WHY SHOULD WE NOT SING?

SPEECH DELIVERED AT ABERYSTWYTH, AT THE WELSH NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD, AUGUST 17TH, 1916.

I HAVE Come here at some inconvenience to attend, and if necessary to defend, this Eisteddfod. I have been a strong advocate of its being held. I was anxious there should be no interruption on account of the war in the continuity of the Welsh National Eisteddfod. It is too valuable an institution, it has rendered too great services to our country to risk its life by placing it into a state of suspended animation for an indefinite period. The British Association has held its meetings every year since the war began; it will hold another next month, and I am glad of it; but much as I esteem the services rendered to research by that gathering, I claim that the services rendered to popular culture by the National Eisteddfod have been even greater.

There are a few people who know nothing about the Eisteddfod who treat it as if it were merely an annual jollification which eccentric people indulge in. There was a letter appearing in The Times this week written by a person who seems to hold that opinion. He signs himself "A Welshman.' He evidently thinks that the publication of his

name would add nothing to the weight of his appeal, so he has-wisely, no doubt-withheld it. Now The Times is not exactly the organ of the Welsh peasantry. That does not matter to this gentleman, because he makes it clear that he has no objection to common people attending the Eisteddfod; but he expresses the earnest hope that important people like the Welsh M.P.'s will not encourage such an improper assembly by giving it their presence. His notion of the Eisteddfod is a peculiar one, and as there might be a few people outside Wales who hold the same views, I think I must refer to this estimate of its purport and significance. He places it in the same category as a football match or a horse-race and a good deal beneath a cinema or music-hall performance. These are kept going afternoon and evening without the slightest protest in the columns of The Times from this egregious Welshman.

The competing bards are to him so many racehorses started round the course by Mr. L. D. Jones, the chairing day being, I suppose, the Bardic Oaks. Sir Vincent Evans would be the grand bookmaker, who arranges the stakes, and of course we all have something on one or other of the starters. The meetings of the Cymmrodorion, the Gorsedd of the Bards, the Arts Section, the Folklore Society, the Union of the Welsh Societies, and the Bibliographical Society are the sideshows which amuse the Eisteddfodic larrikins whilst the race is not on. That is where the thimble-rigging and the cocoanut shies and games

of that sort are carried on! No wonder this intelligent gentleman is ashamed to avow his name. I challenge him to give it. It will be useful as a warning to readers of English papers of the class who anonymously insult Welsh institutions.

Let any man look through this programme and see for himself what the Eisteddfod means-prizes for odes, sonnets, translations from Latin and Greek literature, essays on subjects philosophical, historical, sociological. An adequate treatment of some of these subjects necessarily involves a good deal of original research. Art is encouraged; even agriculture is not forgotten. Forsooth, all this effort should be dropped on account of the war! To encourage idle persons to compose poetry during war is unpatriotic. Promoting culture amongst the people, a futile endeavour at all times, during the war is something every Welsh member of Parliament ought to snub. To give a prize for a study of the social and industrial conditions of a Welsh village is dangerous at any time, and during a war it is doubly so. To excite the interest of the people in literature during the war is a criminal waste of public money. Above all, to sing during a war, and especially to sing national songs during a war, is positively indecent, and the powers of the Defence of the Realm Act ought at once to be invoked to suppress it. Hush! No music, please; there is a war on!

Why should we not sing during war? Why, especially, should we not sing at this stage of the war? The blinds of Britain are not down yet,

nor are they likely to be. The honour of Britain is not dead, her might is not broken, her destiny is not fulfilled, her ideals are not shattered by her enemies. She is more than alive; she is more potent, she is greater than she ever was. Her dominions are wider, her influence is deeper, her purpose is more exalted than ever. Why should her children not sing? I know war means suffering, war means sorrow. Darkness has fallen on many a devoted household, but it has been ordained that the best singer amongst the birds of Britain should give its song in the night, and according to legend that sweet song is one of triumph over pain. There are no nightingales this side of the Severn. Providence rarely wastes its gifts. We do not need this exquisite songster in Wales; we can provide better. There is a bird in our villages which can beat the best of them. He is called Y Cymro. He sings in joy, he sings also in sorrow; he sings in prosperity, he sings also in adversity. He sings at play, he sings at work; he sings in the sunshine, he sings in the storm; he sings in the daytime, he sings also in the night; he sings in peace; why should he not sing in war? Hundreds of wars have swept over these hills, but the harp of Wales has never yet been silenced by one of them, and I should be proud if I contributed something to keep it in tune during the war by the holding of this Eisteddfod to-day.

Our soldiers sing the songs of Wales in the trenches, and they hold the little Eisteddfod behind them. Here is a telegram which has been