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LONDON WELSH PAPERS. I. OF PREJUDICE IN THE PRINCIPALITY. So is the chalice broken So is the rare wine lost. For the hand of error shatters, And Truth must bear the cost. B Y an unchanging law of his nature man abuses whatever he does not understand. For that reason, the loftier civilisations have always been suspected rather than revered. If the seed of Abraham enjoyed the consciousness of an exalted moral purpose, they paid for it in a corresponding unpopularity amongst their neighbours. The general judgment of modern times Jiolds the Greeks to have been the noblest people of the classic world. Nevertheless, in their own day, they suffered not mere depreciation but downright libel. (Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes). So, also, with the London Welsh Through all their generations there is a little cloud on their repute. The men of the Principality can do full justice to the claims of their kindred in Pennsylvania. They find nothing but an adventurous virtue in their Patagonian offshoots. The Welsh of the Metropolis, however, they have never been able to appraise with a discerning eye. In all the thirteen counties there is still the linger- ing suspicion that the London Welshman is a prodigal who has left his father's home to go into a far country. Cardiganshire may perhaps claim that it shews a little tenderness to London Welshmen. But Cardiganshire has been up to London selling milk. The inhabitants of that green county have iether come down from London or are on the point of departing thither. Car- diganshire is not representative in this matter. Cardi- ganshire is implicated. The Welsh in Wales do not maintain a uniform attitude to the Welsh in London. I find that some of the people in the Principality fear for the London Welshman in his daily contact with the Saxon. They are disturbed by the thought that the time has not yet come when the lamb may safely lie down with the lion. These, however, are the simple souls. Sturdy nationalists who write to the papers suspect that the London Welshman is putting into jeopardy the dis- tinctive qualities of the race. In this they are bad historians. Moreover, they forget that intermixture does not blunt patriotism, but gives it a keener edge. Another class, the critics steeped in cynicism, go so far as to suggest that the London Welshman is in London for his own profit. Alas, that men should have this acid in their souls To these, we of the London Welsh return no answer. Such critics would be ready to vilify the just men made perfect, and to accuse the Recording Angel of accepting bribes. To whatever school of commentators the hill-side Welsh belong, they combine in their tendency to look upon the London Welshman as a being apart. They greet him politely on polite occasions, but, openly or in secret, most of them nurse the opinion that he is neither fish, fowl, nor yet good red herring. By J. O. Francis. No. APOLOGIA. Even a superficial acquaintance with the writings of the Welsh reveals Mt merely a failure to appreciate the London Welshman, but a strong inclination to 'malign him. The collecting of black passages would be a grimly pleasant task for a morbid student anxious to illustrate how far the human mind can fall from justice. For the purpose of this paper, it will be enough to shew that, both in the past and in the present, the London Welsh have been the mild martyrs of flames of envy and suspicion. I would rather, for my part, deal with a Turk or a Jew than with a London Welshman." So wrote Lewis Morris to brother William in one of his spicy contributions to that famous eighteenth century corres- pondence, now known as the Letters of the Morrisiaid. Lewis was on a visit to London. William was, as he loved to phrase it, in his cell at Caergybi. And, in this vindictive sentence, man- kind may see how the folk of the Principality talk of the London Welsh behind their backs The Welsh nation owes the publication of these letters to Principal J. H. Davies, of Aberystwyth, himself a former London Welshman. Need I say more to prove that we are too high-minded to grow resentful under calumny, and that, in our zeal for literature, we are ready to add an arrow to the quiver of our detractors? The London Welsh look with calm magnanimity on such attacks. Like the recumbent god in Botticelli's picture, they are unmoved by the hornets that buzz around their brows. Their grief is not for themselves, but for kinsmen so void of insight, so full of prejudice. How far that prejudice can run will be seen from another statement in the letter already quoted. Richard Morris, the London Welsh member of this epistolary family, had founded the Cymmrodorion Society in 1751. And this is what Lewis (risking the thunder- bolts of outraged heaven) wrote of brother Richard and the queen of Welsh Societies ­- I am afraid that foolish meeting of Cymmrodorion will make an end of him, for he stays there till one, two, three or four o'clock in the morning, and sometimes comes as far as the door (or has done it), and there sleeps till the watch awake him." Here, fortunately, the prejudice against the London Welsh over-reaches itself, and becomes an object of the indignation it would evoke. Libel is only effective within the bounds of credence. Some result may follow from falsehood spoken in the accents of the saints, but this is the sulphurous tongue of the Father of Lies himself. Think of it The founder of the Cymmrodorion out till one, two, three or four in the morning ? Come, come brother Lewis We have read such things of Chatham, Burke, and Fox. The admiring Macaulay has to make it known that Addison, the moralist of his age, was frail upon this point. But there is a limit to what men can believe--even of those wild days. A regiment of brothers could not persuade us that the founder of the Cymmrodorion ever slept on the doorstep. The mind instinctively rejects such a