would have learned many a useful lesson. He was a true genius, with, as far as I could see, none of the failings which by some are supposed to be associated with genius. It was my painful privilege to be one of the mourners at his funeral in Highgate Cemetery. His works he left to the Cymmrodorion Society, where I hope that they are guarded with tender care. South Wales has reason to rejoice in having had born to her such a son. Let me mention another Merthyr man whom I knew, who, if not such a genius as Joseph Edwards, had at any rate as great an enthusiasm for the literature and language of Wales. He was a chemist and druggist, named Stephens, and found time to write a work on Wales, which was deemed worthy of the prize offered on the subject by some Welshman of wealth and position, whose name has, alas, escaped my treacherous memory. At that time Wales had failed to attract much attention on the part of England. It was far away and difficult to get at. Now and then an adventurous Englishman made his way thither, and wrote a book to show how grand was the scenery and hospitable the people, and how cheap it was as a place of residence. But as a rule the average Englishman knew as little of it as he did of Timbuctoo. Since then Wales has learnt the art of advertising and is better known, and that is an advantage not to be overlooked, for it is now all the richer. Then few English resided there, and those chiefly from motives of economy. Another Welshman whom I had the honour to reckon as a friend was Sir Hugh Owen, an earnest worker in the Temperance cause, and for the social elevation of the people and righteousness. In his case his high position on the Poor-Law Board was won by merit, and by merit alone, as he entered the Department in a subordinate capacity, and gradually worked his way up to the top of the tree, not having the advantage of aristocratic birth and breeding. I first met him in Claremont Chapel—a Congregational place of worship in Pentonville—at one time one of the most flourishing churches of that body, though I fear it has somewhat declined of late. He was a man of kindly speech and presence, always ready to help whatever was worthy of help, and lived in the Holloway Road, where I once spent with him a pleasant Sunday, and was much charmed with one of his married daughters, who happened to be there at the time. No Temperance gathering in general, and no Welsh gathering in particular, was complete without Mr. Hugh Owen, as he then was called. In all London there was no more genial representative of gallant little Wales. He lived to a good old age, beloved and respected. The last time I met him was in the Farringdon Road, when he complained that he felt a little queer in his head. My reply was that he had no need to trouble himself on that account, as I knew many people who were in the same condition who seemed to get on very well nevertheless.