was followed to the grave by her relatives and friends clad in many-colored garments.

Her next letter describes a picnic, at which Thomas Pinckney contrived some ingenious glasses out of white paper. Then follows another letter, full of a mother's pride in the exceedingly becoming appearance of her son's wig and gown, accompanied by a passing allusion to the solemn day appointed by the Congress of the Province for fasting and prayer for guidance.

Men in South Carolina had perhaps made up their minds that war was inevitable. General Moultrie, for instance, in his 'Memoirs' describes this service as an affecting scene.' 'Every one,' he says, 'knew the occasion, and all joined in fervent prayer to the Lord to support and defend us in our great struggle in the cause of Liberty and our Country.' But Mrs. Pinckney was still hopeful. A few days later in the year 1775, she writes to her daughter to tell her of the death of an old friend in England and of the latest political news:

'A packet came in on Sunday night, it rained all day yesterday, and I did not know it to inform you by Sam. Poor Lady Charles Montagu is dead. She died at Exeter. I can't tell you much publick news, but what I have heard is as follows, That ye American affairs wear at home a more hopeful aspect. The King has promised to receive the petition. Jamaica has petitioned, the rest of the Islands are about to do it, as well as the London Merchants. The Tradespeople clamour extremely; Mr. Fox is not so violent as he used to be against us. Capt. Turner is also arrived and says there is a prospect of the acts being repeald.

'Pray God grant it may prove true!'

In April, 1775, the battle of Lexington began the war, and, two months later, Mrs. Pinckney's two sons had gone into camp with the First Regiment of South Carolina troops. Nowhere perhaps in America was the rending asunder of friendships or the division of families more widely felt than in South Carolina. The Loyalists were strong in numbers, and, when the struggle came, it assumed the form of civil war, with Colonel Tarleton and General Marion as the leaders of the two parties. For the first three years after the outbreak of hostilities, life in the Province was little affected by the contest. But, in 1779, the storm burst upon them in all its fury. Mrs. Pinckney lost nearly everything that she had, and was reduced to poverty. She

never in the least complained.

In 1780 Charles Town capitulated to the British on condition that the citizens, under a general parole, were to be left unmolested in their homes and property. The terms were not kept in the spirit, even if, by a technical interpretation of the language, they were adhered to in the letter. Domiciliary visits were made in search of rebels' still in arms; the roads were patrolled by troops who intercepted all who were not furnished with official permits; houses were plundered or burnt; slaves were carried off, not to be freed, but to be sold in the West Indies; no property was safe against the exigencies of public service. So the war dragged on. But in 1782 the people knew that its end was near, and in December of that year the British troops took to their ships, leaving Charles Town to be occupied by the Ragged Continentals.'

Mrs. Pinckney survived by ten years the restoration of peace. Happy in her children, her only sorrow, as she writes in 1785, was the loss of friends.

'Outliving those we love is what gives the principal gloom to long protracted life. There was never anything very tremendous to me in the prospect of old age, the loss of friends excepted, but this loss I have keenly felt. This is all the terror that the Spectre with the Scythe and Hourglass ever exhibited to my view. Nor since the arrival of this formidable period have I had anything else to deplore from it. I regret no pleasures that I can't enjoy, and I enjoy some that I could not have had at an early season. I now see my children grown up, and, blessed be God! see them such as I hoped. What is there in youthful enjoyment preferable

to this?'

Mrs. Pinckney died in May, 1793, happy in the knowledge that her two sons had done good service to the United States. Her letters reveal a charming character, and we are grateful to her biographer for giving us the pleasure of making her acquaintance. It is when we read her biography, which is chiefly based on her own letters, that we most regret, for the sake of our descendants, the decay of letter-writing. Novels in abundance the present generation will leave behind them; but we are inclined to think that, a hundred years hence, English men and women would sacrifice them all for a bundle of the simple letters, never intended for the public eye, which our ancestresses used to write in the leisured eighteenth century.

HE Celt as an irresistible invader, mighty conqueror, and master of Europe has long ceased to exist; but in spite of the hostility of the AngloSaxon, and the discouraging predictions of certain oracles, the Celt as a genius and dominant factor in literature will never die. His place in the future as in the past, however, can never be ascertained by viewing him through English eyes. He must be studied in the light of his own characteristics and institutions. He must be permitted to speak for himself and be accorded a fair hearing before the world's tribunal.

The Celt has had his faults, and to some extent has them still, but Philistinism is not among them. He had his literature when the Saxon was a roving savage, and his literary productions, judged in the light of the writings still extant, reflect no little credit upon his genius. Leaving the question of the antiquity of the various manuscripts to be settled by men eminently qualified for the work it is not too presumptuous on our part to say that some of them evidently date back to a period close upon the withdrawal of the Roman forces from Britain, and that every subsequent period, with very few exceptions, are represented by the others. Nor are these literary remains as inconsiderable as many suppose. Irish writings, including ancient laws and historical and imaginative tales, constitute a vast amount of literature, the printed edition of the "Annals of the Four Masters" alone embracing seven large quarto volumes, making an aggregate of 4,215 closely printed pages. To this must be added the vellum and paper manuscripts belonging to Trinity College, Dublin, and to the Royal Irish Academy, which contain reading matter enough to fill nearly 50,000 pages of the size just mentioned. In these writings almost every detail in Gaelic life and manners is touched upon, while glimpses are had of ancient traditions and of the origin of the Irish mon

uments.

None of the Irish manuscripts now extant dates further back than the eleventh century, though many of them con

* See the article on Celtic Literature in the Encyclopædia Britannica, Vol. V. page 297–328.

tain material that is much older. Nor did the productive period of Irish literature last more than a few centuries, for the language began to recede, and the literary men to disappear, in the fifteenth century. As Ireland, however, was closely connected with Scotland, both in blood and language, several of its men of letters migrated to the North and there gave an impetus to literature which resulted in the composition of Scottish poems and tales embodying in a modified form the same original material as had found expression in Ireland. This period of literary activity was short-lived, however, as the Reformation gave it a check from which it never recovered. the productions handed down to us few except those known as Ossian's Poems exist. Nor are these as extensive as Mr. Macpherson's so-called translations would have us believe they are, as has been conclusively shown by those who have looked into the matter.

Of

Cornish literature is more limited than that of the Scottish Highlands, while that of Brittany is still less extensive. A few writings in both, chiefly of a religious character, are all that remain. This fact is not so surprising with regard to Cornwall, since the Cornish dialect died in the last century; but a language like that of Brittany, which is still spoken, and, I believe, written, ought to have been more productive of literary results.

Any consideration of Celtic literature would be incomplete without giving prominent, and in some respects preëminent, place to Welsh literature. As important as it is extensive, as varied as it is interesting, it deserves more than a brief notice. It embraces a wide range of literary production, such as glossaries and grammars, historical and genealogical writings, poems, tales, laws, medical treatises, and, if we include modern compositions, a large collection of theological and miscellaneous works. Until the last decade or two, but little of this mass of literature had made the acquaintance of printer's ink, and even now much of it remains unpublished. It is no wonder, therefore, that a general misconception of the extent and intrinsic worth of Welsh literature should exist. Many of the original manuscripts have found.

their way into the British Museum, and the libraries of Jesus College, Oxford, and the University of Cambridge; while the remainder are preserved in private collections in various parts of the Principality. Some idea of the immense bulk of this literature may be inferred from the fact that the Hengwrt collection alone consists of about four hundred volumes. The Myvyrian collection is not quite so extensive, but it comprises forty-seven volumes of poetry and fiftythree volumes of prose, making in all an aggregate of over 31,000 pages. While none of the manuscripts now extant are considered older than the ninth century, they contain material of much greater antiquity, some of the traditions even ante-dating the Christian era.

Though written in Latin rather than in Welsh, the works of Gildas, Geoffrey of Monmouth, Giraldus Cambrensis, and a few others, belong to Welsh literature, and though they are not always reliable as historical authorities they contain much valuable information, and reflect the manners, customs, and traditions of the earlier Britons.

From the data now in our possession we cannot determine for certain whether the Welsh had any literature to speak of previous to the sixth century. That they had their oral traditions and poetical effusions we have positive evidence of in the works of Roman writers, who characterize the Celts as being "wiser than their neighbors." But the fact that the Druids committed nothing to writing forbids the supposition that any literature existed in Britain so long at least as Druidic influences were dominant. The new burst of national life which followed close upon the Roman withdrawal, however, and the new rallying of the British forces against the Saxon invader ushered in a literary era that gave the nation such poetical geniuses as Aneurin, Taliessin, and Llywarch Hên. In the twelfth century, when the Welsh were stirred up anew to make another tremendous effort to regain their liberties, another and a more lasting period of literary activity commenced, which gave us a veritable army of poets and writers. And this mental activity in Wales was unique, the twelfth century Welsh, according to Thierry, being the most civilized and intellectual people of that age.

In the presumed absence of the reader's

acquaintance with Welsh literature through the medium of the language in which it was written, a few extracts from sources differing widely in age and character may not only be permissible but imperative, though Welsh prose in some respects is untranslatable and Welsh poetry much more so. As the Triads are acknowledged to be the oldest form of the former we cite the following, translated by Charles Wilkins, Ph.D., from the "Archæology of Wales," as an instance both of the wisdom of the ancient Britons and of their terse manner of expressing themselves:

"There are three branches of wisdom: wisdom towards God, wisdom with respect to every fellow-man, and wisdom with respect to one's self."

"The three recognitions that produce wisdom: the knowledge of God, the knowledge of the heart of man, and the knowledge of one's own heart."

"The three indispensables of wisdom: science, genius and discrimination."

"The three stabilities of wisdom: what is right, beautiful and possible."

"Three things will be obtained by wisdom: the good (things) of the world, mental comfort, and the love of God, etc., etc."

As among other nations proverbs have had a prominent place among the Welsh. Here are a few of them translated from a long list:

"Truth against the world."

"Without God, without anything."

"The baby grows, but not its clothes." "Who sows thorns let him not go barefooted."

"Who feeds not a cat must feed mice." "The cat loves fish, but not to wet her feet." "A son's promise is froth." "Selling honey to buy sweets." "If not strong, be shrewd."

"The mill that grinds needs water."

Where in the literature of any people can anything more beautiful be found than the following from the story of Kilhwch and Olwen :

"The maiden was clothed in a robe of flamecolored silk, and about her neck was a collar of ruddy gold, on which were precious emeralds and rubies. More yellow was her head than the flower of the broom, and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and fingers than the blossoms of the anemone amidst the spray of the meadow fountain. The eye of the trained hawk, the glance of the three mewed falcon, was not brighter than hers. Her bosom was more snowy than the breast of

the white swan; her cheek was redder than the reddest rose. Whoso beheld her was filled with her love. Four white trefoils sprang up where she trod."

I have intimated that Welsh poetry is untranslatable. This is due, as one Englishman expresses it, to the fact that the Welsh language is absolutely inapproachable by any Continental tongue so far as the relation of sound to ideas is concerned. The secret of this inapproachableness is a rich vocabulary de

veloped during centuries of poetical training guided by the most intricate rules. Any attempt at translation, therefore, must be attended with grave difficulties. Here, however, we shall partly avoid these difficulties by taking our examples only from the free metres. The first quoted by Dr. Wilkins from a poem called" Gododin" is by Aneurin, a bard of the sixth century.

"Gilded by no illustrious fame,

A sea, a saddening sea of blood, That poured adown in one grim flood! This gave to Cattræth its nameA name at which humanity will mourn, And friends of Wallia's warriors weep, For those that in their fated sleep, No more to their dear land return." Two brief extracts from the works of Davydd ab Gwilym, the Cambrian Petrarch will serve to illustrate the poetry of the Middle Ages. The first is from a poem on the Stars; the second from a poem on "Thunder.”

46

Hailstones of the sunbeams made,
Those golden treasures of the sky,
Grand coinage of the Diety."

"Clanging armor of the heaven,
Fire and wave in conflict driven;
Flame of wrath, and waves that tame,
By their mighty gush, the flame;
Giant Echoes of dismay,
Trumpet of the whelming spray,
Like a thousand voices blending,
From the stars of heaven descending;
Like the crash of forests hurled,
From the welkin to our world."

- From "Wales, Past and Present." One selection taken from Watcyn Wyn's beautiful poem on "Silence" will suffice as an instance of modern Welsh poetry.

"Thy stillness deep beyond my comprehending,

The bounds of thy enjoyment so unending;
The soul in thy communion lost forever,
While to thy bosom pressing closer, closer.
O underived and everlasting greatness,
Some independent nothing in thy essence;
Upon unruffled swells thy silent fulness
Bears to thy sea of charms the soul in pa-
tience."

Turning from the consideration of Celtic literature to that of Celtic influences upon English literature, we find a richer field than many suppose. Many who have written their works in English belonged to the Celtic race. Oliver James Lever, and Samuel Lover were Goldsmith, Thomas Moore, Charles

Irish; Charlotte Brontë was Irish and Cornish; James Macpherson and Robert Burns were Celtic Scotch; and Henry Vaughan, George Herbert, and John Dyer were Welsh. Even Shakespeare, Milton, Ben Jonson, Scott, Byron, and Macaulay had Celtic blood in their veins. Of the vast army of living writers and poets many are wholly or in part Celtic. There is some reason then for the recent assertion of a learned professor that considerably more than one half of all that is great in English literature owes its existence to Celtic blood and genius. The antiquarians are thus playing havoc with some of the pet notions of the AngloSaxon. The physiologists and philologists have also done their share to dissipate the delusion that but little. if any Celtic blood had mingled with that of the Saxon. Physical types and names of places cannot belie their origin. If the Britons were exterminated or driven out so thoroughly as some would have us believe, these characteristics of form and speech would not have survived in every county but one in England.

In addition to what has been said it is an incontestable fact that much of the material incorporated into English literature has been taken from Celtic sources. Without the Arthurian Legends what would much of English literature have been? As the enemy of the Saxon King Arthur (if he was ever anything but a myth), reigned less than half a century; as the chief hero in English literature he has wielded his sceptre from Geoffrey of Monmouth to Tennyson. He made the "Idylls of the King" possible. Other Celtic material is also found in abundance in the works of English authors. Chaucer drank from the fountains of Celtic literature, and so did Spenser and Shelley, as is evidenced by the "Faerie Queen" and "Queen Mab." At least two of Shakespeare's plays"King Lear" and "Cymbeline" and several of his heroes are Celtic. Gray's "" Bard" was a Welshman.

Speaking of Celtic influence upon English poetry in general we must not fail to indicate that rhyme was first derived from the Celts. Anglo-Saxon poetry was as devoid of rhymes as was classical Latin, and rhyme found its way into Teutonic and Scandinavian tongues only through the Romance languages. Rhyme, however, abounds in the works of the oldest Welsh poets, and hence must have existed even prior to the sixth century among the Celts. Every reader of Welsh poetry to-day must be impressed with the ease with which delightful assonance and rhyme are wedded to thought, while the stiffness and lack of adaptability of the English language is never so keenly felt as when one is hunting for an appropriate rhyme.

He

To the Celtic contributions already mentioned must be added the love of nature, a contribution which has greatly enriched English poetry. The Celt has always lived close to nature's heart. has felt her magic touch more deeply, and entered into her varying moods more heartily, than any of his brethren. Sensitive and imaginative to a superlative degree he has communed with the spirit of the storm and compelled even the hard-hearted rocks to yield up their charm. Under the sway of his genius the brook babbles more merrily and the sea lashes itself more terribly, the sun shines more brightly and the sky lowers more darkly, the flowers smile more sweetly and the rocks frown more menacingly, the cataract leaps more wildly and the thunder peals more loudly. Indeed, there is a dash, an abandon, an irresistibleness about the Celtic genius that at one moment seems to tickle nature into a hearty laugh and the next to provoke her into a towering passion.

The Saxon also has his admirable characteristics, but naturally the love of nature is not one of them. Germanic in its origin the Saxon genius is more dull than sensitive, more persistent than imaginative, more steady than dashing, more industrious than brilliant, and more rationalistic than spirituel. As we know it to-day, however, the Saxon genius has been modified not a little by the infusion of Celtic and Latin blood. But even in this modified, and, we think, greatly improved, form, it showed but little of the love of nature previous to the eighteenth century. Addison, master of literary

style though he was, was bored by the grand and romantic scenery of Switzer

Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton had a more appreciative sense of nature's beauty. They had enough of the Celt in them to give us beautiful word-pictures of natural objects, yet none of them loved nature for her own sake. In respect to Shakespeare Prof. Dowden, of Trinity College, Dublin, has this to say: "Nature in Shakespeare, itself joyous and free, ministers to what is beautiful, simple or heroic in man, while nature alone is never anywhere conceived as sufficient to satisfy the heart or the imagination of a human being."

It was in Wordsworth that the awakening which has permeated the English literature of the nineteenth century began. Why the Celtic element in the English genius did not lead to this awakening earlier is difficult to understand. Perhaps the absence of strikingly romantic scenery in England had something to do with it. But it is significant that Wordsworth himself was taught to appreciate the beauties of nature by the poetical works of Henry Vaughan and John Dyer, two Welsh poets, for whom, especially the latter, the English poet expressed great admiration.

What we have thus designated the love of nature Matthew Arnold in his work "On the Study of Celtic Literature" calls the magic of nature, and he cites several examples of its absence as well as its presence in English and other literature not essentially Celtic. What he found so rare in the works of the earlier poets, however, we find in abundance in those of the later poets in America as well as in England. Longfellow had caught the true Celtic note when he sang of Autumn thus:

"Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate

wooer,

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crim

soned,

And silver beach, and maple yellow-leafed."

Nor did Whittier, Bryant, and Lowell strike an unfamiliar key when they sang of Nature. And poets yet unborn as well as those who now flourish will not cease to feel the Celt's magic spell.

MORGAN P. JONES.