composure, as much as to say, “I don’t fear you, for I know that I am now safe and with my own people.” It stayed with us two hours and then went away. The next morning it returned. To be short, though it went away every night, it became our own cat, and one of our family. I gave it something which cured it of its eruption, and through good treatment it soon lost its other ailments and began to look sleek and bonny. CHAPTER VIII The Mowers—Deep Welsh—Extensive View—Old Celtic Hatred—Fish-Preserving—Smollett’s Morgan. Next morning I set out to ascend Dinas Bran; a number of children, almost entirely girls, followed me. I asked them why they came after me. “In the hope that you will give us something,” said one in very good English. I told them that I should give them nothing, but they still followed me. A little way up the hill I saw some men cutting hay. I made an observation to one of them respecting the fineness of the weather; he answered civilly, and rested on his scythe, whilst the others pursued their work. I asked him whether he was a farming man; he told me that he was not; that he generally worked at the flannel manufactory, but that for some days past he had not been employed there, work being slack, and had on that account joined the mowers in order to earn a few shillings. I asked him how it was he knew how to handle a scythe, not being bred up a farming man; he smiled, and said that, somehow or other, he had learnt to do so. “You speak very good English,” said I, “have you much Welsh?” “Plenty,” said he; “I am a real Welshman.” “Can you read Welsh?” said I. “O, yes!” he replied. “What books have you read?” said I. “I have read the Bible, sir, and one or two other books.” “Did you ever read the _Bardd Cwsg_?” said I. He looked at me with some surprise. “No,” said he, after a moment or two, “I have never read it. I have seen it, but it was far too deep Welsh for me.” “I have read it,” said I. “Are you a Welshman?” said he. “No,” said I; “I am an Englishman.” “And how is it,” said he, “that you can read Welsh without being a Welshman?” “I learned to do so,” said I, “even as you learned to mow, without being bred up to farming work.” “Ah!” said he, “but it is easier to learn to mow than to read the _Bardd Cwsg_.” “I don’t know that,” said I; “I have taken up a scythe a hundred times, but I cannot mow.” “Will your honour take mine now, and try again?” said he. “No,” said I, “for if I take your scythe in hand I must give you a shilling, you know, by mowers’ law.” He gave a broad grin, and I proceeded up the hill. When he rejoined his companions he said something to them in Welsh, at which they all laughed. I reached the top of the hill, the children still attending me.