Welsh Journals

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(i) All the recruiting enthusiasts were either too old to offer themselves for military services, or they possessed no sons that were eligible for the Army and Navy. They were also the wealth- iest and most comfortable people in that district, and their sleep at night and their pursuits during the day would not be disturbed or marred by the noises of war. They appeared to be the type of people that would think more about the war-loan than about the war-lesson; that would worry more about war-time money than about the war- scarred and broken men. And these were the elected prophets of service, sacrifice, and patriotism (2) Nearly all the staged figures in that meeting were local religious leaders-they were zealous Christians who would battle and bleed for tem- perance, for purity of language, and for the in- nocuous Christ of dogma. And the speakers, who poured sarcasm and patriotic exhortations like boiling oil on the heads of the young quarrymen and farm labourers in that Town Hall, were the self-same men who would adore the Christ of Peace and Good-will in the churches. All those justifiers of war cursed the Jews for the treat- ment and abuse they meted out to Jesus; they also were the men who endeavoured to whip and to drive the peasantry, like dumb animals, into the agonies and ghastly experiences of a modern crucifixion. (3) During my stay in the Town Hall one sug- gestion flashed through my mind-the suggestion that there are two kinds of atheism. One is the so-called atheism of the souls that discard certain dogmas and doubt the finality of certain church tenets; the other is the denial of God in life and experience. One is a theoretical atheism; the other is a practical denial of love, truth, and righteousness. One forms a bogey for all respect- able churches; the other is the arch-enemy of the social life and welfare. This disturbing sug- gestion alternativelv vanished and reappeared in my heart; it murmured its message and sank into silence in my spirit like a restless thought for a long time. Nevertheless, it created an impression MIS TACHWEDD MIS TACHWEDD-nioch mehinfawr; Aed bugail, delid cerddawr; Gwaedlyd llafn, lIawn escubawr; Lion merllyd pob callawr; Hirnos heinus carcharawr. Parchus pawb a fedd drysawr. Tri dyn nid ami a'u diddawr- Trist, blwng, a chybydd angawr. that was destined to dethrone the war-time idols in my life, and it enabled me to see dimly that the recruiting campaign in the homeland and the savage battles on the continent, were the vilest form of atheism-that they were a complete denial of God and of goodness. However, it re- quired another wound in my body and two days in a helpless condition between the Turkish and British lines in Palestine, to perfect the work of that suggestion, and to complete the change of my attitude towards war. As I stood, and listened, and suffered a number of vivid thoughts and questions to rush through my mind, close to the entrance of the Nevin Town Hall, a pale face appeared from the darkness of that night. It was the face of a young woman who guided a little boy with her hand; it was a face that exhibited the marks of anxiety, tear- created furrows, and a quenchless longing. It was a face that bore the stamp of loneliness and disappointment. With slow steps she entered and stood on the edge of the crowd. There she lis- tened to the eloquent recruiting appeals of the religious leaders. Suddenly, and with no con- scious motives, she turned her head. My kitbag and khaki suit captured her attention, and with a queer gaze she viewed me from head to foot. Like a creature that could no longer suppress the storm of its own heart; like a sorrow-laden soul that could no longer resist its wrecking impulses, she was instantly transformed. Only a sigh could express her heart, and in the light of the oil lamps of that hall I could see tears following tears -the language of a broken heart, and the shining drops of a destroyed love and life. Memory com- pleted the picture. A dying young soldier. Blood-stained clothes. A cry for water. The sound of entrenching tools at night. A pale body in a torn blanket. An untimely grave under a fig-tree. The Suvla Bay. The Amen of the Churches a weeping woman and a lonely little boy. I left the meeting. "ENGLYNION Y MISOEDD" NOVEMBER NOVEMBER — great with fat are the swine The neatherd is released, the minstrel engaged; Bloodv the blade, full the barn Bubbling with marrowfat is every cauldron Long the night, pestilence stricken the prisoner. Respected is each owner of treasure. Three men whom few things can interest- The sad, the angry, and the grasping miser.