From Upton Chapel.
A curious if not unique feature is the candelabrum, in the form of a clenched fist, that projects from the adjacent wall. This singular object is fashioned from a piece of yellow limestone, and is pierced with a hole to contain the candle formerly used at funerals and other ceremonies. It appears probable that the worthy knight whose effigy lies near may have left a small pension for the maintenance of this candelabrum.
The handsome Jacobean pulpit was originally in St. Mary's Church at Haverfordwest, whence it was acquired by purchase during the restoration of that edifice.
Upon passing through the small, plain chancel arch, we espy a huge, dilapidated effigy in a corner by the south wall. Though bereft of half its lower limbs, the figure still measures fully six feet in length. This image is clad in a complete suit of chain-mail, and is considered to be the most ancient of its kind in the county. To its history we have no clue, but tradition avers that this rude specimen of the sculptor's art represents a certain 'tall Ammiral' of bygone times, Lord of Upton Castle, who, returning from distant voyagings, was wrecked and cast lifeless ashore almost within sight of home.
A stone let into the chancel pavement shows the tonsured head of an ecclesiastic, with a floreated cross and damaged inscription. Within the Communion-rails we observe a female figure, draped from head to foot in flowing robes and lying under an ogee canopy. Though devoid of any distinctive badge this figure is well executed, and in a very fair state of preservation.
Upon the south side of the chapel, and close to the entrance-door, rises the small stone cross figured at the end of this chapter. It is raised upon a sort of basement constructed of masonry overgrown with vegetation, and is approached by rough stone steps.
We now retrace our steps to the highroad, and at the fingerpost bear to the left. Just beyond the old toll-gate we pass near a house called Holyland, so named from the fact that its stones were drawn from the ruins of an ancient hospital, dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene, which formerly existed at Pembroke.
As we traverse the King's Bridge, at the head of the tidal water, the clamour of the 'many-wintered crows,' winging their homeward flight to a neighbouring spinny, falls pleasantly on our ears. Thus we reenter the quiet street of Pembroke, while the arrowy swifts, wheeling around St. Mary's time-worn steeple, fill the air with their shrill, piercing cries.