ABERGELE,
we observed, on our right, two immense caverns, about half way up the mountain; they are called Cavern-arogo, and run four or five hundred yards into the ground; but their real extent has never been ascertained with accuracy. From these mountains vast quantities of lime are shipped for Liverpool and many parts of England.
Abergele, situate on the edge of Rhuddlan Marsh, is a small neat town of one street, resorted to in the summer season for bathing. The sands afford excellent walking; in the evening we lingered on the beach for a considerable time, enjoying the calm but cheerful beauty of nature, and inhaling the pure sea-breeze—for
. . . “The wind was hush’d;
And to the beach each slowly-lifted wave,
Creeping with silver-curl, just kiss’d the shore,
And slept in silence.”Mason’s Garden.
With pleasure mixed with reverential awe, we trod Rhuddlan Marsh, so celebrated in the annals of history. Here the ill-fated Richard II. was betrayed into the hands of Bolingbroke, and taken prisoner to Flint: here Offa, King of Mercia, met his untimely death: here the Welsh, under the command of Caradoc, in the year 795, were defeated in a conflict with the Saxons, and their leader slain in the action. This memorable and tragic event is handed down to posterity by an ancient celebrated and affecting ballad, called Morva Rhuddlan, or the Marsh of Rhuddlan, composed by the bards on the death of Prince Caradoc.
The ground we trod, connected with so many events, revived in our minds the memory of past ages; a series of historical events came to our recollection; events that are now so distant, as almost to be obliterated from the page of history. Passing over a bridge of two arches, thrown over the river Clwyd, we entered