AS

UNDERGROUND MUSIC.

(A True Story About Gwylmn.*)

S soon as the door slammed to again, Gwylmn eagerly seized his chalk and continued marking. Very peculiar symbols were these that swept over the rough timber, and very quick was the hand that guided them, albeit three of its fingers were stumps. In fact it was just these stumps that stood in the way of Gwylmn's doing a miner's work instead of that of a door-tender. So intent was he, only stopping to hum the bar to be written, that he did not notice that the gray cat was moving her family; and the gray cat was so absorbed by the onerous responsibility that she neglected to rub herself against Gwylmn's boot and arch her back as usual. One, two, three, four kittens were lumped upon the track, running through the gangway, where they nuzzled each other with their heads and sniffed, and tried to stand on their absurd little legs. Then the gray cat went back to the deserted nest. I do not know why; perhaps she had lost count; but while she was gone down thundered a car. Gwylmn had only time to throw open the door, and then he saw the tragedy.

The gray cat wailed and moaned at the loss of her whole family, and Gwylmn, conscience-stricken because he had not seen the kittens and touched by her cries, tried to comfort her, and together they buried them one by one; and after all was over, the gray cat let Gwylmn hold her, and she seemed to understand as he talked to her, saying:

"It's the music, Puss; I could no help it. I see it before my eyes and hear it thunderin' from the cars, and droppin', droppin' with the water from the walls, and pick, pickin' from the lower chamber, and I can no help writin' of it on the dure. Forgive me, Puss, please, for no keepin' an eye on your childrewn. I'm that sorry I don' know what to do, yo' poor beastie; an' is there no enough for you either in the world that you must seek it underground, too?" And so he talked on in the musical crooning voice the Welsh have, and the poor cat fell softly to sleep.

Groups of miners passed on their way out; their work was over, but he did not join them, and soon the mine became still.

"It's a queer place, anyhow, down here underground. There are them as think differently from me, but I know I hear more music down here in the earth than I do on the outside. Music tellin' all about the brave fellows goin' in betimes the mornin', not knowin' whether they be seein' their wives and childrewn again or not; tellin' about them goin' in strong and hearty and ofttimes brought out with the life of them crushed altogether.

"There are men as say the age of heroes be over; but it looks like to me

*See explanatory letter in the February Post-Office.

the pluck that takes a man thousands of feet underground to dig out a livin' for his wife and childrewn, and keeps him sober pay days, when the crowd do be spreein', and him down-hearted oft, not havin' perhaps but four or five shifts a month; and the pluck that sends one comrade rescuin' the other, as I have seen them often rescuin' in cold blood — no drums beatin', no flags flyin' to stir the pulse and make it easy; an' the pluck that carries a man into a great black hole alone, to help another, though gangways and breasts be full of water and the tide risin', is worth as much blastin' as that of a soldier who steps out of a square to rescue a comrade.

"Yo' don't often know about it all. Who heard in the world how William Williams last week, after bein' just rescued from drowndin' in the old slope, only waited for a bite of bread and a showin' of his live self to his wife and childrewn before he entered the flooded mines again and was the most furious worker in search of the other men, and the risk risin' every minute, too? But I hear; yes, that's the kind of music I hear-grand solemn chants; an' it's rustlin' through the gangways and fillin' the chambers and reverberatin' in the roof, until I must join in."

And Gwylmn leaped to his feet, and his great voice echoed through the corridors and threw the rats on their haunches to listen, while far off in the stables, the mules standing there like mine machines, pricked up their long ears at the sound. Then seizing the chalk, Gwylmn caught the winging harmony and stamped it on the door.

The mountains loomed dark behind the breaker when Gwylmn came out of it, and the deep glow from the sun edged them like the fire on the culmn pile. “The sun's sunk his shaft behin' North Mountain," said Gwylmn. "I should not wonder but you'd find peacock coal over there."

"Halloo! halloo, there!"

Gwylmn turned, and a young man ran up to him. He dragged off his cap when he recognized one of the mining engineers from town.

66 I

say, was it you I heard singing down there just now? Upon my word!" The engineer stared. “I declare, I was startled at first; I never heard anything like it; and then when I came through I saw it all written on the door. I confess I did not know but that the spirits were having a symphony, and I did not want to get into a séance a thousand feet underground, with the rest of humanity a thousand feet above; but I say, my good fellow, that's the finest composition I have ever seen in a coal mine; ferric sulphate is not in it by the side of it. I'm a bit musical myself, and I tell you it's wonderful. You've struck a vein that holds blood this time; a pick is not the instrument that will let it out, either; an instrument more delicate than that- in fact, one made of strings, I should think

Gwylmn stood looking after this musical enthusiast as he dashed off to catch the steamer, and then a thought crept slowly over him and made him numb

with hope. He hastened home and made a metronome by tying a fork to a string fastened to the ceiling; on the table he drew a scale with chalk; and in this way he received the correct time. He re-read the words of the anthem sent out for the Eisteddfod composition, and then he set furiously to work chiseling out the four parts from his song.

The seventeenth of March was never forgotten by Gwylmn Gwent. Early in the morning he took the little steamer which conveyed passengers from Plymouth to Wilkes-Barre with ostentation, and a great torturing of the quiet stream by means of a large stern-wheel. Early as it was, the boat was filled with the Welsh going to this, their fine holiday of the year. An Eisteddfod was the heaven of every old woman, the glory of every young man, the ecstatic joy of every child. All day long the people poured into Wilkes-Barre from over the hills and down in the valley, bringing grandmothers, babies, and lunch baskets, which last were not the most irksome of incumbrances, and contained the substantial significance of delightful and savory odors that had floated through the houses two days before and exercised one of the five senses to an almost exquisite torture. An Eisteddfod meant satisfaction at last to the children, a whole day of Welsh patriotism to the grandmothers, twenty-four hours without the vowels of the English language, twenty-four hours of Cymric tongue wagging to divine harmony. Mere pen and ink cannot describe an Eisteddfod. Mere English words fail, even though they be propped by the sturdy vowels. For the benefit of the unenlightened who have never been brought up in the community with this highly elevating Cambro-American Society, let me say that an Eisteddfod is a grand musical contest day of the different choirs. For a year this Welsh people practice. Their days are spent in the most drudging labor, their nights in song. Ah! from thence comes the mist of poetry that clings and veils the roughness of their lives. The afternoon session was just coming out when Gwylmn reached the hall for the evening contest. The snow was falling lightly, and there was a dampness in the air; but the ardor of the crowd waiting at the doors was not chilled, and they pushed and wedged each other good naturedly. It was impossible to let this mass of humanity within the doors all at once and trust to its own diffusion, so the policemen stood by the iron gates, only opening them after the last mouthful was well swallowed.

The crowd extended on each side of the pavement and away out into the street. When the iron jaws opened there would be a rush from each of these quarters, and the poor human in the middle had an idea of the rope's sensation in the tug-of-war. The people standing in the slush and cold gave joyful shouts when the gates opened and the light streamed out, and the warmth and the sweet sounds, and when they closed groaned like lost souls after a glimpse of Paradise.

Once inside, Gwylmn forgot the agony of getting there under the cheerful influence of the hospital banners "Croesaw i Bawb, Cymru Glau Gwald y Gan," etc., and of the Welsh tunes played by the orchestra. He felt warm, too, when

he rose with the audience and with the choir, twelve thousand voices strong, they sang "Huddersfield." It was stirring music, indeed, and the common air thought it never could go back to mediocrity.

The solo singing came next, and the contest was very close; but it was the grand chorus singing, "Hark! the deep tremenduous voice," of Haydn, that held the audience. Fancy hundreds of men sitting motionless, listening to the "the great tremenduous voice!" How strange and blue looked the powder marks on some of their faces. They listened with eyes as hungry as though the sounds would fill their stomachs and stuff out their hollow cheeks. comfortable world! can you understand what the chorus of voices singing a classic meant to these duty-ground, crust-seeking men?

O, fat

The Wilkes-Barre, Scranton and Plymouth choirs competed, and great was the excitement when the prize of one hundred and twenty dollars was given to Wilkes-Barre.

Gwylmn held his breath at what was next to happen, but he lost it when he heard, "A prize of fifty dollars given to Gwylmn Gwent, of Plymouth, for the best four-part composition written for the anthem sent out by the society."

"Hurrah for Plymouth!" Handkerchiefs flew into the air. With a rush the Plymouth choir lifted Gwylmn on their shoulders and pranced about the stage with him. Their defeat in the choral contest was nothing. Had they not won a glorious victory by holding among them a composera singer of original work? How proud they were! He belonged to them; was it not in their own colliery, on their own doors and even on their shovels that the divine. sounds were written? Then, hurrah for Plymouth; three cheers for Gwylmn Gwent!

On the top of a hill in Wilkes-Barre by the Susquehanna, and where one following the stream can see sturdy Plymouth hugging the mountain side, and the great Breaker Number Twelve looming in its midst, where Gwylmn worked and sang to his last day, lies the grave of this miner musician.

Now his glees are sung by the principal organizations the world over, and no one can well describe their charming freshness and character. When Gwylmn died he was famous; but he never left the colliery where he heard "the music thunderin' in the cars, droppin' from the walls and pickin' in the lower chamber." He never left the rugged lives he found heroic, nor ceased to smooth them by his harmony. And how often with his glees he carried these laborers far, far from the underground, up into the very clouds! Two thousand Welsh, half-singing, half-chanting, went with him to his grave, and, while he entered the other world, they stood by him as long and as near as they could, even as he had stood and sung by them in this.

Penelope Palmer.

GOL

YOLF is the coming game. Already it has more than kept pace with its younger rivals; and, from a purely local Scotch game, has extended its fascinations to every English speaking community.

That the international popularity of golf, wide-spread as it already is, will go on increasing, seems an assured fact, as it is based on certain unique characteristics, in which the grand old game has no rivals.

In golfing, the mental, as well as the physical and muscular qualities are called into full play. Like the surface of the ideal golf link, the game presents a series of perpetual changes. Difficulty after difficulty arises, which the player is called upon to surmount by cool judgment and prompt action. The same complication may never occur twice in identical circumstances; therefore the ingenuity, skill and intelligence of the golfer have unlimited scope.

Meanwhile, although the violent, intermittent exercise, which renders base-ball, cricket and foot-ball impracticable to all save veritable athletes, can always be avoided in golf, the legs and arms are called into equable and invigorating action.

Unlike almost all other outdoor games, golf may be played all the year round. This is even possible during the winter months, as an admirable game can be insured upon the snow by the use of red balls.

A LONG STROKE.

But its most generally appreciated peculiarity is, that it may include among its devotees five of Shakspere's "Seven ages of man," from the immature schoolboy to the "lean and slippered pantaloon;" while the girls, too, are afforded an equal opportunity to develop practical enthusiasm, if not proficiency.