Elizabeth, it is described in the Worthines of Wales as “a loftie
princely place.”

    “Three castles fayre are in a goodly ground,
    Grosmont is one, on hill it builded was;
    Skenfrith the next, in valley it is found,
    The soyle about for pleasure there doth passe;
    Whit Castle is the third of worthy fame,
    The county there doth bear Whit Castle’s name,
    A stately seate, a loftie princely place,
    Whose beauties give the simple soyle some grace.”

Scenfrith is not more than five miles from White Castle, but the access
to it is only fit for pedestrians.  The ruin stands on a secluded spot in
the midst of hills, and overlooks the placid Monnow, the passage of which
it was no doubt its duty to guard.  It is a small fortress severely
simple, and exhibiting all the marks of high antiquity.  There are no
traces of outworks; but the walls are flanked by five circular towers.
About the middle of the area is a round tower, which was the keep or
citadel.  Scenfrith seems to have no history peculiarly its own; it was
one of “the three castles,” changing hands with them apparently as a
matter of course, and that was enough for its ambition.

The road from Scenfrith to Grosmont leads through Newcastle; but the
remains of the fortress, from which this place derived its name, are
barely discernible, and its history has for ever perished.  In the
absence of human associations, however, it is well provided with those of
another kind.  The mount, or barrow, under which its fragments are
hidden, is the haunt of spirits; and an oak tree in the neighbourhood is
so completely protected by such means, that an attempt even to lop a
branch is sure to be punished by supernatural power.

The ruins of Grosmont Castle stand on an eminence near the Monnow,
surrounded by a dry moat, with barbican and other outworks.  Its pointed
arches declare it by far the youngest of the three sisters.  The remains
now left enclose only a small area; but walls and foundations may be
traced, which show that its original size was really considerable, and
this is confirmed by the presence of a spacious apartment, which no doubt
formed the great baronial hall.  In the reign of Henry III. it was
invested by Llewellin, and the siege raised by the king; and, on another
occasion, Henry retreated to Grosmont, where his troops were surprised by
the Welsh as they slept in the trenches, and lost five hundred horses,
besides baggage and treasure.  The banks of the Monnow, from which the
ruins rise, are precipitous, and tufted with oaks, and the whole scene is
singularly picturesque.  The hero of the village tradition is here John
of Kent, or Guent, who built a bridge over the Monnow in a single night,
by means of one of his familiar spirits.  Many other stories as wonderful
are related of him by the inhabitants; some say he was a monk, versed in
the black art; others that he was a disciple of Owen Glendowr; and others
that he was the great magician himself.

At Grosmont the line of the Monnow turns away to the west, towards its
source among the Black Mountains; but the traveller who eschews more
fatigue than is necessary will take the route by Craig-gate and
Crickhowell, and so get into a road which will lead him along the Honddy,
a tributary of the Monnow, to the magnificent ruins of Lanthony Abbey,
the furthest object we propose to him in this subsidiary tour.

    “Here it was, stranger, that the patron saint
    Of Cambria passed his age of penitence—
    A solitary man; and here he made
    His hermitage; the roots his food, his drink
    Of Honddy’s mountain-stream.  Perchance thy youth
    Has read with eager wonder how the knight
    Of Wales, in Ormandine’s enchanted bowers,
    Slept the long sleep: and if that in thy veins
    Flows the pure blood of Britain, sure that blood
    Has flowed with quicker impulse at the tale
    Of Dafydd’s deeds, when through the press of war
    His gallant comrades followed his green crest
    To conquests.  Stranger! Hatterel’s mountain heights,
    And this fair vale of Cwias, and the stream
    Of Honddy, to thine after thoughts will rise
    More grateful, thus associate with the name
    Of Dafydd and the deeds of other days.”

“After catching a transient view of the Honddy,” says archdeacon Coxe,
“winding through a deep glen, at the foot of hills overspread with wood
and sprinkled with white cottages, we proceeded along a hollow way, which
deepened as we advanced, and was scarcely broad enough to admit the
carriage.  In this road, which, with more propriety might be termed a
ditch, we heard the roar of the torrent beneath, but seldom enjoyed a
view of the circumjacent scenery.  We passed under a bridge thrown across
the chasm, to preserve the communication with the fields on each side:
this bridge was framed of the trunks of trees, and secured with side
rails, to prevent the tottering passenger from falling in the abyss
beneath.  It brought to my recollection several bridges of similar
construction, which I observed in Norway, which are likewise occasionally
used as aqueducts, for the purposes of irrigation.  Emerging from this
gloomy way, we were struck with the romantic village of Cwnyoy, on the
opposite bank of the Honddy, hanging on the sides of the abrupt cliff,
under a perpendicular rock, broken into enormous fissures.  We continued
for some way between the torrent and the Gaer, and again plunged into a
hollow road, where we were enclosed, and saw nothing but the overhanging
hedgerows. . . . The abbey was built like a cathedral, in the shape of
Roman crosses, and though of small dimensions, was well proportioned.
The length, from the western door to the eastern extremity, is 210 feet;
and the breadth, including two aisles, 50; the length of the transept,
from north to south, 100.  It was constructed soon after the introduction
of the Gothic architecture, and before the disuse of the Norman, and is a
regular composition of both styles.  The whole roof, excepting a small
fragment of the north aisle, is fallen down, and the building is
extremely dilapidated.  The nave alone exhibits a complete specimen of
the original plan, and is separated on each side by the two aisles, by
eight pointed arches, resting on piers of the simplest construction,
which are divided from the upper tier of Norman arches by a straight band
of _fascia_.  From the small fragment in the northern aisle, the roofs
seem to have been vaulted and engroined, and the springing columns, by
which it was supported, are still visible on the wall.  Four bold arches,
in the centre of the church, supported a square tower, two sides of which
only remain.  The ornamental arch in the eastern window, which appears in
the engraving of Mr. Wyndham’s Tour, and in that published by Hearne, has
now fallen.  The only vestiges of the choir are a part of the south wall,
with a Norman door, that led into the side aisle, and the east end of the
south wall; a bold Norman arch, leading from the transept into the
southern aisle of the choir, still exists.  The walls of the southern
aisle are wholly dilapidated; and the side view of the two ranges of
Gothic arches, stretching along the nave, is singularly picturesque; the
outside wall of the northern aisle is entire, excepting a small portion
of the western extremity; the windows of this part are wholly Norman, and
make a grand appearance.  In a word, the western side is most elegant;
the northern side is most entire; the southern the most picturesque; the
eastern the most magnificent.”

The abbey originated in a small chapel, built here as a hermitage by St.
David, the titular saint of Wales; but for the account of its foundation
and history, we must refer the reader to Mr. Coxe’s Tour, Dugdale’s
Monasticon, or the History of Gloucestershire.

CHAPTER IX.

Raglan Castle—Description of the ruins—History of the Castle—The old lord
of Raglan—Surrender of the fortress—Charles I. and his host—Royal
weakness—The pigeons of Raglan—Death of the old lord—Origin of the steam
Engine.

That magnificent specimen of what is called a castellated mansion, Raglan
castle, is so interesting in itself, and at so convenient a distance from
the river, that it forms an indispensable part of the tour of the Wye.
The ruins stand upon an eminence, near the village of the same name,
eight miles from Monmouth, and cover, with their massive forms, an area
of one-third part of a mile in circumference.  This includes the citadel,
which was not contained within the fortress as usual, but formed a
separate building, connected with it by a drawbridge.  It was called
Melyn y Gwent, or the Yellow Tower of Gwent.  It was of a hexagon form,
five stories high, defended by bastions and a moat, and surrounded with
raised walks or terraces.  The building was faced with hewn stone, of a
greyish colour, and from its smoothness resembling polished marble.

The earliest style of this edifice dates only from the reign of Henry V.;
but the greater part was probably added afterwards, when, by the marriage
of Sir Charles Somerset into the house of Herbert, and the acquisition
then of the lordships of Raglan, Chepstow, and Gower, the house of
Beaufort became one of the greatest in the county.  The building is of a
description peculiar to that period in the history of Monmouthshire, when
the barons had superadded to their warlike habits those of modern luxury
and magnificence.  Externally, the place has evidently been a strong
fortress; internally a splendid mansion.  The ascent to the state
apartment is both noble and well contrived; while the circular staircase
in the hexagon citadel, the windows of the great hall, and the
chimney-pieces, with their light and elegant cornices, are in the style
of modern edifices.  The kitchen and butlery were connected with the
hall, and indicate, by their construction, the princely hospitality of
the lords of Raglan.  All the rooms had chimneys, those of each floor
distinct from the rest.  The cellars were extensive—so were the
subterranean passages and dungeons.  The architecture is various, some
parts of the most elegant gothic, some heavy and unwieldy, representing
at once the two distinct characters of luxury and war.  The southern
declivity, towards the village, was laid out in fish-ponds; three parks
of considerable extent supplied game and recreation; and the proprietor
of this unique mansion was able, through the fertility of his surrounding
estates, to maintain a garrison of eight hundred men.

    “Of these noble ruins,” says Mr. Coxe, “the grand entrance is the
    most magnificent; it is formed by a gothic portal, flanked with two
    massive towers: the one beautifully tufted with ivy, the second so
    entirely covered, that not a single stone is visible.  At a small
    distance, on the right, appears a third tower, lower in height,
    almost wholly ivyless, and with its machicolated summit, presenting a
    highly picturesque appearance.  The porch, which still contains the
    grooves for two portcullises, leads into the first court, once paved,
    but now covered with turf, and sprinkled with shrubs.  The eastern
    and northern sides contained a range of culinary offices, of which
    the kitchen is remarkable for the size of the fire-place; the
    southern side seems to have formed a grand suite of apartments, and
    the great bow window of the hall, at the south-western extremity of
    the court, is finely canopied with ivy.  The stately hall which
    divides the two courts, and seems to have been built in the days of
    queen Elizabeth, contains the vestiges of ancient hospitality and
    splendour: the ceiling is fallen down, but the walls still remain; it
    is sixty feet in length, twenty-seven in breadth, and was the great
    banqueting-room of the castle.  At the extremity are placed the arms
    of the first marquis of Worcester, sculptured in stone, and
    surrounded with the garter: underneath is the family motto, which
    fully marks the character of the noble proprietor, who defended the
    castle with such spirit from the parliamentary army: ‘Mutare vel
    timere sperno;’ ‘I scorn either to change or to fear.’  The
    fire-place deserves to be noticed for its remarkable size, and the
    singular structure of the chimney.  The hall is occasionally used as
    a fives court.

    “To the north of the hall are ranges of offices, which appear to have
    been butteries; beyond are the traces of splendid apartments.  In the
    walls above I observed two chimney-pieces, in high preservation,
    neatly ornamented with a light frieze and cornice: the stone frames
    of the windows are likewise in many parts, particularly in the south
    front, distinguished with mouldings and other decorations, which Mr.
    Windham justly observes, would not be considered inelegant, even at
    present.

    “The western door of the hall led into the chapel, which is now
    dilapidated; but its situation is marked by some of the flying
    columns, rising from grotesque heads, which supported the roof.  At
    the upper end are two rude whole-length figures, in stone, several
    yards above the ground, recently discovered by Mr. Heath, under the
    thick clusters of ivy.  Beyond the foundations of the chapel is the
    area of the second court, skirted with a range of buildings, which,
    at the time of the siege, formed the barracks of the garrison.  Not
    the smallest traces remain of the marble fountain, which once
    occupied the centre of the area, and was ornamented with the statue
    of a white horse.

    “Most of the apartments of this splendid abode were of grand
    dimensions, and the communications easy and convenient.  The strength
    of the walls is still so great, that if the parts still standing were
    roofed and floored, it might even now be formed into a magnificent
    and commodious habitation.”

The fountain mentioned above was called the White Horse, from the figure
from which the water played.  In a note supplied by Dr. Griffin to
Williams’s History of Monmouthshire, it is said that the people who
showed the ruins used to exhibit part of the body of a _black_ horse
which stood in the middle of the water which supplied the castle.  The
cause of the change of colour was that during the siege the
parliamentarians poisoned the fountain!  The horse, it seems, absorbed
the fatal drug, and not only became black, but when struck by any hard
substance, emitted a fetid smell.  It is difficult to trace the early
history of the castle, from the contradictory accounts given of it by
Dugdale; but in the time of Henry V. the proprietor was Sir William ap
Thomas, second son of Sir Thomas ap Guillim, from whom the earls of
Pembroke, Powis, and Caernarvon are descended in the male, and the dukes
of Beaufort in the female line.  William, the eldest son of this Sir
William, was created by Edward IV. lord of Raglan, Chepstow, and Gower;
and, in obedience to the royal command, he discontinued the Welsh custom
of changing the surname at every descent, and took Herbert as his family
name, in honour of his ancestor Herbert Fitzhenry, chamberlain to Henry
I.  Richard was for some time detained at Raglan in the custody of lord
Herbert, who was a distinguished partisan of the house of York, and who
at length died on the scaffold, at Banbury, in this cause, having
previously been created earl of Pembroke.  His son, by the desire of
Edward IV., yielded this title to the Prince of Wales; and, dying without
male issue, the castle of Raglan, and many other noble possessions
devolved upon his daughter Elizabeth.  The heiress married Sir Charles
Somerset, natural son of the duke of Somerset, who lost his head in 1463
for his devotion to the house of Lancaster; and he, a brave soldier, a
prudent statesman, and an accomplished courtier, was created by Henry
VIII., for his services, earl of Worcester.

It is probable that the castle of Raglan, owed a great part of its
magnificence to him.  In the following reign, it is thus mentioned in the
Worthines of Wales.

    “Not far from thence, a famous castle fine,
    That Raggland hight, stands moted almost round,
    Made of freestone, upright, straight as line,
    Whose workmanship in beauty doth abound.

    “The curious knots, wrought all with edged toole,
    The stately tower that looks ore pond and poole,
    The fountain trim, that runs both day and night,
    Doth yield in showe a rare and noble sight.”

Four earls of Worcester held almost royal state in this princely abode;
but the fifth earl and first marquis was destined to witness its fall.
He was one of the most devoted friends of Charles I.; and may be said to
have defended not only his own mansion but all Monmouthshire from the
parliamentary arms.

The defeat of the royal army at Marston Moor was the signal for the fall
of Monmouth and of Raglan Castle.  Prince Rupert immediately directed his
attention to the marches of Wales, and ordered colonel Gerard to force
his way through Gloucestershire by the Aust passage: but the latter was
opposed by Massey, and defeated.  Monmouth soon after fell into the hands
of Massey by the treachery of Kirle, lieutenant-colonel to Holtby,
governor of the town for Charles; and lord Worcester at Raglan, in great
alarm, demanded the assistance of prince Rupert’s cavalry.

Throgmorton, on whom the command of Monmouth devolved, set out with a
party of three hundred horse to surprise the castle of Chepstow, and in
his absence the following brilliant exploit was performed by the
royalists, which we give in the words of Sanderson.  “The cavaliers from
Ragland and Godridg, about break of day, lodg themselves undiscovered
behind a rising ground near Monmouth, and viewing all advantages, fourty
of them come up to the higher side of the town towards Hereford, having a
sloping bank cast up of good height, with a ditch, over which they pass,
mount the bank, and climbed over, and so got to the next part, fell upon
the guard, some killed, other fled, and with an iron bar break the post
chain, force the gate, and open it to the horse, who ride up with full
career to the main guard, seized them, and took the rest in their beds,
with colonel Broughton, four captains, as many lieutenants and ensigns,
the committee, all the common souldiers, two hundred prisoners, two
sakers, a drake, nine hammerguns, ammunition and provision, and five
hundred muskets.”

But the fate of the war was now determined, and after the battle of
Naseby Charles was unable to meet the parliamentarians in a general
engagement, and retired to the castle of Raglan.  Thence he secretly
departed to commit himself to the Scottish army; and the marquis of
Worcester was besieged at Raglan for six months.  The old lord, who was
then eighty-four years of age, on hearing of the landing of his son lord
Glamorgan with some Irish forces, sent the following bold letter to the
parliamentarian committee at Chepstow.

    “Having notice that you are not ignorant of my son’s landing with the
    Irish forces, I am so much of a father, and tender of the whole
    country’s ruin, that if this coming to this place be hasted by the
    occasion of your answer, you and not I will be the occasion of the
    country’s curse.  You have taken from me my rents and livelihood, for
    which if you give unbelied reparations, I shall be glad to live a
    quiet neighbour amongst you; if otherwise, you will force me to what
    my own nature hath no liking of, and yet justifiable by the word of
    God, and law of nature.  I expect your answer by the messenger, as
    you give occasion.

                                                            “H. WORCESTER.

    “Raglan, May 29, 1646.”

This brought on a long and fruitless negotiation.  The old lord saw that
even the master of Raglan was not the master of circumstances; and, at
length, it was agreed that the castle should be delivered up.  “Nobly
done,” says Sanderson, “to hold out the last garrison for the king in
England or Wales.”  In the articles of surrender, however, the soldierly
honour of the marquis was spared as much as possible, it being agreed
“that all the officers, gentlemen, and soldiers, with all other persons
there, should march out with their horses and arms, colours flying, drums
beating, trumpets sounding, matches lighted at both ends, bullets in
mouth, each soldier twelve charges of powder, matches and bullets
proportionable, bag and baggage, to any place within two miles of any
garrison where the marquis shall mention.”

Soon after this surrender, the castle was demolished, and the timber cut
down in the parks, the loss to the family, in personal property, without
including the forfeiture and an estate of twenty thousand pounds a year,
being estimated at upwards of a hundred thousand pounds.  The Chase of
Wentwood, including Chepstow Castle and Park, was immediately bestowed
upon Oliver Cromwell; who appears also to refer, in the settlements upon
his family to other estates in Monmouthshire, parcels of the noble
property of the marquis of Worcester.

In a publication of that day, entitled “Witty Apothegms delivered at
several times, and on several occasions, by king James I., king Charles
I., and the marquis of Worcester,” several anecdotes are given which
throw a strong light upon the character of this fine old lord of Raglan.

“In the midst of the civil commotions, Charles I. made several visits to
Raglan Castle, and was entertained with becoming magnificence.  The
marquis not only declined all offers of remuneration, but also advanced
large sums; and when the king thanked him for the loans, replied, Sir, I
had your word for the money, but I never thought I should be so soon
repayed; for now you have given me thanks, I have all I looked for.”  At
another time, the king, apprehensive lest the stores of the garrison
should be consumed by his suite, empowered him to exact from the country
such provisions as were necessary for his maintainance and recruit, “I
humbly thank your majesty,” he said, “but my castle will not stand long
if it leans on the country; I had rather be brought to a morsel of bread,
than any morsels of bread should be brought me to entertain your
majesty.”

The following conversation shows the amiable weakness of Charles’s
humanity.

Sir Trevor Williams, and four other principal gentlemen of Monmouthshire,
being arrested for disloyalty, and conducted to Abergavenny, the king was
advised to order them to an immediate trial, which must have ended in
their conviction; but Charles, moved by the tears and protestations of
Trevor Williams, suffered him to be released, on bail, and committed the
others only to a temporary confinement.  “The king told the marquess what
he had done, and that when he saw them speak so honestly, he could not
but give some credit to their words, so seconded by tears, and withal
told the marquess that he had onely sent them to prison; whereupon the
marquess said, what to do? to poyson that garrison?  Sir, you should have
done well to have heard their accusations, and then to have shewn what
mercy you pleased.  The king told him, that he heard that they were
accused by some contrary faction, as to themselves, who, out of distaste
they bore to one another on old grudges, would be apt to charge them more
home than the nature of their offences had deserved; to whom the marquess
made this return, Well, Sir, you may chance to gain the kingdom of heaven
by such doings as these, but if you ever get the kingdom of England by
such ways, I will be your bondman.”

Another conversation between the marquis and Sir Thomas Fairfax is worth
relating.

“After much conference between the marquess and General Fairfax, wherein
many things were requested of the general by the marquess, and being, as
he thought himself, happy in the attainment, his lordship was pleased to
make a merry petition to the general as he was taking his leave, viz. in
behalf of a couple of pigeons, who were wont to come to his hand, and
feed out of it constantly, in whose behalf he desired the general that he
would be pleased to give him his protection for them, fearing the little
command that he should have over his soldiers in that behalf.  To which
the general said, I am glad to see your lordship so merry.  Oh, said the
marquess, you have given me no other cause, and hasty as you are, you
shall not go untill I have told you a story.

“There were two men going up Holborn in a cart to be hanged; one of them
being very merry and jocund, gave offence to the other who was sad and
dejected, insomuch that the downcast man said unto the other, I wonder,
brother, that you can be so frolic, considering the business we are going
about.  Tush, answered the other, thou art a fool; thou wentest a
thieving, and never thought what would become of thee, wherefore being on
a sudden surprised, thou fallest into such a shaking fit, that I am
ashamed to see thee in that condition: whereas I was resolved to be
hanged, before ever I fell to stealing, which is the reason nothing
happenning strange or unexpected, I go so composed unto my death.  So,
said the marquess, I resolved to undergo whatsoever, even the worst of
evils that you are able to lay upon me, before I took up arms for my
sovereign, and therefore wonder not that I am so merry.”

“In the correspondence with Fairfax,” says the author of the Historical
Tour, “which preceded the capitulation, the marquis of Worcester seems to
have strongly suspected that the parliament would not adhere to the
conditions.  His apprehensions were not groundless, for on his arrival in
London he was committed to the custody of the Black Rod.  He bitterly
complained of this cruel usage, and deeply regretted that he had trusted
himself to the mercy of the parliament.  A few hours before his death, he
said to Dr. Bayley, If to seize upon all my goods, to pull down my house,
to fell my estate, and send up for such a weak body as mine was, so
enfeebled by disease, in the dead of winter, in the winter of mine age,
be merciful, what are they whose mercies are so cruel?  Neither do I
expect that they should stop at all this, for I fear they will persecute
me after death.

“Being informed, however, that parliament would permit him to be buried
in his family vault, in Windsor Chapel; he cried out, with great
sprightliness of manner, Why, God bless us all, why then I shall have a
better castle when I am dead, than they took from me whilst I was alive.
With so much cheerfulness and resignation did this hero expire, in the
eighty-fifth year of his age.”

The second marquis was the author of that puzzling “Century of the Names
and Scantlings of such Inventions as I can at present call to mind to
have tried and perfected.”

“It appears,” we are told, “from a passage in the Experimental Philosophy
of Dr. Desaguliers, that Captain Savary derived his invention of the fire
engine, since called the steam engine, from the 68th article in the
Century of Scantlings; and that to conceal his original he bought up all
the marquis’s books, and burnt them.”  The following is the “scantling.”

    “An admirable and most forcible way to drive up water by fire, not by
    drawing or sucking it upwards, for that must be, as the philosopher
    calleth it, _intra sphæram activitatis_, which is at but such a
    distance.  But this way hath no bounder, if the vessels be strong
    enough; for I have taken a piece of a whole cannon, whereof the end
    was burst, and filled it three quarters full of water, stopping and
    screwing up the broken end, as also the touch-hole, and making a
    constant fire under it, within twenty-four hours it burst, and made a
    great crack; so that having a way to make my vessels that they are
    strengthened by the force within them, and the one to fill after the
    other, I have seen the water run like a constant fountain stream
    forty feet high; one vessel of water, rarified by fire, drives up
    forty feet of cold water.  And a man that attends the work has but to
    turn two cocks, that one vessel of water being consumed, another
    begins to force and refit with cold water, and so successfully, the
    fire being tended and kept constant, with the self-same person may
    likewise abundantly perform in the interim between the necessity of
    turning the said cocks.”

We now renew our onward course, but with many a lingering look at
“delightsome Monmouth.”

CHAPTER X.

Troy House—Anecdote—Antique custom—Village Churches of
Monmouthshire—White-washing—The bard—Strewing graves with flowers—St.
Briavels’ Castle—Llandogo—Change in the character of the river—The Druid
of the Wye—Wordsworth’s “Lines composed above Tintern Abbey.”

Just below Monmouth the Wye forms a sharp curve, the apex of which is met
by the Monnow and the Trothy, in such a way that these two streams,
tending to nearly the same point, but coming from different directions,
and the two sides of the Wye curve, make the place resemble the meeting
of four roads.  We have already seen how interesting the Monnow is; the
Trothy, which passes White Castle, and has its source in the mountains
near the Great Skyrrid, is hardly less so; the Wye we have followed from
the summit of Plinlimmon, through a tract of mingled beauty and grandeur,
unrivalled in England; and we are now about to trace its course to the
monastic ruins of Tintern, and through the fairy land of Piercefield to
its destined bourne, the Severn.

The banks are at first low, and the country laid out in level meadows,
framed in at a short distance by swelling hills.  Troy House is the first
object that arrests our attention in front by its sombre woods.  In the
reign of James I. it was the property of Sir Charles Somerset, the
brother of the gallant defender of Raglan Castle, between whom and
Charles I. a conversation relating to Troy House took place, which is
thus reported in the “Apothegms.”

“Sir Thomas Somerset, brother to the marquis of Worcester, had a house
which was called Troy, five miles from Ragland Castle.  This Sir Thomas,
being a complete gentleman, delighted much in fine gardens and orchards,
where, by the benefit of art, the earth was made so gratefull to him at
the same time that the king (Charles the first) happened to be at his
brother’s house, that it yielded him wherewithal to send him a present;
and such a one as (the times and seasons considered) was able to make the
king believe that the sovereign of the planets had now changed the poles,
and that Wales (the refuse and outcast of the fair garden of England) had
fairer and riper fruit than England’s bowels had on all her beds.  This
present, given to the marquis, he would not suffer to be presented to the
king by any other hand than his own.  ‘Here I present you, sir,’ said the
marquis, (placing his dishes on the table) ‘with that which came not from
Lincoln that was, nor from London that is, nor from York that is to be,
but from Troy.’  Whereupon the king smiled, and answered the marquis,
‘Truly, my lord, I have heard that corn grows where Troy town stood, but
I never thought there had grown any apricots before.’”

Some articles said to be relics of Henry V. are preserved here: the bed
in which he was born, the cradle in which he was rocked, and the armour
in which he fought at Agincourt.  There is also a carved oak
chimney-piece from Raglan Castle.

Soon the hills approach nearer, and, covered with rich foliage, sweep
down more suddenly towards the river.  On the right bank is Penalt
church, standing on a wooded eminence; and behind it, an extensive common
distinguished for a superstitious custom, derived, as is supposed, from
the days of the druids.  When a funeral passed that way, the cortege
stopped at an oak tree, and placed the corpse on a stone seat at its
foot.  The company than sang a psalm, and resumed their procession.  It
may be remarked that wherever an old oak tree is found in this part of
the country, in an insulated or otherwise remarkable situation, there is
sure to be connected with it some religious tradition, or some observance
whose origin is lost in antiquity.  The churches are usually an
interesting feature in the landscape, for it would seem as if their
founders had sought purposely out for them solitary places, by the banks
of rivers or in the midst of groves or fields.  In general they are
exceedingly simple in appearance, many having the marks of great
antiquity, and almost all being whitewashed from top to bottom.  An
antiquary has ingeniously accounted for this peculiarity, by the custom
the Normans had of constructing even large buildings of pebbles and
rag-stone, which obliged them to cover the inequalities, outside and
inside, by a coat of lime and sand.  However this may be, the effect is
not unpleasing; more especially when the rural temple, as is frequently
the case, is shaped like a barn, and without a belfry.  Such churches,
more especially in the mountainous districts, still present the rounded
arches, and other peculiarities, which denote that their rude walls were
raised by our Saxon ancestors, if not by the ancient Britons themselves.

We find the white walls, so common in Wales, alluded to as a poetical
circumstance by one of the bards of the fourteenth century, in a piece of
considerable beauty; and in the succeeding paragraph there is an allusion
to another Welsh custom, of more classical authority, that of strewing
the graves of the dead with flowers.  The poem is an invocation to
summer, to shed its blessings over the country of Gwent.  The following
is the paragraph referred to, with the second allusion, terminating the
ode by an abrupt and pathetic transition.

    “If I obtain thee, O summer, in thy splendid hour, with thy fair
    growth and thy sporting gems; thy serenity pleasantly bear, thou
    golden messenger, to Morganoc.  With sunshine morn gladden thou the
    place, and greet the whitened houses; give growth, give the first
    fruits of the spring, and collect thou blossoms to the bushes; shine
    proudly on the wall of lime, full as light and gaily bright; leave
    there in the vale thy footsteps in juicy herbage, in fresh attire;
    diffuse a load of delicious fruits, in bounteous course among its
    woods; give thy crop like a stream over every lawn, the meadows, and
    the land of wheat; clothe the orchard, the vineyard, and the garden,
    with thy abundance and thy teeming harvest; and scatter over its fair
    soil the lovely marks of thy glorious course!

    “And oh! whilst thy season of flowers, and thy tender sprays thick of
    leaves remain; I will pluck the roses from the branches; the
    flowerets of the meads, and gems of the woods; the vivid trefoils,
    beauties of the ground, and the gaily smiling bloom of the verdant
    herbs, to be offered to the memory of a chief of favorite fame:
    Humbly I will lay them on the grave of Ivor!”

The Ivor here alluded to was Ivor Hael, or the Generons, an ancestor of
the Tredgear family of Morgans, whose pedigree is traced, by the Welsh
bards from the third son of Noah.  The poet David, ap Gwillim, styled the
Welsh Ovid, loved a lady of the name of Morvid, in whose praise his
prolific muse produced no fewer than a hundred and forty-seven poems.  A
rich rival, however, gained the unwilling prize; and the son of song
consoled himself by carrying off his lost mistress on two several
occasions, when her husband, Rhys Gwgan, was with the army in France,
where he served in the rank of captain at the battle of Crecy.  For both
these offences he was fined and imprisoned, and in both instances
liberated by the gentlemen of Gwent, who came forward in a body in favour
of their darling bard.  The above extract is taken from one of two poems
which he wrote in testimony of his gratitude.  It may be added, that when
flowers are planted on graves, it was, and we believe is the custom to
surround the area with stones, which are periodically _whitewashed_.

On the bank opposite Penalt, or a little further down, is Redbrook, upper
and lower, the one standing above the other on the hill side.  The stream
from which they derive this name separates Monmouthshire from
Gloucestershire, and the Wye then continues the boundary.  The brook,
also, serves the purpose of turning the wheels of some iron and tin
works; but without vulgarising any more than such accidents have done
heretofore, the scenic romance of the river.  Wye Seal House comes next,
on the same side of the river, with the hamlet of Whitebrook and its
paper-mills on the opposite bank.  Then Pan-y-van hill, and the ruins of
the old manor-house of Pilton—then an iron bridge over the Wye, and then
Big’s-weir House, and its surrounding grove, with Hudknolls behind, and
the ruins of St. Briavels’ Castle on their summit.

This fortress stands in the forest of Dean, and dates from the reign of
Henry I., when it was founded by Milo, earl of Hereford, for the
residence and defence of some of the lords-marchers.  St. Briavels,
formerly a place of some importance, is now a village.  Its inhabitants
enjoyed several singular immunities which are now obsolete; but they have
still a right of common in Hudknolls wood, a tract of land on the banks
of the Wye seven miles long.  They are supposed to enjoy the privilege
through the performance of a strange ceremony on Whit-sunday.  Each
inhabitant pays twopence to the churchwardens, who buy bread and cheese
with the fund, which they cut into small pieces, and distribute to the
congregation immediately after the service is ended, in the midst of a
general scramble.  They are also allowed to cut wood, but not timber, in
any part of the forest.  It is said that a countess of Hereford procured
for them their privileges by the performance of a feat similar to that of
the Lady Godiva.

St. Briavels’ Castle was erected by Milo St. Walter, earl of Hereford, in
the time of Henry I., as a barrier against the Welsh.  Two circular
towers alone remain entire with a narrow gateway between, composing the
north-west front.  They contain several apartments, the walls of which
are eight feet thick.  One is used as a prison for the hundred.  In the
interior are two other similar gateways, on the right and left of which
are the remains of spacious rooms.

The governor of St. Briavels—for it became a royal fortress after the
Hereford family had possessed it for about a century—had formerly
jurisdiction over the forest of Dean; and it is recorded, that in his
court the miners were sworn upon a branch of holly instead of the
testament, lest the holy book should be defiled by their fingers.

We now enter a long reach of the river, with Tiddenham Chase Hill rising
boldly in front; till Llandogo appears, a beautiful little village on the
right bank, seated on a hill side in the midst of gardens and orchards,
and with its small church near the edge of the water, peeping through the
trees.  This is a scene of quiet beauty, which after the massive forms we
have passed, we term _prettyness_.  Whatever be its proper name, however,
in the pedantry of taste, it is not surpassed on the Wye in its own kind.
It is unfortunate, nevertheless, that at this spot an unfavourable change
should be observed in the river—although only in the river considered as
a volume of water, and not taken in conjunction with its scenery.  Here
the Wye becomes a tide stream, acted upon by the ebb and flow of the
Severn sea; and in consequence, it is henceforward habitually turbid, and
no longer a current of pure element, subject only to the influence of
rains and freshes.

This circumstance has also its effect upon the moral character of the
river.  Large barges are floated up by the tide to Brook Weir, a little
lower down, which is midway between Monmouth and Chepstow, or nine miles
from each; and there they receive the merchandise brought thither in
small inland vessels from the upper part of the Wye.  Our romantic
stream, therefore, whose outlines hitherto have been broken only by the
smokes of furnaces hidden among the trees, and whose still life has been
varied only by the corracles of the ancient Britons, and other inland
craft that never dreamt of the breezes of the salt sea, becomes now a
small highway of trade, a sort of water lane by which the corn, and
hoops, and fagots, and other productions of the interior are conveyed to
Bristol.  But even the coasting barge, with her blackened sails, and
sixty tons of cargo, is not here “a jarring and a dissonant thing.”
Creeping with the tide along those solemn banks, she acquires a portion
of their solemnity; floating silently through those pastoral vales, she
is invested, for the time being, with their simplicity.  Her
characteristics are swallowed up in the character of the river—the spell
of the Wye is upon her!

If you doubt the fact, let us wander on but a little further; let us turn
the point of Lyn Weir, and, looking along the reach beyond, inquire with
what vulgarised ideas, with what broken associations, we find ourselves
gliding into the region of Tintern!  Near this spot, the great Druid of
the Wye, the poet of nature internal and external, produced a poem which
in all probability will be read, either with tears or smiles of delight,
long after the works of man shall have completely obliterated those
features of the grand, the beautiful, the simple, and sublime, to which
it is our humble task to point the finger.

    “Five years have past, five summers, with the length
    Of five long winters! and again I hear
    These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
    With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again
    Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
    That on a wild secluded scene impress
    Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
    The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
    The day is come when I again repose
    Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
    These plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts,
    Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
    Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
    Among the woods and copses, nor disturb
    The wild green landscape.  Once again I see
    These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines
    Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
    Green to the very doors, and wreaths of smoke
    Sent up, in silence, from among the trees;
    With some uncertain notice, as might seem
    Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
    Or of some hermit’s cave, where, by his fire,
    The hermit sits alone.

          “These beauteous forms,
    Through a long absence, have not been to me
    As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:
    But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din
    Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
    In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
    Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
    And passing even into my purer mind,
    With tranquil restoration:—feelings too
    Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
    As have no slight or trivial influence
    On that best portion of a good man’s life,
    His little, nameless, unremembered acts
    Of kindness and of love.  Nor less, I trust,
    To them I may have owed another gift,
    Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood
    In which the burden of the mystery
    In which the heavy and the weary weight
    Of all this unintelligible world
    Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,
    In which the affections gently lead us on,
    Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
    And even the motion of our human blood
    Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
    In body, and become a living soul:
    While with an eye made quiet by the power
    Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
    We see into the life of things.

          “If this
    Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
    In darkness and amid the many shapes
    Of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir
    Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
    Have hung upon the beatings of my heart;
    How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
    O sylvan Wye!  Thou wanderer through the woods,
    How often has my spirit turned to thee.

    “And now with gleams of half extinguished thought,
    With many recognitions dim and faint,
    And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
    The picture of the mind revives again,
    While here I stand, not only with the sense
    Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
    That in this moment, there is life and food
    For future years, and so I dare to hope,
    Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
    I came among these hills; when like a roe
    I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides
    Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
    Wherever nature led: more like a man
    Flying from something that he dreads, than one
    Who sought the thing he loved.  For nature then
    (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
    And their glad animal movements all gone by)
    To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
    What then I was.  The sounding cataract
    Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
    The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
    Their colours and their forms, were then to me
    An appetite; a feeling and a love
    That had no need of a remoter charm,
    By thought supplied, nor any interest
    Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
    And all its aching joys are now no more,
    And all its dizzy raptures.  Not for this
    Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
    Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
    Abundant recompense.  For I have learned
    To look on nature, not as in the hour
    Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
    The still, sad music of humanity
    Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
    To chasten and subdue.  And I have felt
    A presence that disturbs me with the joy
    Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
    Of something far more deeply interfused,
    Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
    And the round ocean and the living air,
    And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
    A motion and a spirit, that impels
    All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
    And rolls through all things.  Therefore am I still
    A lover of the meadows, and the woods,
    And mountains; and of all that we behold
    From this green earth; of all the mighty world
    Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,
    And what perceive; well pleased to recognise,
    In nature and the language of the sense,
    The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
    The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
    Of all my moral being.”

CHAPTER XI.

Vales of the Wye—Valley of Tintern—Tintern Abbey—History—Church—Character
of the ruin—Site—Coxe’s description—Monuments—Insecurity of sepulchral
fame—Churchyarde on tombs—Opinions on Tintern—Battle of Tintern.

The “Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the
banks of the Wye during a tour,” are justly esteemed one of the
masterpieces of modern poetry; but independently of this, they belong so
peculiarly to the river we are attempting to illustrate, and are
associated so intimately with the character of its scenery, and its
reputation as a fountain of high thoughts and beautiful feelings, that
our volume would have been incomplete without them.  It is curious that
this piece, which is dated in the concluding years of the last century,
should be the only fruits as yet given to the world of the poetical
inspiration of the Wye—for the effusions of Bloomfield are not to be
named with those of Wordsworth.

We have seen that where the picturesque character of the Wye is chiefly
formed by its banks, which is the case from Goodrich Castle downwards,
these embrace the stream with more or less straitness, rising in naked
crags from the water’s edge, or throwing their waving woods over the
current.  At intervals, however, they recede to some little distance from
either side; picturesque hills forming the side-screens, and hills,
rocks, and trees terminating the perspective in front, and enclosing the
river like a lake.  In such cases, the bottom is formed by a green
pastoral meadow, through which the stream wanders leisurely, as if
reposing after former struggles, and preparing for new ones.  These
lonely vales are not merely secluded from “the hum, the crowd, the shock
of men,” but from all turbulent thoughts and unholy desires.  The world
lives in them only in the recollections of dead things, and feelings, and
persons.  They are spots, to use the fine but unappreciated image of
Maturin,

    “Where memory lingers o’er the grave of passion,
    Watching its tranced sleep!”

The admirable taste so unequivocally displayed by the monks of old, in
the selection of sites for their ascetic retreats, could not have
overlooked this characteristic of the Wye; and accordingly we find, in
the most beautiful of these delightful nooks, standing on a gently
swelling meadow, by the banks of the lake-like river, the finest
conventual ruins in England.

                            [Picture: Tintern]

Tintern Abbey, though one of the oldest of the Cistercian communities in
this country, was never famous either for its wealth, or the number of
its brethren; and at the dissolution it contained only thirteen monks,
supported by a rental of between two and three hundred pounds at the
highest calculation. {158}  It was founded in 1131 by Walter de Clare,
and dedicated to the Virgin Mary; but the endowments were greatly
increased by Gilbert de Strongbow, lord of Striguil and Chepstow, and
afterwards earl of Pembroke.  The religious colony consisted of
Cistercians, otherwise called White Monks, introduced into England only
three years before, where they formed an establishment at Waverley in
Surrey.  These brethren spread so luxuriantly, however, that in the reign
of Henry VIII. there were thirty-six greater, and thirty-nine lesser
monasteries, and twenty-six nunneries, of their rule.

The founder of the church was Roger Bigod, earl of Norfolk; and it would
appear that the choir was finished and consecrated before the rest of the
building was complete, a circumstance not unusual at that time.  The
consecration took place in 1268; and in the body of the church the
architecture is of a style long subsequent.  The remains of the church
are now the only interesting parts of the ruin, at least as a picture:
and they are in fact what is called “Tintern Abbey;” although there are
still fragments remaining here and there of the other parts of the pile.
The church was built in the regular cathedral form; with a nave, north
and south aisles, transept and choir, and a tower which stood in the
centre.

Complete as the demolition is, there are at least vestiges, even in the
most ruinous parts, which explain the original form, and even most of the
details of the edifice.  The very effects of time, as may be well
supposed, are here among the principal advantages.  The broken outlines,
the isolated columns, the roofless walls, are all adjuncts of the
picturesque; but added to these, there are the curtains, the canopies,
the chaplets, coronals, festoons, of ivy, mosses and lichens, which give
as much effect to a ruin, as rich draperies do to naked walls.

                         [Picture: Tintern Abbey]

The tiles which formed the flooring have been removed; and a carpet of
smooth turf laid down, on which fragments of columns, monuments, statues,
and sculptures are scattered.  This of course is not entirely the doing
of time; but art is not displayed obtrusively enough to offend.  A ruined
edifice, it should be observed, although this is frequently forgotten by
critics, is a work of man and nature _conjointly_; and the traces,
therefore, of taste or ingenuity are not to be condemned, as if these
were exercised in shaping a cliff or amending a cataract.

Gilpin describes Tintern Abbey as occupying “a great eminence, in the
middle of a circular valley;” and another author declares its site,
somewhat tautologically, to be a _flat plain_; to which some idle person
has taken the liberty of appending this marginal note, in the copy of the
work in the British Museum—“Flat plain indeed!  It is situated just at
the brow of a richly wooded hill!”  The truth is, that the ruin itself is
not to be entirely depended upon, as it contrives to assume a different
appearance even in respect of position, at every turn.  Viewed from a
short distance down the river, it actually looks as if standing on an
eminence; but on a nearer approach, we find it in reality not greatly
elevated above line of the water.  It is in fact built at the bottom of
the valley, in a spot chosen apparently for solitude and meditation.  The
solitude, however, it must be confessed is not now so complete as one
would wish.  The inhabitants of the monastery, it is true, have vanished,
but their places have been supplied by poor cottagers, who hide their
misery in the very cells of the monks; and, if this were not enough,
fragments of the ruin have been broken up, or unearthed, for the
construction of other hovels.  In the following description will be found
the opinions on this remarkable scene of archdeacon Coxe, who, together
with the less correct, but more _artistical_ Gilpin, have been hitherto
the only recognised authorities of the Wye.

    “We disembarked about half a mile above the village of Tintern, and
    followed the sinuous course of the Wye.  As we advanced to the
    village, we passed some picturesque ruins hanging over the edge of
    the water, which are supposed to have formed part of the abbot’s
    villa, and other buildings occupied by the monks; some of these
    remains are converted into dwellings and cottages, others are
    interspersed among the iron founderies and habitations.

    “The first appearance of the celebrated remains of the abbey church
    did not equal my expectations, as they are half-concealed by mean
    buildings, and the triangular shape of the gable ends has a formal
    appearance.

    “After passing a miserable row of cottages, and forcing our way
    through a crowd of importunate beggars, we stopped to examine the
    rich architecture of the west front; but the door being suddenly
    opened, the inside perspective of the church called forth an
    instantaneous burst of admiration, and filled me with delight, such
    as I scarcely ever before experienced on a similar occasion.  The eye
    passes rapidly along a range of elegant gothic pillars, and, glancing
    under the sublime arches which supported the tower, fixes itself on
    the splendid relics of the eastern window, the grand termination of
    the choir.

    “From the length of the nave, the height of the walls, the aspiring
    form of the pointed arches, and the size of the east window, which
    closes the perspective, the first impressions are those of grandeur
    and sublimity.  But as these emotions subside, and we descend from
    the contemplation of the whole to the examination of the parts, we
    are no less struck with the regularity of the plan, the lightness of
    the architecture, and the delicacy of the ornaments; we feel that
    elegance is its characteristic no less than grandeur, and that the
    whole is a combination of the beautiful and the sublime.

    “The church was constructed in the shape of a cathedral, and is an
    excellent specimen of gothic architecture in its greatest purity.
    The roof is fallen in, and the whole ruin open to the sky, but the
    shell is entire; all the pillars are standing, except those which
    divided the nave from the northern aisle, and their situation is
    marked by the remains of the bases.  The four lofty arches which
    supported the tower spring high in the air, reduced to narrow rims of
    stone, yet still preserving their original form.  The arched pillars
    of the choir and transept are complete; the shapes of all the windows
    may be still discriminated, and the frame of the west window is in
    perfect preservation; the design of the tracery is extremely elegant,
    and when decorated with painted glass must have produced a fine
    effect.  Critics who censure this window as too broad for its height,
    do not consider that it was not intended for a particular object, but
    to harmonise with the general plan; and had the architect diminished
    the breadth, in proportion to the height, the grand effect of the
    perspective would have been considerably lessened.

    “The general form of the east window is entire, but the frame is much
    dilapidated; it occupies the whole breadth of the choir, and is
    divided into two large and equal compartments, by a slender shaft,
    not less than fifty feet in height, which has an appearance of
    singular lightness, and in particular points of view seems suspended
    in the air.

    “Nature has added her ornaments to the decorations of art; some of
    the windows are wholly obscured, others partially shaded with tufts
    of ivy, or edged with lighter foliage; the tendrils creep along the
    walls, wind round the pillars, wreath the capitals, or, hanging down
    in clusters, obscure the space beneath.

    “Instead of dilapidated fragments overspread with weeds and choked
    with brambles, the floor is covered with a smooth turf, which, by
    keeping the original level of the church, exhibits the beauty of its
    proportions, heightens the effect of the gray stone, gives a relief
    to the clustered pillars, and affords an easy access to every part.
    Ornamented fragments of the roof, remains of cornices and columns,
    rich pieces of sculpture, sepulchral stones, and mutilated figures of
    monks and heroes, whose ashes repose within these walls, are
    scattered on the green sward, and contrast present desolation with
    former splendour.

    “Although the exterior appearance of the ruins is not equal to the
    inside view, yet in some positions, particularly to the east, they
    present themselves with considerable effect.  While Sir Richard Hoare
    was employed in sketching the north-western side, I crossed the
    ferry, and walked down the stream about half a mile.  From this
    point, the ruins, assuming a new character, seem to occupy a gentle
    eminence, and impend over the river without the intervention of a
    single cottage to obstruct the view.  The grand east window, wholly
    covered with shrubs, and half mantled with ivy, rises like the portal
    of a majestic edifice embowered in wood.  Through this opening and
    along the vista of the church, the clusters of ivy, which twine round
    the pillars or hang suspended from the arches, resemble tufts of
    trees; while the thick mantle of foliage, seen through the tracery of
    the west window, forms a continuation of the perspective, and appears
    like an interminable forest.”

The reputation of Tintern Abbey depends upon no historical associations.
The romance of its situation is heightened by no romance of incident.  It
is simply a part of a picture, and might be entitled in the catalogue of
a gallery “an abbey.”  The sepulchral remains it holds retain neither
name nor date; and one of the most entire of the figures (supposed to be
the effigies of the founder of the monastery, which, however, must be
looked for at Gloucester, where according to Leland he was buried) is
disputed the possession of the usual number of fingers on the right hand;
one antiquary, hesitating between four and five, and another according to
it, more generously, five fingers—and a thumb!  In no part of the country
has this means of prolonging fame been more constantly resorted to than
in Monmouthshire; but unfortunately, owing to its geographical position
as a frontier district, in no part of the country has the object been
more frequently defeated.  As a solitary instance of this among
thousands, we are tempted to quote a fragment which just now catches our
eye, from the rhymes of _Churchyarde_ (a most suitable name), and the
rather that it exhibits the poet of the “Worthines of Wales” in a more
poetical light than usual.  He is describing the tombs in the church of
Abergavenny; and after noting the arms and other particulars, proceeds—

    “But note a greater matter now,
    Upon his tomb in stone,
    Were fourteene lords that knees did bow
    Unto this lord alone.
    Of this rare work a porch is made,
    The barrons there remaine
    In good old stone, and auncient trade,
    To show all ages plaine,
    What honour wass to Hastings due,
    What honour he did win:
    What armes he gave, and so to blaze
    What lord had Hastings bin.”

But alas for the frailty of fame even so secured!  The dilapidated
monument laughed in the unconscious rhymer’s face through the rents of
time; the principal effigies had been removed to a window, and several of
the “fourteene lords” placed in a porch; and the very name of him whose
memory the whole had been intended to perpetuate, had become a matter of
doubt and controversy!  “Some say this great lord was called Bruce and
not Hastings, but most do hold opinion he was called Hastings!”

It may seem almost superfluous to give any further evidence respecting
the picturesque character of Tintern Abbey; but as we design this volume
not merely to act the part of a sign-post, but to save the common reader
the trouble of reference, we shall add two other quotations.

    “It would be difficult to imagine a more favourable situation, or a
    more sublime ruin.  The entrance to it seems as if contrived by the
    hand of some skilful scene-painter to produce the most striking
    effect.  The church, which is large, is still almost perfect; the
    roof alone, and a few of the pillars, are wanting.  The ruins have
    received just that degree of care which is consistent with the full
    preservation of their character; all unpicturesque rubbish which
    could obstruct the view is removed, without any attempt at repair or
    embellishment.  A beautiful smooth turf covers the ground, and
    luxuriant creeping plants grow amid the stones.  The fallen ornaments
    are laid in picturesque confusion, and a perfect avenue of thick
    ivy-stems climb up the pillars, and form a roof over head.  The
    better to secure the ruin, a new gate of antique workmanship, with
    iron ornaments, is put up.  When this is suddenly opened, the effect
    is most striking and surprising.  You suddenly look down the avenue
    of ivy-clad pillars, and see their grand perspective lines closed, at
    a distance of three hundred feet, by a magnificent window eighty feet
    high and thirty broad: through its intricate and beautiful tracery
    you see a wooded mountain, from whose side project abrupt masses of
    rock.  Over head the wind plays in the garlands of ivy, and the
    clouds pass swiftly across the deep blue sky.  When you reach the
    centre of the church, whence you look to the four extremities of its
    cross, you see the two transept windows nearly as large and beautiful
    as the principal one; through each you command a picture totally
    different, but each in the wild and sublime style which harmonises so
    perfectly with the building.  Immediately round the ruin is a
    luxuriant orchard.  In spring, how exquisite must be the effect of
    these grey venerable walls rising out of that sea of fragrance and
    beauty!”

The other extract belongs to the class sentimental, and is not a
description of Tintern Abbey, but of the mood of mind to which it
disposes.

    “The great tree, or vegetable rock, or emperor of the oaks (if you
    please), before which I bowed with a sort of reverence in the fields
    of Tintern, and which for so many ages has borne all the blasts and
    bolts of heaven, I should deem it a gratification of a superior kind,
    to approach again with ‘unsandaled feet’ to pay the same homage, and
    to kindle with the same devotion.  But I should find amidst the
    magnificent ruins of the adjoining abbey, something of a sublime
    cast, to give poignancy to my feelings.  I must be alone.  My mind
    must be calm and pensive.  It must be midnight.  The moon, half
    veiled in clouds, must be just emerging from behind the neighbouring
    hills.  All must be silent, except the winds gently rushing among the
    ivy of the ruins.  I should then invoke the ghosts of the abbey; and
    fancy, with one stroke of her magic wand, would rouse them from their
    dusty beds, and lead them into the centre of the ruin.  I should
    approach their shadowy existences with reverence, make inquiries
    respecting the manners and customs, and genius and fate of antiquity,
    desire to have a glimpse of the destiny of future ages, and enter in
    conversations which would be too sacred, and even dangerous to
    communicate.”

The only event unconnected with the monastery which is assigned to this
locality is a _battle_.  Whether it was fought on the hills above, or
whether the demon of war actually intruded within the charmed circle of
Tintern—or whether the whole is a fable, invented for the express purpose
of desecrating the very idea of the place—we cannot tell.  But however
this may be, the fact, or the falsehood, is commemorated in the following
epitaph, which is placed on the north side of the chancel of the church
of Mathern.

    Here lyeth entombed the body of
    Frederic, King of Morganoch or
    Glamorgan, commonly called
    St. Thewdrick, and accounted a martyr,
    because he was slain in a battle against
    the Saxons, being then Pagans, and in
    defence of the Christian religion.  The
    battle was fought at Tintern, when he
    obtained a great victory.  He died here
    being in his way homeward, three
    days after the battle, having taken
    order with Maurice his son, who suc-
    ceeded him in the kingdom, that in the
    same place he should happen to decease, a
    church should be built, and his body buri-
    ed in ye same, which was accordingly performed
             in the year 1601.

CHAPTER XII.

The Wye below Tintern—Banagor Crags—Lancaut—Piercefield
Bay—Chepstow—Ancient and modern bridge—Chepstow Castle—Roger de
Britolio—Romance of history—Chepstow in the civil wars—Marten the
regicide.

The Wye being now a tide river, time requires to be studied by the
traveller who would see it in its beauty or grandeur.  The shores must be
hidden by the full stream, and the overhanging woods fling their shadow
as before over the glancing waters.  Some bargain for the moon, to silver
the tree tops, and send her angel-visitings through the vistas of
foliage.  But the truth is, before reaching this point we have become the
spoiled children of nature; we have grown fastidious in our admiration,
and would criticise perfection itself.

With the one drawback of the sludginess of the shores at ebb water, the
Wye below Tintern is as worthy of our homage as ever.  But it may be,
that the romance of its rocks and woods impending over the current, and
the deep stillness of the scene, broken only by the rippling sound of its
flow, may harmonize _too_ closely with the holy solitude we have left.
Our sensations are uninterrupted; we carry with us the ruins and their
associations; the mouldering abbey glides upon the stream before us; and
the recesses of the rocks, and deep paths of the woods, are peopled with
the spectres of the monastery.  Thus we have no new impressions to mark
our progress, and one of the finest parts of the river escapes almost
without notice.

There is notwithstanding much variety in this part of our course.  The
reaches are short; the banks steep, sometimes overhanging in naked
precipices, sometimes waving with romantic woods; while numerous narrow
promontories intercept the view, and cut the scene into separate
pictures.  Banagor Crags, on the left, form a stupendous wall of cliff,
extending for a considerable distance, without presenting anything in
themselves to relieve the eye, except here and there some recesses or
small shrubs, painting their interstices.  But, as if aware of the
disadvantage even of a sublime uniformity, nature has spread upon the
opposite side a scene incomparable for richness and variety.  A bright
green sward, broken into narrow patches, swells upwards from the water’s
edge, till it is lost in acclivities mantled with woods; and rising from
the ridge of these, a mass of perpendicular rock towers aloft to the
height, as it is computed, of eight hundred feet, overhung with shaggy
thickets.

We now turn the peninsula of Lancaut, which comes sloping down from
Tiddenham Chase, till it terminates in fertile meadows; and, on the
right, rise from the water’s edge, with a kind of fantastic majesty, the
Piercefield cliffs, capped with magnificent woods.  Twelve projecting
masses of these rocks have received the names of the twelve apostles, and
a thirteenth is called St. Peter’s Thumb.  While wondering where this
will end, we sweep round another point, and find ourselves in Piercefield
Bay.  To the right a line of perpendicular cliffs is still seen, but
crowned instead of trees with an embattled fortress; which, for a moment,
might seem to have been cut out of the rock.  The view is closed by a
range of red cliffs, with the magnificent iron bridge of Chepstow
spanning the river.  This is the last of the great views _on_ the Wye;
and if seen under favorable circumstances of time and tide, it is one of
the finest.

                           [Picture: Chepstow]

Chepstow stands on the side of an acclivity, overlooked itself on all
sides by loftier hills, so that from every part of the town a different
view is obtained.  Approaching it from the road which leads from the New
Passage, this position, owing to the singularity of a part of the higher
ground, gives the scene a very peculiar appearance.  Nothing is seen but
the red cliffs of the Wye, and the tall masts of the shipping rising
among them; and it is not till close at hand that the houses appear,
shelving down to the river.  Archdeacon Coxe observes, that he has seldom
visited any town whose picturesque situation surpassed that of Chepstow;
and according to Mr. Wyndham, another traveller in this district, “the
beauties are so uncommonly excellent, that the most exact critic in
landscape would scarcely wish to alter a position in the assemblage of
woods, cliffs, ruins, and water.”  Among these features, the Wye and its
banks are conspicuous.  The ridge of cliff on the left bank below the
bridge is remarkable both for its form and variety of colouring; while,
on the opposite bank above, the gigantic remains of the castle,
stretching along the brink of the precipice, give an air of romance to
the picture, not frequently found in one of the crowded haunts of men.

The bridge is of cast iron, and was completed only in 1816.  There are
five arches, resting on stone piers; but although in reality a massive
structure, it has the air of lightness, when viewed from the river, which
iron bridges usually possess.  The old bridge was formerly composed of a
level floor, carried along wooden piers, except in the centre, where a
massive pillar of stone, dividing Gloucester and Monmouth, was the
support.  Afterwards, however, stone piers were substituted for those on
the Monmouth side, before the two counties joined in the erection of the
present noble structure.

“According to tradition,” says Mr. Coxe, “the bridge of the Wye was
formerly half a mile above the present bridge, at a place called Eddis,
nearly opposite to the alcove in Piercefield grounds, and seemingly in a
direction leading towards an ancient encampment which encircles the
grotto.  The remains of the abutments are said to have been visible in
the memory of some of the present generation; and the vestiges of a
pitched road were recently found in digging near the spot.  I walked to
the spot, but could not discern the smallest traces of the ancient
bridge, and the ground on which the pitched road was discovered was
planted with potatoes.  I was, however, amply gratified for my
disappointment by the pleasantness of the walk by the side of the river,
the beauty of the hanging woods of Piercefield, and the picturesque
appearance of the castle.”

The castle of Chepstow is said by some antiquaries, to have been built
originally by Julius Cæsar; which is denied by others, on the reasonable
grounds, that Julius Cæsar never was there, and that Roman reliques,
although abundant in the neighbourhood, have never been discovered in the
town.  However this may be, the name by which it is at present known, is
Saxon, and denotes a place of traffic; and Leland traces at least its
prosperity to its situation being favourable for commerce.  “The towne of
Chepstowe,” says he, “hath been very strongly walled, as yet well doth
appere.  The walles began at the grete bridge, over the Wy, and so came
to the castel; the which yet standeth fayer and strong, not far from the
ruin of the bridge.  A grete lykelyhood ys, that when Carguen began to
decay, then began Chepstow to flourish, for yt standeth far better, as
upon Wy there ebbing and flowing, by the Rage coming out of the Severn,
so that to Chepstowe may come grete shippes.”

The castle, as we have said, crowns the brow of a precipice, forming here
the right bank of the Wye; and its walls, on the northern side, are so
close to the edge as to seem nothing more than a prolongation of the
rock.  The rest of the fortress was defended by a moat and its own lofty
towers.

The area was divided into four courts.  The first, which is entered by a
Norman gateway, contained the grand hall, the kitchen, and other
apartments, on a scale of considerable grandeur.  At the south-eastern
angle of this court is the keep, or citadel, now called Harry Marten’s
Tower.  The second court contains no architectural remains, except the
walls; but in the third is a remarkable building, usually designated as
the chapel.  It seems to have formed one magnificent apartment, probably
with a gallery running along the sides.  The fourth court was separated
from the rest by a moat, which was crossed by a drawbridge.  Whether a
former building stood here or not, William Fitzosborn, earl of Hereford,
is said in Domesday Book to have built the castle of Chepstow.  It was
inherited by his third son Roger de Britolio, who was deprived of his
estates, and condemned to perpetual imprisonment for rebellion.  The
fierce character of this Norman baron is well illustrated in the
following anecdote preserved by Dugdale.

    “Though he frequently used many scornful and contumelious expressions
    towards the king, yet he was pleased, at the celebration of the feast
    of Easter in a solemn manner (as was then used), to send to this earl
    Rodger, at that time in prison, his royal robes, who so disdained the
    favour, that he forthwith caused a great fire to be made, and the
    mantle, the inner surcoat of silk, and the upper garment, lined with
    precious furs, to be suddenly burnt.  Which being made known to the
    king, he became not a little displeased, and said, ‘_Certainly he is
    a very proud man who has thus abused me_; _but_, _by the brightness
    of God_, _he shall never come out of prison as long as I live_.’
    Which expression was fulfilled to the utmost, for he never was
    released during the king’s life, nor after, but died in prison.”

In the reign of Henry I., we find Chepstow in the possession of the Clare
family; of whom Richard de Clare, surnamed, like his father, Strongbow,
is famous for his Irish adventures.  ‘At the solicitation of Dermot
Macnagh, king of Leinster, who had been dethroned by his rival Roderic
the Great, king of Connaught (for there were then five kings in Ireland),
he proceeded to that country with twelve hundred men, to espouse the
cause of the unfortunate potentate: being offered, in the spirit of the
age, his daughter for a wife, and his kingdom for an inheritance.
Strongbow landed at Waterford in 1171; married the princess; and his
father-in-law dying at the very moment demanded by poetical justice,
conquered his promised kingdom, and took possession of Dublin the
capital.  The romance, however, was spoiled by Henry II., who, in high
dudgeon at this presumption of a subject, confiscated his estates, and
carried an army over to Ireland, with the purpose of annexing Leinster to
the English crown.  Strongbow submitted; abandoned Waterford and Dublin
to his feudal master; was restored to his estates, and made constable of
Ireland.  His character is thus described by Giraldus Cambrensis:

    “This earle was somewhat ruddie and of sanguine complexion and
    freckle face, his eyes greie, his face feminine, his voice small, and
    his necke little, but somewhat of high stature: he was verie
    liberall, corteous, and gentle; what he could not compass or bring to
    passe in deed, he would win by good word and gentle speeches.  In
    time of peace he was more redie to yield and obeie than rule and
    beare swaie.  Out of the campe he was more like to a souldier
    companion than a captaine or ruler; but in the camp and in the warres
    he carried with him the state and countenance of a valiante captaine.
    Of himselfe he would not adventure anie thing; but being advised and
    set on, he refused no attempts; but for himselfe he would not rashlie
    adventure or presumptuouslie take anie thing in hand.  In the fighte
    and battell he was a most assured token and signe to the whole
    companie, either to stand valiante to the fight, or for policie to
    retire.  In all chances of warre he was still one and the same manner
    of man, being neither dismaied with adversitie, or puffed up with
    prosperitie.”

By the marriage of a daughter of Richard Strongbow (who had no male
issue) our castle next came into the hands of one of the greatest men of
his time, William, marshal of England, lord protector of the kingdom; and
by the marriage of his daughter (for although he had five sons they all
died without issue), it fell to Hugh Bigod, earl of Norfolk.  This
daughter was Maud, remarkable for having been in her widowhood created
_marshal_ in virtue of her descent, the king himself, Henry III.,
solemnly giving the truncheon into her hands.  She was buried in Tintern
Abbey in 1248, her body being carried into the choir by her four sons.

After changing hands several times, Chepstow Castle appears to have been
_sold_ to the earl of Pembroke; whose heiress Elizabeth conveyed it by
marriage, as we have already had occasion to relate, to Sir Charles
Somerset, afterwards earl of Worcester.  Churchyarde mentions the fact of
the sale in his uncouth rhymes.

    “To Chepstowe yet, my pen agayne must passe,
    When Strongbow once (an earl of rare renown),
    A long time since, the lord and maister was
    (In princly sort) of casle and of towne.
    Then after that, to Mowbray it befell,
    Of Norfolke duke, a worthie known full well;
    Who sold the same to William Harbert, knight,
    That was the earle of Pembroke then by right.”

During the civil wars, this place was considered of great importance.

    “At first, Chepstow was garrisoned for the king, until in 1645,
    Colonel Morgan, governor of Gloucester, at the head of three hundred
    horse and four hundred foot, and assisted by the mountaineers, with
    little difficulty made himself master of the town, and in a few days
    compelled the governor, Colonel Fitzmorris, to surrender the castle.
    But the castle was afterwards surprised by the loyalists, under Sir
    Nicholas Hemeys, who, in the absence of the governor, by means of a
    secret correspondence, obtained possession of the western gate, and
    made the garrison prisoners of war.  On this event Cromwell marched
    against it in person, took possession of the town, but assailed the
    castle without success, though garrisoned only by a hundred and sixty
    men.  He then left Colonel Ewer, with a train of artillery, seven
    companies of foot, and four troops of horse, to prosecute the siege.
    But the garrison defended themselves valiantly, until the provisions
    were exhausted, and even then refused to surrender under promise of
    quarter, hoping to escape by means of a boat, which they had provided
    for that purpose.  A soldier of the parliamentary army, however, swam
    across the river, with a knife between his teeth, cut the cable of
    the boat, and brought it away; the castle was at length forced, and
    Sir Nicholas Hemys and forty slain in the assault.  This event was
    considered by the parliament so important, that the captain who
    brought the news was rewarded with fifty pounds, and a letter of
    thanks was sent to Colonel Ewer and the officers and soldiers engaged
    in that service.”

In 1645, the castle, with the other estates belonging to the marquis of
Worcester, were settled upon Oliver Cromwell, but were given back to the
family at the restoration.

    “For thirty years secluded from mankind,
    Here Marten lingered.  Often have these walls
    Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
    He paced around his prison.  Not to him
    Did nature’s fair varieties exist:
    He never saw the sun’s delightful beams,
    Save when thro’ yon high bars he pour’d a sad
    And broken splendor.”

All this, it now appears, is a poetical exaggeration, and the thirty
years’ captivity (diminished to twenty years) passed away as easily as
the sense of captivity would permit.  The regicide was permitted to spend
his property as he pleased, to enjoy the association of his wife, to
receive visits, and even to return them in the neighbourhood, accompanied
by a guard.

Marten was one of the most zealous of those men who cast down the statue
of royalty from a pedestal, upon which, although re-erected, it can never
again stand securely of its own strength unsupported by public opinion.
He does not appear to have been himself of irreproachable character, but
he was honest at least in theory, and true to his principles, such as
they were.

“Being authorised,” says Anthony Wood, “by parliament, about 1642, he
forced open a great iron chest, within the college of Westminster, and
thence took the crown, robes, sword, and sceptre belonging anciently to
king Edward the Confessor, and used by all our kings at their
inaugurations; and with a scorn greater than his lusts and the rest of
his vices, he openly declared that there should be no farther use of
those toys and trifles, and in the jolity of that humour he invested
George Wither (an old puritan satyrist) in the royal habiliments; who
being crowned and royally arrayed (as well right became him) did first
march about the room, with a stately garb, and afterwards with a thousand
apish and ridiculous actions exposed those sacred ornaments to contempt
and laughter.”

Marten was a member of the high court of justice, regularly attended the
trial, was present when sentence was pronounced, and signed the warrant
of death.  It is added, that when Cromwell took up the pen to sign, he
spattered some ink upon Marten; and Marten, when his turn came, returned
the frolic!  The two friends, however, were enemies at last.  Cromwell
would have made himself king if he had been able, but Marten said, “If
they must have a king, he had rather have had the last than any gentleman
in England; he found no fault in his person, but in his office.”  When
the regicides who surrendered to the king’s proclamation were condemned,
they claimed mercy on the score of having given themselves up in order to
save their lives; and Marten, always forward and fearless, added, “that
he had never obeyed any proclamation before this, and hoped that he
should not be hanged for taking the king’s word now.”  He was at length
condemned to perpetual imprisonment, but both in the Tower and in
Chepstow Castle he was treated with great lenity.  He died of apoplexy in
the twentieth year of his confinement, and seventy-eighth of his age.  He
was buried in the chancel of the parish church at Chepstow, and a stone,
with an inscription written by himself placed over his body.  This was
removed, however, to another part of the church, by the pious loyalty of
a succeeding vicar; but the stone being defaced, a new one was
substituted, by order of the churchwardens, in 1812, with the original
epitaph.

                      Here,
    September the 9, in the year of our Lord 1680,
    Was buried a true Englishman,
    Who in Berkshire was well known
    To love his country’s freedom ’bove his own,
    But living immured full twenty year,
    Had time to write, as does appear,

                                 HIS EPITAPH.

    H ere, or elsewhere (all’s one to you, to me),
    E arth, air, or water, gripes my ghostly dust;
    N o one knows how soon to be by fire set free.
    R eader, if you an oft-tried rule will trust,
    Y ou will gladly do and suffer what you must.

    M y life was spent in serving you,
    A nd death’s my pay (it seems), and welcome too;
    R evenge destroying but itself, while I
    T o birds of prey leave my old cage and fly.
    E xamples preach to th’ eye, care then (mine says)
    N ot how you end, but how you spend your days.

The church was part of the chapel of a priory of Benedictine monks,
founded here soon after the Conquest; and is interesting from its
architecture, being for the greater part in the early Norman style, but
with ornamented gothic windows—and a tower adorned by the taste of the
present age with Greek pilasters!

CHAPTER XIII.

Piercefield—Points of view—Curious appearance—Scenic character of the
place—View from Wyndcliff—Account of Valentine Morris—Anecdotes—The Wye
below Chepstow—Aust Ferry—Black Rock Ferry—St. Theodric—Conclusion.

The romantic region of Piercefield, extending from Chepstow to
Wyndcliff—a distance of about three miles by the sinuous walk, is one of
the grand attractions of this place.  It is nothing more, it is true,
than a gentleman’s park; but then the landscape gardener by whom this
park was laid out is Nature herself, who has lavished here her beauty,
her grandeur, and her romance, in the wildest profusion.  Art is entirely
subservient to her purposes, opening the view where it was shut in, and
forming paths for the pilgrim foot that would approach to worship.

“In the composition of the scenery,” says the historical tourist, “the
meandering Wye, the steep cliffs, and the fertile peninsula of Lancaut,
form the striking characteristics.

“The Wye, which is everywhere seen from a great elevation, passes between
Wyndcliff and the Bangor rocks, winds round the peninsula of Lancaut,
under a semicircular chain of stupendous cliffs, is lost in its sinuous
course, and again appears in a straight line at the foot of the Lancaut
rocks, and flows under the majestic ruins of Chepstow Castle towards the
Severn.

“The rocks are broken into a variety of fantastic shapes, and scattered
at different heights and different positions: they start abruptly from
the river, swell into gentle acclivities, or hang on the summits of the
hills; here they form a perpendicular rampart, these jet into enormous
projections, and impend over the water.

“But their dizzy heights and abrupt precipices are softened by the woods
which form a no less conspicuous feature in the romantic scenery; they
are not meagre plantations placed by art, but a tract of forests
scattered by the hand of nature.  In one place they expand into open
groves of large oak, elm, and beech; in another form a shade of timber
trees, copses, and underwood, hiding all external objects, and wholly
impervious to the rays of the sun, they start from the crevices of the
rocks, feather their edges, crown their summits, clothe their sides, and
fill the intermediate hollows with a luxuriant mass of foliage, bring to
recollection of the border

    “‘Of Eden, where delicious paradise,
    Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green,
    As with a rural mound, the champaign head
    Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides,
    With thicket o’ergrown, grotesque and wild,
    Access denied, and over head up grew
    Insuperable height of loftiest shade,

                                 * * * * * *

    A sylvan scene and as the banks ascend
    Shade above shade, a woody theatre
    Of stateliest view.’”

And this grandeur is heightened, not diminished, by the view presented in
the midst of fertile fields, and the simple details of rural occupation.
The peninsula of Laucaut, on the opposite bank of the Wye, is a
comparatively extensive farm, cultivated to the highest perfection, and
rich with the gifts of Ceres.  It is dotted with trees, and a range of
elms fringes it on the side of the river.  Towards the middle of its
pear-shaped area, or rather approaching the isthmus, stands the farm
house, with rocks and woods behind.  The principal points of view are the
following:

1. The Lover’s Leap.  2. A seat near two beeches on the edge of the
precipice.  3. The Giant’s Cave, which occupies the centre of the
amphitheatre and overlooks Lancaut peninsula.  4. The halfway seat under
a large beech tree.  5. The double view.  6. Above Piercewood.  7. The
grotto.  8. The platform.  9. The alcove.

But other portions of the grounds not so frequently visited are noticed
by an observant traveller.  “From the Giant’s cave, a road winds
beautifully along the brow of the cliff to a grove of lofty oak, beech,
and sycamore, which is cleared from underwood, in the centre of the
extensive forest which spreads beneath the Lover’s Leap.  In this
charming and sequestered spot is a cold bath supplied by a copious and
transparent rill, which springs at the foot of the winding cliff, and
ripples down the side of the declivity.  The road then descends to
Malridge meadow, on the bank of the Wye, where the river appears like a
lake, and the fertile peninsula of Lancaut rises in a gentle declivity
from the margin of the stream to the isthmus.

“A beautiful walk, two miles in length, skirts this meadow, at the foot
of the stupendous range of Piercefield cliffs, and then mounts to the
house by steps, cut in a steep rock.  As the house stands several hundred
feet above the river, the ascent is long and difficult, but the toil is
amply repaid by the beauty and sublimity of the scene.”

From some of these points, it may be observed, the Severn, seen _beyond_
the Wye, appears to be considerably _above_ it; and, however easily
explained the phenomenon may be, an indescribably puzzling effect is
produced by the idea that the latter river, a few miles lower down, runs
into the former.  The fact is noticed by Mr. Coxe, whose description is
truly excellent.

“From the Lover’s Leap the walk is carried through a thick mantle of
forests, with occasional openings, which seem not the result of art or
design, but the effect of chance or nature, and seats placed where the
spectator may repose and view at leisure the scenery above, beneath, and
around.  This

             Bowery walk
    Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day
    Falls on the lengthened gloom,

is conformant to the genius of Piercefield; the screen of wood prevents
the uniformity of a bird’s eye view, and the imperceptible bend of the
amphitheatre conveys the spectator from one part of the fairy region to
the other without perceiving the gradation.  Hence the Wye is sometimes
concealed or half-obscured by overhanging foliage, at others, wholly
expanding to view, is seen sweeping beneath in a broad and circuitous
channel; hence in one place the Severn spreads in the midst of a
boundless expanse of country, and on the opposite side to the Wye; at
another both rivers appear on the same side, and the Severn seems
supported on the summit of the cliffs which form the bank of the Wye.
Hence the same objects present themselves in different aspects, with
varied accompaniments; hence the magic transition from the impervious
gloom of the forest to open groves; from meadows and lawns, to rocks and
precipices, and from the beauties of English landscape, to the wildness
of Alpine scenery.

                      [Picture: View from Wyndcliff]

“The summit of Wind Cliff, which towers above the northern extremity of
the grounds, commands, in one point of view, the whole extent of this
interesting scenery: as I stood on the brow of this precipice, I looked
down on the fertile peninsula of Lancaut, surrounded with rocks and
forests, contemplated the hanging wood, rich lawns, and romantic cliffs
of Piercefield, the castle and town of Chepstow, and traced the Wye,
sweeping in the true outline of beauty, from the Bangor crags to its
junction with the Severn, which spreads into an estuary, and is lost in
the distant ocean.

“A boundless extent of country is seen in every direction from this
commanding eminence, comprehending not less than nine counties.  In the
midst of this expanse, I principally directed my attention to the subject
of my tour, which now drew to a conclusion.  I traced, with pleasing
satisfaction, not unmixed with regret, the luxuriant vallies and romantic
hills of this interesting country, which I had traversed in various
directions, but I dwelt with peculiar admiration on the majestic rampart
which forms its boundary to the west, and extends in one grand and
unbroken outline, from the banks of the Severn to the Black Mountains,

          “‘Where the broken landscape, by degrees
    Ascending, roughens into rigid hills;
    O’er which the Cambrian mountains, like far clouds
    That skirt the blue horizon, dusky rise.’”

Till Piercefield was inherited by Valentine Morris, whose father had
obtained it by purchase, the capabilities of the place were unknown,
principally, we should think, from the view being hidden by a deep veil
of forest.  Morris saw everything, however, with the eye of taste; and
without officiously intermeddling with nature, he contrived, by merely
displaying the treasures that before were concealed, and by opening out
paths through the woods to enable visiters to enjoy them, to render
Piercefield the fairy-land it now appears.  He seems to have been a man
of a princely mind, but a thoughtless, unreflecting disposition.  His
beautiful property was nothing to him without admirers; and he was so
grateful for admiration, that he caused his servants to wait upon and
feast, gratuitously, even the vagrant stranger, as soon as his foot had
entered the magic circle.  It is hardly necessary to add, therefore, that
by the time the beauties of Piercefield had become extensively known,
their master was ruined.  Various other circumstances, however, concurred
to dissipate a large fortune, and at length he retired to the West
Indies, where he had inherited considerable property.  The following
anecdote is told of his adieu to Piercefield:—

    “Before his final departure from England, he indulged himself with
    bidding adieu to Piercefield.  In company with a friend he surveyed
    his own creation, for the last time, with apparent composure and
    manly resignation.  On his return to Chepstow he was surrounded by
    the poor; who, throwing themselves on their knees, thanked him for
    the numerous instances of his bounty, and implored the blessing of
    Heaven on their generous benefactor.  Even this affecting spectacle
    he bore with silent fortitude, and entered the chaise which conveyed
    him to London.  But he no sooner reached the Gloucestershire side of
    the bridge, than his ear was struck with the mournful peal of bells,
    muffled, as is usual on the loss of departed friends; deeply affected
    with this mark of esteem and regret, he could no longer control his
    emotions, and burst into tears.”

He was made lieutenant-governor, and afterwards governor in chief, of St.
Vincent’s; where his affairs prospered so much that he had almost
recovered his fortune, when the island was attacked by the French.  With
his usual nobility of spirit, he advanced large sums out of his private
funds towards the defence, but all in vain: St. Vincent’s was taken, and
Morris Piercefield never could obtain from government either his outlay
or arrears.  He returned to England to seek redress; was arrested by his
creditors, and himself a creditor of the country to a large extent,
languished in a debtor’s prison for seven years.  His books, movables,
trifles, everything were sold for bread; and his wife sunk under the
horrors of their situation, and became insane.  Morris at length
recovered his liberty, and Lord North determined to shame his
predecessors in the ministry, by performing an act of common honesty.  A
minister, however, is seldom honest from choice, because the outlay of
money curtails his resources, and because the wilful withholding, even of
a just debt, does not involve his character in society as a man of
honour.  Lord North accordingly delayed the restitution as long as he
could; and poor Valentine Morris in 1789, was indebted to his
brother-in-law for a bed on which to die.

We cannot refrain from adding an anecdote relating to one of the family
of Walters, to whom the estate of Piercefield formerly belonged.

    “Holding one day a conversation with Mr. Knowles, whom he employed in
    building the alcove, he made inquiries concerning the family of
    Walters, and asked if any of them were yet living.  Knowles replied
    that William, the brother of John who sold the estate, was still
    alive and in great distress.  ‘Bring him to Piercefield,’ said
    Morris, ‘and I will make him welcome.’  ‘If you would give him your
    whole estate he could not walk, he is so much affected with the gout
    in his feet, and earns a precarious livelihood by fishing.’  ‘If he
    then cannot come to me, I will take the first opportunity of calling
    on him.’  Being some time afterwards engaged with Knowles in forming
    an opening in the wood, he saw two men in a boat; ‘Stay here,’ he
    said to Knowles, ‘I will cross the river in that boat, and examine
    whether the objects I want to show can be seen from hence.’
    Descending hastily he hailed the watermen, leaped into the boat, was
    ferried over, and on his return entered into conversation with the
    men, and inquired their names and condition.  ‘My name,’ said one of
    them, ‘is * * * * *, I am a native of Chepstow; and that man,
    pointing to his companion, is William Walters.’  ‘What, Walters of
    Piercefield!’ exclaimed Morris.  ‘Yes, please your honour, I am the
    brother of John, who sold the estate that you now enjoy.’  Morris
    made no reply; but giving a gratuity to each of the men, leaped on
    shore, rapidly ascended the hill, and rejoining Knowles, cried, ‘I
    have been talking with Walters:’ taking out several guineas, he
    added, ‘carry these to him, and tell him that he shall never want
    while it is in my power to assist him.’  Knowles suggested, that as
    the man was much addicted to liquor, he would render him more service
    by a weekly allowance.  The next market-day one of Morris’s servants
    carried to Walters a joint of meat, and a small sum of money, which
    was continued weekly until his death.  Morris defrayed the expenses
    of his funeral, and his carriage conveyed the corpse to St. Arvans,
    where it was interred in the family vault.” {204}

From Chepstow to the confluence of the Wye with the Severn, the distance
is three miles; but although the banks are in general lofty, they possess
no features of interest to the descending traveller.  It may be
sufficient merely to name the Red Rocks, the Hardwick Cliffs, and
Thornwell Woods.  After these St. Ewan’s Rocks appear on the left bank;
and we glide gradually into the wide expanse of the Severn.  A
prolongation, however, of the left bank continues for some time after we
are fairly out of the Wye; the peninsula of Beachley, extending almost
half way across the Severn.  From this is the ferry of the Aust Passage,
supposed to have been named after one of the Roman generals.  A
steam-packet now plies instead of an open boat, and lands passengers at a
handsome pier at all hours of the tide.

On the Monmouthshire coast, a little way beyond the mouth of the Wye, is
the Black Rock Inn of the New Passage ferry, supposed, notwithstanding
its name, to be as ancient as the other.  This ferry was suppressed by
Oliver Cromwell, on account of a catastrophe which took place here of a
very interesting description.  When the king was pursued by his enemies,
he crossed the Severn to Chiswell Pill on the opposite side; but when the
boatmen returned to the Black Rock, they found a party of sixty armed
republicans, waiting to follow the royal fugitive.  The ferrymen were
royalists, but there was no resisting commands enforced by so many drawn
swords, and reluctantly they took the enemies of their prince on board,
and pulled across the Severn.  They landed their unwelcome freight upon
the English Stones, which appeared to be a part of the shore, but was in
reality separated by water, fordable only at low tide.  The tide had just
turned.  Some moments, no doubt, were lost in dismay, and some in
shouting to the treacherous boatmen, who lay upon their oars to watch the
event.  The English Stones disappeared with a suddenness customary in the
flow of that river; and the cries of sixty drowning men were lost in the
rush of the wild waters of the Severn.

Before the Black Rock Inn, and near the mouth of the Wye, is Mathern,
formerly the episcopal residence of the bishops of Llandaff.  The church
close by is the one pointed to by tradition as having been raised over
the ashes of Theodoric, the hermit-king, who desecrated the holy solitude
of Tintern with the sounds of battle.

    “The manor of Matherne, where there is now a palace, was given to the
    bishops of Llandaff by Maurice, king of Glamorganshire, about the
    year 560, on the following occasion:—His father, St. Theodoric, as he
    is usually called, having resigned his crown to this son, embraced
    the life of a hermit.  The Saxons invading the country, Theodoric was
    reluctantly called from his hermitage to take the command of the
    army; he defeated them near Tintern upon the Wye.  Being mortally
    wounded in the engagement, he precipitated his return, that he might
    die among his friends, and desired his son to erect a church, and
    bury him on the spot where he breathed his last: but scarcely had he
    proceeded five miles, when he expired at a place near the conflux of
    the Wye and Severn.  Hence, according to his desire, a chapel being
    erected, his body was placed in a stone coffin.  As I was giving
    orders to repair this coffin, which was either broken by chance or
    decayed by age, I discovered his bones, not in the smallest degree
    changed, though after a period of a thousand years, the skull
    retaining the aperture of a large wound, which appeared as if it had
    been recently inflicted.  Maurice gave the contiguous estate to the
    church, and assigned to the place the name of Merthur Tewdrick, or
    _the martyrdom of Theodorick_; who, because he perished in battle
    against the enemies of the christian name, is esteemed a martyr.”

Our task is now finished: we turn away to seek “fresh fields and pastures
new,” but the murmur of the Wye will remain long in our ear.

DISTANCES IN THE TOUR OF THE WYE.

From the source of the Wye to       miles.
Stedva Gerrig                       2½
Rhaiader                            17½
Builth                              14
Hay                                 15¼
Clifford Castle                     2½
Hereford                            16½
Ross                                14¼

FROM ROSS TO MONMOTH AND CHEPSTOW.

                              _By Land_.
                                                _m_.     _f_.     _p_.
From Ross by the turnpike to Monmouth             10        0        0
In a straight line, or as the crow flies           9        0       10
From Ross to Chepstow by the turnpike             24        0        0
By Coleford                                       21        0        0
In a straight line                                16        4        0

The base or supposed tunnel of the hill, between Coldwell and the New
Weir, is six hundred yards; the circuit of the river is four miles two
furlongs.

                       _By Water_.
                                    _m_.     _f_.     _p_.
From Ross to Goodrich Castle           4        4        0
To Coldwell                            7        0        0
To New Weir                            4        2        0
To Monmouth                            5        1        0
From Ross to Monmouth                 20        7        0
To Tintern                            10        4        0
To Chepstow                            6        4       60
From Ross to Chepstow                 37        7       60

NAMES OF PLACES AS THEY OCCUR IN DESCENDING THE RIVER FROM ROSS.

           RIGHT BANK.                      LEFT BANK.
Wilton Bridge and Castle
Weir End                            Hill or New Hill Court
Pencraig House and Wood
GOODRICH Court
   Castle
   Priory or Haverford              Walford Church
North side of Coppet Wood Hill      Lays Hill
                                    Bishop’s Wood
                                    Ruerdean Church
Court Field                         Lidbrook
Welsh Bicknor                       Rosemary Topping
Mr. Warren’s Monument               COLDWELL ROCKS
South side of Coppet Wood Hill      SYMOND’S YAT
Goodrich Church
Whitchurch                          NEW WEIR
Great Doward                        Highmeadow Woods
Arthur’s Vale
Little Doward and Lays House        Table Mount
Dixton Church
MONMOUTH
Troy House                          Halfway House
Penalt                              Redbrook
Whitebrook
Pen-y-van Hill and Maypole          Wye Seal-house
Paper Mills
Pilstone House                      Big’s Weir House
LLANDOGO                            St. Briavels
Coedithal Weir                      Hudknolls
Llyn Weir                           Brook Weir
Tintern
Fielding’s House
TINTERN ABBEY
                                    Bennagor Crags
WYNDCLIFF and Moss Cottage          Fryer’s Rocks
Lover’s Leap                        Lancaut
PIERCEFIELD                         Piercefield Bay
Twelve Apostles                     Tiddenham Rocks
CHEPSTOW                            Tutshill

FROM MONMOUTH TO CHEPSTOW BY THE NEW ROAD.

Upper Redbrook                   2¼ miles.
Lower Redbrook                   ¼
Florence College                 3
Big’s Weir                       ½
Llandogo                         1
Tintern                          2¾
Tintern Abbey                    ¾
Wyndcliff and Moss Cottage       2
St. Arvans                       1
Crossway Green                   1½
Chepstow                         ½
                                 15½

The distance from Chepstow to the embouchure of the Wye about three
miles.

                   J. Haddon, Castle Street, Finsbury.

Footnotes

{41}  Duncomb’s Collections.

{63}  Monumenta Antiqua.

{85}  Whateley’s Observations on Modern Gardening.

{106}  Of late years, Mr. Pennie attempted to revive a taste for such
subjects in his “Britain’s Historical Drama,” but without effect.  It a
work, however, of considerable merit.  Southey’s Madoc has only a slender
groundwork in British history.

{158}  According to Dugdale, £132. 1s. 4d.; and Speed, £256. 11s. 6d.

{204}  Historical Tour.