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 Wine 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 scene, 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 singular
constructed 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 wooden bridge thrown over the Wye, at this
place, is of very singular construction; the boards forming the flooring
are all designedly loose, but prevented, by pegs fattened at the
extremity of them, from being carried away by the tide, and by that
ingenious contrivance gradually rise and fall with it, which 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 Sir
Henry Martin, one of the twelve judges, who presided at the condemnation
of Charles I. and was confined in the castle seven and twenty years.
A curious carved one to the Marquis of Worcester and Lady, though not
buried here; and another, of the date 1620, to the memory of Mrs. Clayton
and her two husbands, both kneeling.
This church originally belonged to the alien Benedictine priory of
Strigule, but 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, 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 so e’er the wanderer roves, each step
Shall wake fresh beauties, each short point presents
A different 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 bench, overshadowed by some umbrageous tree,
and concealed from the steep precipice below, by thick underwood, allow
only glimpses of the surrounding scenery.
The house has received great repairs, and elegantly furnished by the
present possessor, Colonel Wood. Every apartment, indeed, has its
appropriate embellishments.
* * * * *
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 croud, no more
_We may_ return thy varied views to mark,”