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."

"Are you a Churchman?" said I.

"No," said the old man, shortly; "I am a Methodist."

"I belong to the Church," said I.

"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:--

"Bread of the wholesomest is found
In my mother-land of Anglesey;
Friendly bounteous men abound
In Penmynnydd of Anglesey."

I reached Penmynnydd, a small village consisting of a few white houses
and a mill. The meaning of Penmynnydd is literally the top of a hill.
The