So settled and orderly was everything seaward, in the bright light of the sun and under the transparent1 shadows of the clouds, that it was hard to imagine the bay otherwise, for years past or to come, than it was that very day. The Tug-steamer lying a little off the shore, the Lighter2 lying still nearer to the shore, the boat alongside the Lighter, the regularly-turning windlass aboard the Lighter, the methodical figures at work, all slowly and regularly heaving up and down with the breathing of the sea, all seemed as much a part of the nature of the place as the tide itself. The tide was on the flow, and had been for some two hours and a half; there was a slight obstruction3 in the sea within a few yards of my feet: as if the stump4 of a tree, with earth enough about it to keep it from lying horizontally on the water, had slipped a little from the land — and as I stood upon the beach and observed it dimpling the light swell5 that was coming in, I cast a stone over it.
So orderly, so quiet, so regular — the rising and falling of the Tug-steamer, the Lighter, and the boat — the turning of the windlass — the coming in of the tide — that I myself seemed, to my own thinking, anything but new to the spot. Yet, I had never seen it in my life, a minute before, and had traversed two hundred miles to get at it. That very morning I had come bowling6 down, and struggling up, hill-country roads; looking back at snowy summits; meeting courteous7 peasants well to do, driving fat pigs and cattle to market: noting the neat and thrifty8 dwellings10, with their unusual quantity of clean white linen11, drying on the bushes; having windy weather suggested by every cotter’s little rick, with its thatch12 straw-ridged and extra straw-ridged into overlapping13 compartments14 like the back of a rhinoceros15. Had I not given a lift of fourteen miles to the Coast-guardsman (kit and all), who was coming to his spell of duty there, and had we not just now parted company? So it was; but the journey seemed to glide16 down into the placid17 sea, with other chafe18 and trouble, and for the moment nothing was so calmly and monotonously19 real under the sunlight as the gentle rising and falling of the water with its freight, the regular turning of the windlass aboard the Lighter, and the slight obstruction so very near my feet.
O reader, haply turning this page by the fireside at Home, and hearing the night wind rumble20 in the chimney, that slight obstruction was the uppermost fragment of the Wreck21 of the Royal Charter, Australian trader and passenger ship, Homeward bound, that struck here on the terrible morning of the twenty-sixth of this October, broke into three parts, went down with her treasure of at least five hundred human lives, and has never stirred since!
From which point, or from which, she drove ashore22, stern foremost; on which side, or on which, she passed the little Island in the bay, for ages henceforth to be aground certain yards outside her; these are rendered bootless questions by the darkness of that night and the darkness of death. Here she went down.
Even as I stood on the beach with the words ‘Here she went down!’ in my ears, a diver in his grotesque23 dress, dipped heavily over the side of the boat alongside the Lighter, and dropped to the bottom. On the shore by the water’s edge, was a rough tent, made of fragments of wreck, where other divers24 and workmen sheltered themselves, and where they had kept Christmas-day with rum and roast beef, to the destruction of their frail25 chimney. Cast up among the stones and boulders26 of the beach, were great spars of the lost vessel27, and masses of iron twisted by the fury of the sea into the strangest forms. The timber was already bleached28 and iron rusted29, and even these objects did no violence to the prevailing30 air the whole scene wore, of having been exactly the same for years and years.
Yet, only two short months had gone, since a man, living on the nearest hill-top overlooking the sea, being blown out of bed at about daybreak by the wind that had begun to strip his roof off, and getting upon a ladder with his nearest neighbour to construct some temporary device for keeping his house over his head, saw from the ladder’s elevation31 as he looked down by chance towards the shore, some dark troubled object close in with the land. And he and the other, descending32 to the beach, and finding the sea mercilessly beating over a great broken ship, had clambered up the stony33 ways, like staircases without stairs, on which the wild village hangs in little clusters, as fruit hangs on boughs34, and had given the alarm. And so, over the hill-slopes, and past the waterfall, and down the gullies where the land drains off into the ocean, the scattered35 quarrymen and fishermen inhabiting that part of Wales had come running to the dismal36 sight — their clergyman among them. And as they stood in the leaden morning, stricken with pity, leaning hard against the wind, their breath and vision often failing as the sleet37 and spray rushed at them from the ever forming and dissolving mountains of sea, and as the wool which was a part of the vessel’s cargo38 blew in with the salt foam39 and remained upon the land when the foam melted, they saw the ship’s life-boat put off from one of the heaps of wreck; and first, there were three men in her, and in a moment she capsized, and there were but two; and again, she was struck by a vast mass of water, and there was but one; and again, she was thrown bottom upward, and that one, with his arm struck through the broken planks40 and waving as if for the help that could never reach him, went down into the deep.
It was the clergyman himself from whom I heard this, while I stood on the shore, looking in his kind wholesome41 face as it turned to the spot where the boat had been. The divers were down then, and busy. They were ‘lifting’ to-day the gold found yesterday — some five-and-twenty thousand pounds. Of three hundred and fifty thousand pounds’ worth of gold, three hundred thousand pounds’ worth, in round numbers, was at that time recovered. The great bulk of the remainder was surely and steadily42 coming up. Some loss of sovereigns there would be, of course; indeed, at first sovereigns had drifted in with the sand, and been scattered far and wide over the beach, like sea-shells; but most other golden treasure would be found. As it was brought up, it went aboard the Tug-steamer, where good account was taken of it. So tremendous had the force of the sea been when it broke the ship, that it had beaten one great ingot of gold, deep into a strong and heavy piece of her solid iron-work: in which, also, several loose sovereigns that the ingot had swept in before it, had been found, as firmly embedded44 as though the iron had been liquid when they were forced there. It had been remarked of such bodies come ashore, too, as had been seen by scientific men, that they had been stunned45 to death, and not suffocated46. Observation, both of the internal change that had been wrought47 in them, and of their external expression, showed death to have been thus merciful and easy. The report was brought, while I was holding such discourse48 on the beach, that no more bodies had come ashore since last night. It began to be very doubtful whether many more would be thrown up, until the north-east winds of the early spring set in. Moreover, a great number of the passengers, and particularly the second-class women-passengers, were known to have been in the middle of the ship when she parted, and thus the collapsing49 wreck would have fallen upon them after yawning open, and would keep them down. A diver made known, even then, that he had come upon the body of a man, and had sought to release it from a great superincumbent weight; but that, finding he could not do so without mutilating the remains51, he had left it where it was.
It was the kind and wholesome face I have made mention of as being then beside me, that I had purposed to myself to see, when I left home for Wales. I had heard of that clergyman, as having buried many scores of the shipwrecked people; of his having opened his house and heart to their agonised friends; of his having used a most sweet and patient diligence for weeks and weeks, in the performance of the forlornest offices that Man can render to his kind; of his having most tenderly and thoroughly54 devoted55 himself to the dead, and to those who were sorrowing for the dead. I had said to myself, ‘In the Christmas season of the year, I should like to see that man!’ And he had swung the gate of his little garden in coming out to meet me, not half an hour ago.
So cheerful of spirit and guiltless of affectation, as true practical Christianity ever is! I read more of the New Testament57 in the fresh frank face going up the village beside me, in five minutes, than I have read in anathematising discourses58 (albeit put to press with enormous flourishing of trumpets), in all my life. I heard more of the Sacred Book in the cordial voice that had nothing to say about its owner, than in all the would-be celestial59 pairs of bellows60 that have ever blown conceit61 at me.
We climbed towards the little church, at a cheery pace, among the loose stones, the deep mud, the wet coarse grass, the outlying water, and other obstructions62 from which frost and snow had lately thawed63. It was a mistake (my friend was glad to tell me, on the way) to suppose that the peasantry had shown any superstitious64 avoidance of the drowned; on the whole, they had done very well, and had assisted readily. Ten shillings had been paid for the bringing of each body up to the church, but the way was steep, and a horse and cart (in which it was wrapped in a sheet) were necessary, and three or four men, and, all things considered, it was not a great price. The people were none the richer for the wreck, for it was the season of the herring-shoal — and who could cast nets for fish, and find dead men and women in the draught65?
He had the church keys in his hand, and opened the churchyard gate, and opened the church door; and we went in.
It is a little church of great antiquity66; there is reason to believe that some church has occupied the spot, these thousand years or more. The pulpit was gone, and other things usually belonging to the church were gone, owing to its living congregation having deserted67 it for the neighbouring school-room, and yielded it up to the dead. The very Commandments had been shouldered out of their places, in the bringing in of the dead; the black wooden tables on which they were painted, were askew68, and on the stone pavement below them, and on the stone pavement all over the church, were the marks and stains where the drowned had been laid down. The eye, with little or no aid from the imagination, could yet see how the bodies had been turned, and where the head had been and where the feet. Some faded traces of the wreck of the Australian ship may be discernible on the stone pavement of this little church, hundreds of years hence, when the digging for gold in Australia shall have long and long ceased out of the land.
Forty-four shipwrecked men and women lay here at one time, awaiting burial. Here, with weeping and wailing69 in every room of his house, my companion worked alone for hours, solemnly surrounded by eyes that could not see him, and by lips that could not speak to him, patiently examining the tattered70 clothing, cutting off buttons, hair, marks from linen, anything that might lead to subsequent identification, studying faces, looking for a scar, a bent50 finger, a crooked71 toe, comparing letters sent to him with the ruin about him. ‘My dearest brother had bright grey eyes and a pleasant smile,’ one sister wrote. O poor sister! well for you to be far from here, and keep that as your last remembrance of him!
The ladies of the clergyman’s family, his wife and two sisters-in-law, came in among the bodies often. It grew to be the business of their lives to do so. Any new arrival of a bereaved72 woman would stimulate73 their pity to compare the description brought, with the dread74 realities. Sometimes, they would go back able to say, ‘I have found him,’ or, ‘I think she lies there.’ Perhaps, the mourner, unable to bear the sight of all that lay in the church, would be led in blindfold75. Conducted to the spot with many compassionate76 words, and encouraged to look, she would say, with a piercing cry, ‘This is my boy!’ and drop insensible on the insensible figure.
He soon observed that in some cases of women, the identification of persons, though complete, was quite at variance78 with the marks upon the linen; this led him to notice that even the marks upon the linen were sometimes inconsistent with one another; and thus he came to understand that they had dressed in great haste and agitation79, and that their clothes had become mixed together. The identification of men by their dress, was rendered extremely difficult, in consequence of a large proportion of them being dressed alike — in clothes of one kind, that is to say, supplied by slopsellers and outfitters, and not made by single garments but by hundreds. Many of the men were bringing over parrots, and had receipts upon them for the price of the birds; others had bills of exchange in their pockets, or in belts. Some of these documents, carefully unwrinkled and dried, were little less fresh in appearance that day, than the present page will be under ordinary circumstances, after having been opened three or four times.
In that lonely place, it had not been easy to obtain even such common commodities in towns, as ordinary disinfectants. Pitch had been burnt in the church, as the readiest thing at hand, and the frying-pan in which it had bubbled over a brazier of coals was still there, with its ashes. Hard by the Communion-Table, were some boots that had been taken off the drowned and preserved — a gold-digger’s boot, cut down the leg for its removal — a trodden-down man’s ankle-boot with a buff cloth top — and others — soaked and sandy, weedy and salt.
From the church, we passed out into the churchyard. Here, there lay, at that time, one hundred and forty-five bodies, that had come ashore from the wreck. He had buried them, when not identified, in graves containing four each. He had numbered each body in a register describing it, and had placed a corresponding number on each coffin80, and over each grave. Identified bodies he had buried singly, in private graves, in another part of the church-yard. Several bodies had been exhumed81 from the graves of four, as relatives had come from a distance and seen his register; and, when recognised, these have been reburied in private graves, so that the mourners might erect82 separate headstones over the remains. In all such cases he had performed the funeral service a second time, and the ladies of his house had attended. There had been no offence in the poor ashes when they were brought again to the light of day; the beneficent Earth had already absorbed it. The drowned were buried in their clothes. To supply the great sudden demand for coffins83, he had got all the neighbouring people handy at tools, to work the livelong day, and Sunday likewise. The coffins were neatly84 formed; — I had seen two, waiting for occupants, under the lee of the ruined walls of a stone hut on the beach, within call of the tent where the Christmas Feast was held. Similarly, one of the graves for four was lying open and ready, here, in the churchyard. So much of the scanty85 space was already devoted to the wrecked53 people, that the villagers had begun to express uneasy doubts whether they themselves could lie in their own ground, with their forefathers86 and descendants, by-and-by. The churchyard being but a step from the clergyman’s dwelling9-house, we crossed to the latter; the white surplice was hanging up near the door ready to be put on at any time, for a funeral service.
The cheerful earnestness of this good Christian56 minister was as consolatory87, as the circumstances out of which it shone were sad. I never have seen anything more delightfully88 genuine than the calm dismissal by himself and his household of all they had undergone, as a simple duty that was quietly done and ended. In speaking of it, they spoke89 of it with great compassion77 for the bereaved; but laid no stress upon their own hard share in those weary weeks, except as it had attached many people to them as friends, and elicited90 many touching91 expressions of gratitude92. This clergyman’s brother — himself the clergyman of two adjoining parishes, who had buried thirty-four of the bodies in his own churchyard, and who had done to them all that his brother had done as to the larger number — must be understood as included in the family. He was there, with his neatly arranged papers, and made no more account of his trouble than anybody else did. Down to yesterday’s post outward, my clergyman alone had written one thousand and seventy-five letters to relatives and friends of the lost people. In the absence of self-assertion, it was only through my now and then delicately putting a question as the occasion arose, that I became informed of these things. It was only when I had remarked again and again, in the church, on the awful nature of the scene of death he had been required so closely to familiarise himself with for the soothing93 of the living, that he had casually94 said, without the least abatement95 of his cheerfulness, ‘indeed, it had rendered him unable for a time to eat or drink more than a little coffee now and then, and a piece of bread.’
In this noble modesty96, in this beautiful simplicity97, in this serene98 avoidance of the least attempt to ‘improve’ an occasion which might be supposed to have sunk of its own weight into my heart, I seemed to have happily come, in a few steps, from the churchyard with its open grave, which was the type of Death, to the Christian dwelling side by side with it, which was the type of Resurrection. I never shall think of the former, without the latter. The two will always rest side by side in my memory. If I had lost any one dear to me in this unfortunate ship, if I had made a voyage from Australia to look at the grave in the churchyard, I should go away, thankful to GOD that that house was so close to it, and that its shadow by day and its domestic lights by night fell upon the earth in which its Master had so tenderly laid my dear one’s head.
The references that naturally arose out of our conversation, to the descriptions sent down of shipwrecked persons, and to the gratitude of relations and friends, made me very anxious to see some of those letters. I was presently seated before a shipwreck52 of papers, all bordered with black, and from them I made the following few extracts.
A mother writes:
REVEREND SIR. Amongst the many who perished on your shore was numbered my beloved son. I was only just recovering from a severe illness, and this fearful affliction has caused a relapse, so that I am unable at present to go to identify the remains of the loved and lost. My darling son would have been sixteen on Christmas-day next. He was a most amiable100 and obedient child, early taught the way of salvation101. We fondly hoped that as a British seaman102 he might be an ornament103 to his profession, but, ‘it is well;’ I feel assured my dear boy is now with the redeemed104. Oh, he did not wish to go this last voyage! On the fifteenth of October, I received a letter from him from Melbourne, date August twelfth; he wrote in high spirits, and in conclusion he says: ‘Pray for a fair breeze, dear mamma, and I’ll not forget to whistle for it! and, God permitting, I shall see you and all my little pets again. Good-bye, dear mother — good-bye, dearest parents. Good-bye, dear brother.’ Oh, it was indeed an eternal farewell. I do not apologise for thus writing you, for oh, my heart is so very sorrowful.
A husband writes:
MY DEAR KIND SIR. Will you kindly105 inform me whether there are any initials upon the ring and guard you have in possession, found, as the Standard says, last Tuesday? Believe me, my dear sir, when I say that I cannot express my deep gratitude in words sufficiently106 for your kindness to me on that fearful and appalling107 day. Will you tell me what I can do for you, and will you write me a consoling letter to prevent my mind from going astray?
A widow writes:
Left in such a state as I am, my friends and I thought it best that my dear husband should be buried where he lies, and, much as I should have liked to have had it otherwise, I must submit. I feel, from all I have heard of you, that you will see it done decently and in order. Little does it signify to us, when the soul has departed, where this poor body lies, but we who are left behind would do all we can to show how we loved them. This is denied me, but it is God’s hand that afflicts108 us, and I try to submit. Some day I may be able to visit the spot, and see where he lies, and erect a simple stone to his memory. Oh! it will be long, long before I forget that dreadful night! Is there such a thing in the vicinity, or any shop in Bangor, to which I could send for a small picture of Moelfra or Llanallgo church, a spot now sacred to me?
Another widow writes:
I have received your letter this morning, and do thank you most kindly for the interest you have taken about my dear husband, as well for the sentiments yours contains, evincing the spirit of a Christian who can sympathise with those who, like myself, are broken down with grief.
May God bless and sustain you, and all in connection with you, in this great trial. Time may roll on and bear all its sons away, but your name as a disinterested109 person will stand in history, and, as successive years pass, many a widow will think of your noble conduct, and the tears of gratitude flow down many a cheek, the tribute of a thankful heart, when other things are forgotten for ever.
A father writes:
I am at a loss to find words to sufficiently express my gratitude to you for your kindness to my son Richard upon the melancholy110 occasion of his visit to his dear brother’s body, and also for your ready attention in pronouncing our beautiful burial service over my poor unfortunate son’s remains. God grant that your prayers over him may reach the Mercy Seat, and that his soul may be received (through Christ’s intercession) into heaven!
His dear mother begs me to convey to you her heartfelt thanks.
Those who were received at the clergyman’s house, write thus, after leaving it:
DEAR AND NEVER-TO-BE-FORGOTTEN FRIENDS. I arrived here yesterday morning without accident, and am about to proceed to my home by railway.
I am overpowered when I think of you and your hospitable111 home. No words could speak language suited to my heart. I refrain. God reward you with the same measure you have meted112 with!
I enumerate113 no names, but embrace you all.
MY BELOVED FRIENDS. This is the first day that I have been able to leave my bedroom since I returned, which will explain the reason of my not writing sooner.
If I could only have had my last melancholy hope realised in recovering the body of my beloved and lamented114 son, I should have returned home somewhat comforted, and I think I could then have been comparatively resigned.
I fear now there is but little prospect115, and I mourn as one without hope.
The only consolation116 to my distressed117 mind is in having been so feelingly allowed by you to leave the matter in your hands, by whom I well know that everything will be done that can be, according to arrangements made before I left the scene of the awful catastrophe119, both as to the identification of my dear son, and also his interment.
I feel most anxious to hear whether anything fresh has transpired120 since I left you; will you add another to the many deep obligations I am under to you by writing to me? And should the body of my dear and unfortunate son be identified, let me hear from you immediately, and I will come again.
Words cannot express the gratitude I feel I owe to you all for your benevolent121 aid, your kindness, and your sympathy.
MY DEARLY BELOVED FRIENDS. I arrived in safety at my house yesterday, and a night’s rest has restored and tranquillised me. I must again repeat, that language has no words by which I can express my sense of obligation to you. You are enshrined in my heart of hearts.
I have seen him! and can now realise my misfortune more than I have hitherto been able to do. Oh, the bitterness of the cup I drink! But I bow submissive. God MUST have done right. I do not want to feel less, but to acquiesce122 more simply.
There were some Jewish passengers on board the Royal Charter, and the gratitude of the Jewish people is feelingly expressed in the following letter bearing date from ‘the office of the Chief Rabbi:’
REVEREND SIR. I cannot refrain from expressing to you my heartfelt thanks on behalf of those of my flock whose relatives have unfortunately been among those who perished at the late wreck of the Royal Charter. You have, indeed, like Boaz, ‘not left off your kindness to the living and the dead.’
You have not alone acted kindly towards the living by receiving them hospitably123 at your house, and energetically assisting them in their mournful duty, but also towards the dead, by exerting yourself to have our co-religionists buried in our ground, and according to our rites99. May our heavenly Father reward you for your acts of humanity and true philanthropy!
The ‘Old Hebrew congregation of Liverpool’ thus express themselves through their secretary:
REVEREND SIR. The wardens124 of this congregation have learned with great pleasure that, in addition to those indefatigable125 exertions126, at the scene of the late disaster to the Royal Charter, which have received universal recognition, you have very benevolently127 employed your valuable efforts to assist such members of our faith as have sought the bodies of lost friends to give them burial in our consecrated128 grounds, with the observances and rites prescribed by the ordinances129 of our religion.
The wardens desire me to take the earliest available opportunity to offer to you, on behalf of our community, the expression of their warm acknowledgments and grateful thanks, and their sincere wishes for your continued welfare and prosperity.
A Jewish gentleman writes:
REVEREND AND DEAR SIR. I take the opportunity of thanking you right earnestly for the promptness you displayed in answering my note with full particulars concerning my much lamented brother, and I also herein beg to express my sincere regard for the willingness you displayed and for the facility you afforded for getting the remains of my poor brother exhumed. It has been to us a most sorrowful and painful event, but when we meet with such friends as yourself, it in a measure, somehow or other, abates130 that mental anguish131, and makes the suffering so much easier to be borne. Considering the circumstances connected with my poor brother’s fate, it does, indeed, appear a hard one. He had been away in all seven years; he returned four years ago to see his family. He was then engaged to a very amiable young lady. He had been very successful abroad, and was now returning to fulfil his sacred vow132; he brought all his property with him in gold uninsured. We heard from him when the ship stopped at Queenstown, when he was in the highest of hope, and in a few short hours afterwards all was washed away.
Mournful in the deepest degree, but too sacred for quotation133 here, were the numerous references to those miniatures of women worn round the necks of rough men (and found there after death), those locks of hair, those scraps134 of letters, those many many slight memorials of hidden tenderness. One man cast up by the sea bore about him, printed on a perforated lace card, the following singular (and unavailing) charm:
A BLESSING135.
May the blessing of God await thee. May the sun of glory shine around thy bed; and may the gates of plenty, honour, and happiness be ever open to thee. May no sorrow distress118 thy days; may no grief disturb thy nights. May the pillow of peace kiss thy cheek, and the pleasures of imagination attend thy dreams; and when length of years makes thee tired of earthly joys, and the curtain of death gently closes around thy last sleep of human existence, may the Angel of God attend thy bed, and take care that the expiring lamp of life shall not receive one rude blast to hasten on its extinction136.
A sailor had these devices on his right arm. ‘Our Saviour137 on the Cross, the forehead of the Crucifix and the vesture stained red; on the lower part of the arm, a man and woman; on one side of the Cross, the appearance of a half moon, with a face; on the other side, the sun; on the top of the Cross, the letters I.H.S.; on the left arm, a man and woman dancing, with an effort to delineate the female’s dress; under which, initials.’ Another seaman ‘had, on the lower part of the right arm, the device of a sailor and a female; the man holding the union Jack138 with a streamer, the folds of which waved over her head, and the end of it was held in her hand. On the upper part of the arm, a device of Our Lord on the Cross, with stars surrounding the head of the Cross, and one large star on the side in Indian Ink. On the left arm, a flag, a true lover’s knot, a face, and initials.’ This tattooing139 was found still plain, below the discoloured outer surface of a mutilated arm, when such surface was carefully scraped away with a knife. It is not improbable that the perpetuation140 of this marking custom among seamen141, may be referred back to their desire to be identified, if drowned and flung ashore.
It was some time before I could sever43 myself from the many interesting papers on the table, and then I broke bread and drank wine with the kind family before I left them. As I brought the Coast-guard down, so I took the Postman back, with his leathern wallet, walking-stick, bugle142, and terrier dog. Many a heart-broken letter had he brought to the Rectory House within two months many; a benignantly painstaking143 answer had he carried back.
As I rode along, I thought of the many people, inhabitants of this mother country, who would make pilgrimages to the little churchyard in the years to come; I thought of the many people in Australia, who would have an interest in such a shipwreck, and would find their way here when they visit the Old World; I thought of the writers of all the wreck of letters I had left upon the table; and I resolved to place this little record where it stands. Convocations, Conferences, Diocesan Epistles, and the like, will do a great deal for Religion, I dare say, and Heaven send they may! but I doubt if they will ever do their Master’s service half so well, in all the time they last, as the Heavens have seen it done in this bleak144 spot upon the rugged145 coast of Wales.
Had I lost the friend of my life, in the wreck of the Royal Charter; had I lost my betrothed146, the more than friend of my life; had I lost my maiden147 daughter, had I lost my hopeful boy, had I lost my little child; I would kiss the hands that worked so busily and gently in the church, and say, ‘None better could have touched the form, though it had lain at home.’ I could be sure of it, I could be thankful for it: I could be content to leave the grave near the house the good family pass in and out of every day, undisturbed, in the little churchyard where so many are so strangely brought together.
Without the name of the clergyman to whom — I hope, not without carrying comfort to some heart at some time — I have referred, my reference would be as nothing. He is the Reverend Stephen Roose Hughes, of Llanallgo, near Moelfra, Anglesey. His brother is the Reverend Hugh Robert Hughes, of Penrhos, Alligwy.
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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swell
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bowling
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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dwelling
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dwellings
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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13
overlapping
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| adj./n.交迭（的） | |
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14
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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15
rhinoceros
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| n.犀牛 | |
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16
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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17
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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18
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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19
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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20
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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21
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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22
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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23
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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24
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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25
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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26
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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27
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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28
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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29
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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31
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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32
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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33
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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34
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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35
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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36
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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37
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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38
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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39
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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40
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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41
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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42
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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43
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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44
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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45
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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46
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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47
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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48
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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49
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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50
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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51
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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52
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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53
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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54
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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55
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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56
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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57
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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58
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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59
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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60
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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61
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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62
obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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63
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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64
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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65
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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66
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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67
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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68
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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69
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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70
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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71
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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72
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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73
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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74
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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75
blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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76
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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77
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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78
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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79
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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80
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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81
exhumed
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| v.挖出，发掘出( exhume的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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83
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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84
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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85
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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86
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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87
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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88
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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89
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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90
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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92
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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93
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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94
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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95
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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96
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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97
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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98
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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99
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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100
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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101
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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102
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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103
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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104
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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105
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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106
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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107
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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108
afflicts
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的名词复数 ) | |
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109
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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110
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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111
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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112
meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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114
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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116
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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117
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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118
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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119
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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120
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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121
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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122
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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123
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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124
wardens
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| n.看守人( warden的名词复数 )；管理员；监察员；监察官 | |
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125
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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126
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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127
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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128
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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129
ordinances
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| n.条例，法令( ordinance的名词复数 ) | |
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130
abates
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| 减少( abate的第三人称单数 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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131
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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132
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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133
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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134
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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135
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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136
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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137
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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138
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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139
tattooing
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| n.刺字，文身v.刺青，文身( tattoo的现在分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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140
perpetuation
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| n.永存，不朽 | |
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141
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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142
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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143
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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144
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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145
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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146
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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147
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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