are not well and truly based on the unfailing love of perfection among the people. I have never yet met a judge who refuses to give the momentarily unpopular verdict in favour of unsensational excellence, nor the audience who will fail, if appealed to, to uphold him against their own first impression. It is a notable case for "trust the people" when the spiritual and the sensational in choral music are at issue. That judge will surely do best service to all assembled who always remembers that however much men love a friendly fight of choirs, a battle of giants, they love still more the fine way they are treading; and no responsible official can safely forget that the real Wales troops annually to the National Eisteddfod primarily to see how her sons and daughters are getting on along the paths of beauty, and secondly to enjoy their comparative approach (whether gradual or sensationally sudden) to the perfect deed of beauty in music, poetry, literature, or in things more tangible like needlework. If this be true, it is manifestly desirable to tackle the problem in Wales of combining the competitive meeting or Eisteddfod with the ideal performance, musical examination and musical lesson, and to tackle this fundamental but quite cheerful and useful problem with wisdom and a stout heart. There need be no haste to reform, only an enthusiasm working unceasingly to im- prove things, and that as speedily as may be. Our Eisteddfodau have many glaring defects, yet the love of beauty makes for great patience with the processes which at last lead to perfect beauty. It is, I think, useless to inveigh against competition, because it can so easily lead to abuse, to jealousy and an unhappy, unholy wish, not that one should do well but that others should do badly, in order that one may OLDEN PRINCES. Olden Princes under the moon, Under the moon where waned your star- Dead are your dynasties-dead, long dead In the vivid night afar. But a lonely poet under the moon Heard your clamorous echoes chime From the muted bells of the magic years Unto the ends of time. A wandering singer under the moon Fanned the flame of your lost desire, And lit old chivalries-rich with rhyme At your cresset of golden fire. come out first at all costs. The case for compet- ition is to be found in the remark of an under- graduate of Cambridge in a letter to his mother only the other day,- "what makes me work most is to meet another fellow who works more than I do." Both work and good are contagious, thank God. Choirs pace each other in friendly rivalry on one and the same road to brace them to full vigour of trying to attain all that music can attain with hard work and good fellowship. But it may usefully be testified here by an old hand at Eisteddfodau and Competitive Festivals of every size that I have never met a single devotee of this great move- ment anywhere in Britain who can offer any sound defence for that unmitigated enemy or worse, that false friend, the money- prize. It is useless to press this matter. Every executive must face the question and meet it bravely in their own way. But it is very en- couraging to be able to point to huge festivals such as Glasgow with 11,000 competitors and with money grants-in-aid, to winners and losers alike and no money-prizes and yet complete success. There even medals have, I understand, been stopped. The spirit of the whole meeting, its popularity, its huge financial success all speak volumes for those of us who fear that the abolition of money-prizes might spell ruin to some good meetings. I shall hope to return to the question of the Eisteddfodic outlook in a future article. Mean- while there is but one pleasant duty-no, there are two-to wish all possible success to the National at Pwllheli this month and to congratu- late the Swansea Executive on the fine prepara- tory efforts they have already made for a great and progressive Eisteddfod in 1926. TWO LYRICS. A. G. Prys-Jones. VIGIL. In vigil once I saw the stars, Like some proud legion in the sky Arrayed along the shining plain, While their white queen the moon went by. Silent she was, and very pure, And pure was all her white domain: Such radiant majesty it seemed Not all the earth's black sin could stain. Too soon dissolved her pageant rare, Her faery grace, her glory furled, For dawn, that fiery horseman, rode To wake the tumult of the world. A. G. Prys-Jone9.