But the Celtic genius was just then preparing, in Llandudno, to have
its hour of revival. Workmen were busy in putting up a large tent-
like wooden building, which attracted the eye of every newcomer, and
which my little boys believed (their wish, no doubt, being father to
their belief,) to be a circus. It turned out, however, to be no
circus for Castor and Pollux, but a temple for Apollo and the Muses.
It was the place where the Eisteddfod, or Bardic Congress of Wales,
was about to be held; a meeting which has for its object (I quote the
words of its promoters) 'the diffusion of useful knowledge, the
eliciting of native talent, and the cherishing of love of home and
honourable fame by the cultivation of poetry, music, and art.' My
little boys were disappointed; but I, whose circus days are over, I,
who have a professional interest in poetry, and who, also, hating all
one-sidedness and oppression, wish nothing better than that the
Celtic genius should be able to show itself to the world and to make
its voice heard, was delighted. I took my ticket, and waited
impatiently for the day of opening. The day came, an unfortunate
one; storms of wind, clouds of dust, an angry, dirty sea. The Saxons
who arrived by the Liverpool steamers looked miserable; even the
Welsh who arrived by land,--whether they were discomposed by the bad
morning, or by the monstrous and crushing tax which the London and
North-Western Railway Company levies on all whom it transports across
those four miles of marshy peninsula between Conway and Llandudno,--
did not look happy.
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