Part 22
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. {295} 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. {298} This Cisterian 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 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.”
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 Heav’nly 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 splendor, and in still repose Nature majestic through her works appear’d. To-day how chang’d—loud howls the hollow blast! The thin mists undulate! thy tow’ring 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 suff’rings to repose, Inclin’st my heart to ev’ry 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, {309} 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.”
INDEX.