Part 8
“King Edward the Fourth was besieged in Denbigh castelle, and ther it was pactid between king Henry’s men and hym that he should with life departe the reaulme, never to returne. If they had taken king Edwarde there debellatum fuisset.”
The parish church stands within the walls of the original town. Below the castle are the fragments of an old church, which for particular reasons, that cannot now be ascertained, was never finished: it contains nine windows on two sides, with a large and handsome one on the east.
The vale of Clwyd still retains the character of luxuriant fertility; about two miles from hence, in our way to
RUTHIN,
“Denbigh, fair empress of the vale,” with its tottering towers, formed a most beautiful landscape; whilst the neat little hamlet of Whitchurch peeped from among the pomp of groves. At the small village of St. Fynnon St. Dyfnog, this curious inscription over a door,
“Near this place, within a vault, There is such liquor fix’d, You’ll say that water, hops, and malt, Were never better mix’d;”
invited the “weary-way wanderer,” to partake of the _good things_ within: this inclined us to be better acquainted with the author of this _extraordinary_ stanza; and we intreated the Landlord to be our director to the much-esteemed well of St. Dyfnog. Passing through the church-yard, and from thence through the passage of an alms’-house, we reached a plantation of trees, with a broad gravel-walk, almost concealed from day’s garish light, by the thick foliage: this brought us to the fountain, enclosed in an angular wall, which forms a bath of considerable size; and so
—“far retir’d Among the windings of a woody vale, By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty, conceal’d;”
that the “lovely young Lavinia” might here plunge into the flood, secure from the intrusion of Palemon. Many wonderful qualities are attributed to this fountain; but it is more particularly celebrated for the cure of the rheumatism: the water has no peculiar taste. We returned by a subterraneous path under the road, which led to the pleasure-grounds, adjoining the seat of Major Wylyn.
Several seats were beautifully dispersed on each side of the vale; among which, Lord Bagot’s and Lord Kirkwall’s formed the most prominent features in the landscape.
Ruthin is a large neat town, only divided from the parish of Llanruth, by a strong stone bridge: the scite of the church is extremely pretty, and is a handsome modern edifice: here is a monument to Dr. Gabriel Goodman, Dean of Westminster, in the time of Elizabeth, and likewise a native of this place. A new gaol has lately been built here by Mr. Turner. The remains of the castle, at the southern extremity of the town, are scarcely worthy a moment’s observation; and the scite of the old chapel is now converted into a bowling-green. Owen Glendwr demolished this town by fire, September 20, 1400. In the last century, the loyalists fortified the castle, and sustained a long siege in 1646.
We still continued skirting the rich vale of Clwyd; but winding up a steep hill, overlooking the whole of it, from one extremity to the other, we were reluctantly compelled to bid a final adieu to all its vistas, hamlets, steeples; the whole prospect, glowing with luxuriance, seemed to assume fresh beauties, at this our farewell view: the cattle, which were grazing in the shorn meadows, and beautifully contrasted with the ripening corn, appeared more animated; and we discovered, or thought we discovered, an additional number of villages, peeping from the woody skirts of the sloping hills. From this point the vale is certainly seen to great advantage. To give a still greater effect, a thunder-storm came rolling on; and the clouds were
“Silent borne along, heavy and slow, With the big stores of steaming oceans charg’d.”
This storm compelled us to seek for a shelter, in a miserable pot-house; but the civility of the landlady fully compensated for its want of accommodations. The effects of the storm rendered the remainder of our journey much more agreeable, and the heat less oppressive: a dull, uninteresting road continued, till we arrived within four or five miles of
WREXHAM.
The contrast was too striking to escape our notice; but having climbed a steep eminence, the eye commanded an almost boundless range of land; and the faint colour of the hills, retiring in the distance, was beautifully combined with the mellow green of nearer woods. The counties of Cheshire, Shropshire, and a considerable part of Wales, were extended, like a map, for our inspection; the town of Wrexham, rising in the bottom, animated the scene, with its noble tower, overtopping the numberless little steeples near it. Close to the road, we observed several coal and lead mines, and a melting house for forming lead into pigs; these works belong to Mr. Wilkinson.
The dirty out-skirts of Wrexham, by no means prepossessed us in favor of the town, but viewing it more leisurely, we can safely affirm, that it is not only the largest, but the best built town in Wales.
To the kind attentions of a clergyman in the neighbourhood of Wrexham, we are much indebted, and under his directions, we surveyed the lions with great advantage. Our friendly Ciceroni first conducted us to the church, an elegant building of the reign of Henry VII. The tower is an hundred and forty feet high, and esteemed “a beautiful specimen of the florid, or reformed Gothic, which prevailed about that time;” all the figures and ornaments are well designed, and still in high preservation. The inside is not less elegant; it has lately been neatly repaired, with a good gallery and organ: the painted altar piece is well executed. On the left, facing the altar, is a very handsome monument by Roubilliac, to the memory of Mrs. Mary Middleton; both the design, and execution, reflect the highest credit on the sculptor; the subject is the last day; at the sound of the trumpet, a tomb of black marble bursts open, and a beautiful female figure, clothed in white, appears rising from it, just awoke from the sleep of death; her form dignified; candour, innocence, and celestial joy shine in her countenance, and gives it the most feeling and animated expression: in the back ground, an obelisk, supposed to be erected to her memory, is rent asunder; above, an angel, enveloped in a cloud, is pointing to brighter scenes. In this church are two other monuments, executed by the same celebrated master, in memory of some of the Middletons; their designs, though striking, cannot be compared to his last day. Our worthy conductor, perceiving we were great amateurs of paintings, and careful that nothing of consequence should be passed unnoticed by us, particularly wished us to examine the performance of a young artist, then at Wrexham: a copy amongst others, of a painting of Rembrant’s, taken by Mr. Allen, from a celebrated picture, in the possession of Lord Craven, was most ingenuously executed; the subject is an old man, instructing a young boy; the attention of the latter, most admirably preserved; the head of the former, and the hand particularly, most highly finished. Without any exaggeration, this painting would do credit to the most scientific painter, and be esteemed invaluable; it is therefore to be hoped, from the hands of so young an artist as Mr. Allen, that this performance will be disposed of, where judges of painting may view it with a critic’s eye, and recommend its merits to those who can afford to encourage industry and ingenuity.
Our friend’s invitation to his hospitable parsonage, and agreeable family, was too kindly urged, possibly to be refused, and in our way to
MARCH WIEL,
we visited the seat of P. York, Esq. The grounds and plantations, are very extensive; and the bowery walk, while they afford refreshing shelter from a summer’s sun, allow partial views of the counties of Cheshire and Shropshire; with the Weeakin and Brydyork hills: in short, through these groves
“How long so e’er the wanderer roves, each step Shall wake fresh beauties, each short point presents A different picture; new, and yet the same.”
The tower of Wrexham, and the town itself, as occasion offers, is a nearer, and an additional charming object. In an alteration of the walks a few years since, were discovered below the surface of the ground, the shattered walls of an ancient castle; these fragments Mr. Yorke has left unimpaired, and they remain a momento of the vicissitudes of fortune. The entrenchments round the castle, and likewise the original scite of the keep, are still very apparent.
The house itself is very indifferent: Watt’s dyke runs through part of the grounds. In a parlour opposite the garden, we observed some fine paintings of the Hardwick family. Mr. Yorke has dedicated another room to the royal tribes of Wales, {144} where the arms and lines of the descent, as far as they can be traced, are emblazoned and hung up.
In the coolness of the evening, our hospitable host, conducted us to the neat and elegant little country church of March Wiel, lately cased with stone; and in the year 1788, ornamented with a new painted window by Mr. Eginton, of Birmingham; the twenty-one compartments contain the arms and crests of the Middletons and Yorks, with rich transparent borders. This window is undoubtedly very elegant, but the subject in my own opinion, more adapted to a hall, than an ornament to a church window. The high tower appears not in proportion with the body of the church.
Deeply impressed with sentiments of gratitude towards our Reverend friend, and sensible of his hospitality and kind intentions, we took leave of him early the next morning, and pursued our route to
RUABON,
purporting to visit Wynstay Park, the much admired seat of Sir Watkin Williams Wynne. On leaving Marchwiel, a most delightful prospect spread before us; in the retrospect, the tower of Wrexham Church brought to our recollection the views of Magdalen College Tower, in the vicinity of Oxford.
The park of Wynstay is well stocked with red deer; excellent plantations; and the house is an elegant modern structure, but nothing in the inside particularly deserving the attention of the traveller. In the grounds, the chief object, worthy of inspection, is a very elegant obelisk, now erecting to the memory of the present Sir Watkin’s father. The height is an hundred and one feet; the base of it sixteen, and the top nine, built with free-stone, and fluted: round the top is formed a gallery, with a handsome urn in bronze, after an elegant design, cast in London; round the base of the column, are wreaths of oak leaves, in the beaks of four eagles, cast in the same metal. On the south-west side is a door, with a stair-case within the obelisk leading to the top: we regretted that the key could not be procured, as the prospect from that eminence must be extremely fine. On the other three sides, an appropriate inscription, in English, Welch, and Latin, is to be carved.
Through this park runs Offa’s Dyke, thrown up by the great King of Mercia, from whence it derives its name, to check the irruptions of the Welch, mark the confines of each country, and give greater security to his own. It begins at Basingwerk, in Flintshire, and ends at Chepstow, in Monmouthshire; extending a line of not less than one hundred and fifty miles, over rocks and mountains. This great undertaking still retains the ancient name of _Clawdh Offa_, or Offa’s Dyke.
Passing through the little village of Ruabon, situated at the extremity of Sir Watkin’s Park, a very interesting and picturesque country, composed of rich vallies, and gently sloping hills, presented itself to our view; and, at some distance, we soon caught a glimpse of Chirk Castle, a noble seat of the family of the Myddleton’s, standing on an eminence. Four miles from Llangollen, we enquired for the wonderful
PONTCYSYLLTY, {147}
(pronounced _Pont y Casulte_) or famous aqueduct, now erecting over the river Dee, and found ourselves within half a mile of this great and astonishing undertaking. It is not yet finished; eleven pillars are already completed, built of sandy stone, which is dug on the spot; they are fifteen yards asunder, and their height, from the bed of the river, one hundred and twenty feet: over the whole is to run an iron trough, sufficiently deep for barges of considerable burthen. On the middle column is the following inscription:
“The nobility and gentry of The adjacent counties, Having united their efforts with The great commercial interest of this country, In creating an intercourse and union between England and Wales, By a navigable communication of the three rivers, Severn, Dee, and Mercey; For the mutual benefit of agriculture and trade, Caus’d the first stone of this aqueduct of PONTCYSYLLTY To be laid on the 25th day of July, M.DCC.XCV. When Richard Myddleton, of Chirk, Esq. M.P. One of the original patrons of the Ellesmere canal, Was lord of this manor, And in the reign of our Sovereign George the Third; When the equity of the laws, and The security of property, Promoted the general welfare of the nation; While the arts and sciences flourish’d By his patronage, and The conduct of civil life was improv’d By his example.”
This wonderful aqueduct reflects great honour to the undertakers of so admirable, as well as valuable enterprize; and, should their hazardous scheme succeed, the whole nation must indubitably reap great advantages: several columns must still be erected, before the level can be accomplished. It is forming over the most beautiful and romantic part of the river Dee; a bridge likewise, not far from this spot, adds considerably to the beauty of the scene. Wood, water, and sloping hills, all combine to render this vale interesting; several detached cottages, are sprinkled through its wooded declivities, and here and there a gentleman’s seat, “embosomed high in tufted trees,” makes a pleasing feature, in the fascinating landscape. Returning to the turnpike-road, a short saunter soon brought us to the romantically-situated town of
LLANGOLLEN,
(pronounced _Llangothlen_) completely environed with mountains, with a high hill to our right, bearing on its narrow peak the small remains of Castel Dinas Bran. The bridge, adjacent to the town, thrown over the rapid Dee, consisting of six arches, and formerly esteemed _One of the principal Wonders of Wales_, by no means answered our expectations. Some difficulty, no doubt, attended its first erection, as the foundation is built on the solid rock: it is now repairing.
The elegant description of the valley in the kingdom of Amhara, by Dr. Johnson, is very applicable to Llangollen; for “all the blessings of nature seemed here to be collected, and its evils extracted and excluded.” Without a sigh of regret, not like the discontented Rasselas, I could here pass the remainder of my days, “in full conviction, that this vale contains within its reach all that art or nature can bestow; _I could_ pity those, whom fate had excluded from this seat of tranquillity, as the sport of chance, and the slaves of misery.” Such is the enviable situation of Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby, who thus veiled in obscurity have fitted up, in a true characteristic stile, an elegant little cottage, at the west extremity of the town, situated on a knole: the two rooms, which are allotted for the inspection of strangers, are very handsomely furnished; the dining-room is ornamented with drawings, the most favourite spots in the vicinity being selected as the subjects. The window commands a prospect of the mountains, which awfully rise in front. The study, looking on the well-arranged plantations of the garden, was appropriately furnished with a choice collection of books: we regretted, in the absence of the gardener, that we could not gain admittance to the grounds. The vale of Llangollen, and this enviable retreat, have been the subject of much admiration both in verse and prose; and highly deserve the praises, which have been lavished upon it.
“Say, ivy’d Valle Crucis; time delay’d Dim on the brink of Deva’s wand’ring floods, Your iv’d arch glitt’ring thro’ the tangled shade, Your grey hills tow’ring o’er your night of woods; Deep in the vale recesses as you stand, And, desolately great, the rising sigh command; Say, lovely ruin’d pile, when former years Saw your pale train at midnight altars bow; Saw superstition frown upon the tears That mourn’d the rash, irrevocable vow; Wore one young lip gay Eleanora’s {151a} smile? Did Zara’s {151b} look serene one tedious hour beguile?”
The bridge of Llangollen is thus described by the elegant pen of Mr. Pennant:
“The bridge, which was founded by the first _John Trevor_, bishop of _St. Asaph_, {151c} who died in 1357, is one of the _Tri Thlws Cymru_, or three beauties of _Wales_: but more remarkable for its situation than structure. It consists of five arches; whose widest does not exceed twenty-eight feet in diameter. The river usually runs under only one; where it has formed a black chasm of vast depth, into which the water pours with great fury, from a high broken ledge, formed in the smooth, and solid rock, which composes the whole bed of the river. The view through the arches, either upwards or downwards, is extremely picturesque.”
Having satisfied our curiosity, Dinas Bran, or Crow Castle, next invited our attention, and having attained the summit of a steep and craggy hill, commanding a pleasing view of Llangollen, we arrived at the ruins, which crest this precipice. The remains of this castle are now so trifling, that it scarcely repays even the enthusiast the trouble of ascending; its appearance is by no means picturesque, not a tree to give effect to the crumbling walls; nor has time spared one of the towers.
It was formerly the residence of Myfanwy Vechan, so celebrated in verse. The castle is built of the stone which composes the hill, on which it is erected. The prospect is very pleasing. Chirk Castle, Wynstay Park, {152} and many other seats of respectability, more particularly conspicuous; great part of the vale, and the meandering course of the Dee, may here be traced; whilst the opposite hills are shelved off in an extraordinary and unusual manner, resembling so many walls, or fortifications. Having descended this steep eminence, we continued our route to Valle Crucis Abbey, about two miles distant from Llangollen. It would be advisable for strangers first to visit Valle Crucis, and take Dinas Bran Castle in their way back to their inn. The transmutations of time are frequently ridiculous: the long aisles of this monastery, which were once only responsive to the slow-breathed chaunt, now repeat the rude dissonance of ducks, cows, and all manner of poultry. Instead of these emblems of rusticity, the mind’s eye is more accustomed to appropriate these antique edifices to the midnight procession of monks issuing from their cells, to perform the solemn service. These neglected walls are too deeply-shrouded in their melancholy grove of ash-trees, to be seen to advantage; an axe, judiciously used, would be of service to the ruin, as the elegant window of the chapel is completely concealed by the luxuriant vegetation around; still, however, a pleasing melancholy pervades the whole scene. The abbey is beautifully skreened, on all sides, by woody hills, which entirely protect it from the inclemency of the winter.
This ancient cistertian monastery was founded by Madoc ap Griffith Maylor, in the year 1200, and is sometimes called Llan-Egwiste, or Llanegwast. In this vale is the pillar of Eglwyseg; but the country people appeared quite ignorant of its situation. Returning to Llangollen, we pursued the turnpike road to the neat village of
CHIRK.
For some way we followed the strait and formal course of a canal, near this, communicating with the Pont-y-Casulte; we again paused to survey this wonderful design. The vale, on our left, was indescribably beautiful; and over the whole was diffused the purple glow of the even. The prospect was composed of the miniature parts of the immense landscape we had viewed from Dinas Bran Hill, each of which we now contemplated separately as a scene. The moon’s checkered gleam besilvered the walls of Chirk Castle, just as we entered the Hand Inn, where, after the fatigues of a long walk, we met with excellent accommodations, when considered as a village.
After breakfast the next morning, we endeavoured to obtain admission to see the inside of Chirk Castle, but without success, though now only inhabited by servants, who were peremptorily commanded to admit no strangers. It is situated on an eminence, surrounded by a park, and fine plantations, which are very judiciously laid out; this elegant mansion has been in the possession of the Myddleton family, ever since the year 1614. Having gratified ourselves with a survey of this noble park, we returned to the Oswestry road. Leaving the village of Chirk, we crossed a new bridge, of one arch, elegantly constructed: near is another aqueduct, of considerable extent, now erecting over this river and valley, which, though very inferior to the Pont-y-Casulte, is still a great undertaking: it is several hundred yards in length, and the brick piers rise fifty or sixty feet above the level of the water. Near this is a rich coal mine, lately discovered. From hence to Oswestry, we traversed a rich enclosed country, and enjoyed a scene particularly pleasing: all the inhabitants were collected, to gather in the produce of the ripened field; and
“Thro’ their cheerful band the rural talk The rural scandal, and the rural jest, Fled harmless.”
To the traveller and the poet, such scenes afford an ample field for amusement; but waving corn is ill adapted to the canvass of the painter. About two miles from Oswestry, we passed through the little town of
WHITTINGTON.
At this place was fought the battle between Oswald, the Christian King of the Northumbrians, and Pènda, the Pagan King of the Mercians, in which the former lost his life. An easy walk soon brought us to
OSWESTRY.
Its only relicks now remaining are the ruins of a chapel, built over a remarkably fine spring of water; to this was formerly attributed the cure of various diseases, incident both to man and beast; and though its miracles have long ceased, yet it still bears the name of the saint. The remains of the castle, supposed to have been built at the time of the conquest, are now almost too trivial to be noticed. This town was garrisoned by the King, in the beginning of the civil wars, but captured in June, 1644, by the Earl of Denbigh and General Mytton.
In passing through the town of Oswestry, we noticed the church, as being a very neat building; but either from our own neglect, or imagining it not to be ancient, we did not inspect the interior. Oswestry suffered greatly by fire, in the year 1542, and likewise in 1567.