Leave Swansea—The Pandemonium—Neath Abbey—Varied Scenery.
It was about two o’clock of a dull and gloomy afternoon when I started
from Abertawy or Swansea, intending to stop at Neath, some eight miles
distant. As I passed again through the suburbs I was struck with their
length and the evidences of enterprise which they exhibited—enterprise,
however, evidently chiefly connected with iron and coal, for almost every
object looked awfully grimy. Crossing a bridge I proceeded to the east
up a broad and spacious valley, the eastern side of which was formed by
russet-coloured hills, through a vista of which I could descry a range of
tall blue mountains. As I proceeded I sometimes passed pleasant groves
and hedgerows, sometimes huge works; in this valley there was a singular
mixture of nature and art, of the voices of birds and the clanking of
chains, of the mists of heaven and the smoke of furnaces.
I reached Llan—, a small village half-way between Swansea and Neath, and
without stopping continued my course, walking very fast. I had
surmounted a hill and had nearly descended that side of it which looked
towards the east, having on my left, that is to the north, a wooded
height, when an extraordinary scene presented itself to my eyes.
Somewhat to the south rose immense stacks of chimneys surrounded by grimy
diabolical-looking buildings, in the neighbourhood of which were huge
heaps of cinders and black rubbish. From the chimneys, notwithstanding
it was Sunday, smoke was proceeding in volumes, choking the atmosphere
all around. From this pandemonium, at the distance of about a quarter of
a mile to the southwest, upon a green meadow, stood, looking darkly grey,
a ruin of vast size with window holes, towers, spires, and arches.
Between it and the accursed pandemonium, lay a horrid filthy place, part
of which was swamp and part pool: the pool black as soot, and the swamp
of a disgusting leaden colour. Across this place of filth stretched a
tramway leading seemingly from the abominable mansions to the ruin. So
strange a scene I had never beheld in nature. Had it been on canvas,
with the addition of a number of diabolical figures, proceeding along the
tramway, it might have stood for Sabbath in Hell—devils proceeding to
afternoon worship, and would have formed a picture worthy of the powerful
but insane painter Jerome Bos.
After standing for a considerable time staring at the strange spectacle I
proceeded. Presently meeting a lad, I asked him what was the name of the
ruin.
“The Abbey,” he replied.
“Neath Abbey?” said I.
“Yes!”
Having often heard of this abbey, which in its day was one of the most
famous in Wales, I determined to go and inspect it. It was with some
difficulty that I found my way to it. It stood, as I have already
observed, in a meadow, and was on almost every side surrounded by
majestic hills. To give any clear description of this ruined pile would
be impossible, the dilapidation is so great, dilapidation evidently less
the effect of time than of awful violence, perhaps that of gunpowder.
The southern is by far the most perfect portion of the building; there
you see not only walls but roofs. Fronting you full south, is a mass of
masonry with two immense arches, other arches behind them: entering, you
find yourself beneath a vaulted roof, and passing on you come to an
oblong square which may have been a church; an iron-barred window on your
right enables you to look into a mighty vault, the roof of which is
supported by beautiful pillars. Then but I forbear to say more
respecting these remains for fear of stating what is incorrect, my stay
amongst them having been exceedingly short.
The Abbey of Glen Neath was founded in the twelfth century by Richard
Grenfield, one of the followers of Robert Fitzhamon, who subjugated
Glamorgan. Neath Abbey was a very wealthy one, the founder having
endowed it with extensive tracts of fertile land along the banks of the
rivers Neath and Tawy. In it the unfortunate Edward of Carnarvon sought
a refuge for a few days from the rage of his revolted barons, whilst his
favourite the equally unfortunate Spencer endeavoured to find a covert
amidst the thickets of the wood-covered hill to the north. When Richmond
landed at Milford Haven to dispute the crown with Richard the Second, the
then Abbot of Neath repaired to him and gave him his benediction, in
requital for which the adventurer gave him his promise that in the event
of his obtaining the crown he would found a college in Glen Neath, which
promise, however, after he had won the crown, he forgot to perform. {583}
The wily abbot, when he hastened to pay worship to what he justly
conceived to be the rising sun, little dreamt that he was about to bless
the future father of the terrible man doomed by Providence to plant the
abomination of desolation in Neath Abbey and in all the other nests of
monkery throughout the land.
Leaving the ruins I proceeded towards Neath. The scenery soon became
very beautiful; not that I had left machinery altogether behind, for I
presently came to a place where huge wheels were turning and there was
smoke and blast, but there was much that was rural and beautiful to be
seen, something like park scenery, and then there were the mountains near
and in the distance. I reached Neath at about half-past four, and took
up my quarters at an inn which had been recommended to me by my friend
the boots at Swansea.