They
Were Remains Of Castles Built By Norman Barons.
Here, perhaps, the
reader will expect from me a burst of Norman enthusiasm:
If so he
will be mistaken; I have no Norman enthusiasm, and hate and
abominate the name of Norman, for I have always associated that
name with the deflowering of helpless Englishwomen, the plundering
of English homesteads, and the tearing out of poor Englishmen's
eyes. The sight of those edifices, now in ruins, but which were
once the strongholds of plunder, violence, and lust, made me almost
ashamed of being an Englishman, for they brought to my mind the
indignities to which poor English blood has been subjected. I sat
silent and melancholy, till looking from the window I caught sight
of a long line of hills, which I guessed to be the Welsh hills, as
indeed they proved, which sight causing me to remember that I was
bound for Wales, the land of the bard, made me cast all gloomy
thoughts aside and glow with all the Welsh enthusiasm with which I
glowed when I first started in the direction of Wales.
On arriving at Chester, at which place we intended to spend two or
three days, we put up at an old-fashioned inn in Northgate Street,
to which we had been recommended; my wife and daughter ordered tea
and its accompaniments, and I ordered ale, and that which always
should accompany it, cheese. "The ale I shall find bad," said I;
Chester ale had a villainous character in the time of old Sion
Tudor, who made a first-rate englyn upon it, and it has scarcely
improved since; "but I shall have a treat in the cheese, Cheshire
cheese has always been reckoned excellent, and now that I am in the
capital of the cheese country, of course I shall have some of the
very prime." Well, the tea, loaf and butter made their appearance,
and with them my cheese and ale.
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