During the progress of the inquiry into the circumstances connected with the wreck, every effort was made by the authorities to discover the whereabouts of those who were believed to be engaged in the affair; but those inquiries were, unfortunately, unattended with success. The usual haunts of the wreckers were repeatedly searched, their dwellings were watched, and even guarded night and day. The villages and the neighbouring hamlets were visited on several consecutive days, yet they failed to find a single individual able to afford any intelligence or information as to the hiding-place of the desperadoes. The non-success of these inquiries was considered as most singular, no less than inexplicable. On the morning following the sad occurrence, several of the wreckers, including Mac theDevil, had been seen on the beach below Dunraven Castle, but it appeared that no sooner had they completed the packing and loading of the treasures collected, than they all disappeared in a most sudden manner from view, and that disappearance was effected in a most unaccountable way. Whither they went, or how they left the beach, no one could tell. They were distinctly seen, and in a moment afterwards they were lost to view, as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up.
Owing to their non-discovery, speculation was rife as to their probable hiding-place. Some thought it most likely that they were hidden in the cellars under Dunraven Castle; others contended that Mr. Vaughan was too shrewd a man to place them there, especially as he himself was suspected of participating in the battle, and that that suspicion might lead to an inquiry which might be followed up by a personal search. Others concluded that they had quitted the neighbourhood, and were hiding in the woods about Margam, or up the Ogmore Valley. There was one old gentlemanwho treated all these opinions with contempt. Every village and parish has its wise man, to whom, in an emergency, an appeal is made, and the old gentleman alluded to was the then wise man of Southerndown, as Hopkin Llewelyn is in our day. He gave it as his opinion, that the wreckers were neither in the woods of Ogmore Valley nor Margam, nor would they be found in the Dunraven cellars, but were still in the neighbourhood, and within the sound of their voices; in short, that they were hid in some subterraneous cavern in the bay, which had hitherto remained undiscovered, and hence was known only to the wreckers. He further predicted that as soon as the storm should blow over, by the departure of the commissioners, and the usual quietude of the locality assume its general aspect, the wreckers would again return to their old haunts, having Mac at their head; and would be then found wandering from point to point, having no special occupation, nor ostensible means of livelihood. The prediction of the village seer was verified to theletter. No sooner had the commissioners left than the wreckers did return, and they appeared at their place of rendezvous, the Cups, as if nothing had happened. Here they spent the morning of each day in drinking beer and whisky; and here they spent their money with as much prodigality as if they were the owners of gold mines. The landlord of the Cups received their money without even asking whether they came to it by honest or lawless means. When asked how he could be so lost to every sense of right as to accept money from men who certainly had earned it by being engaged in a nefarious calling, he replied that he was perfectly indifferent, and that it was no concern of his how they came by their silver and gold, so long as they paid him for what they drank. In this reply we recognise the true philosophy of the trade. Landlords, as a rule, care but little for the sorrows, the poverty, and the wants of their drinking clients and their families. They want to sell drink, and hence never for a moment reflect whether or not theircustomers can afford to spend a shilling, or as to the manner by means of which it was earned. He, of the Cups, was, in money matters, true to his calling; but we cannot commend the wisdom, or rather unwisdom, of the wreckers in spending their money at the old house, when the children of some of them wanted bread.
On the morning following one of these carouses, Mac paid a visit to the tower to see his cousin Duncan. Though they had met several times since the day on which they came from their hiding-places, yet they had not been fortunate enough to secure an uninterrupted and unobserved conversation. To this both had anxiously looked forward. Fortunately, when Mac entered, ho found his cousin in the observatory alone. Placing his books and instruments on the table, Duncan turned his chair to the fire, and requested his visitor to be seated on the opposite side of the fire. As the kettle was boiling on the hob, the host prepared two pints of excellent whisky toddy, one of whichhe handed Mac, who, on sipping the mixture remarked that it was “capital stuff,” and moreover inquired of Duncan where he obtained it.
“It came, Mac, from the old country; imported direct from the distiller. This is just the beverage for a stormy night, is it not, Mac?”
“Onthat nightI’d have given a pound for a pint of toddy like this.”
“By the bye, Mac,” said Duncan, “you did the thing very neatly that night.”
“I’m obliged to you, cousin, for your good opinion. What did Mr. Vaughan say about our doings? He saw the whole scene.”
“My lord said to me, that unless you had been present, all would have been lost, as the sailors up to the time you came up had the best of the battle.”
“Mr. Vaughan was right there, Duncan. Had I not come up at the moment I did, every wrecker would have been a dead man.”
“So my lord, who was on the rock above you, said.”
“Oh, Duncan, it was a sad sight! I hope, cousin, I shall never be compelled to witness a similar scene.
“It is a sickening and a degrading calling, this of ours, in which victory has no honour, and triumph no glory. While it is a merry life and profitable to those engaged in it, it is surrounded with scenes which are shocking to behold.”
“As our master has such a large estate, Duncan, why does he carry on so hazardous and so dangerous a calling?”
“The secret is this, he loves gold, and his heart is set on attaining riches; and to secure them he’ll take away any man’s life if it stands between him and the prize he covets.”
“I should think he shook in his shoes when those men were down here. Was he not alarmed, Duncan?”
“Our master was, Mac, certainly alarmed; but, take my word, he’ll go on just in the same way. He is just like the little animal which, when once it tastes the blood of its victim, never gives up pursuit until it has secured theprey. The lord of Dunraven will, in my opinion, continue wrecking until some great calamity befalls his house or his family.”
The subsequent doings of Mr. Vaughan fully established the opinion of Duncan. Although he had been in imminent danger of having his crime discovered, yet, when those who conducted the inquiry had left the vicinity, the lord of Dunraven, with renewed energy and more resolute determination, carried on his nefarious calling. In each succeeding winter, vessels were wrecked in Dunraven Bay which had been decoyed thither by the false lights he had caused to be placed in the tower. From these wrecks he realized large sums. Had he been permitted to pursue his satanic designs for a few years longer, he would have become the richest man in the vale of Glamorgan.
In consequence of the great losses ship-owners had sustained by reason of these wrecks, and the terror which the scenes of Dunraven had inspired, both owners and masters of vessels trading up and down theBristol Channel were alarmed, and were in constant apprehensions lest they should experience the same disaster which had unhappily befallen so many of their brethren. Captain ap William, however, was not deterred from pursuing his seafaring calling by these disasters, though his wife, previously to his starting on every voyage, warned him of the danger of following so hazardous a pursuit. Yet, in spite of those warnings, and the urgent solicitations of his wife to remain at home, he continued going to sea.
It was after one of these wrecks, when more than ordinary violence had been used by the men of Dunraven, that the captain and his wife were walking from St. Bride’s along the carriage way to Dunraven. This was their favourite walk, and it was, moreover, associated with many a happy scene in days of yore. After pursuing their walk for some time in silence, Mrs. ap William began to weep.
“Why those tears, Myfanwy?” asked her husband.
“I weep, John,” she replied, “in thoughtof the prospect of our separation. Oh, you will not leave me again, will you?”
“Indeed, wife, I must.”
“But where is the necessity for you to risk your life again? We have enough to keep us in independence and comfort.”
“I have promised my employers to go on this one voyage.”
“Can’t they get another captain to take charge of the ship?”
“Doubtless they could, but they won’t trust every man with my vessel.”
“Oh, I wish you would stay at home! Indeed, indeed, I fear, if you leave me, I shall never see you again. Last night I dreamt, and in my dream I fancied I saw your body being taken from the sea, your hair clotted, and your face covered with blood. Oh, I do fear, if you again leave me, I shall never see you alive!”
“Do not be alarmed for my safety, Myfanwy. Life is as safe on the ocean as on the land. The same Providence watches over the seaman as the landsman. He being at the helm, Hecontrolling and guiding the destiny of us all, will be my friend, even should danger threaten me. So cheer up, thou treasure of my heart, and since you are so urgent that I should give up my calling, I now promise that on my return from this one voyage I will remain at home.”
“I can urge you no further, John. During your absence I’ll pray for your safe return.”
The following morning Captain John ap William took his departure. He joined his ship at Bristol, and from that port he sailed for the city of Lisbon with a cargo of West of England goods. From thence he sailed to London, thence to Hamburg, and after several voyages between the two last-mentioned cities, chartered his ship to the Mediterranean, and took a valuable cargo at Marseilles for Bristol.
During her husband’s absence, Myfanwy felt constant anxiety on his behalf, an anxiety intensified owing to the sad havoc among shipping at Dunraven Bay. As it was now winter, her feeling of apprehension increasedin intensity, as she daily expected his return. October had come and gone, but he had not returned, nor had she received, for several weeks, a letter from him. November had come in more than usually stormy. All over the country trees had been uprooted, houses were blown down, and on the rocks above Dunraven Bay, and below Southerndown, the winds were so terrible that persons were in the imminent risk of being blown over if they went within even fifty yards of the precipice. On Friday morning the hurricane increased in its fury. As the evening approached, the storm became fearful, while the tumultuous waves increased in violence, foaming, then wildly raving, then receding in circling eddies for awhile, into their gloomy bosom; then, again, returning with renewed force and augmented fury. Upon their tumultuous and angry surges a large vessel, heavily laden, was being driven towards the bay of Dunraven by the fierce tempest. If that fine ship, which bore on her bosom the rich merchandise of continental skill andindustry, be dashed against the desperate assemblage of rocks, crags, and shoals surrounding the bay—imagination with its utmost stretch could form but a very imperfect idea of so direful and so appalling a spectacle. As the villagers gazed upon the tumultuous billows, they saw the ship, which had battled many a stormy breeze, uplifted on the briny surge, then plunging headlong down the repelling rock. In that terrible collision, a hole nearly three feet square, was made in the bottom, through which the sea rushed in with terrible force, on which she began to sink. When this was discovered, the crew, in wild despair, called to the men on the beach to come and help them. They, however, moved not, but waited the issue with the most stolid indifference. Amid that cry of despairing anguish the sea rolled in with increased violence and fury, the waves dashing over the fast-sinking ship, and carrying along with them the unfortunate crew. Presently there was seen clinging to a frail board a young man, comely in form and handsomelydressed. Having fastened himself to this, the wreckers heard him beseeching them, in most piteous cries to come and help him. However, to that cry no attention was paid. Seeing this, he, with a voice which moved even the hard hearts of the wreckers, called out, “Oh, my father, my father! if you love your son, who has been a dutiful and a faithful son to you—if there be in your bosom any affection for him who has only lived to promote your welfare and interest; who, in your declining years, has laboured and striven, and thereby has succeeded in redeeming the manor of Dunraven from its heavy incumbrance—send the men to save me from a watery grave!” That cry the lord of Dunraven heard. It pierced his very soul. His countenance was marked with anguish, blended with despair. All he could say was, “It is my own son Walter, and I have caused his death!” He then fell down in a fit. When the wreckers heard their master’s exclamation they, as one man, took to the sea. Towards the drowning man theypressed forward with great energy, and at last succeeded in touching the frail board. At that moment there was a terrible sea, which, in receding, carried away the young lord of Dunraven and the whole of the wreckers, except Mac the Devil, who succeeded in gaining the shore. The Lord of Dunraven, when he recovered from the swoon, learned all that had happened, even of his son’s death. From that night Mr. Vaughan was never seen at Dunraven Castle. He went forth, bowed down with age and with sin, a wandering ghost, seeking rest but finding none. No one ever heard that he was sorry on account of the crimes he had committed against heaven and earth. In a few years afterwards news came to Wales that in an encounter with a highwayman, in the North of England, the once great lord of Dunraven was slain, and his body was thrown over the rocks into the sea. In his pockets were found papers which led to his identification. As his money had been taken by the robber, he was buried at the expense of the parish in whichhis body was found. Such was the life and such the end of a man who sought riches by robbery, and gold by the sacrifice of human life. Indeed, he lived a miserable life, and died a miserable death.
As regards the other persons of this history but little remains to be told. Mac, on that night, disappeared from the scene. But every nook and corner of the coast was watched and carefully guarded night and day. The people of the neighbourhood expressed their confidence that Mac was still in the locality, in his old hiding-place. After watching for a fortnight, during which there were no signs of his appearance, they were almost persuaded to give up the affair. However, they resolved still to continue guarding the coast for another week. The day before that week expired, one of the watchers saw in the sea, coming out from between two rocks, a man diving. Evidently he had come from some subterranean cavern, with an outlet under the water. This man was Mac the Devil. He was there and then taken, and lodgedin gaol. At the following assizes he was found guilty of murder and was condemned to die. Before his death he confessed all, and left behind him a record of his exploits, and a detailed account of his connection with the lord of Dunraven. Before that record was read, Mr. Vaughan had breathed his last.
But what became of Captain John? It was his vessel that went down, and it was young Vaughan’s cargo with which she was laden. On the morning subsequent to the wreck he was found on the seashore in Dunraven Bay, with his body much bruised, and his face covered with blood. He was, however, still alive, and thanks to the careful nursing of his wife and medical skill, he soon recovered, and gave up going to sea. Ever afterwards he lived at home. He became an excellent farmer, and saved money. He lived to a good old age, and left behind a numerous family, who were as distinguished for their virtue as they were for their industry. In this world he moreover lived ashe wished to die, leaving behind him a pattern of religiousness which his children, and their children after them, followed. Thus, while the end of the good captain was happy and peaceful, that of the lord of Dunraven was full of anguish, while he met with a doom which it is terrible to contemplate.
[The following strange stories of Cambrian life contain not anidealbut arealpicture of society in days of yore. For obvious reasons, some of the names of thedramatis personæare not given, but the family of Jones being so large,the manwill not be recognised by the retention of the name he actually bore. Further, it is believed that the whole of his relations are dead. He had two nieces that survived him, who on his death were by no meansyoung ladies. They then quitted Wales, never more to return. One more word only need be added, namely, that Mr. Jones’s fame as a preacher was universal, and the belief that he had powerover Satan was firmly entertained by all, though he himself repudiated the possession of such power. Mr. Jones lived to nearly a hundred years of age, and died about thirty years ago.]
* * * * *
Hail! all hail! to thee, thou illustrious dead! Though thy spirit has long since left the regions of earth, and has passed into theGwlad well, yet thy memory is fresh and green, and thy deeds of charity, thy unassuming piety, thy faithful preaching of the Cross, thy example of saintly resignation, as well as thy holy sanctitude, still live in the hearts and memories of those who were privileged to listen, sabbath after sabbath, to the glorious truths which fell from thy lips, and who, moreover, were permitted to gaze upon and witness the holy ripening of thy nature for a bright and a glorious immortality. Of thee might it be truly said, that thy enemies were few, and thy friends and well-wishers legion. The reason of this was obvious. While others laboured forearthly honour and a perishable renown, the aspiration and desire of thy soul was to do the work of Him in whose armour thou wast clothed, and to be recognised, and honoured, and acknowledged of thy Father at the Judgment of the Great Day. Thy departure to that better land was to thee a happy departure. On thy spirit leaving its tabernacle of clay, it took its flight, amid the songs of angelic choirs, to that world wherein the Lamb shall ever lead it to perennial springs and fountains of blessedness, and where every tear shall be wiped away by the Redeemer. But though the change to thee was a welcome one, oh, howunwelcome was it to thy sorrowing children on earth, who were left behind in the wilderness! Though many, many years have passed away since the day of thy departure to join the choirs above, during which I have mixed much with the busy world,—have seen the upheaving of peoples, revolution following revolution, and have witnessed parts of Europe deluged with the blood of some of its best and mostpatriotic sons,—yet I well remember, as if it were but as yesterday, the sorrowful tidings of thy death, when all joined in saying, “That a prince and a great man had that day fallen in Israel.” Nevertheless, amid our pensive sorrow and grief, which almost rent many a stout heart; all were yet cheered and solaced with the thought, that though the dark cloud of the future obscured our vision, preventing our beholding the face of the dear departed, nevertheless he was reposing joyfully in the eternal sunshine, and reclining on the bosom of his Lord.
Now, though Parson Jones was a good and holy man, yet young and old, rich and poor, the youth in his teens as well as those over whose heads seventy summers had passed, not only admitted, but actually declared, that he was a strange mortal. His life and character were to them an enigma. While the outward—the rational man—was clear and plain, yet the inner life—the hidden and mysterious workings of the intellectual and spiritual man—was above theircomprehension and beyond their ken. Though they owned that their beloved pastor held communion with Heaven, yet many affirmed, and positively believed, that he had constant intercourse with the Evil One. Though they devoutly entertained the opinion that he held uninterrupted converse with Him who was the desire of all nations, yet they clung to the opinion that he had fellowship with him who reigns over the abode of woe. While they believed that their dear friend possessed that faith by which mountains are removed, and by means of which the rolling and angry billows are hushed into calm repose on the bosom of the vast and mighty deep, nevertheless, the tale went from cottage to cottage, and from hamlet to hamlet, and was told and retold, with deep seriousness, in high and in low places, that Parson Jones could raise and lay the devil. And if legions of ministering angels hovered round his path, imparting to him comfort, solace, and joy, it was almost universally believed that he had consultations with the grim spirits of the nethermostregions. Hence they concluded that he was not only all-powerful with Heaven, but that Satan himself, with all his servants and allies, would fly at his bidding. In consequence of this belief, Parson Jones had, at his parsonage, a constant succession of visitors. If the busy housewife was unsuccessful in her churning, Parson Jones must be at once consulted, as he only, in the vicinity, had power to break the spell, and drive to their place those evil spirits which interfered with the beneficial operations of mankind. If the farmer found his cattle ailing, of course the good parson’s advice was at once sought, which in all case was readily obtained, the belief being that he only in that neighbourhood could counteract and overcome the evil influence of the witches, who, by their malevolence and wicked arts, sought to bring destruction and ruin upon him and his household. Again, if a house in the locality were haunted, the sleepers being awakened from their slumbers of the night by unearthly cries, by groans and terrible noises, we need hardly say thegood vicar was sent for; and after one of his visits, the simple-hearted people of the troubled dwelling believed, and positively affirmed, that he had put his imperial Satanic majesty in his snuff-box! And from that night their home was never disturbed by the presence of a spiritual visitor, and they congratulated themselves on having permanently got rid of the disturber of their peace and repose, feeling certain that the possessor of the snuff-box would see to it that the lid would be kept securely fastened. These acts of Parson Jones were not done in a corner; hence the news of his victory over the Evil One spread far and wide; but while a few gave no credence to the tales that were told, yet the people—the masses, both rich and poor, the wise and the unlearned—believed in the stories which were told of the good vicar’s doings.
As my father’s residence was adjacent to the vicarage, as he and the worthy parson were sworn friends, and as the latter had a strong personal liking to me, as also a deepinterest in my future welfare and prospects, I having on several occasions acquainted him with my strong aversion to my father’s pursuits, and that I intended to seek my fortune in the wide, wide world—these and other matters brought me into frequent contact with our common friend, at whose house I was a constant and ever welcome visitor. There was, however, another reason why I was so often found at his hospitable dwelling, which, in passing, I will just mention. From my earliest school days I had imbibed a strong thirst for knowledge, while the sciences of astronomy, algebra, Euclid, and trigonometry, had for me peculiar, and I might add, fascinating charms. In pursuing those studies, however, I often met with difficulties, which, unaided, and without the assistance of a teacher, I failed to overcome. The good parson being well informed of my pursuits, and being anxious to render me all the assistance in his power, arranged that I was to spend every Monday evening at his residence, where, in his study, he would quietly explain the problems andcalculations I had failed to solve. As a teacher he was so successful that, after going quietly over my calculations, and explaining where I had gone wrong, he invariably managed to make the whole matter as clear to my perception as that two and two make four.
Mr. Jones was deeply read in the science of astronomy, and on his perceiving that I was weekly making considerable progress in a science he so deeply loved,—a science, too, which he regarded as more sublime than any other, inasmuch as it proclaimed the power, the wisdom, and the greatness of Him who binds the sweet influences of the Pleiades and loosens the bands of Orion, who can bring forth Mazzaroth in his season and guides Arcturus with his sons,—it was no wonder, considering the identity of our common feeling and inclination, that I became a nightly visitor at the parsonage. During those visits I learned much respecting other branches of knowledge with which, previously, I was but little acquainted. Thus, wide fields of human knowledge appeared to open before me,the possession of which was the deep aspiration of my soul.
But I must own that my visits to the parsonage afforded me an interest beyond that of scientific and literary pursuits. Night after night there were other visitors at the good man’s house, who came there to tell tales about apparitions, ghosts, the doings of the witches, and the various forms in which his imperial majesty of Pandemonium had appeared to them. To these marvellous stories I always listened with deep interest, as from my youngest days I had been taught by my nurse to believe in the existence of ghosts. The people of the neighbourhood believed that the parson had power over the evil spirits when they troubled men, hence the reason of his assistance having been so frequently sought. Many a tale I have heard in the vicar’s little study; but for the present I shall only record the following strange stories.
* * * * *
It was a stormy night in the month of January, when I was with Mr. Jones in hisstudy. After sitting there some time, over a problem in the Sixth Book of Euclid, the door gently opened, and in walked Mrs. Lloyd, the wife of a neighbouring farmer, who, at the request of Mr. Jones, took a seat by the fire. When she entered the room I observed that she was deeply agitated, the cause of which we soon learnt. As soon as she had warmed herself and dried her garments, my friend and benefactor, in the kindest possible way, asked the reason of her having come out on so stormy and so boisterous a night.
“I’m kum to see yoo, Mr. Jones,” she said, “and to tell yoo the sad calamity which has happened at our house.”
“I hope Mr. Lloyd is not ill?”
“Oh no, parson; leastwise he was well in body when I left whome, but sorely troubled in mind.”
“What is the matter, my good friend?” inquired Mr. Jones.
“Oh, sir! it’s too dreadful. I kunna tell yoo. I s’pose I must, for I’m kum here on purpose.”
“Unless you tell me the cause of your trouble, ma’am, I cannot give you advice.”
“You know, parson, Moll McGee, of Cwmdu, dunna yoo?”
“Yes, ma’am; I know that person very well.”
“Yoo know, dunna yoo, Mr. Jones, that she’s a witch.”
“She is so reported, Mrs. Lloyd; but you must not believe all you hear.”
“But, yoo do know very well she’s a real witch, so dunna yoo deny it.”
“I have no personal knowledge of the fact, ma’am,” replied the good parson; “I have always found her a harmless and inoffensive woman, though some persons say she has put her mark on certain families.”
“I should think she has, indeed; so dunna yoo think she ought to be hanged and quartered, and her body and bones, and her heart and liver, burned by the common hangman, for causing so much trouble and loss to poor and innocent folks?”
“Surely she has not paid you a visit, has she?”
“She ha, though; and, what is worse, she has spoiled a beautiful churning of milk, and killed our pony, which Lloyd was offered thirty pounds for at last May fair.”
“I am sorry to hear this of Mrs. McGee,” observed Mr. Jones; “but, my dear madam, when and how did this happen?”
“When my daughter Mary was churning on Wednesday morning, who should kum up to the dairy door but Moll the witch. She sez, sez she, ‘Will you give me some buttermilk, Mrs. Lloyd?’
“‘No,’ sez I; ‘I’ve no buttermilk to spare.’
“‘But yoo must,’ sez she, ‘give me some.’
“‘I have sed the word, Mrs. McGee, that I’ve none to spare; and if I had, you shudna have any.’
“‘Why?’ sez she.
“‘Why,’ sez I; ‘because yoo are a bad woman.’
“‘You had better give me som,’ sez she agen; ‘for if you won’t it ’ul be the worse for yoo.’
“‘What will yoo do, Mary?’ sez I.
“‘I’ll mark yore cattle,’ sez she, ‘and I’llleavethe mark there too, for your hard-heartedness.’
“‘Then,’ replied I, ‘I won’t give yoo milk. Yoo’ll witch my things, will yoo? Do thy worst Moll,’ sez I, ‘for I dunna fear thee.’
“‘Then,’ sez she, ‘may yur milk never turn into butter, may yur cows cease to give yoo milk, and may yoo find some of yur beasts in the black quarry before another week’s gone, and may the curse of Mary of the Black Dingle ever follow yoo and yours.’
“The old hag, when she finished her curse, turned upon her heel, and in a moment afterwards my daughter and me saw her going through the gate in the form of a large black monkey. After she left, we continued to churn away with all our might and main, but the butter wouldna come, and since that day the cows have refused to give us any milk.”
“But what about the pony, Mrs. Lloyd?”
“Oh, I had almost forgotten to tell yoo about that. Well, last night, as Lloyd was coming whome from the fields, he saw a black monkey on the back of the pony. The brute was urgingthe poor creature forward by sticking her devilish claws in the pony’s side. And will yoo believe it—God ha’ mercy upon us! for we live in strange times,—the monkey drove the pony straight for the quarry. Lloyd saw her fall over the rock, and running up to the edge of the quarry, saw the poor creature dashed to atoms at the bottom, and Moll standing by grinning. But p’raps yoo wunna believe the truth of my story, but it is as true as I’m a Christian woman.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Lloyd,” replied Mr. Jones with great firmness, “I don’t believe that Mary McGee, or any mortal, possesses the power which you evidently believe she does possess. Heaven has not delegated to sinful mortal, nor even to any of His creatures, power to inflict injury affecting life or limb upon any of the creatures He has made, and by whose power and goodness they are sustained.”
“Yoo are a learned man, and I’m no scholard, tho’ I kun read my Bible, thank God! and that book tells me that evil spirits did enter into man and beast; and parson, yoo cunna makeme believe that the arch-fiend has not entered into the heart of that woman.”
“Oh! don’t, I beseech you, my friend, give too much credence to idle tales and silly talk; and pray don’t believe that she is the real cause of, and the instrument by which, this affliction has come upon you. If you were to sift thoroughly the evidence respecting Mary’s malpractices, you would discover, in the end, that the whole is based upon hearsay, and on the inventions of persons who might have fancied it possible for such things to exist.”
“Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones,” replied Mrs. Lloyd, “these tales are not idle invention; I wish they was. But as true as God made Llandegley Rocks, and I s’pose He made them, my cows wanna give no milk, and the cream wunna turn to butter, churn as much as we will; and it’s a fact ’bout the old hag and our pony, as Lloyd witnessed the whole matter. I believe, and Lloyd believes, and my daughter believes it too, that our calamities are the result of the evil influences of this witch, who has been practising upon our creatures her infernal and malignantarts. I have now told you my tale, parson, and I want your advice.”
“What do you wish me to do, Mrs. Lloyd?”
“Oh, sir! there is only one thing yoo can do.”
“What is that, my friend?”
“What is that, yoo ask? Ye know very well. Why, break the spell, to be sure. Until that’s done we shall neither have butter nor milk, and then how shall we be able to pay our rent?”
“Indeed, ma’am, I don’t see how I can assist you. Oh, I do wish you would not place any faith in this woman’s power.”
“I cunna help it, Mr. Jones. But I do believe this, that yoo can master her, and yoo only. I know yoo have power over these evil spirits and witches, but especially over Moll McGee.”
“Why do you think so, ma’am?”
“Oh,” replied Mrs. Lloyd, “she’s afeared of yoo. Indeed, she said she was afeared of yoo; and no wonder, for we know very well that yoo can master her master—the great fiend himself.”
“Pray, Mrs. Lloyd,” remarked the vicar, “don’t for a moment entertain the belief that such power belongeth to man, nor that I, one of the most sinful of God’s creatures, have authority over the ruler of darkness. However, as your cattle are afflicted, I will step up in the morning, and examine them.”
“I’m so thankful to yoo, Misther Jones, for your kindness. I shall now go whome with a lighter heart than I came, for I know you will break the witch’s spell.”
I thought Mr. Jones would give her a lecture about her faith in his power. However, for this she waited not; for on securing his promise she rose from her chair, and took her departure, wishing us both a hearty good-night.
In about a quarter of an hour after Mrs. Lloyd had left, who should walk into the study but Mrs. McGee, who took possession of Mrs. Lloyd’s seat without any invitation from the vicar. When she had made herself comfortable before the blazing fire of wood on the hearth, Mr. Jones addressed her:—
“Why are you out so late to-night, Molly?”
“I’ve come to speak with you on business.”
“But it is rather late for business now. Why did you not come earlier?”
“I couldn’t do so.”
“Why?”
“Because Mrs. Lloyd had not visited you till to-night.”
“But what had her visit to do with you?”
“Everything; ’cause she come to tell you a tale ’bout me.”
“I fear, Molly, she has a very just cause of complaint, against you especially, if reports be true.”
“Bad luck to her, and all she has, Mr. Jones!”
“Withdraw that word this moment, Molly; or,” his piercing eye being fixed on the woman, which appeared to enter her soul, “I must use my power—that is, I must request you to leave my house this instant.”
“But don’t you think she was a hard-hearted woman not to give a poor body a dhrop of buttermilk?”
“I can’t say that, Molly; but if she behard-hearted, there is no reason why any one should wish her ill. I must, therefore, insist on your withdrawing your wish.”
“If I do so, Mister Jones, it wonnot be for her, but for your sake, who has always been kind to me.”
“You have spoken like a sensible woman, Molly. I have one more request to make, Mrs. McGee; that is, promise me you won’t go near Mrs. Lloyd again.”
“Dear-a-me, you are a strange mon, parson. Between you an’ me and the post, I’ve no wish to go near the likes of her, as she has no pity on a poor starving woman.”
“As you have now promised me not to go near Mrs. Lloyd, just go into the kitchen and get some supper, and make haste home, for it is getting late.”
When Mrs. McGee left us, I also left to depart. On the ensuing afternoon I was informed, that before daylight next morning, Mr. Jones, before the family were up, had paid a visit to Mrs. Lloyd’s cow-house, and had given to each beast a small ball made up of herbs.When these were swallowed the cattle appeared scarcely able to contain themselves for delight. Mr. Jones saw by their appearance that his medicine (?) had proved successful; so calling up the family, he informed them that the spell was broken. The cows no longer refused to give milk, and Mrs. Lloyd even declared that it was superior in quality to what she previously had. Subsequently, she experienced no difficulty in her churning operations. The fame of Mr. Jones spread, in consequence, far and wide, and, unfortunately for his own peace and comfort, applications to him for assistance, when the witches had afflicted man or beast, became incessant.
It was a dreary night in the month of December when there sat in the chimney-corner of the Jolly Fiddler—which, as you know, is the chief public-house in the little village of Nantglyn—Nat the smith. Nat, as you are aware, is a real good fellow, and a hard-working man, but, unfortunately, he is terribly fond of his beer. I have been told that he has spent a little fortune at the Jolly Fiddler, and I can well believe it, for he pays nightly visits to the house, which he never leaves until he has had two quarts of ale; and I fear that latterly he has not confined himself to that quantity. However, I am anticipating this part of my story, and must first narrate, as succinctly as possible, the incidents of Nat’s life during the past seven years. Besides, I am anxious to finish telling you the story to-night, though I am not sure I can complete it, as there is a gap in the history of my friend Nat whichhas not yet been made up. With the above remarks by way of introduction, we will now go back to the dreary night of December already alluded to.
After Nat had sat for some time in the chimney-corner at the Jolly Fiddler, he called out to the landlord,—
“Another quart, Bill; and mind it’s from the barrel in the corner.”
“All right, Nat,” replied the landlord; “you shall ha’ a quart of the best.”
“Here’s the sixpence, Bill,” said Nat, when the ale was placed before him on the table; “and, upon my soul, I’ve not another copper left.”
“Never mind about the money, Nat; I’ll trust you for as much as you like to drink.”
“Thee knows, Will, I never allow scoring for beer. Ready money or no ale, is my motto.”
“And a good motto it is, Nat. Oh, I wish all my customers was like you; for if they was, I should have no fear of being marched off to Lunnun (London) to be whitewashed.” (Aprovincialism implying the passing the Bankruptcy Court.)
“There is no danger of me going up there, Will,” rejoined Nat. “’Cause why, no one will trust me.”
“Dunna thee say that, Nat; for thee knows very well that I’ll trust thee.”
“Trust or no trust, Will, here goes,” and putting the jug of foaming ale to his mouth he drank a good draught; and then smacking his lips, said, “Upon my word, this is the real ‘cwrw da.’ A quart of this is worth a gallon of the last brewing.”
“So it ought to be, Nat; for I put four bushels of best malt to this barrel in the corner.”
“There’s no mistake, Bill, about its strength; and between us, as old friends, my only fear is that I shall not be able to get my fair allowance of it.”
“Oh! of that you need not be afraid, Nat; ’cause why, I only give this beer to my constant and my very best customers, and—”
“Of which I am one, I s’pose you was going to say.”
“And if I had said so, Nat, I should ha’ spoken the literal truth.”
During the above conversation a gentleman, unperceived by the landlord and his best customer, entered the kitchen of the Jolly Fiddler. He was clad in a suit of black, over which he wore a long cloak of invisible green, the bottom of which trailed on the ground. He had on his head a felt wideawake, which was so inclined in front that his eyes were not perceptible, while the rest of his face was shut from view by an immense quantity of long, smooth, glossy hair, which descended over and below his shoulders. He had entered the kitchen of the Jolly Fiddler silently, and taking up a position between the door and chimney-corner in which the smith was sitting, and at the landlord’s back, his presence was unperceived by both. On that spot he had stood during the conversation between Nat and Bill, to which he had listened with great attention. When the landlord turned away from his friend Nat, to attend to the duties of his house, he was astonished to find the presence of the stranger, whosestrange appearance struck him with awe, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. However he summoned up his courage, and taking a slanting direction, he escaped through a side door into the little back parlour of the inn.
Nat was not a spectator of this scene. When Will left him, he took his quart of ale in his hand, and composing himself in the chimney corner, he sat there, intently watching the glowing wood-fire before him. There he sat, now and then sipping his ale, as professed wine-drinkers sip their port, remarking to himself, after each succeeding draught, “This is capital stuff! it warms the cockles of one’s heart as it goes down; but, poor me! when, oh when, shall I have sixpence in my pocket to buy another quart? Oh, it’s a sad thing to be poor in this rich land of plenty! It’s not right for me and my class to starve for good ale, when our wealthy neighbours have their cellars full, and plenty of gold to buy more. If I was rich, the poor man should never want for a pint or a jug of the real ‘cwrw da.’ Ah, me! I sha’ never be rich. I’m born to bepoor, and to labour as them sparks fly up the chimney. It’s sad, very sad, and heart-breaking, to have an empty pocket when one’s soul is thirsty.”
Nat sat thus musing and talking to himself for nearly half an hour. At last he finished his ale, and then, taking his stick in his hand, rose to go home. There was no one in the kitchen now. Nat thought this very strange, as Bill was generally about; but he fancied, as he rose to depart, that he saw the shadow of a human form on the wall. Of this he took no particular notice at the time; but, on listening to Will’s story the following day, Nat felt that the supposed shadow was a terrible reality.
Nat left the inn with a heavy heart. It is true he had had his quart of good ale, but he thought that, as work was slack, he would have considerable difficulty “in raising the wind” for several days, and this affliction had a depressing influence on his spirits. At last he reached the little wicket gate leading from the highway to his cottage; but on his openingit, he was awe-struck on seeing coming from his house along the garden-path, a gentleman clad in deep mourning. As there was something in the appearance of the gentleman Nat did not like, he attempted to avoid him by leaving the path free; but when Nat turned out of the path the figure turned too, and came up, meeting the smith face to face, and addressed him thus:—
“You are rather late to-night, Mr. Smith.”
“If I be late, sir,” retorted Nat, “I do not see it’s any business of yours.”
“Don’t be angry with me, friend, I meant no harm, for my object in meeting you here is to afford you help and counsel.”
“I need, sir, no man’s help,” replied Nat; “and when I require advice I’ll seek it at the house of a friend.”
“But, friend Vulcan, I can give you the help which nomancan.”
“Give it then, sir, to those who seek; as for me I desire it not.”
“You are poor, friend, and penniless.”
“But is poverty, sir, a crime?”
“Oh no, friend, poverty is not a crime; but you must own, Mr. Smith, that an empty pocket is very inconvenient for a thirsty soul.”
“How do you know, sir, that my pocket’s empty?”
“My knowledge of the fact, friend, is derived from your own confession.”
“But, sir, I never confessed to you, ’cause why, I never saw you before.”
“You speak truly on that point, friend Vulcan; nevertheless, I must tell you I heard your confession to-night at the Jolly Fiddler.”
“I did not see you there, sir.”
“Perhaps not. I was there, notwithstanding; and I heard you declaring to Will, the landlord, that you then parted with the last sixpence.”
“If I’ve spent all, sir, I can work and earn more.”
“Oh, sir, you can work: but I know you do not like work; and if you will comply with my wishes, you shall have all you require without working another hour.”
“What is your wish, sir, and the nature of your service?”
“I will tell you, Mr. Vulcan, in a few words. But, first, let me say that I take a deep interest in you, and am supremely anxious to promote your welfare. Now, if you will consent to become my son, at the expiration of seven years from this hour, I will grant you any three things you might desire, whatever they may be.”
“You’ll do what, sir?”
“I’ll grant you any three things—riches, wealth, possessions, or anything else.”
“And for these benefits, what do you require from me?”
“All I require, Mr. Nat, is that, at the expiration of seven years, you will acknowledge me as your master.”
“Indeed, sir,—that is, I don’t know what to say to your proposal. Now I’m a free man, and I’d rather be my own master than be the slave of another.”
“But, friend, when you have plenty of money you will be your own master, and besides, with a full pocket you can drink as much as you like of Will’s best beer. I shall guarantee in the bond your pockets shall be always full.”
“To-morrow night, if you will meet me, I will give you an answer.”
“To-morrow, friend, it will be too late. Your decision must be now or never. If you desire a merry and a jolly life, having a full pocket and plenty of good ale, sign this bond, which read for yourself.”
Nat took the document from the hand of the stranger, which he carefully read twice over. When completing its second perusal, he remarked that it appeared all right, though not wholly satisfactory as it contained no sentencesecuring the blessingsfor which he had to wishduring the seven years.
“Will it be satisfactory to you then, friend, if words to that effect are added?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Nat.
The stranger then wrote upon the bond the words Nat desired should be added, and presenting it to the smith, he at once signed the document, when, on its being done, the stranger vanished out of his sight, leaving Nat there in darkness and alone. However, he ultimatelyfound the door of his cottage, and, on entering, went at once to bed.
It was noon on the succeeding morning before Nat awoke. He had, like all beer and spirit drinkers, slept himself sober. When he was aroused from his slumbers, he began to think over the previous night’s scene, and, step by step, he was at last able to trace the whole of his doings from the time he left home until his return, and then he fully realized his present position. The sad fact that he had sold himself body and soul to the arch-fiend was now a terrible reality. “I have been a fool, and no mistake,” said he to himself; “but what’s done can’t be helped. Here is the bond, the conditions of which I’m bound to carry out.” He then got up, and dressed himself, and going downstairs, he found his dinner, which consisted of potatoes and milk, on the table. After partaking of a portion of the dinner his too-indulgent wife had prepared for him, addressing his faithful Betsy he unconsciously exclaimed:
“I wish, old girl, we had fried bacon with the potatoes.”
No sooner had the words escaped his lips than there appeared before him on the little round table a plateful of savoury bacon, on which he was so enraged with his own want of prudence, that he wished it and its contents under the grate, when it was removed thither by some invisible hand. Nat, on witnessing this, foamed with passion, and danced and cursed and swore like one possessed with the evil one. He carried on his ravings for some time to the astonishment of his wife, as she could not divine the cause of his strange conduct; and amid one of his fits of rage he exclaimed, “Oh, that I had a jug of Will’s best beer, for my mouth and my tongue are on fire!” In a moment the foaming ale was placed on the table, and Nat swallowed it at a single draught. When he placed the empty jug on the table, he said, addressing his wife:
“O Betsy! what a fool I’ve been. I was promised riches, possessions, and honours, if I’d do a particular thing, but my only reward is a jug of ale.”
From that day Nat was an altered man. He ceased his visits to the Jolly Fiddler.Occasionally he was to be found in his shop, but more frequently he might be seen walking up and down the mountain-side alone, with an air of pensive sadness on his brow. As years rolled on he became more dejected and depressed in spirits, the cause of which was known to no mortal. He did not even tell his wife the terrible secret of his unhappiness. Years and years passed on with this heavy load on his heart. At last it came to the very day but one when he had to fulfil the condition of the bond. Why or wherefore I do not know, but the thought struck him about me, and thinking, perhaps, that I could afford him some little aid, he started off yesterday morning, and he spent several hours with me here last night. He told me the whole of his tale, and when he had completed its recital, I said to him very kindly, but firmly,—
“You have done, my friend, a very wicked thing.”
“O sir, I know I have; but my heart is so depressed, pray do not, therefore, upbraid me now, but try and afford me some assistance.”
“I really can’t see my way to help you, especially as your enemy is so subtle.”
“But, my dear pastor, I think you can break the net in which he has caught me.”
“There is only one way of defeating him, Nat; that way is, by prayer and supplication for Divine help and guidance when the hour of your doom comes.”
“O sir, I have poured out my whole soul to my Redeemer, but I’ve received no answer to my prayer.”
“Relief, Nat, may yet come. Oh, don’t cease in your petitions to the throne of mercy.”
“I’m terribly afraid, sir, that my sins are so black, there is no hope for me.”
“While there is life, friend, there is hope; and even yet, at the eleventh hour, a way of escape may be opened to you.”
“Heaven be praised if there be, sir; but this bond is too explicit in terms, and he who holds the counterpart is too exacting, for me to hope for an escape.”
“You have the bond, then, Nat?”
“Yes, sir! here it is.”
“Have you received the benefits of its conditions?”
“The only benefit I received was one jug of beer. As for the bacon, that was devoured by the flames.”
“There is a line, which appears as an afterthought, added to the bond, namely, guaranteeing the security of the blessings wished for during a period of seven years. Do you now say, Nat, that you have not participated in the benefits of the wishes during the seven years?”
“I declare, sir, in the most solemn manner, that the only benefit I had was the jug of ale already referred to.”
“Now, Nat, I think I can help you out of your difficulty, and I will pray Heaven to succour and assist you in the terrible encounter awaiting you. But to insure success you must observe to the letter my directions. Will you promise me?”
“Most solemnly I promise to obey you to the letter.”
“You must fulfil your engagement with the enemy, and if he insists on your carrying outthe condition of the bond, then tell him to his face that you will not do so, unless he will first carry outhisconditions about the seven years. If he refuses, then demand another wish, and as you have received no benefit from the previous ones, he will, I think, concede the point. If so, then let your wish be that something terrible might happen to him.”
Now, said the parson to me, I can proceed no further with my tale. Every moment I am anxiously waiting news, or the return of Nat. If he comes you shall hear the rest of the story from his own lips,—whereupon Nat entered, and throwing up his hat to the top of the room, cried out, “He is conquered! he is conquered! Hurrah for Parson Jones! Hurrah for the good Vicar of Llan! before whom both witches and devils flee.” At last Nat became calm and composed, when he proceeded to complete the tale, which I tell in his own words:—
“I met the old chap at the appointed time and place, when he produced the bond, and asked me if I was ready to accompany him.
“I said, said I, ‘Not yet, my lord.’
“‘Why?’ said he.
“‘Because,’ said I, ‘you have not fulfilled the conditions of the bond.’
“‘In what have I failed?’ asked he.
“‘In this,’ said I, ‘I was, by the bond, to enjoy the blessings for seven years, and I’ve had only one jug of beer.’
“‘But that was your fault,’ said he.
“‘Whether it be my fault or not,’ said I, ‘I will not come with you unless you fulfil your conditions.’
“‘I will not wait for you another seven years,’ said he; ‘but I will permit your having one more wish.’
“‘You’ll do what?’ said I.
“‘I will grant you the privilege of one more wish.’
“‘You really will?’ said I.
“‘Yes; but, mind, my only reason for granting it,’ said he, ‘is that you appear to feel that I have taken an advantage of you.’
“‘Well, then,’ said I, ‘I wish you on the back of your fiery dragon; and, then, that the dragon carry you straight to Llynfan, and that you bothbe drowned in that lake, and never appear to disturb me more.’
“When I had finished my wish there was a terrible clap of thunder, which shook the earth beneath me to its very foundation, and it was followed by a vivid flash of lightning which lit up the whole mountain; and, looking across the valley, I then saw both the dragon and its rider disappear in that fathomless llyn. When I saw this I dropped down upon the cold ground, and then poured forth my heart’s thanksgivings to Him who had wrought me, through you, my dear pastor, so great, so glorious a victory.”
Pont Aberglaslyn
Fled are the fairy views of hill and dale;Sublimely throned on the steep mountain brow.Stern nature frowns: her desolating rageDriving the whirlwind, or swoln flood, or blastOf fiery air imprisoned, from their baseHas wildly hurled the uplifted rocks aroundThe gloomy pass, where Aberglaslyn’s archYawns o’er the torrent. The disjointed cragsO’er the steep precipice in fragments vastImpending, to the astonished mind recallThe fabled horrors by demoniac forceOf Lapland wizards wrought; who, borne uponThe whirlwind’s wing, what time the vexèd seaDashed ’gainst Norwegia’s cliffs, to solid massTurned the swoln billows, and the o’erhanging wavesFixed e’er they fell.
Fled are the fairy views of hill and dale;Sublimely throned on the steep mountain brow.Stern nature frowns: her desolating rageDriving the whirlwind, or swoln flood, or blastOf fiery air imprisoned, from their baseHas wildly hurled the uplifted rocks aroundThe gloomy pass, where Aberglaslyn’s archYawns o’er the torrent. The disjointed cragsO’er the steep precipice in fragments vastImpending, to the astonished mind recallThe fabled horrors by demoniac forceOf Lapland wizards wrought; who, borne uponThe whirlwind’s wing, what time the vexèd seaDashed ’gainst Norwegia’s cliffs, to solid massTurned the swoln billows, and the o’erhanging wavesFixed e’er they fell.
In the enchanting vale below Pont Aberglaslyn there stood, many many years ago, a small villa, which at the time of which wewrite was covered over with ivy. Surrounding this beautiful rural retreat were gardens and pleasure grounds, which were designed and laid out with great artistic taste and skill in the arrangement of walks, shrubs, rose-trees, flowers, and evergreens.
At the time our story commences, the villa was occupied by a gentleman whose family had seen better days; but, through the prodigality of ancestors and the vast sums they had squandered in horse-racing, cock-fighting, and gambling, the rent-roll of their estate which approached £12,000 a year, now scarcely reached a hundredth part of that sum after the interest had been paid. Indeed, when the then owner came into possession of his patrimony on the death of his father, his net income barely reached £6 a week. On discovering his pecuniary position, he felt he could no longer afford to occupy the family mansion, and like a wise man he prudently resolved to leave it, and remove to the villa we have already described. During the residence of the family at the old Hall, Mrs. Wynn—thatbeing the name of the family—left her household affairs to her servants, who unfortunately paid but little regard to domestic economy. However, when she took up her residence in her new abode she wisely undertook the chief management of her household; while Mr. Wynn devoted his time to the cultivation of the garden and superintending the education of his son and daughter. Both proved apt learners; what they learned they remembered. Whatever book they read, they retained its contents in their singularly retentive memories. In pursuing their studies, fortunately they had this great advantage in their favour,—namely, that their parent was a ripe scholar and an eminent man of letters, while as a teacher he possessed abilities of the highest order. Having such an instructor, no wonder his beloved pupils made such rapid progress. After teaching them thoroughly the rudiments, Mr. Wynn led on his children step by step to higher grounds; but in all his lessons he sought to instil into their young minds a strong and passionate desire, alonging thirst, for knowledge, the possession of which had afforded him some of the happiest and the most pleasurable hours of his life. Thus occupied, year after year came and rolled by, and each revolving year brought increased happiness to the little family of the villa. Truly did they live in each other’s love.
When their son Cadwgan had attained his fifteenth year, his sister Gwenfan being two years younger, their father was on one Saturday called away to the ancient town of Carnarvon, in order to transact some special business with the family solicitor. When he left home in the morning he promised to return the same evening, but though his wife and children waited his return until midnight, he came not. At last, sick and weary at heart, they retired to rest; but during the remainder of the night they were not roused by his well-known knock at the hall-door. Early on the ensuing Sabbath morning, a special messenger arrived at the villa from Carnarvon, with the sorrowful intelligence that SquireWynn had been seized with a virulent attack of small-pox, a disease which was then fearfully raging in the town and neighbourhood, and the messenger urged Mrs. Wynn to hasten to the bedside of her husband, if she desired to see him alive. With an aching heart she kissed and bade adieu to her son and daughter, and hastened to the bedside of the almost lifeless form of him who had ever been the light of her eyes and the joy of her heart. She saw at the first glance that the hour of his departure had come. She threw herself on the bed by his side, when he tenderly embraced her, saying, “Heaven bless you, my angel!” and then pointing his finger upwards, “Meet me there, and bring our dear ones with you.” He then heaved a deep sigh, and his spirit took its flight to thegwlad well(the better land). Before that day’s sun had descended into the western sea, Mrs. Wynn was attacked with the same fatal malady; and before the dawn of the following morning, her gentle and loving spirit had fled its earthly tabernacle for theland of eternal and ethereal joy. Thus were their children bereft of both father and mother in a single day, and before they were made acquainted with the terrible loss they had sustained, the forms they loved so well had been placed in the same tomb.
To the children the Monday and Tuesday following were days of anxious thought. No tidings had reached them of the sad event that had happened. It was late on Tuesday evening that a kind friend arrived from the solicitor bringing the sad intelligence of their parents’ decease. They were overwhelmed with sorrow on account of their loss. Days and days elapsed before they could realize their position. At last they were painfully impressed with the fact that they were alone in the world. No loving word now, in welcome and joyous voice, greeted them on entering their home. The arm-chair in which their father sat evening after evening, when he was used to tell them tales of years that had gone, and the couch on which their mother reclined before retiring to her bedroom, wereboth unoccupied. The sudden death of both, taken in connection with the responsibilities of the present and their anxieties pertaining to the future, nearly broke their young and tender hearts. But they sorrowed not as those who had no hope. From childhood they had been taught to love the dear Name which is above every name, and confident of His favour, and with full reliance on the promise that He would be a father to the fatherless, their gentle spirits became calm and peaceful. Moreover, they looked forward to a bright immortality, when they would join those whom their souls loved. Thus, as day after day came and departed, they became more resigned to their lot. Their griefs were assuaged by night voices from the world above. Often, in the evening twilight, they heard whispers from the spirits of the dear departed ones. And the spirits said, after a few more years of toil, of labour, of sorrow, of anxiety and trouble, you will come up hither, and then you shall mingle your voices with ours, in praising Him, who haswashed us from our sins in His own blood. That day there will be a joyous reunion in this spirit world where parting is no more.