Chapter XX: The English and Their Institutions 355 (7)

Perhaps we are the more satisfied to pass the old house with a cursory glance because, if I must confess it, I was never able to arouse in myself any great enthusiasm over the poet Wordsworth or to read his writings except in a desultory way. He never had for me the human interest of Byron, Burns, Tennyson or many other great lights of English literature I might name. We were quite willing to assume the role of intruder at Somersby; we made more than one unsuccessful effort before we saw Newstead, and three pilgrimages to Alloway have not quenched our desire to see it again--but we are conscious of little anxiety to enter the doors of the big square house at Cockermouth. Perhaps we are not alone in such feeling, for pilgrims to the town are few and a well-known English author who has written a delightful volume on the Lake District admits that he paid his first visit to Cockermouth "without once remembering that it was Wordsworth's birthplace!" His objective was the castle, a fine mediaeval pile which overlooks the vale of the Derwent. It is in fair preservation, having been inhabited until quite recently. Like so many Northland fortresses, it has its legend of Mary Stuart, who came here after landing at Workington, a seaport a few miles distant. She had been led by the emissaries of Elizabeth to believe that an appeal to her "sister's" mercy would assure her a safe refuge in England, but she never drew a free breath in all the years she was to live after this act of sadly misplaced confidence.

"No one," says the writer just referred to, "would wish to go beyond Cockermouth," and though we prove one exception to this rule, it is a fairly safe one for the average tourist, since rougher, steeper and less interesting roads are scarce in England. A fairly good highway runs to Whitehaven, a manufacturing port on the Irish Sea where, according to an English historian, "John Paul Jones, the notorious buccaneer, served his apprenticeship, and he successfully raided the place in 1778, burning three vessels." Not many Americans have visited Whitehaven since, for it is in no sense a tourist town. We pursue its main street southward until it degenerates into a tortuous, hilly lane leading through the bleak Cumberland hills. It roughly follows the coast, though there are only occasional glimpses of the sea which to-day, half shrouded in a silvery haze, shimmers in the subdued sunlight. The road, with its sharp turns and steep grades, is as trying as any we have traversed in England; at times it runs between tall hedges on earthen ridges--an almost tunnellike effect, reminding us of Devon and Cornwall, to which the rough country is not dissimilar. Fortunately, we meet no vehicles--we see only one motor after leaving Whitehaven--but in the vicinity of the villages we keep a close look-out for the Sunday pedestrians who throng the road. Our siren keeps up a pretty steady scream and the natives stare in a manner indicating that a motor is an infrequent spectacle. We pass through several lone, cheerless-looking towns, devoid of any touch of color and wholly lacking the artistic coziness of the Midland villages. Egremont, Bootle, Ravenglass and Broughton are of this type and seemingly as ancient as the hills they nestle among.

The ruin of a Norman castle towers above Egremont; shattered, bare and grim, it stands boldly against the evening sky. Yet it is not without its romance, a theme which inspired Wordsworth's "Horn of Egremont Castle." For tradition has it that in days of old there hung above the gate a bugle which would respond to the lips of none but the rightful lord. While the owner and his younger brother were on a crusade in the Holy Land, the latter plotted the death of the Lord of the Castle, bribing a band of villains to drown him in the Jordan. The rascals claim to have done their work and Eustace, with some misgivings, hastens home and assumes the vacant title, though he discreetly avoids any attempt to wind the famous horn. Some time afterwards, while engaged in riotously celebrating his accession, a blast of the dreaded horn tells him that his brother Hubert is not dead, and has come to claim his own. The usurper flees by the "postern gate," but years afterward he returns to be forgiven by Sir Hubert and to expiate his crime by entering a monastery. Wordsworth tells the story in a halting, mediocre way that shows how little his genius was adapted to such a theme. What a pity that the story of Egremont was not told by the Wizard with the dash of "Lochinvar" or the "Wild Huntsman."

There is a fine abbey ruin in the vale of the Calder about a mile from the main road. Calder Abbey was founded in the twelfth century and was second only to Furness in importance in Northwestern England. The beautiful pointed arches supporting the central tower are almost intact and the cloisters and walls of the south transept still stand. Over them all the ivy runs riot, and above them sway the branches of the giant beeches that crowd about the ruin. It is a delightfully secluded nook and in the quiet of a summer evening one could hardly imagine a spot more in harmony with the spirit of monastic peace and retirement. Such is the atmosphere of romance that one does not care to ask the cold facts of the career of Calder Abbey, and, indeed, there is none to answer even if we should ask its story.

You would never imagine that Ravenglass, with its single street bordered by unpretentious slate-roofed, whitewashed houses and its harbor, little more than a shifting sand-bar, has a history running back to the Roman occupation, and that it once ranked in importance with Chester and Carlisle. Archaeologists tell us that in Roman times acres of buildings clustered on the then ample harbor, where a good-sized fleet of galleys constantly rode at anchor. Here came the ships of the civilized world to the greatest port of the North Country, bringing olives, anchovies, wines and other luxuries that the Romans had introduced into Britain, and in returning they carried away numbers of the hapless natives to be sold as slaves or impressed into the armies. The harbor has evidently filled with silt to a great extent since that day, scarcely any spot being covered by water at low tide except the channel of the Esk. Many relics have been discovered at Ravenglass, and the older houses of the town are built largely from the ruins of the Roman city. Most remarkable of all are the remains of a villa in an excellent state of preservation, which a good authority pronounces practically the only Roman building in the Kingdom standing above ground save the fragments that have been revealed by excavation.

Ravenglass has another unique distinction in the great breeding ground of gulls and terns which almost adjoins the place. Here in early summer myriads of these birds repair to hatch their young, and the spectacle is said to be well worth seeing--and, in fact, does attract many visitors. The breeding season, however, was past at the time of our visit. An English writer, Canon Rawnsley of Carlisle, gives a graphic account of a trip to the queer colony of sea-birds during their nesting time:

"Suddenly the silence of the waste was broken by a marvellous sound, and a huge cloud of palpitating wings, that changed from black to white and hovered and trembled against the gray sea or the blue inland hills, swept by overhead. The black-headed gulls had heard of our approach and mightily disapproved of our tresspass upon their sand-blown solitude.

"We sat down and the clamour died; the gulls had settled. Creeping warily to the crest of a great billow of sand, we peeped beyond. Below us lay a natural amphitheatre of grey-green grass that looked as if it were starred with white flowers innumerable. We showed our heads and the flowers all took wing, and the air was filled again with sound and intricate maze of innumerable wings.

"We approached, and walking with care found the ground cup-marked with little baskets or basket-bottoms roughly woven of tussock grass or sea-bent. Each casket contained from two to three magnificent jewels. These were the eggs we had come so far to see. There they lay--deep brown blotched with purple, light bronze marked with brown, pale green dashed with umber, white shading into blue. All colours and all sizes; some as small as a pigeon's, others as large as a bantam's. Three seemed to be the general complement. In one nest I found four. The nests were so close to one another that I counted twenty-six within a radius of ten yards; and what struck one most was the way in which, instead of seeking shelter, the birds had evidently planned to nest on every bit of rising ground from which swift outlook over the gull-nursery could be obtained.

"Who shall describe the uproar and anger with which one was greeted as one stood in the midst of the nests? The black-headed gull swept at one with open beak, and one found oneself involuntarily shading one's face and protecting one's eyes as the savage little sooty-brown heads swooped round one's head. But we were not the only foes they had had to battle with. The carrion crow had evidently been an intruder and a thief; and many an egg which was beginning to be hard set on, had been prey to the black robber's beak. One was being robbed as I stood there in the midst of the hubbub.

"Back to the boat we went with a feeling that we owed large apologies to the whole sea-gull race for giving this colony such alarm, and causing such apparent disquietude of heart, and large thanks to the Lord of Muncaster for his ceaseless care of the wild sea-people whom each year he entertains upon his golden dunes."

It is growing late as we leave Ravenglass and we wonder where we shall pass the night. There is no road across the rough country to our right and clearly we must follow the coast for many miles until we round the southern point of the hills. Then the wide sand marshes of the Duddon will force us to turn northward several miles until we come to a crossing which will enable us to continue our southward course. Here again a memory of Wordsworth is awakened, for did he not celebrate this valley in his series of "Sonnets to the Duddon?" There is no stopping-place at Bootle or Millom or Broughton, unless it be road-houses of doubtful character and we hasten over the rough narrow roads as swiftly as steep grades and numerous pedestrians will permit. The road for some miles on either side of Broughton is little more than a stony lane which pitches up and down some frightful hills. It is truly strenuous motoring and our run has already been longer than is our wont. The thought of a comfortable inn appeals strongly indeed--we study the map a moment to find to our certain knowledge that nothing of such description is nearer than Furness Abbey, still a good many miles to the south. But the recollection of the splendid ruin is, for the time being, quite overshadowed by our memory of the excellent hotel, which I must confess exerts much the greater attraction. The country beyond Broughton has little of interest, but the road gradually improves until it becomes a broad, well-surfaced highway which enables us to make up for lost time. Shortly after sunset we enter the well-kept park surrounding the abbey and hotel. We have come many miles "out of our way," to be sure, for we are already decided on a northward turn for a last glimpse of Lakeland tomorrow--but, after all, we are not seeking shortest routes. Indeed, from our point of view, we can scarcely go "out of the way" in rural Britain; some of our rarest discoveries have been made unexpectedly when deviating from main-traveled routes.

On the following day we pursue familiar roads. Passing through Dalton and Ulverston, we ascend the vale of the Leven to Newby Bridge at the southern extremity of Windermere. We cannot resist the temptation to take the Lakeside road to Windermere town, though it carries us several miles farther north. It is surely one of the loveliest of English roads, and we now traverse it the third time--once in the sunlight of a perfect afternoon, once it was gray and showery, and to-day the shadows of the great hills darken the mirrorlike surface, for it is yet early morning. The water is of almost inky blackness, but on the far side it sparkles in the sunlight and the snowy sails of several small craft lend a pleasing relief to its somber hues. The road winds among the trees that skirt the shore and in places we glide beneath the overarching boughs. At times the lake glimmers through the closely standing trunks, and again we come into the open where our vision has full sweep over the gleaming expanse of dark water. We follow the Lakeside road for six miles until we reach the outskirts of the village of Bowness; here a turn to the right leads up a sharp hill and we are soon on the moorland road to Kendal. It shows on our map as a "second-class" road and, indeed, this description was deserved two years before. It is a pleasant surprise to find it smoothly re-surfaced--an excellent highway now, though in its windings across the fells it carries us over some steep grades. On either hand lies a barren and hilly country, which does not improve until we enter the green valley in which the town is situated. It is a charming place, depending now for its prosperity on the stretch of fertile country which surrounds it. Once it had numerous factories, but changing conditions have eradicated most of them excepting the woolen mills, which still operate on a considerable scale. The ancient castle--now a scanty ruin--looms high over the town: "a stern castle, mouldering on the brow of a green hill," as Wordsworth, who lived many years in the vicinity, describes it. It might furnish material for many a romance; here was born Catherine Parr, the queen who was fortunate enough to survive that royal Bluebeard, Henry VIII. It escaped the usual epitaph, "Destroyed by Cromwell," since it had long been in ruin at the time of the Commonwealth. But Cromwell, or his followers, must have been in evidence in Kendal, for in the church is the helmet of Major Robert Philipson--Robin the Devil--who gained fame by riding his horse into this selfsame church during services in search of a Cromwellian officer upon whom he sought to do summary vengeance. The exploits of this bellicose major furnish a groundwork for Scott's "Rokeby." The church is justly the pride of Kendal, being one of the largest in England and of quite unique architecture. It has no fewer than five aisles running parallel with each other and the great breadth of the building, together with its low square tower, gives it a squat appearance, though this is redeemed to some extent by its unique design. A good part of the building is more than seven hundred years old, though considerable additions were made in the fifteenth century. In the tower is a chime of bells celebrated throughout the North Country for their melody, which is greatly enhanced by the echoes from the surrounding hills.

Kendal serves as the southernmost gateway of the Lake District, the railway passing through the town to Windermere, and there is also a regular coaching service to the same place. When we resume our journey over the highway to the south we are well out of the confines of English Lakeland and I may as well close this chapter on the lesser known corners of this famous region.

XV

WE DISCOVER DENBIGH

Night finds us in Chester, now so familiar as to become almost commonplace, and we stop at the Grosvenor, for we know it too well to take chances elsewhere. There has been little of consequence on the highway we followed from Kendal, which we left in the early forenoon, if we except the fine old city of Lancaster, where we stopped for lunch. And even Lancaster is so dominated by modern manufactories that it is hard to realize that its history runs back to Roman times. It has but few landmarks left; the castle, with the exception of the keep tower, is modern and used as a county jail--or gaol, as the English have it. St. Mary's Church, a magnificent fifteenth-century structure, crowns the summit of the hill overlooking the city and from which a wide scope of country on one hand and the Irish Sea and Isle of Man on the other may be seen on clear days.

Preston, Wigan and Warrington are manufacturing towns stretching along the road at intervals of fifteen or twenty miles and ranging in population around one hundred thousand each. Their outskirts merge into villages and for many miles it was almost as if we traveled through a continuous city. The houses crowd closely on the street, which was often thronged with children, making slow and careful driving imperative. The pavements in the larger towns are excellent and the streets of the villages free from filth--a marked contrast to what we saw on the Continent. Shortly after leaving Warrington we crossed the Manchester Ship Canal, by which ocean-going vessels are able to reach that city. From thence to Chester our run was through a pretty rural section, over an excellent road.

Chester is crowded even more than usual. An historical pageant is to take place during the week and many sightseers are already on the ground. Only our previous acquaintance enables us to secure rooms at the Grosvenor, since would-be guests are hourly being turned away. Under such conditions we do not care to linger and after a saunter along the "rows" in the morning we are ready for the road. We have not decided on our route--perhaps we may as well return to London and prepare for the trip to Land's End which we have in mind. A glance at the map shows Conway within easy distance. Few places have exerted so great a fascination for us as the little Welsh town--yes, we will sojourn a day or two in Conway and we may as well go by a route new to us. We will take the road through Mold and Denbigh, though it never occurs to us that either of them deserves more than a passing glance.

The first glimpse of Denbigh arouses our curiosity. A vast ivy-mantled ruin surmounts a steep hill rising abruptly from the vale of the Clwyd, while the gray monotone of the slate roofs and stone walls of the old town covers the slopes. The noble bulk and tall spire of the church occupies the foreground and, indeed, as Dr. Samuel Johnson wrote in 1774, "Denbigh is not a mean town," if one may judge by its aspect from a little distance. The first view awakens a lively desire for closer acquaintance and soon we are ascending the long steep street that leads to the castle--for the castle is naturally the first objective of the newcomer in Denbigh. The hill rises five hundred feet above the level of the plain and the ascent, despite its many windings, is steep enough to change the merry hum of our motor to a low determined growl ere we pause before the grim old gateway in the fragment of the keep tower.

We are fortunate in finding an intelligent custodian in charge, who hastens to inform us that he himself is an American citizen, having been naturalized during a sojourn in the States. We have reason to be proud of our fellow-countryman, for we have found few of his brethren who could rival him in thorough knowledge of their charges or who were able to tell their stories more entertainingly.

There is little left of Denbigh Castle save the remnant of the keep and the outlines of the foundation walls, but these are quite enough to indicate its old-time defensive strength. Of all the scores of British castles we have seen, scarcely another, it seems to us, could have equalled the grim strength of Denbigh in its palmy days. The keep consisted of seven great towers, six of them surrounding a central one, known as the Hall of Judgment. And, indeed, dreadful judgments must have emanated from this gloomy apartment--gloomy in its best days, being almost windowless--for beneath the keep the dungeon is still intact to tell plainer than words the fate of the captives of Denbigh Castle. "Man's inhumanity to man" was near its climax in the mind of the designer who planned this tomblike vault, hewn in the solid rock, shut in by a single iron-bound trap-door and without communication with the outer air save a small passageway some two inches square and several feet in length which opened in the outside wall. Only by standing closely at the tiny aperture was it possible for the inmates to breathe freely, and when there were more than one in the dungeon the unfortunate prisoners took turns at the breathing-hole, as it was styled.

The castle was originally of vast extent, its outer wall, which once enclosed the village as well, exceeding one and one-half miles in length; and there was a network of underground passageways and apartments. The complete ruin of the structure is due to havoc wrought with gunpowder after the Restoration. Huge fragments of masonry still lie as they fell; others, crumbled to dust, afford footing for shrubs and even small trees, while yellow and purple wall-flowers and tangled masses of ivy run riot everywhere. The great entrance gateway is intact and, strange to say, a statue of Henry de Lacy, the founder, stands in a niche above the doors, having survived the vicissitudes which laid low the mighty walls and stately towers. This gate was flanked by two immense watchtowers, but only a small part of the western one remains. The remnants, as an English writer has said, "are vast and awful; seldom are such walls seen; the huge fragments that remain of the exterior shell impress the mind vividly with their stupendous strength." Several underground passages have been discovered and one of these led beneath the walls into the town, evidently intended as an avenue of escape for the garrison in last extremity. A number of human skeletons were also unearthed, but as the castle underwent many sieges, these were possibly the remains of defenders who died within the walls.

As we wander about the ruins, our guide has something to tell us of every nook. We hear the sad story of the deep well, now dry, beneath the Goblin Tower, into which the only son of the founder fell to his death, a tragedy that transferred the succession of the lordship to another line; and from the broken battlements there is much to be seen in the green valley below. Yonder was a British camp of prehistoric days, indicated by the earthen mounds still remaining; near by a Roman camp of more recent time, though it was little less than two thousand years ago that the legions of the seven-hilled city marched on yonder plain. Through the notch in the distant hills came the Cromwellians to lay siege to Denbigh Castle, the last fortress in the Kingdom to hold out for King Charles. There was no end of fierce fighting, sallies and assaults for several months in the summer of 1646--and a great exchange of courtesies between General Mytton of the Parliamentary Army and Sir William Salisbury, commanding the castle, who were oldtime friends. There were truces for burial of the dead of both armies, often with military honors on part of the opposing side, but all of this did not mitigate the bitterness with which the contest was waged. The straits of the garrison became terrible indeed, and at last the implacable old governor agreed to deliver the castle to his enemies provided he be given the honors of war and that the consent of the king be secured. His messenger was given safe conduct to visit Charles and the monarch readily absolved his faithful retainer from farther efforts in his behalf. Tradition has it that when the Parliamentarian troops were drawn up within the castle to receive the surrender, the commander gently reminded Colonel Salisbury that the key had not yet been delivered. The bellicose old Cavalier, standing on the Goblin Tower, flung the key to his conqueror with the bitter remark, "The world is yours. Make it your dunghill."

But perhaps I have anticipated a little in relating the last great incident in the history of Denbigh Castle first of all, but its interest entitles it to precedence, though the earlier story of the castle is worth telling briefly.

There are indications that this commanding site was fortified long before the Normans reared the walls now standing, but if so, there are few authentic details now to be learned. The present castle was built by Henry de Lacy during the latter half of the thirteenth century and was one of the many fortresses erected in Wales during the reign of Edward I. in his systematic attempt to subdue the native chieftains. Of its vicissitudes during the endless wars between the English and Welsh for nearly a century after its foundation, it would not be worth while to write, nor would a list of the various nobles who succeeded to its command be of consequence. Its most notable proprietor and the one who left the greatest impress of his ownership was the famous Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, whom we know best from his connection with Kenilworth. Dudley bought the castle from his patroness, Queen Elizabeth--it had long before her reign reverted to the crown--though there is no record that he ever paid even the first installment of purchase money, and after his death the Queen re-annexed the property on the ground that it had never been paid for. But even if he did not pay for his acquisition, Dudley found many ways to give evidence of his ownership to the people of Denbigh and the surrounding country. His lordship was one of oppression and rapine and he did not halt at any crime to advance his ends and to extort money for his projects. His influence was such that two of the young Salisburys, sons of one of the noblest families in the country, were hanged at Shrewsbury for pulling down one of his lordship's illegal fences! This was only typical of his high-handed proceedings, which were cut short by his sudden death, said to have been caused by drinking poison which he had prepared for another! During his ownership he repaired and added to the castle and began a church on a vast scale--still standing incomplete in ruin. This he hoped would supersede the cathedral at St. Asaph and the only recourse of the good people of that town against Leicester's ambitious schemes was prayer, which doubtless from their point of view seemed wonderfully efficacious when death snatched their oppressor away.

There was little of importance in the castle's history during the half century between Leicester's death and the Civil War. Charles I. came here after Rowton Moor and then it was that the bold governor gave his oath not to surrender without the King's command. General Mytton, the victor of Rowton, closely pursued the defeated Royalists and followed Charles to Denbigh, but the monarch, on learning of his enemy's approach, escaped to Scotland, only to be captured a little later. Of the long siege we have already told.

The fate of Denbigh Castle was peculiar in that it was not "destroyed by Cromwell," as were most of the ruined fortresses which it was our fortune to see in England. It was held by the Cromwellian army until the Restoration, when a special edict was framed by the Royal Parliament ordering that it be blown up with gunpowder. That the work was well done is mutely testified by the ruins that surround us to-day. For years the fallen walls served the natives as a stone quarry, but of late Denbigh has been seized with the zeal for preservation of things historic now so prevalent in Britain, and the castle is well looked after; decay has been arrested and the grounds are now a public park. A velvety lawn carpets the enclosure and a bowling green occupies the court which once echoed to the tread of armed men and war horses.

But we note little evidence of all the stirring scenes enacted on this historic spot. It is an ideal summer day; there is scarce a breath of air to rustle the masses of ivy that cling to the walls; save for the birds that sing in the trees and shrubs, quiet reigns; there are no sightseers but ourselves. From the old keep tower a glorious view greets our eyes. All around lies the green vale of the Clwyd stretching away to blue hills; it is dotted here and there with red-roofed cottages whose walls gleam white as alabaster in the noonday sun. The monotony is further relieved by groups of stately trees which mark the surrounding country seats and by an occasional glint of the lazy river. Our guide points out the near-by village of Tremeirchion, whose name goes back to Roman times--signifying that there was a cavalry station near the spot. A gray house surrounded by trees is Brynbella, so named by Dr. Samuel Johnson, who frequently visited the owner, Mrs. Piozzi, during his residence near Denbigh. Felicia Hemans lived for some time in a cottage to be seen a little farther down the vale and there are traces of the beauties of the Clwyd in her poems. On the outskirts of the town are the ruins of an abbey founded in the reign of Henry III. and within a mile is Whitchurch, which has many curious features, among them a stained-glass window which was buried during the Civil War to save it from the image-smashers.

Nor should we forget the little white cottage where Dr. Samuel Johnson lived while compiling his famous dictionary. He was attracted here by the rural quiet of the spot and for several years pursued his colossal task. The house stands in the edge of a fine grove and is shut in by a thickly set hawthorn hedge. A monumental shaft in the neighborhood commemorates the association of the great lexicographer with the spot.

But Denbigh has a more recent distinction that will appeal to every schoolboy of the English-speaking world, for here, within a stone's throw of the castle gate, was born Henry M. Stanley, the great explorer. It was not by this name, however, that he was known when as a boy of five he was placed in the workhouse at St. Asaph by his mother's brothers, for it was little John Henry Rowlands who was so cruelly treated by the master. Stanley himself tells in his autobiography the story of this Welsh Dotheboys Hall and also of his escape from the institution after having given a severe thrashing to his oppressor, who was no match for the sturdy youth of sixteen. After many vicissitudes he reached New Orleans as a cabin boy on a merchant ship and was employed by a Henry Morton Stanley, who later adopted him. Of Stanley's career, one of the most varied and remarkable of which there is authentic record, we will not write here; only twice in his life did he visit Denbigh and the last time his mother refused even to see him, alleging that he had been nothing but a roving ne'er-do-well. She had married again--Stanley was but three years old when his father died--and had apparently lost all maternal love for her son, destined to become so famous. It seems to have been the bitterest experience of the explorer's life and he never attempted to see his mother again. Denbigh now deeply regrets that his humble birthplace was pulled down some years ago, but the little church where he was baptized--which ranks next in importance to the birthplace, according to accepted English ideas--still stands, though it is not now used and is very much dilapidated.

Our guide, when he has quite exhausted his historic lore and when the "objects of interest" have been pointed out and duly expatiated upon, tells us a story of a certain noble dame of ancient Denbigh which every newcomer needs must hear at least once. Lady Catherine of Beraine was of royal descent, her mother being a cousin of Queen Elizabeth; she was enormously rich and was reputed of great intellectual attainments and force of character. But her fame to-day in her native town rests on none of these things; she is remembered as having had four noble husbands, all local celebrities, two of whom she acquired under, to say the least, very unusual circumstances. The first, a Salisbury, died not long after their marriage and was gathered to his fathers after the most approved fashion of the times. This required that a friend of the deceased escort the widow at the funeral and this--shall I say pleasant?--task fell to Sir Richard Clough, a widower of wealth and renown. Sir Richard's consolation went to very extraordinary length, for before the body of his friend was interred, he had proposed to the widow and been accepted! On the return journey from the tomb, Sir Maurice Wynne approached the lady with a similar proposal, only to find to his chagrin and consternation that he was too late. But he did the next best thing and before he was through had the widow's solemn promise that in case she should be called upon to mourn Sir Richard he should be his friend's successor! Sir Richard considerately died at forty and his gracious widow proved true to her promise. She wedded Maurice Wynne and went to preside over one of the fairest estates in Wales. But this did not end her matrimonial experiences, for Wynne ere long followed his two predecessors to the churchyard and the third-time widow made a fourth venture with Edward Thelwall, a wealthy gentleman of the town. Now while there may be some mythical details in this queer story, its main incidents were actually true, and so numerous are the descendants of the fair Catherine that she is sometimes given the sobriquet of Mam Cymru, the Mother of Wales. An English writer says of her, "Never, surely, was there such a record made by a woman of quality. Herself of royal descent and great possessions and by all accounts of singular mental attraction if not surpassing beauty, she married successively into four of the most powerful houses of North Wales."

We thank the custodian for the pains he has taken to inform and entertain us and bid him farewell with the expected gratuity. We slip down the winding road to the market-place, where we pause for a short time to look about the town. We are told that it is one of the best in Northern Wales, both in a business and social way, and it is distinctly Welsh as contrasted with the English domination of Welshpool, Ludlow and Shrewsbury. We see a prosperous-looking class of country folk in the market-place and while English generally prevails, Welsh is spoken by some of the older people. They are well-clad and give evidence of the intelligence and sobriety for which the northern Welshman is noted. The excellent horses on the streets show that the Welsh are as particular about their nags as are their English brethren. We wish that our plans had not been already made--we should like to take up quarters at the Crown or Bull and remain a day or two in Denbigh. But the best we can do now is to pick up a few souvenirs at an old curiosity shop near the market and secretly resolve to come back again.

The road out of the town follows the green vale of the Clwyd to St. Asaph and Rhuddlan, both of which have enough interest to warrant a few hours' pause. At St. Asaph we content ourselves with a drive around the cathedral--the smallest in the Kingdom--against which the haughty Leicester directed his designs three centuries ago. Its most conspicuous feature is its huge square tower one hundred feet in height. The St. Asaph who gave his name to the village and cathedral is supposed to have founded a church here as early as the middle of the sixth century, one of the earliest in the Kingdom.

Five miles farther down the valley over a fine level road is Rhuddlan Castle. There are few more picturesque ruins in Britain than this huge redstone fortress with its massive round gate-towers, almost completely covered with ivy. Only the outer shell and towers remain; inside is a level plat of green sward that gives no hint of the martial activity within these walls six or seven centuries ago. Rhuddlan was one of the several castles built by Edward I. in his efforts to subdue the Welsh, and here he held his court for three years while engaged in his difficult task. The whole town was a military camp and numbers of the subdued Welsh chieftains and their retainers must have come hither to make the best terms they could with their conqueror. But the ruin is quiet enough under the blue heavens that bend over it to-day--the daws flap lazily above its ancient towers and the smaller songsters chatter and quarrel in the thick ivy. The castle has stood thus ever since it was dismantled by the same General Mytton who forced the surrender of Denbigh.

There is much that might engage our time and attention along the twenty miles of roads that skirt the marshes and the sea between Rhuddlan and Conway, but we cannot linger to-day. An hour's run brings us into the little Welsh citadel shortly after noon and we forthwith repair to the Castle Hotel.

XVI

CONWAY

Mr. Moran has given us in his striking picture a somewhat unusual view of the towers of Conway Castle. A better-known aspect of the fine old ruin is shown by the photograph which I have reproduced. Both, however, will serve to emphasize the point which I desire to make--that Conway, when seen from a proper distance, is one of the most picturesque of British castles. The first thing the wayfarer sees when he approaches is this splendid group of crenelated round towers and it is the last object to fade on his vision when he reluctantly turns his feet away from the pleasant old village. And I care not how matter-of-fact and prosaic may be his temperament, he cannot fail to bear away an ineffaceable recollection of the grim beauty of the stately pile.

The sea road takes us into the town by the way of the great suspension bridge, whose well-finished modern towers contrast rather unpleasantly with the rugged antiquity of the castle across the river; but the suspension bridge is none the less a work of art and beauty compared with the angular ugliness of the tubular railway structure that parallels it. We pay our modest toll and crossing over the green tide that is now setting strongly up the river, we glide beneath the castle walls into the town.

The Castle Hotel we know by previous experience to be one of those most delightful of old-fashioned country inns where one may be comfortable and quite unhampered by excessive formality. Baedeker, it is true, gives the place of honor to the Oakwood Park, a pretentious resort hotel about a mile from the town, but this will hardly appeal to pilgrims like ourselves, who come to Conway to revel in its old-world atmosphere. The Castle, with its rambling corridors, its odd corners and plain though substantial furnishings, is far more to our liking. It stands on the site of Conway's Cistercian Abbey, built by Prince Llewellyn in 1185, all traces of which have now disappeared. As the principal inn of the North Wales art center, its walls are appropriately covered with pictures and sketches--many of them original--and numerous pieces of artistic bric-a-brac are scattered about its hallways and mantels. We notice among the pictures two or three characteristic sketches by Mr. Moran and learn that he was a guest of the inn for several weeks last summer, during which time he painted the picture of the castle which adorns the pages of this book. The impression which he left with the manageress was altogether favorable; she cannot say enough in praise of the courtesy and kindness of her distinguished guest who gave her the much-prized sketches with his compliments. And she is quite familiar with the names and knows something about the work of several well-known British artists--for have they not been guests at the castle from time to time during the summer exhibits? Conway, as we shall see, occupies no small niche in the art world, having an annual exhibition of considerable importance, besides affording endless themes to delight the artistic eye.

The immediate objective of the first-time visitor to Conway will be the castle, but this is our third sojourn in the ancient citadel and we shall give the afternoon to Plas Mawr. For, though we are quite as familiar with Plas Mawr as with the castle, the fine old mansion has a new attraction each year in the annual exhibit of the Royal Cambrian Academy and the walls are covered with several hundred pictures, many of them by distinguished British painters. The exhibit is generally acknowledged to be of first rank and usually includes canvases by Royal Academicians as well as the work of members of other distinguished British art societies. That it is not better known and patronized is not due to any lack of genuine merit; rather to the fact that so many tourists are ignorant of its very existence as well as the attractions of the town itself. Such, indeed, was our own case; on our first visit to Conway we contented ourselves with a glimpse of the castle and hastened on our way quite unaware of Plas Mawr and its exhibit. Stupid, of course; we might have learned better from Baedeker; but we thought there was nothing but the castle in Conway and did not trouble to read the fine print of our "vade mecum." A second visit taught us better; the castle one should certainly see--but Plas Mawr and its pictures are worth a journey from the remotest corner of the Kingdom. Indeed, it was in this exhibit that I first became acquainted with the work of Mr. H. J. Dobson of Edinburgh, whose pictures I have had the pleasure of introducing in America. His famous "New Arrival" was perhaps the most-talked-of picture the year of our visit and is surely worth showing herewith as typical of the high quality of the Royal Cambrian exhibit. And, indeed, this severely plain, almost pathetic, little home scene of the olden time might just as appropriately have been located in the environs of Conway.

I have rambled on about Plas Mawr and its pictures to a considerable extent, but I have so far failed to give much idea as to Plas Mawr itself aside from its exhibit. Its name, signifying "the great house," is appropriate indeed, for in the whole Kingdom there are few better examples--at least such as are accessible to the ordinary tourist--of the spacious home of a wealthy country gentleman in the romantic days of Queen Bess. It was planned for the rather ostentatious hospitality of the times and must have enjoyed such a reputation, for it is pretty well established that Queen Elizabeth herself was a guest in the stately house. The Earl of Leicester, as we have seen, had large holdings in North Wales, and was wont to come to Snowdonia on hunting expeditions; Elizabeth and her court accompanied him on one occasion and were quartered in Plas Mawr. Tradition, which has forgotten the exact date of the royal visit, has carefully recorded the rooms occupied by the queen--two of the noblest apartments in the house. The sitting-room has a huge fireplace with the royal arms of England in plaster above the mantel. Adjoining this apartment is the bedroom, beautifully decorated with heraldic devices and lighted with windows of ancient stained glass.

But I must hasten to declare that I have no intention of describing in detail the various apartments of the great house. Each one has its own story and nearly all are decorated with richly bossed plaster friezes and ceilings. The circular stairways, the corridors, the narrow passageways and the courtyard are all unique and bring to the mind a host of romantic musings. You are not at all surprised to learn of Plas Mawr's ghostly habitant--it is, on the contrary, just what you expected. I shall not repeat this authentic ghost story; you may find it in the little guide-book of the house if such things appeal to you; and, besides, it is hardly suitable for my pages. It is enough to record that Plas Mawr has its ghost and heavy footfalls may be heard in its vacant rooms by those hardy enough to remain on nights when storms howl about the old gables. And it is these same old "stepped" gables with the queer little towers and tall chimneys that lend such a distinguished air to the exterior of the old house. It would be a dull observer whose eye would not be caught by it, even in passing casually along the street on which it stands. Above the door the date 1576 proves beyond question the year of its completion and shows that it has stood, little changed, for more than three centuries. It was built by one of the Wynne family, which was so distinguished and powerful in North Wales during the reign of Elizabeth. At present it is the private property of Lord Mostyn, but one cannot help feeling that by rights it should belong to the tight little town of Conway, which forms such a perfect setting for this gem of ancient architecture.

But enough of Plas Mawr--though I confess as I write to an intense longing to see it again. We must hie us back to our inn, for the dinner hour is not far off and we are quite ready for the Castle's substantial fare. There is still plenty of time after dinner to saunter about the town and the twilight hours are the best for such a ramble. When the subdued light begins to envelop castle and ancient walls, one may best realize the unique distinction of Conway as a bit of twelfth-century medievalism set bodily down in our workaday modern world. The telegraph poles and wires, the railways and great bridges fade from the scene and we see the ancient town, compassed with its mighty betowered walls and guarded by the frowning majesty of the castle. It is peculiarly the time to ascend the wall and to leisurely walk its entire length. We find it wonderfully solid and well-preserved, though ragged and hung with ivy; grasses carpet its crest in places, yellow and purple wall-flowers cling to its rugged sides, and in one place a sapling has found footing, apparently thriving in its airy habitat. Yet the wall is quite in its original state; the hand of the restorer has hardly touched it, nor does it apparently require anything in the way of repair. How very different is it from the walls of York and Chester, which show clearly enough the recent origin of at least large portions throughout their entire courses. It reaches in places a height of perhaps twenty feet and I should think its thickness at the base nearly as great. In old days it was surmounted by twenty-one watchtowers, all of which still remain in a state of greater or less perfection. Its ancient Moorish-looking gateways still survive, though the massive doors and drawbridges that once shut out the hostile world disappeared long since. We saunter leisurely down the wall toward the river and find much of interest whichever way we turn. The town spreads out beneath us like a map and we can detect, after some effort, its fanciful likeness to the shape of a harp--so dutifully mentioned by the guide-books. Just beneath this we gaze into the back yards of the poorer quarter and see a bevy of dirty little urchins going through endless antics in hope of extracting a copper or two from us--they know us well for tourists at once--who else, indeed, would be on the wall at such a time? A little farther are the rambling gables of Plas Mawr and on the extreme opposite side of the town, the stern yet beautiful towers of the castle are sharply silhouetted against the evening sky. How it all savors of the days of chivalrous eld; the flash of armor from yonder watchtowers, the deep voice of the sentry calling the hour, the gleam of rushlight from the silent windows or the reveille of a Norman bugle, would seem to be all that is required to transport us back to the days of the royal builder of the castle. Or if we choose to turn our gaze outside the walls, we may enjoy one of the finest vistas to be found in the British Isles. Looking down the broad estuary, through which the emerald-green tide is now pouring in full flow toward the sea, one has a panorama of wooded hills on the one hand and the village of Deganwy with the huge bulk of Great Orme's Head as a background on the other; while between these a vast stretch of sunset water loses itself in the distance.

But we are at the north limit of the old wall--for it ends abruptly as it approaches the beach--and we descend to the promenade along the river. There is a boathouse here and a fairly good beach. If it had not so many rivals near at hand, Conway might boast itself as a resort town, but the average summer vacationist cares less for medieval walls and historic castles than for sunny beaches and all the diversions that the seaside resort town usually offers. He limits his stay in Conway to an hour or two and spends his weeks at Llandudno or Colwyn Bay.

There are many odd corners that are worth the visitor's attention and one is sure to have them brought to his notice as he rambles about the town. "The smallest house in the Island" is one of them and the little old woman who occupies this curiosity will not let you pass without an opportunity to look in and leave a copper or two in recognition of her trouble. It is a boxlike structure of two floors about four by six feet each, comfortably furnished--to an extent one would hardly think possible in such very contracted quarters. There are many very ancient homes in the town dating from the sixteenth century and perhaps the best known of them--aside from Plas Mawr--is the little "Black Lion" in Castle Street. It is now fitted up as a museum, though its exhibit, I fear, is more an excuse to exact a shilling from the pocket of the tourist than to serve any great archeological end. The interior, however, is worth seeing, as it affords some idea of the domestic life of a well-to-do middle-class merchant of three or four hundred years ago. Another building in the same street is of even earlier date, for the legend, "A. D. 1400," appears in quaint characters above its door. Still another fine Elizabethan home shows the Stanley arms in stained glass--an eagle with outstretched wings swooping down upon a child--but this building, as well as many others in Conway, has been "restored" pretty much out of its original self. I name these particular things merely to show what a wealth of interest the town possesses for the observer who has learned that there is something else besides the castle and who is willing to make a sojourn of two or three days within the hoary walls.

The church of St. Mary's has little claim to architectural distinction, but like nearly all the ancient churches of Britain, it has many odd bits of tradition and incident quite peculiar to itself. There is an elaborate baptismal font and a beautiful rood screen dating from the thirteenth century. John Gibson, R. A., the distinguished sculptor, who was born near Conway, is buried in the church and a marble bust has been erected to his memory. Another native buried within the sacred walls is entitled to distinction in quite a different direction, for a tablet over his grave declares:

"Here lyeth the body of Nich's Hookes of Conway, Gent. who was ye 41 child of his father William Hookes Esq. and the father of 27 children, who died on the 20 day of Mch. 1637."

Surely, if these ancient Welshmen were alive to-day they would be lionized by our anti-race-suicide propagandists! In the chancel there are several elaborate monuments of the Wynne family which exhibit the usual characteristics of old-time British mortuary sculpture. One of these tombs is of circular shape, and interesting from its peculiarity, though none of them shows a high degree of the sculptor's art.