“You are wrong,” said the man in grey, “I believe the awen, or inspiration, is quite as much at home in the bar as in the barn, perhaps more. It is that belief which makes me tolerably satisfied with my position, and prevents me from asking Sir Richard to give me a farm instead of an inn.” “I suppose,” said I, “that Sir Richard is your landlord?” “He is,” said the man in grey, “and a right noble landlord too.” “I suppose,” said I, “that he is right proud of his tenant?” “He is,” said the man in grey, “and I am proud of my landlord, and will here drink his health. I have often said that if I were not what I am, I should wish to be Sir Richard.” “You consider yourself his superior?” said I. “Of course,” said the man in grey—“a baronet is a baronet; but a bard is a bard you know—I never forget what I am, and the respect due to my sublime calling. About a month ago I was seated in an upper apartment, in a fit of rapture; there was a pen in my hand, and paper before me on the table, and likewise a jug of good ale, for I always find that the awen is most prodigal of her favours, when a jug of good ale is before me. All of a sudden my wife came running up, and told me that Sir Richard was below, and wanted to speak to me. ‘Tell him to walk up,’ said I. ‘Are you mad?’ said my wife. ‘Don’t you know who Sir Richard is?’ ‘I do,’ said I, ‘a baronet is a baronet, but a bard is a bard. Tell him to walk up.’ Well, my wife went and told Sir Richard that I was writing, and could not come down, and that she hoped he would not object to walk up. ‘Certainly not; certainly not,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I shall be only too happy to ascend to a genius on his hill. You may be proud of such a husband, Mrs. W.’ And here it will be as well to tell you that my name is W—, J. W. of —. Sir Richard then came up, and I received him with gravity and politeness. I did not rise, of course, for I never forget myself a moment, but I told him to sit down, and added that after I had finished the pennill I was engaged upon, I would speak to him. Well, Sir Richard smiled and sat down, and begged me not to hurry myself, for that he could wait. So I finished the pennill, deliberately, mind you, for I did not forget who I was, and then turning to Sir Richard entered upon business with him.” “I suppose Sir Richard is a very good-tempered man?” said I. “I don’t know,” said the man in grey. “I have seen Sir Richard in a devil of a passion, but never with me—no, no! Trust Sir Richard for not riding the high horse with me—a baronet is a baronet, but a bard is a bard; and that Sir Richard knows.” “The greatest prydydd,” said the man of the tattered hat, emptying the last contents of the jug into his glass, “the greatest prydydd that—” “Well,” said I, “you appear to enjoy very great consideration, and yet you were talking just now of being ill-used.”