AN OCTOBEE ABROAD 217 



over two hundred years ago, witnessed the defeat of 

 his army on Rowton Moor. But when I was there, 

 though the sun was shining, the atmosphere was so 

 loaded with smoke that I could not catch even a 

 glimpse of the moor where the battle took place. 

 There is a gateway through the wall on each of the 

 four sides, and this slender and beautiful but black 

 ened and worn span, as if to afford a transit from 

 the chamber windows on one side of the street to 

 those of the other, is the first glimpse the traveler 

 gets of the wall. The gates beneath the arches have 

 entirely disappeared. The ancient and carved oak 

 fronts of the buildings on the main street, and the 

 inclosed sidewalk that ran through the second stories 

 of the shops and stores, were not less strange and 

 novel to me. The sidewalk was like a gentle up 

 heaval in its swervings and undulations, or like a 

 walk through the woods, the oaken posts and braces 

 on the outside answering for the trees, and the pros 

 pect ahead for the vista. 



The ride along the coast of Wales was crowded 

 with novelty and interest, the sea on one side and 

 the mountains on the other, the latter bleak and 

 heathery in the foreground, but cloud-capped and 

 snow-white in the distance. The afternoon was 

 dark and lowering, and just before entering Conway 

 we had a very striking view. A turn in the road 

 suddenly brought us to where we looked through 

 a black framework of heathery hills, and beheld 

 Snowdon and his chiefs apparently with the full 

 rigors of winter upon them. It was so satisfying 



