to ceaseless activity and unwearied industry, for the accomplishment of all his desires.”
Hearing this, another of the travellers, an old man, carrying a book in his hand, shook his head, and said:
“The lesson here given is a much higher one than that. This spring is common to all. It quenches the thirst of every passer by, and yet demands the gratitude of no one. It clearly bids us do good, purely for the love of good, and to require no other reward.”
The third traveller had remained silent during this time. He was a beautiful, fair-haired youth, who for the first time, and but recently, had parted from his mother. His comrades asked him his explanation of the inscription.
He reflected for a moment; then, slightly blushing, said:
“To me the spring tells a different tale. To what purpose would be its unceasing activity, and its readiness to assuage the thirst of all passengers, were it muddy and defiled by the earth? Its chief excellence is its brightness and transparent clearness. Its inscription exhorts us neither to industry nor to magnanimity; but to be like this spring ourselves, to preserve the soul in such unsullied purity, that it may, like it in its course, fitly reflect the flowers of the earth and the splendours of the heavens.”
WELSH EISTEDDFODS.
Notwithstanding the jealous care of antiquarians and archæological societies, there are but few places in the kingdom where old customs have not disappeared in these days of railways and telegraphs, as if the country had become too utilitarian, or too engrossed in business to waste time or money in shows, guilds, and pageants.
To me such occurrences as the Preston Guild, the Lady Godiva procession at Coventry, and the Shrewsbury pageant are interesting and picturesque, and if of no use, afford at all events a pleasant holiday to many hard-worked townsfolk. Of a higher and more attractive, because more national class of meetings, the Eisteddfods of Wales are worthy of record, not because they are likely to become extinct—for they seem at this moment more flourishing than ever—but because the Welsh appear to be the only race, a component part of Great Britain, which has not had its nationality so rubbed out, if one may use the term, by constant intercourse with the English, as to forget that it ever had any national customs.
While the amount of good that these Eisteddfods do, as they are at present carried on, may be questioned, they certainly offer a field for local genius, which would otherwise never be displayed, and also perpetuate Welsh characteristics of temper and talent to a remarkable degree.
Among these characteristics love of country is certainly a very marked feature, and a determined belief that everything good had its origin in Wales; not to mention a pugnacious way of arguing the case, when doubt is thrown on their assertions by incredulous heretics.
Tell a Welsh dissenting minister that the Church is gaining ground, or a bard that the Eisteddfods are nonsensical, and you are overwhelmed with a storm of fiery reproach, followed up in the county paper by a number of strongly-worded letters, in which the subject is pursued until the editor inserts a notice that all future communications must be paid for as advertisements.
It certainly is a great question how far the Eisteddfods are useful or mischievous, some asserting that as long as the Welsh is kept up, so long will the English language be retarded; while others rush to the opposite extreme, and think that by proving that bardism began with Adam, they have done signal service to their native country.
The truth probably is that these assemblies are neither very good nor very bad, but might be made productive of much use, when divested of their mummery, by developing national talent and encouraging sound instruction.
And if their promoters like to dress themselves up as bards and druids, and if plain Mr. Jones likes to dub himself with the high-sounding name of Taliesyn or Cuhelyn, there is not much harm in it. Tennyson and Tupper might call themselves Ossian and Chaucer if they pleased. Not that I would ever place our modern bards in the same category with the Welsh poets, who I rather think have a dim notion that nobody would listen to their effusions when offered to the public under their own names. However, apart from these absurdities, there is no doubt but that a large amount of old Welsh lore, which would otherwise have sunk into oblivion, has been kept up, and much interesting information elicited; and if the English language, which is so rapidly gaining ground in Wales, was only more encouraged, instead of being kept so much in the back ground, the Eisteddfods would really become valuable institutions. And in saying this I do not wish the Welsh language to become extinct; but when we observe how the other national languages, such as the Erse, Manx, Irish, and Cornish have nearly all died away, it is folly to fight against an inevitable order of things; and the Welshman will best consult the interests of his country, while preserving her old customs, by adapting himself and fellow Cymri to the requirements of the age.
As the Eisteddfods are of ancient institution, and are conducted after a traditional fashion, it may not be uninteresting to detail the proceedings for the benefit of such of my readers as may not have witnessed one. An Eisteddfod (plural, Eisteddfodau) Cymreigiddion is an assembly of Welshmen for the purpose of hearing speeches, essays, music, and poetry in the Welsh tongue, for all of which subjects prizes are offered, frequently amounting to a very considerable sum. These meetings are known to have been held, as early as the sixth century, on an eminence near the now fashionable watering place of Llandudno, although the first detailed account did not take place until 1176, when Rhys ap Gryffydd, Prince of Wales, held a congress in Cardigan Castle, on which occasion the prize for poetry was gained by a North Welshman.
