Part 19 (1/2)
We soon got out of the Avon into King Road, and there met the tide setting strongly from the Severn--a large river, which divides Monmouths.h.i.+re from Gloucesters.h.i.+re. We then stretched across the estuary, and were in the Wye--one of the most romantic rivers in the country, the scenery of which will occupy much of this letter.
After going up the river a little way, we saw a town upon the left bank and a n.o.ble castle. This is Chepstow. It is finely ensconced in a hollow. The town is irregular, and depends for its prosperity on its commerce. The castle is really a n.o.ble ruin and crowns a high bluff which rises from the river. I do not know how any one can ask for a lovelier landscape than is opened to the view off the bridge which spans the river.
The castle was built by a relation of William the Conqueror. Its style is Norman, with more modern additions. The tide rises here to an elevation of from fifty to sixty feet. This is owing to rooks which stretch into the Severn near the mouth of the Wye, and, by hindering the tide, turn it into this small river.
On landing, we engaged a carriage and pair of horses for the excursion, and were soon off. We stopped for lunch at St. Arvan's, a village one mile off, and a beautiful place it is--a perfect gem of a country street. But the glorious scenery of the region calls off attention from the modest hamlet. How I should like, as in my boyish days, to make head-quarters here for a week, and then strike out for daily explorations.
We pa.s.sed by the fine mansion at Piercefield, and devoted our time to the glorious points of natural scenery on the banks of this most charming stream--for Americans can hardly call it a river. We walked now about two miles through an oak wood, in which is a sprinkling of ash and elm, till we came to the very edge of a cliff called the ”Lover's Leap.”
It overhangs an awful abyss, the depth of which is softened down by the woods which cover the neighboring rooks. A little off from this we came to the famous Wynd Cliff. Its summit is fringed with wood, and covers its declivities down to the river. To describe the scenery, my dear boy, from this spot, is quite beyond my ability. I wish that Sir Walter Scott had attempted it, and made this region the scene of one of his beautiful creations. From this spot you see all the course of the Wye, with its numerous sinuosities--in one place cutting out a few acres into a horse-shoe peninsula. As the eye follows down the river, you gaze on perpendicular, rocky cliffs, and can hardly persuade yourself that you do not look at the immense fortifications of a town. But that peaceful little peninsula at my feet; it is called Llanicut. Such a farm! such elms! all forming a landscape unrivalled. But look beyond the Wye, and, just away there, is the n.o.ble Severn. Ay, that is a river. There it rolls and foams down through the rich county of Gloucesters.h.i.+re, and empties into the Bristol Channel. Then away, beyond to the right are the bold, swelling hills of Somersets.h.i.+re. I cannot but wish that Claude had seen the Wye and Severn; the n.o.blest of his pictures would have been ill.u.s.trative of this region.
When we had sufficiently delighted ourselves with the far-spread scene, we descended by a winding path through the woods and down the almost perpendicular rock. The road was a very zigzag. We came down three hundred and sixty steps, and, pa.s.sing a rustic bridge, entered a moss cottage, the small windows of painted gla.s.s, the table the base of a mighty oak, sawn off and polished. The walls are lined with moss. Here we got refreshments, and talked of those who had been here with us on former visits--some in America, others farther off; and yet perhaps not; for we know not how, or where, some of our best friends exist; but we know and feel that they do greatly live.
In approaching Tintern, we pa.s.sed the iron works, which at night throw a solemn glow over the entire village. The cottages around are very humble residences. The inn is a small but cosy affair, and is not dest.i.tute of much real comfort. There is the abbey at the water side, and opposite the rocky hill bank and hanging wood. The access to the abbey is poor, but this is quite forgotten as you enter this glorious sanctuary of other days. There are few ancient edifices in Great Britain, now in ruins, which attract so much attention from the curious traveller as Tintern Abbey, on the Wye.
The beauty of the river is proverbial, yet has never been adequately described; but the best idea of its diversified charms may be gathered from ”Gilpin's Picturesque Scenery and Observations upon the Wye.”
Tintern was a Cistercian abbey, and was founded in 1131, by Walter de Clare, and dedicated to St. Mary on its completion in 1287. The dress of the Cistercians was a white ca.s.sock, with a narrow scapulary, and over that a black gown, when they went abroad, but a white one when they went to church. They were called white monks, from the color of their habit.
The dimensions of this church are as follows: length, two hundred and twenty-eight feet, and the transept one hundred and fifty feet long; breadth of the aisles, each eighteen feet. There are in the sides ten arches; between each column fifteen feet, which is the span of the arches.
The interior of this monastery presents the best specimen of Gothic architecture in England. The east window is a most magnificent affair, sixty-four feet high, and calls forth universal admiration. The very insignificant doorway was, no question, intended by the architect to form a strong contrast with the elevation of the roof. The abbey is cruciform; its ruins are perfect as to the grand outline; and I am sure we should like to pa.s.s the entire day within this venerable fane. The walls of the tower are seventy-two feet high, and covered with ivy, moss, and lichens, but show no indications of decay.
Very few Americans visit this region; but I think that they can see nothing in England at all comparable to this ruin.
Among the relics that are to be seen here is the effigy of a knight in chain mail, the remains of a virgin and child, and the head of a shaven friar. Here, too, are several monkish tombstones.
We were obliged to resume our places in the carriage, and ride some twelve miles, in order to visit the finest baronial ruins in the kingdom. We reached the quiet little village of Ragland, and, putting up our horses, gave orders for dinner, and then repaired to the castle, which we found near by, crowning a slight eminence with its stately towers. We approached through a grove of truly venerable oaks and elms, and all at once we were at the warder's gate; and entering into the terrace, formerly the eastern court, a most splendid vision burst upon our sight. Here are three pentagonal towers, with machicolated battlements, and showing all the marks of war. This is the most perfect part of the ruin, and seems likely to stand for ages. The ivy cl.u.s.ters over the towers most gracefully. Off to the left, insulated by a moat, stands the remains of a tower, once the citadel. We advance through the Gothic portal into the second court, and here are shafts and arches, and grooves through which the portcullis used to present itself to the besiegers. Next is the paved court, where once were the men at arms with iron tread; now a velvet lawn is seen, and many a vigorous tree is spreading its roots. Here we get a fine view of the majestic window of the hall of state. Through an arch is the way to the kitchen. The fireplace has a span of thirteen feet, and is made of two stones. Then we come to the baron's hall, of n.o.ble dimensions. On the walls are the stone sculptured arms of the Marquis of Worcester. The chapel was a narrow room; and, nearly concealed by ivy, are two effigies. The south-west tower contained the apartments occupied by Charles I. after the battle of Naseby, in 1645. The grand terrace is in tolerable order, and you proceed to it by a bridge. We ascended the towers and gazed on majesty in ruins. We saw nothing on the continent finer than Ragland Castle. The prospect from the great tower is the finest that can be imagined, and I almost fear to tell you its extent.
You may imagine that we felt unusually interested at this place, from the fact that here the Marquis of Worcester invented the steam engine.
The castle was devastated by the parliamentary troops under Fairfax, having surrendered in 1646. The defence was gallant, but unavailing.
The warder of the castle is a very gentlemanly man. He took us into his apartments in one of the towers, and we found that he was a very respectable amateur in painting. Some of his oil paintings were very creditable. An infant girl, of great beauty, his daughter, answered to the name of Blanche Castle May, and was the first-born child under that roof since its desolation.
Here, as well as at Tintern Abbey, I obtained ivy roots for Mr. Hall, and hope to see them flouris.h.i.+ng on the walls of his beautiful stone house in Rhode Island.
We retired slowly from this romantic ruin, and at the hotel found an excellent dinner. One dish was fit for a king--sewen, young salmon, or a species of salmon, for there is much dispute among naturalists as to the ident.i.ty of these fish. Any how, they are fine beyond any fish. They were about two and a quarter pounds each, and are so delicate that they do not well bear transportation.
We returned to Chepstow that evening, having a fine ride through a new piece of scenery, and were quite ready for a sound night's rest. In the morning we looked at the castle in Chepstow, which is remarkably fine, and is of extreme antiquity; some of the arches of the castle chapel indicating clearly a Saxon origin. One of the priestly legends is that this chapel was built by Longinus, a Jew, and father of the soldier who pierced the side of Christ. This was the belief of the ancient population of this charming region.
All around this town Roman coins are frequently turned up; and I obtained from a gentleman a very well-preserved Caesar silver coin, dug up a day or two before.
This castle was for more than twenty years the prison home of Henry Marten, one of the regicides. He is buried in the parish church, and in the north transept is the following acrostical epitaph which he composed for his monument:--
Here, September 9, 1680,
was buried
A TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN,
Who in Berks.h.i.+re was well known To love his country's freedom 'bove his own; But being immured full twenty year, Had time to write, as doth appear.