Welsh Journals

house library, which is rapidly disappearing and will soon become a memory of the past. But in my own day there were many private libraries in South Wales that were run on more practical lines, and of this class: I may mention the late Dr. Henry Owen's fine collection at Poyston, near Haverfordwest.. I knew it well, and it was an ideal place to study or browse in, for it consisted of several thousand volumes, all well-chosen,, dealing with history, archaeology, poetry and belles lettres. It even included several sets of the works of our leading novelists. The library itself was a handsome hall specially built for this purpose, and it had a gallery in its upper storey which could be entered by a small staircase on the ground floor. This beautiful hall is no longer a library, for its contents were bequeathed by its owner (who died in 1919) to the town of Haver- fordwest and now are incorporated in the Pembrokeshire county library. No doubt there were other collections formed on suitable modern lines notably by Sir Joseph Bradney, at Talycoed, near Monmouth and by Col. Addams-Williams at Llangibby Castle; but I am here concerned only with the country-house libraries of a previous generation. Horsedealing "Angleseyers" By TOM PARRY JONES YEAR after year, before the annual Anglesey horse fair, Noah Boswell, the uncrowned pastoral king of Wales, would direct his sons to scout north before him from Mid-Wales to Anglesey. They were to follow a well defined route. They were to comb every farm. If there was a lame horse they were to offer two pounds ten for it. They were to chalk their masonic gypsy mark on the farmgate where their quest was successful. The patriarchal gypsy following, would call, and I offer ye three pounds, mister, for t'eye-sore, an' rid yer sweet land of it." As likely as not his offer would be accepted. Old Noah would hitch a string bridle over the horse's head, and tie the halter to the tail of his caravan that smelt of horses, wild flowers and herbs, and willow striplings drying in the sun. Day by day the skilful and practised hands of old Noah would doctor the lame horses. Day by day, as the horsey cortege swelled drawing near to his profitable goal, the crocks walked better and better. Until by the magic time they walked across the Telford suspension bridge into the sacred Isle of Anglesey, those horses walked like two-year olds And