My wife was too
tired to go out in the evening; and unwilling for my own part to close
the Sabbath without going to some place of public worship, I thought I
would try to find the sanctuary of "my brethren--my kinsmen according
to the flesh"--the Welsh. Following the directions I had received, I
arrived at the top of a certain street, when I heard the sound of
sacred song; but I could not tell whether it was Welsh or not, nor
exactly whence it came. As I stood listening, an overgrown boy came by,
of whom I inquired, "Where does that singing come from?"--"I _guess_ it
comes from a church down below there." "Is it a Welsh Church?"--"I
can't tell, but I _guess_ it is." "Well, then," I rejoined, "I _guess_
I will go and see." I turned, and the youth "guessed" he would follow
me. I got to the door. The singing had not ceased. It _was_ Welsh--the
language in which I had first heard "_Am Geidwad i'r Colledig!_"[1] How
interesting in the "Far West" to hear sounds so sweet and so familiar
to my childhood! None but those who have experienced can tell the charm
of such an incident. The minister was in the pulpit.
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