Chapter 13

Few can recall it, for few visit that corner of the salt. It leads nowhere but to the harbour of Port Madoc. No man beaches a boat to-day under Harlech; no man to-day sets out from that shore for Ireland beyond. The halls are in ruin. There is no more harping. No flight of sails comes up eastward out of the sea like birds. Even the sailors have forgotten Gwynnedd. To-day the only sailors familiar with the solemnity of which I speak are those who ply in the small boats of the slate trade, or who, like myself, have e…