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Updated: May 17, 2025
He and my father could never understand one another, because my father said "quarry," and the Welshman said "querry"; and the burthen of all he said was continually asking if we would not like to be "driven to Caernarvon." Friday morning, seven o'clock, dressed, and ready to go on with my scribbling.
Under date of November 3, 1858, Lord Caernarvon, Secretary of State for the Colonies, by the direction of Sir E.B. Lytton, returned a dispatch, the tenor of which is a key not only to Sir Edward's line of policy, but, in all probability, to that of his successor, the Duke of Newcastle.
The total sum expended by Government in its erection, including the embankment and about half a mile of new line of road on the Caernarvon side, together with the toll-houses, was 120,000L.
Would that it had been his funeral, must have been the wish of the unfortunate Sir Edward of Caernarvon, as he was thenceforth termed; disowned, degraded, with wife, son, and brothers turned against him; not one voice uplifted in his favor; all his friends murdered.
"This is Dover Castle," said Daisy, touching a red-headed pin; "and this is Caernarvon, and Conway; and these black ones are towns. There is London and Liverpool and York and Oxford don't you see?" "I see, but it would take a witch to remember. What are you doing?" "Studying English history, sir; and as fast as we come to a great town or castle we mark it.
A weak and frivolous man, cruelly sinned against, Edward of Caernarvon was laid in his untimely grave in the forty-third year of his age. Thus ended the Barons' Wars, no patriotic resistance of an opposition who used sword and lance instead of the tongue and the pen, but the factious jealousy of men who became ferocious in their hatred of favoritism.
We went to Pwllheli, a mean old town, at the extremity of the country. Here we bought something, to remember the place. We returned to Caernarvon, where we ate with Mrs. Wynne. We visited, with Mrs. Wynne, Llyn Badarn and Llyn Beris, two lakes, joined by a narrow strait. They are formed by the waters which fall from Snowdon and the opposite mountains.
Their fate has been well sung by Lord Houghton: It was the misfortune of Edward of Caernarvon that he could not attach himself in moderation.
And further, when Borrow was writing "Wild Wales," or when he met the sickly young man at the "Castle Inn" of Caernarvon, he thought of himself as always having had "the health of an elephant."
This tour was of no importance in itself; but as from Scotland I had brought the resolution that made me seriously study French, so from Caernarvon I brought a resolution to master the art of swimming. Being in the water one morning, I suddenly found that I could swim after a fashion, and this led to more serious efforts.
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