were neither obvious nor important, at least I could not perceive them. The second time-and this was nearly ten years after the first-time had been more relentless. Many whom I had left in their prime had become visibly older. The scanty locks of the elders were whiter, and the features of the women were shadowed out into a more sedate and calm complacency. This was the grave side of the picture ; but it had its smiling aspect also; for those whom I had left gamboling in all the happy mirth of conscious childhood, were now blooming in all the gaiety and gracefulness of youth. Nearly twenty years elapsed before I had another opportunity of revisit ing my native valley; and then, sad indeed were the alterations which had occurred in my absence. Such as I had left well-stricken in years had long been slumbering in the grave; some of the younger branches had also withered, and those that remained had sunk into the sear and yellow leaf, and were very different, oh how different! from the gay and joyous beings I had seen before. I saw no fair and well-known faces; I heard not the greeting of friendly lips, for a new generation had sprung up, and I was now a stranger in mine own land. I went into the church-yard, and the spot where I stood was full of summer beauty. I looked upon the white grave-stones, and read the names of many that I had known in happiness, and in health. I thought of the Sabbath mornings, when I had, stood by the gate, and seen all the way to the House of God populous with the beautiful and the young,-when I had beheld the seats all thronged, and fair eyes glancing modestly to and fro, with that interchange of silent and holy greeting, which passes among friends before the service begins. I thought, too, on those whose name I bore, and with whom I had shared kindred and blood; and it was all that I now could do, for I saw their sepulchres growing green beside me. I could not but grieve at these unsparing changes. The frost of nearly three-score years had left enough of feeling in my bosom to render me painfully sensible of them; and even now I sometimes

sigh, as I remember, for well I can remember, -How flush'd my cheek.

How beat my heart, when, from a neighbouring hill,

The well-known landscape broke upon my view!

The lofty firs still waving o'er the green, Where I so oft enjoy'd my boyish sport; The cottage peering through the woodland maze,

Where long a dear and only parent To bid me welcome. dwelt,

But I must crave thy pardon, worthy reader, for detaining thee so long from "the pith and marrow' of my tale. Perchance thou art, like myself, a wanderer from thy native land, and that land may be, like mine, far, far away amidst green hills and sunny vallies. If so, thou wilt readily pardon these doting rhapsodies; and if not, thou wilt please to place them to the account of the foolish garrulity of a fond and prating sexagenarian, who cannot commence his story without such a preface. And now to my history.

Most persons who have visited North Wales have sojourned for a while at the little town of Holmgrove, the rude capital of the wild county of Merioneth,-a town which has most effectually resisted all important innovations upon its ancient rudeness and simplicity. Most trifling, in truth, have been the improvements at Holmgrove. It is true that one small house on the northern side of the principal street has been superseded by a building of larger dimensions, embellished with the representation of an angel clad in robes of white and scarlet, and dignified, moreover, with a small portico supported on cast-iron pillars. It is also true, that a new Town-hall has recently been erected, -the said Hall bearing very much the resemblance of a modern coach-house,—and that a peal of eight bells has been added to the square tower of the old church. But that which is destined to confer inore particular immortality upon this obstinate little town is the establishment of a stage-coach, which performs its hebdomadai evolutions, during the summer months, in little more than fifteen hours from Shrewsbury to Barmouth, being a distance,

gentle reader, of sixty-four miles! These, it will be admitted, are strong symptoms of that improving spirit which has gone forth amongst us, like a giant, conquering and to conquer, and which may be clearly traced to the blessed results of a long and lasting peace-to Mr Brougham -and to the education of the poor; although a certain learned friend of ours has unhesitatingly attributed it to what he calls the regenerating result of the French Revolution.

It was towards the close of a beautiful day, in July 18, that two young men walked forth from Holmgrove, to meet the coach vawr, that is," the great coach," for so it is called, par-excellence, by the natives, in the hope of welcoming the arrival of a friend from England, whom they expected by that evening's conveyance. They had strolled rather more than four iniles before they learned their disappointment, for their friend had deferred for another week his visit to Holmgrove. Mounting, how ever, into the dickey of the vehicle, they seated themselves by the side of the only passenger in that part of the coach, who was a gentlemanly, good-looking man, about five-andthirty years of age. His features were extremely dark, and he appeared altogether involved in either deep thought, or in intense admiration of the beautiful scenery through which they were passing; for he seemed scarcely conscious of their presence, and took no notice of his companions, after he had slightly bowed to them, when they first joined him. Of all the beautiful scenes I have ever beheld, the descent into the valley of Holmgrove, from the heights just above Caerynwch, presents the most magnificent. On either side are extensive ridges of well-wooded hills, occasionally enlivened by small farm-houses, with their flourishing pastures and corn-fields. On the right are the deep and dark woods of Garthmaelan and Nannau; while at the bottom of the valley runs the river Wnion, swelling out occasionally into deep and wide pools, and in other places foaming in vehemence over its rough and rocky bed. In a dell at some distance, where the mountains converge so as to form a spacious amphithe

atre, is the little town itself, with it old bridge and older church conspicuous above all other objects; while far away in the dim distance is the beautiful river Mawddack, 66 expanding its lone bosom to the sky," and pursuing its course to the sea at Barmouth, amidst a magnificent assemblage of dark and towering mountains. High above all is Cader Idris, the monarch-mountain of Merionethshire; and its undulating summit, either crowned with white mist, or rising into the blue heaven in undimmed and massy grandeur. "Not always is his lofty brow Compass'd with clouds that hang below; But calmly, desolately bare, He reigns amid the desart air.” Such is the scene which no tongue can describe, no pen, no pencil pourtray, and which those who have seen it, as the setting sun pours upon the woods and mountains his rich departing light, will never, never forget.

With such a noble prospect as this before him, it was not unlikely that the stranger should be wrapt in admiration at its beauty; but however that might be, one of the young men, with that conversational spirit so common to the Welsh, endeavoured to lead him into discourse.

"This is a fine scene, Sir; you have nothing so beautiful in England, I should think."

The stranger started at the interruption, and replied,-"It is indeed a splendid scene; neither England, nor any other country that I have visited, can boast of any thing half so beautiful, or at least so interesting to me."

"You have travelled, then ?"

"Not much, Sir; but I have moved amidst scenery more stupendous, and perhaps more strictly majestic than this; yet nothing ever pleased me so much as the delightful prospect before us." The stranger paused, and then, as if encouraged by the candour of his companions, renewed the conversation by saying, "You are natives of Holmgrove, I presume, Gentlemen ?"

"We are, and have never yet been in England."

"Indeed! Perhaps you can give me some information, then, respect

ing some of the oldest inhabitants. I have letters of introduction to two or three Gentlemen, of whom I am anxious to hear something, as I intend to become a resident here."

"Do you indeed speak truth, Sir?" exclaimed the first spokesinan, with much naïveté. "Then I suppose you are the Gentleman who has taken Bryntirion?"

"You are quite right; I am, Sir. Can you tell me whether a person of the name of Williams, who formerly lived by the bridge, is still alive?" "What, Thomas Williams of Cravnant! Oh, no; he has been long dead, Sir."

I feared so; he left a daughter, I believe?"

He did, Sir, and she has met with much misfortune since ;"-a cloud came over the stranger's brow; "but is now tolerably comfortable again. Her father died in rather straightened circumstances, and when all his debts were paid, there was but little left for poor Eliza. How ever, as every body esteemed her, she met with much kindness; and she now keeps a school, and is doing very well."

The stranger bowed his thanks for the intelligence, which seemed much to interest him. "And pray, Sir," he asked again, can you tell me any thing of a Mr Ellis Meredith, whose father resided near the Caravansery? I have seen him often since he left Holmgrove, and was at one time very intimate with him."

The young man paused for a moment before he replied, and then said, "Is it the son of Old Richard Meredith, the Tanner, that you mean, Sir?"

66

“ It is.”

"No; I do not know much about him. He left the country several years ago, and has never been here since, nor have we heard of him. I was too young to remember him myself; but I have heard him spoken of as a wild, unsteady young man. They say he broke his poor old father's heart."

The stranger pressed his lips forcibly together, and passing his hand over his eyes, relapsed into a thoughtful silence, from which his companions did not again attempt to disturb him.

At length the coach arrived at the little bridge over the Aran, and in a second afterwards it entered the town, amidst the gaping gaze of almost every inhabitant. It drove through the centre of the principal streets, till it reached the Golden Lion, or Plas isa, (the lowest house,) as it is more usually called, where it discharged a portion of its cargo, and changed horses, previously to proceeding to Barmouth, the Ultima Thule of its destination. The young men alighted here, and so did their companion, but not before he had given them both a pressing invitation to visit him at Bryntirion. They then parted, the young men to their homes, and the stranger into the inn, with a gentleman of the town, who had been anxiously waiting his arrival. They spoke little till they entered the house; but when quietly seated in the blue parlour, the towns man greeted his friend with "Duw Anwyl, Ellis! but you are strangely altered."

"Do you think so, Owen ?" replied the other, in a melancholy tone. "But it matters not: I am quite forgotten here by every one, it seems; or remembered only as the heartless profligate, who broke his old father's heart!" His lip quivered, and a tear strolled down his sun-burnt cheek | as he continued, grasping his friend's hand convulsively as he murmured, ،، This is a bitter welcome, James, after so long an absence!"

"Now where, in the name of goodness, heard you this silly tale, Ellis?" asked the other. "Is it not well known to all your poor father's friends, that you left the country at his express desire, that you might be out of the reach of the consuming idleness and consequent dissipation of this place? And is it not known that you were doing well with your uncle in London? Your father himself-for I was with him when he died-blessed his absent son, and thanked God for reforming him."

"Yes, yes, I know he did," replied Meredith; "but I find that here, as well as every where else, an evil report, though false, is far sooner cherished than a good one, though true.”

"Nonsense, Ellis! Of whom did you learn this evil report, as you call it?"

the trees by the hill-side yonder : So, off with you, dear Ellis; and may you speed well in your wooing!"

I will not venture to describe the various emotions which agitated the wanderer's bosom, as he paced, in the dusk of evening, the path which led to the abode of her who had been his early and only love. He walked on with hurried steps and a beating heart-his mind being busily engaged in retracing many a happy scene of former days, and many an interesting event, which neither time, nor the bustle of an active life, had been able to efface from his memory. While he was proceeding, thus anxious and agitated, the object of his fond solicitude was sitting in her little parlour, enjoying an interval of peace and quietude;-and it so happened, and such curious coincidences will sometimes happen, that the very evening we have been speaking of was the anniversary of Ellis Meredith's birth-day, which Eliza always noticed, as it came and went, year after year. She did not, it is true, make any ostentatious display of her feelings; but she cherished them within the innermost sanctuary of her own innocent heart, and communed on that day, more than on any other, with the melancholy reflections of her own despairing bosom. The customary avocations with her little pupils prevented her from constantly dwelling upon the subject nearest her heart; but no sooner had she parted from her scholars, than a melancholy oppressed her spirits, which she naturally enough connected with the memory of him, whom she scarcely expected ever to see again.

She was sitting with her head leaning on her hand, and her thoughts fixed on days and scenes long gone by, when the dark shadow of Ellis Meredith, as he walked up the little garden in front of the house, caught her attention. There was something so unusual in a visit from any stranger at her lone cottage, and at so late an hour, that she felt a momentary alarm, as she heard the footsteps approaching nearer and nearer. Her cousin had gone out,

and she was quite alone. Presently there came a gentle, but hurried, knock at the door; and she heard the servant-girl hasten to attend the summons. She listened in breathless suspense to the deep voice which inquired if Miss Williams was at home; and before she could well collect herself, Ellis entered the room. It was not quite dark, but still there was not sufficient light remaining to enable Eliza to see distinctly the features of her visitor; but there was something in the deep tones of his voice that interested her exceedingly. His sudden entrance had quite disconcerted her, but, regaining, in some degree, her composure, she said, "You were inquiring for Miss Williams, Sir: I am that person."

The wanderer paused, and then said, in a tone of deep feeling, “Eliza! dear Eliza! have you, too, forgotten me?" when, in a moment, the lovers were in each other's arms;

and, in the sweet delight of that ecstatic embrace, buried days, and months, and years of despondency and sorrow.

It was very late that evening before Ellis Meredith left Eliza's cottage. He had a long and eventful story to relate; for he had to tell, to a willing auditor, of his sufferings, and toils, and perils in a foreign country, which he concluded, by soliciting the felicity of sharing with her the well-earned recompence of his labour. It was, in fact, near midnight before he actually summoned resolution to tear himself away; and as he kissed the tear of trembling joy from the cheek of his beloved, the consolation which he whispered called a blush into her cheek, as she sighed her consent to an event which she had long ceased to anticipate, and almost to hope.

Need I relate the sequel? Bryntirion was not long without a mistress, nor the wanderer without a wife. Ellis and Eliza were married, and became, not merely esteemed, but beloved by all around them. Long may they both live in health and happiness, for they are among the best and oldest friends of

PEREGRINE!