It is a loss for me in literature which translation cannot
supply, for the English lovers of Welsh poetry, after praising it
to the skies, are never able to produce anything which is not
direly mechanical and vacuous. The native charm somehow escapes
them; the grace beyond the reach of art remains with the Cymric
poets who have resources for its capture unknown to their English
admirers. George Borrow seems the worst failure in this sort, and
the worst offender in giving his reader the hopes he never
fulfils, so that his _Wild Wales_ is a desert of blighted
literary promises. I believe that the merit of Welsh poetry
dwells largely, perhaps overlargely, in its intricate technique,
and in the euphonic changes which leave the spoken word ready for
singing almost without the offices of the composer.
III
One of the great musical contests, the yearly national
Eisteddfod, was taking place that year at the neighboring town of
Rhyl, but I did not go to hear it, not being good for a week's
music without intermission. At Llandudno there was only the music
of the Pierrots and the Niggers, which those simple-hearted
English have borrowed, the one from France and the other from
these States.
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