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.

Outside, near the south porch, is a curious sun dial erected in 1761, which is carefully graduated to single minutes. Near this is a grave made famous by Wordsworth in his well-known poem, “We are Seven,”—for the poet, as we have learned in our wanderings, was himself something of a traveler and these simple verses remind us of his sojourn in Conway. Their peculiar appeal to almost every tourist is not strange when we recall that scarcely a school-reader of half a century ago omitted them.

Conway, as might be expected, has many quaint customs and traditions. One of these, as described by a pleasing writer, may be worth retelling:

“At Conway an old ceremony called the ‘Stocsio’ obtained till the present reign, being observed at Eastertide, when on the Sunday crowds carrying wands of gorse were accustomed to proceed to a small hill outside the town known as Pen twt. There the most recently married man was deputed to read out to a bare-headed audience the singular and immemorial rules that were to prevail in the town on the following day: All men under sixty were to be in the street by six o’clock in the morning; those under forty by four, while youths of twenty or less were forbidden to go to bed at all. Houses were searched, and much rough horse-play was going about. Defaulters were carried to the stocks, and there subjected to a time-honoured and grotesque catechism, calculated to promote much ridicule. Ball-play in the castle, too, was a distinguishing feature of all these ancient fete days.”

Another carefully preserved tradition relates to the tenure of the castle by the town corporation, which must pay annually a fee of eight shillings sixpence to the crown, and the presentation by way of tribute of a “dish of fish” to the Marquis of Hertford—the titular Earl of Conway—whenever he visits the town. This gave rise to a ludicrous misunderstanding not very long ago. An old guide-book substituted “Mayor of Hereford” for “Marquis of Hertford,” and a perusal of this led the former dignitary to formally claim the honor when he was in Conway. The mayor of the ancient burg explained the error to his guest, but went on to say that had sparlings, the peculiar fish for which the Conway River is noted, been in season and obtainable, he would have had great pleasure in presenting a dish of them to the Mayor of Hereford; as it was, it was understood that in default of the sparlings the worthy civic clerk of Conway would treat his illustrious visitor to a bottle of champagne of an especially old and choice vintage. There is no record that the dignitary from Hereford made any objection to the substitution of something “just as good.”

In leaving the castle until the last, I am conscious that I am violating the precedent set by nearly all who have written of Conway and its attractions, but I have striven—I hope successfully—to show that there is enough in the old town to make a pilgrimage worth while, even if it did not have what is perhaps the most picturesque ruin in the Island. For the superior claims of Conway Castle are best described by the much-abused word, “picturesque.” While it has seen stirring times, it did not cut the figure of Denbigh, Harlech or Carnarvon in Welsh history, nor did it equal many others in size and impregnability. But to my mind it is doubtful if any other so completely fulfills the ideal of the towered and battlemented castle of the middle ages. From almost any viewpoint this is apparent, though the view from across the river is well-nigh spoiled by the obtrusively ugly tubular railroad bridge; nor does the more graceful suspension bridge add to it, for that matter. In earlier times the only approach from this direction was by ferry—an “awkward kind of a boat called yr ysgraff,” says a local guide-book. The boat seems to have been quite as unmanageable as its name, for on Christmas day, 1806, it capsized, drowning twelve persons. Twenty years later the suspension bridge was ready for use and the tubular bridge followed in 1848.

Conway Castle was one of the several fortresses built by the first Edward to complete the conquest of Wales. It was designed by Henry de Elreton, a builder of great repute in his time and also the architect of Carnarvon and Beumaris. The work was conducted under personal command of the king and its completion in 1291 was celebrated by a great fete at Christmastime. As one wanders through the roofless, ivy-clad ruin, carpeted with the green sward that has crept over the debris-covered floors, and contemplates the empty windows open to all the winds of heaven, the fallen walls and crumbling towers, the broken arches—only one of the eight which spanned the great hall remaining—amid all the pathetic evidence of dissolution and decay, it is hard indeed to reconstruct the scene of gay life that must have filled the noble pile in that far-off day. Here the high-spirited and often tyrannical king, accompanied by the queen, almost as ambitious and domineering as himself, had gathered the flower of English knighthood and nobility with their proud dames and brightly liveried retainers to make merry while the monarch was forging the chains to bind the prostrate principality. Here, we may imagine, the revelry of an almost barbarous time and people must have reached its height; and we may thank heaven that the old order of things is as shattered and obsolete as the ruined walls that surround us.

As previously intimated, the history of Conway Castle is hardly in accord with its grandeur and importance. Its royal founder soon after its completion found himself closely besieged within its walls by the Welsh and was nearly reduced to an unconditional surrender, when the subsidence of the river made it possible for reinforcements to relieve the situation. A century later Richard II. commanded the troops raised to war in his behalf on the haughty Bolingbroke to assemble at Conway, but the monarch’s feebleness and vacillation brought all plans of aggressive action to naught; for he basely abandoned his followers and rushed blindly into his enemy’s power. And thus what might have been a historic milestone in the career of the castle degenerated into an unimportant incident. Conway escaped easily during the civil war which sounded the knell of so many feudal castles. The militant Archbishop Williams, whose memorial we may see in the parish church, espoused the side of the king and after his efforts had put everything in shape for defence, he was ordered to turn over the command to Prince Rupert. This procedure on the part of Charles led the warlike churchman to suddenly change his opinion of the justice of the royal cause and he at once joined forces with the Cromwellians. He carried with him a considerable following and personally assisted General Mytton in his operations against both Denbigh and Conway Castles. The latter was first to fall and the good bishop received the thanks of Parliament for his services and also a full pardon for the part he had taken in support of King Charles. He was also able to restore to his followers the valuables which had been hidden in the castle for safe keeping. Conway was another exception to Cromwell’s rule of destruction of such feudal fortresses. Perhaps the fact that at the time of its surrender the Royalists were almost everywhere subdued and not likely to be able to reoccupy it, had something to do with this unusual leniency. In any event, the discredit for the destruction of the splendid structure rests with King Charles, who permitted one of his retainers to plunder it of its leaden roof and timbers. These materials were to be sent to Ireland—just for what purpose is not clear—but it does not matter, for the ships carrying the wreckage were all lost in a violent storm.

Since that memorable period the old ruin has witnessed two and a half centuries of unbroken peace. Its enemies were no longer battering ram and hostile cannon. The wild storms of winter, the summer rains and the sea winds have expended their forces upon it, only to give it a weird, indescribable beauty such as it never could have possessed in its proudest days. Careful restoration has arrested further decay and insures its preservation indefinitely. It has never figured in song or story to the extent its beauty and romance would lead us to expect, though Owen Rhoscomyl, a native Welshman, has written a stirring novel, “Battlements and Towers,” which deals with the castle in civil war days. The story has a historic basis and the graves of the lovers, Dafyd and Morfa, may still be seen in Conway Church.

But no Welshman has yet arisen to do for his native land what Scott did for Scotland. The field is fully as rich—surely the struggles of this brave little people were as heroic and full of splendid incident as anything that transpired in Scotch history. But as a venture for letters the field still lies fallow and perhaps the unromantic atmosphere of our present-day progress will always keep it so. In leaving Conway for our fifth sojourn at Ludlow we find ourselves wondering which of these may outrank the other as the gem of all the smaller medieval towns we have visited in Britain. Indeed, we have not answered the query yet, but we are sure the distinction belongs to one or the other.