the manner, just imagine a mad North American Indian, a howling and dancing Dervise, an excited Shaker, a violent case of fever-and-ague, a New York auctioneer, and a pugilist of the Tom Hyer school, all fused together, and you may form some faint idea of a Welsh bard in the agony of inspiration.  Such roaring, such eye-rolling, such thumping of fists and stamping of feet, such joint-dislocating action of the arms, such gyrations of the head, such spasmodic jerkings—­out of the language of the ancient Britons, I never heard before, and fervently pray that I never may again.  And, let it be remembered, the grotesque costume of the bard wonderfully heightened the effect.  His long beard, made of tow, became matted with the saliva which ran down upon it from the corners of his mouth; his make-believe bald scalp was accidentally wiped to one side, as he mopped away the perspiration from his forehead with a red cotton handkerchief; and a nail in the gallery front catching his ancient robe, in a moment of frenzy, a fearful rending sound indicated a solution of continuity, and exposed a modern blue unbardic pair of breeches with bright brass buttons beneath,—­an incident in keeping with the sham nature of all the proceedings.  For a mortal half hour this exhibition lasted, and when the impassioned speaker sat down, panting and perspiring, the multitude stamped, clapped, and hallooed, and went into such paroxysms of frenzy, that Bedlam broke loose could alone be compared with it.

During the three days the Festival lasted, such scenes as I have described were repeated,—­the only changes being in the persons of the singers and spouters.  Glad enough was I when all was over, and my occupation as reporter gone, for that time at least.  With the aid of a Welsh friend I managed to make a highly florid report of the proceedings, which occupied no less than eight columns of the “M——­ Beacon.”  As several of the speakers were only too glad to give me, sub rosa, copies of their speeches in their native language, and as none knew of the fact but ourselves, I gained no little reputation as an accomplished Welsh scholar.  The result of this was, that presents of Welsh Bibles, hymn-books, histories, topographies, and the like, by the score, were forwarded to me,—­some out of respect for my talents as a great Welsh linguist, others for review in the newspaper.  I was neither born to such greatness, nor did I ever achieve it; it was literally thrust on me; so also were sundry joints of the delicious Liliputian Welsh mutton, which latter I am not ashamed to say I thoroughly understood, appreciated, and digested.  The ancient litter-ature, I am sorry to confess, I sold as waste paper, at so much per pound; but to show that some lingering regard for at least two of Cambria’s institutions yet reigns in this ——­ bosom, I am just about to begin upon a Welsh rabbit, and wash it down with a pitcher of cwrw dach.

CORNUCOPIA.