THE MARCH AND BORDERLAND OF WALES.* Tars is a singularly
attractive book. Mr. Bradley is already known as an authority on Wales, even more than on the other countries or provinces he has explored and studied. He is that ideal traveller to whom the towns and villages, the hills and valleys and fields and roads of to-day, speak not only of modern life and its interest, but of a romantic past sometimes so shadowy, legendary, remote, as to be almost inaccessible in ordinary history. The beauty of the land enchants him not only for its present self, but for its tales and suggestions of long ago. There is no fatigue in following his wanderings, for he leads his reader along in the pleasantest way, with gossip and story of every old house and castle and church, traditions of every battle, and even modern anecdotes, creepy or amusing, to brighten the long and winding road.
It is really a large tract of country, larger than one at first realises, that is covered by this book. Many people would be at a loss to say precisely what the Marches of Wales were, and which of the present Welsh and English counties were included in the borderland known by that name. For instance, it is not everybody who knows that Brecon and Radnor, as well as Pembroke, Glamorgan, and the ancient Gower peninsula, did not originally form part of the Welsh principality. People who have been much in Wales, or who have studied its history as thoroughly as the history of England, are of course familiar with these things, but we repeat that this is not the ease with every educated person.
In the same way, it is not every Frenchman who can give you off-band the history and ancient boundary of Brittany or of Provence. Mr. Bradley's book makes all this clear, and in an agreeable way. He does not encumber his pages with much actual history, but in a few words of preface he explains his title and justifies it :—
"Though march is a term synonymous with boundary, the Marches of Wales came to mean politically, legally and geo- graphically, those slices of Welsh territory conquered by the adventuring Norman barons during the century or so following the conquest of England, and held by them and their heirs as quasi-independent lord.ships outside the jurisdiction of the Crown."
Edward L, when he conquered Wales and created the counties which were formed into a principality for his son, did not interfere with these Palatinates of the Marches. They remained almost independent, governed by their own laws, the "Custom of the Marches," till the middle of the sixteenth century. Then Henry VIII. swept them away, a dangerous chaos, and created the Border counties, some English, some Welsh, of which the more southern, Hereford, Monmouth, Glamorgan, are the scene of Mr. Bradley's latest wanderings. It is interesting to notice how from the first, and with no appearance of search or effort, he hits upon the romantic characteristics of each town or countryside. Hereford, for instance, may suggest little but "ecclesiastical peace," white- faced cows, and cider to the unobservant traveller who happens to pass it by, or even to spend a few hours in its tranquil streets. Hereford has present charms, no doubt, and Mr.
Bradley does them justice : but he really sees Hereford in "all the rich and moving story" of its life as a frontier city,
equally warlike, fierce, and dangerous with that of Chester or Shrewsbury. And while entering, with Hereford as the gate, on the wild chronicles of the Marches, we have a timely reminder that this Borderland of Wales, with its rivers Wye, Severn, Usk, and Dee, was in the Middle Ages the scene of events quite as stirring as those which made the Scottish Border famous for all time. In fact, "the balance of power
* In the March and Borderland of Wales. By A. G. Bradley. With Sketches of the Country by W. M. Meredith. and a Map. London : A. Constable and Co. Den 6d. net]
and the fate of English kings and factions rested more often on the men who ruled and fought beyond the Wye and Severn than on any other single part of the realm."
In the romantic country between Hereford and Aber- gavenny Mr. Bradley lingered with delight at Ewyas, as little known as it is beautiful, with its legends of a saintly British King. Close by is the noble old Abbey Church of Dore, and the famous Llanthony, with its own wonderful history, lies hidden in the Valley of Ewyas. In the neighbouring Golden Valley, at ancient Monnington, a plain stone is supposed to cover the bones of the patriot hero, Owen Glyndwr, who died mysteriously somewhere about 1415. Mr. Bradley is angry with historians for their neglect of Glyndwr. It is true that though he fought a guerilla war for the in- dependence of Wales all through the reign of Henry IV., and gained many successes, spreading terror through the Marches, and impressed people's imagination so that they reckoned him a magician in league with the Devil, and was no doubt a really great man, he has hardly achieved the fame that belongs to him. But these fighters for lost causes have never gained much praise, either Welsh or Irish. Perhaps the excuse may be that they were obstacles to the Empire. They were un- necessary, nay, antagonistic, to the evoluion of the British people.
We can only touch here and there on Mr. Bradley's wander- ings. He specially protects himself from any criticisms as to "sins of omission" by pointing out that his book is not a guide-book, but merely the record of a summer's rambles through tracts of country which were as yet unfamiliar to him. We are not sure whether he refers to Wales itself or to its "March and Borderland" when be speaks of "a land that appeals to me more than any portion of this or any other kingdom." In the latter case, the conquest has indeed been complete and speedy, but no one who knows the most beauti- ful parts of Monmouthshire, for instance, or those wild and lovely and poetic regions of South Wales which seem, with their mountains and grey woods and gleaming sea, to be the native land of the "Idylls of the King," will wonder much at this.
Ludlow is one of the places which take this traveller captive most triumphantly—" the most beautiful and distinguished country town in England"—and few who know it, we fancy, will think that this is saying a word too much. Another place, very much less well known—in fact, quite curiously unknown, perhaps owing to the difficulty of approaching it—is Clun, where Shropshire runs into Wales. It is a wild and interesting place, with a history in extraordinary contrast to its present quietness. Its ruined keep was a stronghold of the FitzAlans, Earls of Arundel and great among the Barons of the March. We are reminded, too, that Clun Castle is supposed to be the scene of The Betrothed. Sir Walter Scott visited the neighbourhood, and may well have been inspired by its beauty and romance.
Plenty of folk and fairy lore, and even spiritualism, is to be found in Mr. Bradley's pages. Romance of every sort seems to hang round these lonely places, these old houses and castles and towns and bridges, these wild tracts of moorland and hill and forest. "Planchette," in one extraordinary story, knew more about the former inhabitants of a house than any one could easily remember; and this weird knowledge was proved true. Mr. Bradley need not certainly apologise for telling this story, which is among the most curious we have ever heard. It is also, as he says, unpleasant and uncanny, and a very fit subject for the Psychical Research Society, who have investigated tales much less striking and less well authenti- cated. After four years, the sane and intelligent persons to whom this mysterious thing happened find it as inexplicable and hopeless a mystery as ever.
Among the best stories resting on folk-lore and old super- stition is that of Edric, the Saxon Earl in William the Conqueror's time, who rides with his men and his elfin wife over the Longmynd and Caradoc, above Church Stretton, on the eve of any great war. He was seen before the Crimean War, riding to the North. He was seen before the war with Napoleon, "and then the ghostly train were galloping to the South." A whole world of poetry seems to lie behind stories like these.
The book, with its many charming illustrations, is one to be enjoyed by the fireside, the best place for following other people's wanderings. It does not ask to be read straight through : every page has some new and various interest. And the pleasantest part of the whole thing, perhaps, is the writer's own fresh, good-humoured, kindly, enthusiastic spirit.
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