"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!"

"Well, sir," said the damsel, "if there is anything distressing you have only to thank your acquaintance who chooses to call his mughouse by the name of a respectable hotel, for I would have you know that this is an hotel, and kept by a respectable and religious man, and not kept by-.

However, I scorn to say more, especially as I might be misinterpreted.

Sir, there's your pint and chop, and if you wish for anything else you can ring. Envious, indeed, of such. Marry come up!" and with a toss of her head, higher than any she had hitherto given, she bounced out of the room.

Here was a pretty affair! I had entered the house and ordered the chop and pint in the belief that by so doing I was patronising the poet, and lo, I was not in the poet's house, and my order would benefit a person for whom, however respectable and religious, I cared not one rush.

Moreover, the pint which I had ordered appeared in the guise not of ale, which I am fond of, but of sherry, for which I have always entertained a sovereign contempt, as a silly, sickly compound, the use of which will transform a nation, however bold and warlike by nature, into a race of sketchers, scribblers, and punsters, in fact into what Englishmen are at the present day. But who was to blame? Why, who but the poet and myself? The poet ought to have told me that there were two houses in L- bearing the sign of the - Arms, and that I must fight shy of the hotel and steer for the pot-house, and when I gave the order I certainly ought to have been a little more explicit; when I said a pint, I ought to have added-of ale. Sententiousness is a fine thing sometimes, but not always.

By being sententious here, I got sherry, which I dislike, instead of ale which I like, and should have to pay more for what was disagreeable than I should have had to pay for what was agreeable. Yet I had merely echoed the poet's words in calling for a pint and chop, so after all the poet was to blame for both mistakes. But perhaps he meant that I should drink sherry at his house, and when he advised me to call for a pint, he meant a pint of sherry. But the maid had said he kept a pot-house, and no pot-houses have wine-licences; but the maid after all might be an envious baggage, and no better than she should be. But what was now to be done?

Why, clearly make the best of the matter, eat the chop and leave the sherry. So I commenced eating the chop, which was by this time nearly cold. After eating a few morsels I looked at the sherry; "I may as well take a gla.s.s," said I. So with a wry face I poured myself out a gla.s.s.

"What detestable stuff!" said I, after I had drunk it. "However, as I shall have to pay for it I may as well go through with it." So I poured myself out another gla.s.s, and by the time I had finished the chop I had finished the sherry also.

And now what was I to do next? Why, my best advice seemed to be to pay my bill and depart. But I had promised the poet to patronise his house, and had by mistake ordered and despatched a pint and chop in a house which was not the poet's. Should I now go to his house and order a pint and chop there? Decidedly not! I had patronised a house which I believed to be the poet's; if I patronised the wrong one, the fault was his, not mine-he should have been more explicit. I had performed my promise, at least in intention.

Perfectly satisfied with the conclusion I had come to, I rang the bell.

"The bill?" said I to the handmaid.

"Here it is!" said she, placing a strip of paper in my hand.

I looked at the bill, and, whether moderate or immoderate, paid it with a smiling countenance, commended the entertainment highly, and gave the damsel something handsome for her trouble in waiting on me.

Reader, please to bear in mind that as all bills must be paid, it is much more comfortable to pay them with a smile than with a frown, and that it is much better by giving sixpence, or a shilling to a poor servant, which you will never miss at the year's end, to be followed from the door of an inn by good wishes, than by giving nothing to be pursued by cutting silence, or the yet more cutting Hm!

"Sir," said the good-looking, well-ribboned damsel, "I wish you a pleasant journey, and whenever you please again to honour our establishment with your presence, both my master and myself shall be infinitely obliged to you."

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

Oats and Methodism-The Little Girl-Ty Gwyn-Bird of the Roof-Purest English-Railroads-Inconsistency-The Boots.

It might be about four in the afternoon when I left L- bound for Pen Caer Gybi, or Holy Head, seventeen miles distant. I reached the top of the hill on the west of the little town, and then walked briskly forward.

The country looked poor and mean-on my right was a field of oats, on my left a Methodist chapel-oats and Methodism! what better symbols of poverty and meanness?

I went onward a long way; the weather was broiling hot, and I felt thirsty. On the top of a long ascent stood a house by the roadside. I went to the door and knocked-no answer-"Oes neb yn y ty?" said I.

"Oes!" said an infantine voice.

I opened the door, and saw a little girl. "Have you any water?" said I.

"No," said the child; "but I have this," and she brought me some b.u.t.ter-milk in a basin. I just tasted it, gave the child a penny and blessed her.

"Oes genoch tad?"

"No," said she; "but I have a mam." Tad im mam; blessed sounds; in all languages expressing the same blessed things.

After walking for some hours I saw a tall blue hill in the far distance before me. "What is the name of that hill?" said I to a woman whom I met.

"Pen Caer Gybi," she replied.

Soon after I came to a village near to a rocky gulley. On inquiring the name of the village, I was told it was Llan yr Afon, or the church of the river. I pa.s.sed on; the country was neither grand nor pretty-it exhibited a kind of wildness, however, which did not fail to interest me-there were stones, rocks, and furze in abundance. Turning round the corner of a hill, I observed through the mists of evening, which began to gather about me, what seemed to be rather a genteel house on the road-side, on my left, and a little way behind it a strange kind of monticle, on which I thought I observed tall upright stones. Quickening my pace, I soon came parallel with the house, which, as I drew nigh, ceased to look like a genteel house, and exhibited an appearance of great desolation. It was a white, or rather grey structure of some antiquity.

It was evidently used as a farm-house, for there was a yard adjoining to it, in which were stacks and agricultural implements. Observing two men in the yard, I went in. They were respectable, farming-looking men, between forty and fifty; one had on a coat and hat, the other a cap and jacket. "Good evening," I said in Welsh.

"Good evening," they replied in the same language, looking inquiringly at me.

"What is the name of this place?" said I.

"It is called Ty gwyn," said the man of the hat.

"On account of its colour, I suppose?" said I.

"Just so," said the man of the hat.

"It looks old," said I.

"And it is old," he replied. "In the time of the Papists it was one of their chapels."

"Does it belong to you?" I demanded.

"O no, it belongs to one Mr. Sparrow from Liverpool. I am his bailiff, and this man is a carpenter who is here doing a job for him."

Here ensued a pause, which was broken by the man of the hat saying in English to the man of the cap-

"Who can this strange fellow be? he has not a word of English, and though he speaks Welsh, his Welsh sounds very different from ours. Who can he be?"

"I am sure I don't know," said the other.

"I know who he is," said the first; "he comes from Llydaw, or Armorica, which was peopled from Britain estalom, and where I am told the real old Welsh language is still spoken."

"I think I heard you mention the word Llydaw?" said I to the man of the hat.

"Ah," said the man of the hat, speaking Welsh, "I was right after all; oh, I could have sworn you were Llydaweg. Well, how are the descendants of the ancient Britons getting on in Llydaw?"

"They were getting on tolerably well," said I, "when I last saw them, though all things do not go exactly as they could wish."

"Of course not," said he of the hat. "We too have much to complain of here; the lands are almost entirely taken possession of by Saxons, wherever you go you will find them settled, and a Saxon bird of the roof must build its nest in Gwyn dy."