Almost at all hours of the day the service of steady and experienced watermen may be engaged at the Harbour. The little pinnace, with its white sail, will soon be ready to convey you on your cruise. I scarcely need remark, that in order to enjoy the trip, the atmosphere must be clear and the weather calm. The Tourists having taken their seats in their snug boat, will no sooner have given the well-known signal, “all right,” than the stout seamen will take to their oars, with long and strong pulls, and in a few minutes they will find themselves smoothly gliding on the crystal flood, across the beautiful and spacious Bay; and should the boatmen be in merry mood, they may enliven the scene by singing
MY NATIVE BAY.
My Native Bay is calm and bright,
As ere it was of yore,
When, in the days of hope and love,
I stood upon its shore;
The sky is glowing, soft, and blue,
As once in youth it smiled,
When summer seas and summer skies
Were always bright and mild.
The sky—how oft hath darkness dwelt
Since then upon its breast;
The sea—how oft have tempests broke
Its gentle dream of rest!
So oft hath darker wo come o’er
Calm self-enjoying thought;
And passion’s storms a wilder scene
Within my bosom wrought.
Now, after years of absence, passed
In wretchedness and pain,
I come and find those seas and skies
All calm and bright again.
The darkness and the storm from both
Have trackless passed away;
And gentle as in youth, once more
Thou seem’st my Native Bay.
Oh that, like thee, when toil is over
And all my griefs are past,
This ravaged bosom might subside
To peace and joy at last!
And while it lay all calm like thee,
In pure unruffled sleep,
Oh! might a Heaven as bright as this
Be mirrored in its deep.
On the left is the New Harbour, to the right the Skerries Light-house, before you St. George’s Channel. As you draw near the rocks you gain a full and varied view of the scene. In wildness and grandeur of aspect no place, assuredly, can surpass this portion of the Anglesey coast. Here nature exhibits her rude outline in the most sublime and magnificent scenery.
Let us go round,
And let the sail be slack, the course be slow,
That at our leisure, as we coast along,
We may contemplate, and from every scene
Receive its influence.
As you advance, the grand promontory, with its towering precipitous cliffs—its crags, fretted by decay and storm—its magnificent caverned rocks, and bleak indented sides, appear to the utmost advantage. The effect, as you draw nearer and nearer within the verge of these tremendous caverns, is truly appalling; at last, when you come under the black shadows of the super-ambient rocks, and approach the dismal chasms, and hear the wild plaintive cry of the sea-birds, wheeling above your heads, it is impossible not to feel sensations equally unexpected and solemn. Grand receding arches of different shapes, supported by gigantic pillars of rock, formed by the incessant action of the waves, which, in stormy weather, roll with terrific violence against this high rocky coast, and exhibit a strange magnificence—a wild and savage beauty, mingle with a dread repose which continues to haunt the imagination even after quitting the scene. The singular and fantastic shapes and positions of these rocky formations, either primitive or time-worn, pinnacled or projecting, running off in bold escapement, or shelving into sheet-like floors of granite—sometimes yawning in chasms too deep for the light of summer’s sun to reach, or rounded into Amphitheatres that might have formed the council hall of a race of giants, gleaming in the hues of grey, green, and purple, lying in ribbon streaks, or mingled in rich combination—all, all, lies immediately before you. The largest of these caverns is peculiarly worth attention; it has received the vulgar appellation of the Parliament House, from the frequent visits of water parties to see this wonderful cavern; it being only accessible by boats, and that at half ebb-tide. It is entered through a noble arch about 70 feet high, and consists of a series of receding arches, supported by massive and lofty pillars of rock, displaying an interior of picturesque and sublime grandeur. It is a magnificent instance of the effects of the sea, in producing beautiful or fantastic forms from the soluble parts of stratified rocks, more especially where calcareous substances are prevalent in their composition. Not far from this cavern the face edges to the sea slightly divided, resembling a facade of slender columns, descending from an elevation of 250 feet perpendicular to the sea. The whole promontory is chloride schist, in strata of about six feet. Seated among these rocks, or whirling in circles above and around you, are various sea-fowls which seek these solitary abodes. You cannot look upon them without an interest seldom inspired by the tamer species; whether curlews, gulls, razorbills, guillimots, cormorants, or herons, there is something wild and eccentric in their habits and appearance, which produces ideas of solitude and freedom; for we feel that they are not our slaves, but commoners of nature. Occasionally may be seen on one of the loftiest rocks a peregrine falcon, in high repute when falconry was in fashion—one of those feudal warriors who has survived his fame, no longer the companion of courts and courtly halls.
Indeed, there are few objects more interesting than the appearance of the South Stack, when approaching it by water—the Light-house towering, 212 feet above the level of the sea—the sound of life and industry—mingled with the lashing of the sea, and the cry of innumerable birds, are altogether of so unwonted a character, that if you were transported to the antipodes you would not feel more unfeigned surprise.