And you have wondered at the absence of love for you under so astounding a presentation.

Even in a Bull, beneficent as he can dream of being, when his notions are in a similar state of inversion, should be sheepish in hope for love.
He too, whom you call the Welshman, and deride for his delight in songful gatherings, harps to wild Wales, his Cambrian highlands, and not to England.

You have not yet, though he is orderly and serviceable, allured his imagination to the idea of England.

Despite the passion for his mountains and the boon of your raising of the interdict (within a hundred years) upon his pastors to harangue him in his native tongue, he gladly ships himself across the waters traversed by his Prince Madoc of tradition, and becomes contentedly a transatlantic citizen, a member of strange sects--he so inveterate in faithfulness to the hoar and the legendary!--Anything rather than Anglican.

The Cymry bear you no hatred; their affection likewise is undefined.