But it is time to look about us, so we now make our way to St. Mary's church, in the centre of the town.
Contrasted with the primitive structures we have seen in the country parishes, this is a noble church indeed, having been in large part constructed during the best period of Gothic architecture. The lofty nave is covered with a flat wooden ceiling, relieved by enriched bosses at the intersections of the beams, and upborne by handsome brackets against the walls. It is connected with the adjacent aisle by a series of richly-moulded arches, supported upon tall clustered pillars.
On the north side of the chancel stands a group of thirteenth-century pillars and arches of still more elaborate character, whose capitals are encrusted with a variety of grotesque figures intertwined amongst deeply-cut foliage.
Handsome traceried windows admit a flood of light into the chancel, whose walls display monuments and epitaphs of no little beauty and interest.
In a remote untended corner of the church lies the mutilated effigy of an ecclesiastic, whose sober livery, and wallet embellished with scallop-shells, mark him as a pilgrim who has crossed the seas to the shrine of St. James of Compostella, in Spain.
Passing out by the north porch, we observe a pair of tall, carved bench-ends, on one of which St. George is seen in combat with a triple-headed dragon. A sketch of this bench-end will be found at the head of Chapter XII.
After glancing at St. Martin's, the mother church of Haverfordwest, with its slender, crooked spire, we turn townwards again as dusk creeps on, and come to anchor at the Mariners Hotel. The old-fashioned hospitality of this comfortable inn is a welcome relief after a long day's tramp, so we cannot do better than make it our headquarters while exploring the surrounding country.
CHAPTER VII.
TO ST. BRIDES, MARLOES AND THE DALE COUNTRY.
irregular island-girt peninsula lying between Milford Haven and St. Bride's Bay presents but few attractions for the ordinary tourist, to whom, indeed, this portion of Pembrokeshire is practically a terra incognita. Nevertheless, the locality has its own characteristic features, which the appreciative traveller will probably enjoy none the less for having to discover them for himself, unaided by the guide-books.
Availing ourselves of one of the numerous vehicles that ply during summer-time between Haverfordwest and the sea-coast, we escape a tedious tramp of some seven miles or more.
About half-way out our attention is called to a plain, rough stone close by the wayside. This is known as Hang-stone Davey, from the fact that a noted sheep-stealer of that ilk, halting to rest upon the stone with his ill-gotten booty slung around his neck, fell asleep and was strangled by the weight of his burden.
Presently the blue sea opens out ahead, and the lane makes a sudden turn over against a lonely country church. As we approach it, the little edifice presents such a curious medley of gables and turrets, as to tempt us to closer inspection.
Walton-West church has been carefully and wisely restored of recent years, and not before it was needed, for it is on record that in the 'good old times' two boys were kept at work on rainy Sundays, sweeping the water that flowed in at the porch into a pit formed in a disused pew. Eventually matters were brought to a climax by the snow falling through a rent in the roof, and lodging upon the bald head of an ancient worshipper! As usual, the tower, which appears never to have been completed, is the oldest remaining portion of the fabric; indeed, it has been considered as pre-Norman, a stone having, as we are informed, been found in the wall bearing the date a.d. 993. A small effigy, apparently of the Elizabethan period, built into the interior of the tower, is usually supposed to represent the patron saint of the church. Upon the north side of the chancel stands a well-proportioned chapel that formerly appertained to the family of Lort-Philipps.
In an out-of-the-way spot, about a mile to the southward, lies the secluded hamlet of Walwyn's Castle. The distance is nearly doubled by the crooked lanes, but a pleasant field-path saves a longer détour. From the brow of the hill we have three churches full in view, in diminishing perspective—Walwyn's Castle, down in the valley: Robeston, farther away; and Steynton, conspicuous upon a distant hill.
The church of Walwyn's Castle stands upon a gentle eminence that slopes to a hollow, wooded dingle overhanging a streamlet, whose waters meander away to a creek of the ubiquitous Haven.
The salient feature of the edifice is its tall, slender tower, and narrow stair-turret rising to the embattled roof. Upon the southern side the land falls away steeply, and the brow of the bank is scored with the grassy mounds of the ancient camp or castle, whence the place derives its curious name.
In an old black-letter chronicle of the sixteenth century it is recorded, 'In the Province of Wales which is callyd Roose, the sepulchre of Walwyne was found. He reigned in that parte of Britain which is callyd Walwythia. The Tombe was found in the days of William the Conqueror, King of England, upon the sea side, and contayned in length fourteen foote.'
A local variation of this time-honoured fable avers that Walwyn was buried on the site of the above-mentioned camp, and a sort of arched aperture, now fallen in and well-nigh obliterated, was formerly pointed out as the burial-place of this very 'lofty' hero.
Returning now to Walton, we descend a short but extremely steep bit of road to the village of Little Haven. A few fishermen's cottages, a homely inn and a handful of lodging-houses clambering up the rearward hill, form the sum total of this most diminutive of watering-places.
Seawards the hamlet is begirt by ruddy sandstone cliffs of moderate height, the rocky strata being twisted into the most curious contortions, and pierced with caverns and crannies frequented by bathers and picnic parties. The firm dry sands, exposed at low tide, afford a pleasant seaside stroll to the more spacious shores of Broad Haven.
After calling a halt for a sketch of Little Haven, we up sticks and away, pursuing a south-westerly course by a road that climbs high above the rock-bound coast. Far below us lies a picturesque cove, with a rude flight of steps, hewn from the rock, leading to a landing-place used by the fisher-folk.
After passing Talbenny Church, we approach St. Brides, and obtain the pretty coup d'œil represented in the accompanying sketch: the church and old-fashioned rectory-house nestling under the lee of some wind-tossed trees, while Lord Kensington's fine residence of St. Brides Hill shows clearly out against the dark woodlands that crest the western down. To the right is seen a glimpse of the tiny haven, famous in bygone times for its productive herring fishery. The little structure close beside the water occupies the site of an old fishermen's chapel, which, falling into ruins, was put to the degenerate uses of a salt-house. From that time forth, as the old story runs, the herrings deserted their accustomed haunts, and the fishing trade dwindled away:
'When St. Bride's Chapel a salt-house was made,
St. Bride's lost the herring trade.'
The parish church is interesting, and has a bright, well-cared-for look that is pleasant to see. Upon the floor of a small north transept lie four sadly defaced effigies. The largest of these is reputed to represent St. Bride, the patron saint of the church, a contemporary of St. David and St. Patrick. According to tradition, St. Bride sailed over with certain devout women from Ireland, and established a nunnery here. A short distance south-east from the church rise the ivy-mantled ruins of some extensive buildings of unknown origin, overshadowed by dark trees and surrounded by lofty stone walls pierced with loopholes, while an arched gateway opens towards the west.
Upon leaving St. Brides, we strike directly inland by the Dale road. This brings us in about a quarter of an hour to Orlandon, where the skeleton of a large old mansion rises grimly above a group of wayside cottages. In its palmy days Orlandon was the home of the Laugharnes, a family of some celebrity in their time, but now extinct in this locality.
According to a romantic story, the first member of this family who appeared in this district was shipwrecked and washed up more dead than alive on the seashore not far away. Here he was found by the daughter and heiress of Sir John de St. Brides, who caused him to be carried to her father's house, where he was hospitably entertained.
Laugharne, of course, was soon over head and ears in love with his fair deliverer, and the lady being in nowise backward in response to his suit, they married and founded a family whose descendants resided for generations at Orlandon.
Another mile brings us to Mullock Bridge, where a long causeway traverses a marshy backwater of the Haven. Anent this same bridge a quaint story is related concerning Sir Rhys ap Thomas of Carew. Having registered a vow before the King that Henry of Richmond should not ascend the throne save over his body, the crafty knight fulfilled his word by crouching beneath the arch of Mullock bridge while Henry rode across it.
A glance at the map suggests a short détour to obtain a peep at Marloes. The sandy lane, meandering beside a streamlet, lands us right abreast of the church at the entrance to the village. The little edifice makes a pleasant picture, with a handful of low thatched cottages grouped around. Inside we find the small pointed chancel arch with projecting wings, characteristic of the churches in this locality.
There are some curious features here, notably an old bronze sanctus bell, and a modern baptistery sunk in a corner of the floor, to meet the predilections of the Welsh churchman, who does not apparently consider the ceremony of baptism complete unless he can 'goo throw the watter.'
Dwelling apart from the busier haunts of men, the good folk of this remote parish have kept pretty much to themselves, and have acquired the reputation of being a simple-minded, superstitious race—'Marloes gulls,' as the saying is. In order to save the long Saturday's tramp to Haverford market, a Marloes man hit upon the ingenious device of walking half the distance on Friday, then returning home he would complete the rest of the walk the next day!
In the 'good old times,' if tales be true, these Marloes people were notorious wreckers. On dark tempestuous nights they would hitch a lanthorn to a horse's tail, and drive the animal around the seaward cliffs; then woe betide the hapless mariner who should set his course by this Fata Morgana! There is a story of the parson who, when the news of a wreck got abroad in church one Sunday morning, broke off his discourse and exclaimed, 'Wait a moment, my brethren, and give your pastor a fair start!'
Another mile of crooked, crankling lanes takes us to the brow of the sea cliffs, whence we obtain a bird's-eye panorama of the broad sweep of Marloes sands. Ruddy sandstone rocks pitched at a steep angle encompass the bay, and peep grimly out from beneath the smooth, firm sands. Gateholm rises close in shore, an island at low tide only; the broad mass of Skokholm stretches out to sea, while the horizon line is broken by the lonely islet of Grassholm, a favourite haunt of sea birds, and scene of a notorious 'massacre of the innocents' by a party of yachtsmen, some few years ago.
The frequent recurrence of these holms and other place-names of Scandinavian origin, points unmistakeably to the presence of those old sea rovers around the Pembrokeshire coast, in the days of 'auld langsyne.'
Making our way to the farm called Little Marloes, we push on through heathy byways, approaching the coast again at West Dale Bay. Now we catch a glimpse of Dale Castle, with the village of that ilk nestling under the lee of a dark wood, and harvest-fields crowning the sunny hillside, while a silvery stretch of the Haven lies in the background.
Dale Castle appears to have been a place of some importance from very early times, though of its history we have but meagre records. In the year 1293 Robertus de Vale granted a charter for a weekly market at his manor-house of Vale, and here Sir Rhys ap Thomas entertained his future King after his landing at Mill Bay upon the adjacent coast.
This village of Dale is still a comely-looking spot, where the pleasant country residences of the gentlefolk rub shoulders with a sprinkling of homely cottages; yet withal the village has a certain air about it as of a place that has known better days. For Dale, it seems, was once a nourishing seaport, the abode of substantial sea captains and well-to-do merchant traders; while, if tales be true, the village folk drove a flourishing business in the contraband goods run in by the 'free trade' fraternity. In those days good Welsh ale was brewed at Dale by a family bearing the singular name of Runawae, who exported it in large quantities to Liverpool: hence Dale Street in that city is said to derive its title from this place.
We approach the village by a footpath, and pass betwixt the castle and the church. The fuchsias, hydrangeas, myrtle and laurustinas that brighten this little God's acre tell of a genial climate; yet some of the headstones bear grim records of shipwrecked mariners, who lost their lives upon the iron-bound coast that shelters this favoured spot. Dale Church has a tall, unrestored tower, and possesses a slender silver chalice inscribed with the words 'Poculum Ecclesiæ de Dale, 1577.' A sketch of this cup will be found at the head of the present chapter.
The lane now runs below the luxuriant groves of Dale Hill, and then skirts the shores of the sheltered inlet called Dale Road. 'Dale Rode,' says George Owen, 'is a goodlye Baye and a fayre rode of great receipte; one of the best Rodes and Bayes of al Milforde and best defended from al windes, the East and South East excepted. In al this Rode there is good landing at al times.' Close beside the water stands a humble alehouse called the Brig, which bears evident traces of its smuggler patrons, being literally honeycombed with cellars and secret cupboards for the storage of their booty. Even now the walls still reek with moisture, from the salt stored away in inaccessible corners during those piping times when that commodity was worth a couple of guineas the hundredweight.
We now direct our steps towards St. Anne's Head, in order to visit Mill Bay, the traditional landing-place of Henry of Richmond. 'Here in Pembrokeshire,' says old George Owen, 'happened his landinge and first footeinge when he came to enoie the Crowne and to confounde the parricide and bluddie tyrante Ri:iii. Here founde he the heartes and hands first of all this lande readye to ayde and assist him.' The saying goes that as he rushed up the steep bank at the head of his troop Henry, being scant of breath, exclaimed, 'This is Brunt!' a name that has clung to the neighbouring farm ever since.
After a flying visit to the lighthouses, we retrace our steps to Dale village, and, following a track around the head of the tideway, push on without a halt to Hoaton. Here we find the huge old anchor shown in our sketch, and the question naturally arises, How did the anchor get there? A vague tradition still lingers in the locality to the effect that, centuries ago, a big foreign man-o'-war was driven out of her course and wrecked upon the shores of St. Bride's Bay. Hence it has been conjectured that this anchor may be a veritable relic of that 'wonderful great and strong' Spanish Armada, whose unwieldy galleons were cast ashore and dashed to pieces upon our western coasts, three hundred years ago.
Be that as it may, some years back the anchor, which had previously lain by the wayside, was dragged into the position where it now stands; the neighbours lending ready aid in response to offers of ale ad lib. Fifty men with a team of horses were hard put-to to move it, for though much of the metal has rusted and flaked away, the shank is 20 feet long and nearly 30 inches thick, while the head of the anchor measures some 14 feet around, and the ring is large enough for a man to pass through. Truly that old Spanish galleon must have been a veritable Leviathan to require such an anchor as this!
From Hoaton we make our way across country to Haverfordwest, and traversing a district broken up into 'meane hills and dales,' we approach the town by way of the Portfield, and proceed to 'outspan' at a certain snug hostelry not a hundred miles from St. Mary's broad steeple.
CHAPTER VIII.
WESTWARD HO! TO ST. DAVIDS. THE CITY AND ENVIRONS.
high wild hills and rough uneven ways, draw out our miles and make them wearisome.' Thus, league after league, the sorry team drags the battered old ramshackle coach up interminable ascents, or plunges in headlong career down rough, breakneck steeps, en route for that Ultima Thule of our wanderings, the ancient city of St. Davids. Sixteen miles and seventeen hills (so the story goes) lie between Haverfordwest and our destination. The route bears in a north-westerly direction, through monotonous country relieved by occasional glimpses of the strange, rugged rocks of Trefgarn, or a peep of more distant Precelly.
About half-way out rises the lofty isolated tower of Roch Castle, a border stronghold dominating the march-lands that for centuries formed the frontier of this 'Little England beyond Wales.' Built by Adam de Rupe in the thirteenth century, the tall, picturesque old tower forms a conspicuous object for miles around, while at its feet a group of whitewashed cottages cluster around the lowly parish church of St. Mary de Rupe.
Crossing the bridge that spans the Newgale Brook, we enter the ancient Welsh province of Dewisland. Presently our venerable quadrupeds are crawling at a snail's pace down a slanting hillside not quite so steep as a house-roof, with the village of Lower Solva squeezed into a crevice beneath our very feet.
The situation of this pretty hamlet recalls the Devonshire combe that enfolds with such inimitable grace the village of Clovelly. Groups of bowery cottages cluster around the head of a land-locked haven, which, small as it is, bears no inconsiderable traffic in coal, lime and general produce from the Bristol Channel ports, for distribution throughout the western parts of Pembrokeshire.
The rocky, weed-strewn shores shelving up to low, grassy hills overarched by the soft blue sky; a stranded coasting vessel, with weather-stained canvas and rust-eaten anchor, beside a handful of rough fishermen's cottages, present all that an artist could desire to compose a charming picture.
From the crest of the hill near Upper Solva a wide view of the sea opens out, with a brace of rocky islets off the coast; while far ahead the high lands of Ramsey Isle, Carn Llidi and Pen Beri, raise their graceful undulations above remote Octopitarum, and the wind-swept sandhills that mark the site of legendary Menapia.
Coasting along through a rolling treeless country parallel with the course of the Via Julia (the Roman road from Carmarthen), which accompanies us henceforth to the end of our journey, we mount the gentle ascent that leads to the time-honoured 'city,' of which, however, little is seen until we are 'right there,' as our Transatlantic cousins say.
Dismounting at the Grove Hotel, we fare forth for our first view of time-honoured Ty Dewi, the city of St. Davids. Strolling leisurely along the quiet grass-grown 'street' of the village-city, we pause now and again to make way for a herd of cattle, or to watch a flock of geese, stubbing, with sinewy necks outstretched, in a damp and weed-grown corner. Presently the roadway widens out, and here stands an ancient stone cross, which, rising from a flight of time-worn steps, marks the central point of this most diminutive of cities.
Casting about for some clue to the whereabouts of St. Davids Cathedral, we soon espy a low, dark object that proves upon closer inspection to be the topmost story of the central tower. With this as guide, we traverse an old paved lane ycleped the Popples, Anglicè Pebbles, and passing beneath the tower gate—sole survivor of the four gate towers of the ancient city—enter the cathedral precincts. This point affords perhaps the most characteristic coup d'œil of the venerable edifice, set amidst that stern and sombre landscape with which its time-worn architecture so completely harmonizes.
Viewed from our present vantage-point St. Davids Cathedral appears ensconced within the hollow of the vale, its topmost pinnacles scarce rising clear of the distant horizon. Grouped around the central mass of the cathedral stand the crumbling ruins of mediæval structures of scarcely inferior interest. Away to our left, beyond a grove of wind-swept trees, rise the arcaded walls of Gower's incomparable palace, while the slender tower of St. Mary's College peeps over the long cathedral roof.
The stone wall that encompasses the cathedral close upon its eastern side terminates in the massive octagonal tower, with Gothic doorway and windows, seen in the adjoining sketch. This is flanked again by the old gateway through which we have just entered.
We now descend the broad flight of steps that, from their number, have been dubbed the 'Thirty-nine Articles.' Passing through the great south porch our eyes are greeted by a beautiful Decorated doorway, the work of Bishop Gower, which is adorned with exquisitely-carved figures and foliage encrusting arch and pillar. Here enclosed amidst intersecting branches we discern quaintly sculptured representations of the Root of Jesse, the Crucifixion, St. David with his harp, and various other saintly personages; yonder the artist tells the history of Adam and the birth of Eve; while overhead presides the Holy Trinity, flanked by angels with swinging censers—a veritable gem of mediæval sculpture.
Proceeding onward we now enter the nave, whose rich yet massive architecture forms a unique and enduring memorial of the first Norman bishop, Peter de Leia. The general effect is of breadth rather than height, the solid cylindrical pillars supporting semicircular arches of unusual width, wrought with the varied and elaborate ornamentation of the Transitional Norman period.
Above this rises a series of lofty arches enclosing both clerestory and triforium—a rather unusual arrangement—while a singular appearance is produced by the upward slope of the floor, and the outward lean of walls and nave pillars, the latter being the result of an earthquake that occurred in the thirteenth century.
The roof which spans the broad nave is one of the most notable features of the cathedral. It was built of gray Irish oak about the end of the fifteenth century, and is a veritable masterpiece of construction and design. The sculptured foliage of the capitals is worthy of close examination, and one of the nave pillars bears a faded fresco, generally supposed to represent King Henry IV. Beneath an adjacent arch reposes the effigy of Bishop Morgan—a goodly figure habited in priestly robes that are admirably rendered by the sculptor's chisel. The base of this monument is enriched with an unusually fine Resurrection, carved in marble.
Fronting the full width of the nave, the beautiful Decorated rood screen of Bishop Gower now claims our attention. This exquisite structure is perhaps unrivalled in the picturesque variety of its several parts, and the charming effects of light and shade that enhance the mellow tones of its ancient stonework. Panelled buttresses divide the screen into five bays, the middle compartment forming a wide archway adorned with flowers and vine-leaves. To the left is the older portion, subdivided by Gothic arches borne by detached pillars, with grotesque heads and figures clad in thirteenth-century armour. A narrow stair winds up to the ancient rood-loft above.
Turning to the southern side of the rood-screen, we are confronted by the rich and sumptuous fabric erected by Bishop Gower, a view of which forms the Frontispiece of the present volume. Yonder the noble founder sleeps his last sleep beneath a richly-groined canopy, whose traceried arches sparkle with cusps and crockets—a dignified, reposeful figure, worthy the Wykeham of the West, as Gower has been fitly styled. In memory of his greatest work Gower's tomb once bore the legend, 'Henricus Gower, Episcopalis Palatio Constructor.'
After gazing our fill upon this beautiful structure, unquestionably the chef d'œuvre of the whole cathedral, we pass through the central archway beneath a vaulted roof, whose stony ribs, disdaining the customary support, spring clear of the circumjacent masonry. Here venerable tombs cluster beneath fretted ceilings that retain much of their ancient coloured fresco work, depicting figures, foliage, and fantastic forms which in nowise transgress the Scriptural commandment, for they bear little or no resemblance to any created thing.
We next enter the choir, which occupies the space beneath the central tower. Upon either hand extends a range of canopied stalls, with seats devoted to the use of the dean and chapter of the cathedral.
These old miserere seats were so ingeniously balanced that if an unwary brother chanced to nod over his breviary, he was quickly brought to his seven senses by the overturning of his treacherous perch.
The under-sides of these curious benches have been adorned by the craftsmen of that bygone time with the quaint conceits of their mediæval fancy. Here, for instance, a vigorously carved panel portrays in unmistakeable fashion the woebegone plight of two seafaring pilgrims, whom a pair of jolly monks are ferrying across the troubled waters of Ramsey Sound.
Yonder some subtle humorist has been at work, and given us his version of the priest under the guise of a fox administering the wafer to a goose of a layman: and it may be noticed that (after the olden custom) the priest reserves the wine flagon to himself. This forms the subject of our sketch at end of Chapter VIII. Two wolfish-looking dogs snarling over a bone may by some be thought to prove the antiquity of the familiar couplet,
'Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief,
Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of beef.'
Then we have a couple of sturdy boat-builders, one of whom, having laid aside his adze, drains the contents of a capacious cup, while a mighty beaker stands ready to his hand.
With such-like quaint original devices have those men of old encrusted the surface of these ancient stalls. So, having done justice to their curious details, we pass on through a second screen separating the chancel from the presbytery, an arrangement peculiar, we believe, to St. Davids Cathedral. This portion of the fabric was rebuilt with pointed arches after the fall of the central tower in 1220, and contains some extremely interesting features.
The place of honour in the centre of the presbytery is occupied by the tomb of Edmund Tudor, father of Henry VII., a massive table monument of Purbeck marble, enriched with shields and heraldic devices, and bearing the proud inscription: 'Under this Marble Shrine here enclos'd resteth the Bones of that noble Lord, Edmund Earl of Richmond, Father and Brother to Kings, the which departed out of this World in the Year of our Lord God a thousand four hundred fifty and six, the first Day of the Month of November, on whose Soul almighty Jesus have Mercy, Amen.'
Upon the north side of the presbytery rises the stone structure that formed the base of St. David's Shrine. It is the work of Bishop Richard de Carew, and dates from the latter half of the thirteenth century. The three arches seen in our sketch were once adorned with figures representing St. David. St. Patrick and St. Denis, while the quatrefoil openings beneath were provided with small lockers to receive the offerings of devotees. In the presbytery we also notice a small circular piscina of very ancient date pierced with concentric rows of holes—a rare and curious feature.
After examining the handsome effigy of Bishop Anselm Le Gros, nephew of Earl William of Pembroke, with its laconic couplet—
'Petra Precor dic sic
Anselmus Episcopus jacet hic'
two fine recumbent figures of very ancient date arrest our attention, none other than those famous South Welsh princes, the Lord Rhys ap Gruffydd and his son, Rhys Grygg.
Higden, in his quaint 'Polychronicon,' breaks forth into unbounded panegyrics over the great Lord Rhys: 'O blysse of battayle!' he exclaims, 'Chylde of Chyvalry! defence of Countrie! worshyppe of Armes! the noble dyadame of fayrnesse of Wales is now fallen, that is, Rees is dead. The Enemy is heere, for Rees is not heere; now Wales helpeth not itself; Rees is dead and taken away, but hys noble Name is not dead, for it is alwayes new in the wide Worlde. His Prowesse passeth hys manners; hys Wytte passeth hys Prowesse: hys fayre Speech passeth hys Wytte; hys good Thews passeth hys fayre Speech!'
Not to prolong the subject ad nauseam, we will merely indicate as more particularly worthy of notice the tomb of Silvester Medicus; a recumbent effigy reputed to be that of Giraldus Cambrensis, of Manorbere; the massive shrine of St. Caradoc; and two early Celtic crosses in the south transept, bearing the device
with the legend pontificis abraham filii.
We next glance into St. Thomas's Chapel, one of the oldest portions of the fabric, whose massive groined roof is adorned with sculptured bosses of unusual size. Here is a piscina enclosed within a group of pointed arches, whose lovely Early English enrichments form one of the daintiest features of the cathedral.
We now enter the beautiful chapel erected by Edward Vaughan, the last of the great building prelates of St. Davids. It boasts a handsome fan-vaulted ceiling, and a peculiar hagioscope fashioned like a cross within a circle.
Some curious details attract our notice as we wander amongst the unrestored chapels. In one of these, a trio of sculptured quadrupeds suggests the idea of the Trinity, while another contains the effigy of a knight in chain-mail, shorn of half its length by a clumsy buttress—a legacy from the days of churchwarden misrule.
Outside the Lady Chapel stood St. Mary's Well, which according to tradition arose at the prayer of St. David to supply the neighbouring monastery. Giraldus tells us that this accommodating spring would sometimes flow with wine, at other times with milk, and that it was the scene of many edifying miracles.
Sauntering around the mellow-tinted walls of the old cathedral, we notice the huge flying buttresses built against its northern side to strengthen the fabric. These rugged bastions, clothed in their luxuriant mantle of ivy, with the crumbling arches of the ruined cloisters hard by, group in a picturesque fashion beneath the central tower, whose broad front, bronzed by the rays of the declining sun, forms a rallying-point for a host of homing jackdaws.
A bowshot westward of the cathedral stand the beautiful ruins of the Bishop's Palace, rising from amidst the rich meadows beside the Allan River. Our route thither lies over the stony way called the Popples, the ancient approach to St. David's Shrine, and traverses the low-arched bridge that superseded the Llechllafar, or Speaking Stone, which in olden times spanned the stream at this point.
Many a curious legend clung around this venerable stone, which Giraldus tells us was even in his time worn hollow by the feet of wayfarers. Tradition avers that Llechllafar was wont to cry out in remonstrance if a corpse was carried across it; and Merlin is said to have foretold that an English king, returning from the conquest of Ireland, was to meet his death upon this spot. So when Henry II. chanced this way, a disappointed suppliant endeavoured to foist this sinister prediction upon him; but the King, having made a suitable oration to the stone, passed over it unharmed to make his orisons before the Shrine of St. David.
Turning from the scene of these miraculous events, we pass a group of lowly cottages and enter the ruined gateway of the palace. Across a stretch of greensward, close-cropped by flocks of sheep, rise the ruined walls of Bishop Gower's lordly dwelling; the open-arched parapets casting a dappled shade athwart the grass-grown courtyard.
Built in the Decorated style that prevailed throughout the fourteenth century, this interesting structure extends around a quadrangle, of which two sides remain in fair preservation, the others being either much in ruins, or entirely razed to the ground. Everything here speaks of peace and bygone hospitality. A wide ogee archway adorned with sculptured niches gives access to the banqueting-hall, an apartment of noble proportions adorned with an exquisite rose window still in good preservation. Near at hand rises the chapel, with its picturesque bell-turret and pointed windows; while over all runs a pretty open arcade, borne upon huge corbels embellished with grotesque heads and strange fantastic monsters. A pleasant variety has been obtained by arranging the stonework above the arches in a kind of diaper pattern, as may be seen in the accompanying sketch taken from the meadows, whence the rose window forms a very charming feature. With the lapse of time these venerable ruins have mellowed into all sorts of harmonious hues, where golden lichens, valerian and climbing plants innumerable, have run riot over the rough purple sandstone.
From the ford across the little stream beneath the palace walls, a charming view is obtained of the ancient bridge and its rough, ivy-clad abutments, backed by the massive front of the cathedral and the picturesque tower and arches of St. Mary's College.
Built by Bishop Adam Houghton towards the close of the fourteenth century, the college chapel, with its vast Perpendicular windows, must in former times have presented an imposing appearance. Here the founder lay at rest under a sumptuous canopy, of which, however, not a vestige now remains. Beneath the chapel is a low groined crypt, but the various collegiate offices which lay to the north have long since been swept away; while the crumbling arcades of the cloisters serve nowadays to shelter the benches of the masons employed in repairing the cathedral.
St. Non's Chapel, the reputed birthplace of St. David, stands in an open meadow overlooking the sea, about a mile outside the city. It is a mere tumbled mass of rude cyclopean masonry, and has no features worthy of note save a simple cross enclosed within a circle, engraved upon an upright slab of stone. An ancient well dedicated to St. Non, the mother of St. David, occupies a corner of the same field.
Some quaint traditions hang around the old chapel called Capel Stinian, whose scanty ruins overlook Ramsey Sound. St. Justinian, the patron saint, was treacherously slain by his own followers on Ramsey Island, whereupon the holy man arose, walked across the straits, and was buried where his chapel now stands. The assassins, having been smitten with leprosy, were banished to Gwahan Garreg, the Lepers' Rock. The story runs that the Puritans stole away the chapel bells, which were famed for their musical sound; but a great storm arising, the vessel in which they endeavoured to escape with their booty was overwhelmed, and the bells cast into the sea. So on stormy nights when the deep, strong tide is troubling the waters, the dwellers near Ramsey Sound still hear the chimes of those long-lost bells, above all the strife of the elements.
Across the straits rises the broad bulk of Ramsey Island: smooth and tame enough on this side, but presenting to the western ocean a grim array of tall inaccessible cliffs and gloomy caverns, the haunt of seals and sea-fowl innumerable. Farther out to sea lies the group of rocky islets known as the Bishop and his Clerks, 'who,' as George Owen has it, 'are not withoute some small Quiristers who shewe not themselves but at Spring Tydes and calme seas. The Bishop and these his Clerkes preache deadlie doctrine to their winter audience, such poore seafaring men as are forcyd thether by Tempest; onelie in one thinge are they to be commended; they keep residence better than the canons of that see are wont to doo.'
Setting our course for the sea-girt promontory of St. Davids Head, we direct our steps towards the curious-looking hill called Carn Llidi. The bold peak of this monticle rises straight before us as we trudge across the sandy burrows, which, in the course of ages, have invaded the site of Roman Menapia, the elder sister of St. Davids.
Thenceforward ensues an exhilarating stretch across the open boulder-strewn headland. Overhead the sun shines bright and warm, light fleecy clouds drift landward under a bracing sea-breeze, casting their purple shadows athwart the azure plain of ocean, which breaks in white foam upon the 'grisly, fiendy Rockys blake' that fringe the broad sweep of Whitesand Bay.
We now push on to the outermost crags of the headland. Stretching seawards like a long, crooked finger, this remote peninsula forms the most westerly landfall of Pembrokeshire, and the southernmost horn of that great Welsh gulf known as Cardigan Bay. Making our way over rough, rocky ground, we pass a huge half-fallen cromlech; and, as the headland narrows, a crumbling rampart flanked by a half-obliterated fosse appears to bar all further progress. This ancient structure, called Clawdd y Millwyr, or the Warriors' Dyke, is constructed of smallish granite stones, compacted with soil and turf; it runs in a slightly-curved line, which is convex upon the landward face, from sea to sea across the narrow peninsula.
Just within the shelter of the bank, upon a stretch of comparatively level greensward, lies one of those cityau, or groups of hut-circles, occasionally to be met with throughout Wales. Six at least of these primitive dwellings are here discernible, all within a few feet of one another, and each of considerable size; many of the stones have sharp, square edges, and some appear to have been rudely shaped to the requisite curve of the circle.
Tradition itself is dumb regarding the origin of these mysterious structures; but there can be little doubt they were erected at a very remote period.
Once again under way, we shape our course for the rocky peak of Carn Llidi. Although barely 600 feet in height, this isolated monticle is in its upper parts abrupt and precipitous. At first our path leads away up the ferny slope to a sort of saddle-backed ridge, over whose bare jagged ledges we clamber onwards until a short, sharp pull up a kind of stony couloir lands us upon the topmost crag.
Here we seem to have mounted (like Jack on his Beanstalk) into a new and undiscovered world, for this isolated perch affords a bird's-eye view over land and sea that rolls away to the distant horizon. Far beyond the broad expanse of Cardigan Bay the highlands of Snowdonia loom faint but clear; a wrinkled, treeless country, chequered by countless fields and dotted with white farmhouses, trends away league upon league to the foot-hills of Precelly, and the smoke-begirt heights of Glamorgan. Roch Castle, upon its lonely hillock, looks out across a silver stretch of St. Bride's Bay to the islands of Ramsey and Skomer. The village-city is hidden by an intervening rise, but its situation is marked by the conspicuous windmill; and westwards St. Davids Head thrusts out like a crooked finger into the open sunlit ocean.