LOVE AND A QUIET LIFE. Two faithful souls, for twenty years and more, And Ser Taddeo was yclept the swain- The lady was a placid roly-poly A very carnival personified; In look for all the world resembling wholly A plump fowl fed on rice for Christmas-tide. Fat as a friar, and paunchy as a sack, Her dear Taddeo's form was like big B. A comfortable soul! whose fine broad back A lump of dough that walked, paused, puffed, and vied Taddeo by his charmer would sit down, With "How d'ye do, love? How's your appetite ? "Indeed," quoth she, "I can't complain my own." "And you, do tell me, did you sleep last night ?" And there for half the day he'd sit and prose, Suck in content the tranquil nonchalance The while that lukewarm lady, soft and slow, Bleated small simpers at her darling dunce; And oft when evening signalled with the dark (Not stirring from the sofa, by the way, And yawning first), "Love! is the weather clear?" "Oh! splendid!" "What's o'clock? do tell me, dear!” "Just eight." "What! eight? I'll go and dress directly." "Ay, do!" "But won't it bore you so to wait ?" "No, no; don't hurry!" "Oh! I dress so quickly." (And there they squat the while, as fixed as fate.) "What time, Taddeo?" "Nine." "Well, I suppose I must go dress," but deuce a bit she goes! "Taddeo, dearest! will my black gown do?" "Yes; wear the black one." "Must I take my shawl? Advise me, do!" "Ay, take it." "But, you know, The weather's warm!" "Best not then, after all." But there they stick; until she asks again, "What is the time, dear love?" "It's half-past ten." "Good gracious! Where's that maid? I wish she'd come ?" "But why go just to see the curtain drop?" "Another time. To-night we'll stay at home." "You're more than right." "Well, then, it's time to sup!" And at this breakneck pace, as you may guess, All other matters of their lives progress. O blessed peace! O close and sacred tie ! This faithful pair first told their tender love. When half an hour had mutely passed away, Taddeo plucked up heart, and broke the ice. "Pray, madam . . . did you like the cream to-day ?" "Delicious! "I'm so glad you thought it nice. The ham, too?" Exquisite !" 66 "And then the birds?" Beyond all words! "Tis true that we had hardly room to sit." "Nay; 'twas a pleasure, when one sate by you ; But if, dear ma'am, I jogged your arm a bit, Trust me, 'twas what I could not choose but do." "Don't mention it! You suffered, I suspect? I'm stout, you see.” "An excellent defect!" "Indeed ? " "Indeed! 66 That face now, in my eyes, Blooms like May-day. Long may it last in blow!" "I'm healthy!" Healthy! Fresh as Paradise!" "Come, come! I'm somewhat stout !" For my part, if I might, I'd very fain "And better so. Have leave to call upon you, now and then." "Oh! you'd be bored!" "I bored! What words are these? "Twould rather be my best and primest pleasure." “Fie! Now you're flattering! Well! come when you please !” "I think, dear madam, in no common measure, Our characters are fitted to unite. What do you say?" "La! Well-perhaps they might!” 478 In the Land of the Eisteddfod. LIKE a great many other people Mr. Stainley of Brompton had occasionally seen the word Eisteddfod in print, but its nature as well as its pronunciation had always been an absolute mystery to him. Still, he was ever ready to learn, and it was with the greatest delight that he accepted the proposition of his friend Mr. Busby to join him in an expedition with a view to ascertaining something about this mysterious thing. For Mr. Busby had been invited to Llanrhyddiog by his aunt, for the occasion, with permission to bring a friend. First, Mr. Busby did his best to give his friend an idea as to the way in which the word Eisteddfod was pronounced. He said that if written properly it would be something like Eyestethvod; and as to its nature, it might be said to be a great meeting of the bards. Mr. Stainley wanted to know what a bard was, and Mr. Busby said he believed anybody in Wales could be a bard if he chose; and he was not obliged to have a harp. But he promised to introduce Mr. Stainley to Professor Jones, who would tell him all about it. Five or six hours' travelling by the Great Western the next day brought them to within four miles of their destination; and as they commenced their journey by road to Llanrhyddiog, they were practically advised of the evils attending the want of punctuality, which is a characteristic of the Welsh people. It is quite useless arranging things in Wales, for your true Welshman treats time and appointments with contempt. He prefers to muddle on until he muddles into a rut, and in that rut the wheel runs sluggishly, obstinately, grinding down all obstacles. It had been arranged that the old lady's phaeton should be waiting for her visitors at the railway station; but somebody had evidently forgotten. all about it, or it had gone to meet some one else, or the driver had gone on an errand with it first. Under these circumstances, there was nothing to be done but to ride on a shaky omnibus that was not much bigger than a large-sized packing-case, drawn by a desponding horse, and driven by a large-jawboned, sour, hungry-looking Welshman. As a rule, the driver of a public conveyance is regarded as a kind of entertainment. The wit of an Irish car-driver is proverbial, and the mysterious dignity of an English stager invests his remarks with authority. The contrast was so great between all other known coachmen and this Welshman, that Mr. Busby felt absolutely guilty in having brought his friend into a land that could produce such an object as the driver of a coach endowed with neither wit nor wisdom. The influence of the man's silent presence was so depressing that both travellers felt wonderfully relieved as they entered "The World's End" at Llanrhyddiog, where David Jones, the landlord, received them with a degree of hospitality almost enthusiastic. David Jones was cherishing a hope that the gentlemen who had travelled on his "mail-coach " would stay in his house. But he seemed to be afflicted with a feeling of caution, visible in a lingering expression in the corner of his eye, as if he would like to have a good look at his guests unobserved. It was a kind of, How much shall I ask? or, What can I get out of you? or, Will you cheat me? look. It is the custom of men all over the world, with few exceptions, to ask for more than they mean to take, and offer less than they mean to give; but nowhere can the system be carried to so great an extent as in a Welsh market. Your thorough Welshman will out-Jew a Jew at a bargain. Lounging about the entrance to the World's End, as our friends entered, and seated in its kitchen, were some dozen or so of colliers, drearily smoking. They had just come up from the pit, and their garments were very diversified with patches and coal-dust. There was a remarkable contrast to the native population in another room of the inn, in the person of a rather coarse-looking stranger, who smacked his lips as he ate his dinner, and made a perfect demonstration of being there, as if he were not at all afraid, and wished people to know it. "A fine day," suggested Mr. Stainley. "Oh, yes, it's a fine day," said Mr. Gulpin, the stranger. to these parts, sir?” "No, thank you," said Busby. "Belong "Same to you," replied Mr. Gulpin. He had come down on business, he added, but he thought he might possibly put in an appearance at the Eisteddfod. On the next morning the church bells of Llanrhyddiog rang their best. Most of the shops were closed, and the houses seemed to have emptied themselves into the streets. The day was a dry and a warm one, and dust was consequently plentiful. The dust of a Welsh town, in the neighbourhood of a colliery, is of the blackest description, for it is principally composed of coal-dust that lies about the pathway like so much black lead. Lolling about the town, some sitting on the parapet of the bridge over the stream, were the colliers, dressed in their best. The best of a Welsh collier is a suit of black cloth of ordinary cut, and a common cloth cap. For the most part, when so dressed, they will keep their hands in their pockets, a luxury their daily labours deprive them of. These colliers do not talk much, but now and then one of them will pass a remark in Welsh on the figure, dress, or manner of a stranger passing by, and then his companions show their yellow teeth in a dull, dry way, and cross or uncross a leg, or otherwise shift their position, to shew they are alive to and appreciate the joke. The great men of the town were going to and fro, wearing on their breasts imitation leeks, made of green ribbon, and metal Prince of Wales's feathers. The women, too, wore their tall hats; and such of them as could not afford such gorgeous attire, contented themselves with that oddly-shaped straw head-covering that is neither a bonnet nor a hat, and partakes of the nature of both, being expressly adapted for the use of those who desire to carry loads to market on their heads. The dresses of the women were very warm and comfortable, composed of linsey; nearly all being of the same pattern of black and red stripes, on a brown ground, arranged in a novel manner, with the front of the skirt taken up by the hem to the waist, and pinned behind, as some women in England are wont to do when they carry water. The petticoat thus exhibited was of similar material, and reached to within a foot of the ground. Most of the dresses are partly open at the neck, and display an ample white neckerchief, and the shoulders were covered by a woollen shawl of similar pattern, and in some cases of a brilliant red colour. Many of the faces of the older women seemed pinched and contracted; with few exceptions their skin seemed parched and dried up, and their dark eyes seemed almost terror-stricken, making them look as if they were in constant fear. These women were hurrying about in twos and threes; and it was noticeable here, as in most Welsh towns, that the appearance of the women was more refined than the appearance of the men. The Eisteddfod was to be held in a large tent, and, though announced to commence at ten, it was eleven before there was any sign at all of a commencement, and this sign consisted of a number of people flocking to the entrance, with fiercely earnest faces, as if something very dreadful had happened, and crowding through the doorway faster than John Jones could collect the tickets. This made him very angry, and gave rise to much gesticulation. The mania for immediate entrance had not seized all intending visitors. Some were loitering still. There was William Griffiths, a grim-looking farmer, perfectly oblivious of time, talking to Griffith Williams, who was oblivious also. “Ar 'ou going to try with 'oo harp, man?" asked Griffith Williams. "No, indeed, not I. I was try last year, but there is William Jones, he is to be one of the judges this time." "Ay, ay, indeed now it is great pity he was be made a judge of. Yes, indeed," responded Griffith Williams. That William Jones was to be one of the judges, would be held, by any one who knew the facts of the case, a good and sufficient reason for William Griffiths not to compete for a prize; and if you were to ask William Griffiths why, he would tell you, " For you to understand, it was but small matter, but William Jones was keep horses, 'ou see, and one of the horses was kick very bad, and he was kick the groom, and killed him. So that for you to understand, there was to be an inquest upon him, and I was on the jury. And we was all asking questions, according to the rule; and for you to understand, I did ask if the horse was ever kick before. And so he say it was a very unneighbourly question to ask, and ever since he was bear me ill-will, shocken bad, yes indeed." |