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.
[Illustration: DENBIGH CASTLE--THE ENTRANCE AND KEEP]
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.
[Illustration: ST. HILARY'S CHURCH, DENBIGH. HENRY M. STANLEY WAS
BAPTIZED IN THIS CHURCH]
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.
[Illustration: GATE TOWERS RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES]
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.
[Illustration: CONWAY CASTLE, NORTH WALES
From original painting by Thos. Moran, N. A.]
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.
[Illustration: "THE NEW ARRIVAL"
From original painting by H. J. Dobson, R. S. W., exhibited in the Royal
Cambrian Academy, Plas Mawr, 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.
[Illustration: PLAS MAWR, CONWAY, HOME OF ROYAL CAMBRIAN ACADEMY]