The inn at Cerrig y Drudion was called the Lion—whether the white, black, red or green Lion I do not know, though I am certain that it was a lion of some colour or other. It seemed as decent and respectable a hostelry as any traveller could wish to refresh and repose himself in, after a walk of twenty miles. I entered a well-lighted passage and from thence a well-lighted bar room, on the right hand, in which sat a stout, comely, elderly lady dressed in silks and satins, with a cambric coif on her head, in company with a thin, elderly man with a hat on his head, dressed in a rather prim and precise manner. “Madam!” said I, bowing to the lady, “as I suppose you are the mistress of this establishment, I beg leave to inform you that I am an Englishman walking through these regions in order fully to enjoy their beauties and wonders. I have this day come from Llangollen, and being somewhat hungry and fatigued hope I can be accommodated, here with a dinner and a bed.” “Sir!” said the lady, getting up and making me a profound curtsey, “I am as you suppose the mistress of this establishment, and am happy to say that I shall be able to accommodate you—pray sit down, sir;” she, continued handing me a chair, “you must indeed be tired, for Llangollen is a great way from here.” I took the seat with thanks, and she resumed her own. “Rather hot weather for walking, sir!” said the precise-looking gentleman. “It is,” said I; “but as I can’t observe the country well without walking through it I put up with the heat.” “You exhibit a philosophic mind, sir,” said the precise-looking gentleman—“and a philosophic mind I hold in reverence.” “Pray, sir,” said I, “have I the honour of addressing a member of the medical profession?” “Sir,” said the precise-looking gentleman, getting up and making me a bow, “your question does honour to your powers of discrimination—a member of the medical profession I am, though an unworthy one.” “Nay, nay, doctor,” said the landlady briskly; “say not so—every one knows that you are a credit to your profession—well would it be if there were many in it like you—unworthy? marry come up! I won’t hear such an expression.” “I see,” said I, “that I have not only the honour of addressing a medical gentleman, but a doctor of medicine—however, I might have known as much by your language and deportment.” With a yet lower bow than, before he replied, with something of a sigh, “No, sir, no, our kind landlady and the neighbourhood are in the habit of placing doctor before my name, but I have no title to it—I am not Doctor Jones, sir, but plain Geffery Jones at your service,” and thereupon with another bow he sat down. “Do you reside here?” said I. “Yes, sir, I reside here in the place of my birth—I have not always resided here—and I did not always expect to spend my latter days in a place of such obscurity, but, sir, misfortunes—misfortunes . . .”