Welsh Journals

Baron Munchausen and the other immortal liars of travel. Friends, it is all true The morning train from Aberyst- wyth has become a non-stop express. Well has the poet sung that a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things." In the good old times when we left Aberystwyth at eight o'clock, we undertook, not a commonplace train-journey, but a vast adventure. The eve of going had its own appropriate air. Friends of the traveller were kind to him, gathering round with advice to retire early. He knew the sweet suspense of the fear that he might lose the train, and his eye shone with the light of a resolution to be up betimes. Next morning, the household was astir at an unwonted hour. The traveller shaved, perhaps, by candle-light and breakfasted in a town darkened (in the pathetic fallacy) as if with grief at his departure. Friends and relations who got up early in his honour were filled with a sustaining sense of their own virtue. He made his way to the station through streets still sleepy and sending up the friendly smoke of morning fires. The absence of traffic threw a hush about his way. He saw the town in its dishabille, sweeping the door-step and polishing the brass. That was the spiritual value of eight o'clock. At the moment when departure made him highly im- pressionable, he caught his last glimpse of Aberystwyth in the homeliness that is one of its many charms. The scene upon the platform maintained this good beginning. There was no harsh insistence upon letter. The whistle of authority was in the hand of toler- ance. For any prospective passenger still hurrying along Terrace Road, there was a gentle kindness. That was how it should be. A man embarking upon such a voyage was rightly free from the tyranny of precision. And how beautifully rich in emotion was the mood of those who gathered about the carriage doors Theirs was the very GORFFWYS. Mae cysur ennyd mewn marweidd-dra mwyn, Mewn bwrw lludded wedi llafur maith, With lacio'r giau ac wrth dynnu'r ffrwyn Ennyd mae bias ar orffwys effro blin, Yn ffrwd liniarus, pan fo llednais rin Ond wedi'r egwyl a'r diogi per Gan dreiddio drwy'r madruddyn a thrwy'r mer. Gwae fi o'r seibiant! Arglwydd, gwn it roi Cynnwrf ym mron aderyn ar ei nyth, Na ddyro orffwys nes cael gorffwys byth. III. A'r pwn a'r tresi trymion wedi'r daith. Pan lithro breuddwyd trwy'r r ymennydd tan Yng ngoglais petrus myfyrdodau man. Daw anesmwythyd wrth i'r blinder ffoi, T. H. Parry-Williams. dissidence of the spirit of farewell. Grudges, doubts, suspicions, unkept engagements, unpaid debts-all were forgotten for those departing were going off into the unknown. By the character and quality of the Cambrian Railway, they were made members of the world's great brotherhood of Wanderers. Dickens and his stage-coach were too modern for similitude. Christopher Columbus, The Pilgrim Fathers, Jason and his Argonauts, Madoc of the lost endeavour-these were his true kindred. And now, forsooth, the train goes out at ten-steam- heated, non-stopping, with an elegant young lady in black dress and white apron to hand round tea It was sad enough when the old Manchester and Mil- ford was taken over by the G.W.R. There was a fine quality of aspiration in a line that never managed to touch either of the places that figured in its designation. (" A man's reach must exceed his grasp, or what's a Heaven for ? ") Now-still more sadly-the Cambrian has played traitor to its sublime tradition, and we have nothing left to com- pare to the desert ways to Mecca, to the path to Rome, to the high roads to Canterbury and Caerleon. Materialism has triumphed-even on the Cambrian Railway. The old instinct of the Celt has suffered its heaviest defeat. An alien flag waves on the citadel. Soon, the Double Liners will come out of their stealth to agitate in the open. Everything we stand for is threatened. Nothing we cherish is safe. The dream and then (without emphasis) the business-that was our guiding thought of old. Hence- forth, it will be business and no dream at all. 0 my brothers of the pilgrim soul, let us lament together For us there is no more room in our old places. The rose light of romance has faded under the arc-lamps of efficiency. Alas Alas The Cambrian Railway has renounced Glyndwr and enrolled itself beneath the banner of-Sir Eric Geddes. Ni luniwyd ffrwyth prydferthach, Na'r llios ceirios coch A hudol niwlen ysgafn Yn lleddfu gwrid eu boch. A dim ond syllu arnynt A wnaf yn wyn fy myd- Pe cwrddwn hwynt a'm bysedd cwrs, Diflannai'r swyn i gyd. Ac ar ei deurudd hithau, Ac ar ei gwddw hardd, Rhoes Duw y lledrith ysgafn Sy'n drysu enaid bardd; Ond ofnaf roi fy meddwl I gwrdd a'r tlysni drud, Rhag im ddifwyno miragl bro A tharfu'r niwlen hud. Mawrth, 1920. IV. DAN Y LLWYN CEIRIOS. Wil Ifan.