“Well,” said I, as I looked at the tables, with their snowy-white cloths, tumblers, wine-glasses and what not, and at the walls of the room glittering with mirrors, “surely a poet never kept so magnificent an inn before; there must be something in this fellow besides the awen, or his house would never exhibit such marks of prosperity, and good taste—there must be something in this fellow; though he pretends to be a wild erratic son of Parnassus, he must have an eye to the main chance, a genius for turning the penny, or rather the sovereign, for the accommodation here is no penny accommodation, as I shall probably find. Perhaps, however, like myself, he has an exceedingly clever wife who whilst he is making verses, or running about the country swigging ale with people in bulged shoes, or buying pigs or glandered horses, looks after matters at home, drives a swinging trade, and keeps not only herself, but him respectable—but even in that event he must have a good deal of common sense in him, even like myself, who always allow my wife to buy and sell, carry money to the bank, draw cheques, inspect and pay tradesmen’s bills, and transact all my real business, whilst I myself pore over old books, walk about shires, discoursing with gypsies, under hedgerows, or with sober bards—in hedge alehouses.” I continued musing in this manner until the handmaid made her appearance with a tray, on which were covers and a decanter, which she placed before me. “What is that?” said I, pointing to a decanter. “Only a pint of sherry, sir,” said she of the white dress and ribbons. “Dear me,” said I, “I ordered no sherry, I wanted some ale—a pint of ale.” “You called for a pint, sir,” said the handmaid, “but you mentioned no ale, and I naturally supposed that a gentleman of your appearance”—here she glanced at my dusty coat—“and speaking in the tone you did, would not condescend to drink ale with his chop; however, as it seems I have been mistaken, I can take away the sherry and bring you the ale.” “Well, well,” said I, “you can let the sherry remain; I do not like sherry, and am very fond of ale, but you can let the wine remain; upon the whole I am glad you brought it. Indeed, I merely came to do a good turn to the master of the house.” “Thank you, sir,” said the handmaid. “Are you his daughter?” said I. “O no, sir,” said the handmaid reverently; “only his waiter.” “You may be proud to wait on him,” said I. “I am, sir,” said the handmaid, casting down her eyes. “I suppose he is much respected in the neighbourhood?” said I. “Very much so, sir,” said the damsel, “especially amidst the connection.” “The connection,” said I. “Ah I see, he has extensive consanguinity, most Welsh have. But,” I continued, “there is such a thing as envy in the world, and there are a great many malicious people in the world, who speak against him.” “A great many, sir, but we take what they say from whence it comes.”