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 charged.”
This storm compelled us to seek for 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 outskirts of Wrexham by no means prepossessed us in favour 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.
A friendly clergyman conducted us to the church, an elegant building of the reign of King Henry the Seventh, and called one of the seven wonders of Wales. The tower is a 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 give 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.
The altar-piece was brought from Rome by Elihu Yale, Esq. whose tomb bears the following inscription:—
Born in America, in Europe bred,
In Afric travell’d, and in Asia wed:
Where long he lived and thrived—in London died.
Much good, some ill he did, so hope all’s even,
And that his soul, through mercy, ’s gone to heav’n!
You that survive and read this tale, take care
For this most certain exit to prepare.
When blest in peace, the actions of the just,
Smell sweet, and blossom in the silent dust.