“My brethren! King David awoke early in the morning, just as the sun was rising. There had been wretched bad times, rain, rain, rain, all day and night, and the sheep were cawed [diseased], and the harvest was not got in, the shocks of corn were standing, the grain was sprouting in the ears. You know what sort of bread comes of that! David had been sore at heart, for he knew the farmers were in a bad way, and the labouring people were also not well off. So he got out of bed, and opened his window, and looked out, and smelt the beautiful fresh morning air. Then he saw the sun come a-peeping up over the eastern hills, like a spark of gold. So says David, ‘There he comes, and not a cloud in the sky, and there’s every promise of a good day. Wake up, my glory! wake up, my beautiful shining luminary, and give us a long fine day, for we want it sore before the corn is utterly spoiled and done for.’ And then, brethren, he made another remark, and that he addressed to his Possle-tree [psaltery]. Now, I don’t pretend to know exactly what sort of a tree a Possle-tree is, but travellers who have been in Palestine, and learned commentators, do assert that it is a plant that turns her face to the sun, whichever way the sun be. In short she is a sort of convolvulus. Now David saw this here possle-tree drooping, with her blossom heavy with rain, and says he, with a great shout, ‘Possle-tree!’ says he, ‘Possle-tree, my hearty, wake up! The glorious sun is up and shining, and it becomes you also to wake up, and look the glorious sun in the face, as is your nature and your duty too.’” [Illustration: HALFWAY HOUSE, DOLGELLEY] How completely Celtic both these addresses were! To the dull Saxon mind there would be unreality and trifling in such rich embroidery of sacred facts, and it would repel, not edify. But the Celtic taste is not squeamish; it allows a broad margin for imaginary decoration, and so long as the moral enforced is satisfactory, it does not regard the means whereby it is reached. Of course this sort of address would be impossible now in Wales, but in Cornwall the level of culture is a century in arrear of Wales. A Welshman is like an Irishman, naturally an orator, and his highest climax is reached in the _hwyl_, the Welsh howl. This consists in a rhythmic musical intonation, rising to a high pitch. It was at one time general in extempore preaching, but has fallen into disuse, as it showed a tendency to become a mechanical trick, a striving after effect, when the orator felt that his matter ceased to interest and arouse. An amusing story was told me of a religious revival effected by an old woman and a mendicant. Said Sheena to Shone, “How is it at Bethesda now?” “Ah, Sheena, dead as ditchwater!” “That is a pity,” said she. “Let us revive the spirit.”