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All. Capital! splendid!

Secretary. Yes, gentlemen, and I am happy to announce that a most kind friend has proposed to write a Welsh translation adapted to the air, so that it shall be heard, on Cambria's lyre, from the Wye to the Conway; this will be the amende honorable to those exclusive, but well-meaning folks who will puzzle their brains to know what could induce us to print an English song, however beautiful. Doctor. Beautiful indeed; but pray, my dear professor, who is this Ina? Colonel. Ha ha! ha! Professor, come tell us who is Ina?

Northwold. The lady of my love, whom, if ye knew, ye would adore as I do. Doctor. What countrywoman may she be? for well we know, friend Northwold, thou hast travelled widely.

Northwold. She was born, and has ever lived, beneath the bright and burning sun of Spain; and well I ween that in that land of love's true witchery, there breathes not a more beauteous and truly lovely woman. (The Professor heaves a deep sigh, which is echoed by a deeper one from the Doctor.)

Doctor. Northwold I honour thy feelings; right well I know their nature. Here, in this glass of bright Bordeaux, I pledge thee, to the health of Ina. All. "To the health of Ina."

Northwold, (draining his glass.) My friends, my heart is full: I cannot speak my thanks.

Colonel. Although our object for discussion, this night, is the Gwyneddigion, I must digress for a moment:-I am, as you well know, none of the gravest, yet even I have a graver charge to make than any thing I could adduce against men who act from principle, however mistaken. Two or three persons in London, I find, have been sneaking about, worming their way most dishonestly, accusing us of the Cambrian of that which is totally devoid of truth, viz. of being illiberal towards the Dissenting church in Wales; the charge is froth, an outpouring of wickedness and folly; but it must be checked in its outset. Do the worms know that we are in possession of their names? and that, had we published a brutal attack on the bishops, recently sent to our secretary, and which we have reason to suspect came from the same polluted quarter, we should have subjected our work to immediate suppression, and ourselves to the abhorrence of all good men. Think for a moment, gentlemen, on the base ingratitude of some men; while we were assisting one of these fellows in his profession, he, viper like, attempted to undermine us, and sting us for our kindness. The man has abilities, and so has Satan, and, like him, he has fallen. How unworthy is he of recognition in the ranks of the Dissenters, to which he is as poison in the well! I would hope this person is not aware of the miserable tendency of conduct like his; however, I will be bold enough to declare that the man who, at the present eventful time, seeks to promote disunion among Christians, is scarcely less dangerous than the absolute anti-Christian,-nay, than the utter outcast, the abject caricaturist of his God!

Northwold. I agree with you entirely. Possibly the world, in its multitudinous occupations, may have forgotten, although I have not, that some time ago, the leader of infidels in London had exhibited in the window of his shop, a hideous monster, intended to represent a fiery and infernal demon, with the blasphemous words, "Jews and Christians behold your god!”

All. Horrible! dreadful!

Northwold. Yes, gentlemen, dreadful indeed; and by chance, a worthy venerable pastor of the Church from, I rather think, my own county, happening to pass by "the Temple of Reason!" as it is called, stopped, out of curiosity, to look for a moment at the window; he was struck with awe at such a tremendous display of impiety, and, losing all command of temper towards its infamous perpetrator, he dashed his stick through the glass exclaiming, "In the name of my Saviour, this shall not be suffered."

Colonel. Exemplary and brave man! how worthy was he of his calling; would that I had been there with a few file of my old regiment, to have seconded his effort, to have dismantled that repositary of every thing that is brutal, and to have tied its vile owner up to the halberds, until he had recanted very syllable of his diabolical doctrines.

Northwold. Aye, Colonel, and albeit I am not an advocate for belabouring a man like a beast, merely because he serves his king for so many pence a day, yet that fellow has so gone out of the pale of humanity, that I would walk barefooted and bareheaded from Hyde Park corner to Mile-end, in "thunder, lightning, and in rain," to see him so made an example of. But to finish the incident to which I allude; the clergyman was immediately taken into custody, carried off to the police office, and compelled, by the dealer in sedition and blasphemy, to pay the sum, I believe, of five pounds. This is a pretty strong instance of the aptitude with which brutes of the infidel school deal out against others the penalties of that law which they themselves are so continually infringing.

Colonel. But we have honoured the vender of blasphemy and sedition too greatly, by condescending to mention him; let us turn to more worthy topics. I would take a glass of wine, but that I verily believe, after so nauseous a subject, it would act as an emetic.

Northwold. Heaven forefend! myself two glasses of Cogniac.

Here, Morgan, quick, bring the Colonel and

Secretary. I propose, as an amendment, that it be a round-robin. What say you, Doctor?

Doctor. Oh! by all means; what says our silent member? (The silent member nods assent.)

Colonel. We honour the Dissenters, and, without prejudice to our own Church establishment, we always have, and always shall support religious toleration, for intoleration is abhorrent to our souls. With confidence we will appeal to the Dissenters themselves, to the author of Hora Britannica and to Elvaliad, for in the hands of amiable and liberal men we are safe; but let the defamer bear in mind, that this our clemency is not to be tampered with, and that there is but one consideration which prevents our now bringing him to his senses; namely, the destruction that must fall upon those dependent on him for bread, who, however guilty he may be, are free from offence. Yet, severe as our pain would be to punish innocence with guilt, if calumnies against us are again promulgated from the same quarter, no consideration on earth shall prevent our immediate and ample redress in his punishment. The public will be unable to recognise the delinquent, nor do we at present desire that they should, but did we not arm ourselves, and caution them against the assassin's blow, we should exhibit an absence of nerve and of self-respect, which those who know us never would believe, but those who do not, might otherwise be inclined to credit. Longer on the defamer I shall not dwell; and I request the secretary to proceed with his observations on the Gwyneddigion, to me, I am sure, and I believe to all of us, a subject most interesting.

Secretary. It will be unnecessary to enter into a detailed account of the contests for medals at meetings of bards and minstrels, and elsewhere, under the auspices of the Gwyneddigion; but the spirit of the patriots is unparalleled; and we find recorded in the "Origin and Progress," &c., an instance of Pennillion singers contending for thirteen hours! and in another notice, all night! In their literary contests, they shewed good taste in the selection of subjects; what could have been better than "An Essay on the Recovery of George III.," "Liberty Hall, (a grousing tent on the Berwyn hills,)" "Owain Glendwr," "Essays on Liberty, on Truth, the Massacre of the Bards?" Such have been the labours of the excellent Gwyneddigion, and, surely, in telling the world of their good deeds, we are not uselessly, or unprofitably employed. Nor, whilst the Gwyneddigion is thus rich in solid matter, is it destitute of romantic interest. One of their successful bards, poor Powel of Ysbytty Ivan, in crossing the mountains of Pen-Machno, in Carnarvonshire, during a snow storm, perished in the wilds: a friend of ours, and a bard of high fame, possesses one of poor Powel's medals. When we touch the romantic, though not immediately connected with the subject before us, it may not be improper to state that Wales has her full share of materials, and among her minstrels, as well as the bards, the true pathos is to be found. Áged Griffydd Owen, of Towyn-Merionedd, was a very superior performer: none ever heard him strike the harp unmoved; Griffydd is yet alive, though paralised and feeble. He possessed a soul replete with poetry; and the workings of his mind have, on

many occasions, portrayed themselves, when acutely touched, in bursts of positive Ossianic beauty. I will endeavour to render you an instance of the extreme poetical feeling and pathos, or awen, as the bards call it, which abounded in Griffydd. I must, however, premise that the incident, powerful as it is in the original, loses much of its brilliancy when told in English; the story is this: Some years ago, a gentleman was crossing the sands at Towyn; the sea-storm was terrific, and the desolate scenery of the shore was heightened by the dark outpouring of the tempest: his attention was suddenly arrested by the appearance of a being, solitary and agonized; the kind heart cannot witness misery without endeavouring to soothe it, and thus it was with our friend: on his accosting with pity the venerable man, whose long and silvery locks played in the wind, and whose clasped hand and frenzied look shewed that, regardless of the storm without, a more terrible convulsion was rending his time-worn heart; the sufferer replied in a deep hollow tone, "My wife is dying, my son is mad, and my harp is unstrung!" Had the genius of Poetry herself uttered this splendid triad, instead of our mountain harper, it would not have dimmed the lofty flame around her diadem, but added a lustre to its beauty and purity;—that suffering, and bereaved being was Griffydd Owen.

Colonel. Surely the remarks of our correspondent, Le Marchand de Tabac, in his last letter respecting the degeneracy of the bards of the present day, are unfounded: "disgraceful to their country, degrading to the acknowledged literary reputation of the Cymry, and the worst enemies to Wales, in a moral point of view. The Welsh gentry, in encouraging the Eisteddvods, are giving premiums to vice, drunkenness, and debauchery. The quiet cottage, and clean hearth, which afforded comfort to a contented husband and a thrifty wife, surrounded by the smiling looks and fond endearments of innocent chubby cherubs, have become desolate; the scene of want, of stinging misery, and of maddened remorse, and how? why the simple honest peasant has been told that he has the awen, the poetic frenzy, or he conceives it; he spins his doggrel rhymes and barren thoughts into an englyn; he obtains the prize, for want of another, or a better; he is praised by empty-pated flatterers; he listens with delight; he adjourns to the pothouses, and spends the gold so easily earned, among those who hold him up as an idol of surpassing excellence; home has no further charms for him; he wanders from pothouse to pothouse, composing awdwl to this man and to that, begging a sack of meal, or a measure of malt, and he becomes a-spectacle, a mass of corrupted worthlessness."

Such are the sentiments of Le Marchand, and I am sure you will agree with me, when I assert that he looks at the picture through a distorted lens. Now, Le Marchand should be cautious, for in directing his satire against the bards, he must bear in mind that a tale writer, (and a very pleasant and clever one he is,) may not be exactly qualified to pass sentence on them. In his estimation of the vulgar sot, and the village buffoon, we agree; but as to his sweeping assertion directed against the bards generally, we could bring forward many time-honoured names of sterling genuine bards, and others who will, ere long, ripen into a deserved celebrity, the bare mention of whom would satisfactorily confute his opinion. Oh! Monsieur le Marchand, verily thou hast resided too long in Belgium, and for once in thy life, non equum dicis.

Northwold. Magnificently spoken, Colonel; what a treasure must thou have been on a court-martial! Why, thou art a very Nestor. In the name of enthusiasm, a glass of wine; what shall we have?

Colonel. Metheglin, to be sure: in what other fluid could I so worthily drink to The Bards of old Cambria? Fill, gentlemen, a bumper; ready, present, fire!

All. "The Bards of old Cambria," (three times three.)

Doctor. My dear professor, all this is extremely erudite, and very interesting, but pray give us a song.

Northwold. With all my heart (Sings.)

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