The pet goat, sir, was wandering upon the shelving rocks which now hang over us, and there were many others above. Do you see that, sir, with one of its horns nearly straight, just upon the edge of that projecting mass? Just beneath that she was browsing, when, all of a sudden, a large piece fell from the brow of the mountain, and, lighting upon the body of my favourite, she was dashed into the centre of the road, just where we are now standing; and, when I ran to her the look of her bright grey eyes went to my heart—poor thing! I never saw anything more affectionate in a christian; for her looks spoke more than any words I ever heard in the way of gratitude; and she licked my hand, poor dumb beast! and sighed, and died without a groan, poor thing! poor thing! (and he wept in the bitterness of his feeling.)
You may wonder, sir, that I should cry so, when I tell you about the death of a goat; but it is the consequences attendant upon it that wring the tears from my eyes. When poor pet died, my wife was obliged to nurse her young twins, for no woman could be found in the neighbourhood to assist her, and I couldn’t afford to buy another goat, and I couldn’t bear to ask for milk which I wasn’t able to pay for, for all somehow went wrong with me after the loss of our favourite. Mary grew weaker and weaker every day, and I couldn’t go to my work, and leave her, without any one to watch over her. My spirit was broken, and I cared for nothing in the world, but attending the sick bed of Mary and the children. To be sure, I managed to get enough for the support of life; but the twins couldn’t eat the food I brought them. The mother had not milk enough to support them; and I saw her, day by day, sinking under the affliction I had no power to soften. At length, my two pretty babes died, one after the other, and Mary’s heart broke to see the stroke of Providence. She died too, sir, and with her all that made life dear to me, except my poor little boy. I shall never, never recover! and I know that the sod will shortly be laid upon my head, by the side of the grave where rest the bones of my dear Mary.
The numerous accidents that have happened on this mountain render it an object of awful interest. Mr. Pennant, in his tour, relates the following circumstances: