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The Man about Town.

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The Man about Town. A hush, a pause in the feverish struggle one day of truce, a momentary laying aside of arms, that is what Bank Holiday means to us. I have forgotten even the question of morality whilst seeking rest in some remote little spot where they are so out of the world that I find they had never heard of Whitsuntide except as a date in the church calendar and as an occasion for that most delightful of literary feasts, the Athanaskn Creed. It was not in Wales, and yet it was a town which once made Wales tremble. It was a Capital all to itself, with a grey old Castle And a nohle Collegiate Church, and a fierce race of inhabitants used to giving and getting blows. The Lord of the Marches gave to this small spot his presence and court; from here was Wales controlled and kept in order-this is a clear bait to Celtomaniacs—and here you can to-day sniif romance in the very air, and breathe it with expanding lungs through the swell of uplands and the dip of valley which carry the glorious foliage of luxuriant trees till they nestle in the arms of mysterious hills which hold faint watch on the horizon. Cardiff, too, was great then, and became a seat of Government. But it was here that the martial soul of the Lords Marchers kept tumultuous court. Many a time in the stormy days of Welsh romance messengers, quickly galloping over the winding roads that lead into the stubborn heart of the Principality, brought tiding of an angry rising, and there was much clatter and sound of horns and mustering of soldiers and horses and arms and hauberks and helmets were got ready, and away rode my Lord of Pembroke to the scene of riot nay, as often as not came back, not by any means at a minuet step, but ragged and des- ported,with his !ittlearmyone,and the Celtic foe at his heels. The very country seems to scent the battle afar it is accustomed to the blood of warriors. Its earth is rich with mangled corpses, and many a brave army has laid the ground for noble elms and oaks which have grown proudly forth and looked heroic and half human in theit pride of limb and glory of rich leaf. As one sits on the rising hit! and looks down upon the ruined keep, still imperious and defiant of decay, and on the glorious old church, cathedral-like and blazoned with mavveltous glass, one feels thankful that Bank Holiday does come round, and that it is an open door, left for a moment by a lazy sentinel, through which we can> like imprisoned children, rush forth to sniff the country air once more, to feel the ftee rttr blowing on our cheeks and the grass yielding beneath our feet ) I must not Ml "<'0 it is, bacauso it would bo a which no just man would dream of doing. The I I town is so disdainful of Whit-Monday that it refuses to keep the day for pleasure, but opens its shops and its markets dnd will not be coerced. It is not till Tuesday that it, takes a tardy holiday so that it may not even in its pleasures touch the garments of I the vulgar and sordid who rejoice by almanack, and make merry according to Act of Parliament, Perhaps it has a right I thus to hold itself sacred. When a Church feels within her the pressure of stone that masons dead these eight hundred years have lain, she may rightly hold her tower with stiff and haughty pride to the sky. There are houses here which dato back to the Plantagenets not to mention a glorious old Inn all wood-panelled and with gorgeous carved mantel-pieces, so timber-framed so as to be one of the chief glories of the West of England. Shall I add; too, a charming hostel called the Bull," whereat one may drink and be not ashamed, and where my Lady Bounteous with courteous hand and gentle grace, handeth the cup so that it becomes as nectar which even the Olympian Gods could never purchase ? Here, I say, there is an old room filled with panels of Lords of the Marches, stolen, I fear, from the castle, but inspiring to look at. Where else is such a town, where else such glorious country, where else such halting places of romance ? There are none elsewhere, at all, that I can hear of. To name the town would be a -desecration. It is impiety. I had rather set my friends a thinking, and if they hit it right, let them whisper it softly to themselves and tell no man. There is more I would fain say, but I shudder lest I -,court detection. There are groat writers who have lived here, and you (JIm never rtlwolutely rely on the ignorance of your readers. One cannot even study Shakespeare now and feel one is on virgin ground. Only tho other day I was assured by a man at Cardiff that he had read I Measure for Measure, and once at a wayside inn I came across two cyclists who, without change of colour or any appearance of embarrassment, laid claim to having got through Pope's "Essay on Man." One really had begun to think that with the ample provision made for the multitude in the shape of excellent penny ptipers, where much general information can be gleaned of' our great men. The classics were left to to the select spirits" as a private park, so to speak, or opeu space to which they ¡I I aione had the key. I am aware that the three writers I am going I to refer to are scarcely to be feared. They are certainly never read. Who ever heard of anyone who had got through Paradise I Lost'?" Hudibras is tsuroly sacrod. I have only once come acros.s a being who- lay claim to having read it, and even lie, I discovered, had done so simply to enjoy the notes of the Rev. John Milford, who edited it a long time ago for the Aldine edition. The notes were so magnificently puerile, so audaciously commonplace, and so uniquely unnecessary that my friend read the text so as to enjoy them to the fullest extent. I imagine ho only rewards Butler as being a useful predecessor and John the Baptist to the Rev. Milford. *• Here, then, let me say, without further delay a distinct rhyme, by the ( way I cannot help it if one has a musical style it gets into the habit of running into verse by some sort of in- tuition, just as a hunter harnessed to a cart always makes for the nearest hedge and wants to jump it-it was. I repeat, at this spot that three great men spent part of their lives and wrote part of their works. They are a glorious trio. First comes John Milton, who produced his Comus" in I the old Castle—I quake lest this may give away the name to two or, perhaps, three of my readers—and himself wrote that charm- ing pastoral in one of the sombre rooms that overlook the valley of the North. How glorious to have been there in person and given an exclusive report and how the dramatic critic of these days, having left his sword and his helmet and his coat of mail in the cloak-room and sat down with a clatter and a ringing of spurs, like a scullery dresser of pots and pans, would have scowled at the programme and frightened the poor author in the wings by a promise of a slashing notice in the "Jousts and Tournaments Weekly Intelli- gence." It was a good performance, how- ever, and the poem has, in a manner, sur- vived. That is to say, it is embalmed in our literature, if not in our minds. Next comes poor old Samuel Butler, who made mince- meat of all the enemies of the True Faith and the King, and caused the Universe to laugh and the Great and Little Bears to wag their tails for very merriment, and then was left to starve by an ungrateful and pro- fligate monarch. Hudibras! What a won- derful treasury of sparkling wit and biting satire Is there such another in the world? Here it was that Butler wrote it; aye, and sighed many a time as he looked towards London and thought how many idle and dissolute ne'er-do-weils was being pampered by their royal master, whilst he, the greatest man in England, was left to the mockery of idle state in a nobleman's train Ah but I must not say. Then there was Baxter, who wrote Saint's Rest." T do not know much about either, but I understand that Saint's Rest is great because written by Baxter, and Baxter great because he wrote Saint's Rest." The work has certainly given many sinners sleep J <. I can say no more I roll back into the routine of daily life, with a grumble and a groan. Let us forget flowery mead and noble aspect, and only look with wistful eye to that Parvenu of August, who, after all, is I not such an ill fellow, and when one is safely past Whit-Monday

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