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 a 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 glass, 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 passed rapidly
between my two friends, for the poet seemed determined to have his
full share of the beverage. I allowed the ale in my glass 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
pass to the land of Mona notwithstanding the waters of the 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.
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