 | A sketch of old England |  |
LETTER VI.
Hereford looks dull and is dull. There is no deception in
the place; for, in approaching, it presents a heavy, flat appearance,
very different from Worcester. There is little to be
gleaned here, except old tales about Griffin the Welshman,
Algar the Englishman, Leofgar the Bishop, and William Fitz-Osborne,
with remains of English and Roman antiquities; all
which is to be found in every book of travels, and all which
you are as well acquainted with as myself.
The picturesque tourists come hither for the purpose of viewing
the scenery and ancient remains of the river Wye, which
abounds in some of the finest landscapes to be seen in this country,
and they all make a point of repeating over the same
things. Among the public buildings here, the Cathedral is the
principal; and of all parts of a cathedral, the most interesting
to me are the old tombs to be found in most of them. Here is
to be seen a number of these, most of them erected in memory
of bishops and ecclesiastics. Among them, however, is one
representing a figure in close armour, with the hands raised in
prayer, the usual fashion of the more ancient tombs. The
figure had a wooden leg, whence I concluded he was some
great soldier, who had lost it in the wars; but it turned out
that the leg of the figure, and not that of the living knight, had
been accidentally broken off, and replaced by an artist of this
place. Observing a garter, the badge of the order of knights
of the garter, remaining upon the leg, the artist carved another
doubt, the best gartered knight in all England.
Hereford, although its name is quite familiar to our American
ears, is but an insignificant place, containing not more
than seven thousand inhabitants. As an ancient frontier town
between England and Wales, it has, however, derived historical
consequence, from having been overrun, plundered,
taken and retaken, by Welsh and English marauding princes
and border-barons. Its castle was once reputed of great
strength, but there is scarcely a vestige of it remaining, although
its adjacent walks along the river, being kept in good order,
form a most agreeable promenade. Hereford is one of the
most orthodox places in England; so much so, that when I
was there, the library association in that town actually talked
of making an Auto de Fe of Hume, Gibbon, and some other
writers, who have marvellously disturbed the fat dignitaries of
the church! I am not jesting, upon my word, and from this
and other indications, begin to have serious doubts, whether
the nineteenth century will not turn out in the end almost as
enlightened as the ninth.
The first objects which, in going out of town, attracted my
notice, were a dozen or two of beggars, who form a considerable
feature of the picturesque in many of the English landscapes,
I assure you. Having distanced these, I proceeded
towards a noble old place, called Holme Lacy, belonging to
the Duke of Norfolk, for the purpose of reconnoitring a scene,
once a favourite resort of Pope. The situation is just fit for a
poet: quiet, soft, and secluded, in the midst of rural beauties.
It was once the property of the ancient family of Scudamore,
and the last viscount was an intimate friend of the poet, who
wrote a great deal in these shades. By the aid of that key
which unlocks the flinty hearts of every serving-man and
serving-maid in this kingdom, I was permitted to enter the
grounds, and ramble about almost at pleasure. I always feel
like a pilgrim visiting the shrine of a tutelary saint, in such
scenes, hallowed by such associations—there is something so
blameless, so pure, so spiritual, in the fame of literary genius,
more especially poetical inspiration. The harp of the true
poet, when tuned to virtuous feeling, is like the harp of
the angels, accompanied by the song of the cherubim and
seraphim.
From hence, I pursued my devious course to Ross, and
crossed a steep hill, where the bold scenery of this region
began to make its appearance; some distance beyond, I passed
Harewood, an old seat. In the adjoining forest, is the scene
of the bloody tragedy of Elfrida, which I refrain from harping
vamped up in romance and poetry, that no more is necessary
at present. I think, however, it would be no bad subject for the
“Great Unknown.” Next came we to the ruins of an old
castle, which I visited for no other reason, than because it was
once the property of Arthur Grey, renowned for his Irish wars,
but still more as the friend and benefactor of Spenser, who accompanied
him to Ireland, as his secretary, and received from
him a grant of three thousand acres of land there. Spenser
has expressed his gratitude in a sonnet prefixed to the Fairy
Queen. Very little of this castle now remains. It has passed
from the Greys; but long after a stone or a vestige is to be
seen, the spot will be remembered and known, as connected
with the benefactor of this charming poet.
Leaving Wilton Castle on the right, I proceeded some distance,
three or four miles perhaps, without being particularly
struck with any features in the landscape. Some fishermen,
catching trout in little wicker-basket boats, attracted my notice,
however. When I came to Goodrich Castle, I was so struck
with its venerable aspect, covered half over with green moss,
that I determined once for all to invade this strong hold, and
give you one single description, which is to satisfy you for the
rest of your life. It is placed on a fine eminence, overlooking
the river, and is surrounded by a deep trench, some fifty feet
wide, as I should judge, cut out of the solid rock. The first
apartment, inside the gate, is a small room to the left, with an
ornamental window, and large stone chalice for holding the
holy water. From hence it has been sagely concluded, that
this was the chapel, of which I have not the least doubt. A
mass of ruins directly opposite, with an octageon column rising
out of them, indicates the ancient baronial hall, where they no
doubt held mortal carousals in the time of William Marshall,
Gilbert Talbot, and Harry Grey, successively possessors of
the castle. A large square tower remains, flaunting amidst
its decay, in moss and clambering vines, that almost make it
look gay. This is said to have been built by an Irish Macbeth,
a prisoner, who worked out his freedom, and that of his
son, by building this enormous keep. Inside of this are mildewed,
damp, and dreary walls, festooned with cobwebs, in
which I observed certain old spiders that came over with
William the Conqueror.
At the iron works, known by the name of Bishop's Wood,
the scenery waxed more and more beautiful. At Bicknor I
began to comprehend that there was some little reason for the
raptures of picturesque tourists, when speaking of the river
Wye. Rocks of the boldest magnitude, dressed out in verdure,
the water, give a character of grandeur to the scenery, while
the narrowness of the stream itself contributes to the sublime,
by giving a comparative altitude to the precipices. You tell
me you lately sailed up the Hudson River in the State of New
York, and observed, how the effect of one magnificent feature
of sublimity is diminished by the grandeur and immensity
of another. The Palisades, as they are called, are much
higher, and in every way more noble than the cliffs of the Wye;
but the wideness of the Hudson takes from them more than
half their effect, while the narrow channel of the Wye adds to
those I am speaking of in the same or a greater proportion.
This remark may be extended to almost all our scenery; the
very vastness of the constituents of our landscapes diminishes
the effect, not only of the different parts, but of the whole combined.
I was more particularly struck with the truth of this,
in viewing parts of Wales, where, owing to the proximity of
objects, the narrowness of glens, and the disposition of rocks,
the highest effect of sublimity was produced by objects comparatively
diminutive.
Among the wonders of this region are Tintern Abbey, Chepstowe
Castle, and Piercefield, the latter, one of the most
famous show-places in England. The abbey, to my mind,
is more remarkable for the exquisite beauty and finish of its
remaining parts, than for its situation, which is low, and does
not command a view of the river, except from above. It is
also surrounded by cottages, inhabited by workmen belonging
to neighbouring iron works, the din of whose hammers disturbs,
of an evening, the repose of the scene. But the inside
is indescribably fine, and cannot be done justice to by any
other medium than that of actual inspection. All I shall say
is, that as a mere ruin, it exceeds any thing I have seen since,
or ever saw before. Its history is not particularly interesting.
It was, according to the fashion of the age, endowed by
various benefactions in the elder times, from pious or profligate
noblemen, who made their peace with heaven by enriching
the church: and when the fashion changed, it was suppressed
and deprived of its revenues, which were shared again
among the nobility, from whose munificence or fears they were
first obtained. It is now, if I recollect right, the property of
the Duke of Beaufort, who takes pains to prevent its further
decay.
The scenery in the neighbourhood of Chepstowe Castle is
equal to any on the Wye. A bridge, which, whether handsome
or not, is always a good object in a landscape, crosses
near it, below which, on the opposite side, is a range of cliffs
moss luxuriate, and over whose top the verdure nods. But I
must try and elevate myself to the proper degree of picturesque
sublimity, and talk a little like a traveller on this momentous
occasion. Advancing then towards the battlements
(I beg pardon, massive battlements), and sky-aspiring turrets
of this adamantine work of ages, I was struck dumb by the
view of a grand entrance, personifying the repulsive gloom,
feodal reserve, and frantic ferocity of the times, in which its
everlasting walls, which are now almost decayed, were reared.
The very knocker was warlike, being nothing more than a
cannon ball suspended by a vast chain, with which I ordered
my man to “knock me here at the gate.” He did so, and the
very walls, not only of the castle, but the river on which it
stands, trembled at the sound. The warder of the castle did
not make his appearance, nor did any whylome eftsoons peep
over the wall, with his cross-bow levelled, and demand our
business; but an exceedingly decrepid, wrinkled, and withal,
ugly old woman, did, after some unreasonable delay, open the
gate for our admittance, upon receiving a piece of that, which
melts stone walls and stony hearts in this country. The professor
of English tongues looked rather shy; for he came from
a shire where the witches grew, and privately assured me, that
this old woman had all the marks about her.
Having already described one castle, I hold myself exonerated
from describing any more; for, after all, no words
can give any idea, except a false one, of visible objects, for
which our senses have acquired no standard. I will only
mention, that here, in a large round tower of the ancient
citadel, Henry Martin, one of King Charles's judges, was confined
thirty years, and here he died. There is probably no
set of men, whose memory has been treated with more injustice,
or who suffered more unrelenting persecution, than
these high-souled republicans. On the accession of Charles
the Second, they were hunted through England, Switzerland,
and all parts of Europe—nay, in our new world, where three
of them, Whalley, Dixwell, and Goffe, found a refuge, and
remained secreted for half the life of man. There is, perhaps,
no instance on record, of a secret intrusted to so many persons,
so dangerous to keep, and for the disclosure of which there
were so many temptations of danger and interest, being kept
so long and with such inflexible faith. Yet not one betrayed
them. They were in New Haven when the king's officers
were searching every house; nay, they were in the very house
they searched; yet such was the cool discretion and inflexible
faith of the people, that they escaped discovery. They lived
buried in the Church-yard at New Haven, without its being
known to a single person who ever betrayed the secret, till it
was no longer of consequence to the safety of any human
being. The truth is, that the sentiment of the people of New
England sanctioned their condemnation of the king, and the
hearts of the colonists were with those bold, inflexible patriots,
who dared to punish a tyrant for making war against his people.
I have often, when at Yale, seen the graves of Dixwell
and Whalley, each designated by a stone, which humble as
it is, is calculated to retain their initials, and the time of their
decease, for ages. It is a hard, red, primitive stone, very thick,
and pointed at the top, in such a way as to form nearly the
two sides of a triangle. They lie close together, at the west
end of the old Presbyterian Church, where I hope they will
remain for ever undisturbed. They were the judges of kings;
and, although they escaped a violent death, their latter life
was one long series of exile, danger, seclusion, and oblivion.
Henry Martin was another of these, and was spared only for
perpetual imprisonment. Mr. Southey wrote some exceedingly
blank verse on the occasion upon the walls of Chepstowe.
Piercefield owes its celebrated improvements to Valentine
Morris, of St. Vincents, in the West Indies, who wrecked
his fortune upon these rocks, and, as usual, was obliged to
sell what had cost him a vast sum, the fruits of which he never
enjoyed. A Mr. Smith purchased it, but got tired, as every
man does, of such expensive playthings, and sold it to Colonel
Wood, who, covered with the spoils of India, also spent
vast sums upon these rocks for other people to enjoy, which
was very good of him. He got tired too, and sold it to a Mr.
Wells, who I believe still holds out, but will not probably do so
very long. There are, it seems, certain days in which only
the show-place is opened, and the day I applied for admittance
happened not to be one of these.
My next excursion was to the city of Gloucester, situated
on the “noble Severn,” which, notwithstanding its dignity, is
here only navigable for smaller vessels. It is one of the principal
cities of this part of England. I found an air of business
here, very different from Hereford, and in fact it is a
place of considerable trade in pins, &c. by means of the river,
which is divided into two channels here. But the great wonder
of the place, and that which most attracted my attention,
is the cathedral, which is one of the finest in this country.
Is lofty tower, and transparent pinnacles, ornamented with
beautiful fret-work—the majestic roof, and Gothic ornaments
of the choir, with the old Saxon pillars, and arches supporting
combination of different ages of architecture, all contributed
to engage my wonder. It was begun, as antiquaries have decided,
about the latter end of the tenth century, and not completed,
as it now stands, till more than four hundred years
afterwards. It therefore exhibits a curious, as well as complete
exemplification of the variations and progress of church-architecture
in England. It would fill a book to describe all
the various portions of this building, and even then, without
drawings, the impression would be altogether indistinct. There
are several very ancient tombs; among others, that of Edward
the Second, which is very singular as well as striking.
His effigies exhibit him with cropped hair and beard, whence
we may conclude, this was the fashion of the time.
This, and many other vast edifices of a similar kind, form
one among the many boasts of the people of this country.
They certainly add both dignity and splendour to the cities
where they are situated; and the stranger, while contemplating
them with awe and admiration, is apt to forget what an
expense of human labour was here applied to purposes of
church vanity; what vast sums of money were taken from
the poor people, to rear those ostentatious monuments of the
power and pride of churchmen. They were built in ages when
probably one-third of the wealth of the kingdom flowed into
the treasury of the church; when kings trembled at the frown
of a mitred minion of the pope; and the people were the
beasts of burden that laboured for them all. When we reflect
that the labours of millions, the wealth of kingdoms, were
thus invested in a dead capital, that yields nothing to the
state, and how many hundred thousand people are, at this
moment, suffering for the common necessaries of life, it is difficult
to resist the impression, that it would add to the happiness
of mankind, if the incalculable sums lavished on these
temples of human vanity, could be made to return to the children
of those whose fathers paid the price. Nothing could
be lost on the score of religion, since these immense structures
are not in the least calculated for sermons, which cannot be
heard through their interminable aisles.
| A sketch of old England | |