TINTERN,
where we observed the ruins of a mansion, belonging to Mr. Farmer of Monmouth. This house appears of an old date, and might probably claim the attention of the curious antiquary, was he not so wrapt up in contemplating the venerable abbey, which presents its Gothic pile in solemn majesty. This august building, great in ruins, and awfully grand in appearance, impels the stranger, as it were imperceptibly, to land and inspect its noble arches, tottering pillars, and highly-finished windows: the specimens of ancient architecture, which formerly were delicately wrought by the hand of art, are now finely decked by that of nature. On our first entrance our attention was too much engrossed to exchange the mutual communication of thought; but the care which has been officiously taken to remove every fragment lying scattered through the immense area of the fabric, and the smoothness of the shorn grass, which no scythe should have dared to clip, in a great measure perverts the character of the scene: these circumstances but ill accord with the mutilated walls of an ancient ruin, which has braved the pitiless storms of so many centuries. In this respect we by no means agreed with Mr. Gilpin, who thus describes it: “We excuse—perhaps we approve—the neatness that is introduced within. It may add to the beauty of the scene—to its novelty it undoubtedly does.” But when this disgust was a little abated, we indulged those reflections which scenes of ancient grandeur naturally recall.
This beautiful ruin is cruciform, measuring two hundred and thirty feet in length, and thirty-three in breadth; the transept is one hundred and sixty feet long. [321] This Cistertian Abbey was founded by Walter de Clare, in the year 1131, and dedicated to St. Mary in the reign of King Henry VIII. It experienced the same fate with many other monasteries, and was granted at its dissolution to the Earl of Worcester in the year 1537.
“As the Abbey of Tintern,” says the author of the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature, “is the most beautiful and picturesque of all our Gothic monuments, so is the situation one of the most sequestered and delightful. One more abounding in that peculiar kind of scenery, which excites the mingled sensations of content, religion, and enthusiasm, it is impossible to behold. There every arch infuses a solemn energy, as it were, into inanimate nature: a sublime antiquity breathes mildly into the heart; and the soul, pure and passionless, appears susceptible of that state of tranquillity, which is the perfection of every earthly wish. Never has Colonna wandered among the woods, surrounding this venerable ruin, standing on the banks of a river, almost as sacred to the imagination as the spot, where the Cephisus and the Ilyssus mingle their waters, but he has wished himself a landscape-painter. He has never sat upon its broken columns and beheld its mutilated fragments; and its waving arches and pillars decorated with festoons of ivy; but he has formed the wish to forsake the world, and resign himself entirely to the tranquil studies of philosophy. Is there a man, my Lelius, too rich, too great, too powerful, for these emotions? Is there one too ignorant, too vain, and too presumptuous, to indulge them? Envy him not! From him the pillars of Palmyra would not draw one sigh; the massacre of Glencoe, the matins of Moscow, or the Sicilian vespers, would elicit no tear.”
As we receded from the banks, Tintern Abbey, with the Gothic fret-work of the eastern window, seemingly bound together by the treillage of ivy, appeared in the most pleasing point of view; sloping hills and rich woods forming a fine back-ground. As we drew nearer
CHEPSTOW,
some most noble rocks, “Nature’s proud bastions,” opened upon us to the left, grander than any we had hitherto admired, and which we had previously determined were inconceivably fine, and surpassed any idea we had formed of the channel of this romantic river. To add to the magnificence of the whole, the setting sun tinged the rocks with the most resplendent colours, and the dewy freshness of the evening improved the charm of the scene; the one enchanting the sense, the other refreshing it. The lofty Wynd Cliff to the right; and Piercefield, with the curious projecting rocks, called the Twelve Apostles and Peter’s Thumb, heighten, to the very extent of beauty, this noble view; gratifying beyond measure to the admirer of nature. Another reach brought us in sight of Chepstow Castle, on a prominent rock, of which it seemed to form a part; noble in situation, and grand in appearance. The handsome new bridge, the rocks, and the scarce visible town, here made a most charming picture: this we enjoyed exceedingly, but regretted a few more minutes would set us on shore, and conclude our excursion on the Wye; an excursion, which, the farther we proceeded the more we were interested; and so much so, as to determine a renewal of this pleasing tour another summer. The former wooden bridge over the Wye at this place was of very singular construction; the boards forming the flooring were all designedly loose, but prevented by pegs, fastened at the extremities of them, from being carried away by the tide, and by that ingenious contrivance they gradually rose and fell with it. The tide 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. It contains also a cenotaph to the memory of the Marquis of Worcester, and a tomb dated 1620, to the memory of Mrs. Clayton and her two husbands, who are both represented as 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.”