there is a music and poetry that is almost human in its expression. A grand teacher is the sea. By its side the thoughts seem to have freer range and larger scope; and by the inspiration born of it many a noble word has been written and spoken, and many readers and hearers have indirectly felt its influence. But see, the horizon is no longer visible. You cannot tell where the sea ends and sky begins. The vessels in the offing seem floating in the air. The lights in the villages are disappearing fast. "The day has ended, the night has descended," and I retire to rest, with the window of my room wide open to catch the faintest breeze from the sea and to let in its "voices of the night" to be my lullaby.

With the daylight I am up, and in the sea, sporting with the buoyant waves; now floating on my back and letting them toss me where they will, and then striking out vigorously through the cool, clear water. It is half an hour of exquisite and unalloyed enjoyment.

Let us see what manner of place Borth is. To the north is the estuary of the Dovey, with its banks of yellow sand, and on the further side is a town with a musical name-Aberdovey-and, as the song says, musical bells. I do not know whether they are so or not, but certain it is that bells always sound sweeter

and mellower by the water's side, and the sound of their pealing is very beautiful when it comes over a wide stretch of the sea on a quiet sabbath morn. Beyond Aberdovey the hills rise in long green slopes to meet the blue sky. Southward are beetling, dark-brown cliffs, against which the sea always dashes as if in fury at the sudden check, and when there is the least wind, sends up columns of white spray. Between the estuary and the cliffs is a long curve of coast, with a firm sandy beach, most delightful to walk upon or bathe from. Above that is a steep bank of pebbles, the protecting boundary of the road and adjacent moor. Near the Dovey are dry, sandy dunes, covered with scant herbage, and here the rabbits literally swarm. I believe that visitors staying at the Hotel can obtain leave to shoot in this warren. To the west is of course the sea; and inland, with a great sweep and curve far back to the foot of its bordering hills, stretches a morass, once very wild and dangerous, but now being gradually drained and cultivated. It is worth while to venture a little way on this bog at night, to listen to the strange cries of the different birds. You will hear the shrill whistle of the curlew, the wilder scream of the lapwing, the hoarse croak of the coot, the sharper call of the water-hen, and sometimes the hollow booming of the bittern. In the winter you will also

Р

hear the whistlings and callings of the different species of wildfowl. There are always, too, numberless inexplicable noises, some of birds and small animals, whose note you cannot recognize, and other mysterious sounds which apparently come from the bog itself, and are produced no one knows how.

The small river which runs through this bog holds plenty of river and sea trout. I recollect one very hot day having good sport there with the worm. The water (in the higher reaches) was so brilliantly clear, that they would not look at a fly, and in my despair I went to a farmyard and dug up a lot of red worms. These the trout rushed at furiously; and ere long I had made a good basket, and that on a day when most anglers would laugh at the idea of taking a rod in hand.

In the winter the wildfowl shooting along the estuary and on the marsh is rather above the average.

After breakfast I go to the old little church by the sea, for the only English service of the day. As I reach it the clerk is turning out a religiously inclined pig, which has taken it into its head to go to church also. It is quite amusing to see the number and obtrusiveness of the pigs in all the Welsh fishing villages. Like the Irishman's pig, they are quite at home everywhere.

The churchyard is a sad record of deaths by drowning. The storm that caused the wreck of the Royal Charter made thirteen widows in this little village. There is scarcely a fireside which has not a chair made vacant by the beautiful, cruel sea.

In the evening curiosity leads me into a Welsh chapel; and if ever earnestness and simple rugged piety were shown in men's faces, they are shown in that homely fisher congregation. Although I cannot understand a word, I yet can understand the influence of the vigorous sermon with which the minister with the illcut habiliments keeps the listeners, as it were, spellbound for the best part of an hour. The attention of the people is unwavering, save when a strange sail comes within sight of the windows-every eye watches her while in view.

As I want to have a try at the mackerel in the morning, I must see about engaging a boat. I accordingly make my way down the long, straggling street of the village towards the place where they are all drawn up on the beach. I often stop on the way to listen to the plaintive Cambrian melodies that are crooned out by the peat fires; but the smell of the peat smoke, which is very unpleasant to me, drives me at last down to the shore. Here I come upon an old sailor who is sitting on the stones and looking out to sea with his glass. I

sit down by him and enter into conversation, as I love to do with old men, by sea and land. Their experience of the world is always worth listening to. He points out to me the best boat.

Where shall I find her owner?"

"His name is Thomas Jones.

He lives at the

furthest cottage in that row of white houses.

night, sir. I am very dry to-night, sir."

Ah, I mean dry inside. Thank you, sir."

Good

What a shame it is that the lower classes should expect a gratuity, or "tip," for every trifling service they render you. What if the same principle were extended higher up in the world? Would there not be an outcry?

By Jove! there is a woman in a Welsh hat. One of the real old-fashioned sort-true beaver. Before the railway reached Borth, and cheap excursions were instituted, these hats were not such a rare sight as they are now; but the last five or six years have witnessed their almost total extinction, and a bad exchange has been made for tawdry imitations of modern bonnets, in which the Welsh maidens do not look half so comely as formerly.

I reach Thomas Jones' cottage built of stone, by the way, and not of turf, like many of the humbler