"I suppose you get your ale from Llangollen," said I, "which is celebrated for its ale over Wales."

"Get our ale from Llangollen?" said Tom, with a sneer of contempt, "no, nor anything else. As for the ale, it was brewed in this house by your honour's humble servant."

"Oh," said I, "if you brewed it, it must of course be good. Pray bring me some immediately, for I am anxious to drink ale of your brewing."

"Your honour shall be obeyed," said Tom, and disappearing, returned in a twinkling with a tray, on which stood a jug filled with liquor, and a gla.s.s. He forthwith filled the gla.s.s, and pointing to its contents, said-

"There, your honour, did you ever see such ale? Observe its colour!

Does it not look for all the world as pale and delicate as cowslip wine?"

"I wish it may not taste like cowslip wine," said I; "to tell you the truth, I am no particular admirer of ale that looks pale and delicate; for I always think there is no strength in it."

"Taste it, your honour," said Tom, "and tell me if you ever tasted such ale."

I tasted it, and then took a copious draught. The ale was indeed admirable, equal to the best that I had ever before drunk-rich and mellow, with scarcely any smack of the hop in it, and though so pale and delicate to the eye, nearly as strong as brandy. I commended it highly to the worthy Jenkins, who exultingly exclaimed-

"That Llangollen ale indeed! no, no! ale like that, your honour, was never brewed in that trumpery hole Llangollen."

"You seem to have a very low opinion of Llangollen?" said I.

"How can I have anything but a low opinion of it, your honour? A trumpery hole it is, and ever will remain so."

"Many people of the first quality go to visit it," said I.

"That is because it lies so handy for England, your honour. If it did not, n.o.body would go to see it. What is there to see in Llangollen?"

"There is not much to see in the town, I admit," said I, "but the scenery about it is beautiful; what mountains!"

"Mountains, your honour, mountains! well, we have mountains too, and as beautiful as those of Llangollen. Then we have our lake, our Llyn Tegid, the lake of beauty. Show me anything like that near Llangollen!"

"Then," said I, "there is your mound, your Tomen Bala. The Llangollen people can show nothing like that."

Tom Jenkins looked at me for a moment with some surprise, and then said: "I see you have been here before, sir."

"No," said I, "never, but I have read about the Tomen Bala in books, both Welsh and English."

"You have, sir?" said Tom. "Well, I am rejoiced to see so book-learned a gentleman in our house. The Tomen Bala has puzzled many a head. What do the books which mention it say about it, your honour?"

"Very little," said I, "beyond mentioning it; what do the people here say of it?"

"All kinds of strange things, your honour."

"Do they say who built it?"

"Some say the Tylwyth Teg built it, others that it was cast up over a dead king by his people. The truth is, n.o.body here knows who built it, or anything about it, save that it is a wonder. Ah, those people of Llangollen can show nothing like it."

"Come," said I, "you must not be so hard upon the people of Llangollen.

They appear to me, upon the whole, to be an eminently respectable body."

The Celtic waiter gave a genuine French shrug. "Excuse me, your honour, for being of a different opinion. They are all drunkards."

"I have occasionally seen drunken people at Llangollen," said I, "but I have likewise seen a great many sober."

"That is, your honour, you have seen them in their sober moments; but if you had watched, your honour, if you had kept your eye on them, you would have seen them reeling too."

"That I can hardly believe," said I.

"Your honour can't! but I can who know them. They are all drunkards, and n.o.body can live among them without being a drunkard. There was my nephew-"

"What of him?" said I.

"Why, he went to Llangollen, your honour, and died of a drunken fever in less than a month."

"Well, but might he not have died of the same, if he had remained at home?"

"No, your honour, no! he lived here many a year, and never died of a drunken fever; he was rather fond of liquor, it is true, but he never died at Bala of a drunken fever; but when he went to Llangollen he did.

Now, your honour, if there is not something more drunken about Llangollen than about Bala, why did my nephew die at Llangollen of a drunken fever?"

"Really," said I, "you are such a close reasoner, that I do not like to dispute with you. One observation, however, I wish to make: I have lived at Llangollen without, I hope, becoming a drunkard."

"Oh, your honour is out of the question," said the Celtic waiter, with a strange grimace. "Your honour is an Englishman, an English gentleman, and of course could live all the days of your life at Llangollen without being a drunkard, he he! Who ever heard of an Englishman, especially an English gentleman, being a drunkard, he he he! And now, your honour, pray excuse me, for I must go and see that your honour's dinner is being got ready in a suitable manner."

Thereupon he left me, with a bow yet lower than any I had previously seen him make. If his manners put me in mind of those of a Frenchman, his local prejudices brought powerfully to my recollection those of a Spaniard. Tom Jenkins swears by Bala and abuses Llangollen, and calls its people drunkards, just as a Spaniard exalts his own village, and vituperates the next and its inhabitants, whom, though he will not call them drunkards, unless, indeed, he happens to be a Gallegan, he will not hesitate to term "una caterva de pillos y embusteros."

The dinner when it appeared was excellent, and consisted of many more articles than I had ordered. After dinner, as I sat "trifling" with my cold brandy-and-water, an individual entered-a short, thick, dumpy man about thirty, with brown clothes and a broad hat, and holding in his hand a large leather bag. He gave me a familiar nod, and pa.s.sing by the table, at which I sat, to one near the window, he flung the bag upon it, and seating himself in the chair with his profile towards me, he untied the bag, from which he poured a large quant.i.ty of sovereigns upon the table, and fell to counting them. After counting them three times, he placed them again in the bag, which he tied up; then taking a small book, seemingly an account-book, out of his pocket, he wrote something in it with a pencil; then putting it in his pocket, he took the bag, and unlocking a beaufet which stood at some distance behind him against the wall, he put the bag into a drawer; then again locking the beaufet, he sat down in the chair, then tilting the chair back upon its hind legs, he kept swaying himself backwards and forwards upon it, his toes sometimes upon the ground, sometimes mounting until they tapped against the nether side of the table, surveying me all the time with a queer kind of a side glance, and occasionally ejecting saliva upon the carpet in the direction of the place where I sat.

"Fine weather, sir," said I at last, rather tired of being skewed and spit at in this manner.

"Why yaas," said the figure; "the day is tolerably fine, but I have seen a finer."

"Well, I don't remember to have seen one," said I; "it is as fine a day as I have seen during the present season, and finer weather than I have seen during this season I do not think I ever saw before."

"The weather is fine enough for Britain," said the figure, "but there are other countries besides Britain."

"Why," said I, "there's the States, 'tis true."

"Ever been in the States, Mr.?" said the figure quickly.

"Have I ever been in the States," said I, "have I ever been in the States?"

"Perhaps you are of the States, Mr.; I thought so from the first."

"The States are fine countries," said I.

"I guess they are, Mr."

"It would be no easy matter to whip the States."

"So I should guess, Mr."