I Then Observed, That If I
Followed His Advice I Should Not See The North Side Of The Island
Nor
Its principal town Amlwch, and received for answer that if I
never did, the loss would not be great - that
As for Amlwch it was
a poor poverty-stricken place - the inn a shabby affair - the
master a very so-so individual, and the boots a fellow without
either wit or literature. That upon the whole he thought I might
be satisfied with what I had seen for after having visited Owen
Tudor's tomb, Caer Gybi and his hotel, I had in fact seen the cream
of Mona. I then said that I had one objection to make, which was
that I really did not know how to employ the time till seven
o'clock, for that I had seen all about the town.
"But has your honour ascended the Head?" demanded Father Boots.
"No," said I; "I have not."
"Then," said he, "I will soon find your honour ways and means to
spend the time agreeably till the starting of the train. Your
honour shall ascend the Head under the guidance of my nephew, a
nice intelligent lad, your honour, and always glad to earn a
shilling or two. By the time your honour has seen all the wonders
of the Head and returned, it will be five o'clock. Your honour can
then dine, and after dinner trifle away the minutes over your wine
or brandy-and-water till seven, when your honour can step into a
first-class for Bangor."
I was struck with the happy manner in which he had removed the
difficulty in question, and informed him that I was determined to
follow his advice. He hurried away, and presently returned with
his nephew, to whom I offered half-a-crown provided he would show
me all about Pen Caer Gyby. He accepted my offer with evident
satisfaction, and we lost no time in setting out upon our
expedition.
We had to pass over a great deal of broken ground, sometimes
ascending, sometimes descending, before we found ourselves upon the
side of what may actually be called the headland. Shaping our
course westward we came to the vicinity of a lighthouse standing on
the verge of a precipice, the foot of which was washed by the sea.
Leaving the lighthouse on our right we followed a steep winding
path which at last brought us to the top of the pen or summit,
rising, according to the judgment which I formed, about six hundred
feet from the surface of the sea. Here was a level spot some
twenty yards across, in the middle of which stood a heap of stones
or cairn. I asked the lad whether this cairn bore a name, and
received for answer that it was generally called Bar-cluder y Cawr
Glas, words which seem to signify the top heap of the Grey Giant.
"Some king, giant, or man of old renown lies buried beneath this
cairn," said I. "Whoever he may be, I trust he will excuse me for
mounting it, seeing that I do so with no disrespectful spirit." I
then mounted the cairn, exclaiming:-
"Who lies 'neath the cairn on the headland hoar,
His hand yet holding his broad claymore,
Is it Beli, the son of Benlli Gawr?"
There stood I on the cairn of the Grey Giant, looking around me.
The prospect, on every side, was noble: the blue interminable sea
to the west and north; the whole stretch of Mona to the east; and
far away to the south the mountainous region of Eryri, comprising
some of the most romantic hills in the world. In some respects
this Pen Santaidd, this holy headland, reminded me of Finisterrae,
the Gallegan promontory which I had ascended some seventeen years
before, whilst engaged in battling the Pope with the sword of the
gospel in his favourite territory. Both are bold, bluff headlands
looking to the west, both have huge rocks in their vicinity, rising
from the bosom of the brine. For a time, as I stood on the cairn,
I almost imagined myself on the Gallegan hill; much the same
scenery presented itself as there, and a sun equally fierce struck
upon my head as that which assailed it on the Gallegan hill. For a
time all my thoughts were of Spain. It was not long, however,
before I bethought me that my lot was now in a different region,
that I had done with Spain for ever, after doing for her all that
lay in the power of a lone man, who had never in this world
anything to depend upon, but God and his own slight strength. Yes,
I had done with Spain, and was now in Wales; and, after a slight
sigh, my thoughts became all intensely Welsh. I thought on the old
times when Mona was the grand seat of Druidical superstition, when
adoration was paid to Dwy Fawr, and Dwy Fach, the sole survivors of
the apocryphal Deluge; to Hu the Mighty and his plough; to Ceridwen
and her cauldron; to Andras the Horrible; to Wyn ab Nudd, Lord of
Unknown, and to Beli, Emperor of the Sun. I thought on the times
when the Beal fire blazed on this height, on the neighbouring
promontory, on the cope-stone of Eryri, and on every high hill
throughout Britain on the eve of the first of May. I thought on
the day when the bands of Suetonius crossed the Menai strait in
their broad-bottomed boats, fell upon the Druids and their
followers, who with wild looks and brandished torches lined the
shore, slew hundreds with merciless butchery upon the plains, and
pursued the remainder to the remotest fastnesses of the isle. I
figured to myself long-bearded men with white vestments toiling up
the rocks, followed by fierce warriors with glittering helms and
short broad two-edged swords; I thought I heard groans, cries of
rage, and the dull, awful sound of bodies precipitated down rocks.
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