the Russian government towards Poland, or by the German government towards Holstein, is adapted by the British government towards Wales. He might enter post offices, in parts where Welsh is practically the only language, and find the government post-master absolutely ignorant of the Welsh tongue. I once turned into the post office of a sleepy little Welsh town, where English is rarely heard, to despatch a telegram written in Welsh; but I found that the post-master was absolutely ignorant of that language. The stranger should be told, however, that this does not prove that the British government is tyrannical, it only proves that it is sometimes possessed of the stupidity or ignorance which, according to economists, prevent men and governments from finding and following their true interests. It is mismanagement, but not a conscious injury and insult to Wales. We often read in magazine articles of the wonderful things done by the post office authorities in the way of deciphering illegible addresses, and in forwarding letters to insufficiently described addresses, -except, perhaps, one to "John Jones, of London," or the child's missive "to my mother in heaven." But give these clever people the Welsh name of a Welsh town, the name by which it is known to at least a million of our gracious Queen's subjects, and the clever public servants are at their wits' end. In Belgium it does not matter whether you write Antwerpen or Anvers, in Switzerland it does not matter whether you write Genève or Genf or Ginevra; but in Wales, if you write Abertawe for Swansea, you will probably get your letter back undelivered. Let me give two examples only. Some time ago, a member of my family wrote a letter to an out of the way Welsh village, and dated it "Nos Fawrth," which, being interpreted, means "Tuesday evening." The letter could not be forwarded to its destination, and it was returned to the writer at the address of "Nos Fawrth." For days and days this poor letter wandered from post office to tc post office, in Wales, vainly trying to find a place called "Tuesday evening." A month ago I wrote a letter to a well known public man residing at St. David's, and, forgetting what our post office system may do, I wrote it in the Welsh form, familiar to me from childhood, of Tyddewi. Tyddewi is the home of the patron saint of Wales, it is one of the four cathedral towns of Wales, it was the resort of crowds of pilgrims, and now it is the resort of crowds of holiday seekers. It forms part of the only bit of geography many know, the bit which describes the length and breadth of Wales,— "From Llanandras to Tyddewi, From Caer Gybi to Caer Dydd." But my letter went to all sorts of places before anyone thought of St. David's. Had our members of Parliament not better appeal to the Post Master General, asking him to issue a regulation, to all important central offices, that officials should know the Welsh name of every town in Wales containing more than fifty thousand inhabitants? A FOREST MADRIGAL. AWAY to the forest, come, haste along, And leave the merry huntsman's song; Come away, come away from the maddening throng, To the forest cool and green! Come away, come away, for rest so sweet Mid forest boughs where songsters meet, And the winged hare and the hind retreat, Away to the forest green! Away from the heat, to the forest shade, Where wild flowers grow amid the glade; And the startled fowl through the rushes wade, Away to the glen where the echo dies, Away to the forest, and join the swell J. CRAVEN THOMAS. Illustrated by S. MAURICE JONES, W. W. GODDARD, and others. THE summer holidays are close upon us, and our minds wander, from school and office and work, to some high mountain home among pine trees or to some stretch of yellow sand along the margin of a sea that is ever new. The fragrance of the pine forest, the bracing mountain air, the soft exhilarating influence of one's favourite sea-side home.-one's imagination dwells so strongly upon them that the breezes, with healing on their wings, have almost been conjured up to wander about one, while pent up in a city office, fanning one's hair and cooling one's brow. Some of us will find a sea-side nook and there rest, out of the reach of letters and newspapers. Others will wander along the coast, from place to place, breathing mountain air and sea air alternately. Others again will take entirely to the mountains, and ramble from brook to brook, over mountain after mountain, finding fresh delights every day, and resting in whatever village they happen to reach at nightfall. In July I am going to walk or ride along the Welsh coast, beginning where the ivied Rhuddlan castle frowns down on the Clwyd, and ending where Chepstow watches the Severn from its rock. In August I mean to take a mountain ramble, along the whole length of Wales. The train rushes along the coast of North Wales, passing through Flintshire grimy villages and Flintshire pleasant fields of clover and wheat, leaving the land of coal and manufactures further behind us every minute. We lose sight of the estuary of the Dee, and the open sea stretches before us, and Anglesey is not yet within sight. The sea and freedom and health,—they revive all dead hopes, they renew all feelings of delight. New plans come into our mind, new surprises for those we serve and love. The train stops at Rhyl. Crowds leave it, and well may they choose Rhyl, for it is almost everything that nature and art can make to entice the holiday sojourner into it. Its promenade is magnificent, and from it the glorious Vale of Clwyd stretches into the mountains, with its golden breast of wheat. Here we alight, and our tramp along the coast begins. We cross the skirts of the Hiraethog mountains, the wild home of the lark and plover, from the valley of the Clwyd to the valley of the Conway. Right beneath us rises the stately pile of Conway Castle, where the Conway flows into the sea. On our left the enchanting valley of the Conway invites us, with all its romantic glens and historic scenes. On our right the Great Orme peninsula stretches out into the sea, with the ruined court of the kings of Wales on its neck, and ABER. LLANDUDNO. with lovely Llandudno sheltering beneath it. From Conway our path lies along the jagged and precipitous edges of the gigantic Eryri, the last home of Welsh independence. Above us mighty historic remains, now silent and untenanted; below us, dashing against the precipice through which our path is cut, the sea which once owned the sway of Maelgwn,-we pass from the shadow of bold and craggy Penmaenmawr, and wander through a series of pretty villages, with unrivalled mountain scenery on the one hand and with unrivalled sea scenery on the other. When we come to Aber it will be very difficult to withstand the temptation to wander up the lovely glen where Llywelyn once lived and where the waters still fall from the heathery mountain into this beautiful glen of woods and rocks. Wereach Bangor, and here it is possible to find new pleasures with every new day. We can sail along the Menai, between low lying Anglesey and Snowdon, until the fine castle of Carnarvon comes in sight. From old Carnarvon we cross the little Seiont, followed by the ruined home of Roman and Norman, and we journey on merrily along the shores of the Arvon peninsula. Gigantic Dinas Dinlle,quiet Clynog, the submerged Caer Arianrod out to sea, there are THE ROCK OF "THE RISING OF THE LARK." PASS OF ABER GLASLYN. steeple. Rather than go on along the coast, past Hell's Mouth, to Aberdaron and to the stormy saint's rest of Bardsey, let us cut across the peninsula, a delightful drive or walk, to Pwllheli. We are now on the southern side of Arvon. Snowdon rises majestically to the north, the whole expanse of Cardigan Bay lies before us; and, if the day is clear, we see the dim outline of St. David's land, the extreme south western corner of Wales, and the old land of wonder and magic. From sheltered Pwllheli, rapidly developing into a favourite winter resort, we pass along an open pebbly shore into the more bracing and exposed Cricieth. Its castle, where Sir Howel of the Battle Axe once clove skulls and played chess, still frowns on its firm rock, in grim contrast to the gaily dressed visitors to this delightful place. Let us ramble hence along the sea-side of Moel y Gest, with its glorious views of sea and mountains. We pass isolated churches, one of them containing the |