“You do quite right,” said I. “Has your master written any poetry lately?” “Sir!” said the damsel, staring at me. “Any poetry,” said I, “any pennillion?” “No, sir,” said the damsel; “my master is a respectable man, and would scorn to do anything of the kind.” “Why,” said I, “is not your master a bard as well as an innkeeper?” “My master, sir, is an innkeeper,” said the damsel; “but as for the other, I don’t know what you mean.” “A bard,” said I, “is a prydydd, a person who makes verses—pennillion; does not your master make them?” “My master make them? No, sir; my master is a religious gentleman, and would scorn to make such profane stuff.” “Well,” said I, “he told me he did within the last two hours. I met him at Dyffryn 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 pennillion, 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; O 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!”