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HARP OF THE WEST.

HARP of the west! 'mid mountains boar,
Thy notes are heard afar,

Not loud and clear, as when of yore,

On high blaz'd Cambria's star;
But faint and soft thy notes prolong

The never dying strain:

Sound on, thou glorious queen of song,
Again thy strain,—again!

The bards of old, who wak'd thy lays,
Now darkly sleep in death,

While we, alas! must mourn the days
Which seal'd their tuneful breath;
Yet, while we mourn, our hearts revive,
For fresh as erst their hue,

The laurels o'er your heads still live,
Then shall we mourn for you?

Oh, no! fór as I strike my lyre,
All deluged with my tears,
Eryri's height is all on fire,
Lo! Aneurint appears;

And hark! the sacred harps are loud,

See shady forms arise;

Hail, glorious throng! hail, minstrels proud!

Your strains now reach the skies.

All. Bravissimo! professor.

Colonel. Who shall now say that a Saxon does not take an interest in Welsh story?

Northwold. No one, I trust. But as regards the bards, I have often wished that some gifted Scott or Moore might rise and gladden the echoes of their mountains: then would the soul-stirring legends of the bards,-the modern Eisteddfodau, the deeds of their honoured brave, and the loves of their beauteous fair, claim the attention they so greatly deserve. Whenever I think on the former greatness of Wales, when I ponder on her faded majesty, (and I assure you, gentlemen, that I do so, frequently and fervently,) I indulge in the belief that, in the present age of literary exertion, such a being must and will arise, and display before our delighted senses the nobility, the goodness, and the exemplary suffering of that beauteous land. Yes, gentlemen, I feel assured that the hitherto hidden glories of those our ancient British ancestors, will shine forth in all their splendor; when the ancient halls, the baronial magnificence, the joy of the feast, the rapture of the lover, the gallantry of the knight, the din of battle, and the pride of chivalry, shall be celebrated in pages which will rival those of that masterspirit who has been truly called "the magician of the North;" and when the assembled world shall acknowledge that Cambria is indeed a land rich in poesy and song, even to overflowing.

Secretary. The Metheglin has, indeed, inspired our friend Northwold, and I trust that he may himself, on some bright auspicious day, apply his talents to the development of Cambrian story. But, to finish our detail, and in order that we may go along with the strain the Professor has so ably commenced, let me add of the Gwyneddigion, that by a great effort, (for with limited means all exertion is

Anglice, the eagle's height, generally called Snowdon.

+ Aneurin, of flowing muse; also called supreme of bards, or sovereign of the bards.

effort,) it produced, a few years after the appearance of Davydd ab Gwylym, a translation of Llewarch Hên, from the pen of Dr. Owen Pughe; but, as usual, the work was ill supported, and as "the Origin and Progress" informs us, is supposed to be lost, for not a copy was last year to be procured. A similar fate, as regards patronage, attended "the Cambrian Register," established about the same time; and John Walters, on publishing his English and Welsh Dictionary, was, in point of pecuniary disappointment and loss, a martyr to the cause of literature. Indeed, a strange fatality has hitherto appeared to have hung over the productions of modern Welsh literature. A great part of Walters' book was lost in shipwreck; various old Mss., perpetually referred to by old writers, have disappeared: Sir Watkin's collection of manuscripts was destroyed by fire; and the "History of the Gwyneddigion," and an impression of "The Cambrian Quarterly," were also accidentally burnt; the "Register," the "Greal," and the "Cambro-Briton" were all doomed to sink and be no more: but, thanks to the latent, though not extinguished spark of old British feeling that yet exists in Wales, we stand, and, please Heaven! shall stand, notwithstanding the efforts of some who are our enemies. This digression, I trust, is pardonable. Again we address ourselves to the "Origin and Progress of the Gwyneddigion:" there we find that the "utility of knowledge” was a contested subject; that, though loyal, they were the first to prevent injustice. A strong illustration of this occurred in the latter part of 1817: the Bishop of Chester appointed a gentleman, unacquainted with the Welsh language, to a living containing 8000 souls; the loud objections of the parish were seconded by the Gwyneddigion, and the consequence was that the clergyman learnt to read Welsh; in this instance the people did not resort to chapels, and the gentleman became known and honoured by his parishioners. That the Gwyneddigion has been composed of men of varied talent and celebrity is well authenticated, and I must, before closing my book for the night, allude to one distinguished person, Dr. Samwel, who was the companion of Cook the circumnavigator, and who witnessed the death of that great man. Dr. Samwel afterwards left his cabinet of South Sea curiosities to Trinity College, Cambridge: thus the Gwyneddigion became connected with one of the first academic institutions of England, and its member received at least the attention, if he did not enjoy the friendship of the immortal Cook. How little are these things known! how little appreciated! and how seldom acknowledged! (The Secretary closes the book, and receives the thanks and plaudits of the Club.)

Colonel. Bravo! Wales has been, and Wales shall be."

Secretary. Why Northwold, you are pensive as the Doctor, who, I observe, has been looking unutterable things at your expense for the last ten minutes. Doctor, (starting.) Who I? My thoughts were at Ramsgate.

Colonel. Ramsgate! What the devil is Ramsgate to us of the St. David's Club? Northwold across the Pyrenees, and the Doctor at Ramsgate! Oh, this is insanity!

Northwold. To say the truth, I am pensive; inasmuch as I have been wondering how our friends the ancient Britons will look, when they see my broad Lincolnshire name so conspicuous in this Club. I have sundry misgivings as to the proceedings of our Club being favorably received, notwithstanding your explanation given this evening to the Doctor. The good folks among the mountains will naturally wonder why I have been obtruded upon their notice, and, notwithstanding the great pleasure I have in occupying my present station, I do not feel my new honours sit so easily upon me as I should doubtless do, were I convinced of a good reception in Wales.

Secretury. Confound it, Northwold, if you turn phlegmatic, what will become of the rest of us? Be assured that our Cambrian friends are men of sense and judgment, and that they will not lightly misconstrue any additional exertion of mine and yours, merely because it may be new to them: they will see our motives and appreciate them. Besides, have we not this night talked and read of Wales enough to convince them of our unflinching perseverance in their cause? Then, as to your reception, (I will speak literally,) or that of all of you, in Wales, go there, Professor,-go there, Colonel and the Doctor, and if you do not find cheerful countenances and warm hearts, then am I a traitor to the Principality, and no

true man.

Colonel. By the way, what do you think of a trip to the West, next long vacation? answer, thou professor of poetry and les belles lettres!

Northwold, (looking up.) Wake that miscalled silent member, who snores louder than a whale in the sunshine, (rising and shaking the silent member, who continues to snore.) Awake thou worse than dead man-thou unquiet mortal-thou uncommon disturber of eloquence-thou antipode of all intellectual enjoyment-thou dormant sensualist-thou trough of animal solids and vegetable fluids -thou receptacle of stupidity and darkness-open thine eyes, if eyes thou hast, and look around on us! Do not our countenances sparkle? do not our tongues utter reason? do not music and poetry flow from our lips? and do we not honour thee by our efforts to make thee partake thereof? It is in vain: what a fleshly doorpost! Surely he is in an apoplexy!

Doctor, (feeling his pulse.) Full and strong as Vulcan's hammer, but I stake my professional reputation there is no disease; none whatever, beyond the effect of inordinate cramming.

Colonel. Who proposed and seconded such an insufferable brute, as a member of our Club? You, Northwold?

Northwold. Not I: I would as soon have balloted for a bullock from the Lincolnshire marshes.

Secretary. I, gentlemen, I alone am to blame; but I will explain. The fact is, that the establishment of our Club became more widely known than I had intended, or dreamt of, and, consequently, as secretary, I was immediately pestered, notwithstanding the caution to the public as to paying postage, with sundry expensive applications, which I did not well know what to do with, (troubling the Club with that point was out of the question;) amongst these was the request of our silent friend, that he might be one of the "select;" I was misled by his name. He is certainly not a brilliant character, although the son of a great genius, whom would to Heaven we had in his place! But, by all means, let us get rid of him, for his nasal music would fill a cathedral; that last grunt was like the drone of the most discordant bagpipe.

Colonel. Morgan, send one of your people to call a coach.

Morgan. Yes, sir.

Northwold. How, in the name of all fair toping, did this animal get so mor tally drunk?

Colonel. Morgan can tell us, I dare say. I observed him, about an hour ago, while the rest of you were engaged in converse, find his way across the hall, by devious paths, towards Morgan; to whom giving a sign, (for he appears, like a noviciate of the Pythagorean school, to be under a vow of the strictest silence,) he became possessed of the bowl of Llangollen, and, thrusting his brawny head into it, drained its splendid contents to the very bottom; since which, he has presented a spectacle of the hog-like intoxication you now behold in him. Morgan, (to the chairman.) The coach waits, sir.

Northwold. Now Colonel, Doctor, Secretary,-now Morgan and all, let us bear a hand to lift this wonderful lump of degraded humanity into his travelling machine. But stay; does any one know where he lives?

Secretary. His letters to me were invariably dated from the Chinese Clubhouse; but it will never do to send him there.

Northwold. No, no; write on a blank card, thou most able Secretary, from my dictation.

Secretary, (taking up a card and pen.) I am ready.

Northwold. "The Honourable Patrick Michael O'Clanocrough, Portland Place:" (reading it,) Aye, that will do: written in a fine bold full band, enough for any of the ancient kings of ould Ireland themselves. Now then to him, lads. (The silent member is with some difficulty lifted from his arm-chair, and carried to the coach.)

Coachman. Where am I to drive the gemman to, your honours?

Colonel. You will find his card in his right-hand waistcoat pocket; you had better take it out, and drive to his address; his servants will pay your fare. (The coach departs.) All. Ha! ha! ba

Northwold. Curse that fellow; he is heavy to carry, and, moreover, he has

wasted a good deal of our valuable time, therefore I do not see why the aristocrats of Portland place should not be honoured as well as Jermyn street;-but, methinks I should like a Welsh rabbit, and a taste of the bowl.

Colonel. I second the motion.

Doctor. I'll be a third.

Secretary. And I will not disgrace my country by refusing to be fourth.

[The lackeys fly to the kitchen, while Morgan sets about the serious work of making a bowl.]

Northwold. Now we have got rid of yonder incubus, I bethink me, Colonel, you said something about a trip into the Principality.

Colonel. Yes, next long vacation, will you go?

Northwold. I will so arrange it; and in that case, Secretary, I shall stand in need of a few introductions.

Secretary. You shall have them, of course, on condition that you invoke your muse on the top of Snowdon.

Northwold. Indeed I will; although, from all I have heard, the scene itself will do away with the necessity of invocation.

Secretary. In truth it will have you not been in Wales?

Northwold. Just enough to swear by: a little in Flintshire and Denbighshire. I drank some glorious ale at Wrexham, and saw a good quantity of pretty and interesting maids in red cloaks, and that's all.

Doctor. Trust him for finding out the pretty girls. (The Welsh rabbits arrive.) Northwold. Advance to the charge: how the dish smokes! bravo Cookey! well served. Morgan, give me the Cayenne.

Colonel. Excellent, i'faith. By the by how will they feed us in your country, friend Secretary?

Secretary. Never fear but you will be fed like the rich man in the parable; and well I know that you and the Professor are not the churls who would refuse a portion of your viands to any unfortunate Lazarus who might fall in your way. Northwold. God forbid! Morgan, put the bowl on the table, (drinks deep:) ba, spirit of St. David! but the ale has a most nectareous flavor. (The Colonel, the Doctor, and the Secretary, do honour to the Llangollen, in turns.)

Northwold. Why, gentlemen, (looking into the bowl,) you are no effeminate kissers of goblets, at any rate. Morgan, another bowl, in the name of the red cloaks I just now mentioned. (An hour is spent in discussing the bowl.)

Colonel. I know not whether it be that hard service has had its effect upon me; but from that, or some other cause, I generally find myself cozy and thirsty, and all that sort of thing, towards evening. You all know I never get drunk, so to speak: jovial, perhaps, now and then, but

Northwold. What wouldst thou say, Colonel? doth thy preamble go towards making up the old British triad, in the shape of another bowl? for be it remembered, although we have already had three, that our somniferons friend drank one to his own cheek; so a truce to prosing. Morgan, fill another to the brim. Secretary. Sing us the while the old song of "The glasses sparkle on the board." Doctor. No, no! "Love's young dream."

Colonel. I vote for the song in honour of Baccbus, Venus and her votaries being long since in bed.

Northwold. The jolly god has "the ayes" in his favor. (Sings, "The glasses sparkle on the board.")

Secretary. Would that our old hills could echo to that voice!

Colonel. All in good time; they shall when we make our promised tour.

Doctor. How goes the enemy? Morgan, look to the Barwise.

Morgan. Past two, sir.

Northwold. Ye gods! bring the Metheglin, the liquor of the immortal bards. (Morgan places the Metheglin on the table; the glasses are filled round frequently; the Metheglin diminishes rapidly.)

Northwold. Our Alpha and Omega of toasts, "The KING."

All. "The King," (three times three, led by the Doctor, who has become quite valiant.)

Northwold. Well shouted, Doctor; now join me in the national anthem. (Northwold leads, seconded by the Doctor; all join in chorus.)

Exeunt omnes.

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I AM Sorry your valuable correspondent Peris should appear to give evidence to the idle tradition of Eich dyn, which I always considered so palpably absurd as not to deserve an argument in refutation. The tale is said to exist in several old Welsh мss.; but as old is a relative term, I should like to know what is to be understood by it. To corroborate such an assertion, we ought to have the evidence of a contemporary, and if this cannot be obtained, certainly of one not removed above three generations; but I will venture to say, no writer will be found to mention it earlier than the sixteenth century, if even then: Peris will, therefore, oblige his countrymen by giving the date of the oldest Welsh мss. in which it occurs.

But we will examine the story: Edward I. is said to have presented his son to the Welsh with the expression, "Behold, eich dyn, your man!" Now if the king wished to address himself in Welsh to the people of the country, it must, nevertheless, be allowed that he thought in English, and, therefore, that the speech he made would necessarily be a translation. But the common acceptation of the phrase "I'm your man," or "Here's your man," implies "I am," or "Here is the person to serve you," and is more fully explained by the antithesis, "master and man." Edward would therefore, surely, never represent his son to the Cambrian chieftains as their servant. He might have said "Here is your prince or lord;" and if he was inquiring how he might translate this, he would have been told by the word tywysog or arglwydd. But allowing, for a moment, he used the expression "eich dyn," we must suppose that it became the motto of Edward II. and Edward III.; whereas the earliest English authority we have for Ich dyn is in the will of the Black Prince. On the tomb the words are Ich Diene, which, except the final e, would be perfect German of the present day, and, judging from analogy, in all probability was completely so at that time. It is to be observed that this motto accompanies the feathers which were the arms of peace, i. e. for the tournament, and not the royal arms, which were those for war; a sufficient proof, by the way, that the king of Bohemia could have had nothing to do with it. My opinion is, that it may have belonged to his maternal grandfather, a great warrior, or that he himself had assumed it at his court in Hainault, where he may have obtained some success in the joust.

I wish the Welsh would not cling so tenaciously to such foolish traditions; such conduct only subjects them to the ridicule of their

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