He remembered me as having been there a month or two ago; and
probably, considering that I was already initiated, or else because he
had many other visitors, he left us to wander about the castle at will.
It is altogether impossible to describe Conway Castle. Nothing ever can
have been so perfect in its own style, and for its own purposes, when it
was first built; and now nothing else can be so perfect as a picture of
ivy-grown, peaceful ruin. The banqueting-hall, all open to the sky and
with thick curtains of ivy tapestrying the walls, and grass and weeds
growing on the arches that overpass it, is indescribably beautiful. The
hearthstones of the great old fireplaces, all about the castle, seem to
be favorite spots for weeds to grow. There are eight large round towers,
and out of four of them, I think, rise smaller towers, ascending to a
much greater height, and once containing winding staircases, all of which
are now broken, and inaccessible from below, though, in at least one of
the towers, the stairs seemed perfect, high aloft. It must have been the
rudest violence that broke down these stairs; for each step was a thick
and heavy slab of stone, built into the wall of the tower. There is no
such thing as a roof in any part; towers, hall, kitchen, all are open to
the sky. One round tower, directly overhanging the railway, is so
shattered by the falling away of the lower part, that you can look quite
up into it and through it, while sitting in the cars; and yet it has
stood thus, without falling into complete ruin, for more than two hundred
years.
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