This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler

THE
CAMBRIAN SKETCH-BOOK.

TALES, SCENES,
AND LEGENDS OF WILD WALES.

BY
R. RICE DAVIES.

Author of “The Handy Book on Tax Laws,” “Havelock,”
“Essay on Recreation Grounds for Swansea,” etc.

London:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL & CO.

Swansea:
THE CAMBRIAN WELSH AND ENGLISH BOOK
PUBLISHING COMPANY

To the Right Honourable
THE LADY LLANOVER.

Madam,

Among the illustrious men and women of Cambria it would be difficult to select one to whom this book could be so appropriately inscribed as your ladyship. You are, and ever have been, the warm and sincere friend of my country; you are profoundly versed in her historic, poetic, literary, and legendary annals; you are a liberal and munificent contributor to almost every great movement designed to promote the social and intellectual, the moral and religious, welfare of the people of our ancient Principality; and you have attained a high and imperishable fame as a graceful and eloquent writer. In these pages your ladyship will find depicted scenes connected with the past history of the land; tales of years that are gone, which roll before us with their dark or splendid deeds, and specimens of the wild but graceful legends which have shed a poetic charm upon almost every nook and corner of Wales. I cherish the hope that their perusal will afford your ladyship delight and pleasure, while their contents, possibly, may help to increase your ladyship’s interest in and attachment to the land you so much love.

I am, Madam,
Very respectfully,
Your ladyship’s obedient Servant,
R. RICE DAVIES.

PREFACE.

The history of the Cambrian race is interesting not only to the antiquarian, but also to all real lovers of traditional and legendary lore. It is a race which had its origin in the mythical age, in the far back and remote past, in that period of the world’s history when intellectual and moral darkness covered the earth, and when gross darkness, like a black pall, enveloped the minds of the people. The country which this race originally occupied is simply a matter of conjecture—an unascertained fact; while the period when the Cambrian people first left their own native soil, the land of their love and their fondest affection, and wandered over hill and plain, over mountain and dismal swamp, through woods and primeval forests, wading through mighty fordable rivers, and crossing stormy seas, until they reached the pebbled strand of this our sea-girt isle, is still a matter of uncertainty—one of the mysteries of this mysterious world. That they occupied this island, and were in undisturbed possession of it many hundred years before the appearance in our world of Him who is the true Light of humanity, there exists abundance of evidence; and it is not unlikely, but on the contrary highly probable, that sections of this ancient people were then engaged, as now, in developing the mineral wealth of the country.

Coming down to a later date, a less remote period, we have actual descriptive accounts of the Welsh people, of their manners and customs, their habits and mode of life, their religious rites and form of worship; and considering the then state of the world, we are astonished at the comparative high state of civilization to which this ancient race had at that time attained. But to trace the history of their civilization down through the ages is foreign to my present purpose, however tempting the theme. The object I had in view in preparing this work for the press, was not to place before the reader a consecutive narrative, but to select topics with a view to illustrate some of the traits of character of this ancient, singular, and extremely interesting people—a people who, in spite of oppression, injustice, and isolation, have nobly clung to the old faith; who have ever as citizens been loyal, patriotic, and virtuous; and who, moreover, in the face of very serious disadvantages, have obtained a position of intellectual and moral manhood, which cannot fail to inspire us with admiration and wonder. Let me say here, that if this work deepens the Welshman’s love of country, and induces the English reader to regard us in a more favourable light than that adopted by a class of Saxon critics, I shall consider I have not laboured in vain.

As regards the tales and sketches of this volume, they are not ideal pictures of Cambrian life and character, but are for the most part founded on fact. For example, the ascent of Snowdon was undertaken alone, some ten years ago, and by the most difficult, tedious, and hazardous route. I often wonder at my want of prudence in ascending from Capel Curig, that glorious old Alpine height, on a cold, dank, and misty autumnal morning, without a guide or a friendly hand to point the way. Alone I accomplished the journey, without experiencing much difficulty, or meeting a single mishap. The story of Dunraven Castle is founded on a historical fact. It is one of the most painful of the many painful incidents of those terrible times. Parson Jones is not an ideal but a real character painted from life. His fame as a charmer, a conjuror, and magician, was celebrated far and wide. I well remember farmers’ wives and others visiting him in order to secure his assistance in driving away evil spirits from their dwellings. A wonderful man was Parson Jones! An able divine, a true preacher of the cross, a lovable and childlike man was he. When his body was consigned to the tomb, the people felt that they had lost one of their best earthly friends. As to the legends of Lake Savathan and Elidorus, they have been handed down in written history. The tale of Cadwgan is a real picture of Cambrian life. The story of Saint Winifred is founded on an old Welsh legend. A marvellous work has recently been written by one of England’s greatest novelists; it is not impossible that the idea of the “Coming Race” had its origin in the tale of Elidorus.

In this work I have avoided the literary paths trodden by previous Cambrian authors: writers who, in their own sphere of literature, have left behind them imperishable names. I believe that the mine of wealth I have endeavoured to explore is new, while virgin is the soil. Deeply interesting are the legends which have been handed down from a people, who, alas! alas! no longer tread the sacred ground of wild Wales. In the selection of topics, I have only discovered for the theme of my pen a few precious gems, having culled here and there a few fair and fragrant flowers, thus leaving for future literary labours, many others of tints equally beautiful and sweets equally delicious. Almost every dell and hamlet, every sylvan glade and mountain side of wild Wales abounds with legends and tales, stories of real life which are too interesting to be lost, and too important in the lessons they afford to remain hid in the bosom of members of our ancient race.

It is possible that exception will be taken to the ideal pictures—creations of the author’s fancy—of the fairies and fairy land, which form rather a prominent feature of this work. For introducing to the reader the people of the fairy kingdom beneath the bay of Swansea, I have no apology to make. In the thoughts they breathe and in the opinions they express they are very human, while the land in which they dwell bears witness to the presence of the energizing power and infinite benevolence of the Supreme. From our childhood we have been accustomed to listen to the wonderful tales relating to Lilliputian races, in which the narrators described their sayings and doings, their gambols and frolics, their pranks and merry-making, their sweet music and dulcet notes; and in our wanderings, we have often gazed on the green rings wherein they danced on mead and meadow. And are we not ready to confess that those fairy stories possessed a special charm—an interest which even reality itself hardly awakens? I am aware that belief in the existence of those aërial forms, those ghostly, impalpable, and ambiguous beings, has been regarded as an evidence of mental blindness, and the absence of high culture and civilization. This charge cannot be maintained. The peoples of all European nations believe in the existence of those wonderful people, and, personally, I should regret to see their faith undermined. Fairies are associated with the spiritual and super-human; with virtue and purity; thus they help us to look upward to the spirit-world, where flesh and blood, where materialism and its unhallowed fruits have not, and can never have, even a temporary lodgment.

Should this work meet with the approval of my fellow-countrymen, I shall in the early part of next spring issue a second volume of the Cambrian Sketch-Book. I shall include in that volume: Sir Rice ap Thomas, a historical romance, already written; and The Lost Son Found, a tale of the Lowland Hundred. A beautiful country was Cantref-y-Gwaelod, where now roll the waters of the Atlantic—a magnificent plain with fortified cities, and co-extensive with Cardigan Bay. Several other legends and tales of North and South Wales will also appear in the intended volume.

It now only remains for me to express my hearty thanks to Charles Bath, Esq., of Fynone, for his kindness in placing at my service a very old view of Swansea, a faithful transcript of which has been made by the artist for the present volume. I make this public acknowledgment to our townsman for the reason that he is always ready to aid all efforts having in view the publication and circulation of works relating to dear old Cambria.

R. RICE DAVIES.

Swansea, July, 1875.

CONTENTS.

ASCENT OF SNOWDON.

“How high and swift flits the thin rack along,
Skirted with rainbow dyes; now deep below—
While the fierce sun strikes the illumined top,
Slow sails the gloomy storm, and all beneath,
By vaporous exhalation hid, is lost
In darkness: save at once where drifted mists,
Cut by strong gusts of eddying winds, expose
The transitory scene.
Now swift on either side the gathered clouds,
As by a sudden touch of magic, wide
Recede, and the fair face of heaven and earth
Appears. Amid the vast horizon’s stretch,
In restless gaze the eye of wonder darts
O’er the expanse,—mountains on mountains piled,
And winding bays and promontories huge,
And lakes and wandering rivers from their source
Traced to the distant ocean.”

Bingley’s Tour.

It was a bright and glorious August morning, in the year 18—, when, having a few weeks’ freedom from the busy toils of official labour, I resolved to have an “out,” as they call it in the north of England, where I then resided—a brief tour of pleasure. Never in these northern latitudes had I witnessed a more lovely morning. The sun shone brightly, and with a dazzling splendour only surpassed by the gorgeous brilliancy of an Eastern clime. When we looked upwards, not a cloud could be seen in the concave hemisphere above. Far, far away, the most distant objects could be plainly and distinctly seen. In the forest not a spray moved, nor was there a sweet kiss of the leaves on that breezeless morn. Neither on river nor lake could there be discerned a single ripple. Everywhere, except in the adjacent grove, did quietude and stillness reign. There, however, the birds sent forth their merry and joyous notes, and the tone of their voices, and the songs they sung, told of joys, and proclaimed the existence of happy feelings, which but few among the sons of men are permitted to realize. Oh, how calm and how still was the scene around! Indeed, all nature, except the winged songsters of the grove, appeared to repose quietly and peacefully on the bosom of its God.

A grand morning this, said I, for starting on an “out;” but the pressing question was, whither should I go. During my brief preparation, I fancied I heard the voice of the eagle, and the voice said, “Come to me. Come and behold the high mountain whereon I dwell, and the great rocks in which I build my nest. Come and see, from my high elevation and Alpine heights, the magnificent lochs whose waters spread far and wide in the broad and expansive valleys. Oh, come, and behold the land of the brave and heroic Wallace.”

A moment before deciding whether or not I should accept the invitation of the king of birds, there was wafted on the gentle breeze that had just sprung up, the voice of a little bird which inhabits the far west; and the little bird said, “Come and visit the land in which I dwell. In this land you will behold some of the greatest wonders of the world. Were you to visit the North or the South, the East or the West, the sunny fountains of Africa, the coral strands of India, or the icy regions of the frigid zone, yet in no part of the wide world could you discover objects so grand and majestic as our Giant’s Causeway; while Killarney is unrivalled for sublime and beautiful scenery.” Well, little bird, said I, I love your nation; your people have warm hearts and generous sympathies. Just, however, as I was about saying “aye” to the invitation of the little bird of the Green Isle, there came from the south—o’er moorland valley, o’er mighty rivers and hills, o’er cities, towns, and villages, the charming and enchanting voice of the lark, and its tones were so winning and so sweet, that I was almost moved to shed tears of joy. But what was the purport of her song? The burden of her song was Cambria! the beautiful and the blest; the land of Poetry and the Ideal. “Come,” carolled the lark, “and behold some of the beauties of Wild Wales. In no land are glades so verdant, are rocks so rugged and bold, are cwms and dells so exquisitely beautiful and lovely as are to be seen here. Nowhere but here can you behold hill after hill, and mountain after mountain, rise above each other, presenting a picture so awfully wild, so grand, and so majestically sublime. Besides,” said the lark, “this is your own land. It is the place of your birth. It is the home of your father’s sepulchre. Oh! come here, for here are generous hearts, ready to bid you welcome. In the border land is many an old friend who will rejoice and kill the fatted calf when he sees you approach his dwelling.” I could no longer resist the irresistible voice, and replied to her, Oh, sweet songster of the moorland, thither will I go, and to-morrow I will listen to your heavenly strains among your own hills.

I need not describe the journey from the North to Conway, as it is familiar to most travellers. Nor shall I refer to the beautiful Menai, or the magnificent ruins and historic renown of the good old town of Carnarvon. Nor shall I refer, with a view to depict the scene, to many other deeply-interesting spots, some of which I could not but gaze upon with feelings of profound reverence, the rather as they told the tales of other times, which rolled before me with their deeds. As I looked upon and contemplated these scenes, I was deeply affected, while my vision was dimmed by the tears that welled up from my heart. Moreover, as I still gazed upon the historic fields of blood and battle, I thought I saw the shadow of my country’s martyrs and heroes passing before my eyes—the shadows of the great and heroic men who, strong in the righteousness of their cause, fought for the liberty of our brave, courageous, and lion-hearted ancestors, and for the independence and the freedom of the land of my love and my sympathies. Since the days of that long and sanguinary struggle, time and the disposition of men and nations have immeasurably changed for the better. Happily for us, we have now a ruler who loves her subjects, whose sway is the very opposite of that despotic tyrant’s rule, who loved to imbrue his hands in the blood of contemporary princes. Edward, however, has gone to his place. Oh that his memory and his deeds of blood had perished with him! As I looked upon the scene around Conway, and viewed it in relation to and in connection with the dark deeds of Edward, the following lines of the poet Gray came to my remembrance:—

“Hark how each giant oak and desert cave
Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath!
O’er thee, O King, their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe,
Vocal no more.”

From Conway I proceeded to Llanrwst, thence to Bettws-y-Coed, which is situated in a lovely verdant cwm, and is the most charming and the most exquisitely beautiful spot I have ever beheld. I have seen many an enchanting scene, but Bettws-y-Coed is incomparably finer, and surpasses, both in magnificent boldness and soft and quiet grandeur, any other landscape upon which I have been permitted to gaze. As night was rapidly approaching, and as I had arranged to ascend Snowdon the following morning, I had to tear myself away from so enchanting a scene. From there I proceeded to the Swallow Falls, thence to Capel Curig, a village which affords some of the most picturesque landscapes which can be met with in Wales. Of this prospect it might be truly said:—

“Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
Here earth and water seem to strive again;
Not, chaos-like, together crushed and bruised,
But, as the world, harmoniously confused.”

However, I lingered not to contemplate the scene, but proceeded on my journey towards Penygwryd, which I reached just as the great king of day disappeared behind the Cambrian Alps.

The next morning, after partaking of an early breakfast of ham and eggs and coffee, I proceeded to the hotel lawn to see whether the day was favourable for an ascent of Yr Wyddfa, the “uwch y mynydd uchaf” of England and Wales. Since the previous day I regretted to find that the weather had undergone a complete change; the summit of Eryri was now enveloped in dark clouds, the morning was cold, and the air was dank and chilly. The moaning of the wind in the great mountain gullies and cwms rendered the scene both awful and sublime. Meeting mine host on the lawn, I inquired if I might venture to ascend Snowdon without the service of a guide. He strongly dissuaded me from attempting an ascent alone, as it would necessarily be attended with great risk. However, after debating the matter some time, I resolved to carry out my original design of going unattended. When I reached the summit I was delighted beyond measure at having accomplished the ascent, by the longest and most difficult route, without the aid of a guide. Having wished Mr. Owen a hearty farewell, I commenced the ascent of Snowdon. Proceeding up the road towards the Pass of Llanberis so far as Pen-y-Pass, I branched off to the left, and soon came to Llyn Teyrn, thence taking the trackless mountain above Cwm Dyli, direct towards Llyn Glaslyn; and thence by a circuitous and difficult route, which a kind mountain miner showed me, to the highest point of the Mother of Hills.

Although I found this route laborious, I was amply recompensed by beholding “scenes of extraordinary wildness and grandeur, over which solitude seemed to brood with undisturbed silence, scarcely ever broken by the wing of bird or the voice of melody.” In every direction prospects the most magnificent opened to view, and every crag and rock which I surmounted was furnished with objects of picturesque effect or deep and absorbing interest. From many a crag I looked down upon the cwms and deep dells beneath, and I fancied I could pick out here and there the very dingles to which our heroic ancestors were compelled to resort for protection, when pursued by numberless hosts of the enemy after they had sustained defeat. In these cwms they were, however, safe. Even proud and haughty Edward dared not follow the Britons to their mountain fastnesses. To them Snowdon had ever proved a kind and guardian angel: hence the reason why they fled thither in the hour of their defeat. No wonder, therefore, that they loved the old mountain deeply and passionately; and no wonder, too, that they composed songs to her honour and renown.

When I attained the summit of the mountain, the sight presented to my view was awfully and majestically wild and grand. The whole circuit of the Snowdonian range was enveloped in a thick and dark mist, which was so dense that I fancied I could cut it with the finest edged tool. The howling of the winds in the cwms and dingles which run down the mountain on every side was really appalling. Indeed, the prospect was horrible to contemplate. It gave an idea, says a writer on the subject, of numbers of abysses concealed by a thick smoke furiously circulating around us. Now and then, however, a strong gust of wind created an opening in the mist, which, for a moment, gave me a magnificent prospect of sea and lake, of deep chasms, and high and lofty mountains, of almost fathomless dingles and ravines; while towns and hamlets appeared in the distance like small specks on the surface of the earth. But the prospect was only momentary. The clouds of mist which were rent asunder by the strong current of wind would, in the twinkling of an eye, again form and unite, and thus present a compact and complete whole, leaving me involved in a darkness that might be felt. In a minute it would again separate into a thousand parts, and fly in wild eddies up the gullies and dingles, thus affording me another opportunity of seeing the Isle of Mona, the mountain of Plynlimmon, Hell’s Mouth, the Iraeth Bach, and that magnificent bay which once formed the rich and fertile plain of Cantref-y-Gwaelod, with its sixteen fortified cities and towns, whose inhabitants met with a watery grave through the drunkenness of Seithenyn, who is styled in the “Triads” as one of the three notorious drunkards of the isle of Britain. Contemplating the scene so strange, yet so grand, the following lines of the poet Rogers struck me as extremely applicable to my then situation:—

“The morning air
Plays on my cheek, how gently, flinging round
A silvery gleam; and now the purple mists
Rise like a curtain; now the sun looks out,
Filling, o’erflowing with his glorious light,
This noble amphitheatre of hills.”

After spending nearly two hours on the summit in gazing upon the wild, yet the grand and majestic scene presented to my view, I felt, as I had to walk to Pont Aberglaslyn, and back to Penygwryd, a distance of nearly twenty miles, that I dare not delay my departure longer; hence I made instant preparation to descend. I, however, left this Alpine top, and bade farewell to old Snowdon, with feelings of deep sorrow and poignant grief. On leaving this most prominent historic spot in the past history of my country, I could not but enter into the deep feeling of reverence with which my forefathers regarded this mountain and its adjacent hills, valleys, and plains. Thought I to myself, was it a wonder that they almost worshipped Yr Wyddfa? Indeed they had every reason for paying honour and homage to it. To them it had ever been a never-failing friend—a sure and safe retreat when they suffered and sustained defeat in battle. To them it afforded a rich and never-failing refuge, in which they lodged the young and the feeble and the non-combatants when they went forth to fight the common foe—the implacable enemies of their dear fatherland—foes and enemies, too, who were strangers to generosity, but who loved conquest for the sake of conquest, and who were alike indifferent to the sacrifice of human blood as they were to English treasures. When they followed our brave and heroic countrymen into the mountain fastnesses of Snowdon, they generally suffered terrible slaughter, and repented having left those fortresses and plains where they so much loved to dwell. Considering the many and the terrible disasters which befell their marches in its fastnesses, no wonder they preferred residing at some distance removed from so impregnable a refuge. To the Welsh warriors it had been a natural guardian angel: hence the reason why they loved it so deeply, so ardently, and with the whole passion of the soul.

After I had descended some distance towards Beddgelert, I turned in order to take a parting farewell-look of this the mother of Cambrian mountains; and in viewing its high and lofty summit, now almost wholly enveloped in mist, I was forcibly struck with the wild, dreary, and boundless scene. From the point on which I stood this ancient hill appeared to be untrodden by human foot, and tenanted only by wandering sheep and goats, except the hoarse-croaking ravens. It was, indeed, sublime to stand, as I stood then, on that spot, and commune with solitude around—to gaze upon Snowdon and her manifold adjacent hills, slumbering calmly beneath me. With me there was no form, no human being, no living thing; but I rejoiced that there, amid this stupendous scene, I could commune freely and uninterruptedly with nature and nature’s God, and with the spirits of my brave and heroic forefathers, whose bones lie buried in that wild and dreary scene; and, as I finally parted from the scene, I sang the following well-known lines, and so my voice re-echoed through the dales and caverns:—

“Rest, ye brave dead, ’midst the hills of your sires.
Oh, who would not slumber when Freedom expires?
Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain,
The children of song may not breathe in the chain.”

A STORY OF DUNRAVEN CASTLE IN THE OLDEN TIMES;
OR,
GOD’S JUDGMENT AGAINST WRECKERS.

THE PROEM.

On the southern coast of the county of Glamorgan, and situate at the back of a high rocky promontory commanding a magnificent view of the Bristol Channel, and just opposite the little sea-bathing village of Southerndown, which appears desolate amid its desolation, stands the modern Castle of Dunraven, which was built by the late Mr. Thomas Wyndham. This castle is erected on the site of a very ancient structure, which, in the olden times, was called Dindryfan. The old castle is in some respects the most interesting in the Principality. It was there one of Cambria’s greatest warriors and one of her purest patriots lived and reigned. Dunraven was the centre of those wonderful military movements which gained for their author wide-spread fame and imperishable renown. It was there that the great commander and war-tactician delivered those eloquent harangues, which not only inspired confidence in so great and skilful a leader, but also nerved the patriot’s arm, enabling his trusty followers to go forth to meet the foe fearlessly, courageously, and with a resolute resolve to conquer or to die for their country’s welfare and the independence of their fatherland. Caractacus, or as he is generally called by Cambrian writers, Caraddwg, was a great man and an illustrious warrior, celebrated no less for his heroism than for his many other virtues. Hence, when one visits Dunraven, the scenes of his childhood and riper years, one seems to imbibe his spirit, to be inspired with the highest admiration for his genius, and to feel the profoundest reverence for the man who, though vanquished in his encounter with the well-disciplined forces of Octavius yet was not ashamed—rather in it did he glory—after many years of exile from the land of his birth, of his love, and of his deepest and fondest affection, to return to the very scenes of his childhood and princely rule, in order to proclaim the good news of the gospel, the truths and glories of which he had learned and realized during his residence in the far-famed city of Rome.

Subsequent to the death of Caraddwg, Dunraven continued to be the seat of the Reguli of Glamorgan until the Norman Conquest. When Robert Fitz-Hamon divided the country he and his armies had conquered, he assigned this castle and manor to William de Londres, who, in consequence of their worthless value, gave them to his butler, afterwards Sir Arnold Butler. When the male issue of the Butler family became extinct, the castle and manor fell to Walter Vaughan, who was a descendant of the female branch of the Butlers. It is to this person our story relates. Oh that his crimes had never been recorded by the pen of the historian! Oh that his life and its deeds of horror and loathing, which, when we contemplate, makes one’s blood run cold, had remained unwritten! As, however, these have been handed down to this distant age, I will endeavour to depict the scene, though I can form but a very dim and hazy conception of the barbarities and cruelties practised by that evil man in those distant times.

CHAPTER I.
THE LOVERS.

It was a lovely autumn evening, when a young man and young woman might have been seen walking hand in hand along the carriage drive which led from the village of St. Bride’s to Dunraven Castle. The young man was in his usual buoyant and cheerful mood, happy and joyous, but his companion was pensive and sad. From childhood John ap William and Myfanwy Gwenllian had been companions. In childhood they had pledged themselves to be true to each other. In childhood they had walked together, day after day, either on the rocky headland below the village of Southerndown, or on the sands of Dunraven Bay, picking off the rocks flowers of various tints and hues, or gathering in the little haven or bay beautiful stones or pebbles, or seaweeds and shells. Besides, during those childish excursions they were often seen gazing on the ocean surges, or on the bright blue waves, now almost quiet and still, now dashing up in awful and appalling fury against the high and stupendous rocks surrounding the bay. Often, too, might they have been seen watching the ships as they sailed up and down the channel. John especially, loved the sea and its pebbly shore. He was never so happy as when, with his beloved Myfanwy, he was watching the tidal eddies, or viewing the frail barques as they rode so majestically o’er the briny waves, carrying in their laps, as it were, the merchandise and the wealth of the world—the products of the earth’s richest blessings from shore to shore and from clime to clime. John contemplated this scene as a Christian philosopher. He looked upon commerce between nation and nation and between peoples and peoples as one of the greatest agents in advancing the world’s civilization, as it necessarily carried to distant lands those products of industry which so much contribute towards the comfort and the material happiness and the general welfare of the race. But while he looked upon commercial enterprise as a channel through which material blessings might be conveyed, he moreover regarded it as tending directly to unite nation with nation, to realize and cement in the bonds of a holy brotherhood different races and separate nations and kingdoms; thus rendering war almost impossible. Happy would it be if the statesmen of the world would act up to these high principles!

Besides, though John had never been from home—Bridgend being the furthest extent within the range of his geographical knowledge—nevertheless, from his reflection on the beneficial results flowing from commercial enterprise, and his strong passion for a roving life, and being, moreover, desirous to follow his father’s profession, who was commander of a merchant vessel, he had resolved, in his early years, to go to sea when he grew old enough, if a favourable opportunity offered itself. Myfanwy, however, used all her powers of argument and suasion with a view to prevent him from following so hazardous a calling; but without success. Upon a seafaring life he was resolved. To visit distant lands, and to behold strange peoples and countries, was the all-prevailing and the constant desire of his heart’s deepest emotion. Hence on attaining his thirteenth year, he was apprenticed to his father. When, however, the day arrived for leaving home, and for bidding adieu to his beloved mother and his darling Myfanwy, the grief he felt on parting with those he so deeply and tenderly loved, almost broke his heart. At last he tore himself from their embraces and fond caresses, and on the following day he joined his father’s ship at Bristol, which was even then a city of considerable commercial importance.

As young ap William was a joyous and spirited boy, always full of fun and joviality, and was never so well pleased as when he collected around him a number of the sailors, and told them tales of other times, especially tales connected with the lives of the great warriors and heroes of his country he, in consequence, became a great favourite with his father’s crew, who loved him for his own and his father’s sake. During this time he did not, however, neglect his studies; nor was he lacking in acquiring a thorough knowledge of his profession. He studied navigation, paid great attention to charts; while in a short time he gained such an intimate acquaintance with the management of the vessel, that before two years elapsed the chief mate pronounced him to be the best and ablest sailor on board.

Before he attained his eighteenth year he could steer and manage a vessel with any captain in the mercantile marine; and as the first mate then retired from the service, John was appointed, by the owners of the ship, as his successor, with a promise that on the first vacancy he should have the command of one of their largest vessels. During those years John had saved several hundred pounds. This sum his father invested in the purchase of a small freehold estate in his native parish, to which John intended to retire after he had saved enough to secure a sufficient competency for himself and his beloved Myfanwy. To that day he looked forward with feelings of longing anticipation. On that day he had often said he would forget the past, would recall to his mind neither sorrow nor human woes; but would for once live a day wholly devoted to pleasure and to joy, looking on from then to a still more bright and happy future. Alas! alas! how different often are results from our expectations. Weeping cometh in the morning as well as at night. When we are most bent on pleasure, when we fancy we are about to realize, according to our anticipations, its fullest fruition, a dark cloud, charged with mournful tidings, bursts on our head. The day on which he led Myfanwy to the altar was the day on which he himself became an orphan. Indeed, he had not left the churchyard before being apprised of the sad intelligence that a father whom he loved so much was now a mangled corpse. He went home to weep and to grieve, though he did not sorrow as one who had no hope.

CHAPTER II.
A NOBLE RESOLVE NOBLY CARRIED OUT.

It was morning. Walter Vaughan and his heir were partaking of an early meal before going to the chase. Just previous to their departure, “faithful Evan,” as he was called by the neighbours, entered the hall, and handed his master a letter, which he received with a trembling hand. Mr. Vaughan hastily broke the seal, and commenced perusing its contents, but before he had concluded its perusal, he became as pale as death, he shook like an aspen leaf, and his hand trembled violently. The young lord, seeing his father’s distress and mental agony, became seriously alarmed, and, in a paroxysm of anguish and grief, exclaimed in weeping tones:—

“Oh, father, my dear and fond parent! what is the matter? Are you ill?”

“My boy,” replied the lord, “I am a ruined man!”

“Ruined, did you say?”

“Yes, completely and, I fear, irretrievably ruined.”

“How, and by what means has so great a calamity befallen you?”

“This I will explain in a few words. Some time ago I placed my affairs in the hands of an attorney, whom I then believed to be an honest man. He has, however, proved himself to be a faithless friend and an arrant rogue. This is his letter, in which he informs me that the lawsuit has been decided in favour of my opponent, who is my bitterest foe. This vagabond lawyer further tells me, that the costs are so enormous that I shall be compelled to sell my estates in order to meet the liability. He even doubts whether the castle and manor of Dunraven will realize sufficient, over and above the present encumbrance, to meet the debt.”

“But you need not, dear father, dispose of the estate to satisfy the claims of these lawyers. There is the twenty thousand pounds my uncle left me in the bank. I will send an authority to the manager to pay you that sum. Surely, that will be sufficient to meet all claims.”

“My dear and noble-hearted boy, it almost breaks my heart to be obliged to tell you that your money, even to the last shilling, has already been spent.”

“Surely, you have not raised the whole of that sum?”

“Yes, every penny has gone; and now, dear Walter, your patrimony in a few weeks will, I fear, become the possession of others.”

“This is sad news, my father,” replied Walter junior. “It is, indeed, a terrible disaster. But don’t grieve. What’s done can’t be undone. I am resolved yet to redeem it, if time be granted me. I am now penniless; but I will make my own fortune. I will yet gain for myself a name and a rank which shall be equal to, if it does not surpass, that of my illustrious ancestors. Now being bereft of all, the poorest of the poor, and dependent upon my own powers and will, I will repair the ruin.”

“By what means will you accomplish this, Walter?” inquired the father.

“Oh, father, by means which are honourable; and by pursuits which lead to fortune. By work, by labour, by industry, by indomitable plodding, and by engaging in the calling of men who have thereby accumulated untold wealth, and are possessed of unbounded riches.”

“I do not, my son, understand you. To what pursuit do you refer?”

“To be plain, then, this is my resolve: to engage at once in commercial undertakings, thus following in the footsteps of my late lamented uncle.”

“But, considering the position we occupy in society as the lords of Dunraven, for you to enter upon such an undertaking would be a degradation.”

“But, father, is it not a greater degradation to be poor—to see our lands in the possession of others, to be provided with bread by the toil and labour of others—in short, to see men work, while we refuse to lift up a hand to help them, when we are dependent upon their industry?”

“It is hard to do this, my noble boy; but to me it is still more painful to part with you.”

“You, dear father, have ever been kind and indulgent to me. Believe me, for I speak from my heart of hearts, that to leave you, though it be but for a season, is to me a matter of deep sorrow. It is, however, a stern necessity that compels my departure. I shall, nevertheless, leave you, though with sadness, yet with a buoyant hope, destined, I doubt not to be realised, to return to the home of my fathers laden with gold. The prospect of that day will cheer me in my labour, will nerve my arm, and help me to surmount any difficulties which may pass athwart my path.”

“God grant you success, my son, for which I will pray fervently during your forced absence. But whither will you go?”

“I think, dear father, that I can secure immediate employment—an employment, too, which will in no way be degrading to me as your heir. Yesterday I received a letter from my old friend and companion, Mr. Jones, of Marseilles, who is one of the greatest merchants of that famous city, in which he has asked me to look out for a gentleman to act as confidential clerk. He further says, that if the right man secures the appointment, and proves to be one who can be trusted, with business habits, tact, and energy, he holds out the prospect of an advantageous partnership. As he is in immediate want of a young man possessing those qualities, which I fancy I possess, I will write him offering my services, which, considering my altered circumstances, I think he will only feel too proud to accept.”

Young Walter was indeed just the kind of youth Mr. Jones wanted. He had received the best education which the Oxford of those times afforded. He had the bump of order largely developed. He was persevering, painstaking, energetic, and an indomitable plodder; whatever his hand found to do, he did it with all his might. Anything he undertook he would not give up until he had thoroughly mastered it. Moreover, he was thoroughly conscientious. In this virtue he followed his mother’s rather than his father’s family. Indeed, the old lord was regarded, and was justly considered, as an unprincipled, grasping, and unscrupulous man; and it was his greedy love of gold, and his insatiable thirst for larger possessions, which he sought to secure by unjust means and foul play, that had, in consequence of non-success, brought about his ruin. He had set up a claim to the heirship of another gentleman’s estate, though its owner’s ancestors were in its possession and enjoyment when Vaughan’s forefathers were menials. The court, happily, decided the suit in favour of the rightful owner, and to mark their sense of the wrong the lord of Dunraven intended doing, ordered him to pay the costs of ten years’ litigation. It was this final decision of which his lawyer had apprised him in the letter previously alluded to. His son, on the other hand, was an upright and an honourable man, who would rather suffer wrong than do an unjust act. Mr. Jones was well aware of these noble qualities with which young Walter was endowed; hence, on the receipt of the letter offering his services, he wrote him a note full of kindly feeling and sympathy, and further pressing his old friend and correspondent to join him in London the following week, as he should be over in England for a few days on important matters connected with his business. On the receipt of this communication from Mr. Jones, young Walter commenced preparing for leaving home. At last the day arrived for his departure, and bidding his father an affectionate adieu, he went forth into the broad world, either to be carried on the tide which leads to fortune, or to sink beneath its devouring crests.

On Walter’s arrival in London, his old friend and earliest companion was waiting at his hotel ready to receive him. His reception was most cordial on the part of Mr. Jones. After spending a few days in town, they took ship for Marseilles. On arriving at their destination, the heir of Dunraven was at once installed in office; and before a week had elapsed, his employer saw that he had secured a valuable acquisition to his establishment.

After Mr. Vaughan had been in the establishment about six months, Mr. Jones came to the office one morning earlier than usual. Though none of the hands had arrived, he found to his surprise and joy his new clerk at the desk. “I am glad,” addressing Walter, “you are here, for I want to consult you on a matter of great importance. I have been debating with my junior partner,” continued Mr. Jones, “as to the wisdom or unwisdom of sending to the London market a new kind of silk, which a manufacturer has just introduced. He strongly opposes its purchase, while I, on the other hand, am convinced it is just the thing that will take. You are a good judge of quality and beauty, so give me your candid opinion as to whether it is wise or not to make a large or any purchase of this class of goods.”

“I presume you will not require an immediate answer,” replied Walter. “If you will kindly give me an hour to think over it, I will then offer my opinion.”

During that hour the young clerk was busily engaged in carefully examining the material with the aid of a powerful magnifying glass, and was struck with both the fineness of the texture and the beauty of its design. On the return of his principal, he said that, in his opinion, the silk was just the kind of goods which would command a ready sale in the London market, and strongly recommended that the whole stock should be bought up, and immediately shipped. Mr. Jones acted on the opinion, which turned out to be the most fortunate speculation in which he had ever engaged. The sum actually realized was £20,000, of this sum he presented the young clerk with £5000, and in addition offered—an offer which was gladly and gratefully accepted—a partnership in the business. After this, the house of Jones & Company rose higher and higher in the commercial world, and the annual profits of the business were so great, that at the expiration of the seven years of partnership the young lord of Dunraven had at his command a sufficient sum to pay off the incumbrance of the estate. To that effect he wrote his father, and on the receipt of the money, he called his creditors together and paid them their demands. The lord of Dunraven thus became once more a free and independent man; but, alas! he did not give up his calling, but, with new life and renewed energy pursued the mission of the Evil One: being constantly at the post of mischief, and with eager eyes and a longing heart, looking out on the stormy wavy channel for treasures which, by foul play, he was resolved to bring into his meshes. Prosper thou, lord of Dunraven, but in thy prosperity remember that the sword of justice is hovering over thy head, and in the midst of thy prosperity it will strike thee down. The day of vengeance tarries; but it will come, and when it arrives, oh, how terrible will be thy doom!

CHAPTER III.
THE ALLIANCE OF THE LORD OF DUNRAVEN WITH MAC THE DEVIL, AND SOME OFITS RESULTS.

It was about three years subsequent to the departure of the son and heir of Dunraven, that the old lord resolved to take into his service MacLean, alias Mac the Devil. He knew that this man was a desperate character and a thorough daredevil, who neither feared God nor regarded man; in short, that for money and Scotch whisky, he would do the devil’s work according to his satanic majesty’s own special plan. There was no crime of which Mac was not guilty, but, by reason of the stealthy way in which he carried out his doings of iniquity, he always succeeded in avoiding detection. Though blood was on his hands, though he had robbed the fatherless, and murdered, for the sake of pelf, the innocent, yet he walked the earth with head erect as a guiltless person, little dreaming of the terrible doom awaiting him. However, his cup of iniquity was not yet full, though daily it was nearing the brim. He was in the act of planning some new crime when he received a message from the lord of Dunraven to attend him at the castle. Mac, with trembling hands and a sinking heart, at once attended to the commands of Mr. Vaughan, though, on his way there, he had many misgivings as to the prudence of the step he was taking. He, however, soon convinced himself that were he to disobey the summons he must quit for ever the neighbourhood, as he dare not confront the lord of Dunraven if guilty of disobedience to his lordship’s commands. To the castle, therefore, he repaired, and on his arrival he was ushered by the faithful Evan into the library, where Mr. Vaughan was awaiting him. On Mac’s entering he was requested to take a seat, when Mr. Vaughan, with a degree of sternness he seldom manifested, reproached him for leading a life so fraught with danger.

“I do not, my lord,” said Mac, touching his head, “understand your meaning.”

“Oh, you don’t, don’t you? If then I say you are deeply steeped in crime, that you are a murderer, a thief, a rogue, and a villain, should I not speak the truth, and would you not understand my charge?”

“Saying so, and proving its truth, are, I ken, two very different things, my lord. You can’t prove that I am otherwise than an innocent man.”

“Don’t you be too sure of that, Mac. Indeed, I already possess evidence, which, if necessary, can at any moment be produced, completely substantiating my charge; and, Mac, I have a great mind to produce that evidence to the authorities.”

“You dare not do that, my lord,” replied Mac.

“You scoundrel! dare you threaten me in my own castle? If you say another word, and use that language to me, I’ll send for the bum-bailiff at once, and, as a magistrate, order you into his custody.”

“I say again, my lord, that you daren’t carry out your threat.”

“Why daren’t I, I should be glad to know?”

“Because if you were to do so I’d peach.”

“You would do what, Mac?”

“I’d peach; that is, I’d tell all about your lordship’s doings.”

“Be d—d, you would?”

“Yes.”

“But who would believe you, you scoundrel?”

“Me they may not, my lord of Dunraven; but they’d believe the evidence of others.”

“But can you or your friends, you vagabond, bear any evil testimony against me? I live in my own castle, and never mix with the world. It is well known to all around, that my life and my time is devoted to study, to the practice of virtue, and to acts of piety. Me they know as a model citizen and a Christian man and a gentleman. Therefore, my character would be proof against insinuations, or charges patched up by you or your hellish crew. You and your criminal companions might say, and even swear—you are capable of anything bad—you saw me in the act of committing a crime, but neither your word nor your oath would have any weight with those who know you, were the life of a dog only involved.”

“Dinna you be too sure of that, my lord,” rejoined Mac; “I ken, and Squire Jones knows too, the sad fate of the ship Bristol, of the Elizabeth of Swansea, and of the City of Paris. He and I know also by whose hands the false light was hung out on Dunraven Head, and by whose hands the captains and the crews were murdered—who afterwards seized the wrecks, who sent them to market to be sold, and who received the money. If I may be so bold, I could tell further that, within this castle, and in a cell beneath this room, there is a poor unfortunate man, who was put into an iron cage, and locked there by you,—the lord of Dunraven castle,—and that he is daily fed by crumbs from your table. If this man were free, he could tell a tale at which humanity would shudder. You, my lord, think I sleep with my eyes shut, that I tremble at sight of the sea, that I’m afraid of the darkness and the tempests; and you knew not that when those vessels went down, and when all the hands on board perished, except this poor man in the cage, I was near you, my lord,—even close by your side, though unperceived. Knowing these facts, I now dare you, my lord, to molest me or breathe a word injurious to my character. If you do so, I’ll peach, and I’ll take care that the lord of Dunraven shall be my fellow-prisoner. You have called me a scoundrel. Doesn’t that foul term apply equally to you, my lord? But your sin will yet find you out.”

For these terrible revelations Mr. Vaughan was wholly unprepared. During their recital he shook as a man having the palsy. He uttered, too, the most awful imprecations, and cursed and swore like a man possessed of the devil. These, however, had no influence over the mind of the hard-headed and hard-hearted Scotchman, who continued his tale heedless of the foaming rage of Mr. Vaughan. He never dreamt that his crimes were known to mortal, beyond the circle of his demoniac companions. He had so cautiously arranged his plans, and had carried them out so stealthily, that he fancied the knowledge of his rascality was confined to those desperadoes whom he had specially hired to carry out his nefarious designs. Now, however, his deeds were known not only to Mac, but to his great enemy, Squire Jones; thus the man whom he sought to rob of his rightful possessions was also cognizant of those deeds. Mr. Vaughan’s first thought, when Mac had finished his tale, was to take away, there and then, either his life or his liberty. But a moment’s reflection compelled him to hesitate in adopting so dangerous a course, as it was known in the village of Southerndown that Mac had been summoned to the castle. Considering the matter more seriously, he came to the conclusion that there was only one course open to him: namely, to take Mac into his service, and make him captain of the crew. By pursuing this course, he would completely shut the mouths of Mac’s friends, and by securing the services of so skilful and so daring a wrecker, richer and more abundant harvests might yet be reaped. Drawing himself to his full height, he said to his defiant visitor,—

“I do not, Mac, admit your charges, and I say further that they are incapable of proof; but as I sustained so heavy a loss by law, and as drowning men will not stand on ceremony, but will accept the assistance of their bitterest foe when they feel themselves sinking beneath the devouring waves, I am therefore prepared to take you into my employ, and if you prove faithful to my interests and obedient to my orders, you may rise to wealth and to honour.”

“But in what way, my lord, do you intend me to serve you?”

“You know, Mac, your special calling, and not wholly unknown to me,—don’t be alarmed,—is the success which has followed your labours. Being under my protection, by being in my service, you may well look forward to still greater results. I need not say you are well aware that your present position is fraught with danger, and that one word from me would put a stop to your career. If your words be true, our interests clash. Besides, Mac, the stealthy and criminal vagabond, prowling about in search of prey, is in a very different position to Mac, the servant of the lord of Dunraven. With that sentiment you agree, do you not?”

“I must admit, my lord, you have put the case very clearly, and your reasons in favour of my accepting your offer are strong. I can’t withstand them, so I’ll say Aye to your proposal.”

“You have acted like a man of sense, Mac, as I always took you to be. To-night, work will have to be done; so go home and tell Molly, your wife, of your engagement, and don’t fail to meet me at the Watch Tower at four o’clock.”

No sooner had Mac left the castle to pay a visit to his wife, with a view to apprise her of his engagement, than Mr. Vaughan also took his departure, and immediately afterwards joined the watcher at the Tower, which was situate on the highest point of the promontory. On entering the observatory, he inquired for the result of the day’s observations, which, on being put into his hand, made him remark that matters did not look very bright.

“When things are at the worst,” replied the watcher, “they generally mend. I think we shall have some work to do before to-morrow morning.”

“Your reason for that opinion, my faithful Duncan.”

“You see yonder flag hoisted on St. Donat’s Watch Tower? That flag has never yet deceived me. Depend upon it, it is the harbinger of good news. The wind, too, blows hard from the south, and, if I’m not mistaken, there will be a fearful gale before midnight, and the ships coming down channel must necessarily be driven towards our coast.”

“Your information, my Duncan, is cheering: I, too, am bearer of good news to you. I have just engaged Mac the Devil, and shall appoint him to the office of captain of the beach and boatmen.”

“I’m so glad you’ve taken my cousin into your service. Mac is a smart man, he is well up in the trade, he is fearless, and, what is still more important, will not stick at trifles in obtaining his end.”

“You approve then, Duncan, of my arrangement?”

“Most certainly, sir. In our line of business Mac has no equal. He has the strength of a giant, while he is a stranger to fear, and fortunately has no conscience. I never heard of his failure in accomplishing his object by fair means or foul. When he fails to thrash a dozen sailors with his fists, and to pitch them into the sea, he resorts to the pistol, which, in his hand, never misses in its aim. In our calling, my lord, I yield to none but Mac. He is my superior in everything, except in this observatory. Oh, were he here to-night! We shall want a man of his metal.”

“This time your wish will be gratified. I expect Mac here every moment. Look, he’s coming down the road from Southerndown, in our direction. * * * Call up the men from the beach, Duncan; I wish them to be present when Mac arrives, so as to inform them of the appointment.”

The men were duly summoned by the head watcher. On arriving at the tower, they stood in a row, in front of the entrance, to await their master’s commands. Presently he appeared, accompanied by Duncan and Mac, and, addressing his men, spoke of their fidelity to his interest, called their attention to the many splendid victories achieved over the enemy, of the rich laurels already reaped from wrecks, and, further, that there was the strongest ground for hoping that their past gains were but as a drop of the bucket to those they might expect to realize hereafter. “But your success,” said Mr. Vaughan, “will depend wholly upon yourselves. You must be united, there must be harmony in your ranks, hearty co-operation; while all must cheerfully bow to the order of the commander-in-chief. To that office I have selected a man after your own heart. You who are in favour of having Mac for your captain, hold up your hands.”

To this request every hand was held up, whereupon Mac took his post at the head of the wreckers. They were then regaled with a liberal supply of whisky, and when each one had taken his fill they repaired again to the beach. No sooner, however, had they departed than there were seen coming down the channel two fine vessels. The wind now blew a frightful gale, raising up the waters into waves like mountains, on whose crests the ships were carried at their mercy. Everything appeared favourable to the wreckers. In the west the sun had declined. The shades of night were falling fast. Every minute the darkness thickened. The tempest increased in fury, while the roar of the ocean and the winds howling in the rocks and caverns around Dunraven Head, were most appalling. Notwithstanding the tempest, neither Mr. Vaughan nor Duncan moved from the spot of observation. As the vessels neared the point, the fatal light was placed in the tower. The captains of both ships now fully realised their danger: that there was no hope of saving either their ships or their own lives. The crews, too, were well aware of being on the enemy’s ground, and, informing their commanders of their apprehension, at once unanimously resolved, if they must perish by treachery so base and devilish, that others should also perish at their hands. On their ships being driven into the bay they heroically prepared themselves for the combat. Each one armed himself with a cutlass, and when the vessels were dashed against the rocks of Dunraven Head, they, as one man, leaped into the boiling surge, and swam for the shore. But in this heroic attempt to save their lives, several received severe injuries, while others sank to rise no more. However, the greater portion of them arrived safely on the beach, but no sooner had they landed than they saw, creeping along the shore, under the shelter of the rocks, a strong body of men well armed. The sailors, however, were in no way alarmed at the appearance of the enemy. Before quitting their vessels they were well aware that the lord of Dunraven was on the alert. Of this the light on the Watch Tower was a sufficient proof. Hence, when they saw the wreckers approaching they placed themselves on the defensive, and patiently awaited the attack. They had not long to wait, for the Dunraven men immediately came up and called upon the sailors to surrender. To that call, however, they paid no heed, but drawing out their daggers, fell with terrible force upon the wreckers, who, however, stood their ground manfully. The battle was a desperate one, while the slaughter was most appalling to witness. Many a brave man on both sides fell, mortally wounded. For a time the sailors had the best of the fray. Their arms were nerved, too, by the consideration that, if beaten, death would be the lot of each. Just, however, when they thought their victory was sure, there came up to the rescue of the wreckers their captain, who, with his own hand, killed six of the sailors. The work of butchery now commenced in earnest. One after another of the sailors fell, never to rise again. Indeed not one single man of their number survived to tell the tale. When the work of slaughter was completed, the captain ordered all the bodies to be carried to the adjoining cavern, where they were buried in a large chasm in the rock. After interring the dead, Mac and the survivors returned to the beach, and watched there for the morning dawn. During the night both vessels were broken to atoms by the fury of the waves, and as daylight appeared, the shore, for half a mile, was literally covered with articles of great value, which on being sold, realised a large sum.

The deeds of that terrible night spread far and wide. The owners of the vessels and merchants pressed the Government to send down a special commission of inquiry. For several weeks these commissioners carried on their investigations; but, while collecting a large amount of evidence, yet in consequence of the absence of one witness, whose evidence was essential to bring the charge home to the lord of Dunraven, they failed in substantiating the case against Mr. Vaughan. A week subsequent to the departure of the commissioners, that witness was found; but he could tell no tale, being a mangled corpse. The body had been washed ashore near Porthcawl. The remains were those of Captain ap William, the father of John. The news of this discovery was at once carried to his widow, who was busily engaged in preparing her son’s wedding dinner when the messenger arrived. After breaking the fatal news to Mrs. ap William, the messenger continued his journey to the little village of St. Bride’s, and, going up to the church, he met at the porch the newly-married pair. To Captain John, as he was generally called, the messenger told his sad tale. Both John and his wife were deeply affected on being apprised of their bereavement. They returned to their home to weep and to mourn; so John’s bridal day, which he hoped would be a day of unclouded joy, proved to be one of sadness, of sorrow, and of death. He thus fully realized, by personal experience, the truth of the inspired saying, that we know not what a day may bring forth.

CHAPTER IV.
THE TERRIBLE DOOM.

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 the Devil, 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 gentleman who 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 the letter. 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 their customers 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 which he 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?”

“On that night I’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 the prey. 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 the Bristol 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 thought of 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, He controlling 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 increased in 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 and industry, 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 handsomely dressed. 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 they pressed 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 which his 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 lodged in 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 as he 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.

PARSON JONES,
AND HIS CONQUESTS OVER THE ARCH-FIEND OF PANDEMONIUM.

[The following strange stories of Cambrian life contain not an ideal but a real picture of society in days of yore. For obvious reasons, some of the names of the dramatis personæ are not given, but the family of Jones being so large, the man will 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 means young 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 power over 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 the Gwlad 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 for earthly 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, how unwelcome 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 most patriotic 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 their comprehension 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 nethermost regions. 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 the good 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 deep interest 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 and calculations 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 his study. 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’ll leave the 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 urging the 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 make me 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 malignant arts. 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 be hard-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.

PARSON JONES’S TALE OF NAT THE SMITH AND THE THREE WISHES.

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 which has 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.” (A provincialism 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, whose strange 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 be poor, 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 opening it, 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 no man can.”

“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 sentence securing the blessings for which he had to wish during 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 ultimately found 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 out the condition of the bond, then tell him to his face that you will not do so, unless he will first carry out his conditions 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:—