“Well, but might he not have died of the same, if he had remained at home?” “No, your honour, no! he lived here many a year, and never died of a drunken fever; he was rather fond of liquor, it is true, but he never died at Bala of a drunken fever; but when he went to Llangollen he did. Now, your honour, if there is not something more drunken about Llangollen than about Bala, why did my nephew die at Llangollen of a drunken fever?” “Really,” said I, “you are such a close reasoner, that I do not like to dispute with you. One observation, however, I wish to make: I have lived at Llangollen without, I hope, becoming a drunkard.” “Oh, your honour is out of the question,” said the Celtic waiter, with a strange grimace. “Your honour is an Englishman, an English gentleman, and of course could live all the days of your life at Llangollen without being a drunkard, he he! Who ever heard of an Englishman, especially an English gentleman, being a drunkard, he he he! And now, your honour, pray excuse me, for I must go and see that your honour’s dinner is being got ready in a suitable manner.” Thereupon he left me, with a bow yet lower than any I had previously seen him make. If his manners put me in mind of those of a Frenchman, his local prejudices brought powerfully to my recollection those of a Spaniard. Tom Jenkins swears by Bala and abuses Llangollen, and calls its people drunkards, just as a Spaniard exalts his own village, and vituperates the next and its inhabitants, whom, though he will not call them drunkards, unless, indeed, he happens to be a Gallegan, he will not hesitate to term “una caterva de pillos y embusteros.”