TREVRIW,
which presents an animated scene. It is situated upon the banks of the beautiful river Conwy, which is navigable up to this point for vessels of fifty tons burthen, that supply the town and neighbourhood with coals, lime, groceries, &c., &c., and return laden with slate, supplied from the adjacent mines and quarries. A number of small boats, called coracles, used by the fishermen, are seen studding the delightful stream, while the larger vessels, towed against the wind or sailing before it, present a pleasing picture. From this place to Conwy there is nothing particularly to attract attention, until you arrive within a mile of that celebrated town, when, from the brow of a hill, is obtained a view of the venerable fortress erected by the first Edward, and the strongly fortified walls, completely encompassing the town, and strengthened by massive towers. They are coeval with the castle, and are built in the form of a Welsh harp, like those of Carnarvon; but here there are no environs, and the town presents the same appearance as when the chivalric monarch first fortified it.
CONWY.
The town derives its name from Cyn (chief) and Wy river.
The principal inn is the Castle, which affords every accommodation the traveller can desire. The Wynnes are celebrated here, as in all parts of North Wales. In the interior of the town stands Plâs Mawr, which was erected in 1585, and is still a remarkable structure; its founder was Robert Wynne, of Gwydir, the uncle of Sir John Wynne, the historian. Over the grand entrance is inscribed, in Greek characters “bear and forbear,” over which in Roman characters, “J. H. S. X. P. S.” (Jesus Hominum Salvator et Populi Salus.) The Old College is in Castle Street, and the Church is built from the remains of the ancient Cistercian Abbey, which was founded here by Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, 1185. It contains a rich baptismal font of gothic structure, with a tablet to the memory of Nicholas Hookes, of the town of Conwy, who was the forty-first child of William and Alice Hookes, and who was himself the father of twenty-seven children.
During my short stay in Conwy, I endeavoured to discover the best view of the town, which, I think, is from the eastern side of the river, about midway between the chain bridge and the mansion of Dyganwy. Nothing can be more interesting. The variety of small craft, sailing and anchored, before its warlike screen; the castle, with its towers and turrets, rising in hostile grandeur upon its rocky base; the bridges, and lovely scenery beyond of purple hills and thriving villages; and the bright waters sporting with the luxuriant foliage of its woody margin, create a sensation of delight in the pursuer of picturesque scenery which he has probably seldom before experienced.
Another delightful view may be obtained by ascending the rock which overhangs the lodge of the suspension bridge upon its eastern side. This very beautiful specimen of art has however lost a great portion of its attraction since the completion of the more wonderful structure of the Tubular Bridge, which, like a mighty conqueror, looks proudly conscious of its own importance, and compels the former to take a secondary position in the estimation of the visitor. It consists of only one span of 400 feet, and two abutments of masonry, which are in perfect harmony with the venerable appearance of the Castle. But the chief object of interest is the Castle, which surpasses in picturesque grandeur any building of the kind I ever beheld. I thought Carnarvon Castle the most beautiful of ruins, but it is not, in my opinion, to be compared with Conwy. The solidity of its structure, and its expansive site, resembling the fortresses of Syria and the Holy Land, give to its exterior all that the most romantic imagination could desire. Its foundation is a rock of slate, and its works are impregnable. Nothing but famine could, at the time it was erected, have had power to subdue it. Its walls are from ten to twelve feet in thickness, and it had formerly a deep and broad moat, on the west and north-west sides; which, with the sea washing its base on the east and south, formed insurmountable barriers to the assailants.
It was evening when I first entered this noble ruin. The porteress very ungraciously left me to my meditations after admitting me, locking the gate after her, and leaving me like a state prisoner in the royal fortress. I confess I was little pleased with the manners of my conductress, and the solitary situation in which I was placed, and sensations arose within me like those which a school boy feels when passing a churchyard at midnight. The sun had set, and the deep shadows of eve were darkening into night, as I stood alone in the court yard, and flitting visions arose before me of those who had crossed its space in distant by-gone ages—“the plumed troops,” and courtly dames, and all the glitter of the olden times. As I thus stood amongst the ruins, a deep drawn sigh, close by my ear, made my heart leap into my throat, as I turned to discover from whence it proceeded. But all was solitude around. The huge festoons of ivy, unruffled by a breath of air hung in funereal grandeur on the walls. As I passed into what had been the banqueting hall, the darkness increased. It was a noble apartment, and measured 130 feet in length, and thirty in breadth, in height twenty. Nine windows looked southward, up the river, and two into the courtyard. In the recesses were stone seats, capable of accommodating twelve persons; and, as I seated myself in one of these, my delusion of other days came over me. Here sat the first Edward, the hero of Palestine; here was the monarch besieged, and almost reduced by famine; here Hotspur and King Richard held a conference; and the latter, putting himself into the power of Northumberland, was betrayed by him, and sent a prisoner to the usurper, Bolingbroke.
“Life’s but a walking shadow—a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more!”