_The Wye and the Severn—Bristol and Wells._
The next day found me again ascending the Malvern hills, on a coach-top,
the guard playing the merriest notes, upon his horn, as we rapidly
trotted through the town. After another view of the vale of Gloucester,
we turned into Herefordshire, and descended into the valley that spreads
from the western slope of the Malverns. We had fine views of Edensor,
the estate of Lord Somers, and of a monumental column, upon the crown of
a hill. I was glad, too, to see on the roadside, marking some parochial
boundary, a stone cross, such as is frequent on the Continent, and
might, without any evil, be a familiar object in any Christian country.
As we approached Ledbury, we met a band of gipsies in their proverbial
rags and wretchedness, skulking along the road, and exhibiting very few
of those bewitching peculiarities of appearance with which painters and
romancers are fond of investing them. I had never met them before, and
was sorry not to be able to stop and talk with them. An impression of
awe haunted me for some time as I meditated upon their mysterious
barbarism, and tried to recall the glimpse of their weird features,
which I had caught as they passed by. I never saw any of their kind, on
any other occasion afterwards, and think they must be growing scarce,
even in England.
At Ledbury I was particularly struck with an outside view of the parish
Church, which is but one of a thousand churches in England which of
themselves are enough to reward a traveller for journeying through it.
Sir Walter Scott has justly awarded to them the credit of being the most
beautiful temples in the world, and the most becoming for their holy
purposes. Our next stage brought us to Ross so famous for the memory of
John Kyrle and his beneficent deeds. Its “heaven-directed spire”
surmounts the hill, on which the town is built; and every where, in
Ross, the traces of his good works, as well as many of the works
themselves, survive to consecrate his name. The house in which he dwelt
is adorned with a medallion portrait of “the man of Ross,” sunk in the
wall, and visible to every passenger. He was indeed all that the poet
has made him in descriptive verse; and he was something more, for he was
a zealous Churchman, and a faithful attendant upon the daily service. I
made my way to the Church, and was pleased to find its churchyard cross
entire, and a cross upon its gable. The interior, though very old
fashioned, was adorned with flowers, in honour of Pentecost, and its
monuments are many and curious. Among them was one of those altar-tombs,
on which lie at full length a knight and his sweet dame, the latter with
her delicate hand held in his rough grasp, as if their union were
inseparable by death itself. I was deeply touched by such a memorial of
love, which we must believe to have been sincere, and to which fancy
attributes all that is constant on the part of the lady, and all that is
chivalrous on the part of her lord. But where is the monument of Kyrle?
There is a bust and an inscription, but his monument, like Christopher
Wren’s, is the Church itself; for he built its spire, and something more
beside. There is a story, too, that when the bells were cast, he was
present, and threw into the melting metal a silver tankard, from which
he and the workmen had just drunk to the king’s health. As I was passing
round, the sexton said to me, “you shall now see something that you
never saw before,” and he pointed out a couple of elm trees, growing in
the Church, and reaching to the roof. What is the more remarkable, they
are growing in the pew where the Man of Ross was accustomed to worship,
as if to testify the fidelity of God to the promise—“He shall be like a
tree, planted by the water-side, his leaf also shall not wither.” One
would almost believe that they must have been planted on purpose, but
the truth is rather the reverse. They are in fact the fruit of Kyrle’s
own planting; for he set a row of elms in the churchyard, which were cut
down by a churlish vicar, but from which these shoots have sprung up in
the house of God, as it were in silent remonstrance. It is hard not to
see something providential in the coincidence, by which, what would be a
curiosity anywhere, is thus connected with the blessed example of one of
the most benevolent and virtuous of mankind. The trees screen one of the
windows, and appear to thrive in the climate of the sanctuary, their
leaves putting forth earlier, and falling later than those of the trees
in the churchyard.
A fair was going on in the town, and the streets were filled with the
peasantry. Everywhere pedlars were setting forth the merits of their
wares, and among them was a fellow bawling—“Here’s the last dying
speech and confession, &c.”—as he exhibited the doleful print of a
gallows and its dangling victim. Such incidents are not rarely met in
the narratives of a certain class of novelists, and I have certainly
read, somewhere, of just such a market-day as I encountered at Ross. I
walked slowly down the hill into the valley of the Wye, turning
constantly to observe the fine situation of the town, till the coach
overtook me. The country here is rich but simply pretty, and as yet it
revealed none of the glories for which the Wye is celebrated. Goodrich
Court, a modern mansion, is a fine object, however, and the remains of
Goodrich Castle are an imposing feature in the scene; and all the more
so for its association with the cavaliers, from whom it was finally
taken by Cromwell, and reduced to ruins. As you enter Monmouthshire, a
glorious view begins to open, and from about this point the scenery of
the river increases in wildness and grandeur. I was, at first, at a loss
to know why Wordsworth should have called the Wye sylvan, for such was
far from being its character, in Herefordshire; but now the entire
appropriateness of the epithet was disclosed, and yet I am well aware
that I lost many of the finest features of the stream by not descending
it in a boat. With Monmouth itself, I was somewhat disappointed, its
Church having suffered many things of many churchwardens, and the
remains of the priory, where Henry the Fifth was born, having become
incorporated with the modern walls of a boarding-school. I left Monmouth
with gratitude to Fluellyn for his idea of its wondrous resemblance to
Macedon, which I should not have imagined, had he not helped the world
to it. The glories of the scenery round St. Briavel’s and near the tiny
little Church at Llandogo, should have had the further benefit of his
minute and luminous descriptive powers, as I can liken it to nothing
else in the world but itself, for its combination of simply rural
features, with those which are highly picturesque. An American is struck
with the charm imparted to such scenery, by a pretty church or a neat
and secluded hamlet, quite as much as he is impressed by the scenery
itself; and I was often led to think what the valley of the Mohawk might
be, had it the advantage of that still retirement, and of those Arcadian
groves, which impart a peculiar effect to the sterner beauties of the
Wye. At Tintern Parva we were shown the ancestral habitation of
Fielding, and passed a new church which was well worthy of note. But the
neighbourhood of Tintern Abbey eclipsed every other thought, and I
strained my sight for the earliest possible glimpse of the delightful
vision. A storm which had been threatening, broke upon us,
unfortunately, at the critical point, and I first beheld that
magnificent ruin in circumstances which increased its desolation. In
spite of the rain, however, I embraced an opportunity of entering its
walls and surveying it for a few moments, amid the wild confusion of the
elements. The rain dashing through its rich but broken tracery, and the
wind tossing the gorgeous drapery of its mantling ivy, with the
melancholy sighs it gave amid the columns, and along the aisles,
deepened the solemn impression of the spot, and gave a heightened
interest to the thoughts of its former sacred uses, when it resounded
with the chant of priests and the swells of music from the organ. As I
purposed a more leisurely visit in fairer weather, I was willing to have
seen it thus amid storm and tempest. I resumed my journey to Chepstow;
and as the storm soon abated, and was succeeded by sunshine, I had many
fine views of the windings of the river, some of which are very bold,
sweeping, amid precipitous banks, crowned with the richest foliage and
verdure. Chepstow itself has many beauties, as seen from the Wye, and
after slightly surveying the town and castle, I crossed the iron bridge,
and drove to Tidenham, where a kind welcome awaited me at the vicarage,
from one with whom I had corresponded long before I left America. I was
sorry, however, to find myself a source of disappointment to the
children of my kind entertainers, who had been unable to divest
themselves, notwithstanding the benevolent dissuasions of their parents,
of the romantic idea that the American visitor would present himself in
aboriginal costume, and contribute to their amusement by exhibiting his
red visage, and lending them his bow and arrows. Their father is now a
Missionary Bishop, in Africa.
This vicarage is of modern erection, but in very good ecclesiastical
style, and has a pretty garden, in which I saw my amiable friend the
vicar taking the air, when I rose in the morning. I was glad that so
pleasant an abode had fallen to the lot of so good a man. After
breakfast, while he visited his poor and sick, I went on a little pony,
with a servant at my side, to Cockshoot Hill, which looks down upon the
Wye nearly opposite the Windcliff. Tidenham itself stands on a narrow
peninsula, with the Wye on one side, and the broad Severn on the other,
and just below Cockshoot Hill this peninsula forces the river Wye to
make an extraordinary bend beneath its precipitous banks, on which
stands the pretty hamlet of Llancaut. The view, at this point, is
therefore peculiarly fine, and affords, in one spot called
“Double-view,” the unusual spectacle of both rivers—the Wye, with its
sylvan charms on one hand, and the expanse of the Severn, with its ships
and steamers, on the other. I was best pleased with the Wye, the
Windcliff, the projecting rocks called the Twelve Apostles, and the
entire scene on that side, as far as the eye could stretch, above and
below. The farms and fruit-trees of the peninsula were also pleasing in
their way, and the more so, because it was now the season of blossoms,
and every breeze was fragrant. My return was enlivened by views of the
Severn, which were often much heightened in effect by the turns of the
road, and the openings amid thick trees, through which I descried them;
and I was gratified to be joined by a labouring man, who insisted on
walking with us, and pointing out favourite prospects, apparently not so
much in hopes of a fee, as to testify his regard for a guest of the
vicar, of whom he spoke in unbounded terms of respect, as the blessing
of the country round. I found the Church opened, and service going on:
and when it was over, was informed by the vicar himself of the various
merits of the sacred place as an architectural specimen. The font was an
ancient Norman one, of lead, and is regarded as curious. So are the
windows, which exhibit a semi-flamboyant tracery, by no means common. A
gradual restoration is going on, at the expense of the vicar and his
personal friends; but I was amused by the white-washed tower, which
remains thus disfigured, while the rest of the Church has been reduced
to its natural color. It seems that this white tower has long been a
landmark of the Severn, and serves a useful purpose, in the piloting of
vessels. With an interference which would strike us Americans as very
arbitrary, the Government, therefore, forbade that the tower of Tidenham
Church should be made to look any less like a whited sepulchre; and so
it stands, as a pillar of salt, to this day.
The rest of the day was devoted to an excursion to Tintern, to which the
ladies contributed their agreeable society. The party proved a very
cheerful one, and we encountered scarcely any fatigue of which our
fairer associates did not bear their full share. In surveying the
remains of Chepstow castle, only, were we without their company. I found
it a noble ruin, even after my visit to Caernarvon. It was reduced to
ruin by Cromwell, after a desperate fight, but one of its towers was
long afterwards—for twenty years—the prison of Henry Marten, the
regicide. It must once have been a splendid hold of feudalism, and its
halls and windows still retain many traces of the Saxon and Norman
richness of its original beauty.
We climbed the Windcliff, and thence surveyed the combined glories of
land, and sea, and of inland stream, which are its peculiar charm. Where
else can be seen such a prospect: such inland river scenery, blended
with the view of a broad arm of ocean, side by side, and apparently not
united? It would be vain for me to attempt description, but I found it
all I could ask; and on that breezy height recalled to mind those
incomparable lines of Wordsworth, composed upon the spot or near it, in
which he exhorts the lover of Nature to store up such scenes in memory,
and thus make “the mind a mansion for all lovely forms.” There are caves
below, through which one of my female friends led me like a Sybil; and
then I went under her kind escort through a wild American-like wood, to
rejoin our carriage. Two miles more of delightful scenery, and I stood
again in Tintern Abbey, and wandered through its holy aisles, and
climbed to its venerable summit. Here, over the lofty arches of the
transept, I walked, as in a path through a wood, the shrubbery growing
wildly on both sides, as on the brow of a natural cliff. White roses
flourish there in abundance; and it is only at intervals that you can
get a glimpse of the Abbey-floor beneath. Around you is a beautiful
prospect of the river, and of an amphitheatre of hills; and when you
stand in the aisles below, and view these same hills through the broken
windows, you feel that they should never have been glazed, except with
transparent glass. On the whole, when the beauty of its situation is
fully taken into consideration, in addition to the original graces of
its architecture,—its graceful pillars, its aerial arches, its gorgeous
windows,—and when we observe the fond effect with which nature has
clothed the pile in verdure, as if resuming her power with tenderness,
and striving to repair the decays of art, with her own triumphant
creations; when all these, and other attractions which cannot be
enumerated in description, are united in the estimate, I cannot but give
to Tintern Abbey the credit of being the fairest sight, of its kind,
which ever filled my vision. I have since seen many similar objects,
combining architectural beauties with those of nature, but were I
allowed to choose one more glimpse of such a picture, among all, I think
I should say to the enchanter—“let me have another look at Tintern.”
Crossing the broad mouth of the Severn, in a little steamer, we entered
the Avon, of a fine afternoon, just as a fleet of similar steamers,
taking the tide at flood, were hurrying out to sea. It was a most
animating sight, as one after another chased by—this for London, that
for Dublin, another for Glasgow, and so on; all flaunting the red cross
of St. George, and displaying a full company on deck. I was agreeably
surprised by the beauty of this river, which is varied by woods and
cliffs, and many striking objects, among which a little ruinous chapel,
upon a verdant peninsula, particularly struck me, and the more so, as
having been formerly used by fishermen, before going upon their voyages
in the channel, as a place of prayer for protection and success. But
this river has an historical claim upon the affectionate regard of
America, as having sent forth two expeditions to our shores, of the
greatest consequence to our whole continent. Upon these waters crept
forth to sea, in 1497, the little “Matthew,” on whose deck stood
Sebastian Cabot, “uncovering his fine Venetian head” to take a last
farewell of his native city, as he boldly stood out to the ocean in
search of the New World. Upon that expedition depended the discovery of
the mainland of America, and the occupation of the northern half by the
Anglo-Saxon race. To this glorious reminiscence has been added the fine
contrast presented by the “Great Western,” as she launched forth, in
this same river, only a few years ago, in her majestic strength, to
inaugurate a new era in the art of navigation, and to unite the Old
World and the New by bonds of intercommunication, which imagination
itself had never ventured to portray in their present stage of wonderful
development. “Upon no waters,” says a popular writer, “save those of the
winding Avon, have two such splendid adventures as these been
enterprized.”
Passing under the heights of Clifton, and landing in Cumberland basin, I
climbed the steep, took my lodgings at Clifton, and then went on foot
into Bristol, over Brandon-hill, enjoying the magnificent panorama which
unfolds on every side, and comprehends the finest features of town and
country, of water and of land. My first thought was the famous Church of
St. Mary Redcliffe, and thither I took my way. The poetry of Chatterton
was the delight of my boyhood, and this Church I had long desired to
see. I found it undergoing restoration, but not the less open to
inspection. It is indeed a masterpiece of architecture; its clustered
pillars, and the fan-like spread of its vaulting, with its fourfold
aisles, and rich quatrefoil windows, affording the keenest satisfaction
to the artist, and affecting every man of taste with overwhelming
emotions of religion, which may well be made salutary to the soul. Here
are some pictures by Hogarth, of a character superior to his general
efforts; one of which, representing “the Ascension of our Lord,” shows
him to have possessed fine sensibilities, and a delicate appreciation of
the more poetical provinces of his art. The monument of “Master
Canynge,” the Mayor, who figures so richly in the “Bristowe tragedy,”
attracted my profound attention, as did also several others less
mentionable, though very interesting. Of Chatterton himself, no monument
is to be seen, save the old muniment-room, and the chests, from which he
fished his bold idea. The monument, which was erected a few years since
to his memory, has for some reason been removed, and now lies
dishonoured in the crypt. It is impossible to think of that marvellous
boy without pity, in spite of his moral delinquencies; and I can
scarcely read the ballad of Charles Bawdin without tears, excited as
much by the fate of its author, as of its hero. His moral perceptions
must have been of a fine cast, or he never could have conceived that
poem; and who would not choose to believe that had he encountered mercy
and loving-kindness from those who ought to have befriended him, his
splendid genius might have been made a rich blessing to himself and to
the world?
As the solemn twilight was coming on, I visited the cathedral. I had not
promised myself much from such a visit, for ’tis a mutilated pile, of
which the entire nave is lacking. Yet, whether it was the effect of the
dim and dying daylight, or whether the architecture and the sepulchral
charms of the holy place overpowered me, I left it with the profoundest
impressions of awe and tender emotion. The old Norman Chapter-house is
an architectural gem, with its intersecting arcades, its rich diapering,
and nail-head ornaments, its twisted mouldings, and spiral columns, and
the zig-zag groinings of its roof. In the vestry I was shown a curious
Saxon carving of Christ saving a soul. My attention was also directed,
by the sub-sacrist who attended me, to the ruins of the Bishop’s palace,
which fell under the violence of the mob, in 1831, when good Bishop Gray
so beautifully distinguished himself and his Order, by exhibiting an
apostolic harmony of meekness and resolution. But it was in walking the
aisles of the cathedral itself, under the deepening shadows of the
evening, that I experienced the full effects which such a place should
inspire. From the old and decaying monuments of knights and their dames,
I passed with elevated feeling to the modern achievements of Bacon and
of Chantry. A kneeling female figure, reflecting the faint light from
its pale features and white drapery, and standing out of the darkness,
like a pure soul emerging from the valley of the shadow of death, gave
me a sensation of unspeakable reverence. Hard by, a chequered day-beam
played on the fine outline of a bust of Robert Southey, and this
apparition also affected me; but when I came to the little tablet which
marks the grave of Mrs. Mason, and spelt out, word by word, the
incomparable tribute of conjugal love which it bears, I was overwhelmed;
and as I read (I am not ashamed to own it) my tears dropped upon the
marble floor. There was barely daylight enough for the effort, but I had
known the poem from my earliest childhood, and possibly to this fact I
must attribute its overpowering effect upon my feelings. It is to be
condemned perhaps as an epitaph; but who can think of criticism when
borne along on such a tide of heavenly affection and triumphant faith? I
trembled to think I was standing upon the relics of so much loveliness
and purity.
“Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear!”
She must have been an angel, to have inspired so much feeling as agony
has compressed into that one line! and then, what an image of more than
mortal beauty rises before us as we read—
“Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine,
Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm.”
And did ever love paint such a portrait, in a few touches of passionate
apostrophe, as in those in which the heart of her husband speaks on?
“Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee;
Bid them in duty’s sphere as meekly move!
And, _if as fair, from vanity as free_;
As firm in friendship, and _as fond in love_!”
Never was the glory of true female character so enshrined in language
before; but this is not all! The ideal of the Christian woman is brought
out in its completeness in what follows:—
“Tell them—though ’tis an awful thing to die,
——’Twas _even to thee_!”
Here is the tender form, and timid step, with all the heroism of the
female saint, descending into the dark valley: and at the same time here
is the transcendent tribute—
’Twas _even to thee_!
And now comes triumphant faith:—
——“Yet that dread path once trod,
Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high,
And bids the pure in heart behold their God.”
I am probably failing in my desire to carry my reader along with me in
my own conception of the exceeding merit of these verses, as embodying
some of the sublimest, and some of the tenderest affections of the
regenerate heart, with the smallest possible sacrifice of that eloquence
which is generally mute, in proportion to its expressiveness: but I
cannot deny myself the pleasure of recording the fact, that their power
over my own feelings, as I read them on the spot, and in the
circumstances which I have hinted, was such as beggars description.
A moonlight ramble on the heights of Clifton, and another in the early
morning, next day, concluded my rapid visit to this region; and I took
the top of the coach soon after to the city of Wells. This little
journey over the Mendip hills, which gave me frequent opportunities for
walking, was enlivened by the conversation of a sharp-featured little
dissenting minister, who volunteered his opinions upon all subjects, and
who seemed peculiarly anxious to give me his own opinions of the clergy
of the Church. “There are,” said he, with an oracular look, and the keen
expression of a desire to know how the fact might strike me, “there are
18,000 Church clergymen in England: of these, there may possibly be
4,000 who are in different degrees evangelical; 4,000 are vicious and
idle; and 10,000, including all the young clergy, are _Puseyites_, who
neither know how to teach the Gospel, nor what the Gospel is!” He
thought there was no prospect of any disruption between Church and
State; and, at last, whispered in my ear, that he had serious thoughts
of emigrating to America. I was amazed at this little man’s utterly
unconscious lack of Christian charity. Of the 10,000 clergy whom he thus
denounced in the gross, as evil-minded men, I had myself been for weeks
closely associated with many, in whom I had seen exemplified every
Christian grace, and from whom I had gathered lessons of practical
piety, for which I had reason to bless God. For patience in tribulation,
and for pastoral fidelity; for lives devoted to the good of men, and
fervent with zeal for the glory of God, I had never seen their equals;
and now, to hear them stigmatized in a manner so cool and professional,
by one who soon betrayed his personal animosity by adding—“and us,
dissenting preachers, they treat as a race of upstart tinkers”—made me
lament for poor human nature and its deceitful workings even in good
men’s hearts! I consoled my friend by hinting that, in America, the
Presbyterian and Congregational pastors had long professed a somewhat
similar contempt for the clergy of the Church, having for nearly two
centuries been the religious chieftains of our country; but I ventured
to intimate that we did not on that account feel the less respect for
ourselves, or think it right to deny them the credit of many estimable
qualities, and the right of being judged by Him who alone searcheth the
heart. I believe it was after this, that the worthy man proposed adding
himself to our population; a scheme in which I could not discourage him,
convinced, as I was, that a taste of our religious condition might
perhaps change his views as to the comparative evils of the English
Church, and those of the Saturnalia of unbelief which are fast
developing under the influences of our illimitable sectarianism.