as a completion of Druidism, which consequently was the basis of all Christianity—a very satisfactory and complacent way of settling all difficulties upon the point.
The peculiar systems of the Druids were not to be revealed except to descendants of the order, amongst whom there are some even now existing, who carry the fearful secret in their breasts, which they are bound to keep inviolate under fear of pains and penalties, to which the conventional red-hot poker of freemasonry is nothing. Above all, if the Archdruid holds secrets in proportion to his rank, it is a wonder how he can go through life: but not only does he do so, but is a very affable and pleasant-spoken gentleman, who, if you chance to meet him in company, as I had the pleasure of doing, does not overwhelm you with an undue sense of his exalted position. But the Archdruid at a dinner-party, and the Archdruid presiding over a congress of bards, are very different people, and I feel shocked to this day at having ventured to speak familiarly with a being who, as he himself informed us at a Gorsedd on the “Maen Chwyf,” or rocking stone, on the banks of the Taff, was “the representative of the first progenitor of mankind, and was also figuratively the sun of the moral world!”
Having examined the leading features of the Gorsedd, I will briefly describe those of the Eisteddfod, which is thrown open to the profanum vulgus who are not initiated into the mysteries of bardism. This is, after all, the most important business of the day; and if on a large scale, as those at Denbigh last year, and at Merthyr Tydvil the year before, attract a large number of visitors as well as competitors for the prizes. The programme consists of speeches, essays, poetry, and harp playing, which is almost always the cream of the whole performance. Of the former some are good, and evince much patient research and learning, and when on a sensible subject,—such as “The Mineral Resources of Wales,” which gained a prize at Llangollen,—are calculated to be of immense utility to the country.
A very common form of poem is the “Englyn,” usually composed in honour of some person or some personal event, and generally embodied in a few lines or stanzas. Frequently they are racy and expressive, but too often—particularly in small local Eisteddfods—the englynion in praise of a person are fulsome and laudatory to a laughable degree.
The harp playing is always more or less good, and, from its characteristic nationality, is pleasant to hear. The Welsh harp, however, appears to have derived its origin from Ireland; for, as late as the eleventh century, the Welsh were accustomed to pass over into that country to receive instruction in the harp and the bardic profession generally; and it is said that Gryffydd ap Cynan, before mentioned, brought over from thence “divers curious musicians,” from whom was derived a great part of the instrumental music. The harps used at the performances of the Eisteddfods, as elsewhere in the principality, are not the large pedal harps which are turned out all gold and ornament from Erard’s factory, but are rather small, triple-stringed instruments, which, to any one but a native, would be perplexing in the extreme. Many of them, however, are of very great sweetness, and are adapted before all others for the simple pathos of the Welsh airs. The most peculiar performance connected with the harp is the style of accompanied singing known as “pennillion singing,” which certainly, I think, nobody but a Welshman could ever imagine or execute. The singer does not begin with the strain, but strikes up whenever he likes, at the third, fourth, or fifth bar, although at whatever point he commences, he is in duty bound to end with the strain which contains eight bars. The great point seems to lie in the number of words that they can cram in, so as to bring the air and stanzas to a simultaneous conclusion. To judge by the frequent applause which pennillion singing always evokes, it is evidently the favourite portion of the programme with the Welsh hearers, who, I fancy, care more for the music and englynion than anything else. Indeed, nobody who has ever lived in the principality can fail to remark the universal love of music in the Welsh character, in some cases amounting almost to a passion.
There are few towns or villages which do not possess their choir (probably attached to some chapel), which attends at the different Eisteddfods for the purpose of competing for a prize, and sustaining the reputation of the neighbourhood. Sometimes there is an individual competition, the subject being an air out of the “Messiah,” which is the oratorio par excellence of the Welsh; while on other occasions each choir is at liberty to select what they like best. In the mining districts particularly there is a great passion for Handel, and the “Messiah” in particular, and I am bound to say that difficulties never stand in the way of a Welsh choir, for they almost always select a chorus in which there is most fugue—a style of music which appears to delight them immensely. The hymns and anthems which every choir-leader is sure to compose for his flock, generally abound in rapid runs and fugues, in which the different parts are certainly taken up with great precision. It is a pity that with all their innate love of music, and their capabilities for it, that the Welsh do not possess a wider range, and that a greater knowledge of the works of the great masters is not more frequently attempted, as has been done in the case of the Lancashire and Yorkshire folks, who have by such practice attained a reputation as first-rate chorus singers; but it is to be feared that the national vanity and conceit stands in the way of all improvement, as it has so frequently done before.
FROM MY WINDOW.
BEFORE SUNSET.
Framed in the open window,
’Gainst a background of green and red,
The sweep of a flowing garment;
And the droop of a queen-like head;
And a delicate hand outstretched
To gather the leaves of the rose,
And a voice that carols the story
Of Love, its joys and its woes.
