“We call that hill Moelfre,” said the old man desisting from his labour, and touching his hat.
“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.”
“No,” said the old man, shortly; “I am a Methodist.”
“So I should have guessed, sir, by your being so well acquainted with pennillion and histories. Ah, the Church. . . . .”
“This is dreadfully hot weather,” said I, “and I should like to offer you sixpence for ale, but as I am a Churchman I suppose you would not accept it from my hands.”
“The Lord forbid, sir,” said the old man, “that I should be so uncharitable! If your honour chooses to give me sixpence, I will receive it willingly. Thank your honour! Well, I have often said there is a great deal of good in the Church of England.”
I once more looked at the hill which overlooked the scene of Owen Gwynedd’s triumph over the united forces of the Irish Lochlanders and Normans, and then after inquiring of the old man whether I was in the right direction for Penmynnydd, and finding that I was, I set off at a great pace, singing occasionally snatches of Black Robin’s ode in praise of Anglesey, amongst others the following stanza:—