“Were you pleased to make any observation, sir?” said the doctor.
“I was merely saying something to myself,” said I. “And in what line of business may he be? I suppose in the hog line.”
“Oh no!” said Doctor Jones. “His father, it is true, is a hog-merchant, but as for himself he follows no business; he is what is called a fast young man, and goes about here and there on the spree, as I think they term it, drawing, whenever he wants money, upon his father, who is in affluent circumstances. Some time ago he came to Cerrig Drudion, and was so much pleased with the place, the landlady, and her daughters, that he has made it his headquarters ever since. Being frequently at the house I formed an acquaintance with him, and have occasionally made one in his parties and excursions, though I can’t say I derive much pleasure from his conversation, for he is a person of little or no literature.”
“The son of a hog-merchant,” thought I to myself. “Depend upon it, that immense fellow whom I saw in my dream purchase the big hog at Llangollen fair, and who wanted me to give him a poond for his bargain, was this gent’s father. Oh, there is much more in dreams than is generally dreamt of by philosophy!”
Doctor Jones presently began to talk of Welsh literature, and we were busily engaged in discussing the subject when in walked the fast young man, causing the floor to quake beneath his ponderous tread. He looked rather surprised at seeing the doctor and me conversing, but Doctor Jones turning to him, said, “Oh, I remember this gentleman perfectly.”
“Oh!” said the fast young man; “very good!” then flinging himself down in a chair with a force that nearly broke it, and fixing his eyes upon me, said, “I think I remember the gentleman too. If I am not much mistaken, sir, you are one of our principal engineers at Wolverhampton. Oh yes! I remember you now perfectly. The last time I saw you was at a public dinner given to you at Wolverhampton, and there you made a speech, and a capital speech it was.”
Just as I was about to reply Doctor Jones commenced speaking Welsh, resuming the discourse on Welsh literature. Before, however, he had uttered a dozen words he was interrupted by the Wolverhampton gent, who exclaimed in a blubbering tone: “O Lord, you are surely not going to speak Welsh. If I had thought I was to be bothered with Welsh I wouldn’t have asked you to come.”
“If I spoke Welsh, sir,” said the doctor, “it was out of compliment to this gentleman, who is a proficient in the ancient language of my country. As, however, you dislike Welsh, I shall carry on the conversation with him in English, though peradventure you may not be more edified by it in that language than if it were held in Welsh.”
He then proceeded to make some very excellent remarks on the history of the Gwedir family, written by Sir John Wynn, to which the Wolverhampton gent listened with open mouth and staring eyes. My dinner now made its appearance, brought in by the little freckled maid—the cloth had been laid during my absence from the room. I had just begun to handle my knife and fork, Doctor Jones still continuing his observations on the history of the Gwedir family, when I heard a carriage drive up to the inn, and almost immediately after, two or three young fellows rollicked into the room: “Come let’s be off,” said one of them to the Wolverhampton gent; “the carriage is ready.” “I’m glad of it,” said the fast young man, “for it’s rather slow work here. Come, doctor! are you going with us or do you intend to stay here all night?” Thereupon the doctor got up, and coming towards me leaning on his cane, said: “Sir! it gives me infinite pleasure that I have met a second time a gentleman of so much literature. That we shall ever meet a third time I may wish but can scarcely hope, owing to certain ailments under which I suffer, brought on, sir, by a residence of many years in the Occidental Indies. However, at all events, I wish you health and happiness.” He then shook me gently by the hand and departed with the Wolverhampton gent and his companions; the gent as he stumped out of the room saying, “Good-night, sir; I hope it will not be long before I see you at another public dinner at Wolverhampton, and hear another speech from you as good as the last.” In a minute or two I heard them drive off. Left to myself I began to discuss my dinner. Of the dinner I had nothing to complain, but the ale which accompanied it was very bad. This was the more mortifying, for, remembering the excellent ale I had drunk at Bala some months previously, I had, as I came along the gloomy roads the present evening, been promising myself a delicious treat on my arrival.
“This is very bad ale!” said I to the freckled maid, “very different from what I drank in the summer, when I was waited on by Tom Jenkins.”