know her feelings too well to intrude. Many times already has she
hidden herself, amassed four or five precious treasures, brooding
over them with anxious hope; and then, after a brief desertion to
seek the necessary food, she has returned to find her efforts at
concealment vain, her treasures gone. At last, with the courage of
despair she has resolved to brave the terrors of the unknown and
seek a haunt beyond the tyranny of man. I will watch over her from
afar, and when her mother-hope is fulfilled I will marshal her and
her brood back to the farm where she belongs; for what end I care
not to think, it is of the mystery which lies at the heart of
things; and we are all God's beasts, says St Augustine.

Here is my stone-song, a paraphrase of the Treasure Motif.

[Music score which cannot be reproduced. It is F# dotted crotchet,
F# quaver, F# quaver, F# dotted crotchet, D crotchet, E crotchet.
This bar is then repeated once more.]

What a wonderful work Wagner has done for humanity in translating
the toil of life into the readable script of music! For those who
seek the tale of other worlds his magic is silent; but earth-
travail under his wand becomes instinct with rhythmic song to an
accompaniment of the elements, and the blare and crash of the
bottomless pit itself. The Pilgrim's March is the sad sound of
footsore men; the San Graal the tremulous yearning of servitude for
richer, deeper bondage. The yellow, thirsty flames lick up the
willing sacrifice, the water wails the secret of the river and the
sea; the birds and beasts, the shepherd with his pipe, the
underground life in rocks and caverns, all cry their message to
this nineteenth-century toiling, labouring world--and to me as I