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8p ano 008311 tht QItJat.

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8p ano 008311 tht QItJat. [Selected]. FliOM^FAR AD WIDE. It was low tile: And I stood beneath the rocks which the sea had hollowed out, From far and wide, Through a thousand thousand years of time. It was high tide: The rocks where I had stood were buried deeply in the sea, There they abide, Through a thousand thousand years of time. OBSERVATIONS. It is easier to teach men to face death .than to live without reproach. Fear is keener of sight than misery, and quickly sees a foe where misery ought to detect a friend. Thousands of people who smile at the illusions and dreams of youth, are wasting the vigour of manhood in pursuing the I equally unsubstantial and far less beautiful shadows of wealth and station and pride. It is more dangerous to call immorality by its right name than to practice it. There is no sadder day in life than that in which a man looks back at the ideal he formed, instead of forward to it. It is one of the compensations of life that the memories of pain are not painful. What men call mercilessness is a feature in all their conceptions of God, for it is an obvious part in the scheme of nature. He only is safe who i8 defended by the poor. A man fully armed and in a strong place shall find the poor, if they oppose him, too strong for him. Nothing deceives liars so completely as the truth. The man who imitates his fellows is easily understood by the crowd, but he who is true to his own rat-i-tre can only be understood by the few who study him carefully. Men rejoice over victories and grieve over defeats which trimo swiftly obliter- ates. They forget that it is not what ft man wins, or what he loses, but what he is. that counts. The gentlest of tendencies that persists is stronger than the most violent effort that speedily dies away MIRACLES. Men want God to work miracles for them- To do tasks which thev think are wonder- ful- As if the earth and sea and all the stars Were not wonderftil-,v., if birth and life And all-embracing death, and growth and love And wayside flowers, and speech and flight of birds, And light and dark, were not all miracles— Most wonderful—worked every day by God, Who makes and keeps his vast and shining worlds In ways that are a constant miracle. WHEN ONE DROPS OUT. I attended four of the concerts at the Leeds Musical Festival. During one of the grandest of the choruses a chorister went out, but I did nt. detect any diminution in the glorious volume of sound. The one singer was not missed by me and apparently was not missed by the other choristers or by the audience. Then I began to wonder how many of the singers would have to drop out of the chorus and how many of the instruments would have to be silenced before I would mi&s them. Perhaps the conductor misced that one chorus girl, and it is possible that I lost eome delicacy, or fullness, or sweet- ness that I was not mentally conscious of losing. You know, we have sensibilities far keener than our means of expression, or even of our mental consciousness. We are attracted or repelled, made joyous or sad, by subtle flinging? and repulsions that defy analysis. So to speak, the one singer goes out from our life's chorus and we do npt consciously miss, the voice, but our soul is aware of the difference, although it can- Il9t; communicate the difference to the mind. There are strange and subtle soul bereavements that the external throng knows nothing of. Even when we do know what has been taken away are we not often ashamed to say? The soul shrinks from exposure. There shall be lacking something in a caress that makes all the difference, and yet you may never be able to tell what it is. The mind does not know, but the soul is aware, and although the soul is dumb it would know if that something were added and would leap in response. I wondered whsn r he one chorus singer went out how it would be if another fol- lowed and then another and then another Until at last there was, no chorus. There is a measure of sound that more than fills our capacity to hear, just as there is a measure of sound that i.f., beyond or below our capacity to hear. We are not all of one capacity. What is true of sound is probably true of vision, of sensation, and of emotion. Take sight, for instance. We are in the light—light beyond what the eye can re- ceive. Some of the light is removed and the eye does not miss it. More is re- moved and at length the eye misses it. But before the eye can measure the loss the soul has become. aware of the lessened brightness. If just before the eye began to note the loss of light the full glory were suddenly renewed even the eye would bo aware of accession. Our faculties are slow and imperfect compared with the deft swiftness of the soul, but they vary greatly in acuteness and their sensibility is not to be measured by the impression they make on the mind or by the expression they provoke. I listened to the chorus — I think it would be more accurate to say that I felt the chorus-and I wondered why the voices and the instruments blended, and what it I' was that vibrated through singers and players and listeners. There was mystery in it. There was pathos and pleading in it. I sat there and wondered. It seemed to me that it was the eternity behind us and ahead of us that gave significance to the music—that inspired both per- formers and listeners. All the hidaen past and all the- hidden future and all the incon- prehensible present was voiced in the choruses and made intelligible. Performer and listener, so to speak, declared that life is awful and grand in its awfulness; that love and hate, and ambition and long- ing, and high endeavour, and failure, and los3 and suffering, and tragedy hem us in and fence us round. The music said for us what we all dumbly folt and we were ex- ultant or sacl. The chorus marched on. The separate voices and instruments were indistingiush. able, except now and then for a moment or two. It was like life. The individual performer was of no apparent consequence, and yet the grand result was the effect of combined individual effo,.t. There was only one utterance, but there were hun- dreds of voices. The something that lay behind the utterance was something that the music did not express, but only pointed at—something deep down in each of our hearts that we know of and recognise when the musician gives it form and voice- something that we have been seeking ex- pression for in marble, and brass, and music, and poetry, and noble deeds, and ■ fc-C- I enunciation, and patient suffering—some- thing that we catch glimpses of at rare intervals in the faces of children, in the volet-s of those whom we love, in the wide expanse of mountain ranges, in the shelterless, wind-swept sea, in the nlence of two whose hearts are twin. Who shall say what it is that vies behind all human utterance, behind all human endeavour, behind all human love, behind all human soaring: is it not what we call our immortality-our divineiiess--our God- ,LSI)il.inp oneness. We are as old as the world. We have been ages and ages in perfecting our medium of expression, and even yet we can only by means of most exquisite music point vaguely to the something which, as yet. we cannot say—to the something which, if it were once fully said, we should die in sheer ec-stacy. We could not bear it. Silently the chorus singer who dropped out came back agajn, but I could not detect any increase in the volume of sound, and I thought how the chorua was like the world. One by one we come and go) and neither our coming: in nor our going out seems to make any difference, and yet in some way imperceptible to us and to those a-bout us a difference is made. We each one count for something, but we do not know what or to whom. And then, suddenly, the chorus stopped and there was heard only a thin pietous stream of music from the stringed instru- ments which had been unheard in the volume of the chorus, and the concert went on to its magnificent close and I was once more an unknown, commonplace individual in Leeds Town Hall. IXiring the smging I was part of it. TWO KISSES. In the glowing noon The fierce sun kissed a fragile flower. The flower blushed and drooped its shining head. When the white robed moon Shone bright about the midnight hour. She also kissed the flower, but it was dead! The Coast. J.G.

ABERYSTWYTH

ARTHOG.

CORRIS.

DOLGELLEY. I

[No title]

Cardiganshire Recruits.

NEW QUAY.

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