II WELSH MAGIC

On the other side of most of the golden doors through which we shall pass, our own tongue, English, is spoken. Yet in this wonderful palace, full of beautiful thoughts and beautiful expression, there are two doors which when thrown open we may enter, but where our English would not be understood. They both admit us to the poems and prose of families of the same race—a race called Celtic. Over one door of this family, however, is written Cymric, and all that is Cymric is written and spoken in Welsh. On the other door is Gaelic, and all that is Gaelic is Irish and Scotch. And the Great Palace of English Literature, with its innumerable golden doors, would not be at all the same palace if it were not for these two little doors, for out of them has come much that is best in poetry and prose.

The Welsh were already in Britain when the so-called "English" landed on the island, and these [Pg 10]English, after one hundred and fifty years, succeeded in driving the Welsh, or Cymru, back to the mountains and coast on the west of the island. There they lived among the mountains, holding fast to their customs and to their songs and poetry. And by and by, when it was time for this miracle to happen, the little golden door over which was written Cymric, or Welsh, opened, and out of it there passed one of the most beautiful story-cycles the world has ever known, the tales about King Arthur. But of this great story we shall hear later.

This little golden door may be the oldest in all the palace, for long before the Arthur story was born there were other tales which the Cymru loved. There is a word "prehistoric" which accurately describes some of these stories known as Mabinogion, which means, literally, Tales for the Children, or Little Ones. This famous book was translated from Welsh into English by Lady Charlotte Guest in 1838. Among the oldest of these tales is "Taliesin," which has behind it a prehistoric singer, a mythic singer.

And now let us open that door over which is written Cymric, or Welsh, and look in.

Long ago, at the beginning of King Arthur's time and the famous Round Table, there lived a man whose name was Tegid Voel. His wife was called Caridwen. And there was born to them a son, Avagddu, who was the ugliest boy in all the world.

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When Caridwen looked at Avagddu, and knew beyond any doubt that he was the ugliest boy in all the world, she was much troubled. Therefore she decided to boil a caldron of Inspiration and Science for her son, so that Avagddu might hold an honorable position because of his knowledge.

Caridwen filled the caldron and began to boil it, and all knew that it must not cease boiling for one year and a day—that is, until three drops of Inspiration had been distilled from it. Gwion Bach she put to stirring the caldron, and Morda, a blind man, was to keep the caldron boiling day and night for the whole year. And every day Caridwen gathered charm-bearing herbs and put them in to boil.

And it was one day toward the close of the year that three drops of the liquid in the caldron flew out upon the finger of Gwion Bach, who was stirring the liquid. It burnt him, and he put his finger in his mouth. Because of the magic of those drops he knew all that was going to happen. And he was afraid of the wiles of Caridwen, and in fear he ran away.

All the liquor in the caldron, except the three charm-bearing drops that had fallen upon the finger of Gwion Bach, was poisonous, and therefore the caldron burst. When Caridwen saw the work of her whole year lost, she was angry and seized a stick of wood. With the stick she struck Morda on the head.

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"Thou hast disfigured me wrongfully," he said, "for I am innocent."

"Thou speakest truth," she replied; "it was Gwion Bach robbed me."

And Caridwen went forth after Gwion Bach, running.

When little Gwion saw her coming, because of the magic drops that had touched his finger, he was able to change himself into a hare. But thereupon Caridwen changed herself into a greyhound, and there was a race fleeter almost than the wind. Caridwen was nearly upon him when little Gwion turned toward the river and became a fish. Then Caridwen changed herself from a greyhound into an otter, and chased little Gwion under the water. So close was the chase that he had to turn himself into a bird of the air. Whereupon Caridwen became a hawk and followed him and gave him no rest in the sky. She was just swooping down upon him, and little Gwion thought that the hour of his death had come, when he saw a heap of winnowed wheat on the floor of the barn, and he dropped into the wheat and turned himself into one of the grains. And then what do you think happened? Caridwen changed herself into a high-crested black hen, hopped into the wheat, scratching it with her feet, found poor little Gwion Bach, who had once been a boy, then in turn became a rabbit, a fish, a bird of the air, and was now a grain of wheat.

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Caridwen swallowed him! But so powerful was the magic of those three drops of Inspiration which had touched his finger, that little Gwion appeared in the world again, entering it as a beautiful child. And even Caridwen, because of his beauty, could not bear to kill him, so she wrapped him in a leathern bag and cast him into the sea. That was on the twenty-ninth day of April.

Where Caridwen threw little Gwion into the sea was near the fishing-weir of Gwyddno by Aberstwyth. And even as Caridwen had the ugliest son in all the world, so had Gwyddno the most unlucky, and his name was Elphin. This year Gwyddno had told Elphin that he might have the drawing of the weir on May Eve. Usually the fish they drew from the weir were worth about one hundred pounds in good English silver. His father thought that if luck were ever going to come to Elphin, it would come with the drawing of the weir on May Eve.

But on the next day, when Elphin went to look, there was nothing in the weir except a leathern bag hanging on a pole.

One of the men by the weir said to Elphin: "Now hast thou destroyed the virtue of the weir. There is nothing in it but this worthless bag."

"How now," said Elphin, "there may be in this bag the value of an hundred pounds."

They took the bag down from the pole, and[Pg 14] Elphin opened it, and as he opened it he saw the forehead of a beautiful boy.

"Behold a radiant brow!" cried Elphin. "Taliesin shall he be called."

Although Elphin lamented his bad luck at the weir, yet he carried the child home gently on his ambling horse. Suddenly the little boy began to sing a song in which he told Elphin that the day would come when he would be of more service to him than the value of three hundred salmon.

And this song of comfort was the first poem the little, radiant-browed Taliesin ever sang. But when Gwyddno, the father of Elphin, asked him what he was, he sang again and told the story of how he had fled in many shapes from Caridwen; as a frog, as a crow, as a chain, as a rose entangled in a thicket, as a wolf cub, as a thrush, as a fox, as a martin, as a squirrel, as a stag's antler, as iron in glowing fire, as a spear-head from the hand of one who fights, as a fierce bull, as a bristly boar, and in many other forms, only to be gobbled up in the end as a grain of wheat by a black hen.

"What is this?" said Gwyddno to his son Elphin.

"It is a bard—a poet," the son answered.

"Alas! what will he profit thee?"

"I shall profit Elphin more than the weir has ever profited thee," answered Taliesin.

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And the little, radiant-browed boy began to sing another song:
"Wherefore should a stone be hard; Why should a thorn be sharp-pointed; Who is hard like flint; Who is salt like brine; Who is sweet like honey; Who rides in the gale?"

Then bade he Elphin wager the King that he had a horse better and swifter than any of the King's horses. Thus Elphin did, and the King set the day and the time for the race at the place called the Marsh of Rhiannedd. And thither every one followed the King, who took with him four-and-twenty of his swiftest horses.

The course was marked and the horses were placed for running. Then in came Taliesin with four-and-twenty twigs of holly, which he had burned black, and he put them in the belt of the youth who was to ride Elphin's horse. He told this youth to let all the King's horses get ahead of him; but as he overtook one horse after the other he was to take one of the burnt twigs of holly and strike the horse over the crupper, then let the twig fall. This the youth who rode Elphin's horse was to do to each of the King's horses as he overtook it, and he was to watch where his own horse should stumble, and throw down his cap on that spot.

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Thereupon the youth who rode Elphin's horse, and all the King's riders, pricked forth upon their steeds, their horses with bridles of linked gold on their heads, and gold saddles upon their backs. And the racing horses with their shell-formed hoofs cast up sods, so swiftly did they run, like swallows in the air. Blades of grass bent not beneath the fleet, light hoofs of the coursers.

Elphin's horse won the race. Taliesin brought Elphin, when the race was over, to the place where the horse had stumbled and where the youth had thrown down his cap as he had been told. Elphin did as Taliesin bade him and put workmen to dig a hole in this spot. And when they had dug the ground deep enough, there was found a large caldron full of gold.

Then said Taliesin: "Elphin, behold! See what I give thee for having taken me out of the weir and the leathern bag! Is this not worth more to thee than three hundred salmon?"

In the Mabinogion stories, first collected and set down some time in the twelfth century, we live in a world of enchantment and fairies. Those tales are full of gold—the gold of a wondrous imagination. It would be nice if we could keep this door, over which is written Welsh, open long enough so that I might tell you the story of Pryderi, too, and how Pryderi found a castle where no castle had ever been, how he entered[Pg 17] it and saw "In the center of the castle floor ... a fountain with marble-work around it, and on the margin of the fountain a golden bowl on a marble slab, and chains hanging from the air, to which he saw no end." What happened to him when he seized this cup, how the castle faded away, how the heroes of the story were changed to mice—for none of this can we hold open the golden door any longer. The ends of the golden chains of many a story are not to be seen by us.