Orpheus with a face all seamed and scarred by smallpox,--a short, fiery
button in the middle of his countenance, serving for a nose,--a mouth
awry and toothless,--and two long, dirty, bony hands, with claw-like
fingers tipped with dark crescents,--and I do not think the picture will
be a pleasant one. If the horrible-looking old fellow had concealed
his ghastly eyes by colored glasses, the effect would not have been so
disagreeable; but it was absolutely frightful to see him rolling his
head, as he played, and every now and then staring with the whites of
his eyes full in the faces of his unseen audience. At length, greatly
to my relief, he gave the last decisive twang, and was led away by his
wife. It is almost needless to say that the musical "Bunch" took the
prize.

"Penillionn Singing" was the next attraction. This was something like
an old English madrigal done into Welsh, and, as a specimen of
vocalization, pleasing enough,--as pleasing, that is, as Welsh singing
can be to an English ear; but how different from the soft, liquid
Italian trillings, the flexible English warblings, the melodious ballads
of Scotland, or the rollicking songs of Ireland! There was only one of
the many singers I heard at the Festival who at all charmed me, and that
was a little vocalist of much repute in Southern Wales for her bird-like
voice and brilliancy of execution. Her professional name was pretty
enough,--_Eos Vach Morganwg_,--"The Little Nightingale of Glamorgan."
Her renderings of some simple Welsh melodies were delicious; they as far
excelled the outpourings of the other singers as the compositions of
Mendelssohn or Bellini surpass a midnight feline concert. I have heard
Chinese singing, and have come to the conclusion, that, next to it,
Welsh prize-vocalism is the most ear-distracting thing imaginable.

So it went on; Welsh, Welsh, Welsh, nothing but Welsh, until I was