"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 passing by the table at which I sat, to one near
the window, he flung the bag upon it, and seating himself in a
chair with his profile towards me, he untied the bag, from which he
poured a large quantity 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 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."
"That is, single-handed," said I.
"Single-handed, no nor double-handed either. Let England and
France and the State which they are now trying to whip without
being able to do it, that's Russia, all unite in a union to whip
the Union, and if instead of whipping the States they don't get a
whipping themselves, call me a braying jackass - "
"I see, Mr," said I, "that you are a sensible man, because you
speak very much my own opinion. However, as I am an unprejudiced
person, like yourself, I wish to do justice to other countries -
the States are fine countries - but there are other fine countries
in the world. I say nothing of England; catch me saying anything
good of England; but I call Wales a fine country; gainsay it who
may, I call Wales a fine country."
"So it is, Mr."
"I'll go farther," said I; "I wish to do justice to everything: I
call the Welsh a fine language."
"So it is, Mr. Ah, I see you are an unprejudiced man. You don't
understand Welsh, I guess."
"I don't understand Welsh," said I; "I don't understand Welsh.
That's what I call a good one."
"Medrwch siarad Cumraeg?" said the short figure spitting on the
carpet.
"Medraf," said I.
"You can, Mr! Well, if that don't whip the Union. But I see: you
were born in the States of Welsh parents."
"No harm in being born in the States of Welsh parents," said I.
"None at all, Mr; I was myself, and the first language I learnt to
speak was Welsh. Did your people come from Bala, Mr?"
"Why no! Did yourn?"
"Why yaas - at least from the neighbourhood. What State do you
come from? Virginny?"
"Why no!"
"Perhaps Pensilvany country?"
"Pensilvany is a fine State," said I.
"So it is, Mr. Oh, that is your State, is it? I come from
Varmont."
"You do, do you? Well, Varmont is not a bad state, but not equal
to Pensilvany, and I'll tell you two reasons why; first it has not
been so long settled, and second there is not so much Welsh blood
in it as there is in Pensilvany."
"Is there much Welsh blood in Pensilvany then?"
"Plenty, Mr, plenty. Welsh flocked over to Pensilvany even as far
back as the time of William Pen, who as you know, Mr, was the first
founder of the Pensilvany State.
