windows of Goodrich Court and the battlements of the Castle there are prospects of exceeding beauty. A delightful walk by our companionable stream brings us well pleased to Ross, which, from its standing on a commanding eminence, has a fine appearance as we approach it. The dusky grove on the summit of the hill, that partly screens the town, and the heavendirected spire' that soars from amidst it, remind us that, in the words of Coleridge "Richer than miser o'er his countless hoards, There is little fear that we shall forget John Kyrle while we remain in Ross. The inhabitants are too proud of the celebrity he has brought on their town. to neglect his memory; and, moreover, there are yet existing all those substantial objects that are enumerated in Pope's famous lines. The town itself has little besides what relates to the Man of Ross' to interest a stranger. The church is what is most worth visiting. It is a large respectable building; but not remarkable as an architectural object. Kyrle's pew first attracts attention. In all the changes and adornings that the church has had inflicted on it, this pew has remained unaltered, and is still just as when he sat in it. But though unaltered it has received the extraordinary addition of a couple of elm-trees that spring up from its floor, and serve as a screen to the window. These trees are regarded with some veneration. One of Kyrle's many good deeds was the planting a grove of elms in the churchyard. They grew in time to stately trees; when some Judas of a vicar, or churchwarden, thinking they might as well be turned to profit, had those that stood just against the church cut down. But mark the sequel. Incontinently the roots, which were left in the ground, sent out new shoots, which forced their way through crevices in the floor of their planter's pew. These the sexton could not find it in his heart to touch, and so they grew and flourished till now they reach the key-stone of the lofty Gothic window. The trees (there are now three of them, a fresh shoot having within the last few years risen in the adjoining pew) are healthy, and look as graceful as they are unusual. They are never molested, and they put forth their leaves earlier, and retain them later, than the elms in the churchyard. There is a monument in the church, with both bust and inscription, to Kyrle's memory. The church also contains a number of costly monuments of the Rudhall family, which are valuable as samples of the varying tastes of the different generations in which they were erected. The lofty spire of the church was, as the verse tells, 'bid to rise,' through the exertions of the Man of Ross. The terrace adjoining the church was founded by him. It is called 'the Prospect,' and from it there is a prospect worth seeing. Kyrle's house, by the Kings' Arms Inn, is still shown; his arm-chair is kept at the Nag's Head; and other relics elsewhere: but what is better, his worthy example in charitable deeds and public spirit, has been worthily followed by the inha bitants. On the other side of the river, which is connected with Ross by a bridge and long causeway, stands Wilton Castle, a fragment of the olden times that may as well be left unvisited,-at any rate, it will be wise to defer visiting it till after breakfast, or dinner, as the case may be, or it will assuredly spoil the appetite, and even then, it will be very likely to spoil the digestion. It has been perverted by the aid of tawdry additions into a trumpery modern dwelling. For the next half dozen miles or so, the scenery of the Wye is pretty, but that is all; it is of the average class of river scenery, pleasant to stroll along in fair weather, but rather tedious after the prouder tract we have been traversing. But those half dozen miles being passed, you come upon a most delicious district. The river flows under a long and lofty woody bank that is continually varying in its appearance, and letting in sunny peeps of the hills beyond, while it murmurs over and among a bed of massive stony fragments, and around some pretty little islets. A lovely, quiet, secluded tract, that you love to linger along, whether alone or with a pleasant companion. Beyond this we reach the Carey Woods, Mill, Boat and Bower; and then pursuing the mazy meanderings of the river under the ridge of Fownhope hills, we arrive at the beautiful spot where the Lug, one of the principal affluents of the Wye, contributes its waters. Close to their junction is a rough-looking hill, of which Camden thus writes: "Near the confluence of the Lug and the Wye a hill, which they call Marclay Hill, did, in the year 1575 rouse itself out of sleep, and for three days together, shoving its prodigious body with a horrible roaring noise, and overturning everything in its way, raised itself (to the great astonishment of the beholders) to a higher place." Some excavations made during the last few years have, it is said, led to the discovery of traces of the debacle. Beyond this point the river becomes a smooth, placid stream, and so continues to Hereford, and for some distance higher. As you approach Hereford the low banks have lofty and wide-spreading trees, and the fine tower of the cathedral rises in the distance, and altogether the river has a very stately appearance. Hereford itself we have not space here to describe; it will no doubt be spoken of more fully in a future number. The cathedral, its principal object of attraction, is undergoing a complete restoration. It had been patched up several times, and at considerable cost, but so unskilfully, as rather to increase its insecurity; the present works are of the most substantial character, and there is every reason to believe that the noble old edifice will again appear in almost its pristine strength and beauty. There are a few old buildings in the city; a house in Butcher's Row being especially observable. A mean house is pointed out as the birthplace of Nell Gwynne. The town-hall is a good building, and the city itself has a quiet, old-fashioned air, very becoming in an episcopal town. Above Hereford the river continues to have a considerable volume of water, though it is only in the winter that any kind of vessel ascends so high. The banks, too, have lost nothing of their beauty, though they are tamer and gentler. The general aspect is that of a tranquil and richly-cultivated loveliness. Soon after quitting Hereford you pass Foxley, the beautiful domain of Uvedale Price, the author of Essays on the Picturesque, a work that had much influence in its day, and though now little read, well worth reading. Moccas Court is the next place of any consequence that is passed, but there are many very pleasant residences along both banks. Monnington, opposite Moccas Court, is stated to be the place where Owen Glendwyr died. Bradwardine is noted as the birth-place of a famous master of middle age divinity, Thomas Bradwardine, archbishop of Canterbury, called by his contemporaries, Doctor Profundus:' but we ought to add, that the accuracy of both these statements has been questioned; and, as far as we are concerned, whether Bradwardine was born in the one, or Glendwyr died in the other, or not, must remain undecided. Onwards the river gains a little in wildness. The banks are rougher, and occasionally run up into bold scarps, and the Black Mountains stand out finely in the distance. After passing several picturesque villages we arrive at one where are the remains of the castle in which the Fair Rosamond was born-but very little more is left of her birth-place at Clifford on the Wye, than of her burial-place at Godstow on the Thames. Hay, or Welch Hay, as it sometimes, or the Hay as it is generally called, is not at all an interesting town; but it has a good inn, and is a convenient resting-place. There are some vestiges of an ancient fortification near the church, and there is also a fragment of an old castle. The church-a rather mean buildingstands in a beautiful situation on the brow of a hill overlooking the river, and the neighbourhood altogether is very pleasant. It is, moreover, a good fishingstation, the pink especially being plentiful and of excellent flavour. From the high grounds bordering the river we here catch glimpses of the loftier mountains of South and in some places also of North Wales. But the river's banks soon become flat again, and though the Wye continues to be a rough rocky stream, it can hardly be called very beautiful for the next few miles above the Hay. After passing Glasbury, however, it again improves, and we soon reach a part of the river whose beauties we have never seen mentioned with due honour. It is, indeed, not exactly the sort of route that tourists would choose who scamper through Wales as though Mr. Noddy's eldest son were their leader. It is necessary, for example, to make your way for some distance along the bed of the river, and it will lead you a very winding course. But then the scenery will abundantly reward you. About Glan-gwy, and Llaswen, and Boughrood, there are quiet lonely spots of almost perfect beauty; where, as Wordsworth sings of his Yarrow,— "For busy thoughts the stream flows on In foamy agitation, And sleeps in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation." The river foams and frets along its rough stony bed, and between hills of mingled verdure and bare crag, and ever and anon a lonely homestead, or rude cot, or an humble water-mill, comes in sight, and the range of gloomy mountains fitly named the Black-for that is their standing colour, though modified by every shifting cloud--and occasionally the Brecon Beacons loom in the distance. In some parts a huge barrier of shattered slatey rock is flung right across the bed of the river, and the water seems to find its way through fissures rent in its base. Sometimes you are shut in by an amphitheatre of rocks; at others, though a wider prospect opens, a solitary angler is the only human being visible. Just in the wildest and most romantic situation, some fortunate being has built for himself a pretty cottage, and surrounded it with all necessary appurtenances, in a style that one is almost constrained to envy. At Boughrood there is a bridge, and you need keep in the bed of the river no longer. The most striking part of the scenery is past, and though it is exceedingly delightful by the grounds of Llangoed Castle and New Gardens, the pedestrian will be content with the path, and occasionally dropping from it upon the river. We have said that the pedestrian may make his way along the bed of the river, and the fishermen's paths. He will find little difficulty in doing this; for in the summer season the Wye here and in its higher course generally fills but a portion of its bed; and the paths, though running through private grounds, are not intended to exclude the rambler. He is only expected to keep to them. But it is right to apprise him that just at this spot it is otherwise. We suddenly came upon a board which gave notice of trespass; and as it was the only one we saw on the Wye, from its source to its mouth, and claimed uncommon rights, and withal was a pleasant sample of AngloWelch, we made a copy of it (verb. et lit.) It set forth a notice, "that there is no Public Road through these Ffields or River nither (sic.) is there a Public path by this River side for any excep-ting George Greenwood, Esqr., and his frien' ds;" and then went on to intimate, that " any Person as will give such Evidence as will convict the Offender Trespassing oneither of these lines will be Handsomely rewarded by applying to the proprietor Christopher Weale Court Gwiddwr." Neither Boughrood, nor Llangoed Castle is ancient, and both are plain buildings. But Maeslough Castle, which we ought to have mentioned before, is a noble pile, though too far from our river to visit. Llyswen, now a poor village, was once the seat of the Welch princes. The church of Llanstephen is pleasantly situated, and looks very pretty across the river, with its plain, humble, and thoroughly Welch tower and belfry. About Llandeilo and Capel Alt Mawr, and on to Erwood, our river is very picturesque; and continues to be so to Aberdw, where, at the confluence of the Edw with the Wye, is a scene of uncommon beauty. A little way up the Edw there is a slight vestige still standing of Aberdw Castle, which was the seat of Llewellyn, the last of the Welch princes; and the whole ravine of Aberdw is extremely fine. It was not far from here that Llewellyn lost his life. After a protracted, and, on the whole, successful war with two kings of England, and while he was doing fierce battle with the Royal troops in North Wales, his subjects were during his absence induced to give in their adherence to Edward; and when, ignorant of their defection, he turned homeward with a small army; he was met by Mortimer, on the banks of the Wye, and his few soldiers were dispersed. Llewellyn escaped up the Edw; and it being winter, the better to elude pursuit, he had his horses shoes reversed. The smith, however, betrayed the secret. He was followed, and overtaken by one Adam Francton, a common soldier, who thrust a spear through his body, and then cut off his head, and sent it to Edward, who was at Conway Castle. The place where he was killed still bears the name of Cwm Llewellyn (or the Valley of Llewellyn), and another spot, marked out as his grave, is called 66 Cefn-y-bedd Llewellyn." Builth is the first town that we have found that may be called really Welch; and now Welch names over the doors, Welch habits, and the Welch language become common, and grow more and more so to the source of the river. Builth itself is a poor-looking town, but is not unpicturesque. The streets are narrow, the houses rude, the shops dull, and yet there is something much more novel and interesting in its appearance than in most of the towns we have hitherto passed. The town is a good deal resorted to by anglers and invalids. By the former on account of the abundant supply of fish which the river yields, and by the latter on account of the medicinal springs in the neighbourhood: and by both perhaps the more because of the inexpensive rate at which those may live who stay here for any time. The mineral springs are situated in what is called the Park, near the confluence of the Wye and Irvon about a mile from the town. They are worth visiting, if only to see the company who assemble before breakfast. Smart damsels from the south and west, in fashionable attire, mingle with the steeple-hatted maids and matrons from the inner parts of the Principality; and a goodly number of the other sex, of apparently all ranks, are also generally present, and the mixture of dresses and the continuous talk of so many invalids in English and Welch, and a species of lingo formed out of both, are rather curious. The waters are in high repute. We, of course, are unable to say anything of their efficacy from our own experience, and we never repeat any body else's-excepting a quotation; but if their nauseousness is a test, we should judge them to be very valuable. They are certainly singular. From three springs at a very short distance from each other, issue waters of quite distinct properties and widely different taste,—but all equally disagreeable while from a fourth spring rises a stream of the purest and sweetest kind. Between Builth and Rhayader is a constant succession of fine scenery; but the river is continually decreasing in volume. Several important tributaries fall into the Wye between these towns. We first pass the mouth of the Irvon, which is a good sized and lovely stream. The Dulas next contributes its share, and its junction with the Wye presents a scene of great beauty. But the confluence of the Clarwen and the Wye is the most striking. Clarwen rushes down a wild glen into the greater stream from amid huge craggy boundaries of varied outline, and over a rocky channel, with torrentlike force, while the hills and rocks bordering the recipient stream serve to increase the vigorous character of the landscape. There are several villages, and many spots of quiet beauty, between Builth and Rhayader that are deserving notice, and that would afford a sketcher ample employment. New Bridge is one of a very unvitiated character. Tourists seldom stop at it, and it is sufficiently out of the way to retain its old houses and old fashions unaltered. There is a place on the other (or left) hand of the stream that rejoices in the name of Llanfihangel-bryn-Pabwan, that may be worth visiting. Doldowlad is pretty, and Llanwrthwl, with its church by the river, is something more. Here Gwa asladen, a mountain of tolerable bulk, (on whose summit are several cairns,) plays a fair part in the landscape, and helps to form many a charming picture, of which our stream is the centre. As we near Rhayader, we arrive at a village with a chapel, which bears the euphonious title of Llan St. Fraid Cwm-dau-ddwyr, and soon Rhayader itself rises before us. Rhayader, as you approach it, has a strange wild appearance, perhaps wilder than any other place on our river; and indeed it would not be easy to find its rival on any other river, either in England or Wales. A huge rocky dyke stretches across the bed of the stream, and seems to shut out its progress. In some places the water forces its way over the barrier, but the main body winds round, and through breaks in it. Before the bridge was built, the water used to rush over and form a noble cascade, whence the town derived its name,-Rhayader Gwy, for so it is called in Welch, signifying "the cataract of the Wye." But when the bridge was erected, the bed of the river was deepened, and the fall in consequence destroyed. The bridge is a noble one, of a single large arch, and the view of it, with the lodge of rocks in front, is very striking. (Cut, No. 4.) The town is irregular and dirty, but withal picturesque and almost romantic in appearance. The church is large and handsome. There is a town-hall, but it has neither age nor beauty to render it attractive. By the names of the places lately mentioned, it will have been guessed that we are now fairly getting into the Welch country. The supposition is correct. On all sides now Welch is the language spoken; and it is not at all unusual, for the only answer you can obtain to any question you may put to a passing peasant, to be that of Dym Sassenach,' or, No English.' All the peasants hereabout are Welch in look and Welch in manner. The men are strong, and dry, and civil. Generally speaking, in travelling through any part of Wales, you will have no occasion to complain of them, are becoming common even in the most retired villages, and few maidens wear the jacket except when at work. The English language, too, is gaining and other districts of Wales, we found that though the elders could neither speak nor understand English, their children were called with some pride to answer us, and were able to do it quite fluently. . . . But we are forgetting our river, and must return to it. They are more courteous and obliging than most of a similar class in England. If they cannot converse with you, they will understand where you want to go, if you name the place (though you may pronounce it awkward-ground. In many a small farm and cottage, in this ly), and they will not only point out the direction, but frequently accompany you till the route is clear. The men of Rhayader, indeed, have not so good a name. They are given to river poaching, which is a first step to much evil. And they have little excuse for the practice. The stream is open to all fair fishermen ; and it is too bad of these men to go out at night, as they do, spearing the salmon in passing over the shallows, or grappling them with their plexus of large hooks, as they lie in their holes. It is said that some of these poachers take forty salmon in a night, and readily dispose of them (though torn in taking) at a penny and twopence a pound. They are, of course, careless about the season; and the honest anglers affirm that they are destroying the breed of fish. The Rhayader poachers are generally known by their idle, vicious habits, and appearance; but it is of course not easy to bring home their practices to them. The maidens we meet with in the upper course of our river are a pretty, plump, rosy, and merry race, who do credit to their wild hills and homely cheer. Their dress is piquant and characteristic. A short jacket, a dark gown of scanty length, black stockings, and stout shoes, and, as the crown of all, a black beaver hat with a broad flat brim and conical crown, really have a very jaunty and attractive air on a pretty body; and the Welch tongue has an agreeable soft sound when issuing from their cherry lips. The girls are often graceful, and in opening womanhood generally pretty, and not seldom is one met with of considerable beauty. But somehow it appears to wear away very early. Among the poorest this is not difficult to account for. Hard fare, and labour in the field and about the house, of a kind that women ought never to be engaged in, will explain why coarseness of feature and premature age are soon induced; but why the same should occur with those who are not called to such labour, does not seem so easy to explain. But so it is; while girls of more than the ordinary standard of good looks abound in Wales, (say at least in Radnor, and Montgomery, and Merioneth,) matrons of a gentle matronly comeliness are rarely met with:-we hope David will forgive us for saying so. We may as well say out all we have to say about them. We have spoken of the Welch dress and the Welch tongue. Both appear to be yielding to the influence of English fashions. In the towns the English language and the English dress are usually adopted, and the girls of Welch towns could hardly be distinguished from those of England by their bonnets or their frocks, their waists or their bustles. In the country places, happily, neither of the abominations of wasp-like waists or Hottentot protuberances are yet visible, and it is quite a comfort to see the genuine natural shape to which our eyes have been so long unaccustomed. But the dress is changing. Bonnets Few Wye tourists ascend the river above Rhayader; and the greater part of them only visit it between Ross and Chepstow. Yet this upper part is highly picturesque and characteristic. Indeed in many respects it is more so than lower down. Above Rhayader it is wholly a mountain stream. It makes its way for almost the whole distance along a narrow alley, that closes sometimes into a ravine; and the lofty fell sides, present in their barrenness a broad contrast to the fertility that has hitherto been almost inseparable from the Wye. The shallow stream, shrunk now into a brawling rivulet, splashes along its rocky channel in a continuous succession of rapids and water-breaks, sometimes in fair-sized falls. In front tower the massive forms of Plynlimmon and other hardly inferior mountains. And altogether in its various windings the Wye here presents a series of prospects of the most bold and marked character. Few houses now are seen along the banks, and only two or three that are better than cottages or small farms. Here and there, on the Wye, or at the mouth of its tiny feeders, a water-mill, of the rude and humble kind that seems to belong only to Wales, is met with; and like the still ruder cottage, has always a picture-like look. The cottages and the mills are built of irregular lumps of stone, such as abound on the hill-sides, and are covered with a rough thatch of straw, or some large tiles. One of the most observable classes of buildings to a stranger along these wild valleys is the hay-barns; for the hay being the chief crop here, and gathered with care and preserved from storms with difficulty, it is generally found advisable to store it up in substantial stone barns erected for the purpose. There is a good mail-coach road that runs almost parallel to our river, from Rhayader to the foot of Plynlimmon, and this the tourist must follow. Although the distance is some twelve miles, or more, Llangwrig is the only village that is passed, and it has a miserable and poverty stricken air. The huts are dirty and wretched; the inhabitants seem very poor, yet they go about their work singing merrily, and are said to be content. The scattered cottages along this part are little superior, and some look very deplorable. It would, however, be unwise to judge of their relative comfort from a transient glance. Doubtless many a true heart finds a happy home in them; and true affection and genuine worth may as well exist in these lonely and humble abodes of honest poverty, as in the lordly mansion, or urban villa. But we wish, for all that, they were better and looked more comfortable. At Pont-Rhyd-Galed, the tourist who intends to ascend to the source of the Wye, must quit the road and follow the guidance of the stream. To the source along its windings is a distance of three or four miles; but we would not advise the rambler to attempt the ascent unless he be used to deer-stalking or bogtrotting. The Wye-or, as it is here called, Afon Gwy-in its descent down the side of its parent mountain, is a pretty wilful streamlet; but then the mountain all the way up is boggy, and not to be walked over by one used chiefly to town pavements. The source of the Wye is near the summit of Plynlimmon (or, as it is sometimes spelt Punlummon, or Plymlumon,) and is known as Blaen Gwy, or head of the Wye; but there is nothing remarkable about it. who resolves to make the ascent must be careful not to pass Pont-Rhyd-Galed, and take the other stream which continues to accompany the road for a mile or so further, as he may easily do; for this latter stream not only appears to be the principal, and does rise from a more distant and higher source, but it is pointed out by the peasantry as the source. It is a prettier stream than the Wye, in its course down the mountain side, but is equally difficult to follow. It bears the name of Afon Tarenig in the Ordnance maps, but is frequently called Gwy in the neighbourhood. From the sides of the huge ungainly mass of Plynlimmon, five different streams take their origin. Of these the most important are the Wye and the Severn, and an enterprising pedestrian might, after having reached the source of the Wye, strike across to the source of the Severn, which is not above two or three miles distant. But whether he do or not, or whether he ascend the mountain at all, he cannot do better than conclude his ramble by making his way across to Duffryn Castle, which is little more than a mile along the coach-road beyond Pont-Rhyd-Galed. But don't imagine it is only some ruin you are to see-it is, on the contrary, a very decent inn; and the buxom maid, who talks both Welch and English to admiration, will explain to you that it owes its name to the brook below, which is the castel, and the valley for which duffryn is good Celtic. Here you may repose after your labour. And here, after a ramble together of a hundred and thirty miles, we part company. |