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BABDDONIAETH. ANIAN YN Y GAUAF. Yn llaw y nef y flwyddyn sydd. Yn newid dillad aniltn beunydd; Pan a ON wisg yn hen y bydd Yn rhoddi lddi tidillad newydd. Genethig iawn am If wisgo" ydyw Anian, Mewn blwyddyn Hewer mantell" wisga allan;" Os hardd ei diiiad haf mown "1liw a phatrwn," X mae ei dillad gauaf yn y ffasiwn." Os dyddiau hael yr haf a heulwen wengar, gwneuthur wyneb hawddgar idd y ddaear, Nosweithiau oerionrhewllyd clir y gauaf, A ddeDgys wyneb y ffurfafen oraf; Daw ser a lleuad megya yn gymdeithion, A chodir ninau megys i'r uchelion, I glt wed can y ser a gwrando eu cyfrinion, Mae coron werdd y goedwig Yn deilchion ar y lllawr, A'i choryn moel yn destyn can. I wynt y storom fawr; A mentyllheirdd y dolydd. Ymhlyg" o'r neilldu sydd. Yn nghotlrau mawr y ddaear maa Eu harddwch hwy ynghudd. Ond, ha, mae'r nen yn teimlo Dros lymder gwig a dol, Ac mewn boddhad yn tynu IDILØ Ei hanadl yn ei hoi; Ac, wele, mae'n amneidio. Am gael dystawrwydd mawr, Tra'n gollwng prydferth wisg i'r rhain Yn eamwyth fach i lawr, Edrychaf ar i fyny, Ac, wele, mae y nen, Yn troi yn arian weithfa Tsblenydd nwch ein pen, Allafnau claerwynion, Fel myrdd o ysprydion, I n hofran o amgylch fy mhen. Ac O mor hamddemcl, A hunan-feddianol, Chwareuant wrth ddyfod i lawr J A balch yw y ddaear, 0 fantell mor hawddgar, I guddio tylodi mor fawr; A'r lleuad ddystaw wen, Sy'n tyn ffwrdd ei lien, A sak ar ben ei drwa, I wel'd os yw y byd, Mewn gwisg o wyn i 3yd, Yn hogyn bychan tlws. Ond eto fel arferol, Y w'r afon gam a'r llyn Nis gallodd eira man y nen EU gwneuthur hwy yn wyn: Ond teimlwn fod rhyw yepryd Yn hedfan yn y gwynt, Ac ar yr afon gam &'r llyn, Yn tsiflu IIrydfertb. bynt. Bu'r yspryd anweledig Yn gweithio drwy y nos, Ac wrth fy mondo ganddo mae Rhyw arddangosfa. dlos: A phan ynghol breuddwydion, Am wanwyn oeddwn i, Fe baentiodd bar. orama hardd Ar holl ffenestri'r ty. Lloryddwch a segurdod, Y r haf i anian gu, Fu'n achos i elfecau Afiechyd ddod i'w thy; Ond weithian try yn feddyg, I thy ei hun. A gesyd ei mfginau I weithio bob yr un, Mae'n galw yr YBtorom I buro'n hawyr ni, A difa'r nw) on marwol, Yn llaw ein hangau sy'; A'r wisg a rhoddi'r ddaear, I'r afon gam a'r llyn. Sy'n gwneuthur uwch gwasanaeth Na gwneud eu gwedd yn wyn. I Mae amian fel ar wibdaith, Ysblenydd yn ei hoi, I ryw ystorfa helaeth. 1 geisiojn ei chol, Fenuithion maith y gwanwyn,- Gogoniant mawr yr hal, A chyfoeth y cynhauaf. ilangjfarwjddyd Naf. Mae pedsir rhan y flwyddyn Yn gweithio yn gytun, Yn llaw Bhagluiiiaeth Ddwyfol, I wneyd cynhaiiaeth dyn; Diolchwn am y gauaf, Fel rhan o'r flwyddyn gu, Ac arf YD llaw'r Goruchal L'n gwasanaethu ni. DEINCODYN.

J-linellau HIEAETH AR OL FY ANWYL • FAM, Set gweddw fy anwyl Dad, William Lewis, Dill. edydd, Caallwchwr. J Fy mam I fy mam f er fod y bedd Tn tynn temestl dro" fy hedd, :Nis gall y storm a'i niwloedd mwy. Eich tynu chwi o'm cof a'm clwy*; Er fod fy nagrau'n dod bob dydd Yn gyson fel dwy alon brudd, Uwchben eich coffa nid wyf am Ddefnyddio'r geiriau, Marw Mam!" | Ond O! fy mron, sawl gwrthryc'A sydd I Tn d'weyd y geiriau hyn bob dydd ? !'• Mae'ch cad air wag yn sisial hyn, T| A'chdelw ar y pared gwyn, *• A phob peth drwy y ty—pob cell, KV BY'N sisial, megys ad sain bell, I'mclwyfoi—A'M cofio am ■ X Yr erchyll eiriau, Marw Mam I" J < O wagder erch O ofld trwm JL Ahiraeth megys mynydd plwm Yn llethu 'ruron—pruddhau fy ngwedd, V A gwneud i minau geisio bedd, R J I orphwys mwy o dwrf y byd— i Cymysgu'n llwch ein dau yn nghyd, J A chareg hardd er coflo am 4 Lle'r hunwn ni—y mab a'r FAM! Ma»'r byd mor oer, mor llawn o ddrwg, Heb wen fy mam 'does dim ond gwg O'm cylch yn toi, fel ar y bryn Gorphwysa'r Diwl y dyddiau hyn Hawdd geilwch chwi sy'n iach eich bron Gyhuddo cri y fYDwes hon; Na fyddwch draws pin wylwyf am Mai marw yw fy anwyl fam! Fy mam r'odd i mi laeth oi bron- Rhoddasai'i bywyd droswy'n lion; Beth bynag fyddai'r gwyntoedd croes A gurent fy moreuol oes, Yn Bghysgod mam 'roedd nodweddclyd, Lie rhedwnihsg gofidiau'r byd; NI wyddwn beth oedd gwg na cliam, lies sylweddoli, "malw mam i" I Yr oedd ei gwen ynheddwehi'm. '.Roedd bywyd yn eiliygad chwim; Pob gair a ddeuui dros ei min Dcyferai fAI y melus win; I A chydynideimladmafrys fifrwd Tmdonai yn ei monwesfrwd Ond rhew yw pob peth i mi am, marw yw fy auwyl faml JY FFITIM fy mam pa beth a wnaf ? X^,AA°G trodd fy ngwridog haf! JJA oes dim blodau yn y T>yd,„ A M?RI8WIWEDI« yut i gyd; A'm v ^MCYSURON oil, Y BOREUD^-HODO<I'11 ?f 1 go11 Tar wok,"A, .y newydd am TH drist fy anwyl fam O na fuaswn >> TN dal ei phEA Tn SYCHUCHWVS ERFYN AC esmwythau EI CT,F BRL' AC anfon g wedui DAiRUS.LOG WEN' Athroi fy NGHIU8TA?^NET, Tr angel-gerbyd GYRDS^ATL ORD croesood hi'r lorddoaen s-ret j ^l0'« «fS3'4J "eri t Na nebfel hi ddeallai nghwya. I Ond 0, gweudiat jawer am Gael MYU d i I ^EL £ OEDD AT FY MIM. Homo DDU,

DEG PENILL AR Y3IDDIHEUR4.I)., (APOLOGY). fydfuddugol yn Eisteddfod Carmel, Tresimvsraj Nadolig, 1878. ^•TH ydyw Ymduihrurad? D^R brwnt i olchi dyn, JJ.Jddo wedi droehi drachwant cas ei hun; fedr un cy«ydog ei olchi o Alien y 11". NA ddaw rhyw gyfnewid i mewn i'w galon DAU I wedi ei wynga^hu ac oddifewnynDawn bob TUCIJEDDI afiaoh ac arogl ddrewllyd iawn VEU feddyg yn ymdrechu rhoi llygaid i ddyn dall, L w un yn ymddiheuro er gwella clwyfiu'r Hall. T;E cllir meddwl weithiau mai dybenrhai'n y byd. w llraeo a u cymdogion mewn berw gwvlit O hvd- *C OS byt'd idcynr ddanod R» ywdriciaui7r •• hen dad," ■•thaid iddj nt ymddiheuro yn holl bapyrau'r wlad. ddi^hon Ymddihenrad drci lliw y du yn wyn *O wecfi trochi ei ddillad yn Jlwchallaid y glyn*J> J chario'r cwdyn buddy 1. ahwnw'n drwm I'W ddwvn *Fedrymdd:hfcurad lai hau 'r ua "hir eidrwyn?" TDA 'does dim a ddichon ond gweifchred dyn ei hun Qreiddio fi gymeriad YlIugholwg Duw a. dyn, ni all dyi.ion eraiii ei wntud yn afltvn fyth, 8 NAWNA ei ei hucan roi'r budredd ynei nyth. 9S cyfarfyddwchddyniin a chyrnau ar ei trifed. Q°CHELWCH rbag eu CY if wrdd ag ouida bydd rhaid-. Q^^EUTHUR Yniddiheurad, a llawer iawn ojorms, AA ddjwtdyd, Str, I'm t,orry I trod upon your corns! V » PJRNAII yw cymeiiad rhyw lawer un trwy'n bro, V^E ho'rcorn JII giwyfus ychyi.igwasg wna'rtro; » sy'II ei fy UWT S sydd yn coudemnio r dyn, t'WYR'd oes hod a'i dua yn waeth nag YW ei hun. YDYW Tmddiheurad ? ond dyn a mantell fawr. Ji. C,iduio diiiad budron o'i goryn hy DY llawr. YNO ibunt fi glogyu 'r un yw ei LIW a'ilut, HAD yn cduach, bryutsch edrychir ar y dyn. R EU°g' E' EILID i 'mofyn lloches glyd 'FE 51 A.3EN Yrcdaiheurad rhig gwg a gV7awd y byd LIT-1V^DO WNTUD antadwaith a'i g!edd o danei glotr, cae; ijra.ul Apology yn frwshi baentio ro^uc, Ydyw Ymddiheurad, ci byd, ei led. a'i faint. OTDCUDAI° GM< tiau ducn A phin, a brwsh, aphoent; i;Wtbia i'r go.wg eiiwuith arvvy'r eOCll, ygias, a'r ^K5?, 11 fjdao ei bercho::oL, yn mriddail oer y glyn. lOAN mtamm

cftuowAT's FILLS.—Mind and body are so 'W? intertwined that for the former be vigorous ^TTER mubt be healthful. The first stop towards *IOH INtenance °* IS to secure perfect diges. 1 ^HIEH is readiiy obtained by this noted medicine, ) A.CLVPINOAT comT'ttf-nt eficctually to restrain every HI0(JASE influence which can mar, impair, or vexatiously LUEJ'JY THIS all-important process. The student, *F-EH NT> man of"pleasure, and humblest labourer MAY OCCA„-111 TLLRN derive vigour, ease, and strength from 'L doses, or a linger course of Holloway's PI)!S- However wavering the mind, or ^ETA'UEG the nerves, this fine medicine will track the to its source, where IT will overthrow it A™6H order- and p-.rity ,UI its place, i

TALES AND SKETCHES OF WALES. (BY CHARLES WILKINS.) SECOND SERIES. [ail eights besebyed.] THE CONQUEST OF GLAMOR- GAN. There is a great deal of the legendary about Glamorgan and its history. No two authorities agree in all their details respecting it, and even the name is a matter of speculation. Was Gla. morgan called after Morgan the Courteous, who figured in the ninth century, or named from its physical character, its position by the sea—Mor can—the voice of the sea? This is eminently » poetic derivation, and we know that the Welsh are much more poetic in their nomenclature than their neighbours. There is a farm, for instance, on the mountains, in the parish of Merthyr, called Cil Haul, the Retreat of the Sun. There the sunshine lingers last, ere disappearing from the inhabitants of the vale. Taff, the river, means winding, and nothing could more accurately convey its characteristics. Mor-lais, which is open to the interpretation of voice of the sea, is a name applied to a place in Breconshire, where the river bed is so hollowed and aged, that a surge as of the sea always seems to haunt the spot. My own impression, given with all deference is that the name was applied to the district (as it really is in Annales Cambrics as Morganwc), before the man, and the man named after the dis- trict. This custom has been common in England as well as in Wales, as no observant reader needs fe minding. Gwlad Morgan—or Morganwg, the land of Morgans-then became the acoepted derivation of Glamorganshire. The ancient name was Glewydig, or Glywysig, and one of the earliest notices occurs in the works of the bard Golyddau, who flourished after Aneurin and Taliesin, but whom Stephens dismisses with a line. The notice runs thus Na chrycned Dyfed na Glywysig." Let not Dyfed or Glywysig tremble. By the Romans the name became known as Siluria, the country of the Silures, and the world's conquerors, on many an occasion paid a warm tribute to the valour of a race, who, from their mountain heights, beat back, time after time, the Roman storm. Morgan the Courteous, or Morgan Mwynfawr, is one of those exceptional lords or princes who stand out like Howell the Good amongst rulers, and Llywarch Hen amongst bards, constellations themselves in a time assumed by historians in general, and especially the school book class, to have been one of night, or semi-barbariam. But that there were such men is proven even by the Roman historians. The speech of Caractacus (Caradawg), may well be evidenced as vieing with thoseiof any age, and more particularly with that of William the. Con. queror. Caractacus given up by the treachery of Cartismundua to the Romans, and taken in chains to make a Roman holiday, won his liberty from Claudius by the grandeur of the speech delivered, a speech redolent, if I may so express it, of the heather, and the freedom of his ancient hills. Contrast that speech, which every school- boy remembers, with that of William the Con- queror on the field of Hastings. Remember to fight well and put all to death, for if we conquer, we shall be all rich; what I gain you will gain; if I conquer, you will conquer; if I take their land, you shall have it." One might be well tempted to ask, was knightly courtesy and gentleness, and the virtues which characterise the gentleman, of British or of Norman origin P The mental vigour and oratorical mode of address, as shown by the appeals of the Britons to the Romans and to the Saxons, have the round Roman hand" visibly impressed, belt as regards the virtues of modern date, and whicu we assigned to Norman origin, it may twith more justice be said that they have no ancestry, but are the indications of thought and culture, which may be evidenced or adduced in time by any rase. But I am wandering from Morgan the Courteous. He was not only valiant, like his people, bu, humane, which they were not always, to their enemies especially. He was wise, too, and far in advance of his time, for he appointed twelve pious, erudite, and merciful men,lto determine all claims. Hence our system of jury. This was called the Apostolic Law, "because it re thus that Christ and the Apostles iudge the world." Palgrave claims trial by jury as an introduction of William the Conqueror, but the question will be found ably and satisfactorily analysed in one of the works of the late Thomas Stephens, shortly to be published, After the death of Morgan, whom Dr. Nicholas clearly shows to have been in some degree under the sway ot the "King of London," Osvain reigned, and was in turn succeeded by Ithel Du, and he by Gwrgant, and then by lestyn, to whom is given the credit of instituting fairs, such as Fair y Waun, the great commercial resorts of the 11th century, preceding by many years the advent first of the wandering pedlar, and then of the claBS of migratory traders, who, coming into Wales with horse and laden saddle bags, gave rise to the term bagmen, the ancestor of the commer- cial traveller of to-day. Ieetyn was also a liberal prince, for he gave common or waste lands to the public, one in narticular at Hirwaun, in Glamorganshire, on the borders of Brecknock. lestyn ap Gwrgant reigned in Glamorgan at the same time that the redoubtable Rhys ap Tewdwr ruled over Carmar- thenshire and Cardiganshire. At this juncture another character appeared upon the scene. Eineon, eon of Cadivor, Lord of Dyved, who had seen military service under William Eufus, and in the Norman King's army he got a zest for conquest and for acquiring the goods and chattels of others to a greater degree even than that shown by Welsh princes in general. Eineon, returning to Wales and looking about for some object of enterprise, saw that there was a fiae scope opening out before him. Aided by his brother, Llewelyn, he prompted t Griffith ap Meredith to take up arms against Rhys ap Tewdwr, after that valiant worthy had, ailed by mercenaries, Irish and Scots, just; terminated a victorious raid against a strong force of insurgents, led by the sons of Blethyn ap Con- wyn. Rhys, styled then the aged warrior, nothing daunted by this new foe, boldly accepted the challenge and gave battle to the enemy at Llandydock. The contest was brief but decisive. Eineon's force, for he appears to have been the moving spirit, was heterogeneous, hastily gathered from amongst tenants and dependants who, not unlikely, would have preferred the tillage of land and trading in salt-and cattle, for, in addition to the remote chances of fighting successfully a victorious monarch, there was the grievous alternative, in the event of defeat, of being sold, as many a prisoner was at that time (1089), to the Gentiles and the as slaves! Animated as the rebels were by Eineon and Griffith, who displayed great valour, yet Rhys swept all before^him and not only put them to flight but seized poor Griffith who, after a short halt, was executed as a traitor. Eineon made good his escape and sought refuge with lestyn ap Gwrgant. This prince, or lord, was also at feud with Rhys ap Tewdwr, but no actual outburst had taken place. So there he re- mained a little while recruiting his strength, Rhys trying every means to get possession of him, even holding out the temptation in particular of a reward of 300 head of cattle and a quantity of land to whomsoever should bring him, Einoon, dead or alive. It was natural at such a turn in his fortunes that Eineon should recall to mind his old military life, and former companions, and think that had he only the support of tho mail-clad Norman his defeat might be amply avenged. What could the leather jackets do againat the fieice rush of the Norman steed; how idly their arrows would fall against buckler and cuirass. Be was an astute mal. his principle that of revenge, not of patriotism. He would let in the tide to sweep away his foes even if he fail to fasten the sea gates again and free the land. There was yet another motive at work besides a desire for revenge, and it was, it is, and always will be, one of the most powerful influences for good or evil that can be found—love Love is represented in the most innocent of guise; a cherub with a toy bow and arrow innocent as the soft breath of southern wind, the light falling vernal shower. But what has not love dared what has it not done. It has made the concealed mine, aad the breach bristling with death a farce to the leader of fcriorn hopes. At its bidding cannons have belched their slaughtering volleys, armies have dashed at each other with uncontrollable madness, and the blood of the noblest and the best ran like a village brook. And all this to the credit of the cherub and the toy bow and arrow! Iestynhad a daughter, fair as all fair Cambrian dames, so fair that even in consulting his Ambition and his vengaanco Eineon could not overlook her. to h finding that lestyn was not at all indisposed his ohTvJ b bout with Rhys ap Tewdwr, then in would -yea*' ^necn adroitly told him that if ha to the8ive kim hia daughter's hand, he would go force of Wiliiam Rufus and get such a be a certaint^r that victory E^s ™ald rnents were accepted the offer, docu- for England sealed, and Eineon started favourably di'spo^Sf was at the onset roABon to give such aid, and there is TVCJa Marchers P°?e''from conduct of the L°rds Marcnere and the after-conqaests of various the net* Walea ^»t ^e king regarded t epeuy feuda batweea Welsh as openmg out a princes ■ a way to easy annexation. Bit by bit the lana aMu*i mountaineers oould bo taken by bis knights, a prelude eimply tQ Mg rnliuff over Robert Fitzbamon^n<^ twelve knights were accordingly Bfelc £ v a forCe wh?°v 'and it took but a Bhort time to ^ormaDs i^h may be assumed as a mixture of the whole forming a p°we:c b^» which Eineon returned. The army came by way of th9 fiea, probably from Glouceste y s icourt was at Cardiff, or in the immediate neighbourhood, by some thought at Radyr, by -p.. -^anraven, Dindrjfan or, I would suggest, "?f"avo.n. aud from the records, legendary ~errise' of Arthur of Caerleon, at Margam.. uafc, how- ever, incline to Cardiff, especial y m subse- quent events with regard to i„ in the spring of the year 109x, ^e. _Jl_ai:1^6^, and lestyn not only received them with open arms, but gathered hia own forces, and accompanied them with Eineon, to the borders of Prince luhys s dominions, where I they began to lay w&ace and pillage to their heart's content. v l • Once more the old lion was roused from ius lair, once more putting aside the infirmities of nearly a century the valiant Rhys douned his swore, and went forth to meet the foe. The placa whore the armies met is supposed to have been Hirwain, a Bpot favourable for defensive operations, and it seems likely that this, being in the lordship of lestyn, that Rbys was awaited there by the Normans and Welsh, or actually decoyed there, as the vale, broadening out, offered batter scope for the Norman horse than hill side or ravine. The battle that followed is described as long aud sanguinary. Details are Jacking, unfortu- i ■i IM in" nately, and all we know is that Rhys displayed the utmost valour, and sustained his fame as a leader of great ability, but the enemy was too strong, the Norman warriors too well armoured for the sparely clad Welshmen, and Rhys was obliged to fly along the heights in the direction of the Rhondda Valley, where he was overtaken and beheaded. Pen Bhys is believed to be the spot where the aged prince was slain, and the shrine there in after years may not unreasonably be taken as being conclusive on that matter, The return to Cardiff through the Vale of Taff, must have been one worthy the pencil of an his- torical painter. Flushed with victory, laden with plunder, Norman and Welshman in merry com- panionship, so they reached the court, and in due time the Normans, wishing their friends adieu, sailed away. Immediately on leaving the eourt of lestyn, Eineon pressed his uncle to con- sent to the speedy union of himself and his cousin, but was met by such an unmistakable refusal, and couched in such severe terms, that Eineon, wild with rage, hurried after Fitzhamon to tell him how badly he had been served, and to beg his assistance in punishing lestyn, even as he had Rhys ap Tewdwr. When Eineon reached the shore he was only in time to see the boats pulling off, but by waving his cloak he succeeded in getting one to turn back, and Fitzhamon, leaving, it may be inferred very reluctantly, a land that effered such great inducements for conquest, not only returned to shore, but entered eagerly into the scheme of Eineon, whereby Glamorgan might be won and become the prize of b he Norman. It is represented by some authorities that Eineon made one last effort at reconciliation, and offered to forego hostilities if lestyn would con. sent, but that prince, now thoroughly enraged with his nephew, scorned to treat, and at once prepared for battle. Fitzhamon now took supreme command, and, putting Eineonaud a small Welsh force in the van, met Ieatyn on the Great Heath, Cardiff, and though for a time the Welsh forces, led by lestyn, contended successfully against Eineon, and Cedrych, Lord of Cardigan, who assisted Eineon, yet the superior forces of Fitz- hamon proved in the end victorious, and Glamor- gan becamo the prize of the victors. lestyn escaped to Keynsham, and there died in monastic retirement. Fitzhamon was now ruler of the situation, and divided his conquest as follows To himself the castles of Cardiff and Kanfig, with the three market towns of Cardiff, Kenfig, and Cowbridge, and ail the demesnes of the same with the rest of the said members, to wit Miskin, Glyn Rothney, Tyr larl, and Boviarton, alias Llantwit, with the chief seignority of the whole. To William de Loudres, the castle and manor of Agmore; to Sir Richard Greenfield, Neath; Sir Paine Tuberville, Coity Sir Robert S. Quintine, Llanblethian; Sir Richard Syward, Talavan Sir John Le Fleming, St. George Sir Peter La Soor, Peterston; Sir Oliver de St. John, Fonmon Sir Gilbert de Humphrevith, Penmarc; Sir Reginald de Sully, Sully; Sir Lawrence de Berkrolles, East Orchard; Sir William Le Esterling, St. Donat's. Eineon received as his reward, a hilly district, known as Senghennydd, extending from Castle Coch to the Brecon mountains; Caradog ap lestyn the eldest son of lestyn, had the castle and lord. ship of Avan, and a second son the lordship of Ruthyn. Such was the winning of Glamorgan. Of the method of government, ,and the fortunes of the winners, particulars must be given again.

DISTINGUISHED PERSONS CON- NECTED WITH SWANSEA. (BY W. H. JONES.) RICHARD IL Richard of Bordeaux was the son of Edward the Black Prince, and the only son that survived him. When proclaimed king, Richard II. was in his minority, and the kingdom's Government was handled, therefore, by his three uncles, John of Gaunt, the Duke of York, and the Duke of Gloucester; each of whom would have been glad to have won from the head oS,the young monarch, his crown. The eldest of the three—John of Gaunt—seems to have been the head of all their councils, and by him, in the main, the others seem to have been guided, or perhaps we should more correctly say, misguided. He was possessed of a high spirit and great ambition, and was of by no means an engaging temper. He had even in his father's lifetime held great authority in matters of State, and thiB fact, together with the position he now held, rendered him very powerful, and others sought his advice upon weighty and public matters in preference to the decision of other men. Yet after he had been elected to direct the affairs of the kingdom, he soon showed himself ill-qualified for that capacity, and plunged the country more than once into great distress by several unprofitable expeditions both into France and Scotland, which he foolishly instituted. Richard II. having ascended the throne, and taken the reins of Government into his own hands, the English were for some time pleased to believe that he inherited the courage and vigour of mind of the Plantagenets, and his action towards the rioters, during the insurrection of Wat Tyler, strengthened this supposition. The fair promise was, however, soon blighted, for as he advanced in age so there became more and more apparent in him a weakness and frivolity which made him totally unfit for the government of a kingdom. Speaking of him, the historian Hume says :— He appears to have been a weak prince and unfit for government, less for want of natural parts and capacity than of solid judgment and a pood education. He waa violent in temper, pro- fuse in his expense, fond of idle show and magni- ficence, devoted to favourites, and addicted to pleasures." Hume seems to have been oorrectin his surmise as to Richard's devotedness to his favourites, for it was this very trait in his character that brought about the circumstances which connect Richard with Swansea. Among his most passionately-loved favourites at court was Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, the greater friend, perhaps, in consequence of the relationship which existed between them, the earl being cousin to King Richard, for Edmund had married Phillipa, the daughter of Lionel, the brother of Richard's father. In the year 1398 the earl was surprised 'ly a party of Irish rcuehs in their own country, and in the skirmish which en- sued the earl eot the worst of it, and was put to death by them. No sooner had the news of the affray reached the ears of Richard than he at once resolved to proceed in person to Ireland to revenge the loss of his relation. His friends and truest counsellors, however, employed every means in their power to persuade the king to remain at home, for they were aware that troubles of no mean weight were about to descend upon the kingdom. The king, however, persisted, and, spite of all their entreaties, appointed his uncte, the Duke of York, to be regent during his absence, and left Windsor, accompanied by several noblemen, early in the month of May, 1399. From an account of this expedition, published many years ago, we learn that having passed through the City of Bristol, the king reached Cardiff on the 8th of May, and stayed in that town over the following day. From Cardiff he went to Cowbridge, and thence to Margam, which he reached on the 11th. From Margam he pro. ceeded on his journey, passing, very probably through Neath, and crossing by the ferry over the river Tawe, entered the town of Swansea on the twelfth day of the same month, in the 22nd year of his reign. Eager to join the waiting fleet which was to escort him to Ireland, Richard did not prolong his stay at Swansea any more than he did at other places where he stopped on his journey, but pressed on towards Carmarthen which he reached next day. Most probably our royal visitor reached Swan- sea late on the 12th of May, and stabled his horses, and rested himself and his courtiers at the castle over night. His host, the then owner of the castle, and lord of the adjoining seignory of Gower, was Thomas Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham, son of John Lord Mowbray, of Epehne, who in his time was also lord of the town of fewaneea, and the land of Gower. This John was slain at Constantinople in 1368. Thomas Mowbray was the great grandson of the John de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, first lord of Gower, of this name, who married the daughter of the unprincipled William de Breos, and who was engaged actively in the barons' wars, under ibomas, Earl of Lancaster, and during the encounter which took plaeeat Boroughbridge, was defeated, and put to death at York in tho Uth year of King Edward n. We can imagine the delight of the inhabitants of the little town of Swan. sea, at the prospect of a visit to them of so great a personage as the king of all Englanid. Swansea, of course, was but a small, place; why, all the inhabitants, every one of them, could be comfortably lodged within the great walls of the castle; the place consisting of a mere handful of email huts occupied by fishermen, and perhaps a few larger houses, the residences of more influen- tial persons, but still, it was of no great note, and it was, perhaps, because of the roads running thither that Kitg Richard found himself before the little place however, there he came, and, as we have already remarked, the joy of the inhabitants will be more easily imagined than described. B owever, their joy was not to continue Ion?, for the next day saw the king, with his retinue, emerge from the castle, and continue with renewed vigour their journey westward. They reached Carmarthen the next day, and on the 29th of May. we find them embarked for Ireland. Upon his return from Ireland Richard found the country in a state of the utmost confusion, the people having risen in insurrection against him. It happened in this wise. One of Richard's uncle's John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, whom we have already mentioned, had a son, called Henry of Bolicgbroke, Earl of Hereford, of whom the king had become very jealous, on account of the near relationship which existed between them, and the great esteem which the English people had for him, which they had not for Richard. The king was also convinced that in case he had no children this Henry might aspire to the throne. Unfortunately for Henry, however, a quarrel arose between him and the Duke of Norfolk, which so provoked the latter that in the end he threw down his gauntbt, which was the usual mode of giving a challenge, and it was agreed that the quarrel should be decided by single combat. Every preparation was made for this buttle, which waa arranged to be fought before the king. The day arrived, and both parties and Richard being assembled on the field, tha combatants were rather turprieed to hear the king forbid the fifrht, aud were each exasperated and indignant at the = concluding a fair speech by passing f ^Bc.e of banishment on them both. The Duke t>„i- "i'lT0 w»s exiled for life, but Henry of restoritSef°ofteilI?fr8,vith ^0, Promise °,f a rMnr-ri >rv.- a'l his estates on his violated Promise, however, the king to the enrichmentof ^ProPriatin^. th3m This act of injustTce SP«L J \OWni. e?ohe(iaer: seems to have had a most ? • Vpun tho nation. Little as tbe king had previouBly been regarded, he was now mere than ever disliked. The news of the ^iog's actions had, however, reached the ears of Henry, who determined to return to England, and fight for his inheritance. Be landed in Yorkshire with about sixty knights, trusty and true, whilst the king was absent in Ireland, and soon found himself surrounded by the most powerful of the English nobles, who implored him to take the throne and govern them in the place of Richard, who knew so little how to rule a naticn. Their argument had such an effect upon Henry that he took every advantage of the absence of Richard, who, upon his return, was forced, after much ill-treatment to resign the crown to his more popular cousin, who accordingly became King Henry the Fourth. It is rather uncertain how Richard ended his days, but it is generally believed that his death took place at Pontefract Castle it is certain that he was kept there ior some time in imprisonment but when or how he died are circumstances that are still shrouded in mystery.

THE CLOVEN FOOT. By the Author of Lady Audley's Secret," fyc,, fyc CHAPTER XXXI. WHY DON'T You TRUST lfE P That winter Sabbath was a dreary day for John Treverton. He walked home al- most in silence, Laura wondering at his thoughtfulneBS, and speculating anxiously upon the possible reasons for this sudden change in his mood. Had this friend of the Clares brought him bad news ? Yet, how could ihat be ? Must it not rather be that this meeting with an old acquaintance had recalled some pain. ful period in that past life of which she knew so little. That is my misfortune," she thought, I am only half a wife while I am ignorant of all his old sorrows." She did not disturb him by questions of any kind, but walked quietly by his side through the winter shrubberies, where the holly berries were gleaming in the mid.day sun, and the tame robins fluttered from hawthorn to laurel as they went by. "I won't come in to luncheon, dear," said John, when when they came to the hall door. I feel a little dull and headachy, and 1 think it might do me good to lie down for an hour or two." Shall I come and read you to sleep, Jack?" No dear, I shall be better alone." Oh, Jack, why are you not frank with me," exclaimed the wife, piteously. "I know there is something on your mind. Why don't you trust me P" Not yet, dear. You will know everything that can be known about me very soon, I dare- say. But we need not anticipate the revela- tion. It will not be too pleaeant for efither of us." Do you think that anything I can ever learn about you will change me," she asked, with her hand upon his arm, looking up at him in- tently. "Have I not trusted you, and loved you blindly." Yes, dearest, blindly. But how can I tell how you may feel when your eyea are opened." She looked at him for some minutes in silence, trying to read his face, and then with most pathetic earnestness, she said, John, if there is anything to be told to your discredit, if there is any act of your past life that you are ashamed to remember—ashamed to acknowledge—an act known to others, for pity's sake let me hear it from you, and not lrom the lips of an enemy. Am I so severe a judge that you should fear to stand before me? Havel not been weakly fond, blindly trustful ? Can you doubt my power to excuse and to pardon, where alT the rest of mankind might be inexor- able?" No." he answered quickly, I will not doubt you. No, dear love, it is not because I feared to trust you that I have tried to keep my secret. I wished to spare you pain, for I knew that it would pain you to know how low I had trunk before your influence, your love, came to lift me out of the slough into whioh I had fallen. But it seems the pain must come. Good and pure as yo. are, there are those who will not spare you that bitter knowledge. Yes, dear, it is best that you should learn the truth first from my lips. Whatever garbled version of this story may be told yon afterwards you shall have the truth from mel' He put his arm round her, and they went up the broad old staircase side by side to the room that had been Jasper Treverton's study, and which Laura hadjbeautified for her husband. Here they were secure from intrusion. John Tre- verton drew his wife's favourite chair to the fire, and sat down by her side, as they had sat on the night when Laura told her husband the story of Mr. Desrolles. They sat for some minutes in silenoe, John Treverton looking at the fire, meditating how best to begin his confession. Oh, Laura, I wonder whether you will hate me when you have heard what my past life was like," he said at last. I will not spare myself, but even at this last moment I shrink from uttering the woids that may destroy our happi. ness, and part us for ever. You shall be free to decide our fate. If, when you have heard all, you should say to yourself, This man is unworthy of my love,' and if you should recoil from me—as you may—with disgust and abhorrence, I will bow my head to your decree and disappear out of your life for ever." His wife turned her stricken face to him, pale as death. What crime have you committed that you can think it posliib!!) that I should withdraw my love from you ?" she asked, with tremulous lips. "I have committed no crime, Laura, but I have been suspectad of the worst of crimes. Do you remember the story of a man whose name was bandied about in the newspapers nearly a year ago a man whose wife was murdered, and whom some of the London papers plainly denounced as the murderer the man called Chicot, whose dis- appearance was one of the social mysteries of the year." Yes," she answered, looking at him, wonder- ingly. "What can you have to do with that man ?" I am that man!" You ? You, John Treverton ?" I, John Treveiton, alias Chicot." "The husband of a stage dancer?" Yes, Laura. There have been two loves in my life. First my love fora woman who had nothing but her beauty to make her dear to the hearts of men. Secondly, my love for you, whose beauty is the lightest part in your power to win and keep my heart. My history may be briefly told. I began life in a cavalry regiment, with a small for- tune in shares and stocks. These were so handy to get rid of that before I had been five years in the army, I had contrived to make away with my last sixpence. I had not been particularly dissi- pated or extravagant; I had not vied with my captain, who was the son of a West End oonfec- tioner, and spent money like water or with my colonel, who was a man of rank and £ 30,000 in debt; bnt I had kept good horses and mixed in the best society, and the day 1 got my company saw me a beggar. There was nothing for it but to sell out, and I sold out; and, being of a happy. go-lucky temperament, and tired of the confine- ment of country quarters, I crossed the Channel, and wandered over the loveliest half of Europe with a knapsack and a sketch-book. When I had spent the price of my commission I found myself in Paris, out at elbows, penniless; with a taste for literature and a facile pencil. I lived in a garret in the Quartier Latin, found friends in a thoroughly Bohemian set, and contrived to earn just enough to keep body and soul together. I began this life with the idea that I might one day win distinction in art. I had the will to work, and a good deal of ambition. But the young men among whom I lived, small journalists and hangers on at the minor theatres, soon taught me a differ- ent story. I learned to live with them, from hand to mouth. All higher aspirations died out of my mind. I became a hanger-on at stage doors, a scribbler of newspaper paragraphs—a collabora- teur in Palais Royal farces—happy when I had the price of a dianer in my waistcoat pocket, and a decent coat on my back. It was at this stage of nry career that I fell in love with Zaire Chicot, a popular dancer at the theatre most affected by students in law and medicine. was the handsomest woman I had ever seen. No one had a word to say against her character. She was not a lady; I knew that, even when I was most in love with her. Bat tha vulgarities and ignorances that would have re- volted me in an Englishwoman amused and even pleased me in this daughter of the people. She was fond of me, and I of her. We married with. out a thought of the future; with very little care even for the present. My wife-the popular dancer at a popular theatre—was so much the more important person of the two, that from the hour of marriage I was known by her na.mo-first as La Chicot's husband, then as Jack Chicot, tout com-t. We were reasonably happy together till my wife began to fall into those wretched habits of intemperance which finally blighted both ollr lives. God knows I d'd my best to cure her. I tried my uttermost to hold her back from the dreary gulf into which she was descending. But I was powerless. No words of mine could ever tell you the misery, the degradation of my life. I endured it, perhaps hardly knew the full measure of mv wretchedness till the day on whioh I heard my cousin Jasper's will read, and knew the happi- ness that might have been mine had I been free from that hateful bondage." Laura sat by his side m Bilence, her face hidden in her hands, her head bowed down upon the cushion of the chair, crushed by the deep shame involved in her husband's confession. There is little mere to tell. When I first savsr and loved you I was La Chicot's husband—a man bound hand and foot. I had no right to come near you, yet I came. I had a vague wicked hope that Fate would set me free, somehow. Yet I tried, honestly, to do my duty to that unhappy woman. When her life was in peril I helped to nurse her. 1 bore patiently with her violent temper after she recovered. When the year was nearly gone it came into my mind that my cousin's estate might be secured to you by a marriage which should fuihl the terms of his will without making me your hiigband, save in name. And then, if in some happier day I should be released from my bonds, we could be married again—as we were." He paused, but there was no answer from Laura, except a half-stifled sob. Laura, can you pity and pardon nM ? For Gcd's sate say that I am not utterly despicable inyourpyee." "Despicable? no!" she said, lifting up her tear-stained faop, asby pale, and drawn with pain. Not despicable, Jobn. You could never be that, in my eyes. But wrong, oh, so deeply wrong. See what shame and anguish you have brought upon both of us. "What was Jasper Treverton'a fortune worth to either of us that you should be guilty of a fraud in your endeavour to gain it for me ?" A fraud!" Yef. Do you not see that our first marriage being really no rr.arriago, was an imposition and a sham—that neither you nor I have a right to a sixpence of Jasper Treverton's money, or an acre of his land. All is forfeited to the hospital trusts. We have no right to live in this house. We possess nothing bat my income. We can live upon that, Jack. I am not afraid to face poverty with you, but I will not live au hour under the weight of thiB shameful secret. Mr. Clare and Mr. Sampson mutt know rhe truth at once." i Her husband was kneeling at her feet looking up at her with a radiant face. My love, my dearest, you have made me too hagpy. You do not shrink from me—you do not abandon me. Poverty no, Laura, I am not afraid of that. I have feared only the loss of your love That has been my ever-present fear. That has sealed nry lips." "You can never lose my love, dear. It was given to you without the power of recall. But if yon want to regain my esteem you must act bravely and honourably. You must undo the wrong you have done." We will hold a council tc.night, Laura. We will take Edward Clare's cards out of his hands." "What? Does Edward know P" He knows that I and Chicot are one." Ah, then I can understand the look he gave you on the iiight of our first dinner party—a look full of malignity. He had just been talking of Chicot." She shuddered as she pronounced a name associated with such unspeakable horror. Ani that name was her husband's the man branded with the suspicion of a hideous crime was her husband. 1 am afraid Edward is your secret enemy," she faid, afttr a pause. I am sure he is—and I believe he is on the eve of becoming my open enemy. It will be a triumph in a small way for me to take the initiative, and resign the estate." CHAPTER XXX tl. ON Bis DEFENCE. A letter was brought to the Vicar just as he was sitting down to his five o'clock dinner that Sunday evening in the bosom of his family. The Vicar dined at five on Sundays, giving himself an hour for his dinner, and fifty minutes for repose after it, before he left home for the seven o'clock service. There were those among,his con. gregation who affirmed that the tone of the Vicar's evening sermon depended very much upon his satisfaction with hia dinner. If he dined well he took a pleasant view of human nature and human frailty, and was milder than Jeremy Taylor. If his ainner had been a failure the bitterest Cal- vinism was not severe enough for him. From the Manor House, sir," said the par- lourmaid. An answer waited for." Why do people bring me letters just as I am sitting down to my dinner ?" ejaculated the Vicar, pettishly. From Treverton, too. What can he have to write about F" Edward Clare looked up with an eager faca. Wants to see me after church this evening- particular business," said the Vicar. Tell Mr. Treverton, yes, Susan. My compliments, and I'll be with him before nine." Edward was mystified. Was John Treverton going to throw himself upon the Vicar's mercy —to win him over to his cause—and persuade him to wink at the fraud upon the trusts under Jasper's will? Edward had no opinion of hia father's wisdom, or his father's strength of mind. The Vicar was so weakly fond of Laura. "I hate going out of an evening in such weather," said Mr. Clare, It but I suppose Treverton has something important to say, or he would hardly ask me to risk a bronchial attack." Tom Sampson, sitting by his comfortable fire- side, solacing himself for the Sabbath dulness with a cup of strong tea and a dish of buttered toast, was also surprised by a letter from the Manor House, asking him to go there between eight and nine that evening. I am sorry to trouble you about business on Sunday, but this is a matter which will not keep, wrote John Treverton. It I never did exclaimed Eliza Sampson, wnfen her brother had read the brief letter aloud. Eliza was always protesting that she never did. This somewhat unmeaning phrase was her favour- ite expression of astonishment. And then Miss Sampson began to speculate upon the probable nature of the business which required her brother's presence at the Manor House. People who live in such a secluded vil- lage as Harlehurst are very glad of anything to wonder about on a Sunday evening in winter. At half.past eight precisely, Mr. Sampson pre. sented himself at the Manor House, and was shown into the library. This room was rarely used, as Mr. and Mrs, Treverton kept all their favourite books elsewhere. Here, on these mas. sive oaken shelves, there was no literatare that was not at least a century old. It was a repository for the genius of the dead. Travels, from Marco Polo to Captain Cook; histories, from Herodotus to Mrs. Catherine Macauley; poetry, from Cbauoer to Miltou all bound in soberest brown calf, all with the dust of years thick upon their upper edges. It was a long, narrow room, with five tall windows, our. tained with faded crimson cloth. It had an awful and almost judicial look on this Sunday evening, dimly lighted by a pair of moderate lamps on the centre table, making a focus of light in the middle of the room, and leaving the corners in darkness. There was a good fire in the wide, old basket-shaped grate, and Tom Sampson sat beside it, waiting for his host to appear. Trimmer had told him that Mr. Treverton would be with him presently. Presently seemed to meau half an hour, for the clock struck nine while Mr. Sampson still waited. Not having any inclination to dip into the litera- ture of the past. he had allowed the fire to draw him to sleep, and was slumbering placidly when the door opened and Trimmer announced Mr. Clare. Tom Sampson started up, and rubbed his eyes, thinking for the moment that he had fallen asleep by the fire in his snuggery, and that Eliza had come to call him to snpper-supper being another of those solaces which Mr. Sampson re- quired to beguile the dulness of Sunday leisure. The Vicar was surprised to> see Mr Sampson, and Mr. Sampson was equally surprised to see the Vicar. They told each other how they had been summoned. It must be something rather hnportant," said Mr. Clare. "It must be something connected with the said Sampson. Want yoa and me>" John Treverton and his wife entered the room together. Both were very pale, but Laura's countenance wore a look of keen distress, which had no part in the expression of her husband's face. Secure of her allegiance, he was ready to meet calamity, whatever shape it might assume. Mr. Clare, Mr. Sampson, I have sent for you as the trustees under my cousin Jasper's will," he began, when he had apologised to the lawyer for letting him wait so long, and had placed Laura in a chair near the fire. "That's a misnomer," said Sampson. "Our trusts under Jasper Treverton's will determined on your wedding day. We are only trustees to your wife's marriage settlement." I have sent for you to tell you that I have been guilty of a fraud upon you, and upoa this lady," answered John Treverton, in a steady voice. He was going on with his Belf-denunciation when the door opened, and Trimmer announced Mr. Edward Clare. The young man came into the room quickly, looking round him with a swift, viperish glance. He was surprised to see Laura, still more sur- prised at the presence of Mr. Sampson. He had expected to find his father and John Treverton alone. Mr. Treverton looked at the intruder with un- disguised irritation. "This is an unexpected pleasure," he said, but perhaps when I tell you that your father and Mr. Sampson are here to discuss a business of some importaneo to me-and to them as my wife's trustees—you'll be kind enough to amuse yourself in the drawing-room until we've finished our conversation." "I have come to speak to Mrs. Treverton. I have something to say to her which she ought to hear—which she must hear—and that without an hour's delay," said Edward. Accident has made me acquainted with a secret which concerns her and her welfare—and I am here to communicate it to her, and, in the first instance, to her alone. It will be for her to act upon that knowledge—for me to defer to her." If your secret concerns me, it must concern my husband also," said Laura, rising and taking her stand beside John Treverton, II Whatever touches my happiness must involve hig. You can speak out, Fdward. Possibly your fancied secret is no secret." "What do you mean?" stammered Edward, startled by her calm look and resolute tone. Have you come to tell me that my husband, John Treverton, was for a short period of hia life known by the name of ChicotF" Yes, that, and much else," answered Edward, deeply mortified at finding himself forestalled. You wish to tell me, perhaps, that he has been suspected of murder." So strongly suspected, and upon such evi- dence, that it will need all your wifely trustfulness to believe him innocent," retorted Edward, with a malignant sneer. Yet I do believe in his innocence—I am 11.3 certain of It as I am that I myself am nomurderana —and if the evidence against him were doubly strong, my trust in him would not fail," said Laura, facing the accuser proudly. "And now, Mr. Clare, since you find that your secret is everybody's secret, and that my wife knows all you can tell her about me- Your wife," sneered Edward. H Yea, it ia as well to call her by that name." She is my wife—bound to me as securely as the law and the Church can bind her." You had another wife living when you married her—unless you have been remarried since your firct wife's death- We have been so married. My wife was nevAr nine, save in name, until I was a free^mai—fr Q to claim her before God and the world." Ihen your first marriage was a deliberate felony, a deliberate fraud," cried Edward, a felony because it was a bigamous marriage, for which the law of the land could punish yea, even now; a fraud because by it you pretended to fulfil the conditions of your cousin's will when you ware not in a position to comply with them," "Stop, Mr. Edward Clare," exclaimed Tom Sampson, whose quick perception had by this time made him master of the case, "you are assuming a great deal more than you can sustain. You are going very much too fast. What evidence have you that my client's first marriage was a legal one. What evidence have you that he was ever mar. ried to Mademoiselle Chicot. We know how very loosely tied such alliances are apt to be in that olaaa of life." How do I know that he was married to her ? echoed Edward, why by his own admission, My client admits nothing," said Sampson with dignity. He Admi s everything when he tells you that be was re-married to Miss Malcolm after Madame Chicot's death. Had he known his first marriage with Miss Malcolm to be valid there would have been no occasion for a repetition of the cere. mony." He may have erred from excess of caution," said Sampson. "John Treverton," said the Vicar, who had been looking from one speaker to the other, the facts of the case slowly dawning upon him this is very dreadful. Why is my son here as your accuser ? What does it all mean ?" "Itmeanathat I have been guilty of a great wrong," answered Treverton quietly, and that I am ready to undo that wrong, so far as it lies in my power. But I cannot discuss this question in your son's presence. He has entered this room to-night as my avowed enemy. To you—to Sampson—as the trustees under my cousin's will I am prepared to speak with fullest oonfidenoe- 1 as I haye already spoken to my wife—but no confession to make to your son. I recognise no right of hie to interfere in my affaire." No, Edward, really, thia ia no concern of yours," said the Vicar. "Is it not?" cried his son, bitterly. "But for my discovery, but for the presence of George Gerard, in the church to-day, do you suppose this virtuous gentleman would have made his confes- sion to his wife, or his wife's trustees. He saw himself identified to-day by the doctor who at- tended his first wife, who knows the story of hia late career under the allas of Chicot. Finding himself face to face with an inevitable discovery, Mr. Treverton very cleverly yields to the pressure of remorse, and makes a clean breast of it. Had Gerard never appeared in Hazelhurst, he would have gone on till doomsday untroubled by any scruples of conscience." The Vicar looked at his son wondoringly. Was this a loyal regard for truth and justice, or the spirit of hatred and envy which moved the youth so strongly. The good, easy-going Vicar, full of charity for all the world, except a bad oook, could not bring himself all in a moment to think evil of his son. Nor was he ready to believe John Trev- erton the vilest of sinners. Yet, here was John 'I'reverton accused by the Vicar's own son of an unpardonable fraud, and suspected of the darkest crime. If yon will tell your son to retire we may discuss this business without prejudice or pas- tion," said John, but as long as he is present, my lips are sealed." I have no wish to remain a moment longer," answered Edward. "I hope Mrs. Treverton knows that I am ready to serve her with zeal and devotion, sbould she deign to demand my aid." I know that you are my husband's enemy," answered Laura, with freezing contempt, and that is all I know, or care to .know about you." That's bard upon an old friend, Laura," remonstrated the Vicar, as Edward left the room. Has he not dealt hardly by my husband," answered Laura, with a stifled sob. Now, let us try and look this business in the face," said Mr. Sampson, seating himself quietly at the table and taking out hia note-book. "According to your confession, Mr. Treverton, you had a wife living at the date of your first marriage with Miss Malcolm, December the thirty-first of the year before last. We have nothing to do with your second marriage—except,. so far, of course, as the lady's honour is concerned. That can't touch the property. Now, I am sorry to tell you that if your marriage with the French dancer was a good marriage, you have no more right to be in this house, or to hold an acre of Jasper Treverton's land, than the meanest hind in Hazelhurst." "I am ready to deliver up all I hold to-morrow. Let the hospital be founded. I acknowledge myself an impostor. Shameful as the act appears now that I contemplate it oooly, it seemed hardly a fraud when it first suggested itself to my mind. I saw a way of securing the estate to my cousin's adopted daughter. I know it had been his dearest wish that she should possess it. When I went through the ceremony of ma>ria#0 with Laura Malcolm in Bazelhurst Church, I had but the faintest hope of ever being really her husband. When I made the post-nuptial settlement which was to secure to her the full enjoyment of the estate, I had no hope of ever sharing that estate with her. On my honour as a man and a gentle- man, it was for this dear girl's sake I did these acts, and with no view to my own happiness or aggrandisement." Laura's hand had been in hisall the time he was speaking. Its warm grasp at the close of this speech told him that he was believed. "If you make these facts public, you beggar yourself and your wife," said Sampson. No, we shall not be penniless," exclaimed Laura. "There will be my income left. It is not quite three hundred a year, but we oan manage to live upon that can't we. John?" con d live contentedly on a canst a day in the dingiest garret in Seven Dials, if you were with me," answered' her husband in a low voice. Mr. Clare was walking up and down the room in a state of suppressed excitement. The whole business was too dreadful, he was hardly able to realise the enormity of the thing. This John Treverton was a scoundrel, and the estate must all go to found a hospital. Poor Laura must leave her luxurious home. The parish would be a heavy loser. It was sad, and troublesome, and alto- gether fraught with perplexity. And the Vicar had a cordial liking for tkis John Treverton. What have you to say about the murder of that poor creature — your first wife?" he exclaimed, presently, walking up to the hearth by which Treverton and Laura were standing. Only that I know no more who killed her than you do," answered John Treverton. I did a foolish thing, perhaps a cowardly thing, when I left the house that night, with the determination never to return to it; but if you could know how dreadful my old life had become to me you would hardly wonder that I took the first opportunity of getting away from it." We had better look at things from a business point of view," said Mr. Sampson. .C We are not going to do anything in a hurry. There will always be time enough for you to surrender the estate, Mr. Treverton, and to acknowledge your- self guilty of fraud. But before you take such a step we may as well make ourselves sure of our facts. You married Mademoiselle Chicot ia Paris." Yes, on the eighteenth of May, sixty-eight. We were married at the Mairie. There was no other ceremony." Under what name were you married?" My own, naturally. It was only afterwards that I got to be known by my wife's name." "Were you known to many people in Paris by your own name ?" To very few. I had written in the newspapers under a nomde plume,—my sketches at that time were all Bigned Jack.' I was generally known ail Jack, and after my marriage I became Ja;k Chicot." How much did you know of your wife'a ante- cedents P" Very little, except that she had come to Paris from Auray, in Brittany, about five years before I married her; that she lived reputably, although surrounded by mnch that was disreputable." "But of her life in Brittany you knew no thing p" I only knew what she told me. She was a. fisherman's daughter, born and reared in extreme poverty. She had grown weary of the hard mono- tony of her life, and had come to Paris alone, and for the most part of the way on foot, to make her fortune. Auray is a long day's journey from Paris by rail. It took her nearly a month to travel the distance." That is all you know f" Positively all." Then you cannot know that she was free to contract a marriage—and you cannot know that you were legally married to her 1" said Tom Sampson, triumphantly. i.^18 as well as his client's were at stake, and he was determined to make a hard fight for them. His stewardship was worth a good five hundred a year. If the estate came to be handed over for the establishment and maintenance of a hospital he would in all probability lose his posi- tion of land steward and collector of rents. Some officious committee would oust him from his post. His trusteeship would bring him nothing but trouble. 6 That is a curious way of looking at the ques- tion, said Treverton, thouehtfullv It is the only right way. Why should any man be In a hurry to prove himself guilty of felony r How do you know that Mademoiselle Chicot did not leave a husband behind her at Auray? It may have been to escape from his illtreatmeni that she came to Paris. That was a desperate step for a young woman to take—a month's journey through a strange country, alone, and on foot." She was so young," said Treverton. Not too young to have married foolishly." What would you advise me to do." "I'll tell you to-morrow, when I've had time to think the matter over. I can tell you in tiia meantime what I would advise you not to do," "What is that?" Don't surrender your estate till you—and we, as your wife's trustees,—are thoroughly conviuca that you have no right to hold it. Mr. Clare, 1 muet ask you, as my co.trustee to Mrs, Trevor- ton's marriage settlement, to be silent as to tha whole of the facts that have become known to u- to-night, and to request your eon also to keep hid knowledge to himself." My eon can have no motive for injuring Mr. and Mrs. Treverton," sail the Vicar. "Of course not," replied Sampson; "yet I thought his manner this evening was somewha.t vindictive." I believe he was cnly moved by his regard for Laura," answered the Vicar. He took up the matter warmly .because he considered that she had been deeply injured. I can but think so too, and I do not wonder that my son should feel in- dignant. As to the legal bearing of the case, Mr. Sampson, I leave you to judge that; and to deal with that as you best may for the interests of your client. But as to its moral aspect, I should do less than my duty as a minister of the Gospel if I were not to declare that Mr. Treverton has be?a guilty of a sin which can only be atoned by deep and honest repentance. I will say no more than that now. Good night, Treverton. Good night;, Laura." He took her in his arms and kissed her with fatherly affection. Keep up your courage, my poor girl," ha said in a low voice. "I wish your husband well Ou t of his difficulties, for your sake. Will you ooma home to the Vicarage with me, and talk over your troubles with Celia ? It might be a relief to you." "Leave him," said Laura, "leave him in grief and trouble, How could you think me capable of such a thing ? And then she drew the Vicar aside, and in a tremulous voice, which was little more than a whisker, said to him, "Dear Mr. Clare, try not to think evil of my husband, for my sake. I know that he has sinned • but he has been sorely tempted; he could not judge the extent of the wrong he was doing. Tell me that you do not suspect him as he has been Buepected; that yon are not influenced by Edward's cruel words. You do not believe that he killed his wife?" ,c No, my dear," answered the Vicar, decidedly. "Firat andfoiemost, he is a Treverton, and comes of a stock I love and honour; and secondly, I hava lived in friendship with him for the last six months; and I don't think I am such a fool that I could live so long upon intimate terms with a murderer and not find him out. N o, my dear I believe your husband has been weak and guilty, but I do not believe—I never will believe—that he has been a cold-blooded assassin." God bless you for those words," Baii Laura, as the Vicar left her. If Mrs. Treverton will go to bei and get a little rest after all this agitation I shall be glad of some further conversation with you before I go home," said Sampson, when the door had closed upon Mr. Clare. Laura assented, turning her white, weary face to her husband, with a look full of trust and love, as he went with her to the bottom of the Btair- case. God bless and keep you, love," he whispered. You have shown me the way out of all my difficulties. I can afford to lose every thing except difficulties. I can afford to lose everything except your love." He wt nt back to Mr. Simpson, who wag scrib. j blirg in his note bock, in a brown study. "Now, Sampson, we are alone. What have you to say tome?" "A great deaL You've got yourself into a pretty fix. Why didn't yon trust me from the beginning ? What's the use of a. man having his lawyer if he keeps his affaire dark ?" We won't go into that question now," said Join Tr ever ton. I want your advice about the future, not your lamentations over the past. What do you recommend me to do ?" Get away from this place to-night, on the best horse in your Btable. Take the'first train at the furthest statio* you can reach by daybreak to. morrow. Let me see. It's not much over thirty miles to Exeter. You might get to iixeter on a good horse." No doubt. But what would be gained by such a course." Y ou would get out of the way before you «ould be arrested on suspicion of being coaeerned in your first wife's murder." Who is going to arrest me r" "Edward Clare means miscbiof. I '10m sure of that. If he has not already ginm information to the police, depend upon it he will do so without delay." Let him," answered Treverton. If he does, I must stand my ground,' I got out of the way, once, and I feel now that in so doing I committed the greatest mistake of my life. I am not going to tall into the same blunder again. If I am to be arrested-if I am to be tried for murder, I will face my position. Perhaps it will be the best thing that could happen to me, for a trial might elicit the truth." Well, perhaps you are right. Anything like running away would tell against you. But I recommend you to get to the other side of the channel without an hour's loss of time. It is of vital importance for you to find out your first wife's antecedents. If you could be fortunate enough to discover that she was a married woman when she left Auray, that she had a husband living at the time of your marriage Why do you harp so upon that string?" asked Treverton, impatiently. Because it is the only string that can save your estate." I have no hope of such a thing." "Will you go to Auray and hunt up your wife's hiBtory ? Will you let me go with you r" I have no objection. A drowning minwill cling to a straw, I may as well cling to that straw as any other." "Then we'll start by the first train to-morrow. We'll leave the place in the openest manner. You can tell people you are going to Paris on business but, if young Clarel does set the police on your track, I think they'll find it hardish work to catch us." Yes, I'll go to Auray," said John Treverton, frowning meditatively at the fire. "In my wife's antecedents there may lie the clue to the secret of her miserable death. Revenge must have been the motive of that murder. Who was it whom she had so deeply injured, that nothing but her life could appease his wrath ?" "Who, except a deserted husband or lover?" urged Sampson. "Yet we lived together for two years in Paris, and no one ever assailed us." The husband, or lover, may have been out of the way—beyond seas, perhaps—a Bailor, very likely. Auray is a seaport, isn't it P" "Yes." It was agreed that they should start for Exeter by the Beven o'clock train from Beechampton, catch the Exeter express for Southampton, and cress from Southampton to St. Malo by the steamer which sailed on Monday evening. From St. Malo to Auray would be only a few hours' journey. They might reach Auray almost as soon as they eouid have reached Paris. CHAPTER XXXriI. AT the MORGUE. It was midnight when John Treverton went up. stairs to his study, where there were lighted eandles, and a newly-replenished fire; for it was one of his habits to read or write late at night. This evening he was in no mood for sleep. He lifted the curtain that hung between the two rooms, and looked into the bed-room. Laura had sobbed herself to sleep. The disordered hair, the hand convulsively claeped upon the pillow, told how far from peace her thoughts had been when she sank into the slumber, of mental exhaustion. John Treverton bent down and kissed the tear. stained cheek, and then turned from the bed with a sigh. My sins have fallen heavily upon you, my poor girl," he said to himself, as he went back to his study and sat down by the fire to think over his position, with all its perplexities and entangle- ments, Sleep was out of the question. He oould only sit and stare at the fire, and review his past life and its manifold follies. How lightly had he flung away the treasure of liberty. Without a thought of the future he had bound himself to a woman for whom he ha.d but the transient liking bcrn of a young man's fancy— of whom he knew so little that, looking back now, he was unable to recall anything beyond the barest outline of her history. Well, he waa payirg dearly for that brief infatuation—he was «aying a heavy forfeit for those careless days in !hich he had lived among men without principle, and had sunk almost to as low a level as hia com- panions. He tried to remember anything that his wife had ever told him about her childhood and youth; but he could only remember that she had been very silent as to the past. Once, and once only on a summer Sabbath night, when they two had been driving home alone together from a 'I dinner in the Bois, and when Zaire's tongue had been loosened by champagne and cura?oa, Bhe had talked of her journey to Paris, that long, lonely journey, with so little money in her pocket that she had not dared to expend it on an occasional stage in a diligence, but had been content to get a lift in an empty waggon, or on the top of a load of buck-wheat. She told him how she had entered Paris faint and thirsty, white with dust from head to foot, as if she had come out of a flour mill; and how the great city—with its myriad lamps and voices, and the thunder of its wheals-had made her dazed and giddy as she stood at the junction of two great boulevards, looking down the endless vista, where the lights dwindled to a point on the edge of the sky; of her career in Paris-how she had began as a laundress on the quay, and how one Sunday night at the Chateau des Fluera a man had come up to her after one of the quadrilløs-a fat man with a grey moustache and lar^e white waistcoat-and had asked her where she had learned to danoe and how she had told him laughingly that she had never learned at all—that came naturally to her like eating, drinking, and sleeping—and thgu he asked her whether Bhe would like to be a dancer at one of the theatres, and wear a petticoat of golden tissue, and white satin boots embroidered with gold-stich as she might have seen in the last great spectaele of the Fawn in the Wood "—and she had told him yes, such a life would suit her exactly; whereupon the gentleman in the white waistcoat told her to present herself at eleven o'clock next morning at a certain big theatre on the boulevard. She obeyed, saw the gentleman in his private room at the theatre., was engaged as one of a hundred and fifty figurantes, at a salary of twenty francs a week. Ang from that to the time when I was the rage at the Students' Theatre, it was easy," said La Chicot, with an insolent smile upon her full red lips, If I had any other man for my husband I should be the rage at one of the Boulevard Theatres, and the Figaro would have an article about me every other week." You have never had any fancy for going back to Auray, to see your old friends r" asked the husband once, wondering at the cold egotism of the creature. I never had a friend in Brittany for whom I cared that," answered Zaire snapping her fingers. Everyone ill-treated me. My father was a perambulating cider-vat, my poor mother—well, I can pity her, because she was so miserable- whined and whimpered. It was a mercy to all of us when the good God took her." And you never had anjone else to care for." asked Jack, in a speculative mood, No lover, for instance?" Lover," cried La Chicot, her great eyes flash- ing upon him angrily. What had I to do with a lover ? I was but nineteen when I left that hole." Lovers have been heard of, even at that early age," suggested Jack, in his quietest tone and after that his wife Baid no more about her past history. To-night, sitting in idlfc despondency, looking into the fire, John Treverton, maeter of Haz3l- hurst Manor, husband of a wife he adored, utterly dissociated from that reckless, happy-go- lucky Jack Chicot, of Bohemian surroundings, for whom the good and evil of each day had been all-sufficient, and who had never dared to look forward to the inevitable to-morrow, let his thoughts slip back to the byegone days and saw, as in a picture, those scenes of the past which had impressed themselves most vividly upon his mlhd when they happened. There was one incident in his married life which had made him wonder, for his wife had not been a woman of a sensitive tea-per, or easily moved to Btrong emotion, save when her own pleasure or her 'own interest was at st&k-^ Yet in this particular instance, she had shown herself as susceptible to pity and terror as a air) of 17 fresh from a convent school. They two, husband and wife, had been strolling one summer afternoon upon tho quays and bridges, loitering to lock at tho traffic on the river, sitting to rest under tho trees, or turning over the leaves of the old books upon the stalls, and so sauntering carelessly on till they came to the Pont Neuf. Let us go across and look at the NotreD ima," said the husband, for whom the old church had an inexhaustible charm. "Bah!" cried the wife. "What a fancy yen have for staring at old stones." They crossed the bridge, and sauntered on to the front of the noble old cathedral, where already the hand of improvement was beginning to clear away the houses that surrounded and over- shadowed its beauty. Jack Chicot was looking up at the glorious western door, built by Philip August, thick-wrought with jleur de lis, where in days of old had appeared the sculptured images of all the kings of Judah, shrined in niches of etone work, as delicate as lace or spring foliago. His wlfø s eyes roved right and left, and all around, saeking some diversion for a mind prone to weariness, when not stimulated by amusement or dissipation. See, my friend," she cried suddenly, clutching her husband's arm, There io something Look what a crowd of people. Is it a procession or an accident?" "An accident. I think," answered Chicot, look- ing down the street facing them, alucg a closely-packed crowd was hastening, rolling to- wards them like a mighty wave of bi&ck Wa.t-;r. "We had better get out of the way." "But, no," cried the wife, eagerly. fIF the is something to see. let us see it. Life 18 not toj full of distractions." II "It may be something unpleasant," suggeaten Jack. I am afraid thfy.are carrying gome poor creature to the Morgue." That matters nothing-, We may as well see." So they waited and fell in among the hurrying cTowd, and heard many voices discussing the thing that had happened, every voice offering a different version of tho same ghastly story, A man had been run over on the Boulevard —a seafaring man from the provinces—knocked down by the horses of a huge waggon. The horses had kicked him, the wheels had goue over his body. He was dfad when they picked" him up," e&iu clu. 1 :Xo, ItS tpjke, &&d haidly aeouiea conscious he was hurt," said another. He died while they were waiting for the brancard, on whioh to carry him to the hospital," Baid a third. And now they were taking him to the Morgue, the famous dead-house of the city, down by the river yonder. He was being carried in the midst of that dt nse crowd, which had been gathering ever Binoe they started with their ghastly burden, from tha Port St. Denis, where the accident happened. He was there in the centra of that maes ot human life, an awful figure, oovered from head to foot, and hidden from all those curious eyes. Jack and his wife were borne along with the rest, past the great cathedral, down by the river, to the doors of the dead house. Here they all came to a stop, no one was allowed to enter save the dead man and his bearers, and three or four sergeants de ville. "We must wait till they have maie his toilet," said La Chicot to her husband, ana ttleU ve can go in and pee him." • CT,e^ Jack, "eare'.y ym would nit wish to look at a piece of shattered humanity. He mus. be a sight, poor creature." On the contrary, moKseiur," said pome one near them in the crowd. "The poor man's faoe was not injured. He 18 a handsome fellow, tanned by the sun, a sea-faring man, a fine fellow Let's go in and see him," urged La Chicot, and when La Chicot wanted to do a thing she always did it. So they waited amongst the crowd, close packed still, though about two. thirds of the people had dropped off and geno back to their business or their pleasure not because they shrank from looking upon death in its most av.'fnl aspect, but because the toilet might be long, and the spectacle was not worth the trouble of waiticg a weary half hour in the summer sun. Ia Chicot waited with a dog?3d patience which was a part of her character, when she hall mada up her mind about anything. Jack waited patiently, too, for he wi-s watching the faces in the crowd, and had an artistic delight in studyiag these various specimens of a somewhat debased humanity. Thus the half hour wore itaalf out, tbe doors were opened, and the crowd poured into the deadhouse, just as it would have poured into a theatre or circus. There he lay, the new corner, with tho summer light sbinirg on him, a calm figure behind a sheet of glass, a brave, bronzed face, bearded, with strengly marked browa and close cropped black hair, gold rings in the ears, and on one bare arm- the arm which had escaped the waggon wheel—an inscription tattooed in purple and red. Jack Chicot, after contemplating the dead man's face with cuiious interest, fixing the well marked features in his mind, bent down to look at the tattooed device and inscription. There was a ship, a rose, and these words, Dedicated to Saint Anne of Auray." The man was doubtless a native of Auray, La. Cbicot's birthplace. Jack turned to remark this tc his wife. She was standing close to his elbow, livid as the corpse behind the glass, her face convulsed by tears rolling down her cheeks. Do you know him f" asked Jack. Ia it any- one you remem ber 2" "No, no!" ahe sobbed but it is too dread- ful. Take me away—take me away out of this place, or I shall drop down in a fit." He hurried her out through the crowd, pushing his way into the open air. "You overrated your strength of nerve," ho said, vexed at the folly which had exposed her to such a shock. You should not have a fancy for such horrid Bights." I shall be better presently," answered Ia Chicot. It is nothing." She was not better presently. She was hysterical all the rest of the day, and at night had no soaaer closed her eyes than she started up from her pillow, Bobbing violently, and holding her hands before her face. "Don't let me see him!" she cried, passionately. Jack, why are you so cruel as to make me see him r You are holding me against the glass—you are forcing me to look at him. Take me away." Pondering to-night upon this strange scene of five years ago, John Treverton asked himself if there might not have been some kind of link between this man and Zaire Ohioot. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

A FRENCH COUNTRY MARRIAGE. Madame Leemoutagnes was kind enough to give me a description of the Vedding of her daughter. When a young man here wishes to become acquainted with a young woman, he mentions it to some friend of the family, who applies to the parents for leave to introduce him. If thiB is granted, and the parents afterwards conclude that he is not suitable, they tell him not to oome any more. When a young man comes to demand a young lady in marriage, the parents first interest themselves in the family, whether it is a respectable one, and in the young man him. self, whether he is a sage, or well-behaved. The young people are never left together, without one of the parents being present, even when there ia a talk of their being married. At last the parents of the two young people will meet to plan the marriage, this parlement being held at the house of the young woman, where, after having a good dinner, after having drunk well, and talked upon a quantity of other sub. jects, the rest of the family will leave the parents together, understanding very well what business is in hand. Then the young man's father will speak in this manner We have not come here to do nothing; we have come to speak of the marriage of our children," adding, if he is a rich enough landholder, I shall give twenty-five thou. sand francs to my son; how much can you give your daughter 2" If her parents do not give her about as much, the marriage agreement will not be made, and the parties will separate. However, about one time in ten it will be found that the young people are too much attached to each other for the parents to continue their prohibition, and they are allowed to marry. And sometimes it will happen, when the young people are of age, aud the parents entirely refuse their consent, that the former will make to them the three respectful summons, and then they can marry without to parents' consent. Such a case will happen in tnis commune perhaps onoe in three or four years. Madame L. gave her daughter, on her own part, and from the father's estate, a vineyard of the value of eighteen thousand francs, and she is to receive more. The young man's parents gave to him a piece of land worth twenty thousand francs, and the young pair occupied two rooms in his parents' home, where they ca.n keep house, if they should prefer it. Madame L. added that the young man's mother pave him a furnished bed, and of sheets, table-cloths, towels, and napkins, each a dozen; also three dozen shirts of hemp and flax. "I gave my daughter," she added, "two dozen sheets, two dozen table-cloths, two dozen napkins, and two and a half dozen towels with a furnished bed, a cupboard, armoire, and a night table. The young man's parents gave him a large bureau, and he bought the rest of the furniture. The young people are well set out, well matched, and both are industrious. He is, besides, a merchant of sabots, buying these shoes from the makers and as he has wood of his own, he employs people to make them, and twice a week he goes to——to Bell them." The only legal marriage in France is that at the Mayer's office, and there is a Mayor in every commune. Madame L. tells me that this marriage does not cost anything, but at the mass the curé marries them, and puts the ring over the first joint of the bride's finger. For this marriage he receives twelve francs. (All the religious and all the fashionable world have this second marriage. Free-thinkers in Paris—I met none in the country—make a merit of opposing it). Madame L. tells me that there were about eighty guests at her daughter's wedding, and all these go to the mass, coming to dine at the house at noon, She herself did not see the ceremony; sbe heated the oven while the others were gone, for somebody must take care of thinga." There were three women, however, to do the kitchen work, and three to wait upon the table. And what did you have for dinner ?" I cannot tell you—all sorts of good things- perhaps twenty courses." Did you invite the curef" Some do; we did not. We had ham, and beef bouilli—we took forty pounds of beef—wa had calf's head, stewed chickens, ducks with turnips, roast leg of mutton, chickens with rice we ha.d eight ducks, eight turkeys, four geese aud Pierre and one of his comrades, who were invited to the wedding, were hunting the day before, and I suppose altogether we plucked a hundred birds. We had a course of little birds-fig-peckers, sparrows, larks; and we had three pies {vol au- ivl\ ^rotQ the livers of poultry and the little birds. We had food enough for a week after, besides giving to the relations. The pastry cook of the village prepared a c mplete dessert, and we made pies. They give sDlendid entertain, ments here at weddings. There was a. ptcce of wine drunk (about forty-four gallons). We also had Champagne and Bordeaux, but there was not much used, and we had other liquors, but nobody got drunk." "That is all. madame, I believe. There are people who don't make weddings, on account of the expense; perhaps only one-fourth make weddings." This great amount of food was necessary, on account of the guests staying to three meals, The two musicians were paid by the young men guests. Dancing was kept up until about three in the morning, when the party sought a little rest wherever they could get it; some going to the barn; the little children and the hired WOllldl went to bed; and Madame L. got two hours' rest, She added On Wednesday we had the broak- fast and then all went a way about ten."

-— PICKINGS FKOM "PUNCH." i *io tie hulsbRndT1 Y|KD^A<, E•~La(^y Gay Spanker (to her Wll ™ g 6 we t0 be trotting on, dear? thof' donkey: Ta-ta, for the present, then 1 don t like riding fast to covert?" WwlECi?*ICISM'~Grace (whispering): What lovely boots your partner's got, M ity Mary (ditto.); YCf, unfortunately he shines at tha wrong end. "A SOFT Answee, &c."—Female Epicure: Ob, mister, I'm sure that waa a bad one Oyster Balesman (indignantij). What d'yer meAn:" i'Mn you shouldn't a' swaileredit, LlUm; I've been in tl ie trade a matter o' ten years, and never I.ady Well, it certainly left a nasty taste Sdefcman (mollified): Well, there's no deayiu sl. fotte en 'em is 'i»jher in fliviour than others! A Woep TO Sik Wilfkid.—The best Temper- arce resolution—resolution to abstain. The Only "Round Suit."—Acipher- The Commandich-in.Chief Foi General Cap (e) bility. SIR WILFRID'S PROPHECY. They may pay my Hobby's flonndoreu, Ard that L, his rider, silly am; But Permissive Bill, now floundereul Will be yet the people's William!

Nore but the brave deserve the hair, is how the ais:i £ iLe pui £ it.

ATTACKING A TARANTULA. Texas natural history is not without noveltiea for the scientific or the curious readers of more northern climes. Among them is a horned frog, which inhabits the prairies west of the Frintty from the. tip of.the broad nose arises a scimitar-like horn, sharp as a knife-point, and on whioh, if you happen to step with the naked foot, in a puddle of water, a painful wound is received. Not infre. quently has the otherwise harmless little animal been forwarded to northern museums as a curiosity. But it isn't equal to another Teni creature—the tarantula. He is the desperado of the spider family; frequently attaina the siae of the hand, and with its great, glaring, black eyes and frightful claws, seldom fails to present an appearance so formidable that a sensitive lady, even if used to seeing the tarantula, will scream at the sight. The tarantula is, in fact, only a big spider, and usually makes his home in the open prairie, dwelling with his family in a nest concealed beneath the tall grass. If yon tackle him in his retreat you will very soau repent yout temerity, for he springs at you like a tiger, jumping to a* astonishing lvnght —sometimes three or four feet. He ie one ot the most poiaon- ous of the fauÜlyof the arachi.a;. and his uite is said to be more fatal taaa th.1.t of :lu' rasdimake. In a s'tt ement called Grapevine Pnirie, near Fort Worth, sorr.e time ago the sou of a farmer named Featherstone was one day ojcapied gathering rocks on t-;e roadinie. Upon over. turning a large fi-it rook he wn »uiienly confronted by a large tarantula the s1/" of a n»n's hand, snugly ensconced in his nest along with a number of young tarantulas. Tee big one waa yellow and black striped, end displayed the same inimitable colours that nature bestows on tha beautiiul snake." Seizing a pood aizod stick, Master reatherstone attacked the enemy in his stronghold, and was met with an unexpeoted resistance. He succeeded in breaking off one leg, or ra' her claw, cf the devil-fish of dry laad; bat the tarantula, enraged, sprang upoa the ago greseor, and quick as thonght, with his great black eyea glittering with fiendish ferHJity, tas'ened himself on the boy s hand and arm. Before he could be dislodged the tarantula hioi inflicted two probably fatal bites on the haad and arm, both of which subsequently swelled to three times their natural sizs—eo virulent is the poison of this desperado of the prairies. The boy, however, succeeded in killing the tarantula.

"LETTERS FROM HOME" In a copy of the Washoe Times, a weekly pip^r published at Silver City, Nevada, ir: 16:)1, we dad the following pObm, entitled Ljtters fros. Home," written by the late Col. Richard Raal Letters from my father's houscholi Ieled midst the surrounding eea, Swift-winged messengers of glidnasa, Bearing rest and peaoe to me Father's calm and sacred counwel, Mother's large and shining tears, And my sister's brimming feelings Fiung to me across the spheres! o the dear and loving letters 0 my childhood's thronging dreams I o the ancient, low-roofed oottage, With its quaint old oaken beams! O the hannts among the meadowd, And the moss-grown garden sets, Where the scented apple-blossoms Swept in waves about my feet. And I sit and mnse upon it, 'Till I seem to see it all See the rioh grapes' purple clastora Drooping frem the leafy wall; See the mellow peach a ripening, Breathe the breath of blessed ftowers, Watch the steady house clock marking All the pulses of the hours. Father's hair is growing whiter; Mother's step is feebler now; But the old seraphic beauty Lingers yet on her meek brow; And the low sweet tones that thrilled me, And the lips I used to preøs- o the years can never win them From their holy tenderness. And the flashing eyes of laughter, And the speech of merry scorn. And the rippling auburn ringlets Of our household's youngest born- Very gently they have deepened To the glory and the grace Of a tranquil maiden, moving Thoughtfully amid the place. Letters from my father's household! Isled midst the surrounded sea; Swift-winged messengers of gladness Bearing rest and peace to me Let the foaming wojd tear onward- Let the sinless chnaren play, And the yonng bride clasp her huaban 1- 1 am wealthiest to-dav!

A GRAND WALKING MATCH OF THE PALEOZOIC AGE. Come, Mary dear, sit down by me, And straightway I will tell What happened in most ancient days To a most remarkable belle. A wonderful, wonderful belle was she Of paasolzoio times, A wonderful she as ever could be Embalmed in rocks or rhymes. A beautiful megalosaurus was she As ever you saw in your dreams And with mod for a sacque she covered her baok In the earliest morning beams. lhirty feet long was the fairest of fairs, And she had a magnificent tail, And she swished it around with a thump and a pound As she waddled o'er hill and dale. Tons one, two and three did the maiden weigh, And she sang like a lark in June; And her tones were so shrill when she warbloi at will That she deafened the Man in the Moon. And her lovers they listened with loud applausa, But the mylodon slunk to his lair, While her lovers they vowed, as they scraped and they bowed. That her voice was beyond all compare. Bnt it was not her tones that attracted theal most, 'Twas the grace of her beautiful gait, As she sped o'er the land, or waltzed o'er the Btrand At a more than an Anderson rate. One side would heave up like a hillock of mud, And one like a swelling subside, Though she puffed like a bellows she pleased ths young fellows, As she waddled alon? in her pride. So she'd walk and she'd walk, and besama the town talk, Till at last in the pride of her heart, If I keep on, of course, I shall soon beat the horse," Said ehe, and I'll give him the start!" Then her lovers howled out, What ye talking about ? There ain't not no horses as yet, Horses ain't yet developed (this rhyme can't ba helluped), But on you, if they were, we would bet!" Then atrilobite small snickered loud at them all, Though I hardly can wiggle on shore, And this thick carapace handicaps for a raoe, I'm a match for the maid you adore! And you're nothing but clacquers," aaii h% "and not backers Then the m^galogauri did rail, "And no-v yon must put up," quoth they, or must shut up!" And said be, 1 will put up my tail!" So his tail up he laid and the match it was mala And the bet to be won it was this, That if he lost his tail she should lose every scale, And the lovers should lose every kiss. Thirty miles was the stretch, and the hobblingj young wretch Who had challenged the maiu should be there, When the course should be ended, to whioil each one wended His way to the gaol in the fair. The wagers were made, and the trilobite laid — When the others weren't looking—his plot The signal was given and like arrow Each bolted away like a shot. And the trilobite knew that with such stakas in Vlew, A trick he must play to-such ends; When the megalosaurus is cheered loud in ohorua He jumps on the tail she extends. With their queer goggle-eyes thoy look on in surprise, So astonished they cannot express v\ hat they all must be feeling to see him. ttM wheeling His way with euch skilful finesse. W hile she walks thirty miles, there he oreeps atlel he smiles To think how he's won all her scales; And when the goal's won down he tfbps tfitharna, And giggles to think how lihe fails- Now yo who in tussles rely on your muscles P5 And ye who in legs put yoar trust, Remember that brain iu toe long run must gaia. By chicane—or however it must. # <f So the trilobite thinks, but within forty winks That megolosaurus her ja<v Opens wide and the trilobite resti i^ Via pride In the megalosanrian matv.

A bright little three- year-old, liviag on Elm. street, while her mother was trying to get hec to sleep, became inteitjitid jn 80lUS oat9jda noiae. She was toidth-tt it was caused by acncket when she sagelY observed = Mamma, I think it onght to be oiled. n1~37SK-E' CASK A* ?IGA^;r lsau> Uoeombor 27th, IS76. aU^rts1VofULbT,la';iUP "'th aud never having been featy ywrs. t to obtain roli-f (or h«r, Icon latelv ^ady. P°-J-uds i% various madioiuos, f a tr^ Bbeumat-c M.xtare. L and after p-v? ♦ m your age at horn, better a-rf »f.- bottlieii my wife was ev(densly leuTC li(>r Kofi taking third b^ttta was able to m i io ? whlc l SLabad n .t (lone for three months ,v wo^ as to he goiag about her iion-i8ttold result' a Tcoar^°. aia delighted w.tji tlM trTii t am recoinmendiuf? y< ar medicines io ail i know. I am, yours truly. W- iienBet. To Mr. VAv.du'v.k, li r/nvh :-a i,— Wood cocfe s Rheumatic Mixture speedily cores Bheu* matism, JiheuitaTic Gout, Kheumatio Pains ia the •Limbs and Joints, Rheumatic Paius iu the Back and Adorns (Lumbago), Rheumitii S^ellinys aud Stiffness, RhtumatM Pains in the He.id, Rheumatic Pains in tha Thijfh (bejaticn), Eheumatio Pains, however aeute oe long standing, ia fact Every Phase of RtnumathMn. Is o quack mediae warranted to cure everything, bdt a reliable genuine remedy for ftheumiitism onlyTjSven' Bheumartio sufferer should try t. Sold in bottUW at 18. 9d.. &id double size 2a1, 9d,. by aU roapeviiM# Chemists. Get the right. Prepared only by jMMa Woodcock, Chemist, Birkenhead. Sold in by Hernial and Son, Duke-street; and ThomM Wi liama, ELtt-fctitct. u-tl WlleSmtARlc gfacTafctfi