Uncle Stephen's theory, that the nature of this man, so reticent and unsocial, should have been so thoroughly known and appreciated by three women; two of whom may be said to have lived for him, and one to have died for him.

It may be taken for granted that when a man is beloved-in honest fashion-by more than one woman, he is deserving of love.

As to Uncle Stephen and Uncle Roger, I don't know which idolised their nephew most; and in one case at least it was quite independent of his success in the world. The success, however, had, I think, some influence upon his own character; it unconsciously expanded under it in a genial and wholesome way, like a flower that, after a long winter, feels the kiss of the sun. He had no more disappointments, and only one regret. Yet, after all, was it not better even for poor Phoebe herself that she was dead?

In the same desk in which had been discovered that memorandum of his tender forethought for her, there was now a scrap of paper, torn and bloodstained, on which were scrawled the words that had saved Matthew's life; and on them-it is no dishonour to his manhood to confess it—he never looked without a tear.

(The End)

156

Our Old Country Towns.

XII.

THERE are many small country towns that can hardly be regarded as above the rank of villages, and yet they are full of interest, and abound with historical associations. Among these, certainly, we may place Hawarden (pronounced Harden), which is celebrated not only as the residence of Mr. W. E. Gladstone, but for its charming surroundings. It lies on the roads between Chester, Hawarden, and Mold, and is not nearly so much visited as it would be if its beauties were more fully known. The highway which skirts the left bank of the river Dee overlooks the beautiful fields of Wirral, and the estuaries of the Mersey and the Dee are plainly visible. If we stop at what is called Queen's Ferry or King's Ferry, ac

Old Porch at Hawarden Village. cording to the reigning monarch, and take a straight road on the left-hand side, we arrive, in half-an-hour's walk, at the beautiful village or country town of Hawarden. The gates of Hawarden Castle are actually on the main street, and the village runs along the side of the park walls for fully half a mile. It is not at all unlike an old-fashioned French town, such as we see if we leave the banks of the Loire or the Meuse, and wander for a mile or two in the country. There is a curious circumstance connected with Hawarden Castle that is not commonly known, and which singularly connects the Gladstone family, who now own it, with the Crown. William I. included it in a grant to his nephew, Hugh Lupus, and it was held by his successors under the name of Earl of Chester, and afterwards subordinately by the barons of Montalt, until it was resumed by the Crown, along with the title of Earl of Chester. Henry VI. granted it to Sir Thomas Stanley, and the house of Stanley held it until it was forfeited again to

the Crown, when James, Earl of Derby, was taken after the battle of Worcester and beheaded at Bolton. Cromwell sold it for some nominal sum to Serjeant Glynne, and it remained in his family till the sudden death of Sir Stephen Glynne in London, when it passed to his sister, Mrs. W. E. Gladstone. There are the remains of the original castle in the beautiful park. By the removal of vast heaps of rubbish, the previous form of the structure, which was pentagonal, has been discovered. At one angle was the keep a lofty circular tower-which is still nearly entire ; and from its summit are splendid views of the surrounding

country, and the Vale Royal of Cheshire. Hawarden rectory is one of the richest in England, being estimated at more than 4,000l. a year, and has always been an appanage of Hawarden Castle. The church is not very large, but it is irregular and picturesque, and from the churchyard may be seen one of the most beautiful views in England. The estuary of the Dee is like a lake when the tide is high, and almost every acre in the great district of Wirral -which is the name given to the isthmus of Cheshire that is bounded by the estuaries of the Mersey and the Dee-is stretched out before our view. The architectural feature which figures at the beginning of this chapter is very curious, and almost unique in England. The house, as it were, strides past its neighbours, and

forms a porch in its stride. There is a comfortable shelter below, and the space above is utilised for a room.

The country town of Hawarden is very pleasing, and, like other places where there is a great house, there are many excellent dwellings on the outskirts of each end. The road that runs through it is very wide and commodious, and there are one or two quaint signs hanging out, and supported by wrought iron of excellent design and work. It has seen some troublous times in days of old. The advanced guard of the sagacious Henry II. marched through it, commanded by the king himself, to encounter David and Conan, the heroic sons of Owen Gwynedd, and the encounter took place very near here. About two miles from Hawarden is a thickly-wooded dell, which a traveller might easily pass by without remarking; indeed, it is not very readily found, even if we are in quest of it. In this dell is a very interesting ruin, thickly mantled with ivy, which bears the name of Ewloe Castle. Hardly anything is known of its history, or even with certainty who its founder was; but it probably was a rendezvous for the forces of the Welsh patriots. They drew the English army, which was under the personal command of Henry Plantagenet, the conqueror of Ireland, into a defile which is a continuation of the dell where Ewloe Castle stands, and routed it with dreadful slaughter. The little stream that flows past this ancient castle is called Wepre brook, and it runs through the wood called Coed Ewloe. Flint Castle was a near point for supports, and doubtless was in commission. I could hardly recommend any stranger to these regions to make a visit to Flint. It lies in a country of unsurpassed beauty; but for some reason or other, though its surroundings have always been prosperous, the county town is squalid; and though the castle abounds with interest, it is so indifferently kept that I could not find any scene in the ancient place I should wish to be responsible for recommending a tourist to make a pilgrimage to examine. There is one old town here, Holywell, that no one who is in the vicinity should neglect to visit. There are several picturesque views in it, though mills have rather modernised some parts of it; but the chief interest centres in the beautiful chapel that has been built over the well. The well stands in a great groined canopy, with finely-moulded ribs and excellently well carved bosses, and over it is the chapel. The mouldings in the windows of the chapel, and the small shafts, are of exquisite design. The well is fed by a cool spring of singular brightness, and is twelve feet long, seven feet wide, and five feet deep. The cool crystal water never alters in temperature, either in summer or winter; and it is so clear that the smallest objects

are as visible at the bottom as if no water intervened. The copious supply is not affected by the heaviest rains or the longest droughts, and it is estimated by Pennant that twenty-four tons per minute are continually flowing. In case this does not convey at first an adequate idea of the immense volume that runs to waste, it may be said that it would supply two towns of half a million inhabitants each with twenty gallons of water daily for every inhabitant. Of course, the well can boast of a miraculous origin among the simple inhabitants.

About the beginning of the seventh century, Prince Caradoc was greatly smitten with the attractions of Winefred, who was a devout young lady of high respectability, but who refusedrightly, as events proved-to return his attentions. She fled away on account of his power, and he followed her from hamlet to hamlet until he fell in with her at Holywell, and then he renewed his unsuccessful proposals; and, on receiving another refusal, he drew his sword and struck off her beautiful head, which rolled down the hill and stopped at the present well: water at once gushed out, and its properties were miraculous. Winefred was related to the family of St. Beuno, and he at once entered an appearance, and simply annihilated Caradoc, who was never beheld again; and then, reverently taking up the head, he carried it to the body and joined it on again so deftly, that only a thin white slender line was left to show the work of her impetuous admirer.

A singular custom prevails at Holywell. Owing to the situation of the church, the bell is almost inaudible in some parts of the town, and a man is employed to go through the streets every Sunday with a large bell suspended by a strap from his shoulders, and a cushion buckled round one knee; as he walks, his knee strikes the bell, and so he is converted into a sort of walking belfry. The spring at St. Winefred's is naturally endowed with miraculous qualities: the moss that grows near it is fragrant, and the stones to the present day are stained with blood. All this the inhabitants are quite ready to show a stranger, though he will hardly agree with them as to the cause, In the fragrant moss he will recognise the Jungermannia asplenoides, and in the bloodstain on the pebbles he is disillusioned by finding another production of the vegetable kingdom-the Lepraria iolithus. chapel and the groined roof over the well are said to have been built by the Countess of Richmond, the mother of Henry VII. Mr. Grose considers the style to have been earlier; but it would be easy to find many buildings in England that correspond in style with this, and are known to have been built at about the same period as tradition assigned to St. Winefred's. The fortified

The