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-a ftout, merry-faced old Welfh fhopkeeper, who deals in bacon and butter, and fpeaks English-we go forth on our vifit to Plas Mawr, and the other remarkable buildings of the town, the church included. Scarcely, however, have we left Mrs. Owen's, than we hear the found of a bell rung in the streets; a bell as of a town-crier; and the next moment see the man himself proceeding along, ringing his bell loudly at intervals, but without uttering a word.

"What is the meaning of this bell being thus rung?" we inquire from a pleasant-looking young man at a shop-door.

From him we learn that it is the announcement of a funeral,

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CONWAY CASTLE.

which will take place in about three hours, and that this mode of invitation to the townfpeople to attend funerals is peculiar to Conway.

As this invitation might be considered general, we determine to rank ourselves amongst the invited, and hold ourselves in readiness at three o'clock for the funeral; being told, moreover, that we shall know when to be at the church by the tolling of the church-bell.

About three o'clock accordingly,—having visited in the meantime the fine old house, Plas Mawr, the ancient mansion of the Wynns, where Queen Elizabeth is faid to have stayed, and where the initials of herself and her favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, are frequently coupled in the carving, and seen with great fatisfaction that two of its spacious rooms are now used as an infant school,—the church-bell began to toll, and we having added to our purchases, set off for the church, taking our old friend's Mrs. Griffiths Owen's on the way, to leave in her charge yet other packages. But Mrs. Owen is not in-not a soul is in. We knock on the counter again and again, and are just about to retreat discomfited, when a sharp-looking little lad appears from the back-fettlements, who, though he cannot speak English, instantly understands our wants, and depofits our new parcels with the others under the counter. But scarcely is this done when a voice above gabbles downstairs something in Welsh to the boy below, and back the boy gabbles his answer. Venturing on this colloquy to glance up the staircase, whence the upper voice proceeds, we beheld our buxom Mrs. Owen, without her gown, a towel being about her ftout bare arms, and her face rofier than ever, from freshly-applied foap and water. She informs us that she too is getting ready for the funeral; and we, being rather inquifitive regarding the dead at whose obse

quíes we are intending to be present, she invites us to join her upstairs, and we follow her into her large old-fashioned bedroom. Here, fpread out upon the large bed, lie her decent mourning bonnet, shawl, and gown, and whilst she is assuming the latter, we afk if the deceafed be a relative of hers.

"No, indeed,” replies fhe; "but it is right for neighbours to go to each other's funerals."

"And who, then, is going to be buried?"

Mrs. Owen's bright countenance becomes very folemn, and fhe replies:

"A bachelor of forty; an orphan, without father or mother, and nobody left behind but a fifter, poor thing! So it is quite right to go to the funeral! And there will be many there," added she in an emphatic tone.

This is a convincing argument; and therefore, leaving Mrs. Owen to complete her toilet, we wend our way to the quiet old church, which stands in the middle of the churchyard, and in the very centre of the town; gates from the various streets opening into the churchyard; this churchyard being, of course, interesting to us from Wordsworth's poem of " We are Seven."

Reaching the church, we find the large door unlocked, and enter. We are the first of the funeral attendants; but two grey-coated tourists, evidently father and fon, are infpecting the church; whilst a refpectable woman, in black, who is arranging and dusting the pews, anfwers any questions which may be put to her: We too wander round, admire the fine carving on the ancient oak screen as we pass into the chancel, and read the infcription on the flat grey ftone placed over the remains of "Nicholas Hookes, gentleman, who was the forty-first child of his parents," which the younger tourist carefully copies into his note-book; and, leaving him to add that “the said Nicholas himself died the father of twenty-feven children, on

the 20th of March, 1637," we faunter down the aisles reading the Welsh names and titles of various noble families on the small brafs plates affixed to the pew-doors, and admire the ancient carving which had been brought thither from Plas Mawr; then out at the other door to fee if yet there be signs of the approaching funeral. There are none, excepting the newly-made grave close by, which has just been dug by that young man with the funburnt face, who stands leaning on his fpade to contemplate his work. He has fcattered fawduft in the grave and piled beside it a heap of newly-cut rushes. An elderly man, clad in Sunday attire, now approaches, and shakes hand with the young gravedigger, who at this token of fympathy bursts into tears. What the departed was to him we know not, but with a feeling of respect for his grief we retire again into the church.

The grey-coated tourists are gone, and the decent woman in black ftands with her dufter ftill in her hand, waiting. We remark to each other that were this fine old church near London, it would be carefully restored. At the name of London, the woman looks fuddenly round, and exclaims :—

"Ah! our clock came from London; it is a bad one; more's the pity; the wind blows its fingers off! It was a present, and from a gentleman who did not mean it to be a bad one."

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We deplore the lamentable cafe of the clock, and then inquire if she ever heard of the poem, "We a are Seven?" "To be sure I have!" fhe anfwers. "A gentleman came once and asked me about it; but then I had never heard of it. He said, therefore, he would fend it me from London; and fo he did, all beautifully written out. I keep it at home; but I have shown it to a great many people; it is a very pretty rhyme. But for all that I've hunted the churchyard all

over,

and looked at every grave, but never can I find thofe of John and little Jane. I cannot make it out; certainly there must have been some alteration fince those days, for there is no cottage now by the churchyard. May-be it was pulled down years ago when a wall was built on one fide. I've often wondered how it was. But you would like to see the verses, wouldn't you? They are so beautifully written out! I can run for them in a minute," added fhe eagerly. Without waiting for a reply, however, she suddenly started, and held up her hand listening to the church-bell, which was ftill folemnly tolling.

"Hark!" fhe said in an aweftricken tone, whilft a look of difmay overspread her countenance. "Only hark how heavily the bell rings! My mother used to fay when it founded so dull that it was a fure fign of another death. I have thought of it fince, and believe it to be true, though Conway is a healthy place. There is a deal of difference," fhe continued, "in the founding of the bell. My parents had the church before me; so I know all about these things. I had the place after my mother."

Willing to turn her thoughts from anticipated deaths, we now inquire after the dead man, whofe funeral bell is fuch a melancholy prognoftic.

"He was Morris Evans, one of the fingers here. I knew him well,” she replied. "When he was ftrong and came to church, his place was near the organ, amongst the fingers. Come, I will show it you. There,” she said, "this was his feat, close by the wall, you fee, under the carved ftone with the little figures upon it. He was ill a long time, and died of a decline, like his father and mother. There is nobody left now but his fifter and an old uncle.”

At this point fome one entered to fay that the clerk was gone for the clergyman, and the funeral was moving off. We there

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