"I see," said I, "that I have not only the honour of addressing a
medical gentleman, but a doctor of medicine - however, I might have
known as much by your language and deportment."
With a yet lower bow than before he replied with something of a
sigh, "No, sir, no, our kind landlady and the neighbourhood are in
the habit of placing doctor before my name, but I have no title to
it - I am not Doctor Jones, sir, but plain Geffery Jones at your
service," and thereupon with another bow he sat down.
"Do you reside here?" said I.
"Yes, sir, I reside here in the place of my birth - I have not
always resided here - and I did not always expect to spend my
latter days in a place of such obscurity, but, sir, misfortunes -
misfortunes . . ."
"Ah," said I, "misfortunes! they pursue every one, more especially
those whose virtues should exempt them from them. Well, sir, the
consciousness of not having deserved them should be your
consolation."
"Sir," said the doctor, taking off his hat, "you are infinitely
kind."
"You call this an obscure place," said I - "can that be an obscure
place which has produced a poet? I have long had a respect for
Cerrig y Drudion because it gave birth to, and was the residence of
a poet of considerable merit."
"I was not aware of that fact," said the doctor, "pray what was his
name?"
"Peter Lewis," said I; "he was a clergyman of Cerrig y Drudion
about the middle of the last century, and amongst other things
wrote a beautiful song called Cathl y Gair Mwys, or the melody of
the ambiguous word."
"Surely you do not understand Welsh?" said the doctor.
