“Perhaps, sir, I ought to ask the gentleman of the Lloegrian Church whether he thinks it lawful to walk with the poor Methodist weaver.” “Well, I think we may venture to walk with one another. What is your name?” “John Jones, sir.” “Jones! Jones! I was walking with a man of that name the other night.” “The man with whom you walked the other night is my brother, sir, and what he said to me about you made me wish to walk with you also.” “But he spoke very good English.” “My brother had a turn for Saxon, sir; I had not. Some people have a turn for the Saxon, others have not. I have no Saxon, sir, my wife has digon iawn—my two youngest children speak good Saxon, sir, my eldest son not a word.” “Well, shall we set out?” “If you please, sir.” “To what place shall we go?” “Shall we go to the Pont y Cyssylltau, sir?” “What is that?” “A mighty bridge, sir, which carries the Camlas over a valley on its back.” “Good! let us go and see the bridge of the junction, for that I think is the meaning in Saxon of Pont y Cyssylltau.” We set out; my guide conducted me along the bank of the Camlas in the direction of Rhiwabon, that is towards the east. On the way we discoursed on various subjects, and understood each other tolerably well. I asked if he had ever been anything besides a weaver. He told me that when a boy he kept sheep on the mountain. “Why did you not go on keeping sheep?” said I; “I would rather keep sheep than weave.” “My parents wanted me at home, sir,” said he; “and I was not sorry to go home; I earned little, and lived badly.” “A shepherd,” said I, “can earn more than five shillings a week.” “I was never a regular shepherd, sir,” said he. “But, sir, I would rather be a weaver with five shillings a week in Llangollen, than a shepherd with fifteen on the mountain. The life of a shepherd, sir, is perhaps not exactly what you and some other gentlefolks think. The shepherd bears much cold and wet, sir, and he is very lonely; no society save his sheep and dog. Then, sir, he has no privileges. I mean gospel privileges. He does not look forward to Dydd Sul, as a day of llawenydd, of joy and triumph, as the weaver does; that is if he is religiously disposed. The shepherd has no chapel, sir, like the weaver. Oh, sir, I say again that I would rather be a weaver in Llangollen with five shillings a week, than a shepherd on the hill with fifteen.” “Do you mean to say,” said I, “that you live with your family on five shillings a week?” “No, sir. I frequently do little commissions by which I earn something. Then, sir, I have friends, very good friends. A good lady of our congregation sent me this morning half-a-pound of butter. The people of our congregation are very kind to each other, sir.” “That is more,” thought I to myself, “than the people of my congregation are; they are always cutting each other’s throats.” I next asked if he had been much about Wales.