"I am not a man of Llydaw," said I in English, "but Norfolk, where the people eat the best dumplings in the world, and speak the purest English. Now a thousand thanks for your civility. I would have some more chat with you, but night is coming on, and I am bound to Holyhead."Then leaving the men staring after me, I bent my steps towards Holyhead.
I passed by a place called Llan something, standing lonely on its hill. The country round looked sad and desolate. It is true night had come on when I saw it.
On I hurried. The voices of children sounded sweetly at a distance across the wild champaign on my left.
It grew darker and darker. On I hurried along the road; at last Icame to lone, lordly groves. On my right was an open gate and a lodge. I went up to the lodge. The door was open, and in a little room I beheld a nice-looking old lady sitting by a table, on which stood a lighted candle, with her eyes fixed on a large book.
"Excuse me," said I; "but who owns this property?"The old lady looked up from her book, which appeared to be a Bible, without the slightest surprise, though I certainly came upon her unawares, and answered:
"Mr John Wynn."
I shortly passed through a large village, or rather town, the name of which I did not learn. I then went on for a mile or two, and saw a red light at some distance. The road led nearly up to it, and then diverged towards the north. Leaving the road I made towards the light by a lane, and soon came to a railroad station.
"You won't have long to wait, sir," said a man, "the train to Holyhead will be here presently.""How far is it to Holyhead?" said I.
"Two miles, sir, and the fare is only sixpence.""I despise railroads," said I, "and those who travel by them," and without waiting for an answer returned to the road. Presently Iheard the train - it stopped for a minute at the station, and then continuing its course passed me on my left hand, voiding fierce sparks, and ****** a terrible noise - the road was a melancholy one; my footsteps sounded hollow upon it. I seemed to be its only traveller - a wall extended for a long, long way on my left. At length I came to a turnpike. I felt desolate and wished to speak to somebody. I tapped at the window, at which there was a light; a woman opened it. "How far to Holyhead?" said I in English.
"Dim Saesneg," said the woman.
I repeated my question in Welsh.
"Two miles," said she.
"Still two miles to Holyhead by the road," thought I. "Nos da,"said I to the woman and sped along. At length I saw water on my right, seemingly a kind of bay, and presently a melancholy ship. Idoubled my pace, which was before tolerably quick, and soon saw a noble-looking edifice on my left, brilliantly lighted up. "What a capital inn that would make," said I, looking at it wistfully, as Ipassed it. Presently I found myself in the midst of a poor, dull, ill-lighted town.
"Where is the inn?" said I to a man.
"The inn, sir; you have passed it. The inn is yonder," he continued, pointing towards the noble-looking edifice.
"What, is that the inn?" said I.
"Yes, sir, the railroad hotel - and a first-rate hotel it is.""And are there no other inns?"
"Yes, but they are all poor places. No gent puts up at them - all the gents by the railroad put up at the railroad hotel."What was I to do? after turning up my nose at the railroad, was Ito put up at its hotel? Surely to do so would be hardly acting with consistency. "Ought I not rather to go to some public-house, frequented by captains of fishing smacks, and be put in a bed a foot too short for me," said I, as I reflected on my last night's couch at Mr Pritchard's. "No, that won't do - I shall go to the hotel, I have money in my pocket, and a person with money in his pocket has surely a right to be inconsistent if he pleases."So I turned back and entered the railroad hotel with lofty port and with sounding step, for I had twelve sovereigns in my pocket, besides a half one, and some loose silver, and feared not to encounter the gaze of any waiter or landlord in the land. "Send boots!" I roared to the waiter, as I flung myself down in an arm-chair in a magnificent coffee-room. "What the deuce are you staring at? send boots can't you, and ask what I can have for dinner.""Yes, sir," said the waiter, and with a low bow departed.
"These boots are rather dusty," said the boots, a grey-haired, venerable-looking man, after he had taken off my thick, solid, square-toed boots. "I suppose you came walking from the railroad?""Confound the railroad!" said I. "I came walking from Bangor. Iwould have you know that I have money in my pocket, and can afford to walk. I am fond of the beauties of nature; now it is impossible to see much of the beauties of nature unless you walk. I am likewise fond of poetry, and take especial delight in inspecting the birth-places and haunts of poets. It is because I am fond of poetry, poets and their haunts, that I am come to Anglesey.
Anglesey does not abound in the beauties of nature, but there never was such a place for poets; you meet a poet, or the birth-place of a poet, everywhere.""Did your honour ever hear of Gronwy Owen?" said the old man.
"I have," I replied, "and yesterday I visited his birth-place; so you have heard of Gronwy Owen?""Heard of him, your honour; yes, and read his works. That 'Cowydd y Farn' of his is a wonderful poem.""You say right," said I; "the 'Cowydd of Judgment' contains some of the finest things ever written - that description of the toppling down of the top crag of Snowdon, at the day of Judgment, beats anything in Homer.""Then there was Lewis Morris, your honour," said the old man, "who gave Gronwy his education and wrote 'The Lasses of Meirion' - and -"
"And 'The Cowydd to the Snail,'" said I, interrupting him - "a wonderful man he was.""I am rejoiced to see your honour in our house," said boots; "Inever saw an English gentleman before who knew so much about Welsh poetry, nor a Welsh one either. Ah, if your honour is fond of poets and their places you did right to come to Anglesey - and your honour was right in saying that you can't stir a step without meeting one; you have an example of the truth of that in me - for to tell your honour the truth, I am a poet myself, and no bad one either."Then tucking the dusty boots under his arm, the old man with a low congee, and a "Good-night, your honour!" shuffled out of the room.