“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.”