The Welsh Coast Pioneer and Review for North Cambria

"HUMORS OF HISTORY." THC- FIRST MILITIA. A.D. 893. "Alfred haviing subdued the Danes, (Ynrtored into a friendly alliance with them, a id to still further his position, organised the first iviilitia system, under which all men who were capable of doing so had to bear arms." — "The" New History of England'. A political or social cartoon by A.M.. the artist-author of the above series of "Humors of History," appears daily in the "Morning Leader," tho pioneer half-penny morning paper in London.

ThE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON'S BARDIC HONOUR. COMPEN £ AT!ONS IN LIFE. Mr McDonald Rendlc, in the current issue of London Ohitdcn" writes:—"Sir Walter Yaughan I Morgan. Lord Mayor of London, has been to the National Eisteddfod of Wales, held a.t. Car- narvon. He has come home as well as could te cxpectod, rejoicing in the knowledge that, in addition to the trifling distinction tho city has come, red upon him, he is now a bard, with the title ol 'Glan Gwv.' The first time it runs I shall back jt to win and a place. I have been struck, as all of us must have been. with t.he contrast between our local rulers at homo and those in Russia, where governors, mayore?. and lo-ser dignitaries appear to be considered fair game for the assassin. Yes. there arc some com- pensations for living in England after all. A CONTRAST. The bomb of death speeds on the air. When tyrants Freedom hold in pawn; Complacent in the B;u-dic chair Sits our great city's "Father Yaughan." Oh, land of blood, whoro ruin roicns. And rights of man arc disregarded On. land of peace, whore dulcet strains Leave London's Mayor, without bomb. Barded

All that we ought to de.nui.nd from tech- it firstly train men to tliiril- secondly, to think systemati- cal]*• thirdly, to acqu-ue facility in dcsiign or research work and, fourthly, to go on think- ing- —"Engineering Tinus."

-r.. 1 '£.2. A Bonny I I Wrexham j j Baby -1 I 4 #?V/ i Pi Stiff" 1 I /'I# W' ^w. I a f- /or.-») a 9-, vM' I s .icr-y *Jj I :> -"¡;1j¿'t'g' c', ""7:;h' !¡, 1ij'J ,,fj¡.}J¿»'V I (Soti of Mr. Lloyd Jones, of Wrexham), M 1 ferowglit up 1 I ON 3 1 ^?^ ^'T^N^3 | 1 Striking Testimony frciri KP. Lloyd Jcnes^ FCI 50, RIIOSLDU ROAD, 1 P' WKF.XHAM, i nth January, 1905. S Messrs. KUBN, ROEINSOM & Co., Ltd., "9 London. I Honour to whom Hcnour is due." I S GRNII.EMKJT, 9 I am takinfj upon myself the liberty S of secdinp yuu my littli-son's pLctog^raph Q j?} ;mci to It*.) you tb:it it is through your 3 ™ Patent i'nriey that he is our chief comfort a pud treasurc to-dav. M I fed it my duty to acknowledge -J the benefit derived from your prepavn- S tion. in2st"Jlch as you have, not only « saved n-.y littlo man's life but you have 8 also made roy dear wife a(i myself one § of the happiest couples in the tt:wn 8 ) of Wrcsiiani to-day. His age is four 2 |3 months and he is still going strong. S| I I ui iv just further add that up to two H §3 month.; I had in my c.Wn private opinion B §3 a very slight hope that we should ever H rear hi:n, but thank Heaven 3 our prf pa a- g g tion was rercmraended to me ju.it in g K time. Alter he commenced to use. it, I K$j bji noticed a change in tiventy-four hours. gj| 1 M Such a ch:ir,{;i', liad I not experienced it H iw myself, I could not h.ave believed.. K ra Hoping you will accept my !:ttle B S son's photograph, and wishing you every H fja prosperity. P I am, Gentlemen, B jgi Faithfully yours, H Q_l. f<

FALT. RIGHTS rniSEltT. J STORIES OF POPULAR SONGS. BT J. CUTHBERT HADDEN. II.—"HOME, SWEET HOME. "Home, sweet home," as a popular lyric has it, was "the song that reached my heart." I do not know any other song that is likely to reach the heart sooner. It must have been written, yo-i would say, by a man who had himself a very happy home. But that is just the curiovs thing about it. The author of "Home, sweet homo had practically no home. It is a romantic story, not without a touch of tragedy too. We have become used to the poet writing with success of that which ha has not himself experienced. We know that Dibdin composed the finest sea songs in the language while having next to no personal acquaintance with the sea. Thomson wrote the best part of his "Winter" beneath the blankets; Collins penned his "Ode to the Sun by the light of a farthing candle; Tennyson conceived his "Break,break, break," in a Lincolnshire lane, and-- But really there is no end to this tale of poetic vagary; and, after all, I only want to shew that the author of "Home, sweet home" was in no way singular when he came to write of those delights of the domestic hearth of which he himself knew so little. In no'way singular, but only "more so." For John Howard Payne was all but a home- I less man. Nothing better than a boarding- house sheltered his restless frame, nor did ho know any sweet more wholesome than the bitter sweet of unsettled bachelorhood. In that connection one might recall the words of Lord Lytton when speaking of the wonder- ful thing we term Home. "Man," he Ray. "may have a splendid palace, a comfortable lodging, nay, even a pleasant e but man has no home where the home has no mistress." Well, the author of "Home, sweet home" had not even the comfortable lodging, let alone the pleasant house. Not so long ago there was a letter of his printed in the Boston .Journal referring to a certain period of his life when he was preparing to flee his country and his creditors. From this letter we gather that he was in the direst poverty, and desperate circumstances altogether. "I have suffered somewhat from a rheumatic attack," he writes, "in consequence of oc- cupying a comfortless room that had been long unlived in and unaired." It was in this room, "with only a bed and a stove, au old washstand and two old chairs, each of a different sort," that he contracted the illness which ended in his death a few months later. Yet this was he who wrote of "Home, sweet home in language that ha3 touched a chord in the breast of the whole English-speaking race, and rendered his name immortal. But let us hear his story a little more fully. John Howard Payne was a native of New York, where he was born in 1792. He shewed an early predilection for the stage, and if he ha.d not written "Home, sweet homo" he would still have enjoyed some fame as the first native American "Hamlet." lie played the part of the Dane at New York when he was only seventeen. Master Betty, the "boy Hamlet," was creating a great furore about that time, and it was Payne's idea to set up as a rival. He drew enormous crowds, and put money in his purse—for a time. But it was only for a time. He came to England and tried his luck in the triple character of actor, manager, and writer or adapter of plays. He lost money and was imprisoned for his debts but ha contrived ti purchase his liberty by a successful translation, and after playing Richard III. for a few nights he said farewell to the stage. Soon after this he drifted to Paris. Pres- ently h3 found himself without a penny in his pocket. It occurred to him to try another play. He wrote, in fact, several plays. These he sent to Charles Kemble, the theatrical star of the day. Among the lot was the libretto of an opera entitled "Clari or, the Maid of Milan. If, said Payne, Kembie would give him £ 50 for this libretto he would get Sir Henry Bishop to write tie music for it. Kemble snit the money; Bishop wrote the music; and "Clari" was brought out at Covent Garden in 1823, to take the town by storm in a few days. One song in the opera had captivated every man, woman, and child who heard it, and that song was—"Home, sweet home." And here we must give credit to the com- poser. When Newman was complimented on the popularity of his" Lead, kindly Light" he remarked: "Ah, yes, but tho tune, is by Dvkes." He meant to say that if it had not been for Dykes's tune "Lead, kindiy Liglit" would not have enjoyed its great vogue. Some- thing of the same kind may be said in regard to "Home, sweet home." If there had been no Henry Bishop, Payne's words might never have "caught on." Bishop declared that he would be content to rest his fame 011 the melody. And yet, strange to say, he had to prove his to it in a court of law. That, too, is a strange story. I had the details of it from th, late Dr. Charles Mackay, the author of "Cheer, bovs, cheer," who got the account from Bishop himself: According to this account. Bishop, Rt Lh. time when he was engaged on Payne's libretto, was commissioned by a London pub- lishing firm to edit a collection of the national melodies of all countries. In the course of his labours he found that he had no Sicilian air, and as a, "Sicilian melody" had been announced in the prospectus i-ir Henry decided to make one. This he (lid, and it was the air of "Home, sweet home." When the mdody sprang into popularity several music pub- lishers, believing it to be really Sicilian, and therefore non-copyright, re-issued it in cheap form. The outcome of this was a series of actions for piracy and breach of copyright against the publishers who were implicated. When the case came on for trial Bishop was called as a witness, and deposed on oath that he was the composer. It is saiu that when Payne heard the air which Bishop proposed to set to his homely little poem he offered to write, and in fact did write, a new set of verses for it. There is certainly little romance in them, and they were evidently written merely as a joke. Look at them "Through various kinds of places I'm often forced to roam But though they're often dismal they're not so bad as home. For duns sit on my staircase, and duns ait in my hall In faet, they haunt my house so, I have no home at all Home! Home! I won't go home! Oh, no however humble, there's no place like my home "The postman never raps but a cunning note to bring; Each single knock's a bailiff, and a writ comes with each ring. I dare not go home now, but some day I mean to call To see. if ail those duns are still sitting in the hall. Home Home I won't go home Oh, no! however humble, there's 110 place likc my home There is certainly very little romance in that, but the one version assuredly aecords better with the author's personal experience than the other. The lucky thing for Payne was that lie could "dodge" the duns and leave them sitting in the hall There is a further story about sweet hOIne." Payne's biographer says the song was written for a Miss Mary Harden, who died at Athens, U.S., in 1S37. ialiss Harden was the daughter of General Harden, of While still quite young (she was born in 1803) her father was appointed Commissioner to treat wiUi the Cherokee Indians, and Payne, who" was one of hii assistants,'met her, and conceived a passionate attachment for her. It was not returned, however, as "the lady was not cf aroma nti c disposition. On the death of General Harden it was found that his affairs were embarrassed, and much of his property lo;t. His daughter nt once set to work to earn her own living by her knowledge of French, gaining employment in the foreign correspondence department at Washington. She was able to buy back muc'j

Socialism means t;I;r i; for ;¡.d-E;YCC1)- inT. and bot.tom prices for bnaiiis.—G- Sims in the "Referee." The drought has noce-soitated tli, curtail- ment of the water supply of Wrexham.

[ALL BIGHTS RESERVED. ) LITERARY PORTRAITS. BY HALDANE MACFALL, Author of "The Masterfolk," "The Wooing of Jezebel Pettyfer," &c. II.—THOMAS HARDY. Through dreamy, sincere eyes, the large soul of Thomas Hardy looks out upon a sad world for which his great heart aches with an infinite pity. He sees the immortals for ever making sport of all poor human things here below. He sighs to think how smlI a thing is the heroism of the greatest amongst us- n&v, even their loftiest ambitions—compared to the vastness of the huge universe of which this earth is but a little trifling star. When 8.11 man's endeavour is summed up, what a poor basketful of insignificance it is, set down at the foot of the mountains of time He Biglis at the cruelty of nature that can order so hard a road for the poor wounded feet of man to travel-the poor worn with toil, the rich harassed with discontent, the wise unable to attain more than the scraps of wisdom. Seeing the world through the grey glasses of pessimism, the light goes out of his hsaven. He flinches from the brutality of tife--the hawk striking down the linnet, tearing to pieces its exquisite design—the wolf fiying at the throat of the Jamb-the ferret's crafty attack on the timid hare. Everywhere life taking life. No refuge from the unending struggle. Success in lifc-wha.t is it but the tale of other hearts broken ? What is the rich man's palace but the sign of other hemes made desolate ? Everywhere is strife, pursuit, sorrow, suffering—the rich trampling down the poor. At the end of all life's striving — the grave What is commerce but the getting the better of one's neighbour ? At every hand the strong over- throwing the weak. Behind Hardy's kindiy, ready laugh, behind his grim sense of humour, behind his demure manner and frank gaze, Ave feel this constant dogged effort to drag aside the veil that hides the mystery of life. His large humanity, his love of every created thing, reels from the cruelty of nature, shrinks in horror from the fact of the creation of so exquisite a thing as Life to be destroyed ia so horrible a thing as Death. And it is, perhaps, in his depiction of the agony of the burden that is the destiny of the world's most beautifully created thing, Woman, that the largest sense of his humanity cries out. It is for this brutality cf al! brutalities that ho seems to be most heavily sorrowful. In a series of superb studies of women, of the unsophisticated women of rural life, the country town, and the village, he insists on the tragic burden of their womanhood. Eveiywhere he sees sorrow and pain. The very intellect that raises man above the brute, what does it do to bring happiness to poor, stumbling, blundering man ( It but dangles hopes and ambitions and joys as lures before his eyes to decoy him into struggling for them, and, in the strife, to puih others down. Ilie intellect, man's beast over the bnlte- it is the crown of ti,,oviis It cannot give happiness, it often firings madness, it is swallowed in the grave of time. This e: nvietion of the cruelty of nature and of life Hardy has expressed through a series of novels of country life that place him supreme amongst the English masters of the prose pastoral. It may, at first sight, seem strange that the voice of the country side, finding tongue through the genius of'Hardy, should compel our minds to dwell on tlva ciuelty of nature. We are accustomed to think of the country as giving us the healthy strong man. the vigorous race. But it is a E;, stiange fact that it is not in the towns but amongst the rural folk that melancholy most dwells, and madness finds its largest prey; just as it is a strange fact that the greatest landscape painter of the world was born and bred in the dingy house of a narrow London street; just as we find that the Irish, a merry folk by repute, are at heart amongst the saddest people in the world. There broods always over the country, even in it most beautiful laudscapes, a sense of sadness, the hint of a sigh, such as one rarely feels in the toil-worn streets of cities. The life of the fields is nearer to nature— toil is on a heavier ground—labour is lower, more tedious—longer in yielding its results. The day is more lonely. Death is more insistent, more known, oftener seen, nearer when it comes, hides itself less from the gaze. In London how rarely we realise that anyone is dying! In a village, death brings a solemn dicnity and a hush to the smallest cottage— the coming of death sets every tongue a-gossip. It is through the personality of Thomas Hardy, and in and by his tine novels, that we fed the pathos and the quaint humour of the country side; it is in his pictures of life that we are made to feel not only that the life of the village is as romantic as the life of the stately homes thai dominate the villaec, but wc are sliyly shewn that the lord who lives in romp and circumstance, in the stately home passes into tho handsome tCElh as the villager passes into his simple grave, ail in the self- same God s-acre and the obliterating earth, and the wind and the rain, blot out in time the very record of their virtues in stone, as they wear away the simple tombstones cf the poor, and all are in time forgotten. It is remarkable that it is in England's great pastoral poem, Grey s "Llegy in a Country Churchyard," that we find the great pessimistic poem of the English language— pessimistic as the "Rubaiyat" of Omar jHiayv am. As" alleviation for the sadness of life, the Eastern genius of Omar Khayyam found wine and a book, a loaf and the love of a girl. The pessimism of the medieval Church found it in the hope of a future state of bliss- Hardy finds it in a vast pity for all suffering things. The life beyond the drawn curtain Cf. ççth is.. hevQJlil kgn—beyond hia guessing, ne is EneorffiuZi S vviue p:ty ana a generous charity for every suffering thing upon this earth; and in his desire to mitigata all suffering Hardy finds that which makes for the beautifying of life. The pessimistic genius can never be so etiffulaticg to a vigorous life for mankind as the optimistic genius nor its impulse so forward urging towards fuller existence and the emancipation of the race. It is the man that believes the Designer to have made a glorious world, the man that looks upon Iif« as a splendid wayfaring, who lifts the world upon his shoulders. The most supremely noble pessimist (and Hardy is near the throne) can at best but sit at the hearth of his sad world and pile up the fire in the hope to mitigate the biting frost for others but the optimist holds the tun to the earth, and his very joyousncss sets the world a-singing. Born some sixty-three years ago, in hit beloved Wessex, that is the background tc hit pastoral tragedies and comedies, Thomat Hardy wag schooled in the art of architecture —indeed, threatened to reach early distinction < in the building of churches—but the building of prose was making a more urgent call upon his temperament. At thirty-one he discarded bricks and stone, and some toying with verse, to make his first and most unpromising essaf in fiction with a sensational story of the kin4 then in vogue. At thirty-two, however, with "Under the Greenwood Tree," he entered, haltingly enough, to be sure, into his king- dom, and first uttered the voice of the supreme English master of the pastoral novel. But it was not until his thirty-fourth year that "Far From the Madding Crowd noised abroad the fact that a genius had arrived amongst us. In his thirty-eighth year came the sublime, the deepest, and the most perfect of hia tragedies, "The Return of the Native. With his fifty-first year he completely changed his manner, and gave us the realistic "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," and, four years lajlfer, "Jude the Obscure." The supremacy of sheer beauty of artistry had now given place to the domination of the spirit of humanity, of righteous indignation, and of the vast pity which has always stirred his. genius. These two books were violently attacked for what is called their "realism," by which the critic and the public generally seem to mean such a treatment cf sex as it not the ordinary romantic conception of it in fiction. As a matter of fact, powerful and great as "Tess is, some colour was lent to the charge by the tendency on Hardy's pari to exaggerate his chief literary defect in these two novels—a defect which is tha marked characteristic of the realistic move- ment-a habit of over-elaborate detail, and of wandering away into unessential descriptions and side-issues from the path of his plot. But the truth was that Hardy had joined the younger men in a supreme effort to break from the cramping convention into which the novel had fallen—for the nineties saw a general movement in letters to break away from the "rose-water sehool. "Tess," striking the first strong blow, was bitterly assailed, and had to bear the brunt of the attack. Meredith says somewhere "Nature will force her way, and if you try to stifle her t by drowning she comes up, not the fairest part of her uppermost." In "Jude the 1 Obscure there is a suspicion of this un- eeemliness. But the attack on Hardy was childish. His style, limpid and pure, was never more masterly than in these books; his drawing of character was never more subtle nor more sure. And, to rank immortal, it is on its creation of character that the novel must finally stand at the bar of judgment. Hardy rests to-day secure of his bays. [Next article of the Series: "RICHARD WHTTEIXG. "1

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np osi the Leeds road, voiry likely Ray would lie to build one for tih-iii.Felves. It would bo biottec, dI!l't. you thvnk. '011 yes, I dcuresav,' murmured Mr Yanistone, caily remctcly cemprehendxig what ahe was talking about. At the same time he icoked helplessly at Helen as if asking her to en- lighten l im. But sho only bent over the teacups wnd smiled, though I'nwa.rdiy not much at hor eir.ee • 'They don't want to begin high,' wemt on gocd Mrs ilolt, U.rlCOlll.-X:O.l, of saying any- thing c-ut ol the way. 'It's always better for young folk to ri.e, by degiees—1« end at the Cehrt, kiGtcftd of begimntng at. 1 t. Helen got up hastily, acid handed MJS Holt hor tc-a. of so-m^ohing else, dear Mrs Holt. sire murmured, era her falher turneel his back to get the breed and butter Papa. t goi, :o far as that yet. He needs some time to get accustomed to thitarg,?.' All right, my dlalr, said Mrs Holt noddling amiably, and the peri- loua moment parised. He-kn tJirew bareeilf into the I (reach, and took (.J)j'e that the talk f.liould be kept- away from private and personal matters, in a.booit half all hour Iv! rs Holt depaarfed quite pleased with he-rsolf, en- chaatod with Helen, juod quite- unconscious what a trying expciriencc she had boon for hor futu.ro diaughtir-in-law, Mr Va.netone watched the retroainig c,:i-rriag0 out of sight, thon he turned slowly to his daughter- 'What a pCTsxxn. 1 What did -.lie mean by saying that itt would bo bettor for you 10 build a houFg3? Is it possible tlitt sho or amy of tJlCnl tliink for athat you arc marrying cine of them for that?' Helen slipped hor hand through his arm and pa/cid it soothingly. 'You mutn't take "her seriously, pani she irs a dear, simple soul, us innocent as a baby. Yell caai see thcut.' 'I see that eho, dbc-fin't realise what is roa-Jly gcjiiiig- to happen. I'd batter feet the interview with t,!i^ father ovor, in case thore llOuld be any hutch- Ho must be made to understand at CKCC -what is expected, a-nd i,f there is the faiiJtet-jfc on his I)a.rt not to moot iii-v own viowe, then the m--atte.r is off, that's Helen wimced; the ccmmerciiu aspect of the afT air was distasteful to her III the e-xtrome. 'I don't thiiuik there be any difliculty, papa, a.r,d I am ÐurtC you will fi:nd Raymond reasonable- As you yourself have said,, he is a gentleman. Ho will not expect me to ive itn a villa on tho Leeds road, though it is just pd^s-ible that, a-s a.n exriorieixe, I might enjoy .it.' 'For goodines^' sake, Helen, hold YO'Jr tang-ue,' sakl Mr Vanstone with a shiver- 'The Olily thing which can make this aiTair bca,r thi'tilcing of, ill itis sordrid aspect. To make a snorifice, and {¡,nd the object has not been attained, would be confusion worse foutuded—tho very acme of irony.' 'I wonder,' said Ilolon, and hor eyes were perilously bnight- CHAPTER XXVI. RICH AND POOR. Mrs Holt oomt.in-tied her ilrivo to Bartley, but stopixx! tho carriage i.n the va-iley near the mail) gates. Perhaps soinethinc told her it would be unseomly to ta-ke the prancing horses right up to the sorrow-strickcn House 'Go ktfiido tho gains' she saitd to the footman, .iia n, if you can find your master, tell hi in I've walked up to the Catosby's, and that I']; bo a.lx>u.t half an hour, if he can be ready to go home, by t.hon.' v She turnod away, a.nd began slowly to ascend the h'jll. It was very c-Iceo and warm, and Sirs Holt no loroper yoi:n.g or nimble <-ri her feet- So tho took it jn vc'ry leisurely • fashion, with hor red parasol h-e!d well oo- heir faee to sJnado the "un. But. she took oc- oa^icml fieejis at her surroundings, and jho fai:ioie<t that nsvor bofore had Bartley 'E'1r;e i Eo small a.nd stuffy mean. 'Phei- r waa full of vague colours, as if some fosh, free wind wore needed to sweep cleansin/iy through its mr-row streets. Sho ste»pped onc-e or twice to speak a kind word to scnie child, or g.iivo him a penny, but f.ioally c-imo to t! .r.do street wliong, the Catesby's lived. Sho tl t ro often h2<fore, having given work from time to time to tho detid girl. The blinds were all drawn close, the doc nhut, onslv one of the upper windows was open halfway from the top. She guessed it was 'he room whom Florrie lay. Her k,:11d hea.rt. was full as sho tap re; I t the cQor. She had to wait some time for an arowor, but at length t door was reluct a.nt.ly opemed a little way, and Ca.fesby looked out- She was a small, thin, anxious- lookii.nig woman, with sad eyes and drooping mouth, isnd this sorrow liad hor bv ten years. She started atpight of Mrs Holt, and made as if to close tho door, but th„, .wm f |>athotic look, tho aatstncitohed arm, disarmed { shut the door on me surd/ said M're Holt, with a faint smile. 'I thou j; it I'd just, like to tell you how sorry I am for you all.' Mrs Catesby hold open the dror wile enough for her visitor to enter; then .'ho clcfxxl it softly. After all, Mrs Ilolt had evor been a good friend to Florrie, and the st.ato of the Bartioy drains was no fault of hers- Shr, opOnod the sitting-room cloor, mid motioaiod her visitor to be seated. 'It was very sudden, at the end, surdy fia/'id Mrs Holt, as took the otf-ered 'When Mary Jane Bates told me yeste.-J ly, you could have knocked me clown with a feather- Poor dear Florrie, and such a sv. ?et girl as she was-' Mrs Catesby listened to hor in perfect silence, which at letngth struck Mrs Holt as very strange. She regarded her keenly, q.,nI saw that hor eyes wore quite dry, her" mouth sad but hard, her whole attitude one of bell'k>a instead 'It was tho Lord's will, dear Mrs Catcsby. Wo can't question, it, we can only submit,' she murmured softly, giving voice not to com- monplace woncfe 01 religious condolence, but to sincere conviction of her h'oart. 'Don't sa- thesn sort o' things i.n this b.ouse, ma'am,' saiid Mrs Catcsby civilly but firmly'. .It'II hg batter not.' v 'Uuv why? You and Catesby go to chapel regub. and look what a power Florrie was in the Smniiay School—Mr Da.le told me, net loaiig ago, she was his right hand- It ought to bo a groat oomfort to you now.' 'It isn't them—it makes it ton times worse c IAl r, Catesby, but did not say why. Mrs Ilolt looked at heir perplexedly, and with a groat gentleness, at the same time oastuig about for some suitablo words of comfort. Biut somehow her command of Scripture seemed suddenly to desert her. There was oomethiing diiseonoaTti.ng im, the tall, sn.d. storm, woman standing silently but not meekly be- fore hor. 'How's Cateshy:' she asked to change the | subject. "J:k,Ùg on bad?' 'Very bad. Somotidnes I fear his rcatron'Jl go; and as for John Howorth, he's dome nothing but ait by Florrie's bed all day, sayin' niathin'—he's there now.' 'But, surely, godly folk like you and Cat.k.,bv shouldn't act so?' said Mrs Holt. 'The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. Bloused bo Has n-Hie,' Lizzie Ca.tesby kept siieait as long as she could. But as Mho looked at tho richiv direeeed figure, the kiisd but cxirnrlaectnt face, and hearrd thece pla.tI:ltudcs from her li-os, a sudden, bitter, and iz anger shock her like a whirlwind. I am sure you mecin well, Mre ahe said, in a choking voice, 'but. I thi'r'k ou'd better go a-fore Tom corner i,n. I couldn't aiiswor for him. He's feehm' that bit.ter and wiiicked.' Mrs Holt rose, wound-ed and hurt, 'But doarie me, I can't help it, Mrs Catoeaby. I came aG a n^-ig-hbo-ur to npoak a word o' comfort, as I w(qld be glocl far a neighbour to speak to me iia my koubl.e. l'iti surprised err.ii diia.p'poi-nited arc the way you're taking this stroke from the Lord's ha>r:d- for vcot, my poor dear. You can't forbid me to do that., ai:l'yway.' Mrs Catewby hesi'tated a moment. She felt sho was behaving unjustly to the woman • ho had been ro kind to Florrie, and who was so eyK!11,¡Y ignorant of -uetcii's, which all Bartley were discussing witli varying degrees cÆ b'.ittornees- "It's tuo way she died. SLo ought not tio hayc cLud, i'f the Tl1(kl!(',r Iwd dcn« what he ought—what Oiteoby says the law should com- pel him to do.' 'What aie you talking s-bou-t, Mrs Catesby?' asked Mors ilolt un a mystified -voice, ocily grcDpV'g the fact that her husband was being blamed. 'It's the drains; t,hoCrc ain't no ron why' I shouldn't tell you- Maybe, if we'd snoken to you about it long ago, things would ha' bean merrJod,' sai.d Mis Catesb- in her dull, rcseait-fu! voice. 'IMot-t o' the houses in Baitky are nothing but death-traps. There's lici'.hir.g but fever an' btd i.liiro.i.ts in the place, a.i-.d Florric's is the third death thin week. And 3.11 beevaaise t'ma.rjter won't spend a few hun- dreic'js on the place- Tell him he'd better do it eocin, or the iteoixl will be ha.vy agaii.st him.' Mrs Ilolt sa.t dowji again, and with keen eyes, and broatli coming quickly, put Mrs Catesby through a, coarse of questions which revealed nitich to her apkonkihxl ears. Whcit she had ]-¡.ca"ru enough, shoo walked quietly out of t.he house without so much as biddi ng her goc-d-dny. At the end of the street she looked back, only once, at the upper window, where the blind fla.pp,ed gently in the soft wind; aaiid ckcinig nor eyes a momer.it, she seo.ned to see the stricken aaxl so! it.n.rv" iiian b" the docsd gdirl's side, holding his lonely- and bitter vigil. 'God forgive an' help us all,' she muttered bnokcn.ly, as aho retraced heir steps the way she had come- Sho saw nothing, heard nothing, to bridge, w'bc>re, to her s»rj)ricx?, the carriage stoud wai-tkig, bee hus- band sitting in it- Shü walked Oil, amd when the iiian opened the door, after a mocrK-at's hesitation, got in. Mary Ann, lavo jieu deLe your ;;t:C"¡:;l;; Surely soni«'t hing rt 1,' icsc a pair might have done for Bartioy Sho made no reply. Tho man vaulted to his and the ho rocs sta-itvs.1 fot ward- We ought to b ,\0I1k;1" (n OI' f,.('t. Y11 :n' m: viflliam, if every one li t it-iiell, due, Goi forgive amd help II,; tU1l'(xl ill his seat, rod cyed her curiously. She vas pale, and her face wore a kind c>f intense lock" lie was quick enough to jump to the right, conclusion. have been get-ling at you. Mary Ann; but go to remember that there's two sides to every quett;on.' 'There ain't but. one side to this CCoD, Wil- You ought to have seen to tho in drains, you There's only cnc side to that -C"!I, us ;n tbi,; hundreds to keep. The Lord'll not hold us guiltIes, my man.' 'T ii-r-y v.oren't compelled to live in the houses,' ho said quietly. 'Don't you forget :t —1 hey lived in them because u.e- f'iuiui them gcod. and cheap-' 'They weren't fit for folks to live in. You ought to go up sn-d ceo Lizzie Catcsby, and 'ud nllkc Your bleed run cold.' 'Oh, I know their siylo well enough. And you needn't look so sir an go at mc, Mary Ann- After all, you're only a woman, and a woman .V: always taken with tho sentimental side of thie.es.' 'My heart William, and my n- science is -eyio' C4it. Fk*rrie wa.- their (vo 1 y gi.-l- Just think, if it was our liyy, arid wo could blame somebody like ihey'io blaming us, how bitler w-i-'d i'<^l-' Mr Holt was silent, a.nd his ruddy face u3£;lmçd an anxious iOJk. Ile, too, had had a fcrypng, miserable day. 'I'm doing what i ca.n, Alary Ann; Cole- mam's had his onions. Th0 drains will be til up in Ba.rtley next week.' "A week too late for poor Catcsby and the reel, that have buried thnr poo? little bairns. Oh, Illi:am,a,J to think what spent, what wo do spend on ourselves: them horses—you paid hundtrecl for them, I mind, two yeans past at Whitsun—and tho Fr-r-nch cook, and all at the Cb-urt. 1 wioh-I wisli we'd never left- ollr little house on Bartioy Hill We were hap- pior and better Chriotiamo then then we are now.' 'It's got on your nerves. Marv Ann. You'll bo better in a day (,r I)- gently for him—seeing that the thing had laid hold of her heait. His own was heavier than usual, amd for the firot time in his life he had felt a thrill of irritation, nather than pride, i21 the splendid Pliuipago which liad no equal in the neighbourhood- 'You've never told me yet why you had C" Cu both the horses out,' he said presently, trying to divert, tho cci:ivon:-at-ion from the painful subject. 'I wont to Alder ton to call cm Miss Va-n- stone, and I thought for Ray's sake I'd better go in. style,' sho answered simply. 'You vo-nt to A1 dor-tan. I Evy ,"i! ycu, I i uppcrc 'No, sho went to h.tnoh at the Tor, wi'h Roy and Mr Digby. I wont by myself 'You had a good deal cf u\s; an ;c How rlkl they reccivo you ?' 'Oh, ail right. She's it pretty c-ot.ir, ÐÆd she dceon't dospisa me. • Honk >«• II make a good wife to Ray, tii,l t,(t \ir;t t,, bo extiviavagajtt. She was quit/ pka.-ed uirn I told her it was bettor fo- ycutig frlks to begin in a small way, and that I thought a nioe two-storoy house an the 1/ ede lOr. J wi uld be the thing for them a.t lirst.' Mr Ilolt turned and steed at his wife in won,do.r. Her simplicity had soancthiug colossal fi,bout it 'I really think, Mary Ann, tiha.t for a middle- aged woman yc'u'C the biggest baby I've ever fie -4iid helpk\ssiy. 'You ma.y think that, but. it was sound advice, William, and you know it was, in you-- heart,' she qu;ctly.. And I am sure there's no nonsenee about Helen VanstcLc if the was lot alone.' 'Was tho Squire there whem you medethis original statement?' asked Mr Holt, in a f)!bg,n.tlv iromicaJ v o i ce ■ 'No, but I aadd l, to him, too, and he didci't seem to be put a.[,otit. 'I really with Evy would look after you, Qnid not lot you go about making such a "fool of yourself a.nd me,' said Mr Holt wearily. 'I shouldn't wonder if you didni't put vouir foot in it soricuslj' to-day. Look here, Mar- Ann., do you yap pore for a moment that the Vaiisitooes think gcod enough for them ? If fiho marj-ces Rav, it will bo for what he has, and ws—that io., I—siiiall be expected to pay. and .sweetly, for it. too- A house on the Lee dp rood I tell you its a place nothing less than the Court- that will saitic.fy her, and a lot mo-re periiaps! ha\o a t £ ik tJ-¡) wd Square; 1 expoc to find hi-m a pretty t-cugh subjeet.' 'If it's a place iiko the CYii-t thev want,, lot 'om have it, acid let us go back to Bartle Hull.' said Mrs Holt eagerly; -then, peihap/, we'll bo as happy as we u«?d tj l>e.' Mr Holt fo!de<] his arms, sm-.t his eyes, and .<e,nk helpkf-.r,!y back ici the carxicge" wi'thoui another word.

ef the lost property, and left an estate worth £ 5,000. It was stated at the time of Misa Harden's death that the original MS. of Home, sweet home was buried with her by her own request, as it was interlined with loving expressions which she "did not wish should be made public." The poetic imagin- ation has clearly been at work upon this ftory, but I have no means of proving its authenticity. Payne was certainly unfortunate in his love affairs. In 1635 he formed the acquaintance of a daughter of Judge Goode, of Montgom- ery. An autograph album belonging to the lady contains the following lines in Payne's handwriting, and over his signature "Lady, your name, if understood. Explains your nature to a letter; And may you never change from Goode, Unless, if possible, to better." On the next page of the album is a response written by Mirabeau, President of the Lono Star Republic. Perhaps he was Payne's rival. In any ease this was what he wrote: "I am content with being Goode, To aim at better would be vain But if I do, 'tis understood, Whate'er the cause-it is not Payne. Poor Payne! Perhaps if he had married Miss Goode he might really have experienced some of the domestic delights of which he has sung so sweetly. Perhaps not! Marriage is such a lottery! There is little more to tell of the life-story of John Howard Payne. He had in the course of his career wandered far from "home" and when the end came, in 1852, he was tilling the post of American Consul at Tunis. There he was laid to rest; but his countrymen, rightly considering that one who, while he lived, had, in his one great popular song, shewn so deep an affection for home, should not have his place of final repose in a foreign land, had his remains exhumed in the spring of 1883, and all that was mortal of Howard Payne was consigned to American soil. He rests, after life's fitful fever, in the cemetery of Oak Hill, near Washington. [Next article of this scries; "AULD LANG SYNE. "J