The past of their lives has lost neither face nor voice behind the shroud; nor are the passions of the flesh, nor is the animate soul, wanting to it.

Other races forfeit infancy, forfeit youth and manhood with their progression to the wisdom age may bestow.

These have each stage always alive, quick at a word, a scent, a sound, to conjure up scenes, in spirit and in flame.

Historically, they still march with Cadwallader, with Llewellyn, with Glendower; sing with Aneurin, Taliesin, old Llywarch: individually, they are in the heart of the injury done them thirty years back or thrilling to the glorious deed which strikes an empty buckler for most of the sons of Time.

An old sea rises in them, rolling no phantom billows to break to spray against existing rocks of the shore.