Welsh Journals

plays a religion, a mythology. From the Norse sagas he takes his grim creatures of earth and water, full of fierce lusts and vehemence. He takes from Irish folk- lore not only much imagery, but also its belief in the nearness of the spiritual world. 1 he supernatural has a large share in his plays, and even his men and women are fey, earthy, sympathetic with herons and rocks and moving waters. They are themselves moods of nature, instinctive, and elemental. The witches in the Riding to Lithend are the most convincing in English poetry. They sleep like horses standing up in darkness." And they come easily into the drama, because all the characters share their nearness to natural things. It is a quality of the world they inhabit. Mr. Bottomley's last volume, "Gruach and Britain's Daughter," contains two plays, both on Celtic themes, one of which the poet has taken directly from Shakes- peare. It is the only one we can consider here. Gruach is Lady Macbeth before her marriage, and the drama tells in two acts the story of her wooing. In many a delicate and allusive touch the writer shows how utterly the Shakespearian tragedy has filled his mind. His play merges into Shakespeare like dawn into sunrise. Mr. Bottomley portrays the youth of Lady Macbeth. He imagines her coldly ramparted in a northern castle. She is betrothed to her cousin, who covets her lands. Her aunt, a stem, miserly woman, governs the house, and has compelled the betrothal., Gruach listlessly is about to comply. Nothing has yet come to give purpose to her passionate temper. She sees no fate worthy of her, and so would accept this boneless wooer who fears her. Her nature is not awake, and at nights she walks in her sleep, as though then her unconscious self drove her to barren activity. (You remember Lady Macbeth's sleep- walking). Even now a sudden desire may make her Night, all engulfing, awful, lonely night Descended, ne'er again to flee at Dawn, War nightmare fiend of darkness shattered light, And all earth's loveliness, with all man's art Became, a swirling, horror pulsing, space. Traditional faith in God could not withstand The blow, that banish'd me to Shadowland. The shallow mere, o'erhung by willow bough- The blossom spangl'd dell-the forest maze-- The deep ravine-the rugged mountain peak- The glittering sands, and storm toss'd sea beyond- All cried aloud in bliss Behold I" But sable mist shrouds earthly fairyland. Bereft, I wander'd through grim Shadowland. cruel, and the fingers that were later to handle weapons can twist a girl's arm when jieedful. And then, on her wedding eve, Macbeth, a king's envoy, knocks at the house, and claims hospitality for the night. Before dawn, and in a tempest of snow, he will leave the castle, but Gruach will be sharing his saddle, and the stage wall be set for Shakespeare's tragedy. I doubt if English drama possesses another such strange love scene as this of a northern midnight. (Remember how night dominates the play of Shakes- peare). Macbeth's own character is well displayed. He is the brave adventurer, little troubled by scruple, yet honourable in his fashion, and manly,-the very figure of Shakespeare's first act. But Gruach is the dominating figure. She is about to retire for the night when she meets the envoy. They exchange a few significant sentences, enough for the image of the stranger to oust the cousin from her dreams, and in sleep she re-acts the meeting, and speaks aloud the thoughts that had) stirred her. Macbeth dares to wake her from her sleep-walking and he wakes her indeed. He wakes her to new being, and for a moment it seems she will kill him. It is impossible to describe the swift, march of their loving, the woman's surging mastery, her voluptuous delight to conquer her man, to win him not with coy- ness or tenderness, but through a duel of spirit and passion. To love her is to abandon all other allegi- ance, and all codes of honour. It Is to be moved to a new plane of life it is to love a woman as great ascetics love their gods, unaware of any other presence in the universe. And Mr. Bottomley makes this con- vincing, and he does it through pure poetry, without one false phrase, one moment of tawdriness or rhetoric. If, indeed, Anglo-Celtic literature is to cease, it will at least have given to English through Mr. Bottomley something Stable and of infinite price. SHADOWLAND.* Philosophies of life and love and death. Like twinkling stars, throw tiny shafts of light, That those, who through earth's darkened day would tread The unseen road, should halt not, daz'd, perplex'd, But pass beyond the knowledge they impart. So, dreaming oft, I strove to understand The God, whose love was Light in Shadowland. Long years crept by ere moonbeams pale could kiss The lids of sightless eyes and whisper light," Ere summer breath dare shape the thought a rose," Or falling leaf sing "Autumn! merrily, Without a cruel pang of cheated hope. But now, Dame Nature speaks her beauty, and I love the still, still night of Shadowland. The author lost his sight in the war. Algernon uudd.