our attention, and rocks and wood seemed to contend which should be most
conspicuous; till the winding of the river round Doward’s Rock, on which
was formerly a Roman station, brought us under the house of Mr. Hatley,
which commands a view of the river as far as Monmouth, when it is
terminated by the town and bridge of six arches. As we drew near
MONMOUTH,
the house of Dr. Griffin, situated on an eminence, and a banqueting-room
erected by the inhabitants of the place, appeared above the town on the
left.
The town of Monmouth lies too low to form a grand appearance from the
water, but is, in itself, neat and well-built, and pleasantly situated on
the banks of the Wye. As we repaired to our inn, we were both
involuntarily led to take a retrospect of the past amusements of the day.
The partial gleams of sunshine had given additional tints to the rich and
bold scenery, and every thing had conspired to render it a most
interesting aquatic excursion. The variety of scenes which Claude would
have selected, had he now existed, for his canvass; with rapture, too,
would he have caught the tints, and with the happiest effect combined the
objects into a picture; kept up our attention, and removed that sameness
which too often accompanies water excursions. Such has been the pleasure
of our first day’s water expedition; and from the impression it made on
us we eagerly looked forward to some future period when we may again
retrace views which memory will ever hold dear, and the pleasure be then
redoubled with the remembrance of past occurrences.
Opposite the Beaufort Arms, the most convenient inn in the town, is the
town-house, handsomely built, with a full-length statue on the outside,
facing the street, with this inscription under it: “Henry the Fifth, born
at Monmouth, August the ninth, 1387.” On the birth of this warlike and
virtuous prince, the charter was granted to the town of Monmouth; it is
governed by a mayor, two bailiffs, fifteen aldermen, nine constables, two
serjeants, and two beadles. The castle now bears few vestiges of its
former grandeur; and of the regal dome scarcely a wreck has escaped,
through the long lapse of years, and the ravages of time: where a mighty
king once gave audience, and where vassals knelt, now assemble the
animate appendages of a farm-yard.
Near the castle is a very antiquated house, now converted into a school,
the property of the Duke of Beaufort. To this town Wihenoc de Monemue,
or Monmouth, in the reign of Henry the First, brought over a convent of
Black Monks from St. Florence, and placed them first in the church of St.
Cadoc near the castle, and after in the church of St. Mary. It was among
other ancient priories seized by the crown during the wars with France,
but was restored again, made denison, and continued till the general
suppression in the reign of King Henry the Eighth. {317} From hence we
walked to the church-yard; close to which is the room where Geoffery of
Monmouth composed his well-known history: this is now a day-school.
Monmouth has likewise to boast of a free-school founded here from the
following curious circumstance; Mr. Jones, a native of Newland, being in
distress, left this parish, and went to London, where he engaged himself
as servant to a Hamburgh merchant, and proving trusty in his office, he
was by degrees advanced, till at length he attained a fortune of his own.
Willing to prove how far the charity of his native place would extend
towards him, in disguise he applied for that relief which he was enabled
to show towards others; but his parish taking no notice of him, referred
him to Monmouth, and would not redress his pretended complaints; the
latter, however, being more charitably disposed, relieved him according
to his wishes. Having thus proved their generosity, he acquainted them
of his real situation, and promised to repay their kindness by obliging
them in any demand they should request. On this they solicited the
foundation of a free-school, which he immediately built, liberally
endowed, and which, from that time, has been well supported. The walk to
the Folly, we were informed, would have afforded us some beautiful and
extensive prospects; the whole of which information we should probably
have found true, but the evening closing, we were very reluctantly
necessitated to return to our inn.
Early in the morning we renewed our survey of Monmouth. The church first
demanded notice: it is a handsome structure, but the inside offers
nothing remarkable for the inspection of the antiquary. The gaol, built
after the plan of the benevolent Howard, is situated in a healthy spot;
and in every respect rendered as commodious and comfortable as such a
place will allow for the unfortunate inhabitants. Monmouth, indeed,
contains several good houses, and the neighbourhood is respectable. A
bridge at the extremity of the town, with the ancient gateway, bears
every mark of antiquity.
The hire of a boat from Monmouth to Chepstow is on the same plan as from
Ross to Monmouth, the distance being nearly equal. Nothing now remained
but to recommence our water excursion; and we accordingly embarked a
quarter of a mile below the town, where the river Monnow joins itself
with the Wye; from hence Monnow-mouth, or Monmouth. The weather still
continued favourable for our schemes: the banks on the left were at first
low, but as we receded from the town, the spire of Monmouth in the
retrospect, with the Kymin Woods rising from a rock of great height on
our left, under which the river meanders, and to our right Pen-y-vall
Hill engaged our attention, and was the bold and rich scenery we enjoyed
on our first re-embarkation.
The same scenery of rock, wood, and water, which so captivated us on the
preceding day, still continued, occasionally diversified by light vessels
skimming by our boat, and increasing in number as we approached nearer
the sea. The rude hail of the boatmen as they passed, was re-echoed by
the rocks; and the dingy white sails of the vessels, which soon
disappeared round some bold promontory, were particularly picturesque.
Coleman’s Rocks appeared alternately mantled with underwood and pointed
crags; large fragments scattered in the river here divide the counties of
Monmouth and Gloucester. At Redbrook Hills, the curling smoke issuing
from the iron-works formed a pleasing accompaniment to the scenery, and
the whole exhibited a picture of industrious labour. These works belong
to Mr. Turner: the wood and meadow-land of Whitebrook Hills were finely
contrasted with the busy scene at Redbrook. From hence a long reach,
with Fidenham Chase Hill, rising conspicuously in the front, brought us
to the village of
LLANDOGO,
diversified with cottages from the base to the highest summit of the
sloping eminence. This village is about nine miles from Monmouth, and
arrests particular observation: here vessels of considerable burden were
loading with iron and other commodities for various ports. The
appearance of the river here changed; the translucent stream, which had
hitherto alternately reflected, as in a mirror, the awful projection of
the rocks, and the soft flowery verdure of its banks, was affected by the
influence of the tide, and rendered turbid and unpleasant to the sight.
A turn of the river soon brought us to the village of
TINTERN,
where we observed the ruins of a mansion, belonging to Mr. Farmer of
Monmouth. This house appears of an old date, and might probably claim
the attention of the curious antiquary, was he not so wrapt up in
contemplating the venerable abbey, which presents its Gothic pile in
solemn majesty. This august building, great in ruins, and awfully grand
in appearance, impels the stranger, as it were imperceptibly, to land and
inspect its noble arches, tottering pillars, and highly-finished windows:
the specimens of ancient architecture, which formerly were delicately
wrought by the hand of art, are now finely decked by that of nature. On
our first entrance our attention was too much engrossed to exchange the
mutual communication of thought; but the care which has been officiously
taken to remove every fragment lying scattered through the immense area
of the fabric, and the smoothness of the shorn grass, which no scythe
should have dared to clip, in a great measure perverts the character of
the scene: these circumstances but ill accord with the mutilated walls of
an ancient ruin, which has braved the pitiless storms of so many
centuries. In this respect we by no means agreed with Mr. Gilpin, who
thus describes it: “We excuse—perhaps we approve—the neatness that is
introduced within. It may add to the beauty of the scene—to its novelty
it undoubtedly does.” But when this disgust was a little abated, we
indulged those reflections which scenes of ancient grandeur naturally
recall.
This beautiful ruin is cruciform, measuring two hundred and thirty feet
in length, and thirty-three in breadth; the transept is one hundred and
sixty feet long. {321} This Cistertian Abbey was founded by Walter de
Clare, in the year 1131, and dedicated to St. Mary in the reign of King
Henry VIII. It experienced the same fate with many other monasteries,
and was granted at its dissolution to the Earl of Worcester in the year
1537.
“As the Abbey of Tintern,” says the author of the Beauties, Harmonies,
and Sublimities of Nature, “is the most beautiful and picturesque of all
our Gothic monuments, so is the situation one of the most sequestered and
delightful. One more abounding in that peculiar kind of scenery, which
excites the mingled sensations of content, religion, and enthusiasm, it
is impossible to behold. There every arch infuses a solemn energy, as it
were, into inanimate nature: a sublime antiquity breathes mildly into the
heart; and the soul, pure and passionless, appears susceptible of that
state of tranquillity, which is the perfection of every earthly wish.
Never has Colonna wandered among the woods, surrounding this venerable
ruin, standing on the banks of a river, almost as sacred to the
imagination as the spot, where the Cephisus and the Ilyssus mingle their
waters, but he has wished himself a landscape-painter. He has never sat
upon its broken columns and beheld its mutilated fragments; and its
waving arches and pillars decorated with festoons of ivy; but he has
formed the wish to forsake the world, and resign himself entirely to the
tranquil studies of philosophy. Is there a man, my Lelius, too rich, too
great, too powerful, for these emotions? Is there one too ignorant, too
vain, and too presumptuous, to indulge them? Envy him not! From him the
pillars of Palmyra would not draw one sigh; the massacre of Glencoe, the
matins of Moscow, or the Sicilian vespers, would elicit no tear.”
As we receded from the banks, Tintern Abbey, with the Gothic fret-work of
the eastern window, seemingly bound together by the treillage of ivy,
appeared in the most pleasing point of view; sloping hills and rich woods
forming a fine back-ground. As we drew nearer
CHEPSTOW,
some most noble rocks, “Nature’s proud bastions,” opened upon us to the
left, grander than any we had hitherto admired, and which we had
previously determined were inconceivably fine, and surpassed any idea we
had formed of the channel of this romantic river. To add to the
magnificence of the whole, the setting sun tinged the rocks with the most
resplendent colours, and the dewy freshness of the evening improved the
charm of the scene; the one enchanting the sense, the other refreshing
it. The lofty Wynd Cliff to the right; and Piercefield, with the curious
projecting rocks, called the Twelve Apostles and Peter’s Thumb, heighten,
to the very extent of beauty, this noble view; gratifying beyond measure
to the admirer of nature. Another reach brought us in sight of Chepstow
Castle, on a prominent rock, of which it seemed to form a part; noble in
situation, and grand in appearance. The handsome new bridge, the rocks,
and the scarce visible town, here made a most charming picture: this we
enjoyed exceedingly, but regretted a few more minutes would set us on
shore, and conclude our excursion on the Wye; an excursion, which, the
farther we proceeded the more we were interested; and so much so, as to
determine a renewal of this pleasing tour another summer. The former
wooden bridge over the Wye at this place was of very singular
construction; the boards forming the flooring were all designedly loose,
but prevented by pegs, fastened at the extremities of them, from being
carried away by the tide, and by that ingenious contrivance they
gradually rose and fell with it. The tide is here frequently known to
rise to the extraordinary height of seventy feet.
Not having visited the church in consequence of the bad weather at the
commencement of our tour, we determined now to inspect it. The entrance
through the western door is an elegant specimen of Saxon architecture,
richly wrought, with three arches; in the inside is the monument of Henry
Marten, one of the regicides who presided at the condemnation of King
Charles I., and was confined in the castle twenty years. It contains
also a cenotaph to the memory of the Marquis of Worcester, and a tomb
dated 1620, to the memory of Mrs. Clayton and her two husbands, who are
both represented as kneeling. This church originally belonged to the
alien Benedictine priory of Strigule, but was converted at the
Reformation into the parish church of Chepstow.
Admittance to the celebrated walks of Piercefield can only be obtained on
Tuesdays and Fridays. To survey these with that attention which they
deserve, would occupy several hours; the liveliest description cannot do
justice to the rich and bold scenery, with all its accompaniments; the
eye can alone receive the impression; for,
“How long soe’er the wand’rer roves, each step
Shall wake fresh beauties, each short point presents
A diff’rent picture; new, and yet the same.”
“The winding of the precipice,” says Gilpin, “is the magical secret by
which all these enchanting scenes are produced.” At one point, both
above and below, as far as the eye can reach, rolls in majestic windings
the river Wye: at another, the Severn, hastening to meet “its sister
river,” is discovered, till at last they are both lost in the Bristol
Channel: at another, these scenes are concealed, and thick woods,
apparently coeval with time itself, and a long range of rock, burst upon
“the wanderer” with irresistible beauty and attraction. The occasional
recurrence also of the rude beach, overshadowed by some umbrageous tree,
and concealed from the steep precipice below by thick underwood, allow
only glimpses of the surrounding scenery.
* * * * *
I have thus brought my tour to a conclusion; a tour, which has been
productive of much amusement, and, I hope, not entirely devoid of
advantage. It only remains, therefore, for me to add, that the two
friends, having completed a pedestrian circuit of near eight hundred
miles, parted with mutual regret, jointly exclaiming,
“Cambria, as thy romantic vales we leave,
And bid farewell to each retiring hill,
Where fond attention seems to linger still,
Tracing the broad bright landscape; much we grieve
That mingled with the toiling crowd, no more
We may return thy varied views to mark.”
SONNETS.
SONNET I. TO FRIENDSHIP.
ADDRESSED TO THE COMPANION OF MY TOUR.
O balmy comfort through this varied maze
Of life! thou best physician to the breast,
With deep affliction’s venom’d sting opprest,
A thousand arts, a thousand winning ways
Are thine, to smooth the rugged brow of care,
And mitigate misfortune’s keenest hour:
Yes, A. . . ., partner of my Cambrian Tour,
Friend of my heart, how gladly do I share
Thy confidence; whate’er my part may be
Hereafter, on this shifting stage of life,
This busy theatre of jarring strife,
May health and happiness attend both thee
And thine!—on One, thy heavenly Guardian, trust,
Nor doubt protection—all His ways are just.
SONNET II.
THE CONTRAST OF YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY.
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN ON THE SUMMIT OF SNOWDON.
How gay was yesterday!—no storm was heard
To mutter round thy steep—yon sun arose
With golden splendour, and in still repose
Nature majestic through her works appear’d.
To-day how changed—loud howls the hollow blast!
The thin mists undulate! thy towering height
Is veil’d in tempest and eternal night!
So ’tis with man! contrasting prospects past
With dreams of future happiness—to-day
In gallant trim his little bark may glide
On the smooth current of the tranquil tide:
To-morrow comes!—the gathering storms display
A sad vicissitude—the whirlwind’s sweep
Grasps at its prey, and whelms it in the deep.
SONNET III.
ON LEAVING WALES.
Why bursts the tear, as, Cambria, now I leave
Thy wild variety of dale and hill,
Where fancy, fond intruder, lingers still?
Why do these parting sighs my bosom heave?
’Tis that, alas! I ne’er may view again
Those haunts, those solitary scenes I love;
But through this vale of tears forsaken rove,
And taste the sad vicissitudes of pain:
’Tis that I sadly breathe a warm adieu
To long-lost scenes of mutual amity;
’Tis that I turn, my absent friend, to thee,
“Think on past pleasures, and solicit new!”
For thee my fervent prayers to heaven ascend,
And may we meet again as friend to friend.
SONNET IV.
TO THE WELSH HARP.
Loved instrument! again repeat those sounds,
Those plaintive airs, that through my senses steal
With melancholy sweet. Their pow’r I feel
Soothing my sadness, healing sorrow’s wounds.
Gently thou lull’st my sufferings to repose,
Inclin’st my heart to every virtuous deed;
Removing from my mind each dark’ning shade
That clouds my days, increasing all my woes.
Now swelling with the breeze, along thy vales,
Romantic Cambria! the strain I hear,
Then dying soft away, comes o’er my ear
In whispers soft, still wafted by thy gales!
Loved instrument! again repeat those sounds,
Soothing my sadness, healing sorrow’s wounds.
SONNET V.
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY MOON-LIGHT, ON THE SEA-SHORE AT TENBY.
I love to mark the silver-curling spray
Just kiss the pebbled shore; the zephyr blows,
And ocean slumbers in serene repose;
While the moon’s beams in quiv’ring radiance play
Upon its surface: yet ere long, that tide
May heave its foaming billows to the shore,
And the sea boil in one tempestuous roar.
See here thy picture, man! reason, thy guide,
Can lull each gust of passion into rest!
Her aid divine, her energy once lost,
In what a sea of angry tumults tost,
Raves the mad whirlwind of thy troubled breast!
Blind passion then can reason’s aid refute,
And degradate the man to worse than brute.
SONNET VI.
ON SEEING LLANGOLLEN VALE.
O thou, too captious of each airy scheme,
Fancy! thou dear delusive traitor, say,
Are not thy charms the phantoms of a day,
That mock possession, like a fleeting dream?
Here could I spend, if such had been my lot,
Quiet my life; nor should the shiv’ring poor
Depart unfed, unaided, from my door.
“Content is wealth,” the emblem of my cot.
Here, by the brook, that gently babbles by,
Should stand my garden; there, the blushing rose
And woodbine should their sweetest scent disclose.
But ah! farewell these dreams;—my big full eye
Swells with the bursting tear—I think, how few
The road to real happiness pursue!
SONNET VII.
PROSPECT OF SUN-RISE FROM SNOWDON.
How grand the scene from this stupendous height!
How awfully sublime! the king of day
Flames in the east; old Ocean’s waves display
One globe of fire! one boundless flood of light!
With what unclouded lustre blaze the skies!
While Mona’s flats tinged with a golden hue,
Burst with transcendant beauty on the view;
And, Man, {333} thy scarce seen mountains proudly rise.
Nature beneath seems prostrate; and my sight
Can hardly grasp the vast immensity!
Can then the muse attempt to sing of thee,
Nature’s great God! Father of life and light!
Who bade the sun his annual circle roll,
Who guides, directs, and animates the whole.
SONNET VIII.
TO MY DOG.
Yes, thou hast been companion of my Tour,
And partner of my toils! hast rov’d with me
Through Cambria’s rude and wild variety,
And often sooth’d the solitary hour
With thy caresses: yet false man can claim
Superior reason, claim a mind endued
With love, with faithfulness and gratitude;
Love a mere sound, and gratitude a name.
Yes, faithful creature! and when thou art gone,
With fond attention shall thy bones be laid;
And a small tribute to thy memory paid
In these few words, engraven on thy stone:
“Here let in peace the faithful Sylvio lie,
The truest picture of fidelity.”
_CHART TO THE CAMBRIAN TOURIST._