CHAPTER VII.

HAREWOOD-ROSS-GOODRICH COURT-GOODRICH CASTLE.

Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,

Nor in proud falls magnificently lost;

But clear and artless, pouring through the plain,
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?

Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise?

The MAN OF Ross, each lisping babe replies.-POPE.

THE Wye scenery, between Hereford and Ross, though rich and luxuriant, presents so little of novelty or historic interest, that I preferred taking the more direct land road, which passed through a country of garden-like beauty and cultivation, sprinkled with lovely cheerful villages and park land, and bounded in the distance by the glorious ranges of blue mountains I have before alluded to. Beyond Aconbury Hill, the road gradually descends, and passes through the village of Much Birch, where a very droll old-fashioned garden amused me exceedingly, with its infinite variety of devices in cut and clipped yew-trees.

Lovely prospects opened in all directions, and the hedge-rows were gaily and beautifully adorned with the

deep ruddy berries of the hawthorn, and the shining acorns gleaming among the rich yellow leaves of the fine old oaks, which were particularly grand about Harewood, the seat of the Hoskins family, a spot interesting as having formed part of the ancient Forest of Harewood, in which Ethelwold, King Edgar's minister, had a castle. Here, it is said, Mason fixed the scene for his fine drama of Elfrida, and his description is characteristic of many similar scenes in this luxuriant neighbourhood.

"How nobly does this venerable wood,

Gilt with the glories of the orient sun,
Embosom yon fair mansion! the soft air
Salutes me with most cool and temperate breath,
And, as I tread the flower-besprinkled lawn,
Sends up a gale of fragrance. I should guess,
If e'er Content deigned visit mortal clime,
This was her place of dearest residence."

Pengethly next appears, exhibiting the same features of charming home scenery, and abundance of beautiful cattle, the greater part of this district consisting of rich pasture land. We next passed the village of Peterstow, and then entered Wilton, where the Wye is spanned by a handsome bridge, from which a broad terrace-like road leads into Ross, only a mile distant. This new road has been recently cut beneath the red cliffs, on the summit of which, the church and its surrounding elmtrees form a conspicuous object in the landscape for some miles round.

Our first thoughts, on entering the town of Ross, naturally recur to the memory of John Kyrle, the philanthropist of the place. The house in which the

good man lived was lately used as an inn, but is now a

private dwelling.

following lines:

Here the poet Coleridge wrote the

"Richer than miser o'er his countless hoards,

Nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords,

Here dwelt the Man of Ross! O traveller, hear!
Departed merit claims a reverent tear.

Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,
With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth;

He heard the widow's heav'n-breathed prayer of praise;
He marked the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze.

Or, where the sorrow-shrivelled captive lay,
Poured the bright blaze of Freedom's noontide ray.
But if, like me, through life's distressful scene,
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been,
And if, thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
Thou journeyest onward, tempest-tossed in thought,
Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,

And dream of goodness thou hast never felt."*

The church which the good man of Ross frequented, and where he lies interred, is a handsome and venerable-looking structure, with a lofty spire. The churchyard is extensive, and adorned by some particularly fine elm-trees, planted by his own hands. I never remember having been so much pleased with a church and burial-ground as with this; the gray Gothic architecture, the ancient tombs, and the heaved turf, where so many nameless dead are laid at rest,-the grand trees, rustling in the wind above, and the glorious pro

*John Kyrle was born at Dymock, in Herefordshire, in 1637, and died in 1724. He is described as nearly six feet high, "strong and lusty made, jolly and ruddy in the face, with a large nose." His dress was a dark-brown suit, a wig, short cut and bushy behind, parted in the forehead, with a cravat, the long ends of which hung down after the fashion of Charles the Second's time.