nts, while some
were engaged in the yet more difficult task of drawing them up; and some
of these, sons of nobody, were paid for the work they did, whilst others,
like myself, sons of somebody, paid for being permitted to work, which,
as our principal observed, was but reasonable, forasmuch as we not
unfrequently utterly spoiled the greater part of the work entrusted to
our hands.

There was one part of the day when I generally found myself quite alone,
I mean at the hour when the rest went home to their principal meal; I,
being the youngest, was left to take care of the premises, to answer the
bell, and so forth, till relieved, which was seldom before the expiration
of an hour and a half, when I myself went home; this period, however, was
anything but disagreeable to me, for it was then that I did what best
pleased me, and, leaving off copying the documents, I sometimes indulged
in a fit of musing, my chin resting on both my hands, and my elbows
planted on the desk; or, opening the desk aforesaid, I would take out one
of the books contained within it, and the book which I took out was
almost invariably, not Blackstone, but Ab Gwilym.

Ah, that Ab Gwilym! I am much indebted to him, and it were ungrateful on
my part not to devote a few lines to him and his songs in this my
history. Start not, reader, I am not going to trouble you with a
poetical dissertation; no, no; I know my duty too well to introduce
anything of the kind; but I, who imagine I know several things, and
amongst others the workings of your mind at this moment, have an idea
that you are anxious to learn a little, a very little, more about Ab
Gwilym than I have hitherto told you, the two or three words that I have
dropped having awakened within you a languid kind of curiosity. I have
no hesitation in saying that he makes one of the some half-dozen really
great poets whose verses, in whatever language they wrote, exist at the
present day, and are more or less known. It matters little how I first
became acquainted with the writings of this man, and how the short thick
volume, stuffed full with his immortal imaginings, first came into my
hands. I was studying Welsh, and I fell in with Ab Gwilym by no very
strange chance. 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,