inn in Wales, and if your honour is as good a judge of an inn as of a horse, I think you will say so when you leave it. Prydnawn da ’chwi!” CHAPTER XLIX Tom Jenkins—Ale of Bala—Sober Moments—Local Prejudices—The States—Unprejudiced Man—Welsh Pensilvanian Settlers—Drapery Line—Evening Saunter. Scarcely had I entered the door of the inn when a man presented himself to me with a low bow. He was about fifty years of age, somewhat above the middle size, and had grizzly hair, and a dark, freckled countenance, in which methought I saw a considerable dash of humour. He wore brown clothes, had no hat on his head, and held a napkin in his hand. “Are you the master of this hotel?” said I. “No, your honour,” he replied, “I am only the waiter, but I officiate for my master in all things; my master has great confidence in me, sir.” “And I have no doubt,” said I, “that he could not place his confidence in any one more worthy.” With a bow yet lower than the preceding one the waiter replied with a smirk and a grimace, “Thank, your honour, for your good opinion. I assure your honour that I am deeply obliged.” His air, manner, and even accent, were so like those of a Frenchman, that I could not forbear asking him whether he was one. He shook his head and replied, “No, your honour, no, I am not a Frenchman, but a native of this poor country, Tom Jenkins by name.” “Well,” said I, “you really look and speak like a Frenchman, but no wonder; the Welsh and French are much of the same blood. Please now to show me into the parlour.” He opened the door of a large apartment, placed a chair by a table which stood in the middle, and then with another bow requested to know my farther pleasure. After ordering dinner I said that, as I was thirsty, I should like to have some ale forthwith. “Ale you shall have, your honour,” said Tom, “and some of the best ale that can be drunk. This house is famous for ale.” “I suppose you get your ale from Llangollen,” said I, “which is celebrated for its ale over Wales.” “Get our ale from Llangollen?” said Tom, with a sneer of contempt, “no, nor anything else. As for the ale, it was brewed in this house by your honour’s humble servant.” “Oh,” said I, “if you brewed it, it must of course be good. Pray bring me some immediately, for I am anxious to drink ale of your brewing.” “Your honour shall be obeyed,” said Tom, and disappearing, returned in a twinkling with a tray, on which stood a jug filled with liquor, and a glass. He forthwith filled the glass, and pointing to its contents, said— “There, your honour, did you ever see such ale? Observe its colour! Does it not look for all the world as pale and delicate as cowslip wine?” “I wish it may not taste like cowslip wine,” said I; “to tell you the truth, I am no particular admirer of ale that looks pale and delicate; for I always think there is no strength in it.” “Taste it, your honour,” said Tom, “and tell me if you ever tasted such ale.”