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."

The man in grey now filled my gla.s.s, his own and that of his companion.

The latter emptied his in a minute, not forgetting first to say "the best prydydd in all the world!" The man in grey was also not slow to empty his own. The jug now pa.s.sed rapidly between my two friends, for the poet seemed determined to have his full share of the beverage. I allowed the ale in my gla.s.s to remain untasted, and began to talk about the bards, and to quote from their works. I soon found that the man in grey knew quite as much of the old bards and their works as myself. In one instance he convicted me of a mistake.

I had quoted those remarkable lines in which an old bard, doubtless seeing the Menai Bridge by means of second sight, says:-"I will pa.s.s to the land of Mona notwithstanding the waters of Menai, without waiting for the ebb"-and was feeling not a little proud of my erudition when the man in grey, after looking at me for a moment fixedly, asked me the name of the bard who composed them-"Sion Tudor," I replied.

"There you are wrong," said the man in grey; "his name was not Sion Tudor, but Robert Vychan, in English, Little Bob. Sion Tudor wrote an englyn on the Skerries whirlpool in the Menai; but it was Little Bob who wrote the stanza in which the future bridge over the Menai is hinted at."

"You are right," said I, "you are right. Well, I am glad that all song and learning are not dead in Ynis Fon."

"Dead," said the man in grey, whose features began to be rather flushed, "they are neither dead, nor ever will be. There are plenty of poets in Anglesey-why, I can mention twelve, and amongst them, and not the least-pooh, what was I going to say?-twelve there are, genuine Anglesey poets, born there, and living there for the love they bear their native land. When I say they all live in Anglesey, perhaps I am not quite accurate, for one of the dozen does not exactly live in Anglesey, but just over the bridge. He is an elderly man, but his awen, I a.s.sure you, is as young and vigorous as ever."

"I shouldn't be at all surprised," said I, "if he was a certain ancient gentleman, from whom I obtained information yesterday, with respect to the birth-place of Gronwy Owen."

"Very likely," said the man in grey; "well, if you have seen him consider yourself fortunate, for he is a genuine bard, and a genuine son of Anglesey, notwithstanding he lives across the water."

"If he is the person I allude to," said I, "I am doubly fortunate, for I have seen two bards of Anglesey."

"Sir," said the man in grey, "I consider myself quite as fortunate in having met such a Saxon as yourself, as it is possible for you to do, in having seen two bards of Ynis Fon."

"I suppose you follow some pursuit besides bardism?" said I; "I suppose you farm?"

"I do not farm," said the man in grey, "I keep an inn."

"Keep an inn?" said I.

"Yes," said the man in grey. "The - Arms at L-."

"Sure," said I, "inn-keeping and bardism are not very cognate pursuits?"

"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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sion, 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 gla.s.s, "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."

"So I have been," said the man in grey, "I have been kept out of the eisteddfodau-and then-what do you think? That fellow the editor of the _Times_-"

"O," said I, "if you have anything to do with the editor of the _Times_ you may, of course, expect nothing but shabby treatment, but what business could you have with him?"

"Why I sent him some pennillion for insertion, and he did not insert them."

"Were they in Welsh or English?"

"In Welsh, of course."

"Well, then the man had some excuse for disregarding them-because you know the _Times_ is written in English."

"O, you mean the London _Times_," said the man in grey. "Pooh! I did not allude to that trumpery journal, but the Liverpool _Times_, the Amserau. I sent some pennillion to the editor for insertion and he did not insert them. Peth a clwir cenfigen yn Saesneg?"

"We call cenfigen in English envy," said I; "but as I told you before, envy will not always prevail."

"You cannot imagine how pleased I am with your company," said the man in grey. "Landlord, landlord!"

"The greatest prydydd," said the man of the tattered hat, "the greatest prydydd."

"Pray don't order any more on my account," said I, "as you see my gla.s.s is still full. I am about to start for Caer Gybi. Pray where are you bound for?"

"For Bangor," said the man in grey. "I am going to the market."

"Then I would advise you to lose no time," said I, "or you will infallibly be too late; it must now be one o'clock."

"There is no market to-day," said the man in grey, "the market is to-morrow, which is Sat.u.r.day. I like to take things leisurely, on which account, when I go to market, I generally set out the day before, in order that I may enjoy myself upon the road. I feel myself so happy here that I shall not stir till the evening. Now pray stay with me and my friend till then."

"I cannot," said I, "if I stay longer here I shall never reach Caer Gybi to-night. But allow me to ask whether your business at L- will not suffer by your spending so much time on the road to market?"

"My wife takes care of the business whilst I am away," said the man in grey, "so it won't suffer much. Indeed it is she who chiefly conducts the business of the inn. I spend a good deal of time from home, for besides being a bard and innkeeper, I must tell you I am a horse-dealer and a jobber, and if I go to Bangor it is in the hope of purchasing a horse or pig worth the money."