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THE ozonation.


THE ozonation. It is said I do not know with what truth, that Sir Lewis Morris has been asked by the Kiner to write a Coronation ode. I have not been asked to write an ode, but I will write one just the same as if I had been asked, and if the King wants it he will have to send three-halfpence to the office for it post paid. THE NEW POSTAGE STAMP. I do not like the new postage stamp. It is not as nice as the old one, but the new coin- age is satisfactory. I have only seen the penny stamp and the penny coin. The sooner the stahnp is withdrawn the better. The crown is not wanted and the words" postage and revenue" are not necessary. It i* a poor thing at best. However, anything wnl do. A WISTER S(E I E. I was walkine up the road behind Nanteos^ The ro:id was soddened with the long-continued rain. Dead leaves obstructed the water which spread all over the roadway. The old wall was beautiful with ivy. mosses, ferns-green, yellow, brown. Over the wall there were laurels, and here and there fronds of dried bracken. There was the sound of running water and the hillside was thickly clothed with dead leaves. The trunks of the trees were yellow and brown with lichen and mosses. There were the sombre green of the firs, the bare arms of beech and oak, chestnut and elm, larch and birch. Here and there a bird flitted in silence, and now and then a rabbit scurried. The clouds were low and of a watery yellow. The wind from time to time shivered in the bare trees and then died away. The dank arass bent by the flood, trailed in the watercourse; from the sides of the higher ground there was a drip, drip like the beginnings of a thunder shower. Overhead there passed flight after flight of rooks. The crests of the hills stood out clear in the waning light and the branches of the trees appeared like fine lace-work. Last year it was just the same, and the year before that. I only had altered. Some day in the future this will still be as it has been for ages, and I shall have passed as the others have passed, and v,-t I could say nothing-nothing at all. Perhaps there is no- thing to say, but it seems a- if there were most profound things if only one knew how to put the whole dim sense of beauty and silence and waiting into words. t'HV SEA 0, the roar, 0, the roar Of the sea upon the shore; O'er and o'er, o'er and o'er, Evermore, evermore The endless, endless roar Of the sea upon the shore, O'er and o'er, o'er and o'er, Evermore, evermore SIllGS HE IN VAIN. Sings he in vain who sings the common place? No poet he whose verse is old and trite Then nevermore describe a mortal face, Nor of the human passions ever write. What feeling can we know that is not old, Or story tell that has not oft been told? BEYOND. Beyond the narrow limits where I understand Are wider empires where I only dimly feel- Vague regions stretching far away on either Where all life's pains and woundings will have time to heal. TRAINING FOR FUNERALS. The first time I heard singing at a Welsh funeral I was greatly impressed. The people sang as they walked in the irregular proces^ sion. It did not seem to matter what part of the hymn the people were singing, it all harmonized. It is stated in one of the newspapers that next summer a singing festival is to be held in a central place when hymns suitable for funeral services are to be sung under the conductor- ship of a leading Welsh musician. Just think of it. One funeral hymn after another for two or three hours! The enjoy- ment will be intense. If I might express an opinion, it would be that the singing is good enough already at Welsh funerals, and that it is in other direc- tions reform is needed. I do not think I want a ticket for the funeral tune singing festival. Festival, mind youl INDIVIDUAL HELPLESSNESS. There are all sorts of ways, comic and pathetic, in which our individual helplessness can be forced upon us. To walk about the streets of a large town is one way. The crowd seems not to know where it is going, or what it is doing, but there is really no confusion. Each in- dividual has a set purpose and a more or less definite aim, but the individual does not seem to count. If you could see the intentions of the city crowd you would find that almost every movement is pre-arranged and definitely intended. In a mountain solitude where there are no crowds individual helplessness is not s obtrusive. The hills abide. The wide spaces melt away in the distance, and yotir individuality does not seem to count. You stand by the seashore. There is the ageless sea-nobody ever thinks of the sea as old-and you know that over and over again the sea swallows the earth and-you are nothing! You come into the night and look at the stars—there are millions of them. You tan-iot measure them, or realize their orbits, or understand their distances. Your individual helplessness overwhelms you. You go into the woods on a summer's day and it is full or life-life you can see and life you cannot see-hfe of all sorts, awful, mysterious, wonderful. Everywhere there is life, life, life-and you? You aie helpless! At night, after the day's activity is over, you sit alone. You look into the heart of the glow- ing fire and you see all the way you have come since childhood. You see the pitfalls, by the way. from which you were wonderfully saved. You hear the echo of voices. You feel the presence of forms—and you realiza how the grip of circumstance has held you. How helpless you are in the face of the years that ¡ mock you from the past and threaten you in thü future You want to do some good in the world, and you arc, as it ere, bound hand and foot. The people will not listen to you. They mock you, as they have always mocked their would- be saviours. They wag their heads as of old and ny- he saved others himself he cannot save. You feel that it is because you cannot save yourself that you long to save others. Your individual helplessness whelms in upon YLII" and you wonder what it means. You speak the thought of your inner mind to the friend at your side, and he says some- thing n reply that shows ho does not comprehend "ou, and you learn to be silent. Ah how silent. Nothing in life is sadder than to walk through life with those who love you but do uot understand your language, or your thojght, or the moods of your soul. Yon try to explain, and you feel as if you were going mad. Then you do not try to explain any more for ever, and you realize your individual helplessness. For the measuring of textures, the pricing ot commodities, the indication of distances, words are very useful, but as means of expressing emotions, affections, conceptions, relationships, they are not of great worth. The great use of words in the finer relations of life is as a means of suggestion. It is the word that sug- gests my frame of mind that is eloquent. If you know what; I mean by individual helpless- rWm if you know by your own sense of limitation what I mean, then we are one. If you do not know, then I may use all the words in the dictionary, and you will never know until you meet yourself in some crisis of life and exclaim, Alas, how helpless I am in the face of these things." The subject fascinates me. To-day these words which I write are within my control. The day after to morrow they will pass out of my control and may turn and rend me, and I shall be as helpless as if they were the words of my greatest foe. There are many departments in which I am so convinced of my individual helplessness that I am passive. I make no complaint against popular misconception, or against public prejudice, or against fashion, or against religious bigotry, or against idols, or against national ideals, or against social customs. I may laugh at them, or ignore them, or protest against them, but I do not complain. I know that I am practically helpless, and I am satisfied if those about me will allow me to think and speak and act without inter- ference or molestation. I do. not ask them to understand me, for I know, alas, that I do not understand them, any more than I under- stand the fish in the sea, or the birds in the air, or the beasts in the jungle. How can I understand them? I do not understand myself. I am in some senses more utterly helpless in my own presence than in the presence of any living creature. And yet how surprised I am when anybody says that I am not perfectly intelligible In the world s quarrels and misunderstandings there is rar less wilfulness than we think, and far more individual helplessness. KIPLING RHYMES. I have nothing to say against Mr Kipling's "Flannelled fools at the wicket, and muddied oafs at the goals." I quite realize that it is of national importance that men should spend .jhree years at Oxford or Cambridge in order to learn how to play. You see, I recognize that if the "flannelled fools" and the mud- died oafs" were not at the wickets and the goals they would be somewhere else, and might be doing more harm. Mr Kipling should not tell the truth in his verse, unless he does not care about popularity and can do without profit. I have long had my opinions about the "flannelled fools" and the "muddied oafs," but I said nothing, why should I? They were satisfied and, at any rate, they were doing no harm. The world can do without them. WHY? Why has another of the Aberystwyth nurses resigned ? Why is the Aberystwyth Council troubled what to do with Captain Doughton's corner? Why are public bodies more anxious to pass resolutions than the officials are to carry them out ? Why is the Central Welsh Board so incon- ceivably stupid? Why do men think it some other person's duty to do disagreeable public work? Why do religious people think that God has so made truth that it is dangerous to virtue? Why do we think that we know how to im- prove the world if we only had power to embody our knowledge ? Why do we think that other people hate us more than we hate other people? Why do we not give freely to others that which we expect ourselves? The Coast. J.G.




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