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THE AVENGING MIRROR. [By the Author of The Ghost of' The Shadows,' Reginald," The Monk's Hood," A Legend of Furness Abbey," &c.J CHAPTER V: The stillness of evening lay on the gardens and courts of the old castle, interrupted only by the spirit music of the breeze that crept through the tree-tops and whispered among the trembling leaves, and by the faint murmur of the river, as it broke with moaning sound against the piers of the old stone bridge. Beneath the balcony of Adeline's window, among the shrubs and creeping plants that grew there in unpruned luxuriance, crouched the figure of a man, whose face was half hidden by the folds of his cloak, and whose attitude plainly expressed the desire to watch—unseen—to listen—unheard. Rudolph's black horse, Grane, so named by Adeline after the immortal steed of her favourite heroine, Briinehild, stood ready saddled, and chafing with impatience for his master to mount. At last, Rudolph and Adeline, who had been talking together at the open window, came out upon the balcony. His arm was around her waist, her head rested on his shoulder. The last rays of the sinking sun touched her hair with a golden glow and deepened the flush on her cheek as she looked up into her lover's face. I cannot bear to let you go from me to-night," she said. There is a strange foreboding in my heart which I cannot conquer. Why will you not tell me whither you are going ?" My own love," he replied, trust to me, I am leaving you now to make a last desperate effort to save you and secure our happiness. But, dearest, believe me, it is best for you to know no more." You are going to seek an interview with Albert," she said. Ah Rudolph, you can't hide anything from me. Beware of him! You know his jealous, vindictive disposition. After bis con- versation with my father yesterday, I was half inclined to think, from the scowl upon his face and the angry, suspicious look he gave me when I happened to mention your name, that he had been made acquainted with the truth about you, and-" Ha I trust not," exclaimed Rudolph; per- haps he was annoyed at my not being present to welcome him on his return." If the demon of jealousy were once roused in the soul of such a man !—I tremble to think of it," faltered Adeline. You must put away all these fe&rs, my dar- ling. Remember all I have been saying. Hope for the best. We shall not be parted many hours —and then—then But words were not needed to finish the sentence. In the silence that fell upon them at the moment of parting, Adeline's attention was attracted to the sound of stealthy footsteps retreating through the shrubbery. But Rudolph, too absorbed in the emotions that possessed him at that moment to have eye or ear for aught but Adeline, assured her that she was mistaken. A bird had stirred the branches, her nerves were excited, it was only fancy. Once more lie folded her in his arms, pressed one long, passionate kiss upon her lips, and a moment later mounted his horse and disappeared from her sight among the trees. The count's absence had been an insuperable obstacle to Rudolph in carrying out a plan that had suggested itself to him as the only one that now offered the faintest hope of averting the mar- riage. Von Hargen was travelling from place to place, his letters were always directed posterestante, and the uncertainty of overtaking him at any point, combined with the risk of missing him, should he suddenly decide to return home, obliged Rudolph passively to await his arrival with an impatience rendered desperato by forced inaction. He was resolved now that he had returned to reveal to the count the whole truth about himself—to inform him of his love for Adeline-and to demand recog- nition under the changed circumstances of his right—the right of a penniless soldier of fortune to compete with the wealthy count—for her hand. It was an unspeakable relief to burst the fetters that had bound him, and, come what might, to fight for Adeline's freedom and assert his own claim to love and win her. CHAPTER VI. It was the eve of Adeline's wedding day. The banquet, given by the baron at a great sacrifice of his personal inclination, in honour of the coming event, was over the guests, with the exception of a few who remained at Adlerwild for the night, had departed, and Adeline hurried from the scene of the festivity to the quiet and solitude of her own room. With a sigh of relief, she laid aside her jewels and rich satin dress, and, wrapping a loose white robe around her, stepped out on her balcony to seek the peaceful, calming influence of the night. The moon's cold light fell upon her through the tangled masses of jessamine and white roses pale as her own face, as she looked out from under their overhanging branches, her eyes wandering restlessly from the cloudy splendour of the sky to the garden belpw, where & path, half lost in shadow, led through the shrubbery to a private entrance, by which it was Rudolph's habit to enter the grounds. He will surely come to-night," she said, again and again, while she listened for his footstep and strained her eyes in the wavering, uncertain light starting sometimes, her face aglow with expecta- tion, as the sound of a falling leaf or fluttering bird caught her ear. But the blush faded, and the desire that kindled it died away into the sick-beartedness of deferred hope. The silence grew oppressive. Adeline could not control the weird fancies that took pos- session of her. It was not of the hideous reality of the morrow she thought. The fear that haunted her was vague, mysterious, and yet terrible. Sus- pense held her in a death-like trance of agonised apprehension that had no name. All day long she had watched and waited for him, and all the even- ing had been forced to hide under a cheerful and courteous demeanour the anxiety and despair gnawing at her heart. Rudolph's farewell words of hope and confidence haunted her memory now, only as the remembrance of his villa?* bells may haunt the exile from his native land. Whatever had been her lover's design, whatever his efforts, all must have failed. Else why had he incurred her father's displeasure by absenting himself from his table that night ? Why did he remain away from her instead of coming to fescue her, as he had promised ? The clock within struck the hour of midnight, falling like the knell of hope upon her heart. Her nerves were overstrained, and, worn out by all she had suffered, she sank fainting upon the balcony. Her. Christine found her some minutes later. ".1 came to see whether you were in bed," she said. Come, dear, let me Jhelp you to undress. Poor child, how cold she is," and Christine lifted the girl in her arms, and drew her gently into the room, chafing her cold hands and feet. Oh, Christine, I could not rest," said Adeline, when she recovered, I could not go to bed with- out knowing something about Rudolph! Where can he be ¡in Christine turned away. You know he told me no more than he did you, when he bade me good-bye. But, like you, I felt convinced he was going to meet the count." And yet he made no reply when I asked him the question," said Adeline,. musing. "Besides, when Albert came to-day he asked where Rudolph was, and said he had not seen him since his re- turn. So it could only have been my imagination after all." Christine made no response, and Adeline con- tinued, speaking very quietly, as if to herself, He will come, I know. He will not leave me to my fate. Nothing could keep him from me to- night. Even if he cannot save me he will come and tell me so, and we will spend these last hours, the last hours of happiness life can have for us— together." Here Adeline's unnatural calm forsook her, her voice broke, and she burst into tears. I will wait and watch for him till dawn," she said, through her sobs, but, dear Christina, you must be weary, leave me now, and go and rest." No, no I am too anxious about my child, I will wait htre with you till he comes. One sight of my son—and—I will leave you alone together. If you will lie down, dear, and try to get a little rest, I will watch for him. We shall hear his step before he enters the garden." Christine spoke calmly, her words were hopeful, but her haggard face and the wild, anxious look in her eyes belied her words and manner. Adeline at last fell asleep, while the unhappy woman sat beside her, with her hands clasped in inarticulate prayer, wrung from a heart full of anxiety, re- morse, and dread of some mysterious evil, some form of retribution awaiting her. Christine was aroused from her painful reflec- tions by a wild unearthly shriek, followed by the sound of something falling heavily. Adeline started in her sleep, but, soothed by Christine, whose presence of mind did not desert her though she trembled in every limb, sank again into deep slumber, and Christine stole softly to- wards the door to discover the cause of the strange sounds which seemed to proceed from the corridor in which the baron slept. She had scarcely closed Adeline's door behind her when a bell rang vio- lently. It was the baron's bell. As she made her way towards his room, she met several of the affrighted servants hurrying upstairs in answer to his summons. They found him standing at his door half dressed. 1 am not ill," he said, in answer to Christine's query. It is the count. There is something the matter. His room is overhead. I was awakened by a cry and a heavy fall. Go to him at once." Christine, followed by the others, led the way upstairs to the count's room. It was the haunted chamber. All was still as death now. Christine knocked at the door. There was no answer, no movement within. One of the men-servants knocked again with his stick. The silence was breathless. Christine at that moment caught a glimpse of old Fleda's face, its haggard, shrivelled, witch-like features thrown into strong relief by the light of a candle held in her hand, while she stood mumbling and muttering and shaking her head as though uttering some weird curse or hellish incan- tation. Christine felt a chill strike to her heart. The knocking was repeated, but in vain. A flash of joy lit up Christine's countenance. "Perhaps the count is dead!" she thought; a pang of self-reproach followed. "Why do we stand here ?" she cried. Break open the door." It was done, and she entered the room, followed by the servants and the baron, who, alarmed by the noise, had hastened upstairs as quickly as his infirmities permitted. Horror transfixed all who entered, and for a moment kept them paralysed. Extended on the Moor, partly undressed, with his face towards the door and one arm outstretched„was the apparently lifeless form of the count. Flcda. was the first to speak; bending over him, while a malignant and triumphant smile distorted her face, she muttered, Dead, dead, dead." But Christine knelt down, felt the count's pulse, and laid her hand on his heart. "Not so," she said, "he lives still." Restoratives were applied, the count was placed on the bed, and all the servants, except FIeda, were ordered to leave the room. In a short time the sick man movdd, and opened his eyes full upon the mirror, which was nearly opposite to him as he lay. A convulsive shudder shook his frame, and as he turned quickly away his eyes met those of Fleda, which glared at him from the other side of the bed. The count covered his face with his hands, and again trembled violently. Fleda went up to Christine, who had noticed, with astonishment, the extraordinary terror evinced by the count. "The mirror 1" hissed Fleda in her ear. "Do you hO:1r ( The mirror. Where is Count Rudolph t" and then she began to recite in a low voice the familiar lines, which, for Christine, now bore a new and terrible meaning:— If in thy soul be hidden some foul sin." Upon Fleda's face at that moment was a look such as might have been seen upon one of the sibyls of old. It seemed to Christine a revelation from heaven, though borne by one whose shrivelled form and repellent features gave her rather the similitude of a messenger from the kingdom of darkness. She turned white, her eyes dilating with horrified comprehension, as she gazed for one moment upon Fleda's wild and ominous countenance. Then she turned and rushed from the room, along the dim corridors, past the white-robed form of Adeline, who tried, in vain, to stay her, hearing, seeing nothing; down the long flight of stairs, through the hall, out into the night she fled like one pursued by some ghastly terror, nor slackened her pace until, exhausted by excite- ment and fatigue, she sank upon the roadside. The stillness of the night, the calm, cold light of the moon only goaded her onwards, she started up and resumed her journey. The moonlight paled and faded away, faint tints of dawn began to streak the sky, ere she paused again. Her goal is almost won. The turrets of Schwarzenhof, Count Albert's home, rise clearly defined against the skv. She hurries on, and arrives breathless and agitated at the castle. All is silent, the inhabitants still asleep; the bark of a dog, aroused by her step, her only welcome. She sat down on the sill of one of the low windows looking on the court, and pondered what she should do. At that early hour there was little hope of gaining the information she came there to seek, yet there was uo time to lose. Every moment was to her an age of terrible sus- pense. The enforced physical repose, however, acted beneficially upon her distracted mind. She remembered that the gardener's oottage was close by, that with him lived a poor deformed boy, whose affection she had won by many little acts of K^ness such ss he seldom experienced from others. On him she knew she could rely. He was employed about the stables, and thither she now directed her steps. To her great joy, Hans was already in the yard, and lIS she entered she saw him leading a fine black 'f back Into the stable. The noble animal gave 1 ^e come and recognition as he turned with melancholy aeyesC]U'iStine at It was Grane. i came. t'"s horso here ? Where is his master { demanded Christine. Speak, bov Sood ?na«nA^hfnOW' quick!" she added> as Ha"DS f rh ^.eSS ^t^H'shment at the apparition Rn^To or bonnet at that early hour. But he had little time to indulge his wonder, Christine's questions and her excitement showed lum. she had some cause for alarm and anxiety, and In few words he told her all he knew Rudolph had passed him on the way to the castle the previous evening. The count, who had gone to Adlerwild in the afternoon, and was not ex- pected to return till late, had come back a few minutes before Rudolph's arrival, and, from the condition of his horse, Hans thought be must have ridden at full gallop all the way. Rudolph had given Grane into Hans' charge, and had then walked up to the castle. He went out again after dusk, accompanied by the count. Hans saw them go up the road, and followed a little distance curious to see where they went, but lost trace of them at the entrance to the wood, about a mile beyond the castle. The count had not been home since, he believed. Poor Grane had fretted terribly all day, pawing and neighing incecisantly.and Hans wondeied his master had left him behind, wherever he might be going. Christine's worst fears gained strength as she listened to Hans' account. Here was direct proof that the count had spoken falsehood. Why had he hidden the fact of Rudolph's visit ? She desired Hans to saddle Grane, and accompany her to the place where he had last seen the two gentlemen. Arrived at the entrance to the wood, she directed him to remain there with the horse, and not to follow her unless she called. Christine advanced alone up the nar- row path, so shadowed by the dense foliage of overhanging trees that she could scarcely see, and emerged upon a clearing. Here the long grass, Wet with dew, impeded her steps. She looked around with wild, yet searching glance, unutterable dread depicted upon her countenance. All was silence and gloom. The dim mystery of the place, the un- defined yet horribly real fear that possessed her made every nerve in her body throb with mtensest agony, and then she felt a numbness creep over her as though she were about to lose con- sciousness. Rousing herself by a violent effort, she passed across the open space into a part of the wood where the undergrowth had been only partly cleared. Here. stopping suddenly, she gasps for breath, and supports herself against the trunk of a tree, with strained eyeballs, gazing intently at some object before her. At that moment the sun bursts forth, flooding the dim, grey scene with golden light; a lark soars aloft, his glad song start- ling the silence into rapture. The mists clear away, and the morning breaks in cloudless beauty. A low wail escapes the blanched lips of Christine, she moves a few steps forwards, and throws her- self down by the body of her child. One glance at those pale, rigid features, those stiffened limbs, and there rang through the desolate spot an agonised cry, "My son! my son!" It was echoed through the wood, and summoned Hans to the spot. Kudoiph lay half hidden in the long gras". his faco upturned, his shirt was stained with blood, as was also the scarf he wore, which Chris- tine afterwards remembered she had seen Adeline embroidering a few days before. For some minutes Christine remained motionless, stricken. paralysed by her anguish, then she arose, and, lifting her hand, called upon Heaven to witness and avenge a mother's despair. With almost superhuman strength she raised the body of her I son in her arms, and, assisted by Hans, placed it r upon the horse, wrapping it in a cloak which he I had insisted upon Christine's putting on before they left Schwarzenhof. When they came to the entrance to the wood she cast a bewildered glance about her, then dismissing Hans, turned the horse in the opposite direction from that in which they had come. It was a desolate, unfrequented road, cut on the mountain side, into which she passed, leading Grane and guiding him over the rough road, so that his precious burden might be the more gently borne. Slowly she walked along beside her beloved dead, her son, her only one, for whose welfare she had sacrificed her happiness, her maternal affection and this, this was her reward,, to see him cut down untimely in the pride of his youth. A weight as of stone pressed upon her heart, but her nerves were strung to a pitch of intense excitement that gave her preternatural strength. Thus mile after mile of the rugged way was traversed, the morning advancing, the sun's rays illumining the landscape. On one side of the road rose the steep mountain side covered with pine and fir, interspersed here and there with magnificent beech and birch trees, or varied by the rapid rush of some brawling brook among banks overgrown with ferns and mosses. On the other was a precipitous descent to the fair and ver- dant valley, dotted with villages, their tall church spires rising conspicuous from among the beechen glades. Beyond stretched the blue mountains crowned with gigantic trees, their steep and wooded crags rising majestically 2,000ft. above the sea a few flaky clouds floated lightly over the deep blue sky. But the quivering light, the golden glow of that summer morning sent a deadly chill to Christine's heart. To her its flashing bril- liant beauty was a crual mockery. For Nature knows no sympathy with human emotion. Quiet waters close over hearts still throbbing with the agony of life, gentle winds murmur in the ear of one to whom words of love are for ever denied, and with sobs and fitful wailing disturb the dreams of her who would in sleep recall th« music of days that are no more." Heaven weeps when we laugh and smiles when we weep, and sunshine and flowers mock the bitterness of desolation and death. Hence the wondrous power Nature wields over our hearts when her moods and our emotions happen to accord. Christine, wholly absorbed by ths horror and pressing reality of the present, was suddenly and rudely recalled to previous events and all the circumstances connected with them, by a sound that jarred upon her ear, and routed within her a tempest of agitated feeling. The dis- tant chime of wedding bells, ringing out in blithe- some peals from the belfry of Adlerwild, echoed over hill and dale and brought to her memory the fact—until then forgotten—that upon this morn- ing, Adeline—she for whom her son had died—was to be married—married to his murderer. A paroxysm of anguish seized upon her, and con- vulsed her frame. But with a strong effort she conquered herself, and pursued her dreary journey with firmer step. It even seemed that she had gained fresh strength in her eyes shone a strange light, and the remaining distance to the village was passed with wonderful rapidity, the noble animal responding to her encouraging words, moderating his pace to her's, and bearing himseli so gently that he seemed to sympathise with her grief and to feel a pride in being permitted to carry to his rest the beloved master who, in the vigour and enjoyment of life, had urged him to many a mad gallop over the wild moors. Christine shuddered as she noted the signs of human life now stirring around her. She could hear the horn of the Knh-Hirt as he passed through the villages, collecting the cows for pasture. Below were women carrying their heavy burdens to market, and in the forest above filling their great baskets with chips and broken branches. As she entered the village of Adlerwild, Chris- tine was relieved to find the street deserted. The bells had been silent now for some time. The whole population of the hamlet had either as- sembled within the church or were grouped around its open doors and windows. Every eye was turned in the direction of the altar, where stood the fair bride, beloved by all,. every ear was strained to hear the service, which had already commenced. Thus it happened that Christine and her charge passed close under the walls of the chufchyard, and up one of the winding paths sheltered by overhanging trees, unnoticed, until they arrived among; the groups of villagers in their picturesque holiday garb, who were assembled about the north door of the church. The women in their quaint high head-dresses with streaming ends, the girls with their coils of plaited tresses and gaily-coloured dresses, stodd transfixed with astonishment at Christine's appearance among them, accompanied by Rudolph's horse with his mysterious burden. They made no effort to arrest her progress, but stood back in obedience to her commanding gestures, and permitted her to pass through them to the very portal of the church. There she stopped. For a moment her glance rested upon the group before the altar; the white- haired clergyman, Adeline in bridal array, the digmhed yet stooping form of the baron, and the dark, sinister countenance of the bridegroom. One s^eP, ^Qd the group at the door became visible to the assembled congregation. At the same moment a. voice, such as no one there had ever heard before, or could forget to their oifing day, tilled the building. Thos* tones of anguish and despair, mingled with fierce vengeance that triumphed even in its utter agony, awakened in every breast horror greater even than the sight of Christine herself. With long black hair dis- hevelled, wild countenance, blanched cheeks and lips, and eyes in which shone the madness of grief, she strode forward, and, confronting the bride- groom, held up before him Rudolph's blood-stained scarf, "Blood, blood," she whispered, hoarsely, "My chIld s-your brother's blood! And you are his murderer!" A piercing scream rang through the church, and Adeline fell forward into Christine's arms, who in the effort to support her was obliged to relax her fierce grasp on the Count's arm. Ths confusion that ensued was indescribable, the hush of horror giving place to the wildest excitement; the crowd outside pressed into the already well-filled church, and cries and groans of women and children crushed in the throng resounded on all sides. Adeline was placed within the communion rails for safety. The aged clergyman and the baron in vain endeavoured to repress the tumult; their voices were drowned in the uproar that prevailed. At last their earnest gesticulations and entreaties began to take effect, and way was made for the baron and his daughter, who was borne from the church, still unconscious, to the carriage in which she was to have left it a bride. Death is her bridegroom now," thought Christine, and envied her lot. But where was he who had wrought this ruin? Transfixed by Christine's gaze, he had at first stood guilty, motion- less before her; but once relieved from the piercing glance of her accusing eyes he thought only of flight, and, taking advantage of the confusion that followed, made his escape. Adeline recovered, if that could be called recovery which brought her back to life to experience the bitterness of hopeless desolation. She was hence- forth subject to constantly-recurring fits of mental derangement, during which were rehearsed all the misery and anguish of her ill- fated love. The baron died within a few months broken down by remorse and the sight of his child's sufferings. Christine's nerves were completely shattered by the shock and prolonged horror of that terrible night, but she lived on, atoning by her patient tender care of Adeline, who shrank from everyone else. for the fatal errors of her past life. She laid her son to rest in the same spot, overlooking the yawning ravine with its rushing river and hollow caves, where she had confessed to him her secret, and claimed him for her own. There, years after the events here recorded, she might be seen night after night, with bent form and silvered hair, sitting dejected and desolate beside his grave. Count Albert Von Hargen was never heard of more. An exile from his native land he wandered henceforth, the brand of Cain upon his brow, while haunting his fevered dreams, arresting him on the threshold of every pleasure, cutting him off in youth from joy, in age from peace, the vision of the avenging mirror pursued him like a shadow through life, and rose up confronting him in death. THE END.

PICKINGS FROM THE COMIC PAPERS. (From Punch.) CHRBRING.—Dentist: Well, sir, they talk about coming at the eleventh hour; but it's a quarter to twelve with all your teeth, I'm afraid Gambetta's latest move will probably be known as "Gambetta's Gambit;" i.e.,sacrincing something to gain everything. Nous 'fJe1'1'01tS. THE QUEEN'S ENGLISH" (OR SCOTCH).— Minister: Weel, John, an hoo did ye like ma son's disooorse ? John Weel, Meenister, ah maun admeet he's vera soond, but, oh man! he's no deeo'. His pronoonciation's no vera gweed but ah've nae doobt he'll impruv' THE MATHEMATICAL TRIPOS.—Mrs. Ramsbotham is very glad to hear that the distinguished foreigner, Signor Rangla, has been banished from Cambridge, where, she says, every title should be thoroughly English. s j SocIAL AGONIES.—(Scene—Mrs. Montgomery Morris's drawing-room just before dinner.)—Mrs. Sydney Mountjoy (to hostess): Oh yes, Biarritz was all very well, but we got into a quarrel with some people there-a dreadful couple, who behaved most shamefully I'm told the husband, a certain Mr. Hamilton Allsop, means to pull Sydney's nose whenever and wherever be meets him, and his horrid wife actually declares she'll—Footman: Mr. and Mrs. 'Amilton Hallsop! A NEW PIECE.—Mr. Bull (manager of the Theatre Royal, Westminster): Cloture! hm! Don't like the name! Adaptation from the French! Well —we'll read it to the company at the beginning of the season. Mrs. Ram is getting on with her French. She says she detests Communists, with their motto about u Propreti c'eu le vol" A BUKNING QUESTION'.—The London Water Comtjanies' Difficulty. Wanted, a new plan to set the Thames on fire. INNOCENT ENJOYMENT.—Citizen: 'Did a good sthroke o' bithnethyethterday, Mo'! Tho I treited the mithith to the moothic-hall latht night— 'sthood her a bottle o' thoedone, and she thought it was thampagne!—Took it down beautiful! What I like at a theatre," says Mrs. Rams- botham, "is to see what the French call a littJe lever du rideau—a 'something to raise a laugh,' vou know." Evidently Mrs. R. must be on the school-board committee. LOCAL TAXATION,—A Poll-tax.

-= A FACT WORTH KNOWING.—The recently pub- lished reports of Medicat CMHct-re of HNilth show that the mild autumn weather and excessive rainfall ùlwe produced an unusual amount of Scarlet aud Typhoid Fevers throughout the United Kingdem. There is also in many districts excessive mortality from Measles and Smallpox, Every cautious householder should use reliabl6 preventive measures, and none are better than Washing with WR1&HT8 COAL TAR SOAP, recom- mended alike by the entire Medical Profession and the Public. Let the Soap be in every Bedroom, Bath- room, and Nursery, an41 when you Pnrcnase insist upon being supplied with Wright's. Rft"U8 all imita- tions

FEMININE FOIBLES, FANCIES, AND FASHIONS. By A LADY. (All Rights Reserved.) As a caution, or rather as a special warning, to my women sisters, who, whether justly or un- justly, are always being accused of not taking sufficient care of their purses, I am going out of my usual line to relate a singular and sorrowful experience that befell two acquaintances of mine on a Viry recent occasion, placing them, unfortu- nately, not only in a. very embarrassing position for the present, but in a condition of irretrie- vable loss as regards the future. Rarely, I think, does the loss of a single purse involve such very serious consequences. My two lady acquaintances, by ths strength and sincerity of their attachment for etch other, forcibly remind me of those notable residents in the Vale of Llangollen- Miss Ponsonbv and Lady Eleanor Butler —who romantically devoted their lives, not only to each other, but to celibacy, seclusion, and the knitting of blue worsted hose. However the vow of eternal friendship may have formed part of the compact entered into by my fnend3, they are neither foolish nor romantic, nor by any means disposed to sentimental non- sense of any kind they are, in fact, sensible, well- educated women of middle nge and good social position. The one never has to entered into that special union which Providence designed for the mutual help and comfort of mankind .and the tie in the case of the other having been long ago dis- solved by death, these good wom6n built up a lasting friendship on the sure foundation of mutual esteem, friendly reliance, protection, &c., according as each was strong in the special quality wherein the other found herself to be weak. For some years my acquaintances lived in a charming bijou marine home;, where their society was most eagerly sought after; but the ill-health of one lady neces- sitating her sojourn abroad some time during last winter, they spent much of it on the European Continent. A few weeks back the threatening of old symptoms, combined with a wisli to extend their travels abroad, induced the friends to dispose of their house and furniture, so as not to be fettered by the remembrance of any home that wanted looking after, and so, of necessity, expediting their return. Everything had proceeded thus far satisfactorily, when, wish- ing to say farewell to a few friends in town, a.nd being desirous of putting their luggage in a place of security, my friends travelled up with it, and left it temporarily in the luggage office at one of the large railway termini, pre- paratory to giving it into the cliargo of a gentleman relative, who offered to be respon- sible for its safety. The official gone, the customary acknowledgment was consigned to the purse of the tr-ansmitter of the luggage, and away went m'v friends to fulfil the social obligations which a change of residence imposed upon them. Comparatively soon after the purse containing the ticket was missed, but unfortunately the im- portance of the loss was not calculated, the re- nieinbrancf; cf the luggage ticket being inside it not occurring to either lady for some time. When memory reminded them of the fact they at once returned to the office, to learn, on inquiring, that all their belongings were gone, utterly and irretrievably gone. It may convey some idea of the incalculable loss sustained, when I say that the huge packages contained irreplaceable treasures of priceless worth to the owners—family portraits, relics of the dead, things valuable by reason of their associations, which the thieves would regard and destroy as utterly worthless. Also stored away in the missing trunks were other articles of considerable monetary worth—such as would be likely to be collected as the special treasures of two broken up but elegant homes, that had jointly served to embellish a third—rare old china, an antique service of plate, curios of all sorts col- lected during foreign travel; jewellery, lace, and :n endless catalogue ot things far too numerous to mention, including dresses, linen, and modern plate. Only a small portion of the luggage was intended by my friends to accompany them on their voyage, on account of the trouble and expense weighty boxes involve, but even this went with the rest. Alas!" as one of the victims said in a letter I read, "Wei have no- thing left of it all but our night gear, the clothes we stand up in, and a change of shoes. We have relinquished our intended journey on the Continent, in order that we may look our altered circumstances fairly in the face and realise more clearly our changed position." A change of fortune so great and so utterly unexpected is happily of very rare occurrence, and, happening to people possessed with only a moderate com- petence, such a loss is not easily retrievable, even though it be in a pecuniary sense alone. It is a singular fact that some few years ago the same lady who was robbed of her purse relin- quished housekeeping for a time, stored her furni- ture, &c., in the Pantechnicon, a piano being in- cluded in the list of articles thus put away. It will be remembered that the monstre store-house was burnt down, and all my friend's goods were destroyed without a single exception. Neverthe- less, however great their losses, the depositors re- ceived their bills for care-taking as usual, and rather a grim joke appeared in the following item in my friend's account" For an extra warm room for the pianoforte—so much!" Another, though less serious, misfortune than that described above befell some other people I am acquainted with. They had been staying at a most fashionable watering-place for a time, conse- quently had not left their best clothes and jewellery at home. On the return journey the party entered a cab, first having seen their luggage duly deposited on the lid of the same but on arriving at their destination not a vestige of it was to be seen. The driver protested any previous know- lodge of its loss. And the owner of part of the missing property told me he believed the man spoke the truth. However, be it as it may, nothing ever has, and pro- bably nothing ever will be heard of the missing effects. A lovely pearl cross, the gift from a bridegroom to his bride on their wedding day, was unfortunately included in the number of stolen articles of valuable jewellery. This special loss has been repaired so far as was possible, but, as the charming little wife touchingly says, It will nover be the same. Literal substitution is not impossible, actual reparation there can be none but in the restitution of my original cross," and those who regard the matter from a senti- mental, rather than from a commercial, point of view will fully concur in the feeling expressed. My object in relating the story of the above pre- ventible losses is fulfilled if it serves to prevent one traveller from the vexation and deprivation experienced by those who lately, under my own notice, have fallen unsuspecting victims to the villainy of others. Taught by the bitter experience of long neglect, I suppose the silk manufacturers have decided to give us a little more silk and a little less jute, or whatever substance is used to do duty for the golden; web that, mixed with other and less durable materials, produced a textile that used to go by the name of silk, but proved so utterly un- satisfactory that we naturally turned our atten- tion to better wearing materials. I hear now that faille" is once more returning to public favour, and likely to supersede satin and the mixed fabric we resorted to in our despair, when silk could no longer be relied upon. People now will be wiser than to expect a silk that stands alone for a price utterly inadequate to ensure the purity and consequent durability of the same. Clever, morbid John Foster, who was alwavs troubled by the sight of anything, however beautiful, by itself, seemed to point, though re- motely, to an undesired end. On one occasion, noticing for the first time that year a flower he loved, he said, I have seen a fearful sight to-day. I have seen a butter cup." And I, in imita- tion, can say, with more truth, I have seen a fearful sight to-dav, for I have seen a crinoline made flaming red and swinging round an outfitter's door in company with many others of various makes. Soon the satirists will begin their gibes at our foolishness—their scath- ing remarks on women's lack of modesty, and the utter want of sense that led to the adoption of so foolish a fashion. Some hundreds of hands are, I am told, employed in a former manu- factory of crinolines, and the same shape verv little altered is the model set up. I have heard with incredulity amounting to actual unbelief that shortly ladies will wear hats the brims of which will be made to give evidence of the age of the wearer a twenty-inch brim is intended to announce the lady as over 30. The thirty-inch border declares her to be over 60. Our capacity for accepting statements grossly opposed to common sense may be large, but it is not wholly illimitable. Too soon. alas! we shall be reading of fatal acci- dents resulting from extended petticoats catching in machinery, or of skirts taking fire, and a terrible repetition of the accidents which made the former reign of crinolines bristle with horrors that should have extinguished all chance of its introduction for ever. What frightful holocausts we read of in almost every newspaper, what scenes of indelicacy we were witness to, what ludicrous and annoying disasters women who wore the extender were subject to every day Yet, ala. I have seen, not crinolettes or other compromises, but veritable crinolines of the old type. The bodices of ball dresses appear to become lower and lower. As for the sleeves, we are told that they exist, and that statement must suffice us, for demonstration of the fact there is none. A small jewelled strap like a minute epaulette appears on the arm—that is all. It is customary just now to twine, in snake fashion, a trail of small flowers round the arms of wearers of full dress. The blossoms are mounted upon wire, and are, therefore, easily kept in place, but soon get crushed, as may be supposed. A fringe of corre- sponding flowers worn over the hair looks well, or if the blossoms are stiff flower comb is worn at the back of the head. As I said ia my last, juvenile character balls are more genera! than entertainments of this clasa for adults, however popular they may be. A lady, who is a near neighbour of mine, gave a ball of the above description on Thursday, the 2Qth ult. The costumes were well studied and carried out, being careful representations of the parts assumed by the several wearers thereof. The sons of Mr. Henry Irving were present, and people remarked that they had received as an inheritance their fatlier's histrionic endowments. The children of the actor, Mr. Edward Terry, were also perfectly made up, and some of the impersonations ware exceedingly good and well carried out, though the youthful supporters in many cases appeared to be scarcely beyond baby- hood. Their prim deportment, and the stiff dignity and consciousness of clothes, were very amusing to the onlookers. Formerly to provide a game of blind man's buff," hunt the slipper." with other old-fashioned amusements of the kind. was all that the entertainer felt necessary to divert the rising generation—a little fruit, a plain supper, and some home-made wines to follow—and the children were sent home happy but now the men and women of the future are treated. exactly as if they had arrived at maturitv. It is the fashion to address them with a ceremoniousness only equal to that Jwith which their elders are treated. Is it not a. mistake Sue the results of this forcing in America. The freshness and naturalness of the r young is lost, they are taught to be artificial from I babyhood. It is & system of training that is much to be deplored. Talking of the children of Mr. Edward Terry reminds me to say I met a Jadv the other day who told me she met Mrs. Langtry :it the house of Mrs. Årthur Lewis last week (Mrs. Lewis, I believe, being formerly Miss Kate Terry). The new actress, said my informant, looked superbly; she was dreMed in cream-coloured 8llibossed velvet cut square, both back and front On Thursday I purpose going again to see Mrs. Langtry at. the Ha.vma-rket. From all I hear, a.s. Blanche Hay, in Ours," she does not please her audiences so well 8,8 she did 88 Miss Hard castle. Can it be, thus early, that Mrs. Langtrv is finding the fulfilment of the prediction that, curiosity once gratified, the fickle public will return to its old loves, and expect talent even il1lieu of good looks, and histrionic merit rather than the tame pour- traval of fictitious scenic effects, with which the" woman who has been a guest at Marlborough House, alsl) a visitor at Buck- ingham Palace, can feel nothing whatever in common, and must, though flattered bv I the praise she elicit8, and the excitement her appearance, on the stage has created, think somewhat regretfully of a past; where deferential homage and admiration weN offered to her by courtly princes, proud to touch even her hand, one that. now, lik; her figure, may be clasped (If his part justify such action) bv the humblest player on the boards. I feel sympathy wIth thll! woman, who has known so many vicissitudes of fortune, and the end of them has not been reached yet, and I think regretfully of a sister whose short and feverish triumphs can only serve to embitter retrospection in the future.

MR. TENNYSON'S NEW POEM, DESPAIR." A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE. The following parodies upon Mr. Tennyson's poem, Despair," which appeared in a recent number of the Nineteenth Century, are so admirable that we nced offer no apology for republishing them in these columns. The first is copied from thr St. James's Gazette, and the second from the Fortnightly RtVÙ?1lè. It is not difficult to see th&t latter is from the pen of Mr. Swinburne:- NEVER BAY DIE. [The Minister of the Sect v..hich was Ilbllndoned by the maD who did not drown himself replies to the dra- matic monologue on Despair "hieh wu published by that person in the ¡"-inet-eenth Century for November, 1881.] So you're to curse me, are you. for not having let you be, And for taking the trouble to pull you i a: when your wif" was drowned in the sea ? I'm inclined to think you are right-there was not much &GU6C in it But there was no time to think-the thing was done in a minute. You had not got very far in you had fainted where YOU were found; Y ou1rc the sort of fellow thllt likes to drown with his toe on the ground. However, you turn upon me and my creed with all sorts of abuse As if any preaching of mine could possibly be of use To a man who refused to see what sort. of a world be had got To live in and make the best of, whether he liked it or not. I am not sure what you mean: you seem to mean to say That beliedng in bell yolt were happy; but that one un- fortunate day You found out you knew nothing about it, whereby the troubles of life Became at once too heavy to bear for yourself and your wife. That sounds sillv; so perhaps you may mean that all is wrong all róund- My creed and the know-nothing books-&nd that truth is not to bé: found. That's sillier still; for if so the know-nothing books are right And you're a mere spiritless cur, who can neither run nor fight- Too great a coward to live, and too great a coward to die, Fit for nothing at all but ,ust to lilt down and cry. I Not that you're really unhappy. I don't think you ever were. Give you a poet's corner, and a pipe and an easy chair, And a woman or two to pet you, and you never gave wav to despair. You might sell it at so much a line-but that's quite another affair. Why, in the midst of your whines it's impossible not to see How anxious you are to show that you're only attacking me, And that you've not a word to bY against respectable people Who own no connection between my chapel and their I church-steeple. You always contrive to hint, and almost seem to fed That your creed would have been much better if your I Church had been more genteel. Why, man, we're all in one boat, &II evervone can see, Bishops and prieits and deacons, and poor little ranters like me. Tbere's hell in the Church of Englllnd and hell in the Church of Rome And in all other Christian Churches, abroad as well as at home. The part of my creed you dislike may be too stern for you. Many brave men believe it-aye, and enjoy life too. The know-nothing books may alarm you; but manv a better man Knows he knows nothing, and savs 80, and lives the best life he can. If there is a future state, face its hopes and terrors gravely; The best path to it must be to bear life's burdens bravely. And even if there is none, why should not you live like a man, Enjoying whatever you hllve as much and as long as you can ? In the world in which we are living tbere's plenty to do and to know, And there's always something to hope fOT till it's time for us to go. Defpiiir is the vilest of words, unfit to be said or thought, Whether there is a God and a future state or not, 1£ you really are such a wretch that you're quite unfit to live, And ask my advice, I'll give you the best that I have to give. Drown yourself by all means; I was wrong and you were right; I'll not pull you out any more; but be sure you drown yourself quite. -St. James's Gazette. 8WINSBURNE'8 BEPLY ,"0 TENNYSON. DISGUST; A DRAMATIC MOll"OLOGUE.Ä woman and her husband, havir1& OHeTl converted from free thought to Calvinism, and being utterly miserablfd in conse- quence, resolve to end themselves by poison. The man wes, but the woman is re9Cued by application of the stomach pump. I. Pills ? Talk to me of your pills ? Well, that, I must say, is cool. Can't bring myoid man round ? He was always a stub- born old fool. If I hadn't taken precautions-a warning to all that v.e- He might not have been dead, and I might not have been alive. II. You would like to know, if I please, how it was that our troubles began ? You see, We were brought up Agnostics, I and my poor old man. And we got some idea of selection and evolution, you know- Professor Huxley's doing-where does he expect to go ? nI. Well, then came tronMs on trouble on trouble—I may say a peck— And his coulin was ff&flgvd one day on the charge of forging a chequ&- And his puppy died of the mange-my parrot choked on its perch. This was the consequence, was it, of not going weekly to church ? IV. SO we felt that the best if not only thing that remained to be done On an earth everlastingly moving about a perpetual lun, Where worms breed worms to be eaten of worms that have eaten their betters- And reviewers are hardly civil-and people get spiteful le,tters- And a famous man is forgot ere the winute hand can tick nine- Was to send in our P. P. C. and purchase a packet of 8trychnine. v. Nay-but first we thought it was rational-Quly fair- 1'0 give both parties a heanng-and went to the meeting- house there, At the curve of the street that runs from the Stag to the old Blue Lion, Little Zion" they call it-a deal more little" than "Zion," VI. And the preacher preached from tbe text, Come out of her," Hadn't we come? And we thought of the Shepherd in Pickwick--and fancied a flavour of rum Balmily borne on the wind of his wordl-and my man said, Wen, Let's get out of thià, my dear-for bis text bas a brim- stune smell." nI. So we went, 0 God, out of chapel-and gazed, ah God, at the sea. And 1 laid nothing to him. And he aid nothing to me. TIn. And there, yon see. was an end of it aU. It. ob- vious, in fact. That. whether or not yon believe in the doctrine taught in a tract, Life was not in the lust worth living. Because, don't you see ? Nothiac that cant be, can, aQJ what must be, must. Q.E.D. And the infinitesimal 9OUn,.es of Infinite Unideatity Curve into the central, abyss of a sort of a queer Per- sonality Whose retraction is felt in the nebulæ strewn in the pathway 01 Mars Like the poiriDgs or nails Æonia.n-clippfng8 and snip- pings of sMrs- Shavings of suns that revohve and. evolve and inwI- Ilno. at times Give a sweet astronomical twang to remarkably hob- bling rhymes. IX. And tbe sea curved is* with, a moa.n-and we tbonKht how once-before We fellliut with ihoae atheist œcturers-once, ah. onee and DO more. We read together, while midnight blazed like the Yankee flag, Â revwwnd gentleman's work-tbe Conversion of Colonel Quagg. And out of its pages we gathered thüt lesson of doctrine pure- Zephaniah Stockdonoger's jt08pel-a word that. degentlS to endure Inünibt millioons on millions of infinite Ænos to oome-- Vocation." aays he, is vocation, nud duty' dutv Some." J' x. And dIIty, said 1, distinctly paints out—and vocation, said he, Demands as disti:n.ctly--thai I shoald kill you, and that ÝIJU 8Uonld kill me. The reason is obvious-we cannot exist without creeds -who ean ? 10 we went to the highly respectable 1 chufch-going man— of P0150^- YÐU wouldn't bave done 50 ¡> Wait. It's evident.. Providfllce is aot with "ou, ma'am, the same tiiiug as Fate. Unconscious cerebration educes God from a fog. But speL God backwards, what then ? Give it up ? The answer I!, Qog. Rut°-hI^Ctl-V how thia last verse is to scan, But lha. 5 a consIderatiOn I leave to the secular man.) I meant, of course, to go wf;h him-as far IlS I pIeased- but first To mighrbu4°ld man liked it-I thought perbapsbe mIght burst. I didn't wish it-but still it's a blessed release for a wife— Ana he saw that I thought Sù-1I.nd grinned in 4eriliiol1 -and threatened m v life w nmit- faces—and so I took just a sip—and he W6U JLOU know how it ended—he didn't getover me. Terrible, isn't it? Still, on reflection, it might bave been worse. He might have been the unhappy survivor, and followed my hearse. •' Never do it again ?" Why, certainly Dot. Ttm don't Suppose I stwUld think gf it, surely ? But aayhaw- there—I w*n't, —Fortnightly Recicw.

Y BARDD Cl'MHEIG.j B ARDDGNIA ETH. PlvIODAS GLANFFRWD Ma. Oct.—Gymerocd T: amgylciuaa hwn Ie lonawr 17eg. 1882. yn Éghr.T"" Pair Abenawe Gweinyaawyd ar yr achlysur gau y: A.-cli-ddeon Griffiths Castellned-i. yn nghyd a" D: Morgan, Ficar, Abertawe Pan glywais daeth ;n )J.1eddwl ar unwaith fod tri o bethau yn hycodi bywyd (xlanffrw d, yn gyctaf Awen vneydtvw rhesvmeg; yn ail, grijiu i orchfvgu pot> mail; 0 achawsderau yn drynydd, ymroddiad i'r weinidogaeth, i'w wlad, a,; YJ) a« r i'w wraig 0 hyn ailan. Cydgyfar- fyddl3.( d" Y afon vw priodas Gla: ffrwd II, Mi86 illiair Barddoniaeth vs- brydol her jdoriaeth oruchel 8. unir vn mhriodaa (itmffrv* Ii LJin05. Aedv ddwy yn ÚD afon fawr gan life- v n orioleddus i dragwyddoi for yr aw.cuau a'r anfa: w-rMueb.—ftel!y oyddo- Gl&nffrwd, boed it dangne;, ie, U>ed llawenydd hir, A'a: ti vn llifo'n felus à{cao;is afon bena'r tir. 1\1. :ais y Llinos fyddo'n awei) di, A Llinosiaid bacl1 fo'n en 1:1 ■ .f..1 y oodo n uweb ùJ fri Oalou fawr yw'th galon, Glan ffrwd, Y iuae yiidrii It: l r -win'- Eoffi i ydwyt Feirdd Ber. Walia. p. :,1. ddymuni ei liesihad. "*d 11ai en Uea'u croesa-* 'd ar dy aelwj d • ST IES WEJI TU'. I I oialu am eu barda. Llwyddiant, Hwyddiant fyth i Llinos Aefoedd wen, rho iddi hi aw r yn adeg ei phriodas Arwydd o'th fenditbiol fri. G v. n eich bod yn caru'ch gilvdd, Gwnam eich ymroddiad pur, Gl vned feIly-a chvnydded 1n y llwydd acyn y cur. Gwerthfawr fydd yr offrwm penLidd Goda ar eich aelwvd wen, Pan y dringa miwsig A chin G la.nffrwl1 tua r nen. HOMo DDU. CHWE' PHENILL Ar briodas y Parch. W, Glanffrwd Thomas, Ficar Llanelwy, & Miss Williams (Llinos y l>e), Ion. 17eg, 1882. Ffraeth wys ffres, cynhes, mewn cwd-a gefais I longyfarch Glanffrwd,- Oys.-Abrec,œ.f, uwch sibrwd Ongi-lunio brfia-englyn brwd, Ar v Bardd, deuai rhyw artaith In creu hurtwclÎ siwrwd 1' ysgrwd, A rhano'i awen-tr°rphws mewn rhwd. Ymagor mwgwd, medrus Ymadrodd bu'u sibrwd,- A Bun fwvn-liniara,ïi Bwd, Ac wmredd o'i <1reca.mmrwd. Heddyw, eurgylch roddai hergwd-i baen V Bardd enwog Glanffrwd,- Ffrau aig a clirvchli ffrwgwd, Trwy 'scoru a'i hwnt ar y sgwd. Dedwyddwch-he-ddwch fo'u Hwd-yn Nhy'r Llan, 1'r Llinos a'i Glanffrwd, Ac amryw blant. fel cymrwd Y n asio'r gniw, 'n ileswyr gnwd. Na ddoed dryglam gam i Gwmwd-na moes Meistr a Meistres Glanfl"rwd,- Kef wlith y fendith, yn ¥wd- bleu WvntM. dros eu ne:1fwd. NATHAK DTTSD. .A.RALL. Unwvd ein Glanffrwa Linos, 1Si fu lanach gorchwyl; By wyd 0 hedd-byd obwyl, Hyderus hyd en harwyl. Wrth dy dlos Linos fach 18n,-o glyn di, Fel gl £ n des wrth huan, Wedi'r IIw a gado'r Llan, A'r allor, a'r troi allan, Kid uno yno enyd,-a 'madael, Vwamodau gwynfyd Ni saif priodas befyd, Het wiw serch ar bwys 0 hyd. Gafael serch mewn gotal sydd-yn aros Fel iorwg am goedwydd I dy ferch tydi a fydd Yn ffon ac amddiffynydd. Ti geraist, enillaist goron,-y byw, Am dv barch i'r fanon* Sy'n ei bedd, maeanedd hon Yn hybarch randir Mabon. Llysfam fo'n dyner un tbach, Er vn byw mewn llawnfri Â. dyna'r fan am dani.  chau'r hwn wna'i charu hi. Gwraig gyntaf Glanffrwd. t Plentyn o'r wraig gyn- taf, yr hwn, yn awr, sydd yn fyw. DEWI HARAN. ARALL. Ar wyn Grys ei Offeren graff,—y nef Rhoddo'i nod a'i hargraff; Oell aur a fo i'r traethu, Oes Ii. hynt Iesu yn mro Sant Asaph. Gynau wylasom gan loes&u,-J1;w(']ed Gwilym yn ei ddagrau Oud hedtiyw sydd davd-1 rliyddhau, Adenydd a chadwynau. Ein holl einioes sydd drai a l1anw,-traeth- Y 11e mae hiraeth am gyfaiil marw, Keu chwaeryn tori'n chwerw,ond, rliyw ddydd Y daw llawenydd i doi llehwnw. Clywch clywch aeth tone y c]yehau,-yn fiwsijt, Anghotiasant hwythau laith y pyrth y bau Yn agor gan ganigau. Naturiol i gant.ores-brjodi Prydydd-dwy gyd-broffes Y fath yw ag häf a thes,-dûl a ùryn- Neu wlav; y gwanwyn ae awel gy;¡hes. Cerdd a Chan vn cwTdd, a cl1vd-drafaelio Drwv olalon bywyd Ehwng y ddwy, jJa ryw ing àdyd--ei waew-ffon, Garia 0 u dwytron y cyd-gord hyfryd r Wele, mae'r awen ar aeI Moria Uehel, lle'n dawel a lion, i'w duwiau, Dros lwydd y ddedwydd ddau,-aberLl1ai'n frac O'i bodd ei Hisaac, pe bvddai eisiau Ond, hi afyn, a baed a fO,-rhoi un Hwre, byd nes clywo Ymylau Taf a'r cwmwl tarth Ar ael y Garth sy'n gyrliog ortho. Ac wed'yn hi fyn ail-gydio,-nes twf Yn 'storm "rth fyn'd heibio Ei hen anedd vn LianwolJo,- Yno rhoi'r hir hwre, hwro." Dan dy groes a'tb loes daw'th cherdd Fel chwa'n mvn'd drwyr gerddi; ddu lIOS eos fydd hi Ar dy Iwyn er dy loni. Tithau, yn ddiau, pan dda.w.r Lizzie Rl1yw 1005, wnai gymhwvsaw Boddhaol help dy ddeheu-law, A serchus air iw chysuraw. Mae un gair mwyn 0 gariad,-ar brydiau I'r briwiedig deimlad, Yn ntf 0 fWYlllla.d,-ac yn well cyffyr, Na mwygl awyr neu falm Giiead." Ond wed'yn, beth dil dadwrdd,-na llonder, Na llewndid mewn cwbwrdd, Heb rhai ltach,-tri babi'r bwl\ld,-G-wenhwyfar, Khianon, ac Edgar yuo'n eydgwrdd ? Oh '1' anwyl, rhaid cae] bobpeth, Jlyw hapus geir felly Hw v yw'r serch-toùnrya.n gwneyd swyn Y loew gadwyn deuiuol gwed'y. Swn dedwydd sy" yn y" dadi,a swn Swynol sydd mewn ",ami," Bwn lion mewn Júlm I" Jennie.-tri swn lerch, Wnant ddisereh lanerch yn dir goleuni. Felly, fy hen gyfeiiJion,-byn a fo RÜa.n fawr o'ch cvsuron; Ond cofiwch mai heddweh penllad, A chofio'i gariad yw'r uwchal goron. DEWI Wtk O SesTXXT. CAN 0 GLOD I Mr. Moses Rowland Rowlands, Danygraig House, Penygraig. (Cydfuddugol). ALAw-4' Merch y Melinydd." Kid ceisio lliwi'r lili, A gwneyd yn wyn y glo, Yw canu clod ein Rowlands Y n uchel trwy ein bro Arferol yw 1'1' awen, Roi mawllle dylai fod, A Moses Rowland Rowlands Wir haedda "Gán 0 glod." Enwogrwydd leinw haDes, Y leulu anwy] byn, Tn 01 am genedlaethau Trwy lawer bro a bryn Bhvw barch, rhyw fri, rhyw urddas Ýn etifeddol sydd, o dad i fab yn disgvn, Fel dyddyneanlyn dydd. Daeth baner VeIl y teulu I law ein prall hael, Heb arni'r un ysmotyn Nfl lledrith troion gwa4: Mae yntau yn ei cbadw, Fei gwnaeth ei dadau CO, I cl1w1fio'fj anrh3Tdeddus o fewn ein harcial nl. Y dyr. fW yn ei wyneb, Hawiidgarwch lond ei wedd, O'i lygaia cariad fiachia, Ac vn ei iaith ceir hedd. MewÏ1 dysg, a moes, II rhinwedd, Mae'n aadurn Tn y wlad, 1'1' gweithwyr dan 1'1 ofal Mae iddynt bwy yn dad. Kid Pharaoh awdurdodol, Y w'n Y5gwyd illaJ1&ell tral A llwyddo drwy ddychrynu Hi wyr i wneyd ei guis Ond loan drwy ei gariad, Yn enill pawb mewn bedd, ] uflJddhau i'w ddeddiau E6b angen tynu cledd. O 1 mar roesawgar yayw Ej ymweliadau mwyn, A 1 weithwyr yn y 101.. Ac fe] y ewyn Ei at-eb hynaws, p.roil, Fel balmo Giiead l'ydd, Y n doti poen a phryder 1 fynwes fwyaf prudd. DibaIal feusronydd, Y n Ilvtnder daear ddo, A chyfirehwyiiwr odineth 0'; ffvrdd geir yno'n IIn Cudd glowr dyfal, Drwy ei fedrusrwydd et, A wneír i ni mar amlwg A 'strydoedd hardd mewntrel Fel adeiladyddcywrain, Gwnaetb enw iddo I bUD, Drwv ei gynlluniau medrus o adeiladau cun, Mae'n oruchwyliwT enwog, G-ofalus. doeth, a Tihur, Tn hawlio ymduiriedaetii 11011 weithwjT goreu'r tir. Anwylddyn gan yr ardal Yw Rowlands yu ddin.2m, Ei hollder sydd 0 bono Vn dyner hoffder mam; Etbolwyd i'r Bwrdd Ysgol," Em gwron llJeWn mawrhad, Ac yntau yno eistedd I wasanaethu'i wlad. Fet priod i'w gvdmares, ^Athad i'w anwyi blant, Slae Bowlands yma eto Y TI un i'w gael mewn cant; Cyughorwr doeth i'w deulu- Fvnonell ei mwynliaa, Mtie'n euwog YI1 yr ardai F el priod ac Cel tad. Fel Uanw'r mor boel 1rldo 1 ehwvddo Tn ei fri, Ac YIl ddefnyddicldeb Hyd drothwy'r bedlrod du, Hir ddyddiau fydded idû", Yn Danygraig i fyw. Mewn fredd, II. llwydd—ac yns Cartrei'ed gyda Duw. Tonypandy. (S WBTTDD.

ODDS AND Ems. The Most Disinterestedly Good. Those who are good foraotliing. A boy who was kept after school for |b*vd ortho- gr aphy excused himself to liis parents by saying tl-ai he was spell-bound. Why is it so much easier to untie an engage:n?'.it 0" marriage than a marriage tier—Because tiic engagement is only a beau knot. ?.!an ie the gudgeon—woman is the line; h^r smile, the noa.t her kiss, the bait. Love is the hook and man .age is the frying-pan. A man boasted that he carried off an entire timber yard in his left hand. It turned out that the rimbf>r yard was a three-foot rule. Cleanliness is generally regarded as a virtue, but ;n Germany they call a bath "bad," and even in France they look upon it %s a "bain." Papa. are you growing taller all the time?" "No, my cnild; why do you ask Cause the top ,.f your head is poking up through your hair." Another Definition. — Teacher What is the deSnitior. of flirtation'V" Intelligent young lady pupil: It is attention without intention, sir." It is said nearly 10,000 persons die annually in Bengal fr< >m snake bites. A great many persons die evcr\ year in this country just from seeing the reptiles Jones complained of a bad smell about the post office, and asked Brown what it could be. Brown didn know, but suggested it might be the dead letter: mowing advertisement appears in a South f n1Can Ministers and others are respect- fully requested not to marry Isaac Samson, who has already a wife &n(j family." In a swre in Fulton-street, New York, is the P. f eLaven helps those who help themselves. 1 elp those caught helping themselves in tms store." ° & I An Ohio man who pumps the bellows of the organ m his own native town savs he can pump I any tune mtoan organ which any musician can plar. But perhaps he never tried the organ of the administration. A married lady declined to tell a maiden sister any of her troupes, saying," When ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be w"Yes," replied the sister," and I'n come Uu> eonelusion that' When singleness is bliss, 'tis folly to be wives. In speaking of a newly-wedded pair, a gentleman said of the husband, The trouble with John is, he has no mind of his own." Oh, that will make no difference Sarah will alwaysbe readyto give him a piece of hers I" responded a lady. The father of a St, Louis bride, present.ed his son- ln-law with eighty thousand head of cattle. "Papa, dear, exclaimed his daughter when she heard of it. it was so kind of you to make such a gift, Charley s awfully fond of ox-tail soup "1 give up By-nahing: it is a light volatile, dissipated pursuit," wrote Sydney Smith. But ground-bait, with a good steady float that never bobs wituout a bite, is an occupation for a bishop, and in no way interferes with sermon making." ] Alphonse Karr, talking of food adulteration, re- marked, It's very curious, isn't it ? If I poison mv p^~er' ^e very lightest sentence would be hard labour for life. But. if my grocer poisons me—ah, that s a different thing He is fined fort}" francs." fi T ^re„- ou a good rider ?" asked the liveryman- am' answ-ered the customer and iust then the horse reared, then stood on his fore feet and kicked at the clouds, and the customer finished his remark from the hayrack, saying, See how easilv I get off." o The times are hard, my dear." said a man to his better half." and I find it difficult to keep my nose above water." You could easily keep your nose above water." returned the lady, "if vou didn't keep it so often above brandy." j Previous good chajacter" counts in Texas. A man who was on trial for arson brought forward witnesses to prove that he had neglected two good chances to steal horses, and the iurv decided that no such man couid have been guilty of burning a barn. Lord Squanderer: Overdrawn, Mr. O'Hagan ? Why, I cast up the pass-book myself and found over a thousand in my favour Mr. O'Hagan "Ah, me lord, it's a trifling mistake ye've made ve've cast the year of our Lord into the poun's. Troth it's roll- ing in riches we'd beif we could only discount Annia Dominy 1" 1 The poet Heine, in speaking of the great Leverrier, said, What a fuss they are making about this astronomer, to be sure I should like to know what good he has done to the world. For myself,I do not care a penny for new planets. I should think much more of him if he had discovered a new species of potato The eccentric Mississippi River ij showing a disposition to seek a new outlet to the gulf by way of the Atchafalayo River, and New Orleans is somewhat excited over the- prospect of being made •\n irdand town. The inhabitants are industriously I engaged in damming the stream, using an "n" for the fourth lerter of the word, and performing the operation with their mouths. A Cincinnati man strangely disappeared. The shrewdest detectives were put on his track, and at the end of nine weeka they seemed to be no nearer him than when they started. Then a close observer of human nature gob- the mayor to appoint the missing man to a position in the city government. Two hours later the appointee, all outuf breath, dashed into the mayor's office to be sworn in. Once Bit. Twice Shy.—A Chicago ir.sn visiting Cincinnati was being shown around Ly a citizen who said, Now let's go &nd see the Widows' Home." Thp Chicago man put his fineer by the side of his nose and winked, and he said," Not much, Mary Ann, I "-In'\( :1 widow home one*, and it cpst I. mr §16,000. She sued nie for breach of promise, and proved it on me. :I; 0, sir, send the widows I home in a hack." Instead of saving space and composition by simply saying a man died. the Boston 1 nvestigator said •• He passed the boundary which limits our I knowledge of the duration uf individual conscious- ness" Coming during such excessively hot weather, this is rather roughon the average reader, but as it was given birth to in cultured Boston it must pass. It is hoped, however, that the writer's attack is only temporary. This story is told of Belva Lockwood, the female lawyer of Washington. A witty fellow was once her opposing counsel, and when he desired to refer her opposing counsel, and when he desired to refer to the Hon. Belva was perplexed. He could not siiy my bqother," as he did when speaking of the lawyers of his own sex. He did not like to say "my sister." out of respect to that expression. He caused a smile by reierring to Belva as my .sister- in-law," but she certainly looked daggers at him. Sir David Wilkie, like most men, had some one or two peculiarities and pet phrases. One of them was the constant use of the word "re-at-ly ?" Calcott used to tell a story in regard to this peculiarity. One day he said to him. "Wilkie. do you know that everyone complains of your continual re-al-ly' "Do thev re-al-ly ?" "You must leave it off." "1 wiU re-al-ly." My good fellow, don't keep repeating it, it annoys me." "P.R.-al-1" said Wiikie. in the most pravûkiugJy simple and innocent tones. Lor. missus." said an oJd darkey, "what mek you pay money fur to seud the chile to school ? I got one smart ooy, Jonas, but I larns him myself." But, aunt Charlotte," replied the lady. how can TOU teach the child when you don't know one letter from another" How I teach him said the old woman. I jes mek him t.ek de bookand set down on de fio". and den i say, Jonaa. you tek ye eyes from dat book, much less leggo him, an' I ålcins you alive I'' The late eccentric writer George Borrow suffered from whal he caiied the horrors," which was nothing more than the nervousness that accom- panies all overwrought mind. brought on by too much metaphysics, which led him into the origin of nature and ol his own being; but. when he found himself approaching the vanishing point of reason, m5 remedy was at hand. What do ycm think I do," he said,M when I get bewildered after thisfaskior v I go out to the ¥tyle and listen to the .grunting of the pigs till I get back to myself." A smart but -ambitious Buriicgton man wrote his name and address on =a ten dollar bank-note, so that thousands of people would think of him as they handled that money. Four days afterwards the note was traced to him by this means, with the pleasant discovery that it was counterfeit. When he wants toO write his name on any place now, he stands on the corners anc signs petitions for pardons, and offices, and new-side-walks, and a free ferry, and another sewer, and lor one thing and another. I "Onr little Bolshyr of four rears had been 1 lectured bv his aunt .on the evil of disobedience to parents, and the example was shown him of a boy who disobeyed his mother and went to the river and got drowned. Did he die V" said Robby, who had given tbestorvall due attention. Yes." was the serious reply. What did they do with him?" asked Bobby, after a moment's reflection. Carried him home, replied the aunt, with due solemnity. After Turning the matter over in his mind—profit- ably, it was hoped—lie looked up and closed the conversation by asking, Why didn't they chuck him in again *r": Scene—Lodging-house lodger has just called in his landlady- Lodger—" I say. this is not the four- pound roast, I left yesterday." Landlady—"I assure vou, sir, no one in this house has touched your meat; it is there ac you left it." Lodger— puw.led—" Have you a cat in the house V" Land- lady—" Yes, sir." Lodger—* Oh, you have ? Vren, ma'am, would you give that accomplished animal my comDlim-ints and say that 1 have no objection to let her have a share of my roast so long as she uses her teeth like other cats, but that I strongly object to her using mustard and leaving some sticking to the meat." A gentleman sat Sunday after Sunday imme- diately behind a brown haired man, Preparing to leave the church after an evening service, and being in rather a hurry to get out. this gentleman 1\ accidentally whisked the corner of the cloak he Waf putting-on o-rer his neighbour's head; turning to apologise, be could nowhere see the brown- haired man who the moment before had been seated in from of him. but in his place a total stranger with a very bald head- Before he had recovered from his surprise at this conjuring trick, the bald- beaded stranger, putting his hand to his head and turning round to him, remarked, I think, sir, that you have knocked mv hair into your pew." The following is the exact copy of a letter picked up by a policeman at Cambridge, U.S. A.—"Emmer, I shan't tremble YOU with my preMDCe no more. There is iust of good fish left in the see as you are. I don't care a cuss for yer father. 1 dont care nothing for what I say. 1 don't care much whit I do,yer seem to fed stuck up above ahorse car driver, if my hands is lsrge my heart is to. I want yer to understand that it is ter cry tears, but at the same tim.* yer hart may be tuffem a bell strap. I am going ter leave Cambridge soon and I docPt care where I go. I wish 1 waa dead and I wish yer father would peymp. for the Ulster collar he yanked off. He better b? careful how he intends to fire a shotgun inter my body. I can git along if I a'D\ his son-in-law. I shan't trouble you no more, ana if we never meet no more in the put I have done my duty Good bi forever.—John