Pontypool Free Press and Herald of the Hills

M Y AVIARY. NO. I.—THE CUCKOO. When first I heard thee, Guckoo, sing, I had no furrowed brow, Yor then I was a little thing— Alas how altered now Years since then have pass'd away, Time's ever on the wing, And now I'm feeble, old and grey, I scarce can hear thee sing. Still there's a charm in thy sweet song, "Which years cannot undo, E'en now I feel it just as strong As when I heard" Cuckoo" "When full of youthful mirth and glee, As truant boy would do, I crept inside the hollow tree And tried to mimic you. But though those happy days are past, Think not that I repine, I would not they should always last, If all the world were mine Yor there's a happier world than this, "Where angels ever sing. A perfect l'aradise of bliss, J And one eternal spring.

PULPIT SKETCHES IN PONTYPOOL 1 No. III.—REHOBOTH CHAPEL. Tho recent Pan-Presbyterian Council which I met in Edinburgh drew attention to the extent and resources of tho Presbyterian Church. Of tho eighty millions of English-speaking people on the face of the globe, nearly a seventh is composed of Presbyterians. In the British Isles, the Presbyterian Church, though in regard to other denominations it occupies the third or fourth place from a numerical point of view, stands, nevertheless, in the front rank for its wealth, piety, learning, energy, and organiza- tion. In Scotland PresbyteriallislIl is paramount; in England it is a growing power in Irelaud it divides the Protestant population with the Episcopal Church and in Wales it is the most numerous and influential denomination of the whole Principality. The three great systems of church govern- ment are generally stated to be the Prelatic, the Presbyterian, and the Cougregationalist. The first includes the Roman Catholics and the Anglican Church the second, the various branches of the Presbyterian denomination and tho third is chiefly represented by the In- dependents and Baptists. There are other bodies which can scarcely be classed under any of these three heads yet they are not so distinctly dif- ferent as to constitute another system. The Confession of Faith is the distinguishing badge of Presbyterianisin throughout the world. It is the accepted standard of belief among nearly all sections of that body though some of the American branches have modified it a little, in order the more clearly to express their interpre- tation of Scripture. Notwithstanding this for- midable bulwark against the ravages of hetero- doxy, Presbyterianism has not been able to shut out the enemy completely. Scotland itself, tho very centre oi' the system, whence it has radiated all over the globe, is not free from heresy. Of the three main branches of the denomination in Scotland, each has its thorn in the flesh. Prin- cipal Tulloch, the present editor of Frazcr's Magazine, who belongs to the Establishment, is suspected of very Broad Church leanings. Tho United Presbyterians lost an able litterateur in the late George Gilfillan, whoso departure from orthodoxy was tolerated on account of his genius. His mantle has fallen upon his suc- cessor in the Dundee pulpit, the Rev D. Macrae, who with less genius but more bluster than his gifted predecessor, is vigorously battering down the Confession of Faith, aided by his trusty confrere, the Rev Fergus Ferguson. Even the Evangelical Free Church has not escaped. Professor Robertson Smith, one of her ablest men, stands libelled before the Aberdeen Pres- bytery for his views concerning Deuteronomy while his writings on other parts of Scripture are said to be tainted with German rationalism. In Pontypool Presbyterianism does not appear to flourish. The chapel in High Street is small, but it is apparently too large for the congrega- tion. Its exterior is not magnificent, nor is its interior remarkably ornate. We were ushered into a seat with more courtesy than is usually extended to the strange visitor in these parts. In some places, indeed, politenessamongchurch- goers is as rare as a joke among Scotchmen. Rehoboth Chapel inside like a gigantic box with a till running round three sides. Punctually at 11 a.m. the Rev. Thos. Williams, the resident pastor, ascended the pulpit. lie is a young man, apparently in vigorous health and in a short confabulation with one of the members we were informed that he has not been long in Pontypool, and that this is his first charge since leaving College. The reverend gentleman read as his text Gen. xxxii., v. 24 to 29. From his opening remarks we gathered that the sermon was one of a series on the life of Jacob. The word angel, the prcachcr observed, refers in the Bible to different persons and things but in the text it was God Himself who wrestled with Jacob. It was Jesus Christ who put on tho robe of humanity for a time, in order that the emotions of Jacob's soul might the more effectually be stirred. This was not the first time that Jacob found himself face to face with God. When quite a young man he had deceived his father and his generous brother. He succeeded in obtaining Esau's blessing, the result being that ho was compelled to leave home. Leaving home is a sad period l' J 1 r 1 (0 iiuflor tilose who remain, especially if it be the first blank in the tent. There is a link missing from the chain of familiar faces when one has gone out from among them into the unknown world—" gone as a boy to return only as a man." Many of us will never forget the day when we first went out from our own Beersheba towards some unknown Haran. We now see Jacob a fugitive, flying towards his uncle's home. By- and bye, tho teuu sinks behind the mountains of Ephraim the last faint pulse of the quivering light is gone and, with the pitying stars look- ing down upon him from the clear depths of the Syrian sky, ho falls asleep. Here the preacher gave a graphic narration of Jacob's dream. Next day he rose and went on his way, light of foot and lighter still of heart—an expressive rendering of the Hebrew is that his heart lifted up his feet. After a sojourn of twenty years with his uncle, he set out for his old home, and met his brother on the way. Fear filled his soul, and he pondered by what stratagem ho could evade the injured Esau, for he dreaded that the fire of revenge still smouldered in his brother's bosom. At last he felt that all his cunning was useless, and that only the mighty hand of God could deliver him and to God lie accordingly went. All at once the heavens were opened, and some mysterious stranger in human form leaped forth out of His own eternities :—and there wrestled a man with him until the break- ing of the day. Although sotno have denied the reality of a bodily wrestliug, we are not willing to relinquish the plain meaning of the words employed. But undoubtedly the higher and more important meaning is in the spiritual significance of the narrative. After practically applying this deeper meaning to our present life, the preacher wont on to note the advan- tages of solitude in giving us a profound sense of the infinite, which is too often lost amid the wild whirl of modern society. In tho text Jacob asks the stranger for two things His blessing, and to know His name. The blessing was granted, consisting in a complete change of cha- racter. From being a base, circumventing supplanter, Jacob became a hero of God, an Israelite indeed in whom was no guile. But to know the stranger's name was not vouchsafed. Still, though Jacob did not 1 earn His name, we are moro privileged. Jacob did indeed see God in nature, and we too cannot but feel that there is an infinite Spirit at work in the universe. We hear the noise of His chariot in the deep-voiced thunder that booms among the distant hills. We see His finger in the vivid lightning that leaps from peak to peak. He walks on the wings of the wind and the waves of the deep. But His mercy no less than His power is manifest in nature. "It droppeth gently as the rain from heaven upon the place beneath." Yet in Jesus Christ, God has most fully reveal- ed His name—His new, best name of Love. When we see His tenderness, self-sacrifice, and boundless compassion when we hear the sweet words that fell from His lips and swayed the hearts of men when we trace Ilis bleeding feet over the rough and thorny pathway of His life, from Bethlehem to Getlisemanc, and from Gethsemane to Calvary, surely we cannot but confess that this is Emmanuel, God with us. Mr Williams spoke with considerable fluency, and when he warmed with his subject developed a delightful brogue. He did not formally divide his sermon into heads, which may help to ac- count for its brevity. It is related of Dean Swift that he was onco taken to task for the great length of his sermons. The dean promis- ed to amend. Not long after he had occasion to preach a charity sermon. His text was, "He that giveth to the poor lendoth to the Lord,and that which be Riven will He repay him again." "My Christian fricuds," said the dean, solemnly, "if youjike your security, down with your dust. Amen." That was his sermon. And it is further said that a larger collection had never been made in St. Patrick's than was then taken. Everyone, however, has not the wit or genius of Dean Swift, who could "Crmnl eternity into an hour, Or stretch an hour to eternity." Mr Williams's sermon was hardly so brief as the one alluded to, but it did not occupy more than twenty-five or thirty minutes in delivery which is considered a very short time, indeed, espo- cially amongst northern Presbyterians, who are accustomed to hear their long-winded pastors hold forth for at least an hour. As a general rule, short sermons are the best. It is not every preacher who knows when he has finished. Many excellent men spoil the effect of their preaching by a vain and wearisome re- petition towards the close of their discoures. j Roughly speaking, short sermons and, indeed, all sermons—may be divided into two classes those which the hearer would like prolonged, and those which he would like curtailed. Mr Williams's sermon belonged to the former class. The power of compression is moro valuable than the power of expansion. Terseness is better than diff-tiseness-oiie would rather be tho writer of Lord Bacon's essays than the writer of Mr Gladstone's. The style of Mr Williams is full of nervous strength. What another man would dilate to a paragraph, he condenses into a few phrases. In brief, crisp sentences, charged with meaning, he expounds to his people the mys- teries of God's providences and of God's Word and he leaves his hearers to dilute his remarks at their leisure. That accomplished poet and artizt, Lllr William Morris—who is not ashamed of his Welsh ex- traction—while acknowledging that the Welsh mind does not possess much versatility or su- blimity of genius, claims for it narrative power and picturesqueness of expression. Mr Wil- liams docs not exhibit narrative power in an extraordinary degree but he certainly possesses the gift of picturesque expression. His sermons are embroidered with graceful imagery, and instinct with poetic thought. His similitudes are generally coherent and apposite and he studiously avoids those mixed and broken metaphors which so often betray the flowery orator into wasteful and ridiculous excess. Ho is sparing of quotations. Those which bo doea use are generally prose, and serve to explain as well as adorn. An occasional passage from an old Puritan author indicates that he cultivates a somewhat neglected branch of reading, and does not cull his citations from those books of "Beauties" and "Elegant Extracts" which Macaulay mentions in such disparaging lan- guage. It is recorded of a celebrated orator that thoso who heard him speak felt there was something more in the man than anything he said. Such is the case with Mr Williams. There are indi- cations of latent power in the man which im- press you with a sense that he is Dot giving you his best. Behind the garmenture of words and phrases there is a force that finds no ex- pression. Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and hidden Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is bidden. Great arc the symbols of being, but that which is symbolled is greater; Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator; Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that pre. cedes it is sweeter; And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out- mastered the metre. Yet, with all his excellencies, his terseness, his grace of expression, his mental force, Mr Williams impressed us with a sense of his immaturity. On those few occasions when wo have heard him speak elsewhere, the same effect was produced. But it is not the immaturity of weakness. lie is never childish. Ho never drivels. Rather, it is the incompleteness of latent strength not thoroughly at command. It seems to us that he is not fully conscious of his own powers. The general, when he is appointed to a new field of operations, is at a loss to move until he ascertains how his troops are disposed, and the strength and reliability of the various contingents. The omnivorous reader cannot make much practical use of his learning until he has classified and systematized the treasures of his memory. Mr Williams, with that vague sense of inherent force felt by most men of talent, appears at a loss how to employ his abilities to the greatest advantage. Men of large intellec- tual calibre have frequently failed in life by applying their powers to a purpose foreign to their genius. History is starred with splendid failures. In these last days of eager life and fierce competition, it behoves every man to form a just estimate of his own abilities, aud to utilize them forthwith in the best possible way. No man, no matter how able, can afford to squander his powers, or scatter his energies into surrounding space. That Mr Williams possesses gifts of no mean order, can hardly be doubted by those who have heard him speak. We find in him the promise and potency of a superior preacher. His taste is exceptionally good. His reading seems to be of the right kind. His style is graceful and forcible. nis doctrine, though sufficiently orthodox, is untainted by intolerance. He displays an incipient talent for L" u _L L1 C t g,t10 ap v parent effort. Since hearing him we have more than ever been convinced that success is not always the measure of ability; and it is to be regretted that such a small number of people attend his ministrations in Rehoboth Chapel.

xo. II.—TUK OWL. Evening closes on the day, An naiure sinks to rest, The rooks aloft are on their way Towards their airy nest. The little birds are going to bed In yonder iricd tree, Thither by natural instinct led At eventide to flee. 'Tis now yon owl begins her flight From moping all the day, For she can see the best at night To pounce upon her prey. Poor little mouse, with glossy skin! I pity thy sad fate, Far better hadst thou kept within Than wander'd out so late; Yor now, with awful visage grim, She holds thee in her claw, And soon will rend thee limb from limb inr "Horse man owi, Who sleeps not night or day, One who is eer on .the prowl 1'0 stal our souls atrnv. Oh, Lord, protect me from this Uphold me in Thy might And then, o matler where I go, I'm safe botk day and night. C. C.

ECHOES FROM MY HARP. NO. II. THE LEGEND OF PIRATES' POINT. Where the fast-broadening river bends In its long passage to the main, As if, in fear of ocean storms, Inland 'twould softly wind again. Where tall ships seeming sail the land, And straying storm-birds dip the wing, Where the scant sea-weeds fringe the shore, And o'er the waste the shrill winds sing,— On yonder point of mournful marsh, Where strong-built dykes scarce bound the flood, Twice in the day, bright, glancing waves.— Twice in the day, smooth, glistening mud, Where yonder beacon set on high Speaks to the ships in well-known tongue, Vv here in the night a bright light bums, Where in the fog a tocsin's rung,— This was the spot, in olden time, Where murd'rous pirates swung in chains, Their villain bodies scorched by sun, Or blanched by winds, or drenched by rains. As ships passed by in evening light, Faint crimson streaking greenish west— While night winds whistled in the shrouds, The seaman prayed an end more blest. The spot was held accursed by man, For the rude sailor's ocean lore Taught that by night the pirates' shades Haunted yon level, weed-fringed shore. And from the marsh where swung the dead Who ne'er should know a Christian grave, A Phantom Boat would oft be urged By Phantom Rowers o'er the wave. And heaped upon this Phantom Boat Were glittering piles of precious stones, Gold, silver, weapons, grinning skulls, And whitened heaps of dead men's bones. Then, as the boat slow neared the ship, Loud mocking laughs died on the gale; And sailors, scorning mortal foe, Would at the sight and sound turn pale. As the weird oarsmen closer drew The seamen glanced not o'er the side, Fearing the pirate's evil eyes, Yet listened while the oars were plied. Should the beat straightway cross their bowe, Then knew they that the worst was o'er, And at the Phantom craft would pass Away to some vast, unknown shore. But should the Boat, nnse^vi by man, Xo more upon the dark wave loom, While oaths and piercing shrieks were heard, As if tiends dragged them to their doom, FaR well they knew that, tempest-tossed, Their wind-blown bark would sink at last, And leave them battling with the waves,— Clinging to spar or splintered mast. Or, sun-scorched, drifting ever on In open boat, o'er sleeping seas, Tortured by day-dreams born of thirst, Of fountains sprayed by cooling breeze. Or oil some barren island cast, Existence but a living death,— There in delirious fury rage 'Gainst God and man with dying breath. And this tho reason why at eve The men who sail the mighty deep Shuddered to hear the doleful creak Of chains across the waters creep. yet the howling of a hound Or beetle's tick shall make men quail; And Superstition's smouldering fires In these last days seem loth to pale. No longer yon weird-memoried spot Points to the deeds on salt sea wrought No gibbets speak of crimes unknown As well as those to Justice brought. Heaven send the day—0 Lord, how long ?— When on the sea as well as land, For lust of gold, 'gainst fellow man Man will forbear too raise his hand. W. H. H.\RPER.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] TWIXT CUP AND LIP. Bt NANNIE LAMBERT, Authoress of "Spring leaves," Thoughts on the "Talmud" §e. CHAPTER IV. (Continued.) One beautiful morning, the second week in March, X. was strolling through the wood, accompanied by my youngest pupil, Clara, who ran before me seeking in fhe crevices for ferns she was collecting. The fainl perfume of a. cigar which we seemed to be following, told me that the smoker of it was not far off. I knew who that smoker was and, fearful of meeting him, however desirous o( doing so, I turned into a side walk. A small piece of paper half burnt, and still issuing a faint smoke, lay in my path. I know not what prompted me to stoop and raise it, unless it was a suspicion of whose hand it had lately left. The paper was a mere scrap, but there was writing upon it, and 1 unfolded it, and read thfse words Como to my dressing-room in the morning, I must say a few words to you in private, yet you grant me no opportunity of doing so. I sought to speak to you this evening, but you avoided me, and have left me no alternative but to slip this under your door. F01 God's sake, burn when read.' I was not able to make out every word distinctly, as I have here set them down, for the paper had been folded and lighted, and consequently a portion of it was burnt away; but I could decipher enough tc gather the substance. The writing was peculiar. It was certainly not that of a crippled hand. Besides, the owner of the crippled hand could not write the hand prevented her: so I had heard her say. Whose, then, was this ? It "bore no signature, nor any address—yet, I knew quite well who had been the writer, and who the re- ceiver of it. I folded it carefully—placed it between .tho leaves of my pocket-book—and joined Clara in her search for fern8. During the next twenty-four hours, two important things happened. One was the delivery to me of a letter from Monsieur Corvier, in which he stated that he had succeeded in obtaining of my uncle's whereabouts abroad, and gave me the particulars ol his address, in case I should deem it advisable to hold any communication; but this, for certain reasons, I did not at present deem advisable at all. The other was still more important,—at least] thought it so. Mrs. Daring came to me before dinner, and asked me take a stroll in the garden. Her man-j ner was quite kind—almost affectionate. I went at once, and putting her hand through my arm in a most, friendly manner, she said It seems to me, Miss Ashton, that you are wasting your time and opportunities in this place. Pardon me, a stranger, for saying so, but anybody whc would be interested in you, as I am, could not fail tc be of the same opinion. With your talents and ac- complishments you ought to do great things, but here you really have no scope you are not half appre- ciated. Now, I happen to know a family, going abroad, who would be delighted to have your services, on my recommendation. With them you would, thoroughly nappy, and Would have golden opportuni- ties fur improving yourself in every way." I listened to all this, without interrupting her and then answered, very quietly, that I had not at present the smallest intention of changing my where- abouts. I could see that she was much disturbed, although she affected to be quite cheerful. In every possible way, she urged mo to allow her to introduce me to her friends, combating me at every point, and even hinting that sho-being in Mrs. Beech's confidence—was in a position to know thai that lady contemplatad, ere long, making some changes in her establishment, which would affect cer- tain persons very deeply, and that it would be mori for the advantage of such persons to signify to hei (Mrs. Beech) that they desired to leave, than for hei to signify to them her desire that they should do so. From this I did not in a.ny way dissent, but merely answered, in the same unruffled tono in which I had betore^poken, that for the present it suited my ar. rangements to remain in England, and that if, at any time. Mrs. Beech desiici to dispense with my ser- vices, I would take the warning from herself alono- not through any third person, be that person ever so inft uential. at every step, she turned from mo with bitter pasion in her face, and began to arrange her shawl, in which occupation I smilingly helped her, and she smilingly thanked me,—not knowii g that I had perceived the afore-mentioned bitter passion. I was not angry with her for speaking thus to me, although I despised her for it. Even if her motive had been a good one, she had exercised a wrong pre- rogative it is not because our impressions arc right, that wo have authority to flash them unpreparedly and unadvisedly in the faces of others. Mrs. Daring was a clever woman, but she was a bad woman. ] do not, as yet, aver that she had been guilty of any OftnnV primp Great Crimea rnin fnar it is the little meannesses, seiusiinesses, and impuri t that do the work of death on men and women and these march not to the sound of fife and dru n. Tney steal with mudled tread, as the wary foe steal: upon the sleeping sentinel. As we returned to the house, to dross for dinner, the conversation turned upon lighter matters and it struck me with a keen sense of the ridiculous, to see how overwhelmingly polite we were to one another yet each secretly endeavouring to hedge the otho; round with an inextricable mesh, for different pur- pos a, certainly, y ot so it was and I inwardly laughed, to think how completely was i-a mere girl -(1. match for this elderly designing woman. It was the story uf Castris and Angelica ovei again. That night, on retiring to my chamber, I felt op- pressed by a violent thirst, consequent on having eaten freely of some confections, which Mrs. Daring had produced after dinner, and of which she and all of ua had more or less partaken Seeing that the caraph had been freshly filled, and that it was placed temptingly forward upon tho table, I drank copiously of its sparkling contents, and im- mediately afterwards went to bed and slept soundly. When I awoke the following morning, my head was aching horribly, and an unaccountable drowsi- ness seemed weighing me down. On going to the toilet-table, I found that the caraph was empty, and that the position of various articles appeared to have been altered. My pocket-book, however, lay just as I had placed it. Something prompted me to open it; and on doing so, I was startled to find that the scrap of paper which I had placed between the leaves, was gone.

CHAPTER V. mmediatoly upon making the discovery mentioned h° l0TC/°^e chapter, I sprang to the door, ex- pccting to find that it had been in some way tarn- pored with although, as well as my confused head would allow me to recollect, I had certainly locked it on tho inside. And so I found it. Who, then, had been the intruder, and how had it been managed ? This was a mystery. Seeing no l' 1:>, immediate clue to it, I noted it down in my memory, to keep company with some other important mys- tencs, and having made my toilet, descended to the breakfast-room. ^ll ^mbled were well, and in high spirits. No- ;-ody had a headache except myself, so I said noth- ing about mine. We had no lossnna f .1-- ci. _i cursion interfered as usual. I was pressed to join it, but declined, according to my custom and, when the carriages had left the door, I s'rollod into the draw- ing-room, and sat down to the piano. The prospect of a whole long day to myself, was an inestimable luxury, and I prepared to enjoy it. Scarcely had I touched the keys, when Derrick Daring entered the room. I thought that he had gono with the others, and I told him so. u X 0," he answered, "I do not care for things. Candidly speaking, I thought you had been one of the party, and was genuinely surprised to find you here." Thi; I believe as implicitly as I credit every word he utters. lIe begs of me to continue playing, and strolls idly towards a table, whero some portfolios of prints arc displayed. He hangs over them for some time, and then brings a large and finely-executed engraving, which ho lays before mo. It represents a man, young and rjoblc-Iooking as himself, sealed in a miserable garret, with only his Bible for a companion whilst the reverse side of the picture shows a of luxury and wealth, presided over by a hideous phantom, intended to represent- Sin. Do you believe in that, Miss Ashton?" Derrick says quietly. I look np, and our eyes meet. In what r" In feoblo man, triumphing over the temptations offered by wealth and pleasure—in the Bible, making a mortal happy in the midst of poverty and want ?" I hang my head, and answer slowly— ) I have, unfortunately, not been religiously i brought up, Mr. Daring; yet my feeling tells me, that man, fortified by superior grace, may find in that Book tho certainty of his reward." He draws a chair to my side, and his hand wanders idly over the keys, drawing from them a weird and melancholy music. I am absorbed in the picture we ire cach, as it were, unconscious of the presence of j tho other; both wrapt in our own thoughts. Pre- sently he ceases playing, and says— Tell mo, Miss Ashton, have you found one—even one—in all the world, willing and able to ignore the temptations of wealth? Is not selfishness the fashionable attribute ? Does not each man respect i himself before ho thinks of his neighbour?" j Then I raise my face, which is burning, and say— j The truest self-respect is not to think of self." He gazes at me earnestly—lays his hand upon my J trembling fingers, and says— j I have never been answered thus before, onucl, child you have taught me more than all the philoso phy of Locke and Bacon." I There is a pause, during which ho walks to the window, and stands gazing out. Presently he says in a lighter tone— I The day is fine, Miss Ashton ? it is a pity to be ) indoors. Come and walk in the woods." I My heart gives a glad bound. I spring up joyouÛy < md get my hat, anl we stroll down—two happy beings-through tho yellow crocuses, the laurels and sparkling evergreens, and so into the little wood. The signs of Spring are everywhere. The trees are bursting into joyous leaf, the birds are singing the sun shining with almost the warmth of June. My companion breaks off a twig as we enter the wood, and carries it thoughtfully to his mouth. Foi my own part, I am intent upon mangling a hyacinth, j which I have pulled as we pass through the pleasure- grounds. We are both ill at ease: both conscious that a crisis is approaching. Derrick breaks silence, and says— Miss Ashton, l hope I am too honest to pretend that I have brought you out here merely to enjoy the beauties of Nature. I wish to say a few words to you without fear of interruption. I am not like .othei fellows, who can beat about the bush, and make fine speeches. I am so unaccustomed to woo, that I know noi tho way to do it. Yet, it is from my heart I speak when I say that I love you well. I fancy, without egotism, that you return at least something of my affection. Am I right f" I hesitate so long, and damage the hyacinth so bar- barously, that ho takes it from my hand, and repeats his question. Then I say, You take me by surprise, Mr. Daring. It is scarcely fair-it is-" "No," ho interrupts, you are not surprised. You knew what I had to say. You knew that I would say it the first opportunity. Be honest; you are not surprised." "But, "I remonstrate," our positions are so d'iiforent; you ar8-" Again ho inteiTupts me, saying—" Not a bit of it. You are going to.say, < -QI! positions are differ. ent—yo:i are tho guest—I am tho governess.' Believe mo, your position is the more enviable of the two. Now, listen tome: I shall be brief. I am almost forty—you are not qu'to twenty. I am not overburdened with this world's goods—you are not burdened with them at all. We are both active, hoalthy, independent of others. The world is before U3 shall we go into it together ? His is a wondrously beautiful face. It is gazing at me with an intensity which I can scarcely bear. We are near a seat, and I sink upon it, feeling strangely overcome. Ho sits besido me, draws me gently to him, and repeats his question, Hh-U wo go into it together ? There is a great 1;I r-. in cVe3—in my soul—in Liiy gla'l. I—as I lift ruy face to his. Icanmake him no answer in words, but he does not want one. He draws my lips so near to his that I can taste his breath—gazes at them—touches them lightly with his strong brown hand—and places his own upon them with passionate fervour. When he parts from them, it is grudgingly, nor does he release me, but seeks to gaze into my eyes, which are downcast, for I cannot but be shy of him. It is my first kiss—my first love-my first peep into that Silvanica of which Viuvius speaks, when he says— "The world was nowhere there, For heavenly magic filled each foot of space." I awake from a short dream of perfect bliss, to the daylight of unpleasant reality, and say abruptly— Mrs. Daring She will not be pleased ? He strokes my hair, and answers—"No. It is a prcof—one of the strongest—of my love for you, that I am willing, for your sake, to forfeit her affection." And you will forfeit it ? I Undoubtedly." And why ? Why docs she hate mo so bitterly ? Simply, because I love you." Then she knows it ? "Yes." « XT 4..1d C •• She has questioned me, and I have not deceived her; that is enough for the present." "How will you tell her of our-our-engage- ment ?" I speak the words hesitatingly, and with burning blushes. A great shadow crosses his face. I shall not tell her, Maude: at present, at all events. I shall tell nobody." "And when is it to be known ? "Not yet; not yet! You are not in a hurry to tell it Maude ? Can we not keep our own happy secret for awhile ? Methinks it will be less aweet when others come to know it. P And he clasps me closely to him, but I draw bacK startled. "I do not understand," I say In bewilderment; why should there be any concealment. You are Burely not ashamed of me ? "Ashamed he repeats, raising his hat from his brow, and looking reverently upwards—" Ashamed God knows, that if ever I have known one proud moment in my miserable life, it was that, in which your silence gave you to me. God alone knows that I could have but one prouder moment: that in which I might show that I thought that life of little worth, if its sacrifice could bring you happiness." The tears are positively in his eyes. I have never cried in all my existence, but I feel nearer to it now, than I have CVer done before, for his tone is earnest and touching, and his face is as the face of an angel. There is a pause, and then I say— "I do not want to proclaim our engagement: I shall be sorry when it is known; but I think I ought to be told the necessity for concealing it." He stands up, looking greatly disturbed, and takes i turn or two up and down the narrow path. Then he comes back and resumes his seat beside me. Maude," he says, very gravely—" had you been i rich young lady, surrounded by wealthy and power- ful friends, I should have loved you all the same—I could not help loving you—but I should have died, md made no sign I saw you, young, unprotected, surrounded by frivolities and dangers, with the world ill before you, full of hideous temptations—and I said to myself, I can at least offer her a better fate than this.' I saw that you loved me I thought that you would be willing to share my pathway through the world. If you marry me "—and he draws my head to his broast-" it must ùe-do you hear me, Maude ?—clandestinly Do not shrink, my darling: lifralugn'Wvet'rWiM, a^K\ uh to make this sacrifice. Will you nnke it ? Will you come awiy with me to a fur distant land, where I can acknowledge you for my wife? or, will you stay here, md be my wife, unacknowledged and unsuspected ? It must be one or other. Is not the former the best r" I am so confused—so sick—my heart and head ire aching so wildly, that I am powerless to anwcr him. He sees this, and falls upon his knees before me in a kind of agony. Maude, do not hesitate My whole future life is on your reply. You can make me what you like an honest, upright, God-fearing man, or the veriest devil with whom the earth is cursed After this day, there is no mid course for me. I knock at the door oi Heaven—or, of lIell I look at him, as he kneels at my feet, and ask myself the question—" What is there in me—a simple girl—to influence this giant frame, and giant soul sc strongly?" I cannot answer, but with a gush oi tears—the first I have ever shcd-I place my hand in his trembling grasp—and our betrothal ia com- plete. I start back with a sickening heart-pang. Behind the hedge—close to us—so close, that I can see th< terrible glazing of the eyeballs—there is a face, likt the face of the dead My companion does not see it; his back is turned towards It; and, as I spring up with a wild cry, hE clasps me to his breast, and looks around him. The face is gone there is not even a rustle amongst the trees, nor through the leaves of the laurels. We walk forward,—there is nothing but I have seen that face and, to my dying day, the memory of it is to haunt me. I say nothing to my affianced. He thinks I am ill, and draws me tenderly tOWLrds the house. A few rain-drops fall heavily as we pass in at the door. I go straight to my room, and throw myself upon a couch, were I remain until the returning of the car- riages warns me that the day is far spont. Very often, during those quiet hours of self-com- munion, I hear a stifled sob or sigh, so close to me, that more than once I rise up startled, and look about mo. For a long while I cannot make out whence the sound comes. At length I go to the window, which is a lattice one, and, for the first time since I became in inmate of the house, step out upon the verandah. I see that other lattice windows open upon it also, and from one of these—the nearest-arc the sobs pro- ceeding. I close my casement as tightly as I can, and strive to shut out the sound. In another hour I go down to dinner. All are issembled, except Derrick, whose absence is not com- mented upon, Mrs. Daring is silent, and throughout ;he evening sits with folded hands, as if absorbed in thought. I watch her closely. She moves her, fingers aervously from time to time, and it strikes me that aer crippled thumb is not perceptible to-night. Per- laps it is getting better it must be, for at dinner she iorgot it altogether, and was only recalled to a sense )f it by a hasty movement on the part of her son Carl, who, as usual, ministered to her wants. Before we separate for the night, Derrick joins us. He looks haggard, and is not in evening dress, for which he apologizes, by saying that he has only just returned from the City, where he had been all day. He does not approach my side at all; but when we ire saying Good night," he presses a note into my aand.

CHAPTER VI. "I have thought much, all day, over our'conver- sntion of this morning; and, after severe fighting with myself, have arrived at the conclusion that to bind you in any way (at least for the present) would be inconsistent with honour,—considering your ex- treme youth, and the nature of the circumstances under which our marriage should take place. I shall, therefore, leave you free until our next meeting, which shall be, God willing, this day month. To- morrow, I go abroad for a short time. On the first of April, the household at Beech Hill move to their residence in Mayfair, to enjoy tlie London Season; you will, of course, accompany them. I shall look forward to seeing you during the second week of your stay in town. In the meantime, I think it wiser that we should not correspond, and I entreat of you to examine your heart closely, so that in the years to come, I may be spared the bitterness of knowing that you repented a hasty choico. I shall bo at the entrance to the laurel-walk to-morrow morning, at seven o'clock, prepared for my journey, If you agree in all that I have said, and are willing to trust me for the rest, signify the same to me, by appearing for a moment at your window, at the lioui I have named.—D. D." This is Derrick's letter. I read it over and over again, by the lamplight in my chamber. It is cer- tainly not very lover-like in its tone. I am half inclined to be indignanhat it is not more so. And | yet," I say, he is rig; were it otherwise, it would be a contradiction oftself. He leaves me free: therefore, he cannot-ader such circumstances- address mo as a lover." And so, with my bin in a whirl, to which the perplexities of Lamfus were as nothing, and which would certainljhave distracted that unenvi- able Roman, I got to 1:1, where I lie awake, count- ing the dismal hours, ifcil morning. At seven I am up, at at my casement. I can see a figure standing at ft entrance to the laurel-walk —a noble, manly figurflvhich I know well, and love dearly. Th e face is turadowards my lattice, and I raise my handkerchief in ten of trustfulness and fare- well. He lifts his hatwaves it once in the air—and disappears from my vir. As he goes, a greatloud comes over the sun, and a few heavy rain-droplash suddenly down. I close the lattice with an omius dread, and shiver in the chill air which has stol into the room. All that day, I go schanically about my duties. I cannot enter into tin with my usual interest. I am living like one in Jream. Superlatively happy in the knowledge thai am loved by the man whom I adore with all the with of my young and untried heait; yet supreme1 yiiserable in being separated from him. For many succeedinjlays, it is just the Bme; and then, I begin to settldown, and to be, outwardly at least, as though theirbid stream of a clandestine affection had not miied with the hitherto undis- turbed current of myfe. (Toe continued.)

TEMPERANCE BETINGS AT MOUNT PLEASNT CHAPEL. ADDRBS:S BY LADIES. On Monday evenij last, a meeting in con- ncctiou wilh the Conty Temperance Associa- tion, was held inMount Pleasant Chapel, Poutypool. Muchnterest was manifested in the proceedings, an soon after the time for commencing had arved the large chapel was filled by an attentivaudienoe. The chair was taken by tho pastorthe Rev T. LI. Jones. A hymn having been aig and prayer offered, The Chairman rdarked that he was not going to make a speih that evening, as they had como to listen tcthe ladies who were ex- pected to address tlin. He was not in the predicament that ewing in which he once found himself. A lay had been announced to deliver a lecture, andie had been asked to oc- cupy the chair. The ady failed to put in an appearance, and the nult was that he had to preach. Two of the hree ladies who were to address the meeting oithis occasion were pre- sent, and perhaps theywould be quite enough to occupy the time. ley had such a wonder- fuHy successful day atCross Keys on Sunday, that they were anxious to prolong their stay. They therefore prevaild upon Mrs Durrant to stay, and she would bo-there on the following night. He had now intch pleasure in calling opon Mrs Payne to addess the meeting. Mrs Payne, who in ising was received with applause, said she ha< very great pleasure in standing before them hat evening as a repre- sentative of a body kiown as the Working Women's Teetotal League. It had been urged that drinking habits an( drunkenness were very much on the increase anong her sex so they were banded together to wipe away this re- proach, and had dcteroihed to do ail in their power to banish strong drink. They believed that the mothers of Enjfand wielded n great power, and to the mothers they therefore ap- pealed, and they asked them, if tliey drank ever so moderately, to give it up for tho sake of others. But she was fast running into a teeto- tal speech and she wfebed before she weut further to sing a little melody, in tho chorus of which she hoped the audience would join. [Mrs Payne here sung "There's a light in the window for thee, brother," t'ith considerable effect.] Resuming her address, she remarked that she had been an abstainer for rather more than nine years, and they had been the happiest years of her life. Besides the temporal advan- tages gained, she had found something which "sent her on her way rejoicing." Sho and her husband had waged continual war with each 0ilif.1 +I!L*IT"<TVI 'tsiiu' luitP idattMCu through total abstinence. She had reasons to wage war against strong drink; it had robbed men of many hours, degraded her, and dessolatcd her happy home. But some good ladies present might say, "I take only a little—a half-pint at night and a half-pint in the morning," and so forth. She remembered the case of a young woman, who formerly lived near her, and who through taking a little drop became an in- veterate drunkard, and who a short time ago was committed for the manslaughter of her child. She (the speaker) had been an abstainer for nine years since that 13th of April when she was liberated from gaol, but she wished all present to understand that her imprisonment was due to no dishonesty—it was brought about by drink. For I the sake of the 60,000 who were perishing annually through intemperance, she besought her hearers to sign the pledge of total abstinence. (Applause). The Chairman then called upon Mrs Hayward, who was greeted with applause. The speaker commenced by remarking, that she wished to clear up one point in Mrs Payne's address. Her imprisonment, she (Mrs Hayward) wished all distinctly to understand was not produced by any act of dishonesty it was the result of a drunken brawl. Some people when they get drunk laugh, while others dance out Mis Payne quarrelled, and she was punished for her quarrelling. But in this consequence the punishment was nothing but a blessing in disguise; it had wrought out her salvation. Mrs Hayward then said that she was president of the Working Women's Teetotal League and if ever a woman occupied an honourable position, she did. She herself was one of the happy people they might, term a retired working man's wife. She and hard work quarrelled about five years ago; and they had such a "tumble out" then that they had not "made it up" since. And she was very thankful to say that she had never been a drunkard she was an exceedingly moderate drinker; she took a little once or twice a week but she believed in it, and be- lieved if she gave it up it would kill her (laugh- ter). Personally, it had never injured her but it had ruined her husband-the father of her children. She was rather a sly drinker, how- ever, for she always took it when her husband was away (laughter). But she was nearly for- getting the important fact that she could smell the fumes of strong drink the moment her hus- band came into the house. She remembered going to hear a temperance address by an emi- nent minister. The address was most earnest it searched her heart and thrilled her soul. They were urged to give up drink for the sake of others, and for the sake of setting a good ex- amplo to their children. Give it up for her children She would willingly die for either of her boys or girls. She went home, convinced but not converted. Her husband soon after- wards signed the pledge, and she-his wife,the poor, weak thing—decided to continue the little drop." A question put by a friend led her to become a total abstainer. In the course of oonversation the question was asked, How long shall the weak one stand alono ?" Not another moment," she replied. She at once signed the pledge, and had remained faithful to the pledge for 26 years. She now became very anxious as to what she should do when her father came to visit her. The old gentleman was as moderate as she was a half-quartern of gin, with warm water was {he extent of his fuddling." At length her father came to pay the expected visit. She told him, as best she could, of the step she had taken. The old gen- tleman replied," You will be sure to be ill." "I cannot help it, father," she said and she began to think she was getting ill laughter). The difficulty was at once settled she popped the kettle on tho fire and made him a strong cup of souchong—real good stuff-and so the matter ended (applause). This was a first-class method of testing friends. If their friends really loved them they would have no objection to come and drink a cnp of tea with them (hear). She (the speaker) had seven children seven of the finest boys and girls in England—or Wales. (Laughter.) Three of them were married, and if she told the truth, she would have to confess they had made her a grandmother. (Laughter.) To the parents—to the mothers she appealed that evening. Did they love their children? She felt that they did, and kuew they would suffer anything before harm should come to them. Suppose a wild beast were coming down the street, aud a mother were in the street with one or two of her children how she would clutch them, and place them behind her, and battle to death rather than that a hair of their heads should be harmed. And yet the wild beast of intemperance was slaying its thousand t ] and ten thousands, and its ravages were almos unnoticed. She implored the mothers to givo up drink in order to save their children. (Ap- plause.) Sunday School statistics told them that one out of ten Sabbath scholars joined the Churches. Every thinking mind began to won- der. Where arc the nine? Yonder in Wands- '1 worth where she lived a young man of only 23 years lay dying. He had once been handsome, but he was now a complete wreck. lIe said he had once been taken to a Sunday School, and was taught the lesson of Jesus and His love. He went out into tho world his companions taught him to drink ho became a degraded outcast aud now he said, I am going before my God to give an account of the deeds doue in the body This was one of tho nine. Yon- der on a bridge in London is a fair young crea- ture, with dishevelled hair, going to her death as the result of drink. Those bridges, if they had tongues, could tell such tales of bitterness and woe as would make their hearts ache. The poor frail creature takes one plunge, and the waters receive her, and then flow on as smoothly as if nothing had happened. This was two out of the nine. Who was that miserable hag that stood outside tho door luring young men and women to destruction. She possessed not a vestige of humanity. But let them not judge too harshly. She onco was nestled and fondled at a mother's knee, and was taken to a Sabbath Scnool. Her love for drink may have been fostered at home. There may have been those there who said, as many said now, It will do them good—it will make them grow." Y çs, it made her grow it mado her gro'.v into the wretched old hag they saw. This was three out of the nine. She (the speaker) once knew a young man of high talent and great promise, a preacher of the Gospel of the living God. He contracted habits of intemperance, and his name was erased from the church-books, and he be- came a miserable outcast and a wanderer. She had heard that young man preach most power- fully, and had seen the whole congregation bathed in tears. She had seen, too, penitents weeping and brought to love the Saviour thro' the instrumentality of his preaching. One night, some time after the young man's connection with the church had ceased, her husband was crossing Waterloo Bridge, when he saw some poor fellow clothed in rags, with shoeless feet, and presenting altogether a most pitiable ap- pearance. He was passing on, when the stran- ger accosted him by name, saying, "Mr Hay- ward, give me some pence, for the love of God, give me some pence, or I shall die." "Robert," said her husband," is that you ? Why do you wish me to give you pence ?" "For drink," he replied. He had not so far forgotten his dignity as a minister of tho gospel as to tell a lie. Her husband took him to an eating-house, and gave him a good meal, but he made no promise of amendment. His ono despairing cry was, "I cannot give it up." Some time afterwards, in taking hold of a daily newspaper, they came across the following—"Died, in a three-penny lodging-house, in the East-end of London, Robt. Major, son of a veterinary surgeon." At tho inquest, a young man, who slept in the same room, came forward and gave evidence. He said that on the night previous to his death, Robert Major handed him a piece of printed paper, accompaning the act with the words, "Will you kindly read this, friend?" The I lights had been already put out, and tho young man had no opportunity of readiug the paper that night, so he "tucked it under his pillow. In the morning he turned to read it, when he found it was a tract. He immediately jumped out of bed, intending to tell the young man who had given it to him that he wanted none of his trash, when ho discovered him to be dead. His spirit had gone to give an account to the God who cannot lie. This was four out of the nine. Many years ago, when she worked, she was what is termed a lady's dressmaker i" she never worked but for carriage folks." One day a lady came to her house—and she seemed a perfect lady—accompanied by a gentleman. She ordered her (Mrs HaywnrJ) to make her a dress of the most costly description. Time after time sire came, always ordering her dresses of the most costly materials, and they were to be made as she (the speaker) pleased. She once asked leave to send a dress home, but the goods were always called for. One day she entered the shop alone. When she (M rs Hayward) counter, and said, Will you pardon me ? Will you allow me to sit down ?" Certainly," was the reply. The lady had evidently been drink- ing. She was taken into the house, and the speaker there put her on a sofa, first taking the precaution of removing her shawl and boots, so that there could be no possibility of her leaving the house. The house was kept perfectly silent, and for two hours she slept. At the end of that time she awoke, and began to weep bit- terly. Mrs Hayward, after inducing her to partake of some good tea she had prepared, began to talk with her, and said, "Do you see my pledge card over there ? (pointing to a pledge card, splendidly framed, which hung over the mantel-piece); sign the pledge, and come over on our side." Her story was, indeed, a sad one. She was the daughter of a gentleman farmer in the West of England. In a town near her home a fair was held once a year, after which a ball was given. One year, when she was only 17 years of age, she obtained her father's consent to attend this ball. In company with a lady friend she was present at the ball, and danced several times during the course of the evening with a strange gentleman, who paid her great attention. Twelve o'clock came, and her friend spoke to her with respect to going home; but her answer was, I shall not go yet: I shall stay a little longer." She was fascinated by the attentions of her part- ner. The friend left for home, and not till then was the young lady requested to partake of drink. Up to 12 o'clock she had tasted nothing but now she consented, and she remembered no more until she was far away from home. The gentleman with whom she had danced was with her, and persuaded her to accompany him, promising to make her his wife. She consented, and lived with him. At the end of 3 months they quarrelled,when she threatened to leave him, and return to her friends. Do so," said he do so, and tell them you have been living with a swell mobs- man.' At the time of the above incident she had been living with him for five years she was now the slave of intemperance, and could not burst the fetters with which she was bound. The speaker removed to Wandsworth, the neigh- bourhood in which she now lived. Several years passed away, and she wondered much what had become of the poor creature. Meeting a friend she enquired as to her whereabouts. The friend's reply was, she is transported, for she became like the man she was with, a common thief." After relating all amusing anecdote told by Mr J. B. Gough, of two drunken fellows who could not distinguish between the sun and the moon, and who referred the matter to a mutual friend who said he could not tell them, as he was a stranger in that part, Mrs Hayward concluded her address with an eloquent peroration in favour of total abstinence; and urged her hearers, for the sake of those they loved dearest and best; for the sake of fallen humanity to sign the temperance pledge, and God would bless their efforts. (Applause). After singing, and a prayer by the Rev. T. LI. Jones, the proceedings terminated. We understand that 44 pledges were taken at the close.

A SECOND MEETING Was held on Tuesday evening, the Rev T. LI. Jones again occupying the chair, when the building was crowded to excess. In addition to Mrs Payno and Mrs Hayward, a stirring ad- dress was delivered by Mrs Durrant, Secretary of the Working Women's Teetotal League. At the close no fewer than 103 persons signed the pledge, the total number taking] the pledge as the result of tho two nights' meetings being 147.

DR. RICHARDSON has published, in the current number of the Contemporary Review, a valuable article on the abuse of chloral, opium, alcohol, and other Narcotics," in which he brings forward some startling facts concerning the increasing use of such dangerous and fascinating- poisons, which, after a time, establish a craving that must be satis- fied, even at the cost of life itself. The learned doctor refers more particularly to chloral hydrate, whilh he states to be injurious to mental* moral, and physical life, and the habit of taking it lads to inevitable diseases the digestion is impaired the blood is changed, the secretions are depraved, the nervous system loses its power, the muscles become unsteady, the heart irregular and intermit- tent, and the mind excited, uncertain, and unstable. Absinthe, the consumption of which is daily on the increase, the doctor describes as "a consum- mate devil of destruction."

GARIBALDI has made a demand for the annulling of his marriage with Signora Raimondi, and the lady has mado a similar demand.

A ROMANTIC MARRIAGE. The filets oi the case in which William Ballard whc was charged at the Worcestershire Assizes, last week of attempting- tho Lie of Susan Little and afterward: of his own have been fully reported. It will bt remembered that the jury on the summing up of Mr Justice Hawkins convicted Ballard of unlawful wonnding only, and as both the prisoner and the gir were willing to marry his lordship released thE l-~ upon his entering into his recognisances o: 100 to come up for judgment. if called upon. Th< sequel to this strange story was reached on Saturday when Ballard led the girl Little to the altar, tu ceremony taking place at St. Mary Magdalene, AVor- cester. Tho high sheriff and other magistrates wh< had interested themselves m the ease provided s special license; and thus the man, who only a daj or two ago stood in the dock on the charge of at. tempted murder and suicide, was within six hours of his release leading to the altar the girl whose lift he had attempted. The greatest interest was mani. fested in the proceedings, and a vast concourse oj people assembled at tho church at eight o'clock in th( morning to witness the happy termination of this affair. The bride, a bonny lass of twenty-two, was given away by rolice-sergeant Cook, and after the marriage nosegays were presented to the bride, and the public, who gave them a hearty ovation, strewed their path with flowers, and showered them with rice. The wedding festivities were kept at a house in t. John's, and subsequently the now happy pair pro- coeded to Inkberrow, where Ballard's parents reside.

THE WEATHER OF 1879. Without indulging in unreasonable alarm (says the Lancet) we cannot help regarding the long continu- ance of the present cheerless weather as likely tc produce a great strain on our national resources. On all sides we hear disastrous accounts of the condition of the crops, and the Register-General informs us that the death-rate in every week of the first half of the year, except two in February and four in June, has been above the last ten years' average. Gloomy as are our prospects for the next few months unquestionably are, there is no reason for despondency. But as the outlook is, we doubt if matters are nearly as bad as they were in 1838 and 1839. In the former year the rains of the summer and autumn were so incessant that the merchants of London, Manchester, and Glasgow, wild were aware of tho connection between an unfavourable harvest and the importation of grain, and the consequent exportation of precious metals, on coming to the front of the Royal Exchange, and looking up to the watery sky, were wont to exclaim, "Tlie Bank will tho Bank will break The year 1838 was followed by a year equally disastrous the quantity cf rain which fell in every part of Great Britain in cach of these two years was double the usual amount. Great distress undoubtedly ensued throughout the country, but wise measures were adopted by the Governmont which led in 1811 to a flood of prosperity which overspread the country for more than two years, till the recreation caused by over-speculation, the result of this prosperity again brought anxiety and distress among tho people. The conditions of I860 were very similar to those now prevailing, and those who look upon the incessant rains of the present year as a judgment for national sins may reflect that this year, as in I860, we are threatened with a worse visitation than mere pecuniary loss, anxieties, and privation. In 1860 the cholera was threatening England, and it was the opinion of many eminent sanitarians that the enemy was warded off by the heavy rain cleansing the drains, and giving the poor an abundance of sweet, clean water. This year the plague has threatened Europe, and, although we know but little of laws that govern its development, we may reasonably surmise that any tendency to spread westward should be retarded by low temperature, an atmosphere in- cessantly washed by rain, and the prevalence of wes- I terly winds.