The skill and the science have gone the way of the need of
them, but the beauty remains indelible and as eternal as the
hunger for it in the human soul. Conway castle is not all a ruin,
even as a fortress, however. Great part of it still challenges
decay, and is so entire in its outward shape that it has inspired
the railway running under its shoulder to attempt a conformity of
style in the bridge approaching it, but without enabling it to an
equal effect of grandeur. One would as soon the bridge had not
tried.
All Conway is worthy, within its ancient walls, of as much
devotion as one can render it in the rain, which begins as soon
as you leave the castle. The walls climb from the waters to the
hills, and the streets wander up and down and seem to the
stranger mainly to seek that beautiful old Tudor house, Plas
Mawr, which like the castle is without rival in its kind. It was
full of reeking and streaming sight-seers, among whom one could
easily find one's self incommoded without feeling one's self a
part of the incommodation, but in spite of them there was the
assurance of comfort as well as splendor in the noble old
mansion, such as the Elizabethan houses so successfully studied.
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