it easier to express truth in that form. And it is certainly true that the good ladies of Plymouth Grove made Manchester for me and mine as they did for so many toilers of all degrees, a holier and better place.
Falkner Blair was another kind friend who discovered me when I first went to Manchester, and helped by his kindly greeting to make its skies blue for me and its sun to shine on me. He was the leader among those juniors who practised mainly in the Crown Court, and was afterwards a judge in India. He and Arnold were good friends, though they had little but Oxford in common—Oxford has its advantages—and Blair called Arnold “the Don” and Arnold nicknamed Blair “the Agreeable Rattle.”
For I remember feeling very lonely wandering about the Courts in those early days, when Falkner Blair came up to me and said, “Is your name Parry? Well, come up and take the dogs for a walk and have some dinner.” It appeared I had met some relations of his, but any pretext was good enough for Blair to open his house to a newcomer and see what he was like, and he was a real friend to his juniors.
Blair was a great character. He was a fine cross-examiner, an eloquent speaker, and a better lawyer than many supposed, but he was undoubtedly indolent. Full of fads and enthusiasm, he was an excellent talker, the remains of a classical billiard player, a most redoubtable gourmet, and a great lover of dogs. The three collies of those days,
Bruce, Vixen, and Luath, were well known in the neighbourhood and greatly admired by the “doggy.”
Blair had a ready wit. I remember him escorting some ladies round the law courts during the luncheon hour when they came across the antique spears of the javelin men piled in a corner of the corridor outside the judges’ room. “Whatever are those used for?” asked a lady, gazing at them admiringly.
“Those, my dear madam,” said Blair with prompt decision, “are used by the Judge in the Crown Court when he charges the grand jury.”
The ladies looked at them with reverent awe and shuddered.
Just as I was beginning to do a little work I was invalided, and the doctor wanted me to go to the Riviera in January. As I could afford neither time nor money for this I decided on Barmouth. I was very depressed about having to go away, and, meeting Blair, told him my trouble. He was overjoyed. There was nothing doing, and he and Mrs. Blair and the dogs would join us. He would go ahead and get rooms with his friend Mrs. Davis, at the Cors-y-gedol. I wonder how many remember that fine portrait of the dear old lady that her son-in-law, Phil Morris, R.A., painted.
Blair in an hotel became a kind of proprietor of it and chief guest rolled into one. The first night we were nearly all awakened by a horrible noise of clashing bells. It ought to have been a fire, but nothing had happened, we were told. What really