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LONDON GOSSIP.

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SUMMER HOLIDAYS IN WALES.

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SUMMER HOLIDAYS IN WALES. ABERYSTWYTH. [From the Fed Drayon. the National Magazine of W ales. J There is vigour about the Cardigan Bay which brushes away cobwebs and ennui, and English people, as well as Welsh, have found this out. At our visit we saw two groups who illustrated this to the letter. There was a, party of Londoners, evidently a family, father and mother, and grown up sons and daughters. These, in the teeth of a strong wind, went far out to sea in a cockle-boat. It seemed a venturesome course. They went out with song, and the rippling of merry laughter came to us as we stood on the beach. We almost feared that the evening would bring us wailing, for the wind played so fiercely on the waves that they became lashed into angry foam, and the surf roared and leaped high up about the rained castle. But they came back safe and sound, and what a jolly picture The worn look of London that you see in the Strand and Fleet Street, and in the counting-houses, and shops, and parks too, were exchanged for a ruddy glow. They had bean with Neptune and with Boreas, and drunk in the nectar that is never mixed or polluted. How gleefully they jumped on shore! What a feast they would make, to the astonishment of the lodging-house keeper It would be a treat to stand by the open window and hear the pleasant English voices, the interchange of wit and humour, the music and song that would end the evening, ere the pier lost its crowds of pedestrians, and night and the solitary policeman came upon the scene. The other group consisted of two persons only-a man and woman. The man I recognised at a glance as one of the most earnest and eloquent ministers of an English county. Time had told upon him. He was grey and shrunken. The eyes were still keen, but crows' feet had begun to make lattice work about them, and the step was that of the pilgrim who was about to descend the final stages of the hill. I had seen both man and wife in their meridian; now, with reputation won, and trials, alas experienced, he had come with his faithful partner for one brief revival of breath by the Cardigan sea. Aberystwyth is easily accessible. From South Wales you get upon the Mid-Wales railway by way of Brecon, or London and North Western, thence to Moat Lane Junction and down by the Cambrian. You have no idea when you enter Aberystwyth that you are in a seaport town, and might go into several hotels without having the slightest notion; but a few hnndred yards from the Lion and Gogerddan, as you saunter out in the morning, you reach the parade, and wide and exhilarating is the prospect. As a rule you have to hold your hat on. No zephyr plays on your face, but an unmistakeable strong noith-wester, and this you at once see accounts for that ruddy tinge on the Cardigan face that is as firmly painted there as if by the sun- shine. Still the bay has its moods, and the sea is not always a rough one. I have seen it as smooth as a mill- pond, with naiads disporting about, reviving traditions of poetic fable, and the leap of the wave on the shore has blended in harmoniously with the evening band, and made old hearts flutter as they did half-a-century ago. Then, again, I have stood on the pier at its remotest end and watched the race of the waves. How they came streaming in, like the old Danish rovers, pouring on madly to seize that fair crescent that --as beginning to light up like a tiara of diamonds worn by the rough old Cardiganshire shore How the waves blustered and raved, and kept incessantly streaming in, and dashed little boats aside out of the way of their inroad The spectacle was one that chided the loiter- ing step, and made us think, what if the old Vikings, the sea kings, mounted on the pier and swept all before them How tranquil the scene at night From hundreds of houses the lights shine through the lowered blinds, but no sound is heard. The promenade is deserted save by a few, some hurrying away like belated rooks, a few still sauntering, loth to leave. On one of the seats close by a lamp there is a picture-a man worse than a belated rook, for that has a nest, but this man has now no home. He is grey and worn in the buffet of life, ragged and shoeless; and one may imagine him asleep as he crouches down, listening to the surf, thinking, perhaps, that in its wave his sorrows might be ended. What a contrast this to the merry groups who lately passed, their hearts, like their steps, light, no cloud on their horizon. Here is one who has had his light-hearted epoch and his sun- shine. Not for us to judge or condemn; the clouds are around him now, and but for a Samaritan, no sun, perhaps, will rise again in his history. Up in the morning, and when everybody has com- fortably breakfasted there is a tantarra of bugles inviting visitors to journey on to the Devil's Bridge, for which cosy brakes are provided. This is one of the delights of Aberystwyth. You have not only a delightful promenade and a beach—not, I admit, a sandy one, but covered with pebbles, some of them worthy of the lapidary's art—but a great variety of interesting places in the district to visit, the far-famed Devil's Bridge amongst the number. Then, the Castle, and the University, memento of Savin and Ward, and the old church in the dingle, with no end of breezy downs to the right and left, on which the goddess of health sits dispensing to all who come. l see that a contemporary rejoices in the discovery of a new watering place in the South of Wales, and pleasant the spot is unquestionably. Very welcome the quiet scene to the aged pilgrim of life, most pleasant to wander there in the Summer time, say of 1881, for the Summer of 1882 is still unrealised; the sea so tranquil, the sky so blue, and the undulating lowlands of Glamorgan, with sandy mounds here and there, so picturesquely diversified. But you have not the wild freshness of the Cardigan Bay. "Give me back," sings Tom Moore, "Give me back the wild freshness of springtime, its smiles and its tears are worth all evening's light." And so it is with Aber- ystwyth. Those great wave3 that bring gems from far-off shores send huge gusts of health inland; the giant mountains in the far distance loom up into the sky, no sandy mound, but a vast height, up which the Titans might have scaled heaven; and then the back- ground, with genial, somewhat primitive, but not too exacting old Cardies to play the host. This, surely, for those who crave to look upon the sea, is one of the best places in Wales. CHARLES WILKINS, The Editor. -0

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