Bride's Bay, they were all sailing under
British colours.

There are men in Wales, as in the rest of
the world, whom it is impossible to satisfy;
and there were spectators on the heights of
Saint Bride's who were not satisfied with the
British colours, on this occasion, because they
felt doubtful about the ships that bore them.
To the eyes of these sceptics all four vessels
had an unpleasantly French look, and
manœuvred in an unpleasantly French manner.
Wise Welshmen along the coast
collected together by twos and threes, and sat
down on the heights, and looked out to sea,
and shook their heads, and suspected. But
the majority, as usual, saw nothing extra-
ordinary where nothing extraordinary appeared
to be intended; and the country was
not yet alarmed; and the four ships sailed
on till they doubled Saint David's Head;
and sailed on again, a few miles to the northward;
and then stopped, and came to single
anchor in Cardigan Bay.

Here, again, another difficult question
occurs, which recalcitrant History once more
declines to solve. The Frenchmen had hardly
been observed to cast their single anchors in
Cardigan Bay, before they were also
observed to pull them up again, and go on.
Why? The commander of the expedition
had doubted already at Ilfracombe—was he
doubting again in Cardigan Bay? Or did
he merely want time to mature his plans;
and was it a peculiarity of his nature that he
always required to come to anchor before he
could think at his ease? To this mystery, as
to the mystery at Ilfracombe, there is no
solution; and here, as there, nothing is
certainly known but that the Frenchman paused
—threatened—and then sailed on.

III. OF ONE WELSHMAN IN PARTICULAR, AND
OF WHAT HE SAW.

HE was the only man in Great Britain who
saw the invading army land on our native
shores—and his name has perished.

It is known that he was a Welshman, and
that he belonged to the lower order of the
population. He may be still alive—this man,
who is connected with a crisis in English
History, may be still alive—and nobody has
found him out; nobody has taken his
photograph; nobody has written a genial
biographical notice of him; nobody has made
him into an Entertainment; nobody has held
a Commemoration of him; nobody has
presented him with a testimonial, relieved him
by a subscription, or addressed him with a
speech. In these enlightened times this brief
record can only single him out and individually
distinguish, him—as the Hero of the
Invasion. Such is Fame.

The Hero of the Invasion, then, was standing,
or sitting—for even on this important
point tradition is silent—on the cliffs of the
Welsh coast, near Lanonda Church, when he
saw the four ships enter the bay below him,
and come to anchor—this time, without showing
any symptoms of getting under weigh.
The English colours, under which the
Expedition had thus far attempted to deceive the
population of the coast, were now hauled
down, and the threatening flag of France was
boldly hoisted in their stead. This done, the
boats were lowered away, were filled with a
fierce soldiery, and were pointed straight for
the beach.

It is on record that the Hero of the Invasion
distinctly saw this; and it is not on
record that he ran away. Honour to the
unknown brave! Honour to the solitary
Welshman who faced the French army!

The boats came on straight to the beach—
the fierce soldiery leapt out on English soil,
and swarmed up the cliff, thirsting for the
subjugation of' the British Isles. Still, it is
not on record that the Hero of the Invasion
ran away. He looked—the valiant man—
perhaps he peeped; perhaps he lay prone on
his stomach, and watched round the corner
of a rock. But, however he managed it, he
saw the Frenchmen crawling up below him
—tossing their muskets on before them—
climbing with the cool calculation of an army
of chimney-sweeps—nimble as the monkey,
supple as the tiger, stealthy as the cat—
hungry for plunder, bloodshed, and Welsh
mutton—void of all respect for the British
Constitution—an army of Invaders on the
Land of the Habeas Corpus!

He saw that—and vanished. Whether he
waited with clenched fist till the head of the
foremost Frenchman rose parallel with the
cliff-side—or whether he achieved a long
start, by letting the army get half way up
the cliff, and then retreating inland to give
the alarm, is, like every other circumstance
in connection with the Hero of the Invasion,
a matter of the profoundest doubt. It is
only known that he got away at all, because
it is not known that he was taken prisoner.
He parts with us here, the shadow of a shade,
the most impalpable of historical apparitions.
Honour, nevertheless, to the crafty brave!
Honour to the solitary Welshman who faced
the French army without being shot, and
retired from the French army without being
caught!

IV. 0F WHAT THE INVADERS DID WHEN THEY
GOT ON SHORE.

THE Art of Invasion has its routine, its
laws, manners, and customs, like other Arts.
And the French army acted strictly in
accordance with established precedents. The
first thing the first men did, when they got
to the top of the cliff, was to strike a light
and set fire to the furze-bushes. While
national feeling deplores this destruction of
property, unprejudiced History looks on at
her ease. Given Invasion as a cause, fire
follows, according to all proper rules, as an
effect. If an army of Englishmen had been
invading France under similar circumstances,