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Will swore under his breath, Gwilym Morris was even more tender than usual to every member of the family, and Ebben Owens went about the farm with a hard look on his face, and a red spot on each cheek, but nobody said anything more about sending for a policeman. Ann cried herself to sleep that night.
'Tis not often we're having visitors here, so we are very glad when anybody is come." "I was afraid, perhaps, I was taking rather a liberty," said Gwenda, laying her hat and gloves aside, "but you are all so kind, you make me feel quite at home." "That's right," said the old man; "there's a pity now, my son-in-law, Gwilym Morris, is not at home.
"The females remained for some time speechless; all of a sudden, however, their anger kindled, not against the bard, but against each other. From harsh and taunting words they soon came to actions: hair was torn off, faces were scratched, blood flowed from cheek and nose. Whilst the tumult was at its fiercest Ab Gwilym slipped away."
I thought that I would make a last and desperate attempt to dispose of the ballads and of Ab Gwilym.
However, I determined to see what could be done, so I took my ballads under my arm, and went to various publishers; some took snuff, others did not, but none took my ballads or Ab Gwilym, they would not even look at them. One asked me if I had anything else he was a snuff-taker I said yes; and going home returned with my translation of the German novel, to which I have before alluded.
Well 'twas a night I never will forget that night when Gwilym Morris lost his bag of gold; 'twas a night, Sara, that made a deep mark on me, a blow it was that nearly drove me to destruction and ruin. I may as well tell thee everything, Sara, and make a clean breast of it all.
Dafydd Ab Gwilym has been in general considered as a songster who never employed his muse on any subject save that of love, and there can be no doubt that by far the greater number of his pieces are devoted more or less to the subject of love. But to consider him merely in the light of an amatory poet would be wrong. He has written poems of wonderful power on almost every conceivable subject.
But, before I say more about Ab Gwilym, I must be permitted—I really must—to say a word or two about the language in which he wrote, that same ‘Sweet Welsh.’ If I remember right, I found the language a difficult one; in mastering it, however, I derived unexpected assistance from what of Irish remained in my head, and I soon found that they were cognate dialects, springing from some old tongue which itself, perhaps, had sprung from one much older.
"My husband," she said, pointing to Gwilym, who flung away his book and came forward laughing. "My dear girl," he said, "although Mr. Price and I work apart on Sundays, we meet continually in the week, and need no introduction, I think." Mr. Price joined in the laugh, and shook hands warmly with the preacher and Will, and the conversation soon flowed easily.
"Come, Ann, let us follow him," whispered Morva. "No," answered Ann, withdrawing her hand from Morva's warm clasp, "I cannot. Go thou and comfort him. I will wait for Gwilym." And Morva did not hesitate, though it required some courage to make her way through that shocked and scandalised throng.
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