CHAPTER XL
Caer Gybi—Lewis Morris—Noble Character.
I dined, or rather supped, well at the Railroad Inn—I beg its pardon, Hotel, for the word Inn at the present day is decidedly vulgar. I likewise slept well; how could I do otherwise, passing the night, as I did, in an excellent bed in a large, cool, quiet room? I arose rather late, went down to the coffee-room and took my breakfast leisurely, after which I paid my bill and strolled forth to observe the wonders of the place.
Caer Gybi, or Cybi’s town, is situated on the southern side of a bay on the north-western side of Anglesey. Close to it, on the south-west, is a very high headland, called in Welsh Pen Caer Gybi, or the head of Cybi’s city, and in English Holyhead. On the north, across the bay, is another mountain of equal altitude, which, if I am not mistaken, bears in Welsh the name of Mynydd Llanfair, or Saint Mary’s Mount. It is called Cybi’s town from one Cybi, who, about the year 500, built a college here, to which youths, noble and ignoble, resorted from far and near. He was a native of Dyfed, or Pembrokeshire, and was a friend, and for a long time a fellow-labourer, of Saint David. Besides being learned, according to the standard of the time, he was a great walker, and from bronzing his countenance by frequent walking in the sun, was generally called Cybi Velin, which means tawny, or yellow Cybi.
So much for Cybi, and his town! And now something about one whose memory haunted me much more than that of Cybi during my stay at Holyhead.
Lewis Morris was born at a place called Tref y Beirdd, in Anglesey, in the year 1700. Anglesey, or Mona, has given birth to many illustrious men, but few, upon the whole, entitled to more honourable mention than himself. From a humble situation in life, for he served an apprenticeship to a cooper at Holyhead, he raised himself by his industry and talents to affluence and distinction, became a landed proprietor in the county of Cardigan, and inspector of the royal domains and mines in Wales. Perhaps a man more generally accomplished never existed; he was a first-rate mechanic, an expert navigator, a great musician, both in theory and practice, and a poet of singular excellence. Of him it was said, and with truth, that he could build a ship and sail it, frame a harp and make it speak, write an ode and set it to music. Yet that saying, eulogistic as it is, is far from expressing all the vast powers and acquirements of Lewis Morris. Though self-taught, he was confessedly the best Welsh scholar of his age, and was well-versed in those cognate dialects of the Welsh—the Cornish, Armoric, Highland Gaelic and Irish. He was likewise well acquainted with Hebrew, Greek and Latin, had studied Anglo-Saxon with some success, and was a writer of bold and vigorous English. He was besides a good general antiquary, and for knowledge of ancient Welsh customs, traditions and superstitions had no equal. Yet all has not been said which can be uttered in his praise: he had qualities of mind which entitled him to higher esteem than any accomplishment connected with intellect or skill. Amongst these were his noble generosity and sacrifice of self for the benefit of others. Weeks and months he was in the habit of devoting to the superintendence of the affairs of the widow and the fatherless: one of his principal delights was to assist merit, to bring it before the world, and to procure for it its proper estimation: it was he who first discovered the tuneful genius of blind Parry; it was he who first put the harp into his hand; it was he who first gave him scientific instruction; it was he who cheered him with encouragement, and assisted him with gold. It was he who instructed the celebrated Evan Evans in the ancient language of Wales, enabling that talented but eccentric individual to read the pages of the red book of Hergest as easily as those of the Welsh Bible; it was he who corrected his verses with matchless skill, refining and polishing them till they became well worthy of being read by posterity; it was he who gave him advice, which, had it been followed, would have made the Prydydd Hir, as he called himself, one of the most illustrious Welshmen of the last century; and it was he who first told his countrymen that there was a youth of Anglesey whose genius, if properly encouraged, promised fair to rival that of Milton: one of the most eloquent letters ever written is one by him, in which he descants upon the beauties of certain poems of Gronwy Owen, the latent genius of whose early boyhood he had observed, whom he had clothed, educated, and assisted up to the period when he was ordained a minister of the Church, and whom he finally rescued from a state bordering on starvation in London, procuring for him an honourable appointment in the New World. Immortality to Lewis Morris! But immortality he has won, even as his illustrious pupil has said, who in his elegy upon his benefactor, written in America, in the four-and-twenty measures, at a time when Gronwy had not heard the Welsh language spoken for more than twenty years, has words to the following effect:—
“As long as Bardic lore shall last, science and learning be cherished, the language and blood of the Britons undefiled, song be heard on Parnassus, heaven and earth be in existence, foam be on the surge, and water in the river, the name of Lewis of Mon shall be held in grateful remembrance.”
CHAPTER XLI
The Pier—Irish Reapers—Wild Irish Face—Father Toban—The Herd of Swine—Latin Blessing.
The day was as hot as the preceding one. I walked slowly towards the west, and presently found myself upon a pier, or breakwater, at the mouth of the harbour. A large steamer lay at a little distance within the pier. There were fishing boats on both sides, the greater number on the outer side, which lies towards the hill of Holyhead. On the shady side of the breakwater, under the wall, were two or three dozen of Irish reapers; some were lying asleep, others in parties of two or three were seated with their backs against the wall, and were talking Irish; these last all appeared to be well-made, middle-sized young fellows, with rather a ruffianly look; they stared at me as I passed. The whole party had shillealahs either in their hands or by their sides. I went to the extremity of the pier, where was a little light-house, and then turned back. As I again drew near the Irish, I heard a hubbub, and observed a great commotion amongst them. All, whether those whom I had seen sitting, or those whom I had seen reclining, had got, or were getting, on their legs. As I passed them they were all standing up, and their eyes were fixed upon me with a strange kind of expression, partly of wonder, methought, partly of respect. “Yes, ’tis he, sure enough,” I heard one whisper. On I went, and at about thirty yards from the last I stopped, turned round, and leaned against the wall. All the Irish were looking at me—presently they formed into knots, and began to discourse very eagerly in Irish, though in an under tone. At length I observed a fellow going from one knot to the other, exchanging a few words with each. After he had held communication with all, he nodded his head, and came towards me with a quick step; the rest stood silent and motionless, with their eyes turned in the direction in which I was, and in which he was advancing. He stopped within a yard of me, and took off his hat. He was an athletic fellow of about twenty-eight, dressed in brown frieze. His features were swarthy, and his eyes black; in every lineament of his countenance was a jumble of savagery and roguishness. I never saw a more genuine wild Irish face—there he stood, looking at me full in the face, his hat in one hand, and his shillealah in the other.
“Well, what do you want?” said I, after we had stared at each other about half a minute.
“Sure, I’m just come on the part of the boys and myself to beg a bit of a favour of your reverence.”
“Reverence,” said I, “what do you mean by styling me reverence?”
“Och sure, because to be styled your reverence is the right of your reverence.”
“Pray, what do you take me for?”
“Och sure, we knows your reverence very well.”
“Well, who am I?”
“Och, why Father Toban, to be sure.”
“And who knows me to be Father Toban?”
“Och, a boy here knows your reverence to be Father Toban.”
“Where is that boy?”
“Here he stands, your reverence.”
“Are you that boy?”
“I am, your reverence.”
“And you told the rest that I was Father Toban?”
“I did, your reverence.”
“And you know me to be Father Toban?”
“I do, your reverence.”
“How do you know me to be Father Toban?”
“Och, why because many’s the good time that I have heard your reverence, Father Toban, say mass.”
“And what is it you want me to do?”
“Why, see here, your reverence, we are going to embark in the dirty steamer yonder for ould Ireland, which starts as soon as the tide serves, and we want your reverence to bless us before we goes.”
“You want me to bless you?”
“We do, your reverence; we want you to spit out a little bit of a blessing upon us before we goes on board.”
“And what good would my blessing do you?”
“All kinds of good, your reverence; it would prevent the dirty steamer from catching fire, your reverence, or from going down, your reverence, or from running against the blackguard Hill of Howth in the mist, provided there should be one.”
“And suppose I were to tell you that I am not Father Toban?”
“Och, your reverence will never think of doing that.”
“Would you believe me if I did?”
“We would not, your reverence.”
“If I were to swear that I am not Father Toban?”
“We would not, your reverence.”
“On the evangiles?”
“We would not, your reverence.”
“On the Cross?”
“We would not, your reverence.”
“And suppose I were to refuse to give you a blessing?”
“Och, your reverence will never refuse to bless the poor boys.”
“But suppose I were to refuse?”
“Why, in such a case, which by the bye is altogether impossible, we should just make bould to give your reverence a good bating.”
“You would break my head?”
“We would, your reverence.”
“Kill me?”
“We would, your reverence.”
“You would really put me to death?”
“We would not, your reverence.”
“And what’s the difference between killing and putting to death?”
“Och, sure there’s all the difference in the world. Killing manes only a good big bating, such as every Irishman is used to, and which your reverence would get over long before matins, whereas putting your reverence to death would prevent your reverence from saying mass for ever and a day.”
“And you are determined on having a blessing?”
“We are, your reverence.”
“By hook or by crook?”
“By hook or by crook, your reverence.”
“Before I bless you, will you answer me a question or two?”
“Are you not a set of great big blackguards?”
“We are, your reverence.”
“Without one good quality?”
“We are, your reverence.”
“Would it not be quite right to saddle and bridle you all, and ride you violently down Holyhead or the Giant’s Causeway into the waters, causing you to perish there, like the herd of swine of old?”
“It would, your reverence.”
“And knowing and confessing all this, you have the cheek to come and ask me for a blessing?”
“We have, your reverence.”
“Well, how shall I give the blessing?”
“Och, sure your reverence knows very well how to give it.”
“Shall I give it in Irish?”
“Och, no, your reverence—a blessing in Irish is no blessing at all.”
“In English?”
“Och, murder, no, your reverence, God preserve us all from an English blessing.”
“In Latin?”
“Yes, sure, your reverence; in what else should you bless us but in holy Latin?”
“Well, then, prepare yourselves.”
“We will, your reverence—stay one moment whilst I whisper to the boys that your reverence is about to bestow your blessing upon us.”
Then turning to the rest, who all this time had kept their eyes fixed intently upon us, he bellowed with the voice of a bull:
“Down on your marrow bones, ye sinners, for his reverence Toban is about to bless us all in holy Latin.”
He then flung himself on his knees on the pier, and all his countrymen, baring their heads, followed his example—yes, there knelt thirty bare-headed Eirionaich on the pier of Caer Gybi, beneath the broiling sun. I gave them the best Latin blessing I could remember out of two or three which I had got by memory out of an old Popish book of devotion, which I bought in my boyhood at a stall. Then turning to the deputy, I said, “Well, now are you satisfied?”
“Sure, I have a right to be satisfied, your reverence; and so have we all—sure, we can now all go on board the dirty steamer, without fear of fire or water, or the blackguard Hill of Howth either.”
“Then get up, and tell the rest to get up, and please to know, and let the rest know, that I do not choose to receive farther trouble, either by word or look, from any of ye, as long as I remain here.”
“Your reverence shall be obeyed in all things,” said the fellow, getting up. Then walking away to his companions, he cried, “Get up, boys, and plase to know that his reverence Toban is not to be farther troubled by being looked at or spoken to by any one of us, as long as he remains upon this dirty pier.”
“Divil a bit farther trouble shall he have from us!” exclaimed many a voice, as the rest of the party arose from their knees.
In half-a-minute they disposed themselves in much the same manner as that in which they were when I first saw them: some flung themselves again to sleep under the wall, some seated themselves with their backs against it, and laughed and chatted, but without taking any notice of me; those who sat and chatted took, or appeared to take, as little notice as those who lay and slept, of his reverence Father Toban.