I soon reached Basallaig, a pleasant village standing in a valley and
nearly surrounded by the groves of Sir Charles Morgan. Seeing a decent
public-house I said to myself, "I think I shall step in and have my ale
here, and not go running after Sir Charles, whom perhaps after all I
shouldn't find at home." So I went in and called for a pint of ale.
Over my ale I trifled for about half-an-hour, then paying my groat I got
up and set off for Newport, in the midst of a thick mist which had
suddenly come on, and which speedily wetted me nearly to the skin.

I reached Newport at about half-past four, and put up at a large and
handsome inn called the King's Head. During dinner the waiter, unasked,
related to me his history. He was a short thick fellow of about forty,
with a very disturbed and frightened expression of countenance. He said
that he was a native of Brummagen, and had lived very happily at an inn
there as waiter, but at length had allowed himself to be spirited away to
an establishment high up in Wales amidst the scenery. That very few
visitors came to the establishment, which was in a place so awfully
lonesome that he soon became hipped, and was more than once half in a
mind to fling himself into a river which ran before the door and moaned
dismally. That at last he thought his best plan would be to decamp, and
accordingly took French leave early one morning. That after many frights
and much fatigue he had found himself at Newport, and taken service at
the King's Head, but did not feel comfortable, and was frequently visited
at night by dreadful dreams. That he should take the first opportunity
of getting to Brummagen, though he was afraid that he should not be able
to get into his former place, owing to his ungrateful behaviour. He then
uttered a rather eloquent eulogium on the beauties of the black capital,
and wound up all by saying that he would rather be a brazier's dog at
Brummagen than head waiter at the best establishment in Wales.

After dinner I took up a newspaper and found in it an account of the
battle of Inkerman, which appeared to have been fought on the fifth of
November, the very day on which I had ascended Plynlimmon. I was sorry
to find that my countrymen had suffered dreadfully, and would have been
utterly destroyed but for the opportune arrival of the French. "In my
childhood," said I, "the Russians used to help us against the French; now
the French help us against the Russians.