Welsh Journals

Celtic soul became possessed of a strong desire for travel and adventure, and his restless spirit called for action,. After some years as war-correspondent to the New York Herald, his chance came: the pro- prietor of his paper requested him to go and find THE LAND OF FAIRIES. By M. J. James. TO-NIGHT the earth seems asleep, lulled to its dreams by the King of the Mist (Y Brenin Llwyd), who sits and broods in his cavernous chair on Mynydd Garth. Naught of the quiet beauty of the woods do you see to-night, though last evening late the silver crescent of the moon was like the fabled barge of Cariadwen. No dying dirges of the woods do you hear, but the senses are dulled, weighed down by the Grey King's magic. Grey Ladies wrap their draperies closer around them on the Cross Roads where they keep watch. Phantom funerals wend their way up Pentyrch Road, and corpse-candles flicker through the sombre woods. What a night! I think as I sit by the dancing fire- light. My mind merges into the mist, and I picture this grey, melancholy countryside in the forgotten past. The past, the childhood of the world as compared with our aged, war-stained present, has a delight un- speakable, for then there were not endless farewells, departed friends, voices stilled for evermore in the vast tumult of war. In th' olde dayes of King Arthour, of which the Britons speken gree honour, Al was this land fulfild of fayerye. The elf-queen with hir joly companye Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede; This was the old opinion, as I rede. I speke of manye hundred yeres ago." On Nos Cyn Gaeaf and Twelfth Night Bendith y Mamau (the fairies) appeared in the meadows of Cwm Llwytro, and danced the moonlight night away. Sometimes they whirled a young man from Garth into their midst for a year and a day. The little people sometimes played pranks, stole human children, and placed their own ugly offspring in their stead. Ah, but though these far-off fairies were not altogether good, there were beautiful lake fairies who appeared to lure bashful young farmers to wed them. Their dowries of cattle were more beauti- ful still In those days there was Arthur's Cave beneath Craig-y-Dinas--perhaps it is there now, but we have not the eyes with which to see. We have lost even the thrills of terror on the lonely road as the White Lady's foamy draperies shimmer in the moonlight. The fleecy clouds behind the leafless trees tell us another story. Nobody tells us in a breathless whisper:- John Jones, cau dy ben, Paid a holi'r Ladi Wen, Neu ddaw barn ar dy ben But we are not returning late from a forbidden orgy like a Mabsant, or a Cwrw Bach, or even a harmless Ffair Ton. We do not fear the priest. Livingstone." He proceeded across Africa met, and relieved the great Scotchman. Thus was com- menced a career, at the end of which Stanley was one of the most honoured men the world has ever seen. If I go down to the old Holy Well in Taff's Well I shall not see the shade of Owain Glyndwr coming to heal himself in its waters. I shall not hear the chained eagles of Castell Coch sending out their piercing cries into the still night. I shall not meet a mis-shapen creature who will bid me throw his buried treasure into the running Taff. I am no longer a child, and have put away childish things, but to-night I have dreamt of Arthur's Land:- Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly. It is as fair, perhaps no fairer than the Piper's Land Where waters gushed and fruit-grees grew And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new." For there we should see- the children running. All the little boys and girls With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls." This dream-land came to a very old friend of mine when he sang the rhyme of his childhood again:- Mi welais beth na weles pawb, Y cwd a'r blawd yn cerdded, Y fran yn toi ar ben y ty, A'r pia'n dala'r aradr." Though he knew every comer and crevice of his beloved Pentyrch, he categoried the people thereof -not in the fabled class of peacemakers, but thus ­· Pan bo Pentyrch yn llawen Heb malais na chenfigen, Bydd mel yn dod o'r chwarr A'r ffigish ar y ddraenen Christmas will come, but no more will the merry revellers sing and dance no Plygain," no Mari Lwyd, no fairy knockings at the door, no bonfires, no terrors for loved ones who have gone out int the fairy twilight, only a real, grim heartache for remembered farewells, empty places, and lonely firesides. My fairy-land to-night is a familiar, beautiful scene. It differs from Arthur's Land in that there is snow. It is- A world of snows and darkness and moon-sheen, Of still crystalline air and stars serene And stationary pines in slumber furled." It is just a remembered moment of life shared by a friend now lost in the mists of war. Perhaps we will renew our fairyland when Owain Glyndwr awakes and mighty Arthur's bell rings loudly to awaken the warriors who are to rid the Cymry of their enemies Come soon, soon!