"Will you take sixpence?"
"I will, your hanner; if your hanner offers it; but I never beg; I
leave that kind of work to my wife and daughter as I said before."
After giving him the sixpence, which he received with a lazy "thank
your hanner," I got up, and followed by my daughter returned to the
town.
Henrietta went to the inn, and I again strolled about the town. As
I was standing in the middle of one of the business streets I
suddenly heard a loud and dissonant gabbling, and glancing around
beheld a number of wild-looking people, male and female. Wild
looked the men, yet wilder the women. The men were very lightly
clad, and were all barefooted and bareheaded; they carried stout
sticks in their hands. The women were barefooted too, but had for
the most part head-dresses; their garments consisted of blue cloaks
and striped gingham gowns. All the females had common tin articles
in their hands which they offered for sale with violent gestures to
the people in the streets, as they walked along, occasionally
darting into the shops, from which, however, they were almost
invariably speedily ejected by the startled proprietors, with looks
of disgust and almost horror. Two ragged, red-haired lads led a
gaunt pony, drawing a creaking cart, stored with the same kind of
articles of tin, which the women bore. Poorly clad, dusty and
soiled as they were, they all walked with a free, independent, and
almost graceful carriage.
"Are those people from Ireland?" said I to a decent-looking man,
seemingly a mechanic, who stood near me, and was also looking at
them, but with anything but admiration.
"I am sorry to say they are, sir;" said the man, who from his
accent was evidently an Irishman, "for they are a disgrace to their
country."
I did not exactly think so. I thought that in many respects they
were fine specimens of humanity.
"Every one of those wild fellows," said I to myself, "is worth a
dozen of the poor mean-spirited book-tramper I have lately been
discoursing with."
In the afternoon I again passed over into Anglesey, but this time
not by the bridge but by the ferry on the north-east of Bangor,
intending to go to Beaumaris, about two or three miles distant: an
excellent road, on the left side of which is a high bank fringed
with dwarf oaks, and on the right the Menai strait, leads to it.
Beaumaris is at present a watering-place. On one side of it, close
upon the sea, stand the ruins of an immense castle, once a Norman
stronghold, but built on the site of a palace belonging to the
ancient kings of North Wales, and a favourite residence of the
celebrated Owain Gwynedd, the father of the yet more celebrated
Madoc, the original discoverer of America.
