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 yet been
ascertained with accuracy. From these mountains, vast quantities of lime
are shipped for Liverpool, and many parts of England; they are said to be
inexhaustible.
Abergele, situated 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 kist 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 the
Second was betrayed into the hands of Bolinbroke, and taken prisoner to
Flint: here the famous King {131} 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 tragical event is handed down to posterity, by an
ancient celebrated 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