danger might perchance produce a sense of amazement which the uncharitable might set down to faint-heartedness.

But that my nephews, nieces, and neighbours generally may know the truth concerning this matter—the landing of the French at Fishguard in 1797, I, Daniel Rowlands, clerk, being aged, but still of sound mind, have written this narrative—which when duly set forth will, I hope, convince the most sceptical as to the sort of spirit which animated my countrymen (if not myself), and still more my countrywomen.

On this fair morning then, at about ten o’clock, when I ought to have been pursuing my studies under the fostering care of one of the clergy at St. David’s, I was in reality strolling along the headland of that name, led astray by the beauty of the day, which seemed too fair for book-lore; I was strolling along, doing nothing, thinking of nothing, wishing for nothing, yet, having found for the nonce the secret of true happiness, when I perceived a man on horseback approaching me at a furious rate.  In spite of the pace at which he was advancing I recognised him as a servant of Trelethin.

“Whither so fast, John?” I shouted, in our own tongue.  He was past me as I spoke.

“The French, the French!” came back to me on the breeze mingled with the sound of his horses’ rushing hoofs.  His voice or my ears failed, for I heard no more save—when the thunder of the hoofs had ceased, the duller but more continuous thunder of the waves rolling in freshly at the foot of the rocks.

John’s words had left me much astonished.  I knew—from my studies under the divine above referred to—that the French lived in France, where some of them had lately been engaged in beheading the rest with the help of a newly discovered machine.  So much I knew, but why John Trelethin should yell “French” at me as he passed, riding apparently for his life, I knew not.  What were the French to him or to me?  As I advanced pondering the matter—but in a purely impersonal manner, and without any keen interest—at a little distance further along the cliff I espied the owner of Trelethin, John’s master, standing very firm on his legs against a background of bright sea, his head inclining somewhat backward, while with both his raised-up hands he clutched a long spy glass, the small end whereof was applied to his eye.  Following the direction of his spy-glass, I perceived a yet more astounding sight—astounding to us used to the world of lonely waters that lay stretched out in front of our homes.  Three ships of war were passing slowly along our coast not far from land, they were accompanied by a smaller craft, which Mr. Williams informed me was a lugger.  As he had been a sailor I took his word for it—but it did not make things clearer.  What did it all mean?  What did those vessels—or their inhabitants want here?  They carried the English colours, I saw that for myself when Mr. Williams obligingly lent me the instrument.

“Take a look for yourself, my boy,” he said—he was a man singularly free from pride—“Take a look at the blessed Frenchmen.”  (He did not say exactly blessed, but out of respect to my cloth I subdue his expressions slightly.)

“Frenchmen!” I cried.  Then those were the French in those three vessels.  I did not count the lugger, not being sure of her.  Strange to say the first thought that flitted through my brain was one of pure joy; here was an excuse, real, tangible, and startling, for having shirked my studies.  With a little help from imagination (his and mine, which might act on each other as flint on steel, for he was an excitable man), I trusted I might so alarm my clerical guide and master as to make him quite forget the fact that I had given to St. David’s Head the time I should have given to my own.  The excuse might be made effective even should they prove to be not quite really French.

“They’ve English colours, sir,” I said to Mr. Williams.

“Foreigners are deceitful,” says he, “up to any tricks.  I can see the scoundrels swarming on the decks.”  (For by this time he again had applied the spy-glass.)  “Ah!” he continued, handing the glass to his wife who had joined us, “If it was but night now and a bit stormy, we might put out a false light or two and bring them on the rocks in no time.”

This was the moment afterwards immortalised by a local bard in these words—

“Mrs. Williams Trelethin was know every tide
From England to Greenland without guide.
Mrs. Williams Trelethin was take the spy-glass,
And then she cry out—There they Wass!”

The three tall ships sailed on calmly, with the clear shining of the sea around them, dark objects in all that flood of light.  They went northward—along our Pembrokeshire coast, where (had Providence so willed it) they might have made shipwreck on the sharp rocks anywhere.  However the day was too fair to admit of any such hope.

The alarm spread quickly; men and boys came bounding over the gorse in every direction; even the women, with the curiosity of their sex, came forth from their homesteads, leaving the cawl [51] and the children to mind themselves, while their natural caretakers gaped open-mouthed at the tall ships filled with untold dangers.

The crowd on the cliffs followed in the direction of the ships, keeping them ever in sight.  Helter-skelter we ran along, crossing deep gullies, then along bare headlands covered only with gorse and large grey stones, then passing under a great mass of rock, like to some gaunt castle or fort (but alas, lacking cannon), then, at rare intervals, where a stream ran into the sea, we would dip suddenly into a smiling little valley filled with trees and bushes.  But the stones and crags prevailed greatly over the softer scenes.  I had now entered so fully into the spirit of this race that all thought of my studies passed away; the fear of the dominee was merged in the far greater fear of the French.  And yet it was not wholly fear that possessed me, but a sort of tremor of excitement, and curiosity as to what might happen next.  Noon passed, but none stopped for food—nor even (till we came to a village) for a Welshman’s comfort in perplexity—a glass of cwrw da. [52]

At two o’clock, for no apparent reason, the Frenchmen came to anchor.  This was opposite to a rocky headland called Carn Gwastad, which forms a portion of Fishguard Bay, some distance to the west of the town of that name, and, by reason of an intervening headland, quite invisible from it, and in truth from most other places.  We had now come from St. David’s Head, a distance of full ten miles, and I, for one, was glad to sit down on a gorse-bush and meditate a little as to what all these things might mean and where they were like to end, which I hardly dared to hope might somehow take the form of a bit of dinner for myself.  To stay hunger I composed my mind for a nap while I reflected dreamily that my elders were taking more definite steps for