or the remains of Abbeydore Monastery will tempt a motorist to leave
the splendid road that will lead him into Hereford by Letton, and
Bridge Sollars, and the White Cross that was set up in the fourteenth
century when the plague was raging in Hereford, to mark the spot where
the infection ceased, and where, in consequence, it was safe to hold
a market. Here, on the left, lies the suburb of Widemarsh and beyond
it the Racecourse, where the promising youth who was afterwards Edward
I. showed at an early age that genius for extremely practical jokes
that he used at the expense of the Welsh later on. He was the prisoner
of Simon de Montfort on this occasion, and was taking a ride with a
certain number of attendants. He guilelessly suggested that his guards
should ride races among themselves, while he amused himself by looking
on; then, when their horses were tired, he upon his fresh one galloped
off to Dinmore Hill, where the Mortimers of Wigmore were waiting for
him. This incident took place in Widemarsh; and in Widemarsh too is
a relic that is worth seeking out before we drive into the heart of
the town--the preaching-cross of the Dominicans, which, with the ruins
of a thirteenth-century monastery, stands among the cabbages of the
Coningsby Hospital. The latter is an Elizabethan foundation, and with
the red coats of its pensioners is in itself a picturesque object in a
town that is not very rich in visible memorials of its great history.
We may look in vain for the castle that was, according to Leland, the
largest and strongest in all England; the castle that was repaired by
King Harold and was once so splendid with its ten wall-towers and great
keep; where Ranulph of Normandy stayed, and Tostig, and King John,
where John of Gaunt was governor, were Simon de Montfort imprisoned
Prince Edward after the Battle of Lewes, where Isabella proclaimed
her son Edward III. Protector of England, and where Owen Tudor was a
prisoner. As it suffered no less than three sieges during the Civil
War, and when they were over its remains were sold for £85, we need not
be surprised that the castle is now represented by a public garden,
where the youthful citizens of Hereford may play leap-frog over the
spot where kings have feasted and made history. And not only has the
castle disappeared, but even of the old houses there are very few
remaining, as may be judged by the name of the fine one that stands in
the principal street of the town. In Chester, Worcester, or Shrewsbury,
“The Old House” would not be a very distinguishing name!
The chief point of interest in Hereford is, of course, the Cathedral,
with its long and somewhat confusing history. An endless number of
people have had a hand in the building of it, apparently, from the
days when Offa of Mercia enriched the shrine of his murdered guest,
Ethelbert of East Anglia, till the quite recent and rather unfortunate
day when the west front was finished. The consequence of this diversity
of builders is that Hereford Cathedral, with its austere Norman
south transept, its Early English Lady-Chapel, its Decorated south
choir-transept, and its Perpendicular cloister, is a complete Guide of
Architecture.
[Illustration: THE PREACHING CROSS, HEREFORD.]
[Illustration: ROSS FROM WILTON.]
It was as the shrine of St. Ethelbert that it first became important.
There is a good deal of disagreement on the subject of Ethelbert’s
death. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, for instance, says _tout court_ that
in 792 Offa commanded the head of King Ethelbert to be cut off; whereas
Matthew of Westminster gives quite a different version of the affair,
completely exonerating Offa, “that most noble and most illustrious and
most high-born king.” It was Offa’s queen, Quendritha, he says, who
caused a peculiarly comfortable armchair to be placed in the bedroom
of her visitor the King of East Anglia, and beneath it “a deep hole
to be dug”--with very unpleasant consequences for the visitor. When
the horrified Offa heard of Ethelbert’s fate he shut himself up and
refused food. “But,” adds Matthew, “although he was quite innocent of
all participation in the King’s death, he nevertheless sent a powerful
expedition and annexed the Kingdom of the East Angles to his own
dominions.”
The murdered guest, whoever his murderer, was first buried at the
spot still called St. Ethelbert’s Well, and afterwards in Hereford
Cathedral, to its great enrichment.
There are several roads from Hereford to Ross, none of which follow
the river closely. The most commonly used--being the least hilly--is
by Bridstow and Much Birch. Between this road and the Wye are still to
be seen traces of the College of Llanfrother, founded by Dubritius,
that great Archbishop of Caerleon who preached so movingly at King
Arthur’s coronation and then resigned his see to the still greater St.
David. On the other side of the Wye is a shorter, but after the first
five or six miles a more hilly route, with some fine backward views
and some glimpses of the river. The surface of this road is all that
can be desired, and the hills are by no means formidable; but as one
approaches Ross the country is rather uninteresting.
Ross itself may be regarded as a monument to one John Kyrle.
“Rise, honest muse, and sing the Man of Ross! [cries Pope]
Whose causeway paves the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
‘The _Man of Ross_,’ each lisping babe replies.”
The lisping babe, however, is making a mistake, for the Man of Ross
only taught the spire to rise forty-seven feet; and, moreover, it
has been destroyed by lightning and rebuilt since his day (which was
a very long day, lasting from 1637 to 1724). “A small exaggeration
you must allow me as a poet,” said Pope. But the fame of John Kyrle
does not depend upon the spire alone, for he did much to improve the
town, and did it, too, on a very small income. “He was a very humble,
good-natured man ... of little or no literature,” an eighteenth-century
diarist says of him. “His estate was £500 per ann., and no more, with
which he did wonders.” It was not, however, by means of this modest
estate alone that he won his lasting fame as a philanthropist, but also
by untiring energy and skill in the art of beggary, and the judicious
use of other men’s money. In the case of the church bell it was his own
money that he used, and his own silver goblet also. While the bell was
in process of casting he drank to Church and King, and then flung the
goblet into the molten metal--that after serving for the sacred toast
it might be for ever consecrated to sacred uses. This incident adds a
touch of the picturesque to the sterling qualities of the benevolent
old gentleman to whom Ross owes its public walks, and the _Prospect_
that quaint Gilpin of the eighteenth century described as “an amusing
view.” Ross repays him by keeping his name green. It also--not entirely
without difficulty--keeps green the two elm-suckers that long ago
forced their way beneath the wall of the church and rose (being elms of
Ross) in the pew of John Kyrle. They have been dead for some time, but
they are still draped carefully with foliage to keep up the illusion.
The church itself is fairly old, and has some interesting monuments,
including an ugly one tardily raised to the memory of the Man of Ross.
In the town the most cherished relics are, of course, Kyrle’s house and
the carved monogram he is supposed to have placed on the outer wall
of the Market Hall. The letters “F.C.” are interlaced with a heart,
and are said to represent the words, “_Faithful to Charles in heart_,”
for Kyrle was devoted to the Stuarts. Charles I. himself slept once in
this town, and other kings have visited it, but none has distinguished
himself here save George IV. The Mayor of Ross sallied forth to meet
him, as mayors use, wreathed in smiles and primed with speeches. By
way of response to all this loyalty and eloquence, however, “the first
gentleman in Europe” merely pulled down the blinds of the carriage!
History does not record the mayor’s next proceeding. The position
strikes one as difficult.
Close to Ross and on our way to Monmouth is Wilton, which is reached
by a beautiful and ancient bridge of six arches, whence there is a
good view of Ross, clustered prettily on its hill and surmounted by
its heaven-directed spire. Part of this bridge was broken down during
the Civil War to prevent Cromwell’s army from reaching Hereford. The
castle, too, fell into the hands of the Royalists, though its owner
had carefully refrained from supporting either side, with the result
that he offended both. The ruins now enclose a private garden and are
fairly picturesque though they hardly compensate for an interrupted
run. Within these walls, of which so very little is left, the poet
Spenser was once entertained in the days of the Greys. Later on the
castle was owned by the family of Brydges, one of whom, when he was
Deputy-Lieutenant of the Tower, was the means, either deliberately or
from mere procrastination, of securing for England one of the most
glorious reigns in her history. The warrant for the execution of
Princess Elizabeth reached the Tower, but Charles Brydges delayed to
carry it out. While he was waiting Queen Mary died.
From Wilton to Monmouth the scenery grows in beauty. At Goodrich Cross
we should turn sharply to the left to visit the castle, and this is a
matter that will take some time. For in the first place the castle is
at some distance from the road, and in the second place there is much
to see, and much, too, to hear. Yet there is little history connected
with Goodrich, considering its age and dignity, and the great names of
Pembroke and Talbot that are bound up with it. Its name, apparently is
a corruption of _Godric_, who built a fort here before the Conquest,
though the oldest part of the present ruin is said to date from the
twelfth century. In the Civil War it endured two sieges, and it was
after the second one, which lasted for five months, that the Parliament
dismantled it. Except on this one dramatic occasion, Goodrich figured
little in public life. It is the antiquary rather than the historian
who will find it of absorbing interest, for the arches and Norman
ornaments of the keep date from Stephen’s reign, and many styles of
architecture are represented in the various galleries, sallyports, and
towers, which have been gradually added by the successive owners of the
castle. Greatest of these was Talbot, first Earl of Shrewsbury and hero
of forty fights, “a valiant man, of an invincible, unconquered spirit.”
He is said to have added a room to the keep, whence he must often have
seen, as we may see, the Malvern Hills and the Welsh mountains in the
distance, with Symond’s Yat and the Kymin nearer at hand.
Below Goodrich is Huntsham Ferry, which Henry IV. was in the act of
crossing when he heard of the birth of his son, afterwards Henry V.
So great was his excitement on this occasion that he impulsively
presented the ferry and its profits to the ferryman, whose heirs held
this possession for generations.
About three miles from Goodrich we have to climb a short hill with a
gradient of 1 in 10; the steepest, I think, on this Wye Valley road.
From the top of it we run down on an easy slope past the wall of
Wyaston Leys and through the woods behind the Little Doward, with a
beautiful view--unfortunately visible only in glimpses--of the winding
river as it bends away towards Symond’s Yat. At the foot of the hill we
enter Monmouth.
Now Monmouth, or some spot quite near it, is without doubt the best
motoring centre on the Wye. The town itself is not so pleasant to stay
in as Ross or Tintern, where there are hotels in pretty positions
with nice gardens; but to the motorist this is less important than to
others, since he will probably spend the day on the road. The important
thing is to have a variety of interesting roads upon which to spend it.
From Monmouth, one may drive up the Wye to Goodrich, Hereford, and Hay;
or down the Wye to Tintern and Chepstow; or through the Forest of Dean
on the further side of the river; or to Raglan, eight miles away, and
on to Abergavenny; or past Abergavenny and the Holy Mountain into the
wild Vale of Ewyas to far Llanthony.
“I’ll tell you, there is goot men porn at Monmouth,” says Fluellen,
thinking of his king; and it is of Harry of Monmouth that we too think
as we wake the echoes of his birthplace with our horn--those echoes
that have so often answered to the “tucket” of John of Gaunt and of
many another. Some say that it was John of Gaunt who built the castle
in which his grandson was born, but whether this be the case or not
there was a castle on this spot long before his day, though little
seems to be known of it. The probability is that John of Gaunt improved
and repaired the castle that was already there. The existing building
has had an unusually chequered career even for a castle, having been
in turn a palace, a pig-stye, an assize court, and a barrack. Even
in James I.’s time it was said “that his Majestie hath one ancient
castell, called Monmouth Castell ... which is nowe and hath been for
a long time ruinous and in decaye, but by whom it hath byn decayed
wee knowe not, nor to what value, in regarde it was before our
rememberment.” “Harry’s Window,” but little else, survives as a shrine
to the king whose name is still “a name to conjure with.” His statue
stands on the town-hall, but the bells of St. Mary’s are the best
memorial of Prince Hal, though their story is more characteristic of
the rollicking schoolboy of Shakespeare than of the wise and soldierly
monarch of history. Time was when these bells rang out over the town
of Calais. They were doing so when Harry of Monmouth heard them first,
and were, in point of fact, celebrating his departure from the shores
of France with so much joyousness that the demonstration seemed to him
to be carried too far. He vowed that they should ring no more insolent
peals in Calais, and forthwith ordered them to be taken down and
carried to his native town.
His town has other memories than his, and even other famous windows
than “Harry’s.” There is a fine oriel window, belonging now to
a school, but carefully preserved in honour of a twelfth-century
archdeacon, who was none other than that Geoffrey of Monmouth whom
Camden describes as “an Author well skill’d in Antiquities, but, as
it seems, not of entire credit.” I fear there is little to be said in
defence of Geoffrey’s credit as a historian, and there are those who
say that his window is no more authentic than his writings.
Monmouth, like Hereford, is not rich in relics. Of its defences,
its walls and its four gates, there is left only one gate on the
Monnow Bridge, but of this the foundations are so old that there is
no record of their origin. The form of the gateway itself has been
slightly altered from time to time to suit increasing traffic, but its
picturesqueness is uninjured. Through its arch we must pass on our way
to Raglan and Abergavenny and Llanthony.
It is possible, of course, to see all these places on the same day,
but it is not desirable. At Raglan one should have a leisured mind,
undisturbed by thoughts of space or time or possible punctures. There
are seats on its green terraces where one might sit happily all day
under the shadow of the Yellow Tower of Gwent, seeing, not only the
straight, stern lines of the great citadel rising from the moat, and
the beautiful windows beyond, and the machicolated towers that flank
the entrance, but also, as clearly as these, the pageantry and doughty
deeds of long-dead but unforgotten Somersets. Some of them lost their
heads in defence of the Rose of York, and some lost theirs for the Rose
of Lancaster, and one, the most famous of all, lost the home of his
fathers in the cause of the thankless Stuarts. Charles I. himself--for
whose sake all this splendour of banqueting-halls and state-rooms and
strong defences was made a ruin--has stood upon this terrace and looked
up at the great keep to which he was so fatal, has feasted in the
Elizabethan Hall, has ridden between the entrance-towers in state, and
has come to them for safety as a fugitive. It was after the Battle of
Naseby that he fled for protection to the house whose hospitalities he
knew so well, and whose owner, the first Marquis of Worcester, had
raised an army of two thousand men to fight for the King. Somewhere,
in some dark corner within those walls that were then so stately, Lord
Worcester met his ruined King by stealth, and being aged and infirm
was obliged to call for help before he could kneel, as it behoved him,
before the fugitive. “Sire,” said the old man weeping, “I have not a
thought in my heart that tends not to the service of my God and you;”
and he put three hundred pounds into the royal hand that took so much
and gave so little. It closed upon this gift, as it closed a few days
later upon the waistcoat that the Vicar of Goodrich, Dean Swift’s
grandfather, had lined with Broad Pieces. There was one occasion, it is
true, when Charles feared his entertainment might be too costly to Lord
Worcester, and suggested pleasantly that supplies should be wrung from
the neighbouring peasants. But Worcester was prouder than the King, “My
castle would not stand long,” he said, “if it leaned upon the country.”
[Illustration: MONNOW BRIDGE, MONMOUTH.]
[Illustration: RAGLAN CASTLE, ENTRANCE TOWER.]
Even as matters were, his castle did not stand long. It held for
the King till the last barrel of powder was opened; but the sad day
came when the gallant old man of eighty-five passed for the last time
through his own great gateway, between those warlike towers that had
fought their last fight. He marched out to the sound of music and with
all the honours of war, but his heart was broken, and after a short
imprisonment in the custody of Black Rod, he died. “When I spoke with
the man,” he said of his guardian, “I found him a very civil gentleman,
but I saw no black rod.”
With this splendid old warrior the glory of Raglan departed. Fairfax so
dealt with it that neither blood nor wine should ever be spilt within
its walls again; and the work begun by him was finished by private
enterprise. It is said that twenty-three staircases have been stolen
from the ruins of Raglan.
About eight miles beyond Raglan is Abergavenny, lying
peacefully--forgetful of its lurid past--in the shadow of the Holy
Mountain. There is about Abergavenny now a peculiar serenity that is
only equalled by the darkness of its history. Not very much is left
of the Castle, of which Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, said that
“it was more dishonoured by treachery than any other in Wales”; and
what there is of it is dishonoured now by swing-boats and asphalt
lawn-tennis courts. If these attractions appeal to us we may enter the
walls by paying twopence; but in the twelfth century the Seisyllts--the
ancestors of the Cecils--found that entering Abergavenny Castle cost
them more than this. One of them, in the absence of the Norman lord of
the place, was having a friendly chat one day with the constable. There
was a part of the wall that was in some way weaker than the rest, and
Seisyllt, pointing laughingly to this spot, said in the manner of one
who jests, “We shall come in there to-night.” The constable took the
precaution of keeping guard till daylight, then went to sleep. A few
hours later he and his wife were prisoners and the castle was captured
and burnt.
It was after this, I believe, when the castle had been rebuilt, that
the villain, William de Braose, invited the princes of South Wales
to a banquet in these halls, picked a quarrel with them at his own
table, and had them massacred before his eyes. He then solemnly thanked
God for the fortunate issue of the affair, and more especially for
the lands of the dead Seisyllts. For this William de Braose, traitor,
murderer, and robber, never forgot to be pious. “He always placed the
name of the Lord before his sentences,” says Giraldus; and his letters
“were loaded, or rather honoured, with words expressive of the divine
indulgence, to a degree not only tiresome to his scribe, but even to
his auditors; for as a reward to each of his scribes for concluding
his letters with the words ‘by divine assistance’ he gave annually a
piece of gold.” In the matter of the murdered Seisyllts, however, his
thanksgiving was premature, for there were Seisyllts still alive who
fell upon Abergavenny Castle and demolished it.
[Illustration: THE MOAT, RAGLAN CASTLE.]
[Illustration: LLANTHONY PRIORY.]
It raised its head again and took an active part in larger wars; but
it adds little nowadays to the attraction of Abergavenny, whose charms
are altogether those of peacefulness and depend on the quiet Usk, and
the hills that grow so purple against the evening sky. To reach
Llanthony we must drive on into the heart of those hills, with the
Skirrid Fawr, or Holy Mountain, on the right and the Sugar Loaf on the
left; then, at Llanfihangel Crucorney, turn sharply to the left down a
short but very steep hill, and so enter the Vale of Ewyas. Soon after
passing Cwmyoy the road grows very narrow and hilly. At Llanthony we
can take our car into the cloister-garth, for it is now the courtyard
of an inn.
Long ago, when Rufus was king, a horseman drew rein here and looked
about him. On every side he saw the grand, clear outline of the hills,
and the shadows of the clouds sweeping across the fern and heather, and
the dark masses of the woods. Below him the little Honddu glittered
among the trees, and far away at the head of the valley the heights
of the Black Mountains rose between him and the world. And then and
there he vowed that they should rise between him and the world while he
lived, and should guard his grave when he was dead. We can see the same
hills at this moment rising blue and misty behind the ruined towers of
his Priory of Llanthony; and only a few yards away, among the grass and
nettles, we can see the spot where William de Lacy, soldier and monk,
was buried under the High Altar.
William de Lacy was not the first to whom this valley appealed as being
“truly fitted for contemplation, a happy and delightful spot”; for long
before his day this very place to which he had wandered by chance had
been made sacred by the prayers of the greatest of all Welsh saints,
St. David. We may say our prayers on the self-same spot to-day, for
over there, just beyond the cloister-garth, where St. David had long
before made himself a hermitage, de Lacy built a tiny chapel. For
many centuries the richly endowed Priory has been deserted, roofless,
desecrated; its very arches are fringed with weeds, and fowls peck at
its grass-grown altar steps; but over there in that plain little grey
stone building prayers are still rising Sunday by Sunday from the spot
where St. David knelt alone.
Here in Llandewi Nanthodeni, or the Church of St. David beside the
river Honddu, William de Lacy “laid aside his belt and girded himself
with a rope; instead of fine linen he covered himself with haircloth,
and instead of his soldier’s robe he loaded himself with weighty iron.”
His solitude did not last long. In those roystering days the sudden
piety of a soldier of noble birth was not likely to pass unnoticed,
and Matilda, Henry I.’s Queen, whom William of Malmesbury describes as
singularly holy and by no means despicable in point of beauty, came to
visit the hermit in his hill-bound cell, and playfully dropped a large
purse of gold into the folds of his coarse garments. His fame grew.
Soon there were many who desired to share his seclusion, and still more
who, while not quite seeing their way to the forsaking of this world,
were anxious to show their interest in the next. The former gave their
lives and the latter their money, and so Llanthony Priory rose in
all its grace and simplicity, the quiet lines of its architecture in
perfect harmony with those of the great hills that encircled it. “The
whole treasure of the King and his kingdom,” said Henry I.’s Prime
Minister, “would not be sufficient to build such a cloister.” The Court
was rather scandalised by this bold statement, till the Prime Minister
explained that “he alluded to the cloister of mountains by which this
church is on every side surrounded.”
Giraldus describes the place as he saw it in the twelfth century. “A
situation truly calculated for religion,” he says, “and more adapted to
canonical discipline than all the monasteries of the British Isles....
Here the monks, sitting in their cloisters enjoying the fresh air,
when they happen to look up towards the horizon, behold the tops of
the mountains as it were touching the heavens, and herds of wild deer
feeding on their summits.” It is probable that when the Augustinians of
Llanthony looked up towards the horizon it was not altogether for the
pleasure of seeing the wild deer. They had other reasons for taking an
interest in the hills, which too often were swarming with the hostile
Welsh. It was not long, indeed, before the brethren’s terror of
the Welsh grew stronger than their love of isolation, and the greater
number of them fled to Gloucester, where in a new Priory of Llanthony
their meditations were undisturbed.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF LLANTHONY PRIORY, SHOWING THE EAST END.]
[Illustration: TINTERN ABBEY.]
The beautiful valley, with its great, bare hilltops and mysterious
woods, its loneliness and calm, its memories of saintly men, attracted
a poet of the last century so strongly that he, like William de Lacy,
determined to stay here. Like de Lacy’s monks, however, Walter Savage
Landor could not get on with his neighbours, and after buying the
ruins of the Priory and building himself half a house he quarrelled so
thoroughly with all the countryside that he thought he would have more
peace elsewhere. He lived in the rooms that now form an inn, in the
Prior’s Lodge, and here Southey stayed with him.