Jack Copley is very autocratic, almost brutal in discipline. It is
he who leads me up to the Visitors' Books at the wayside inns, and
putting the quill in my reluctant fingers bids me write in cheerful
hexameters my impressions of the unpronounceable spot. My
martyrdom began at Penygwryd (Penny-goo-rid'). We might have
stopped at Conway or some other town of simple name, or we might
have allowed the roof of the Cambrian Arms or the Royal Goat or the
Saracen's Read to shelter us comfortably, and provide me a
comparatively easy task; but no; Penygwryd it was, and the
outskirts at that, because of two inns that bore on their swinging
signs the names: Ty Ucha and Ty Isaf, both of which would make any
minor poet shudder. When I saw the sign over the door of our
chosen hostelry I was moved to disappear and avert my fate. Hunger
at length brought me out of my lair, and promising to do my duty, I
was allowed to join the irresponsible ones at luncheon.

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,