No. 219 - THE PENNY MAGAZINE - Aug. 31, 1835

PLYNLIMMON, a mountain of South Wales, which is about 2462 feet above the level of the sea, and situated on the verge of Cardiganshire and Montgomeryshire, gives birth to five rivers, the most important of which is the Severn, and the most beautiful the Wye. The other three, that never become much more than mountain-torrents, are the Rhydol, which joins the Mynach at the Devil's Bridge, the Lyffnant, and the Dulas. The source of the Severn and Wye (like the fountain-heads of those grander streams, the Danube and the Rhine) are close to each other, and, after pursuing opposite courses, their water meet, and roll into the ocean together.

For the beauty and variety of the scenery on its banks, there is no river in England at all comparable with the Wye, nor do we believe, notwithstanding the superiority of some of them in point of size, that there is a single river on the continent of Europe that can boast such scenes of alternate grandeur, gracefulness, and pastoral beauty,--such as uninterrupted succession of exquisite landscapes as occurs on the Wye all the way from Goodrich Castle to Chepstow Castle. For ourselves, we never saw such a continuity of beauty, and the author of the book that goes under the title of the 'Tour of a German Prince' seems to be pretty much of our opinion. "Never," he says, "was I more convinced than here, that a prophet has no honour in his own country. How else would so many Englishmen travel thousands of miles to fall into ecstacies at beauties of a very inferior order to these!"

It is only at a comparatively recent date that the Wye has become at all frequented on account of its scenery. About the middle of last century, Dr. John Egerton, who was afterwards Bishop of Durham, was collated by his father to the rectory of Ross, in which pleasant town, situated on the bank of the river, and just at the point where the beautiful scenery begins, the doctor resided for nearly thirty years. He was a man of taste, and had a lively enjoyment of the pleasures of society amidst the beautiful scenery of his neighbourhood. His chief delight was to invite his friends and connexions, who were persons of high rank, to pay him summer visits at Ross, and then to take them down the Wye, which river, the "Pleased Vaga echoing through its winding bounds," of the poet, as well as the town of Ross, had derived an interest from the verses of Pope. To this end Dr. Egerton built a pleasure-boat; and year after year excursions were made, until it became fashionable in a certain high class of society to visit the Wye; but when the doctor was removed to the see of Durham, his boat was left to rot on the banks, the voyage becoming less and less frequent. Mr. Whately, a writer on landscape gardening, and an exquisite critic, directed attention to the New Weir, Tintern Abbey, and one or two other scenes on its banks; and in 1770, the Wye was visited by the Rev. William Gilpin, who, though somewhat of a pedant in art, and not over-correct in his descriptions, did good service to taste and the lovers of nature, by publishing the account of his tour. The same year a greater name connected itself with the Wye, for it was visited by the immortal author of the 'Elegy in a Country Churchyard.' "My last summer's tour," says Gray, in one of his admirable letters, "was through Worchestershire, Gloucestershire, Monmouthshire, Herefordshire, and Shropshire, five of the most beautiful counties in the kingdom. The very principal light, and capital feature of my journey was the river Wye, which I descended in a boat for near forty miles, from Ross to Chepstow. Its banks are a succession of nameless beauties." It may almost be said that the last happy moments Gray knew in this world were spent upon the Wye; for a few months after we find him a prey to ill health and despondence, complaining of an incurable cough, of the irksomeness of his employment at Cambridge, and of "mechanical low spirits," and he died in the course of the following summer.

The publication of Gray's correspondence probably attracted more tourists than Gilpin's book, and yet, for some years afterwards, a single boat was all that was required to convey the company down the Wye. At present there are several pleasure-boats in pretty constant employment during the fine season, and these are to be hired for private parties. They are safe and commodious, and are rowed by two men. The voyage from Ross to Chepstow generally occupies two days. Single boats are of course expensive, for the river is in parts so rapid that it is a great labour to work a boat up again. Last summer, however, a large vessel, something like a city barge, was started at Ross, and the passage per head to Chepstow is very reasonable. This fact sufficiently indicates that, like all the best and most intellectual of our pleasures and tastes, the love of travelling and fine scenery is finding its way among the great body of the people. We trust we shall render an acceptable service by pointing out and recommending this excursion in preference to many more distant and expensive tours.

Descending from the lofty sides of Plynlimmon, the Wye, at first an insignificant stream, flows on in a southerly direction, traversing the county of Radnor, which it divides from Brecon. For the first ten miles, or as far as Llangerrig, the country has little to recommend it, being naked and dreary, with brown peat-covered hills in the distance; but from Llangerrig to Rhayader (a distance of twelve miles) the scenery is rather romantic, the river being flanked by bold rocks, and running over a declining irregular bed, in a succession of falls, or rapids. It is a favourite resort of anglers, as it abounds in fine trout; but, otherwise, all that part of the Wye above Rhayader is little visited, and may very well be omitted, as far inferior in scenery to most other portions of the river. At Rhayader, which is in itself a curious, romantic specimen of the small towns of Wales, the river commences to be very picturesque, and there is a fine view of it from the bridge at the entrance of the town, where it falls over a ledge of rocks and forms some deep and dark pools, after which it tears its way through white rocks and crags into a somewhat open and spacious bed. Near to this spot the Wye receives two tributary streams,--the Eilon and the Ython,--which materially increase its importance; and the whole of the valley between Rhayader and Bualth, or Builth, a distance of thirteen miles, is singularly romantic. The road (for the traveller must not think of boats as yet) lies, for the most part, close to the bed of the stream, and affords the most favourable views of the lofty banks, the rocky channel, and the winding, devious course of the river. At one point a grand mass, called the Black Mountain, seems to choke up the vale and deny all passage to the Wye, which runs rapidly towards it; but just as the river reaches the foot of the mountain, it turns towards the north, and, after opening an unexpected narrow passage, it expands into a broad picturesque bay, a little above Bualth. From this old town, which is entered by crossing a long and rather rude stone bridge, the views of water, wood, mountains, and plain are fine and extensive. The town itself has an essentially Welsh character; and some of the most interesting events in Welsh history took place in its neighbourhood. It was here, on the left bank of the Wye, that the celebrated hero, Llewellin, was defeated and slain, in 1282, by the army of Edward I. It is supposed that Bualth was known to the Romans under the name of Bullaum Silurum, and several sepulchral barrows point to a much more remote time, and to the religion and usages of our Druidical ancestors.

We arrived at Bualth on the evening of the market-day, when the romantic little town and all the roads and bridle-paths near it were unusually animated. Farmers and shepherds were retiring (singing as they went) to their homes among the mountains; and the pretty laughing Welsh girls, in their neat blue dresses and men's hats, and mounted on rough-coated long-tailed ponies, were trotting and centering home in all directions. The scene was the most pleasing from the testimony it afforded, that even among these rocks, moors, and mountains men could obtain a comfortable subsistance. There was a very general appearance of comfort and prosperity, and scarcely a sign of squalid poverty. Plenty of people had come to the fair from Hay, and other parts of the Herefordshire border, and all was harmony and good will where, if Englishmen and Welsh had met a few centuries before, there would have been nothing but strife and a cutting of one another's throats.

The road from Bualth to Hay affords some fine prospects of the Wye, though it does not always lie near to the bed of that river. On approaching Hay the scenery loses much of its picturesque wildness,--mountains and rocks begin to disappear, neat villas and country-houses occur frequently, and the whole country assumes an English air. The town of the Hay, or, as it is commonly called, the Welsh Hay, is pleasantly situated, and is in part very picturesque. There is a tower with the gateway of an old castle finely covered with ivy, and, in the rear of the church, there are some slight vestiges of fortifications which are supposed to be Roman. A little below the Hay the Wye bends to the east, and enters the beautiful plains of Herefordshire with a slow and majestic pace. Having travelled sixty miles from its source in Plynlimmon and received numerous tributary streams, it has here the appearance of an important river; but the bed is broad and shallow, and no kind of vessel is seen upon it before reaching the city of Hereford. About two miles below the Hay, and close on the banks of the Wye, stands an old castle, partly surrounded by woods. This was the birth-place of the fair Rosamond of whom our old chroniclers and poets made so much, and of whose real history we know so very little. The antique building is called Clifford Castle, and forms a good feature in a very pleasing landscape. The whole valley of the Wye, from the Hay to Hereford, is highly cultivated and pretty, but devoid of grandeur.

In the ancient city of Hereford, which has a singular air of tranquillity and of the olden times throughout, the tourist may spend a delightful hour or two in examining the fine Gothic cathedral. There are some pleasant promenades in the outskirts of the town, particularly one on a quay immediately above the Wye, which is here a quiet, stately river, as unlike as possible to the brawling mountain-torrent which it is above Rhayader, or the foaming, impetuous stream it is above Bualth. We saw a considerable number of barges and other craft moored at Hereford, where we were told that some of these vessels, drawing very little water, could, at certain seasons, go twenty-five miles higher up, or nearly to the Hay. At other times, however, when the river is low, they have some difficulty even in getting as far as Hereford. Most of the coal and wood consumed in that city and its neighbourhood are brought up in barges from Bristol, Chepstow, and the Forest of Dean, after a swell of the river; and the inhabitants occasionally export, by the same conveyance, their excellent Herefordshire cider and other articles. These voyagers, however, are liable to frequent interruptions, and, at times, to long detentions. From its numerous shoals and deficiency of water, the Wye, in its present natural state, can scarcely be considered a commercial highway above Monmouth. About six miles below Hereford it receives the river Lug, and, near the confluence of the two streams, there is a curious elevation called Marclay Hill, which seems to have been thrust up by some convulsion of the earth like the Monte Nuovo in Italy, that suddenly rose out of and almost entirely filled up the Lucrine Lake. According to Camden, for three days together did Marchay Hill "shove its prodigious body forward with a horrible roaring noise, and, overturning everything in its way, raised itself, to the great astonishment of all beholders, to a higher place." In volcanic countries such phenomena are not rare, and sometimes, instead of protrusious and ascents, there are descents, which are equally curious. In the province of Apulia, in the kingdom of Naples, there is a hill that slid down into the plain, carrying with it, without much damage, a small town that stood on its summit. Even the church-tower, the highest building in the place was not overturned by this locomotion.

Although the road only now and then affords a glimpse of the Wye, all the country (which Gilpin calls tame) between Hereford and Ross is varied by swelling hills, hop-grounds, orchards, and woods, is lovely in the extreme. It may not always be fit for a picture, and Gilpin only looked at nature with reference to the painter's canvass, but it is undoubtedly a most delightful part of this fair island.

On entering the small quiet town of Ross, which is beautifully situated on an eminence close to the left bank of the Wye, everything reminds one of honest John Kyrle, whom Pope has immortalized, and the eye is attracted to the church and the "heaven-directed spire," to the trees he planted, to the causeway he laid down, and to the rest of his useful and honourable labours. Indeed, spending a day at this pleasant town is like spending a day with the "Man of Ross" himself, for we are reminded of him whichever way we turn, and the inhabitants have most religiously cherished his memory, and all the little circumstances and anecdotes relating to him. Near to the decent, quiet inn where we stayed, there stands the house he built himself and inhabited; and in the club-room of another little inn in the town they preserve the good man's arm-chair. John Kyrle's fame was acquired by the judicious employment of a small fortune in works of public utility, and those works are fairly set down, and without exaggeration, in Pope's well-known and admirable lines, although, as Dr. Johnson observed, it is probable that his "five hundred pounds a-year" did not pay for all those improvements and charities, and that through his example, his known integrity and active benevolence, his wealthier neighbours were in some instances induced to join their purses with his for the public good and the ornament of their town.

In his time the country round Ross, which in the twelfth century was a forest interspersed with marshes, and swarming with wild-boars and wolves, was greatly wanting in trees, and Kyrle directed his energies to the supplying of this deficiency. He planted a vast number of elms in the churchyard and glebe, and in the rear of the church he laid out a beautiful avenue which is called the "Prospect," or "The Man of Ross' Walk." It is on the ridge of a hill, and commands a fine view of the valley, and the river, and the hills beyond. It is said of him in King's 'Anecdotes,' that "he had a singular taste for prospects; and by a vast plantation of elms, which he disposed of in a fine manner, he has made one of the most entertaining scenes the county of Hereford affords. * * * Through the midst of the valley below runs the Wye, which seems in no hurry to leave the county; but like a hare that is unwilling to leave her habitation, makes a hundred turns and doubles."

Within the church we were shown the pew where the good man sat for so many years, and which, out of respect to his memory, has never been altered or touched during the several alterations the church has since undergone. Two slight elm-trees grow inside of the church, and indeed within the pew, partially curtaining with their foliage the tall arched window that opens upon it. The local legend is, that some years ago a rector impiously cut down some of John Kyrle's dear elms that stood in the churchyard, outside of the window, and opposite the pew, and that thereupon, as if determined to show their affection for their planter, some roots threw out fresh shoots, which, penetrating the church wall, grew up over the very seat he used to occupy. The legend, at all events, is pretty, and there are the trees growing in the church, and their light green leaves gracefully extending over the pew, to answer for its veracity. The people who showed us the interior of the church seemed to regard the trees as miraculous and sacred objects, and they will probably be left to grow unmolested in the aisle, until their size becomes inconvenient and requires trimming.

In Pope's time John Kyrle lay "without a monument, inscription stone," but in 1776 Lady Betty Duplin left a sum of money for the purpose, and his name is now recorded in a simple inscription, but in gold letters, on a marble tablet, over which is placed that other doubtful adjunct of monumental fame, a tolerably "bad bust." The memory of honest John did not require these things to preserve it, but they will do it no harm, and they proceeded from laudable motives.

In the corner of the churchyard there is a curious old stone cross commemorating the ravages of the plague,--that fearful disorder from which we have been so long exempt.

From the pleasant town of Ross we descended the Wye in one of the small row-boats kept for the purpose. A little below the town, on the right bank of the river, stand the ruins of Wilton Castle, the history or name of whose baronial founders we forget or overlook in our respect for a remarkable man who once held possession of it, and who left it, with the rich estates adjoining, to a public charity of the best kind. This man was Thomas Guy, the founder of Guy's Hospital in London. The estate of Wilton Castle was left by him to that establishment.

A few yards lower down, the Wye passes under Wilton Bridge, the arches and piers of which are of curious construction, and were first built at the end of the sixteenth century. At the time of our passage, which was early in the month of June, we found such a deficiency of water about two or three miles below the bridge, that even our little boat grounded. So far, and indeed for a mile or two farther, the scenery of the Wye, including the view of Ross, with its steeple, its terraces, and trees, is only pretty and graceful; but, on approaching Goodrich Castle, it becomes bolder and grander. On either side, the banks begin to rise into lofty precipices, or wooded hills, of the noblest forms; and the sudden turns and windings of the stream every minute bring unexpected and startling objects in sight, and give a new aspect and character to the features of the scene already passed. At the very point where a massy ivy-covered ruin and an antique-looking castellated building are most desirable, we find the ruins of Goodrich Castle, and--that admirable imitation of the antique--the mansion of Sir Samuel Meyrick, called Goodrich Court. As we approach this point, which is about four miles below Ross, the river expands, and forms a sort of bay; and on the right bank, on a lofty wooded eminence, which projects as a promontory, stand the ruins and the mansion.

The ascent to the old castle, from the bed of the river, is steep; but the path lies, for the best part, through a pleasant wood, and every resting-place offers a delightful view. The castle itself presents grand and imposing masses of masonry of different periods of architecture. The keep, which is the most ancient part, is in the Saxon style; but there are evident signs of alterations and improvements of a much later age; and, in other parts of the building, which seems to have been successively enlarged, we trace the Tudor style. The history of the place is not well preserved, but there was a castle here (consisting probably of the keep and little else) before the Norman Conquest, and the last additions to it should seem to have been made in the time of Henry VII. During the great civil war, it was the scene of desperate contention. It was occupied in the first instance for the parliament, but was afterwards seized and garrisoned for Charles I. by Sir Richard Lingen. It was retaken by the parliamentarians under Colonel Birch, after some hard fighting, at the beginning of August, 1646, being the last castle in England, with the exception of Pendennis, that held out for the king. During the siege, it suffered considerably from the mortar-pieces, granadoes, and "the great iron culverin" of the assailants, and, in the month of March following, it was ordered by parliament, "that Goodrich Castle should be totally disgarrisoned and slighted" (i.e. destroyed). From the immense, and in some parts almost perfect, masses that remain, we may judge that the people employed on this work of destruction were sparing of their labour and gun-powder; and we are happy that it should have been so, as they have left us a fine ruin,--just ruined enough to be picturesque, and sufficiently entire to attract and gratify curiousity in the examination of its arrangement and details. Whether seen from the water below or from the hill-side, being taken in connexion with the river, the woods, and the rocks, it is a beautiful object. From the battlements of one of the towers there is a glorious view.

A romantic winding path leads from the old castle to Goodrich Court, which building is said to be strictly copied in all its parts from original specimens of the architecture which prevailed from the close of the reign of Edward I. to the commencement of that of Edward III. In the interior, Sir Samuel Meyrick's valuable collection of old armour is arranged in the happiest manner in a spacious hall, and each apartment is furnished and fitted up in the style prevalent at one particular period of our history. The house, which is by far the most perfect thing of its king in England, is freely shown, upon application to its accomplished owner; and as its style and contents harmonize with the scenery of the Wye, and the old historical associations upon its banks, the tourist will do well to visit it on his way. If he be fond of antiquarian pursuits, Sir Samuel's large and valuable collection of British antiquities, arranged with the most perfect taste and knowledge, will afford him singular pleasure.

On returning to our boat we gently glided down the winding river through scenes of constantly changing and increasing beauty and magnificence. For some time Goodrich Castle remained a prominent feature in the landscape, for the Wye here makes a remarkably bold sweep, going completely round the wooded head-land, and returning, as it were, upon the castle in another direction. Another sudden turn brings us full in view of the magnificent forest of Dean, and the romantic spire of Ruer-Dean Church rising among the trees. Here both banks are lofty and steep, and both woody; but the woods on the left bank are intermingled with rocks. Villages in the most beautiful situations, rural churches, and scattered cottages, now begin to peep more frequently from the hills upon the river that reflects and multiplies them. The village of Lidbroke, where coals are occasionally shipped for Ross and Hereford, has an air of business and bustle, but all is again tranquil on reaching Courtfield and Welsh Bicknor Church. According to tradition, our too famous king, Henry V., "being when young of a weak and sickly habit," was removed from Monmouth, his birthplace, and nursed at Courtfield under the care of the Countess of Salisbury; and some antiquaries have decided that a monumental effigy still seen in the little church of Welsh Bicknor represents the Countess, who lies buried beneath it. The church and the tomb of the noble and gentle-hearted lady may engage our sympathy, but we care little for the conqueror. We would not associate the memory of that man of blood with the holy tranquillity of spots like these, where the very spirit of peace seems diffused over the woods and waters, and all the beauties of this visible world inspire respect for the lives of those who are sent by a merciful and bounteous God to enjoy them and to love one another.

Two miles below Welsh Bicknor, on the left bank of the Wye, and in Gloucestershire, there is another village, called English Bicknor, and near to that point the sublime rocks of Coldwell present themselves with wonderful effect. There the river forms a beautiful little bay, and passengers can land on some rocks and green sward, and contemplate at their leisure a scene which we have seldom seen surpassed, and which is called by Gilpin "the first grand scene on the Wye." Our wood-cut will give some notion, however imperfect, of this remarkable spot. Continuing the navigation we come to Hunt's Holm Roye, where a picturesque parish church stands on the river's brink. On account of the tortuous course of the river, this place, which is only one mile from Goodrich by land, is rather more than seven by water. The cheerful village of Whitechurch, backed by the bold hills called the Great and Little Doward, is next seen, and passing other spots and objects of beauty too numerous even to name, we next come to Symond's Yat and the New Weir, which is generally called "The Second Grand Scene on the Wye." At Symond's Yat we landed and climbed up a towering rocky promontory of great height, which (while seen from below, it is one of the grandest object met with) affords the finest of all the views of the mazes of the Wye, and a magnificent landward prospect over the counties of Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, and Monmouthshire. Here the turrets of Goodrich, from which we had been wandering so long, again showed themselves. At our feet, on the shelving banks of the river far below us, were some iron forges and limekilns, the ascending smoke of which produced a singular effect, which we might almost call solemn.

Decending from this grand height we came to the New Weir, where the river assumed another character. Hitherto it had moved with a tolerably slow, quiet pace, but here it roared and foamed over a bed of rocks, and became for some hundreds of yards a rapid or a succession of little falls. The scenery, particularly on the left bank, assumes its grandest characters. "These," says the German tourist, "are craggy and weather-beaten walls of sandstone, of gigantic dimension, perpendicular or overhanging, projecting abruptly from amid oaks, and hung with rich festoons of ivy. The rain and storms of ages have beaten and washed them into such fantastic forms, that they appear like some caprice of human art. Castles and towers, amphitheatres and fortifications, battlements and obelisks, mock the wanderer, and fall thundering from rock to rock, with a terrific plunge into the river."

When we got again into smooth water (and at that particular point the Wye is deep), we saw, for the first time, some fishermen floating and paddling about in their little coracles. These coracles, or truckles, as they are sometimes called, are evidently a remnant of the primitive inland navigation of the ancient Britons, and are probably the same as the portable boats used by the Scots and Picts in crossing the rivers to invade England. In form they are neither canoe-shaped nor ship-shaped, being, on the contrary, like a somewhat oval tub. They are made of pitched canvass or raw hide, stretched over a few slight ribs of wood, or over a frame of wicker-work, and each of them is only capable of holding one man. The least motion seems to threaten to upset them, and it is very difficult indeed to the inexperienced to get into them and set them afloat at all, as, unless the weight is made to bear exactly on the centre, the coracle rolls over stern uppermost. The men we saw using them appeared, however, to be very much at their ease as they went across or down the stream, working a paddle with one hand and fishing with the other. These boats are so light that, when their day's work is done, the fishermen throw them over their shoulders and carry them home. In case of rain, they can be made very effective as impervious hoods or umbrellas. Gilpin told a story, which has been copied in most of the guide-books, of an adventurous fellow who, for a wager, navigated a coracle out of the Wye, and all down the broad and frequently stormy estuary of the Severn, as far as the isle of Lundy, at the mouth of the Bristol Channel. "When he returned to the New Weir," says the original teller of the story, "report says the account of his expedition was received like a voyage round the world."

During the latter half of the trip from Symond's Yat to Monmouth, rocks and sublimity give place to more gentle declivities, and to mild beauties that partake of the pastoral character. Cattle were sprinkled on green ledges above the river: in some places the meadows shelved down to the brink, allowing the cows to stand and cool themselves in the stream, and flocks of white sheep lent beauty and poetry to the middle distance. The whole valley of the river moreover opened, the hills receded, and the river made longer reaches. The sun was setting when we came in sight of the bridge and town of Monmouth, and then the Wye lay before us like a broad path of burnished gold. We had spent a long summer's day between Ross and the last-named town, and can most cordially recommend every lover of Nature, who has it in his power, to do the same thing at least once in his life.

Monmouth, "delightsome Monmouth," is another quiet, romantic town, which seemed to us, what the poet Gray declared it to be, "the delight of the eye and the very seat of pleasure." It stands near the conflux of the Monnow with the Wye, on a gently-rising ground, that throws out the houses like the seats of an amphitheatre, and gives a fine elevated platform for the church with its tall steeple. It is surrounded by smiling declivities and gently-swelling hills, that are mostly covered from the water's edge to the summit with pleasant little woods, or laid out in corn-fields or pasture-meadows. The interior of picturesque towns is not always the most comfortable. Monmouth, however, has a broad and handsome street, a capacious market-place, and seems clean and neat throughout. The remains of the priory, with an apartment they pretend was the study of that splendid romancer (once taken for an historian) Geoffrey of Monmouth, the old Saxon church of St. Thomas, near the Monnow Bridge, and particularly the low, sombre, round-arched interior of that church, will agreeably occupy an hour or two within the town. As for the castle, it is gone--the last of its tottering walls fell down suddenly some years ago. In his time, Gilpin said of it, "The transmutations of time are often ludicrous. Monmouth Castle was formerly the palace of a king and the birthplace of a mighty prince: it is now converted into a yard for fatting ducks." But as we found it, this royal pile scarcely afforded room for Gilpin's antithesis, the walls not being sufficient even to restrain the wanderings of a fatted duck. Against one dislocated bit of a wall a shed had been erected for the stabling of cart-horses and asses.

From the summit of the Kymin rock, which rises on the left bank of the Wye, and is situated partly in Monmouthshire and partly in Gloucestershire, there is another extensive and beautiful view, of a totally different character from that obtained on Symond's Yat. This variety, indeed, is one of the great charms of the Wye. From Ross to the river's mouth the character of the scenery is scarcely ever the same for a quarter of a mile. On the centre of the Kymin, overhanging the town of Monmouth and the river, there is a circular pavillion, like an embattled tower, which is made easy of access by means of a walk which winds gently up the acclivity.

When we embarked the next day below Monmouth Bridge, a glorious summer sun lighted up all the scenery, and made it indeed look like a holiday spot of earth. A little below the town the Monnow flows into the Wye with a full stream. For some distance the banks are low, and fine green meadows shelve from the hills to the water-side; and then the banks again become bold, rocks protrude, and woods appear on either side. Troy House, with a solemn forest near it, the romantic church of Penalt, the scattered village of Red-brook, with its iron-gorges and its tin-works, White-brook, with its paper-mills, Pen-y-van Hill, Big's Weir House, with the church and the ruins of the Castle of St. Briaval's in the distance, are among the beautiful features of this changing picture. In some parts the bed of the river is roughened and straitened by shelves and projecting rocks, which produce ripples, and, here and there, miniature falls and rapids. A barge or two, making their way against the stream, had to tack and manoeuvre in a curious manner. In several places these shelves of rock lie right across the river, like artificial weirs, having very little water over them. At Big's Weir, where the current is very rapid, the river eddies over fragments of rock, which leave only a narrow open space for the passage of boats. Near to this place a new and very graceful bridge, called Big's-weir Bridge, spans the river with a single arch. The road from Chepstow to Monmouth, which runs partly on one side of the river, and partly on the other, is connected by this bridge. From this point a fine bolt reach, with Tiddenham-Chase Hill rising nobly in front, leads to the lovely hamlet of Landogo, which is situated on a small plain, on the right bank, tufted with woods, and backed by an amphitheatre of lofty hills. The little church peeps out beautifully from amidst the trees upon the river, which there forms a smooth and capacious bay. Taken altogether, this is one of the prettiest scenes upon the Wye.

Below this point the Wye becomes a tide-river, and loses one of its great beauties, which is the purity and transparency of its waters.

A little farther, on the left bank of the river, the populous village of Brook's Weir presents a scene where utility unites with beauty. There is a commodious little port, where several sloops and schooners, from thirty to eighty tons burden, were discharging or taking in their cargoes. One or two vessels were on the stocks; and the sound of the ship-builder's adze and hammer rang cheerfully and almost musically from the bank. A number of white, comfortable-looking cottages and elegant little villas, scattered about the hills in the neighbourhood, prove the prosperity of the place. Soon after passing Brook's Weir, we rounded the point of Lyn Weir, and then, at the end of the reach, we saw the glorious ruins of Tintern Abbey, and the white-walled village of Tintern partially embosomed in trees and backed by beautifully-shaped hills, wooded to their summits. Had the Wye nothing else to boast of than Tintern Abbey and Chepstow Castle, which the German tourist declares to be "the most beautiful ruins in the world," it ought to attract travellers, and particularly English travellers, from far and near. We passed two delightful hours among the ruins, over whose ivied walls and stately columns a few floating summer clouds, and then the streaming sunshine, produced the happiest and most varied effects. The silence of the holy place (when we had succeeded in suppressing the ignorant garrulity of the man who shows the abbey) was perfect, the only sounds heard being the low, mysterious whisperings of the winds among the trees and the high-pointed arches, and "the sweet inland murmur" of the River Wye.

As we have given a description of these splendid ruins, and a sketch of the history of the abbey, in the eighty-third Number of the 'Penny Magazine,' we will go on, and request the reader's attention to the remainder of the tour.

On continuing our voyage, saturated with scenic beauty as we were, we hardly expected to be again thrilled, or roused into enthusiasm, by anything else; but the windings of this wonderful river soon brought us in sight of objects as grand as, and totally different from, any we had seen; and from Tintern to Chepstow our admiration was scarcely left idle for a single moment. In fact, though Gilpin and most of the guide-books pass slightingly over it, and though it is the fashion to recommend tourists to neglect it, we question whether any part of the Wye is grander than the last part of its course, particularly when the river is full, the sludgy shores covered, the tide just on the ebb, and the sun declining. Here it presents some of the most remarkable of its sudden turns and windings, now making long, narrow promontories on this side, and now on that, and washing, in short reaches, the bases of tremendous precipices of bare, strangely-coloured rock. A little below Tintern, we came upon Banagor Crags,--a long, lofty, perpendicular, and most sublime rampart, bare and a wall except where a few shrabs shoot out,--opposite to which the river is skirted by narrow slips of rich pasture rising into wooded acclivities, on which abruptly towers the Wyndcliff,--a nearly perpendicular mass of rock rudely overhung with thickets, stated to be 800 feet high. At this place the Wye turns suddenly round the fertile, smiling penninsula of Lancaut, having the stupendous amphitheatre of Piercefield Cliffs on the right bank. The little peninsula, sloping down from Tiddenham Chase, ends in pleasant meadows and flats, where a few cottages and a church show themselves. The opposite cliffs start up from the water's edge, looking like enormous buttresses, and here and there throwing out bolt, fantastic projections. Twelve of these projecting rocks have been christened by the country people "The Twelve Apostles," and a thirteenth, which points towards the sky, and has a rude resemblance in shape to a thumb, they call "St. Peter's Thumb." The summit and edge of these cliffs are fringed with the noble woods and plantations of Piercefield; and, as we passed them, approaching evening had shed the most beautiful harmonizing shades and hues on their rough sides. Presently the river again turns, and then the grand ruins of Chepstow Castle rising from the very edge of lofty precipices, the bridge, and part of the picturesque town of Chepstow, present themselves in almost magical combination. The ruins look more like the remains of a city than of a single castle, and, under certain lights, they eye looking upwards from the river does not readily distinguish them from the cliffs on which they stand, or perceive where the rocks end and the walls begin.

Passing under the new iron-bridge, which is not "elegant, light, and airy," as the guide-books style it, but massive and grand, we found ourselves in Chepstow harbour, which was crowded with shipping. There we landed, and left the river, which falls into the noble estuary of the Severn about two miles farther on. The town of Chepstow is built on a hill gradually ascending from the river, and it is as cheerful and animated (not without something of an old-fashioned ancient air) within as it is externally picturesque.

Our first visit the next morning was to the venerable castle which loses little of its sublimity on the near view, as its towers, though "decayed and rent," are still lofty, and its frowning walls and battlements in some parts almost entire.

The Romans are supposed to have had a fortress at this commanding point, but nothing of their work, except some of their excellent bricks built up in the chapel walls, and one or two other walls of the castle, is now visible, and the edifice is generally attributed to the Normans, who built it at the end of the eleventh, and improved and enlarged it in the thirteenth, century. The styles of successive eras of architecture are visible in different parts of the extensive building in the windows and door-ways, and various accessories, which were added from time to time. In the low rounded arches we are reminded of the Saxon and early Norman style. The castle stands in an irregular parallelogram, having the perpendicular cliffs on one side, and a deep moat, with massive walls flanked with towers, on the other sides. The area occupies a very large tract of ground, and is divided into four courts. The grand entrance to the east is a circular arch between two round towers, and this leads into the first court, which contains the shells of the grand hall, kitchen, and many spacious apartments retaining a few melancholy vestiges of baronial splendour. A few of these rooms are still inhabited, and the construction of their old chimnies is worthy of attention: they are handsomely decorated on the outside, and the inside is glazed, which prevents the accumulation of soot. Archdeacon Coxe says, that the principal chimney in the inhabited part, which had been in constant use, did not require sweeping for eighty years. At the south-eastern angle of the first court the round tower which was formerly the keep is now always called Harry Marten's Tower, from the circumstance of that old republican having passed twenty years of captivity in it: at the western side of the court, near a round tower called the old kitchen, a gate gives access to the second court, (now a garden with pleasant trees in it,) at the opposite side of which another gateway leads into the third court, and to a graceful but roofless and half-ruined building, commonly called the chapel, wherein, though somewhat mixed up with the old Norman, the fine Gothic style of a later period is beautifully prominent. A stair-case ascends from one corner of this court to the battlements and towers, whence a fine view is obtained of the Wye and part of the estuary of the Severn. A sally-port opens into the fourth or last court, which is the smallest of the four, but shut in by a fine old tower, through which was the western entrance to the castle. The interior of these extensive ruins presents some grand and several beautiful combinations. Ivy and delicately-coloured wild flowers profusely decorate the walls, and as we walked along the battlements under a bright, cheerful sun, the whole scene was rather gentle and agreeable, than gloomy and awful.

Twenty years in a dungeon has an awful sound, suggesting the notion of an incalculable amount of human suffering, and therefore we were glad to see that Harry Marten's tower was not the horrible place the poet Southey once described it to be; and to recall to our minds the well-authenticated fact, that during his latter years his confinement was very mild, and the whole treatment of him considerate and merciful.

It is scarcely necessary for us to remind our readers that Marten was one of those bold, and in most cases sincere, men who sat in judgment upon Charles I., and signed the warrant for his execution. At the Restoration he was brought to trial, and sentenced to death;--but his sentence was afterwards commuted for imprisonment for life. In Chepstow he lived twenty years, and here he died, at the advanced age of seventy-eight, in 1680. His apartment, instead of being cold and dark, never admitting "the sun's delightful beams," had three windows and two fire-places. His wife was allowed to live with him, and over the good-sized room he occupied there was another room for his domestics. The ceiling and floor that separated them are now fallen in. At the time of Coxe's visit, there was a Mrs. Williams, a very old lady, residing in the castle, who recollected two of his maid-servants who had saved a good deal of money in his service, and who always mentioned Marten as a kind, good master. He was the son of Sir Henry Marten, a distinguished lawyer and judge of the Admiralty, and was born at Oxford in 1602.

After passing an hour in Chepstow Castle, we found our way out by the western tower, and then crossing some fields came upon the Tintern road, which, in a few minutes, led us to one of the lodges and entrances of Piercefield Park, a truly beautiful place, occupying an irregular and very extensive area between the high road and the precipitous cliffs of the Wye. From the woods and plantations, which cover a bolt, broken ground, and run close to the edge of the cliffs, the eye commands some of the finest views in England; and these views are varied at almost every step by the windings of the path, the changing foreground,--now of jagged rocks, now of majestic trees,--and by other accidents of elevation or depression. The guide-books set down by name nine particular points, each of which is furnished with benches or rustic seats, but there are twenty more almost equally fine. Looking across and up the river, we saw under a different aspect much of the grand rock-and-cliff scenery we had passed the day before; and, in the earlier part of the walk, on looking down the river, or to the east, the towers of Chepstow Castle,--the town,--the bridge,--the shipping,--the red cliffs on the Gloucestershire Wye, a ridge of hills which conceals the mouth of the river, and then the broad estuary beyond it,--all stood out in most picturesque effect.

These walks extend almost from the moat of the castle to the foot of the Wynd Cliff, and are about three miles long, if you follow all their sinuosities. At their farther extremity we issued again forth upon the Tintern road, and were presently climbing up the steep sides of the Wynd Cliff, which would be almost inaccessible on the river side, but for some ladder-like steps that have been arranged, and some zigzag paths that have been cut in the rock. In the rear of the cliff there is a much easier ascent. We mention this, because the fatigue may deter some persons from climbing up in front, and because the view on the summit is too fine and extensive to be lost. There, standing on the edge of the loftiest rock, the eye embraces a considerable part of the counties of Monmouth, Gloucester, Hereford, Brecon, Glamorgan, Worcester, Somersetshire, Wiltshire, and Devonshire,--the river and the estuary of the Severn, with Kingroad and the broad Bristol Channel expanding into the great ocean. The scenery of the winding river, which washes the foot of the mighty cliff on which you stand, is seen to a great extent,--and at this grand point we take our leave of the lovely Wye.

This Penny Magazine is brought to you by

Your Comments Welcomed! Copyright © 1996 Roger Corrie