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rial bearing on the history of the Marches. The collections at Llanrwst, Carnarvon, Cwrtmawr, Llanstephan, and the Bodleian Library have been seen (mostly unofficially) -none of them are extensive. There are also MSS. at Porkington, Wynnstay, Crosswood (near Welsh

pool), Newtown, Ruthin, Gwysaney, Glanyrafon, Llanwrin Rectory, and Swansea, as well as single MSS. in various other parts of the country. None of these have ever been seen, and, except at Porkington, the number is believed to range from a Gozen downwards to two or three.


By William ApMadoc.

A dainty book, like a day in June, is a "thing of beauty, and a joy forever." Such is the "Memoirs of an Artist," an autobiography by the greatest musician of France, Charles Francois Gounod, Gounod, published by Rand McNally and Company of Chicago; a little book of much information, of peeps at the very soul of art, and an inspiration to every student. The translation from the French is by Annette E. Crocker, of Chicago, in which she demonstrates her mastery of idiomatic English. The literary quality of the "Memoirs," the critical perception shown throughout, with its loving tributes to the mother of the eminent composer, makes this little volume a real treasure. It also proves that a trained literary mind. is indispensable to a great artist. Gounod's literary attainments lead us to place him along with Schumann, Liszt and Wagner.

I could not wish anything better to the readers of these notes than

that they should possess themselves of such a book. Mothers should read it in order to teach and inspire their children in the walks of high and pure art. Singers should read it in order to help them to "think" in music; and critics, in order to be taught the art of true criticism, and the mastery of words.

Gounod terms words "docile and faithful servants of thought," and states their duty to be to "lead one to the summit without rude shock -mysterious guides, who conceal both themselves and their methods." The reader soon finds out that Gounod's "words" are in truth "mysterious guides." He closes his short preface by stating that this little book is a tribute of veneration and affection for the being who gave him the "greatest love in the world-mother-love." Space will not permit us to quote the many incidents of the boy Gounod's career at different schools, but what he writes of what went on in

his mind when listening to Rossini's "Othello," and Mozart's "Don Juan" when he was only twelve years of age, will be welcomed by every serious reader. His pen, he remarks, can never transcribe the emotions produced in him "during those few hours" he sat at his mother's side, listening to "Don Juan" especially. Let every reader ponder over this musical analysis:

"The hearing of Rossini's "Othello" stirred in me the fibers of musical instincts, but the effect produced by 'Don Juan' had quite another signification, and an entirely different result. It seemed to me that between these two kinds of impressions there must be something analogous to that felt by a painter in passing directly from contact with the Venetian masters to that with Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci and Michael Angelo. Rossini gave me to know the intoxication of purely musical delight; he charmed me, delighted my ear. Mozart did more; to that enjoyment so complete, from an exclusively musical and emotional point of view, was then added the profound and penetrating influence of true expression united to perfect beauty. It was, from one end to the other of the score, a long and inexpressible delight. The pathetic tones of the trio at the death of the Commandant, and of Donna Anna's lament over the body of her father, the charming grace of Zerlina, the supreme and stately elegance of the trio of the Masks, and of that

which begins the second act under Donna Elvira's window, all, finally (for in this immortal work all must be mentioned), created for me that beatitude one feels only in the presence of the essentially beautiful things that hold the admiration of the centuries, and serve to fix the height of the esthetic level of perfection in art." Thus, the French boy writes of the German masterpiece.

Is there a novelist, or "tale-teller," as he would like to have himself called, who has written so eloquently about music, as our own Ernest Rhys? Gentle reader, have you read his "Fiddler of Carne?" If not, do so at once, and open your heart to all the exquisite Welsh and musical touches of this perfect artwork, published by Patrick Geddes. & Colleagues, Edinburg. It is a "North Sea Winter's Tale," and we must not forget that a good many Welsh old-fashioned, brave and hospitable people lived up on the northern coast, a Welsh colony on the Scottish border, as is seen in the old map of "Greater Wales" in Ernest Rhys's "Readings in Welsh History." It is there in the old Welsh Inn (y ty yn y Penryn) that we find David Ffoulkes, and his musical daughter, Marged Ffoulkes, both being able to siarad Cymraeg, and the latter possessing a rare voice, able to sing "Mentra Gwen" and "Bydd Myrdd o Ryfeddodau." This sounds modern, but the author remarks in his Dedication, that his work is an attempt. to describe at length the adven

tures of the romantic fiddler "as it was in his day in that primitive seaport town, near a hundred years ago."

When this fiddler, the artist, was thrown up from the sea, and is taken to the Welsh Inn, we find unmistakable proof that David Ffoulkes was a Welshman, and a North-Walian at that. It was Marged who took in the fiddler in the dead of night, and as she calls her father, that worthy exclaims,

"What? a fiddler at this time o' night! My diawl, let him go to the 'Three Turns!' Send him away send him away!"

But the fact that the fiddler was a shipwrecked guest, softens the heart of the Welshman. This French Fiddler is an artist, and it would not be wise, perhaps, to quote the many eloquent descriptions of his playing-the melodies of, and improvisations upon this king of instruments, that abound in the book. Says the French lady who condescends to give a few lessons to Marged "His violin sings like a Malibran."

This is the first impression made upon Marged by this wizard of the bow, "The fiddle sang, and a hundred doors seemed to open. Into one she found her way; one opening in a wide staircase, up which she went. Suddenly a gust of wind swept her feet from under her; her head reeled; she shut her eyes fast, but it was of no use. "The garden of a summer night, full of roses; this is what her closed eyes saw.

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"What do you think, Marged? What gets them that's drowneddragged down like that-and no time to cry Christ keep us!"

"There's plenty of room for all where they are gone!"

"I wonder at that sometimes. Dead bodies go aal to nothing, and we see nothing more come of them as is drownded!"

"Don't, Andrer; I cannot bear ye to talk like that. I'll sing ye another song; 'tis a burial one; but 'tis one at my mother taught me; and when I sing it, I know she is there; and when I sing it, I know I'll go to her, and so will you, and all brave men, and all kind people; but not La!”


"It doesn't matter, lie still, and I'll sing it to you!"

So she sang the most moving hymn in the ancient tongue of her fathers, which is not to be translated, "Bydd myrdd o ryfeddodau," &c.

Will many of our hymn-translators take the hint? These good people mean well enough, but this will never atone for their wretched

work. There are hundreds of Welsh hymns, odes, awdlau and penillion that are untranslated. Let them alone in their native strength, pathos and beauty. Even our most scholarly and accomplished linguists are far from being satisfied with their efforts in hymn-translations from the Welsh. It is given to but very few to be translators.

From the article upon the Welsh Eisteddfod, published in the Chicago "Musical Times" and republished in the March "Cambrian," our Eisteddfod committees can learn a thing or two, if they will. The author of that article has seen the "weak spots" in our "beloved fighting festival." Is the Eisteddfod above or beyond reform, as an institution? One of the leading editors and writers upon musical matters in this country, one who has gone through the so-called business of "adjudicating" at an Eisteddfod, remarked in a magazine article, that Eisteddvodic exercises had led its promoters and contestants to pose before the world in false colors, or to make themselves believe to be what they were not, and are not. There is much truth in this remark, though it is not all truth. Winning a prize should be the means to stimulate the individual to further and higher studies. Adjudications should be truly critical. But, are they? Every one knows that the majority of contestants

would not, and perhaps could not listen to, and learn from, what true criticism should be. "The majority of solo-contestants," was the remark of a musician of high standing in our hearing some time ago, "have been duped by wordy, beslobbered and pointless adjudication into the belief that they are not in need of voice-training at all. The fact of having won a worthless prize has spoiled them for all purposes. True and fearless criticism from the Eisteddfod platform would waken many out of their dream of self-sufficiency and egotism." Such, in substance, and much more, was the criticism of the musician referred to, upon the lack of criticism in the Eisteddfod. The author of the article in the "Musical Times," remarks, perhaps, with too much truth, "But most of these choral adjudicators, we are informed, merely point out the "sins of omission and commission, and are of no particular educational value."

Once upon a time, many years ago, if not centuries, the Eisteddfod was an educational institution. Even in the life of some poets who are living to-day, the Eisteddfod was the arena of scholarly debates by men of ability and learning, of literary criticism, and of resplendent oratory. That was before the preponderance of "singing contests" was allowed to change the institution's character.


From Carnhuanawc's "Tour Through Brittany."

"Although the languages of Wales and Brittany are not so absolutely identical as to admit of the natives of those countries using them in common, yet they certainly do bear so striking a resemblance to each other as to make it evident that they must at some period not very remote have sprung from the same origin. The resemblance between the Welsh and Breton is by no means so striking as that between the Breton and the old language of Cornwall. Nevertheless, the Cornish does in many particulars draw nearer to the Welsh than the Breton, and may be considered as a connecting link between the two." Further on Mr. Price says: "It must be admitted that there exists a very striking similarity between them, and that not only in single words but also in phraseology and modes of expression, and this is frequently so strong that it might be thought that the two nations had separated but yesterday."

Some excellent examples of the similarity of idiomatic constructions are given by Mr. Price, who has selected them from a Dictionary by M. Le Gonidec, who shows the difference of idiom between the Breton language and the French. When the Breton wish to say "quench his thirst," they say "torri he zeched," literally "to break his thirst," while

the Welsh use the expression "tori ei syched," which is precisely similar. Again, for the Breton "gwell eo gan en," "I had rather," literally "it is better with me," the Welsh say "gwell yw gan i." Also, "gwerza war goll," "to sell upon a loss," is in Welsh, "gwerthu ar golled." Compare also "a hed ann deiz" with "ar hyd y dydd;" "merch he mamm eo Katell" with "merch ei mam yw Cati;" "tro all" with "tro arall;" and numerous other cases, and we must feel surprised that the two languages are in other respects so different.

The verbs also in some of their formations have a resemblance to those of the Welsh, especially the reflective, as Breton "emurska," "to dress one's self," in Welsh "ymwisco." Some of the minor parts of speech have also a strong resemblance, as "piou-bennag," "whosoever," to Welsh "pwy bynag," and "pe gement bennag," "how much soever," in Welsh "pe gymaint bynnag."

The Breton initial or radical letters undergo mutation as in Welsh, and in many instances precisely in the same manner, as "dourgi," an otter, or "dour ki," "a water dog," in Welsh "dwrgi;" and "dwr ci;" "morvran," a cormorant, for "mor bran," a sea crow, in Welsh "mor fran" and "mor bran;" also in local

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