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.