INTRODUCTION.

In the library of Jesus College, Oxford, is an ancient Welsh MS. called Llyfr[1] Coch[2] O Hergest;[3] that is, The Red Book of Hergest. This MS. was written in the fourteenth century, though some of the compositions which it has collected are of a much earlier date. It contains a number of poems, together with a body of prose romances called Mabinogion.[4]

In the year 1838 Lady Charlotte Guest published a translation of these Mabinogion, accompanied by the text of their Welsh originals and a mass of useful and scholarly notes. Her work bore this gracious dedication:—

TO IVOR AND MERTHYR.

My dear Children,—Infants as you yet are, I feel that I cannot dedicate more fitly than to you these venerable relics of ancient lore, and I do so in the hope of inciting you to cultivate the Literature of "Gwyllt Walia," in whose beautiful language you are being initiated, and amongst whose free mountains you were born.

May you become early imbued with the chivalric and exalted sense of honor, and the fervent patriotism for which its sons have ever been celebrated.

May you learn to emulate the noble qualities of Ivor Hael, and the firm attachment to your native country which distinguished that Ivor Bach, after whom the elder of you was named.

I am your affectionate mother, C. E. GUEST.

Dowlais, Aug. 29, 1838.

Several considerations made me strongly desire to re-edit, upon the same plan with The Boy's Froissart and The Boy's King Arthur, the curious old products of Welsh fancy thus rendered available to scholars. The intrinsic charm of the stories themselves in the first place would easily have secured them a position in this series. Though not so rich as the Arabian Nights, they are more vigorous, and their fascination is of a more manful quality. Moreover, they are in comparison open-air tales, and do not move in that close, and, if one could think such a thing, gas-poisoned, temperature which often renders the atmosphere of the Eastern tales extremely unwholesome.

But in the second place the Mabinogion all centre, in one way or another, about the court of King Arthur, and present us with views of the domestic life going on in King Arthur's palace, as well as of the wild adventures of his warriors, which were conceived at a very much earlier and ruder period than that of Sir Thomas Malory's book; so that this collection of the earliest Arthurian legends seemed to make a peculiarly happy companion-book to The Boy's King Arthur, which was last published in this series. Indeed, it is probable that in these Mabinogion here following we have the original germs of that great growth of Arthurian romances which overspread Europe after Geoffrey of Monmouth published his History of the Britons, and of which I gave some account in the Introduction to The Boy's King Arthur. Readers of that Introduction will remember the statement there given, in which Geoffrey of Monmouth himself declares that his main material consisted of a Welsh book given him by a certain person since supposed to be Walter Map (or Mapes). Although several of the following Mabinogion

have probably received additions from foreign sources in the course of time—an original Welsh story, for example, would be carried by some traveller into other parts of Europe, would there be retold with additions and variations, would find its way back in the new form to Wales, and thus re-appear after a while in Welsh collections; yet others are in a nearly pure state. In order to bring these two classes into striking contrast, and to show how much a foreign admixture of this kind might smooth down the grotesque ruggedness of its Welsh original, I have changed the order of the Mabinogion as given in Lady Guest's arrangement, and have placed the story of Kilhwch and Olwen, which is almost hideous in many of its huge fancies and distortions and is pure Welsh, immediately next to the story of The Lady of the Fountain, whose daintiness, luxury, black savages, and the like, seem here and there to indicate foreign touches. The general tone and essential spirit, however, of the whole, are distinctly Welsh, and old Welsh. I think it curious indeed to note how curious those old

romances, or Mabinogion, seem to us in spite of the long intimacy and nearness between Welsh and English. They impress most readers with a greater sense of foreignness, of a wholly different cultus, than even Chinese or other antipodal tales; and over and above this there is a glamour and sleep-walking mystery which often incline a man to rub his eyes in the midst of a Mabinogi, and to think of previous states of existence.

It is another feature of this same difference between Welsh and English modes of thought which forms a third, and to me the most weighty, reason for bringing these Mabinogion before my young countrymen at this particular time. I can illustrate this difference most vividly by asking you to consider the following group of Welsh conceits and notions which I have assembled from various sources, upon the single thread of their likeness in extravagance, in wildness beyond all tolerance of reason, in lawlessness. Of course they are not to be taken as ordinary representative specimens; and I shall presently counterbalance them with some very beautiful, moderate, and wise examples of Welsh art. But they unquestionably show a tendency so characteristic as to be easily traceable.

Take, for instance, the following story concerning the famous mantle of King Ryence. Readers of King Arthur will remember the young sovereign's manful defiance, when, soon after his elevation to the throne, a messenger came from King Ryence demanding King Arthur's beard (though, indeed, he must have been too young to have one) to complete a mantle which King Ryence was purfling (bordering) with kings' beards,—a demand which Arthur pronounced "the most villainous and lewdest message that ever man heard sent to a king." The following version shows what prodigiously different forms the same narrative may assume.

Once upon a time two kings of Old Britain were walking together at night. Their names were Nynniaw and Peibiaw.

"See," said Nynniaw, "what a beautiful and large field I own!"

"Where is it?" said Peibiaw.

"The whole firmament," said Nynniaw.

"And do thou see," said Peibiaw, "what countless herds of cattle and sheep I have, feeding in thy field!"

"Where are they?" said Nynniaw.

"Why, all the stars which thou seest," replied Peibiaw, "with the moon for their shepherdess."

"They shall not graze in my pasture," said Nynniaw.

"They shall," said Peibiaw.

"They shall not," cried Nynniaw.

And then words arose between these two kings so bitter that they summoned their soldiers and fell to war wherein they continued until the armies of both were nearly destroyed. Seeing that such was the fact, Rhitta the giant, King of Wales (who is Sir Thomas Malory's King Ryens of North Wales), levied war against both, as being madmen dangerous to all their neighbors; and, having defeated their forces, he cut off the beards of kings Nynniaw and Peibiaw. But at this time there were twenty-eight kings in the Island of Britain, and when the others heard of these things, they marched all together against King Rhitta to avenge the insult of the beard. In the battle which followed, however, Rhitta was again victor. "This field is mine," said he, and cut off the beards of those kings. These matters being told abroad, the kings of all the surrounding countries made common cause against Rhitta, and presently waged a great battle with him. Still, Rhitta conquered all these. "The great field is mine," he said again; "and," cutting off all

their beards, "these are the herds that fed in my field; but I have driven them out." Then he made a mantle for himself out of all those beards, and although he was a giant twice as large as the largest man ever known, that mantle reached from his head to his heels.

Or take the exactions of a certain messenger called "The Little Peacock" (Y Paun Bach), who was sent by a certain David, Prince of North Wales, to fetch Gwgan (Googan, nearly) the bard to court. After a long journey, towards the close of the evening the Little Peacock heard sounds of the tuning of a harp from a house in a wooded valley where he had arrived. "The style of playing and the modulation" led him to suspect that this was Gwgan's house; and in order to be sure he advances and pours forth a high-flown speech to Gwgan, who replies in the like lofty vein, finally inquiring what he would have. "I want lodging," quoth Y Paun Bach, "for to-night ... and that not better than I know how to ask for.... A lightsome hall, floored with tile, and swept, in which there has been neither flood nor raindrop for the last hundred years, dressed with fresh green rushes, laid so evenly that one rush be not higher than the other the height of a gnat's eye, so that my foot should not slip either backward or forward the space of a mote

in the sunshine of June;" together with similar superb requirements as to the cushion beneath him, the pillow under each elbow, the fire, the supper, the servants' livery, and the quantity of his ale.

Or this itemized account of a monster, which, though not Welsh, is Gælic, and shows the general Keltic proclivity. "... they saw a couple approaching them,—a woman and a man; larger than the summit of ... a mountain was each ... of their members; sharper than a shaving-knife the edge of their shins; their heels and hams [were] in front of them; should a sackful of apples be thrown on their heads not one of them would fall to the ground, but would stick on the points of the strong, bristly hair which grew out of their heads; ... whiter than snow their eyes; a lock of the lower beard was carried round the back of the head, and a lock of the upper beard descended so as to cover the knees; the woman had whiskers, but the man was without whiskers."

Or the King Yspaddaden Penkawr, in the following story of Kilhwch and Olwen, whose eyebrows hung over his eyes to such a degree that they had to be propped up with forks; as well as the amazing qualifications of King Arthur's warriors, detailed in the same story,—such as of him whose dagger was so broad that King Arthur's army was accustomed to use it for a bridge in passing rivers; or him who could hear the touch of a gnat's foot on the ground at a great distance, or of him who could see a mote in a sunbeam at either of the four corners of the earth, or him whose red beard lay completely along the twenty-eight rafters of the king's hall, or of him whose lips were so large that he was accustomed to draw the lower down for an apron and to lift up the other for a hood; and others still more marvellously absurd. If we compare these with the wildest flights in Malory's King Arthur, nothing can be clearer than the constant presence in the latter of a certain reasonable restraint, a sober proportion, a sense of the supreme value

of law, even in the most apparently lawless excursions. It would be going far beyond proper bounds to discuss here how this subtle feeling for the beauty of restraint, this underlying perception of the artistic necessity of law and order, has quietly reigned, not only over the advance of English literature, but has been also the moving spirit, the perpetual King Alfred, of the whole of English development in general. And, as hinted, I have thought this consideration particularly forcible at the present moment in our own country, where the making of statutes increases in exact proportion to the decrease in the popular esteem for them. Daily and endlessly our Legislatures multiply laws and murder Law. But—may I not add, if only as one of those utterances which a boy sometimes profitably remembers, though at first dimly understood—the love of Law beyond all laws would seem to be particularly vital in a republic; being a principle so comprehensive, that at one extreme, in contact with certain tendencies, it flowers into that sense of

proportion, of the due relation of all parts of the universe to the whole, which is the artist's largest perception of beauty, and is the main outfit of genius in constructing Mabinogion, in literature, in all art; while at the other extreme, working with certain other tendencies of character, the same love of Law is at once the root of decorous behavior on the part of the private citizen, and of large statesmanship on the part of the public official.

But while this danger of extravagance certainly exists in the products of Welsh fancy, they possess many qualities which have wrought with fine influence upon general English life and literature. Among the oldest remains of Welsh poetic wisdom that have come down to us are what were called The Triads, in which wise aphorisms and sayings are effectively grouped together by threes. The four following examples of this form of composition show an insight and breadth which render them instructive to the wisest readers of our own time.

I.

The three qualifications of poetry: Endowment of genius, judgment from experience, and happiness of mind.

II.

The three primary requisites of genius: An eye that can see nature, a heart that can feel nature, and boldness that dares follow nature.

III.

The three foundations of judgment: Bold design, constant practice, and frequent mistakes.

IV.

The three foundations of learning: Seeing much, suffering much, and studying much.

It would be difficult to find more wisdom in fewer words, or loftier thought in simpler terms; and any young reader of The Mabinogion will have done a good day's work if he will commit these words so thoroughly that they will say themselves over to him, day by day, as a noble and fruitful formula, alike stimulating in every line of life, from the ploughman's to the president's. Among the Welsh, indeed, as far back as history can pierce, we find an almost adoring reverence for the poet. To assume the function of a bard is to assume the function of the wisest man and best teacher in society; and therefore the utmost pains are taken with the young bard's education, and he is held bound to know all that can be known. One supreme name stands out among ancient Welsh bards, which I will ask you to remember in this connection. This is Taliesin, whose name signifies "Shining Brow." He is the hero of one of the following Mabinogion which bears his name for a title. Some specimens of his poetry will there be found; and a few facts as

to his life are added in a footnote. The poet of next rank to him is perhaps Llywarch Hen, who, as well as Taliesin, belongs to the sixth century. The word "Hen" means old; and "Old Llywarch" seems a sort of expression of endearment. This is a specimen of his more pathetic song. His youngest son, Gwenn, had been slain in battle.

"Let the wave break noisily: let it cover the shore when the joined lances are in battle.... Let the wave break noisily: let it cover the plain when the lances join with a shock.... Gwenn has been slain at the ford of Morlas.... Here is the tomb of Gwenn, the son of the old Llywarch. Sweetly a bird sang on a pear-tree above the head of Gwenn, before they covered him with turf: that broke the heart of the old Llywarch."

I wish there were time to speak of Aneurin, the battle-singer; or to give the curious triad published among the Iolo Manuscripts, describing "The Nine Impulsive Stocks of the Baptismal Bards of Britain"; or to cite some brief beauties of still less-known poets,—such as the wild Hebrew outcry of the King Gwyddno Garanhir, which swept over the waste floods covering his plains and cities after the total destruction of his kingdom by the sea through the drunkenness of Seithenin, who had been left to watch the embankment on a night of revelry,—

—or as the saying of Heinin Vardd, preserved in the fragment,—

In this connection I will ask you to notice also the intense feeling for color, which, in some of the following Mabinogion, spreads an almost Oriental luxuriance of tint over the scenes. The Lady of the Fountain (the first Mabinogi of the following collection), for example, shows us King Arthur reclining upon green rushes, with a cushion of red satin under his elbow, Guenever and her ladies grouped at the other end of the hall, mantles of flame-colored satin, gilded bows, gold-headed arrows winged with peacocks' feathers, gold-banded garments, shoes of variegated leather, twenty-four youths with golden hair, rooms with all the panels painted in gorgeous colors, the coal-black savage, white whalebone (ivory of the narwhal's tooth, probably), and the like. Or we have a quaint extravagant scene like that in the Mabinogi of Peredur (the modern Percival of the Arthur series): where, upon a certain occasion, Peredur was observed with his eyes fixed upon a certain spot, sunken in deep meditation. All attempts to get his attention failed; he was cuffed, boxed, even overthrown;

until, after a final catastrophe (for which see the story), Peredur explains that he is studying certain effects of color produced by the following circumstances; after spending the night in a hermit's cell, "in the morning he arose, and, when he went forth, behold a shower of snow had fallen the night before, and a hawk had killed a wild fowl in front of the cell, and the noise of the horse scared the hawk away, and a raven alighted upon the bird. And Peredur stood and compared the blackness of the raven, and the whiteness of the snow, and the redness of the blood, to the hair of the lady that best he loved, which was blacker than jet, and to her skin, which was whiter than snow, and to the two red spots upon her cheeks, which were redder than the blood upon the snow appeared to be."

The glowing picture of the young knight starting for Arthur's court in Kilhwch and Olwen; the dainty composition of the maiden Blodeuwedd, who was constructed by magic out of certain flowers in order to be a bride for Gwyddion, who was cursed by Arianrod with the curse that he should never have a wife of the present human race,—these and many similar bright-colored passages in the Mabinogion will strike the most cursory reader in confirmation of the feeling for color alleged. While I am scarcely prepared to attribute so much weight to any foreign element as to agree with Mr. Henry Morley in believing that but for the Keltic influence England would not have produced a Shakespere; or with Mr. Matthew Arnold, that English poetry got nearly all its turn for catching and rendering the charm of nature in a wonderfully near and vivid way, beside possibly other qualities, from a Keltic source: yet I think we can safely say that our literature has certainly enriched itself with Bard's wisdom, has certainly warmed itself with the fire

and color of Keltic fancy, and has perhaps spiritualized its feeling for nature with that subtle wood-loneliness which Mr. Arnold calls "the natural magic" of the Kelt.

The Welsh proper names are apt to make such an uncouth impression upon those unacquainted with their true sounds, that perhaps the most helpful matter to which I can devote the brief remainder of this Introduction is the pronunciation of Welsh. The following rules, in which of course all attempt at minute accuracy is sacrificed to brevity, and only approximate sounds are aimed at, will at least result in showing such names to be often musical and pleasing, even to the English ear. The letters which cause most perplexity are w, ll, y, and ch. W is usually sounded like oo in pool, as already explained under the name "Kilhwch," pronounced Kilhooch; though where it precedes a vowel this sound (oo) of course practically becomes the English consonantal w; for example, oo-et, rapidly pronounced, would merge into wet; and so in "Llywarch" or "Gwyddion," the w before the a or y may be considered as having simply the force of the English w. Y, if long, is like German ü, or French u in une; nearly English ee in seen. Y short, much like our short