Welsh Newspapers

Search 15 million Welsh newspaper articles

Hide Articles List

15 articles on this Page




[No title]



[No title]





[No title]



OUR MISCELLA WY. BETTING.—The great incitement to gambling is a torpid intellect. Savages gamble desperately; A red Indian will stake his scalp when he has lost all his other property and the reason is that savage life is so into- lerably dull that any excitement is pleasant. The '.ove of betting, therefore, flourishes pretty much in proportion as the savage still exists within the civilised skin. Men of ability may occasionally take to it from sympathy, as they may throw themselves into anything else that is fashionable for the time, or because they think them- selves sharp enough to make money; but it is intrinsi- cally stupid to stake a fortune upon the question which of two horses runs fastest, or into which of a number of holes a ball happens to fall. Any man who is capable of enjoying intellectual employment will be as much above these rough means of producing excitement as he should be above drinking raw gin. The cunning which may be employed on the turf raises it one stage as an intel- lectual employment, though it may not improve it morally still it is at best a half-developed form of in- telligence, at which a horse jockey is more than a match for an educated man.-Saturday Review. EASTON-MAUDIT VICAItAGE.-Tlie vicarage, "<> long the retired home of Percy, and the birthplace of his children, stands on the south-west side of the church- yard, and here it was that the Reliques" were com- piled, which have won for him so permanent a reputation in the field of literature. It is now not a very large house, but in his time it is described by Mr. Nares his successor in the benefice, in 1782, and himself afterwards, an eminent literary man, as a very neat cottage of stone, and thatched, commanding no prospect, but perfectly snug and pastoral. Here came the good vicar's friend, Dr. Johnson, the great lexicographer, in 1764, on a visit to what was styled a dull parsonage, in a dull county, and declining, as it is said, the literature which his host provided, preferred to help Mrs. Percy to feed the ducks. In the garden a terrace is still shown as Dr. Johnson's walk, and in the little study Percy wrote the ballad, which Burns pronounced to be the finest in the language:— 0 Nanny, wilt thou gang with me ?" It was addressed to his wife on her return from Court, where she had been acting as nurse to one of the Royal children-Edward, afterwards Duke of Kent, and father of her present gracious Majesty.-Once a Week. ON BEING HIDDEN.—I do not for a moment suppose that a thing is valuable simply because it is hidden, or that there is any virtue in concealing what is good. Not at all; but that in their very nature the deepest things of man, like the deepest things of nature, are not always revealed at first, but lie embosomed within. I mention this that we may not run on to the rock of supposing that there is any virtue in self-conceal- ment, or hiding ourselves from the observation of man. God has his hidden ones. We must not fall into the common error of judging the Christian world by mere calculation. Statistics are no real estimates of souls. Where you least conceive it in Nature, the flower blossoms and where you little think it, the Divine life grows; where your eye failed to detect the fragrant Rose of Sharon, it was blossoming in the shade. I have said that Asaph's reference to God's hidden ones may mean his hiding bis people in the hollow of his hand, or sheltering them from the stormy wind of trial, or con- cealing them in a secret place, as he did David when he was pursued by Saul; but it is surely adapted to teach us that the truest glory of life is not always in the fact of being seen, so much as in being real and true.- Quiver. A STRANGE STORY.—Seventeen years passed away. Mrs. Howe had long since mourned her husband as dead, and for ever lost to her. Late one evening, while she was at supper with certain of her friends and relations, Dr. Rose, a physician who had married her sister, being one of the company, there was brought in and handed to her a letter, the writer of which, not sub- scribing his name, requested her to grant him the favour of a meeting upon the following evening in Birdcage- walk, St. James's-park. When she had read the note, Mrs. Howe, somewhat puzzled by the nature of its con- tents, passed it on to Doctor Rose, as she said with a laugh, "You see, brother, old as I am, I have yet found an admirer." Doctor Rose examined the note. His face assumed a very grave expression. Then after carefully studying the missive for some minutes, he announced his conviction that he knew the handwriting. He was persuaded the letter was written by no less a person than Mr. Howe. The company were greatly astounded. Mrs. Howe was so muoh. lQrmod and affected that she was seized with a fainting fit. Upon her recovery, however, shortly afterwards, it was re- solved that she should at all events attend the proposed appointment in company with Dr. Rose and his wife, and the other ladies and gentlemen then present. On the following evening, therefore, attended by her friends, Mrs. Howe presented herself in Birdcage-walk. The little party had not been at the appointed place more than five minutes when a stranger approached them, lifting his hat, and bowing politely. He was at once recognised. He was certainly Mr. Howe. He embraced his wife, offered her his arm, walked home with her, and the reunited couple lived together in great harmony up to the day of Howe's death, which did not happen until many years afterwards. Hawthorne imagines the man to have been possessed of a curious selfishness, rusting in his inactive mind-of a peculiar sort of vanity, of a disposition to craft, which up to the time of his going away, had seldom produced more positive effects than the keeping of petty secrets hardly worth revealing. Undoubtedly there are many people much enamoured of a mystery for its own sako-prone to set .value upon a secret simply because it is a secret, and without any regard to its intrinsic worth; just as the thieving magpie in the old story hid the silver spoons-not because the spoons could be of the slightest use to it, but because its mischievous propensities found pleasure in hiding away all sorts of things. Mr. Howe may have been a man of this kind it may have been a source of pleasure to him to reflect that he had securely hidden himself away from his wife and friends. It may be that the man was slightly mad. Over-indulgence in a crotchet may land many a man in an absolute craze. And those who are addicted to sowing whims should be counselled to take heed lest, as a consequence, they reap manias. Yet, if Howe was mad, there was certainly method in his madness, and it endured for 17 vears.— GasselFs Magazine.