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 extremity of them, from being
carried away by the tide, and by that ingenious contrivance they
gradually rose and fell 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 Henry
Marten, one of the regicides who presided at the condemnation of King
Charles I., and was confined in the castle 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 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.”