I
met him at Dyffrin Gaint, along with another man, and he took me
into the public-house, where we had a deal of discourse."
"You met my master at Dyffryn Gaint?" said the damsel.
"Yes," said I, "and he treated me with ale, told me that he was a
poet, and that he was going to Bangor to buy a horse or a pig."
"I don't see how that could be, sir," said the damsel; "my master
is at present in the house, rather unwell, and has not been out for
the last three days - there must be some mistake."
"Mistake," said I. "Isn't this the - Arms?"
"Yes, sir, it is."
"And isn't your master's name W-?"
"No, sir, my master's name is H-, and a more respectable man - "
"Well," said I interrupting her - "all I can say is that I met a
man in Dyffryn Gaint, who treated me with ale, told me that his
name was W-, that he was a prydydd and kept the - Arms at L-."
"Well," said the damsel, "now I remember, there is a person of that
name in L-, and he also keeps a house which he calls the - Arms,
but it is only a public-house."
"But," said I, "is he not a prydydd, an illustrious poet; does he
not write pennillion which everybody admires?"
"Well," said the damsel, "I believe he does write things which he
calls pennillions, but everybody laughs at them."
"Come, come," said I, "I will not hear the productions of a man who
treated me with ale, spoken of with disrespect. I am afraid that
you are one of his envious maligners, of which he gave me to
understand that he had a great many."
"Envious, sir! not I indeed; and if I were disposed to be envious
of anybody it would not be of him; oh dear, why he is - "
"A bard of Anglesey," said I, interrupting her, "such a person as
Gronwy Owen describes in the following lines, which by-the-bye were
written upon himself:-
"'Where'er he goes he's sure to find
Respectful looks and greetings kind.'
"I tell you that it was out of respect to that man that I came to
this house. Had I not thought that he kept it, I should not have
entered it and called for a pint and chop - how distressing! how
truly distressing!"
"Well, sir," said the damsel, "if there is anything distressing you
have only to thank your acquaintance who chooses to call his mug-
house by the name of a respectable hotel, for I would have you know
that this is an hotel, and kept by a respectable and a religious
man, and not kept by - However, I scorn to say more, especially as
I might be misinterpreted. Sir, there's your pint and chop, and if
you wish for anything else you can ring. Envious, indeed, of such
- Marry come up!" and with a toss of her head, higher than any she
had hitherto given, she bounced out of the room.
Here was a pretty affair! I had entered the house and ordered the
chop and pint in the belief that by so doing I was patronising the
poet, and lo, I was not in the poet's house, and my order would
benefit a person for whom, however respectable and religious, I
cared not one rush. Moreover, the pint which I had ordered
appeared in the guise not of ale, which I am fond of, but of
sherry, for which I have always entertained a sovereign contempt,
as a silly, sickly compound, the use of which will transform a
nation, however bold and warlike by nature, into a race of
sketchers, scribblers, and punsters, in fact into what Englishmen
are at the present day. But who was to blame? Why, who but the
poet and myself? The poet ought to have told me that there were
two houses in L- bearing the sign of the - Arms, and that I must
fight shy of the hotel and steer for the pot-house, and when I gave
the order I certainly ought to have been a little more explicit;
when I said a pint I ought to have added - of ale. Sententiousness
is a fine thing sometimes, but not always. By being sententious
here, I got sherry, which I dislike, instead of ale which I like,
and should have to pay more for what was disagreeable, than I
should have had to pay for what was agreeable. Yet I had merely
echoed the poet's words in calling for a pint and chop, so after
all the poet was to blame for both mistakes. But perhaps he meant
that I should drink sherry at his house, and when he advised me to
call for a pint, he meant a pint of sherry. But the maid had said
he kept a pot-house, and no pot-houses have wine-licences; but the
maid after all might be an envious baggage, and no better than she
should be. But what was now to be done? Why, clearly make the
best of the matter, eat the chop and leave the sherry. So I
commenced eating the chop, which was by this time nearly cold.
After eating a few morsels I looked at the sherry: "I may as well
take a glass," said I. So with a wry face I poured myself out a
glass.
"What detestable stuff!" said I, after I had drunk it. "However,
as I shall have to pay for it I may as well go through with it."
So I poured myself out another glass, and by the time I had
finished the chop I had finished the sherry also.
And now what was I to do next? Why, my best advice seemed to be to
pay my bill and depart.
