The Aberystwith Observer

LATSON; OR, THE FOUNDLING'S GUARDIAN. lALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] CHAPTER IX.—(Continuedv -aLL was still for some seconds. Then suddenly, so suddenly that they started and etared upon her, she snatched both her hands away "from them, anj, feeling with her right hand one of the fingers of the left, and turning round the ring, as in ecstacy, she cried out in a tone that made them "wonder: cc You lie Say that again Here it is I knew ■'he spoke the truth Hugh Latson never lied! My name is Latson He cannot lie! Look t look Are you content ?" And with a smile of triumph, scorn, and love, all together, she held out her left hand in the midst, pointing the ring finger at some one she saw at the toot of the bed. And then all was still again. The woman ceuld make nothing of it; the wretched father made very little. i Softly turning over on her side, Joyce began "to feel up and down, from the pillow to the middle of the couch, first on one side, then on the other. 11 What is it, my own precious girl ?" asked Clay- more, and his eyes filled again and again, and emptied "themselves on his withered hands as he pressed his "face between them. « What is it, sir ?" shouted Joyce, in a key they had never thought to hear from her. What is it ? Give fiim back Give him back, I say!" And she turned from side to side in a perfect paroxysm of dismay and anger. I only lent him to you! I tell you he is not .yours! Did the angel steal the child ? You know he never did. Hugh! Hugh! I say my own little Hugh! Suppose he did," she began to rave;" suppose he did, what is that to the baby ? Will you give him "back?" and she would have sprung out of bed if they htd not stopped her. t My only child," sobbed the old father; for my tMtke, dearest, lie still. You are killing yourself, my own Joyce Do—do be calm." And the woman left the room to send for Chance tack again, that he might know of these new symp- "toms. Directly she was gone, Joyce felt about in the waist of her dress, and brought out a little piece of paper -•II soiled and worn, and, to Claymore's bewilderment, "tiued it passionately, again and again, staring at it "Wildly between the kisses. The poor girl turned on her father a look, one look, that made him leap up into her arns. And she •miled upon him—her old smile-as he rained down his tears upon her bosom. She put out her hand and ^gently slipped her fingers inside his stock, and held them there against his neck, as she used to do; and the old man lifted up his eyes to heaven, and was just "trying to say, Father, I thank Thee!" when she let him go, and fell back on the bed quite exhausted, and began to breathe very quickly, muttering thick ■ sounds, of which he understood nothing, between the "Choking breaths. He could catch no word for some time. After a while she opened her eyes. He saw her trying to put her lips together again, '1KI.t it was almost more than she could do. "Pro-prom-promise me," she gasped. Promise you yes, my darling," said Clay more. And she made a terrible effort to rise upon one tilbaw. That-you-will-never-hurt him," she mur- tnured very low, as he bent his ear down. "Never never! my sweet Joyce!" sobbed the old can. But have you no more to say ?" Yes—yes!" she gasped. And Claymore pressed his ear close Etc her 'mouth. ø I-did-think-I was married-dearjather- when ipe went away I know it, my precious-I know it," said Clay- more. He thought she said, It's at number, number!" trot if she did, she would have been understood by no other listener; and she never added the figure. He hid bis hand under her shoulders and kissed her, as if his aoul was departing with hers. "Number nineteen, dearest. Yes, I know." „ She smiled her joy that he knew where the infant Was. But there was one more flicker in the socket. And the lips just went near enough together at the hot moment to say— Hugh-forgive Hugh!" "Quito! quite he murmured. And then Joyce Claymore, releasing her destroyer 'from all fear of importunity, and removing from him -;&U danger for ever through her inconvenient love, tieaped the last burning coal on the head of the Honourable Hugh. So died one more of the many, many thousands -.110 die in city, village, and wilderness, of whom the Voirld talks ever with coarse cruelty, or (at the best) With cheap compassion, but whose blood, like Abel's, cries out for vengeance, and cries to One Whose ear is tMft heavy; though, unlike Abel's, that blood is lotced to wait till the Time of the Restitution of all Abingg, 1 door opened in a country place a few miles ■^Mther west the next day but one after this occurrence in Soresby, and a man walked in with 'Jaia head hanging very low, and his gait being very IXMXteady, but not with drink. He was rather better attired than when we parted With him at the cab-stand; but his appearance was AOt reassuring to the cottagers-a woman and a girl Of about nine or ten years of age. After a sort of rough apology, Dan, in a very few Words, asked for Cicely, and learned that she bad left the workhouse some time ago, and was in service away In Soresby—the very town through which, of course, had just come, on his way to the neighbourhood of uatson Towers. Stqggg had no difficulty about the distance or the •double of returning. But he entertained the strongest "fcluctance to be anywhere near Soresby again for a ong time to come. It is not known whether he had any acquaintance telationship with Dame Griffin, or whether he had more successful than other strangers in gaining ^Jdniisaion into the house on that evening when Joyce kiwi L, cer^a'n it i* that he knew who it was that °eei found in the copse, and certain it is that ~*n had contrived to overhear a good deal of what was said between father and daughter on that sad «jght. Indeed, for that matter, Joyce's excitement wa been so great, that every now and then her words wuia have been heard outside in the street. The Oenrium that had been coming on for months was wrought to a crisis by the stunning fall in the snow- worm, and then the reaction on the recovery from the •old and exposure completed her derangement, and .111) destroyed her. Dan had heard or seen quite enough. The landscape had been held very near the fire, Ited there was a beautiful summer in Dan's heart just then. But his heart was hot within him, and while he "■ musing the fire burned." Need we tell you how Cicely met him ? met him as nine women out of every ten, r~°u&h ever so sorely wronged, meet the first eymptorn of repentance or acknowledgment. Oh my I-a I" said Dan, "I can't make it all I* fflade sure thus far—that there's been Qorridi^ork—that poor crittur And when I come to oe&nmk me that somebody else might ba' gone the fttne road, for all I'd beea a-caring, and perhaps teas gone, for aU I lInew-I just prayed God to spare me 55 I could come back and say to ye, « Cicy, can ye Wnfd^ahnut"mju' J'm not aS°»n' to tell ye, not a Word about my bem' sorry they took my poor lass to prison. I m not gorn to make much of it, though it's •a true as you stand there that I never Hro.lfJf •uefa a thing Heaven knows I was bad and ™lack enough, from first to last, without that' I don't C, dear Cis "—and h<re the poor fellow let go her nd he had taken in the earnestness of his con- *BMion—M I don't ask ye to care for Dan as ye did be- fot.&. I'm not such a fool, I hope. But just say. Dan, it's all forgave!' and then I'll go content. Bw. as true as you stand there, if you'd ha' died, as that girl ot Latson's did, and prayed and blessed me went, as she did him, and I'd ever heerd it, there'd just ha' been two people to bury in 5"?e &*ave» that's all—for live I wouldn't another blessed second I There! Will ye say it, Cis ? and then rzm off." Iookpd ™to his face all this while. Wfafehll Jiff k>^nd fro 111 a (Ju,"et P»rt of the suburbs, J* sot leave to come "to see a friend W^in^l *8t?I1Ce! M Dan sent word. Cicely was "ittlo h^t ^i *n i. sorfIjr~and yet not sorely, for teSte e°d,WM for lilt; for weeU. Dan," she said, wt len she could find breath to say it, dear Dan, do 3 e think that poor lass would ha' let the justice go if he'd come and said, Will ye forgive me ?' And Dan laughed a fort of hoarse, smothered laugh and said- Ma\ he not, Cicy." Wou'd je have S!<id she loved him very hard if she did, Ilan ?" Hhss ye!" said Dan; "bless ye! But nobody never tret her as I've done you, my poor little lass I And so they talked and talked, and Dan never any more rtturned to live in London. Other affairs took a much longer time to settle. Dan had no work at present. That must be obtained. A character had to be earned (not with Cicely, for he had only lost it with her for about five minutes in the justice room, but) with the little world in which such men move. But as we are not aware that we shall have much more to do in this our story either with Dan or with Cicely, it may be as well once for all to say that when Joyce bad been just twelve months lying at rest in Soresby churchyard, underneath a simple slab of stone, on which the old man had cut the letters 11 J. C." and the date of her death, on that very day twelvemonth, a little plain white skirt just swept the edge of the stone as it passed down the gravel walk and when it touched the stone the wearer stopped and someone else stopped beside her, and they walked arm- in-arm from the church door to the churchyard gate -not on Sunday, either. Neither sp- k", but they looked into each other's eyes, and there followed in both breasts a sigh and a prayer! And so it was (and so it often is under that kind Providence which balances the good' against the evil of this world—so it was) that, if out of Joyce's marriage there came a death, out of Joyce's death there sprang a happy marriage!

CHAPTER X. A WEDDING GIFT. "Ring it out, then, dear bells, fast and loud Ring it out, then, dear bells, fast and loud Ring it out, then, dear bells, fast and loud Joined Joined Ring it out, then, dear bells, fast and loud Joined! So spake the belfry of an old Wiltshire church on a February day-yes, a Wiltshire church, but not the Soresby one where Dan and Cicely stopped and looked at the plain stone beside the gravel walk That marriage, they thought, should be delayed-and they delayed it. Dan didn't use the words, but he thought them, I can tell you, that even if he had got work that very hour when Cicely forgave him, it would only be decent that he should go through a sort of (quarantine before ever he could, with any face, call that ili-used girl by such a gentle, euphonious name as Mrs. Stuggs. I don't believe that if he had been offered, that moment, a berth of a thousand a year for reading the Times from ten till four in Somerset House be would have consented to lead his bride to the altar a quarter of an hour earlier than he did. He would have been ashamed of it. No; this clang of bells is from the tower of the church which enjoys the high distinction of receiving the worship, once every two Sundays, in a great square pew, of the Honourable Colonel Hugh Latson. The pew is rather more like a tolerably sized stair- case landing than a pew. The carpet is of that order, only rather more worn than you generally see in a great man's house. For, be it remembered, the colonel made no preten- sion whatever to any religious anxieties-there was that to be said in his favour. The Blance pew, in the same church, was a different affair. Besides which, they had a private chapel under the castle roof. On the walls of this pew (or rather chapel, for it would have held a small congregation easily), there were the slabs, the memorial slabs of different members of the family. Here was one who had died, an officer, in action at the battle of Toulouse. Another bad been drowned accidentally somewhere in India. Another (a young lady) had been found dead in her bed, and under her bust in relief was the motto, "She is net dead, but sleepeth." Another (with a very large tablet and a great number of cherubs) had sunk under his duties as a private secretary of the great Earl Chatham. In fact, it was a most unexceptional pew; and the sexton, if he had found anybody inside it looking at the monuments without his own introduction, would have lost all heart, and taken to his bed as a ruined man. The church was about midway between Latson Towers and the residence of the lady; and the tenantry on both estates had lined the road as the fine greys, pair after pair, rushed (for all wedding horses do rush) up to the church gates. And now the prayers are said and the vows uttered and the names signed; and the first couple appear re- turning through the porch, taking their happy road over the carpet spread along the walk, and among the very few flowers the season permits the little village girls to scatter in their way. They do tell us that nothing at a wedding is so un- lucky—certainly, few things are so unwelcome-as the sight of a funeral. For our own part, we would rather meet at a wedding of ours the twelvemonth's funerals of all London one by one in procession than meet what that bridal party met that morning. Just as the first couple were about to re-enter the first carriage, there stepped out from the crowd a bent and withered form, with head uncovered, and straggling white hairs falling over his shoulders. The old man carried with him his trusty staff; and be sure that while he nervously handled the top of that stiff strong weapon, it took all the old man's memory of his promise, and all his love for Joyce that made him keep it, to restrain him from cutting that honey- moon very short, or sending that gentleman to pass it among the doctors. But the old man did nothing of the kind. A voice came up to him from the next churchyard. Promise me that you will never hurt him." If Latson's heart had been of the ordinary material, we should have said that this promise, though kept in the letter, was broken by the old man in the spirit of it. For certainly what followed would have hurt the majority of men at such a time. Holding both hat and stick in his left hand, the poor old father came and tottered up to Latson's side, just as he was going to place his lady in the carriage, and with his ri::ht hand he respectfully held out a gold ring, quite as good and small as the other that had just been disposed of in the church. Please to take it. sir," Claymore muttered in the bridegroom's ear. We didn't, like her to go down to the grave with a lie in her hand, so her mother sent it where it belongs. God help you, lady God help you, Ja-'y!" he added, in a louder voice to Ethel, and was gone b, firf, Larson had mustered self poss-sstion enough e t .t r to r- fii.se the offering or to reply. The p on hi" 'h'" tr wa« only for a moment, and thl n he l.nylv-ri 'r < (f to her, as they dashed tt< csr. telling icr witii his usual facility in a lie I forgot. 'h.. 'n tnsuw for the moment. He has on-y a k a tiff, a sovereign I gave his .11\Qg..tl r rh" cth r day, when I was obliged to send her it h'r business at the Towers. I gave the girl a sovereign, through the housekeeper, and this worthy Methuselah, it seems, prefers his pride to his p ck^t—aba!" And the happy pair went one road, and the brokea- hearted lather went another. And while the gouOolier is humming low music over foreign lak's, when the milder weather returns -anrl while the whif-l of the diligence cracks and wakt s the echopg ot tha Jura—and when, amidst loud r. j Hng# and through gre"n archt-s the happy pair coifif' back, after months of lot^i^n travel—neither rain nor ice has rubbed out those two letters from the sUn in Soresby church) ard. Hut now and thea a peiiifent visits it, and a penitent's wife comes, too, and murmurs over it. loving and t-eloved- There the wicked cease from troubling, aLd the weary are at rebt." CHAPTER XI. NUMBER NINETEEN, RUTH WOFIELD would have been the very last person in the world to draw the distinction that was drawn by the charitable charwoman between poor folks" and millionary people. It certainly was not any absurd idea that dress- matung raised her above her neighbours that first led her to take it. She knew better. She knew that in the books of etiquette which you cannot buy at the shops, but which are learned by heart in kitchens and in scullenes and by hall-porters in their chairs (like sedans with the fronts off), any housemaid, second, third, or fourth, is ranked above the dressmaker, it the dressmaker who goes out." Nay, Ruth knew very well how ber excellent neighbour herself would the dressmaker who goes out." Nay, Ruth knew very well how ber excellent neighbour herself would I have spoken, not only of. but to, a dressmaker, if she bad been scrubbing or washing where Ruth was gnnf for a day's sewing. chap 11 We cannot explain it, we only know it is so, that a duster and a long broom are just as proud over a needle and a thimble as a carriage and pair would be over a dcnkey-gig; and that a little dab of a cap. scorning a ribbon, at the back of the head, or a night- cap with strings that never tie, would as s'lon associate with the neat side-combs and the humble topknot of Miss Wofield, come for to stitch," as a duke's coronet would with the motto-seal Keep within compass," or, I envy my letter." We said we couldn't explain it. We half think we can. The dressmaker is above the cook, and certainly above the charwoman, in the view of the lower half of the middle classes, and this is an offence. And as the dressmaker never complains, she frequently has a hard time of it where her employers fail to protect her. Then, besides, the young woman" stitching in the nursery, or in the spare bedroom, always makes a little extra work, though she tries to make as little as she can. And to clean after a dressmaker is, especi- ally to your London servant, just what you would feel to be shaking hands with a crossing-sweeper. Let no decent, humble, quiet housemaid-of which class there are thousands in the land—fancy we have overlooked her. We say the same about domestic servants that we have said above about some other classes, viz., that it is a noble thing—a thing to make one proud of dear England-that, with so few comforts and so many trials, in kitchen as elsewhere, humble industry is working away and serving its Maker. Now, Ruth, as we have said, was conscious of no social superiority as compared with her neighbour. She knew that she wrought every whit as hard as the charwoman; and she had only taken to work at home because of the very treatment we have denounced- treatment which her next-door neighbour would never have endured without letting them know (as she would have phrased it) "a little bit of her mind." There was one place, for instance, to which Ruth used to go for a day's sewing, where the two servants were in the habit of setting her to eat her meals from a dresser by herself, and serving her with the scraps that came down on the plates of the family. On one occasion the poor girl ventured to ask for an additional supply. She was assisted from the cook's plate and when, next corning, the mistress inquired for the cold meat that was to serve for another dinner, the answer was— Cold meat, m'm—yes m'm—if you'd please to let us know how much that ere Miss Wbatls-her-name is to have, for. as true as I stand here, Jane and I helped that blessed chit four times yesterday from the best part of the leg." So when Ruth went on the next occasion, she was visited by the lady of the house after this manner- I think, Miss Wofield, considering the sedentary life you lead, less animal food would really be better for you. At least it would be better for me. I really can't afford it. Suppose we say sixpence a day more, and you bring your own dinner. How will that be ?" Thank you, ma'am," said the girl, I'll do so next time I come." When the lady bad taken her departure, Ruth re- maining—" Jinny," said the cook, 1, I say, speak for a bit of that tripe which comes next week I'm sick at the thoughts on it. You'll bring plates, too, miss, if you please—we're rather short of dishcloths here." I'll remember to bring a plate," Ruth said, to the loud amusement Df the kitchen ladies. At another house she was permitted to sit at the table of her employer, which was a very high dis- tinction. And so there was an opportunity for being told, every meal, when to resume work, which was another distinction. We will excuse you, I think, Miss Wofield." And this when Master William Henry, aged five, has had two" helpings" of meat and three of pud- ding—Miss Wofield half a one of each. Somewhere else, Ruth had gone into the sitting- room to ask a question necessary to her work, and found a fine lady sitting with her mistress—a lady whom the mistress delighted to honour. Ah said the woman to her visitor, yes, this is the person I spoke to you about, whose father died the other day. Poor thing, her mother is going too, I suppose, eh, Miss Wofield? Yes, now, that will do, I'm engaged at present." And before the door was shut, Ruth h^ard her add, I would give out the work, you know, my dear, but she comes for a mere song, and eats like a sparrow." And so it came to pass that Ruth went out" no more. She very wisely considered that a shilling a day and her keep were bad terms for twelve hours' hard work, and a dog's life into the bargain. Dog! we should have liked to see anybody speak to Punch or Dash as this gentle girl was spoken to, equally by vulgar scullery, and by more vulgar parlour. However, at the time when we made her acquaint- ance, in the character of another Pharaoh's daughter, Ruth and her mother were just making a living between them. The old woman could sew very little, but she did the rougher work that took less eyesight, and had the charge of the household income and ex- penditure (save the mark!). Everybody liked the old woman. She was the very model of cleanliness and neatness, and passed among the neighbours as little Starchy." Perhaps her shy- ness at making new friends had also something to do with her title. Her part in the new arrangement, rendered necessary by the coming of little Hugh into the house- hold, was of course that of chief nurse. For Ruth had more than ever to ply the needle. But still, it was not a rare thing for those gentle arms to enclose the baby, and yet manage to be doing something at the ends for their daily bread. In fact, the child never missed its mother, and if Joyce could have lifted that heavy slab in Soresby churchyard and stolen a watchful look at her little Hugh in the stranger's house, she would have seen that an angel had really found out her Ishmael, and" God had heard the voice of the lad where he was." One of the greatest treats the poor woman had in the course of the year was when old Claymore managed to get up to town, which was very seldom, and paid them a visit to see how it fared with his grandson. They were very high days indeed at number nineteen. It was generally known a week before when the old man was coming, and it cost Ruth an hour or two's extra hard stitching that they might have some little better fare than common when the dear old traveller got in. He always cane laden with plenty of presents from Arland-little dresses of the old grand- mother's make, and all sorts of nick-nacks that children are supposed to like, both for the palate and for play. It's nearly time," said the grandfather, one day when he sat with the child, now nearly two years old, and the slightest, whitest, quietest little creature that perhaps ever was nursed, it's nearly time we gave thee some name, my Ja1, as well as Hugh, isn't it ?" Won't his name be Claymore ?" asked the old woman. Never said the old man. If I'd rather call him Latson than that." Then call him Church," said little Ruth, as she went back in her dear, kind thoughts to the little bundle on the stone pavement that Sunday n'ght. "Church—Hugh Church-not so bad, not so bad," said the grandfather, taking him by the chin gently and lifting up his litt'e thoughtful face, so tha.t th-ir eyes met, and kissing, as he a, ways took care to do, that pretty, short upper lip, ail by itself, he named the boy "Hugh Church." And we hope no reader is ashamed to learn, wh..t; certainly we are very glad to tell, that before the old man left that night for his quiet lodging, and after little Hugh was safe and silent in his cot, those three knelt down round about him as he lay asleep; and the grandfather prayed, heart and soul, for the tuture of his daughter's child. J\o worship was ever truer in the temple than that which bad just given to the boy his name. They prayed to be forgiven th ir trespasses, as they forgave those that trespassed against them. They prayed for Ruth, that ahf in; bt have strength to work for the family, and gra<e to bring up the child well; for the old woman present, and the old woman alone at home. Yes, and they prayed for Ethel, the great Lady Ethel, that she might live happier than some one else had lived and thm — was there any one besides ? Yes, they prayed for the Honourable Hugh!—prayed, because they thought that some spirit in the chamber was telling them to pray for him—that infinite mercy would not lay his s'ns to his charge; that he might live long enough to be forgiven, and to make somebody the happier for bis living, which he had never done for one moment in his life yet. And then their hearts went up and their tears fell for the poor motherless boy, who breathed soft responses, though in slumber, as the old man finished, 41 Lead him not into temptation, but deliver him from evil."

"SHORT and sweet," remarked the grocer, as be tied up 15 ounces of sugar and marked It "One pound."

OLD ABERYSTWYTH. PAPER No. 2. The first house to whose history I wish to draw the attention of my readers is that which is situate at the corner of Bridge-street and Mill-street. It is now number 52,' but accord- ing to the old reckoning it was known as number 33.' A century ago the house was low-roofed and straw-thatched. Such houses were then numerous in our town, but at the present day they are only remembered as things of the past. The property, including the house and the ground on which its stands, was bought ninety years ago by Capt. William Williams, of the Ship Lively," from Mr Roderick Richardes, of Penglais. It will be noticed that the proprietor of Penglais at that time bore the same name as the present owner of that very pretty estate. Capt. Williams belongs to a family which is so intimately con- nected with Aberystwyth, and whose history can be traced back to a time anterior to that of most families of our town, that I make no excuse for giving a somewhat detailed account of it. "WILLIAM SHON WILLIAM." More than 150 years ago there lived in our town a sea-faring man, John Williams, whose ancestors for many generations, as is tradi- tionally handed down to us, had been sea-faring men. John Williams was captain of his own ship-" The Twenty Tons." The vessel derived its name in all probability from the number which registered its tonnage. It was not, as we see, a great ship, but it was one of the biggest crafts that belonged to our port about a century and a half ago. The Twenty Tons" was manned by the captain, his wife, and an only son, named John, after his father, and probably another sailor. The son when young was a bright, comely, lively lad, and when he grew to manhood he resolved to become the owner of a ship, on board of which he wished himself to be master-mariner. With this resolye he proceeded to Radnorshire to buy timber to build his craft. Radnorshire was at that time, and until a comparatively recent date, our Norway," which supplied our town with timber for ship-building, and indeed other purposes. The visit to Radnor- shire was productive of important results. In the neighbourhood of Rhayader, at a farmhouse called Beili Noyadd, or as some say Beili Einon, the young man, now between twenty and twenty-five years of age, met the loveliest girl he had ever seen in his life, and of the beautiful daughter of Beili Einon he became at once desperately enamoured. She was beautiful and therefore to be wooed, she was a woman and therefore to be won-so thought the young suitor. He told his love, and his love was reciprocated. But the course of love hardly ever runs smooth. To the match the sweetheart's parents offered a stubborn and dogged resistance. But love laughs at brazen walls and iron barriers and padlocks, and overcomes all obstacles. John's love was not to be quenched or checked or daunted-if he could not get his bride by open means, he was resolved to carry her off by stealth. Faint heart never won fair lady. The courtship ended in matrimony. The new ship was built and completed. The young couple fixed their abode in Aberystwyth. In time a little babe was borR- William, the hope and darling of his parents. Fortune seemed to smile on this happy family; but nothing is more fickle and capricious than the favours of this dame. When the child, the solace of the little family and cementer of its affections, was about three or four years old he was taken on board the new ship, to accompany the parents on their sea voyages. On a bright, calm morning in sum- mer, in Cardigan Bay, they hailed the The Twenty Tons" on its homeward voyage for our port. A conversation took place between the two captains. The grand-parents ear- nestly begged their son to let them have charge of their little grandson, William. At first the parents were not inclined to yield to these solicitations, but at last gave way to the entreaties of the old folk. The ships separa- ted, The Twenty Tons, with its newly- acquired and precious freight, reached port safely. That same night a fearful tempest arose; the dark storm-clouds appeared on the horizon, "bringing night, and wintry storm, and the waters bristled ugly in the gloom." The new craft, captain, wife and all were lost. In the course of a few days the bodies of the young captain and his beautiful wife were discovered, clasped in each other's embrace, on the coasts of Ardudwy, in Merionethshire. They were buried in the same grave, and in the same coffin, in the churchyard of Llan- danwg, which may be seen from the train on the seashore opposite Pensarn station on the Cambrian Railways-" they were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in death they were not divided." (Vide P.S. below). This occurred about the year 1768. The child thus providentially saved from a watery grave was brought up by his grandfather, and was popularly known as William Shon William, after the name of the old captain who reared him. William Shon William is the Captain Williams, of the ship Lively above referred I to. Capt. Williams led a sea-faring life as master-mariner for many years, and after re- tiring from active maritime service he was appointed harbour master to this port-an appointment, as it then was, of considerable responsibility and importance. He held the post up to the time of his death, and the duties pertaining to his office he discharged in a. strictly honest and conscientious way. He died in April, 1823, at the age of 59. "A GOODLY EXCHANGE." At the time Capt. Williams bought the pro- perty from Penglais, as above mentioned, Mill-street in the immediate neighbourhood of the corner of Bridge-treet was singularly narrow, so narrow that there was barely space enough for a heavy-laden waggon or cart to pass through from the bridge. Young men of my own generation can very well remember how, long before the old bridge was swept down, the entrance into Mill-street was extremely narrow. We remember the old house at the bridge-ead—it is remembered by men of an earlier generation as a house which, in pro- portion to its size, lodged an incredible num. ber of inmates—but by us it is remembered as an ordinary private house with a shop, and a step or two leading down into it; on one side of the house, stone steps descending many feet below the roadway to the old fac- tory, with its wheel and the watercourse, and the lodging-houses of tramps and visitors of the nomadic kind. All this has disappeared to give place, as we see, to better and larger establishments. But at the beginning of this century the road was much narrower than ever we saw it, for when the old straw- thatched house at the corner was pulled down, ninety years ago, the Town Corporation took steps to get the road at that spot somewhat widened. And here I may remark how oddly the thought of a Corporation existing at the beginning of the century will strike many of my young readers. We are too prone to con- nect other Corporations as well as our own with the Municipal Corporation Act of 1835, as if they took their spring and origin from that Act. But Aberystwyth as a Corporate town was in existence many centuries before that date. It held its charter from the days of Henry the Eighth. Indeed a charter was granted to our town as early, I believe, as Edward the First, though the privilege of being one of the contributory boroughs for the return of a member into Parliaments only dates form the first-named king. I should 1 like at some other time to investigate as ai interesting historical problem whether ou t0Vv"Tn has retained its chaxter uninterrupted!] from that time and has never forfeited it: privilege s as a Corporation at critical conjunc tures in Oi 'rational history, as Was the cas< with many lLov?s in tlie r?igu, for instance of James the .Second. (Vide P.S.) But t( return from my digression. The Abel-yst. wyth Corporation, u1 view of their desire tc widen Mill-street, struck a bargain with Capt Williams for a strip a y<r<* wide of his pro- perty. This strip extended from the corner as far as Mill-court. In ecbange for this narrow piece of ground Capt. Williams re- ceived from the Corporation a lai'ge area of freehold property on Penmaesglas, which in- cluded the ground on which now stand the old Welsh Congregational chapel, the whole of St. Michael's place, Brynawel and (I believe) Vulcan court. "A goodly exchange." The fact need but be stated to strike one with the utmost astonishment. There was not at that day, that land-hunger which we now see sprung up in people's breasts. Penmaesglas was then, as its name implies, a green field, and must have had, at the beginning of this century, but little marketable value. But the wise men of the Corporation might, even at that tune, have been reasonably expected to gamble less with town property. The Cor- poration may almost be said to have dealt with Capt. Williams as Rome dealt with Horatius in the brave days of old— They erave him of the corn-land, That was of public right, As much as two strong oxen Could plough from morn till night." This property on Penmaesglas was, many years afterwards, the subject of litigation, and was the first case tried at the first county court ever held in Aberystwyth. This was in 1846, the Judge being that eminent Welsh scholar, Arthur James Johnes. A MIGHTY MAN'S ARROWS. Capt. Williams, William Shon William," married Mary Roderick, who, like himself, belonged to one of the oldest families of our town. The issue by the marriage, along with their numerous descendants, I give below. 1. Capt. John Williams, of the "Lively." There appears to have been from time to time three crafts designated by this name; they were commonly known amongst seamen as Lively Fawr," Lively Fach," and Lively Ganol." It is not now ascertainable which of the three "Lively's" Captain John Williams was master of. Captain John Williams was afterwards master of the Neptune." He married the eldest daughter of the late Mr William Edward, tailor and draper, Bridge-street. Their family consisted of three daughters, all of whom died com- paratively young. 2. Capt. William Williams, who married a daughter of Mr John Davies, the Golden Lion, Great Darkgate-street, an inn which has c disappeared within the last few years. A child was born of this union, Mrs Bentley, wife of Mr George Bentley, a partner in the firm of Bentley and Co., the very famous London publishers. 3. Captain Thomas Williams, who married the daughter of the late Mr John Jones, Glanleri, Borth. He was the master of the sloop "Eunice," and was lost at sea, with his crew and ship, on the coast of Ireland, on the 10th September, 1842, aged 44 years. The i3sue of the marriage were three daughters, Mary, Margaret, Eliza- beth, and two sons, W. T. and John. The daughters died at an eCtrly age-one of them, Mary, died at eighteen, distinguished for her piety and Christian character, rare in one of her years. Mr W. T. Williams, now of 34, North-parade, carried on business as a draper for more than twenty years at Sydenham House, and is well known. He is a man of decidedly antiquarian tastes and is strong on questions relating to the genealogies of our local families. He has an extensive knowledge of old Aberystwyth, and has vivid reminiscences of many of oar ancient but interesting local characters." 4. Elizabeth was the eldest daughter of William Shon William. She married Captain Richard Watkins, master of the Ann and Betsy." Their children were — Richard, who for many years carried on a drapery establishment in this town, and died only two years ago; John, Captain of the" Lovely Lass," better known to the present generation as Alderman John Watkins, wine merchant, North-parade. William, a draper, like his eldest brother, who died young. Elizabeth, who married the late Mr Edward Morgan, draper, Market-street; Ann, who became the wife of Mr George Morice, North-parade, a man who belonged to a family highly respected and of great traditions; James, who took Holy Orders, and was curate of Llanddeinol. There was another daughter, Mary, a lovely woman whom Death, that inexorable reaper with his sickle keen, cut down like a flower in full bloom, at the age of 24. 5. Mary, the youngest daughter, married Mr John Williams, mercer, Bridge-street. Mr Williams was a native of Lledrod. He was an excellent man, blameless in conversation, saintly in character, and zealously attentive to the duties of religion. He yearned for, almost created, opportunities for Christian activity. His usefulness in the Sunday school was patent to all, and highly appreciated by all. In the glorious days of old, remembered with ecstatic delight by the older Methodists of the town, at the period when the late Mr Robert Davies held the P)st of superintendent of the Sunday school, at the Tabernacle, Mr Williams, for well-nigh twenty years held the secretaryship. These two men were bound together by the strongest ties of friendship. Mr Davies highly esteemed his colleague, and had the completest confidence in his ability and judgment. He took no step without con- svltation with his chiefest lieutenant, and when death, in 1837, removed Mr Williams in the very prime of manhood, to another sphere of activity, to the presence of the Lord whom he had faithfully served here below, none lamented the loss more sincerely than Mr Davies. The widow survived her husband nearly forty years. Like him, she was a faithful member at the Tabernacle. She was personally known to many townspeople who are still living. She retained to the end of her long life her mental faculties in full vigour, and died in November, 1875, aged 80 years. Her mortal remains lie buried in the cemetery; those of her husband await the sound of the last trumpet in the churchyard on the south side of St. Michael's. Eight children were born of these pious parents. William died at twenty-one; Mary became the wife of Mr John Jones (Ifon), Commerce House; John is well known as the Rev John Williams, Bridge-street, the hon. secretary of the local branch of the National Lifeboat Institution, one of the secretaries of the local branch of the Bible Society, &c., who many years ago devoted his us«ul pen to writing articles for a local religious periodical, Y Wasg, which he edited; Thomas was a chemist, and lived in Bridge-street, near the Town Clock, married Elizabeth, daughter of the late Capt Julian, of this town, and died in 1881; David, of H.M. Customs. Portmadoc- Margaret, also of Portmadoc. The youngest was James, a sailor, who, at the age of 21, met an untimely death by a shot penetrating his temples, fired from a musket from a French man-of-war off Belleisle, on Sunday, May 24th, 1857. His body was buried on French ground, and created immense excitement locally at the I Parliament** to\be6 inT^Z^hr,!iBad affert rl a Bretagne vessel, and waa afterwards buned m the family vault in 81;. Michael's churchyard. J CHARACTERISTICS, It has been usually thought that this exten- sive family is somewhat clannish. Ita members at one time deemed it advisable to have few dealings with the Samaritans. The numerous clan looked with something like aversion on those who belonged to another stock, but who aspired to link their family history with their own. In the course of itSr history, however, some wild olive branches have been engrafted, and have become lmiofc honoured and esteemed. The ancestors were deeply imbued with religion, and the religious sentiment has not vanished from the Idescel1 dants. One trait of the family character may be historically observed through at least six generations. Maritime tastes and tendencies distinguish it throughout its long career. The ancestors went down in ships and did business in great waters; the deck was their field of fame, their home was on the deep. Even those of the lineage who have not taken to the sea as a profession have this feature strongly marked. They love the sea in its placid moments, and. in the gentle breeze their delight is to watchi its motions. When the tempest is at its height, when old Iseptuue surges and raves, and iEolus, the wind-king, from his high tower sends his ministers to sweep the ocean, there never is wanting a descendant of the beautiful maid of Beili Einon to revel amidst the tem- pestuous elements, and enjoy the sight with the calmest composure. POSTCRIPTA. 1. For the account of the" Maid of Beili Einon" I am indebted to Ysten Sioned," a collection of tales, legends, &c., many of them. connected with the history of our town, but some are of more national interest. The boot may be had at the Observer office, price one shilling. 2. Since writing the above, I have, after many months, re-read The History of the Parliamentary Representation of Cardigan- shire," by the late Mr John Hughes, solicitor, Lluest Gwilym, in which there is valuable historical information about our Corporation. I hope to draw attention again at some future time to the History." I have not recently seen Meyrick's Cardiganshire," a rare ana most precious book, to which Mr Hughes frequently refers.

WESLEYAN CONFERENCE. MINISTERIAL CHANGES. The stationing committee has completed the first arrangement of ministerial appointments, a.nd the following is the first draff, of stations :— CARDIFF AND SWANSEA DISTKIC'r. Carmarthen; Henry S. Barton. Aberystwyth: T. W yune Jones: district mission-* ary, tieorge Eddy. SOUTH WALES DISTRICT, Merthyr Tydfii: Thomas Morgan. Tredegar: Kice Owen and John David Jones. Aberdare: John Griffiths and Peter Jones (C). Treorky (Pontypridd) Henry rloberts and John Humphreys. Fecnd.tie (Pontypridd): Henry Prichard, David Williams, Superintendent; and John Ress (Ponty- pridd). Brynraawr: John Morris, Owen Roberts, and Emrys Jones. Cardiff: Lewis Th mas, Llaudilo John Evan lioberts. Swansea Tuomas Jones (C) and Jacob Pritchard. Llaneiiy Hugh Carry. Laaipeter Tuomas J. Pritchard. Ab.-rayron Joha liosv!a*ids (A). St. David's: John iiowiands (B). Aberystwyth: John Jjnes (G), John Roberts M) William Morgan (A), Thomas Phiilips, and Darid Morgan. Fstumtuen (Aberydtvytb): Altred C. Pearoe and David Darley Dairies. Machynlleth: Peter Jones (B), and Thomas Manuel. Liauidloes: Hugh Owan Hughes and John Evans (0). Monmouth: John Turner Ross and William Douglass.

BISHOP LLOYD OF BANGOR. The H&'iier says — The new Bishop of Bangou? when a youth came to Carmarthen, to serve ill M°E. Jone's shop, in which there was a young man named Davies, now mayor of the town, ne went to Lammas- street Chapel, but it waa to Water-street Chapel that Mr D. M. Lioyd, went, he being- a zealous Methodist. The family of the Cambrian shop was one of the most respectable in the town, and a house well known to preachers from isiortn to South. The bishop was a pupil of Mr Lewis Lewis, of Water- street Chapel, a zealous temperance advocate and a. man mighty in the scriptures. He is a good scholar, and if he is as well versed in the Scriptures as his old and respected teacher in Water-street Sunday School, he will make an excellent bishop. We wish him long life and every success from the bottom of our hearts.

ECCLESIASTICAL COMMISSIONERS' REVENUE IN WALES. On the motion of Mr Thomas Ellis (G" Merioneth- shire), a return was ordered showing for 1889 the net income derived by the Ecclesiastical Commissioners from property in Wales from ail sources, and the payments made to tue bishops, chapters, archdeacons, &c., in Wales, and the grants made in argumentation of benefices in Wales.

TIDE TABLE. July Morn. Even. Saturday 19 8 59 9 22 Sunday 20 9 32 9 55 Monday 21 10 7 10 39 Tuesday 22 10 43 11 6 Wednesday 23 11 21 11 44 Thursday 24 L2 1 12 24 Friday 25 1 51 2 14 Saturday 26 3 49 1 12