e with the same letter, according to the principle of Welsh
prosody. But now cometh the difficulty. What is the rhyme for _merry_?"

"_Londonderry_," said the poet without hesitation, "as you will see by
the poem which I addressed to Mr. C., the celebrated Whig agriculturist,
on its being reported that the king was about to pay him a visit:--

_But if in our town he would wish to be merry_
_Pray don't let him bring with him Lord Londonderry_,

which two lines procured me the best friend I ever had in my life."

"They are certainly fine lines," I observed, "and I am not at all
surprised that the agriculturist was pleased with them; but I am afraid
that I cannot turn to much account the hint which they convey. How can I
possibly introduce Londonderry into my second line?"

"I see no difficulty," said Parkinson; "just add:--

_I sing proud Mary of Londonderry_

to your first line, and I do not see what objection could be made to the
couplet, as they call it."

"No farther," said I, "than that she was not of Londonderry, which was
not even built at the time she lived."

"Well, have your own way," said Parkinson; "I see that you have not had
the benefit of a classical education."

"What makes you think so?"

"Why, you never seem to have heard of poetical license."

"I see," said I, "that I must give up alliteration. Alliteration and
rhyme together will, I am afraid, be too much for me. Perhaps the
couplet had best stand thus:--

_I long have had a duty hard_,
_I long have been fair Morfydd's bard_.

"That won't do," said Parkinson.

"Why not?"

"Because 'tis not English. Bard, indeed! I tell you what, young man,
you have no talent for poetry; if you had, you would not want my help.
No, no; cleave to your own profession and you will be an honour to it,
but leave poetry to me. I counsel you as a friend. Good-morning to
you."]

CHAPTER XX.

"I am afraid that I have not acted very wisely in putting this boy of
ours to the law," said my father to my mother, as they sat together one
summer evening in their little garden, beneath the shade of some tall
poplars.

Yes, there sat my father in the garden chair which leaned against the
wall of his quiet home, the haven in which he had sought rest, and,
praise be to God, found it, after many a year of poorly requited toil;
there he sat, with locks of silver gray which set off so nobly his fine
bold but benevolent face, his faithful c