"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 nobody 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.
