system of gradual conquest.  A new tide of invasion flowed along the southern coast, where the land was level and open and accessible from the sea.  The attack was aided by strife in the country itself.  Robert Fitz-Hamo, the lord of Gloucester, was summoned to his aid by a Welsh chieftain; and his defeat of Rhys ap Tewdor, the last prince under whom Southern Wales was united, produced an anarchy which enabled Robert to land safely on the coast of Glamorgan, to conquer the country round, and to divide it among his soldiers.  A force of Flemings and Englishmen followed the Earl of Clare as he landed near Milford Haven and pushing back the British inhabitants settled a “Little England” in the present Pembrokeshire.  A few daring adventurers accompanied the Norman Lord of Kemeys into Cardigan, where land might be had for the winning by any one who would “wage war on the Welsh.”

[Sidenote:  The Welsh Revival]

It was at this moment, when the utter subjugation of the British race seemed at hand, that a new outburst of energy rolled back the tide of invasion and changed the fitful resistance of the separate Welsh provinces into a national effort to regain independence.  To all outer seeming Wales had become utterly barbarous.  Stripped of every vestige of the older Roman civilization by ages of bitter warfare, of civil strife, of estrangement from the general culture of Christendom, the unconquered Britons had sunk into a mass of savage herdsmen, clad in the skins and fed by the milk of the cattle they tended.  Faithless, greedy, and revengeful, retaining no higher political organization than that of the clan, their strength was broken by ruthless feuds, and they were united only in battle or in raid against the stranger.  But in the heart of the wild people there still lingered a spark of the poetic fire which had nerved it four hundred years before through Aneurin and Llywarch Hen to its struggle with the earliest Englishmen.  At the hour of its lowest degradation the silence of Wales was suddenly broken by a crowd of singers.  The song of the twelfth century burst forth, not from one bard or another, but from the nation at large.  The Welsh temper indeed was steeped in poetry.  “In every house,” says the shrewd Gerald de Barri, “strangers who arrived in the morning were entertained till eventide with the talk of maidens and the music of the harp.”  A romantic literature, which was destined to leaven the fancy of western Europe, had grown up among this wild people and found an admirable means of utterance in its tongue.  The Welsh language was as real a developement of the old Celtic language heard by Caesar as the Romance tongues are developements of Caesar’s Latin, but at a far earlier date than any other language of modern Europe it had attained to definite structure and to settled literary form.  No other mediaeval literature shows at its outset the same elaborate and completed organization as that of the Welsh.  But within these settled forms the Celtic fancy played with a startling freedom.  In one of the later poems Gwion the Little transforms himself into a hare, a fish, a bird, a grain of wheat; but he is only the symbol of the strange shapes in which the Celtic fancy embodies itself in the romantic tales which reached their highest perfection in the legends of Arthur.