as though they couldn't help it; and Efenechtyd, with its natural untrained choir, possesses a treasure which many a town organist might envy. St. Michael's is said to be, with one exception, the smallest church in the diocese of St. Asaph; and it seems rather likely to be true, as its length, including the chancel, is only about forty five feet.

It contains a font of most ancient appearance, as well as the remains of an equally ancient but more elaborate roodloft. On the outside of the east window are strange marks in the stone, said to have been caused by the sharpening of arrows, but as this sounds rather like "the dark ages," I should be glad to hear of another explanation of the mysterious scratches.

At the entrance to the porch are two other interesting relics of past ages. On the left there is a large stone called carreg gamp," or "the stone of the games," formerly used in the rustic sports of the villagers, in feats of hurling and throwing. On the right there is a hollow stone trough, now filled with water, whereat the shepherds' dogs may quench their thirst, but in pre-reformation times it was probably used to hold the holy water, or as a font. One thinks of the dismay which would fill the hearts of the original worshippers could they now see its use. I fear they would consider it nothing less than a sad

act of desecration. Still another remnant of Romish times is to be seen on the door of the church, -an iron knocker,-tradition has it that in some way or other the Virgin Mary is to be summoned by it; another solution would be its use in exorcising evil spirits, but we would rather think of it in connection with the text,— "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you."

There is, inside the church, a wonderful looking old Welsh tablet, but so obliterated by time are the letters that it is impossible to decipher its meaning or history.

The name Efenechtyd is supposed to be derived from "Mynach," a monk, and "tyd," land, and it requires little imagination to turn it into "monk's land," and to picture a cowled figure pacing up and down among the trees which one can well believe date from pre-reformation times.

A former rector of Efenechtyd became bishop of Norwich, and his affectionate remembrance of "this sweet spot," showed itself in practical form, for in 1710 he presented a handsome service of communion plate to his old parish, which is now regularly used and much valued for its antiquity, and for the kindness of heart shown by the donor. The inscription on chalice and paten is as follows,

"The guift of Doctr. William Lloyd, Late Bishopp of Norwich in Anno 1710, to the Parish of Evenechtyd."

dales;

Where waters are rushing, where fountains are gushing,

'Mid sweet scented flowers the lark pours its air; Thy far spreading moors with great mossy boulders Are dearer than monuments rich and rare.

O! land of my fathers, the land of bright waters, Thy voice in the praise of thy mountains so high,

Thy zephyrs they woo the delights of thy wood lands,

And all sleep reflectant where smooth waters lie; O land of my fathers, O! land of my fathers, 'Tis more than a song that can sing of thee, 'Tis fraught with emotion that swells with devotion

To recall its old love for the land of the free.

GEO. HOWELL-BAKER (Gwenynen).

in a few rich benefices and in church dignities, until within the last twenty years. The Tittwos are a proud race, for many of the literary celebrities of the last two hundred years have belonged to their family, though there are some notable exceptions, like John Bunyan, Johnson, Burns, Walter Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and Carlyle. Nothing seems to give the family greater satisfaction than the fact that not a drop of Welsh blood runs in their veins. Had they been religiously inclined they would undoubtedly have thanked heaven for this signal mark of its favour, but as it is, however, they simply swear at any one that questions the validity of their boast.

I have thought it right and proper to preface the following veracious narrative of Professor Tittwo, and his achievements, with the foregoing short account of his kith and kin, from which it appears that, though he, poor man, thinks himself a complete alien, he evidently dwells in the midst of a numerous company of relations and family connections. The professor, after a brilliant career at one of the ancient universities, where he also obtained a fellowship, came down to Wales, and by the help of excellent testimonials, and strong recommendations from a bishop, a lord, and a member of Her Majesty's Government, he was immediately appointed to the chair of Parallelograms and Pneumatic Syntax,-where, it does not matter. Many of his cousins, with whom he regularly corresponds, hold similar appointments in the Principality.

Not much need be said about the professor's personal appearance. He is moderately tall and very thin, his face is shaped like a violin, with greater length than breadth, and is adorned with a somewhat long and distinguished looking nose, the tip of which is terrestrially directed. Some students are of opinion that this feature is an index to the character, but the Welsh are proverbially fond of fanciful inferences, and I have been credibly informed that the principal of the institution deprecates any attempt at drawing conclusions from the length or the point of the professor's nasal organ. The locks of his raven black hair fall gracefully behind over his coat

collar, but they are not curled to any considerable extent.

Until the professor came down to Wales, his only experience in teaching was a little he had gained, five years previous, at a church Sunday school, when he was desperately in love with the vicar's daughter. Then he was a greater proficient at boxing the boys' ears than at leading them in the paths of knowledge. However, the neighbouring squire carried off the object of his adoration, and he quickly ceased his attendance at the Sunday school. This biographical item has not been communicated to the world by the professor.

In order to better prepare himself for his work, he makes a point of reading all the letters and articles on Wales that appear in the Times. That being the case, I need not inform the reader what his views are of the Welsh people, their dissent and radicalism. He freely tells his friends that he has only accepted the appointment among this inferior and wrong headed race, just to wait until something better turns but his class, that has heard the rumour, is much afraid that this expected event may be long coming.

up,

The professor is a kind hearted man, as most of the Tittwos are, and like scholars and authors in general, he will purr audibly when stroked the right way. But it is not often he enjoys that pleasure. He is also very conscientious according to his lights and code of ethics. He began his career with the benevolent intention of thoroughly reforming the country and assimilating it more, that is one of his favourite expressions,-to the English ideal. He was resolved to do his best to make the Welsh love the English language, and recognize its superiority over all other tongues ever spoken, and he also hoped to make dissent and radicalism look so absurd that they would loathe quite as much as they now loved them.

It was with considerable surprise and indignation that he heard the class break out into unmistakable signs of strong disapproval when he once confided to them his philanthropic views and intentions. He feels sore ever since that his kindly meant services have been so rudely rejected. (To be continued.)

THE

HE Llenor for January will be entirely about Glasynys. It will be a fully illustrated number, and will contain many poems that have not been published before. Though one of the most popular of our poets, there has been no collection of Glasynys' works. As in life, so in reputation, Glasynys has been most unfortunate. During his lifetime, he was distrusted by the Nonconformists on whom he had turned his back; his keen devotion to Welsh literature was one reason, at least, why he was not preferred in his new sphere. The Llenor will, undoubtedly, do for him what it has already done for Robert Owen and Gwilym Marles,—it will call attention again to lovely lyrics that are in danger of being forgotten.

The Glasynys number will be followed by full numbers on Goronwy Owen, Robert Jones Rhos Lan, Alun, Lewis Morris, Morgan Llwyd, Glan y Gors, and others. By publishing well printed and prettily illustrated handy volumes of these authors, it is expected that they will be much more generally read than they are now. Our poets and prose authors have suffered much because editions of them are generally expensive, difficult to get, incomplete, and far from attractive in appearance.

Urdd y Delyn, a guild of Welsh children, is making satisfactory progress. A little penny text-book, the first of a series, has just been published for the use of the Urdd by Messrs. Hughes and Son. It is a collection of Welsh proverbs, to be read, discussed, and explained in the children's meetings. The result will be, it is hoped, a more simple and a purer style, and greater directness and force of thought. The danger of our young writers is inaccuracy of Welsh idiom, vagueness, irrelevance, and bombast. The learning and careful study of four hundred proverbs during childhood will be an excellent discipline, and the discipline most wanted.

Of the odes sent in competition for the Newport chair, two have already been published. Berw's ode has appeared in

GOSSIP.

the Haul, ending with this month's issue. Elfyn has published his in a sixpenny booklet, sold by the author, Llan Ffestiniog. It is understood that these two odes were in the running with that adjudged best for the chair. The Rev. J. T. Job (the victor), Berw, and Elfyn are all well known in Wales. A little volume recently published by Elfyn contains some of the prettiest things in the language.

The biography of the fourth "Independent Father" in Mr. L. D. Jones' series has just appeared. The "Father" is Griffith Hughes, of Groes Wen, who was born in 1755. The biographer is the Rev. C. Tawelfryn Thomas.

Seren Gomer now appears as a bi-monthly magazine, edited by the Rev. Silas Morris, M.A. There is no lack of literary resources among the Welsh Baptists of the present day, and the old periodical ought to be very successful in its new and attractive form.

I am often asked what Welsh papers and magazines contain trustworthy reviews. I only know of one, and that is the Traethodydd. There may be others, not known to me. Too often a Welsh review is a mere puff or an opportunity for a damaging and undeserved sneer. Very few Welsh reviews have their well-known and trusted reviewer; the book is reviewed by the over-worked editor or sent off to a friend of the author." Criticism is a mean department of literature at best; Wales, fortunately or unfortunately, is almost without it. Indiscriminate praise, and spiteful attacks, have make Welsh readers lose all faith in Welsh reviews,— they are much more willing to believe

advertisements.

Memoirs of eccentric preachers, often concealing the deepest knowledge of human nature beneath a surface of laughable oddity, have always been very popular in Wales. A very readable memoir of Robert Jones of Llanllyfni is the latest addition.

Casting its darkling shade o'er morning's light,
Stifling my inmost soul in morbid gloom,
Forth from phantasmal terrors of the night

Came this dread thought, penumbra of the tomb;
Till outraged nature forced the bitter cry,
O strong Creator! was I formed, -to die?

His mighty arc the glorious sun began,

And o'er the quivering earth shot gleams of gold, Till teemed with light the blest abode of man,

And life quick followed light, yet still the cold, Dull thought made all things take its sombre hue, All lovely life must vanish like the dew.

Yes, like the dewdrops, scintillating gems,

That deck with liquid beauty leaf and spray, Converting roses into diadems,

All evanescent glitter! Bright decay! And like the dewdrops glistening into death, All is extinguished with this mortal breath.

A flood of recollections surged me oer,

The landscape faded into village school, The loving voice long still rang out once more Of him who held our hearts in perfect rule, And eager glances, chained by accents kind, Conveying visions to each dawning mind. Extinguished? No, when the tears speed to heaven, And to our sight imperfect cease to be, In nature's crucible, each dewdrop riven, Lifted on high a new life yet to see, May still in blessed showers besprinkle earth, And in a pulsing ocean find new birth.

Help me, O God, to trust infinite skill,

Teach me with reverent gaze thy truths to view, Lead thou my steps, keep back all dread of ill,

And when bursts forth the dawn, O, like the dew, With gentle fingers draw my life to thee, To find through death an immortality.

WHEN twilight tints had faded from the sight,

In mists ascending from an autumn night,
The dews of death from realms of mortal doom,
Fast spread o'er loved bard their saddest gloom.
In genial youth his glory dawned bright,
A nation raptured hailed his mid-day light,
Flow'd like a glowing tide his splendid fame,
The muses vied to celebrate his name;

Now changeful time had brought the poet low,
The shades were gathering o'er his noble brow,
There, while the mid-night gave its solemn chime,
His soul was passing on the ebb of time;
Love pouring sighs upon the dismal air,
Could not detain his fleeting spirit there,
Dear ones forlorn upon the shadowy shore,
An anguished farewell wished, could do no more.

The winds of autumn rustled on their way,
While with the dead beloved ones watched the day,
On heavy wing time cleaved the clouded night,
Death seemed in ambush there to check its flight;

Where lingered morn? would darkest night depart,

Before her rays, they asked with aching heart, They feared and wept, they slept to start in dreams,

And looked imploring for the laggard gleams.
They who had seen his face wear pallid hue,
From off his brow had gently wiped the dew,
Who had with tears beheld his failing breath,
And quenched his parched lips in throes of death,
Could not repose, with hollowed sorrows rent,
They vigils kept and prayed for morn's ascent.

With languid step at last the morn drew nigh,
On brooding grief she gazed with pensive eye,
With fingers light she touched that head of grey,
Which pillowed low seemed dreaming of the day.
But vain she pressed, with loving grace,
The sightless eye, that fair and placid face,
She only traced the beauty there expressed,
And shewed the peace with which he sank to rest.