their homes, their very lives, are all that very time placed in jeopardy, for objects they neither understand nor desire, by men far more cool-minded, judicious, and humbly wise, than themselves; -anarchy gathering its materials of destruction, while they walk unconscious the mountain-side after their flocks, ready to burst like the Daear Dor of their land, whose waters silently collecting, at last burst open the mountain, like a volcano, and hurl shepherd and sheep, and home, and fields, and all in its reach, a rolling ruin, to the valley below, while not a soul knew of the watery ambuscade, but walked the surface in peace and sunshine.-Sir, I say, when I observe the doings of demagogues, and the horrid dangers they play with, as an idiot with a sleeping wild beast; and the sweetness of this our island, whose entrails that inbred wolf-intestine war, will tear if such idiots succeed in waking him from his two hundred years' sleep; I feel for my country, my children, not myself, more than I can express; something of what you felt and feel under that martial murder, the blood of which, though on your hand, I venture to say is not upon your soul, or, if ever it was, has been long since erased by the noble compunction which brought you to these "green," from those "tented" fields.

Quaker. Let us hope, that Cambro-Britons will set an example to their neighbours, as they have hitherto done, of “peace and good-will towards men;" and not only in their churches and meetings, but in their sweet hayfields and thymy mountain sides, remember what they pray for there, "peace in our time."

Major. Enough, doctor, your tea stands-don't get up, I can reach you the bread and butter, and cup too. "Accipe-ede! non enim tibi gladium præbeo sed panem. Accipe rursum et bibe; non enim tibi scutum sed poculum trado." "Othello's occupation gone," thank God! "no more of swords or shields!"

Doctor. What gentle spirit of the air hovering round us invisible whispered in your mind's ear that most happy quotation? You remember, of course, its occasion: of all I ever read in antiquity, that seems to me the most painfully pathetic passage; and it takes all its pathos from the very topic we have wandered into -civil war. Those who read the history of Wales during the last civil war, must recollect its sufferings, as well as in those of York and Lancaster. Roman or Welsh, ancient or modern, this plague wears the same face of horror. In the civil war between Vespasian and Vitellius, the women conveyed provisions into the camp of the latter. The soldiers so relieved, pitying their countrymen whom they were to fight on the next day, stole by night to the quarters of Vespasian's army, and in presenting this unlooked-for blessing, used the words just adapted by the Major; for those so relieved could not help suspecting treachery, and

their benefactors allayed their suspicion by that most melancholy address. Let us have it in our own mother tongue; it has been engraven on my heart from a boy. "Accipe mi commilito, accipe-ede, &c." "Take it, take it, fellow soldier, eat! It is not now a sword I extend to you, but bread! Take this, again; it is not my shield I hold toward you, but the cup,— drink! For, whether it be my fate to kill you (to-morrow), or yours to destroy me, we shall at least die the more easily, for you will not torture me by a feeble stroke, and thus make me long in dying, nor shall I you. These are the only exequies these poor bodies of our's will ever know; let us thus perform them while we live, my brother!

Quaker. Shocking! mournful and piteous to the last degree! Doctor. Yet we know, that this is not only true, but, in its spirit, at least must have been acted and felt a thousand times in every civil war; aye, probably, even in the "glorious three days" of 1830, and in the pseudo-glorious of 1832, in France. "He who can read this with dry eyes-he who can think of it without execrating the authors of civil dissensions, cannot bear the heart of a man in his bosom. In what a detestable light do those wretches appear, whose influence could lead these brave and merciful men to become the butchers of each other."

Surely some course of peculiar bitterness is reserved for those diabolical spirits, who for private gratifications break the bonds of society! (How many in the world's history have ever broken them for public ends!) Is there no place of punishment for those demoniacs? I could as soon believe there is no hea for the virtuous."

Quaker and Major. Amen.

Doctor. I am pleased to have your joint assent to this sentiment, though it is only mine by adoption; this last reflection on that little tragedy of history being not mine, but St. Evremond's, the celebrated French exile and writer of Charles the Second's age. There is a truly old English heartiness of indignant feeling about it worthy of the occasion.

Quaker. Talking of the Romans, and seeing the gust with which we have all feasted on mountain air and morning dew, duly amalgamated with solider matter, I'm thinking what blockheads were ancient epicures never to use that exquisite sauce. We don't hear of their studying the relish, but only the supply. They studied the art of luxury at vast expense, but never the art of appetite, which costs nothing.

Doctor. Do you think if Apicius had ever conceived the "measureless content" in which my maw is at last shut up upon six rounds of that once-thumping brown loaf with rye in it,

that the fellow would ever have sought that content all over the world as he did? have fitted out a vessel and sailed off from Minturnæ, in Campania, all the way to the coast of Africa, only to taste a larger kind of oyster than was to be procured in Italy? Not he.

Quaker. There was a sort of sublime of tragic gluttony in the last act of his epic oyster hunt. Finding he had been misinformed, his wrath and melancholy so prevailed that he set sail back again instantly, would not even touch land, but turned from the hopeless shore in heartbroken silence.

Doctor. Yes, that was great indeed; something akin, but more expressive, to the stern mournful silence of Dido in the shadow of the forest of hell, turning away from Eneas. Unhappy Apicius! Hope-killing oysters! But the best of the story is, his poisoning himself at last through poverty. The wretched man had but £40,000 of our money left in the world: he must have starved if he had not killed himself, so he resolved (constant to the death) to save his darling stomach from the pains and penalties of poverty. He had spent, you know, upon it, and those of his friends, the trifling sum of £807,291 13s. 4d. Now, considering the perpetual satiety of a maw so pampered, is it not pretty probable that the whole sum of his felicity derived from the table never amounted to that which we have received, (for myself, I must say it is a receipt in full,) from the plain diet, strewed on this green sod? For which " the Lord make us truly thankful."

Stage Third.

PROMONTORY OF PENRHYN, MERIONETHSHIRE.

The above (which we have presumed to baptize a promontory, as another long projection of land in Caernarvonshire is so called, that of Llyn, though many miles in extent,) is that narrow extension of the county which runs out between the Traeth Mawr and Traeth Bach, the two estuaries of the two rivers Glaslyn and Dwyrio. It goes narrowing from the village of Maentwrog and its bridge, till it terminates in the sea by a rocky point, including, in its course of a few miles, much variety of landscape.

The Major-The Quaker-The Doctor.

SUNDAY-Sunset.

Doctor Jaques. My life to a cock sparrow's that a man who travelled by a guide-book or tourist's direction, never yet found this little Thessaly in Wales, this temple of the two Traeths,

that we are now looking down upon. Call Snowden yonder Olympus, and that opposite range of mountains on the Merionethshire side Ossa; and take which river you please for a Peneus, and the length answers well, about the same as that of the Grecian curn, five miles. But look at my Welsh classic vale's advantage, a perpetually peeping sea. I don't believe the "blue Egean" beats the Bay of Cardigan. Yet your picturesque travellers come not hither, but file off at Maentwrog, right or left, for Festiniog or Beddgelert, and leave-God be thanked! the two Traeths, and poor Penrhyn, with all its hermit farms, rich grassy dells, and rocks and woods, to me and the sea gulls, flitting white across under the blue vault, from one branch of the sea to the other; for ever may fashion so shun thee mine own Penrhyn, and leave thee sleeping between those arms, as a happy child folded in an empress mother's, quite unconscious of all the pomp of protection around it, while her voice, lowering the tone of royal dignity to that of a mother's lullaby, sings it to sleep as sweetly as if it never spoke destiny to a realm! Who could think that lulling moan we hear is the roar of the great deep? but it is.

Major. Let us mount this eminence, we are already pretty high; we shall then see into both Traeths. Faith, warm work! The sun's hot still, though he's on the edge of the sea almost.

Doctor. Do you see both? I must rest.

Major. I see a little picture, and a vast picture,-either worth climbing the Andes for. Here's a very steep wood, and through its fine gloom I look down on two or three old stone cottage farms, almost a wild looking village; their roofs green as sod; and a little blue cloud, formed by the stagnant smoke of their supper fires, hangs "round as a shield" above them, in the midst of the wide golden mellow bask of the declined sun, that hangs full over against the estuary mouth, and lights up all the little fields about; even the black peat-stack looks cheerful in it. All's rest to-day, like the calm in the sky and the sea, being Sunday.

Quaker. It is quite telescopic, this perspective of the fir-tree trunks and their black breadth of shade above; it heightens the effect of all the brilliant yet dying glory of landscape we spy through it, so deep down. They milk late to-night-I hear a girl calling the cows; (what fine cows we see here! its a pleasant sight,) calling and quavering away between whiles, like a Catalani. I think she s in that very green little meadow that shines here and there with running springs, and with many ivied rocks standing detached, all about.

Major. There is a female in that field, calling cows; but do you know the singing voice you heard is an old man's, a very old

man's, by its quaver. white as snow, and he's rock, washing himself.

Now I see him clearly, his head is as thrusting it under a spout of water at the Ha, ha, ha!

Doctor. There's something to me wonderfully pleasing in the spectacle of a man thus white headed, yet light hearted, (in cities you rarely see it,) thus placid, healthy of mind, healthy of heart, a happy child in all but grey hairs; after buffetting with so many foes, so many plagues, so many cross chances as a long life must have brought down to beat upon one and weigh upon the other, like un loked-for whirlpools and horrid shadowing ice-islands, besetting a benighted ship on a Polar voyage of discovery, that one may reasonably give up for lost.

Quaker. Is that thy real idea of our voyage of life, friend Jaques?

Doctor. Why no, not exactly; really of every body's voyage. But I was going to say, that to see the human voyager at last, whom one might have given up for cast away at least, secundum rerum naturam, bring his good ship into port thus merrily, is like the surprise with which those ashore see the ship of my simile coming home with colours flying, sails and decks white as they went forth, all hands a-board alive still, and giving three lusty cheers for wives and sweethearts. I think this old fellow's carol is as gladsome.

Quaker. Ah, doctor, but the old man's port is the grave. Where's the wife and sweetheart there? Thy parallel is incongruous.

Doctor. Well, "the worm" is the sister; he returns home, you'll allow.

Quaker. And, farther, dost thou mean, friend doctor, that he was born with a white head? Broken parallel again.

Doctor. Friend, thou art critical. By white sails and decks I did not typify white hairs,--but metaphorice white mind! white bosom! purity of hand and heart, and all our inner tackle.

Major. Your nautical flights of fancy are in place here. This is a sort of amphibious district, at once rural and marine, a peculiarity of touching interest to the picturesque traveller. We have met already several young men, evidently seafaring. Two or three of the old farmers we saw resting themselves in reverence to the day, leaning over their half doors, or sitting on their benches before it, formed of the native rock, bore the stamp of their rough foster-mother, the great water graved on their faces as deep as letters on an old grave-stone, looking as bluff, too, aye, as the fat cherub head a-top of one, mossed with age. Many a wife lives lonely in these pretty white homes, and rolls her eye, often wistfully, toward the great mouths of the Traeths and sea