324 [January 28, 1860.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Conducted by

Similarly, one of the graves for four was lying
open and ready, here, in the churchyard. So
much of the scanty space was already devoted
to the wrecked people, that the villagers had
begun to express uneasy doubts whether they
themselves could lie in their own ground, with
their forefathers and descendants, by-and-by.
The churchyard being but a step from the clergy-
man's dwelling-house, we crossed to the latter;
the white surplice was hanging up near the door,
ready to be put on at any time, for a funeral
service.

The cheerful earnestness of this good Christian
minister was as consolatory, as the circumstances
out of which it shone were sad. I never have
seen anything more delightfully genuine than
the calm dismissal by himself and his household
of all they had undergone, as a simple duty that
was quietly done and ended. In speaking of it,
they spoke of it with great compassion for the
bereaved; but laid no stress upon their own hard
share in those weary weeks, except as it had
attached many people to them as friends, and
elicited many touching expressions of gratitude.
This clergyman's brother—himself the clergy-
man of two adjoining parishes, who had buried
thirty-four of the bodies in his own churchyard,
and who had done to them all that his brother
had done as to the larger number—must be
understood as included in the family. He was
there, with his neatly arranged papers, and made
no more account of his trouble than anybody
else did. Down to yesterday's post outward, my
clergyman alone has written one thousand and
seventy-five letters to relatives and friends of
the lost people. In the absence of all self-asser-
tion, it was only through my now and then deli-
cately putting a question as the occasion arose,
that I became informed of these things. It was
only when I had remarked again and again, in
the church, on the awful nature of the scene
of death he had been required so closely to fa-
miliarise himself with for the soothing of the
living, that he had casually said, without the
least abatement of his cheerfulness, "indeed, it
had rendered him unable for a time to eat or
drink more than a little coffee now and then, and
a piece of bread."

In this noble modesty, in this beautiful sim-
plicity, in this serene avoidance of the least at-
tempt to " improve " an occasion which might
be supposed to have sunk of its own weight
into my heart, I seemed to have happily come,
in a few steps, from the churchyard with its
open grave, which was the type of Death, to the
Christian dwelling side by side with it, which was
the type of Resurrection. I never shall think of
the former, without the latter. The two will
always rest side by side in my memory. If I
had lost any one dear to me in this unfortunate
ship, if I made a voyage from Australia to look
at the grave in the churchyard, I should go
away, thankful to GOD that that house was so
close to it, and that its shadow by day and its
domestic lights by night fell upon the earth in
which its Master had so tenderly laid my dear
one's head.

The references that naturally arose out
of our conversation, to the descriptions sent
down of shipwrecked persons, and to the gra-
titude of relations and friends, made me very
anxious to see some of those letters. I was
presently seated before a shipwreck of papers,
all bordered with black, and from them I made
the following few extracts.

A mother writes:

REVEREND SIR. Amongst the many who perished
on your shore was numbered my beloved son. I was
only just recovering from a severe illness, and this
fearful affliction has caused a relapse, so that I am
unable at present to go to identify the remains of the
loved and lost. My darling son would have been
sixteen on Christmas-day next. He was a most
amiable and obedient child, early taught the way of
salvation. We fondly hoped that as a British seaman
he might be an ornament to his profession, but, " it
is well;" I feel assured my dear boy is now with the
redeemed. Oh, he did not wish to go this last voy-
age! On the fifteenth of October, I received a letter
from him from Melbourne, date August twelfth; he
wrote in high spirits, and in conclusion he says: "Pray
for a fair breeze, dear mamma, and I'll not forget to
whistle for it; and, God permitting, I shall see you
and all my little pets again. Good-by, dear
mother—good-by, dearest parents. Good-by, dear
brother." Oh, it was indeed an eternal farewell. I
do not apologise for thus writing you, for oh, my
heart is very sorrowful.

A husband writes:

Mr DEAR KIND SIR. Will you kindly inform me
whether there are any initials upon the ring and
guard you have in possession, found, as the Stand-
ard says, last Tuesday? Believe me, my dear sir,
when I say that I cannot express my deep gratitude in
words sufficiently for your kindness to me on that
fearful and appalling day. Will you tell me what
I can do for you, and will you write me a consoling
letter to prevent my mind from going astray?

A widow writes:

Left in such a state as I am, my friends and I
thought it best that my dear husband should be
buried where he lies, and, much as I should have
liked to have had it otherwise, I must submit. I
feel, from all I have heard of you, that you will see
it done decently and in order. Little does it signify
to us, when the soul has departed, where this poor
body lies, but we who are left behind would do all
we can to show how we loved them. This is denied
me, but it is God's hand that afflicts us, and I try to
submit. Some day I may be able to visit the spot,
and see where he lies, and erect a simple stone to his
memory. Oh! it will be long, long before I forget
that dreadful night. Is there such a thing in the
vicinity, or any shop in Bangor, to which I could
send for a small picture of Moelfra or Llanallgo
Church, a spot now sacred to me?

Another widow writes:

I have received your letter this morning, and do
thank you most kindly for the interest you have
taken about my dear husband, as well for the senti-
ments yours contains, evincing the spirit of a Chris-
tian who can sympathise for those who, like myself,
are broken down with grief.

May God bless and sustain you, and all in con-
nexion with you, in this great trial. Time may
roll on and bear all its sons away, but your name
as a disinterested person will stand in history, and,