“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.”
“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.”