Читать книгу The Tourist's Guide through North Wales - G. J. Bennett - Страница 14

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“In Cambria’s noon of story,

Ere bright she set in glory,

The brave and great, in princely state,

All hail’d Chirk Castle walls.

With splendid arms returning,

The flaring torches burning,

’Mid armour’s clang the clarions rang,

And search’d the sounding halls.”

SONG BY F. M. DOVASTON, A.M.

Chirk Castle is delightfully situated on the spacious domain, spreading over the summit of, what would be deemed, by a southern, a lofty mountain, but which is here only designated a hill, projecting from the range of the Berwyn Mountains, and is well calculated to recall the stories of the days of old, when flourished—

“The good old rule, the simple plan,

That they should take who have the power,

And they should keep who can.”

It is built of solid stone; and the ivy, mantling over the walls, gives them an appearance of solemnity and grandeur peculiarly interesting. It is quadrangular, and is strengthened by five massive towers, one at each corner, and the fifth projecting from the principal front, through which is a lofty entrance into the court-yard, 165 feet in length, and 100 feet in breadth, surrounded on every side by noble suites of apartments. The picture gallery measures 100 feet in length, by twenty-two in breadth, and contains some very excellent paintings, and several portraits of the Myddelton family. Amongst the latter is that of Sir Thomas Myddelton, who defended himself gallantly against the forces of Cromwell. He was rewarded for his loyalty by Charles the Second, who granted him £30,000 for the loss he had sustained, besides many valuable presents; amongst others, a cabinet, which is shewn in the gallery, valued at £7000, richly ornamented with silver; in various compartments of which are paintings, said to have been executed by Rubens. The monarch offered to elevate Sir Thomas to the peerage, which he declined.

The walls of the castle are eighteen feet in thickness; but sleeping and other apartments have been cut into them, for the accommodation of the family.

The celebrated picture of Pistyll Rhaiadr, in the dining-room, shows that noble waterfall tumbling into the sea, where several ships are quietly riding at anchor. “Pistyll Rhaiadr,” i.e. “The Spout of the Cataract,” is considered the largest fall in Wales. In the valley of Mochnant, about four miles from Llanrhaiadr, the river falls over an almost perpendicular rock, 240 feet high; thence rushing furiously under a natural arch towards the bottom, it plunges into a deep black pool, overhung with impervious shaggy wood.

The story of the artist’s introducing the ocean, with ships, is rather curious. He was a foreigner, and but little acquainted with the English language; and when he had completed the picture, one of the persons to whom it was first shown observed, that “a few sheep placed near the foot of the fall would be a great improvement.” Misunderstanding sheep for ship, his amazement was extreme. He, however, took the picture to his easel, and introduced ships, with the necessary element to float them! A mistake so humourous determined the purchaser to allow of no further alteration.

The present building was completed in two years. The first stone being laid in the year 1011, and in 1013 the castle frowned defiance to the foe.

It was built by Roger Mortimer, Earl of Wigmore, as a stronghold to defend him from the just vengeance he had created by the murder of the sons of Gruffydd ab Madoc, to whom he was appointed guardian, in conjunction with John, Earl of Warren, in the hope of inheriting their joint estates. Mortimer was to seize upon Nanheudwy and Chirk, the property of the youngest; and Warren upon the lands of Bromfield, Yale, and Dinas Bran, belonging to the eldest. Travellers should not neglect to visit this noble specimen of warlike architecture. Its picture gallery and dungeon will, in their different styles, excite admiration.

On the foundation of the present castle anciently stood Castle Crogen; and the territory around bore the name of Trev-y Waun, the property of the lords of Dinas Bran, which continued in their possession up to the death of Gruffydd ab Madoc, in the reign of Edward the First.

The view from the highlands of the park is very extensive, and commands a prospect of seventeen different counties.

The vale beneath, which winds along the foot of the vast Berwyn Mountains, was the scene of a desperate conflict between Henry the Second and the Welsh. Henry having determined once more to attempt the subjugation of Wales, and to revenge the ravages carried through the borders by its gallant prince, Owen Gwynedd, assembled a vast army at Oswestry. Owen, on the contrary, collected all the chieftains and their dependents at Corwen. The two armies met on the banks of the Ceiriog. The conflict was obstinate and bloody, and numbers of brave men perished. In the end the Welsh retired to Corwen. Henry reached the summit of the Berwyn, but was so distressed by dreadful rains, and by the activity and prudence of Owen, who cut him off from all supplies, that he was obliged to return ingloriously, with considerable loss of men and equipage. The place is still called Adwy’r Beddau, or the Pass of the Graves—of the men who were slain there.

The remains of Offa’s Dyke, the ancient boundary between England and Wales, are still visible near the castle, and may be traced a considerable distance through the park.

The Vale of the Ceiriog at Chirk, like that of the Dee between Chirk and Llangollen, is distinguished by two specimens of architectural skill and enterprise, each valley being crossed by the Ellesmere Canal and the Shrewsbury and Chester Railway, upon long ranges of arches, at a considerable elevation.

The aqueducts of Chirk and Pont y Cysylltau have long been the objects of general admiration, but for elegance of design, as well as magnitude, they must now yield the palm to the viaducts of the railway, which are, in truth, most noble structures.

In this lovely village we put up at the Chirk Castle Arms to take luncheon, which was served with much civility—cold meat, a cream salad, and a capital Cheshire cheese, with the best of Shropshire ale. This excellent inn is kept by Mr. Moses.

After proceeding about a mile and a half on the Llangollen Road, and leaving Wynnstay, the noble mansion of Sir Watkin Williams Wynn, Bart., M.P., on the right, we were conducted along the banks of a beautiful canal (the same that crosses the valley at Chirk), which was here planted with laurel and hazel in pleasing variety on either side. On a sudden, an opening in the foliage presented us with a splendid view of the Vale of the Dee, with the two noble structures, the viaduct and aqueduct, gracefully stretching from hill to hill, and the waters of the river making their way amongst the broken rocks and embowering trees, and rolling under their arches with that delightful sound which is only heard in mountain scenery.

Seldom had I experienced so delightful a sensation as the present prospect occasioned. All was so calm, so quiet, it seemed, indeed, “the Happy Valley.” Shortly after, however, we found that no golden pleasure is entirely free from alloy, for on turning a projection upon the road, we were nearly stifled from a lime furnace, and what was worse, another and another still succeeded, resembling a line of batteries blazing and vomiting forth smoke and destruction, while upon the opposite mountain an uniform body of iron works were firing away from their tall chimneys, and steadily maintained the never-ceasing conflict.

At length, however, having happily passed these belligerents, my companion led me in triumph into a little public house on the road side, which overlooked a precipice, the Aqueduct Tavern, the exterior of which promised little better accommodation than is met with in an Irish cabin. We entered, nevertheless, and although the floor was of brick, it was very clean, and the household utensils glittered along the walls.

“Pray, gentlemen, walk into the back parlour,” said a comely-looking, good-natured landlady of forty-three.

We gladly accepted her invitation, and were agreeably surprised to find a neat room, carpeted, with a sofa, and half-a-dozen hair-bottomed chairs, and every thing rurally comfortable. The window looked upon the aqueduct, and commanded a beautiful prospect.

Having discussed our beverage, and lighted cigars, we quitted the comfortable little cottage, and bent our steps towards the aqueduct, to cross by it to the opposite side of the Vale.

A cigar in the cool of the evening is delightful,—

“Glorious tobacco, that from east to west,

Cheers the tar’s labour, and the Turk-man’s rest.”

So sang the noble bard, the music of whose lyre is left to charm the race of mankind for ages yet to come.

We soon reached the centre of the aqueduct; it extends, from hill to hill, in length 980 feet; it is sustained by twenty piers, 115 feet in height from the bed of the river Dee, and the span of the arches is forty-five feet.

The length of the viaduct is 1,538 feet; its height 147 feet, the number of arches nineteen, and the span of each arch is sixty feet.

I never felt the influence of the sublime mingled with the beautiful so deeply as when I stood upon this wonderful work of art; wherever I turned my eyes the scene was calculated to excite the warmest feelings of admiration. The Dee flowing beneath, shadowed by the rich tints of the summer foliage; the ruined bridge; the dark mountain masses upon either side, patched with gloomy pines, intermingled with the relieving brightness of the graceful larch. Here waves the lovely blooming heather, there stands the blasted rock in its naked majesty, the noble amphitheatre at the extremity of the vale, with a distant view of the viaduct; the twittering of the birds, as they settled to repose upon the trees around, altogether gave a charm to the evening which can only be felt while witnessing the scene, and which exceeds the power of description.

Having crossed the aqueduct, we proceeded by the left bank of the canal, passing a forge, that nearly stifled us with gaseous smoke, along a pathway made of cinders and small coal, the refuse of the adjacent iron-smelting foundry.

Trees of every description hung over our heads, and sloped down a deep declivity to the margin of the Dee, while on the opposite bank the mountain frowned above us. The partial glances we obtained of the vale through the woods, discovered scenes which the artist’s fancy might vainly attempt to equal.

At length we reached the Bridge of Llangollen, whence the river is seen to great advantage, tumbling over its rocky bed, and rushing beneath the dark shelter of the over-hanging trees. The village is small, and contains two respectable hotels, viz., the Hand, at which we stopped by the advice of my companion, and the Royal Hotel.

We were shown into a very good parlour, and after ordering a tea and supper dinner, my friend, somewhat exhausted by the day’s march, flung himself upon a sofa, while I resumed my journal, and soon afterwards retired to my bed-room, where the murmurs of the flowing Dee were distinctly heard beneath the window.

“Here I am, then,” said I, soliloquising, as I pressed the pillow; “here am I, at length, in the Vale of Llangollen; in the village of Llangollen,—a spot which I have so often longed to visit!”

“Flow on, thou shining river!”

and in a few moments I sank soundly to sleep.