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