splendid relic of Tudor architecture, to which Charles, the last Duke of Richmond and Lennox, added a centre building designed by Inigo Jones. The two wings it connects are of earlier date, having been built in 1582. This noble inheritance has since passed by marriage into the Bligh family, and is now the property of John Stuart, sixth Earl of Darnley. The greater part of the seat of the Marquess of Northampton, Castle Ashby, was built in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, as three sides of a quadrangle, during the lifetime of William, first Earl of Northampton. A fourth side, or front, was added by Inigo Jones, and, notwithstanding the differences of architectural style, the whole harmonises extremely well. The great gates open in front of the addition made by Jones, and on crossing the quadrangle a flight of steps leads to the large hall, a truly noble room, and grand staircase. The Grange, in Hampshire, now the seat of Lord Ashburton, formerly in the possession of the Henley family, ancestors of the well-known Lord Chancellor Henley in the reigns of George II. and George III., is always considered as one of the best of Inigo Jones's buildings. The house is not a large one, but is in very good taste; the hall, which opens to a small vestibule with a cupola, and the staircase, are models of the purest and most classic antiquity. Coleshill, in Berkshire, must also be noticed. It was built in 1650 from the designs of Inigo Jones by a member of the Pleydell family, and passed, through a marriage of the heiress of the estates, in 1747-8, into that of the Earls of Radnor. Ambresbury, in Wiltshire, corrupted to Amesbury, and the residence of Sir Edmund Antrobus, is attributed to Inigo Jones, as likewise is Stoke Park, now owned by Mr. Edward Coleman, but then the proud possession of the Villiers family.

Mention must not be omitted of the works of Inigo Jones in North Wales, though of his visits to the land of his fathers. no record exists. The little town of Llanrwst, in Denbighshire, the probable home of his ancestors, lies prettily situated on the river Conway, which separates it from Carnarvonshire. The approach to the town is over a bridge planned by Jones, consisting of three arches, two of which are very beautiful, and show the architect's power. The third arch is far inferior, having been rebuilt in 1703. In the same neighbourhood is a Mausoleum Chapel of the Gwydir family, founded in 1633 by Sir Richard Wynne, from a design by Inigo. At the fine old Elizabethan mansion of Cors-y-gedol, near Barmouth, in Merionethshire, the ancient seat of the Vaughans, now the property of Mr. Edward Colston, there is a beautiful Gothic porter's lodge and gateway attributed to Inigo. The same design, on a smaller scale, is to be seen at Trevalyn Hall, in Denbighshire, probably from the same master's hands, and bearing date

1606, with the initials "S. R. T.," for Sir Richard Trevor, then owner of the estate. Brynkinalt, near Chirk, the picturesquely situated mansion of the senior branch of the Trevors, who afterwards became Viscounts Dungannon, has portions of the house from the designs of the same famous architect, who also furnished the plans for Plas Têg, in Flintshire, built by Sir John Trevor about 1610. Near Wrexham, at Brymbo Hall, the residence of the Right Hon. G. Osborne Morgan, M.P., a portico, dated 1624, is attributed to Inigo Jones, and is in his later style.

During all these years, whilst Inigo Jones was designing and superintending the numerous buildings, both in the metropolis and in the country, which were erected from his plans, and during the prosperous state of affairs at the beginning of King Charles's reign, he continued to be a great favourite at the Court, and was instrumental in promoting the pleasures and amusements that were carried on there with so much taste and display. Little, however, is known of his private life, and no special honours appear to have been granted to him, although he shared in the after misfortunes of his Royal master. Inigo Jones's residence was in Scotland Yard, and here, during the civil wars, he and Stone, the mason, buried their treasures. On the spot being discovered they dug them up and re-interred them at Lambeth. Inigo's religion also, the Roman Catholic, made him an object of suspicion in the Puritan days which had overtaken England. He lived to witness the execution of the unfortunate Charles on January 30th, 1649, but grief, misfortunes, and age alike seem to have prostrated the celebrated architect and gay scenic inventor, and he died at Somerset House, July 21st, 1651. His body was buried at St Bennet's Church, Paul's Wharf, not far from his birthplace, nor from the shadow of the great cathedral of St. Paul's, whose restoration had been one of his grandest labours. The monument erected to his memory was destroyed shortly after when St. Bennet's Church was burnt in the great fire of London in 1666.

It does not appear that Inigo Jones was ever married. His heir and successor was a Mr. J. Webb, whom Inigo had brought up, and instructed in mathematics and architecture, and who afterwards married a kinswoman of his master's.

Much difference of opinion exists as to the merit of many of Inigo Jones's works. The state of architecture in Great Britain at the time he lived was at a low ebb, and this he endeavoured to reform. He had studied in Italy, and all his tastes and models were taken from that classic land, and from the teachings of his master, Andrea Palladio. Inigo Jones cannot be considered generally successful when he attempted Gothic, but he endeavoured, and with excellent effect, to

accommodate to our variable climate the beautiful designs and ideas taken from the buildings of the sunny south. In any age, however, the genius of Inigo Jones would have shone forth, and he would have ranked high as an architect. Wales, equally with England, may well therefore be proud of his talents, and Wales will ever record his name amongst those of the most distinguished of her sons. Inigo Jones left behind him an immense number of drawings and designs which have been published at various times. He also left in MSS. some curious notes on Palladio's architecture, which were inserted in an edition of Palladio published in 1714.

Wrexham.

"GWENYNEN GWYNEDD."

MR. INGRAM'S PLATE-CHEST.

BY

DENZIL VANE.

Author of “ Chance or Fate,” “ A Sapphire Ring," "An Inheritance of Sorrow," "The Story of an Envelope," &c., &c.

CHAPTER I.

With a jerk forward, and a shrill scream as of some tortured demon, the afternoon express steamed out of the St. Pancras Station. Heaving a sigh of relief, I leaned back in the carriage as the train quickened its pace from the crawl of starting to the rapid rush of express speed, above the myriad roofs of the Great City. I had the pleasing prospect of a month's holiday, and I was leaving London the hot, breathless London of midJuly behind me. What wonder that that heartfelt sigh of relief escaped me? For one whole month-thirty happy days of glorious freedom-I was to be a man of leisure. I might do what seemed best in my own eyes, go where I pleased, without asking leave of any man.

For a month the weariful monotony of my life was to be completely revolutionised. The hateful office stool would know me no more, for the magic words had been spoken-" a month's holiday." I kept repeating those words over to myself in a kind of ecstasy-a month, four weeks, thirty days' holiday. The words seem to set themselves rhythmically to the monotonous throb of the engine as the train sped on through the green pastures of Hertfordshire.

My destination was to be a small rustic village in the Midlands, which I will call Parkfield-a quiet nook, within five miles of a busy, thriving country town. Parkfield might be dull, indeed dulness was its normal condition, but just now, with brain and body wearied with the noise and bustle of London streets, it seemed to me a very haven of rest. Within three hours of my departure from St. Pancras, I and my belongings were established comfortably at the one inn Parkfield could boast. After a modest dinner I lit my pipe, preparatory to taking a stroll through the village street. It was evidently the hour of relaxation and of social enjoyment in Parkfield, for most of the inhabitants were clustered round

their respective doors, the women talking to each other across the street in shrill, treble tones, the men, for the most part, in the silent enjoyment of incredibly short clays.

Slowly sauntering on, I soon reached the outskirts of the village. Twilight was deepening into dusk, but I had no inclination to return to my inn. I had reached a place where two roads met. A guide-post faced me, but it was too dark to read its inscription. I paused for a moment, hesitating which way I should take. To the left was a narrow lane with over-arching trees that met overhead in a thick leafy canopy; to the right a broad coach-road, with a low hedge on either hand. Though I knew it not, it was a turning point in my life. I debated with myself for an instant, and then guided by some subtle instinct, that I could not analyse, I took the right hand road.

The evening was calm and still; above in the deep blue sky the stars were beginning to shine out one by one. The air was rich with the scent of the honeysuckles and wild roses growing in the hedges. The perfect silence was only broken at intervals by the soft "jug-jug" of the nightingales from a neighbouring copse. The gentle influences of the hour were upon me. The quiet peaceful beauty of the country touched me strangely. Mind and body were alike soothed by the sense of utter solitude; I was alone with Nature at an hour when she wears her serenest aspect. So lost was I in pleasant musings that at first I scarcely noticed a dark object lying in the road not twenty paces in front of me, and it was not until a faint moan, either of pain or of distress, smote on my ear, that my attention was fully aroused. Hurrying forward, I saw to my surprise that the dark object was the prostrate body of a man. As I bent over the apparently lifeless form, I saw by the dim starlight that the man was old-sixty perhaps, with pale, wasted features, and thin grey hair. His lips were contracted as if by acute pain, and his eyes closed. Another low moan came from the rigid lips as I raised the grey head from the dusty road, and loosened the old man's collar and cravat. My efforts to restore him, unskilful as they were, were not without good result. Uttering another feeble moan, the sufferer opened his eyes with a vague, half-startled look of fear. I tried to calm him by a few reassuring words.

"I am better now," he murmured faintly.

I hastened to offer my assistance, for he looked incapable of walking without help.

"Thanks, I should be glad of your arm as far as my home," he replied. "I was overtaken by a spasm of pain to which I am liable, and I suppose I fainted. I must express my gratitude for your kindness in coming to my aid."

There was something of old-fashioned courtesy in his manner -a courtesy that was strongly tinctured with formality, but