This is, as we have said, a comparatively humble beginning for the second in length among the rivers of Britain—for a stream which passes more towns of historic and antiquarian interest than any other in the land, and has been always the delight of poets. The Britons knew it as Hafren, the Romans as Sabrina, from which, obviously, the present name has arisen. For several miles from its birthplace its descent is comparatively rapid, but gradually the slope diminishes, the stream ceases to brawl among rocks and stones, the valley widens, and after a course of from a dozen to fifteen miles, according as its path is estimated, it arrives at its first town, Llanidloes, where it is joined on the northern side by the Clywedog, which flows through a pretty valley and seems to be a longer stream than the Severn itself.
At Llanidloes the Severn plunges abruptly into the bustle of life, for this is a town with some ten thousand inhabitants, which carries on a brisk trade in flannels. But, except for its church, which is one of the finest in Wales, and has a handsome carved oak roof, there is nothing to hinder the uncommercial traveller. For another ten miles or so there is little to note along the course of the river; but on approaching a station rejoicing in the modern name of Moat Lane Junction, where the line from Machynlleth, descending the wooded valley of the Carno, joins that which comes down from Llanidloes, one comes to two places which will repay a halt. Here we are carried back over seventeen centuries of history. Here Briton and Roman in former days looked at one another with no friendly eyes across the river; the one, as was his wont, clinging to the mountains, the other to the valley and the river-side. The gods of the one were gods of the hills, those of the other loved the plain. The one preferred the eyrie from which, like the vulture, he could swoop to plunder, and to which he could fly for safety. The other made his hold sure on the fields, the river, and the roads; for where he came there he meant to stay.
THE FIRST HOUSE ON THE SEVERN: BLAENHAFREN (p. [84]).
The British earthwork, Cefn Carnedd by name, from its bastion-like hill between the Carno and the Severn, commands a beautiful view overlooking both valleys. In plan it is a blunt-ended oval, the longer axis lying nearly east and west; on the latter side and towards the north it is enclosed by a triple ditch and rampart, but on the southern side a single entrenchment, owing to the steepness of the hill, suffices for defence. The enclosed area, about 300 yards in length, rises slightly towards the west, and at this end about one-third of the whole is cut off by a ditch and rampart, apparently with the intention of forming a kind of keep. Entrances may still be found and the approaches traced; these evidently were cunningly devised so as to be commanded by the defences; in fact, this must formerly have been one of the strongest and most formidable among the hill-forts of Britain. There are others in the neighbourhood, though these are inferior to Cefn Carnedd.
The Roman fortress, Caersws by name, is in the valley on the opposite bank of the Severn, at a distance of some 300 yards from the river. This, too, must have been in its day a place of great strength. It was enclosed by a high quadrangular rampart, with a ditch outside, which still remains in most places, though they have been injured here and there, and one angle of the vallum has been destroyed to make a site for the railway station. Caersws, the Mediolanum of Tacitus, evidently was once a stronghold of great importance, for three Roman roads converge to it. The strategic advantages of the position are obvious.
The valley of the Severn is now broadening, and its scenery becomes richer and more fertile, although bare hills still rise in the background. About four miles lower down another manufacturing town is reached, which, however, is considerably smaller than Llanidloes. This is Newtown, a place comparatively modern—as the name implies—which, however, has a certain commercial status as the recognised centre of the Welsh flannel trade, but is otherwise uninteresting, except for a carved rood screen and one or two more relics of an older building preserved in its modern church, and for being the place where Robert Owen, the father of modern socialism, was born and was buried.
Wandering on through scenery generally similar in character, pleasant, pretty, and hilly, but without any very bold features, the Severn in a few miles reaches Montgomery, a town which is peaceful enough now, but in former days was not at all suited for people desirous of a quiet life, for it was one of the fortresses of the Marches, over which Welsh and English fought like dogs over a bone. As can be readily seen, the castle was a place of considerable strength, for it stands on a scarped, rocky headland, overlooking the valley. But of its walls and towers not much remains. Near at hand is a British camp, but the first castle was built in the days of William the Norman. After being thrice demolished by the Welsh, it became the residence of a noted family, the Herberts of Cherbury. The last episode of interest in its history was a struggle for its possession in the time of the Civil War. The Royalists were defeated, and the castle was ultimately “slighted” by the victors. At that time it was owned by Edward, first Lord Herbert of Cherbury, the eccentric philosopher, statesman, and gallant; and within its walls, his brother George was born, as noted for the strictness as the other was for the laxity of his religious views. In fact, this is the cradle of a distinguished race. The church is cruciform in plan, and contains old monuments of the Herbert and the Mortimer families. A romantic story is, or was, told about a bare cross visible in the grass of the churchyard; it marks the grave of one Newton, who was hanged on a charge of robbery and murder. He died protesting his innocence, and prayed that the grass might never grow about his burial-place, as a witness to the injustice of his doom.