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.
Then as I looked towards the sea I thought I saw the fleet of
Gryffith Ab Cynan steering from Ireland to Aber Menai, Gryffith,
the son of a fugitive king, born in Ireland, in the Commot of
Columbcille, Gryffith the frequently baffled, the often victorious;
once a manacled prisoner sweating in the sun, in the market-place
of Chester, eventually king of North Wales; Gryffith, who "though
he loved well the trumpet's clang loved the sound of the harp
better"; who led on his warriors to twenty-four battles, and
presided over the composition of the twenty-four measures of
Cambrian song.
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