[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.J SABINA ZEMBRA. A NOVEL, BY WILLIAM BLACK, Author of "MACLEOD or DARE," "A PBINOESS olp THULIE," CHAPTER I..LV.—C0.srxKAT0B3, "Ø' INDSAY did not sleep well that jf V night, and next morning he was -ft up betimes, and off by an early train to Witstead. During those telltles8 houra he had begun to doubt. Perhaps his interference at such a crisis was just a little high handed, and toight provoke resentment. Perhaps Sabina ought to know why he had urged her immediate having for Buckinghamshire? Indeed there were a hundred plausible reasons why he should go down and consult Janie, and see that Sabina was got safely away. But he rather strove to conceal from himself the real reason, which Vras this-he wished Sabina to understand that, despite the knowledge he had just acquired, he was just as touch her faithful friend as ever. To pass her by without recognition? That was not likely. There was another thing which he tried to hide from himself, or to forget, and that was—the tragic hopelessness of the whole transaction. What was her futura life to be? And his own? Perhaps there was nothing dramatically pathetio in his position—no definite sorrow to be met and conquered—no sudden blow of evil fortune to be faced. A grey waste of years makes no particular appeal to the human heart. And indeed, for his own part, he deliberately avoided looking at any such prospect. The immediate details he mado matters of importance, and atrova to confine hie attention to them. As soon as he knew when Sabina could start, he would telegraph to the Red Lion Hotel, High Wycombe, asking the land- lord to have a conveyance ready to take her to Missenden..And then, as regarded himself? Well, he went no further than the meetings of the Monks of St. Giles, in New York. These were quite merry and pleasant. But his face looked rather pallid and worn as he sate in the rail- way carriage and absently looked at the passing landscape. When he reached the cottage he asked for Janie, and presently Janie appeared, looking scared and breathless. Ob, Mr Lindsay, -1 have something dreadful to tell yon," she broke in at once, betore he could tnake any excuse for his visit. Sabie has told ttie everything at last..After you left last night, she was in a dreadful way; she was crying, and saying she bad never received such kindness from any human being as from you-and that you Would despise ber-aiid-and-be ashamed to think you had ever made her your friend. And than she told me-what she had intended to tell you, but she hadn't the courage-" Yex, said he, coming to her aid, for he could Bee how agitated she wam, "but don't vex your self about it. I know the wnole story. I had the honour of Mr Fred Foster's company at dinner last night." She stared at him—-lie^seeir.ed to take the mat- ter so quietly. I met him at the gate as I was going away-" "We heard some people talking," she said, breathlessly. And as I thought he was drunk, I coaxed him into going back to London. I admit it was rather a cool thing to do, but I don't see how any harm can come of it. He got a good dinner, and went off home a little more sober than when I found him—not that I say he was really drunk— I fancy he was as much stupefied as anything else." "But," said Janie, in a bewildered way, "but ■"•you are not angry with Sabie 2" Angry? On what account?" For allowing us all to think he was dead." I suppose she had sufficient reasons." "Ah! didn't I tell her you would say that?" Jaaie exclaimed, triumphantly. "Didn't I say you would pass a charitable judgment on anything she did ?" "But I don't wish to judge her at all," he said, calmly. And you don't want to be told why it was that Sabie allowed such a thing" I certainly don't ask to be told," he answered. "I assume that you know her reasons. Yet you don't seem to have fallen out with her. And why should I presume to be her judge in any caKe 2" "Perhaps you don't know how she values your good opinion," Janie said. And then she hesi- tated. Yej, I suppose you would be content to say, 'We! whatever it was that happened, Sabie did what was right, and you would ask nothing further about it. But if I were to let you go away like that, I know what she would &ay—she would say, 'Ah, you dared not tell him, you were afraid to see what he would think of me-you hesitated because you knew you would be cutting adrift from aile the best of all of my friends.' You un- derstand, Mr Lindsay, that she is far more sensi- tl Vu now than she used to be-her troubles and her living alone have altered her a good deal-and if you only knew how anxious she is you should not think hardly of her." It was clear that Janie herself was considerably anxious, if her face told true tale. She says a woman would understand her posi- tion a little better—and perhaps forgive her ■ but not you." i never heard yet,"waid be, "that man was likely to be more uacharitable towards a woman than another woman would be. I should have thought it would be the other way about." "Supposing," Janie said. rather doubtingly and she fixed her eyes on him, "supposing that Sabie was accused of-of-obtaining money on false pretences." I should not believe it," he said, simply. "But—but if it was true? I suppose nothing would excuse it ? You would never forgive her— a man would never forgive her ?" She was regarding him with piteous eyes. "Now that you have told me so much, you must tell me the whole," he said. 44 Who makes such accusations?" It was her own phrase-he very words the used, when she was putting everything as harshly as it could be put, and then challenging me to say that you would not think ill of her. And if I tell you the story now—if I tell it badly —so that you have no sympathy with her, I am frightened-" "You need not be frightened," he said, "None or us who have known her are likely to think hardly of her, whatever she has done." "And indeed it was all Foster's doing!" Janie pleaded earnestly. He terrified her into it. He was at his wit's end for money. He declared that there was but the one chance to save him from utter ruin. Then he gut her to go Sir to Anthony, but that was no use-and she knew it would be 00 use. Foster was desperate; Sabiua herself does not understand what scheme he had on foot; but he was determined to get some money somehow; and so he made sure that if notice of his death were sent to Sir Anthony, there would be some provision made for the supposed widow. And du you know how he forced her into it ? He swore on oath that if she didn't help her in that way, be wculd take the boy away with him to Australia, as soon as the lain allowed him to do that, and that she would never see either of them agaiu. It wasn't the first tims he had made the throat—he had made it before, and, ob, Mr Lindsay, if you had seen Sabie the day she came to us to tell us— it was terrible, terrible I never saw any one so wild with alarm and despair. Just the one thing she lived for to be taken out of her life Of course, Phil told her that Fostsr could not do such a thing just then. But she said it was all the more horrible to ba looking forward to it when the boy would be her comiunion. Fancy child of seven to be taken away from the mother-and that is English I %w! She says herself she thinks she must have been half mad; -4be clung to the little boy so; and she was in such terror. Foster did ic ail. He had an advertisement of his death put in the Yorkshire paper; and all she did was to iieiid that to Sir Authony, and to us, and ask us not to come down for a time. When Sir Än- thony a.id I did come down, she»was like a stone. And ot course neither of us pretended to offer her jympatbv; I suppose both of us were secretly jympatbv; I suppose both of us were secretly -il-I that the wretch wa.s gone. Sic Authony gave her a cheque there and then; and he doubled her allowance—making it what it was before her marriage. Of course every farthing of that—every shilling she oould scrape together—being claimed by that scoundrel. Now that is the whole extent of it—and it was all done under the terrorism about the taking away of her little boy. Mr Lindsay," said Janie, at the end of this appeal— and her eyes were filled with tears, "you are not going to give up Sabie ?—you are not going to ask me to tell her that you are no longer her friend 2" I am sure you will tell her nothing of the kind—so long as my friendship is of any use to her," he said. It is a pitiable story. I suppose in her present state she exaggerates her share in it. And so she thinks a man wauld take a less charitable view of it than a woman ? Well I don't know about that. I think a man can see what bar situation was just as well as a woman,— a very miserable and nuhappy situation, that one naturally wishes she had never iound herself In- But it's your forgiveness ehe seeks for," said Janie, timidly. "My forgiveness?" he repeated. "I refuse to utter a single world of blame." Then Janie laughed through her tears. "Ah, didn't I say that?—when she wouldn't bslieve me. And she is making all the reparation she can," Janie added, eagerly. You see the death of the poor little boy left her free. Foster has no longer any hold over her. She won't take another penny of any kind from her father; as soon as she gets down into Buckinghamshire she is going to write to him, and confess everything, and give up the whole of her allowance. Old Mr Foster is only too glad to have her go and live with him, and Sabie never bad expensive habits. Then as for her husband, I suppose the old gentle- man can easily prevent his coming about the place-Fred Foster will now be entirely dependent on him." She looked at him anxiously. "1 don't know how it is," she said, "but always you seem to bring strength and calmness with you—and a sense of safety. This morning when I woke, I thought everything was at its worst; there did not seem a glimpse of hope anywhere; and even when I thought of you, it was with a kind of fear—for I was not quite sure—I was not quite so sure as I pretended to be to Sabie. But now, now you will let me tell her ¡-ou don't think 80 badly of her-" That is not the message," said he. If you think she cares for my opinion at all, you may tell her that I quite understand bow she was driven to give an unwilling consent, and that I have no blame for her—none." "It will be one little bit of happiness. for her," said Janie. "And I suppose she will be safe from his persecution down there. It's little he knows why she was 80 tame and obedient before. That is all over now, and that of itself is something. But," she added wistfully, "I had .been look- ing forward to a very different future for our Sabie." You got my telegram last night, I suppose," he said. Yei; and I shall be as glad to get away as she will. Fancy it Foster were to come down and find me here 1" "Well, is he a person to be afraid of! But I will see to that. He will not come down here until you are both of you away. When can you go ?"| "The few things will be packed to-day, and I think we can leave to-morrow morning." Very well; you needn't be afraid of Foster coming down," said he. "Then I suppose you know what to do. Sabina will tell you whether it is to High Wycombe or to Prince's Risborough you should telegraph to have a trap waiting. And of ceurse you will telegraph to Missenden as well. I suppose it is too much to ask that you should go with her all the way" "But I have Phil's strict orders Janie ex- claimed. I am not to leave her until she is com- fortably settled in her new home." Oh, that is all right," he said. "I shall be glad to have a line from you whea everything has been arranged. He rose to go. And you 7" said Janie. He understood well enough the meanitSg of this half-frightened question; but he only answered carelessly— u Ob, well, I have still some things to get finished up at Burford Bridge. And I have been thinking of running down to Scotland for a few days, to put my small affairs in order. After that —I don't know." "I will write as soon as Sabie is settled in Buckinghamshire," Janie said. "I suppose you would not ca.re to see her now ? No; it would be better not. She is very much upset, and I should like to prepare her. Oh, she will be so glad to know that you still think well and kindly of her. There is not anyone whose opinion she values so much." Make her mind perfectly easy about that, then," he sai3, in parting, and then he left the house and returned to London. This was an objectless kind of day, somehow. He did net know what to do with himself. He could find no employment in his studio. He walked along to the Arts Club, and dawdled away some time there, reading magazines, smoking, chatting to casual droppars-in. Then he went out into the melancholy dusk of the London after- noon, and wandered about the streets and squares, watching here and there the golden gleam of a newly-lit gas-lamp suddenly shoot through the grey. Finally he got back to the club again, or- dered a bit of dinner, and sat down at a small table by himseIf-which was not his usual way, for he had heaps of friends and acquaintances. One of these came into the room. "Halla, Lindsay, all alone ? What's the mat- ter?—you're looking rather glum. And yet you shouldn't be. Of course you've heard what they're prophesying about you ?" I have heard uothing-l have been down in the country." "You don't mean to say you haven't heard that there is a knighthood being got ready for you? Don't you know that ——— talks of resigning? then, as a matter of certainty, the Society will elect you their new President; and eyeryone says the Queen will rise to the occasion. My congratu- lations, Sir Walter The recipient of this news did not seem to take much interest in it, however perhaps the contin- gency was too remote; perhaps the Lindsays of Carn-ryan could afford to be indifferent about any such decoration. "I will join you—to the extent of a sherry-aud- bitters," said this amiable new comer, drawing in a chair. "But what is the matter really? You look very depressed." "I have reason to be depressed," Lindsay said, d and I will tell you what it is. Either to-night or to-morrow morning I have to meet a man, and my difficulty will ba to keep from murder- ing him. If I mnrder him, it will be bad for me. If I don't, it will be a distinct disservice to the country iu which the hound is allowed to live That's all." What has he done to you?" Nothing to me." Ob, nonsense, people don't take such violent dislikes for nothing—unless you are chaffing. Or is there a woman in the affair?" "There is in a way," Lindsay answered frankly. It is hi s conduct to bis wifeihat beats anything in the way of meanness—meanness and brutality —that was ever heard of. If I was to tell you here, now, you would want to kick him across the square and back again, and along down Oxford- street until your boots gave out. And the infernal ruffian dined with me last night! I didn't know the fifteenth part of what he had done. And be dined with me—sate at the same table Lindsay had begun his story in the ordinary one of clnb persiflage, but there was a darker lght gathering iu his eves.. His companion hesitated for au instant, and then made bold to gay— My good friend, pray excuse me. I don't want to intermeddle; but I would strongly advise you to come out of that. It is a very dangerous position. When a man has strong sympathy with a married woman who has been injured, and would like to kick and cowhide the husband- mind I am not speaking of this particular case- but I have noticed that mischief generally comes of it. ou, of all people, too You know the kind of talk tbatgoes on about everybody. Well I never heard your name coupled with the came of a woman, even in the most innocent way. Oh. yes, there was once, of course. You were pretty badly bit that time; but I suppose yen have for- gotten all about ijt now. Let me see, what was her name? The beautiful tall giri, with the splen- did hair, who came once or twice to Mrs Mellord's. She lived down in Kensington square with some old people—" "I known whom you mean," aid Lindsay, shortly. "But you have forgotten her name! Lord, Lord, what faithfulness there is in man!" Her name, then? Oh, yes, I think I remem. ber something about her getting married." And tben he seemed to be struck with some sudden fancy, and he looked quickly at Lindsay. "I say, Lindsay, you don't mean that——" He stopped, and his silence was more signifi- cant than words. He dared not even ask whether the Miss Zembra of that time was the married woman whose injuries were now appealing to Lindsay's sympathy, and to bis indignation and anger. But the sherry and bitters was finished. He rose. Of course anything I said was only in chaff," he said, but men do get into scrapes in the most innocent way. And anybody going dowQ to Windsor to be knighted would have to have a clean record, as the saying is." Murder might be objected to?" Lindsay said, If I were you, 1 wouldn't see that man, either to-night or to-morrow morning," his acquaintance said. "Just you take care. There can be no harm in giving so wuc^ advic^ Ta ta! I am going to dine at the Restaurant, and Lord have mercy on my sou}!" But Lindsay was not much alarmed. Having finished with dinner, he went upstairs to the smoking-room. and there, after some deliberation, wrote4 note to Fred Foster, asking him to call at his (Lindsay's) studio the next day at noon, the money would then be waiting for him. He de- spatched this note by a commissionaire a little after eight o'clock; and be guessed that it was not likely Foster would think of going down to Wit- stead at so late at an hour; while, as for the fol- lowing morning, he would have to be in London at least until twelve. CHAPTER XLVI.—A KEEPSAKE. Punctually at noon Fred Foster arrived, and was shown through the house and through the garden to the studio. Lindsay was standing with his back to the fire, smokidg his pipe. When be heard the footsteps outside, he said to himself, Now, can I keep my hands off the scoundrel ? Can I leave England without telling him what a coward and sneak he is? Is it to be kicking? Or breaking a stick across his back?" Buttheinstant the door was opened, all that vanished from his mind. Contempt, pure and simple, took its place. He regarded this miserable creature with loathing, not with anger; briefly bade him good morning, and then turned to stir the fire, so as to avoid the necessity of shaking hands. "Snog quarters on a cold morning like this," said Mr Foster, in a friendly and familiar way. You. are lucky fellows who can live in a dream- land of your own, instead of being buffeted about tha world-" „ "I have the money ready for you," Lindsay said, curtly, and he walked across the room to his writing-desk. Of course you understand X don c take it as a loan," Foster remarked, with some little assump- tion of dignity. I take it on commission. If it was a loan, I would five you my IOU for it I will not trouble you," said Lindsay, with marked coldness. Foster glanced at him with a twinkle of anger in his half-dazed eyes. Supercilious beast!" was doubtesa in bis mind but there was a vision of a pale blue cheque before him, and that kept him respectful. All he said was- Of course you won't, for I don t mean to. I take the money on commission, as I say; and ex- plained to you the other night that, it the horse -wins, you must expect to be paid the odds that are now quoted in the market. You will get a percentage on the money—that is all; but I dare say it will be handsome enough to satisfy you if we pull the tiring off." Lindsay handed him the cheque without a word It was a heavy pnee to pay—but bv this time Sabina would be on her way down into Buck- inghamshire. „ With anything like luck, 1 oster said, as he folded up the cheque and put it in his pocket, I ought to be able to return you a little slip of paper with considerably bigger figures on it. And I think we are pretty safe this journey. It s about time something was coming my way-I've had such a cursed run of luck as never was heard of FRED FQSTEB GETS A CHEQUE FBOM MB LINDSAT. in the world before. And if we do pull it off this time, it will be to a pretty tune, I promise you. It's going to be, a big thing, one way or the other. Just you wait to see what the 17th of March wiU bring forth." In the meatime," said Lindsay, when are you going down to Witsead ?" Foster stared, as much as to say, "What's that to you ?" "Because," Lindsay continued, I should like you to make arrangements to let my housekeeper come back home again as soon as possible." "Your housekeeper? What is she doing thero 2" If you had been in your own bouse while your child was ill, you would know," was the answer, The little girl was afraid of the fever-or her people were-and she left. It was necessary to have someone at once, and I sent my housekeeper down. It is time she was home again." Well, why doesn't my wife let her go!" said he. As I understand it, Mrs Foster was going down to your father's, and my housekeeper was to remain in charge of the place until you showed up. That was the arrangement, I believe." "My wife going down to Buckinghamshire?' he exclaimed. Who told you that ?" "Janie." Lindsay looked at him curiously, and with pa- tience. Indeed there was no cause gfor any dis- quietude now. She would be on her way to Wycombe by this time in an hour or two she would be safe in her new home. And so this poor weakling of a creature with the shaky fingers, and dazed eyes, and half-be-mused brain, —imagined that he had still a held over Sabina, when he C9uld no longer terrify her with threats of taking away her child? It was amusing, in a way. Did he think it was his force of character? Or the majesty of the law behind him? Well, undoubtedly the majesty of the law was behind him but his own pecuniary interests were of more immediate importance to him; and Lindsay did not anticipate that the old gentleman in Mis- senden would find mnch difficulty in inducing his worthy son to leave Sabina in peace. "Well, I'm off said the gentleman with the cheque in his pocket. "Much obliged for your confidence. Hope you won t find it "misplaced." This time it was the opening of the studio door that relieved Lindsay of the necessity of shaking hands. Good morning, I suppose you will be able to find your way out ?" Ob, yes—don't you trouble. Good morning." It was the last time these two ever saw each other. And then Lindsay began his preparations for going away somewhere, for he had grown tired of England, and wished for a change. He was fond of travel and fresh scenes, and he could find oc- cupation for himself wherever he went. So, first of all he returned to Burford Bridge, and finished up his work there; then he made a journey north- ward to his native Kingdom of Galloway, and saw that his small belongings in that famous county were being properly looked after and finally he engaged a berth in a White Star liner. New York was to be the first objective point. And yet he did not like the idea of leaving England without saying good-bye to Sabina—any more than he liked the idea of presenting himself I before her a solitary and unsummoned visitor. He went to Janie about it. "I know quite well," he said, "that I was of some little service to her down there in Surrey; but she may think I am pressing too much of a claim on ths strength of that." "Tben it's little you understand Sabie," Janie answered promptly, and what is more-if you have any regard for her at all, you won't leave the country without going to see her. She will never believe that she is tully reinstated in yoor good opinion unless you do that. Of course I tola her all you said—and very glad and very grateful she was. But assurances of that kind coming from a third person are never quite satisfactory. Mr Lindsay, you will go and see Sabie!" "She might think it strange, my going there alone," he said, doubtfully. Will you go if she asks you?" Most certainly." Then wait till the day after to-morrow." On the morning indicated by Janie there came to hIm a ery friendly-if rather timid-little note from Sabina, saying she bad beard from Janie that be was leaving Englad for some time. and intimating that if it was not altogether too incon- venient for him, she would like to have the oppor- tunity of bidding him good-bye. He sought out a time-table; there was a train at eleven o'clock. And so, in due course, he found himself on bis way to Prince's Risborough; for he thought be would like to have a walk across the Chiltern hills, to have a last look at an English landscape; besides, that would time his arrival at Great Missenden for about five o'clock, when he could not incommode the unknown household in any way. The journey down was uninteresting, for a cold grey mist robbed the landscape of any colour it might otherwise have had. But perhaps his eyes were busy with other things than those visible through the carriage-window. It seemed to him as if be was bent on a double leave-taking—this was, a last look at England, and a last good-bye to Sabina, too. Arrived at Prince's Risborough station, he asked for some scrap of lunch at the refreshment-room there, but they could give him nothing. They suggested that if he went on to .the village, he might fare better at the George. "If it's only bread and cheese," he said to himself, as be set out again, "I must have some- thing." For he was not going to have Sabina inconvenienced by the appearance of a hungry visitor. Great, however, and unexpected was his great fortune at the George—a small inn in the main thoroughfare of this dead-alive and melancholy village. He suddenly found himself in the land of Canaan, fox, thert- WQJS a market ordinary going on in the principal room, and they got a place for him with great politeness, and made him very welcome at the bountiful feast. Indeed this was not the first time by many thr.t he had noticed the good fellowship, and friendliness, and courtesy shown by a number of strangers thrown together in an English inn, a courtesy ofiwbich he had never seen the like in any other country he bad visited, and he had been a considerable traveller. So far from each man attending solely to his own wants, and gulping his food as if he was running to catch a train, there was a general helpfulness that was almost obtrusive, and there was an air of leisurely comfort about the proceedings, as if each man knew that his dog-cart was outside, awaiting bis good pleasure. And he liked the wholesome, and healthy, and sturdy look of these elderly farmers, with their silver-grey whiskers, and ruddy com- plexion, their clear blue eyes, and their deliberate, strongly accentuated, masculine speech. Their humour was not very subtle, perhaps their poli- ticcl views were robust and definite, rather than learned; and plain common sense and attention to the substantial facts of life were doubtless more in their way than a gay facetiousness. Nevertheless, judging by a tolerably wide experience, this type of character was very grateful to Walter Lindsay, who bad long arrived at the conclusion that the clever, shallow, conceited, ignorant, believe-in- nothing London cockney is the mostdegraded and contemptible of all God'¡;¡ creatures-if such may properly be called. Then he set out to climb the Chilterns, keeping to the right of the great white cross which. cut on the chalk slope, is visible all the way from Oxford. The conditions were not favourable for his last look round. A pale mist bung along the hills; the wintry woods and hedges were colourless, but for here and there a. bit of green holly or russet beach; the sky was monotonously grey. And yet when he reached the top, and turned to regard the great plain stretched out before him—with its farm-bouses, and fields, and copses, and roads, all phantom-like in the prevailing haze-it was with not a little regret that be knew this was a leave- taking. He bad a great affection for England, if be was born a Scotchman. It was in England be bad lived the most of bis life add done the best of his work, And who more faithfully than himself had studied hermoods and ways—and communed with her in secret places—and got to know her elusive charm? For the beauty of English land- scape has subtleties that none but the painter knows, and it is only by patient habitude that these are revealed even unto him. Often enough, moreover, when be has caught and transferred to paper or canvas something of this coy gracious- ness the result is quite disappointing to the ordi- nary spectator, accustomed to the obvious charac- teris ics of Italian lakes, Swiss mountains, High- land glens, and the like. The chromo-lithographer is not at home in the English counties-or, at best, he goes up to Westmoreland, where he can get a nice, handy, portable edition of lake and moun- tain scenery, all within easy compass, and all of guaranteed prettiness. Up here, on the summit of the hill, the roads were filled with snow and half-melted ice, which made it difficult walking so, where it was prac- ticable, be made a path for himself through the leafless beech-woods. It was strangely still, in those solitudes4 there seemed to be no work going on at any of the farms; the remotest sounds were plainy audible in the bushed air. His own foot- steps, too, were noiseless on the yielding carpet of withered leaves. There was not a sign of life anywhere, except when a jay fled shrieking through the branches, or a long-tailed magpie flapped its silent way across the fields. He could not have been more alone in the forests of Champlain. He had carefully made out his route on the Ordnance Survey map before starting, and when at length he came in sight of a spacious mansion, standing at the summit at a noble avenue that sloped away down into the valley, he knew that this was Hampden House, and that here had livea the great Englishman whose refusal to pay Charles's ship-mpney bad rung through the land as a summons to England to stand by her ancient rights and liberties. And he wondered whether they had brought his body after the affray at Chal- grove to be buried here; and whether they had borne it, with solemn state, up this great and silent avenue. And he wondered, too-as a land- scape painter—where, except in England, one could find such an avenue-some three hundred yards he guessed its width, and over a mile its length, of velvet turf, where the snow allowed that to be visible, and planted on each side by magnificentheeche3 and Spanish chestnuts. Down this avenue be made his way to the Missenden road-startiiag a rabbit now and again from among the withered bracken and the snow. He knew that close by was the piece of land on which the ship-money was levied. Had any one thought of erecting some kind of memorial to mark so. inte- resting a spot ? _T However, it was neither John Hampden, nor the ship money, nor the fatal Chalgrove field that was in his mind when he drew near the village of Missenden. The old fasbiuned house, with its red brick walls and tall elm trees, and laurestinus bushel was pointed out tq him by a passer-by. He rang the bell, and was admitted by an elderly woman, who begged him to go into the drawing- room—Mrs Foster would be with him presently. So there he waited, glancing at the portraits and sketches on the walls, rather struck by the old- world look of the furniture and the qua.int decora- tions, and wondering whether Sabina had as yet had time to grow quite accustomed to the quietude of her new home.. The door opened; be turned instantly, and caught sight of a pair of eyes, timid, and yet shining, and placid, and gracaful. And this was not at all the pale Sabina he had expected to see. There was a flush of rose red on her face-the flush of a girl of seventeen; and she came to him quickly, with extended hand, as if her gladness at the sight of him had overcome her embarrasss ment. It is very kind of you," she said, simply. Janie gave me all the messages you sent, and- and that was only more of your goodness to me; but when I heard you were going away, weii, i- I—wanted to see you yourself to make sure that yeu really did forgive me-—" Yes, but we are not going to speak of that any more," said he, gravely. T^t,,8TallnHl^tood gone. Janie must have told you that I understood the whole situation perfectly." "And I am not even to thank you for being so l&ind There is no kindness in the fatter there may be a little common sense. Now, tell me- are you quite comfortable here? Do you like the Pl"Yes, indeed," she answered. "They do every tiling they can think of for me, and one Ty L just like another. It is a I wish for nothing better. Only, the ^added, with downcast eyes, "it is—very—far away—from WHet6knew what she meant; but he understood that Janie had undertaken to tend the little grave th"And you," she said, "why are you going away from England, after being home so short a time ?" Well, he began and gave her his reasons, or excuses, for going, and told her of all his plans and projects, and made the matter as cheerful as it might be. Then she asked him to go into the dininf-room, where old Mr 1 oster whose rheu- matism was pretty bad, was seated; had tea there, and fuirther talk. It. was pleasant to bear Sabma's voice. And sometimes there was a smile in her eyes. He began to think that m this quiet haven she might attain some :forgetfulness of tiie too ungenerous past, and that the J &ars migfat bring to her at least a placid garden visible through the window looked some- what dismal at present; but spring was coming, he could see Sabina among the young blossoms, in a light print dress, a pair of gardeners shears in her hand-perhaps a touch of peach-eolour in her cheek, and the bright sunlight on her golden- brown hair. ■. j The grey of the afternoon deepened; the elderly woman brought in the lamps; and then he r°"i have to walk to Wycombe," hesaid, "and I am not quite sure of the way-so I bad better be "fiut you raustnot get astray in the dark," Sabina said, anxiously. If y°u a minutes, I will send over to the IUD, and get A conveyance for you-indeed, you must do that, "It you are not too proud to go in a pony chaise," old Mr Foster said, with a lauKh, our lad can drive you across; I'm sure the cob doesn t get half enough exercise in this weather. Oh, thank you, I could not think of troubling you; bub I think what Miss Ze—Mrs Foster says is quite right—I shouldn't like to miss my way— so I'll go to the inn in passing, and get a tra.p to take moiover. I may catch an earlier train, too, at Wycombe." He spoke rapidly and confusedly; he hoped neither of them had noticed the hall-stumble. But indeed she had been looking so young, and speaking in a pleased way, as in the olden days- and also, perhaps he was a little bewildered by the knowledge that now he was about to bid her farewell, probably for many years. He was a little breathless when he found that she came out after him into the hall. Mr Lindsay," she said, and she stood facing him in the lamplight, but with her eyes down- cast, "good-bye is easily said; but if you are going away—perhaps for many years-weU. I should like you to think sometimes that I don't forget, that 1 never, never can forget, what your friendship has been to me. Would you take a little keepsake from me—just to remind you ? It was my grandfather's—my mother gave it to me." She timidly offered him the trinket. It was an old-fashioned ring—red gold and garnets. He held her hand in his; and for a moment he could not thank her at all. It will be a reminder, Will it not," she said, that I have not ceased to he grateful to you for all your kindness to me ?" "Aud if you only knew how I value it—and how I shall value it many thousands of miles away." He did not t?ust himself tu say more. Good-bye, and God bless you She opened the door for him; helooked oace at toe tender eyes, and then he was gOD (To be continued.}
THE 1 POACHER'S REVENGE; Or, The Mad Convict. If I By the Author of's Advtnturesof a Social Wastrel," The King of the Beggars," The Gentleman I Tramp," d:c. I CHAPTER XV.T—RECOGNISED BY "CHARLIE THE CHANTER"—ANITA'S DEVOTION—DICK'S ESCAPE. For more that a month Dick kept a sharp look- out for" Charlie the Chanters" but did not see him. "I suppose he is looked upon as a dangerous character," thought Dick, and on making cautious inquiries he found that such was the case, and that Charlie was kept a close prisoner in a padded room, having more than once tried to put aa end to his life, averring that he would rather die than stay there for the remainder of his life, as he expected he should have to do. But at last Charlie seemed to have got quieter, and the doctor no longer regarded it a. dangerous to allow him to mix with the other patients. Dick was weeding in the garden when Charlie made his appearance. The latter probably thought it was necessary to keep up an appearance of mad- ness, for his face wore a vacant expression, and he walked up and down with bis arms folded behind him and his head in the air. Dick soon found that he'was not the only one who knew « Charlie the Chanter." A tall, fine, good looking man, a late arrival, who appeared to shun his fellow- sufferers-and, indeed, never spoke to any one unless first accosted, and then only in monosyllables-watched Charlie with the same 1 watchfulness that a cat looks after a mouse. No- body knew anything of the tall stranger, but it was surmised that he must once have been a sailor, or a resident in a warm climate, his bronzed countenance bearing the marks of much exposure to the weather. What was the crime he had I committed which caused him to be sent there none of the other prisoners seemed to know. and his reserve made him anything but a favourite with the other inmates, or prisoners, as they might be termed; for there were many men rv i r°a Wk° were no more insane than Dick, and the monotony of the life they led made them pry into eaoh other's history and narrate their experiences in order to while away the time. Many of the other men appeared inchned to resent what they called the pride and uppis ness of the "Captain," as an attendant 1 TK a? S y but an unexpected exhibition of his herculean strength awed them into letting him alone. A heavy storm had blown down a arge ree in the grounds, and after some of the quie es o the inmates had sawn off the branches a. timber carriage was brought to carry awqfy the rU11- "v e men were "canting" it owar up an inc ined plane of two long planks on to the one of the pIanka broke in the middle, and bad not the Captain seized the eOti of the tree nearest him, and held it up by sheer strength, some of the men standing by would, no doubt, have been seriously injured. On another occasion a man who, when at exer- cise, or a work ia the garden, would persist in imitating the cries of all kinds of birds and animals, especially the crowing of a barn yard rooster, kept up his crowing till the" Captain's" patiencu was exhausted, and, seizing him by the r#i r 6 *va'sfcband of his pants, the Captain ifted him to the top of a rather high pump, and u° ,,im ■fl't there and crow till be was tired, u at I e kept it up very long, he would be put in the trough and pumped upon. On the second day of Charlie's appearance in the grounds, Dick was startled by the Captain walking over to him. t "YIUin? that man?" he said, nodding towards Charlie. Dick^63" reason to know him," replied Ah Why do you say so ?" • As I don t know you, why do you ask" "Because I think he is the man I have long wished to find. Tell me. by what name was he known to you outside ?" "'Charlie the "I was iure of it 1 Have you known him He does not seem to recognise you." « H f .Uu b° 6000 wUl do»" said Di< He i one of the two men but for whom 1" should now be rich-the recognised son of a big squire. I was stolen from home when a child, and that man had me in his keeping-how long I don't know. Had he a woman with him ?" Yes he called her Molly, and she tried to burn my only good eye with a red hot needle." "Molly? Are you Was it Polly 2" "No, It wasn't Polly." "Then he must have killed Polly-my only sister-before you can remember. He enticed her away from home just after 1 went to sea, and our poor mother never looked up after. When I came home, and was told that Polly had gone away with a man no better than a common tramp, a street stner, who had persuaded her that a jolly 1 f, #e rof was better than being what he called a farmhouse 8lavey>>1 vowed that if ever Fate brought me across 'Charlie the Chanter'I would wring his neck for ruining my sister." «»Tsr°U 7° n kill him?" said Dick. thJ T UOt'" 8aid ^e -Captain," but the ferocious gleam in his eyes startled Dick. There V«r" COIne with me now; maybe he'll and you can talk to bim then." -?^ar^e Pacipg along the gravel path » T Whea and the Cap- tain advanced to meet him. im 8a»d the "Captain," "it's a long ime since you showed your face at Sidmouth." Oharlie started, but, without replying, walked past. • ?e,r?' s,fc.°p '*„ Dou't run away from an old nend like that." Still Charlie walked on, taking no notice. The Captain followed, and seizing Charlie's arm in a vice-like grip, hissed in his ear, What, have you done with Polly Trenton? Come, it's no use to sham luny with me, you know." Dont know foul: Polly Trenton; leave me alone. If you don't confess where you left her I'll strangle you, and the "Captain" seized Charlie by the throat, as though he would carry out his threat. I tell you I don't know anybody of that name, repeated Charlie, now thoroughly frightened. Not now, perhaps; but you did. Where is she?" Dead! Died in the snow on the moors in the North. Poor Poll!" u Oh You pity her now, do you ? After en- ticing the girl away from home and dragging her about the country with you for years, you left her to die m a snowstorm. Oh 1 yes, I know all about it. I traced you from town to town, and at last found my Polly's grave in the little churchyard at Barnard Castle. And now I will kill he said, tightening his hold on Charlie's throat. If the attendants had not been keeping a sharp look-out on the patients the life would soon have been squeezed out of "Charlie the Chanter." But Charlie was a fairly strong man, and struggled hard with the Captain—long enough to bring three attendants to his rescue. With great diffi- culty they dragged the Captain away from Charlie, who forgot bis previous reserve, and said to Dick: "That was a near touch I thought it was all over with me." 'Twould have served you right. The world would be well rid of a scoundrel like you. "Why should you say so ? I've done nothing to you." Am I so much clianged.theu, by the smallpox that you don't know me ? Charlie stared at Dick for a moment, and then a look of recognition came into his face. it's Dick So you've bad the smallpox, and lost them burn marks. Well, you look all the better for it. Come, don't, be sulky, Dick." You scoundrel! What is to stop me doing what the Captain tried to just now?" Go away. I could twist you round on my finger," said Charlie, scornfully. He found oui his mistake when Dick seized him round the waist and threw him on the grass. The keepers rushed up, but finding that Charlie got up and that Dick did not continue the fight, they concluded the men were larking, and left them alone. "You're mighty clever, but I don't think you could do that again," said Charlie. "S'posin'I try," replied. Dick,-and again he grappled with Charlie. As recorded in one of our early chapters, Charlie was a powerful man, but what Dick lacked in strength he possessed in dexterity, and after a few moments' twisting and jumping about, Charlie was a second time laid on his back, much to his chagrin and discomfituie. "You're here for life, aren't you, Charlie?" asked Dick as they walked about. So I'm told but I shall slip it if I get a I chance, and I don't think it will be very difficult to get away from here. I wonder what that old I chap is about! He keep looking this way. and —ye», he's putting something under a sod by the I path. Wonder what it is." I The old man referred to by Charlie was an old Scotch gardener, a free man, under whose super- intendence the grounds were cultivated; He was reputed to be a miser, and was tuspected of trafficking with the inmates for tobacco, but bo was cute enough never to be caught, When the old gardener had gone to his dinner, Charlie would have gone to the spot where he had seen the man hide something, but Dick held him back. If there's anything, it is for me. What friends have you got outside likely to trouble themselves whether or not you die here ?" "Why, you cursed gipsy warmint, what do you J mean ? You can wrestle a bit, I know, but can you fight?" He had scarcely got the words out ere Dick, with a tremendous blow on the nose, floored him. Charlie jumped up, and at it they went. But Charlie was much older than when ho thrashed Squire Ciyst's gamekeeper, and Dick easily vanquished him. "A cursed gipsy, am I? You sneaking, cow- ardly bully ;^you haven't got a stolen child to deal with now For anything you cared, I should now very likely be going. about the country tied to a dog, with Pity the Poor Blind on a board round j my neck. The cursed gipsies, as you call them, told me all about it, you see. Keep out of my way, or the cursed gipsy will put your light out- not the light of your eyes, but your life." c u W° °u-t^le keepers had hurried up whilst the which was short, was going ou, and listened to Dick's indignant reply to Charlie's taunting language. Deeming Charlie the most dangerous of the two, he bavir. g killed a warder at Chatham, they walked him off. Now I can see what the old gardener was about, said Dick to himself, and he carelessly sauntered towards the spot. Glancing cautiously round to be certain that he was not observed, Dick found the Bod—it was opposite a monkey tree, a fact which he had noted. There was a small square package under the sod, containing a piece of cavendish tobacco, and a brief note from Anita, saying that she would ba in the neighbour- hood for soma time, and would see if there was any chance of his escape, if ho could get over the high wall without being noticed. If anyone bad seen-him pick up the package, nothing as said to him about it. To avert i suspicion, though he would have liked to use it himself, he dropped the tobacco in another part of the grounds. It was picked up by a patient really insane, and soon found in his possession by a keeper, the finder having boasted of his prize to everybody near him. Next day Dick kept a sharp look-out on the doings of the old Scotch gardener, but saw no in- dications of another communications from Anita. So several days passed, and Dick began to think she had left the neighbourhood. But one morn- ing when he went out to exercise he saw the old gardener by the monkey tree, and his hopes revived. It was not till after dinner that he could get near the place without being observed, S nf6" if hfd. read the brief, badly-written, and ul-spelt note be was consoled for the delav which bad unavoidably taken place. It was V 5le aQd was to the effect that as the foggy days were now coming on. Dick must take the nrst chance he bad on a foggy day ourmg the following three weeks to get o ver tha wall. Sol would be on the look-out for him every foggy day for that time, and would, for Anita's sake, help him to get; away. The wall round the grounds Dick judged 'to be no less than 21 feet high, but he saw no difficuity in getting over it. At regular intervals along the wall were buttresses to strengthen it, reaching nearly to the top, and made in such a way as to offer very little difficulty to a climber such as Dick pad shown himself to be. Morning after morning Dick anxiously watched the weather. More than a fortnight passed, and 8AVd,"° Was he going to be disaDpointed? Might not Sol become tired of waiting and leave the neighbourhood ? When only two days ra- ™V2 t t £ ree weeks, a thick fog came on suddenly when the men had just been turned out to exercise. -.The signal was at once given to get the inmates inside, but before this could be done, and without stopping to think whether Sol would be outside or not, Dick crept to the particular but- tress he bad marked out for the attempt, got to the top of the wall with little trouble, and let him- self down on the other side with a drop, alighting safely on his feet. f o Run for your life and follow me cried Sol who seemed to have known at exactly what part of the wall Dick would come over. Dick easily kept up to Sol, but before they had gone two hundred yards the sharp crack of a riflp was heard, followed by the whizz of a bullet past Tlmdid-ot friehtea them, or £ v their flight for an instant. Presently tbey came to a wood, into which Sol plunged, but ere they bad gone far he stopped. Take off your clothes, Dick," be said; and, climbing a tree be dropped a bundle from the fork of two large branches, the ivy with which the tree was covered having effectually hidden the bundle from any chance passer by. "Look sharp, and get them on Sling up those regimentals; indi- cating the clothes Dick bad been wearing, and which having come from a convict prison, were marked with a broad arrow, I Now we must separate. Thev will hav« spotted me strolling round the place yon came from, and it won't be safe for us to keep together from, and it won't be safe for us to keep together. Rub your face and bands with this," giving Dick a bottle. It will make your face a dark as a I, mulatto's. I must go now. Here's two quid. Make your way to London as well as vou can, and meet me at the gips' lodging house in Vine- street. No, I must not go there they know I was once along with the gipsies, and that house would be one of the first they would go to Who's they?" Why, the prison folks." They won't trouble much after you now • vou were in a madhouse, you know." Aye, but I was sent there as a convicted prisoner. Why did they fire at us ?" "Just so, and there'll be five quid reward for copping you. Well, meet me at Mother Dobbs's in Short's Gardens. Do you know where that is?" Rather Why, that's the first place I dossed at with Anita when we got to London." Oh then that won't do, for I shall bring Anita with me." [' £ nd tbat won't do either. The slops will find out that Anita came to see you in yonder hole, and they will set a watch on; wherever she goes they will go too." You're right, Dick; I didn't think of that i0U mac*e a K°°d 41)' yourself, and no mis- take. But where is it to be ?" sill take a private doss somewhere, and write to the Strand Post-office to tell you where, direct- ing my letter to Patrick Flynn. Don't forget the name. That's the ticket; Dick, you're a regular gent. Better stop in the wood till dark then keep be- hind the hedges, but close to the road, and get to London as soon as possible. Good luck to you, Dick take care the slops don't collar you." With a part of his asylum handkerchief, Dick applied the colouring stuff in the bottle to his face and neck and bis bauds and arms, noting with satisfaction that it made his skin very dark. Not till it was nearly dusk did he venture out of the wood, and then be followed Sol's advice, and kept behind the hedges. Seeing a woman coming along the road, be ventured to ask his way to London and was told to keep straight on. He was despe- rately hungry, Sol having forgotten to bring any food for him, and yet he dared noftry to buy any until he was further away from Broadmoor. "Oh! What's that ? A man lying asleep. A tramp, I expect. No. he's drunk, or he would not snore like that. What's in his bundle? A quartern loaf, a lump of bacon, tea, and sugar. A navvy going home with his'tommy'for to-morrow. Wei), he must buy some more, that's all." Breaking the bread, and tearing the raw bacon with his teeth, as well as he could, Dick made a hearty mealx and trudged along much faster than before. If I could only get a drink now before the pubs close I should do very well. Can I risk it ? Surely, they will not have heard of my escape in such a place as that ?" meaning a roadside public-house which be was nearing. He walked in boldly, got his pint of ale. and the landlady began counting out the change for his sovereign, whsn a country constable walked in. Instinctively Dick put np his band to cover his shut-up eye, but the constable took no notice of him, and he walked out. Have you seen a chap in prison clothes, with one eye?' said the constable, as soon as Dick had left. Np; that chap that went out had only one, but he had no prison clothes on," said the landlady. One eye, had he? But he was a mulatto it couldn't be him." But all the same, he ran out and, having noticed the direction in which Dick had turned on leaving the house, set off after him at his best speed. (To be continued.)
HAVING GREAl LARKS. What was that great racket I heard in your woodshed after you got home from fishing last 1 night ? asked one Esteliue small boy of another" It was me swingin' the buggy whip for fun," the other replied. the other replied. "But I heard somebody jumpin' around, tDo." Ob, that was pa, seeing if he could jump over the wash boiler and two tubs." "But who was it yelled so like thunder ? Why, every time he made an extra high jump he would holler, kinder in fun, you know."
The three things most difficult are-To keep a secret, to forget an injury, and to make good use of leisure. A SYX DISTINCTION.—" I've had two kinds of wives," remarked a twice-married man. The first was one of those timid creatures who would swoon away at the sight of a mouse, while the second was altogether different. But if she saw a mouse in the room, instead of grabbing the poker and kill- iug it like a man, she would chase it all around and upset the r-" iture trying to catch it between a pair of tones. It is a solemn thing, young man," said the broken-hearted father, to come into the home of an old man and take away his only daughter, the light of bis household and the prop of. his declining broken-hearted father, to come into the home of an old man and take away his only daughter, the light of his household and the prop of. his declining years. But you have my blessing, and I wish you every joy and—" "But I won't take her away, sir," interrupted the young man, inexpressibly affected. "We'll both stay right here."—New i York Sun*
Y GOLOFN GYMREIG. Dymunir i'n gobebwyr Cymreig gyfeirio eu goheb iaethau, llyfrau i'w hadolygu,&c., fel y canlynj: Dafydd Morganwg, Morganwg House, Llanticit- street, Cardiff.
BARDDONIAETH. GWRAIG YSGAFNDROED. Eiddihvcb cyff a ddeiliai—is dy droed Astud wraig, ni phlygai Dan dy ffêr, yn mwynder Mai, Y di-feth ros a dyfai. ROBYN DDD EntRI.
CENFIGEN. Fflach wnai ystlum fflochi,—yw canwyll Y n cynnal goleuni; Chwai y myn i'w herbyn hi Haff addoer, a'i diffoddi. I wr doniol ceir dynan,—o raddfa Keddfol ystlum bychan; Hed at oleu goreu'i ga.n, Drwy wyll i'w daro al!r.i!. ROBIN DDC EETRI.
SWYDDOG PITW. Gair, aniln ur. gwr mewn swydd,—a enwir Yn ones," dro digwydd Ond cred gwlad yr heibiad rbwydd Yn wastraff ar onestrwydd. Mae'r conach am rwyg cynhen-yn astrus Fel gonestrwydd draenen; Bacbcg wr pigog pen Yw'r gwaelfab, o'i ddrwg elfen. ROBTN DDU LRrRl.
CWRS Y BYD. Byr amser bair i ymson—yn y byd Hwn i bawb am Famoc; Oni ihoddir arwyddion Alaeth frwnt ar laeth y fron ? ¡: Yo y cryd y teimlir croes—ac ysfa Mewn casfyd o dduloes; I deimlo in" daw ami loes I drywanu'r der einioes. 1; Ha! beichio wneir y bycban-â phoeuau 'Run ffnnud i ruddfan A'r henwr pur ei huuan,— Mewn hir ing dyma ein rhan. Yr ieuanc, er mor hoew,—lion, buan, Llawn bywyd, sy'n marw I'r fonwent heb dwrt, bwnw-a. gludir, Man ni adwaenir mwy ond ei enw. Einioes y cryf ansicr yw,—ni wyr ef Yn awr awr ei ddistryw adeg, ansicr yw, Droi y balch o dir y byw. Daw yr hen, mae'n diraeui-ei wyneb Fu unwaith mewn tiysni; Ond henaint sy'n dihoeni Yr hen frawd o'r hoen a'i tri. Y wen fu ar y wyneb-a welwodd, Ciliodd ei sirioldeb; Nerth hwn drodd gwrthwyneb,— Dyna un nad yw yn neb. afiach, ar bynt ryfeJd-welir Eilwaith mewn diuodedd; Yn erfyn byw ar fin bedd— Y ma. gwaei ei ymgeledd. Fa. les aros ar pleserau-y byd Fel baich ar ein gwarau; Gwae fod, yo llawn gofidiau Dros y tir y ca dristau. Anwadal yw ein nodwedd-ni yma, Dyna amod ryfedd; Llawn blinder, ui gawn bob gwedd Yn farw mewn oferedd. Ac er ffwdan, y corph wedi'r—diosg Daear l'r ddae'r roddir Niuau wedyn newidir, A'r tiln a lwyr ysa'r tir. Diwedd y byd ddaw i ben,—'e dreilia Yn drylwyr y belen Haul a Iloer, wele y lien Rhyngoin,—mwy 'cheir eu hangen. Meirw a byw, mawr a bach,—-a ddeuant O'r ddaear yn hoaidCU Diawrf oil cwyd y dorf iacii, A'u hawydd am fyw mwyacn. Duwiolion i gyd bwyliant-yn nwyfus I uef y gogoniant; Yn hyf a, hwyl i fyw àul. Mwy yno mewn liawu mwyniant. Troi'i wyneb i'r trueni—wna'r annuw, A r wyoeb yo gwelwi; Er tywallt Hid, rhaid tewi, Duw a dal, ona gwawdia di. Fed Duw'n bod, gwybod gur,—01 wawdiwr Cei, mewn nodau eglur; Rhoddi parch gwir i Dduw pur A raid i bob creadur. Swyddffynon. D. LLEDKOD DAVIES.
CAERDYDD. (Cyfiwyueuig i Alfred Thomas, Ysw., A.S,) Ha! Caerdydd, ein tref fawreddog, Di-ail yw dy fri blodeuog, Rhaid dy wneyd mwy yn goronog Dinas Gwalia Wen; Chwifian weithian mae'th faneri, Fel cenhadon yn amlygu Mawredd, masnach, a gwrhydri Dinas Gwalia Wen; Dyrchafu am yr ucha' Mae'th binaclau hardda', Buddiol yw'th urddasol ddal Fel Capital of Cambria Gwych gerbydau tywysogol, Chwim oJwynant fel y wenof, Drwy ystrydoedd addurniadol Dinas Gwalia Wen. Rhosyn yw'r Gymreiges ynddi, Hithau'r Saesnes falcb yw'r lili, Tra'r Wyddeles sy'n cyd-harddu Dinas Gwalia Wen; Llawn o swells, hotels aneilydd, HaUs, arcades, parades ysblenydd,— Dy ogoniant syad ar gynydd, Dinas Gwalia Wen; Balcbder pena'r gwledydd Yw eu mawrion drefydd; Llawn mor fawr, mor falch a hwy Fydd Gwalia mwy'n ddigwilydd; Mwy mewn golud a thrigolion, Chwyddo mae fel llanw'r eigion, Cymry mwy yn ddinasyddion London Gwalia Wen. Caerdydd. CLEIFON.
YR AMAETHWR. (Buddugol yn Eistsddfod Gadeirioi Llanwrtyd, Awst, 1887.) Y diwyd amaethwr sy'n dal agoriadau I ddirgel tymhorau ynghyd, Mae'n rhoi ac yn derbyn trwy gylch yr amserau, A Duw, drwy ei lafur, yu porthi y byd Ei ruddiau sy'n wrid dan felusion gusanau Yr awel, gyffer yn rhinwedd ei min, A phenaf brydierthweb ei ddwylaw yw'r cyrnau, A'i ddiUad "aii-law" ei ddefaid ei hun. Daw bywiog belydrau haul Gwanwyn i'w alw Yn aredig, a Uyfnu, a bau, A phlanu ei giorou,—mae'r gweryd yn llanw 0 fywyd, a'i lafur hyd hwyr yu parhau Daw gwanaidd wyn bywiog ar ddwyfron y mynydd lihai cyntaf-anedig y gwanwyn, a'r lloi, Chwaieus ebolion, a chy wion,—ar gynydu Mae'i ofal drwy'r tymhor wrth dderbyn a rhoi. Daw'r Haf yn ei wisg ogoneddus i guro Ei ddor yn foreuach na'r gwanwyn yn awi, Gwasanaeth hen awrlais y teulu dry heibio, A'i le gymer caniad y ceiliog a'r wawr; Try allan i daflu y gweddill o'i hadau I'r ddaear, a cbwynu'r Ueill hauwyd yn lan gwiitbog ehedydd yn arllwys ei odlau, A'r forwyn, wrth odro, yn ateb ei chan. Yn nghol yr aweioo, oganol gweirgloddiau, Cerddoriaeth bereiddiaf y tymbor a ddaw, Swn gweirwyr yn ddiwyd awchlymu'u pladuriau, I eillio y caeau hir-farfog bob Haw; Daw'r llanciau cynyrog, yn nghyd a'r gwyryfon, Nwyfused a'r tymhor, ysgafned a'r chwa, I weithio'r gwair sawrus droi yn fwdylou, A'i ddasu yn nghanol y llawen Ha, ha." Yr Hydref yn nesaf ddaw ato, gan chwythn Tan faich o fendithiou amrywiol a druå, I'w alw gryinan hogedig i fedi, A chywain o'i gwpwrdd i gwpwrdd y byd Yr awyr a lenwir a swn y crymanau Sy'n canu wrth dori drwy dewder yr yd, A'r berllan yn gollwng gweddillion ei ffrwythau Yn aeddfed i'r gweision i'w casglu yn nghyd. Daw gwynt Calan Gauaf i ddecbreu chwibanu, Fel bogyn direidus wrth gornel ei dy, Tra'n gyru'r da blithog a'r ychain i'r beudv, A chasgln man eitbiu bydd yntau yn Achlesa ei diroedd a choda ei gloddiau, N ld oes gan un tymhor dydd yl" iddo ef, Ond gyda phob hwyrnos flinderau Rhwng allor dculuaidd a gorsedd y net Treforis. MKILUNOG.
Y DARN LLAW AR Y PARED. Belsassar falch, yn ngwydd y mil, sy'n yfed 0 arian-Iestri Duw ei erchyll dynghed Mae eiddo'r Ion, yn nwylaw duon Bacchus, Yn cyffwrdd yno a puob halog wetus' Khyfygus wledd! iatb fudr feddyliau yno, Fel drwg ysbrydion, drwy bob bron gwibio. Molianu pres a maen! Mae'r eilun dduwiau Mewn c'wilydd bron a gwrido ar eu seddau! Tra'r mawli'r dyeitbr-dduwiau yn ymchwyddo, Mae cieddyf lor uwchben yn dechreu fflamio; 'J ra'r llu yn nghanol eu hannuwiol grecuweu, Ymddengys LLAW ar gyfer y ganwyllbrenl Mae'n ysgrifenu rbyw ychydig eiriau,— Mae gair neu daau o euau Duw'n gyfrolur Belsassar mor welw yw a'r pared; Mae Duw ei Hun yn dyng-bed Mae ofnau'n lluchio braw ar ei wynebpryd, Mae angau'n awr yn agos iawn i'w Os ar y mur mae'r Llaw, mae'n tori geiriau Ar eiiaid du y teym, mewn taa lyth'renau! Ymwisga'i feddwl mewn angeuol brudd-der, Braidd cura'i gal on o dan bwys ei pbryder Mae'r llu cythreuliaid ei galon halog Yn rhwydd gydnabod llaw yr Hollaliuog; Mae pob llytijyien o'r ysgrifen daubaid Yn ergyd Qwyfol, yn parly su'i enaid Mae damnedigaeth yn mhob gair yn trigc, Dialedd y Jehofa'n berwi drosto. Ofnadwy Law yr lor! 0 dan ei chyegod Mor fuan y diffana blodau pecbod! Darn Uaw a welid, ond y teym a.nnuwiol A deimlai eisioes nerth y Fraich dragwyddol; Hawdd iawn i'w gluniau wrth eu gilydd guro, Ofnadwy drwm yw'r pechod bwysa Duwrifodd dy frenhiniaeth! yn ei phechod, Ofnadwy fanwl ydyw cyfri'r Duwdod Fe'th bwyswyd, frenin, yn y ddwyfol glorias, Nid oedd un rhin yn mbiith dy feiau afian; Bu'r hanl yn gwrido uwcb dy anwireddau, A'r ser yn gwelwi uwcb dy ddu bechodau t Ond try dy goron aur, a'i gwych ser-beriau, Tan fellt digofaint Duw yn fil o ddarnau; Maje'th deyrnwialen euraidd wedi syrthio, Eistedda arall ar dy orsedd heno; Nis gall Trugaredd wen, gan rif dy feiau, Gael roj'i tbroed i la wr rhwng Duw a tMthau! ;n.r..
Hymn-writers of Wales. DAVID WILLIAMS & ANN GRIFFITHS. The concluding portion of the Rev. H. Elvet Lewis's third article on the Hymn-writers of Waies in the "Sunday at Home is as follows;- It must have been during one of his sunward flights that David Williams saw this radiant vision of Eternal Love standing in the midst of all change without a cloud on its brow, without a fear in its soul:— Oh! the grace no will can conquer I The omnipotence of love! Changeless is my Father's promise, It will never, never move In the storm this is my anchor- God can never change His mind In the wounds of Christ he promised Life to me: and He is kind. But the verse that has undoubtedly travelled wherever the Welsh language has is the one of which I give the first line as it stands in the original— Yn y dyfroedd mawr a'r tonnau. It is the popular tradition that one stormy night on reaching home, after having bsen away preaching, he was hailed with all the bitterness the practised tongue of his wife could command. It was more than he could bear he preferred the company of the storm without to the mad rhetoric within, so away he went and stood on the banks of the river Llwchwr. The rush of the raging torrent and the noise of the wild night brought to his mind another river and another night, when his soul would be overwhelmed by the desolate presence of death. What hope would remain loyal then ? What help would be at band ? In the waves and mighty waters No one will support my head But my Saviour, my Beloved, Who was stricken in my stead; In the cold and mortal river He will hold my head aboye; I shall thro' the waves go singing For one look of Him I love! A touchiug incident has given to this verse the title or The Miners' Hymn." In the month of April, 1877, a colliery at Cymmer, in the Rbondda Valley, was flooded, and fourteen miners found themselves in a prison of darkness and terror, waiting helplessly for death. The whole nation seemed to turn its thought towards that coal-pit, and every day made the suspense more painful. The rescue-party toiled manfully day and night; and when seven days bad passed without any reward for their labour, the last hope was almost given up. But on the eighth day nine of those imprisoned were found and they were alive, though exhausted to the verge of death. Without fresh air, without food, despair would have driven them mad were it not for the above hymn, which they sang over and over again with a terrible reality of feeling. The waves and mighty waters were there so was their Saviour, their Beloved. And they sang for one look of Him A change: we come to a lady hymn-writer. This is Ann Griffiths, a farmer's daughter, born in the year 1776, at Dolwar, near Llanfyllin. in the county of Montgomery. As a young woman, she was full of gay spirits, and used to speak very flippantly of the deepened religious earnest- ness of the age. She used to point to the crowds of people which journeyed from all parts of the country to the Association at Bala, and say- "See the pilgrims going to Mecca." She was extremely fond of dance and merry song and rustic gaiety. She bad gone to attend one of these merry-making festivals at Llanfyllin, when she was induced by an old servant of her father's to enter the Independent chapel. She did so without any afterthought whatever. But, like David Jones, of Cayo, she found a message waiting for her there. She did not stay for the festival, but went home forthwith in a storm of troubled thoughts and dark questionings. She went to her parish clergyman he met her heart-breaking distress with light jokes and most untimely jests. Taking hold of her hand, be said-" Let me see, Ann, if the veins of vanity have all gone out of thy hand." She went away more distracted than ever. Her brother was already one of the pilgrims of Mecca." She went with him to the chapel be frequented, and the message of dawning hope came to her there. An affinity of religious feelings led her soon afterwards to join the society,, and she became a strong and shining influence in the quiet valleys around her home. But her career was cut short; she died when only twenty-nine years of age. Her religion shared the ecstatic fervour of the age. Once, when returning home after an ex- citing service, full of her own un worthiness and of the glory of Christ, she turned down a narrow, sheltered lane, in order to be alone to pray. There she knelt; and in her communion with God the spirit of sacred song touched her soul; and by the time she reached her home she had com- posed her first verse-the third in the following hymn. Great Author of salvation And providence for man, Thou rulest earth and heaven With Thy far-reaching; plan; To-day, or on the morrow. Whatever woe betide, Grant ns Thy strong assistance Within Thy hand to hide. Give us the faith of ansrels, That we may look and see Salvation's depths of radiance And holy mystery: Two natures in one person. Harmonious, part and whole; The blood divine availing To ransom every -oul. My soul, behold the fitness Of this great Son of God; Trust Him for life eternal, And cast on Him thy load A Man !—touched with the pity Of every human woe A God !-to claim the kingdom, And vanquish every foe. She who once laughed at the pilgrims of Bala became now one of the most devout of them. She used to attend there on the Communion Sabbath, although it meant for her, as for hundreds more, a rugged mountain journey of over twenty miles. Once on her way home she became so absorbed in holy contemplation that she rode many miles out of her way over the Berwyn hills before ever awakening to the fact, The result of those hours of thought is kept in this hymn- Blessed day of rest eternal From my labour, in my place On a shoreless sea of wonderi, The unfathomed depths of grace Finding an abundant entrance To the Triune God's abode Seas to sail and never compass God as man, and man as God. Neither shall the sun light on them, Xor the fear of death give pain; Tears forgotten in he anthem Of the Lamb which once was slain Sailing on the crystal river Of the peace of One in Three. Underneath the cloudless beamingis Of the death of Calvary. Nothing could mark the intensity of feeling more strikingly than the broken seutences and rapid interchange of thought. "The cloudless beam- ings of the oeatb of Calvary;" the confused elo- quence reveals the divine anguish of imagination. A noteworthy fact in connection with her hymns is their preservation. A servant in her father's bouse, named Ruth, possessed a remarkable memory. To her Ann Griffiths used to recite her hymns as they wera composed and then the two would sing them over time after time. After the death of the young authoress, Ruth used to repeat these verses to her husband. He saw their worth, and wrote them down from her dictation. To-day they cannot be lost; they have a home in too many hearts.
VILLON'S BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES, Tell me where or in what lancl Is Flora, the fair dame of Rome, And Thais, and her kinswoman— Where is Arohipiada's home ? And Echo, answering every 6ouud Rising wher waters stand or flow, Of beauty more than mortal-kind— Nay, where is last year's snow ? Where is the most wise Heloise, For whom was maimed, and consecrate, Monk Abeilard at S: Denys, His love laid on him such a fate— And where, moreover, is the Queen Who ordered Buridan to go Cast in a sack to swim the Seine— Nay, where is last year's snow ? Where is the lady lily-ple Who chaunted in the Siren's strain, Bertha Greatfoot and Beatrix, Alys and Ermenburg of Maine, And Joan, the good maid of Lorraine, In Rouen burned by the English foe ? Where are they all, oh Maiden Quee» ? Nay, where is last year's snow? Prince, the week wherein tbey are And the year seek not to know, Lest this rhyme be ail you gain, ♦' Nay, where is last year's snow!" Lest this rhyme be all you gain, .1 Nay, where is last year's snow!" Academy.
l THE MODERN GHOST. I I. HE old-fashioned ghost was giddy and gay, He livad in baronial hails; His get-up was some- thing appalling, they say i And the bravest Sir Knight be could frighten away jjf jk With his grisly form 07/7 and funeral lay 1^' Whene ver be made v Wit his calls. ^y^But sad is the lot of jj* the ghost of to-day. r I never get, even a show Though I scout through the night Till the morning is gray. And dance on each telegraph post on the way. And peep in at windows with grimaces gay, I can't scare a soul, don't you know III. Ab there once was a time, when they feared one and all, A glimpse of my form and my face. As I peered from a tomb or a tottering wall. And crooked out my croon with a terrible bawl, E'en the man in the moon with convulsions should fall, When I put on my choicest grimace IV. But now when I steal in the solemn midnight To a nursery dim and dark, With a sorrowful song by each crib, I alight. And make horrible eyes at each infant in sight; But the worst of it is that they never take fright; For they look on it all as a lark. V. A few days ago at a bank I dropped in. Found the president ready to skips He welcomed me with an affectionate grin. Having just robbed the safe of available tin. And everything else in the place worth a pin, For his coming Canadian trip. VI. Did I frighten him ? No He said, What a shame That we couldn't partners become You could flit with the boodle as quick as you came, And leave the directors to shoulder the blame If you think you would care for a hand in the game, You would clear quite a neat little sum. VII. The time has gone by when a decent old spook Found pleasure in roaming about; In the days of my youth, how folks shivered andl shook If I gave tbem a grin or a good-natured look But how I am guyed in each juvenile be ok. And losiug my grip beyond doubt. VIII. The ghost of the past could drive into a fit A spinster of uncertain age Bat in these days they don't mind my presence i bit, And actually flirt with me when on the flit, < Or draw their chairs closer to where I may sit, And wink at me, much to my rige. IX. It may be quite true, as philosophers say, That we live in a wonderful age But I know the ghost business has seen its bee day, So I thimk I'll sell out, for it really don't pay To the nearest museum I'll hie me away And exhibit myself in a cage 1
NO TIME TO LISTEN TO EXPLANATIONS. In a police-court recently, Frederick Hopkins, a coloured man, was found guilty of having tired a shot into a neighbour's window. When be heard Judge Miner's decision, Hopkins jamped to bit feet and said: "Why, jedge, yer Honah, I'm fsprised. Dej hasn't introduced no evidence heah 'call dat ] fiabed de shot." The evidence satisfies me, Mr Hopkins, ane that is sufficient." "But jes' look at, jedge. Dey is'nt no evident* heah 'tall dat I fiahed de shot." "The evidence is sufficient for me, I say, ane that is all that is required." "But, jedge- I have no doubt, Frederick, you could make < very ingenious and plausible argument, and i should dearly like to listen to it, but time presses In default of a 100 dols. bond to keep the peace you will stand committed to the house of correctius for six months."
A lady last week attended a funeral in » country church. After the singing oi Ii. hyuni, a man who was sitting beside her remarked Beautiful hymn, isn't it, ma'am ? The corpse wrote it." Mistress: How is this, Baptiste ? How can you allow the butcher to give you such a bad piece of beef? It is nothing but bptke. Bapasto Just what I told th< butcher, madam. I said if it was for myself I would not have it. They tell of a woman in I'actury%,ille NY who attended 600 funerals. Probably tbew was only one which she didn't thoroughly enjoy—the on^^whicl^h^)fficiate^a^h^orx>se^ I)se.