Friday.—Stephen drops in, and says "new Hawarden Cathedral"—really built to accommodate people who come to hear me read Lessons, only Stephen thinks it's his sermons that are the attraction—"will soon he finished." I suggest that he should have Welsh "intermediate" services now and then. Stephen says "he doesn't know Welsh, and can't see why Welsh people can't drop their horrible tongue at once, and all speak English." Pained, Tell him he needn't conduct service—any Welsh-speaking clergyman would do. Stephen replies that if he introduced Welsh service, "villa-residents would boycott the Cathedral altogether." Well, supposing they do? Stephen retorts that "I had better have an Irish service at once, and get Parnell up to read the Lessons." Something in the idea. Must think it over.
Saturday.—My usual holiday. Fifteen speeches. Park literally crammed. Excursionists, colliers, salt-miners, villa-residents, and Chester Liberals, all seem to find locality tremendously healthy. All enjoying themselves thoroughly. Wish I was. Worn-out in evening. Begin to wonder what Park and Castle would fetch, if I were to go and settle in Hebrides to escape mob.
Sunday.—Escorted by two regiments of mounted Volunteers to Church. Volunteers have great difficulty in securing a passage. Have to use butts of their muskets on more impulsive spectators. Curious that just at this point I should Remember Mitchelstown. Must try and get over the habit. Lessons as usual. Find a crushed primrose between the pages, evidently put there on purpose. Those villa-residents again! Surely Drew might inspect the lectern before service commences! Home, and think seriously of Hebrides.
ON THE SPOT.
(By a Practical Sportsman.)
The spot for me all spots above
In this wide world of casual lodgers,
Is not the nook sacred to love;
The "cot beside a rill" of Roger's.