companion of princes and kings, of scholars and prelates everywhere
in England, in France, and in Italy. And yet there was no place in
the world so dear to him as Manorbier. Who can read his vivid
description of the old castle by the sea - its ramparts blown upon
by the winds that swept over the Irish Sea, its fishponds, its
garden, and its lofty nut trees - without feeling that here, after
all, was the home of Gerald de Barri? "As Demetia," he said in his
"Itinerary," "with its seven cantreds is the fairest of all the
lands of Wales, as Pembroke is the fairest part of Demetia, and this
spot the fairest of Pembroke, it follows that Manorbier is the
sweetest spot in Wales." He has left us a charming account of his
boyhood, playing with his brothers on the sands, they building
castles and he cathedrals, he earning the title of "boy bishop" by
preaching while they engaged in boyish sport. On his last recorded
visit to Wales, a broken man, hunted like a criminal by the king,
and deserted by the ingrate canons of St. David's, he retired for a
brief respite from strife to the sweet peace of Manorbier. It is
not known where he died, but it is permissible to hope that he
breathed his last in the old home which he never forgot or ceased to
love.

He mentions that the Welsh loved high descent and carried their
pedigree about with them. In this respect also Gerald was Welsh to
the core. He is never more pleased than when he alludes to his
relationship with the Princes of Wales, or the Geraldines, or
Cadwallon ap Madoc of Powis. He hints, not obscurely, that the real
reason why he was passed over for the Bishopric of St. David's in
1186 was that Henry II. feared his natio et cognatio, his nation and
his family. He becomes almost dithyrambic in extolling the deeds of
his kinsmen in Ireland. "Who are they who penetrated into the