VIII
- Entering Caerleon
IX - Caerleon Museum
X - King Arthur's Round Table
XI - The Mound
XII - The Gold Croft Inn
XIII - History & Legend
XIV - Caerleon's Rise & Fall
VIII
My
first view of Caerleon was near the close of a beautiful
September day. Here was a magnificent city, with palaces,
theatres, baths, temples, towers, and crowded streets, in
the days when Adrian reigned, and the fierce Silures chafed
under the yoke of Roman power. I walked down the lane leading
to the centre of the city (for city it still is in name),
and stood in its lonely main street - an empty thoroughfare
where grass grows, lined by poor houses of stone; a city
forsaken of man, a wretched little hamlet of perhaps a thousand
people, all told. But every foot of this ground is saturated
with olden history. Here stood the ancient capital of Britannia
Secunda, the City of the Legions; and here,
half a century after the Romans had taken their last leave
of the island where they had been masters for nearly 400
years, King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table held
their dazzling court.
The
blank of the empty street is enlivened by footsteps - the
slow, uncertain footsteps of a boy with nothing to do. I
accost him.
Do
you know anybody who could act as a guide for me?
Gide,
zur?
Yes,
anybody who could show me about the place?
Noa,
zur.
Do
you know a place hereabout called Arthurs Round Table?
The answer is a delightful surprise:
Yees,
zur.
Come,
then; Ill give you a sixpence to show it to me.
A
saxpence!
Every
reserved force in the boys body appears to be called
into activity by the prospect of such earnings. He
wakes up as by a jerk; and I may say at once that I never
encountered a more intelligent boy of that low rank in life
in all my journeyings on strange soil. He piloted me about
like a little hero, and he pointed out the lions of Caerleon
and commented on them in a way that showed he knew
something about the wonderful history of the decayed
city where it had been his fate to be born.
On
the subject of inns, the boy informed me that the Gold Croft
was as good as any, and would be able to give me a decent
supper. I should hardly have pinned my hungry faith to the
Gold Croft on the strength of its appearance. It was a poor
little stone house, with low walls, and no sign of life
anywhere about it. I went in, and had hardly taken ten steps
beyond the threshold when I seemed to find myself in the
kitchen. A bare-armed woman was at work there, who looked
up at me in surprise. There was no time for apologies, however,
and I plumped the question of possible supper. What would
I like, the woman asked. Anything you have,
I answered. If I would tell her what I wanted - some bread
and cheese, now, or what? Can you give me chops?
She thought so. After some hesitation chops were settled
upon - to be ready in an hour; and secure in this promise
I beckon to the boy, who has been waiting outside, and off
we start.
Around
two or three corners - I do not remember a village with
more corners in it, for its size, than Caerleon - and down
a narrow street. In a small square or open place at the
foot of a street ambitiously called Broadway, the boy begins
his performance of the novel duties of guide by pointing
out to me the museum, zur. The museum is exactly
like a pocket edition of the New York Sub-Treasury; that
is to say, a miniature Greek temple, than which certainly
nothing could be more incongruous in this city, where Roman
power so long held sway, nothing more out of keeping with
this village, which poverty seems to have made its own.
The museum was built here, on the spot where its contents
have been dug from the ground, by a local antiquarian society.
It must not be supposed, from the picture I give of Caerleon,
that there are not men of wealth here and hereabout. One
never loses sight of the elegant abodes of well-to-do people
in this fair land of Wales, even when a poor little village
occupies the centre of the scene.
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IX
Subsequent
acquaintance with the contents of Caerleon Museum proved
them to be profoundly interesting. Brass and silver coins
of Julia Augusta, Vespasian, Antoninus Pius, Hadrian, Nerva,
Clandius, Constantine, Constantinus, Valentian, and Salustius
; fragments of crosses, lamps, statues, altars, columns,
friezes, sarcophagi, intaglios, rings, seals, fibulae, vases
- all these are in Caerleons public or private collections.
Of some of the most interesting I had careful drawings made.
A sculpture of a dog attacking a wild beast was dug up in
a cottage garden in Caerleon a few years ago, and has excited
great interest among antiquaries and comparative anatomists.
The tablet was doubtless part of a monument erected in commemoration
of a valiant dog killed in the arena in fight with a lion.
Martial wrote an epitaph on a dog famed in this way, whose
name was Lydia:-
A
thunderous boars tusk sent me to the shades,
Huge
as the dread of the Erymanthian glades.
Though early snatchd away, I murmur not
No end more glorious could have crownd my lot.
Professor
Rolleston, of Oxford, learned in comparative anatomy, contributed
to the museum an elaborate paper, in which he decided that
the dog was a Canis molossus mastivus, and very like an
English mastiff of his acquaintance in Oxford,
where it is studying at present - which remark is
the only joke, I think, included in the contents of Caerleon
Museum.
Very
grim and impressive are the faces on the two antefixa for
whose excavation the world is indebted to Sir Digby Mackworth.
These were Roman tiles used as ornaments on the roof of
a temple, where they were set up, instead of a parapet,
at regular intervals, being fixed in place by a projection
behind. These specimens show on the back a mark like a reversed
U, where the projections have been broken off. The faces
are very rude and fantastic - one almost triangular, and
the other elliptical. The whole tile was a triangle in shape,
and the space not occupied by the faces is ornamented by
trees and a chariot wheel.
Great
numbers of specimens of the beautiful pottery known as Samian-ware
have been found at Caerleon; a fragment exhumed in digging
the foundation of the Red Lion Inn is interesting. It represents
a gladiator attacking a lion. The structure of this ware
is peculiarly close-grained, and the exterior surface polished
with a beauty exceeding modern glazing. Such fragments are
almost always numerous on the sites of the old Roman stations
in Britain, and indicate a knowledge of pottery surpassing
the science of the present day. But many scholars think
this ware was brought to Britain from some foreign shore,
and that only the coarser specimens were of home manufacture.
A large quantity of the ware has been dredged up from the
sand at the month of the Thames, and its presence there
has been variously accounted for. Some antiquaries suppose
there was anciently a large pottery there, and that the
sea has since encroached on its site. Others think - and
this also is the popular notion - that a vessel freighted
with this ware was wrecked here in old times.
Another
kind of pottery, of which a lamp found in the churchyard
is an illustration, is of coarse red clay; but the shape
of the lamp is extremely graceful.
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X
Turning to the right by the museum, and walking down Broadway
a few paces, we are in the open country. At the left of
the road is the field of Arthurs Round Table. A well-worn
stone stile leads into the field; and on the opposite side
of the road I observe another like stile, which would indicate
the presence of some feature of interest in that field also.
The boy explains:
Do
you see tha pool, zur? They do say as that were a
bath o the Roomans. There be always water there, zur,
wet weather or dry - always water there. Tis called
the Bear-house Field, zur; an they do say the animals
did use to be kep there, zur, for the Rooman sports.
But
in the presence of Arthurs Round Table, I do not tarry
at the field of the defunct bears, but hasten to climb the
stile at the left, and enter the field of the immortal knights.
Now,
if the renowned table of the good King Arthur was really
a structure of such huge proportions as has been said, I
see no more reason to doubt that here it stood, than that
Arthur lived and feasted his knights, as has been related
in Sir Thomas Malorys noble and joyous book entitled
Morte dArthur. Once admitting the existence
of the good king, in the full plenitude of heroic story
which Caxton printed and Tennyson later wrought into verse,
and all minor drafts on our credulity are honoured easily.
Caerleon was the chief residence of Arthur, not only according
to the testimony of such history as we have concerning him,
but according to Tennyson. Here the Poet Laureate laid the
central scene of his Idylls of the King, in
which we read that Arthur - Held court at old Caeeon
upon Usk.
Tennyson
lived for some time at an inn here while penning the Idylls
of the King (a fact of which the landlord, with whom
I chatted about the poet one evening, subsequent to the
present visit, is very proud), thus adding one more to the
list of interesting individuals who have lived here since
the early ages. Arthur and Merlin, according to the Caxtonian
volume, seem to have been constantly going back and forth
between the two great cities, London and Caerleon. London
was the younger city of the two. And, by-the-way, London
was Caerludd in the beginning of its career - after King
Ludd. The sixth chapter of the first book of Morte
dArthur begins with this sentence:
Then
the king removed into Wales, and let cry a great feast,
that it should be holden at Pentecost, after the incoronation
of him at the city of Carlion. In the next chapter
is the account of a great battle here, in which the people
had a hand And then the commons of Carlion arose with
clubs and staves, and slew many knights. And the prophet
Merlin was continually turning up in Caerleon in all sorts
of queer shapes.
I
approach the edges of the excavation - or rather graceful
depression in the centre of the green grassy field - full
of faith that here the Round Table was set up. It is an
oval ring of great size, a little more than 200 feet along
and a little less than 200 feet across, and it runs down
to a narrow point in the centre. Nature did not indulge
in this peculiar freak; it is the work of mans hands;
but those hands were Roman hands, and Arthur found the place
for his table all ready for occupancy when he came to set
it up. It was a Roman amphitheatre in the days of Agricola
and of Adrian. The grass grows green over the ranks of stone
seats which are ranged about the arena; from time to time
specimens of them have been dug from the ground. An alabaster
statue of Diana has also been disinterred here.
Imagination
finds no difficulty in peopling this scene with a ghostly
company of togaed and sandalled revellers looking upon the
fierce-browed fighters in the arena, and encouraging them
to further displays of prowess. There is no strain on credulity
here; and the hour encourages the mood of fancy. It is light,
but twilight; with the mellow hue of a Rembrandt; there
is light enough to see clearly all objects about us, but
in the distance the trees grow indistinct, and the old church-tower
on the hill is black with shadows. The full moon is slowly
climbing over the horizon, at the precise point where, on
many a September night like this, long centuries ago, the
Romans of ancient Isca Silurus saw her round face rise;
where later, let us believe, Arthurs men too saw her;
and where, later still, but yet more than a thousand years
ago, the scholars and monks of early Christianity beheld
the same serene spectacle. Oh, thou bland-faced moon, if
thou couldst speak of what thou hast seen on this spot!
- but let us not bay the moon, whatever our emotions. Let
us rather emulate the serenity of yonder speckled cow, browsing
as unconcernedly on the grass of this great grave of a mighty
past, as if the herbage springing over a Roman amphitheatre
were no more to her than the milk-filling pabulum of any
udder. My guide speaks:
They
do say, zur, as its all stoone hunder ere; old
Roman stoone, zur - yees, zur. An theer, down theer
in the middle at the bottom, zur, as you see, theer is weer
they did set up the flagpole wen the queen was crowned.
The
Queen! Did the Romans-
Yees,
zur, the Queen; theer they did set up the flag-pole wen
Queen Victoria was crowned, zur.
Incongruous
boy! Queen Victoria, forsooth! twas yesterday that
good queen was crowned. But 1837 is as deep in the past
to this unlettered boy as 37 B.C. lie had no mortal existence
at either date; twas all one - or rather none - to
him.
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XI
We must walk on ere it be dark; there will be time enow
(marry come up!) to muse on these sights by-and-by at mine
inn. The boy leads the way across the field, and we climb
a barred gate into another field, and pass along under the
shadow of an old wall, built of rubble-stone and rude fragments,
joined with that wondrously hard cement so often met in
Welsh ruins, compounded of sand, pebbles, pounded bricks
and lime. I try to chip off a piece with another stone,
but only succeed in bruising my fingers. Now the boy, not
forgetting his function of guide, calls my attention to
the bridge, a grey old stone structure of three arches,
spanning the placid Usk; a thing of yesterday, hardly older
than the Old South Church, in Boston, Massachusetts, and
an object to which no antiquary pays the slightest attention
at Caerleon. We are looking for an object famed of Caerleon,
called the Mound, or the Tump, for
want of a better title-the small, steep hill, raised by
Norman hands, upon which stood an ancient citadel, which
Giraldus Cambrensis describes in his twelfth century
account of Caerleon, and which he had found a ruin, but
a solid one, in his day, viz., 200 years ago. The information
of my juvenile guide does not include this spot, I find
at least it is with difficulty he comprehends my
desire. He has never heard of the Mound, he says. I describe
it as well as I can from what I have heard, and at last
he seems to suspect the thing referred to.
I
do think it be in the Castle Villa, zur, he says;
I cant goa in theer, but I knows a place where
a can see the top of it oer the wall.
He
leads the way, and presently we come to a point in front
of a greengrocers shop, where, by standing at a particular
place on the sidewalk, we have a very good view of the mound.
Nothing remains of the tower; the tump is merely a sort
of domestic lion of the gentleman who dwells in the Castle
Villa. The whole place is surrounded by high walls; and
the boy confesses utter ignorance as to what is inside the
grounds. I never was in theer, zur, he says
meekly; and somehow it strikes me strangely that a boy should
live all his life in a little village like this, and never
have solved the mystery of a walled ground by which he must
have passed and repassed hundreds of times. Such a boy -
or perhaps I should say such a wall - on reflection I will
say both - would be a moral impossibility in America. There
is no American garden wall so high, and no American village
boy so meek, that the one should not be scaled by the other,
to the satisfaction of the American spirit of inquiry. But
this boy was born among mysteries older than Ethelwolf and
Clovis. One small mystery more, in the shape of a garden
wall, is not worth thinking about.
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XII
The
darkness is fallen now, and at the Gold Croft Inn my supper
will be waiting. I return to that hostelry and dismiss the
boy, who knuckles his forehead gratefully on finding that
my incredible promise of sixpence is followed by glorious
performance. I have said that the Gold Croft Inn failed
to inspire me with confidence at the time I entered it to
order supper, and my estimate of it is not much improved
now as I re-enter its little coffee room; but I have been
on my feet since early morning, and I am thankful for a
chair to sit on and another chair to stretch my weary legs
across. The room is lighted by a single lamp and furnished
poorly. But the respectability of the inn is very positively
indicated by the prints framed on the walls, most of which
are of a religious character - Christ blessing little children,
and like subjects; and presently the impression is strengthened
by the entrance of a pretty child, with bright eyes, auburn
hair, and a healthabounding figure, clad in neat attire,
who puts her hand confidently in mine (on being invited,
for she is shy at first), and tells me her age is eleven,
and her name is Polly.
Polly
entertains me with pleasant prattle while the maid is setting
the supper-table. She is not Welsh, she says; she is English.
Her aunt is Welsh; her mother is dead; she dont know
what her father works at; her aunt keeps the inn; her education
has not been neglected, and she can read quite well, as
she at once proceeds to do by way of evidence on a point
so important. She reads in a loud, clear voice the titles
written under some sketches of Welsh scenery which I show
her, dashing at the hard words without hesitation, and pronouncing
them according to her lights. View on the Husk,
she recites; Newport Carstle; the Kwah at Newport,
this being her dash at the pronunciation of the word quay.
She was born at Usk, but has no remembrance of Usk Castle.
The Round Table she has seen - oh, frequently; the children
often go there to play.
The
question of the respectability and home-like character of
the Gold Croft Inn is completely set at rest when the landlady
enters, bringing the supper with her own fair hands. She
is a buxom person, in her forties, dressed in a stiff and
rustling black gown (I suspect its having been donned in
my honour), and her appearance would tranquillize the last
doubts of a Presbyterian minister if lie were here to sup
instead of me. I fall to upon my supper with a cheerful
spirit and a prodigious appetite, sure that if it prove
uneatable, it will not be for lack of good Christian intentions.
But I am bound to confess the supper is most toothsome.
The chops are done to a turn, and are juicy and tender with
the true Welsh tenderness and juice, and they are supplemented
with broiled kidneys and mealy potatoes boiled in their
jackets. The dishes shine with cleanliness, and the coarse
cloth knows no speck. A pint of wholesome home-brewed ale
serves for potable to this repast, and I take mine ease
in mine inn with a seren and satisfied spirit.
The
landlady frowns at Polly to indicate that she must leave
the room while the gentleman is supping, but I quickly protest
that Polly is much too nice a little girl to be sent away,
and that I wish her to remain; whereupon the frown is chased
from the landladys face by a broad sunny smile of
goodnatured acquiescence, as a darkened meadow glistens
in a sudden ray of the sun, and Polly stays. The chops disappear.
Now, Polly, if I had a bit of cheese - Polly
flies with my order to the kitchen, and quickly comes the
landlady, bearing in her fat hands a huge cheese - a whole
one, from which but one thin segment has been cut. With
this, bread and butter in abundance are set before me, and
if I were twenty men, I should have no excuse for rising
from the table hungry. As a final grace to the banquet,
the landlady sends me a great honeysuckle, rich with perfume
and bright with maiden fairness, and Polly pins it in my
button-hole. There is a clean long clay pipe on the mantelpiece
- a model of the old Knickerbocker pipe, with stem as long
as your arm - and I take it down to examine it idly, whereat
Polly rushes from the room, and quickly returns with a pipeful
of tobacco wrapped in a bit of newspaper; so I light the
long pipe, puff serenely, and call for my bill. I fear there
is some mistake when the bill is brought, and, by the aid
of my pocket microscope, I discover its sum total; but it
seems there is none. It foots up one shilling and sixpence.
Less than forty cents for chops and kidneys, mealy potatoes,
bread and cheese, a pint of cwrw da, a long pipe, and a
honeysuckle!
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XIII
The
landlady retires with her nugget of satisfaction to regale
a select circle in the kitchen, and I am left alone with
my pipe and Polly. The little girl has now relapsed into
silence, and is working at some pretty white tape trimming,
which grows inch by inch under her stubby fingers; and the
pipe is a capital thought-breeder, so that my reveries wander
easily over the strange story of Caerleons past. I
muse on the time, 700 years ago, when that sturdy old priestly
traveller over Wales, and industrious chronicler of the
glories of Wales, and enthusiastic lauder of the beauties
of Wales, Giraldus Cambrensis, came tramping into Caerleon,
and went about its forlorn streets, seeing its lions much
as I have been doing, and musing on them afterward much
as I am doing now. And of Caerleon in the twelfth century,
700 years after the Romans had quitted Wales for ever, he
wrote that many vestiges of its former splendours were yet
to be seen - immense palaces, whose roofs, once gilded,
imitated in grandeur the magnificence of the imperial city
raised by the Roman princes, and embellished with beautiful
statues. Here, he says, were a prodigious high
tower, noble baths, remains of temples and theatres, parts
of which are still standing; you everywhere find, both within
and without the circuit of the walls, subterranean buildings,
aqueducts, and underground passages; and here the Roman
embassadors received audience at the court of the great
King Arthur, and the Archbishop Dubritius ceded his honours
to David of Menevia.
Nor
was he an idle romancer, this old Giraldus, as the vast
number of Roman relics here found since his day can testify.
It cannot be long ago that the ground was rich with them,
not only under the sod but on its surface; for old people
now living in Caerleon well remember the time when it was
a very common thing to pick up on the road pieces of stone
with strange letters carved upon them. Even within the present
century it has been the custom for the simple folk of Caerleon
to quarry for stone in the handiest field, and dig up the
buried Roman pavements and ruined structures for building
materials. No longer ago than 1866 the vicar of Caerleon,
in pulling down an old cottage on his glebe, found two large
inscribed stones, one of which was recognized as having
been seen in 1801 by an antiquary who was delving here,
and which had excited deep interest among scholars, but
it had been lost again; and now here it was restored to
light once more, after having been hidden for nearly seventy
years in the brick and mortar of a cottage. The inference
drawn from the half illegible letters is that it was dedicated
in the consulate of Maximo II. and Urbano, in the year 234,
and the stone probably records the inauguration of a building.
The inscription has been almost obliterated, what with the
ravages of time and the coarse uses of Caerleons house
builders in the present era.
The
700 years which lie between the present and the time when
Giraldus wrote seem to shrivel up and disappear in the common
interest taken by him and by ourselves in old Caerleon.
My thoughts keep company with his in going back another
700 years or so, to the time in King Arthurs reign
when the holy St. David was appointed to the see of Caerleon.
The good saint was terribly annoyed by the dissipation and
gaiety of the royal court, and at once removed the see to
Pembrokeshire, to get his monks as far as possible from
the dangers and temptations of the populous city. He certainly
could have got no further than he went without going into
the sea. Pembrokeshire is on the extreme south-western coast
of Wales, and the existing ruins of St. Davids palace
stand on the jumping-off place, the very end of the land.
A
little further into the past and we come to that year 508
when Arthur was crowned at Caerleon. Ah! those were gallant
days and debonair. What a scene must that have been when
there came clanking through the gates of Caerleon troop
after troop of knights armed cap-a-pie, on horses
gaily caparisoned, to attend Arthurs Pentecostal feast!
For in procession there came King Lot of Lothian and
of Orkney with five hundred knights with him and King
Urieus of Gore with four hundred knights with him,
and King Nentres of Garloth with seven hundred knights
with him, and the glittering cavalcades passed into
the city, shaking the ground beneath their horses iron tread.
Also there came to the feast the King of Scotland
with six hundred knights with him, and he was but a young
man. Also there came to that feast a king that was called
the King with the Hundred Knights, but he and his men was
passing well beseen at all points. Also there came the King
of Carados with five hundred knights. And King Arthur was
glad of their coming, for he wend that all the kings and
knights had come for great love, and for to have done him
worship at his feast, wherefore the king made great joy,
and sent the kings and knights great presents. But the kings
would none receive, but rebuked the messengers shamefully,
and said they had no joy to receive no gifts of a beardless
boy that was come of low blood, and sent him word they would
have none of his gifts, but that they were come to give
him gifts with hard swords betwixt the neck and the shoulders.
And then there was a glorious fight indeed! And Sir
Bandwin, Sir Kay, and Sir Brastias slew on the right hand
and on the left hand that it was marvellous; and always
King Arthur on horseback laid on with a sword, and did marvellous
deeds of arms. Would I had been there to see! I rise,
and going to the window of mine inn, look out upon the street,
in case any knight should by chance be strolling by. No
soul is stirring; and if there were, I should find a great
contrast between the ideal Welsh knight and the actual one.
Still
into the dim backward and abysm of time, to a day when Arthur
was unborn; when the very stones of old St. Pauls
still slept in their unbroken quarries; when Hengist and
Horsa were yet in the womb of the future; and Caerleon was
the brilliant capital of Britannia Secunda from the Severn
westward to the sea, Constantine the Great its ruler, and
the Romans undisputed possessors of the island. The luxury
and splendour of old Rome were here repeated; the theatres
were crowded at night with brilliant throngs; dinners, balls,
and routs succeeded each other in unending succession; by
day the fashionable drive was over yonder bridge and through
the suburb which the villagers still call Ultra Pontem,
out on the road named Julia Strata. The magnificence of
Rome was at its height, and its decline in the near future,
but peace reigned throughout Britain, and Caerleon shared
the luxurious hush of the lull preceding the storm of battles
which soon shook the world.
One
more step backward, and the Roman was a stranger looking
with curious eyes on Britain. There was one brave soldier
who opposed the advance of the Roman conquerors step by
step. This was Caractacus, king of the fierce Silures, who
held his court at Caerleon. London was not yet founded,
but Caerleon was the seat of a king. It was not a splendid
place, I fancy: Caractacus was not a wealthy monarch, but
he was as brave a hero as the world has seen from the days
of Joshua and Agamemnon to those of Havelock and Grant.
With his handful of the warriors of South Wales this determined
patriot continued for nine years to harass and oppose the
Roman armies. He was captured at last only through the treachery
of his wifes mother the first victim of a mother-in-law,
so far as we have any record in history.
Caractacus
was sent in triumph to Rome; and as he was led in chains
through the Eternal City, he gazed about on the splendours
which surrounded him, and his thoughts went back to Caerleon.
Alas
! cried he, how is it possible that a people
possessed of such magnificence at home could envy me a humble
cottage in Britain?
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XIV
Such
are a few of the records of this profoundly interesting
spot. After a brilliant history, stretching over many centuries
of time, the great city vanished from the face of the earth,
leaving the traces of its former grandeur buried in profusion
beneath the soil. Precisely when Caerleon began to fall
into final decay is unknown, but probably it was soon after
King Morgan removed the royal court to Cardiff.
The
present name of the city is supposed to come from caer,
the ancient British word for a fortified camp or city, and
leon, a corruption of legionum. Why London should have grown
so great, and Caerleon shrunk so small, is a matter not
altogether lacking in the element of mystery. Caerleon was
once the larger city of the two. At its zenith it is judged
to have covered a tract of country nine miles in circumference;
and though the present village is situated some five miles
from the Bristol Channel, it is not further off from navigable
waters than Apsley House is from the Thames. Indeed, the
Usk is navigable for barges and such small deer
even far above here, to a place called Tredunnock. If, some
2000 years hence, Chicago should be a grand metropolis of
3,000,000 inhabitants and New York a village of a few hundred
poverty-stricken people, it would hardly be more strange
and wonderful than the contrasting fortunes which have befallen
London and Caerleon.
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