The Welsh are remarkable for an extreme sagacity, shrewdness, and cunning in their little commercial transactions. They actually estimate genius by the number of successful efforts to overreach, and esteem the individual who exhibits the greatest dexterity in this way, to be what the world usually term “a man of ability.” This property does not extend to the middle or higher classes, who are no longer distinguished from the inhabitants of the adjacent counties by any peculiarity, but is a quality usually belonging to the peasantry of all remote and separated societies. In the early ages of Welsh history many singular instances occurred of the quick and acute repartee of chieftains, and distinguished men, both in the camp and at the court.
At the battle of Agincourt Dafydd Gam, the brother-in-law of Owen Glandwr, was despatched by King Henry to reconnoitre and ascertain the probable number of the enemy previous to the action. Upon his return, the king inquired whether these were not so many? “Sire,” replied Gam, “there are enough to kill, enough to be taken prisoners, and enough to run away.” The graceful rejection of a peerage (an honour recently conferred upon his descendants), by the loyal ancestor of the house of Mostyn, the reader will find introduced in the description of the venerable hall of that ancient family. There is yet another brave Cambrian, whose humour and intrepidity in the eleventh hour, saved his life. Sir John Owen, of Cleneny, together with the Lords Goring, Loughborough, Capel, and Holland, being condemned to exile by the parliament, were shut up at first in Windsor Castle; but, after the execution of their royal master, sanguinary measures were resolved upon. Holland, Capel, Goring, and Sir John being again put upon their trial, the brave loyalist evinced a courage worthy of his country. He told his judges “that he was a plain gentleman of Wales, who had been always taught to obey the king; that he had served him honestly during the war, and finding many honest men endeavour to raise forces, whereby they might get him out of prison, he did the like;” and concluded by signifying “that he did not care much what they resolved concerning him.” Ultimately he was condemned to lose his head: for which, with much humour and singular boldness, he made the court a low reverence, and gave it his humble thanks. Being asked the meaning of such acknowledgement, he replied, in a loud voice, “that he considered it a great honour to a poor gentleman in Wales to loss his head in company with such noble lords; for,” said he, with an oath, “I was afraid they would have hanged me.” This extraordinary and dauntless reply procured for the brave loyalist the continuance of his head in its original position, until it reclined on its last pillow in an honourable old age; for, Ireton forthwith became his advocate with the parliament, saying, “that there was one person for whom no one spoke a word; and therefore requested that he might be saved by the sole motive and goodness of the house.” Mercy was, in consequence, extended to him, and after a few months imprisonment, he was restored to that liberty of which he had proved himself so deserving.
Cambrensis represents his countrymen as persons of acute and subtle genius. In every species of litigation they exerted all their powers of rhetoric, and in these their talents for invention were conspicuously displayed. This spirit is still too widely diffused through the principality, it unhappily calls the worst feelings into operation, and opens a door to vice, at which some are found unblushingly to enter. But the Roman character is not to be impeached because the nation produced a Catiline, his fellows are to be found in every clime. The same historian, who regrets the consequences of a litigious disposition, adds, that “as there were not any baser than the worst of his countrymen, so neither were there any better than the best.”
The genius of the Welsh was at an early period directed into a rational channel. The most eminent for natural ability were induced to adopt the profession of bard or poetic historian, and this order of men exercised an influence over the destinies of the nation for many ages. Their talents were employed in preserving the genealogies of illustrious families, celebrating the praises of heroes, and recording remarkable and glorious events.
The institution of bardism is coeval with the origin of poetry. The Greek, Roman, and Celtic nations had their poets and troubadours, and the Scandinavians imported into Europe a species of bard called Scalds, or polishers of language. These were held in the highest estimation in all countries: they received liberal rewards for their poetic compositions, attended the festivals of heroic chieftains, accompanied them to the field of battle, and sang their victorious praises, or mourned over their untimely fall. The British bards were originally a constitutional appendage of the Druidical hierarchy, and upon the extinction of that detestable worship, were preserved, in a new and civil form, from the love of poetry and music then prevailing; predilections increased, probably, by an intercourse with the Scandinavian scalds.
Welsh poetry abounds in alliteration, which is also a characteristic of Icelandic song, and obviously insinuates a northern origin. The person of a bard was held sacred, and the laws of Howel Dda enacted, “that whoever even slightly injured a bard was to pay an eric or fine of six cows, and one hundred and twenty pence. The murderer of a bard was to pay one hundred and twenty-six cows.” These bardic laws resembled those relating to a similar class of persons in Ireland, where it was deemed an act of sacrilege to seize on the estate of a bard, even for the public service, and in times of national distress. The officers of the royal household, both in Wales and Ireland, at this period, consisted of a bard, musician, smith, physician, and huntsman. To an intercourse with the Irish nation is traceable the introduction of the harp into Cambria. The Welsh, so late as in the eleventh century, were accustomed to pass over into that kingdom, and there receive instruction in the bardic profession. Gryffydd ap Cynan, king of Wales, in 1078, “brought over from Ireland divers cunning musicians into Wales, from whom is derived in a manner all the instrumental music that is now there used; as appeareth as well by the bookes written of the same, as also by the names of the tunes and measures used among them to this daie.”
An election of bards took place annually, at an assembly of the princes and chieftains of the nation. Precedence, emolument, and honours, suitable to their respective merits were then assigned to each. The most meritorious was solemnly crowned on the Bardic throne, and presented, as a token of his preeminent genius, with a silver chair. This congress was usually held at one of the three royal residences of the princes of Wales, the sovereign himself presiding on the occasion.
Upon the introduction of the harp, Gryffydd determined to restrain the inordinate vanity of the bards, and to remodel the order. He enacted laws for their future government, the severity of which is a sufficient indication of the necessity of their institution. Amongst the penalties was one of much apparent hardship,—“If a minstrel offended in any of the recited instances, ‘every man’ was appointed an officer of justice, in such case, with liberty to arrest and inflict discretional punishment, and authority to seize upon whatever property the offender had about his person.” Under these regulations, and the auspices of an enlightened prince, respect for the order was reestablished, and eminent minstrels again flourished both in North and South Wales.
In the year 1176 the merits and genius of the bards of North and South Wales were displayed in the Hall of Rhys ap Gryffydd, a prince of South Wales, at the castle of Aberteivi. This hospitable lord held a Christmas revel here in this year, to which he invited some hundred persons, including the Norman and Saxon nobility. These he entertained with much honour and courtesy, and amused by feats of arms, field sports, and other diversions suited to the magnificence of the occasion. To these was added a contest between the bards from all parts of ancient Britain. The guests being assembled in the great Hall, and the bards being introduced, the prince directed them to give proof of their skill by answering each other in extemporaneous rhythmic effusions, proposing rich rewards to such as should be adjudged deserving of them by the noble assemblage of judges. In this contest the bards of North Wales obtained the victory, with the applause of all: and amongst the harpers or musicians, between whom a similar contention took place, the prince’s own retainers were acknowledged the most skilful.
The fascinating occupations of bard and minstrel continued in the highest admiration with their countrymen, soothing their wild spirit in days of peace, and awaking their ardour in moments of danger. One of the wisest of the ancient Greeks thought that poetry effeminated the state, and advised the expulsion of its votaries; King Edward on the other hand believed that it aroused and inspired a love of liberty, and adopted, in consequence, the cruel policy of cutting off its professors. The tradition current in Wales is that he ordered every bard who fell into his power to be immediately assassinated, an event, whether true or false, now immortalized in the exquisite ode by Gray commencing with these bold Pindaric lines: