His five hundred a year by going
about lecturing on foreign places, but as I am no flatterer I will
tell you that you have a fault which will always prevent your
rising in this world, you have modesty; those who have modesty
shall have no advancement, whilst those who can blow their own horn
lustily, shall be made governors. But allow me to ask you in what
capacity you went abroad?"
"As engineer to various steamships," said Pritchard.
"A director of the power of steam," said I, "and an explorer of the
wonders of Iscander's city willing to hold the candle to Mr Bos. I
will tell you what, you are too good for this world, let us hope
you will have your reward in the next."
I breakfasted and asked for my bill; the bill amounted to little or
nothing - half-a-crown I think for tea-dinner, sundry jugs of ale,
bed and breakfast. I defrayed it, and then inquired whether it
would be possible for me to see the inside of the church.
"Oh yes," said Pritchard. "I can let you in, for I am churchwarden
and have the key."
The church was a little edifice of some antiquity, with a little
wing and without a spire; it was situated amidst a grove of trees.
As we stood with our hats off in the sacred edifice, I asked
Pritchard if there were many Methodists in those parts.
"Not so many as there were," said Pritchard, "they are rapidly
decreasing, and indeed dissenters in general. The cause of their
decrease is that a good clergyman has lately come here, who visits
the sick and preaches Christ, and in fact does his duty. If all
our clergymen were like him there would not be many dissenters in
Ynis Fon."
Outside the church, in the wall, I observed a tablet with the
following inscription in English.
Here lieth interred the body of Ann, wife of Robert Paston, who
deceased the sixth day of October, Anno Domini.
1671.
P.
R. A.
"You seem struck with that writing?" said Pritchard, observing that
I stood motionless, staring at the tablet.
"The name of Paston," said I, "struck me; it is the name of a
village in my own native district, from which an old family, now
almost extinct, derived its name. How came a Paston into Ynys Fon?
Are there any people bearing that name at present in these parts?"
"Not that I am aware," said Pritchard,
"I wonder who his wife Ann was?" said I, "from the style of that
tablet she must have been a considerable person."
"Perhaps she was the daughter of the Lewis family of Llan Dyfnant,"
said Pritchard; "that's an old family and a rich one. Perhaps he
came from a distance and saw and married a daughter of the Lewis of
Dyfnant - more than one stranger has done so. Lord Vivian came
from a distance and saw and married a daughter of the rich Lewis of
Dyfnant."
I shook honest Pritchard by the hand, thanked him for his kindness
and wished him farewell, whereupon he gave mine a hearty squeeze,
thanking me for my custom.
"Which is my way," said I, "to Pen Caer Gybi?"
"You must go about a mile on the Bangor road, and then turning to
the right pass through Penmynnydd, but what takes you to Holyhead?"
"I wish to see," said I, "the place where Cybi the tawny saint
preached and worshipped. He was called tawny because from his
frequent walks in the blaze of the sun his face had become much
sun-burnt. This is a furiously hot day, and perhaps by the time I
get to Holyhead, I may be so sun-burnt as to be able to pass for
Cybi himself."
CHAPTER XXXVI
Moelfre - Owain Gwynedd - Church of Penmynnydd - The Rose of Mona.
LEAVING Pentraeth Coch I retraced my way along the Bangor road till
I came to the turning on the right. Here I diverged from the
aforesaid road, and proceeded along one which led nearly due west;
after travelling about a mile I stopped, on the top of a little
hill; cornfields were on either side, and in one an aged man was
reaping close to the road; I looked south, west, north and east; to
the south was the Snowdon range far away, with the Wyddfa just
discernible; to the west and north was nothing very remarkable, but
to the east or rather north-east, was mountain Lidiart and the tall
hill confronting it across the bay.
"Can you tell me," said I to the old reaper, "the name of that bald
hill, which looks towards Lidiart?"
"We call that hill Moelfre," said the old man desisting from his
labour, and touching his hat.
"Dear me," said I; "Moelfre, Moelfre!"
"Is there anything wonderful in the name, sir?" said the old man
smiling.
"There is nothing wonderful in the name," said I, "which merely
means the bald hill, but it brings wonderful recollections to my
mind. I little thought when I was looking from the road near
Pentraeth Coch yesterday on that hill, and the bay and strand below
it, and admiring the tranquillity which reigned over all, that I
was gazing upon the scene of one of the most tremendous conflicts
recorded in history or poetry."
"Dear me," said the old reaper; "and whom may it have been between?
the French and English, I suppose."
"No," said I; "it was fought between one of your Welsh kings, the
great Owain Gwynedd, and certain northern and Irish enemies of
his."
"Only think," said the old man, "and it was a fierce battle, sir?"
"It was, indeed," said I; "according to the words of a poet, who
described it, the Menai could not ebb on account of the torrent of
blood which flowed into it, slaughter was heaped upon slaughter,
shout followed shout, and around Moelfre a thousand war flags
waved."
"Well, sir," said the old man, "I never before heard anything about
it, indeed I don't trouble my head with histories, unless they be
Bible histories."
"Are you a Churchman?" said I.
