Welsh Poems and Ballads

by Unknown

But as time went on Borrow returned on his old steps, and he took up some of his former handiwork, and smoothed away some of its crudities. Mr. Wise, indeed, maintains that the Borrow of 1826 was a much less finished verseman than the Borrow of 1854–60; and his Bibliography illustrates some of the changes made for the better in Borrow’s verse. Thus, in one Norse ballad, he changes “gore” into “blood,” and we remark in many lines an attempt to get at a more natural style in verse. The account of “The Sleeping Bard” in the Bibliography, shows that the improvement in Borrow’s craftsmanship went on after 1860, in which year the book was printed at Yarmouth (a very limited edition, 250 copies at 5s. a copy). For instance, in the poem, “Death the Great,” the seventh stanza ran originally:

“The song and dance afford, I ween,
Relief from spleen, and sorrow’s grave;
How very strange there is no dance
Nor tune of France, from Death can save.”

In 1871 the four lines were recast as follows:—

“The song and dance can drive, they say,
The spleen away, and humour’s grave;
Why hast thou not devised, O France
Some tune and dance from Death to save?”

Here again, we see, he purges his poetic diction, and turns “I ween” into “they say.” It is remarkable that in translating these lines by Elis Wynn he is not content to get the end-rhymes only, but accepts to the full the difficulty of following the Welsh in the interned rhymes throughout—as shown by the words italicised.

In his interesting account of “George Borrow and his Circle,” Mr. Shorter quotes a letter from Professor Cowell to a Norwich correspondent, Mr. James Hooper, which betrays some disappointment over Borrow’s Welsh interest at the close of his life. Cowell had been inspired by “Wild Wales” to learn Welsh, and even nursed a wish to do so under Borrow himself. He found his way to Oulton Hall one autumn day, and its master—now an old man close on eighty—opened the door in person. The ardent visitor talked to him of Ab Gwilym, but his interest was languid; and even the news that the Honourable Cymmrodorion were about to publish the poems of Iolo Goch did not rouse him. Cowell himself, it may be added, afterwards wrote an excellent appreciation of Ab Gwilym in the Transactions of the same society. In his letter, Cowell speaks of Borrow’s carelessness as a translator, and declares the very title—“Visions of the Sleeping Bard”—to be wrong; it should be, not the “Sleeping Bard,” but the “Bard Sleep.” However, in this case, Borrow’s instinct was truer than his critic’s. For “Cwsg” is used as a noun-adjective by Elis Wynn; and the latest translator of the book—Mr. Gwyneddon Davies [17]—adopts the same title precisely.

Borrow’s record as a Welsh translator would not be complete without a page or so of his version of the prose text of the same work. Elis Wynn, I may explain, was, after the tale-writers of the Mabinogion, the best author of Welsh narrative prose that the language possesses. He was at once idiomatic and exact in style. He knew how to get the golden epithet; his diction was bold and biblical, his vocabulary could be at times startling and Rabelaisean. Borrow’s efficiency in rendering him may be tested by a couple of passages. The first takes us to the City of Destruction and its streets:—

“‘What are those streets called,’ said I. ‘Each is called,’ he replied, ‘by the name of the princess who governs it: the first is the street of Pride, the middle one the street of Pleasure, and the nearest, the street of Lucre.’ ‘Pray, tell me,’ said I, ‘who are dwelling in these streets? What is the language which they speak? What are the tenets which they hold? To what nation do they belong?’ ‘Many,’ said he, ‘of every language, faith and nation under the sun are living in each of those vast streets below; and there are many in each of the three streets alternately, and everyone as near as possible to the gate; and they frequently remove, unable to tarry long in the one, from the great love they bear to the princess of some other street; and the old fox looks slyly on, permitting everyone to love his choice, or all three if he pleases, for then he is most sure of him.’

“‘Come nearer to them,’ said the angel, and hurried with me downwards, shrouded in his impenetrable veil, through much noxious vapour which was rising from the city; presently, we descended in the street of Pride, upon a spacious mansion open at the top, whose windows had been dashed out by dogs and crows, and whose owners had departed to England or France, to seek there for what they could have obtained much easier at home; thus, instead of the good, old, charitable, domestic family of yore, there were none at present but owls, crows, or chequered magpies, whose hooting, cawing, and chattering were excellent comments on the practices of the present owners. There were in that street myriads of such abandoned palaces, which might have been, had it not been for Pride, the resorts of the best, as of yore, places of refuge for the weak, schools of peace and of every kind of goodness; and blessings to thousands of small houses around.”

This comes from the first of the Three Dreams, that of the World; and a further quotation from the same dream-book touches what is Borrow’s high-water mark as a translator:—

“Thereupon we turned our faces from the great city of Perdition, and went up to the other little city. In going along, I could see at the upper end of the streets many turning half-way from the temptations of the gates of Perdition and seeking for the gate of Life; but whether it was that they failed to find it, or grew tired upon the way, I could not see that any went through, except one sorrowful faced man, who ran forward resolutely, while thousands on each side of him were calling him fool, some scoffing him, others threatening him, and his friends laying hold upon him, and entreating him not to take a step by which he would lose the whole world at once. ‘I only lose,’ said he, ‘a very small portion of it, and if I should lose the whole, pray what loss is it? For what is there in the world so desirable, unless a man should desire deceit, and violence, and misery, and wretchedness, giddiness and distraction? Contentment and tranquillity,’ said he, ‘constitute the happiness of man; but in your city there are no such things to be found. Because who is there here content with his station? Higher, higher! is what everyone endeavours to be in the street of Pride. Give, give us a little more, says everyone in the street of Lucre. Sweet, sweet, pray give me some more of it, is the cry of everyone in the street of Pleasure.

“‘And as for tranquillity, where is it? and who obtains it? If you be a great man, flattery and envy are killing you. If you be poor, everyone is trampling upon and despising you. After having become an inventor, if you exalt your head and seek for praise, you will be called a boaster and a coxcomb. If you lead a godly life and resort to the Church and the altar, you will be called a hypocrite. If you do not, then you are an infidel or a heretic. If you be merry, you will be called a buffoon. If you are silent, you will be called a morose wretch. If you follow honesty, you are nothing but a simple fool. If you go neat, you are proud; if not, a swine. If you are smooth speaking, then you are false, or a trifler without meaning. If you are rough, you are an arrogant, disagreeable devil. Behold the world that you magnify!’ said he; ‘pray take my share of it.’”