CHEPSTOW,
some most noble rocks, “Nature’s proud bastions,” opened upon us to the left, grander than any we had hitherto admired, and which we had previously determined were inconceivably fine, and surpassed any idea we had formed of the channel of this romantic river. To add to the magnificence of the whole, the setting sun tinged the rocks with the most resplendent colours, and the dewy freshness of the evening improved the charm of the scene; the one enchanting the sense, the other refreshing it. The lofty Wynd Cliff to the right; and Piercefield, with the curious projecting rocks, called the Twelve Apostles and Peter’s Thumb, heighten to the very extent of beauty this noble view; gratifying beyond measure to the admirer of nature. Another reach brought us in sight of Chepstow Castle on a prominent rock, of which it seemed to form a part; noble in situation, and grand in appearance. The handsome new bridge, the rocks, and the scarce visible town, here made a most charming picture: this we enjoyed exceedingly, but regretted a few more minutes would set us on shore, and conclude our excursion on the Wye; an excursion, which, the farther we proceeded the more we were interested; and so much so, as to determine a renewal of this pleasing tour another summer. The former wooden bridge over the Wye at this place was of very singular construction; the boards forming the flooring were all designedly loose, but prevented by pegs, fastened at the extremity of them, from being carried away by the tide, and by that ingenious contrivance they gradually rose and fell with it, which is here frequently known to rise to the extraordinary height of seventy feet.
Not having visited the church in consequence of the bad weather at the commencement of our tour, we determined now to inspect it. The entrance through the western door is an elegant specimen of Saxon architecture, richly wrought, with three arches; in the inside is the monument of Henry Marten, one of the regicides who presided at the condemnation of King Charles I., and was confined in the castle twenty years. A curious carved one to the Marquis of Worcester and lady, though not buried here; and another of the date 1620, to the memory of Mrs. Clayton and her two husbands, both kneeling. This church originally belonged to the alien benedictine priory of Strigule, but was converted at the Reformation into the parish church of Chepstow.
Admittance to the celebrated walks of Piercefield can only be obtained on Tuesdays and Fridays. To survey these with that attention which they deserve would occupy several hours; the liveliest description cannot do justice to the rich and bold scenery, with all its accompaniments; the eye can alone receive the impression, for,
“How long soe’er the wand’rer roves, each step
Shall wake fresh beauties, each short point presents
A diff’rent picture; new, and yet the same.”
“The winding of the precipice (says Gilpin) is the magical secret by which all these enchanting scenes are produced.” At one point, both above and below, as far as the eye can reach, rolls in majestic windings the river Wye: at another, the Severn, hastening to meet “its sister river,” is discovered, till at last they are both lost in the Bristol Channel: at another, these scenes are concealed, and thick woods, apparently coeval with time itself, and a long range of rock, burst upon “the wanderer” with irresistible beauty and attraction. The occasional recurrence also of the rude beach, overshadowed by some umbrageous tree, and concealed from the steep precipice below by thick underwood, allow only glimpses of the surrounding scenery.
I have thus brought my Tour to a conclusion; a Tour, which has been productive of much amusement, and, I hope, not entirely devoid of advantage. It only remains, therefore, for me to add, that the two friends, having completed a pedestrian circuit of near eight hundred miles, parted with mutual regret, jointly exclaiming,
“Cambria, as thy romantic vales we leave,
And bid farewell to each retiring hill,
Where fond attention seems to linger still,
Tracing the broad bright landscape; much we grieve
That mingled with the toiling crowd, no more
We may return thy varied views to mark.”