"Hark to the
dogs!" exclaimed my companion. "This pass is called Nant yr ieuanc
gwn, the pass of the young dogs, because when one shouts it answers
with a noise resembling the crying of hounds."
The sun was setting when we came to a small village at the bottom
of the pass. I asked my companion its name. "Ty yn y maes," he
replied, adding as he stopped before a small cottage that he was
going no farther, as he dwelt there.
"Is there a public-house here?" said I.
"There is," he replied, "you will find one a little farther up on
the right hand."
"Come, and take some ale," said I.
"No," said he.
"Why not?" I demanded.
"I am a teetotaler," he replied.
"Indeed," said I, and having shaken him by the hand, thanked him
for his company and bidding him farewell, went on. He was the
first person I had ever met of the fraternity to which he belonged,
who did not endeavour to make a parade of his abstinence and self-
denial.
After drinking some tolerably good ale in the public house I again
started. As I left the village a clock struck eight. The evening
was delightfully cool; but it soon became nearly dark. I passed
under high rocks, by houses and by groves, in which nightingales
were singing, to listen to whose entrancing melody I more than once
stopped. On coming to a town, lighted up and thronged with people,
I asked one of a group of young fellows its name.
"Bethesda," he replied.
"A scriptural name," said I.
"Is it?" said he; "well, if its name is scriptural the manners of
its people are by no means so."
A little way beyond the town a man came out of a cottage and walked
beside me. He had a basket in his hand. I quickened my pace; but
he was a tremendous walker, and kept up with me. On we went side
by side for more than a mile without speaking a word. At length,
putting out my legs in genuine Barclay fashion, I got before him
about ten yards, then turning round laughed and spoke to him in
English. He too laughed and spoke, but in Welsh. We now went on
like brothers, conversing, but always walking at great speed. I
learned from him that he was a market-gardener living at Bangor,
and that Bangor was three miles off. On the stars shining out we
began to talk about them.
Pointing to Charles's Wain I said, "A good star for travellers."
Whereupon pointing to the North star, he said:
"I forwyr da iawn - a good star for mariners."
We passed a large house on our left.
"Who lives there?" said I.
"Mr Smith," he replied. "It is called Plas Newydd; milltir genom
etto - we have yet another mile."
In ten minutes we were at Bangor. I asked him where the Albion
Hotel was.
"I will show it you," said he, and so he did.
As we came under it I heard the voice of my wife, for she, standing
on a balcony and distinguishing me by the lamplight, called out. I
shook hands with the kind six-mile-an-hour market-gardener, and
going into the inn found my wife and daughter, who rejoiced to see
me. We presently had tea.
CHAPTER XXVII
Bangor - Edmund Price - The Bridges - Bookselling - Future Pope -
Wild Irish - Southey.
BANGOR is seated on the spurs of certain high hills near the Menai,
a strait separating Mona or Anglesey from Caernarvonshire. It was
once a place of Druidical worship, of which fact, even without the
testimony of history and tradition, the name which signifies "upper
circle" would be sufficient evidence. On the decay of Druidism a
town sprang up on the site and in the neighbourhood of the "upper
circle," in which in the sixth century a convent or university was
founded by Deiniol, who eventually became Bishop of Bangor. This
Deiniol was the son of Deiniol Vawr, a zealous Christian prince who
founded the convent of Bangor Is Coed, or Bangor beneath the wood
in Flintshire, which was destroyed, and its inmates almost to a man
put to the sword by Ethelbert, a Saxon king, and his barbarian
followers at the instigation of the monk Austin, who hated the
brethren because they refused to acknowledge the authority of the
Pope, whose delegate he was in Britain. There were in all three
Bangors; the one at Is Coed, another in Powis, and this
Caernarvonshire Bangor, which was generally termed Bangor Vawr or
Bangor the great. The two first Bangors have fallen into utter
decay, but Bangor Vawr is still a bishop's see, boasts of a small
but venerable cathedral, and contains a population of above eight
thousand souls.
Two very remarkable men have at different periods conferred a kind
of lustre upon Bangor by residing in it, Taliesin in the old, and
Edmund Price in comparatively modern time. Both of them were
poets. Taliesin flourished about the end of the fifth century, and
for the sublimity of his verses was for many centuries called by
his countrymen the Bardic King. Amongst his pieces is one
generally termed "The Prophecy of Taliesin," which announced long
before it happened the entire subjugation of Britain by the Saxons,
and which is perhaps one of the most stirring pieces of poetry ever
produced. Edmund Price flourished during the time of Elizabeth.
He was archdeacon of Merionethshire, but occasionally resided at
Bangor for the benefit of his health. Besides being one of the
best Welsh poets of his age he was a man of extraordinary learning,
possessing a thorough knowledge of no less than eight languages.
The greater part of his compositions, however clever and elegant,
are, it must be confessed, such as do little credit to the pen of
an ecclesiastic, being bitter poignant satires, which were the
cause of much pain and misery to individuals; one of his works,
however, is not only of a kind quite consistent with his sacred
calling, but has been a source of considerable blessing.
