He seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself, and in common
hardly dared to give way to justifiable anger—so much did he dread losing
his self-control. Had he been judiciously educated, he would, probably,
have distinguished himself in those branches of literature which call for
taste and imagination, rather than any exertion of reflection or
judgment. As it was, his literary taste showed itself in making
collections of Cambrian antiquities of every description, till his stock
of Welsh MSS. would have excited the envy of Dr. Pugh himself, had he
been alive at the time of which I write. There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which I have omitted to
note, and which was peculiar among his class. He was no hard drinker;
whether it was that his head was easily affected, or that his
partially-refined taste led him to dislike intoxication and its attendant
circumstances, I cannot say; but at five-and-twenty Robert Griffiths was
habitually sober—a thing so rare in Llyn, that he was almost shunned as a
churlish, unsociable being, and paused much of his time in solitude. About this time, he had to appear in some case that was tried at the
Caernarvon assizes; and while there, was a guest at the house of his
agent, a shrewd, sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who had
charms enough to captivate Robert Griffiths. Though he remained only a
few days at her father’s house, they were sufficient to decide his
affections, and short was the period allowed to elapse before he brought
home a mistress to Bodowen. The new Mrs. Griffiths was a gentle,
yielding person, full of love toward her husband, of whom, nevertheless,
she stood something in awe, partly arising from the difference in their
ages, partly from his devoting much time to studies of which she could
understand nothing. She soon made him the father of a blooming little daughter, called
Augharad after her mother. Then there came several uneventful years in
the household of Bodowen; and when the old women had one and all declared
that the cradle would not rock again, Mrs. Griffiths bore the son and
heir. His birth was soon followed by his mother’s death: she had been
ailing and low-spirited during her pregnancy, and she seemed to lack the
buoyancy of body and mind requisite to bring her round after her time of
trial. Her husband, who loved her all the more from having few other
claims on his affections, was deeply grieved by her early death, and his
only comforter was the sweet little boy whom she had left behind. That
part of the squire’s character, which was so tender, and almost feminine,
seemed called forth by the helpless situation of the little infant, who
stretched out his arms to his father with the same earnest cooing that
happier children make use of to their mother alone. Augharad was almost
neglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; still next to his
father, none tended him so lovingly as his sister. She was so accustomed
to give way to him that it was no longer a hardship. By night and by day
Owen was the constant companion of his father, and increasing years
seemed only to confirm the custom. It was an unnatural life for the
child, seeing no bright little faces peering into his own (for Augharad
was, as I said before, five or six years older, and her face, poor
motherless girl! was often anything but bright), hearing no din of clear
ringing voices, but day after day sharing the otherwise solitary hours of
his father, whether in the dim room, surrounded by wizard-like
antiquities, or pattering his little feet to keep up with his “tada” in
his mountain rambles or shooting excursions. When the pair came to some
little foaming brook, where the stepping-stones were far and wide, the
father carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when the
lad was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father’s arms, or the
Squire would lift him up and carry him to his home again. The boy was
indulged (for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his wish of
sharing his meals and keeping the same hours. All this indulgence did
not render Owen unamiable, but it made him wilful, and not a happy child. He had a thoughtful look, not common to the face of a young boy. He knew
no games, no merry sports; his information was of an imaginative and
speculative character. His father delighted to interest him in his own
studies, without considering how far they were healthy for so young a
mind. Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware of the prophecy which was to
be fulfilled in his generation. He would occasionally refer to it when
among his friends, with sceptical levity; but in truth it lay nearer to
his heart than he chose to acknowledge. His strong imagination rendered
him peculiarly impressible on such subjects; while his judgment, seldom
exercised or fortified by severe thought, could not prevent his
continually recurring to it. He used to gaze on the half-sad countenance
of the child, who sat looking up into his face with his large dark eyes,
so fondly yet so inquiringly, till the old legend swelled around his
heart, and became too painful for him not to require sympathy. Besides,
the overpowering love he bore to the child seemed to demand fuller vent
than tender words; it made him like, yet dread, to upbraid its object for
the fearful contrast foretold. Still Squire Griffiths told the legend,
in a half-jesting manner, to his little son, when they were roaming over
the wild heaths in the autumn days, “the saddest of the year,” or while
they sat in the oak-wainscoted room, surrounded by mysterious relics that
gleamed strangely forth by the flickering fire-light. The legend was
wrought into the boy’s mind, and he would crave, yet tremble, to hear it
told over and over again, while the words were intermingled with caresses
and questions as to his love. Occasionally his loving words and actions
were cut short by his father’s light yet bitter speech—“Get thee away, my
lad; thou knowest not what is to come of all this love.”

When Augharad was seventeen, and Owen eleven or twelve, the rector of the
parish in which Bodowen was situated, endeavoured to prevail on Squire
Griffiths to send the boy to school. Now, this rector had many congenial
tastes with his parishioner, and was his only intimate; and, by repeated
arguments, he succeeded in convincing the Squire that the unnatural life
Owen was leading was in every way injurious. Unwillingly was the father
wrought to part from his son; but he did at length send him to the
Grammar School at Bangor, then under the management of an excellent
classic. Here Owen showed that he had more talents than the rector had
given him credit for, when he affirmed that the lad had been completely
stupefied by the life he led at Bodowen. He bade fair to do credit to
the school in the peculiar branch of learning for which it was famous. But he was not popular among his schoolfellows.