founder of the Cymreiggddyon Society. But the most amusing David was one depicted on a banner carried in front of a company of barbers belonging to the order of Odd Fellows. In that magnificent work of art David was represented bewailing the death of Alssalom, that unhappy young man being seen hanging by his hair from a tree. Out of the mouth of David issued a scroll, in which was inscribed the following touching verse:—
“Oh, Absalom! Oh, Absalom!
Oh, Absalom, my son!
If thou hadst worn a good Welsh wig,
Thou hadst not been undone!”
It was with no little trouble that I elbowed my way into the great temporary hall where the exercises were to be held; but by dint of much pressing forward, I at length reached the reporters’ bench. Directly in front was a raised platform, and on two sides of the tent galleries had been erected for the bards and orators. On the platform table were arranged prizes to be given for the best playing, singing, and speaking,—and also for articles of domestic Welsh manufacture, such as plaids, flannels, and the like. A large velvet and gilded chair was placed on a dais for the president, and on either side of this, seats for ladies and visitors. In a very short time every corner of the spacious area was crammed.
And a pretty and a cheerful spectacle was presented wherever the eye turned. As in almost all other gatherings of the kind, the fair sox were greatly in the majority; and during the interval which elapsed between the. opening of the doors and the beginning of business, the clatter of female tongues was prodigious. The sex generally are voluble when in crowds; but as for Welsh women, their loquacity was far beyond anything of the kind I had ever conceived of. And there were some wonderfully handsome specimens of girlhood, womanhood, and matronhood among that groat gathering; though I am compelled to admit that in Wales beauty forms the exception, rather than the rule. But the bards are in their places,—the front rows of either gallery; the president has taken his seat; the leading ladies of the county arc in their chairs; and while the large audience are settling down into their places, let us glance at two or three of the celebrities present.
On the foremost seat, to the right of the chairman, sits a lady who is evidently a somebody, since all the gentlemen, on entering, pay her especial respect. She is rather past the middle age, but has worn well; her eye is still bright, her cheek fresh-colored, and her skin smooth. Evidently she takes much interest in the proceedings,—and little wonder,—for it is mainly owing to her exertions that the Festival has not become one of the tilings that were. Her name? You may see it embroidered in dahlias on yonder broad strip of white cotton, stretching across the breadth of the hall, nearly over her head. These blossoms form the letters and words, Gwennen Gwent, or “The Bee of Gwent,”— Gwent being the ancient name of that portion of Glamorgan. The title is apt enough; for Lady Hall—that is her matter-of-fact name—is proverbially one of the busiest of her sex in all that relates to the welfare of her poorer neighbors. She is wife of Sir Benjamin Hall, member of Parliament for the largest parish in London, St. Mary-le-bone, and whose county residence is at Llanover Court, near Abergavenny. That tall, aristocratic man near her is her husband; but he looks somewhat out of place there. As a member of the House of Commons, he is prominent; but evidently his present position is not at all to his taste.
On the left of the chairman is another lady, whose name is well known in literary circles. She is not Welsh by birth, though she is so by marriage,—she being united to one of the great iron-masters. She has a large face, open and cheerful-looking, if not handsome. The forehead is broad and white,—the eyes dark and lustrous. Formerly she was known to the reading world as Lady Charlotte Lindsay; now she is Lady Charlotte
