Only foreign broadcasts commemorated All Saints fittingly
HAT heathens we arel And what barbarians in taste! Even on All Saints' Day we enjoyed—or were meant to enjoy—the usual vulgar variety broadcast with jokes on Guy Fawkes and Lady Godiva so coarsely suggestive that their utterance would not be tolerated in any decent home; the B.B.C., however, introduces them for any child and young
person to hear. In fact, but for that strange medley of materialism and religious sentimentality—the Miracle" Play of the Hilary Players—you would never have known it was All Saints' Day, if there had not been the broadcasts from abroad. Not only religious services and concerts of
sacred music, but every French broadcast was carefully chosen, so as to bring no jarring note over the wireless waves, and the evening ended, not with futile dance music, such as immediately followed upon the London Miracle Play, but with Liszt's Prayer to God in Solitude.
" You are a very foolish mother, you give me nothing to think of before I go
to sleep," remarked a Why Not Give little six-year-old boy, Us Thoughts? when his mother.
having an engagement one day when it was his bedtime, omitted the reading of the Bible story he was accustomed to. But the one aim of the world today—of the Anglo-Saxon world, alas, to judge by the broadcast programmes, appears to be to prevent thinking. Every spare moment must he crammed with a dance tune„ as though we were tarantulas, instead of beings with a brain—to say nothing of a soul.
Not only was there a beautiful Breton legend, acted for and by children, in the Children's Hour from Radio Paris on All Saints' Day, ending with the old Breton song, Oh Saints et Saintes du Paradis, but that great artist, Georges Colin, produced what was called Treasures of the Past.
First a radio play on the wonderful reliquary of Pepin d'Acquitaine, exquisitely chased in gold and studded with jewels, which listeners may have admired at last year's Paris Exhibition. Pious French peasants had saved this precious thing during the French Revolution, after it had been saved a first time by Louis he Debonnaire and brought to the Abbey at Conques. This play was followed by an even more moving one on the Smiting Angel of the Cathedral of Rheims, whose face had been damaged during the Great War, and which has since been wonderfully restored.
Space forbids an account of all the other dramatic broadcasts of All Saint? Day. They were proof of the deeprooted piety and respect for our Christian faith, of which there is certainly a great revival in France.
If the music of Verdi's Requiem, performed on All Souls' Day, is, as the commentator re
Verdi's Story marked, criticised for being too theatrical, it makes an appeal, nevertheless, when one knows Verdi's touching loyalty to his friend, Manzoni, for whose funeral he wrote it, the famous author of The Betrothed, which most of us read in our