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En Memoriam.

DANIEL THOMAS,

COLLIERY PROPRIETOR,

BORN JANUARY 15TH, 1849; DIED JANUARY 27TH, 1884.

On the morning of Sunday, January 27th, 1884, occurred at the Naval Steam Coal Colliery, Penygraig, Glamorganshire, one of those terrible explosions of gas, by which, ever and anon, the mining districts of the county are swept as by a simoom; bringing desolation to the hearths and homes of the sons and daughters of men. In the pit at the time were eleven souls-overmen, firemen, ostlers and others—whose fearful fate, immediately it became known, excited in the intrepid fellow whose portrait we give this month a determination to attempt their rescue. He descended the pit with a number of volunteers, and notwithstanding the most frightful difficulties, succeeded in penetrating the workings to where horse and man had met a common death from scorching flame or poisonous choke-damp. In a gallant endeavour to second the efforts of a powerful youth named John Jones, bent on ascertaining the fate of his father, Daniel Thomas perished, in the prime of manhood and the flower of health, as noble a sacrifice to man's love for man as any ever recorded. For bravery displayed under almost similar circumstances, namely, in connection with the miners entombed at Tynewydd, Mr. Thomas received, April 20th, 1877, the Albert Medal of the First Class, bestowed by the Queen, who has written expressing her sorrow for his sad fate.

WELSH POETRY IN ENGLISH DRESS.

то THE LARK.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Translated by A. J. Johnes.

Sentinel of the dawning light!
Reveller of the Spring!

How sweetly, nobly wild thy flight,

Thy boundless journeying,

Far from thy brethren of the woods alone,

A hermit chorister before God's throne!

Oh, wilt thou climb yon heavens for me,
Yon starry turret's height,

Thou interlude of melody,

"Twixt darkness and the light!

And find (heaven's blessings on thy pinions rest!)
My lady love the moonlight of the west?

No woodland caroller art thou,

Far from the Archer's eye,

Thy course is o'er the mountain brow,
The music in the sky!

Then fearless be thy flight and strong,

Thou earthly denizen of Angel song.

*

*In the original the imagery is so rich and diversified that it is almost impossible to give a close translation. The preceding must be considered, therefore, in the light of an imitation,-an expression of the leading ideas,rather than as a complete and accurate translation.

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Old Welsh days! I never see an old-fashioned Cambrian mother, with ball of yarn by her side, plying her knitting needles and gazing with spectacled eye upon the passer by, but I am carried back to the old days when distinctive characteristics were common, and railways were not, and the voice of the Saxon was rarely heard. That aged Welshwoman! Her fingers

worked with as much rapidity and instinct as a girl's do nowadays on the piano. She no more looked at her work than the skilled musician does at his keys, but would talk as volubly as if she was doing nothing. And had not she a voice? Talk of the Cardigan herring dealer or the old Welsh farmer! Her voice would ring out like a clarion over the far-away hill side for a truant Sarah Ann or Betsy Jane. Far above passing sounds would that wonderful voice be heard, and woe betided the truant if it were not attended to.

I am happy to say that some of the descendants of the old lady, whom our facile artist has placed at the head of this article, still pursue the knitting customs, but more stockings are bought from shops than used to be, and lagging fingers oftener spend John's earnings in that way, or in buying from wandering stocking vendors, than in knitting stockings themselves. Wherever the assimilation of English and Welsh becomes marked, as in the large towns of Wales, the knitting habits lessen, and you must go into the agricultural districts, where the population is sparse, to see anything like the old stocking industry. Take Cardiganshire for example. In one of the Cardigan parishes-and the one I refer to in particular is that of Caron, not far from Ystrad Meurig-one might have seen fifty years ago and less (possibly still may see) the old stocking knitting habits of the Welshwomen. It was a primitive parish. The crops were rye, barley, and oats. One rarely saw any wheat. For apparel the inhabitants not only made their own, being very adept in carding, spinning and manufacturing, but sent large quantities to market. It was the boast of the ablest knitters that they could knit a stocking large enough for a man while a goose was roasting, or a pot boiling for a good hot supper. One of the customs of the parish was to hold what they called a Gwrid. A number of girls would assemble after supper at each other's house in turn, and knit for the love and honour of the thing. The yarn would be let loose of equal length, and the first who would knit up to the knot was regarded as

conqueror.

I daresay many of the Cardigan women, wrinkled and ragged, one meets with journeying to market or at work in the field labouring, in as primitive a way as in the time of Boaz, could tell pleasant tales of the Gwrid and the old friends who met to contest the palm, the silence not unfrequently broken by tales of Canwyllau Cyrph, or other mysterious visitations, and at such times, when some thrilling incident or other would be related, how the fingers galloped in pulsation with the heart, and at the catastrophe not unfrequently every eye would be turned on the listener, and the fingers be most unusually

at rest.

Here is a Gwrid tale once often told.

The stables and coach-house of Hafod were haunted. I heard my grandfather tell the tale often and often. As soon as John would put up the harness or bridle, down it came again. Brushes flew about the place right and left. It was quite dangerous to be there. One night the stables were burnt down, and then the squire thought he had got rid of the tormentor. But no, as they built up the place it was pulled down again. So he sent for an Oxford gentleman who happened to be visiting at the vicarage and there was a grand performance. He made first a circle on the ground, and had a table placed within it, and on the table a Bible. Then he read a bit out of an old book, first ordering everyone to keep within the circle and not to move, no matter what came. As he read, a wasp came viciously towards them, as if to sting them, but they never moved. Then a bull dog leaped out at them with open jaws, still they kept quite still, and after gnashing its teeth at the very edge of the circle it disappeared. Next came a bull foaming towards them, and it was hard work they had to remain, but they did, and then the Oxford man conquered. The tormentor was at his mercy, and was condemned to banishment under the sea until he had cut off a fathom of rock with a small hammer and a tin tack. Out at sea on still nights you can hear him at work. It's truth I am telling. Ië yn wir? Chorus of the assembled: "There now;" Dyna ychwi.

AP ADDA.

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