The Uncommercial Traveller | Page 6

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. 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 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.
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