THE WELSH WRECKER'S REVENGE.

BY JOSEPH DOWNES,

AUTHOR OF "THE MOUNTAIN DECAMERON,”

IN "Grose's Antiquities,” (vol. vii. p. 80,) is to be read a wild and tragical anecdote respecting a former lord of the castle and manor of Dunraven, in Glamorganshire, the last of the family of Vaughans who possessed it, they being descended from a prince of South Wales, Ellystan Gloddrig. Having exhausted his resources by excess of hospitality, and proved in his adversity, like the ancient Athenian, the hollowness of trencher friends, he conceived a disgust and animosity against all mankind, let the noble mansion run to ruin, while he secluded himself in one turret overhanging the sea, and, as was reported, resorted to the stratagem of exhibiting lights along that perilous shore, by which to allure bewildered seamen to almost certain shipwreck. By the tenour of ancient charters respecting wreche or werech, that is, shipwreck, what the sea casts up, (there called scupwerk, that is, sea upwerp (Sax.), the castings-up of the sea,) the lord of a manor whereon it occurs claims it on the nominal behalf of the king. The words run -"Rex habebit wreckum maris per totum regnum." Were anything alive found on board, though but a cat, it redeemed the vessel or its remains during one year and a day, to await its being reclaimed by the owners.

At the period when this narrative commences, the unhappy Lord of Dunraven had suffered that dreadful domestic bereavement, the deaths of three children at once, by different accidents (all drowned), which the whole country regarded as God's revenge against wrecking, and which is recorded by Grose. One son remained, though long unheard of, who had embarked long since in merchandise, to redeem the fortunes of the family, and it was for him (as the more charitable whispered) that the wretched father persisted in his crime, having for his agent and accomplice a desperate character, a ruined smuggler and pirate, for he had once an armed vessel of his own, who resided in a hovel up a creek of that rocky coast, though believed to hoard treasures still. Ralpho or Ralph, the Diaowl (" the Devil") was his nickname, also "Ralph Ironhand," he having lost a hand in a conflict with officers of justice sent against him by Mr. Vaughan, then a real philanthropist, generous but reckless, exerting his strong genius in planning a lighthouse for the sunken rocks thereabout, in framing an apparatus for saving men on wrecks, &c. With this man (though become his deadly enemy) did his nature's dire revolution incline him to associate, not for the salvation, but destruction of man's life! So prone is human nature to depravation-so uncertain the duration of moral character! "Corruptio optimi pessima" well applies to man's. nature. Passion (whose name is Legion) resembles a glorious river, banked with galaxies of June flowers, with meadows green as spring's buds, and beautified with the whitest flocks, which one day's storm changes into a foul flood, burying them all; and the next shews the ruin it has wrought-sheepfolds, prostrate shepherds drooping in misery, flowers, grasses, all viewless under the black slime and sordes which its sky-blue beauty held concealed. The passionate noble heart-the great gifted mind--unguarded by some humbler but vital quality, is but like a palace on fire,

a mountain palace, glorified and exalted only to become a dismal beacon to all men, and, as a child playing but with fire, or a peasant with his pipe's embers, may be the cause of turning a tower of centuries' standing into smoke and black ashes, so may unwatched moral influences, of the meanest nature at first, prove the dismal incendiaries in the citadel of man, and fire the very palace of the soul.

"Yes there are real mourners; I have seen

A fair sad girl, mild, suffering and serene."-CRABBE.

And such an one,-so fair, so mild, so suffering,-was to be seen for years frequenting that shore of romantic grandeur, on one of whose maritime precipices towered the grey strength of the ancient castle of Dunraven. The fair mourner of Crabbe is depicted as haunting a churchyard, and our gentle Welsh maiden might almost be said to resemble her therein, for that great, grand sea, by which she walked so continually, was too truly to her a mighty burial-place. It had buried her first young hopes, in love at least, and sad, fond fancy, for ever sounded in her sunken heart a knell for that love's object--for ever whispered that it had already buried him also-her first love, playmate, everything!—the fond, the faultless, the bold, the beautiful Septimus Vaughan, the self-banished heir of the manor of Dunraven. Margaret of Llangoed was the daughter of a gentleman residing near the castle, but had lost both parents long since, and had been left under the guardianship of Mr. Vaughan, to whose younger children, after the death of his wife, she had supplied the care of a mother, till their lives were lost as related.

There was at that time a humble little sea-side hostelry, or "tavarn,” as the Welsh term it, not far from Dunraven, whose old hostess had been Margaret's nurse. In the back was a small room, whose lattice (of mere slips of wood crosswise) had been exchanged for a glazed casement, on purpose to allow the young lady in all weathers thence to let her eye wander over the boundless sea; and there she would sit, feeding her sick fancy with the deadly melancholy that seemed to her ever brooding in the watery distance, let it dazzle gloriously with the sinking sun as it might, ever since the parting hour.

It was in the evening of a golden autumnal day, which was closing in heavy fog with thunderclouds in the distance, that she sat in one of those grand piazzas of rock, formed by the excavating waves of ages, which distinguish that beach, and melted to tears there alone, recalling that hour,-for the hour, the prospect, the very aspect of the evening were the very same, and the many years that had elapsed,that great void chasm in her life seemed as but a dismal dream of a terrible and lonesome night; but the sweet morning-his prayed-for return-when would that arrive? Far indeed from vanity was the feeling which prompted this lone faithful girl to so often turn to her mirror, pore over her poor white face, fancy "defeatures" which time had not written yet, and sometimes half wish to die, ere he should return, so to avoid blurring the fairer image of her which he carried out, and might still preserve. Suddenly she started out of deepest reverie, at the appearance of a tall figure of foreign aspect, standing in the gorge of a rocky creek, near, but too distant for her to recognise

"The daughter of Trehearne, of Pencarreg," &c., naming her family domicile, (farm or mansion,) is the usual designation of the eldest daughter in Wales.

his features. Cut off by vast walls of cliff from the rustic homes above, fog and nightfall combining to give solemnity to the low roar of the waves, and deeper solitude to the scene, she grew terrified, and hid herself behind the huge columnar portals of the cavern. Presently he loitered towards what is called the Goat's staircase (steps in the rock); but the dense fog prevented her viewing his features, though something urged her to pore upon his seemingly sallow face with an eagerness of the mad. Presently she heard a boat rowed away by men, both invisible in the fog. She caught the clank of a chain and voices, and concluded that it had landed this muffled stranger. She had had a wild dream the previous night (which may be hereafter alluded to); her spirits were violently agitated, she felt as if an apparition (a blest and glorious one!) had glided near her in its mist, so vision-like was the transient spectacle, all objects metamorphosed by the hazy medium into something strange, and his very stature increased by the same. She fancied his hand of strange whiteness-fancied she could discern even the blackness of a mourning ring on a finger-she had put one on the hand of Septimus, at their last interview, so despondent was her mood, in that very spot. Not dreaming of any one there lurking, the stranger stopped, and seemed to fix his eyes (hollow eyes, she fancied!) on the very cavern she occupied, the very spot of their very last endearments! So strong was her perturbation, that her eyes grew dark, she nearly fainted-reviving, with a strong effort, she looked again, but he was gone.

That same evening, as the good dame of the cottage inn, or "public," sat reading the "Welshman's Candle," or "Vicar's Book"-Lifre y Fycar of Rees Prichard, an old volume with brazen clasps, hardly less reverenced than the Bible itself by the South-Wallian peasantrya stranger, stooping to enter under the eaves of thatch, disturbed her with the unwelcome sound of the Saxon tongue. He took refreshment in the little back room already alluded to, and began to inquire about the families in the neighbourhood. The old dame would hold no converse in "Saxon," cutting all short by the eternal "dim Sassenach" ("No Saxon," i.e. English), but a boy, her grandson, was more communicative.

an old man, of wretched least, through the fog,) as "He of the great house,

"I saw, near the sea," the stranger said, appearance, with a beard, (as I thought, at we rowed along the coast-who is that?" sir, the squire Vaughan." The stranger started-" What! you do not tell me that old miserable man was Mr. Vaughan, himself?" Assured it was he, the stranger's fine countenance fell, and he was long silent. Desirous to interrogate the old woman, he addressed her, at last, in the Welsh tongue, and loosed her tongue, in so doing, as by a charm, but still preserved a studied concealment. He inquired about the lady of Llangoed, Margaret's paternal scat, and sighed to hear of the death of both her parents. When told that she had been seated, not an hour since, at that very window-had slept one night, it being stormy, in that very bed (which filled up one side of the old room), the colour mounted into the bronzed cheek, and strange light and exquisite softness into the full eye of the guest. Grasping the withered hand of the hostess, he bade "God bless her," in her own language, forced on her a piece of gold-on her grandson, one of silver-departed, none knew whither, leaving them all wonder and all joy.

Remorseful for the injury he had done to his son's future interest, Mr. Vaughan, as has been already related, abandoned himself to despair. His only companion, besides the gentle orphan (whose attachment to his long absent son endeared her to him the more), was an aged domestic, named Jenan, who had enlivened his revelries, in former days, by his skill on the harp, and whose love for the boy-exile, whom he had many a time carried on his back, when a child, was only second to the father's own. He would sit speechless for hours, then hurry to his high turret window, to look out over the sea, murmuring to himself, "A father or no father? Is my blood stopped utterly except in this old foul heart? Three at once!-all at once! and all by water, water!—all watery deaths!* It was indeed like a judgment !What say you, Jenan?-what think you? Am I a father yet?"

Margaret, on her return, tried to rouse his spirits, by telling how she dreamed his son was returned, well and happy,-that she held his hand in hers, but concealed (in her bashfulness) that it was before the altar,—that their hands so met. She withheld, also, the darker sequel -that suddenly she lost him in the darkness of a total eclipse; yet somehow, the hand was not unlocked from hers, but gleamed to the ghastly light-a dreadful red-ring and all being covered with blood.

That same evening, or rather night, a vessel, which had been long lying to, came aground, and became a wreck, through the act of Ralph "the Diaoul," who had kindled a fire on the beach, and, cut off by the walls of cliff, had the shore as a solitude for himself and his black purpose. Descrying the red gleams below, from his high lattice, Mr. Vaughan hurried down, followed by Jenan, bearing a life-preserving apparatus for reaching the wreck. They caught the sound of a clanking chain and faint clamour of voices, as of persons taking to the boat. A sudden, dreadful silence ensued. It was, no doubt, swamped. Mr. Vaughan urged the hardy wrecker to venture to swim out with the apparatus to the beating vessel, to ascertain if any one were still on board, and he consented.

The melancholy pair stood listening in the sort of cavern hollow, formed in the mixed fog and sea-mist, by the red light of the watchfire, and heard only the sound of a bell, which, being fixed in the ship, for calling the crew together on occasion, now kept time to the rolling of the wreck with almost the regularity of a passing-bell. "Think you he has reached the vessel yet?" Mr. Vaughan continually inquired. There are on that coast singular crannies and passages called windholes, which pierce far into the rocks and open above, occasioning sounds, sometimes of melancholy grandeur, like those of an enormous Æolian harp, or many such, and which the superstitious hear with awe and forebodings in wild weather. Deceived by these, perhaps, Mr. Vaughan exclaimed-" I could fancy I heard two voices in the pauses of the gust! he's on the hulk by this time-that dismal, dreadful bell! How strange, how solemn it sounds, above all the weltering and breaking of the waves and hissing of this pebbly beach!-Hark! hark! hark!" His last exclamations expressed intense alarm or awe, and in his eager

His two sons had gone with the only boat, and landed on a rock, dry at low water, called "The Swinkers," and the boat drifting away, they perished in sight of their father, on the shore. In the confusion, a younger child, left alone, fell into some water, and perished at the same time.-Grose.