The wrongs, of which the older monks of Llanthony so justly complained, are thus told by their own pious chronicler:—When the storm subsided, and peace was restored, then did the sons of Llanthony tear up the bounds of their Mother-Church, and refuse to serve God, as their duty required, in the old Sanctuary. For great is the difference, said they, between the rich city of Gloucester, and the wild rocks of the Hatterill—between the fertile vale of Severn, and the craggy banks of the Honddy; between the wealth and civilization of England, and the barren hills and beggarly natives of Wales; between a land of smiling meadows and fertile orchards, and a region of trackless mountains and roaring cataracts; in fine—to justify their desertion—between a home amongst smiling gardens, and a grave in the howling wilderness!
Some of the renegade brethren declared that they wished every stone of the old foundation were a fleet hare and the hounds after it, that not a vestige might be left. Alas, says the ‘Jeremiad,’ they of Gloucester have usurped and lavished all the revenues of the Mother-Church: for their new abode, they have built stately offices; and the old they have left to moulder into ruins. But to avoid the open scandal of deserting their Mother, they send hither, as to a dependent cell, their old and decrepit members to be cherished in that very bosom—fostered in those very arms—which they have insulted by ingratitude, and weakened by wrong and robbery. So great was the poverty to which the few inmates were reduced, that they were actually without surplices, and at times so destitute of raiment that they could not with proper decency appear at divine service. Sometimes the allowance of bread for one day had to serve for two; whilst in the offshoot at Gloucester there was not only enough, but abundance and superfluity. When entreated to return to their Mother, these heartless brethren, who had tasted the sweets of a new residence, and been corrupted by unwonted luxury, only derided their appeal. “What!” they replied, “would you have us return to sing Miserere to the wolves? Do the whelps of wolves delight in choral harmony?” And when any one was sent to Old Llanthony, whether for health or discipline, they would exclaim—“Why, what has he done? what fault has he committed? what law has he broken, that he should be sent into banishment, shut up in such a prison?”—for it was thus that they spoke of the Mother-abbey—calling it a dungeon, a prison-house, fit only for the punishment of great criminals.
In like manner, says the monk, the library was despoiled of its books and MSS.; the record-room of its deeds and charters; the silk vestments and relics, embroidered with gold and silver, were carried away from the vestiary; the treasury was stripped of everything valuable. Whatever was precious or ornamental—even the bells, notwithstanding their great weight, were carried off to the rival abbey without the slightest resistance or redress. It was under these distressing circumstances that King Edward set about effecting the union to which we have adverted.
But there were other causes at work. It is very apparent that the religious peace and contemplation to which it was consecrated, were but rare guests in the old Abbey of Llanthony. Situated on the very border of countries that were mutually engaged in making or repelling aggressions, the sanctity of the place was often invaded by those who returned across the marches from some lawless foray, or by others who entered the Welsh frontiers to make reprisals. The calm serenity which, for a brief season, reigned within and around the sanctuary, was disturbed by continual apprehensions of violence or extortion. The ministering priest was often interrupted in his sacred office by the shouts of armed men. The stranger who had come in pilgrim weeds, confessed, and done penance, was too often found on departure to be a traitor, ready to conduct the next troop of marauders to the gate, and extort fresh contributions from the already impoverished brotherhood.
It is also alleged, with plausibility, that from the Cambrian people—who hated the place because its founders, benefactors, priors, and brotherhood, were aliens by birth, nation, and language—the abbey had no very cordial protection or support. During the long border struggles that preceded and followed its “foundation in the wilderness,” it was the mark of every invading or retreating foe. Instead of Matins and Vespers, and the meditations of holy men, the Vale of Ewias was often the retreat or the rallying point of adventurers, whose Parthian-like movements rendered them equally dangerous in the charge and the retreat. The sanctity and seclusion of the place once disturbed, the spell was broken; outrages were repeated and multiplied with impunity by those who, having no law, were a law unto themselves; and to such extremes were these carried, that the Prior and Canons—habituated as they were, by the rule of their Order, to fasting, and at best to a coarse and scanty fare—were often reduced to the verge of famine.
In one of the numerous expeditions by which the spirit of retaliation was kept up, and by which the religious houses were harassed and plundered, a soldier of the English army writes—“We lie here watching, praying, fasting, and freezing! We watch in dread of the Welsh, who beat up our quarters every night; we pray for a safe passage homeward; we fast, for hardly have we any food, the halfpenny loaf being raised to fivepence; and we freeze for want of clothing, having only a linen tent to keep out the cold!”
If such was the penance done by an officer of the “victorious army,” great must have been the sufferings endured by those who had to supply the “loaf,” as the monks of Llanthony had to do, either in substance or in coin.
While the Abbey was yet faintly struggling to recover a healthy activity in its affairs, its temporal revenues, and spiritual offices, so great a dearth occurred all over Wales, that the Bishop of St. David’s is said to have died of grief; the Bishop of Llandaff to have been stricken blind; while the Bishops of Bangor and St. Asaph, on their sees being rendered utterly destitute, were reduced to the necessity of supplicating alms. The bondage and destitution of the Welsh at this period—the evils of want and war—are thus expressed by an old writer:—“The harp of the churchman is changed into sorrow and lamentation; the glory of our proud and ancient nobility is faded away.”