Part 16

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."