Welsh Journals

The coaches now begin to rumble up to the front door, the leading one being reserved for the two nephews, heirs-at-law of the dead lord of Plas Mawr, whilst the other carriages belong to the few neigh- bouring county families. The steward is meanwhile busied in collecting the leading tenants of the estate, who have been selected for the honour of bearing their late landlord's corpse to its last resting-place. All is quite ready for the start by the time the cracked bell of St. Teilo's church gives the awaited signal, when eight sturdy Welsh farmers bring out the great coffin, followed by a second relay of eight to take their places in due course. The distance is not long, but there is a steep final ascent to the parish church, so that the bell has been tolling for a good twenty minutes and more before the procession reaches the half-ruined lych-gate, beside which Parson Davies is waiting, book in hand, and watching the mourners, and especially the bearers of the coffin painfully ascend the sharp incline. The vicar is merely a rough farmer's son clad in surplice and stole, almost wholly without education, and as he stands thus awaiting the coffin, he is revolving in his dull brain what effect the old Squire's death will have on his future prospects. He scrutinizes the long array drawing nearer, first the panting bearers, then the mourning coaches, then the attendant crowd of men and women on foot, the latter with their tall beaver hats overtopping the heads of their male companions. The church of St. Teilo is little better than a stone barn with a small belfry at its western gable, and its principal door is barely wide enough to admit the coffin, which is finally set down with an audible sigh of relief upon a rough trestle table in the tiny chancel. The church is by this time well crowded with mourners, the two nephews, elegantly dressed young men from London sitting in the great square Plas ODE TO A WASTE PAPER BASKET. 0 frail receptacle; how sad thy lot, And how thou'rt fallen I Once thou car'dst a jot For no one, when the gentle zephyr toyed Amongst the branches of the sober-joyed And lithesome willow tree. You wept 'tis true, Because 'twas good to hear the brook, and view The verdant scene but now too sad for tears You only hold the refuse of the years. Mawr pew by themselves. The only features of the dour little building are one or two marble tablets to the family of Plas Mawr, and a great board painted with a ramping lion and unicorn mounting guard over the Royal Arms. The parson next enters the pulpit, his hands encased in black gloves and with a sprig of rosemary between his fingers. He en- larges for some space on the virtues of the deceased and affects to envy him that possession of the eternal glories which he has so lately won. The first part of the ceremony ended, the bearers advance from their seats, and again lift their heavy burden shoulder high, in order to reach the northern corner of the churchyard, where the family vault is marked by a large space enclosed by tall railings of wrought iron. From this windy spot there is a far-reaching view over many miles of treeless, barren and often boggy country, but pleasant Plas Mawr and its ancient groves lie hidden in the valley below. The latter portion of the service is hurried through, for the parson perceives a terrific shower scudding over the bleak hills to westward straight towards the church. Just as the last words are being rapidly uttered, the storm reaches the funeral party with a hiss and a roar, that are quickly succeeded by tor- rents of chilly rain. The heirs of Plas Mawr hasten to the shelter of their carriage the reverend gentle- man quickly discards his surplice and proceeds to unloose his shivering pony that has been tied to the lych-gate since its master's arrival; and even the hardy peasants fly from the wind-swept graveyard before so violent a deluge. Even the ancient half- witted sexton retreats inside the building for shelter, and thus the former lord of Plas Mawr is left all alone in the midst of his estate with nothing but the howling gale and the soaking rain for company. HM.V. F.W.