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  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 troddendown

  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 coffin, and over each grave. Identified bodies he had buried

  singly, in private graves, in another part of the church-yard.

  Several bodies had been exhumed 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 erect separate headstones over the remains. In all

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  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

  coffins, he had got all the neighbouring people handy at tools, to

  work the livelong day, and Sunday likewise. The coffins were

  neatly 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 scanty space was already devoted to the wrecked

  people, that the villagers had begun to express uneasy doubts

  whether they themselves could lie in their own ground, with their

  forefathers and descendants, by-and-by. The churchyard being but a

  step from the clergyman's dwelling-house, we crossed to the latter;

  the white surplice was hanging up near the door ready to be put on

  at any time, for a funeral service.

  The cheerful earnestness of this good Christian minister was as

  consolatory, as the circumstances out of which it shone were sad.

  I never have seen anything more delightfully genuine than the calm

  dismissal by himself and his household of all they had undergone,

  as a simple duty that was quietly done and ended. In speaking of

  it, they spoke of it with great compassion for the bereaved; but

  laid no stress upon their own hard share in those weary weeks,

  except as it had attached many people to them as friends, and

  elicited many touching expressions of gratitude. This clergyman's

  brother - himself the 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 soothing of

  the living, that he had casually said, without the least abatement

  of his cheerfulness, 'indeed, it had rendered him unable for a time

  to eat or drink more than a little coffee now and then, and a piece

  of bread.'

  In this noble modesty, in this beautiful simplicity, in this serene

  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 shipwreck of papers, all

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  bordered with black, and from them I made the following few

  extracts.

  A mother writes:

  REVEREND SIR. Amongst the many who perished on your shore was

  numbered my beloved son. I was only just recovering from a severe

  illness, and this fearful affliction has caused a relapse, so that

  I am unable at present to go to identify the remains of the loved

  and lost. My darling son would have been sixteen on Christmas-day

  next. He was a most amiable and obedient child, early taught the

  way of salvation. We fondly hoped that as a British seaman he

  might be an ornament to his profession, but, 'it is well;' I feel

  assured my dear boy is now with the redeemed. Oh, he did not wish

  to go this last 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. Goodbye,

  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 kindly 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 sufficiently

  for your kindness to me on that fearful and appalling day. Will

  you tell me what I can do for you, and will you write me a

  consoling letter to prevent my mind from going astray?

  A widow writes:

  Left in such a state as I am, my friends and I thought it best that

  my dear husband should be buried where he lies, and, much as I

  should have liked to have had it otherwise, I must submit. I feel,

  from all I have heard of you, that you will see it done decently

  and in order. Little does it signify to us, when the soul has

  departed, where this poor body lies, but we who are left behind

  would do all we can to show how we loved them. This is denied me,

  but it is God's hand that afflicts us, and I try to submit. Some

  day I may be able to visit the spot, and see where he lies, and

  erect a simple stone to his memory. Oh! it will be long, long

  before I forget that dreadful night! Is there such a thing in the

  vicinity, or any shop in Bangor, to which I could send for a small

  picture of Moelfra or Llanallgo church, a spot now sacred to me?

  Another widow writes:

  I have received your letter this morning, and do thank you most

  kindly for the interest you have taken about my dear husband, as

  well for the sentiments yours contains, evincing the spirit of a

  Christian who can sympathise with those who, like myself, are

  broken down with grief.

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  Dickens, Charles - The Uncommercial Traveller

  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 disinterested 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 melancholy

  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 hospitable home. No

  words could speak language suited to my heart. I refrain. God

  reward you with the same measure you have meted with!

  I enumerate 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 lamented 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 prospect, and I mourn as one without

  hope.

  The only consolation to my distressed 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 catastrophe,

  both as to the identification of my dear son, and also his

  interment.

  I feel most anxious to hear whether anything fresh has transpired

  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.

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  Dickens, Charles - The Uncommercial Traveller

  Words cannot express the gratitude I feel I owe to you all for your

  benevolent 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 acquiesce 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 hospitably 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 rites. 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 wardens of this congregation have learned with

  great pleasure that, in addition to those indefatigable exertions,

  at the scene of the late disaster to the Royal Charter, which have

  received universal recognition, you have very benevolently 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

  consecrated grounds, with the observances and rites prescribed by

  the ordinances 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 particular
s 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

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  Dickens, Charles - The Uncommercial Traveller

  yourself, it in a measure, somehow or other, abates that mental

  anguish, 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 vow;

  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 quotation 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 scraps 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 BLESSING.

  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 distress 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

  extinction.

  A sailor had these devices on his right arm. 'Our Saviour 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