Chapter II: Part 2

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.

“The traveller,” (observes Dr. Stanley, late Bishop of Norwich) “by day, in his passage up or down the Channel, near the eastern shores, must have observed a white tower, posted like a sentinel, on the brow of a low hammock, apparently forming a projecting ledge from the seaward base of Caer Gybi, or the Mountain of Holyhead. On approaching still nearer, he will perceive that this hammock, is, in fact, an island, torn from the main mass, but connected therewith by a link, at a distance resembling the gauze-work of a gossamer, which in its fall, had accidentally caught upon the corresponding projections of the disjointed rocks. Let him look a little longer, and he will now and then detect minute objects to and fro, and come to the obvious conclusion that this aerial pathway is neither more nor less than a connecting ladder of accommodation formed by the hand of man. The speck by night, the white tower by day, with its hammock and fairy bridge, comprise what is called South Stack, and, taken together it forms a prominent feature in the bold, romantic scenery of this iron-bound coast, and combines so many objects worthy of notice, natural and artificial, that be the observer what he may, poet, philosopher, or naturalist, he will find wherewithal to excite his curiosity, and reward his labour, in visiting a _spot which has not many rivals in its kind in the wide world_.”

The Tourist by this time will be convinced that the description given in these pages is not over-coloured, not chimerical; for I am fully persuaded, that no one can visit this magnificent scenery without wishing for a vocabulary varied and rich as the Alpine aspect before him; but language supplies no expressions that could paint the effect of the whole assemblage upon his mind. A painter might here use his pencil with effect, and a poet indulge himself in his sublimities. But what are high and impending rocks—what are the giant heavings of an angry ocean—and what the proudest summit of the Andes, when placed in the scale of such interminable vastness as the creating, balancing, and peopling of innumerable globes? In contemplating systems so infinite, who can forbear exclaiming—What a mole-hill is our earth, and how insignificant are we who creep so proudly on her surface.

SOUTH STACK SEA-BIRDS.

More fleet, on nimble-wing, the gull
Sweeps booming by, intent to cull
Voracious, from the billow’s breast,
Marked far away, his destined feast;
Behold him now deep plunging dip
His sunny pinions sable tip
In the green wave; now lightly skim
With whirling flight the water’s brim,
Wave in the blue sky his silver sail
Aloft, and frolic in the gale,
Or sink again his breast to lave,
And float upon the foaming wave;
Oft o’er his form your eyes may roam,
Not know him from the feathery foam,
Nor ’mid the rolling waves, your ear
On yelling blast, his clamour hear.

Though but a small number amongst the many who direct their steps to South Stack may have turned their attention to ornithology, yet none visit this romantic spot without expressing their unqualified admiration in reference to the thousands of sea-birds which perform their rapid circumlocutions in every direction, filling the air with their shrill screaming voices. Presuming, therefore, that a few remarks on the natural history of these aquatic tribes may not be deemed uninteresting, we give the following information concerning some of them.

We would, however, first observe, that we cannot complain of want of music on the sea-shore, for wind and wave make there a constant melody; but we rarely listen, when near the sea, to the voice of a singing-bird; such birds are uttering their joy far away over the corn fields, or among the leafy boughs of the deep green woodland, or in the stillness of the meadow, or among the water sedges. But if the voices of our sea-birds are not in themselves musical, they please us by their association with the rude and wild scenes around us, and by their fitness for their haunts. Of little use to the sea-bird would be the sweet clear tones of the nightingale or the lark. Loud as they seem to us when uttered amid the stillness of the country, they would hardly be heard over the sea, and would be of small service as a language to the winged creatures whose homes are rocky precipices, ever dashed against by loud-sounding waves. To these the screaming hoarse voices of the sea-gulls are far better attuned, and these are indeed the only utterances which could avail them amidst the storm.

Nor is this powerful voice of the sea-bird the only fitness for its haunts which is presented to our minds as we look and listen. Besides that it possesses, in common with all birds, that wonderful power of vision, without which it could neither direct its flight with safety, nor gain any idea of distance or motion, it has immense strength of wing; and such species as the sea-gulls, which are destined to live on water rather than land, have small legs and feet; while such as are made like the curlew, to roam the marshes, have long legs, adapted for walking and wading in among them.

SEA GULLS.

No bird is better known, on most parts of our coast, than the common gull, which is in some places called the winter-mew. Active and restless as it may seem on the wing, it has, when in repose, little that would remind us of the frequent comparison, “blithe as a bird.” We sometimes see it in gardens near the coast, with clipped wings, wandering in solitude over the paths with dejected and melancholy air, as if pining for its native sea and its companions. When free, its manners seem almost agitated as it darts eagerly on its prey, swallowing it so impetuously that it sometimes seizes the hook and bait which the fisherman has put out to take the fish, and thus wounds itself and becomes a captive. Buffon calls the clamorous and voracious gulls the vultures of the sea; they not only feed on fish, molluscous and other living animals, but seize on dead and putrid matter of every description, either floating on the waters or spread on the shore. Gulls do not dive into the water for food, but they dip now and then to seize it. They have been found by voyagers in all latitudes, and are very numerous in northern regions, where the carcases of whales and of large fish offer them an abundant store of nourishment. Hard and tough as their flesh is, yet it may be eaten; and the eggs, which are placed in large nests made of grass and sea-weeds, are very good. The gull comes to South Stack in April or May, and leaves in September.

THE GUILLEMOT.

Much of that loud, wild screaming which resounds among the cliffs, and which sometimes rises shrill and hoarse, even above the wildest roar of the sea, is made by some of those birds which look like the diver, and which can also both swim and dive exceedingly well. The common guillemot is commonly called the foolish guillemot, or foolish Willie, or wild Willie; though why it should be deemed inferior to other sea-birds in sense is not very apparent, as it seems to surpass many of them in this respect. It may be that when on shore the bird has an awkward appearance, as the legs are placed so far back beneath the body that they walk badly, and their wings are so short and narrow that they can scarcely flutter. Let our bird, however, but get upon the face of the waters, and we shall see it swim with grace and ease, while the very position of its legs, which renders it a bad walker, is suited to facilitate its diving. It dives very low, and the wings aid its progress as it rises to the surface when some tempting fish, or marine insect, induces it to urge onwards with great rapidity. It is by means of these short wings, too, that the guillemots clear the projecting ledges of rocks and cliffs, and jump from point to point, till they reach those high, and to us inaccessible, spots where they often build. Its single egg is placed on the bare rock. The guillemot visits South Stack about the month of April, and by the month of September, both old and young, leave the rocks, and make their dwellings, both by night and by day, on that wide world of waters for which they are so admirably fitted.

Amidst the flashing and feathery foam
The common guillemot finds a home;
A home, if such a place can be
For her who lives on the wide, wide sea.

The migratory movement of birds may be regarded as one of the most wonderful impulses possessed by animals, and it supplies an apt illustration of the Prophet’s view, when he reproached the chosen nation of God for their neglect of appointed duty. “Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed time; and the turtle, and the crane, and the swallow, observe the time of their coming: but my people know not the judgment of the Lord.”—_Jer._ viii. 7.

REFLECTIONS ON THE THREE LIGHT-HOUSES.

Light-houses, beacons, warning-bells, and the like, are among the most indispensable adjuncts of maritime conveyance; without them, indeed, it would be utterly impossible to conduct it with anything like regularity or safety; and if there be one thing more than another that has given me pleasure while writing these pages, it is that of recording _three light-houses_ (viz., South Stack, Skerries, and Holyhead) connected with the thriving Port of Holyhead. If it would not be deemed too figurative and fanciful, I should denominate these light-houses—BRILLIANT EYES LOOKING OUT FOR THE RETURN OF THE WEATHER-BEATEN SONS OF THE OCEAN. What vast improvements have been made in this, as well as in other departments of nautical affairs! Humanity, as well as interest, led to the adoption of light-houses, both as beacons and guides; and it speaks well for the sympathy and benevolence of Britons that there are on and about the British coasts upwards of 200 light-houses, which are classed as “harbour lights” and “general lights.”

The first attempts were rude; common fires, first of wood, and then of coals, were originally used to furnish light. A coal fire was employed for this purpose in the Isle of Man for 180 years (as late as the year 1816). Tallow candles succeeded;—candles fastened on wooden rods were burnt in the Eddystone light-house for 40 years after it was completed by Smeaton; then came lamps with twisted cotton wicks. The glimmering lamps of by-gone days have disappeared, and are superseded by Argand lamps, with lenses and reflecting prisms. The hand of science has extinguished the faint splendours of the last century, and lighted up midnight suns, fixing them in their furbished orbits, on elegant structures, high in aerial heaven, whose reflected rays mingle together, so as to form one concentrated blaze of light, intense and beautiful, illuminating and adorning the shore and rock.

One of the most remarkable light-houses in England is the Eddystone, erected on a solitary rock, opposite the coast of Plymouth: it has withstood many a terrific tempest, and appears likely to stand firm amid the elemental wars for years to come. Not unfrequently, at the mouth of harbours, as at Harwich, two light-houses are erected, one more elevated than the other; one to guide the vessels in their approach to the coast, and the other to direct them in their entrance to the harbour.

Not far from the room where I am now writing, break the waves of St. George’s Channel. I hear the roar—it is, indeed, a stormy night—wild blows the wind,—

I think of the mariner tossed on the billow,
Afar from the home of his childhood and youth;
No mother to watch o’er his sleep-broken pillow,
No father to counsel—no sister to soothe! {33}

A tide of joy rises in my soul at the thought that, close to my own door, I can gaze upon two light-houses, one of which is, mid the foaming deep, presenting a brilliant point of light—a distinct and striking object—though some nine miles of waters are rolling between us. It is the _Skerries Light-house_. I love to look at it. Its _constancy_ and _fixedness_ interest me. No sooner are the last rays of the sun retiring from land and sea, than the watchful keeper hastens to kindle the beacon. If to the midnight hour I protract my musings, and cast a glance upon the sea, there shines the light. If long before the dawn of day I have arisen to my labours, there it still shines. The week, the month, the year rolls round, and there is no failure. What deeply interesting facts are announced by that brilliant light; it is as if an angel of mercy, with a voice of thunder, stood and announced what part it was of a dangerous coast to which the mariner was most contiguous, and in which direction he must look for shoal and breaker. He is kindly told when there is peril, and when safety. There is language in that radiance which streams far forth upon the dark, deep sea. Facts of highest moment are announced by it. The whole surrounding region of shore and sea is suggested to the sailor by that welcome light. There it stands—a beacon against danger, and a guide to the desired haven. For the erection and maintenance of light-houses, a rate is levied on all vessels passing them within certain limits, this rate varying from one farthing to one penny per ton for each light so passed.

Let the reader picture to himself the advantage of light-houses, when the storm is up—when the bright beacons send forth their refulgent beams through the blackness of tempest, on the dark winter night. Who can say how many mariners owe their lives to their friendly warnings. The vessels that are wrecked through want of light-houses are recorded; but there is no record of the greater number which, no doubt, light-houses have saved. Melancholy indeed would be the consequences were all the lighthouses to be extinguished. What would become of our ships and our sailors? How dreary a scene would be presented,—the hope of the sailor would be wrecked, and dismal despair would sit on the countenances of the navigators of the sea. The swift ship approaches—the mariner looks for the friendly beacon; but it is gone! There is no voice to announce the presence of peril, and, for want of it, the noble vessel strikes the rock, and all the horrors of shipwreck ensue. Shine on, thou brilliant beacon of the perilous path of the mariner! Thou canst not rival the bright luminary of the sky, but a noble office canst thou do for seafaring men.

I love the light that streams afar to save
The storm-tossed seaman from the ’whelming wave;
The ocean-beacon and the river-ranger,
That lures from evil, and that warns from danger.

A STROLL TO THE MOUNTAIN TELEGRAPH.

Placed on this mount, what various views delight
The ravished soul, and captivate the sight!
Lo! yonder mountains high o’er mountains rise,
Each higher than the last, the highest strike the skies.

The beauty of rural scenery has engaged the attention and been the theme of the poet and novelist under every clime and in every nation, from the arctic regions of the North to the burning tropics of the South. It arouses the slumbering energies of the mind, pours delight into the heart, and beguiles the languishing understanding by its smiling, soothing, refreshing loveliness, and wonderful effect. Where is there a man so callous who has not felt the vivifying influence of nature, when the summer’s sun in his meridian glory shoots abroad his dazzling rays over many a fair and beautiful prospect, animating everything with the warmth of his genial fire. The view is not bounded by tall houses and slooping roofs, between which we can only get a bird’s eye view of a narrow strip of sky, but we see across the fields, and meadows, and landscape, for many miles, to a distant horizon, where sky, and earth, and sea seem to meet, strongly reminding one of the following poetic dash:—

God made the country, and man made the town.

In tracing the beauties of old Cambria through its length and breadth, but few spots have given a more pleasing idea of its graces than those seen from the summit of Holyhead Mountain, which is nearly 800 feet above the level of the sea. Though it cannot boast of the wonders of the untrodden glaciers of Switzerland, the mighty Alps, the stupendous Andes, and the Himalaya of other hemispheres, still the mountain partakes sufficiently of the magnitude to impress the beholder with feelings of awe and admiration. If not on the largest scale, it can yet boast almost every variety of the noblest characteristics of mountain scenery, even to the terrible. Let the visitor make up his mind

To face the breeze and catch its sweetness.

Let him, pointing to the pomp of mountain summit, inspire his companions in travel by exclaiming

Now for our mountain sport—up yon hill.

The stroll, which is only from two to three miles, will be most delightful. On reaching the base of the mountain, I may just remind you, that

To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.

If you are a lover of nature many objects will attract your attention, and beguile your moments, as you ascend higher and higher. Do you take a pleasure in _Botany_? There are the shrub, bush, diversified flowers, and rare plants, emitting a reviving fragrance; and there is not

A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains
A folio volume. You may read, and read,
And read again, and still find something new.

Do you delight in the study of _Ornithology_? There is the lark soaring high, and pouring forth his lovely notes, and other songsters of the feathered tribes in varied music warbling their wildest notes; and it is hardly an unnatural suggestion, that a new laid egg has cleared the rejoicing throat of the cuckoo that is loudly exulting. Has _Entomology_ any attractions for you? There is the _humble-bee_ pursuing his busy course, too happy to keep his joy to himself, humming aloud while on the wing; but suspending his monotonous song, if song it may be called, the moment he alights upon a flower.—The _butterfly_ of no common kind fluttering up and down the air with his companion, banquetting on pleasure in the sunny beams, enjoying its fourth state of existence. Stand and gaze for a moment on that pretty rainbow-tinted creature; and as you look, consider the different grades of its existence,—metamorphosis to its final transformation,—the egg of the butterfly has one life, and the caterpillar which springs from it has another, and the chrysalis into which the caterpillar changes has a third, and the gay butterfly which rises from the chrysalis has a fourth;—then there is the _gossamer spider_, which has just covered the bush with its webs in every direction, and while spangling with dew, and trembling in the breeze, they glitter in the sun-light like some silver tissue woven with gems; and unnumbered species of insects, of peculiar kind, may be seen buzzing and flying, creeping and jumping, above, around, beneath;—

And each, within its little bulk, contains
A heart, which drives the torrents through its veins;
Muscles to move its limbs aright; a brain
And nerves disposed for pleasure and for pain:
Eyes to distinguish; sense whereby they know
What’s good or bad; is, or is not, its foe.

Is the tourist a _Geologist_? Here are unnumbered stones, of different sizes, shapes, and colours, which Nature appears to have thrown up in one of her wildest freaks.—Is he an _Antiquarian_? If he will follow the path chalked out in these pages, he will find materials which will furnish him with an intellectual repast, before he leaves the mountain. But more of this anon.

What are these mast-like things just a-head, peeping over the mountain’s brow? A few more steps, enquiring traveller, and they will answer for themselves. Another minute, and you will reach the breathing point. The panoramic view that suddenly opens, after gaining the eminence, baffles all description. You will feel a thrill of pleasure as you stand and gaze on the majestic ocean, ruffled by the breeze, giving back the sun-beam from ten thousand glittering waves, rolling clear and deep, carrying on her liquid bosom her rich and varied burdens. While, however, you form a Pic Nic for a few minutes, I will amuse you with the following apposite poetic effusion:—

THE TOURIST’S PIC NIC.

Now welcome May comes brightly in,
With sunny shower and azure sky;
Come, quit the city’s dust and din
Ere yet the season’s freshness fly.
This is a spot of ancient turf,
The grass is purely fresh and green;
Just within hearing of the surf:
Few lovelier spots than this, I ween,
Both land and sea in prospect fair,
Well have a merry _Pic Nic_ here.

Come woo we nature’s loveliness,
Her landscapes fair, her scenes sublime,
While young and lightsome footsteps press
Fresh odours from the mountain thyme.
’Tis good to be where old and young
In social happiness are met,
And every heart to mirth is strung,
As if life’s sunshine ne’er would set.
The younger folk shall dance and sing,
The older chat of bye-gone times;
Or poet of the party bring
The tribute of some idle rhymes.
Let every one dismiss dull care
And have a happy _Pic Nic_ here.

THE SIGNAL OR SEMAPHORIC TELEGRAPH.

This is a most ingenious invention, for the purpose of carrying on a communication with distant persons. The line of Telegraphs, or stations (eleven in number), was established by the Trustees of the Liverpool Docks; they extend along the coast as far as Liverpool, and are fixed on commanding heights, at an average distance of a little less than eight miles apart. A constant look-out is kept during the day at each of these stations. The rapidity with which a communication is made from Holyhead mountain to Liverpool, a distance of about 80 miles, is truly astonishing. A question is sometimes asked at Liverpool, and an answer received from Holyhead in less than a minute,—on some occasions in 30 seconds. The ordinary intelligence of what ships are in sight, &c., is generally conveyed in 5 minutes. The Telegraph consists of two vertical columns. Each of these columns is provided with two pairs of arms, moveable on pivots, at a sufficient distance from each other to prevent any confusion in the working. There are thus eight arms, which, when out of operation or indicating a cipher, or the ciphers required in expressing hundreds and thousands, are invisible within the mast. Each arm is capable of three points of elevation, and is worked from below by means of chains hitched on to levers of a peculiar construction. Any number, from 1 to 9, is indicated by one or both of the arms being pointed obliquely or horizontally. This arrangement of motion is applicable to each of the four pairs of arms; but otherwise, each has a different arithmetical power, indicating units, tens, hundreds, thousands; so that the four powers in combination are capable of exhibiting every number from 1 to 9,999; but in order to extend the number still further, each mast is provided with an indicator, or board, working vertically on its summit; these indicators, when not in operation, being invisible. By this means four series of numbers, from 1 to 9,999, may be obtained, the telegraphic powers being extended to 39,996 signals. Contiguous to this telegraph is one of older date, connected with the Holyhead Harbour.

THE EXTENSIVE PROSPECT FROM THE MOUNTAIN TELEGRAPH.

By the aid of the excellent telescopes of the Telegraph, all the more distant objects of attraction can be seen, and with a singular mellowness. The South Stack Light-house is brought so near, although about two miles off, as to make the individuality of persons in the lantern (previously known) easily and amusingly recognisable. Should the sky be unclouded and the weather propitious, the natural scenery that presents itself will be surpassingly grand. The view of the vast Snowdonian amphitheatre of mountains—

So shadowy, so sublime,

breaks like magic upon the eye, extending in one connected Alpine chain from the Irish Sea to the Bristol Channel, the contour of which is varied, at irregular intervals, by the numerous diversified peaks towering above the rest, till they gradually advance to the summit of Snowdon, and then uniformly declining, till they terminate in the North horn of Cardigan Bay. The Isle of Anglesey, with her distant little hills and coasts, spread like a map,

Lies smiling before you;

that time-honoured Isle—a land of chivalry, of exciting incident, of music and of song, of venerable tradition and marvellous legend—the chief seat of the ancient Druids—where the Princes of Wales had their Palace for centuries. There the Picts, the Danes, the Irish, the Saxons, and other warlike tribes,

All armed in rugged steel unfiled,

pursued their conquests with great ferocity; ravaging the Island with fire and sword, blood and slaughter, their banners were

Fanned by conquest’s crimson wing,

and the hungry ravens reddened their beaks from the war of men. From this mountainous throne may also be seen the Isle of Man; Wicklow, the garden of Ireland; the mountains in the county of Down, near the Bay of Dundrum; Bardsey Island; the Cumberland hills, and parts of the Highlands of Scotland: the vast expanding waters of the Carnarvon Bay, St. George’s Channel, and Holyhead Bay, roll before you. Below you lies the Pier on Salt Island, with the Light-house on the extremity—the New Harbour, with its whistling engines, bustling workmen, and prancing horses; contiguous to which stand the modern mansions erected for the accommodation of those whose intellectual brains, like a main-spring, keep the stupendous machinery in operation, and whose engineering mappings and dottings, and sketchings and plannings, keep this corner of the world wide awake—the Old Harbour, with its vessels and smaller craft in different stages of preparation, and packets busily preparing for immediate sail—the modest Obelisk peeping over the town—the Skerry Rocks—the sea-washed South Stack, and other objects of interest, open out on every side perspicuously to the view. The painter would be at a loss upon what particular spot to fix his eye; turn which way he will, some beauty, variable and exhaustless, is before him; it is impossible for either the artist or poet to describe, with a hope of doing anything like justice to, so picturesque and varied a landscape. The impression is that of singular wildness and solitude, stretching in a succession of prospects, fading into distant softening vista, as agreeable to the eye as the imagination. While standing on this promontory, your thoughts flow poetically, although you have neither rhythm nor music in your composition.

Having filled every cell in the lungs with exquisitely pure air, that comes direct from a “high ethereal source”—air so uncorrupted as to be met with only far, far from the haunts of men, and the hum of human cities, we must now bid farewell to this enchanting and enchaining spot, but the scene will leave an undying impression on the mind.

I love to stand upon the hill,
And gaze on the ocean wide;
See ships of commerce—not of war,
On her bright bosom glide.
But now before our eyes the mirror fades,
Yet our strain’d glance shall linger on the scene.

A RAMBLE TO THE MOUNTAIN HEAD.

O! let us away to yon heights,
Where the Roman encamp’d him of old;
With his train’d bowmen and Knights,
And his banner all burnish’d with gold.

Having reluctantly turned our backs upon the Telegraph, we now direct our steps to the mountain apex. The road is not macadamized, but a romantic walk of 30 minutes will scarcely be felt between the bracing effects of the atmosphere and the excitement; and I feel assured that the antiquities will amply repay the additional toil. From the summit there is a commanding view of the Promontory, and you may mark its varying breadth and inequalities, its storm indented figure, and its broken fantastic cliffs, abrupt declivities, and deep gorges, as by some earthquake cleft.

There is, indeed, a charm connected with this mount, before which the pageant of pomp, and the heralds of emblazonry must bow down. That charm is

The power of thought, the magic of the mind.

What thoughts crowd upon the mind while standing on this memorable mountain! What triumphs and defeats have been experienced here. Hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, have alternately swelled the breasts of thousands mid these rocks, while watching every movement of an adverse fleet, or the approach of distant armies. The transactions of bye-gone centuries pass in review before our eyes—

Pen Caer Gybi stands renown’d,
Proud in song, and known in story;
Where proud Rome in triumph frown’d
O’er the Welsh, who died in glory.

These were the mighty fastnesses to which the ancient Britons had recourse when overpowered by numbers and military tactics in the plain. There is no wonder that these “sons of the mountain heroes” so long successfully withstood the inroads of Roman legions, when such craggy and adamantine rocks, were the “external circumstances” in their “formation of character;” and nothing less than the refined expedient of powder and ball could dislodge them from these rocky fastnesses and natural barricades; bows and arrows, swords and spears, were only adapted for milder game, or closer quarters. On this mountain our hardy ancestors stood and nobly fought, when liberty made her last stand in this kingdom against the strides of Roman power; their determination was

To leave the battle only on their biers,

“to conquer or to die,” and thousands fell

Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
Here we tread
On sacred ground, and press the mingled dust of heroes;
Far, far beneath they sleep, nor does a stone
Or marble column rear its head to show
The spot where now they moulder.

ANTIQUITIES.

There are several remains of military forts in this neighbourhood, whose appearance indicates them to be of Roman origin. While reviewing them our thoughts are instinctively carried back to those days when the stranger tenanted the land—

When o’er this rugged mountain
Rome’s earliest legions past.

Upon the summit of the mountain called _Pen Caer Gybi_ (the Head of Cybi’s Fort) is a remarkable Roman antiquity, viz.: _Caer Twr_, (Fort Tower). This circular building was formerly strongly cemented with the same kind of mortar as the Fort (church walls) of the Town, and supposed to have been a _Roman Pharos_, or Watch Tower. It had stood and braved the crushing thunder, vivid lightning, and warring winds and storms, for perhaps sixteen hundred centuries. But the rude hand of man has marred it, hoping by so doing to meet with an Australian digging.

Upon this mount a tower stands
Well known in days of yore;
When chieftains with their hostile bands,
Shed floods of human gore.

’Tis now in ruins—but a spell
Of grandeur haunts the scene;
While none remain the deeds to tell,
The deeds of blood there seen.

Upon the side of the mountain runs a long dry wall, several feet high in many places. The peculiar form of the wall exhibits the Roman architect; and there is no doubt the Romans had here one of their posts, or walled encampments.

There is a power
And magic in the ruined battlement
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield, and wait, till ages are its dower.

On the opposite or West side of the mountain, and about ten minutes’ walk from the Telegraph, on the right hand of the footpath leading to South Stack, and in a situation awfully romantic, may be seen traces of a religious house called _Capel Lochwyd_. Here also the hand of man has effected a greater demolition than the elemental war of many centuries; the altar and walls have been removed with the hope of finding treasure. It is worth while to visit this spot were it but to admire the taste which these hermits of old had in fixing their residence; and the piety, it may be, which led them to seek a solitary abode so favourable to devotion. From this spot has ascended the voice of prayer, and the hymn of praise. I doubt not but the surrounding rocks have witnessed such acts of self-denial, fervent devotion, and entire consecration to God as would put many of us, who are making a flaming profession, to the blush. I should imagine that few could view these remarkable remains of ancient piety without feeling, in some degree, the sentiment so admirably expressed by the Poet—

I do love these ancient ruins;
We never tread upon them but we set
Our foot upon some reverend history.

Close to this sacred spot is one of the most extraordinary clefts in the solid rock ever seen by man. It would well repay the walk of miles to see it. It was here the Welsh lads and lasses of the last century descended and ascended, when they tested their fortunes in reference to the profound hymeneal question named in page 17. My friend who accompanied me to view these ancient ruins, descended the ravine, but I preferred remaining in meditative mood. The information, however, which he gave, on returning, of the scenery of the “lower regions,” created in my bosom a desire, which I purpose, at some future period, should life be spared, to gratify. It is a delightful walk from here to South Stack, which may be accomplished in about half-an-hour. Many Roman coins of the time of late emperors were found a few years ago in this mountain; also several coins of Constantine the Great, in a very perfect state, one of which was presented to the Marquis of Anglesey by Captain H. Evans. In 1835, in removing some old walls at _Ty Mawr_ (Large House) the property of Lord Stanley of Alderley, were found several spear-heads, axes, and rings, of bronze, with red amber blades, which, from the form and nature of the materials, appear to be of Phœnician origin.

It is a pity that ruins of such thrilling interest should have been so shamefully demolished. As the number of visitors to Holyhead will increase annually, it is hoped that efforts will be made to restore some of them, for they will always be objects of attraction.

By this time, I presume, you feel disposed for the “good things” of this life, and cast a longing look towards your quarters. Of one thing I am fully persuaded, that you will feel your health better, your spirits brighter, your appetite keener, your mind expanded, your thoughts assuming a loftier and yet more refined bearing, from your having visited Nature in a few of her sublimer abodes.

REFLECTIONS.

While descending the rugged mount, the scenes you have just left behind may lead to a train of thought somewhat similar to the following. What a great change has taken place in this Island since the Roman Eagle fluttered in the breeze, and the conquering legions rent the heavens with shouts of victory. When the historic lamp disclosed this land, it presented a race of rude barbarians,

Wild as the untaught Indian brood.

Superstition then triumphed over the minds of the masses. In yon valley was the sequestered grove devoted to obscure and horrid mysteries—altars were reared, on which the innocent, as well as the guilty, were doomed to bleed—the Druid priests performed the horrid murders, and pretended that they could, by such means, foretel future events, blasphemously asserting that the attitude in which the victim fell, the writhing agonies of expiring life, the manner in which the blood flowed, or the convulsions of the wounds opened, or closed, were indications of futurity—they conducted gloomy processions, with victims, bound with cords, for slaughter and sacrifice, filling the air with shrieks of agony and screams of horror—gross idolatry, savage manners, bloody rites, funeral pile, echoing whoop—all, all were there!

Wrapped in deep sleep, the ancient Britons lay,
Hugged their vile chains, and dream’d their age away.

Such was Wales, and such was Britain too, before the light of the Christian Religion shone on her coasts. That heaven-born system, with its train of imperishable blessings, took its stand amid these wild regions, and like yon sun in the heavens, diffused her light, extended her influence, and multiplied her bloodless conquests. She has organized, humanized, civilized, moralized, and, in many instances, evangelized the inhabitants. Christianity has expelled idolatry, restored natural affection, and has conferred, and is conferring, numerous, most substantial, and positive blessings. And while she has, on the one hand, discouraged and eradicated those vices which were the harbingers of a nation’s ruin, she has, on the other, implanted those principles on which the welfare of nations depend. It is true she has prepared weapons, but they are not carnal; enlisted soldiers, but their fight is without “confused noise of warriors, and garments rolled in blood;” she has erected a standard, but it is the Cross; unfurled a banner, but its emblem is the dove—the bond of brotherhood; and when sovereigns, senators, and legislators, are properly influenced by the pacific principles of the Gospel, war will be known no more; the sun will no more rise upon an embattled plain, nor set upon a field of blood.

Then the labourer will
Drive his yoked oxen, and with careless steps
Lean o’er the share, and carol as he guides
The obliterating furrow o’er their graves.

Contrasting the present with the past, we feel that other times now bless our land, and that while peace and joy bound over the mountain tops, we can with peculiar feelings give utterance to the language of the poet:—

Where once the Roman marshall’d his bold host,
Bristling with swords and spears the rocky heights,
The shepherd leads his flock, and the young lambs
In sporting gambols tread the flowery turf.

NEW HARBOUR.

Here numerous ships security may gain
From raging tempests and the blustering main.

For want of a more extensive area of shelter, and deeper water, great destruction of shipping has occurred on the rocks outside the Holyhead Old Harbour by vessels endeavouring to reach the Pier; hence the necessity of an outer harbour, sufficiently spacious to admit a man-of-war at all times. This necessity had for many years been deeply impressed upon the minds of gentlemen of talent and experience. The many fearful wrecks in the bay tended to produce a conviction that no money, within a reasonable limit, should be spared for effecting a spacious and complete harbour. It is an admitted fact that the aspect of entrance to the present harbour, together with its inefficiency in size, have been the sole cause of most of the shipwrecks in the bay. The following melancholy record will serve to shew that it was high time some effort should be made to save life and property.

Dec. 18th, 1790.—On the north point of Salt Island the _Charlemont_ packet, on her passage from Parkgate to Dublin, was lost, when 110 souls perished, owing to the want of a sufficient draught in the Old Harbour.

Feb. 5th, 1824.—The _John_, from Cork to Liverpool, was driven on the rocks at Penrhos, in this bay—13 lives lost. She came under the lee of the Light-house in the entrance of the harbour, but, owing to its aspect, could not come into it, consequently was blown off.

Nov. 24th, 1826.—The _Marquis of Wellington_, from Liverpool to Buenos Ayres, drove on shore out of the Old Harbour upon Brynglas Rocks—16 lost. This vessel was from 2 o’clock, p.m., until 5 30, p.m., at the entrance of the Harbour. The captain had actually written to Liverpool that evening, and sent the letter on shore with the boatman, informing his owner and friends of his safe arrival at Holyhead; before 12 o’clock all had perished!

Jan. 14th, 1827.—The _Panthia_, N. Y. packet, bound for Liverpool, was driven into the bay by the violence of the gale, and in attempting to make the harbour, went on shore about 300 yards to the eastward of the South-pier-head. Ship broken up.

April 28th, 1829.—The _Harlequin_, from Palermo to Liverpool, drifted on the rocks at Turkey Shore, at the entrance of the harbour, and became a total wreck.

April 28th, 1829.—The _Fame_, from Barbadoes to Liverpool, drifted on the rocks at Turkey Shore, at the entrance of the harbour, south side.

April 28, 1829, the “Fitia,” from Rotterdam to Liverpool, drifted from the pier to Pen Manarch, Penrhos Point, and was much damaged. The captain’s wife was drowned. This vessel approached so near to the north pier that a pound weight could have been thrown on her deck; notwithstanding owing to the aspect of the harbour, shipwreck was the consequence. To this affecting catalogue a long and fearful list might be added, shewing that a vast amount of life and property has been lost—lost for ever. But sufficient has been recorded to prove that the New Harbour, which is now stretching out her welcome wings across the beautiful Bay of Holyhead, was a _desideratum_.

Holyhead is formed by Nature to become a great trading community. The bay presents a fine spacious opening, one half sheltered by eternal rocks, and on each side of its entrance, are brilliant lights to guide the mariner. It is, moreover, centrally situated in St. George’s Channel, in the tract of all its trade; and presents the only station from the Land’s End to the Clyde, on the east side of the channel, (except Milford,) to which vessels can approach when the tide has considerably ebbed. No wonder then, that the various commissioners appointed by Government, consisting of some of the most eminent naval and civil engineers, should select it as the best place on the coast for an asylum harbour, and a packet station.

Several plans were proposed for the New Harbour by different eminent engineers. The first plan proposed was by the late noble spirited and indefatigably enterprising, Captain H. Evans, Holyhead Harbour Master; but it enclosed too small an area, and too wide an entrance. J. Walker, Esq., C.E., to the Admiralty, proposed a plan which was to enclose an area of 90 acres, and 3,300 feet of breakwater, and 2,500 feet of pier, at an expense of £400,000. Captain Beechy, R.N., proposed to enclose 176 acres, with 4,500 feet of breakwater, and 3,500 feet of pier, at an expense of £500,000; and J. M. Rendall, Esq., C.E., of Westminster, (the constructor of the Docks at Birkenhead, Great Grimsby, and Leith,) proposed a splendid design, on a very large scale, and adopted by the Government. It consists of a breakwater of 5,100 feet from Soldier’s Point eastward, to terminate at the Platter’s Buoy; and a pier of 2,100 feet from _Ynys Halen_, (Salt Island,) with its head resting on the outward Platter, enclosing an area of 316 acres,—three quarters of a mile long, and in seven fathoms of water,—making one of the most splendid refuge harbours and packet stations in the universe; the estimate cost of which is £700,000.

The Contractors for this gigantic project are Messrs J. and C. Rigby, London. G. C. Dobson, Esq., C.E., is the Resident Engineer; G. F. Lyster, Esq., C.E., Assistant Engineer; Mr. J. Radford, General Manager; and Mr. R. Cousins, Engineer for the Contractors. The works were commenced in January, 1848; and they have been going on since then as rapidly as it was possible to proceed. Twelve months were occupied in laying down rails to the quarries, erecting stages, and making other necessary preparations for the works; since which, an average of 1,300 men have been employed on the works. The broad gauge has been used for the railway, by which means the contractors, are enabled to bring larger pieces of stone than the narrow gauge could accommodate. There are two quarries used, one called Moelfry Quarry, from which limestone is produced, and the other is, in fact, the Holyhead Mountain, from the sides of which the materials for the works are taken. A railway is formed from the extensive quarry on the side of the mountain to the Soldier’s Point, and Salt Island. Wooden staging is run out into the sea; strong long balks or piles are fixed in a vertical position in the water, resting on the base; these are secured with beams placed longitudinally so as to form a base for the construction of the railway. The top of the staging is considerably above high-water mark. The depth of the sea at low water, on the line of the breakwater, varies from 20 to 40 feet; the tide rising, on an average, to a further height of 17 feet in spring, and 7 feet in neaps. Along the top of the staging are railways capable of sustaining the weight of a locomotive engine and a number of waggons loaded. In the erection of these stages the utmost care has been evinced by the contractors and engineers to prevent accident; in order to obtain this object, no expense has been spared; the machinery and staging being of the best and strongest description. The work may be described as consisting of two breakwaters, one to the north, (Soldier’s Point,) and the other to east, (Salt Island.) The quarries are contiguous to the works, and here a great number of the workmen are employed; they are, perhaps, the most extensive in the country, and it is not an hypothesis to say that in no quarries extant is work of such magnitude and rapidity carried on. Holyhead Mountain, which affords the source of supply, consists of schistus quartz of so hard a nature that the tools of the workmen will scarcely touch it, and its edges will cut glass. The quarrying begun with the foot of the mountain slope, and it has progressed into the mountain until an elevation of 130 feet perpendicular has been attained. The scene at the quarries exhibits one of the most active pictures of industry, from the width of the workings, and the number of labourers employed.

The huge mountain, towering from 700 to 800 feet above the level of the sea, expanding its full breast, and showing its fine broad forehead, and which, comparatively speaking, had slumbered for centuries, is at length disturbed from its long repose, by “physical force.” A visit to this scene of industry, which literally swarms with men and horses, is no small treat. Tramways are laid in every direction, along which waggons roll to the point where they are required. Locomotive engines of unique design and requirements are continually at work, pouring their dense smoke into the air, passing along with amazing velocity to the terminus of the stage,—

Quick moves the balanced beam, of giant birth,
Wields his large limbs, and nodding shakes the earth.

The clang of the hammer of the blacksmith—the whirl of the wheel of the grinding mill—the jerking of the punching machine, perforating thick sheet iron, as easily as a lady would put her needle through pasteboard—the buz in the engineers’ compartment—the pendulum-like tick, tick, tick, of the strikers pursuing their monotonous vocations—the enormous cranes, with their pullies, hooks, and ponderous weights attached, demonstrating the laws of gravitation—the miners, deep buried in the bowels of the mountain, the sound of whose strokes, forcibly reminds one of the fairies of by-gone days—the signal-flags floating in the breeze, and announcing in telegraphic language, “to all whom it may concern,” that it is high time to take care of “number one”—the blasting, which is on a most magnificent scale, report after report, making one almost feel as if we were in the vicinity of an embattled plain, and last, though not least, the strong, sleek, well-fed horses, prancing in their furbished harness—all, all are before you and around you. Nor are the workmen less striking and peculiar—the ease with which the most unwieldy hammers are heaved by them attest their prodigious strength and profound skill—some may be seen, high in the quarry, suspended by ropes, reminding one of the bye-gone practice of egg-taking from the high cliffs of the promontory, pushing down the rocks, loosened by the terrible blasting, shouting to each other as if they gloried in their elevated position—the engine drivers guiding their iron horses along the stages, while the sea roars 60 feet beneath them, meeting each other on the up and down lines, with all the pleasantry of stage-coach men of olden time; fear is not in their vocabulary; though the yawning gulf is beneath them, they sing, and smile, and whistle, as they sweep along the trembling stage, as if seated in their respective cottages, with their playful wives beside them, and their merry children round them.