OUIDA'S NEW TALE. 0Til MA 11 < <. CHAPTER XL. The next day Othmar called upon Rosselin, and, ffithout preface, said to him abruptly: You bad better tell the Due de Bethune all I have told you about your pupil. I do not know Whether he will believe it or not, but it is wholly intolerable for us to allow him to suppose, as he may Suppose from appearances, that there are relations between myself and her which have no existence in fact." Rosselin listened and made no reply. Othmar continued with impatience: J I do not know what he thinks, but he probably thinks something entirely and grossly unjust to her. He is a man of honour; he will respect con- ffidence if it be placed in him." Why not tell him yourself? He is, I believe. Very intimate in your houses." He is no especial friend of mine. He is often at my house, it is true, but personally I have no intimacy with him whatever." Rosselin hesitated then he summoned his Courage and said frankly: Pardon me, but it is not the Due de Bethune Or any other man who has any concern with the position which you have created for yourself and for my pupil; the only person for whom itcan have any vital interest, or who can exercise any influ- ence over it, is the Countess Othmar, to whom you Vill not speak of it." Othmar coloured; he was greatly annoyed. Be was conscious also that Rosselin was right in what he said. If my wife heard of her from others, I would tell her how she came there," he said, with some embarrassment. "But I can assure you that though M. de B6thune might believe in the facts as you know them, she would not do so. She never believes in any single motives. She would suppose that I tried to gloss over with sentiment & mere vulgar amour." Men's natures," he added bitterly," are often as simple, and straight, and frank as a dog's, because, like dogs, we are stupid and trustful; but the tnind of a woman of culture is far too critical in its survey and too intricate in its own motives ever to accredit us with the intellectual honesty we Possess. It Is a quality so stupid that it seems to 'Women as incredible as it is uninteresting." Rosselin grew in his turn impatient. You, too, appear to me," he said bluntly," t,o be too fond of Pascal's esprit de finesse, jugement de sentiment (spirit of super-refining, judgment of sentimentality). Intellectual analysis is very interesting, no doubt, but I never knew it serve in the least to solve the prosaic difficulties of active life. You cannot govern circumstances with theories." In himself he thought: You create a position in the frankness of your generosity which you perceive becomes equivocal 10 its aspect to others; you earnestly desire to Prevent its appearing so; yet you do not take the one measure which would secure to it immunity from suspicion." I have an idea," he continued aloud, that the best way to test her talents and prepare thn ^orld for the appreciation of them would be for her to recite at some great house, to be seen and beard by some choice audience. Why not in incurs ? Why not to your friends ?" "In mine ? To my acquaintances ?" •« Why not ? It is, in my opinion, the easiest and most propitious way in which a beginner can try her powers. It is less alarming than a public stage, and the verdict given is more discriminating and of greater value afterwards. The majority Of neophytes have no such chance possible. They 'nay go where they can begin in the provinces; t'ike anything they can get. But when it can be done there is no question but that to make an Olltry into the world in the best society is an im- measurable benefit to any aspirant. It is to be famous at once if successful; whilst, if unsuccess- ful, the failure is passed over as the caprice of the host at whose house the neophyte is tried. As you are disposed to do anything for her, it seems to me that it would cost you little to ask Madame ^addge to permit the representation of some Saynete, or soma short piece like the Luthier de at one of her great winter entertain- ments. She likes novelty and I believe she often bas dramatic representations both in Paris and at Amy6t." "She has them certainly," said Othmar with "Oyne constraint. Rosselin looked from under his eyelids at him. "Then what objection is there ? You have said that madame your wife, first of all of us, saw kirnething like genius in Damaris Berarde. She '*Oklld not refuse to allow her prophecy to be broved true under her own auspices." "No; I do not suppose that she would refuse." "If you would dislike that she should be that is another matter," said Rosselin with ,Otne impatience, whilst to himself he thought, You have made a secret of this thing, and you find what a burdensome and stupid thing a secret 18, especially when it is one that circumstances 4re certain to take out of our hands, whether we ^ill or no." I have no dislike to your project," replied Othmar with hesitation; but," he added more frankly," I must tell you that my wife is not in the lenet likelv to take interest twice in the same Person; and I must also tell you, as I did some Months ago, that she knows nothing of the present existence of your pupil. If you like to tell her, do 80: I give you free permission." I ?" echoed Rosselin. My dear friend, if such a jfteat lady saw a superannuated old actor enter ^er presence she would surely order her lackeys to j^rn him out unheard. I never spoke to Madame J"ad £ ge in my life, though rumour has made me 'eel well acquainted with her." She always treats genius with respect. It is, Perhaps, the only thing she does respect f Are you sure she does not think it escaped r°tti BicStre ? Most grandes dames do." "No; she has too much intellect herself. She is 9r«mde dame, but she is much more besides. She mires talent wherever she finds it; only she 'binks that she finds very little." There she is right enough there is any quantity of mere facility, of mere imitativeness, in ()Ur time, but there is very little which deserves 11 higher name." "And vou believe that Damaris Berardo has "tore than mere talent ?" Yes, I believe it. I may be wrong, but I have Jever been wrong in such judgments, though it pretentious to say so. It is because I elieve that she has this that I am anxious for the ^°rld to first hear of her in such a way that she be spared the vulgar and tedious novitiate *'»ich is generally unavoidable before a dramatic areer; and also I should like to command for her .^ch an audience as may become a title of honour • ° her and a protection against false tongues. It inevitable that your name has been, or will be, FL880ciated with hers. Modern life is one huge I'ass house. If she be first seen at your house, in i^Ur salons, calumny can scarcely attach to your j'iendship for her. Pardon mo if I speak with too ^timate a candour. If I said less, I should feel Myself almost dragged into the base collusion of a Bir Pandarus." Othmar grew pale with anger; he was ^accustomed to familiarity, and the words 'eetned to him wanting in delicacy and in respect. "You are very hopeful I" he said bitterly, "and ^nderfully trustful, my good friend, if you Itr¡agine that in the world we live in she would be J^ured from slander by being seen in my ?rawing-roomB. The only thing they would say, J they were in the mood to say anything, would that I deceived my wife into facilitating my tiours. Society is not so easily persuaded of .ocence as you appear to think, whilst it is i "°foughly persuaded of the Countess Othinar's ^difference to myself. In the impulse of his anger he said what he ould not have said in a cooler moment. He was Rreatly irritated at all which was implied in Ros- felin's latest words, and the allusion to his wife's .^difference to his actions escaped him almost 1,1 voluntarily. I regret if I offend you," said Rosselin, whose eyes read his feelings in his face. I say "at it seems right to me to Say, I know the » °rld has always mauvaise lanyue (an evil tongue). >now it as well as you can doj but there are j ^its to its impudence. I do not believe that the J^est knave of it all would ever dare to say that passed any insult on your wife. It has been well aware of your devotion to her. However, us abandon my idea. We can find some other ^hy, perhaps; the preparation I have given my ruPil has been short and perhaps immature. She .?? wait awhile without injury. You have said, I Jj'nk, that she has means enough of her own to live she lives now ?" "She has means enough. Yes." Without wasting her little substance ? I Ppose her grandfather did not leave her much? j' She has quite sufficient income for her wants ^lieve they are very simple." spoke impatiently and rose. Rosselin, *w8e tact was always the acutest kind, under- ;°d the hint and changed the subject. ^ft to himself, the anger of Othinar soon grew j. and the courtesy of his nature made him vSret his impatience with a man double his and not his equal in station; one, moreover, jji 0 had only spoken honestly thoughts which were ^heless. b suggestion had annoyed him both by what ^sked, which seemed to him difficult, and by implied, which seemed to him offensive, d he repented of his manner of receiving it, and kj founding a person who had warmly answered jv "is own appeal, and had aided him in regard to k iftariswith a sympathy the more noteworthy JjJ!ause it had at first been reluctantly given. 'Ore night he wrote a brief note to Rosselin: -0 i regret my impatience, and apologise for it. doubt you are right in your views. If I can way to comply with them I will do so. ^^nwhile', believe in my friendship and my high £ em." 6 signed the few lines and sent them by a winger to Asnieres. Hi* en Rosselin received them he was sitting by ft, solitary lamp examining the condition of a w. 1 injured copy on vellum of The Birds," 'lch he had picked up at a bookstall on one of quays the day before. He put the manuscript of Q0 and read tho note with its clear signature „ thtnar at the end. graceful amende," he thought. He has a bg t of gold, but his judgment is not so much to t W ^sted" as his feeling's are. He spoke of his <s*n's indifference. What could he expect? You get out of nature what it has not got it. it. tllve-and-twenty years she had lived for L r* self: did he suppose that all in a moment she would forget herself and live for him ? I daresay he did. He was ready to live for her. That sort of mistake is so often made; and it is always the highest nature which makes it." Rosselin lost interest in his Aristophanes for that night. He had a foreboding of some evil. Imaginative minds are like the birds: they know when storms approach. CHAPTER XLI. A week or two later he saw Othmar again enter his little parlour. Othmar made Ministers wait on him, and would keep princes in his ante- chamber with an indifference which gained him the repute of arrogance but he waited himself on Rosselin, a man old, poor, and solitary. These were his eccentricities, which the world hated as it would never have hated any vices in which he might have chosen to indulge. I have come to speak to you of your wishes, which I perhaps dismissed too hastily," lie said, as ne seated himself. You really believe that to be first seen and heard, as you proposed, would benefit your pupil ?" I do not doubt it," replied Rosselin, for the reasons I named to you, and also because to suc- ceed before a choice and cultured audience is the greatest of stimulants, the most certain of prac- tical tests. I do not think that a long novitiate would suit Damaris Berarde. She is of the South her beauty is nearly at its height now she is fully matured in every way; she is of an impe- tuous and sensitive temperament; she is not easily governed; she would never brook the tedium and slavery of the theatres of the provinces she must take the world by storm, mount its throne at a bound or not at all. She would easily be irrevo- cably disgusted and eternally lost to art." Would that be so much a matter for regret ?" What fate can she have otherwise ? You cannot make her a duchesse, she would not consent to be- come a bourgeoise. She is a declassee; you have said it yourself. There are two asylums possible for a declassee: they are Pleasure and Art. I prefer the latter." "Art is quite cruel enough. She will never be able to go back into privacy. What a loss!—What an irreparable loss! And you speak of it as a gain! I speak as I spoke long ago, when first you named her to me. The publicity you lament is the price which is paid for fame. Some do not think the price too high, some do. It is you yourself who wished me to prepare her for an artiste's career. She cannot become a great artiste if she remain in obscurity." Of course not. But it is horrible. Publicity is a kind of violation-" Recompensed like Danae's!" Othmar was silent. He was conscious that a strong personal dislike to her leaving the safe shadow of private life moved him to an exag- gerated objection to her being seen and known by others. When once the world had beheld her she would belong to the world. It might make her triumphant or it might make her wretched, but she wpuld belong to it evermore. Rosselin guessed what he wa.s feeling, and answered his unspoken thoughts. "Yes; she will never go back either to Les Hameaux or to Bonaventure. That is certain. She will belong to all men, in a sense, when once she has sought their suffrages. But what else can be done with her? What else? You would not hear of a conventional marriage for her and a house in the suburbs, and I suppose she would not hear of it either. She is half a poet, half a thing of the open air, like a doe or a swallow. You cannot send her back whence she came. If you could do it in fact, you could not do it in spirit. The soul would never be the same-poor white sea bird of a soul, which comes across the flames of ambition and burns in them! You might set her body down under her orange boughs, under her blue sky, but you could not give her the heart of her childhood. You are a god in your way the only god the nineteenth century knows-a rich man— but to do that is beyond your power." If I had that power I should be a god indeed!" said Othmar bitterly, and the whole sick world would come to me to be cured." He needed not the words of Rosselin to remind him that never would he be able to undo the work nis wife had done in one idle moment of impe- rious caprice. Though the words were harsh and, in a great measure unjust, to him, he did not resent them; he poignantly regretted the fate brought on Damaris, and when he saw her he felt a reproach greater than aay which others could address to him. The breaking up of the happy simplicity of her life had always seemed to him as wanton an act as to shoot a sea bird which falls in the sea. Had he said so to his wife she would have laughed, and have denied all responsibility. She would have declared that fate, in some guise or another, always finds out female children with handsome faces; that Strephon always comes to them, or Faust. But he would not look at it thus. To him it always seemed the cruellest unkindness needlessly to have brought Damaris Berarde and the world together. Why does he dislike a public career for her so much ?" thought Rosselin. I do not think that he cares for her, except in kindness. I do not think he would give her any part of his own life. Passion has died in him, died under the coldness of his wife's nature, as flowers die in frost. This child would give him, I daresay, all the richness and all the heat of her own heart, but he would only give her in return lei cendres tiedes d'un felt iteint (the half-warm cinders of an extinguished fire), and, as he is a man more generous and more sensitive than most, he would never forgive him- self for having sacrificed her to himself. Better for her all the dangers of life in the world than a consuming love for one who would never love her as she loved. Had I been the confessor of Louise de la Valliere, I should have said to her, Remain in the crowds of Versailles if you wish to forget; do not go into solitude.' No woman for- gets who has no one to teach her forgetfulness. Solitude is the nurse of all great passions, because in solitude there is no standard of comparison." Othmar, unaware of his companion's reflections, was lost in thought himself. He felt that he had resigned the direction of her life into Rosselin's hands, and hAd no right to dispute with her guide the course which he deemed most desirable for her. He had sought the counsels and the assistance of a man of genius in a moment of extremity, and he felt that he had no title to dissent from whatever the vast experience of such a man might consider wisest on her behalf. He knew that she could not continue to dwell at Les Hameaux, unseen save by the dogs and the birds and the mild eyes of the cattle, if ever those desires for art and for fame which tormented her were ever to have any fruition. If he had had the power to close the gates of solitude on her he would not have used it he would have felt that he had no right so to use it. He was conscious that he had no title to stand between her and any career which might become possible for her. Since his last visit to her he had felt that he himself occupied too large a place in her life; that his memory coloured all her thoughts too deeply and too warmly; that her whole exis- tence might be his utterly in any way he chose if he would take that gift as easily as a man may gather a half-open rose in the freshness of morning. He bad no vanity of any sort. The many women who had offered themselves to him in his life for sake of the riches which were behind him had taught him humility rather than vanity, for they had been so plainly idolatrous, not of him but of his possessions. He had always doubted his power to make himself beloved for himself alone, and he would willingly have put it to the proof, like the Lord of Burleigh, had it been possi- ble. But even he, little self-appreciation as he had. yet could not doubt that with the lifp of this child whom he had saved from the streets he could do whatsoever he chose. Every expression of her ingenuous nature, every glance of her innocent eyes, every impulse of her ardent and untrained nature, told him that he could, with the first moment he chose, render himself wholly master of her whole existence. He was the god of her dreams and the providence of her waking thoughts. Had he had less charm for women than he pos- sessed, he would still scarcely have failed to be. come, through circumstance, the one person domi- nant over all her mind and senses. Without any self-deception, he could not but be aware that he could become her lover when he chose. Gratitude, imagination, all the fervour of waking passions stirring in a Southern nature as the juices of the vine stir in its tender flowerets; all the favour of opportunity and of circumstance, which idealised her relations with him; and all the impression- ability of the first years of a youth early matured under the heat of Mediterranean snns-all these were combined together to make of him the adora- tion and the arbiter of her life. And he—what had he to give in return for all that glory of the daybreak of the soul ? Not even, as Rosselin had thought, Its cendres tiedes d'un feu iteint. He had wider thought and bolder judgment than the timid and narrow laws which a vast majority of mediocrities had been able to impose ma' it on a sheepish world. Could he have rendered her such feeling as she was ready to give to him, could he have given her the warmth of a genuine passion, the sincerity and the undivided force of a graat emotion, he would not have considered that he sacrificed her to himself if he had kept her in eternal isolation. Great natures and great affections do not need th6 companionship or the suffrages of the world. Its narrow and hollow laws mean nothing to them, and its opinions mean as little. Love is not love if it (tave any remembrance of either. But he could not give her this or anything like this. The great devotion of his life for the woman who had become his wife had left. his heart empty, yet shut to any other visitant. That immeasurable and intense passion had been to him so supreme in its dominance, so voluptuous in its ecstacies, that all other love after it seemed pale as dead flowers beside living ones. Men sometimes say to women that thev have never loved but once, and those women/if they know what men's lives are. laugh, as well they may. Yet the meaning of the words is true enough, and not a mere form of phrase. In the life of every man of higher soul than the vast majority there is some one passion which stands out unrivalled in his memory amidst a host of fleeting fancies, hot desires, dull affections, passing pastimes, which also have in their time been called love by him wrongly. In that one great passion he has attained, enjoyed, realised p what he can never reach again, what no woman who lives will ever be able to make him feel again; and in this sense he is not untruthful when he says that he has only loved but once. Such a love Othmar had known for the one woman who. despite the enemy Time. and the de- caving worm of custom, had still, through her very mutability, cruelty, and negligence, retained a power to wound him and a power to delight him which no living creature could ever rival with him. Even when the chill of her own indifference now spread itself to his own emotions, and he felt life, as it were, grow cold and wintry around him, memory was there to tell him of the sorceries of the past, and even love was still there, which watched her wistfully, and would still have obeved her sign had she made one. What, then, had he to give to Damaris ? I Nothing which was worthy of her. Such base ardours as a creature who is young and beautiful can always awaken in the breast of any man, and a pitying and gentle tenderness any man, and a pitying and gentle tenderness which would be, offered to love, the cruellest of tortures. And then she owed everything on earth to him she was his debtor for the very bread she ate. That one fact seemed to him to stand between her and himself like a white wall of ivory made by hands divine. That she herself did not know the extent of her debt to him made it the more sacred to him. Circumstances being, then, as it was between them, and powerless as he was to feel for her any- thing more than the tenderness and the pity which she had from the first aroused in him, what title had he to stand between her and any possible triumphs and consolations which the world might offer to her? None, he thought. None that any generosity could allow him to claim. He said aloud to Rosselin: wnatever you unnK nesc to ao tor lier, do. Her career will be your creation. If she ever attain greatness she will owe it to you. I do not think that I have any right to interfere either one way or the other. To interest, my wife in what she has forgotten is impossible. You might as well try to gather last year's rain drops. But it is possible that she might be pleased if her predic- tions were proved to her to have been accurate. Con- trive for her to see your pupil before she hears of her. She may perhaps recognise her with interest. I dare not say that she will. But you can make the experiment." It will be difficult," said Rosselin. Not very. You have before now done me the honour to arrange dramatic representations at my house. Whenever the Countess Othmar next wishes for entertainment of that kind, which she is sure to do before long, I will place the arrange- ments for it in your hands. You can then bring forward Damaris B6rarde in any piece you choose. What you wish will, so, be done. She will be seen and heard under my roof; and, if successful, she may—possibly—re-conquer a place in my wife's memory. If she fail she will certainly never do so." "She will not fail," said Rosselin; while he thought to himself, She will not fail, because she will have the stimulant of your wife's presence and the memory of your wife's disdain. She will not fail if I have left in me any of the magnetism which J used to be able to communicate to others." Rosselin was a man of warm feelings and keen sympathies, but the artiste in him dominated the friend. He was so saturated with the love of art that, as he had surrendered all his own existence to its claims, so he unhesitatingly surrendered that of others. The kindest of natures wherever there was no question of art, he almost became cruel where the interests of art were involved, To Othmar the life of a girl seemed too tender and poetic a thing to be given over to the impe- rious exactions of any art; but to Rosselin, though he had at first been unwilling to draw her into its sphere, he became, the moment that he believed he saw genius in her, willing even to hurt her, if by such a hurt such genius could be st ung or scourged into any ampler evidence of its own powers. He thought little of what she might or what she might not suffer if lie brought her into the pre- sence of the woman who represented destiny to her. All he considered was, that no other specta- tor would be so likely to move her, to goad her into the fullest revelations of the resources of her talent. With the future consequences of such a meeting he had nothing to do, all he thought of was its influence on his pupil. He knew that the wife of Othmar had a fascination for her as strong as hatred, and irresistible as magnetism. It was an electric force which he could not afford to allow to lie latent in the desire he felt, a desire which had grown stronger on him with every week that he had paid hia visits to Lea Hameaux, to compel Damaris into the seizure of that fame which had at first seemed to him a burden too great, a passion too fiorce, for this young daughter of the sun and of the sea. She will ultimately be the mistress of Othmar or of the world," he thought. "I prefer the world. I will do what I can that she shall give herself to it instead of to him. To throw away genius on one human life is to take a planet out of the skies and bury it like a diamond between two human breasts." It was in pursuance of the same belief in what was best for her which had made him wish her the heart of Rachel, not the heart of Dasdea, Koaaelin had surveyed human nature in all its itepeato, and his survey of it had convinced him of one tact, that all the higher and more delicate qualities ot the soul are but so much penalty weight to carry in the race of life. The weight is of gold without alloy; but, nevertheless, whoso carries it losus the race. He, with his fine penetration, perceived that in her was that greater nature which will lose itself in a great love, and throw away all ambition and all possessions as though they were but a dead leaf or a broken crust. In a little while such a love, now strong in her. but scarcely conscious of itself, would become wholly conscious, nnd would take its empire over her whole existence. He wished to oppose to it the only rival with any chance of success-the world. CHAPTER XLII. A row oaya later Rosselin, going to Les Hameaux for his usual recitation with her, found Damaris feverish, restless, and despondent. She had lost, for the time at least, that buoyancy and enthu- siasm which were the most prominent qualities of her nature; she seemed to him listless and taciturn, her eyes had a brooding pain in them, and she took little interest in tho studies of the day. Rosselin heard from the woman of the house that Othmar had been there that week. "It will end as such things always end," ha thought impatiently, '< All the fine sentiments on his side will not enable him to cast nature out of him; and to her, of course, ho must seem an angel from another world, He has stood between her and all the misery of life, A dog which he had saved in such a way would adore him. He is a. man, too, made to charm a. poetic nature, because there is so much of the poet in him, and a melancholy which is in pathetic contrast with his wealth and power. One can always understand that women love Othmar; what one cannot understand is that his wife cares for him so little. And yet, why should I say so ? All the world over one sees familiarity bring indifference, security bring neglect." Aloud he said, with anger, to her: What has come to you ? If you do not mean to become an artiste, and a great artiste, adieu My hours are not likely to be so many On earth that 1 can afford to waste them. What ails you ? Your voice is dull; your face is no mirror for your words. You are not listening. If you have tame moments like this, do not dream of ever moving the world. It is a block of stone; you cannot stir it without putting out all your strength. And even then it will roll back and roll on to you if you relax your efforts. If you give yourself to art you may be great in it, I think but if you love anything-nny pet-son-better than art, do not touch it. Go, and be an ordinary woman like the rest." The words were harsh. The tears started to her eyes as she heard them, and a hot colour rose over her face and throat. She was silent. She never speaks of him. How fine that is thought Rosselin. "Most female creatures at her years babble of what fills their thoughts, as birds chatter of the spring in April." Aloud he said: You will not do any good to-day. You look ill and you are restless. Come with me to Paris I will show you something which will interest you —and the weather is fine though cold. Let us walk to Magny." She went with him in silence. The day was drawing to a close as the train sped through the dark fields of winter and entered Paris. A city was always terrible and hateful to her. She loved air and light and the solitude of sea and land. Crowds hurt her, and the labyrinth of streets had never ceased to oppress and to bewilder her. She felt amidst the walls and roofs as a young eagle feels barred up in a cage. He talked to her of many things with that picturesque detail with which his great knowledge of the city and of the world filled his conversation. He endeavoured to interest and to distract her; ho strove to amuse and arouse her. But he felt that he succeeded but indifferently. Her thoughts were not with him she was silent and she was nervous. (To be Continued,)
THE COMPTON COMEDY COMPANY AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, CARDIFF. We have once more the pleasant task of chronicling a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Edward Compton and their talented company, who are this week to give a series of their delightful per- formances. The piece selected last evening was that charming play founded on an episode in the life of David Garrick, in which Mr. Compton im- personates the great actor. In this difficult part Mr. Coniptoa proves himself to be a, worthy succes- sor of the late Mr. Sothern, and the public showed that they had not forgotten the deep impression made by the performance last year, and crowded the theatre in every part. Mr. Compton plays the title rdle with the same indescribable force as heretofore, and completely carried away the audience with him, the enthusiasm rising to an extraordinary height after the celebrated drunken scene, which was given with marvellous effect. Repetition of the part has enabled the actor to impart even more power, finish, and delicacy of treatment than formerly, while there is the same certainty of handling and the same air of sincerity and truth to nature that carries conviction with it. Mrs. Compton, as the love-sick, stage-struck Violet plays with unaffected charm and genuine pathos. She shared last evening in her husband's triumph, the character lying entirely within her range, and affording full scope for her powers. Mr. Lewis Ball is so careful an actor that he could scarcely fail as the honest old City man Gresham, and Mr. S. Valentine deserves much praise for his incisive portrait of the Sporting roué, Tallylout. It is one of the traditious of this play that the vulgarity of the guests should be some- what unduly accentuated, but Messrs. Sydney Paxton, C. Dodswbrth, P. F. Marshall, and Misses E. Aicken and Alice Burton did not overdo the comic scenes, and, while genuinely amusing, did not disturb the harmony of the stage picture. To- night we are promised the Rivals," on Wednesday London Assurance, and on Thursday She Stoops to Conquer." On Friday Mr. Compton takes his benefit, when Money will be produced, and the week's run concludes with a performance of Belphegor on Saturday. Altogether there is a rich treat in store for all those who appreciate sterling drama, admirably played, and excellently staged.
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THE END OF A r CRIMINAL CHAPTER. —— By IRVONWY. [SPECIALLY WRITTEN FOR THE "WEEKLY MAIL."] "I, Henry Essendon, have written rather to please myself than with any view of benefiting a. world I abhor. Though I am a rich man, I have made no conventional will, preferring to leave it to the conduct of the law on my decease than to worry myself with details for the good of relatives of whom I know little and for whom I care less. My parents died when I was a child, and I was brought up under the care of an uncle whom I have not seen since I attained my majority. Coming in then for more money than I well knew how to spend, for ten years I was a wanderer on the face of the earth, and there are few cities or places in the civilised and uncivilised world which I have not visited. I have hunted the elephant in the forests of Ceylon, and tracked the tiger in the jungles of India, have wandered through the deserts of Australia, and made my home with the Indian of the far Western American prairies. But such things have little to do with this so-called confession. Wearied at length with wandering, I settled in Paris. The place seemed changed and cold. I was a stranger in a strange laud. Since the wild days of my youth, when I bad exhausted the petty pleasures of this superb capital, a new Paris had re-placed the old. My acquaintances (I never had a friend) were either dead, ruined, or prosperous and married. I felt myself alone in a world I hated. But suddenly an event occurred which changed the whole current of my life, and gave to it an interest it had never known before' In my leisure hours I occupied myself a good deal in the study of water-colour painting, an art in which during the course of my wanderings I had become fairly proficient. I had not yet aspired to the dignity of works in oils. My taste supplied me with an unfailing means with which to kill time. The search for masterpieces, especially of the weird, horrible, and grotesque type, of which I had a collection only to be surpassed by that of the Musee Wiertz at Brussels, I pursued with con- siderable ardour. I was very miserable. What had I done of good in my life ? What purpose had I fulntled ? What woe holpen? What (I was ever egotistical) amount of pleasure had I gained for myself? I was, indeed, un mamais sujet-sans peur et sans raproche. In fact, I had done those things I ought not to have doue, and had left un- done those things which I ought to have done, und, probably, there was, or is, very little of good In me. The mere pursuit of pleasure penetrates far deeper than we in our joyous youth are apt to dream. And when we have done with travel and the travail of sightseeing w§ say of the world and what we have seen and what welmtiw Qf, I oil, you were ve) yfah'and very pleasant whilayeu lasted. I am glad to have experienced you. Meanwhile, good'day,' Yet the old longing remains, without the means wherewith a may he satisfied, for. youth Is dead and hope is dead, and against the bare, blank, black wall of the future the hopeless spirit of man gropes and grovels. ItOne mowing I turned into celebrated auction room in the Rue de —iq which were exposed to view a. collection of paintings, the property, as I heard, of a bankrupt nobleman, which were to be sold on the morrow, If there be suoh a thing its destiny, and all the events of our lives be pre-ordained, I curse the destiny which led me to visit that fatal place, Languidly and listlessly I gazed at the pictures, poor daubs most of them, I remember- impossible landscapes, with impossible Ohloes and Strophons, fa.t Dutchwomen, and imitation Rerobrandts, ill-drawn churches, sheep, tind cows, with outlines such as Nature never yet vouchsafed, I swear, to suffering earth. I had nearly com- pleted the circuit of the room when my steps were arrested and my eyes rivetted by a picture of female loveliness such as I had never viewed before. I shall not attempt to describe the work in detail. 1 hate the features and the form thereon pourtrayed too fierceiy for that. Suffice, it was that of a woman in the first dawn of what those wiseacres of the 'poets'corners'of current literature would call maiden innocence. I stood entranced before the beautiful figure, clad in its soft, sheeny garments of white silk. Ah, if I could only discover the peerless owner of that perfect face How I would love her! What would I not do to gain her! I looked at the catalogue and found that Number 32 was that of my paragon, and that it was labelled Portrait of a Girl,' by Julos Martineau. With agitated steps J sought the office. I was a rich man. What cared I what price I paid so I came possessor of this portrait, whereby, per- chance, I should be able to trace the lovely original? And then-- I had no difficulty in coming to terms with the auctioneer, and that day J carried my purchase home in triumph. I had found out from the auctioneer that the former owner of the pictures was a M. de Mersac; that lie had received his instructions for the sale, not from the latter, who lived he knew not where, but from a receiving agent, whose address I took. On the morning following this transaction I re- paired to the abode of the agent, in the Rue Dauphine, a small, ill-paved, narrow street. From him I gained but little information to aid me in the discovery of my beautiful unknown. M. de Mersac, said the agent, an oily, unwashed Ger- man Jew, was a ruined nobleman of Ville d'Avray, in Brittany; at present, lie understood, abroad. His estates had been mortgaged to their utmost to supply the resources of play and pleasure. This was all I could learn, and I returned home somewhat dispirited and despairing, for if there be such a thing as love at first sight, then was the state of my mind a signal instance. But hope revived instantaneously, when, entering my dining-room, I saw before me the exquisite face of my ideal maiden. The red lips wore a dazzling and entrancing smile. The painter had done his work well. A gleam of sunshine fell on the coronal of golden hair, and formed a halo round the exquisite head. I had caused the picture to he so hung that when taking my meals it fronted me as I sat at the head of the table. The worship of that wonderful face became with me an absorbing pas- sion, a kind of mania that filled my whole being and permeated it with a new and strange sensa- tion, half despair, half delight-despair that I might neve; know the possessor of such grace of form and beauty of feature, deiight that earth held 80 divine a visitor. One morning I noticed a date in the corner of the picture. That gave me a thrill of excitement. It told me that the painting had been executed only two years since. She was but a young girl still, this marvel of maidenhood, and a great weight was lifted from my heart, which, for a moment, grew light and joyous. But it soon sank again as I reflected that a beautiful girl had little lack of wooers. Yet, after all, I pondered, if she be M. de Mersac's daughter she is doubtless dowerless, and poverty is a crime un. pardonable in French society, I determined that night to go to Ville d'Avray. Perhaps M. de Mersac had not gone abroad, and, if so, I might dis- cover this sole object of my dreams and thoughts. I set out next day, and nightfall found me at the inn of the Vacbed'Or, in Ville d'Avray. After dinner that night I invited the proprietor to take a bottle of wine with me, and he, nothing loath, readily assented. One bottle sufficed to loosen his other- wise somewhat tight-tied tongue a second made him loquacious, and I soon found out from him all I needed to know of Do Mersac. He was not, abroad—he resided still near Ville d'Avray, not, however, at the chateau, which was to bo sold, but at a village three miles distant. •"He dares not go to Paris,' said the old drunkard, with a sly leer. His creditors long too much for his presence. He's finished his tether. Ah! poor Mdlle. Marie!' • Who ? I I cried. «i Why, his daughter—the best and most beau- tiful creature in Brittany. Such a father! Poor child-poor child My pulses beat violently; my heart throbbed. Had I indeed found the object of my desire—the maid of the picture? Ordering another bottle of wine, I questioned the now half-inebriated man as to the locality and the position of the small house where the De Mersacs now lived, and, having ascertained this, I got up, leaving my companion to finish the wine by him- self, and walked out into the night, full of exciting thoughts and dreams. Next morning I ordered a horse and rode out to the village, agitated and nervous. How was I to obtain an interview with Mersac-how get a glimpse of Marie ? I determined that I would represent myself as a stranger anxious to obtain information relative to the purchase of property in the neigh- bourhood. Men of the character of De Mersac, roues and gamblers, I argued, are not chary of forming the acquaintance of rich men. Nor was I disappointed in my calculations. Tying my horse to a post near a wicket I walked up to the small house the home of the whilom proud and rich family of the De Marsacs. Giving my card to a smart grisette, I Was shortly afterwards admitted to her master's presence. He was a prematurely old man, bent and broken by debauchery and folly. I was received with courtesy and consider- ation, and as I stated my errand could see the eyes of the old fellow glisten. We conversed for some time on the topic of property, and ho casually mentioned that the Chateau de Mersac had not yet been sold. I seized the opportunity, and inquired from him, with diffidence, the particulars, to which he replied by referring mo to a notary in the neighbourhood. I kept gazing at the door at intervals in an agony of anticipation. Should I see her-this divine Marie-for whom I so longed ? I had stayed longer already than could ordinarily be excused, when the door suddenly opened, and she stood there on the threshold—she, the woman I loved and was to hate, the realisation of my dreams, the divinity of the picture. She remained standing a moment — a vision of entrancing beauty. 1 did not know,' she murmured. "Her father interrupted. 'Come in,' he said, •* this is M. Henri Essendon, who talks of settling in this neighbourhood,'and so the fatal introduc- tion was concluded. I left the housa in a half stupor of ecstasy and bewilderment. She was fairer, more gracious and winning than even my imagination had painted her. Next day I visited the notary to whom Do Mersac had recommended me, with a view to the purchase of the chateau, and three weeks after. wards the transfer was completed, and I became lord of the domain. During this period 1 saw little of Marie and a great deal of her father. One morning I proposed to him for his daughter's hand, informing him he might make any inquiries as to my position and means. A fortnight after- wards I received from him his assent, and was accepted by his daughter as her future husband. For any lack of shyness or any constraint on her part in our interviews my passion and ardent wooing made amends. Yet, loving her as I did, I could not but notice a reserve in relation to myself that puzzled and perplexed me. No smile of welcome dimpled the pure white cheek of Marie when I met- her; no gleam of joy lit up those glorious grey eyes. I was not blind to this. I thought, if she does not love me now, she will learn to do so in time. No suspicion that she might love another occurred to me. In a quiet country district like Ville d'Avray who could there be to attract the fancy and fix the affection of a young girl but recently removed from a convent ? The only male visitor save myself at the cottage, to my knowledge, was a nephew of De Mersac's, (She named Andre Lecomte. "To this cousin Andrd Lecomte I took an invincible and unaccountable dislike, a dislike, which since he was the cousin of my adored Marie, I, of course, took care to cpnceal. He was a man of about 30 years of age, with fairly regular fea- tures, black hair, and with a complexion of an extreme pallor. Neither did Marie seem to have any particular liking for her pallid relation, who visited them but seldom, and whom I thought De Mersac himself cordially detested, as he was barely civil to him when they met in my presence. To please Marie I affected a certain amount of cor- diality towards him I was far from feeling, and on our marriage morning I gave him a ring with a large diamond in momenta of my happiness. •• We were married, Marie and I, on a glorious May dav-a day that then seemed to me to augur well for our future happiness. I took my bride to her old home and my new one, the Chateau de Mersac. The next six months were the most joyous and contented in my life. Never man, again and again I avowed to myself, had a wife so good, so true, so beautiful. Poor fool not to know by how slender a thread his bliss hung, and that even with her red lips pressed to mine the Nemesis that waits on all that is fairest in man's life was treading closely on his footsteps. One morning my valet, a sleek, sallow French- man, came to me, and, in his usual obsequious and cringing manner, besought the favour of a few words with me. 11 1 Well,' I said, impatiently, 'apeak on. "The man stammered and hesitated. 'It is about Madame,' lie faltered at length. Well, what of her ?' I asked in surprise. You have been a good master to me—I—I do not like to see you deceived.' "I Deceived I cried furiously. Dog, what do you mean ? Speak or I will strangle you,' and I caught him roughly by the shoulder. Monsieur, how dare I speak when you treat me thus? Bali, but I will,' he blurted out. I Your wife meets M. Andre Lecomte almost daily in the summer arbour.' "With a hoarse cry I seized the feJlow by the throat, and held him until he gasped for b eath and his face grew purple. Then I threw rhim roughly from me. Liar I exclaimed. He lay there trembling, and in a broken voice ejaculated, Monnieur, by the Holy Virgin I swear it is true. fo-iiiorruw Ito will meet her there at noon, Prove it for your»tiif,' I was disced ana bewildered, bn6 even then I felt no doubt of my wife's innocent, though the fellow's pertinacity somewiwt astounded ma. I grew palmer. t Hapuste,' I Iillri¡J, t I aitt sorry I Maed you su roughly. ftttva ynH told this to anyniie save myself V Ii I t V, hu answered in a whining Vflics, f No, Monsieur:' ««Ifeep silgnt', then, if Here ara a couple of ffdttoleiinS: If you have lied to mo I wm break every bpm in your raspaUy Iwdy, Go!' It He ten the'roam with a seryile bow, and l was alone with my thoughts. «False to me,' I muttered: I No I Nt)! she is too pure, 109 beau- tiful. Marie) Marie! f Jove you=how I love yaq! Shall I listen w the tale pf this — > Just at this point Maria herself entered the ruomi smiling and radiant. 11 1 What is the matter, Henri,' she said, I You look pale and tired.' "I drew her to we and kissed her, and in her sweet presence that hideous suspicion geemsd t,o pass awayj only, however, to haunt ma with renewed persistency through the long hours of that miserable day. Next morning I ordered my horse, and told Marie I was going into Ville d'Avray to see the notary there on legal matters. It was about eleven o'clock when I left the chateau, I rode to the house of a villager a couple of miles distant, and, leaving my horse in his care, slowly retraced my steps and gained the grounds of the chateau through a small postern gate, of which I alone held the key. I made my way quietly to the arbour, situated amidst dense shrub- bery, by which it was almost completely hidden, the arbour in which Marie and I had spent many a happy hour in our summer of bridal bliss. Two small paths led to it through the bushes—one from the chateau, the other from the main entrance gate of the grounds. I concealed myself in the thick foliage at the back, lying prostrate on my elbows, in which position, through a hole in the woodwork, I could see the whole of the interior of the arbour and the two winding paths. With throbbing heart and aching brain 1 waited the issue. Presently I heard light footfalls on the gravel path, and, with a pang of indescribable anguish, I saw my wife walking rapidly towards the arbour. She entered and sat down on one of the wooden chairs. She looked at her watch. ♦ He is late,' I heard her murmur. The blood rushed into my head I felt dizzy. It was true, then, that foul accusation of Baptiste's. I felt an almost overpowering inclination to rush on her and slay her where she sat, the false one, the Then suddenly the sound of approaching feet, and 0, my God Andre Lecomte. He clasped her to his breast. He kissed her again and again— and still I did not move, but with clenched teeth and wild eyes watched and waited. At last she disengaged herself from him. I must never meet you again here, Andre,' and she shuddered slightly. "'Remember what I asked you last time, my own,' said Andre, passionately. Go with me. I do not fear him. Oh, my darling! My darling Who is this Englishman that lie should part us ? Rich ? I, too, am rich now it is too late.' And he kissed her—and I did not move. "'Forced to marry him,' he went on. •Why waste your young life with a man you cannot love? Come, promise, and I will shield you from him. We will go to Italy, or where you will, my own, I cannot live without you.' "'I dare not,' she answered. 'I am afraid he would find me and kill me.' I gnashed my teeth with rage. He kill you. No, no! He thinks little but of his wealth, and values his wife as his horses. I have loved you all my life; he only a few months, if love he can. Darling, promise.' He caught her to him and embraced her; but still she repeated, 'No, no! He would kill me!' He pushed her from him, and rose from the seat. Ah,' he said,' You do not love me. You are as fickle and false as all your sex. You love him. Love him then. I curse you, and I go.' He turned to leave. She caught him by the arm. 'Love him!' she cried. 'I loathe, I hate him. I will come with you, I promise, in a few days. I must have time.' (To be continued.)
NATIONAL UNION OF ELEMENTARY TEACHERS. ANNUAL MEETING OF THE GLAMORGAN AND CARMARTHEN DISTRICT UNION. The thirteenth annual meeting of the above association was held at the National Schools, Aber- dare, on Saturday last. Mr. Daniel James, Rlaen- gwawr School, presided at the morning sitting, and there were representatives present'from Llanelly, Swansea, Neath, Merthyr, and the Rhondda Valley. -The first business was the election of officers for the year 1886, which resulted as follows:—Vice- president, Mr. E. R. Brown, Morriston treasurer, Mr. J. Thomas, Skewen secretary, Mr. E. Coles, Dafen, Llanelly (re-elected). Reports by the sec- retary and treasurer were read and adopted, the business being principally of a routino nature. At the afternoon meeting the chair was occu- pied by Mr. W. Thomas, of Worcester (representative of Messrs. Moffat and Paige), who delivered a presidential address on the Dangers of the Nineteenth Century Educatiop." Observing that the life of the Elementary School teacher was now a particularly anxious and labo- rious one, the Chairman remarked that none but those who were fond of the work and had a pre- disposition for it could ever hope to achieve suc- cess. With the edicts of the Council of Education and School Boards the teacher soon found himself in a cramped position, and was not sufficiently conferred with as to the calibre of his school when a new class subject was imposed or fresh arrange- ments made, and must scarcely venture upon any suggestions. The Educational Code made one pernicious system of classification applicable to all, causing injury to both scholars and teachers, and ignoriug the fact that the latter was influenced to a great extent by his surroundings. Mrs. Garrett-Anderson, Miss Sophia Jex-Blake, and Mr. Colt-Williams, Inspector of Schools for Hereford, had borne testimony to the disastrous results of over-pressure, and medical evidence proved that ill-health, habitual headache, and other cerebral affections were traceable to over- strain caused by the School Board system. School inspectorships, as a rule, were held by the offshoots of the untitled aristocracy, or clergymen fond of travel and change, but he contended that the rank and file of teachers, aided by the scholastic press, should make a formidable stand in favour of future vacancies being thrown open to them. Mr. E. R. BROWN, Morriston, next gave some practical suggestions for an educational system, and advocated the abolition of district School Boards and enlarging the area of county management, on the principle that the present electoral districts should form the unit of representation, and that a portion of the departmental power should be vested in a Central Council consisting of the chairmen of the various county boards. Mr. GEonmJ GIKLING, of Londoa, member of the Executive, expressed his sympathy with Welsh teachers on account of the bi-lingual difficulty. After the termination of the business the mem- bers partook of tea, and subsequently a social meeting followed, for which the Abeidare teachers had made every preparation.
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FEMININE FANCIES, FOIBLES, AND FASHIONS. —— By A LADY. -All Rights .ReJirnrfiJ,'] I am always glad to give hints to thoss whoga means do not enable them to purchase out of hand the new and pretty, but expensive, adjuncts to the toilet, those things which are not in a strict sense essential, but without which one'" appear- ance certainly lacks finish and falls short oi ele- gance. A muff may or may not rank amongst necessaries. To me it is absolutely indispensable but, then, I am a chilly mortal, and my hands got numbed and practically useless without the pro- tection. But there are numbers of women who carry muffs merely for the sake of ornament. in either case, I think a few suggestions on the subject of muffs may not be out of season. To produce the happiest effect a fur muff should be of corresponding fur to that worn on mantle or jacket, if any-sable with sable, marten-tail with marten-tail seal, beaver, skunk, and Astrachan should only be worn in conjunction severally with their kind and no other. But as fur muffs, even of the cheaper sorts, are sometimes beyond the reach of my young lady readers who have but a. small dress allowance, a manufactured muff is better than no muff, and though these are not strictly so fashionable as fur they are dressier in appearance, and, being well stuffed with the best cotton wool are equally warm. I think lace- trimmed muffs are not consistent at this time of year. Plush, velvet, velveteen, and silk are far more appropriate, and should always be chosen with regard to the colour of the dress the muff is to be worn with. I have also seen muffs fashioned of material like the dress, even though it be of inexpensive material. Many of the rough fashionable cloths—the Kyrle for example—aro suitable for this purpose. A muff should not be too large, and may be advantageously lined with some bright colour if the dress be dark; or if it be of mixed colours the lining should repeat one of the leading colour notes, but self-coloured linings are preferable unless the outer fabric be of handsome material. Old gold, coral pink, red, and blue are pretty colours, and as their position is obscure such things need not be obtrusive, only sufficient showing to give a "soupcon" of colour to the toilet. The orifice should be large enough to admit the hands easily, but must not gape, otherwise they will not keep so warm. The home worker must be sure to see there are several sheets of cotton wool laid one over the other, else the muff will be useless as regards pro- tection for the hands. A piece of elastic drawn round the opening on either side the muff keeps it close. I have found it well to buy a three-inch wide piece of ribbon, hemming it on to the lining, and in this I run the elastic. A ribbon bow may be added if liked. Some- times a piece of fur may be left over from jacket trimming. This can be used to edgv the sides of the muff or placed across it diagonally. When there is nothing of the kind I think a double frill at either end is a nice finish, or plain edgoa only look well. The latter are neater, perhaps, for ordinary wear. I dislike the cords and tassels used on some muffs, and invariably have them removed. I object to danglers they are not ornamental, and are always catching and otherwise getting in the way. I wanted a muff not long since to match a jacket trimmed with bear fur, and, not liking the huge size of a muff of the same fur, I was told only skunk would assimilate. It does so fairly well. I would, for appearance, havfc preferred marten-tail or natural minx fur, both of which are reasonable in price, costing from a guinea to 35s.; but, as I never choose any attrac- tive article without first considering its suitability as a part of my dress and not as a whole, I set my faceagainst the furs I likodbest. Nothing is so warm as fur, and a fur-lined cloak is one of tho greatest luxuries I know of as regards comfort. It is not beautiful as a wrap, but enfolded in it one defies cold. On a railway journey or excursion in an open carriage it is the most delightful of coverings, and when I am ill and have to be much on my couch I draw the hood over my head and wrap the friendly folds about me. The soothing warmth and peculiar scent of the squirrel fur soon have a soporific effect upon me which drugs have been powerless to produce. One may got a really good cloak for about three guineas. There are some sold at 18s., but, of course, they are very inferior. It is a good plan to re-cover a fur-lined cloak when shabby. The fur itself may be in admirable condition, but the cashmere is liable to grow rusty. 1 have had mine covered by my dressmaker, buying a first-class cashmere, that will last years, I hope, without looking shabby. I forget if I have before called attention to the crutch-handled telescope umbrellas and sunshades made by a certain firm in Oxford-street, London. The handle of the parasol, or umbrella as maybe, is constructed so that it may be lengthened or curtailed at will. At full length it makes an admirable walking-stick. When held over tho head it is convenient to have a shorter stick, and, for the convenience of packing, the utility of the short handle cannot be gainsaid. A valuable sunshade or umbrella is safer in one's trunk than it is when bound up with walking canes and umbrellas, &c., of less valuo aud beauty. At the same house I saw some charm- ing silk hilts, the shape perfect, and yot so pliable that the manufacturer, after doubling one up almost small enough to go into his waistcoat pocket, just gave a little shake, and lo the ill-treated head-dress at once returned to its primitive form, and looked none the worse for the experiment. How useful for travelling, or to put on when coming out of a theatre if one does not happen to possess the luxury of a carriage. I may add that the uncrushable hat" in no way betrays its exceptional character. It is made in many fashion- able shapes, and is trimmed, if desired, with water- proof ribbon and coloured pompons. One of these hats I saw fall into the sea. It would be utterly ruined if of less-enduring character. Fished out of the unfamiliar element, a little shake to free it from moisture, and the head covering was not a whit the worse, nor had the colour of the pompons suffered at all. As terminations to parasols and umbrellas knobs are taking the place ot crutch handles. The origin of the fashionable crutch handle umbrellas and canes is thus explained. At the close of the Franco-Prussian war the wounded German soldiers who recovered from their injuries were presented by the Government upon leaving the hospital with a pair of crutch-handled walking-sticks, upon which were engraved the date of the battles in which they were wounded. Fashion seized on the idea-- as she always does upon novelty—and manufac- turers duplicated the crutch-handle in hammered silver and gold, ivory, ebony, and natura* woods. Amongst certain tasteful gifts which A family I visit are preparing for Christmas is a milking- stool. The fashion for this make of stools is acknowledged, and, though rather useless as they are, the one I am about to describe is certainly ornamental. This stool was bought at the Uni- versal Provider's," a plain white deal one, and a clever lady has painted the top with a Spray of scarlet poppies and appropriate leaves. The turned legs are decorated with lines of red paint. The whole has been highly varnished, and a big bow of wide watered red silk ribbon is tied round one leg just under the seat. I thought similar stools would sell well at bazaars, where, I have no doubt, they would fetch ton or fifteen shillings a-piece. Another elegant transformation of articles intended for humbler purpose is that of a big drain-pipe, tho Dutside to be painted with a rough design, then varnished and set in a block of wood similarly painted. A very uncommon-looking umbrella-stand is the result. For small halls, where every additional inch is useful, the substitution of « single upright that just fits into a non-avaijable corner is most acceptable. I have seen pipes o4' this kind painted in the prevailing hue of drawing- room, library, or landing, and tilled with bulrushes, pampas, and other tall grasses. Not many days since, calling at one of those large houses^ pepper-boxes," as they are styled* -facing Regent's Park, I noticed that from the centre of every window-blind there dangled L,, carved wooden acorn, secured by a length of cord. I remarked I had seen nothing of the kind before, but an acquaintance, who has just returned from Germany, tells me she noticed at Heidelburg these wooden acorns were almost universally employed for the purpose of drawing blinds. The idea is new, I think, in this country. I mention it thinking people who are setting un housekeeping may like to hear of it. The very wise attention at present bestowed on the art of cookery is demonstrated by the fact that I know one or two sensible mothers who. as an occupation for their children on wet days, have organised small cooking classes. A stove has been purchased, and mamma, or nurse, reading from a cookery book, superintends the operations of the embryo cooks, who thus acquire a useful knowledge, not as a task to be conned, but in the attractive form of a pleasant pastime. It is with children as with their elders, to keep well and to be happy the hours must not be passed in listless ennui, but actively and usefully em- ployed and the greater the interest taken in the occupation the greater profit resulting there- from. With dark, wet days in advance of us-days that in some nurseries pass heavily and sadly enough—the presence of a.cooking-stove and mate- rials to cook with would be hailed with delight, and if the children were taught to clear away and not to make more mess than obliged, I do not see that any extra trouble for the nurse or house- maid would be involved. And who can venture to say, seeing that the changes and chances of this mortal life are so great, how soon know- ledge that at present appears superfluous may prove of utmost importance to the whilom learners ? The mental storehouse can never be overstocked, and, On the principle that we can never with safety make enemies of any—no matter how insignificant they at present appear to us.- so neither can we tell how valuable some despised information may prove in the near or far future of our chequered existence. I do not often give recipes for very expensive dishes, nor for those which involve much trouble in their preparation but to-day I want to recom- mend a most delicious sweet, which some persons may think costly, and troublesome to make also. Take a pint of cream, half a pint of milk, the yolks of four eggs, one ounce of sweet almonds, and half a pound of sugar. Put the ingredients in a stew-pan over a gentle fire, and stir until the cream sets to about the consistency of custard; when cold add two wine-glassfuls of brandy freeze, and when cold add a pound of preserved fruit; cut it small, and mix well with the ice. Let it remain in moulding pots set in ice till wanted. A confectioner would freeze the pudding rimild the maker have no means of freezing, or ice might be got from a fishmonger's for the pur- pose if no confectioner be willing to undertake the freezing business. Very pretty little tartlets can be made as fol- lows :-Make some rich puff paste, cut it into squares two inches and a half in measurement, fold each corner back to the centre of the square, hut do not press the paste flat; brush over with white of egg. Bake in a quick oven for about a quarter of an hour. When cold place in the centre of each tartlet a spoonful of good jam, using assorted colours for better effect. Apricot, red currant, greengage, and black currant and barberry jams form an admirable ejection.
TO CORRESPONDENTS. ENGLISH Poetry intended for insertion in the Weekly Mail should be addressed to the Editor, at the Cardiff offices of the paper all Welsh compositions to Dewi Wyn o Essyllt, Pontypridd. CORRESPONDENTS who wish their unused MSS. re- turned must in all cases enclose stamps for that purpose.
RHYWOGAETH Y TERFYNIAD IAETH," &c. Y mae cryn ddadleu a gwrthddadleu wedi bod yn y Western Mail yn nghylch rhywogaeth y ter- fyniad iaeth un ochr yn dal mai gwrrywaidd ydrw, tra. taera yr ochr arall mai benywaidd vdyw. Nis gellir beioy naill ochr na'r JIaM am ei opiniynau, o herwydd nid oes unrhyw rool sef- ydlog ac unffurf o barth rhywogaeth amryw derfyniadau eraill heblaw y terfvniad iaeth," yn yr iaith Gymreig. Ond, lie na byddo rheol, y mae yn ddiau mai arfer gwlad a ddylai gael y flaenoriaeth; os felly, y mae dal mai terfyniad gwrryicaidd yw iaeth" yn gyfeiliornus. Y mae holl lenorion presenol Cymru, yn ddieithriad yn mron, yn ystyried ac yn ysgrifenu terfyniad iaeth fel yn perthyn i'r ystlen fenywaidd. Un o safonau mwyaf clasurol ein hiaith yw y Beibl, ac os gwrandawn ar hwnw efe a rydd derfyn buan ar y ddadi. Ysgrifena Paul fel hyn:—" I Dduw y byddo'r diolch, yr hwn a roddes i ni y fuddug- oliaeth drwy Iesu Grist ein Harglwydd;" pe mynasai y cyfieithydd Biblaidd i ni ddeall mai gwrrywaidd yw y gair buddugoliaeth, efe a ddywedasai y iuddugoliaeth, ac nid y fuddugol- iaeth. Mewn mewn arall dywedir am yr efengyl neu yr iachawdwriaeth-" yr hOlt wedi dechreu ei thraethu," &c.; nid a y genhedlaeth hon heibio," ac felly yn mlaen. Hefyd, oni ddisgynai yr enwau a ganlyn yn aflafar a dyeithr ar y glust pe cynanid eu terfyniadau yn y rhyw wrrywaidd, megys— Y dciysgeidiaeth hon y dysgeidiaeth hitn. Yr athrawiaeth hon yr athrawiaeth hwn. Y wybodaeth hon y ywybodaeth hwn. Yr etboledigaeth hon yr etholedigaeth hwn. Yr iachawdwriaeth hon.yr iachawdwriaeth hvm, Y/eddyginiaeth hon .y meddyginiaeth luon. Y Srofedigaeth lioiz yprofedi,aetli hUJn. Yr erlidigaeth hon yr erlidigaeth hlen. Y Jendefigaeth hon y jpendefigaot.h hwn. Yr etifeddiaeth hon yr etifeddiaeth ItWn. Y weinidogaeth hon y yweinidogaeth lmn. Y gymydogaeth hon .y eymydogaeth hwn. Yr oruchwyliaeth hon .y yoruchwyliaeth hwn. Mae yn wir yr ysgrifenir y terfyniad iaeth ac aeth gan rai hen ysgrifenwyr, a chan rhai yn ddiweddarach, yn ddynodiadol o'r rhyw fenyw- aidd, megys y gwasanaoth hwn—y Uenoriaeth hwn, neu llonyddiaeth Gymreig—y barddoniaeth hwn—y cecraath hwn, ac ambell enghraifft arall; ond gellir bod yn benderfynol mai eithriadau ac nid ffurfiau yn ol rheol nac arfer ydynt. Mae yn ddiau y dylai fod genym reolau mwy unffurf a pherffaith mewn cysylltiad a therfyniadau gwr- rywaidd a benywaidd enwau (nouns). Arforir y terfyniad ydd yn fynych i ddynodi y rhif liosog, pan, mewn gwirionedd, mai terfyniad i ddynodi y rhif unigol ydyw, megys gweithredydd (agent), adeiladydd, ofydd, derwydd, prydydd, athronydd, ieithydd, duwinydd, argraffydd, golygydd, dar- llenydd, &c., ond yn yr enwau canlynol arferir yr un terfyniad i arwyddocau y rif liosog-dolydd (uu), glenydd (oedd), ffosydd (au), coedydd (ion), pontydd (au, pynt), gwelydd (gwaliau), myu- wentydd (oedd), trefydd (oedd), eglwysydd (au, oedd), afonydd (au), meusydd (maesau), gweun- ydd (gwaenau), &c. Ceir hefyd rai englneifftiau o'r terfyniad yn yn cael ei arfer i arwyddocau y ryw fenywaidd, pan mewn gwirionedd mai gwr- rywaidd yw ac a ddylai fod, megys-y cerpyn hwn, y bretyn htcn, yr asyn hion, yr aderyn ltWil, yr offeryn hWIL. &c.; ond both am y delyn Itoit ? Ond er fod ychydig o afreoloidd-dra orgraffol a ther- fyniadol megys uchod; eto, mae cyfansoddiad neu adoiladiad yr hen lalth yn hynod wyddonol a. chyfundrefnus, megys yn yr enghreifftiau can- lynol, mewn cysylltiad a'r gwreidd-air aw, yr hwn yn ei holl gyfleadau yn y geiriau a gunlyn a geidw ei ystyron gwroiddiol-irdor, lleitluler/.hylif, gwlybur, &c. Gwl-aw (gwlaw) B-aw (baw) Rli-aw (rliaw), offeryn i godi neu daflu petli iraidd, tomlyd, neu wlyb, peth ag aw ynddo. CI-aw-dd (clawdd), lie i leithder neu wlybur, neu aw i fyned trwyddo. Hy-aw-dd (hawdd). llithrig, esmwyth, neu rhwydd fel y rheda dwfr, neu aw, i'w gyflawni. T-aw-dd (tawdd), toddi, toddedig, tebyg i iiylif, neu mewn sefyllfa hylifol, neu aw. B-aw-dd (bawdd), boddi, neu drengu mewn gwlbur neu mewn aw. S-aw-dd (sawdd), soddi, neu fyned i lawr i wlybur, neu i lawr i ate. N-aw-f (nofio), neu ymsymud mewn. gwlybwr, neu mewn aw. C-aw-g (cawg), lIestr at ddal gwlybur, neu beth iraidd, neu axe. G-aw-1 (gwawl), goleuni, neu beth yn dylifo, neu fel mo. G-aw-r (gwawr), gwawr y dydd, neu beth yn ymsymud fel hylif, neu aw. S-aw-r (sawr), arogl, neu beth yn ymsymud, neu nojlo, neu hylifo, fel aic. D-aw n (dawn) I Gwrthddrychau, elfenau, ac Aw-el (aweI) I ysprydolaethau, yn dyfod Aw-yr (awyr) J- neu yn myned yn rhwydd, Aw-en (awen) I dialw, a diattal fel bylif Hy-aw-dl (hyawdl) J neu aiv. Yr enghraifft nesaf mewn cysylltiad alr gwreidd- air ar. Ystyr ar yw dacar rydd, neu ddaear wedi ei chv !)fr)wio—pridd, megys- Dae-ar (y ddaear). Dai-ac (daiar), pridd, neu ddaear rydd, neu ddaear wedi ei ryddhau, pridd neu ai-. G-ar-dd (gardd), He cauedig, daiar rydd, neu bridd, neu ar. T-w-dd (tardd), peth yn codi o'r ddaear, o'r pridd, neu o'r ar. M-Ili.-I (marl), peth agoredig, daiar ddrylledig, rydd neu feddal, neu ar briwlyd. B-ar (bar), daiar uehel, twyn neu fryncyn, ar dorchafedig. R-ar-ydd (bardd), unyn mynychu uchelfryd, neu dir amlwg, neu heulog, neu ar derchafedig. -<4r-ad-r (aradr), offeryn i dori neu droi i fyny yr ar. ar-ddu (aryddu,, neu gredig) y weithred o dori neu droi i fynu yr ar. Tal-ar (talar), pen uchaf neu dalcen yr ar (head* land.) Braen-ar (braenar), daiar wedi braenu neu bydru, Ibaes a'i ddaear neu ar wedi braenu. Tybir mai oddiwrth y gwreiddair Cymreig cr, neu y gair Cymreig aradr, y mae y gair Groegaldd araiion wedi deilliaw; ni cheir y gwreiddair ai- am bridd neu ddl1.iar yn y Rywaeg, ond ceir ef yn y Gymraeg, ac yn cario yr un ystyr mewn llawer o gysylltiadau; gan hyny, y mae yn rhaid mai y Gymraeg ai pia, ac nad oes hawl gan un iaith arall iddo, ke. Yr enghraifft nesaf o gywreinrwydd neu gyson. deb gwyddonol ein iaith a fydd y gwreiddair gtcy- Ystyr gwreiddiol y gair gTc.1I yw dwfr, yr hwn sydd yn cymeryd rhan helaeth yn ffurfiad enwau afonydd Cymru, megys yr Wy, yr IVy-sg (wysg), Ogicy, Llyfmcy, Ebiey, TarTo.V-s, Tawe (Ta-My), Fy mwy, &e.; y blaenddodiaid i'r gair yn arwyddo rhyw agweddau neu deithi neillduoi perthynol i'r afonydd. Ond ceir y gwreiddair fJlOY mewn cysylltiad a gwrthddrycliau eraill hebla.w afonydd, megys yn y geiriau a ganlyn Gwy-ach (gwyach), aderyn yn cyfaneddu dyfr- leoedd neu leoedd v gwy. Gwy-)an (gwylan), aderyn yn preswylio glanau y gwy neu y mor. Gwy-mon (gwymon), llj-siau o ansawdd wlyb neu Iaith, neu yn yinffurfio mewn ywy. Gwy-dd (gwydd), aderyn yn mynychu y dwfr neu y gwy (goose). Bwy-ad (gwyad), aderyn yr ad, neu yn ym- symud hyd ddwfr, neu wy (duck), &c. Yr enghraifft nesaf mewn cysylltiad a'r gwreiddair mer. Ystyr y gwroiddair hwn ydyw dwfr neu wlybur, ineo-vs- Mer-a (mera), lleoedd neu waelodydd gwJyb, neu mer. Mer (mer), sylwedd gwlyb neu feddal; mer yr esgyrn. Cym-mer (cymer), cyfarfyddiad dau ddwfr neu ddau medr. Cvm-mer (cymeryd'), derbyn fel y gwna. y oaill afon y lIalI; gwneyd fel pan gyfarfyddo dau mer. Dy-mer-yti (dyferyn), cyfmn fectmn o mer. Dad-mer (dadmer), myned yr ail waith i gyflwr dwfr neu y mer—datod fel y gwna ia. Ad-mer (adfer), ail-feru neu wisgo agwedd rhyw- beth wedi ei ddyfrhau—fel y ddaear, neu dyfiant wedi cawod o wiaw—a gwedd fel ffresni; ail- ystyrol, ail-feddianiad iechyd, &c. (/'to barhau.)
By SPECIAL ROYAL APPOINTMENT.—Spearman'a Devon Serge*.—Pure wool only, The Season's Patterns. Thousands of customers testify that no other article woven equals this in general utility. According to the Queen It has no rival." For Ladies' Dresses. beautiful qualities. lB. 6d. to 3s. 6d. the yard .ForChildren's wear, capitally strong, Is. 3d. to 2s. the yard. For Gen- tlemen's Suits, double width. 2s. 6d. to 10s. 6d. the yard. The Navy Blues and Blacks are fast dyes. On re- ceipt of instructions, samples will be tent post free. Any length cut. and carriage paid to principal railway stations. No Agents. Only address, Spearman and Spearman, Plymouth. BJOÓQ
EIN HEISTEDDFOD. (OUR EISTEDDL'OD.) "YNNGWYNEB HAUL /|\ A LLYGAD GOLEUNI. In the Face of the Sun and the Eye of Light, --4J- DERIVATION AND MWANING OF WELSH PLACE-NAMES. Our prize this week is given for the best Deriva. tion and meaning (in English) of any six Welsh place-names commencing with the letter A. The comparative difficulty of the subject may be judged from the fact that no more than nine com- petitions have been received. These were from Iwan (Talybont), Adelphas" (Aberdare), "Samuel" (Dowlais), "Trefaldwyn" (Mont- gotncry),"Studiosus" (Llandovery), "Nil Despe- randum" (Tregaron), "J. R." (Penboyr), "Selyf (Llandyssul), aud "Kelt" (Merthyr Vale). We print below the pick of the collection:— ABBATTY CWM: HIR.—1. Abbatty is from abbad, a governor of an abbey, and ty, a house— meaning a house or a church attached to a con- vent. 2. Ctpw signifies a valley or deep ravine. This is a. very common word in Wales. It has also found its way to many English local names. Anderson, a Cumberland poet, says of his native county:— There's Cwmerhitton, Cwmwhitton, Cwm run ton, Cwmrangsii), Cwmrew, and Cwmcatch And many more Cooips i' the county, But nin evir Cwmdoock can match. 3. Hir means iong. Hirnant is the Dame of a place in Montgomeryshire. Abbatty Cwm Hir (the Abbey of the Long Valley) is in Radnorshire. It was built by Cadwallon ab Madoc in the year 1143. ABKBCONWY, a seaport in Carnarvonshire. 1. Aber, a confluence of two waters, or the fall of a lesser river into a greater, or into the sea. The word ber or mer signifies what is dropped off or parted, and is used as au adjective for moist, wet, waterish. Hence the compounds—gofer, goleru, diferu, dadmer, meiriol, merlys, merliyd, merinwr, meryw, &c. 2. Con. This word means either cyn, chief, or cain, bright, fair, beautiful. 3. ll'y or Gwy signifies tiuif. water. It is used as an affix to the names of many rivers, as Mawadwy, Mynwy, ElwJ. Llugwy, Trydonwy, Dyfrdonwy, Edwy, Efyrnwy, &c. ABEKNANT is in Glamorganshire. 1. Aber. (See Aberconwy). 2. Nant. This word really signiiies a very narrow, deep ravine or valley, but is now "limited in meaning, so as to refer only to the stream that flows through it." It is a word of frequent occurrence in Welsh topography, as Nantyllef, Nant Conwy, in Carnarvonshire Nant- glyn, Nantclawdd, in Denbighshire; Trefnant, Nantlludiog, in Flintshire Nantymoch, Nantvderi, in Cardiganshire; Pennant, Hirnant, in Mont- gomeryshire Nantycain, Nantymwyn, in Car- marthenshire Nantgarw, Aberilant, in Glamor- ganshire, &c. AMLWCH is in Anglesey. It signifies" a circular inlet of water." 1. Am, a prefix, signifying about, round about, as in amphibious, amphitheatre. 2. Llwch (Irish, loch), a lough, a lake, an in let of water. Many places in Wales take their names from this word, as Llwch Tawe, LI well Sawdde, Llwch Cyhirych, Llyn Llwch, Tal-y-Llychau, kc. ARDUDWY, a region in Merionethshire. 1. Ar or Ard, a primitive root diffused throughout many languages, generally signifying "a height." In Welsh names it is usually found with the d suppressed or the "r" substituting it, as in Argoed, in Cardiganshire; Arddwr, in Carnarvonshire. It has the same meaning in the following names:- Ardach, Ardglass, Ardrossan, Dysart, Lizard Point, Arran Islands. 2. Tud, a place, a region, a district. Moes pob tud yn ei dud "-(The custom of every place in its place)-is a Welsii proverb. 3. Wyor Gwy. (See Aberconwy). Ardudwy, according to Dr. Pughe, is a maritime region." ARGOED, a township in Cardiganshire. 1. Ar. (See Ardudwy). 2. Cod signifies trees. In Wales the names that contain this root are not nume- rous. In England we find it in Catmore, in Berk- shire, and Cotswold Hills, in Gloucestershire. Argood means a place sheltered by woods. Talybont, Cardigan. IWAN. ABERAVON is made up of two words, Aber and Avon. 1. Aber, a Celtic word denoting the con- fluence of two rivers or of a river with the sea. It originally existed both in the Gaelic and Cymric branches of the Celtic; but in Gaelic it died out at an early period, and the word Inver, as is now used in Scotland, became more common; but in Eng- land and Wales it became obsolete, and only Aber survived, hence its frequency in these countries. 2. Avon, a Celtic word signifying a river; the Welsh form is Afon, from bausk. Ap or Ab, water. Avon is the name of many streams in England, Wa!es. and Scotland, and enters into the composi- tion of many words denoting streams in every Celtic country in Europe. ABERYSTWITH consist's of two words, Aber and Ystwith. 1. Aber. (See above.) 2. Ystwith, a river in Cardiganshire, from which the town has taken its name. ABEUHOKDDU consists of two words, Aber and Honddu. 1. Aber. (See above.) 2. Honddu is called by this name from the colour of its water, which is black; also is the river from which the town receives its name. ABERTAWK consists of two word?, Aber and Tawe. 1. Aber. (See above,) 2. T((/('e, a river emptying into Swansea Bay. Abertawe, or Swan- sea, has taken its name from this river, meaning the confluence of the Tawe. ABKRDARE, a town in Glamorganshire, consisting of two words, Aber and Dare. 1. Aber. (See above.) 2. Dare, a tributary of the Cynon, on the confluence of which Abcrdiire is situated. ABEKTEIFI, the county town of Cardiganshire, consists of two words, Aber and Teiti. 1. Aber. (See above.) 2. Teiji, a river separating Carmar- thenshire and Pembrokeshire from Cardiganshire. Aberteifi has taken its name from this river. Aberdare. AnKLfHos. ABERRANT.—Aber, mouth, confluence, or fall- ing of one water into another; Kant, brook, river, ravine, glen; meaning mouth of the ravine, the river's mouth, the mouth of the glen. AMLWCH (Llwch).—Am, round or about; Llwch, a sandy beach meaning around or about a sandy beach. ABERrs'rwiTH.—Aber, mouth or connuence rst- icith, flexible or pliant; meaning mouth of the Pliant or Flexible one, or Flexible mouth. ABERGKLE (Gelli).-Aber, mouth or rivulet Gele or Gelli, a grove, wooded or secluded mean- ing mouth of the grove, or the secluded rivulet. ABERABTH (Cardiganshire). — Aler, mouth; Arth, bear; meaning bear's mouth. ABERAYRON (Aeron). — Aber, mouth; Aeron, fruits or brightness; meaning mouth of bright- ness or fruitful mouth. Montgomery. TREFALDWYN. ALLTLLWYD (Cardigrlnshire).-Allt, the side of a hill, a woody cliff; Llwyd, grey, hoary, brown; meaning the hoary side of a hill, the grey or brown woodv cliff. ABKRGWAEV (Pembrokeshire).—Aber, mouth; Glcoen, a plain or level meadow meaning mouth of the plain or level meadow. ABKRPORTH (Cardiganshire). — Aber, mouth Forth, port or ferry; meaning mouth of the ferry or port. ABERGWYNANT.—Aber, mouth; Gn-yn, white, fair, clear; Nant, brook, river, or glen; meaning mouth of the clear river or brook. ABER AFON.—Aber, mouth Afon, stream or river meaning river's mouth. ABKRGLASLYN.—Aber, mouth Glas, verdant, grey; Llyn, lake, pool; meaning mouth of the grey pool, mouth of the verdant lake or pool. Montgomery. TREFALDWYN. ABERAVON (Glamorganshire).—The right, word- ing is Aberafan. Aber means the mouth of a river, a particular point at which the lesser water dis- charges itself into the greater. Avon is a general term for river, but Afan is a proper name, deno- ting here the river at the mouth of which this ancient town is situated. Ban is the root of Afan, which means height. The river receives its contri- butory streams from high and lofty mountains. AMROTH (Pembrokeshire).—Am, about, encirc- ling roth, a corrupted form of rhath, a mound or hill, aud sometimes rhath is u-ed to denote a plain or moorland. Roath, Cardiff, comes from the latter root. In "Liber Landavensis" it is called Radh and Llanarth. The name means a place around the hill. ABERHAFESP.—Aber, estuary; haf, summer; hesp, drv. The place is situate at the confluence of the Rivers Havesp and Severn hence the name. Hafesp signifies a river whose channel is dry in the summer. ABERYSTWITH (Cardiganshire).—Aber, estuary. This fashionable town is situated en the conflux of the Rivers Ystwyth and Rheidiol, the former of which gives the town its name. Ystwyth means pliable, supple. The ancient name of the place was Llanbadern Gaerog, but it has been known by its present name since the reign of Queen Elizabeth. ATPAR (Cardiganshire).—Probably an Anglicised form of At'bar, which means towards the top of the hill. The village is also called Trefhedyn, which is probably a corruption of Tref-y-din (hill- town). ABERHONUDO (Brecon).—-Aber, estuary Honddu,, a river that commences its course in the Mynydd Du (Black Mountain), and when it approaches the town it quietly flows into and joins the Usk to run to its destination. Hon is, perhaps, a contraction of hoen, complexion, hue ddu, bi.>ck. Many of our rivers received their names from the peculiar hue of their respective waters, such as Dulas, Honddu, kc. Dowlais. SAMUKL. ABERFFRAW, the Royal seat of the Princes of North Wales while they flourished; situated in the Isle of Anglesea, near the Irish Sea; derived from Aber, the fall of one water into another, and jfraw, meaning fair; hence the nfuno signifies the mouth of the fair (river). Asserius writes that the Frome, in Dorsetshire, was anciently called Ffraw. AMLWCH, a market town in the extreme north of Anglesea. Derived from Am, surrounded by and llwch, sand; hence the name signifies a place surrounded by a sandy beach, and fitly describes the place. AFALLOX, the Welsh name of Glasfonbury, in Somersetshire, renowned for its ancient abbey. It is also called Ynysyfallen and YnyswydrVn. Derived from Afalien, afall, apple tree root afal, apple; hence the name signifies a place abound- ing with apple trees. AMWYTHIG, the Welsh name of Shrewsbury. This town occupies an elevated peninsula, formed by a remarkable horse-shoe bend of the River Severn. Derived from Am, surrounded bv, and gwythig, from gwyth, anger. The Severn, almost surround- ing the town, owing to its shallowness, flows as if in anger (gwyth) hence tho name signifies a place surrounded by angry (water). ABJSRTAWY (Swansea), a very important seaport town in South Wales. Derived from Aber, the fall of one water into another, trtto (silent) (talD is the root of dystaw, tawel, &c. ] and, C/JC?/ (water) hence Aber-taw-wy signifies the efflux oi the silent water or river. ARDUDWY, an extensive district in Merioneth- shire, one of the most valuable antiouarian fields in the Principality, and the birth-place of many very eminent British authors. Derived from Ar (above), du (black), and dwy (the same as gwy) (water); hence Ardudwy sIgnIfies abuve the black waters. The rivers of Merioneth, being mountain torrents, abound with chasms deep and dark (du). This adjective is very commonly attached to their names, such as Rhayader Du, Dy(fr)dwy, a corrup. tion of Dugwy. They also flow in very deep channels, so that the surface of the country is above (ar) them. Some authors, however, write that du is a contraction of dwrdd (noisy), and make Ardudwy signify Above the noisy waters." Llandyssul. SELYF.
We have no hesitation whatever in making on award in favour of the first competitor," Iwan; whose proper name and address are MR. WILLIAM DA VIES, Talybont, Via Glandovey, Cardiganshire.
SPIRIT OF THE WELSH PRESS. [BY GWYLJEDYDD. ) The address of Lord Salisbury at Newport is discussed, as might be expected, in several of the Welsh papers, and it is interesting to observe the different ways it is treated by different writers The Gweilhiwr says that it is dull and ambiguous on every subject but disestablishment, about which his lordship is firm and decided. Th« writer contrasts him with Mr. Chamberlain as leader and guide, and recommends the work ing men to throw in their lot with the latter. The Tarian, repeating the words of the South TYales Daily News—from whence the writer, no doubt, obtained his inspiration—says:—"If there was one thing more than another felt at the Newport meeting, it was the chilliness of the reception and the absence of enthusiasm. Hi lordship scarcely warmed up during the delivery of his speech it is not surprising, therefore, that he failed to elicit warmth in his hearers. We do not say the address is wanting in ability—the marquess is an able man." The denominational papers, with the exception of the Seren, take no notice of the address. The latter treats it and it: author in a flippant and off-hand style, and concludes thus:—" The marquess came to Newport with great pomp, and delivered an addres; wttich might be described in the words of the proverb, I A in labour and brought forth a mouse.' Arid if there is a difference between one mouse and another this is the poorest of the lot." The Bauer, on the other hand, treats the subject with the respect it deserves. The utterances of the Prime Minister of England cannot be ignored. The Buner says:—" We can easily understand that the reading of the speech wouid oo more enjoyable than the listening to its delivery, for Lord Salis- bury is so correct and suggestive in his speaking that the generality of persons cannot follow him with intelligence and success. But. to the literary and cultured reader his speeches are more finished than t-h^se of almost any other statesman. Besides, the speeches of Lord Salis- bury deserve notice because he is the head of the Tory party. It is evident that the Prime Mmistei has made up his mind to win over the Whigs tc his side, for his speech shows he is not more of ? Tory than the Duke of Argyll, Mr. Goschen, ant others, and ho is in some respects more Libera than they are. It is clear throughout, the speeel that Lord Salisbury realises the fact that the work ing men of the kingdom are in possession of the franchise." Gwa.lia says :—"At Jitst, Lord Salisbury has spoken. He touched the national chord in his eloquent speech at Newport, a nd every ConservativE knows the policy and purposes of his ciiief. When he took office, in the face of a Radical majority in the House of Commons, there were serious ques tions unsettled between us and other nations, bu' he has settled them all, and England is respecteo all the world over. On the question of Disesla blisiiment and Disendowment he is firm anc decided. He admits that the Church stands ir need of reform, but will not consint to her being despoiled of her endowments." It is extremely difficult to gather from the We1!<t press the condition and prospects of the election contests now going on in the Principality. Take North Wales, for instance. One would infer from reading the papers that the Conservatives of North Wales are idle and indifferent about the election, whereas the facts are otherwise. Every constituency will be contested. You may turn over the pages of the Baner, Goleuad, and Genedl and find no reference whatever to the severe contests that are being waged. Great prominence is given to the quarrel between the Radical candidates for Merionethshire, but no re- ports are given of the meetings of Mr. Wynne, the Conservative candidate. The Goleuad., in a heavy leading article, makes the following statement, which appears lo me to be the very opposite of truth:—"The Conservatives throw dust into the eyes of the farmers and endeavour to lead them blindfold to vote for them. The Liberals, on the other hand, do all in their power to enlighten the farmers and allow them to judge for themselves." If the editor of the Goleuad is sincere in making this statement, why does he keep back from his readers what the Conservatives say in defence of their programme ? There appears to be a syste- matic concealment from the newly-enfranchised farm labourers of the truth with regard to the Con- servatives. Is there any reason or common sense in stating that a Birmingham manufacturer ot London merchant is a better friend and adviser 01 the farmer than the country gentlemen who live amongst them and by them? The idea is pre- posterous. The farmers know which side of theii bread is butterod. The Genedl has a bitter article on Principal Jayne's appeal on behalf of St. David's College Lampeter, and is much annoyed at the hearty response that has been made to it. The sore point about this matter is the cordial way in whid Nonconformists and Nonconformist ministers have joined in it. These are the concluding words of the article Wo admit that we were half- stunned when reading that 115 Nonconformist ministers had signed the memorial. We refrain at present from giving our opinion of them. Time will throw light upon the matter. We are surprised at the presumption of the Church in asking for the grant. It is now too far ad- vanced in the day. We can scarcely believe that even Lord Salisbury would bo so insane as to accede to the request. If he should, the Noncon- formity of Wales—aye, and of Great Britain- will be roused to its uttermost depth." 1 pity the ministers who signed the memorial. If they are found out they will be persecuted and Boycotted without mercy. The Radicals are become rampant and would crush, if they had the power, everyone who dared to differ from them. The same paper strongly urges the formation of a" Welsh party," and encourages the discussion of the subject in its columns. A correspondent in this week's number gives a list of measures which the new "party is to carry into effect, among which are the following:—A separate Parliament for Wales, to be held at Aberystwiih; the abolition of the House of Lords, the cutting down the income of the Queen and Royal Family, the conduct of the busiuoss of courts of justice in Welsh, and the DisendowmentottheChurch. I am surprised to find that. Mr. Lewis Morris encouraged the idea of a Welsh party in his recent speech at Liverpool. G wo I ic draws attention to this matter in a lead- ing article, from which 1 make the following extracts If we may judge by the discussions which appear in ions of the 1 lit best men of the body object 10 the using of the chapels for hoidingpohticalmeetings. The matitr was discussed at the Pwllheli meeting, when a resolution was passed that political differences should not be allowed to interfere with the fellowship of the brethren. The matter turned up again at Pontgarreg, and it transpired during the discussion that there was a good deal more Conservatism amount).edeacot.a,and perhaps among the ministers, too, than was expected. We are not surprised at it,; the wonder is that the subject should be broached in a district where Radicalism is strong, and where chapels have been used for political purposes. It is only some three months since we rend of political speakers advoca- ting the doctrines of Joseph Chamberlain, Charles llradlaugh, and John Morley from the place where the'old, old 8tor)" was usually proclaimed. The place was more like a theatre than the house of God. It was proposed at Pontgarreg that the chapels of the Connexion should not, be used foi political purposes. The Rev. J. Wyndham Jones said that, be felt for the sanctity of the house of God, and did not like to preach in a chapel on a Sunday morning where concerts and political meetings had been held during the previous week. But the discussion was raised to a higher platform by the Rev. E. Matthews, of Ewenny, who said that he did not follow Glad- stone, or Chamberlain, or Bradlaugh, but wished everyone to judgo for himself. If the chapel w as lent to one party it should be lent tc the other. His opinion was that the associatior should maintain tho sanctity of their placcs of worship, and let, the politicians find other places wherein to hold their meetings. The Connexion Was not so pure but that some of the bretiirer might disgrace themselves during these exciting times. *110110088 becometh Thine house, O Lord for ever. YLlan contains an interesting biography, ilius. trated with a portrait, of Mr. John Allan Rolls, M.P., from which we gather that the hon. gentle- man, whose residence is Tho Hendre, was born in 1837. He is the only son of the late John Rolls by Klizabeth Mary, daughter of ^iliuiui Long, of Preshani House, Hants, and Lady Mary, daughter of Williaui, seventh Karl of Novthesk. Mr. Rolls's great grandfather was High Sheriff of Monmouth- shire in 1794. Mr. Rolls was educated at Eton and Christ Church, Oxford, is a Follow of the Society of Antiquaries, J.P, and D.L. for the County of Monmouth, and hns been M.P. for the county since 1880. He married in 1868 Georgiana Mar- cia, youngest daughter of Sir Charles Maclean, Bart., of Mowaren. Since that time lie lias lived amongst his people, loving and beloved by all. Ho has always showed the deepest interest in all things connected with the country's welfare. When he came into his estate his first act was to re-build his parish church of Llangattock-vibon-Avei, with which few churches can be compared for beautv and purity of architecture, His next work was the building of schools, by which lie has relieved three parishes of the expense of a School Board. He was chiefly instrumental in the restoration of Llan v ilui ngel-Ystern-LlewernChurcli, and lately gave tbO.0 to the Parish Church ot Monmouth for the same purpose. He has been a large contributor to numbers of churches in the diocese. We sec his name as a subscriber of £ 1,000 to t!i«) Bishop of Llandaff's Fund, and also for f.1,000 to the Bishcpof Rochester's Fund When the worst troubles came upon the farmerp three years ago Mr. Rolls gave back nn entire half-year's rent, and considerably reduced hit rents also. A keen sportsman, for seven years ht was joint master of the Monmouthshire hounds These are the men we ought to return as our mem bet s, men who uphold their own Church (j,tlC opinions, but who respect tho religious and poli- tical opinions of otlieta.