Next came the young man; but several of the harp-strings at once snapped in consequence of his fierce fingering, and he broke down amidst howls of guttural disapprobation.  So far as competition was concerned, he was, in sporting parlance, nowhere!

The old blind gentleman followed, and I do not think that I ever witnessed a more melancholy spectacle.  Apollo playing on his stringed instrument presents a very graceful appearance; but fancy a Welsh Orpheus with a face all seamed and scarred by smallpox,—­a short, fiery button in the middle of his countenance, serving for a nose,—­a mouth awry and toothless,—­and two long, dirty, bony hands, with claw-like fingers tipped with dark crescents,—­and I do not think the picture will be a pleasant one.  If the horrible-looking old fellow had concealed his ghastly eyes by colored glasses, the effect would not have been so disagreeable; but it was absolutely frightful to see him rolling his head, as he played, and every now and then staring with the whites of his eyes full in the faces of his unseen audience.  At length, greatly to my relief, he gave the last decisive twang, and was led away by his wife.  It is almost needless to say that the musical “Bunch” took the prize.

“Penillionn Singing” was the next attraction.  This was something like an old English madrigal done into Welsh, and, as a specimen of vocalization, pleasing enough,—­as pleasing, that is, as Welsh singing can be to an English ear; but how different from the soft, liquid Italian trillings, the flexible English warblings, the melodious ballads of Scotland, or the rollicking songs of Ireland!  There was only one of the many singers I heard at the Festival who at all charmed me, and that was a little vocalist of much repute in Southern Wales for her bird-like voice and brilliancy of execution.  Her professional name was pretty enough,—­Eos Vach Morganwg,—­“The Little Nightingale of Glamorgan.”  Her renderings of some simple Welsh melodies were delicious; they as far excelled the outpourings of the other singers as the compositions of Mendelssohn or Bellini surpass a midnight feline concert.  I have heard Chinese singing, and have come to the conclusion, that, next to it, Welsh prize-vocalism is the most ear-distracting thing imaginable.

So it went on; Welsh, Welsh, Welsh, nothing but Welsh, until I was heartily sick of it.  Then, the singing part of the performance being concluded, the bardic portion of the business commenced.  It was conducted in this manner:—­

The names of several subjects were written on separate slips of paper, and these being placed in a box, each bard took one folded up and with but brief preparation was expected to extemporize a poem on the theme he had drawn.  The contest speedily commenced, and to me this part of the proceedings was far and away the most entertaining.  Of course, being, as I said, ignorant of the language, I could not understand the matter of the improvisations; but as for