Chapter III: Preface: To the Twenty-Second Edition of 1904

Nothing in regard to Aylwin has given me so much pleasure as the way in which it has been received both by my Welsh friends and my Romany friends. I little thought, when I wrote it, that within three years of its publication the gypsy pictures in it would be discoursed upon to audiences of 4000 people by a man so well equipped to express an opinion on such a subject as the eloquent and famous 'Gypsy Smith,' and described by him as 'the most trustworthy picture of Romany life in the English language, containing in Sinfi Lovell the truest representative of the Gypsy girl.'

And as regards my Welsh readers, they have done me the honour of suggesting that an illustrated edition of the work would be prized by all lovers of 'Beautiful Wales.'

Although such an edition is, I am told, an expensive undertaking, my friend and publisher, Mr. Blackett, sees his way, he tells me, to bringing it out.

Since the first appearance of the book there have been many interesting discussions by Welsh readers, in various periodicals, upon the path taken by Sinfi Lovell and Aylwin in their ascent of Snowdon.

A very picturesque letter appeared in _Notes and Queries_ on May 3rd, 1902, signed _C. C. B._ in answer to a query by E. W., which I will give myself the pleasure of quoting because it describes the writer's ascent of Snowdon (accompanied by a son of my old friend Harry Owen, late of Pen-y-Gwryd) along a path which was almost the same as that taken by Aylwin and Sinfi Lovell, when he saw the same magnificent spectacle that was seen by them:--

The mist was then clearing (it was in July) and in a few moments
was entirely gone. So marvellous a transformation scene, and so
immense a prospect, I have never beheld since. For the first and
only time in my life I saw from one spot almost the whole of North
and Mid-Wales, a good part of Western England, and a glimpse of
Scotland and Ireland. The vision faded all too quickly, but it was
worth walking thirty-three or thirty-four miles, as I did that day,
for even a briefer view than that.

Referring to Llyn Coblynau this interesting writer says--

Only from Glaslyn would the description in _Aylwin_ of y Wyddfa
standing out against the sky 'as narrow and as steep as the sides of
an acorn' be correct, but from the north and north-west sides of
Glaslyn this answers with quite curious exactness to the appearance
of the mountain. We must suppose the action of the story to have
taken place before the revival of the copper-mining industry on
Snowdon.

With regard, however, to the question here raised, I can save myself all trouble by simply quoting the admirable remarks of _Sion o Ddyli_ in the same number of _Notes and Queries:_--

None of us are very likely to succeed in placing this llyn, because
the author of _Aylwin_, taking a privilege of romance often
taken by Sir Walter Scott before him, probably changed the
landmarks in idealising the scene and adapting it to his story. It
may be, indeed, that the Welsh name given to the llyn in the book
is merely a rough translation of the gipsies' name for it, the
'Knockers' being gnomes or goblins of the mine; hence 'Coblynau'
equals goblins. If so, the name itself can give us no clue unless
we are lucky enough to secure the last of the Welsh gipsies for a
guide. In any case, the only point from which to explore Snowdon
for the small llyn, or perhaps llyns (of which Llyn Coblynau is a
kind of composite ideal picture), is no doubt, as E. W. has
suggested, Capel Curig; and I imagine the actual scene lies about a
mile south from Glaslyn, while it owes something at least of its
colouring in the book to that strange lake. The 'Knockers,' it must
be remembered, usually depend upon the existence of a mine near by,
with old partly fallen mine-workings where the dropping of water or
other subterranean noises produce the curious phenomenon which is
turned to such imaginative account in the Snowdon chapters of
_Aylwin_.

There is another question--a question of a very different kind--raised by several correspondents of _Notes and Queries_, upon which I should like to say a word--a question as to _The Veiled Queen_ and the use therein of the phrase 'The Renascence of Wonder'--a phrase which has been said to 'express the artistic motif of the book.' The _motif_ of the book, however, is one of emotion primarily, or it would not have been written.

There is yet another subject upon which I feel tempted to say a few words. D'Arcy in referring to Aylwin's conduct in regard to the cross says:--

You were simply doing what Hamlet would have done in such
circumstances--what Macbeth would have done, and what he would have
done who spoke to the human heart through their voices. All men, I
believe, have Macbeth's instinct for making 'assurance doubly
sure,' and I cannot imagine the man who, entangled as you were in a
net of conflicting evidence--the evidence of the spiritual and the
evidence of the natural world--would not, if the question were that
of averting a curse from acting on a beloved mistress, have done as
you did. That paralysis of Hamlet's will which followed when the
evidence of two worlds hung in equipoise before him, no one can
possibly understand better than I.

Several critics have asked me to explain these words. Of course, however, the question is much too big and much too important to discuss here. I will merely say that Shakespeare having decided in the case of 'Macbeth' to adopt the machinery he found in Holinslied, and in the case of 'Hamlet' the machinery he found in the old 'Hamlet,' seems to have set himself the task of realising the situation of a man oscillating between the evidence of two worlds, the physical and the spiritual--a man in each case unusually sagacious, and in each case endowed with the instinct for 'making assurance doubly sure'--the instinct which seems, from many passages in his dramas, to have been a special characteristic of the poet's own, such for instance as the words in _Pericles_:

For truth can never be confirm'd enough,
Though doubts did ever sleep.

Why is it that, in this story, Hamlet, the moody moraliser upon charnel-houses and mouldy bones, is identified with the jolly companion of the Mermaid, the wine-bibbing joker of the Falcon, and the Apollo saloon? It is because Hamlet is the most elaborately-painted character in literature. It is because the springs of his actions are so profoundly touched, the workings of his soul so thoroughly laid bare, that we seem to know him more completely than we know our most intimate friends. It is because the sea which washes between personality and personality is here, for once, rolled away, and we and this Hamlet touch, soul to soul. That is why we ask whether such a character can be the mere evolvement of the artistic mind at work. That is why we exclaim: 'The man who painted Hamlet must have been painting himself.' The perfection of the dramatist's work betrays him. For, really and truly, no man can paint another, but only himself, and what we call 'character painting' is, at the best, but a poor mixing of painter and painted, a 'third something' between these two; just as what we call colour and sound are born of the play of undulation upon organism.