The Cardiff Times

OUR NEW SERIAL. hOW FIRST PUBLISHED. "LIKE AND UNLIKE." BY M. E. BRADDON, Author of Lao/j Audicjts Secret" Wyllardt Weird," <tc., d.;c. [THK RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS BUSERVED.] CHAPTER XIII.—MAKING THE BKST OF IT. gaged in a business which baa very «« — with Helen's future happiness. He was trying to find out the writer of the anonymous warning which opened his brother's eyes. Mrs Marrable had been his mothers house- keeper for nearly twenty years, and Valentine had been her favourite as a boy. She had indulged all his juvenile whims, and had kept him liberally supplied with preserves and pickles, pound-cakes and Devonshire cream, when he was at the Univer- sity Marrable's jams had been a famous institu- tion among the undergraduates who breakfasted with him. He went to Mrs Marrable's room this morning nnder pretence of enquiring after a groom who had been on the sick list; and then, after learning all the housekeeper had to say about the efficacy of her beef tea and the infallibility of her mutton broth, he asked casually- "How about that half-gipsy girl my mother took in ? Does she get on pretty well 2" It's a very curious thing, sir, that you should ask that question to-day above all other days," she said. "The young woman worked with a good heart, and did her very best to give satisfac- tion up to yesterday. She was a very reserved young woman, and did not seem to be altogether happy in her mind. She was always on the watch and on the listen for what was going on in the drawing-room and library, and such like; seemed to take more interest in the family's doings than it was her place to take. But beyond that I had no fault to find with her. But this morning she dosn't appear at the servants' breakfast; and when one of the maids went up to see room to see if there was anything amiss with her. she found a letter pinned on her pincushion, and the bird was flown. She had taken some of her clothes in a bundle, I suppose, and had left the rest in herdrawers. There's the letter,Mr Belfield. I look it to the drawing-room an hour ago, moaning to show it to my lady but I thought she looked worried and upset at Sir Adrian's having left home so suddenly and I made up my mind to say nothing about Margaret tor a day or two. Why should I trouble my lady about such an insignificant matter?" Why, indeed. I hope she hasn't eloped with my brother." "Fie, for shame. Sir it's just like your mis- chievous ways to say such a thing." Let me look at her letter." The letter was fairly written in a bold, large hand, more masculine than feminine in character, and the spelling was correct throughout. Dear Mrs Marrable, 1 ou have been very kind to me, and I Can assure you I am grateful to you and to all at the Abbey who have been good to a waif and 6tray li^ me. I am going to London to seek my fortune, in service or in some other employment. I ^°u need not be afraid that I am going wrong. I via not that kind of girl. I believe I am made of very hard stuff, and that I can stand the wear and tear of life. I thank Lady Belfield, if she will allow me to do so, for her goodness to a nameless II:lrl. I shall always remember her with loving gratitude.—Yours truly, "MADGE." She must be a determined hussey," said Valen- tine, "She's a curious kind of girl, but I believe what the says of herself in her letter," answered the housekeepeer. She is not the kind of girl to go Wrong." Bosh!" cried Valentine, contemptuously. "She goes to London; and she goes to perdition as surely as a raindrop is lost when it falls into the sea? She has gone to look for her mother, I dare say. Her mother went to the bad before this Kirl was born, and this girl is tired of rusticity and servitude, and has gone after her mother. I wonder you can be humbugged so easily, Mrs Marrable.0 "I know more of girls and their dispositions than you do, Mr Belfield, and I believe this one Is no common girl." She may be an uncommon girl, but it will all come to the same in the end," answered Valentine, as he went out of the room. Lady Belfield had her own way. Valentine was impetuously eager to seal his fate, would cot have heard of a long engagement, bad the impediments to speedy marriage been ever so numerous. Happily there were no impediments. Lady Bel- field's private income, derived from her father, I and settled upon her at her marriage, with full disposing power, amounted to nearly three thou- sand a year. She settled six hundred a year upon Helen, with remainder to her children, or to Valentine in the event of his wife dying childless; and she gave her son an allowance of four hun- dred a year. They would thus bav^a thousand a year to live upon. Lady Belfield's position as tenant for life of the Abbey and home farm obliged her to maintain a certain state, and her income would henceforward be barely adequate to her expenses but she knew Adrian's generous temper, and that she would be assisted by him to any extent she might require. They had divided Rome of the expenses between them hitherto, his purse maintaining the stables and paying his mother's coach-builder. She had saved some thousands since her husband's death, and she added two or three hundred a year to her income by judicious investment of her accumulations; all this without detriment to her charities, which Were large. Valentine accepted her sacrifice of income lightly enough, dismissed the subject with brief and care- less thanks. He was living in a lover's paradise, spending all his days and hours with Helen, in the gardens, on the river, on horseback in the early mornings befol e the sun was too hot for riding; thinking only of her, living only for her, as it seemed. They were to be married on the tenth of June, just ten days later than Adrian's appointed wed- ding day. In a week after Sir Adrian's departure, every- body in the neighbourhood knew what had hap- pened, and pretended to know every minutest detail. There were at least six different versions of the breach between Adrian and his betrothed, and not one of them was in the least like the truth. But every account was dramatic, and bad a life- like air, and made excellent sport for afternoon tea-pardeat. Mrs Baddeley had not been reticent. She had gone about everywhere lamenting her sister's fatuity. "Such a nice marriage, and we were all 80 fond of Sir Adrian; and to take up with the younger brother! I foel vexed with myself for having ordered such a lovely trousssau. It is far too good." Happily, very few wedding presents bad arrived before the change of plan. Those premature gifts Were sent back to the donors, with an explanation, and duly came back again to Helen. It was for her pleasure and not for her bridegroom they were given, wrote the givers reassuringly. Except for thoie early morning rides, or for boating on the river, Helen hardly left the grounds of Belfield Abbey till she went back to Morcomb at the end of May. She was never in the drawing-room when callers came to the Abbey. She ran away at the sound of the bell, and hid herself somewhere-afraid to face people who had doubtless condemned her as a jilt and a hypocrite. "You should brazen it out," said Valentine, laughing at her. So I will when I am your wife. But now it tortures me to think of the way people talk about me." "I never cared a hang for the opinion of my dearest friend, much less for that of a set of busy. bodies," said'Valentine, contemptuously. It was all over, and Helen was Valentine Bel- field's wife. The wedding bad been the simplest of ceremonials-no guests had been bidden, and relatives only were present. There were no brides- maids, and there was no best man. Colonel Deverill, bis elder daughter and her husband, and Lady Belfield were the only witnesses of the marriage, save the clerk and pew-opener. The bride was married in her travelling dress, and bride and bridegroom drove straight from the church to the station, i n (he first stage of sh« »r journey to Svvitzerlar i, where they were to tip,'nd a long honftymci, moving abou- -'y easy fancy led ttK- !»nd not returning to "ntil the eifci of &)Leuiber. Foolish people!" exclaimed- Mrs Baddoley They will have more than time enough to get tired of each other." While they were honey-moor.lng, Lady Belfield was to find a small house at the West End, just fitted to their requirements and their income, such a house as exists only in the mind of the seeker. She was to spend a month in Loddon, in order to accomplish this task, and when the house was found, she was to furnish it after her own taste, and at her own expense. No wonder they were married in that sneak- iug fashion," said Miss Toffstaff, when she heard that Miss Deverill's wedding was over, It shows how thoroughly they were all ashamed of tha transaction." Come now, Dolly, after all, it must be owned that the girl was not mercenary." remonstrated her sister. It ain't often a girl throws over a rioh man to marry a poor ona." "How do you know it was the girl who broke off the engagement? She flirted audaciously with Mr Belfield, and Sir Adrian threw her over, that's the truth of the story." The Miss Treduceys shrugged their shoulders, and declared they had Dever expected any good to come of Sir Adrian's foolish entanglemeut. They talked of it now as an entanglement," and cou. gratulated dearest Lady Belfield upon her elder son's having got himself disentangled. You must be so glad," said Matilda. "But I am not at all glad. I am very fond of Helen, and I am pleased to have her for my daughter upon any terms but I had much rather she had proved true to her first love." "She is very sweet," murmured Matilda, per- ceiving that it would not do to depreciate Lady Belfield's daughter-in-law, but I cannot think, from what I have seen of her, that she has much strength of character." She has no strength of character," replied Lady Belfield, but she has a warm, affectionate nature, and she will make an admirable wife for Valentine. He has too strong a character himself to get on with a strong-minded wife." "Yes, I understand. He will have his own way in all things, and she will be like an Oriental wife, Nourmahal, the Light of the Harem, tand that kind of thing." "I believe she will make him happy," said Lady Belfield, decisively, whereupon the Miss Treduceys told their acquaintance that Lady Belfield was very soft about her daughter-in-law, and inclined to be huffy at any word of dispa- ragement. CHAPTER XL v.—NOT A COMMON GIBL. The thing which decided Madge upon leaving the comfort and protection of Belfield Abbey for the uncertainties of a great city, with its immi- nent dangers and possibility of starvation, was a passage in the police reports of that Lon on paper which was most affected in the servan s hall streetilfyfa1r,Vwas bro^gh^beforfthe magis- trates aifthe t^ing" oxalic acid! 'The evidencemshowed that the lady had been dining with a gentleman who passed m the house as Maior Mandeville, but who is supposed to have lived there under an assumed name, and that after dinner a scene of some violence occurred between Mrs Mandeville and the gentlomanin question, in the course of which Mrs Mandeville rushed from the room, and ran to a cupboard upon an upper floor where a solution of oxalic acid was kept by the housemaid for the purpose of cleaning lamp- glasses. She drank a large quantity of this solu- tion, and was immediately seized with all the symptoms of virulent poison, and was for some hours in danger of her lite. The person passing as Major Mandeville left the house while she was lying in agony. The screams of one of the ser- vants had attracted a pulice-conatable, who en- tered the house, and took the prisoner in charge as soon as she was so far recovered as to be brought to the station. It was not the first time she bad attempted suicide. His Worship: And I suppose you had no more intention ot dying on this occasion than you had upon your previous attempt. You only wanted to give Major Mandeville a lesson? The Prisoner: I wanted to make an end of myself on both occasions. I have been very cruelly treated, and I have nothing in the world to live for. „ His Worship: This is a bad hearing from a person of your attractive appearance. "The Prisoner: I might have been better off if I bad been as ugly as sin. His Worship: Is Mandeville your real name ? The Prisoner: It is the name I have borne for nearly twenty years. "His Worship: And you think you have a pretty good right to it-a. squatter's right. But it is not your real name ? The Prisoner: I have no real name—not in the Red Book—if that is what you mean. My father is a basket-maker in thd country. He was always called John Dawley in my hearing. I never heard that he had any other name. Hereupon followed a brief lecture from the magistrate, and the prisoner promised to refrain from any future attempt upon her life, and was finally dismissed in a spirit of half-contemptuous pity upon the part of his worship." The paper gave the little scene and dialogue in extenso. The offender was a handsome woman, living in Mayfair, and the case was therefore deemed of sufficient interest to be reported fully, with a sensational side • beading, "MAUAIB MORALS," The perusal of this report turned the scale of Madge's mind, which bad been wavering for some time. She would go to London and seek out her mother, rescue that brand from the burning, if it were in the power of her intelligence and her affection to do as much. It would be something for her to do, some fixed purpose and useful end in life at the least. Here she had neithar end nor aim. She despised herself as an impostor and a spy. To watch Valentine from a distance, to see him falling deeper and deeper in love with ,Helen Deverill, to bear an occasional snatch of talk between these two—words and tones which said so much to that eager ear, to know that whatever fancy he bad onco bad for her was dead and for- gotten, all this had been acutest agony, and yet she had stayed on at the Abbey to endure that jealous pain, that bitter humiliation. The report in the newspapers decided her. She would go to her mother at once, in the hour of her despair. That was surely the time in which a daughter's love might avail most, might mean redemption. She would go; but before leaving she would launch a thunderbolt. Those two—traitor and traitress-should stand revealed to the man who so blindly trusted in both. She wrote her few words of warning, and put the slip of paper in Sir Adrian's room in the twilight, after his valet had laid out bis master's dress clothes, and made all ready for the evening toilet. Within an hour of daybreak.next morning she bad left the Abbey, and was trudging along the road to the station. She had a little money, just enough to pay for a third-clpss ticket to Waterloo, and to leave her a few shillings in hand. Mrs Marrable had given her three sovereigns on account of wages to be fixed in the future, when it was decided bow much her services were worth in the household. She had been on trial hitherto, as it were—an apprentice to domestio service. She had taken one of her sovereigns to Mr Rockstone, and had insisted on his receiving it as part payment for the money he had advanced on her clothes. She had given ten shillings to her grandfather on her last Sunday visit to the hovel by the river. She bad thus thirty shillings with which to begin the world. What was she to do when those few shil. lings were exhausted—when she found herself penniless in the streets of London 2 Nor did she mean to live upon her mother, Mrs Mandeville, whose West End house might be an abode of wealth and luxury. Or, she jhad no intention of accepting either food or shelter in that house, which seemed to her as Topbet in little. Mrs Marrable bad said of her that she was not a common girl, and her intentions as to her future life were not those of a common girl. She wai exceptionally strong, and she meant te work for a living, to labour with those strong bands and robust attas of hers; to accept the roughest toil, were it necessary, to earn her bread in the sweat of her brow, and, if possible, to earn her mother's bread also. I will rescue her out of that hell upon earth, if I can," she said to herself. Ct!peop|e can live upon ao little if they have only a mi^ to do it Bread is cheap, and I have lived upon dry bread before now." In the basket-maker's household, life had been' sustained upon the hardest fare. Ma<jRe bad never Been smoking joints or gocd cheer of a„y kind till the went to the Abbey. Her soul h*4 almost revolted against that plethora of food in the ser- vants' hall. She thought of the multitude who were starving, those seething masses of LO""don poor, aboot whom the vicar told her, and\he sickened in the atmosphere of plenty. Not by anv means a common girl. She thought she had a mission, something to do in this life, and that her first duty was to care for the mother who had never cared for her. She had been carefully taught in her place in the village school, taught earnestly and conscien- tiously by Mr Rockstone, and she had a stronger idea of duty than many a girl who has been expensively trained by French and German governesses, with occasional supervision from tha parental eye. She bad taken the vicar's teaching in her own way, worked it out in her own way, and she was assuredly not a common girl. She knew that she was handsomer than one woman in fifty. She had looked at herself in the shabby little glass which her mother had bought of a travelling hawW fisp-and-twanty years before-—the blurred and clou !edgl.T»s which hung against the whitewash u wall in the eld basket- makor'o cabin—and tfrs reflection had told her that she was beautiful. Those flashing eyes with I their long black lashe and arched blows, thr-I I rich olive complexi' its waimth and colour, the perfect mouth and teeth, and beauti- fully moulded chin set on to a throat teat might have given immortality to marble—these were elements of beauty not to be mistaken or underrated by the ignorauce of an inexperienced girl. Sbe knew that she was beautiful, and in her scanty converse with the world she had learnt just enough to understand that beauty is a rare and wonderful gift, and that her whole future lire might depend upon the use she made of it. Beauty has its price all the world over. What was to be the price of her.? Not shame and infamy, she told herself. Not such a name as her mother had left behind her amongst the villagers, who still remembered and talked of her. Thus it was that when Valentine Belfield came to the basket-maker's hovel, prepared for easy conquest, he found a woman of a different stamp from other women whom he had admired and pu sued in the past-not so easily did the bird fall into the net of the fowler. He came upon her unawares stood at the cabin door, watchmg hm boatdnft slowly by with the tide, as he coS* his gun He looked up and saw her at her cottage door, a dazzling and unexpected apparition. He put down his gun and took uPab0^-hook and pushed in towards the bank,, tiedJnsboat to the branch of a pollard wil o • where tbe rtSS? a'nd accosted her easily and- franklv asX some commonplace questions IranKiy, a8Ki«K shooting. She answered about the #rou, hfm full in the face» ™ ™ him as freely,!° ^is^triking presence or superior wise abashed by tiiat could be told about [he snort fn that desolate region. And then he the spore U1<* things, and asked her for by the door .to smoke. h.H «oen him in church occasionally with his mother, and had recognised him at the first- His mowie Jn n0 wisa abashed by his nresonce She looked at him fearlessly with those £ eep inscrutable eyes of hers, which seemed, fraught with the mysterious influences of an InciLt race. It was he who felt abashed in .her nresence, as she stood, in a careless attitude, lean- ing against the door-post, looking gravely down ^He^ingered for an hour; went again the next day; and the next, and the next, and so on daily, remaining longer and longer each day, until he I I MADGE FINDS HUB MOTHEB. I I reached the limit of safety, and only left just early enough to escape a meeting with the basket maker. He went as one drawn by a spell. He carried his gun and game bag with him every morning; but the birds had an easy time. The only bird he wanted to snare wore a very different. plumage. He bad practised all the tempter's arts, and yet he seemed no nearer success than he had been when he first stopped his boat, surprised by that sudden vision of low-born beauty. His proffered gifts had been refused with a quiet scorn which was a new thing in his experience. His subtlest flatteries had been resisted with a steadfastness which might be pride or calculation. And yet he thought she loved him—that beneath this strength of character there burned hidden fires. Yes, he had seen her face light up at his coming, and had noted the cloud of sadness when he bade her good-night. Yet, to his reiterated prayer that there should be no such parting, that their lives should flow on together in some luxurious retreat, some dainty house beside yonder river where its banks were loveliest, some bidden haven where they might make their mutual paradise apart from the outer world, she bad been as adamant to his pleading. She provoked him at last into quarrelling with her. That stubborn persistence roused his worst passions, bis pride, his cruelty, his anger against any creature who opposed his will. He upbraided her with her coldness, ber selfish, calculating temper. You are playing me as an angler plays a fish.' he said. You think that by keeping me at bay, driving me to madness with your cold-hearted • obstinacy, you will make-a better baigain. It is a matter of exchange and barter with you, If you loved me, you would not treat me.so." Perhaps I don't love you." "You are a strange girl, with a heart as bard as the nethermost millstone," be answered, and left her in a fever of rage. Never before had be been so thwarted, never had been so resolved on conquest. He hardly knew whether he loved or bated her most, that winter evening, as be tramped along the cause- way, leaving tell-tale footprints in the clay which were to be frozen bard before to-morrow morning. He would leave her to her pride and her folly he would leave her to find out what life was worth without him, once having known the sweetness of his flatteries, the delight of his company. He had abetter from an old college friend in his pocket, a letter proposing a month at Monte Carlo. Yes, he would go; he would forget this gipsy girl, and let her forget him if she could. He went back to the Abbey half cured of his passion for that strange girl, and it was a shock. to him, and far from a pl(<asant/one, to find her in his mother's house. He accepted her presence there as a sign of her complete subjugation. She had risked everything to be near him. He felt certain of ultimate con- quest. She might carry herself evet so proudly, but at heart she was his slave. Then came an unexpected distraction in the presence of another woman. He began to make love to bts brother's betrothed in sport. It pleased him to discover his influence over that weak and giddy nature, like the power of a snake -over a bird. Poor little bird, how it fluttered and drooped under the spell, and waited helplessly to be caught. His earlier feelings were those of amusement, flattered vanity only. He did not mean to be disloyal to Adrian. And then arose within him the old thirst for conquest, the hun- ter's passion for the chase and the kill. It was not enough to have fluttered that foolish heart. He must be sure of victory. His own fancy had been kindled in the pursuit, and he told himself, as he had often done before, that this was the most serious passion of his life. What was fidelity to a brother that it should hinder a man's life-long happiness f It was seven o'clock in the evening when Madge found herself at Waterloo station. In her igno- rance of railways and time-tables, she had con- trived to spend a long day upon a. journey that might easily have been accomplished in five or six hours. Slie had travelled in local trains, and had wasted hours at various junctions, and it seemed to her that she had been travelling for a week, j when she alighted amidst the crowd and busfle at i Waterloo, Sha had eaten only a penny roll upon her journey,andshe longed for the refreshment of a j cup of tea after the dust and beat of the way, but i she fhad to husband her few shillings, and so" tramped off, faint and thirsty, in the direction which a policeman bad indicated to her as the nearest way to Mayfair, The nearest way seemed a very long way to that solitary explorer before she had reached her destination, and York-road, Lambeth, gave her a sorry idea of the great city. But when she came to Westminster Bridge the grandeur of colossal London 'burst upon her all in a moment. She was awed by that spectacle of Senate Houses and Abbey, the broad river veiled in the mists of evening, the long lines of golden lamps. It was all grand and Wonderfnl. But the heavy, smoke- laden atmosphere oppressed her. She seemed.to lose all the elasticity of her nature, the light, free step of the rustic. It was a weary walk from the bridge to Little Leopold-street, for at almost every turn she had to enquire her way, and the roar ot the traffic be- wildered her, wmle every oupibus looked like a Juggernaut car bearing dowrPupaa ber with mur- derous intent. Little Leopold-street seemed a haven of rest after the noise and bustle of the great thorough- fares. It was a quiet little street, lying perdu among streets of greater altitude and social im- portance. It was an exclusive little street, or gave itseli airs of aristocracy, and there were flowers in all the windows. Number 14A was brightened by red silk blinds, behind which lights were shining in drawing-room and dining-room, shining dimly in the dusk. Madge's heart almost failed her as she rang the bell. The house bad such an aspect of elegance and luxury, .as she waited there, with tbe perfume of the flowers In hee nostrils. Every window was full or flowers. And it was from such a nest as this she was to ask hpr mother to go out with her to the stony wilderness of London, to toil for daily bre4d.. She had to remember the dialogue in the police court in order to give herself courage. A smartly- dressed young woman opened the door. "I want to see Mrs Mandeville, if YQU please," said Madge. "I ain't at all sure as she can see you. What's )"Qur business ?" You can tell her that I am a relation of ners, and that I have come a long way on purpose to see net- You can gtep iD8ide while I go and ask, but lm pretty sure Mrs Mandeville won't be able to see you to-aigbt. She's expecting company." i-iease ask her to let me speak to her, if it's only_for five minutes." Well, I'II SQO. Y0U can take a seat while I go upstairs." Madge entered the hall. It was small but set off with all the artistic trickery of the fasilionable upholsterer. White pannelling, Japanese cur- tains, Japanese lantepis, Japanese jars. Madge .1. aat down "n a bamboo 'uaob, and waited. The door of tte -I"atood open, aud "he savy H tahJtI luxuriously arranged for four i;eop!e, Silver,elm a,all the ssrv c mors extr.ivasr?ut than s,nywu>ig Am hrd seen a. the Abbey, While sbe | irsts looking at thin hi i^h- interior, the table, side- i boards f-.ud mautel-pieqejlighted v.ith wax caudles, and glowing with flowers, the door of a back room was stealthily opened, and a shabby looking old man with a grimy countenance peered curiously at her, and then withdrew. She had but just time to see a small room, with two candles and a jug to see a small room, with two candles and a jug and glass upon a table. Who could that horrid-looking old man be ? and what had be to do amidst all this smartness and glitter ? The maid reappeared upon the narrow staircase. "You can step this way," she said, beckoning, and Madge went up to the second floor, wondering as she went at the hothouse flowers on the stair- case, the velvet-covered handrail, the amber bro- cade curtains which veiled the large window on the landing. The servant flung open the door with an angry air. "She ain't in a state to see anyone," she said as she retired, and left Madge standing just within the threshold. She had never been in such a room before, so gaudily decorated and richly furnished, and so wanton in its disorder. The low French bed was draped with velvet and lace, and the silken cover- let was heaped with things that bad been flung -there haphazard one upon another. A silk gown, a riding habit, hat, whip, and gloves, a pearl and feather fan, a pair of satin slippers, a .newspaper or two, and a volume of a novels. All the chairs were encumbered, a Persian cat coiled round upon one, a heap of books and newspapers on another, a tea-tray on a third. Mantelpiece and fireplace were draped with point lace, over tur- quoise velvet. There was a fire burning in the low hearth, and thb atmosphere was oppressively hot. A woman was lying on a sofa in front of the fireplace, her long place hair hanging loose over' her white muslin dressing-gown—a woman who had once been strikingly handsome, and who was handsome still, even in decay. Her cheeks were hollow, and there were lines upon the low broad forehead, but the large dark eyes had lost little of their splendour, and the finely-cut features were unimpaired by time. The woman who called herself Mrs Mandeville turned those darkly brilliant eyes upon the in- truder with a look of keenest scrutiny. Then slowly, without a word, she rose with languid movements from her sofa, walked across to Madge, and laid her bands upon the girl's shoulders. Silently, deliberately, she scanned her face, as they stood thus, confronting each other. Madge's eyes seemed transfixed by those other eyes so like her own. "To my knowledge, I have but two relations in the world," said Mrs Mandeville, slowly, "my father, and my daughter. Are you my, daughter ?" "Yes, mother," answered Madge, with her arms round her mother's neck. (To be ,continued.)

FROM A DIARY OF 1806. had a very sharp action in coming h rough the Gutt, and just at first » when we saw the enemy T coming we wished we had had the convoy; but we soon forgot that when our blood warmed, for all on board had to turn to and work his best. Everybody on board did not seem to miud at all, down to the little boy who serves in the cabin, although we could see they more tb%n twice outnumbered all of we, for one Englishman is as good as two frog-eaters, and I am sure as good as any two of those rags of Spaniards. I saw-that little David, the cabin lad who carried up the powder from below, sang merry till be had no wind with running up and down so much, and he only cried one bit at first, when a splinter from the boat's bottom cut his fore- bead. His face was very black from the smoke, and he looked mighty comic when I wrapped his head up in my large kerchief, which I did when I was recovered from my fright. "It was at ten o'clock on Monday morning, July 28tb, 1806, a very hot day with little wind, that we engaged in coming through the Gutt, and we fought them for getting on for two hours, till nearly noon, about 15 or 20 miles from Gibraltar. We was attached by six gunboats that came out from Tariffa, and the largest of them hoisted a bloody red flag, which signifies they was deter- mined not show any quarter. Their guns_ are from 24 to 30 pounders, and they carry from 50 to nil 70 men each. Their guns are placed fore and aft part of their boats, and care should be observed to tire at the same time as they do; by -that means our shotts, if they enter the boats, will seriously injure -them, as they will pass directly through the whole of the boat, and, their men being stowed close to each other, will cause a terrible destruction amongst them. The captain seeing as how I was quite well again from my seasick- ness, and that I look steady, gave me th^charge of all the powder, which gave plenty to do. To every man on board cutlasses was served out, for we must not trust to our cannon alone, as they mostly try to board a ship and take it by power of numbers.. Their general plan of attack is to collect themselves as much as possible together aud follow the vessel; if a light wind they annoy a vessel much, as having plenty of men they make use of the oars and sweep along very fast, and board on all quarters at once if they can. Our ship with her stern gun, a long nine-pounder, spoke such language as they could not under- stand she fired about sixty shots, and kept them at their proper distance, and was our principal defender. I suppose we fired two hun- dred shots on the whole, and did much damage to the gunboats, one of which we sunk, and many of her men, thank God, was drownded in the sea, though the other boats being near picked up some. Once or twice wnen we struck them with our grape their shrieks was verry awful and Joud. Captain Anthony behaved bravely, and much praise is due to him for his spirited-conduct. Mr Mitchell, from Berwick-on-Tweed, sailing-master, fought with uncommon vigour; be fired three of the guns; as soon as one was discharged he ran to another, and directed the shott in a gallant stile. It much surprised me how hot the guns became to the touch after tlieyliad been once or, twice fired. The first shott that the Spaniards fired blew away the bottom of the boat which hung astern of the ship, and broke the cabin windows; a piece of wood from the ship struck me in the back, and I was much alarmed lest I was shott, but I received no hurt, only a great fright, at which Captain Anthony found time to laugh hearty. "They Bred grape shot at us, which did much damage to the sails, and broke one of the irons which support the boarding net, and wounded one of our men. One man was killed in the engage- ment, a man named Reeves, from Lichfield, .it is thought, who was a brave and good sailor. Cap- tain Anthony much regrets this, and he was shot through the thigh and the breast; be must have been killed instantaneously, for be did' not look agonised. This is the first man I have seen killed. At about twelve o'clock the five gunboats retired, having had more than they expected the breeze was still light, and they returned, but we think not all of them, to Tariffa."— Corn hill Magazine.

Be content with your lot, especially if it's a lot of money. A short time ago Mr J. W. Svkes dug up on the place of Mr J. W. Burge, on Raccoon creek, Bartow county, an Indian idol. The image rep- resents a humlHl figure, and is a work of art. It weighs about iffty pounds and is about twenty-six inches high. The material of the image is silver ore, and -it is estimated to contain one hundred and fifty dollars worth of silver,—Atlanta Consti- tution. A THOUGHTFUL MAs.-The Norristown Herald relates a touchiug incident illustrative of man's tenderness find cnivab-y. The man tc whom tha I Herald refers liv»s not far from wbera that jc.irnal i>» published. Fur nearly two years he kept tha cremated remains of his first wife in a isnndsome jar on the rfiTf.d? piece. A few days during sleety weather, he got down the jar sprinkled th« ashes on the frort fcteps for fear his'second wife might slip and break her ueck.

FROZEN HEARTS: A Tale of Coronation* Day Fifty Years Ago. By J. C. Manning (Carl Morganwg), Author of "Choendoline" Saul and other Poems,' The Philanthropist" Ye Ballade of Ladyt Marguerite" The Coastguard," and other Wørk8. CHAPTER XXVI.—THE DRIVE OF DEATH, In justice to little Carlo, it will have to be re- corded that there were unpractical men in Bathtown, as well as unpractical boys, and old Father Flitaway was one of them. Little Carlo, aged seven—and old Father Flitaway, aged seventy—were the two littlest and biggest dreamers in the place. I have explained the sort of dream- ing to which the little flaxen head was addicted— and we will now see in what sort of fashion the big, white-haired bead went about the dreamy work. Flitaway's Accommodation was one of the local landmarks of Bathtown, long before railways were dreamt of as an aid to locomotion. It was the only public vehicular link betwefln Bathtown and Cloisterbury—and the journey, by dint of super- human efforts on the part of man and horse, was performed four timet a day, the distance traversed being less than two miles. The man, the .horse, the coach—each seemed to be a law in itself. The man was short and broad; the horse was broad and short; and the coach was both short and broad too. The horse seemed to do his business without the aid of the man, and the coach seemed to get on very well without either. A broad squab figure, wearing a quaker hat, sat upon the box of a broad squab mourning coach, and a broad squab horse flopped lazily along in front of them. The coach was constructed to carry four inside, and there was a spare seat on the box for the fifth. The vehicle was never known to be full, and the spare box seat was always seen to be empty. The horse was black, the man never looked any other than black, and the coach was black. There was nothing to distinguish it from a funeral eortege but the word Accommodation," in faded gilt letters, on the door of the vehicle. If you hailed the moving piece of • blackness, it would stop. Then it would move on again with a. ghostly sort of glide, as though it had received one more dead body to carry to an imaginary gravesomewbere-or. other, and was determined to carry it with the greatest possible decorum and the least possible despatch. When Little Carlo got to the bottom of the street, after having his dream out on Coronation Day. if, instead of running home, he had waited a few minutes, he would have seen his old friend the Giant bait the funeral coach as it passed, would, have seen it stop the horse—it never seemed as though the horse had anything whatever to do with the stoppages—and would have seen the Giant hand a letter to old Father Flitaway, who put it in his pocket without looking at it—be never looked at either passengers, or letters, or parcels, everything -connected with transit looking afte itself and its business in the best way it could. Then be would have seen the black coach start the black horse, aud the whole machinery would have been observed to glide along in its old funereal way to an imaginary graveyard. All this would have been seen by little Carlo if he had only been practical enough to have stopped atew. minutes. But he was not. That letter brought two men and a sack from Cloisterbury when the funeral coach returned, and the three were set down at the bottom of the-street in which the Giant lived, and where the little flaxen-head went to school. Ono of the men was well known as Old Bloss, the Cathedral sexton at Cloisterbury, and the other was Mr Henry I Ohaffins, lawyer's clerk, and King of the Mysteri- ous Brotherhood of Skeletons. We shall want to go back by the return journey, Flit—and shall have a fat pig for the. box-seat, said Mr Henry Chaffins, as they alighted. The black coach pushed the black horse along, and the ghostly old driver went on dreaming. He never spoke to anybody, but let everybody have his own way-aa he expected to be allowed to go whichever way he pleased himself. The two men and the fat pig were waiting at the corner of the street when the black coach roug the black horse along on the return journey, It might have been open to speculation how the giant came to be possessed of a fat pig- how long the awyer's clerk had taken to pig- dealmg-and since when he had gone into partner. I*"? V.rSS cathedralgravedigger. ° ah Flitaway never speculated— neither did the black horse-nor the black coach. They all had a simple flUlereal duty to perfonn-, and they performed it. So the fat pig was hoisted upon the box-seat, and: stuck on lend. in the sack, which was tied round at the top with a piece of cord. There was a oomical aspect about that ghostly-looking sack. I £ anybody had taken the trouble to look closely fh ° nntstdp ° Wl>at lt contained, as seen from W„0Uld ^ded ttatit was a dead man, and not a dead pig. But dead r'TV J 5erraL1]y moved in sacks by day- ^tnf the° maLth°URht °f tr0ubliDS at it. r* °ld Flitaway never looked at it. He nev^r i er looked at anything, bet went through the world n „ c J J J p<1..ra KJ. Q a confirmed old dreamer. Perhaps he was wise—. A „:«.*• n<3 perhaps he was not. slat of a public convey^ bauQcI}e8 the box" with a sack, would be to °* much speculative humour the same place uX t"h Adeiid ^an sitting in would have pretty much S circu(n?sUnce8 oK„„. the same vein of humour SS.' vnrf of a more grim and th« 1 6 .assumption that the pig was gr to °°<ts of comical ,8, ^knowledge that the man was here might alter the tone of the comicalities, but the situation would be a conucalonenotwithstand. ing It was, perhaps, a consideration of this view of the question that led to the boisterous merri- ttien which enlivened the interior of the funeral coacb, as it pushed the unwilling black horse along through the principal streets of Batbtown on its way to the graveyard it never reacbed. U We don t crown a Queen, and we dou't kill a pig-every day, was the philosophic remark of Mr Henry Chaffius to the ghostly driver, just be. fore he entered the coal-black ark at starting. He had drawn a share of the horse-cloth, which the old funereal mute invariably mouopolised to him- self, across the knees of the dead pig, and bad tucked him up carefully on the outside to prevent him tolling off. « Let. him go to sleep on your shoulder, Flit," had remarked Chaffius the humorist before they made a start; and he gave the sack a tilt towards the broad-brimmed hat, .which brought the dead pig's cheek tolerably close to the live mute's jowl. II There," said the humor- ist, he'll whisper in your earj nit, and will tell you how he came to run against the knife. You'll both get along as cosy as Darby and Joan. Push on." And the humorist waited for the coach to commence the pushing, 80 that he might get inside as it moved away. The coach never did this. It always waited for people to get in—and then, by a special arrangement between itself and the horse, they made a start, The mute on the box had nothing to do with it. "Drive on, old man," nrgedthe Humorist. He wanted to watch the dead pig for a little distance, to see how it appieciated that kind of conveyance, and then to jump up himself when he had found that the pig's appreciation took the proper turn, He might as well have told a dead wall to dnve on. There was never any driving on. There waa never even any moving on till the slam of the accommodation door was heard,and then the coal- bank began to move entirely of its own volition. Everything seemed to go with springs—and until the slam of the door was heard the machinery would stand stock still, as though determined to stand there till doomsday and let the whole world move on without it. There was the horse: there was the coach: there was the mute in the broad- brimmed hat: there was tie dead pig reclining comfortably against1 the patient mute's inner shoulder, tucked up with the knee-cloth as close as could be: there was old Bloes inside settling him- self down to a snooze: and there was the open door. But there was no moviug on, and there never would be any moving on till the door slammed, let the humorist wait in the road and talk about driving on as long as he liked. At last a third passenger, who knew the habits of the machinery, jumped inside, and slammed the door after him. Slowly and solemnly the coal- bank began to move on, as though impelled by an invisible spirit. The humorist walked for a short distance by its side, in order to ascertain whether or not the dead pig appreciated it; and finding everything to his satisfaction,be jumped inside the vehicle, and in that fashion tie wonderful piece of mechanism glided on its way towards the imagin- ary graveyard it never reached. This was the last journey that day to the. particular graveyard towards which Flitaway'* Accommodation seemed to be eternally going. A Queen had been crowned, and the bunting in the windows of the houses in the streets flapped about in the breeze and the red ligfct of the setting sun. It. see:n«d as luoueh the lettering frippery had ¡ been ncprcvised in honour 01 the orAd pig tha; was making a sort of trimr.phil progress towards t an unknown destination. On it glided in its ghostly I march through the variegated thoroughfare*. C" { into the open country, wu'n tic- landscape on each j side looking Uke a lake of gma and gold iu tha I setting suniliiue. Over the bridge ihiit spanned the river dividing Bathtown and Cloisterbury— and into the quaint old city of everlasting slumber. The chimes from the Cathedral were droning out their nine-o'clock vesper as the funereal coal-bank stopped and threw its dark shadow upon the wall of the hotel in High-street, which it regarded as its imaginary graveyard. The Mead pig was pulled unceremoniously from its perch, and fell with a thud upon the boulders of the pavement-a sound that might be tolerated in the case of a deceased pig, but which, if the pig happened to be the dead body of a once-living human creature, would be regarded as a something likely to give a terrible shock to sensitive nerves. It might have been a pig. It must have been a pig-or Jerry, the ostler, would never have puiled it down in that way, under instructions from the i-e irrepressible Humorist to "fetch it down and roll it into the yard till he could send a truck for it." But down it came-pig or no pig—and there it lay, in the shadow of the low dark entrance to the hotel stables, far into the night. There it lay-in the shadow—when the moon rose, and when the chimes from the Cathedral rang out the hour of midnight. There it lay, till old Bloss fetched it away, placed it on a truck, and pushed it through the mooonlight into the darker shadows of the Cathedral precincts. It might have been the same sack that the old man and the young Humorist towed out into mid- stream later in the morning. If so, the contents were not dead pig. But nobody knew the truth besides themselves-and nobody cared. The sense of self-preservation kept them silent as the grave, and they left an intelligent world to draw its own conclusions. If the truth had been known, how different everything would have been The con sideration is a disquieting one when men's lives are at stake—not upon the theory of what is, but what seems to be. This gives a poor place to Virtue at the best: and Vice has it pretty much its own way in all humau dealings. We are told, of course, that Virtue triumphs in the end. But mark the intermediate misery that is wrought.' And thus will it ever be, as long as the world is given to dreaming. But there is the spectral horseman again to be considered. When his part of the story comes to be known, it will probably upset the calculations of some parties to this narrative who have pro- ceeded on the assumption that it was never going to be known. The story is sure to arrive—and is sure to be told-some time or other. All that can be Said for the present is—that it will be a happy chance if it arrives before it is too late. The clatter of the hoof& is not far off, and the last plunge into the darkness has already been made. C To be continued.)

A FEW COMMON ERRORS. It is not always an easy matter to trace a popular error, to its source, but we shall endeavour as we proceed in the following enunciation of a few of the commonest to assign to each some de- finite and plausible origin. We do not refer to that class of fallacy which is founded on the popular belief in some common saying or proverb, nor on some errjneous notion concerning the dealings ot man with man, but to misconceived ideas concerning seme of the simple workings of nature that are coustantly taking place around us. Fallacies—or some may prefer the term illusions—abound on endless subjects, but which- ever be the term employed, both may fairly be included under the common beading errors," for such they really are. It is by no means un- common to find educated men and women obstinately dispute the fact of moist air being lighter than dry air. They say they cannot understand how anything can be made lighter by being moistened, and their almost invariable illustration is that of a sponge. It certainly at first eight does appear an anomaly J when put in this way, but it is just this false way of putting it that has been the stumbling-block. If asked why the (mercury in a barometer rises in fine weather when the air is dry, end falls in bad weather when the air is full of moisture, we find, as a rule, that they are un- acquainted with the principle of the Torricellian vacuum, or that they have remained content with the knowledge that the mercury does rise and fall. A Sad Truth in London. That smoke is lighter than air is another very common belief, and this doubtless arises from the smoke issuing from a chimney being invariably seen to ascend; but /if we follow the warm smoke in its upward course, we shall find that as soon as it has lost the impetus derived from the draught in the flue, ancihas lU addition become cool and condensed, it begins to descend, for the most part in the annoying shape of "blacks." The simplest way in proving this is to fill a clay or other pipe, and, having lighted it, to insert the mouthpiece in a. basin of cold water, and then to blow down the bowl, when the smoke that issues, having been cooled in passing up through the water, will be seen to rest on the top of it, but will not asceud, owing to its being heavier than the air. Poisonous Gases: There is a very common superstition that sewer and other poisonous gases are more deadly in themselves when they are inodorous than when they appeal forcibly to the olfactory nerve. We do not, of course, refer to those venomous gases which are originally void of scent, such as nitrogen, but to such pungent ones as carburetted hydrogen or coal gas, the fragrance of which is unmistakable. The fact is that gases may be de- prived of their smell, without losing their de- structive properties, by passing up through a sufficient depth of earth, &c., just as filtration will remove impurities mechanically suspended in water, but not those held in chemical solution and it is this circumstance of not being able to detect their presence by the smell that is so dan- gerous. as we receive no warning of the virulent poison we are inhaling, the principal function of the nose—namely, that of intimating to the brain the approach of a volatile substance un- suitable to the system—being rendered in- operative. We noticed not long ago, in a newly- built house, all the 'doors and windows hermeti- cally sealed, while every available gas jet both in stoves and lamps were being kept at full blaze, in order to dry the walls. No plan better calculated to defeat the object in view could have been adopted, for the simple reason that the combustion of gas produces moisture. That this is not a solitary case the following couple rf incidents, taken from a back number of the Builder, will show. "I was much puzzled for some time," says tbe Writer, by a solicitor's strong-room, which I had built, obstinately refusing to become dry, although favourably situated for the process, and a jet of gas being kept burning day and night. The consequence, however, was that the papers and parchments became flaccid and damp. The mischief has been entirely and speedily remedied by inserting two ventilating bricks and extinguish- ing the gas;" clearly proving that where there is no ventilation, gas,instead of exciting evaporation, producewnoisture,and consequently condensation. The other case is as follows "In a lobby the gas was left burning for five hours, when the paper on the walls was found to be saturated with moisture, and where, as on varnished parts, it could not be absorbed, the moisture hung in great drop?, as if 'a pipe had leaked." We fear that this fallacy must be attributed solely to ignorance. A House on the Sands. We have frequently met with people who con- sider that it would be sheer madness to attempt to build a house upon sand, and it is difficult to per. suade them that such an idea is erroneous. The reason for this belief is in most cases based upon the scriptural comparison between the man who built his house upon the sand and he who built it-upon a rock, the sequence being either for- gotten or ignored—namely, that "the floods came." It was then, and not till then, that the house fell; ior sand will only form a sure founda- tion so long as it can be kept, dry and in its place. The common epithets applied to sand, for ex- ample, the "shifting sand, may also have helped to form this misconceived idea but when desirous of clenching the argument, we have only to point to the Pyramids as a convincing proot of our statement, Lightning, But perhaps there is a greater amount of mis- conception concerning lightning than any other natural phenomenon. As an example, we may quote those who consider that the lightning in- variably It cometh down from heaven," and that it never ascends. The tower of Dnndry Church, which was struck in March, 1859, furnished a clear proof of its ascending, the lightning entering at the base and passing up through the tower. Others, again, through lack of information, have no idea that this earth plays an equal part with the clouds in supplying the electric fluid necessary for the discharge while many imagine that lightning will set fire to anything it touches, the fact being that the flame of lightning is generally inoffensive, though under certain circumstances it may be a consuming and terrible fire. We will conclude with the mention of a trick over which small bets have often been lost and won—namely, the fact of brandy floating on the top of castor oil. Most people having been accustomed to take this nauseous aperient in milk, sherry, or coffee, have always seen it floating on the top of these fluid*, of higher specific gravity than the oil; but brandy being a spirit is lighter than oil, and consequently reverses the customary order of things. The same course holds good witli regard to all other spirits owing to their specific gravity being lower than that of the oil extracted from the liver of the cod- fish.—Chavibers's Journal.

RATHER TEDIOUS. liv^-ind—" Did you have much if a good time I at the sewing circle this afternoon ?'" j Wife- "No, I was awfully bored. There wasn't anything sasa t.) bi-ack oce'" sense of propriety 1" 1

Y GOLOFN GYMREIG. Dymunir i'n gohebwyr Cymreig gyfeirioeagoheb. iaethau, ilyfrau i'w hadolygu.&c., fel y canlyn: Dafydd Morganwg, Morganwg House, Llantwit- Street, Cardiff.

BARDDONIAETH, YR YSGOL SABBOTHOL. YFgol 0 rwysg hael erioed—yw hou, dan leuanc dwf mewn henoed; Ei hynt hardd, er dros gant oed, Wisg eofndra ysgafndroed. PjCKLtANOO.

Y DEGWM. Y degwm, gorthrwm i gyd—yw rhaith bOD, Ffrwyth anian lladronllyd; Annheg rhoi da'r gwr diwyd I wael far yr hael ei fyd. 1', gwenog walch wisga'r gwn gwyn—yra'r Ddegfed ran bob blwyddyn; Ar wlad, trais anfad yw byn, Rhoi degwm i'r dicgyn. PtBLLAKOG.

CICICRO. Trwy ei sen, cyn bywlll benial,—y taniwyd Antonio deym dywal; A'i wraig ddig, gan sarug ddal, Oedd eofu i gyd-ddial. Hyll ddig nis gallai ddygyd-saw8 araith Cicero i weryd; Ei lyfrau sy'n cael eftyd Gwyr o twys i ddysgu'r byd. 1887. ROBERT PARKY (Robyn Ddu Eryri).

"PORTHA FY WYN." Dyma bur orcbymyn dwyfol Roddwyd gan ein Ceidwad mwyp. Gan gynghori yr Apostol Drwy ei ras i borthi'r wyn Tori'r gwaith o'i flaeu wcaeth Iesu, Fel mae'n arfer gwneyd a'i blant, Gan ei annog i ymdrechu Yn ei swydd fel gloew sant. Fe fu'r Iesu mawr yn ffyddlon Tra fu yma ar ei daith, Porthi'r wyn a'i gwneyd yn gryfion Oedd ei boll hyfrydol waith, Gan eu dwyn i gyd i'r gorlan, A'u cysuro mewn gwir aidd; Gloes i fron y Bugail dyddan Weled. colli un o'r praidd. Er fod Iesu wrdi esgyn Drwy ei waed uwch pob rhyw loes, Para'r un y mae'r gorchymyn, Ac fe bar hyd ddiwedd oes Byddwch ddiwyd, weinidogion, I bregethu'r Gair heb gryd, Nes daw'r aydd ceir gweled Seion Yn ben moliant drwy y byd. Melin^ythan, j. MICHAEL,

DYNOLIAETH CRIST. Draw, yn yr Arfaeth foreu, cyn creu byd, Mae cynUun cadw dyn yn denu bryd Y Natur Ddwyfol; ac mae'r Tri yn Un Yn trefnu ffordd Kwaredu eucg ddyn o gryf afaelion pechod yn mhob oes, Drwy Aberth Iawnol Crist ar bren y groes, 41 Pwy a a drosom?" ydyw'r geiriau dwys Wna'r angel ffraeth yn fudan dan ei phwys • Ac nid oedd seraph ter, na cherub gwyn Feiddiasant ateb > gofyniad byn. Ond wele'r Mab, o'i gariad atom ni, Yn ateb y gofyniad, "Wele fi !"# Trydanwyd yr atebiad drwy y nef, Ac engyl eilient foliant, Iddo Ef! A sereiph tanllyd a cherubiaid glan Gydunent yn yr orfoleddus gin. Yn "Fab y Dyn" gwel ef yn dod i'r dyd, A phreseb gwael gaed iddo'n gyntaf Kryd O! ddarostyngiad! mae pob iaitb yn fu J, Ni fedrant dd'wedyd maint yr aberth drud. Ei eni ga'dd o wraig, o dan y ddeddf, A thynai at y fron dan ddynol reddf; Hbaid iddo oedd wrth fron ei dyner fam, Wrth fam a thad i'w wylio ar bob cam. Ca'dd Betbl'em dref enwogrwydd iddi'i hun, Can's yno daeth, yn gwisgo natur dyn Rhaid iddo ef oedd gwisgo gwisg o gnawd Cyn y gallesid fyth ei alw'n frawd, Fel byddai'i gydymdeimlad ef yn bar A ni, pan dan fflangellau creulawn cur. Ca'dd sylw'r doethion pan y daeth i'r byd, A pbarch a sylw'r doeth ga ef u byd. Ond Herod, frenin creulawn, roes ei fryd Ar wtbio'n Hiesu ni dros drothwy'r byd. P..oedd enw'r Iesu yn cyffroi ei wg, Centigen ferwai yn ei galon ddrwg, Ond, ha! rhy fyr oi gallu at y gwaith O'i ladd ar ddechrau ei ddaiarol daith; A chleddyf Herod a ddifrodai'r wlad Wrth ymgais am ddifetha'r lesu mad. A'r bachgen a gynyddodd, daeth yn ddyn, A cherddodd llwybrau rhinwedd yn ddigryn. Bu'r triawd ffyrnig—diafol, cnawd, a'r byd, Yn ceisio yn ddichellgar ddwyn ei fryd Ni chawsant Ie, er hyn, i estyu bys At Iesu pur, er myn'd o lys i lys, 'E wyddai ef am eyched mawr, Allgherddol eyched loes. Pan ddioddefai'r erchyll awr Ar arw bren y groes Pan y trywanai'r waewffon o dan ei ystlys bur, Fe deimlai ef frathiadau hon Yn gwneyd angeuol gur. Ei hoelio rhwng y Uadron drwg, Fel pe yn ddrwg ei bun, A dioddefai'u gwawd a'u gwg Fel pe yn ddim ond dyn Pan wisgent ef a'r goron ddrain, A phoeri'w wyneb cun, Daeth geiriau per nefolaidd sain Ber weddi dros ei tin. 0, maddeu iddynt!" meddai ef, Yn nghanol loesau llym, A'r weddi aeth yn syth i'r nef Gan angel mawr ei rym Y gair Gorphenwyd!" lefodd ef, Ar fynydd Calfari, Yw bywyd can telynau'r net, A 'nheJyn fechai i. I lawr i'r bedd, fel dynol ryw. Yr aetb ein Hiesu ni, A chodi'n bawdd o farw'n fyw, Er ei dragwyddol fri; Ac esgyn wnaetli i nef y nef, Uwch temtasiynau'r cnawd, A'r hatur ddynol gydag ef,— Mae etto i ni 'a Frawd. Sirhowy.. GWEXTWXSOS,

YN Y GWANWYN. Y gain wenynon anwyl Weithian frysia gydag lJwyl, Difyr hyd y fro hi a, Am olud yr ymwela, A ciiludo wna dan ganu Fwyd iach erbyn gauaf du. Ddyn, gwel y wenynen wych, Hyd wir ddiwydrwydd edrych. A daeth yn awr yn odiaeth 'n 01 Yr heinyf liawddgar wenol. Ni chyduua'i banian hi A nwyd diwrnod oerni Nefolaidd fraf awelon Ddyry hedd i oriau hon, Ond byr o hyd i barhau Yw ei hudol brin nodau Byth mae'r grwydrol wenol lan Yn estrones trwy anian. Cwmllynfell. MICHAEL THOMAS.

KR COF AM FY MRAWD, Harry Lewis, yr hwn a fu farw yn Adare House, Bridgend, Ebrill 8ted, yn 45ain oed. Nid marw, nid cysgu, ond deffro wnest di o drymllyd freuddwydiou y daaear; Ond aethost o'n golwg, yn awr syllwn ni Ar dy ol o ddyfnderoedd ein galar. O! deffro yw marw, i syllu byth mwy Ar fyw sylweddolion na chiliant; Gwrthddrychau y ddaear, cysgodion 'yot hwy, Yn ffoi megis niwloedd ar ddiflant. Carasem, er hyny, dy gachv, fy mrawd, Am dipyn yn myd y cysgodion Mae'r ddaear, o'th farw, yn edrych yn dlawd, A tbrist a thoredig yw 'ughalon. Yr oeddit mor ddoniol, mor dyner, o hyd Yn gweitbio mor agos i'n monwes Cynhesit ein calon, serchogit ein bryd A dawn, ac arabedd, ac anwes, Ond, O! maedy frodyr, dy briod, a't.b blant Yn sefyll o gylch dy orweddfan A'r awen a galar am fyth ar ei maut, A l chauau fyth mwyach fydd gruddfan. Cydwylem, fy mrawd, ar ymylon y bedd, A cneisiwn wneud aarluu o'th fy wya Ond, Ol daw y dagrau i bylu ei wedd, A cnollwn dy ddarluu mewn dyfryd. Ond erys dy ddarlun er hyn ar ein co', Cerfiedig fydd byth ar ein calon; iSewyddach y cyfyd o'n blacn ar bob tro, Daw atom ni lif dy adgofion. Dihengaist, diheugaist, mae'th ysbryd yn rhydd o garchar cystuddiau a gplar Mor hyfryd i ninaufydd 'bedeg rhyw ddydd, Fel tithau, uwch awyr y ddaear. HOMO DDU.

Y BOREU. Pelydrau yr buan sy'n ymlid tywyllnl Y ddunos bruddhaoJ, mae'r waivr yn ymdori; Arianaidd linynau o wawl sy'n ymsaethu Dros gaerau y dwyrain, mae'r teym yn dod fyny Deffroi I ymhoewi o'i chwsg y mae anian, Bywiognvydd a hoender a deimlir yn mbobman Mae balmaidd awelod y boreu yn gwasgar Pereidd-dra ac iechyd dros wyneb y ddaear. Ol foreu nefolaidd, mae gwen dy wynebpryd Yn nerthu'r gwan afiacb, a'r isel ei ysbryd; Ymdeimla ei hunan yn ysgafn a gwisgi Wrth ddrachtio'th awelon yn swn y mawlgerddl. Mae'r boreu'n berseiniol yn Mal a Mehefin, Ffrydlifa peroriaeth o big pob aderyn Y goedwig ddadseinia gan til o delynau Uhwareuir i swynol wresawu y borau; Pob un am yr uchaf a chwery ei r-odyii, Gan neidio yn ysgafn o frigyn i frigyn Y gog a cbwareua nes adsain y dolydd, Ei chanig ddau-nodyn a bar fyth yn newydd A bysedd yr awel ar dannau y goedwig Rydd ganig soniarus yn orlawn o fiwsig. Newydd deb a bywyd y boreu sy'n enyn Sirioldeb a barddwoh yn ngwyneb y rhogya; Ylili wen brydferth a wisgir a thlysni, Y boreu sy'n agor ei llygad i wenu. Dyrchafu ei olwg i fyny dan chwerthin, Yn ngwyneb yr huau, wna'r gwylaidd laswelltyn. Y gwlith a ddisgynodd fel arian ronynau I dyner ireiddio y blodau a'r llysian Sy'n awr yn Jychwely1 yn ng'.ierbyd yr huan I g*el ei cos!rein fel uos-ddagr&u pULlan, Jlor Hawen chwareua yr wvn ar y twyni, A gwir ddiniweniruly id i iu maent yn dysgu, Mae natur yn orlaw n heir/id ryfeadodau Sy'n fyw (I brydferth .on ;r fyutves y borau; Marw deyrnasai drwy boll gyrau anian, Réb foren'; "a<tfyvdo a'i weaau teg, eirian. brynamuun. GLAN GWBKLAIS,

COLUMN FOR BOVS AND GIRLS. By Maggie Symington. Between the dark and the dayludit, When the night is beginning to lower Comes a pause in the day's occumtion That is known as the Children' Hour. Lonqfclloxr. What say you to a little chat about the "Far West" to-day, the land of Buffalo Bill and bis Indians? There are so many interesting things to tell you about the great prairies, and everyone seems to be so interested in this stransre man and his troupe, that it is even proposed to call the American Exhibition the Buffalo Billeries. I think you will like the stories I can tell you. I saw Some Sea Lions st the,Natura Artis. They have a whole pool to themselves, fed by a stream which springs out of some tall roekwork that makes a background and two great pieces of rock rise in the middle of the pool on which the great slippery creatures can lie and flap themselves. Did you ever see a soa- lion ? It is nothing in the world but a large seal; not the largest seal of all, because there are sea elephants, but they are only found in the Antarctica Ocean, and we cannot go there at present. The sea lions carry us at once to the far, far West of America, for there is their home. Off the coast of California is a group of three small rocky islands, named long ago by the Spaniards the Farallone, or the i riars' Islands. These islands have quite a large population—but not of human beings they are inhabited by seals, shags (which are small cormorants), and sea-gulls. When human beings come to the islands they ouly come as visitors; and as they come mainly for the purpose of catching and entrapping some of the rightful inhabitants, or of collecting the eggs of the shags and gulls for the San Francisco market, they are not welcome. The birds flyaway sometimes from the islands, but the seals remain always, and many of them grow so large that they have deservedly won for themselves thesname of sea- lions. Life on the islands is a delightful thing to the sea lions. I do not know that you and I should think much about such a life for ourselves, but then we are not seals. Let me give you just one little sketch of what is to them the order of the day. They cdimb up out of the water, and they slip down into it again. They sleep in the sun, and they wuke up and bark, and slip into the sea, and then jthey climb out again and bark, and bark, and badt. Most persons have heard seals bark in a itnenagerie, and they can imagine the effect of hundreds of these creatures barking all at once. ,If one of them can get on a high peak of rock he generally barks the loudest, so that they are nut unlike human Weings in some things after all. And then they slip, and slide, and climb, and sleep, and bark all their lives long. The sea lions I isaw had brought all their Farallone manners witih them, and were doing absolutely the same things in Amsterdam that they and their seal-ancestors had been accustomed to do for generations when at home in the Pacific. I suppose they had never heard that when you go to Rome you ought to do as the Romans do, or at any rate they lhad no notion of practising it. Learning to Swim. On one occasion a seal-mother was seen to give her baby seal some lessons in swimming, and she seemed quite anxious about it, taking great pains to teach it properly. First she took hold of it by the flipper, and for a while supported it above water; then with a shove she sent the youngster adrift, leaving it to shift for itself. In a short time the little creature became exhausted then she took a fresh grip of it by the flipper, and again supported it until it„ had recovered its breath, after which there was another push off, followed by a new attempt to swim, the same process bemg several times repeated to the end of the lesson. The Farallone Islands are only about 30 miles to the west of me Beautiful Golden Gate, which is the entrance to the Bay of San Fran- cisco. Not a gate to open and shut, do not imagine that. A little American girl wrote the following lines in answer to another little girl who asked why this entrance is so named:— Dear Jane, your question has troubled me of late, To find what is called the Golden Gate. On the coast of California State San Francisco is situate. To reach its harbour you pass tiirough a strait, And that is called the Golden Gate." Another little girl who lives in San Francisco gives this explanation :—" Massy persons think the Golden Gate is so called because it is the entrance to the golden State of California, but it is not so. Long years ago, whan the Spaniards first came to California, as they sailed through the entrance to the harbour of San Francisco, they looked back through the narrow passage and saw the beautiful, golden-hued sunset in the Pacific Ocean, and they called the passage-way the Golden Gate." In the way in which you and I travel we can get over a good bit of ground in a very little time, so uow we have left San Francisco far behind us and are out on the great rolling sea of prairie, in con- nection with which, perhaps, there are a few names that are familiar to you—Indians, Buffa- loes, Mustangs, Coyotes. A Buffalo Herd. The bison, or ouffalo, used to roam in countless thousands on the vast plains which are known by the name of prairies. In the summer this animal ie greatly tormented with .the bites of certain flies, so, when it can find water, it rolls itself in mud the mud dries on it and forms a thick armour through which no insect can drive its beak. Sometimes these wild cattle of the plains will lie on their sides in a moist place. and spin round and round until they have made shallow boles in which the water collects and forms the mud in which thry delight. The mud- holes are called "wallows," and every old trapper of the plains know them well. While crossing these great prairies people have to camp out for months and lead a rough, wild life. It is lit favourite subject for stories, and I have no diffi-« culty in finding one for you. But first I must give you a little glimpse of itfrom an old trapper's recollection of his boyhood, when he crossed the plains to go into California with his parents I used to go to sleep hearing the coyotes bark, and sometimes the bawl of the big grey wolves. And then we came to the Buffalo region, and one night I was awakened by a great shouting and confusion and men rushing around, and then there was a sound like thunder; it roared up a.nd grew and the earth shook, and then it died away again. I sat up ia my little bed, and they told me that it was a buffalo going by. We'd seen a good many buffalo tbe day before—parts, I gup. pose, oC a great berd, and probably there was Indians after them with their arrows, and they'd fcightened them in the night, so that the whole herd bad started off on a dead run, going they did not know where, nor care. When a herd gets started in that way, nothing on the face of the earth can stop them. The hind ones crowd the forrard ones, and away they go blind mad, tearing along, making the earth rock, and running down everything that comes in their way. I never shall forget the sound of that roar, and tramp, and the shouts of our men." And now that we are Among the Buffaloes comes my story. Another wagon train was crossing the plains, and with it were two well- grown lads named Mont and Arty. The country was covered with vast herds of buffaloes moving to the uorth, and one day Mont and Arty ascended a steep bluff, the better to see them. As far as the eye could reach the country was black with these slow-moving herds. They moved in bat- talions, in single file, and in disorderly masses, stretching out in dark patches and covering the Rreen earth. Now and then some big fellows 011 in front would lie down and roll, then jump up and dash on again then all the buffaloes who followed would drop down in the same place, roll, and canter on. And now another vast herd, ipoving eastward, came surging up over a swale in the undulating prairie. Beemed tn be hundreds- oi thousands, tb* I ground disappeared, and its place was a flood oi dark animsl life it iin-ved onward in OIK slew i fii>wingr stream. There was nc r -ise, but a COD- fated murmur, like the tul. of the sea before storm. ThinktUg they wouid like ut try how '.ear they could get to their., Mout at-d Arty wdlkad I l raj.:dly toward- the mowing iiiaas, Ksr<s I

^——11 i I,, yy, there were grazing herds, but most .r 4f*p» seemed to be slowly travelling without Si,ap$.tng to eat. The boys crept up a bushy ra ine wJalch led into a gap in the bills, and tjs hla^k<>nefl iya its edges by buffaloes. They xuer; a cacti->sijr Ip this gap, and came out at the other .d dcie to a throng of the wild sttle, who ffi- garded them with mild curic0.:v, forthsy ateis harmless as cows unless they *r« maddened W some way. Passing between tfte hills, the ycuxg fellows came out on to a level plain, aar. here, too, was a throng of buffaloes, srretctiing iff to tkm horizon. As the lads walked on, a wide ISM seemed to open in the herds before them, creatures drifted away to trie right jjyl ItAi browsing or staring, but continually n. j'.«>ig; tip cattle closed up behind them, and gradui uj melSE I away in front. A Stampede on the Plains. As Arty and Mont were returning to Af -1 wagon-track they came upon a aing.f wcgJ, canvas-covered, in which were two littio childre^" Two small boys were playing nr<»r. Most a^k»wf them why they were all alone, and the list!" If ia said that their father and uncie had after ,f1] buffaloes, and were out with ,heir guns; a: their mother was over the bluff hunting for berries and they were left to mind the "hild r<,n. '"A- man ought to be licked for Jet v;ng i.;» lit tie ones here in such a lonely place," sa'd Mont to Arf, ? as the two went on down the vaUey.iuddev-: over tb*! southern wall of the v&liey( like £ tnunat™ cloud, rose a vast and fleeing herd of buftatoos; they were not only running, they were rvst.mg for like a mighty flood. "A stampede, a satrpede J* cried Mont, and he rushed back to the children, followed by Arty. "Run for your iives,^ cried both to the' boys "make for dte bluff." Mont seized one of the Ji. ones, and Arty the other, and starting the bow before them they hurried towards the ro- ky maw that rose like an island in the mid lie of tbe valley. There was net a moment to lose Behind them, like a rising tide, came tue m faioes ia surges; the ground resounded with tl» hurried beat of countless hoofs, and the earth *;emed to be disappearing in the advancing ten-it. "To the left, to the left!" screamed Arty. Tne lads bounded up the little island, seizin? 1 if under* bush to help them. Behind tneui o:me Arty wi a tiny girl in his arms, and Mrnt io.Uo\ ed WJ*" small boy on his shoulders. 1" P "be s sep sic. the bluff they all scrambled, '.ot oue n.oiuent fc,. soon. The vast herd can? runhin^ ilto the valley; the wagon disappeared in a twick'dn^, its white cover going down like a sinking sbip in the black sea. The little groui; stoat spellbound on the bluff as tLe herd ewe.)t past, the rushing tide separating at tha rocky pamt, against which it beat and par ea to tbe r ght left. Looking down they saw the strean ot wB4 £ J animals flow by, on and up the valley. It gone, and the green turf was Dro wn wbe e it been; and the wagon, near which the cli idren bad been at play, was trampled s flat in. Andl >, just then a woman with t horror-str :ke& i.vj* appeared on the bluff, gathering the fo, child1:e» in her arms. It was the mother Then turned to Mont and Arty, I dorr, .uow wiW you may be, young men, bus I thank y lifrom the bottom of my heart. And oh I than; Ô-OQ. toe i* and she burst into tears. Answer to last week's acrostic:—* larsrase i—» Mendelssohn, Alfred, Richard, ,itL, Robm Hood, Evangeline, Tabor. The acrostic for the week heLre i as beoa cor rectly solved by JEtbel M;• White jead. Anm Spence, Nellie Let, Roy, J -he' B rry, Sam! Harry J. Hartley, She, Annie Gr*x>osaar. Lawrence, Taffy, H. Balls. J Udior. Thorn de Styer has guessed only t ncaie The Letter Bo> My dear Aunt Maggie.-Man) thaaks for the beautiful book you sent me. I ai: quite certain I shall enjoy reading it very much T GEKUJCI E Sasdeksqn. 1 sent her a copy of W.riant to Vt ? second prize in the H.S.C. ni-ilte ress Sbo has kindly waited for my Ù",sh upty of books. Dear Aunt Maggie,—L wntR „ luauk you for the beautiful book which y I st at nin, ,¡.k-} prize. It is just the kiud tha, 1 like--that is about school. (I sent her A .Vorid of Giris.") I ehall take very good care r. I have *ays liked school, and wished t_ be teacher, u.i my father was opposed to it. lit L «■ changed hw mind now, and will let me i ie :•« I > ve passed all the standards, and got r certiiicatef, and am expecting another before i j-ie. BLANCHE C SQLI&E, aged 12. No wonder you can ;DJ:;5 tkes aero.vio* 10 cleverly. ^UQtr ^IaKg«e»—1 m ..lfraià vou mrsfc think I have forgotten you, is I Lave not wcitUe you for such a long whu, but I could .t.. d Pct forget me, r -ouid not writ* I) Although =•■ I have not th* Aocwers -f the acrostics up, I have foL.jd ou acme of th 1. I heard ttie cuckoo ten day. ustvt you faf.*» one ? (Oh, yes, and I turned ali t.ie money hmc in my pockets; did you ?) » have alsia seen a gl j many swallows. Is it not interesting to Wbtcb the birds build? they seem it wojk so Lard, „nd do their work so well tha' they st* as quite #n example. (Mind you foliw t.l 1 an. eorry u, tell you that the pretty c^-torn of having a May King and Queen has quut dbd out Here. A few little girls have a May gari* j on May-day, bus not many.—Your little iriand, SPRI VG. AUNT MAG^re, Address all communications co— AUNT MAGGIE (Symington,, Hunstanton, St. L imunds.

MR SPUFiGEON, Feb. 8th, 1857. I am just coTie from hearin* the celebrated Mr Spurge.in pr-ach in the Mu»ic Hall of the Surrey Garc.eat. It was quite fuL- he told us from the pulpit that C.003 people were present. The service was like the s'resbyixr i;—. psalms, prayers, expounding a pstluo, and a sermon. He is certainly vsry remarkat«le, undeniably a very fine character. Net rem in person; in face rather resembling a Macaulay, a very clear and powerful which was heard through the whak a manner natural, impassioned, and. out affectation or ei „r:. valance w<w fluency and command of language, alw in illustration, and very one:- oi a froniiia. but without anything either rkJiculo- irreverent. He gave Ke an iwprwoot earnestness and sincerity. >peaJk"" or notes, yet his discourse carefully prepared. Tuc- from my secret sins," ac -the misery, the foliy fourth, which I have for all of which he was very t He preached for about ti and, to judge by the audible sobs, with great c

A itA TCI The professional rate. (says the Philadelphia Gregory, whose quaint ii terriers and his box of let pipe in his mouth, is fair city. He is known as been a professional ratca than 30 years. Jack is th in the United States. Ah he is as nimble,as a cat, un many a rat-bandling mate! last match in which he pL rats he was bitten a dozen t lost one cf his fingers. Tack English sporting stock, aud wth handling matches were a lav ? plied the ratpits with the live I little barn at the back cf his quail \Mt the other day with b'° pipe in to ferret crawling over c is shoulder. tbe fur on the ferret s back, a!l' broad English, "Ay lad. I've t;, thousand rats

A New York democrat ic nevspsr>e rallying crv" is wan^u bv ni* Wi-.Hi. tiie matter w; Cm r!*o Journal. Omaha Girl I si; < who n,(.ved into your • Tex Belle "Oh, we ,v '*n;i.y «ny more. Tbe .«• ■Ir F.»nk he cut l ii/) suii-risea?" "Ind»>e a f my f.t carried a bow:- i.