From that day it was settled that Winifred was a Saint, for on the spot where her head had rested, there bubbled up a spring of pure water, for the healing of the sick—particularly the crippled and rheumatic. Believers say that, in the Saint's time, the waters were more powerful than they are now. Then, after one dip, the palsied stopped shaking, the paralytic began talking, and cripples flung away their crutches while the maimed had only to thrust the stumps of arms and legs into the spring, to have beautiful new hands and feet sprout out before their eyes!
The part of North Wales through which we passed, is not so mountainous and picturesque as some other portions of the Principality; but it is very beautiful, even as seen in flying glimpses, from the railway carriage. We were very sorry that we could not stop to explore the lovely vales of Clwyd and Llangollen, and visit the little city of St. Asaph, where Mrs. Hemans once resided.
I longed to go and pay my respects to some of those grand, old mountains, that stood afar off, in their stern majesty, clothed with purple-blossomed heather, flecked with golden sunshine and crowned with gorgeous clouds, or silvery mists. The dark-waving foliage of many a shadowy glen and rocky gorge seemed beckoning to us to search into their lovely, lonely places, and many a glad rill and wild cascade seemed to call to us to come and look upon its unsunned beauty. But the swift locomotive remorselessly whirled us away from glen and gorge, and its rush and clang soon drowned those pleasant mountain voices of dancing rivulet and laughing waterfall.
We hardly caught a breath of the free, fresh air of the hills, in exchange for the long, brown train of heavy, hot smoke we left behind us;—in truth, puffing and whirling in and out of the Principality, as we did, I am almost ashamed to count Wales as one of the countries I have seen.
In England, no town, however large it may be, is called a city, unless it has a Bishop and a Cathedral, as the capital of an Episcopal See. Thus the great seaport of Liverpool is only a town, while St. Asaph, with but one street and eight hundred inhabitants, is a city.
The first Bishop of St. Asaph was St. Kentigern, a famous monk and monk-maker, and founder of monasteries. He had a disciple by the name of Asaph, whom he brought up to be a Saint.
Legends say that one day the good Bishop got severely chilled by remaining in his bath too long, and young Asaph, not having any shovel or tongs, took up some live coals in his hands, and carried them to his master, without burning himself at all. People said this was a very fair beginning for a Saint, and as he continued to improve, the church canonized him when he died, and the city and diocese were named for him.
Near St. Asaph is Rhyddlan Castle—the place where Edward I. outwitted the Welsh nobles, by proposing that they should be ruled by a native Prince, whose character nobody could say a word against. All joyfully agreed, and then he presented to them his infant son, born at Carnarvon Castle, and whom he had made Prince of Wales.
At Conway, we passed close by a grand old castle, still very strong and imposing, though it was built by Edward I. Here we crossed the Tubular Bridge—a great curiosity—but far from equal to the Britannia Bridge, across the Menai Straits, which lie between Wales and the Island of Anglesea. I cannot describe this to you—but it is one of the most wonderful works in all the world.
Holyhead is a small town, on an island of the same name—divided by a narrow strait from the west coast of Anglesea. Here we took a steamer to cross the Irish channel.