“Yes, I do,” said Doctor Jones in a very low voice, like that of a person who deliberates; “yes, I do. I remember you perfectly, sir,” he added almost immediately in a tone of some animation; “you are the gentleman with whom I had a very interesting conversation one evening last summer in the bar of the inn at Cerrig Drudion. I regretted very much that our conversation was rather brief, but I was called away to attend to a case, a professional case, sir, of some delicacy, and I have since particularly regretted that I was unable to return that night, as it would have given me much pleasure to have been present at a dialogue which, I have been told by my friend the landlady, you held with a certain Italian who was staying at the house, which was highly agreeable and instructive to herself and her daughter.”
“Well,” said I, “I am rejoiced that fate has brought us together again. How have you been in health since I had the pleasure of seeing you?”
“Rather indifferent, sir, rather indifferent. I have of late been afflicted with several ailments the original cause of which, I believe, was a residence of several years in the Ynysoedd y Gorllewin—the West-India Islands—where I had the honour of serving her present gracious Majesty’s gracious uncle, George the Fourth—in a medical capacity, sir. I have likewise been afflicted with lowness of spirits, sir. It was this same lowness of spirits which induced me to accept an invitation made by the individual lately in the room to accompany him in a vehicle with some other people to Bala. I shall always consider my coming as a fortunate circumstance inasmuch as it has given me an opportunity of renewing my acquaintance with you.”
“Pray,” said I, “may I take the liberty of asking who that individual is?”
“Why,” said Doctor Jones, “he is what they call a Wolverhampton gent.”
“A Wolverhampton gent,” said I to myself; “only think!”
“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.”
“O 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 head-quarters 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. O there is much more in dreams than is generally dreamt of by philosophy!”