each speaking its own word, yet in harmony and concord; then they part, that each may say, alone, what it means as an assertion of its own personality.

The strains are flying now, and soaring... their wings have the softness of air and its lightness... They have drawn away from the earth, and their talk has become whisper and murmur; they quiver with rapture as they draw near the sky, as though the soul that rose with these strains to those heights had cast itself into the homeland of the true artist, where no barriers divide the diverse children of humanity and no greeds set them apart; and so it gave itself over to the nature of art within it, sending forth its treasures and scattering its hidden stores, in its utmost gaiety and delight.

But what ails them, that they shrink so suddenly, as though some gloom had begun to steal into them and spread through them, spoiling the atmosphere of gaiety and delight in which they had been turning and fluttering? Ah... they are sinking down toward the earth, where there is shrinking, and confinement, and the binding of bounds and fetters! They seethe among themselves — and there, they explode... and from them fly the sparks of defiance and rebellion, and from this explosion rises the anthem of liberty... the liberty of man, what-ever his race, his color, his creed... Yet a measure of tranquility has now come back to them, and the violoncello has begun to speak of it, as though the artist had grown certain, at the last, that his refuge in existence is the nature of art within him, which widens the horizons before him whenever society narrows them upon him. And is it any wonder that this soul, teeming with every color of art, should be the soul of the great Beethoven?

Wednesday...

The oddities of the human soul... who could number them? This evening I was in one of the cinema houses, contemplating, before the showing of the film, the reflection of the lights upon things and their effect on them. At first the white lights were spread through the hall to a degree so indiscreet that it pro-claimed everything carved upon its ceiling and walls. When the eye looked at these things it saw nothing wondrous in them, and did not suppose that behind them lay anything at all! But no sooner had the red lights taken the place

of the white, which withdrew behind them, than the eye beheld a wonder: it saw the shaded red light bestow upon things a magic that transformed their very shapes to the foundation, and clothed them in meanings that set the soul wandering through their worlds and their hidden places. But the true wonder the eye beheld when the two halves of the translucent screen-cur-tain began to draw apart little by little, separating bit by bit from one another, with the red light between them shedding an enchantment over them, deluding the eye that behind it lay hidden a world that was paradise itself.

Parker "51"

PARKER

You will not know the pleasure of writing until you use the Parker "51" pen.

The demand for it is unequaled everywhere. And its pencil falls no whit short of it in quality and beauty. You write with ink that is dry even though it is liquid. And the fineness of its point — 14-karat gold — lets you write with grace and with the smoothness of silk.

Prices of the Parker "51" fountain pen:

Gold cap, 60 liras; silver cap, 50 liras.

Agents for Syria and Lebanon

Halim Hanna & Co.: Fakhri Bey Street — Beirut