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OTHMAE -
OTHMAE CHAPTER XLIII.—(CojfTistTED.) A violent anger eclipsed for the omen *11 Bense of astonishment at her knowledge or of wonder as to how she had acquired it. All he was conscious of was the indignity, the insult, put upon him by her utter disbelief. He felt it a task almost beyond his strength to forbear from some such words as men must never say to women, and in the bewilderment of his emotions he was silent. You have engaged an actor, once great, to giv, her lessons in elocution," she continued, in the same unmoved, harmonious tones. "It is tbb fashion of the day to have a mistress on the stage. I suppose I cannot blame you for that. As it WM I who first suggested the future possibility of a dramatic success for your protegee, it is, perhaps, natural that you should have remembered my suggestions when you sought the cover of 80mlt artistic career for her. Someone has told me that you reserve for me the part of Msecena to her Roscia (can one feminise the names ?), that you intend to have her talents first essayed and pronounced on tinder my roof; that the world isto be invited to Bmile at my credulity, or at my good nature, with which ever it may most prefer to accredit me Women often do such things as this, I know, because they are weak, or because they need in- dulgence in return. But it is not a rdle which will suit either my temper or my taste. I see the convenience to yourself of your project, but you must pardon me if I do not accept the part you would assign me in it. The world and Mdlle. Berarde will have opportunities for mutual acquaintance and admiration without their meeting each other in my drawing-rooms. I should not have mentioned the matter unless you had done so first, but I should have prevented the execution of your and of M. Rosselin's inten- tions!" She looked at him from under her drooped eye- ids with that critical observation which never deserted her in the most trying hour or before the deepest emotion. She did not hurry him or dismiss him, only he knew by the look upon her face that the discussion was, in her view of it, closed irrevocably. But, for the sake of the other who was involved in her judgment, he put aside tiis pride, his offence, and his dignity, and stooped to an appeal. I do not know," he said, and he was sensible that his voice vibrated with fury as well as with emotion," I do not know what steps you may have taken to enable you to tabulate my actions so exactly. I keep no diary, but I have no doubt your facts are correct. But, as you put the data which has been given you by some creature you have stooped to employ, they would certainly seem to point to some selfish intrigue on my part, some vulgar use for my own ends of this young girl's illness and misfortunes. It may be even quite natural that you should take such a view of it as this, though it shows that you do not, after all, much understand my character. But I will admit that your suspicions may seem to you just. I will admit that my own reticence has been blamable and unwise, and I do not suppose you will believe how much your own habit of ridicule, of irony, and of cruel scorn has made me shrink from provoking your malicious comments by any con- fidences which would seem to you sentimental and melodramatic." He paused, hoping for some word from her. But she spoke none. She continued to listen and to wait in unbroken silence and serenity, her fingers touching the rose at her breast. A momentary Bense of rage passed quivering over him. He understood how men may in some moments kill the women they have loved best. He restrained his passion with great effort, and tried to keep his words within the compass of ordinary courtesy. You do not know, and if you knew you would not care for it, how many a time this story, like many another thought and memory of mine, has been upon my lips, and speech has been (stopped in me merely because I was conscious you would laugh. I am a fool in your eyes, worthy to die with Rolla, to fall with Desgrieux, or any other absurd sentimentalist. I daresay you will even despise me the more if you be compelled to believe that, though I might be the lover of Damaris Berarde I am not so, what- ever your spies may have told you. i Her face flushed haughtily. Spies J I set no watcher on your actions until you deceived me. When I know that I am deceived I have no mercy. Those who deceive me 18re outside my pale. I hunt them down. Foolish .women can bear to be blinded. I am not foolish, Rnd I do not consent to be so." j I have never deceived you," She gave a gesture of deprecation, slight but full Df unuttered disdain. Long ago I told you that if you had strength enough in you to tell me when you were weak I should not be like other women; I should under- stand to understand is always to forgive a greater woman than I am has said it. If you had come to t tne frankly, with no subterfuge, no pretext, no 'empty phrases of untrue sentiments, but had said honestly that you were no better than other men, I should have told you that follies of that sort Deed never disturb our friendship nor our con- fidence, but-" But, my God, what had I to confess ?" cried Othmar, with that passionate protest of the tortured man who calls in vain that he is innocent. Infinite contempt swept over her face. What a fool he seemed to her! What a poor weak coward tnd fool! "If there were any lover whom I loved, how I tbould hurl the truth of it in his face!" she ihought. Men are such cowards—so half hearted %nd so tame, and never hardly even knowing what they do love! If he would only be truthful even now-what should I care—a wretched child off the streets, a creature who owes her very bread to him—what rival could she be to me ?" < But in her sight he was foresworn, perjured, a •coward. She felt for him all the superb disdain that Cleopatra might have felt had she known that Antony toyed with a slave from the market-place and dared not plead guilty to his paltry sin. [ Can you believe that I would speak such a lie- 17" Oh, yes; those untruths are men's honour." They are not mine nor my dishonour either. I never willingly spoke an untruth yet to man or •womafc; If this child were my mistress I would tell you so. You may remember that many a timos you have bade me take my liberty. You would care nothing. Why should I have concealed what you would not have done me the honour to resent ?" He paused, expecting her to say some word of BFsent or dissent, but she remained silent. "Certainly," he said, bitterly, had I considered myself free in all ways I should have been justified in doing so. Few men of your world see less 0" you than I. Your very lacqueys know more of your engagements and your intentions than I do. You lend great brilliancy to my name, you give great distinction to my houses, you allow my chil- dren to Bit by you in your carriage, and you permit me to receive kings for you in your ante- chambers. But more than that you deny me. If I sought elsewhere the tenderness I seek in vain from you, could you complain of my infidelity ?" I do not complain of the infidelity; it is im- material. I complain of the long series of elaborate deceptions with which you have endeavoured, Vith which you still endeavour, to surround it." "I repeat, there has been no deception." She laughed, laughed slightly, that cruel laugh of a woman which can tell a man with impunity what a mall could never dare to teli him: that h9 bas lied. "You dare to doubt me still!" he exclaimed, with that blindness and good faith with which a man, candid and honest himself, expects credence from others; he had never in his heart really doubted that when he should tell the truth to her she would believe it. Conscious rectitude has a curious, pathetic Ignorance of its own impotence to move others; it imagines that it has but to speak and mountains will fall before it. Because this thing was clear as daylight tc his own knowledge, to his own conscience, he stupidly thought that it must stand out plain as the noon- day to her likewise. Those who tell the truth always fancy that the truth must be like those trumpets before which the walls of Jericho fell. You dare to doubt my word! he cried again passionately. She looked him full in the face coldly and Calmly. Told earlier," she said in her serenest voice, C vour comedy might have deceived even me. Told now, I do not think it would deceive the most credulous woman living and I am not credulous. I am like Montaigne: I do not accept miracles out of church." His face grew white and grey with wounded pride and breathless passion as he heard her. The lame sense of hopelessness which had come over lo many of her lovers whei^driven to appeal to a mercy which had no existCTice in her came over him now. He felt that one might throw one's Mif for ever against the smooth white marble of per soul, and never gain from it either pity or belief. His patience was at an end, and his bitter sense *)f wrong, done to himself and to one absent, broke Jownall his self-control. But as God lives you shall believe P' he cried to aer. You shall believe it for her sake, not for -Dine nor yours. You can cover the whole world with the fine scorn of your scepticism if you will, but you shall believe this. I may have done un- wisely what I have done for her. I may have icted with that mule-like stupidity which you Consider the characteristic of men. I may even, Sod forgive me, have not done what was best for the child herself; but in all that I have done I have been honest in it, and not a mere lecherous egotist. You have never deigned to try and measure the feeling with which I have regarded you, but you ought, I think, to understand enough of the common honour which I share with all men "who are not scoundrels to believe in my word when I give it to you. The woman with whom she lives at Les Hameaux is of good repute and blameless conduct. Rosselin, who has become her teacher, is a man too upright to accord his assis- tance in any common intrigue. The money I Placed to her credit she imagines to be a legacy of her grandfather, whose heiress she would have been if you, in a moment of unaccountable and un- Considered caprice, had not tempted her to incur ilie old man's anger. All these things are capable the simplest explanations. Still, I will concede without explanation, they may have appeared Ilngular and suspicious to you." She preserved her perfect composure, the rose in her breast was not ruffled by one uneven breath; she looked at him with cold, calm, unkind eyes, which never wavered in their rejection of him. You are melodramatic," she said, with he" serene contempt. Perhaps you will appear on the stage, too! I shall be glad if you will spare me more words on such a subject. I shall not resent it publicly. All I request of you is to avoid publicity in it as far as possible. That is a mere matter of good taste." Good God!" he cried, beside himself. How dare you speak in such a way as that to me! Do jou credit that I should stand here and lie to you ? Do you believe that I should stoop so low ?—do you think I come here like a comedian to repeat a xionologue of my own invention ? You may think what else of me that you will, but this you shall not think. I am not the lover of Damaris Berarde I have never been so-I shall naver be so." If you swore it on the lives of your own chil- dren, I would not believe you!" Some reflex and heat of the flame of his rage caught her.soul also for one sudden instant, and drew it out for that one instant from its serenity and reticence. There was the vibration, of intensest passion in her voice; she half rose from her seat; her bosom heaved; the rose fell in a shower of leaves to the floor; for the moment he thought that she would strike him. You shall believe me," he said in answer, or I will not live under the same roof with you!" Then he looked at her with one cold, last look, and left her presence.
CHAPTER XLIV.
CHAPTER XLIV. Othmar went into his great library, and shut the door upon himself. For more than an hour he paced to and fro the length of the room, overcome with an agitation he could not master. He had a sense that his life was over. He felt as though his very heart strings had snapped and parted for ever. A great love cannot perish without some such throb as a strong animal life suffers when it is forcibly torn asunder. A kind of horror seized him at the idea of the years which were to come; the long, long years through which he would dwell in apparent amity beside her in the sight of the world. His first impulse was to go out of the house, out of the city, out of the world, to leave her every- thing, but never to see her face again. But a brief reflection made him feel how impos- sible such a course as that would be to him. Obscure people can do these things, they are happy; they are not set in the fierce light of pub- licity and society, and no one heeds it if they creep away to lay their aching heads under some lowly roof in solitude. But to a man well known and conspicuous in the life of the world any such retreat into obscurity is impossible. He is bound hand and foot by a million threads, each strong as cables, to hold him to his place. He cannot forsake his place without forsaking a mass of interests confided to his honour. Solitude is for ever for- bidden to him, and liberty he can never more recover. Life never gives two opposite sets of gifts to the same recipient; it never bestows both the king's dominion and the peasant's peace. The sigh of Henry IV. upon his sleepless couch is the sigh of all eminence whatever be its throne. Othmar's momentary longing to go far away from everything and everyone he had ever known, and never again behold the woman whom he had adored, and who had insulted him as though she had struck him with a knout, was the natural thirst for loneliness of all wounded creatures. But he knew that this desire, like so many others, was hopeless; he could never leave her or the world he lived in; there were his children, who must not be sacrificed, and the fortunes of others, which must not be imperilled. He knew that he could no more undo the bands fastened—many by his own hands—around him than he could sweep ten years off the sum of his past life. Such as his existence was now, so he had to continue it. He walked to and fro the vast length of the chamber in the quiet of the noonday. He felt as if her hand had struck him. It had not been even an insult of unpremedi- tated passion, of hot anger, of inconsiderate haste; as such he might have pardoned it; but, serene and deliberate and measured, spoken in cold blood, and matured on long consideration, it had been such an outrage as severs the closest ties and destroys the most profound affections, cuts at the deepest roots of self-respect, and burns up all deli- cate fibres of sympathy. He would much sooner have forgiven a dagger's thrust. He had been insulted by the one woman for whom he had given up all his life, all his loyalty, all his devotion, all his faith, and all bis years to come. The outrage of her insolence, of disbelief, burned in his heart as the shame of a blow burns on a brave man's forehead. Never could he make her believe, though he were to swear the truth to her as he lay dying! And that perfect silence with which she had listened and led him on to speak, that perfect con- sciousness of all his actions which had existed beneath her apparent ignorance, that feline atti- tude of cold expectation and of watchful, motion- less observation with which she had waited for the telling of a tale of which she already knew every smallest detail: all this seemed to him horrible, hateful, unnatural in a woman so near to him, so dear to him, to whom he had given up his life, and whom he had never wronged, or slighted, or betrayed. And then the espionage !—all his soul revolted at it. One might have known that the weapon of a Russian woman is always a spy I" he thought, with passionate indignation at what seemed to him this last and lowest of affronts. If he had found in her any of the warm and fond, though unwise, angers of that jealousy which loves whilst it hates, he could have for- given and comprehended it. But he could not hope that there was any single pulse of it in her breast. She had viewed and measured his actions with the accuracy and coldness of a judge of court overwhelming a prisoner with his logic, and had treated his own asseverations with utter and contemptuous disbelief, not deigning 'even to weigh as remotely possible the chance that he might tell the truth. He himself would have taken her word against that of the whole world, against all evidence of his own senses, all adverse witness of circumstance. I was mad to suppose she ever cared for me," he thought bitterly, whilst the tears rose hotly in his eyes. "For my children she cares, perhaps, but for me nothing; I have never been wise enough, great enough, strong enough to compel even her respect. She looks on me as a mere dreamer, a mere fool. All she is anxious for now is that the world may not have a story to laugh at!" And yet he loved her still as Vie remembered her there sitting so still, so fair, with the cold challenge in her eyes, and the pale roses at her breast; and she was all his, and yet as far off him as though she were queen in another world beyond the sun and he loved her still, and was filled with guilty shame at his own weakness, as men are when they still adore the women who haye defiled their name.
CHAPTER XLV.
CHAPTER XLV. For the first time in her whole existence his wife had known the mastery of a strong and uncon- trollable impulse of emotion; for the first time since her dreamy eyes had smiled at the pains and follies of men a wave of fierce and simple passion had passed through her as the seismic wave moves the still earth. She was touched with the common infirmity of common lives. The women in her laundry rooms, the groom's wife who lived above her horses' stables, might feel as she felt now. Jealousy! It could not be jealousy. Would Cleopatra have been jealous of that slave from the market-place, that Nubian seller of green figs, or Persian dancing girl ? For jealousy it seemed to her there must, first of all, be equality. No—no she was not jealous; she was only angered, bitterly angered, because he had stooped to subterfuge and to untruth earths in which the fox of cowardice always hides. It was all ignoble, mean, unworthy, there was no manliness in it and no honesty. Any common knave could have woven such a net of falsehood and stupidity as this. He had thought to deceive her! She could almost have laughed aloud at the idea! Was there any brain subtle enough, clear enough, wise enough in all Europe to invent a lie which would have power to blind her? Surely not; and he knew it; and yet he had thought such vulgar, ordinary devices as have served in half the vaude- villes of half the theatres of France would serve to hoodwink and to satisfy her There was a vulgarity in such miserable intrigue which offended her taste while it outraged her dignity. In all the innumerable women of their own world could he not have found some rival in some measure her equal? It might have hurt her more, but at least it would have insulted her less. She remained a.Ione and motionless, except for such feverish, mechanical action as that with which her right hand plucked the roses from the bowl one by one and tore their hearts asunder. She did not know she did that. She shed the sweet, faint-smelling petals on the floor, and her fingers had the movement of a great nervousness as they played with the loosened leaves. No one came there to disturb her; no one would dare to do so until she rang; the slow morning hours crept on. the very footfall of time was muffled, and did not dare obtrude in these still, fragrant, chambers, where the air was heavy with hothouse beat, and was sweet with a somnolent, lily-like odour. She took the little written sheets from between the blotting-paper and read what was written on them again. There was more than she had read aloud to him. All the details of his intercourse with Damaris Berarde were described there with searching minuteness. She studied them again and again. Their bare records were full of suggestion to her; they seemed to tell so much which was not said in words, to be pregnant with meaning and with cynical emphasis. ° She sat still as any statue of a queen dethroned the pale rose folds of the satin flowing about her feet, the ruin of pale rose leaves on the floor before her. All her life she had laughed at the love of men and derided it, and starved it on graceful philosophies and sethereal conceits, and dismissed it with airy banter and disbelieved its truest words and its hardest pains and now a love which she had lost escaped her, and she found no comfort either in her wit or in her scorn. Certain of the words which he had said to her re- mained in persistent echo on her ear. Some sense that she had been cold to him and too capricious, and too negligent of what he felt, came to her. It might even be that he had sought the warmth of other affections because she had left his heart empty herself. He had always been a sentimentalist! Had she not called him Werther, Obermann, René, Rolla? He had wanted the impossible, the im- mutable, the eternal. He had asked of love and of life what neither can give. He had expected a moment of' divinest rapture to be prolonged through a life time. He had expected the song of the nightingale to thrill through the year. Senseless dreams and hopeless!—but had she been too cruel to them ? For a moment her conscience spoke, and her heart relented towards him. She remembered the many times when she had treated the warmth of his passion as an absurd delirium or an exag- gerated sentiment, when she had again and again and again bidden him take his erratic rhapsodies elsewhere than to her. It h had done *0, was he so much to blame ? Almost she could have pardoned him. If only he had not ied to hbr tlhe would have pardoned him. Good God, why could he not be honest ?" she thought, with indignant scorn. Why could he not kneel at her feet, and lay his head upon her knee and own his folly ? Men were weak always, and so easily misled whenever their senses ruled them, and such mere animals after all, even those in whom the mind was strongest! Send the children to me," she said when at last she rung for her women, and the children came. They had come in from their morning's ride on their small ponies in the Bois. They were very pretty in their velvet riding dresses, with their golden hair flowing over their shoulders; they were very gentle and had admirable manners; the little bov with his cap in his hand kissed his mother's fingers with an old-world grace. She drew them both towards her. Met migiwnnes" (My pets), she said looking alternately at each of them, I want you to tell me something quite honestly are you afraid of me either of you ?" The young Otho, a very sensitive and chivalrous child, coloured to his hair and was silent; his sister Xenia, less timid and more communicative, answered for him and for herself: We are both of us a little." The brows of Nadine contracted with a sudden sense of pain. Why ?" she said imperiously. The children did not reply; their small faces grew serious; they were not prepared to analyse what they felt. Do you mean," she continued, that if you wished for anything you would sooner ask your father for it than you would ask me ?" The children nodded their heads silently. They had lost their colour. Sho saw that the interroga- tion alarmed them. Why ?" she repeated, in a softer tone. They were still silent; they could not really tell; they only knew that a certain sense of timidity and awe was always upon them in their mother's presence, that they never dared to laugh too loudly or ask, a question twice before her. They loved her and had the passionate admiration of childhood for that which is above it and incomprehensible to it, and she seemed to them more wonderful and beautiful than any other living creature, but there was a tinge of fear in their sense of her presence. She read their unformed, confused thoughts, and she felt a sharp reproach in their tacit con- fession. Had she been so engrossed in the ice of her egotism that she had never taken the trouble even to stoop and draw to her these young, hesita- ting, half-opened souls ? Had she been cold and careless even to them ? Enfants d'amour, nes d'une etreinte!" (Pledges of affection), she murmured as she kissed them with lips which trembled had she been so little kind to them that even they feared her ? "Jolaman etait prete a pleurer" (Mamma was ready to cry), murmured Xenia to her brother in amazed awe, as with their arms wound about each other they passed down the corridor to their own apartments. Otho drew a long breath. Elle nous a embrasses vois-tu," he murmured, comme on embrasse les petits pauvres." (She has embraced us as people hug poor children.) Les petits pauvres," whom he had seen in the Tuileries or the Luxembourg gardens, kissed by their ragged mothers with eager tenderness on cold winter mornings, when perhaps the mothers had no food to give them except such fond caresses. Watching those happy, hungry children, he had said more than once to his sister enviously, "Si maman nous embrassait comme ca?" (If mother would only embrace ua like that?) And than they had always kissed each other to make up for the caresses which they did not obtain. And now she, too, had kissed them comme ca!" They were not sure whether they had done some- thing very wrong or something very good to move her ao one or the other they were sure it must have been. As the children went from hep presence a note was brought her which briefly announced that the Princess Lobow Gregorievna had arrived in Paris from Russia to consult some famous physician. As the vulture comes where there is death in the air," she murmured with passion, aa she tore the note in two. Must this mummied saint even change all the habits of her life and quit her country to be present here, when for the first time a rupture open and irrevocable had come between herself and Othmar, when in a few days' time, if it were not doing so already, all Paris would be speaking of the cause of their disunion All the vague, dormant superstition which slumbered beneath her sceptical intelligence made her see a fatal omen in this unlooked-for arrival of her bitterest enemy. More than once she had said in her heart, If ever I have misfortune' Lobow Gregorievna will be there to triumph in it." Ana now she was there, within a few streets, residing in a religious house of Muscovite nuns, a dark, still, austere spectre, which seemed to her like the carrion bird which waits for those who die. Do I grow nervous and hysterical P" she asked herself in scorn. She who had meted out destiny to so many, who had thought that it was only the timid and foolish who let life go ill with them, who bad regarded the sorrows of sentiment and emotion with an indul- gent contempt, felt with anger against herself that such a trivial thing as the advent of a woman who hated her could affect her nerves and appear to her a presage of ill. Wi her delicate scorn and her consummate indifference she had turned aside all the efforts of others to move her or influence her she had never know, either apprehension or regret; it had always seemed to her that life was a comedy to be played ill or well according as you were wise or stupid. Suddenly, for the first time, emotions which were beyond her own control affected her, and a sense that circumstance escaped her guidance filled her with a sharp pain of irritated impotence. She knew the world too well not to know that all the women who had vainly envied her, and many of the men who had vainly wooed her, would take pleasure and find scilace in every whisper which should tell them of the offence to her pride and she knew the world too well not to know also that there is no such thing as privacy in it, that all which she had learned through Michael Obren- owitch society would find out and gossip exag- gerate and that the whole of the society throughout Europe which she had dominated and influenced and been feared by for so long would know that she —she—Nade»e Feodowna—was deserted for a peasant girl taken from the streets. AH the imperious blood which'was in her changed to fire as she thought of the certain comments of the Courts and drawing-rooms in which she had been so long so arrogant a leader, so dreaded a wit; she knew that eager as hounds at the curee would all her flatterers, friends, and lovers join her foes in exultantly rejoicing over her insulted dignity. How many and many a time shehad heard society laugh over just such a story as this! How well she knew all the cruel derision, all the gay contempt, all the equivocal jests, all the affected pity! How well she knew that precisely in measure to the homage they yield us is the pleasure of others in our pain!
CHAPTER XLVI.
CHAPTER XLVI. Blanche de Laon that morning rode her English horse slowly flown one of the unfrequented roads in the Bois de Boulogne, and beside her paced the handsome Tunisian mare of Loris Loswa. They were good friends, although, or rather because, they went for their loves and their vices else- where than to each other. He was conscious of the use it was to him to be caressed and favoured by this pre-eminent leader of la jeunesse crane and she found in him a suppleness, a malice, and an ingenuity in tormenting and in defaming which made him an ever amusing and an often useful companion to a lady who had no better sport than the harrassing of her friends and acquaintances. Loswa was acutely sensible of the necessity which exists for any artist who would continue famous and fashionable to make his court to the new sovereigns of the great world, as turn by turn they succeed to their leadership. The obligations of old loyalties and the memories of old favours did not weigh a feather with '.his wise and self- loving nature; a woman's influence was the measure of her beauty in his eyes, and had Helen's self been sur le retour she would have commanded no smile from him. He saw in the Princess de Laon an influence which would grow with every fear for the next decade, so entirely where her qualities those which her generation most admires and fears. Therefore to no one was he in semblance more devoted, and no one he flattered more ingeniously, and immortalised more frequently with all the most delicate homage of his art, though in his secret thoughts he denounced as detestable the irregular, colourless, impertintent features of herminois chiffonne (delicate little face), and her myosotis-coloured, insolent eyes which stared so arrogantly and so inquisitively on all living things. "It is a vile type, said Loswa in his own mind. It is a vile type, all this jeunesse au vionde (commonplace youthfulness). It is without grace and without seduction it is insolent and noisy it is over-dressed and over-drawn it screams and it gambles; it wears the gowns of Goldoni's Venice with the head-dresses of the Directoire; it empties the bazaars of Japan into its salons of Louis Quinze a vile type, with nothing in it of the great lady, and nothing of the honest woman, only a diable d'entrain (a diabolical animation) which carries it away as a broomstick carries a witch!" But, all the same, he was not willing to be left behind in the excursions of the broomstick, and was very conscious that unless cette jeunesse made him one of them he would cease to be the painter whom fashion loved. It is so easy to become old- fashioned so easy to become one of that joyless and disregarned band—" les vieux!" Therefore to all the young beauties, even if he owned them hideous, he was careful to pay devoted court, and to none more, since none were so powerful as she, than to Blanchette de Laon. His last portrait of her was then upon his easel half finished; a study of pale tints, with her pale face seen above a necklace of opals, with a great mass of lemon-coloured chrysanthemum around and below, one of those dexterous and daring vio- lations of conventional art of which he possessed the secret; and in it he had flattered her so delicately, yet so immoderately, that her museau de chatte (cat's expression) had become actually beautiful in his treatment of it. That is what one wants when one goes to be painted," she had said herself with cynical honesty. She and he, good friends always and better friends still of late, rode now side by side through the solitude of a rarely-used alley of the Bois, and spoke in confidential tones together, as her perfect figure in its dark cloth habit seemed one with the perfect English hunter which she rode. She was not fond of any country sports, but she rode admirably, and knew that riding displayed all the graces of her form. You are sure it is the girl of the. island ?" she asked. Quite sure," answered Loswa. Madame Nadege asked me some questions, you gave me a hint, Lemberg spoke of some new protegee of Rosselin's. I inquired about the theatres, at the Conservatoire. I imagined this hidden miracle was the future Desclee of Bonaventure. I found out that she lived near Magny, and was visited by Othmar; Magny is not the North Pole that they should deem it unvisitable; I went there, unseen myself, and a farm labourer pointed out to me demoiselle'; she was at a distance from me, walking by the river, but I recognised her at a glance. One might have guessed it before. When she disap- peared from the island it was Othmar who knew were she went." It is very droll!" said Blanchette, showing her white, small teeth in a grin of genuine apprecia- tion. And do you suppose his wife knows ?" Bethune knows, by his look the other day, and he will tell her; he will only be too glad de lui donner une dent against Othmar." I have told her something," said Blanche de Laon; "though I did not know who it was. I knew that there was an interest at Chevreuse; I saw him walking in the fields there. But is the girl truly a genius?" Loswa smiled. Who shall say ? But the chere amie of a rich millionaire will always find a public to swear that she is so. They already speak amongst artistes of her coming debut, and it is easy to see the value which is attached to the millions behind her. There is very little known about her, but that fact is known of Otbmar's interest in her, and no doubt it will make it easy for her to appear in some great theatre." They say she is first to appear at Othmar's own house." That will be very clever, but very dangerous. Madame Nadege is not a person with whom on pewt plaisanter (one can joke). I should doubt her condescending to condonation of that kind." Blanchette laughed. "He is very indulgent to her about Bethune. He may surely expect the usual equivalent in return." Loswa was irritated. He knows well enough that Béthune is nothing to her; Bethune has worshipped her for fifteen years. I admit that; but he has had his pains for his payment; she lets him follow her about, but it is only pour rire (for amusement)." Blanchette laughed and flicked her horse's throat with her little white switch. "You speak as if you were jealous! You always admired that cold woman. To return to the coming Desclee. Paris already talks of her, you say ?" It is not my fault if it do not," she thought. Vaguely, yes," answered Loswa. It has an expectation of some new talent which has what all talent in our generation requires: a prop of gold behind it." Have you discreetly whispered that it is one with the original of a sketch of a fishing girl ?" Loswa smiled. I have caused it to be whispered, of course; we never say those things ourselves. Where does Othmar hidj her at present, do you say" At a farmhouse at Les Hameaux. He is not magnificent in his maintenance of her; it is a very simple place, and she lives very simple there. "That is just like a very rich man. Besides, Othmar always had a taste for black bread and bare boards. You know at one time he actually dreamed of breaking up the whole network of the Othmar power, and stripping himself of everything, and living like St. Vincent de Paul. That was before those children were born; their mother would certainly never take the vow of poverty Well, shall you and I ride down to Magny some morning and see this prodigy of genius and sim- plicity ? You can recall yourself to her, and you can present me. We will represent ourselves as inspired by what we heard from Rosselin." Loswa hesitated. Othmar was not a man whom he cared to cross. Yet he had a desire to see again the face which he had sketched on Bonaventure, and he had a vague idea that by going thither he might in some way learn something which would enable him to pay off that old score which he had so long cherished against Othmar's wife. He had had a restless and hopeless passion for her years before; he had served and flattered her docilely because he held at its just value the great power of her social influence; he had been of use to her in a thousand ways at her chateau parties and in her Paris entertainments; he had always been docile and devoted, and ingenious to please, and submissive under offence, but all the same time at the bottom of his heart there was a bitter rancour against her for her blindness to his charms; for her criticism of his talents; for her constant careless treatment of him as a mere decor defete (ornament), as a mere amateur and if he could see her pride hurt or her indifference penetrated, he felt that he would be happier and better satisfied. A thousand slighting words which she had spoken out of caprice, and forgotten as soon as they were uttered, had remained written on his memory and unforgiven. He would not have quarrelled with her openly for bis life; he was too sensible of the pleasure of her acquaintance, the charm of her presence, the value of her goodwill; but if he could have helped unseen to put any thorns under the rose leaves of her couch, he would have done so willingly he would have even chosen thorns which were poisoned. Yes, we will go and see her," said Blanchette, as their horses paced under the boughs. It is always amusing to be the first to inspect a person the world is going to be asked to admire. On peut la denigrer si bien(It is so easy to disparage her.) But," suggested Loswa, with hesitation if we denigrer her, we shall please Madame Nadege. Is that what you wish to do ? I think, if we go at all. we must, on the contrary, go to befriend, to admire, to assist the new talent." Blanche de Laon gave him a little approving caress with her whip. You are a clever man, Loris," she said with appreciation. We will go to-morrow—no, the day after to-morrow," she added. I will meet you at St. Cyr; the horses shall be sent there by train; I often send mine by train to places where I wish to ride; send yours also. We will go early j because it is a long way. The day after to-morrow II know that Othmar will be at Ferriéres; there is a great breakfast; he cannot escape from it; there will be no fear of meeting him in Chev- reuse." But are you sure what we shall accomplish when we reach there ?" You will finish the sketch begun on the island, and I shall forestall the dramatic criticism of Francisque Sarcey. Othmar will not like it." Othmar need not know it. My dear Loris, do you suppose that by feeding her on buttermilk, and hiding her under a thatched roof, he secured the primitive virtues in his idealised peasant? You may be sure she already tells him nothing that she does not choose to tell. On n'est pasfemme pour rien (One isn't a woman for nothing.) Loswa rode on in silence awhile, and then he said with a smile I have an idea, which, if we could realise it, might possibly prove amusing. You will recollect that there are to be dramatic representations at Amyot next week when the princes are there ?" Blanchette nodded assent. And Madame Nadege," continued Loswa, "is always very solicitous for the success of her theatre; she spares nothing at any time on that kind of entertainment; and the representations of next week are to be really Royal; all the greatest artistes are engaged for them. I have always a good deal to do with arranging these things for Amyot; and I know that it is most likely that the Reichemberg, who is to play, there will not have recovered the chill which she caught yesterday at La Marcbe. If she should not, shall we substitute Damaris Berarde ? I need not appear in the matter; I can send the director of Amyot to Ros- selin, and in any way we should have an enter- taining scene not included in the programme. If the new wonder succeed, the Lady of Amyot will not be pleased, and will undoubtedly quarrel with her husband; if, on the contrary, the girl should turn nervous, or hysterical, or passionate, and forget her role, it will be diverting enough, and in any case will embarrass Othmar himself. I think in either event we should have a droll ten minutes." Blanche de Laon showed her white teeth in an approving smile. You are always ingenious," she said; but if Othmar be already desirous of making the girl appear under his wife's patronage perhaps your scheme would only gratify him ? What then ?" He is only desirous of that because he thinks that his wife does not know of Les Hameaux; but we will take care that she does know; and I think she may be trusted to resent it. She does not care a straw for him, but she cares immeasurably for her own dignity, her own influence, her own empire." Blanchette nodded again. We will see what the new star is like first," she answered. It is not a mere handsome nobody with a turn for the stage who will excite her jealousy; she is too proud to be easily jealous." The girl is magnificent," said Loswa, as he thought, Jealousy is always alive, even if love has been dead a century."
CHAPTER XLVII.
CHAPTER XLVII. The day after the morrow they kept their word to each other. She descended at the little station of St. Cyr, and found her horse and groom and those of Loswa waiting for her. Loswa. and she bade their men stay at the station there, and rode them- selves through the country ways which lie between St. Cyr and Les Hameaux. That if any- one chanced to see them their meeting would look like an assignation did not trouble the thoughts of the Princesse de Laon for an instant; there were far too many much more weighty im- putations which she incurred daily to allow so trivial a possible charge as this would be to have any terrors for her. She delighted in the creation of scandal, in the risks of equivocal positions; and challenged both the admiration of her husband and the long-suffering of her world with the most daring and shameless of provocations. She knew that to those who dare much much is forgiven; she knew that the world would never quarrel with her. It feared her tongue too greatly. It was scarcely noonday when they reached the quiet fields which stretched around the Croix Blanche. There were the greenness and freshness of very earliest spring in all the land little birds were flying and twittering, with thoughts of coming nests to be hidden away under orchard blossoms, and the sheep were cheerfully cropping the short grass which covered the ruins of Port Royal. All these things and the memories which went with them said nothing to Blanchette; all she knew of spring was the dates of the various races, and all she knew of history was that it gave you travesties for costume balls. They left their horses in charge of a labouring servant, who was sitting resting under one of the ash trees to eat his noonday bread, and then, crossing the courtyard, pushed their way without ceremony past the dairy wench who tried to stop them and learn their errand, and so, without either announcement or apology, opened the door at the head of the wooden stair and found themselves in the chamber of Damaris. (To be continued.)
FEMININE FANCIES, FOIBLES,…
FEMININE FANCIES, FOIBLES, AND FASHIONS. BY A LADY, • TAll Rights Reserved. 1 The winter fashions are now fairly established. We see a prevalence of brilliant stripes, also of floral and conventional designs worked out in vivid colours. These obtain over and above those simple, self-coloured, and unpatterned fabrics that to my mind are always more lady-like than theic gayer contrasts which lovers of novelty prefer. When striped materials are chosen the substance should, properly, be arranged so as to diversify the effect of lines all going in one direction. For example, in the skirt the lines should encircle the figure. The skirt drapery should be cut crosswise, so that the stripes run in horizontal fashion; whilst the bodice has sometimes vertical lines, or, what is more becoming, the material is cut so that the stripes shall converge at certain seams, and to produce this result the side-seams of the corsage are cut quite on the cross. If the lining of the gown be well cut on the straight there is no fear of undue stretching though the upper part is cut crosswise. Anyone who has compared a figure dressed in a corsage of striped material cut in the ordinary way with another wearing a bodice cut on the cross will at once vote in favour of the last named method. Some of our best French dressmakers invariably cutstriped materials in the manner I have described. Wide stripes look far better made up so. In many instances dresses are made with corsages full from the neck to the point, which is rather long. There being no basque, the bodice is so cut as to outline the figure just below the hips andja narrow ribbon waist- band goes round the shape, meets and crosses at the extreme point where the short ends over-lap each other, a paste buckle usually hiding the securing pin. My younger readers may remember this fashion was adopted by their mothers I hardlyknow how many years ago. Some ladies embroider these waist- bands with beads, thei smallest brown rosary beads being used for the purpose. Another, and accompanying, appendage is a straight band, similarly embroidered, which falls from the waist on the right side to within a little of the hem of the gown. This ornament, if so it may be reckoned, is an imitation of the girdle worn by certain monks, from which depended rosary, crucifix, and other symbols of their faith and peculiar order. I only mention the above fashion as a piece of informa- tion that may be interesting to my readers, but I do not offer it as an example to be followed, though I have seen the fashionable girdle turned to practical account as a suspender for thimble, scissors, and other feminine equipments. Any and every kind of waistcoats are worn, and they are admirable as a means of refreshing and renovating a half-worn toilet. When the im- mediate fronts, with buttons and button holes. which are most exposed to wear, begin to look shabby, the pieces on either side may be cut away and a velvet waistcoat of some handsome contrast may be let in. I saw a dress of dark green cloth, with red flowers spread upon it, reno- vated as above. A dark red velvet vest, collar and cuffs had been added, and the half-worn gown put on an appearance altogether new and elegant. When practicable, and the old material will bear combination with new of ,the same sort, it is a good plan to put entirely new fronts on the cor- sage. To make the fashionable wing fronts the material should be set in at the side seams, leaving the old front to serve as a waistcoat, which will be a good foundation for the smarter upper vest of velvet, silk, or lace, as maybe. The added part can be cut like one of the new Zouave jackets, closed at the throat, and then rounded off, widening con- siderably outwards as the wa.ist is neared. I would always suggest that the jacket be cut a moderate length, somewhat below the waist. Those which curve off above the waist become few persons, if any. It has been erroneously supposed that the vest worn with this sort of corsage, which is of necessity narrow at the throat, gradually widening until it assumes some width at the waist and below it, must make the waist look less slender than is desired, but I am con- vinced this supposition is an erroneous one- It is true the waist is less acutely defined, but if the figure be a slim one, or, rather, as I should express it, a narrow one, the sharp outline of the waist is not desirable. The voluminous waistcoat gives a certain agreeable amplitude, and, by force of contrast, makes the shoulders look broader. Oddly enough, a very stout figure is occasionally found to be improved by a similar vest. When the waist is thick the full pouch, or waistcoat, conceals the lack of that curve which goes to form the "line of beauty." Having thus defended the modern waistcoat from the charge of being more often unbecoming than not, I leave it to my correspondents to prove for themselves the truth of what I have said in ita favour. I observe that at one of the involved ceremonies essential to the making of Prince Waldemar of Denmark and the Princess Marie of Orleans man and wife the Princess of Wales wore a dress of blue velvet, with trimmings of a lighter shade of blue, and also a dark blue velvet bonnet, with aigrette and other trimmings of light blue. I re- member many years ago, when the Queen, the Prince and Princess of Wales, and other members of the Royal Family went to return public thanks in St. Paul's Cathedral for the recovery of the heir from his nearly-fatal disorder, the Princess of Wales wore a dress very similar to that I have just described. To combine well with pale blue the darker shade must be of a purplish hue. All shades of purple are coming into fashion. For many years past the colour has been banished from Fashion's ateliers, and even in the streets purple was never seen on any but those who had an utter disregard for Fashion's dictation. But now the de- spised hue is asserting its supremacy, and, in other than the strictest sense, will be Royal purple" once more. It is, however, a most trying colour, and not one woman in twenty really looks well in it. Where there is the least possible tinge of sallowness in the complexion the vicinity of purple produces a greenish shade that is too distressing. Then, again, to wear violet at all necessitates a complete suit of dittoes," as the tailors phrase it. The colour hardly allows of any admixture, except that of a lighter shade of its own particular hue; and so despotic is this law that well may we style it Imperial'' purple. Colour is not only ornamental, but; it is beauty-giving or beauty destroying according to the discretion of the chooser. It is really a science, as music is, and has its harmonies and discords, its tones and its semitones. The world of colour is a world of beauty, and w see how largely Dame Nature draws on it when producing her finest effects. But to return to the topic of purple dyes. It is evident, from frequent mention both in civil and religious history, that the colour ranked high among the nations of antiquity, and was used to express the rank and dignity of the wearer. In his Odyssey Homer sing3 of the purple robes of his heroes and heroines. The Chaldean and Persian kings were attired in purple. The military cloaks in which the Roman commanders were habited were of this colour, and the high priests were habited in purple. The ancient means adopted to secure the coveted dye are not em- ployed in modern times. It was procured from certain small shell-fish. The Phoenicians carried on the trade very extensively. The fishermen of long ago baited their baskets much as fishermen in our day bait their lobster pots, and, fastening them to a cord, let them down far into the deep. The best shell-fish for the purpose were found near the island on which Tyre was built. The fish of the Northern coasts produced a rich dark purple; those on the Southern shores supplied a purple of redder hue. The dye was made by .pounding fish and shells together, and then boiling the mass in a huge cauldron, this process lasting ten days. The boilers were leaden and the fires slow. The wool was thrown into the pot, and allowed to steep five hours. It was then taken out, dried, carded, and again thrown into the liquor to produce a finer hue. When the ancients spoke of purple they included three distinct kinds. There was the rich, dark violet which was called amethystine, and pronounced most beautiful; there was the deep scarlet or crimson, which was the purple of Tyre; and another variety was called conchyliata." I read that near the Isthmus of Darien a sea- snail has been found which produces a brilliant purple, and the more the fabric dyed is washed the brighter the colour becomes. I hope if purple is to be generally worn this dye may be utilised, for past experience proves that no colour is so fugitive as purple, both sun and water having power to bleach almost all purple goods after exposure.to one or immersion in the other. It is said that a purple known in Greece is pro- duced from moss, but that it fades quickly, whilst the purple of Hermoine remains bright for centuries. A pot of purple dyes was found in the ruins of Pompeii, and though many centuries old, was perfectly bright and fresh. The ancifents preserved their unused dyes by pouring honey on the top. Plutarch mentions that in the Treasury of Susa 5,000 talents of purple dye were found in good preservation, all being well covered with honey. I expect my readers, like myself, find this damp weather verv inimical to their curls, unless, indeed, the disposition of the hair is to curl naturally, when, curiously enough, damping gives an added crispness to already crisp locks. Less fortunate folk have to resort to curling irons, and when gas is not laid on in our bedrooms, and there is no fire handy, it is very difficult to restore curl to these dark locks of ours which have been irreverently described as rats' tails." Meditating a visit to the sea shortly, and with prospective vision of rats' tails" unless I can secure some means of producing curls at a moment's notice. I have just invested in a useful little apparatus.which renders me quite independent of gas or coals for the heating of my curling irons. It is a small oblong box, standing about an inch and a half high, fitted with a well to hold spirits of wine or methylated spirit; a small lamp filled with wick is provided, and a brass cap screws on when the lamp is not in use. There are two rests for the irons, which place them exactly over the flame, and when no longer required these supports fold down, and thus the entire apparatus takes up but an infinitesimal space in one's trunk when travelling or when one has arrived. But Professor Ruskin says we do not travel now, we arrive. The cost of the above useful little lamp is Is., or if better finished 2s. 6d. is charged. I notice many ladies are taking to wear nightcaps again. I have seen some dainty ones made in pale pink flannel, fully trimmed with Valenciennes lace and pink ribbons, which were very effective, and admirably concealed those curl papers which we cannot account beautiful, however useful they may be. Not so many years ago a French husband sued for a divorce from his wife on the simple ground that by donning a mask of paste, the better to preserve her good looks before the world, madame, thus temporarily disfigured, became hideous in the eyes of her aggrieved and jealous lord hence his plea,for separation. I need not point the moral of this story after the fashion of jEsop, but leave the application of it to the keen intelligence of my fair readers. Now that geese, ducks, and pork are severally in season, I venture upon a recipe for stuffing with a forcemeat which is enjoyed by those whu do not like the ordinary pungent stuffing of sage and onions:—Boil potatoes and mash them thoroughly, put just a suspicion of onion in the mixture, add sage very finely chopped, a good lump of butter, pepper, and salt. Force the poultry or pork with this. It will be found far milder and less likely to disagree than the stuffing made in the usual way.
SPIRIT OF THE WELSH PRESS.
SPIRIT OF THE WELSH PRESS. [By GWYLIEDYDD."] There is no burning question before the Welsh newspapers this week. The denominational papers deal mainly with their own affairs. The Genedl gives copious reports of Monthly Meetings and of the Sunday School Centenary at Bala. The Tyst has an elaborate account of the celebration of the jubilee of the Rev. William Evans, of Aber- ayron, one of the most respected ministers of the Independent body in Cardiganshire. The Seven discusses the future of the Colleges, and has several long articles of a religious character. The Gwyliedydd deals with Wesleyan matters, in North Wales more especially. The semi-religious papers give long reports of political meetings and dreary and anonymous letters on the same subject- The columns of the Tarian and Gweithhcr continue to be saturated with personal letters on the compara- tive merits of "Mabon" and Mr. Fred Davis, and of the Rhondda and East Glamorgan Radical Caucuses. One of the most remarkable features of the Welsh Press is the pertinacity with which any question which happens to come to the surface is discussed. Letters appear week after week on the same subject for months together. I remember 33 letters in the Baner a year or two ago, from the same person, on whether women ought to be allowed to preach or not. We hear of riding hobbies to death, and may see it in full exercise in the columns of the Welsh newspapers. There are two subjects on the carpet, which will be discussed ad nauseam for the next twelve months, and will afterward be consigned to the limbo of exploded Welsh schemes. I refer to the Welsh Party and the "Utilisation of the Welsh Language." These two questions are nearly related, and will probably be merged, for they are promoted by the same class of persons. Matthew Arnold said at the Aberdare Eisteddfod that it is in the nature of the Celt to aim at big and impossible things. What, for instance, can be more absurd and impracticable tftan the formation of a Welsh party, and the claiming of self-government for a handful of people who have not yet learnt how to govern themselves. The Genedl con- tains a letter from the Rev. Michael Jones, of Bala, to his reverend brother the editor, on the necessity of forming a Welsh Party and the editor, in response, devotes a leading article to the subject. The Rev. Michael Jones has through his life been like Ishmael of old—"his hand against everybody, and everybody's hand against him "— and now tries to become a Welsh Parnell. His friend and coadjutor, Dr. Pan Jones, says in the Celt that he is a second Washington, who is to deliver his countrymen from the tyranny of the Saxons. The editor of the Genedl promises the aid of his powerful pen and paper in the prosecution of the scheme. One of the benefits to be derived from this new Party," according to this writer, would be the preparation of a suitable Intermediate Education Bill for Wales. It is his opinion that the people—that is, the uneducated people—of Wales should decide what kind of schools they should have! As well might a patient instruct his physician what medi- cine he is to take. The agitation about the Welsh language, like that of the Welsh party, is the offspring of per- sonal ambition. There is a restlessness about a certain class of men—as may be observed among certain animals in a menagerie—which impels them to be always on the move. Mr. Michael Jones conceived a gigantic scheme some years ago which was to immortalise his name and make the Welsh nation famous in history. He induced a number of his countrymen to leave their homes and settle in the wild and inhospitable region of a place called Manitoba in North America, and he was to be the first President of the new Welsh Republic. That grand scheme having collapsed, Mr. Jones aims at a similar position at home. The sister agitation about the Welsh language is the creation of school inspectors and schoolmasters, and its object is to secure a monopoly of teaching and inspecting in Wales to themselves. The Tarian. says of it :—" We draw special attention to the Sbcipty of the Welsh Language.' The object is to get Welsh into the day schools. The Welsh language will be made the means, in country districts, of teaching English, but in the towns it will be made a special subject, and the children will be taught its grammar." The Gweithiwr says:—"The Welsh people are beginning to rouse themselves, and are asking, Why is it that our nation and language are denied what has been extended to other portions of the United Kingdom ? It is being asked, Why refuse to the loyalty of the Welsh what has been granted to the sedition of the Irish ? This society is the first fruit of the national sentiment." The agitation originated in South Wales and has not yet reached North Wales. The Welsh Party" idea is a purely North Wales movement, and is not much noticed in the South. It is possible, however, that when the two meet they may be fused into one; but the union cannot be of long duration, for the federation of North and South is impracticable. The Tyst and the Celt, following the example of the Baner, volunteer advice to the farmers. The editors of these papers have, probably, never held the plough or know the difference between a Hereford and a Shorthorn, and yet they offer their opinion about land and agriculture with as much assurance as if they had spent their lives on a farm. The Tyst speaks of the Tories as the natural enemies of the farmers, and states that If relief comes to them it will be from the Liberals." The farmers are a shrewd class of men, and must laugh —if they ever read this paper—at such attempts to hoodwink them. The Celt is published at Bangor, and makes a statement on the condition of the farmers of the Vale of Glamorgan which will, perhaps, be accepted as Gospel by the quarrymen of Carnarvonshire, but is, as a matter fact, utterly untrue and unfounded. Here it is :—" There are very few farmers in the Vale of Glamorgan who can pay their way, and many of them are unable to do that. They and their children work hard from the beginning to the end of the year, and can scarcely get sufficient food to live upon. Their present distress is gradually ripening them for the formation of a union for their self-defence. They condemned the Irish agitation some time ago, but they are beginning to open their eyes and preparing to remove the yoke of their oppressors. Between the bad- ness of the times and the heartlessness of the landowners they sink deeper and deeper, and farms will soon be found unoccupied. This accounts for the popularity of the Liberal candi- date among the farmers of the vale." I understood that the Liberal candidate for South Glamorgan despaired of the vote of the farmers—for he endea- voured a few weeks ago to entrap the Conservative candidate to sign a document which would estrange the good relations which now exist between the landlords and the tenants—and that he had consequently set his affections exclusively on the labourers, who were promised the Radical gift of three acres and a cow" for their votes. But the Bangor paper is better informed. I am always at a loss to understand the Goleuad. I compared it some time ago to Nebuchadnezzar's image—partly of brass and partly of clay. In one part of the paper you will find sound doctrine advocated—in another rabid Radicalism. There must be two editors—the one, probably, a reverend and learned divine, the other without the unction (W. Eneiniad)-possibly a compositor in the printer's office. In one part of the paper is the following:—"The priests of Atheism and un- godly philosophy, by their secret subtleties and public utterances, have produced tumult and disorder in the nations of the Continent of Europe, but the Calvinistic Methodists of Wales, who are neither Atheists nor Deists, recognise and fear God, and believe in His Son Jesus Christ, are friendly, too, and most jealous of order and sound government, and do all they can to maintain them in Britain." In another part of the paper the editor recommends Welsh electors to vote for men who deny the fundamental doctrines of the connexion, and which, according to the paragraph quoted, are essential to good government, whilst the opposite doctrine leads to disorder and ruin. I cannot reconcile these things. The Tarian and Gweithiwr publish a Welsh translation of a scurrilous letter of Mr. William Simons, of Merthyr, which appeared in the South Wales Daily News a few days ago. A stranger un- acquainted with the character and history of that eccentric gentleman might imagine that he is a model of political morality, but those who know him think otherwise. His life and history, were they printed in a book, would afford instructive as well as amusing reading. Unfortunately, no one but himself could write it. Will he favour the public with his autobiography? Gwalia has an effective article entitled Poli- tical Phariseeism," from which the following extract is made:—" Mr. Chamberlain, the great apostle of Radicalism and the Caucus, is a rich man, and fares sumptuously every day. Neither does he toil nor spin. He became rich, not by the sweat of his brow, but by sucking the marrow from the bones of the workmen of Birmingham in the manufacture of a certain kind of screw. One is disposed to inquire how he spends his money. We do not know from personal experience, but have been told that he has houses and lands and vineyards, and that he lives like a prince. And it is said that his palace near Birmingham is celebrated for the richness and splendour of its contents and the beauty of its surroundings. He professes to be the friend of the poor. He promises them everything—to the farm labourers three acres and a cow, free education, and the disendowment of the Church, The unemployed men of Birmingham, hearing this, went to see him and ask his help. Were they kindly received? Nothing of the kind! Old Sir Watkin and other old-fashioned Tory gentlemen would have taken pity upon and helped them. But Mr. Chamberlain, instead of giving them a loaf and speaking to them in a brotherly way. filled his house with policemen and drove the poor men away. He insinuated that they were no better than vaga- bond beggars, and that if they wanted bread they had better go to the union workhouse. This is the man whom certain of our countrymen delight to honour." Gwalia publishes a special edition on Saturdays until the election is over.
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CURRENT AGRICULTURAL TOPICS.
CURRENT AGRICULTURAL TOPICS. fBY "AGBICOLA." OF THE" FIEI.D:, A mora valuable paper than that read bj Mr. John Coleman on Monday last on the r: assem- bling of the Farmers' Club for its winter session h" seldom, if ever, been brought under the atten- tion of that body. It was on the advantages of covered yards for stock, which Mr. Coleman appre- ciates very much, and it is worthy of remark thif he attributes the so-called experience of those who fancy that the shelter of young cattle in covered yards tends to make them delicate wholly to the ill-construction of the buildings or their bad ventilation, if, indeed, the evil exists anywhere except in the imagination of those who make th° allegations. To hear some farmers talk one would fancy rain to be as necessary to make hair grow on the backs and bodies of cattle as to make grass grow on the land. Mr. Coleman gives a fact bearing on this point. A tenant of Mr. J. Dent in Yorkshire last year divided a lot of Irish cattle, wintering one half in an open and the other moiety in a covered yard, both lots having precisely similar food. Late in spring hot weather set in, when the open yard cattle lost their hair, whilst those in the covered yard kopt their coats. Although Mr. Coleman, in his estimate of advantages, was content to claim 6d. per head per week on the cattle themselves, and this being solely for a less quantity of nutri- ment being required by theml owing to receiving porfect shelter, he might reasonably have entered another claim for the greater preservation of animals from colds, fevers, and agues whel thoroughly protected from the elements in winter, and their capability to make better returns in every way, not merely in feeding for beef, but in milking better and growing more rapidly and per- fectly into fint, useful animals, better adapted to make more profit either for sale or employment at home. It will be seen, however, that otherwise the advantages are estimated highly. Mr, Coleman said, "Taking one beast with another, 1 estimate the average consumption of litter in open yards at about 201b. a day, and that in covered yards at 101b. a day, and I believe that the production of manure made under cover can- not exceed one ton a month, as against One and a half ton in an open yard." But, then, the manure from covered yards would be worth more than double that frcm open yards, because none of its valuable properties would have been washed out by rains, and but little have escaped by fermentation from having been kept dry, and, in a still greater degree, by reason of the smaller proportion of littering to the excremental substances voided by the animals. Straw is every year getting more and more valuable and scarce, either for sale or use, owing to the large quantities of land which have been laid down to pasture. Mr. Coleman pointed out that, so great is the demand for it at some of tho great manufacturing centres of the North of Eng- land, straw in large quantities is imported from the Continent to meet the demand. By having covered yards he calculates that a saving of one ton of straw per head for every beast wintered might be effected, the consuming value of which on the farm might fairly be set down at JE1. In making his money calculations of advantages he added to this 18s. per head for the increased value of the manure itself and the saving of labour, and 16s. per head as the direct saving in food, 6d. per week being reckoned, as before stated. This would bring a total of pecu- niary gain equal to £2 14-s. each on every head of cattle wintered, which, it must be admitted, is a singular way of putting it, as only 16s. could be fairly debited to the animals, the other sums being economy in general farm management. No doubt this would be found to very much exceed the estimate, especially in those cases where the straw, no longer required for sopping up rainfall in yards, can readily be made sale of at three or four times the price in Mr. Coleman's estimate. The Ensilage Society, whose headquarters are at 28. Museum-street, Bloomsbury, has issued its schedule of prizes for the second year's competition and exhibition of prize samples at the Smithfield Club Show in the Agricultural Hall. There are eight classes, for silage of different original materials, which will be judged at 23, Museum- street, on Wednesday, December 2, and there is a special class for the best sample of unchaffed meadow grass, the prizes in which will be awarded by chemical analysis. The Ensilage Society has taken Stand 40 at the Smithfield Club Cattle Show, and there will be placed on view the whole of the samples which win prizes in the competi- tion of December 2, Class I. will be for meadow grass, II. for clover, III. for rye grass IV. for trifolium, V. for grain crops, VI. for maize. VII. for tares and other soft-leaved plants, and VIII. for any other substances, simple or mixed, not eligible for the other classes. Entries for this competition close on November 17. The Essex Chamber of Agriculture has had a discussion on the vexed question of tithes, con- sidered as an encumbrance on the land in times of agricultural distress. What is more strikingly suggestive, a resolution has been passed which states that, in view of the continued agricultural distress, the time has arrived when tithes should be redeemed, and, after fair compensation for existing interests, should be applied to tho payment of charges now borne by the land." It is true the resolution was only carried by a majority of one in a small meeting, eleven voting for and ten against, but that eleven Essex farmers belonging to the County Chamber are anxious to promote this issue shows that the view taken by some, that the tithe encumbrance is wholly defrayed by the landlord and that the tenant farmersjhave no interest in the matter, scarcely holds good. No doubt in the eye of the law landlords ought always to pay the tithes, but they do not, and in many parts of Essex the tithe is much more than the rent. In Essex, and, indeed, in Suffolk, Cambridgeshire, and a great part of the East of England, the tithe- rent charge is much higher than in many other oounties where farms, by having good pastures, are worth more to rent. At the period when tithes were commuted the great stock-breeding interests of the kingdom were undeveloped. Meat and dairy goods made low prices compared to what they do now flocks and herds were kept chiefly to maintain farms in fertilility for corn growing, and of course, as a natural result, the great corn-growing districts had much higher rent charges placed on them in the commutation than the pastoral districts. Now there is a complete revolution, for corn growing has come to be utterly unprofitable, while, on the other hand, the only chance of farmers getting a livelihood is by stock breeding, meat making, and dairying. In regard to the diseases of live stock, swine fever is now the only malady of consequence which is producing serious anxiety, for the country once more presents a clean bill of health in respect to foot-and-mouth disease. The table in the London Gazette of October 30 shows that in the prece- ding week there had been 323 fresh centres of swine fever and 716 fresh attacks of animals, which with those remaining over from the prece- ding week amounted to no less than 1,102. Of these 559 had been killed, 144 had died, 57 had recovered, and 342 remained affected. Evidently, the policy adopted of leaving the local authorities to kill or not as it pleases them does not work well. There ought to be one rule of action observed everywhere, and it would be worth while making that to be compulsory slaughter for a time, just to see whether, added to the stoppage of traffic and scrupulous disinfection, there would not be a more successful stamping out of the plague than is now likely to be experi- enced however long we may wait. Of the 342 affected animals which remained alive at the close of the week ending October 23 185 were in Suffolk. 32 in Cambridgeshire, 37 in Durham, 13 in Hants, 15 in Staffordshire, and 12 in Bucks, so that there were only 48 in all other counties, and those mostly distributed by twos and threes. Surely it would be well to kill all off when less then ten remain if the compulsory slaughter system were not enforced when, as in Suffolk, 185 are affected.
THE GRAIN TRADE.
THE GRAIN TRADE. The Farmer of Monday says The attendance of buyers at market is very small. English wheat makes old prices for most samples, and the supply is fair. Foreign wheat, in large arrival, is neglected at the quotations asked. Flour is held for currencies, but is occasionally cheaper. Maize is irregularly 6d. dearer. In malting barley the best sorts are firm, secondary neglected, and cheapest feeding Arm. Some sorts of oats are 6d. dearer. Beans Is. dearer, and peas 6d. cheaper. All sorts are in retail demand.
Advertising
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GARDENING NOTES.I
GARDENING NOTES. (By Mr. J, MUIR, MARGAIIL] PLANTING TREES AND SHRUBS.—November is one of the best months in the whole year for this sort of work, and those who intend buying in new trees from a nursery, or transplanting any from one place to another in their own garden, may safely set about the work. In these, as in the case of planting everything else, the roots should be handled with care. Injury to the tops is not so detrimental to the plants as injury to the roots, as when the roots are safe and sound new top growth will soon be formed, but with the roots injured top growths which have been formed recently may be obliged to fail, and certainly new ones will not be produced until the roots recover, but it is much better to plant without injury to either top or bottom, and with due care this can easily be done. The plants will take noharm in being out of the soil on a wet, day, but when it is dry, and a cold, cutting wind blowing, they can- not be re-planted too soon. In planting new gardens the main desire generally is to gain immediate effect, and to secure this large bushes are employed, and these are more difficult to plant successfully than small trees. If 1 wanted to plant a dozen, 100, or 1.000 bushes successfully I would much prefer dealing with thoso from 2ft. to 3ft. in height than with any from 6ft. to 10ft. high, and those who plant the latter must be pre- pared for rather a large number of deaths, but in the case of the small trees this will be light. In making holes for the roots of any kinds of trees these should always be sufficiently large to let the roots in with ease, as, if twisted and crammed into a small hole, it will be a long time before satisfactory growth takes place. It is a very bad plan to plant when the soil is very wet and sticky. Avoid this. Ram the soil firmly about the roots, and stake any plants which will be apt to be blown over before they are established. Where the soil is poor and stony try and get a quantity of good material to go about the roots at least. THE BEST VARIETIES OF TREES.—These may be divided into two classes—one evergreen, the other deciduous, or those which cast ther leaves in winter. The evergreens are a very desirable class for small gardens, as they are ornamental all the year round, while the deciduous ones have not any attractions from October until April. Amongst evergreens I would make special mention of the different varieties of euonymus. They are the hardest of all ornamental bushes. Their leaves arc about three times the size of those of box wood, and very beautiful in their silver and gold variegations. They will grow well in smoky atmospheres, in the sea breeze, or inland anywhere, Boxwood in bush form makes a pretty object. The aucubas are a very desirable class. They are extremely hardy and very showy. The laurustinus are always admired, especially when covered with their snowy blooms. Rhodo- dendrons may always be planted in quantity and variety, and even where the soil is inferior the commoner sorts, such as ponticum, is sure to succeed. The sweet bay is a general favourite but it requires a good deal of space to develop into a handsome tree, and it possesses the advantage of doing admirably near the sea. The berbens are noteworthy as being very pretty in bloom and berry, and also succeeding in the poorest of soil. The catone asters are more creepers than bushes, but they are hardy evergreens with white flowers and red berries, and well suited for clothing bare walls, The escallonias, especially macrantha, are very pretty, and succeed near the sea. The holly is always a favourite. The variegated forms are very showy, and all may be planted with perfect suc- cess when small. There is a very large class of them, and where only a few are being planted the best should be chosen. The laurel is too well known to require comment. Through being cheap, they are often planted too extensively, and when this is the case they soon encroach on better subjects, and give one the impression of being in a laurel garden, which is not attractive. It is more satis- factory in the end to plant 30 other evergreens in variety at Is. each than 60 laurels at 6d. each. Conifers, or those trees which bear cones, are very ornamental, but many of them require a good deal of space to develop fully, more, indeed, than can be given them in a small garden. The Welling- tonia gigantea, however, may be introduced, and the araucaria imbricata, or monkey puzzle, is curious and desirable. Some of the cypress tribe are graceful, and the juniper, espe- cially climensis, may be introduced every- where. The American arbor vitse, of the Lobbii type may be introduced with advantage. Amongst deciduous subjects the hardy azaleas deserve to be planted largely. The mountain ash, although common, is pretty in berry. The purple- leaved beech is wonderfully affective throughout the whole summer. The dogwoods are showy with their coral bark, and they grow fast. The lilacs should always be included, as should the laburnum. The Japanese maples are a newer class and rank amongst the finest of our ornamental trees. They are gorgeous when fully attired in their summer foliage. Weigela rosea and others of this class are exceed- ingly showy when in bloom in April and May. Weeping trees are generally admired, and with long stems and luxuriant heads they are very graceful and striking. The acacias, alders, almonds, ash, beech, birch, broom, thorn, and willow may all be bought with stems 6ft. or more in height; and nice drooping heads of all these the weeping birch is one of the most pleasing. SPRING FLOWERS.—The majority of summer flowers which have been adorning beds and borders during the past six or seven months are now gone, and everything of an annual character should now bs cleared away, and the beds re-planted with winter and spring flowering plants and bulbs. As a rule. the beds will not require digging or manuring, but simply cleaning with a hoe and rake. All kinds of bulbs should be planted out. Make holes, a little larger than the bulbs, with a blunt-pointed stick. Drop each bulb into the hole, letting it down about 2in. or 3in. from the surface, put a dash of sand in on the top of each bulb, and then level the ground. At the same time plant out all such plants as wallflowers, arabis, alvssum, aubretias, forget-me-nots, pansies, poly- anthus, &c. These plants, in connection with a good selection of hyacinths, tulips, narcissus, and suchlike, will make the beds very charming during the spring months, and all who have the means of indulging in this style of gardening will experience much satisfaction from it. Even a good batch of wallflowers will afford much enjoyment, and surely all may possess this much at least. DAFFODIL, SIR WATKIN.—The Garden of October 31 contains a beautiful coloured representation of this famous daffodil. In the accompanying notes it is observed that the Welsh Peerless or Sir Watkin is, in truth, one of those comet or meteor- like flowers which all at once flash on the flower- loving public, from whence no one appears to rightly know. It is so distinct and beautiful, however, that it is likely to remain long in our gardens, especially as it increases quickly by off- sets and grows more vigorously. WOODS FOR FUEL.—There is a wide difference in the qualities of our common woods for this pur- pose. As to which kind is entitled to take the first place there may be some diversity of opinion, but, judging from one's own experience, we are inclined to give the place to the beech an d the asb, Oak makes a good firewood, but it has some points of objec- tion to which the beech and ash are not open. Elm, too, makes a class of fuel which, if not so readily ignited, is more lasting than many woods. The firs, perhaps, come next, and the poplar at the bottom of the list. This, of course, refers only to timber trees, as most of the species grown as underwood make more or less useful firewood. The use of the thorn for this purpose is prover- bial, and the hazel makes good fuel. The maple, too, is entitled to mention even such things as the bramble can be usefully employed for fire- wood. but this is mostly for heating cottage ovens and the like, where the aim is to produce a strong heat for a short time only. The age of the wood when cut will have some influence on its behaviour when burning, as if it is in any sense decayed the combusition will be unsatisfactory. The question of how far it will pay to employ wood in lieu of coal for fuel will depend to a great extent upon the supply of either commodity, but there is no question that a. proportion of each makes the best tire. The greatest drawback to the use of wood undoubtedly is the expense of getting it into shape for use, but this objection is by no means in- superable, as the use of the circular saw for a couple of days will afford a winter's supply for a moderate-sized house. A PLEA FOR THE SINGLE-HANDED GARDENERS.— A correspondent, writing to a contemporary, asks the somewhat pertinent question, whether it is not unfair that working or single-handed gardeners should have to compete in the same classes with gardeners who are in charge of large establish- ments, and have much greater facilities for pro- ducing subjects for show. Certainly it is, and it is a matter for regret that the arrangements ob- served in many schedules of prizes places all the principal ones at the mercy of gardeners at large places, whose resources are well-nigh boundless. We have frequently noticed this at country shows, and that, too, in places where there are only one or two large places and many small ones, and the gardeners at the latter, feeling they have no chance of securing the highest honours, decline to bring their productions to the show; and the managers of these exhibitions wonder why it is that their shows decline. We strongly advocate the setting apart of a series of classes for single-handed gardeners-that is men who manage a place with only occasional, as opposed to regular, assistance. We know not a few of these as hard working and industrious men, good and successful gardeners, excellent cultivators, but with limited resources, who can show a single bunch of grapes, or even two of a few varieties, and other choice fruits in the same proportions, but cannot compete in the larger classes. These are the very men who should be encouraged, and we repeat that in all schedules of prizes, where it can be done. classes should be set apart for this section of exhibitors. We are acquainted with some where this is done, and with marked success. These men compete together in a, division set apart for them, and they show subjects of a highly praise- worthy character. And it may be further said that such a class of exhibitors is under, rather than over, paid; and a little prize money is an object of some importance to them. The wisest managers of flower shows are those who' broaden the basis of their exhibitions as widely as possible the result is almost invariably seen in an enlarged show, and a corresponding increase of popular support.
Advertising
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GEIRDARDDIAD CYMREIG.
GEIRDARDDIAD CYMREIG. (PARHAD). Yr oedd Anfonwyson yn ieitbydd Cymrei gwych yr oedd wedi efrydu geirdarddiad yr hen iaith mor fanwl a llwyr, fel y gwyddai ac y roddai ei ystyr priodol, hyd y nod, i bob sillaf a llythyren o lioni. Ond dadleuai y Parch John Williams, o Drenewydd, nad oedd yn bosibl fod ystyr i beth mor syml (simple) a llythyren ond dylasai wybod fod nid yn unig ystyr i bob llythyren, ond fod rhai o'r llythyrenau yn cael eu harfer mcgys eeiriau. Perthyna i iaith y Cymro gynifer a saith o lefariaid, sef a, e, i, o, u, w, y, ac oni arferir tri o'r llefariaid hyn fel geiriau, a bydd y naill neu v Hall o honynt yn cymeryd ei le bron yn mhob brawddeg a lefarwn, megys efe a a tua Chaerdvdd y fory; gwelir fod yr a yn y frawddeg liona yn cael ei arfer fel berf, ac yn arwyddo -.nyntdiad in mlaen. Arferir y lythyren o hefyd fel berf, yn arwyddo dyfod allan, megys dacw y dyn yn dyfod o'r gocdwig. Yn yr un modd arferir y lythyren er arwyddo mynediad i viewn, megys cfe a a rywle. Arferir yr y hefyd, Did fel berf y mae yr wir, ond fel bamiod yn blaenori cydseiniaid; y mae i u, w, ac y eu hystyron hefyd, er nad ydyut pi cael eu harfer fel geiriau ar eu penau Cll bunain. Nid ydyw yn wybyddus i ni am un iaith (dichon, er hyny, y gal) fod) a'i llefariaid mor herffeithgwb) ag eiddo yr hen iaith; y mae ei llefariaid hi yn cynrycbioli pob sain semi ag y mae yn ddichon adwy i'r tafod dynol ei hyngan cyn y gellir cyn llunio unriiyw sain arall heblaw y saith a gyn rychiolir gan y saith llefariad, rhaid fydd cyplysu cydsain, ac, wrth gwrs, ni all y sain a ffurfir yn y modd hwnw fod yn un semi o gwbl, cithr un gyfansawdd; a gellir wrth gysyllltu llafariaid a chydseiniaid, ol a gwrthol, a'u gilydd yn y modd hwn, ffurfio seiniau yn mron yn ddirifedi, a bydd i'r cyfryw seiniau feddu eu hystyron neillduol, rhai hyny, yn mron, yn ddieithriad yn cadw yr un hystyron yn mhob cysylltiad geiriol; er enghraifft yn y gwreiddair an., ystyr pa un vw elfen, defnydd, neu egwyddor:— AN Ta-an (tan) fire, ta, ymdaenu, an, elfen; nelt elfen yn ymdaenu. &c. An-i-an (anian) nature, disposition an, neu elfen yn myned ian, neu i elfen elfen yn cynyrchu neu ddadblygu elfen arall. Cyf-an (cyfan) whole; cyd-elfen, neu gyd ddefnydd, neu ddefnydd wedi ymuno a'i gilydd yr oil o'r peth, y pentwr, i gyd, yn nghyd. Tar-an (taran) thunder; tar, ergyd neu ysgyd wad an, elfen; elfen yn taro, ysgwyd, net frawychu. Hal-an (halen) salt; hal neu hallt, an, elfen net ddefnydd; elfen hallt. Yn nesaf y gwreiddair iIr. Cofied y darllenydc mai ar berseiniog, ac nid yr ar (pridd) hirseiniogr ydyw hwn; ac oblegyd hyny yn gwahaniaethu yr ei ystyr oddiwrth yr olaf:— AR. Ar, iaith, neu fynegu drwy gyfrwng geiriau. Ar-aeth (araeth; speech; ar, dywediad aeth, y peth a ddywedir. Ar-ain (hyawdl) fluent; dywedyd yn rhwydd, dywediadol. Llef-ar-u (parablu) to speak; lief, llais; ar-u, dywedyd, neu daywedyd yn lleisiog, llefgar, neu ddywedyd yn hyglyw neu groch. Si-ar-ad (sisial) to speak softly si, sain isel-ar-arf llefaru yn isel neu araf. Cyf-laf-ar-edd-iad (y weithred neu yr amgylch- iad o lef-ar-u yn nghyd, neu mewn cynghor) arbitration. Son-i-ar-us (soniarus) resonant. Gal-a?--us (wylofus) doleful; gal-ar-us, iaith neu gwyno yn wylofus siarad yn gwynofus. Yn nesaf y gwreiddair lal. Ystyr y gwreiddaii hwn yw tarddu, frydiaw, neu dori allan: — BAL A-bal (afal) an apple; peth yn tarddu allan. Bal-gnr-ya (blaguryn) a bud; blod'yn yn tori allan. Bal-gwydd (blwydd) a year; o doriad allan goed i doriad allan goed; pryd y mae coed yn tori allan mewn dail; pen amser, pen blwyddyn. Bal-awd (blawd) flour; peth meddal yn tori allan o beth arall. Bal-ew (blew) hair; bal, tori allan ew, gloew glossy peth gloew yn tori allan. As.—Ystyr y gwreiddair hwn yw ymgydiad cydgynulliad, neu gyd-gorphoriad. AS As-ia (asio) soldering; cysylltu, cydgysylltu uno. cyfuno. Bran-as (branas) a Jlock of crows as, neu gyd gynulliad o frain. Cym-deith-as (cymdeithas) society as, neu gyd- gynulliad o rai yn cydymdeithio, neu yn myned yr un ffordd, neu o rai yn cydweled. Teyrn-as (teyrnas) a kingdom; as, neu gyd- gorphoriad o dan deyrn neu frenin, teyrnas, breniniaeth. Din-as, neu yn hytrach dyn-as (dinas) a city as, neu cyd-eynulliad o ddynion; neu dorf o ddynion yn cyd-dringo yn yr un lie. Bardd-as (barddoniaeth) lardism; as, neu gya- gynulliad o reolau, neu ddeddfau barddoniaeth. Gwyn-i-as (gwynias) of glowing heat; i-as, mewr gwres priodol i M-io, neu i osod yn nghyd. Iiir-i-as (eirias) a glowing. D-as (das) a stack peth wedi ei asu, neu ei osod at ei gilydd, das o wair neu rhywbeth arall. Tr-as (perthynasau) relatives; o'r un torf o gyd- ddynion. Perth-yn-cs (carenydd) relationship cymdeithai neu goraint. Q (I'w barhau.)
BARDDONIAETH.
BARDDONIAETH. FY NGWENO FACH SYW. Ar nawrddydd pan oeddwn yn rhodio'n dra unig, Swn melus gerddoriaeth a glywais 0 draw: Llais geneth yn adsaiu YII IlglJallot y goed wig, Nps denodd yr adar i ganu'n ddidsw Ymbwyllais fy nghamrmi. ac araf ddvm sais At, lais yr UII swynol oedd yuo mor lion; Pan ddaetlJUm i'w golwg ei gwedd a aàwael,ais, Pwy ond fy Ngweiiddolen anwylat oedd lion .> Dau lygaid du hyfrvd s'yà gan yr Ull ddengar, Dwy foeh fel y rosyn prydlet tha'n yr ardd, Ei golwg sydd fywiol, a'i meddwl yn dreiddgar, Sirioldeb bob amser i'w gwyneb a dardd Pa bawn at fy ryddid i ddewis eydmares 0 ferehed brenliiuoedd neu dduciaid y byd, Anhawdd ydyw coelio, end dyma fy nghyfles, Gwenddolen ddewiswn 0 II blaen hwy i gyd. GwyrdJ fantell v goedwig yn nhymor y gwanwyn, A blodau amryliw y meusydd a'r ardd Ymbranciad yr oenig ar waelod y dyffryn, A murmur afonydd 8V'1I ehwathlls i'r bardd; Ond eto, er harddèd mae anian i'w ¡!.weled Yn trwsio y blaned 'rwyf ynddi yn byw. 'Does dim, i'm tyb i, yn fwy hyfryd na myned I rodio yn nghwmni ty Ngweno tach syw. Mae mawrioll y deyrnas sy'n byw mewn gorwychder Debygwn, yn meddu dedwyddwcl1 a hedd Ond etc, yn nghanol eu cyfoeth a'u balchder, Daw gotid yu fynych gan welwi eu gwedd; Tra minau yn trigo mewn bwthyn henafol, Yn llghanol dinodedd a thlodi yn byw Er hyny 'rwy'n teimlo yn ddedwydd ryfeddol Bob amser yu nghwmni fy Ngwen0 tach syw. Pan fyddwyf yn goddef ryw bwys 0 flinderon, Golidiau ecllrysiawn YIl brathu fy mron, Fv llong fach YII hwylio yn nghanol pervgloo, A'l' gwvnt yn ei churo yn erbyn y don; Adgolio am Gweno a ddyrv esmwythder, lien 'stormydd anghysur ddiflanallt o'm c!vw. 'Does dim ond dedwyddweh i'w deimlo bob amser Pall fyddwyf y" meddwl am Gweno fach syw. Wet, bellacli cewch glywed beth fu yr adduned, Pan gwrddais & Gweno yu ymyl y wig; Ei sylw gyfeiriais fan hono i weled Y fwvaieh yn cario min blu yn ei phig Fel yna dywedais, Clyd gartref wnawn ninau, A chyn pen fawr ddyddiau, os byddwn ni byw, Ni wnawn yr ymrwymiad a bery hyd angau, Ac yna cat gwmni fy Ngweno tach syw. Tredegar. BOWKN. Y FYNWENT, Darn o awdl y bardd rhagorol Islwyn ar y Fynwent." Wedi i'r haul dro, A myned mwy i huno. Wedi i'r lloer mewn prudd-der llawa 0'1' ne' dêr wawrio'n diriawn, Ac i'r sêr mewn gloewder glin Ddwyn eu holl fvddin allan, I wylio'r nen ysplenydd, Oruchel, nes dychwel dydd, llros y don lAs, gan dristau, 1'1' fonwent draw af finau Y fath hedd rhyfedd ar 01 Iaith daerfyd fyth-dyrfol! O melus im' yw wylaw o dwrf y dref a'r dorf draw 1 ddrych fy nghof er yr hirfaith ofod E' gWyd wynebau fy hen gydnabod, 8y' yn ein Riesn yn 11\1110 lod, o mal Gwynfa im' yw eu hail ganfod A dwvn i gof dan gafod-o dtiagrau Y troion borau. y cartre'n barod— y dodrefn wedi'u trefnu Hefyd 1\"1' gain fodrwy gu, Rhwn1\n ein borau amod, A'r ysplenydd ddydd ar dciod, Ond yr angau'n myn'd rhrngom, A'm heinioes i mwy yn slOm- Yn siom oil. fy einioes nwy- Yn fedd i mi tr/i tyddwy Mae'n dawel yma'n y diwedd— o mam lioff, y mae yma hedd! Ni thyr lief dy dangnefedd, Nagålyn byth gloion bedd Ni enfyn neb o lin fy nhad—lythyr I Jethu dy deimlad. Nwydd un, yma ni ddaw,—na phoenus Iaith alarus byth mwy i'th ddoluriaw Ni arddelir ur'ddoliaeth—n*c achau, Nac uchel waedoJiâeth Ni bydd cof yn y bedd caeth Fel yn awr a.m flaenoriaeth. Taena v fynwent union-pi llenl Dweb y llonydd feirwon, Cydradd ydyw dugiaid Cedron. Yn oer glai bedd, a'r b3n. Jubili i bobl lawer— awr rhyddhad— Awr ddedwydd cyfiawnder, 0 dra'r byd yw'r awr ber,—i fyn'd obry I waeldy marwolder. A'i blin yw'r werin trwy waith, Go lwydion trwy galedwaith; Gvrir gan feistri geirwon Otcr eu bri hyd farw bron. Eu gwarau llesg a wyrant— gan ruddfan, Wyr annyddan.thwy'n gynar lieneiddiant; Er hyn oil, yr enillion Yw naoau byw-reldiau, bron. Onid digon yw bron brudd. Ac isder eithaf cystudd, Yn eu plith heb ddyblu'r pIa u herwydd eisieu bara, Heb do gwael sc ocr aelwVd- Costau heb todd-cist heb fwyd, Tra gwaria. eu meistrl gerwin Fyrdd o aur ar foroedd o win, I A'u henfawr wastraff anfad Gan lwydd, yn ddigou i wlad. IfluWnr.