By Berwen Banks | Page 7

a continual war of words.
"Well, I suppose so, indeed," said Betto; "you say so often enough,
whatever, and what you say must be right."
There was such an insidious mixture of flattery and sarcasm in her
words that, for a moment Ebben was at a loss what to answer, so Malen,
the milkmaid, took the opportunity of changing the subject.
"There's tons of bread will be baked on Monday," she said, "ready for
the Sassiwn. Jini 'bakkare' has two sacks of flour to bake, and there's
seven other women in Abersethin will bake the same quantity."
"At Morfa," said Shanw, "they have killed a cow and a sheep; and the
tongues, and fowls, and hams will fill every oven in the parish."
Betto sniffed and tossed her head scornfully. "They may well give them
bread and meat," she said, "for I don't see what else they have to give
them."
"What else, indeed," said Shanw, ready for the frequent fray. "They
won't have your hum-drum old church fregot[3], perhaps, but you come
and see, and hear Hughes Bangor, Price Merthyr, Jones Welshpool.
Nothing to give them, indeed! Why, Price Merthyr would send your old
red velvet cushion at church flying into smithireens in five minutes.
Haven't I heard him. He begins soft and low, like a cat purring on the
hearth, and then he gets louder and louder, till he ends like a roaring
lion. And our own preacher, Essec Powell, to begin and finish the
meeting. There's busy Valmai must be. Marged Hughes is there to help,
and she says--"
"Oh, be quiet," said Betto, "and go along with your Valmai, and your
Price Merthyr, and your hams, and lions, and things. Ach y fi! I don't
want to hear about such things in a clergyman's house."

"Valmai is a beauty, whatever," said Dye, the ploughboy. "I kiwked[4]
at her over the hedge this morning when she was going to Caer Madoc;
she's as pretty as an angel. Have you ever seen her, Ser?"
"Valmai," said Cardo, prevaricating, "surely that is a new name in this
neighbourhood?"
"Yes, she is Essec Powell's niece come home from over the sea. She is
an orphan, and they say the old man is keeping her reading and reading
to him all day till she is fair tired, poor thing."
"Well, it is getting late," said Cardo, "good-night." And his rising was
the signal for them all to disperse, the men servants going to their beds
over the hay loft or stable; while the women, leaving their wooden
shoes at the bottom, followed each other with soft tread up the creaking
back stairs.
In the study the Vicar poured over his books, as he translated from
English into Welsh the passages which interested him most. He was,
like many of the inhabitants of the South Wales coast, a descendant of
the Flemings, who had long ago settled there, and who have left such
strong and enduring marks of their presence.
Their language has long given place to a sort of doggerel English, but
they have never learned to speak the language of the country except in
some of the straggling border villages.
Pembrokeshire, in particular, retains a complete separateness, so to
speak, from the rest of the country, and is often called "Little England
beyond Wales." Thus it was that the English language seemed always
more natural to Meurig Wynne than the Welsh. His sermons were
always thought out in that language, and then translated into the
vernacular, and this, perhaps, accounted in some degree for their
stiffness and want of living interest. His descent from the Flemings had
the disadvantage of drawing a line of distinction between him and his
parishioners, and thus added to his unpopularity. In spite of this, Cardo
was an immense favourite, his frank and genial manner--inherited from
his mother, who was thoroughly Welsh--making its way easily to the

warm Welsh hearts. There was a deep well of tenderness, almost of pity,
within him for his cold stern father, a longing to break through his
reserve, a hankering after the loving ways of home life, which he
missed though he had never known them. The cold Fleming had very
little part in Cardo's nature, and, with his enthusiastic Welsh
sympathies, he was wont to regret and disclaim his connection with
these ancient ancestors. His father's pedigree, however, made it very
plain that the Gwynnes of Brynderyn were descended from Gwayn, a
Flemish wool merchant who had settled there in the reign of Henry
I.--these settlers being protected and encouraged by the English king,
who found their peaceable, industrious habits a great contrast to the
turbulence and restlessness of the Welsh under their foreign yoke. Time
has done but little to soften the difference between the Welsh and
Flemish characters;