cannon, ringing of bells, and all kinds of extravagant jubilation. It wasn’t quite as noisy as a Fourth of July, but much more discordant. Strings of flags were suspended across the streets,—flags with harps of all sorts and sizes displayed thereon,— flags with Welsh mottoes, English mottoes, Scotch mottoes, and no mottoes at all. In front of the Town Hall was almost an acre of transparent painting.—meant, that is, to be so after dark, but mournfully opaque and pictorially mysterious in the full glare of sunshine. As far as I could make it out, it was the full-length portrait—taken from life, no doubt—of an Ancient Welsh Bard. He was depicted as a baldheaded, elderly gentleman, with upturned eyes, apparently regarding with reverence a hole in an Indian-ink cloud through which slanted a gamboge sunbeam, and having a white beard, which streamed like a (horse-hair) “ meteor on the troubled air.” This venerable minstrel was seated on a cairn of rude stones, his white robe clasped at his throat and round his waist by golden brooches, and with a harp, shaped like that of David in old Bible illustrations, resting on the sward before him. In the background were some Druidical remains, by way of audience; and the whole was surrounded by a botanical border, consisting of leeks, oak-leaves, laurel, and mistletoe, which had a very rare and agreeable effect. Nor were these hieroglyphical decorations without a deep meaning to a Cambrian; for while the oak-leaf typified the durability of Welsh minstrelsy, the mistletoe its mysterious origin, and the laurel its reward, the national leek was pleasantly suggestive of its usual culinary companions, Welsh mutton and toasted cheese.
As in America, so in AYales, almost every public matter is provocative of a procession, and the proceedings of the Festival commenced with one. No doubt, it was to the eyes of the many, who from scores of miles round had travelled to witness it, a very imposing and serious demonstration; but anything more ridiculously amusing it was never my good fortune to see. I had, however, to keep all my fun to myself, for Welshmen are not to be trifled with. Any one who wishes to be convinced of this need only walk into a Welsh village, singing the old child-doggerel of
“Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of beef,” etc.,
and, my life on it, he will not leave it without striking proofs of Welsh sensitiveness, and voluble illustrations of some Jenny Jones’s displeasure. By no means inclined to subject myself to such inconvenient experiences, I prudently kept my eyes wide open and my mouth shut,—or if I spoke, I merely asked questions, by which means I acquired necessary information and passed off for a gratified stranger and an admiring spectator.
All the resources of the town and its neighborhood, and indeed of the county itself, had been exhausted to give due effect to the parade, of which I regret to say that I cannot hope to give any adequate description. All the usual elements of processions were to be seen. Bands of music,— there were at least a dozen of them, all playing different pieces at one and the same moment, which had a somewhat distracting effect on those sensitively-eared people who weakly prefer one air at a time and do not appreciate tuneful tornadoes. As the procession went by at a brisk pace, it was curious enough to notice how the last wailing notes of “A noble race was Shenkin,” played by a band in advance, blended with the brisk music of “My name’s David Price, and I’m come from Llangollen,” performed by a company in the rear. In fact, it was a genuine Welsh musical medley, and the daring genius who would have occupied himself in “untwisting all the links which tied its hidden soul of harmony,” would have had about as difficult and distressing a task as he who tried to make ropes out of sea-sand.
Of course, these bands were made up
