Alas! my train came in sight, and I had to run, leaving the tale of John Jones, like Cambuscan’s, half told.
There might be Tales of my Landlords also, for in the late autumn one saw much of them. It was my privilege to visit the School Board whereof Harry Owen of Pen-y-gwryd, was a member; Owen, beloved of Charles Kingsley, Tom Taylor, and Tom Hughes. Are not his praises written in Two Years Ago? Strange to find a man out of a novel serving on a School Board. At that time his visitors’ book still contained the verses written by the three above-mentioned heroes, which may be found on page 495, vol. i., of C. Kingsley’s Life. Owen was warned to cut out the page, and frame it, as had been done with Dean Buckland’s geological note in the Beddgelert book; and he promised to do so; but at my next visit it was gone. Some one, said, on I know not what authority, to be an American, had cut out the page, and carried it off.
Another landlord’s memory I cherish, though I conceal his name, because he told me a precious anecdote:—
“I took a few friends in a landau over the pass last week, and on the way we came to Mr. William Hughes, Rector of Llansgriw; you know Mr. Hughes? and I told my friends we would go in there for a minute, just to get a rise out of the old fellow: so in we went. ‘Morning, Mr. Hughes,’ I said, ‘just driving round; thought we would give you a call, and ask how you were.’
“‘Very glad to see you, Mr. Jones, and your friends, too, I am sure. Will you take a glass of sherry this cold morning?’
“Of course we said we would, and he went off to the cellar, and came back with a bottle, and filled our glasses. I took one mouthful of it, and said:—
“‘I see you’ve taken the pickles out, Mr. Hughes.’”
One more word. How did I get on without knowing the language? I have often been asked the question. In the official enquiries I had, as I have said, the good fellowship and support of Mr. E. Roberts, late H.M.I. in the Carnarvon district, who saved me from many perils then, and now has added to my debt of gratitude by correcting the fragments of Welsh quoted in these pages. In travelling it was very seldom that I was inconvenienced, though I often got no reply to my questions but “Dim Saesneg” (no English). And that never failed to bring to mind the simple-hearted Balliol don, whose lament over the rude profanity of the Welsh peasants it was the delight of his pupils to extract by judicious questioning:
“When I was in Wales I regret to say that I was not favourably impressed by the manners of the people. If at any time in the course of a walk I applied to any one for information, I always received the reply ‘Sassenach,’ which, I believe, means ‘Englishman,’ coupled with an expression that I should be very sorry to repeat.”