Welsh Journals

The spell of the country lay so heavily upon me, that even when I returned from my black- berrying expedition I could not rest indoors, but set out directly after tea armed with another basket-in search of mushrooms this time. My friend, Kitty, came with me, and after a short tramp across the dusty road we came to a field. We slipped over the gate, and took a few cautious steps through the thistles. Then with a whoop of joy we pounced upon our first mush- room. After that the fun raged fast and furious. As we came upon the magic white patches among the green grass we shouted to each other across the widening distance that our search put hourly between us. Oh, Kitty, I've got one! So have I. I've got two." I've got three now." "Oh, Hazel, I've found ever such a big one! And I have. Two big ones." And thus the duet of happy, laughing voices continues. And so the day goes, and we do not miss it. We do not even see the sun set in fiery splendour in the western sky. The stars come out almost un- perceived by us, and above the purple hills the moon rises like a great golden lamp. And now the dew lies thick upon the long grass, and the trees and bushes have become goblins, and their black shadows dance wickedly upon the pearly meadows. The night mists rise like banks of cloud upon the marshes. Owls cry mournfully from the belfry. And the little brown rabbits, who love the night, come out of their burrows and scuttle across our pathway in the bright moonlight. A flash of white, and they are gone. All is silence and solitude. We are alone in a land of shadows. Suddenly, this spectral land becomes a place of horror! A huge dark object looms out of the mists, and hurls itself upon us. The earth itself is shaken by a dreadful bellowing. Screaming, The Borrow Manuscripts. By Llewelyn C. Lloyd. BORROVIANS in general, and Welsh lovers of the author in particular, cannot but be grateful to The Welsh Outlook for having afforded them the opportun- ity to examine the hitherto unpublished writings of Borrow, which have been appearing during the last eighteen months under the able and painstaking editorship of Professor H. Wright. The publication of these manuscripts has aroused considerable interest in the world of books, and in face of this perhaps the present writer, as a close student of Borrow's work, may be per- mitted to set forth some of his impressions of the "omitted chapters," mainly transcribed from his notes on the instalments as they appeared. It may be said at once that the chapters throw no new light on the men with whom they deal, we take to our heels, and run for very life. It is a mad bull. The next minute seems eternity. Panting, gasping, sobbing, I run on and on. Every instant brings that terror nearer. I can go no further. With one last despairing sob I close my eyes and prepare for death. I feel myself stumbling-falling to the ground. Someone shouts. The earth seems to rise up and meet me. Everything grows dark. A long time after I open my eyes to find my- self still in the fields. Kitty is near me crying bitterly. Between her sobs she tells me what has happened. It was William who shouted- William who placed himself between me and that infuriated creature, before someone shot it. William is dying-bleeding internally from the wound he received. Frantically I ask Kitty where they have taken him. Over there," she points. I look and see a group of men a few yards away. One of them holds a lantern. They are bending over something. In an instant I am up and running to the spot. I reach it, and thrusting myself in between the watchers, fall on my knees beside William's inanimate form. Is this William ? So pale he lies and still, his eyes fast closed, as though he were already dead. Someone-a doctor-is feeling his pulse and looking very grave. The others whisper to each other. Suddenly there is a change. His eyelids flutter. Breathlessly I bend over him. The sleepy grey eyes open slowly, very slowly, and look round in a dazed fashion as though seeking something. They travel to my tearful face. A smile breaks over William's countenance. He whispers some- thing faintly, before his head relaxes in death, but not too faintly for my listening ears to catch the half whispered words: How are you, my dear-r-r ?" and are mostly adaptations and collections of what Borrow had read. They have, therefore, no value on that score. But since Borrow was notoriously untrustworthy as an historian, these essays have not even the value of being con- venient and reliable narratives. What, then, was the use of publishing them? The man who asserted that he could see no poetry in Shakes- peare did no harm to Shakespeare, but he threw a great light on himself; and, similarly, these essays are valuable simply as a display of Borrow's sympathies, prejudices, and cast of mind. The delightfully vigorous way in which they are written must have been apparent to all who have read them. They are fairly obviously only first rough drafts, and were not intended for publication in this state. It also seems probable from the frequent emendations which Professor Wright has had to make in the manuscripts that they were written in hot haste -perhaps on dining tables at various hostelries