The landlord brought the ale, placed it on the table, and then stood as if waiting for something. “I suppose you are waiting to be paid,” said I; “what is your demand?” “Sixpence for this jug, and sixpence for the other,” said the landlord. I took out a shilling and said: “It is but right that I should pay half of the reckoning, and as the whole affair is merely a shilling matter I should feel obliged in being permitted to pay the whole, so, landlord, take the shilling and remember you are paid.” I then delivered the shilling to the landlord, but had no sooner done so than the man in grey, starting up in violent agitation, wrested the money from the other, and flung it down on the table before me saying:— “No, no, that will never do. I invited you in here to drink, and now you would pay for the liquor which I ordered. You English are free with your money, but you are sometimes free with it at the expense of people’s feelings. I am a Welshman, and I know Englishmen consider all Welshmen hogs. But we are not hogs, mind you! for we have little feelings which hogs have not. Moreover, I would have you know that we have money, though perhaps not so much as the Saxon.” Then putting his hand into his pocket he pulled out a shilling, and giving it to the landlord said in Welsh: “Now thou art paid, and mayst go thy ways till thou art again called for. I do not know why thou didst stay after thou hadst put down the ale. Thou didst know enough of me to know that thou didst run no risk of not being paid.” “But,” said I, after the landlord had departed, “I must insist on being my share. Did you not hear me say that I would give a quart of ale to see a poet?” “A poet’s face,” said the man in grey, “should be common to all, even like that of the sun. He is no true poet, who would keep his face from the world.” “But,” said I, “the sun frequently hides his head from the world, behind a cloud.” “Not so,” said the man in grey. “The sun does not hide his face, it is the cloud that hides it. The sun is always glad enough to be seen, and so is the poet. If both are occasionally hid, trust me it is no fault of theirs. Bear that in mind; and now pray take up your money.” “The man is a gentleman,” thought I to myself, “whether poet or not; but I really believe him to be a poet; were he not he could hardly talk in the manner I have just heard him.”