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(All Rights Reserved.} ,J t' -{ THE END OF A CRIMINAL CHAPTER. By IRVONWY. [SPECIALLY WRITTEN FOR THE "WEEKLY MAIL"] When I heard this earth and sky swam before me. Then a great red blindness obscured my vision. I clenched my hands and bit my lips until the blood ran to prevent myself crying out. I stood motionless as a carved image—a statue of desperate despair. The minutes seemed as hours' and the concentrated agony of a lifetime was crowded into the short space of time, when, after pressing hot kisses on the ripe red lips that had touched mine, AndrS Lecomte parted with my wife his mistress, and left the arbour. With a frightful effort I regained somewhat my calmness and crept silently away through the shrubbery into the open fields beyond, where I walked for hours, turning over schemes of vengeance in my whirling brain. Him, Andre Lecomte, I knew well what to do with. I was a master of the rapier, and it is not hard to fix a quarrel on a volatile Frenchman. Her—I must think, do naught rashly but she, too, should know vengeance as terrible as well deserved. It was nightfall when I returned to the chateau. A soft wind was blowing from the south-west, and above the forest trees a great yellow moon hung in the blue of the calm, unfeeling sky, a strange contrast to the hell of torments in my breast. I met my wife with imperturbable serenity. Never had she seemed more joyous, more bewitching than then; and as I glanced at the portrait whilst we dined I could not but own that the artist had rendered her no more than simple justice. Throughout that awful night I pondered over my revenge. When I arose in the morning, haggard and worn, I had resolved partially on a plan to pay in full the wages of sin to M. Andre Lecomte. I was invited to a dinner that day at Ville d'Avray, and Andre, I felt certain, would be there. Nor was I wrong in my anticipation. As I entered the. room there he stood, the delicate, white-fingered dandy of a Judas Iscariot, toying with the diamond ring I had presented to him on my wedding day. That night I drank more wine than was my wont, and rose from the table flushed and excited. The debris and the decanters were removed from the dining table, and cards were brought in. I walked up to M. Andre Lecomte, and after a few casual remarks suggested a game of ecarte, to which he readily assented. For some time I won heavily, although I was absorbed in the one idea of how to insult my adversary without a possi- bility of retractation. 1 did not wish the name of my worthless wife to be publicly mixed up in the quarrel. Suddenly, just as he threw a card on the table, in answer to a lead of mine, I started up and, with a cry of Cheat! flung my cards full in his face. He struck at me with his right hand and cut my forehead slightly with the diamond ring. The other players now crowded round and separated us, but my object was gained —Andre was panting, and his pale face had turned livid. Liar!" he shouted; but I only smiled con- temptuously. To-morrow," I said, and, taking the arm of an acquaintance, left the room. It was arranged we should fight at sunrise the following morning in a little wood near Ville d'Avray. Dawn, breaking red and glorious, found me and my second, Armand Tilly, on the pre- arranged spot. We were the first to arrive. My opponent had chosen the rapier as the weapon to be used, probably unaware ot my dexterity with it. "I suppose the matter will terminate with the first blood drawn," remarked Armand, with a smile. Look you, Tilly," I cried savagely, this is no child's game. I swear to you I will kill him before yonder sun shines above the tree tops." My vehemence apparently surprised Armand. He looked at me inquiringly. And all for a quarrel at eards," he said reflectively. I laughed hoarsely. "All for a quarrel at cards!" I echoed and again he gazed at me in a puzzled manner. Is there any message or instructions you would care to give before-" "None," I answered. I am not going to die yet." Just then Andre Lecomte. leaning on the arm of his second, appeared. He was chatting gaily as he approached us, and his face wore a cool and maddening smile of careless confidence. I muttered to myself, "A word from me, and even you will scarcely care to smile." There was a wild, exultant feeling at my heart. Soon he would be in my power, and ho should taste in full of some such agony as that which he had caused me to suffer. I requested my second to inquire whether he would allow me to speak a few words to him in private. He assented to this strange request, and, standing a little apart from our seconds and the doctor; I whispered in his ear, "Remember the arbour at the Chateau de Mersac." He started as if a, snake had stung him. Remem- ber," I repented, and returned to my place. The rapiers were then handed to us, the signal given, and as the steels crossed a thrill of intense relief passed through me. I had faith, and felt I should kill him I soon recognised that the contest was to be n short one. Mv wri8t was both stronger and more supple than his, and mv skill infinitely greater. The chance came at length —a parry—a lunge—and M. Andre Lecomte was lying on his back, pierced through the lungs, his life-blood dyeing the light-green sward. The doctor vainly strove to stay the flow. I knew, with a joyous satisfaction, from the expression of his face, that the end was near. Presently my enemy half opened his eyes. I knelt down by his side, so that if he spoke I might satiate my revenge with his last words. "She loved me." said the pale, trembling lips. I have been blest, 0 my love, my love With a sneer I bent, over the dying man. What think you now ?" I half hissed. Is life for love well thrown away ? A half smile glimmered like wan morning over the pain-drawn features. He slightly raised him- self on his elbow. Yes," he whispered, so low as to be inaudible to all save myself. Then murmuring Marie! Marie!" he fell back. In a few moments he was dead, and part of my revenge was com- pleted. Yet I was not satisfied. What right had he to appear so happy—villain and seducer that he was? I would have kicked the dead body as it lay there had it not been for the onlookers. I turned away, and, telling my second that I was returning to the chateau and bowing to the others, I left the ground. The duel made, of course, a considerable stir; but such things were not uncommon or unlawful in those days, and it was admitted by all that I had slain my adversary in fair fight. All, said I ? Nay, not. so. How, you ask, did that fair, false wife of mine receive the news of the unequal justice ac- corded to her lover? Unequal, I say, for what equality could there be when I measured my life, unstained as yet by crime, against his, and gave him an honourable death—him by whom my honour had been destroyed, him whose foul breath had blasted the future that a little while agone had fronted me with calm and smiling brow ? My wife rose as I entered the room. By the dreadful pallor of her face I knew she had heard of the death of her lover. She looked unearthly and grand in her superb beauty, transfigured by her anguish. Her eyes glared at me like the eyes of a wounded tigress. I gazed at her with cold asto- nishment. Madame," I said, you are ill. Let me call your maid." She turned on me, one hand pressed to her bosom, and burst out, Andre! Andre! Murderer, get you gone." How dare you, you red-handed coward come near me Fool—do you thi n k I ever loved you? You love has little to do with such as you. But he loved me long before I saw your loathed face. And I—my God, I would have given my life to shield him from hurt. Coward! Complete your work and kiIlme also. I lUll his, and his alone and will be till I die." Exhausted by the efforts of half gasping speech she sank back on the couch. She had fainted, So well had I schooled myself in calmness that these wild words of my wife stirred no compassion in my breast. Rather did they, as I gazed at the insensible form on the couch, add fresh fuel to the fire of my furious desire for vengeance. I was amazed at the audacity of the woman. In my presence, whom she had wronged as only woman can wrong, to cry his name—his !—in mv ears. I rang for her maid. Madame is unwell," I said, and passed from the room. Dny followed weary day. For many weeks I did not see my wife I was too much occupied in maturing a design for her death. At such times as I saw her, indeed, I could not but remark the ravages despair and grief had made in those peer- less features and that perfect form. These moved me not a whit. I had determined to kill her. How, when, and where I knew not. yet. The idea of stabbing her, of using brutal violence by where the perfect form I once deemed mine, and mine alone, might be marred or mutilated, never crossed my mind, or, if it did, was hastily dismissed. Alas! Women are not so easily slain. One cannot destroy them with glances of hatred, or my sweet wife had been dead long before I slew her. I could not draw from my case a hollow.ground razor, and, roughly catching her by that round, ivory shoulder I once loved so well, hack and hew her to death. And why? Because I then feared for my own craven life too well; because I feared the executioner's hands; because I saw in the vista of the future the scaffold in short, because I was a coward. To mutilate externally then, with my own hands, what was so beautiful seemed to me vulgar and revolting. I would find means surer and safer, and without bloodshed, which should afford no proof against, me should suspicion fall. I thought of the many famous murders I had read of, but all these seemed to me either brutal in detail or lacking in the security necessary to mislead doctor and detective. The kmfe, the cord, and the commoner poisons I at" once rejected as crude and uncertain weapons wherewith to accomplish my end. There must be, I said to myself, no outward signs of violence or inward signs of unnatural decease. I felt I was neither leurned nor ingenious enough to formulate methods or to invent, or rather discover, a poison that would V ■ ■rji. ? fulfil these conditions. Had I lived in the days of Catherine de Medici and her arch-poisoner the Florentine Rene I should have, doubtless, consulted that master and contriver of secret assassinations to further me in my scheme. Knowledge of chemistry I had little or none; but. with this unsolved, and to me all-absorbing, problem before me I could not rest. I purchased and searched diligently for all books and MSS. relating to poisons, and for weeks studied hard the symptoms and effects of the vegetable and the mineral. Yet, I found none that appeared to me satisfactory and safe from the prying eyes of science. Then I turned to mechanics. Are there, I thought, no mechanical means wherewith the action of the heart may be suddenly arrested and leave no sign or unnatural distortion of feature or organ behind? Long and wearily I pondered in my room—a room especially reserved for my own use, and to which no one except myself had access. A strangelv-furnished room—round whose walls hung quaint weapons and curios collected during my travels. Yataghans from Persia, old arque- buses from Malta, Indian swords and daggers, and a motley array of pistols and guns. I have ever had a considerable taste for dep.th-dealing instruments, but these, with my all-important problem un- solved, seemed to me then as useless as they were interesting. So day fell on weary day, and my hatred of my wife and desire for revenge grew more and more intense with the passage of time, until one night. towards the hour of twelve, I could restrain myself no longer. I seized a dagger from the wall, and, taking a small silver goblet from the table, poured into it half the contents of a bottlejof morphine, and with stealthy steps crept upstairs to my wife's bed- chamber. The door was partially open, and the faint crimson light of the lamp glowed inside. I quietly entered, and saw her lying on the bed, apparently slumbering. I drew nearer. She moved! Her eyes opened and dilated with horror as she saw me standing near. With a cry she sprang to the floor and confronted me. "Ah," she said, in a voice instinct with hatred, you have murdered him, and now you would murder me. What! Poison!" and she darted towards me with maniacal fury, snatched the goblet from my hands, and swallowed the contents. Thanks," she said. For this one and only favour I have received from you I thank you and she fell back on the bed. I stood speechless and stupefied. Presently there came a murmur: Andre Andre My love My love I come." The sound ceased. I heard the clock in the chateau tower striking twelve. Casting one look at the still and silent form I rushed from the room. My thoughts through the long vigil of that momentous night were chiefly those of extreme regret that I had allowed the intemperance of passion to carry away my reason, and so robbed myself of half the 'sweetness of revenge. My planning of a punishment adequate to the wrong she had done me bad come to nought. She had embraced death willingly, and in her dying utterances had taunted me with her love for Lecomte. I, who had thought myself master of my will, had proved myself a child of anger and impulse—a poor creature incapable of fixed pur- pose. I writhed with shame and rage. She had escaped me. cheated and robbed me of the vengeance I had so long desired. I was not suspected of causing the death of my wife. For weeks past it was generally known in the household that she had been accustomed to take small quantities of morphine to induce sleep, and the report of the examining physicians was that she had died from an overdose of that drug. The fact that I had not that night occupied her chamber was a trivial one, as it was generally known throughout the household that, on account of my wife's indisposition, I had slept in my own room for some weeks previous to her death. De Mersac was in Paris, engaged in the delightful task of spending the ample allowance I had settled on him on my marriage. He, however, attended the funeral and shed some crocodile tears over the remains of his beloved Marie, after which, having extorted a cheque from me, he returned to the capital. On the night following her death a strange thing occurred. It was near twelve o'clock—the time she had died on the previous night. I had been upstairs to look at the body of Andre Lecomte's doar dead woman—for mine, I knew well at heart, she had never been. I was seated in an arm-chair in the dining-room, smoking a cigar. Suddenly the clock on the mantel-shelf began to strike the hour of midnight. I instinctively, and withltn inexplicable foreboding, glanced at the ill-omened portrait of my dead wife. A singular and terrible change was taking place. The face and figure had become luminous and transparent. Suddenly I saw her step down from the frame and approach my chair, and there stand as in an attitude of expectancy. The light of the lamps had grown dim. A deadly chill was at my heart. I covered my eyes with my hands, but I could still see the white phantom, waiting and watching me with dim, remorseless eyes. I rose, and with trembling limbs moved towards the apparition, which slowly retreated as I approached. I reached the door the figure followed me. "Spwik," I cried. "What would you?" No answer, save the dull echo of 117 own voice through the sombre room. The silence was more than I could bear. The horror of a great fear was upon me. Mv limbs refused their office. The objects in the room swam and surged and blentbefore my darken- ing vision. I seemed as if seized in a whirlpool of waters. A seething, chaotic rush of ideas, old memories, old dreams, desires, and fears flooded my brain. I heard sounds as of the thuds of a stupendous steam hammer. But still through the awful mists of terror and confusion shone the vision, pale and luminons, of my dead wife. 1 gasped for breath, a sense of intense suffocation came over me, and then-darkness, When I recovered it was broad daylight. I looked wildly round the room and staggered to my feet. I glanced at the picture. The pallid figure in its robes of white stood fair and joyous as of yore. I laughed harshly and discordantly. Then I walked to the chiffonniere, took out. a bottle of brandy, and, half filling a tumbler, drained it. at a draught. I felt strong and vigorous once more. It was the morning of my wife's burial. I entered the chamber of death. I stood over the coffin and looked steadfastly at the livid facp, with its closed eyes. dark-ringed, and sunken cheeks, on which the rouge—that mockery of youthful bloom —still lingered. With steady hand I lifted the coffin-lid, adjusted it in its place, and carefully screwed it down—joyous at heart with the turn of each screw that I was securing and hiding the dead from my sight. That day the body was interred with fitting obsequies in the family vault of the De Mersacs. My vengeance was complete. I was free once more. Free! 0 irony of fate. Free! Nay, never man was such a slave as I; dogged nightly by a venge- ful phantom—for that night and each dreadful following night the grim soul's tragedy in the dining-room was repeated. To-day I die. 1 have firm and settled convic- tion as to the future life. I do not think with Tyndall—that scientific quack of an advertising age—that I shall merge like a streak of morning mist into the infinite azure of the pnst. My faith is that when the crisis we term death is past I shall live and breathe again in infant form, and grow once more to manhood through periods. doubtless, happier and more restful than those I have experienced in my present body. I know that you, 0 world, when you read this what you will. doubtless, be pleased to call a strango confession of a crime will shake wise heads and call me madman, with further epithets that I cannot but regard as compliments, seeing in what worth 1 hold you. I am not mad, 0 noble world ? Faithlessness in wedded woman I, like the ancients, consider worthy of death, and I, the instrument of justice, chose what I deemed the most painless way of punishment. I feel no remorse for the past and but little curiosity con- cerning the future. Only when night comes, and that fearful phantom of my craven imagination steps from her frame in robes of white. and, fair as on her bridal morn, beckons mo with delicate hand outstretched to follow her, I feel and fear lest I should grow mad. Alas, how little of joy I have extracted from this world, which is so fair, so vigorous in this marvellous spring-time. Do you know that Nature (I dignify her with a capital letter, not daring hitherto.to phy her for pur- pose of fiction or amusement as an "It") never seemed to me so eager to gratify my senses with her sweet sights and sounds as to-day ? How bounteously in the woodlands the violets give forth their fragrance! How! But I, who should he talking of the dying, must needs prate of the living, sith that which is around me talks cfhly of life. Strange that I who have resolved upon taking my own hfe lmve no will to destroy the fatal pic- ture which has been the cause of all my misery. Some mysterious power holds me in check. Often have I longed, knife in hand, to hack the fatal canvas in pieces. Yet. I dare not. I know not why. Dare not! I who counted her life such a little thing, I who gloated over the sufferings of Andre Lecomte have become weak and feeble of purpose—a haunted man—a man with will subservient to some strange demon of destiny. Neithpr opium nor any of its kindred drugs can charm the sleep god now. The time has come! Looking out from the lattice of my bathroom window I see the little white-walled town against thA wildness of the wood. with gleaming walls and shining roofs fronting the yellow sands of the blue sea. The scene has no charm for me. The artistic instinct, is dead in me. "No desire of the moth for the star." as in the glorious youth days, awakes in my breast now. Yet, I had thought that. the genius of poetry and art could survive through all crime and cruelty, that they were spirits apart. from man's nature—forced companions of the degraded instincts of the soul and mind of our paltry and contemptible race. I wonder if this lancet be sharp enough. Strange, 0 simple hit, of glisten- ing steel, what power you hold for your master, the man Look how the red current flows. O brave and blessed The bath I have drawn close to the open window warm breaths from the summer sea fart my pale face and lean form, and yet I am glad to die. 0, pale phantom, you shall haunt me no more. From premature decay I go to new, though mortal, youth, through death, which is but transition. As I pen these last lines I feel weak and exhausted. The blood oozing from the open artery is making the waters of the bath redder and redder. The vial of opium is in my shaking hand. I drink, and have done with the world.

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FEMININE FANCIES, FOIBLES, AND FASHIONS. By A LADY. [All Rights Reserved.] Blessed be the hand that prepares Apleasure for a child.—Douy as Jerrold. I think, according to this, Miss Windsor, or the Soho Bazaar, Oxford-street, should be rich in blessings, and I have no doubt the benisons of many mothers and nurses are bestowed on the ingenious inventor of the infant's crawling rug." There is no question that babies are nursed too much, and would be healthier and happier were they laid on a. duly-protected floor and allowed to rest quietly, or exercise their little limbs without re- striction and according to their own baby inclina- tion, instead of being rocked, jogged, and re- strained on the laps and in the arms of too-demon- strative mothers or ignorant nurses. Before, how- ever, baby is placed on the floor care must be taken that draughts are excluded. A physician once told me that a frequent cause of the ailment" of children resulting from cold were du* to their being Allowed to crawl on the floor, which is the draughtiest placti possible, as anyone will nnd by laying down on it; and before the fire is about the worst place in the room, since fire creates draught. Before pur- ting children down pains should be taken to ex- clude draughts by drawing curtains over nursery doors, or by nailing list or leather, sold for the pur- pose, over crevices. There is also a draught pro- tector, made of wood, with gutta percha fixed on the top, which, placed against the door at the bottom, thoroughly excludes air from entering in that quarter. It is a good plan to have a õhick mattress laid down, so that baby is above the level of the floor, yet not so much elevated as to endanger it in case of a roil off the mattress. I am sure children would be both healthier and less fretful if they were more often allowed to exercise their little limbs in their own way and unconfined. Miss Windsor's "crawling rug," whilst pro- tecting baby's clothes, provides objects which attract the notice of even very young children. The large square of red flannel, scolloped at the edge or bound as may- be, has the word baby" in the centre, or the name of the child is substituted, according to fancy. The letters are cut. in white swandown calico, and to form a border to the rug there is a procession of animals made in the same fluffy material. There are twelve animal? to a set, assorted kinds, and purchasers can select the sets that seem most likely to attract baby notice. I have a charming packet,including a Jumbo, monkey, lion, duck, stag, giraffe, cock, horse, dog, &c.—twelve in all. The animals are cut with the most careful precision, and an exact following of nature's lines. I believe Miss Windsor's father was an animal painter of some repute, so, no doubt, she inherits the artistic fidelity of re-production necessary to imitate nature successfully, whether by the aid of paint brush or scissors. The animals repre- sented are first laid on the frame square, and when arranged satisfactorily must be neatly hemmed on to the blanket, or they may be button-hole stitched round. The work is very easily and quickly done, and the materials are by no means expensive. Photographs may be had to give ladies at a distance an idea of the work, and orders contained in letters are carefully attended to. The designs are registered, so that it would be an infringement of patent to copy them for sale. When the rug has been washed it is advi- sable to use a fine comb so as to raise the plush. Glass eyes can be added if desired. In order to produce a closer resemblance be- tween the animals represented and the original species, and far more expensive" crawling rugs," Miss Windsor is using the veritable skins of tho creatures designated. I saw calf skin tanned (with the hair on, of course), lamb's skin, and so on. I observed a magnificent retriever, the black Astrachan out of which it was fashioned forming an exact representation of the glossy black coat of that species of dog. As some of these skins are difficult to procure and costly to buy, the rugs adorned by animals cut from them are far more expensive than when the designer relies Bolelyon outline to produce a resemblance of the animals imitated. White flannel rugs are some- times decorated with animals cut in washing materials of different colours. Packets of any of the above-named models can bo hnd at a very moderate cost, and the rugs may be made at home or purchased ready for applique of Miss Windsor. One rug I inspected had, besides the usual border of animals, the figure of a Dora Greenwood girl in the centre, surrounded by every denizen of a well-stocked poultry yard, to which she was scattering grains of corn. Beside exercising the legs, arms, and hands, pictures bring the observing faculties into play, whilst the power of speech is developed when baby is taught to imitate the cries of the different animals as in turn they attract attention. A rug of this description would, I thought, make a very nice christening gift or Christmas-box for a, youngchild. On view at the same Kindergarten stall 1 saw cot quilts made much in the same way. The animals, cut in red flannel, were appliqued on squares of white twilled linen, with bars of scarlet braid or red Turkey twill placed along and across to give connection. The sight of a familiar animal arresting baby's attention on the moment of waking would often stop the fretful wail of an exacting infant who has been spoiled by the injudicious haste of mothers or nurses too ready to take up" the baby on the first symptom of wakefulness, when but for such undue zeal baby would pro- bably soon have fallen to sleep again. Habits pre- judicial to infants, and wearing to those about them, are often formed in the very first month of an infant's life. and many a mother who permits a certain class of nurses to have their own way find swhen she herself is most in need *cf rest the tyrant baby insisting on being taken out of its cot to toast its rosy toes and be nursed, so that it may conveniently stare into that wondrous, un- fathomable, and glowing abyss, the fire. I do not know how my friends have fared in the country. Here in London I never experienced more depressing weather—fogs and rain alter- nately, and no more light than, to quote George Eliot, might be found in a well-constructed chimney." I heard an acquaintance telling a humorous story anent the dense fog which pre- vailed last week. A builder's assistant," he said, "was covering in a house, and actually roofed several yards of fog before he discovered he had reached far beyond the limit of the actual structure." Absurd as the exaggeration was, it made one laugh—a good thing both for the spirits and for digestion, but almost impossible of accomplishment when everything external is wrapped in a dense yellow-grey mist that pene- trates everywhere, even to, or seemingly to, the marrow of one's bones. When it has been possible to look into the shops I have been abroad to gather ideas for my corre- spondents, and, amongst other matters, have seen how admirably the at-one-time much-decried jersey bodice has been improved. When Mrs. Langtry first appeared in the skin-like covering of the old-style jersey, named after the pro- fessional beauty" who first patronised it, society was greatly scandalised, and held up its hands in righteous horror, but now, it seems, we might parody the poet's version in respect of wrong- doing :— Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, That to be hated needs bur to be seen. But grown, aiM, familiar with its face, We first endure, tuen pity, then embrace. And we have embraced the jersey bodice. Never was any upper covering more universally popular than it has been for some years; even the most prudish reconciled themselves to its severe out- line, and accommodated their notions of decency to the prevailing fashion. I am glad, however, that the; jersey bodice is redeemed by modifica- tion from that expression of nudity which caused its first denunciation. A pretty variation, quite new, has been made by a well-known Court dress- maker. The front of the stockingnette bodice is left open; there is an under-vest, or, as one may call it, a second front, from the side seams, which fastens down the centre, and affords a foundation for the Sara Bernhardt," or long, loose vest, which falls some centre, and affords a foundation for the Sara Bernhardt," or long, loose vest, which falls some distance below the waist. This vest was of soft surah, a little lighter in colour than the beige jersey, which was bordered with beige-coloured worsted lace plaited on and turned back on to the jacket. There were collar and cuffs to match. A simpler means of improving a jersey is to tnke three strips of ribbon velvet of suitable width. The centre piece is put in just at. the neck opening and reaches to a little below the bust, where it terminates in a point: The velvet on either side is a trifle shorter,; being set in farther back. the points terminate nn inch or so higher than the centre length does, but it. is well to dispose the pieces of velvet, on the figure and regulate tha trimming to suit it. It is surprising how a very little alteration may render becoming what befurb was strikingly the reverse. There are such pretty velvet bodices made to wear with Ince dresses. They take very little material, being cut very short on the hips, with sharp points back and front, the upper part, being V shaped before and behind, with sleeves of elbow length. All the edges are outlined with beads of good size, and properly they should correspond to the dress in colour. Many ladies fill in the openings with tulle. This is usually IL square folded and laid on the neck before the bodice is put on. When the neck has lost its roundness, or is not so pretty as it might be, a shaped chemisette is more advan- tageous to the wearer. The material may be gathered into a band, and there should be a frill above it. If the arms are white and well-shaped, the trimming on the elbow sleeve may be a simple band of lace, turned back in the form of a cuff; but when there is a thin arm it is best to trim the sleeve with wide and liberal ruffles. An inexpensive make of silk velvet, or even good velveteen, is good enough for this purpose, and so one may have two or three bodices of the kind for the price of one made of Lyons velvet. With a beige lace skirt one might wear at various times an olive green, a garnet, a rich blue, and a black velvet bodice, and the skirt trimmed variously with feathers or ribbon bows to correspond. The effect of a new toilet is thus produced at a very insignifi- cant cost. It is fashionable to put a coloured aigrette in the hair when it is worn on the top of the head. Both real and artificial flowers are again worn in the hair. With basket plaits a high Spanish comb is frequently seen, or lower combs are set in side- ways, having a coquetish look when so placed that becomes some women, whilst it makes others appear ridiculous. With certain graces of person and manner certain styles visibly agree, but for the majestic woman of slow speech and dignified manners to adopt the dress and vagaries of a little coquette would be nothing but a humiliating burlesque. Each style has its special and distinct charm, and, as tastes differ very considerably, each is sure to find its special and peculiar admirers. Let every woman, therefore, be content with her own stylo, only seeing that she make it as perfect as possible, refining and improving wherever the need of such process is made apparent to her. It is often a matter of surprise and regret to me that some of my acquaintance think it unnecessary to keep up at home those good manners for which they are distinguished abroad. Once a lady, always a lady," should be every woman's motto. The courteous expression, the kindly concession, the sacrifiee of one's own comfort" for the sako of another's convenience, and all those graces exercised involuntarily by well-bred persons on behalf of strangers who are nothing to them should surely not be omitted when we come in contact with those whose daily lives are blent with ours, and whose goodwill and loving esteem we should ever sedulously cultivate. No woman can invariably be graceful in public who does not place some constraint on her attitudes when alone. A woman who, in the solitude and priyaey 0: her boudoir or bed chamber. lolls about in (lasy, grace- less attitudes, and exercises no command over her movements, will be sure to commit herself when she least desires to do so. Some women arc born with a natural grace of manners. I have seen children who played with their toys iu the daintiest fashion, and, without the slightest suspicion of affectation, would fall into the most graceful poses imaginable. But such examples are rare, and a careful course of systematic training is more often necessary to overcome the propensity to gesticulate awkwardly, no less than to soften and round those asperities of speech and motion which in some children are habitual. I do not commend artificial elegance, but trained harmonies of speech and gesture are not lightly to be so called; we may just as well say the girl who begins by dancing awkwardly is affected when she has by training learned to express beautifully what has often been styled tl1e poetry of motion," Ham is always a favourite dish, but, grnnting that, a ham has been properly cured, its flavour may be considerably enhanced" it it be cooked in the following way :—Allow the ham to soak in vinegar and water for a few hours; then put it into plenty of water when it. boils add two heads of celery, two turnips, three onions, and a bunch of savoury herbs simmer slowly for some hours, till the ham is cooked in fact; this will be when the rind peels off easily; when cold, cover with bread raspings or glaze. Glaze, with directions for using, can he bought at any Italian warehouse. When further ornamentation is desired choose your design of ringa, single or interlaced lines, or cross bars, or what not. Melt some butter, and then form u. funnel of writing paper, leaving a small oririce at the one end, pour the fast-cooling butter into tho tube and form your device as it trickles through, tha aperture.

EIN HEISTEDDFOD. (OUR EISTEDDiOD.) YN NGWYNEB HAUL A LLYGAD GOLKCNI. In the Face of the Sun j and the Eye of Light." CYFIEITHIAD O'R SAESONAEG GYMKAEG. Daeth un-ar-hugain o gyfieithiadau i law, ac yr ydym yn canmol ysbryd gwrol ein beirdd ieuainc am fentro cyfieithu darn mor anhawdd a'r un canlynol:— SELECTED PASSAGE FlION: BURNS' TAM O" SHANTER." But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; 0.. like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white-then melts for ever; Or like the borealis rflce, That flit ere you can point their place Or like the rainbow's lovely form EVRllishiug amid the storm. Fel y gwelir, cymherir pleserau i bedwar o wrth- ddrychau mewn wyth Uinell. Y mae cyfieithu barddoniaeth cyffredin yn orchwyl lied anhawdd, ond y mae gwneud cyfiawnder a darn fel hwn yn orchestwaith. Y mae rhai o'r ymgeiswvr wedi camgymeryd ystyr y ddau air borealis race." Y goleuni gogleddol, yn ddiau a olyga y bardd, oblegid y mae hwnw i'w weled ar rai prydiau yn symudvn barhaus,yn union fel pe byddai rhywun yn symud goleuni o'r naill fan i'r llall. Wrth ystyried pobpeth, teimlwn yn falch fod cymaint wedi vmgeisio ar y testyn hwn, ac ni fynem er dim ddigaloni yr un o'rymgeiswyr wrth wneud y sylwadau canlynol ar eu cyfieit.hiadau:— DAFYDD.—Hynod gyffredin. ac y maeyri gwneud cam a chystrawen y Gymrneg wrth geisio cael geiriau i odli, fel enghraifft, ysgrifena :— Net) fel ar afon eira'n diseyn Am foment-gwyn-am liyth y terfyn. TWM O'R LLWYN.—Y mae hwn eto yn euog o'r un bai-y mae yn llugurnio iaith er rnwvn odl, yr hyn sydd ar unwaith yn ei wneud yn anfarddonol. CYMRO.—Y mae hwn yn gyfirithiarllled dda, ar y cyfan, ond nid priodol cyfieithu borealis race'' yn ach v gogledd." lEUA FERDDIG —Ts'id yw yn darllen yn ystwyth, ac y mae wedi myned yn mhellach na Cymro," a chyfieitha yr un geiriau yn "deulu eithafion y gogledd." IESTYN AP GWEGANT,—Y mae hwn yn myned yn mhellach fyth, a gesyd y burned a'r chwechfed llinell fel hyn :— eu fel cenedl yr hon a ddiflanodd Cyn gellid nodi y fan lie v buodd. Cyffredin iawn ydyw y cyficHhiad trwyddo, AEROKYDD.—Y mae hwn eto wedi camgymcryd yn yr un fan, a chymer y geiriau yn dynodi gwyntoedd gogleddol." Ni chlywsotn erioed fod gwynt y gogledd yn fwy anwadal na rhyw wynt arall, ond gwyddom hyn, y mae yn oerach, a bydd yno yn rhy hir o lawer bob amser. Lied gyffredin hefyd ydyw y ddwy linell hyn :— Neu'n debyg i'r eira yn disgyn i'r llyn, Am fyriyd yn ganajd-Jlwyr dodda'n 01 hyn. ALEPH.—" Gogledd-wyntoedd" ydynt ganddo yntau, ac nidyw ei gyfieithiad yn gyffredinol ond pur ddirym. Y mae y ddwy linell gyntaf yn hynod dlawd:— Ond fel y pabi ymwasgar mwyniant, Os teimlir gwuIl syrth ei ogoniant. GOMERIAD A GOMERIAD (2).—Hynod 0 gyffredin ydyw y ddau hyn. Dull clogyrnaidd ydyw yr un canlynol i eyfansoddi, ac os myn yr awdwr ddyfod yn feistr mewn barddoni, rhaid iddo ddiwygio yn hyn:— Neu fel yr eira uwch yr afon, Am fynyd bydd, mwy tawdd i'r eigion. A WANDERING PILGRIM.—O'r braidd y mae hwn wedi deall y darn, ac y mae wedi newid ei ddull- wedd. JOHN JONES.—Y mae hwn wedi ychwansgu at gvmhariaethau Burns, ac yn eu cymysgu fel hyn :— Neu fel yr eira ar yr afon am fynvd yn wyn Yna collant fel cysgodion cymylau ar fryn. UN GARAI DDWYN Y GORON.—Y mae hwn yn gyfieithiad da gyda'r eithriad o'r ddwy linell gyntaf, pa rai sydd yn ei anurddo:— Ond fel taenedig babiau yw 'R pleserau, wrth eu dal drv'n wyw: JOHN IIUGHKS.—Dymunem longyfarch yr ym- geisydd ieuanc hwn, ond rhaid iddo astudio mwy ar y Gymraeg os myn ei meistrioli i'r fath raddau fel ag i allu cyfansoddi yn gywir. Dywed fel hyn:— Neu tebyg yw i lun a ffurf yr enfys hawddgar Y11 nghanol storm fe a ei hadlewyrehiad llaelur; Nid yw yn dweyd i ba Ie y mae adlewyrchiad yr enfys yn myned. Bydded iddo ddal ati o ddifrif ac osgoi pethau o'r fath hyn. AB GRAY.—Nid oes llawer o ystwythder bardd- onol yn y cyfieithiad iiwn heblaw fod y geiriau olaf yn cdli fel hyn :— Neu fel ar afon cawod eira Yn wyn :1.111 eiljad-a ddifia1:t; PROFIADOL.—Y mae hwn wedi liwyddo i Gym- reigiddio y cymhariaethau i gyd, ond digon cyffredin yw y faiddoniaeth; fel enghraifft dywed:— Pleserau sy'n debyg i babi i agored,_ Cyffyrdder a'i ei degwch syn myned. ANTHROPOS.—Gellir aweyd yr un peth am hwn eto, ac y mae cryn debygrwydd yn y ddau gyfieithiad. Nid oes llawer o rym yn y ddwy linell hon :— Fel ar y Hi bluen ciry Rhyw ciliad yw cyn llwyr ddiflauu. SILAS.—Y mae hwn wedi llwN-ddo i wneud cyfieithiad ystwyth iawn; ond nid ydym yn meddwl fod y ser gogleddol yn gwibio mwy na ser eraill. Bydded i Silas ddilyn yn nilaen, a bydd yn sicr o ddyfod yn fardd da. BECCA.—Y mae hwn wedi myned dipyn allan o'r gwreiddiol, ac wedi dwyn rhai syniadau newydd i mewn oud er y cwbl nid ydynt heb yn haeddolo ganmohaeth. Y mae ei gyfieithiad fel hyn :— Diflanu mae pleserau'r bpi, Byr 'yut fal rhosyn yn ei wrid; Am enyd pur fel gwyn Ar afon Jdn-ond tawdd er hyn Neu lewyrcli y gogledd-wawl ciii", A'r tlysion dywyniadau pur Neu fel heirud liwiau'r enfys gain, Ond pan ddaw'r 'storm difiana cbain: R. G.—Cyfieithiad da, wedi ei wisgo mewn iaith dlos a barddonol; ond nid yw wedi cael gafael ar gymnariaeth y bardd yn y burned a'r chwechfed llinell: Y mae fel y canlyn:— Ond pleser sydd fel pabïn daen, Pan ynddo, dlWâl blaen; Neu fel y gawod eira giiii Ar ddwfr yn toddi yn y fàn Neu fel y chwim a-.vyra.wi hyut, A gilia ymaith fel y gwyut Neu fel yr enfys hawdd^ar lun Ddiftana YIl y 'storom flin. MINIMUS.—Y mae hwn yn dda iawn, ond y mae yn arddangos diofalwch mawr mewn sillebu, yr hyn sydd yn ei andwyo. G resyn fod y fath ddarn naturiol yn cael ei fritho gan gymaint 0 wallau DymJ. fe Pleserau, mal cwsg- flodau ant Ar wasgar pan eu easglu gant. en fd yr eirlen ar y llyn, ad ynt and enyd faeh V/I wyn N eu fel v gogledd-Iug-,}'1li By' Yn chwareu ar yr wybren fry. Neu fel yr entysg, gwycli ei gwawr, DIfla.nont yn y tywydd mawr. D'Vnod11. y ilythyrenau italaidd y gwallau. WILLI.4.M SALSBRI.-Dyma. gyfieithiad rhagoro Y mae y cymhariaethau yn gyflawn, ac wedi eu gwisgo mewn iaith syml a barddonol. Y mao y: ymgeisydd hwn wedi anfon cyfieithiad arall, ond Did yw agos cyst ala hwn. Eiddo William Salbbri gan hyny, yw y CYFIEITHIAD BUDDUGOL. Ond mae pleserau'n debyg i'r pabi teg ei hoen,- Ymeflwch yn y blod'yn, ac ymaith syrth y bloen Neu fel dipgvniad eira i'r afon fawr ddi-lyth— Y11 wyn am foment, yna'n toddi yn llwyr am hyth 1'eu megys y goruchion YII yr ogieddol ne'— Yn 8aethn a ditlanu cYlIj!;e!¡wch bwyntio'u lie en tel yr enfys hawddgar ar fron y cwnl1\'1 gwlaw, Yn llwyr nghallol y 'storm sy'n Ifynu draw Anfouwn y wobr j'l' cytieit.hydd, set RICHARD HUGHES, Grocer, Mill-street, Pontypridd.

DIAKEB G YIREIG, Y mae 21 0 ddetholion ger ein bron wedi eu hanfon gan Gildas, Excalibur, Dan, leuan Fuddig Aeronydd, Gomeriad, T. M. Jones, Dafydd, Cymraes, Dolvvar, Sigma, R. G. D" la go, A, M. D.. Hwntw, Eithinen, J. R. Samuel, H. EYalJ, Anthropos, Brutus, Minimus, ac v r11:10 guu bron bob un 0 b0uynt fwy na 11n ddiareb. Yr ydym yn ddjalchgar iddynt oil am eu cynvrchiori, oblgyd v maent yn deilwng 0 ganmoliiu-th "nd rhaid i ni adaef mai 0'1' braidd y deuant i fyny iVri dysgwj-iiadau. Y mae rhai 0 honynt ag yr hona y Sneson hwynt fe) yn pcrthy* iddynt iiwythau, 1nqn s- Y ear gwir rncw:i ing v gwelir tThe friend I'ndeeu is seen in need). 0'1' ddau clörwj, lleiaf (Of tWI) wrongs, the least the best). A hauo ddrain n'1. fvdded droednoctk (Who sowetl1 thorns let him not be bare-footed), &i1. Ac y mae eraill 0 honynt yn wirioneddau cyt nabyddedig gan bob cenedl Gnstionogol- Gwirionedd yw mab liynaf Duw (Iruth is the eldost clJild of God). Rd, Dduw, heb ddim ( Without God, without nothing). Ofner na otn angan (Fear Him th:J.tfr:aretll nG death). Ond clyma- olygwn wrth ddiareb—brawddeg gyffredin sydd yn adnabvddus i bawb, ac yn cae] eí mvnych ddefnyddio i ddansros rhyw wirionedd Heu ffaith, megys y frawddeg hono, Esmwytl: gwsg, cawl erfyn" (neu h1tes maip," fel y dywedant YI1 y Gogledd) ond ychydig iawn 0'. cyfryw sydd yn mysg y rhai hyn, Y mae yr hen ddiareb hono, "LIe caffo Cymro cais," wedi ei ehyfieithu feI llyn gan un 0'1' ymgeiswyr, Where a Welshman has, will he sefk." Y mae gan Dolwar dwy ddiareb dda:- Ni ehel grudd gystudd calon (The COlllltenauce hides not the heart's sorrow). G-oreu canwvll pwyll i ddyn (Patience is man's best light). Y mae gall H. E. dair-ar-ddeg 0 ddiltrhebion, ODd nid oe" ond un 0 honynt yn ddealladwy heb ry. eglurhad ychwanegol nag a g-eir ganddo, sef Hael Hywel ar bwrs v wlad (How lavish Howell ùf tile public purse). id oes neb a ddeall y ddiarheb ganlynol hab ry* egluihad ami Cysgais lies gwelais Gaergwrle (1 slept tilll saw Caergwrle). ac y mae yr oil 0'1' un natur. Y mae gan J, II. Samuel bump 0 rai campu3 gytia sylwadau eglurhaol amynt, ol1d y mile ei gyfieithiad 0 honynt. weithiau yn gloff a phryd aral1 yn anghywir. Dyma hwy :— 1'n ngenau y sach mae cynilo (In the lips 01 the slwl. economlse the meal). Cystal ar droed a ma.rchop;aeth ffon (,o good on foot. as a stall 3 ride). Gvvyn yw pob mynntd nes c.vrhaedct.ei ben l White i every mountain before reaching the top). Ni ddiffvg arf ar wa egwych (A famous servant need no weapon). Ni eliymmydd dedwydd a dadleu (Discussions the happy like not), Credwn ei fod yn gwneud earn A'r ddiarbeb o1at Y rnae dadl deg yn fuddiol boh Ameer, ac nid hyny a olyga, ond cecraeth—y dadleu er mwvn dadleu a threchu, heb dalu 8ylw i reolau dad leu. aeth na rhesymeg. Y mae grm "Minimus" hen ddiarhebadnabyddug iawn, yr hon sydd yn ddigon 0 esboniad 8rni ei hun, a rhaid i bawb gyfaddef gwirionedd yr hya II. ddysgw, saf:- Gwyn y gwel y fran el chyw, Er fod ei ii" "11 1()w-ùù\1 (The young c'raw in the mother's ight" Tho' black I\I! jet, is lily white). Da iawn hefyd ydyw eiddo Brutus Ami gnoc a dyr y garreg (Continual dripping wears the stone). Hwcli fud a fyt y sO'1l1 Ilyd ,St.ill waters run deep). Curwch vr hairn tra byddo yn boeth (Strike the iron while it's hot). Ystyriwn eiddo "Brutus" n. II Minimus" yn oreu, a rhanwn y wobr rhyngddynt. Rnw priod Brutus ydyw- J: ALLEN JONES, St, David's College, Lampeter. Ond nid s'dym yn gwybod pwy yw "MINIM\1S," yr hwn yn ddiau 1\ anfona ei enw priodol er eÍlI galluogi i anfon y wobr iddo;

Y BARDD CYl\IREIG. TO CORRESPONDENTS. ENGLISH Poetry intended for insertion in the Weekly Mail should be addressed to the Editor, at the Cardifl offices of the paper; all Welsh compositions to Dewl Wyn 0 Essyllt, Pontypridd. CORHESPONDKNTS who wish their unused MSS. reo turned must in all cases enclose stamps for that p'.irposp.

tj3~ Ymddengys parhad 0'1' ysgrif ar Eirdard& iad y Gymraeg yn ein nesaf.

BARDDONIAETH; ANNIE MARY. Anwvl ferch Mr. a Mr, Phillips, Twynyrodyn House, Llansamlet. Arferai Annie Mary Ddyweyd yn loreu iawn, Mi garwn fod yn angel!" 'r oedd Y11 angel cyn pvyanawn, lr wyf yn cenfigemi Wrth Annie Marv fach, Am nycliu ond am rhyw chwe' mlwydd C-1J bod yn lythol iaeh, Ces' lawer storom ar w in vstod foes erioed, GwP) fyo. 11a fuaswn farw Pan ddim ond chwe' mlwydd oed j Bu fIIrw Annie Mary Cnl teimlo'r boen 0 fvw, C\'I1 cyffwi-dd bran 11:1' ddaear bon Ehedodd fly at Dduw; Ni welais Annie Mary Ono. dwywaith yn ly op?, A theimlais rhyw farwol faio F'ai iddi deimlr, !ne9 Yr oedd yn hyn nu'i lioedran A nef pi hun, 'Ii un fath a ii, ac acth a hi o gyrhaerid gofid hlin. Bu chwaer i Annie Mary, 8d Nora Itebcl fwyn. Arltrai Annie Mary udwevd, A'i llais yn llawn o swyn; Mi wn pa Ie mae Nora." GaD bwyntio tua'r net, Ac yno'n glyd mae'r ddwy YIl nghyt 1'n canu iddo }f Pan laniodd Annie Mary Yn ich J'T ochr draw, 'Roedu Nora lach VII fytliol iach Yn estyn iddi 'haw A dwg e1 chwaer dan goron glaer, Ger bron yr 01-sedd wen; Bvth, byth mae'r ddwy yo canu mwy '1'1' G wr fu farw ar y pren. Mae'n rhaid i natnr egwan I gael ei J'fordd i gyd, Mae'n rhaid i natur \10 Wrth Ian y bedd 0 hyd Er hyny. hoff rieni. Mae cysm cryl i chwi- Mwy genych ddwy yn eann mwy Ger bron yr orsedd fry! Mae Nora dros yr afoll, Ac Annie Mary mwy, A chulach 'ntwr yw'r af01l fawr, 1 groesi :1.ttynt l;wy Cliwi groesweh ailon anjiau Yn awr heb neinawr traw, O'u clywed hwy, y rtdtdwydd ddw Yn canu'r ochr draw Mae'ch cysylUiadau pend Y11 awr YIl ligwlad y lId. Y nae deb dwy anwylaf mwy Ger oroll ei orsedd Et l'a beth sy'r ochr yma. 1 serch :5-'11 hwy ?_ Oh dim at sy' tuiiwnt i r lli Lie mae y Udedwydd ddwy. Isnvypf YR EOS. Iilwys awenydd lleidol-yw "1' CM; Ghwareua dön I1wnol, b nodau pencaniadol, Ar wydd ir. y II v wcrdd ddiU. EQs JfXFt; CROESGYlAD (ACROSTIC) William George, mcbyn 1\1r. a Mrs. Georg. Seaborne, Emporium House, Fleur-de-lis; W d, febyn tlws, 1\ ddaethost ti 1 eni 11 ein serchiadau, L lifeiriol rin dV wenau di L lwyr dal am bob trallodl\\1. I r-lwysion ddail y prydferth \'6s: A phelydr ter yr heulwen dlos, :M 11.1 yn ardduno'th ruddiau. G olygus drem y mehyn ddwed i ni, E iOd yn Haydn nell Handel fawr el fn, O hyd chwareuai ei lais pereiddfwyn lion K hyw alaw fach lies ^sgufnhau eiu bron, G obeithion taù a main 118. cIJroeser hwy, E styned nd ei lhiniau iddo mwy. Stores, Fleur-de-lis. J. A. JOXES (Cynfryn)