eciate, and depreciating to
restore, ultimately to cherish, in reward for the amusement furnished by
an eccentric person, not devoid of merit.

These little tales of her, pricking cool blood to some activity, were
furze-fires among the Welsh. But where the latter heard Bardic strings
inviting a chorus, the former as unanimously obeyed the stroke of their
humorous conductor's baton for an outburst from the ribs or below. And
it was really funny to hear of Whitechapel's titled heroine roaming
Taffyland at her old pranks.

Catching a maddened bull by the horns in the marketplace, and hanging to
the infuriate beast, a wild whirl of clouts, till he is reduced to be a
subject for steaks, that is no common feat.

Her performances down mines were things of the underworld. England
clapped hands, merely objecting to her not having changed her garb for
the picador's or matador's, before she seized the bull. Wales adopted
and was proud of her in any costume. Welshmen North and South, united
for the nonce, now propose her gallantry as a theme to the rival Bards
at the next Eisteddfod. She is to sit throned in full assembly, oak
leaves and mistletoe interwoven on her head, a white robe and green sash
to clothe her, and the vanquished beast's horns on a gilded pole behind
the dais; hearing the eulogies respectively interpreted to her by
Colonel Fluellen Wythan at one ear, and Captain Agincourt Gower at the
other. A splendid scene; she might well insist to be present.

There, however, we are at the pitch of burlesque beyond her illustrious
lord's capacity to stand. Peremptory orders from England arrive,
commanding her return. She temporizes, postpones, and supplicates to
have the period extended up to the close of the Eisteddfod. My lord's
orders are imperatively repeated, and very blunt. He will not have her
'continue playing the fool down there.' She holds her ground from August
into February, and then sets forth, to undergo the further process
of her taming at Esslemont in England; with Llewellyn and Vaughan and
Cadwallader, and Watkyn and Shenkyn and the remains of the race of
Owen Tudor, attending her; vowed to extract a receipt from the earl her
lord's responsible servitors for the safe delivery of their heroine's
person at the gates of Esslemont; ich dien their trumpeted motto.

Counting the number at four and twenty, it wears the look of an
invasion. But the said number is a ballad number, and has been since the
antique ti