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I wish you had seen Paddy Griffy, a very active little old man, and a beloved of mine, when he came down on Sunday night to welcome me. After the usual hand-kissings on the steps, he put his hands over his head and stood in the doorway, I suppose invoking his saint. He then rushed into the hall. And he did dance, and awfully well, too, to his own singing.
I am an Old England man, please you, my lady, but I have my wife in Wales. From what part? says the lady, who was a native of Wales herself. I married, replied he, one Betty Larkey, who lived with Sir John Morgan, and afterwards with parson Griffy, at Swansea. Ay, did you marry Betty Larkey?—how many children have you by her? Only one daughter, replied he.
Their next inquiry was, if the captain had brought them good store of joiners, carpenters, blacksmiths, weavers, and tailors; upon which the captain called out one Griffy, a tailor, who had lived at Chumleigh, in the county of Devon, and was obliged to take a voyage to Maryland, for making too free with his neighbour’s sheep. Two planters, who were parson Nicholas and Mr.
Griffy of that place, in the character of a cast-away seaman, a native of Devonshire; and, as he gave a particular account of Mr. Griffy’s son, the minister of Bishop’s Nympton, he was made very welcome, and handsomely relieved, and by his recommendations obtained a great deal of money in the town.
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