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THE LIFE AND OPINIONS ROBERT ROBERTS This autobiography, which started in the ./une number of The Welsh Outlook," deals with the period of roughly 1834-1863. The author was born at Hafod Bach, near Uangernyw, in 1834, and is still remembered by old inhabitants in that district. IV. IT was Christmas morning and hoary winter reigned supreme in the Cwm. A heavy fall of snow had fallen and a severe frost immediately following had hardened it into a crisp crystallized mass covering the iron-bound soil. It was a fine bracing season for those who were strong, well clad, and comfortably housed, but a hard season for the poor in their dark cabins and very trying for the aged folks whose spark of life was going out in the cold. It is yet but six in the morning, but the parish church is filled with a throng that would cause a stranger to think that the speakers in the last chapter had little cause to complain of thin churches. But this unusual concourse was no mystery to the people of Llangammas. For was not this the Plygain, or Christmas Matins, the service at which the aspirants for musical honours exhibited their skill in carol singing to the assembled parish ? The Church is large and lofty, with open oak pews, carved lectern and pulpit, stained glass windows, and other accesso- ries of a church built after the great Oxford revival. The walls were decorated with several texts written in such correct Gothic letters as to be as illegible as Etruscan to the uninitiated. But however pleased an advanced Churchman might be to look at such a church so well attended on such a morning, with the thermometer outside somewhere about zero, yet a closer view through that haze would give him less ground for satisfaction. Look down the aisle through that crowd of men. You will see a music book here and there, and you will hear a soft humming of some carol before the service begins, but you will not see a single prayer book in use. Nor do the good folks seem to consider such a thing at all wanted. The vicar comes in, puts on his surplice at the reading desk, the sexton ceases ringing, and the service begins. A few stand up as the words are pronounced, a good many more follow their example at intervals, but the majority continue sitting. OF A WANDERING SCHOLAR AS TOLD BY HIMSELF As to the responses, not a voice is heard but the nasal twang of poor Roger the Clerk. Roger thinks that responding is his work, feeding the service" he calls it and the congregation consider it none of theirs so both parties are satisfied with the arrangement. At the "Venite and the Psalms you might expect to hear a little of that assembled musical talent directed to the Psalmody. But no, the same parson and clerk duet goes on, and the parson makes a pause at the end of the Venite for the first batch of carol singers. This being the breaking of the ice, there is a good deal of hesitation before anyone finds courage to begin. One tall young man stands up, followed by two girls. Everyone looks round at them, and every ear is anxiously listening for their first note; but their hearts fail them and they sit down again, the young man looking very red and foolish. Just as the vicar was giving them up, and turning over the prayer book to the Psalm for the day, two miniature choirs, from different parts of the church, start together.-one singing a lively carol on Belleisle March and the other a dismal dirge to the tune of Cowheel." For a few lines a hideous sort of Dutch chorus was carried on between them the vicar hid his face in his surplice, the lungs of the Belleisle March party were the strongest, the Cowheelites sat down discomfited and sank into obscurity, and the conquering party marched through a dozen long stanzas with great satisfaction to them- selves if not to the audience. Then the Psalms were read and another carol followed, this time a solo by Robin the Tailor, already mentioned in this history. Robin started with great confidence but he soon found that he had pitched his tune too high, and thereby came to signal grief. But a Deus ex Machina appeared in the shape of Robin father, a musicker of some note, who called out from his seat three or four rows back: Thee are too high Robin-try it in G. Robin — here's my pitchpipe for thee. So saying he hands to Robin a wooden instrument like a moderate sized barometer ;Robin