The Norman knights who settled on the Welsh borders acquired the name of Lords Marchers, being styled Marchiones Walliæ in the Red Book of the Exchequer; although the title of nobility derived from this, Marquis, was not introduced till the reign of Richard II. These lords marchers, of whom were the Cliffords and other families in Hereford, had each a law for his own barony, and determined of their own authority all suits between their tenants. They were entitled to the goods and chattels of such of their tenants as died intestate. This power, in fact, was such as could only be continued by violence; and hence the coolness or treachery of some of them when any serious attempt was made by the sovereign to introduce the laws and customs of the English into Wales. After the death of Llewellin, the last prince of Wales, this was at length effected by Edward I.; but still, the Marches, not being included in the division of the land into counties became a scene of such anarchy, that it was found necessary to institute a court of judicature for that district alone. This court continued till the first year of William and Mary, when it was dissolved by an act of Parliament, in consequence, as the preamble states, of its having become “a great grievance to the subject.” Previous to this, however, in the time of Henry VIII., the Marches of Wales were definitely united to England; when Clifford and other places, which were before a debatable land of bloodshed and confusion, became a part of Herefordshire.
But Clifford Castle is not associated merely with ideas of war and rapine, but with those of love and beauty. Here was born that too celebrated lady, of whom Dryden says—
“Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver,
Fair Rosamond was but her nom de guerre.”
She was the daughter of one of the earls of Clifford, and became celebrated for her amour with Henry II.; who built her a bower in Woodstock Park, which he defended from his jealous wife by the classical device of a labyrinth. Queen Eleanor, however, who was as well read in ancient history as her spouse, was not slow in hitting upon the expedient of the clue of thread; and, on reaching her rival, the historical romancers add, she compelled her to swallow poison. Whatever may have been her fate, Fair Rosamond was buried at Godstow, and a Latin epitaph inscribed on her tomb to this effect:
“Here lies not Rose the Chaste, but Rose the Fair,
Whose breath perfumes no more, but taints the air.”
The ruins of the castle, completely covered with ivy, look down solemn and sad upon the Wye:
“Clifford has fallen—howe’er sublime,
Mere fragments wrestle still with time;
Yet as they perish, sure and slow,
And rolling dash the stream below,
They raise tradition’s glowing scene,—
The clue of silk, the wrathful queen;
And link in memory’s firmest bond
The love-lorn tale of Rosamond.”
We carried away with us for a considerable distance the dreamy repose of Clifford Castle; but this was at length broken by repose of another character. The scene was a little wayside hut, purporting to be an inn, where the weary pedestrian might obtain shade or shelter, if no refreshment. An old man, and an old woman, occupied the two fireside corners, the one reading, the other sewing, in profound silence. Around the hearth, there was a semi-circle of five cats, in various attitudes of rest, but not one breaking the stillness of the place even by a pur. A dog, apparently kept in proper order by his feline associates, lay outside the semicircle, and shared in the tranquillity of the scene. We paused for a moment at the door, feeling that our presence was an intrusion; but, after a brief question, and a brief reply, the good wife dropped her eyes again upon her work, and the dog, who had himself raised his head, returned to his slumber with a sigh. As for the other inhabitants, our presence had produced no effect upon them at all, and we withdrew to proceed upon our wanderings, unconsciously taking care to tread without noise.
From this place to Hereford, the road runs through a rich and well cultivated country, dotted here and there with houses and villages, but not thickly enough to disturb the idea of pastoral repose. Approaching Bradwardine, where the old castle said to have been the residence of the family of that name is not, the soil swells into wooded eminences, one of which is called Mirebeck Hill; and Brobury’s Scar, a picturesque cliff rising from the bank of the river, adds still further to the diversity of the prospect. Then came the various villas which usually adorn the neighbourhood of a large town—and which here are true embellishments to the landscape; and finally we enter the ancient, sober, quiet cathedral city of Hereford.
Hereford was a principal town of Mercia under the Heptarchy, the palace of Offa, the most powerful of the Mercian princes, being within three miles of it on the north-eastern side. Its church, in the time of Offa, was probably nothing more than a wooden building; but to the rise of that church in wealth and reputation was owing, according to the usual sequence of events at the period, the prosperity of the town. Offa had treacherously inveigled to his court Ethelbert, prince of the East Angles, when he murdered him, and usurped his crown. The body of the victim was buried in the church, where by working of miracles it attracted so much attention to the spot, that a new church of stone was constructed on the site of the wooden edifice, and dedicated to Saint Ethelbert. Multitudes of course flocked to visit the martyr’s tomb; the church was richly endowed by the remorse or hypocrisy of the assassin; and Hereford speedily rose from its comparative obscurity.
About the year 939, the city was first enclosed by walls, the fragments of which now existing are supposed to stand upon the original foundations. They were eighteen hundred yards in extent, enclosing the town on all sides except towards the south, where it has the defence of the Wye. There were six gates, and fifteen embattled watch-towers. The castle, concerning the date of which antiquarians are not agreed, stood on the south and east sides of the city, with the Wye on the south and the cathedral on the west. Leland describes the keep as having been “high and very strong, having in the outer wall ten semicircular towers, and one great tower within.” He adds, that “it hath been one of the largest, fayrest, and strongest castels in England.” In the time of the civil wars, Hereford was the scene of some strife, but since then nothing has occurred—not even the introduction of manufactures—to disturb its repose.
With the exception of the cathedral, a grand view of which is to be had from the Castle Green Promenade—a fine public walk on a small scale—there is nothing to detain the traveller. Some fragments of the city walls, however, and of an old priory, may be visited by the antiquary; together with an old house, a “brotherless hermit,” the last of a race demolished for the purpose of widening the street where the town hall stands—or rather sits—resting uneasily on some thin columns. The house, adorned with grotesque faces, bears its date, 1621.
The traveller may also go, if he will, to Pipe Lane, formerly called Pipe Well Street, leading from the bridge to the cathedral, to see the house where Nell Gwynn was not born, and the bedchamber where she did not sleep. These curiosities will be shown for a trifle, and they must now suffice: the dwelling which really