“A tinker of my country can tell you that,” said I. “The word for salmon-trout is gleisiad.” The countenance of the woman fell. “I see you know something about the matter,” said she; “there are very few hereabouts, though so near to the vale of Clwyd, who know the word for salmon-trout in Welsh. I shouldn’t have known the word myself, but for the song which says: “‘Glân yw’r gleisiad yn y llyn.’” “And who wrote that song?” said I. “I don’t know,” said the woman. “But I do,” said I; “one Lewis Morris wrote it.” “Oh,” said she, “I have heard all about Huw Morris.” “I was not talking of Huw Morris,” said I, “but Lewis Morris, who lived long after Huw Morris. He was a native of Anglesea, but resided for some time in Merionethshire, and whilst there composed a song about the Morwynion bro Meirionydd, or the lasses of County Merion, of a great many stanzas, in one of which the gleisiad is mentioned. Here it is in English: “‘Full fair the gleisiad in the flood, Which sparkles ’neath the summer’s sun, And fair the thrush in green abode Spreading his wings in sportive fun, But fairer look if truth be spoke, The maids of County Merion.’” The woman was about to reply, but I interrupted her. “There,” said I, “pray leave us to our breakfast, and the next time you feel inclined to talk nonsense about no Englishman’s understanding Welsh, or knowing anything of Welsh matters, remember that it was an Englishman who told you the Welsh word for salmon, and likewise the name of the Welshman who wrote the song in which the gleisiad is mentioned.” The ale was very good, and so were the bread and cheese. The ale indeed was so good that I ordered a second jug. Observing a large antique portrait over the mantel-piece I got up to examine it. It was that of a gentleman in a long wig, and underneath it was painted in red letters “Sir Watkin Wynn 1742.” It was doubtless the portrait of the Sir Watkin who in 1745 was committed to the Tower under suspicion of being suspected of holding Jacobite opinions, and favouring the Pretender. The portrait was a very poor daub, but I looked at it long and attentively as a memorial of Wales at a critical and long past time. When we had dispatched the second jug of ale, and I had paid the reckoning, we departed and soon came to where stood a turnpike house at a junction of two roads, to each of which was a gate. “Now, sir,” said John Jones, “the way straight forward is the ffordd newydd and the one on our right hand, is the hen ffordd. Which shall we follow, the new or the old?” “There is a proverb in the Gerniweg,” said I, “which was the language of my forefathers, saying, ‘ne’er leave the old way for the new,’ we will therefore go by the hen ffordd.”