, Perro,” said he. “Perro!” said I; “why do you call the dog Perro?” “We call him Perro,” said the man, “because his name is Perro.” “But how came you to give him that name?” said I. “We did not give it to him,” said the man—“he bore that name when he came into our hands; a farmer gave him to us when he was very young, and told us his name was Perro.” “And how came the farmer to call him Perro?” said I. “I don’t know,” said the man—“why do you ask?” “Perro,” said I, “is a Spanish word, and signifies a dog in general. I am rather surprised that a dog in the mountains of Wales should be called by the Spanish word for dog.” I fell into a fit of musing. “How Spanish words are diffused! Wherever you go you will find some Spanish word or other in use. I have heard Spanish words used by Russian mujiks, and Turkish fig-gatherers—I have this day heard a Spanish word in the mountains of Wales, and I have no doubt that were I to go to Iceland I should find Spanish words used there. How can I doubt it? when I reflect that more than six hundred years ago, one of the words to denote a bad woman was Spanish. In the oldest of Icelandic domestic sagas, Skarphedin, the son of Nial the seer, called Hallgerdr, widow of Gunnar, a puta—and that word so maddened Hallgerdr, that she never rested till she had brought about his destruction. Now, why this preference everywhere for Spanish words, over those of every other language? I never heard French words or German words used by Russian mujiks and Turkish fig-gatherers. I question whether I should find any in Iceland forming part of the vernacular. I certainly never found a French or even a German word in an old Icelandic saga. Why this partiality everywhere for Spanish words? the question is puzzling; at any rate it puts me out—”