"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.
