Inn at L—The Handmaid—The Decanter—Religious Gentleman—Truly
Distressing—Sententiousness—Way to Pay Bills.
I proceeded on my way in high spirits indeed, having now seen not only
the tomb of the Tudors, but one of those sober poets for which Anglesey
has always been so famous. The country was pretty, with here and there a
hill, a harvest-field, a clump of trees or a grove. I soon reached L—, a
small but neat town. “Where is the — Arms?” said I to a man whom I met.
“Yonder, sir, yonder,” said he, pointing to a magnificent structure on
the left.
I went in and found myself in a spacious hall. A good-looking young
woman in a white dress, with a profusion of pink ribbons confronted me
with a curtsey. “A pint and a chop!” I exclaimed, with a flourish of my
hand and at the top of my voice. The damsel gave a kind of start, and
then, with something like a toss of the head, led the way into a very
large room, on the left, in which were many tables, covered with
snowy-white cloths, on which were plates, knives and forks, the latter
seemingly of silver, tumblers, and wineglasses.
“I think you asked for a pint and a chop, sir?” said the damsel,
motioning me to sit down at one of the tables.
“I did,” said I, as I sat down, “let them be brought with all convenient
speed, for I am in something of a hurry.”
“Very well, sir,” said the damsel, and then with another kind of toss of
the head, she went away, not forgetting to turn half round, to take a
furtive glance at me, before she went out of the door.
“Well,” said I, as I looked at the tables, with their snowy-white cloths,
tumblers, wine-glasses and what not, and at the walls of the room
glittering with mirrors, “surely a poet never kept so magnificent an inn
before; there must be something in this fellow besides the awen, or his
house would never exhibit such marks of prosperity, and good taste—there
must be something in this fellow; though he pretends to be a wild erratic
son of Parnassus, he must have an eye to the main chance, a genius for
turning the penny, or rather the sovereign, for the accommodation here is
no penny accommodation, as I shall probably find. Perhaps, however, like
myself, he has an exceedingly clever wife who whilst he is making verses,
or running about the country swigging ale with people in bulged shoes, or
buying pigs or glandered horses, looks after matters at home, drives a
swinging trade, and keeps not only herself, but him respectable—but even
in that event he must have a good deal of common sense in him, even like
myself, who always allow my wife to buy and sell, carry money to the
bank, draw cheques, inspect and pay tradesmen’s bills, and transact all
my real business, whilst I myself pore over old books, walk about shires,
discoursing with gypsies, under hedgerows, or with sober bards—in hedge
alehouses.” I continued musing in this manner until the handmaid made
her appearance with a tray, on which were covers and a decanter, which
she placed before me. “What is that?” said I, pointing to a decanter.
“Only a pint of sherry, sir,” said she of the white dress and ribbons.
“Dear me,” said I, “I ordered no sherry, I wanted some ale—a pint of
ale.”
“You called for a pint, sir,” said the handmaid, “but you mentioned no
ale, and I naturally supposed that a gentleman of your appearance”—here
she glanced at my dusty coat—“and speaking in the tone you did, would not
condescend to drink ale with his chop; however, as it seems I have been
mistaken, I can take away the sherry and bring you the ale.”
“Well, well,” said I, “you can let the sherry remain; I do not like
sherry, and am very fond of ale, but you can let the wine remain; upon
the whole I am glad you brought it. Indeed, I merely came to do a good
turn to the master of the house.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the handmaid.
“Are you his daughter?” said I.
“O no, sir,” said the handmaid reverently; “only his waiter.”
“You may be proud to wait on him,” said I.
“I am, sir,” said the handmaid, casting down her eyes.
“I suppose he is much respected in the neighbourhood?” said I.
“Very much so, sir,” said the damsel, “especially amidst the connection.”
“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.”
“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!”
“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 glass,” said I. So with a wry face I poured myself out a glass.
“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 glass, 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.”