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:':',.....1 WELSH VILLAGE…
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1 WELSH VILLAGE LIFE.] b- y 1 j fteligious Revivals and EntSuislasm of the Cymry. "JUMPING" SCENES. By MORIEN." jt was, and I fear is still the fashion ftinong some English writers to refer: id religious enthusiasm in Wales with smiling indicule. The "jampings" occasionally wit- itfewed at those meetings have been referred Jó M illustrating a low condition of civilisa- tion as existing in those districts of the principality where they took place. There are current in Wales tales relating fa) old revival meetings, describing entire bftregations becoming suddenly under a strange influence, resembling mesmeric or Jbiologioal energy. ^Te read in Kings L, viii-r.—" And it c £ me to pass, when the priests were come out of the holy place, that the cloud filled the ^hotifte of the Lord, so that the priests could £ !ot stand to minister because of the cloud: for the glory of the Lord had filled the house ol the Lord." It is staled that one of the most marvellous instances ever witnessed in Wales of the presence at a meeting of a mysterious energy overwhelming an entire congregation was at Holyhead, under the ministry of the late [lev. ;Robert Roberts, Clynog, when he was preach- ing there at a cymmanfa, before a vast congre- gation. Every single word from his mouth seemed to influence the entire people like a current of eleotrioity. During the meeting many people fell to the ground insensible, And with terror depicted on their faces and a young woman died on the spot. Fanaticism ? Enthusiasm ? Or was it once more the cloud filling the house, so that the priests could not stand ?" I am not going to endeavour to account for those extraordinary demonstrations of the assembled Cymry during the gatherings of devout men and women of a nation which, in all periods of history, has been earnestly 'devout. But the introductory observations were necessary to understand what follows Between twelve and one o'clock on a Satur- day night, or, rather, Sunday morning, in the month of April, 1877,1 was walking home to Pontypridd from Porth y Cymmer, where I had been busily writing and telegraphing the latest news of the entombed Welsh miners at Tynewydd Colliery. Near the Holly Bush an aged Welsh dame driving a horse and cart in the direction of Pontypridd over- took me. There were potatoes and cabbages an the cart, and the Amazonian driver was sitting on the forepart of the vehicle behind the animal. Being very tired-I had spent most of the day below in the mine—I asked Sarah (that was the dame's name) for a ride to Ponty- pridd. Is it you, Morien' ?" quoth the generous Sally; and "Yes, sure; come up." I was in less than half a minute lying on my back on the vegetable contents of the cart, and with the back of the Amazon towards me. Giving a whack to the horse's back with her short whip she asked me at the same time, Whether the entombed men had been brought out ?" I replied in the negative, "('h, dear, anwyl I "-another whack, which the horse did not seem to heed a bit—"Oh, dear, anwyl I" The poor men," she said, are ■ure to perish for wUnfc of food, but, as for water, they seem to have more than enough af r After some further exchange of remarks on the disaster, she told me she knew the Rhondda Valley intimately sixty years ago. Do you remember ?"—another whaok- do you remember the revival at Cymmer Chapel sixty years ago?" she asked me. Then, laughing, she said, "Dear di shevo ni! How foolish I am Your father and mother were young children sixty years ago I was then a little girl myself." We had now come to a descent in the road, and the old horse began trotting, and my posi- tion on the potatoes became too uncomfor- table. Sarah's bonnet fell back on her neck by the force of the wind, but the jaw strings" held it from falling off. The old horse seemed to have suddenly acquired the animation of youth, and ,-he drew in the reins, and called .out to the animal, Whei, nei di -0, drato dy galon di!" The old horse seemed some- what asthmatical, and was soon glad to adopt a slower pace. When pe-ice between her and the old horse wa3 re-established, she said, "1 often saw'jump- jug' at thie Cymmer Divvygiad (Revival,). We children—children are so mischievous !-used to go to chapel to witness the 'jumping.' When the jumping would commence, all the boys—boys wore white pinafores then- would ascend the steps of the broad old pulpit and stand there in rows "—whack, again, to the horse—" like birds, looking on at the 'jumping.' One of those boys ('Biii o'r Fforest') became a very good preacher. The men and women walked about like people out of their senses, but singing hymns, and now and then some of them would jump and cry I lfalleiii 'iah I' and I I)Iulch iddo !'—' Gogoniant!' and Iddo ef "Dear me," she continued, reflectively, most of those who jumped and praised have died-bai-e seen Him whom they praised so loudly Then turning her side face to me, she said, To be ready is the thing After a few moments of silence she said, laughingly, Ii I well recollect one Sunday morning in that old chapel. I and other children were near the fireplace, and the cinders were lying from under the grate on the hearthstone. There was no fender, The old chapels were not such grand ones as people have nowadays, but the old chapels contained more real religion than is found, I fear, in the present grand ones 0, dear, dear,"she groaned," people only think now pf dresses, cushioned pews, and respectability They do provoke the Almighty with their Iquavers (Used among the Welsh for osten- tation.) t flere she dealt the old horse a vigorous iitroke-, but the whip only struck the harness, v. Well, 1 was telling you," she continued, we little girls were by the fireplace. A stout old woman stood with her back to the fire- I cflace, and ohe held up the skirt of her town of 'bwmbast a gwlan' in folds behind. What did 1 do—children are po mischievous !— but placed quietly many lumps of cinders in the folds of the old Woman's dress. She was listening to the preacher, and didn't notice what I was doing. Presently, owing to something the preacher jhad said, all the congregation sprang to their feet together, and the old woman in front of the fire bounded forward, singing the while: I 1 Goicliwyd Magdalen yn ddisglaer, A Manasse'n hyfryd wyn fhe entire congrsgation adopted the old Roman's hymn, and, moving backward ânu: XorwarcLi, they sang, and Ji* cinders fell from the folds on the dgar, and were crushed under the fee £ .of tile congregation. tafo. Air. Evan liforvan.T v'n v CVmmer. who was in a pew behind me," she went on to say, leaned forward and said to me, I Little girl, whoever you are, if you will come to Tyn' y Cymmer to-morrow morning, I will give you your pinafore full of apples for the knack you have played the old woman. I have heard other anecdotes of that re- vival. It appears that one of the most demonstra- tive of revivalists at Cymmer was known by the name of Evan, who was a local black- smith. He was then very young and died only a few years ago. It was Sunday morning, and it was the "sul Pen Mis Mawr" (the great Monthly Sacrament Sunday). There was a very heavy flood in the Rhondda River. Evan dwelt with his mother at the lower end of Dinas, and above Cymmer a mile higher up the valley. Evan was walking backwards and forwards along the bank of the river, apparently in a deep reverie. His mother saw him, and called out, Ivan come from there, will you You may fall into the flood (" ir llif.") "No, mother," replied Ivan, gravely, "I shall not fall into the flood. A greater than the flood takes care of me." Wn i ddim ya wir," said the doubting I mother, "I don't know, indeed! You may slip into the flood from between his fingers It is, however, doubtful whether the mother fully understood to whom Ivan was referring. At the time in question there were only three chapeb and a church in the Rhondda Valley, namely, Cymmer (Independents), Ynysfach (B), anil now called Nebo, Ystrad Hhondda, and Libanus (B), Treherbert. But the Welsh Calvinistic Methodists held Divine Service at Tai, Dinas. It became rumoured at Dinas that a marvellous religious revival had broken out at Ilermon (M.) I Chapel, Aberdare. At peep of day on the following Sunday morning, my father, then about seventeen years of age, and several other youths climbed the lofty mountains, and passed over them to Aberdare. They reaohed Ilermon by ten o'clock, in time for the service. The late Rev. William James, Neath, grandfather of Mr. James, now deacon with the Calvinistic Methodists at Porthcawl, was the preacher. There was a large congregation. My father, who was a good musician, noticed, as he often told me long afterwards, a strange quivering of voioes in the singing during the introductory portion of the service. The most intense solemnity prevailed. Presently the preacher took for his text the following verse in the book of the Prophet Isaiah Who is this that cometh from Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah ? This that is glorious in His apparel, travel- ling in the greatness of His strength ? I that speak in righteousness, mighty to save 1" After introductory observations, pointing out that the Hebrew prophet, as a seer of the Lord,described in the text the future advent of the Messiah, of the redemption of fallen humanity by His intercession and atonement, he said, the coming from Edom with dyed garments from Bozrah," implied the death and resurrection of the Lord. The preacher then personified the Church of God, and in a dramatic manner represented the personified Church of the Old Testament as asking ques- tions of the Prophet Isaiah, and then described the Hebrew prophet giving explanatory replies. After a number of interrogatories and answers, which greatly moved the large con- gregation, the preacher, in musical tones, represented the bewildered Church of the Old Testament as asking Isaiah, Why, why art thou so astonished at one coming up from Edom, and with dyed garments from Bozrah ? -Why wonderest thou at His coming from there ? The prophet then replied, Because no one came before from there alive Instantly the entire congregation rose together to their feet as if they had previously rehearsed the act, and the most thrilling expressions of thanksgiving and praise broke forth and filled the saored building! A young girl, about sixteen years of age, in the next pew to that occupied by the young men from the llhondda, with tears streaming over her rosy cheeks, broke forth into song, singing the appropriate Welsh hymn founded on the text of the preacher Pwy welaf;o Edom yn d'od, Mil harddach na thoriad y wawr, Yn sathru dan wadn ei droed Elynion yn Iluoedd i'r Ilawr Ei wisg wedi ei lliwio gan waed, Ei saethau a'i gleddyf yn lIym Ei harddwch yn Ilanwr holl wlall, Yn ymdaith yn amMer ei rym ? The deeply-moved congregation now joined the young maiden in the singing, and they were all singing when the young men left. They re-crossed the mountains, and arrived shortly after two o'clock at Tyardwyn, which stood by the side of the road where the Cwm (Tvdach incline now crosses the highway at Tonypandy. A religious service had already commenced in that house. My father's youthful companions passed into the meeting. lIe himself lingered talk- ing to his acquaintance near the garden gate. He was suddenly startled by the sound of loud uproar in the cottage, followed by sing- ing, The young men had brought the sacred f, re in their hearts across the mountains, and thus commenced in the Rhondda the religious revival referred to by Sarah, the driver of the cart described at the beginning of thi sketch.
EASILY DECIDED.
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EASILY DECIDED. PATIENT What have I got, doctor ? YOUNG PHYSICIAN: I can't tell exactly whether it is rheumatism or influenza, but I've been called in to see a man with influenza, and when I see what he looks like I'll come back and tell you.
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A CARD.—A Clergyman will,;ind, <Ie of charge a prescription for t £ s c-ufi of all who suffer from the errors sad indiscretions of youth, nervous debility, physical exhaustion, and early decay. This great remedy was discovered by a Missionary in Old Mexico; it saved him from a miserable exis- tence and an early grave. Send a self-addressed stamped envelope to Rev. JOSRPH HOLMES, Blooms- bury Mansions, Bloonasbury-square, London, W.C i Mantjuin tili* Bfluooiv &ALig
FASHION SKETCHES. • " A.
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FASHION SKETCHES. • A. [By 11 MYOSOTIS."] Tn starting my fresh series of sketches and notes for 1890, I trust that the year may prove a happy one to all my readers, and that I may be fortunate enough to make my columns as interesting to them as I desire, I recently saw some charming hats and bonnets. 'J here is hardly any medium in the present vogue as to size in the head gear, the hats being either exceptionally large, or so small as to be hardly worthy the name, and all the bonnets are very small. A Bird's Nest Hat. One of the principle novelties in small hats is a design rather suggesting a bird's nest, being composed of a thick twist of velvet of circular form, which makes the brim, a few bows and short ends to take off the extreme stiffness, and two or more small birds resting on the edge of the velvet twist, or brim. As these were quite new, and I saw several young ladies looking very chic and pretty in them, I made a sketch of one-here given—the model being composed of dark grey velvet, with two light grey sea-swallows with outspread wings round the front. The Latest Medici Collars, In the same sketch lshoiv one of the fashion- able high "Medici" collars, which are worn a great deal now for all occasions—for evening dresses as well as for out-doors mantles. The one shown is in beaver fur, and continues as a cape. They are very stylish looking, but to be really successful require a long neck, and the hair dressed A high from the back as possible. I A Child's Outdoor Costume. J Another sketch I made was from a very pretty little costume for outdoor wear for a little girl, in a striped cloth of copper colour, made perfectly plain as to the front, the back being in full pleats from the waist to the bottom of the skirt; the cape being composed of copper-coloured velvet at the throat, and i two full flounces of the cloth one over the other. The pockets, cuffs, and buttons were of copper-coloured velvet also, and the hat worn with it, made of the striped cloth of the same shade matching the jacket. Plainness to a Fault. The rage for tailor-made dresses is as great as ever, and if icett HadB, and worn on any- thing like a good figure, nothing looks better oris so satisfactory generally for ordinary wear. Some are made so severely plain in the skirt as to have neither foid or pleat of any des- cription (excepting at the back). I saw one made thus for the Princess of Wales, But this very extreme severity I think a mistake. In the first. place it demands a tall and elegant figure, and in the second, to be the perfection of cut and fit, which is not always obtainable in home-dressmaking. And it is always so much better to attempt something that can be really well done, than be too ambitious, and make the amateur apparent. Fit, and the falland set" of a dress or mantle is everything: the cheapest material can look well with it, the richest vulgar and worthless j without. Stylish Tailor-made Dress. The sketoh I have made shows a stylish I tailor-made dress which is capable cf being made a success by home drcsSThakers, with care, in two shades of green check woollen (which must be bought in a double- width material, or it cannot be out with the check on the cross). The illustration clearly shows the make of bodice, which is bound round all edges, including button holes, by a narrow dark green braid, and fastened by large dark green coat-buttons. The skirt is made in broad double-box pleats-skirt and bodice are joined together-and on the hips are large flap pockets with buttons, and i button-holes to match the bodioe,
_.__--Granny's Omnibus Ride.
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Granny's Omnibus Ride. Cl x 0, my dears, I never ride in an omni- bus," and Granny shook her dear old head, that ivith its silver hair and soft lace cap always seemed to us the very emblem of all that was sweet and lovable, and sighed as she patted Charlie's brown curls. She was our grandfather's second wife, and father used to say that a better stepmother to a boy never lived. I never was in an omnibus but once," she said, and it's over forty years ago. They were very different looking things then, and so were the people that rode in them. The first trouble of my life came to me in an omnibus, and even now, when I see them in the streets and hear the conductors, it all conies back to me, and I see myself, a forlorn, heart-broken girl, left all alone in this great wilderness of London." We all knew that there had been some great sorrow in her life—something had hap- pened to her before she had married grand- father, but we had never been told what it was, The teacher of the boy's school in our village," she went on, was a very quiet man, who had come from no one knew exactly where, and who had offered his services when there was difficulty in consequence of the sudden illness of the schoolmaster. "He had taught so well that when the poor man died Arthur Bromley was retained in his place. I suppose it was Pro- vidence, and that some time I shall know for what good purpose I was permitted to meet this man, but I cannot see it now. He fancied me from the first, and in a very short time he asked me to marry him. I refused at first, but everyone who knew ui approved of the match, and I thought I should be happy enough with him, so at last I said' Yes,' and we were married. We were not going to stay at Bala. Glen; Arthur had always had a notion of emigration, he said, and now he had found a sensible, domestic wife, he should try his fortune in Canada. It did not matter to me where he went I must follow, and I was nothing loth 1 liked the idea of change and the new, untried life, and my spirits were at their highest as. we journeyed to London on the top of the Lightning' fast coach from Shrewsbury. After two days' weary travelling were were set down somewhere about Oxford-street—I don't know exactly where now—and took a room at an inn for a few days. Arthur pro- mised he would show me London, for though I had been brought up in it, I knew nothing about it, and the first night he said he would take me to the play. "Drury Lane we meant to go to, and we could get within a walk of it by one of the new conveyances which everyone was talking about. It passed the door of the inn where we were staying-a clumsy thing, but a! grand convenience when there was no other way of getting along, and my husband put! me inside. Sit near the door, Bessie," he said. But aren't you coming in, too ?' I asked. No, I'll get up outside,' he said. j want to see the streets. I shall be right over your head. child, and I'll come for you when we stop.' I saw him get up, and I heard his voice speaking to someone—the driver, I think. I knew be was there, for he rattled his stick over the edge at the window beside me, so I sat contentedly waiting till he should bid me get out. I did not know in the least how far Drnry-lane might be from Paddington, but after awhile it did begin to seem to me that we were going a very long way. We stopped here and there, and people got in and out and up and down, but Arthur did not come for me. At last, after what seemed to me hours, the 'bus stopped, and everyone got out. I sat still, and the conductor looked at me. Now then, miss, please," he said. Is this where I have to get down ?' I asked. Where everyone has to get down,' he replied, shortly journey's end, miss.' The journey's end !—and Arthur had told me that we should only have to go about half-way How could he have made such a mistake? I jumped down and looked about for him—he was nowhere to be seen. It had grown dark, and I was alone, without the faintest idea of where I was or what had, become of my husband. I What place is this?' I asked, for the dim light of the lamps (not the bright gas of these days, but dim flames, sparingly scat- tered) only served to show me a great open space with large buildings round it and streets leading away from it, but all very dreary and deserted. Bank, mi'<s," he replied, in the same short manner. Pare, if you please.' •" I have no money,' 1 replied in bewilder- ment. Where is my husband—where is Mr. 1,)j.c)llliey 1 '• • don't know no Mr. Bromley, and I want my fare,' the man said, surlily. I \iid look sharp, young woman—I can't stand here all night.' "I had no money—not a so in abusive terms he accused me of being a swindler, and called one of the constables. No one seemed to believe my story, The omnibus driver didn't remember my husband —at least he said he didiit-iioi- the con-1 ductor either. I suppose I must have had a St or some- thing, for 1 remember nothing more till I woke up in a hospital very ill, with stranoe faces all around me. They told me that my husband was dead, that the landlord of the inn had seen his body and sworn to it at a dead- bouse by the river. "So the parish buried him and I lay on in the hospital, only leaving it to go to another,! where my little baby was born. a At the end of three weeks, however, the little soul passed away from its earthly prison, and the eyes that would never have looked into mine with a recognising glance closed for ever on the mystery of suffering mortality. They were very good to me at the hospital, and let me stay helping about a little till I got stronger aud could think what to do. A lady came there one day—a gentle, tweet, lovely lady (your own grandmother. children)—and told me she had heard some- thing of my sorrow. "She and her husband wera going to Australia and woulcFtake me with them if I liked. I could begin a new life there and forget all the misery I had endured at home. I went, my dears, and for four happy years I had the love and companionship of a dear sister. She died at the end of the fourth year, and I seemed to endure all my own agony over again as I stood by her open grave and heard the earth ring upon her coffin-lid. "I found another situation, and at the end of his year of 'widowhood your grandfather isiced me to be his wife. lie loved me very dearly, he said, and it had been her wish, whispered to him on her death-bed, that if he took another wife he should ask me to fill her vacant place. I loved him, too. and after a while I told him so, and promised to be his wife. I knew now, when my heart was full of joy that seems a foretaste of Heaven, or a reminiscence of Eden, that I had never loved Arthur Bromley with the love a wife should feel, and I felt thankful to Heaven that I had not f,lurid it out before we were ao terribly parted I was to be married from my last home. jThe eve of the wedding-day came, and my pretty dress .and simple fit out were »li ready.. m Your grandfather came to me Jul ™ morning. dl Come for a walk, Bessie,' be said, j took my hat and went with him. It was hot in the daytime, for Christmas was cl°. upon us, and Melbourne at Christw** warm, to say the least of it; but it pleasant in the morning, and we were out of the town and into the bush. walked on chattering about the future was to begin for us the next morning, suddenly we heard wild cries and the rushing footsteps, ajid a man came runoi? towards us pursued by a party on horseb* who were fast gaining on him. ill' "Poor wretch. The man was now breI less, hatless, and shoeless, his miserable hanging in tatters, and his feet hands, face bleeding from a hundred scratches. struck him to the ground at our very An escaped felon, doubtless, an outcast (t°. all sacred ties, yet a man for all that, and 0 both started forwaid to stay their hands if could. For they were striking him needles^ as it seemed, hitting him wherever they co#" get at him.. They had got him down and were ty^j his hands when we got to him, but he man*#* to clutch hold of my skirt. « Don't let them murder me he gasp^j 'Four to one's too many. I've run for it know; but life is sweet.' M Something in the voice, something io eyes that looked up into my face with sfl"* hunted agony, struck an awful chill to heart. In one moment I seemed to be 1>* in London again, standing alone on the POV ment by the Bank in the growing darkness Let me look at him, I gasped, in t.erroll bending over the man who lay bleeding' my feet. Our eyes met, and a flssh of recogni^ came into his face. Bessie he said—' here and then fell back, fainting—I thought dead. But he was not dead, and they caried b'f to Melbourne, to the gaol, while I went h feeling as though I were in a dream of horr°j from which I could only awake to die. < wanted to go away from the place where had spent such a peaceful, happy year, b" they wouldn't let me. So I packed away Of wedding dress, and bade your grandfatb. good-bye. I might not think of him now, went to the prison to see my husb*Bj They let me stay with him a deal, for his life was m peril. I heard his whole history, and how he to disappear from the roof of the omOlbt1 He was a forger and a thief when he iroto ried me his life was forfeit to the law for y embezzlement of a large sum of money- for at this period death was the penalty forgery—and while the country was ringi?J with his name, and he was being hunted with all the skill of the officers of that tilo, he was quietly teaching school among too Welsh mountains, rechristened aud cleverly disguised.. If he bad not shown himself in Lond in all probability he would have gone und covered till his death; but it was to A clever Bow-street oflioer recognised bin1 he got on the omnibus, and quietly got beside him. When they got down, they did at the very place where we have alighted for Drury-lane, Bromley fou^ himself a prisoner. No, my dears, was not his name—like all else about hitf1^ was false, and there's no need to tell his one now, the country rang with it euotlg then. j "lie was transported for life, but mana £ I to break away and take to the bush bef^ many years of his punishment had gone Whose body it was'that the laudlord at t inn had sworn to I never knew. < "But the end was coming now-Artb. t Bromley would never deceive a worn a11 elude the grasp of justice again, lie dying, not so much ifrom the blows he&*J received as to the privation and fatigue had gone before. I was with him to the end gave him what he craved—the assurance^ I forgave him for my broken life. TheY". me bury him quietly and deeently, thetf went back with a dead heart to life.an^ duties. Only duty now—no more lova> j brightness for me —I could not take my of shame, my widowhood of infamy and grace, to your grandfather's keeping, and 1. a long time I resisted all his entreaties. I 11 not a fit wife for an honest man. ø "But it was to be; your father fel fill, with a boy's waywardness he fretted b1 wailed for me to nurse him. I went, and his bed-his dying bed, as we- feared-I g* my word to your grandfather again. You snail hide it all in my hoart. d^ he said, when I spoke my shame and grl#j, and only Heaven knows bow .well it has be hidden. øt A loved and honoured", Ife for of ø + thirty years, you little ones are the first hnn that have ever h-aid the story of • {! terrible ride—the first and last I shall eve take in a London omnibus."
THE NEWEST JOURNALISM. ,---
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THE NEWEST JOURNALISM. I conf»^.s (observes our London corresp^ dent) to a feeling of alarm when I conteI^| plate the possibilities of the abusive, as vrol as non-abusive, new Ifei-e, for instance, iu one of our weekly" illnst;t papers is an account of what U statesmen f, and drink. We are told that "Mr. Gladst^ eats everything" (.w): that Mr. Chninb0^ lain is a sybarite; that Mr. Morley isp, victim to dyspepsia; and that Mr. T« A O'Connor (who is bracketed with Lord Churchill, by the way, as a statesman) dl'ú little and has "intervals of vegetatiaaisl" There, will that do r'' queries the And I think his readers might do well to CA Enough Macaulay, it is said, started new or personal journalism by his celebi**fj description of the "Scene in Court" at trial of Warren Hastings; but could he foreseen the length to which the prr,(; would go, he would surely have hesi tated, the threshold. If we are to have If menus of our statesmen published \VeeJ in the columns of a newspaper, may we look for all other details concerning private lifo and habits ? The newest j0^ nalism draws no lines and recognises boundaries.
ARTILLERY FOR THE VOLUNTEERS.
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ARTILLERY FOR THE VOLUNTEERS. I hear (remarks our London oorrespomJ^ that several of the crack'' Volunteer- ments of the Metropolis are very anxiott* f add to Iheir atraofth and efficiency hfj regular force of field artillery, The suWfj was mooted publicly a short while since regimental gathering,-and lam told th&tjf Duke of Westminster is in favour of '%) scheme. The great objectionrwould increased expenditure involved by auch a and, above all, the great diffioulty of the themselves finding sufficient time to the work. Still, we are likely to hear mor* N the subject before very loDg, ■ ■ — ■ J
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To MOTHERS.—GROUP AND WHOOPING GOTJJJR Thousands of Children Die annually from croø Whooping Cough. All may be saved by Mortimer's Croup and Caagh Mixture In time. valuable remedy for Ooasfas, Colds; -Brenchitb, ••VJ Affections of the Ohest>a*d Lungs, feftth in Children. Used with Mwcess forovwr50 years, JaP"! I3jd. and 2s. 9d. 'post -freec* from VW. Francis, JjQr Oarmarttieu. Suld by allQti«)sistMSd FitenVitQ# JJealm,