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should desire our countrymen to look up to. We would not set it up for a model, but rather use it as a beacon to warn them off the shoals and quicksands whereon Eisteddfodau, if their present course be persisted in, will assuredly be wrecked.

There is one point on which we would give this Eisteddfod and its managers the highest praise. The financial arrangements, expenditure, and division of surplus, do them the greatest credit. We are not going to quarrel about a few petty items, seeing how well they have managed to dispose of the great bulk. Unlike Wrexham, Caernarvon has come out of the crucible of audit unscathed by the fire. All honour, we repeat, to it! In giving its hundreds to the University College of Wales, it will be a notable example to future Eisteddfodau, not to spend their gains on their own petty local matters, but to regard national gatherings as bound in honour to promote national objects.

The huge structure of the pavilion is to be a permanent erection for the holding of meetings at Caernarvon. We sincerely hope it will answer its intended purpose.

We are sadly afraid, however, that it will turn out "a white elephant”. The constant repairs required in such a structure will form a serious drawback to its financial success.

Reviews of Books.


SISTER. With a Portrait. Longmans, Green, and Co.,
London. 1877.

Any literary production written by a lady so closely connected with the house of Wynnstay as Miss Wynn, must exact the deep interest of every one connected with the literature of the Principality. It may not treat of tradition, or of language, nor yet of the rich poetry in which our old Celtic tongue abounds, and which contains such valuable though unappreciated fragments of undeveloped history. It may relate to neither art nor science; but we are sure that it will be something worthy of our perusal and study. The stock from which an author descends may not be a guaranty for bis genius or learning; but we may be assured that the work of his pen will be replete with good taste, generous thought, and honourable feeling, and, in most cases, with the scholastic attainments which are the result of a high education,

Who that ever knew the late Right Honourable Charles Watkin Williams-Wynn, will for a moment doubt that of such a kind would be his daughter's efforts in literature? The friend of Southey-his benefactor at a time when the world had not yet learnt to appreciate his genius as a poet, or his almost unequalled talents as a writer of prose-Mr. Wynn, out of a not overflowing income, bestowed effectual help on the rising author, by giving him a no mean share of his own, thus enabling him to devote his energies to the works which have now become classic in our language. Nor was this a solitary instance of Mr. Wynn's generosity. Wales is deeply indebted to him for a large share of his Indian patronage, when he was for years President of the Board of Control. We know of at least four sons in one family on whom he bestowed cadetships in the Indian army.

One little incident is deeply touching Professor Elmsley, a ripe scholar, and a genius as transcendent as Oxford ever nurtured in her lap, died in early manhood. His works had made him a high name in the University, and his death was deeply deplored. His last resting-place, however, remained unhonoured. Not a line marked the spot, and he seemed forgotten. One quiet Sunday morning, as bells were answering bells, calling to prayer, we wended our way to the Cathedral, as the University sermon was to be preached there on that day. Not a cap or gown was yet visible, and, until they were collected for service, we wandered through the venerable pile, reading the inscriptions on the several monuments raised in honour of some of Oxford's most talented sons. All at once we came on a newly-erected monument of white marble. Large and of elegant form, it was as pure as though it had been of alabaster. It had been raised to the memory of poor Elmsley. One of Cambria's generous sons had, at his own cost, erected the memorial. At the close of the inscription, which was worthy of the man whose talents and virtues it recorded, was the simple sentence :—“Erected by his friend and school-fellow-C. W. W. W.” The initials were too peculiar, as well as familiar, not to recal at once to our mind, “Charles Watkin Williams-Wynn.”

Nor was Mr. Wynn himself undervalued in Oxford. His portrait, a striking likeness, by the late Sir Martin Archer Shee, graces the dining-hall of Christchurch.

How well do we remember him! Tall and dignified, and of aristocratic bearing, his countenance was an index of the benevolence that leavened his whole constitution. When he and his brother, the late Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn, appeared together in public, they were as Saul among tlie chiefs of

Israel. Out-topping those around them, their dignified yet gentle demeanour won them the respect and homage of every spectator.

With all this loftiness and elevation of character, Mr. Wynn possessed a most genial temperament. He was facetious and amusing in conversation, and would occasionally descend to playfulness, and to smart, if not severe, repartee. After the sharp, though decisive contest for his Montgomeryshire seat in the election of 1831, when he was returned by a large majority, he invited the chief townsmen of Llanfyllin to dinner and a day's shooting through the pheasant preserves of Llangedwin. Sir Watkin was also present. Among the guests were two gentlemen who, with their other vocations, exercised that of preaching their Master's gospel. They belonged to the sect of the Independents. An attorney from Llanfyllin, who had also been invited, fancied he had found an opportunity of mortifying his dissenting neighbours on the score of their religion; and when the wine was circulating after dinner, he introduced the subject of baptismal registration, saying that such were the informal registrations now made in every petty chapel through the country, that ere long it would be impossible to trace a pedigree or make out a title to any property in the Principality. Mr. Wynne discerned at once—as he knew his guests—for whom the covert shaft was intended. He turned round to the speaker: “Yes,” he said, "the question of registration is at the present time in a very unsatisfactory state. I have myself heard of a clergyman and his clerk so reckless of the parish register book, as to tear out its leaves to light their pipes with.” The attorney, being thus quietly set down, his intended victims chuckled not a little.

It may be asked, why dwell on the characteristics of the father, when it is the daughter's book that calls for criticismı ? We reply that, independently of his connexion with the authoress of the work before us, his identification with Wales, her literature and her language, will not allow us to pass by the friend of Heber, Mackintosh, Southey, Henry Hallam, and other such men, and especially in a work devoted to Welsh interests.

Miss Charlotte Williams-Wynn was a lady of extraordinary powers both of thought and expression. Had she devoted her talents to literature, she would have raised herself to the highest rank among the authors of her day. If her letters and unpremeditated journals are so replete with gems of thought as the present volume indicates, we can well fancy the excellence to which her more finished productions would have reached. Let the reader open the volume wherever he will, he is sure to find something to instruct and refresh him —not the gleanings of antiquated sayings, nor yet proverbs and bye-gones dressed up anew, but fresh and sparkling thoughts, bubbling up in spontaneity and copiousness from the rich fountain of her own mind. Our readers must not fancy that we are speaking extravagantly. Our praise is by no means excessive. To prove that it is not so, we bring the testimony of a few passages selected at random out of her book. How neatly expressed, for instance, is her opinion of her friend, Mr. Rio, a Breton, who ever claimed kinship with the Welsh :

It is curious that a month ago I complained in this very book of being weary of theological discussions, and that no one spoke of religion from their hearts, but rather from their head. A few days after I meet a man who talks only from his heart, and I am no longer weary. His faith is beautiful, and his conviction is so deep and sincere, that it is most touching. His conversation was to me like some church bell—it always produced a feeling of devotion in my mind. What can I say stronger?

How admirable, again, are the following remarks on Goethe! Writing from Llangedwin in October 1811, she says :

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