Such a toothsome feast it was! A delicious ham where roses and lilies melted sweetly into one another; some crisp lettuces, ale in pewter mugs, a good old cheese, and that stodgy cannon-ball the "household loaf," dear for old association's sake. We were served at table by the granddaughter of the house, a little damsel of fifteen summers with sleek brown hair and the eyes of a doe. The pretty creature was all blushes and dimples and pinafores and curtsies and eloquent goodwill. With what a sweet politeness do they invest their service, some of these soft-voiced British maids!
Their kindness almost moves one to tears when one is fresh from the resentful civility fostered by Democracy.
As we strolled out on the greensward by the hawthorn hedge we were followed by the little waitress, whose name, however pronounced, was written Nelw Evans. She asked us if we would write in the "Locked Book," whereupon she presented us with the key. It seems that there is an ordinary Visitors' Book, where the common herd is invited to scrawl its unknown name; but when persons of evident distinction and genius patronize the inn, this "Locked Book" is put into their hands.
I found that many a lord and lady had written on its pages, and men mighty in Church and State had left their mark, with much bad poetry commendatory of the beds, the food, the scenery, and the fishing. Nobody, however, had given a line to pretty Nelw Evans;so I pencilled her a rhyme, for which I was well paid in dimples:-"At the Inn called the Penygwryd A sweet little maiden is hid.
She's so rosy and pretty I write her this ditty And leave it at Penygwryd."
Our next halt was at Bettws-y-Coed, where we passed the week-end.
It was a memorable spot, as I failed at first to rhyme the name, and only succeeded under threats of a fate like unto that of the immortal babes in the wood. I left the verse to be carved on a bronze tablet in the village church, should any one be found fitted to bear the weight of its eulogy:-"Here lies an old woman of Bettws-y-CoED;Wherever she went, it was there that she goED.
She frequently said: 'My own row have I hoED, And likewise the church water-mark have I toED.
I'm therefore expecting to reap what I've sowED, And go straight to heaven from Bettws-y-CoED.'"
At another stage of our journey, when the coaching tour was nearly ended, we were stopping at the Royal Goat at Beddgelert. We were seated about the cheerful blaze (one and sixpence extra), portfolio in lap, making ready our letters for the post. I announced my intention of writing to Salemina, left behind in London with a sprained ankle, and determined that the missive should be saturated with local colour. None of us were able to spell the few Welsh words we had picked up in our journeyings, but I evaded the difficulties by writing an exciting little episode in which all the principal substantives were names of Welsh towns, dragged in bodily, and so used as to deceive the casual untravelled reader.