I stepped out, and
in the street I came across an acquaintance fresh from London and the
parliamentary session. In a moment the spell of the Celtic genius
was forgotten, the Philistinism of our Saxon nature made itself felt;
and my friend and I walked up and down by the roaring waves, talking
not of ovates and bards, and triads and englyns, but of the sewage
question, and the glories of our local self-government, and the
mysterious perfections of the Metropolitan Board of Works.
I believe it is admitted, even by the admirers of Eisteddfods in
general, that this particular Eisteddfod was not a success.
Llandudno, it is said, was not the right place for it. Held in
Conway Castle, as a few years ago it was, and its spectators,--an
enthusiastic multitude,--filling the grand old ruin, I can imagine it
a most impressive and interesting sight, even to a stranger labouring
under the terrible disadvantage of being ignorant of the Welsh
language. But even seen as I saw it at Llandudno, it had the power
to set one thinking. An Eisteddfod is, no doubt, a kind of Olympic
meeting; and that the common people of Wales should care for such a
thing, shows something Greek in them, something spiritual, something
humane, something (I am afraid one must add) which in the English
common people is not to be found.
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