SECTION I.

WE travel for various purpoſes—to explore the culture of ſoils—to view the curioſities of art—to ſurvey the beauties of nature—and to learn the manners of men; their different polities, and modes of life.

The following little work propoſes a new object of purſuit; that of examining the face of a country by the rules of pictureſque beauty: [2]opening the ſources of thoſe pleaſures, which are derived from the compariſon.

Obſervations of this kind, through the vehicle of deſcription, have the better chance of being founded in truth; as they are not the offspring of theory; but are taken im⯑mediately from the ſcenes of nature, as they ariſe.

Croſſing Hounſlow-heath, from Kingſton, in Surry, we ſtruck into the Reading-road and turned a little aſide, to ſee the approach to Caverſham-houſe, which winds about a mile, along a valley, through the park. This was the work of Brown; whoſe great merit lay in purſuing the path, which nature had marked out. Nothing can be eaſier, than the ſweep; nor better united than the ground; nor more ornamental, than ſeveral of the clumps: but many of the ſingle trees, which are beeches, are heavy, and offend the eye. Almoſt any ordinary tree may contribute to form a group. It's deformities are loſt in a crowd: nay, even the deformities of one tree may be corrected by the deformities of another. But few trees have thoſe characters of beauty, [3]which will enable them to appear with ad⯑vantage as individuals^*.

From lord Cadogan's we took the Wal⯑lingford-road to Oxford. It affords ſome variety, running along the declivity of a range of hills; and overlooking one of the vallies of the Thames. But there is nothing very intereſting in theſe ſcenes. The Thames appears; but only in ſhort reaches. It rarely exceeds the dimenſions of a pool; and does not once, as I remember, exhibit thoſe ample ſweeps, in which the beauty of a river ſo much conſiſts. The woods too are frequent but they are formal copſes: and white ſpots, burſting every where from a chalky ſoil, diſ⯑turb the eye.

From Wallingford to Oxford, we did not obſerve one good view, except at Shillingford; where the bridge, the river, and it's woody banks exhibit ſome ſcenery.

[4]From Oxford we propoſed to take the neareſt road to Roſs. As far as Witney, the country appears flat, tho in fact it riſes. About the eleventh ſtone the high grounds command a noble ſemicircular diſtance on the left; and near Burford there are views of the ſame kind, on the right; but not ſo extenſive. None of theſe landſcapes however are per⯑fect, as they want the accompaniments of fore-grounds.

At Mr. Lenthal's, in Burford, we admired a capital picture of the family of the Mores, which is ſaid to be Holbein's; and appeared to us intirely in that maſter's ſtyle. But Mr. Walpole thinks it is not an original; and ſays he found a date upon it, ſubſequent to the death of that maſter. It is however a good picture of it's kind. It contains eleven figures—Sir Thomas More, and his father; two young ladies, and other branches of the family. The heads are as expreſſive, as the compoſition is formal. The judge is marked with the character of a dry, facetious, ſenſible, [5]old man. The chancellor is handed down to us in hiſtory, both as a chearful philoſopher; and as a ſevere inquiſitor. His countenance here has much of that eagerneſs, and ſtern attention, which remind us of the latter. The ſubject of this piece ſeems to be a diſ⯑pute between the two young ladies; and alludes probably to ſome well-known family ſtory.

Indeed every family-picture ſhould be found⯑ed on ſome little ſtory, or domeſtic incident, which, in a degree, ſhould engage the at⯑tention of all the figures. It would be in⯑vidious perhaps to tax Vandyck on this head: but if the truth might be ſpoken, I could mention ſome of his family pictures, which, if the ſweetneſs of his colouring, and the elegant ſimplicity of his airs, and attitudes, did not make us forget all faults, would ap⯑pear only like ſo many diſtinct portraits, ſtuck together on the ſame canvas. It would be equally invidious to omit mentioning a modern maſter, now at the head of his profeſſion^*, whoſe great fertility of invention in employing [6]the figures of his family-pictures, is not among the leaſt of his many excellences.

The country from Burford is high, and downy. A valley, on the right, kept pace with us; through which flows the Windruſh; not indeed an object of ſight; but eaſily traced along the meadows by pollard-willows, and a more luxuriant vegetation.

At Barrington we had a pleaſing view, through an opening on the foreground.

About North-leach the road grows very diſagreeable. Nothing appears, but downs on each ſide; and theſe often divided by ſtone walls, the moſt offenſive ſeparation of pro⯑perty.

From the neighbourhood of London, we had now purſued our journey through a tract of country, almoſt uniformly riſing, tho by im⯑perceptible degrees, into the heart of Gloceſ⯑terſhire; [7]till at length we found ourſelves on the ridge of Coteſwold.

The county of Gloceſter is divided into three capital parts—the Wolds, or high downy grounds towards the eaſt—the vale of Severn in the middle—and the foreſt of Dean, towards the weſt. The firſt of theſe tracts of country we had been traverſing from our entrance into Gloceſterſhire: and the ridge we now ſtood on, made the extremity of it. Here the heights which we had been aſcending by ſuch imper⯑ceptible degrees, that we hardly ever perceived the aſcent, at length broke down abruptly into the lower grounds; and a vaſt ſtretch of diſtant country appeared at once before the eye.

I know not that I was ever more ſtruck with the ſingularity, and grandeur of any landſcape. Nature generally brings different countries together in ſome eaſy mode of connection. If ſhe raiſe the grounds on one ſide by a long aſcent, ſhe commonly unites them with the country on the other, in the ſame eaſy manner. Such ſcenes we view without wonder, or emotion. We glide without obſervation, from the near grounds into the more diſtant. All is gradual, and eaſy. But when nature works in the bold, and ſingular ſtile of compoſition, [8]in which ſhe works here—when ſhe raiſes a country through a progreſs of a hundred miles; and then breaks it down at once by an abrupt precipice into an expanſive vale, we are im⯑mediately ſtruck with the novelty, and grandeur of the ſcene.

It was the vale of Severn, which was ſpread before us. Perhaps no where in England a diſtance ſo rich, and at the ſame time ſo exten⯑ſive, can be found. We had a view of it almoſt from one end to the other; winding through the ſpace of many leagues in a direction nearly from weſt to north. The eye was loſt in the profuſion of objects, which were thrown at once before it; and ran wild, as it were, over the vaſt expanſe, with rapture, and aſtoniſh⯑ment, before it could compoſe itſelf enough to make any coherent obſervations.—At length we begin to examine the detail; and to ſeparate the vaſt immenſity before us into parts.

To the north, we looked up the vale, along the courſe of the Severn. The town of Chel⯑tenham lay below our feet, at the diſtance of two or three miles. The vale appeared af⯑terwards confined between the limits of Bre⯑don hills, on the right; and thoſe of Malvern on the left. Right between theſe in the mid⯑dle [9]of the vale lies Tewkſbury, boſomed in wood; the great church even at this diſtance makes a reſpectable appearance. A little to the right, but in diſtance very remote, we may ſee the towers of Worceſter, if the day be clear; eſpecially if ſome accidental gleam of light relieve them from the hills of Shrop⯑ſhire, which cloſe the ſcene.

To the weſt, we look toward Gloceſter. And here it is remarkable, that as the objects in the northern part of the vale are confined by the hills of Malvern, and Bredon, ſo in this view the vale is confined by two other hills; which tho inconſiderable in themſelves, give a character to the ſcene; and the more ſo as they are both inſulated. One of theſe hills is known by the name of Robin's-wood; the other by that of Church-down, from the ſingularity of a church ſeated on it's emi⯑nence. Between theſe hills the great object of the vale, is the city of Gloceſter; which appears riſing over rich woody ſcenes. Be⯑yond Gloceſter the eye ſtill purſues the vale into remote diſtance, till it unite with a range of mountains.

Still more to the weſt ariſes a diſtant foreſt-view, compoſed of the woods of the country [10]uniting with the foreſt of Dean. Of this view the principal feature is the mouth of the Severn, where it firſt begins to aſſume a character of grandeur by mixing with the ocean. A ſmall portion only of it is ſeen ſtretching in an acute angle over the wood. But the eye, uſed to perſpective, ſeeing ſuch a body of water, ſmall as it appears, wearing any determined form at ſuch diſtance, gives it cre⯑dit for it's full magnitude. The Welch mountains alſo, which riſe beyond the Severn, contribute to raiſe the idea: for by forming an even horizontal line along the edge of the water, they give it the appearance of what it really is, an arm of the ſea.

Having thus taken a view of the vaſt expanſe of the vale of Severn from the extremity of the deſcent of Coteſwold; we had leiſure next to examine the grandeur of the deſcent it⯑ſelf; which forms a foreground not leſs ad⯑mirable than the diſtance. The lofty ridge, on which we ſtood, is of great extent; ſtretch⯑ing beyond the bounds of Gloceſterſhire, both towards the north, and towards the ſouth. It is not every where, we may ſuppoſe, of [11]equal beauty, height, and abruptneſs: but fine paſſages of landſcape, I have been told, abound in every part of it. The ſpot where we took this view, over the vale of Severn, is the high ground on Crickly-hill; which is a promontory ſtanding out in the vale, be⯑tween the villages of Leckhampton, and Bird⯑lip. Here the deſcent conſiſts of various rocky knolls, prominences, and abruptneſſes; among which a variety of roads wind down the ſteep towards different parts of the vale; and each of theſe roads, through it's whole varying progreſs, exhibits ſome beautiful view; diſcovering the vale either in whole, or in part, with every advantage of a pictureſque foreground.

Many of theſe precipices alſo are finely wooded. Some of the largeſt trees in the kingdom perhaps are to be ſeen in theſe parts. The Cheltenham oak, and an elm, not far from it, are trees, which curious travellers always inquire after.

Many of theſe hills, which incloſe the vale of Severn, on this ſide, furniſh landſcapes themſelves, without borrowing aſſiſtance from the vale. The woody vallies, which run wind⯑ing among them, preſent many pleaſing paſ⯑toral [12]ſcenes. The cloathing country about Stroud, is particularly diverſified in this way: tho many of theſe vallies are greatly injured in a pictureſque light, by becoming ſcenes of habitation, and induſtry. A cottage, a mill, or a hamlet among trees, may often add beauty to a rural ſcene: but when houſes are ſcattered through every part, the moral ſenſe can never make a convert of the pic⯑tureſque eye. Stroud-water valley eſpecially, which is one of the moſt beautiful of theſe ſcenes, has been deformed lately not only by a number of buildings, but by a canal, cut through the middle of it.

Among the curioſities of theſe high grounds, is the ſeven-well-head of the Thames. In a glen near the road, a few limpid ſprings, guſh⯑ing from a rock, give origin to this nobleſt of Engliſh rivers; tho I ſuppoſe ſeveral little ſtreams, in that diſtrict, might claim the honour with equal juſtice, if they could bring over opinion.

Nothing can give a ſtronger idea of the nature of the country I have been deſcribing, than this circumſtance of it's giving riſe to the Thames. On one ſide, within half a dozen miles below the precipice, the Severn [13]has arrived at ſo much conſequence, as to take it's level from the tides of the ocean: on the other, the Thames ariſing at our feet, does not arrive at that dignity, till it have performed a courſe of two hundred and fifty miles.

Having deſcended the heights of Crickley, the road, through the vale continues ſo level to Gloceſter, that we ſcarce ſaw the town, till we entered it.

The cathedral is of elegant Gothic on the outſide, but of heavy Saxon within: that is, theſe different modes of architecture prevail moſt in theſe different parts of the building. But in fact, the cathedral of Gloceſter is a compound of all the ſeveral modes, which have prevailed from the days of Henry the ſecond to thoſe of Henry the ſeventh, and may be ſaid to include, in one part or other, the whole hiſtory of ſacred architecture during that period. Many parts of it have been built in the times of the pureſt Gothic: and others, which have been originally Saxon, ap⯑pear plainly to have been altered into the Gothic; which was no uncommon practice. [14]A Grecian ſcreen is injudiciouſly introduced to ſeparate the choir. The cloiſters are light and airy.

As we leave the gates of Gloceſter, the view is pleaſing. A long ſtretch of meadow, filled with cattle, ſpreads into a foreground. Be⯑yond, is a ſcreen of wood, terminated by diſ⯑tant mountains; among which Malvern-hills make a reſpectable appearance. The road to Roſs, leads through a country, woody, rough, hilly, and pictureſque.

Roſs ſtands high, and commands many diſtant views; but that from the church-yard is the moſt admired; and is indeed very amu⯑ſing. It conſiſts of an eaſy ſweep of the Wye; and of an extenſive country beyond it. But it is not pictureſque. It is marked by no characteriſtic objects: it is broken into too many parts; and it is ſeen from too high a point. The ſpire of the church, which is the man of Roſs's heaven-directed ſpire, tapers beautifully. The inn, which was the []

[15]houſe he lived in, is known by the name of the man of Roſs's houſe.

At Roſs, we planned our voyage down the Wye to Monmouth; and provided a covered-boat, navigated by three men. Leſs ſtrength would have carried us down; but the labour is in rowing back.

SECT. II.

THE WYE takes it's riſe near the ſummit of Plinlimmon; and dividing the coun⯑ties of Radnor, and Brecknoc, paſſes through the middle of Herefordſhire. From thence becoming a ſecond boundary between Mon⯑mouth, and Gloceſterſhire, it falls into the Severn, a little below Chepſtow. To this place from Roſs, which is a courſe of near forty miles, it flows in a gentle, uninterrupt⯑ed ſtream; and adorns, through it's various reaches, a ſucceſſion of the moſt pictureſque ſcenes.

The beauty of theſe ſcenes ariſes chiefly from two circumſtances—the lofty banks of the river, and it's mazy courſe; both which are accurately obſerved by the poet, when he deſcribes the Wye, as ecchoing through it's [18] winding bounds^*. It could not well eccho, unleſs it's banks were both lofty and winding.

From theſe two circumſtances the views it exhibits, are of the moſt beautiful kind of perſpective; free from the formality of lines.

Every view on a river, thus circumſtanced, is compoſed of four grand parts; the area, which is the river itſelf; the two ſide-ſcreens, which are the oppoſite banks, and mark the perſpective; and the front-ſcreen, which points out the winding of the river.

If the Wye ran, like a Dutch canal, be⯑tween parallel banks there could be no front-ſcreen: the two ſide-ſcreens, in that ſituation, would lengthen to a point.

If a road were under the circumſtance of a river winding like the Wye, the effect would be the ſame. But this is rarely the caſe. The road purſues the irregularity of the coun⯑try. It climbs the hill; and ſinks into the [19]valley: and this irregularity gives the view it exhibits, a different character.

The views on the Wye, tho compoſed only of theſe ſimple parts, are yet infinitely varied.

They are varied, firſt, by the contraſt of the ſcreens. Sometimes one of the ſide-ſcreens is elevated; ſometimes the other; and ſometimes the front. Or both the ſide-ſcreens may be lofty; and the front either high, or low.

Again, they are varied by the folding of the ſide-ſcreens over each other; and hiding more or leſs of the front. When none of the front is diſcovered, the folding-ſide either winds round, like an amphitheatre^*; or it becomes a long reach of perſpective.

[20]Theſe ſimple variations admit ſtill farther variety from becoming complex. One of the ſides may be compounded of various parts; while the other remains ſimple: or both may be compounded; and the front ſimple: or the front alone may be compounded.

Beſides theſe ſources of variety, there are other circumſtances, which, under the name of ornaments, ſtill farther increaſe them. Plain banks will admit all the variations we have yet mentioned: but when this plainneſs is adorned, a thouſand other varieties ariſe.

The ornaments of the Wye may be ranged under four heads—ground—wood—rocks—and buildings.

The ground, of which the banks of the Wye conſiſt, (and which hath thus far been conſidered only in it's general effect,) affords every variety, which ground is capable of receiving; from the ſteepeſt precipice, to the flatteſt meadow. This variety appears in the []

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[21]line formed by the ſummits of the banks; in the ſwellings, and excavations of their decli⯑vities; and in the unequal ſurfaces of the lower grounds.

In many places alſo the ground is broken; which adds new ſources of variety. By broken ground, we mean only ſuch ground, as hath loſt it's turf, and dicovers the naked ſoil. Often you ſee a gravelly earth ſhivering from the hills, in the form of water-falls: or per⯑haps you ſee dry, ſtony channels, guttering down precipices; the rough beds of temporary torrents: and ſometimes ſo trifling a cauſe, as the rubbing of ſheep againſt the ſides of little banks, or hillocs, will often occaſion very beautiful breaks.

The colour too of the broken ſoil is a great ſource of variety, the yellow, or the red oker; the aſhy grey; the black earth; or the marley blue. And the intermixtures of theſe with each other, and with patches of verdure, blooming heath, and other vegetable tints, ſtill increaſe that variety.

Nor let the faſtidious reader think, theſe remarks deſcend too much into detail. Were an extenſive diſtance deſcribed, a foreſt-ſcene, a ſea coaſt view, a vaſt ſemicircular range of [22]mountains, or ſome other grand diſplay of nature, it would be trifling to mark theſe minute circumſtances. But here the hills around exhibit little, except foregrounds; and it is neceſſary, where we have no diſtances, to be more exact in finiſhing objects at hand.

The next great ornament on the banks of the Wye, are it's woods. In this country there are many works carried on by fire; and the woods being maintained for their uſe, are periodically cut down. As the larger trees are generally left, a kind of alternacy takes place: what is, this year, a thicket; may, the next, be an open grove. The woods themſelves poſſeſs little beauty, and leſs gran⯑deur; yet, when we conſider them as the ornamental, not as the eſſential parts, of a ſcene; the eye muſt not examine them with exactneſs; but compound for a general effect.

One circumſtance, attending this alternacy, is pleaſing. Many of the furnaces, on the banks of the river, conſume charcoal, which is manufactured on the ſpot; and the ſmoke, which is frequently ſeen iſſuing from the ſides of the hills; and ſpreading it's thin veil over [23]a part of them, beautifully breaks their lines, and unites them with the ſky.

The chief deficiency, in point of wood, is of large trees on the edge of the water; which, clumped here and there, would di⯑verſify the hills, as the eye paſſes them; and remove that heavineſs, which always, in ſome degree, (tho here as little as any where) ariſes from the continuity of ground. They would alſo give a degree of diſtance to the more removed parts; which in a ſcene like this, would be attended with peculiar advantage: for as we have here ſo little diſtance, we wiſh to make the moſt of what we have.—But trees immediately on the foreground cannot be ſuffered in theſe ſcenes; as they would obſtruct the navigation of the river.

The rocks, which are continually ſtarting through the woods, produce another ornament on the banks of the Wye. The rock, as all other objects, tho more than all, receives it's chief beauty from contraſt. Some objects, are beautiful in themſelves. The eye is pleaſed with the tuftings of a tree: it is amuſed with purſuing the eddying ſtream; or it reſts with [24]delight on the ſhattered arches of a Gothic ruin. Such objects, independent of compo⯑ſition, are beautiful in themſelves. But the rock, bleak, naked, and unadorned, ſeems ſcarcely to deſerve a place among them. Tint it with moſſes, and lychens of various hues, and you give it a degree of beauty. Adorn it with ſhrubs and hanging herbage, and you ſtill make it more pictureſque. Connect it with wood, and water, and broken ground; and you make it in the higheſt degree inter⯑eſting. It's colour, and it's form are ſo accom⯑modating, that it generally blends into one of the moſt beautiful appendages of landſcape.

Different kinds of rocks have different de⯑grees of beauty. Thoſe on the Wye, which are of a greyiſh colour, are in general, ſimple, and grand; rarely formal, or fantaſtic. Some⯑times they project in thoſe beautiful ſquare maſſes, yet broken and ſhattered in every line, which is characteriſtic of the moſt majeſtic ſpecies of rock. Sometimes they ſlant obliquely from the eye in ſhelving dia⯑gonal ſtrata: and ſometimes they appear in large maſſes of ſmooth ſtone, detached from each other, and half buried in the ſoil. Rocks [25]of this laſt kind are the moſt lumpiſh, and the leaſt pictureſque.

The various buildings, which ariſe every where on the banks of the Wye, form the laſt of it's ornaments; abbeys, caſtles, villages, ſpires, forges, mills, and bridges. One or other of theſe venerable veſtiges of paſt, or cheerful habitations of preſent times, cha⯑racterize almoſt every ſcene.

Theſe works of art are however of much greater uſe in artificial, than in natural land⯑ſcape. In purſuing the beauties of nature, we range at large among foreſts, lakes, rocks, and mountains. The various ſcenes we meet with, furniſh an inexhauſted ſource of plea⯑ſure. And tho the works of art may often give animation and contraſt to theſe ſcenes; yet ſtill they are not neceſſary. We can be amuſed without them. But when we intro⯑duce a ſcene on canvas—when the eye is to be confined within the frame of a picture, and can no longer range among the varieties of nature; the aids of art become more ne⯑ceſſary; and we want the caſtle, or the [26]abbey, to give conſequence to the ſcene. In⯑deed the landſcape-painter ſeldom thinks his view perfect, without characterizing it by ſome object of this kind.

SECT. III.

HAVING thus analyzed the Wye, and conſidered ſeparately it's conſtituent parts—the ſteepneſs of it's banks—it's mazy courſe—the ground, woods, and rocks, which are it's native ornaments—and the buildings, which ſtill farther adorn it's natural beauties; we ſhall now take a view of ſome of thoſe delightful ſcenes, which reſult from the com⯑bination of all theſe pictureſque materials.

I muſt however premiſe, how ill-qualified I am to do juſtice to the banks of the Wye, were it only from having ſeen them under the circumſtance of a continued rain; which began early in the day, before one third of our voyage was performed.

[28]It is true, ſcenery at hand ſuffers leſs under ſuch a circumſtance, than ſcenery at a diſtance; which it totally obſcures.

The pictureſque eye alſo, in queſt of beauty, finds it almoſt in every incident, and under every appearance of nature. Her works, and all her works, muſt ever, in ſome degree, be beautiful. Even the rain gave a gloomy grandeur to many of the ſcenes; and by throwing a veil of obſcurity over the removed banks of the river, introduced, now and then, ſomething like a pleaſing diſtance. Yet ſtill it hid greater beauties; and we could not help regretting the loſs of thoſe broad lights, and deep ſhadows, which would have given ſo much luſtre to the whole; and which, ground like this, is, in a peculiar manner, adapted to receive.

The firſt part of the river from Roſs, is tame. The banks are low; and there is ſcarce an object worth attention, except the ruins of Wilton-caſtle, which appear on the left, ſhrouded with a few trees. But the ſcene wants accompaniments to give it gran⯑deur.

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[29]The bank however ſoon began to ſwell on the right, and was richly adorned with wood. We admired it much; and alſo the vivid images reflected from the water; which were continually diſturbed, as we ſailed paſt them; and thrown into tremulous confuſion, by the daſhing of our oars. A diſturbed ſurface of water endeavouring to collect it's ſcattered images; and reſtore them to order, is among the pretty appearances of nature.

We met with nothing, for ſome time, du⯑ring our voyage, but theſe grand woody banks, one riſing behind another; appearing, and vaniſhing, by turns, as we doubled the ſeveral capes. But tho no particular objects marked and characterized theſe different ſcenes; yet they afforded great variety of beautiful per⯑ſpective views, as we wound round them; or ſtretched through the reaches, which they marked along the river.

The channel of no river can be more de⯑ciſively marked, than that of the Wye. Who [30]hath divided a water-courſe for the flowing of rivers? ſaith the Almighty in that grand apoſtrophe to Job on the works of creation. The idea is happily illuſtrated here. A nobler water-courſe was never divided for any river, than this of the Wye. Rivers, in general, purſue a devious courſe along the countries, through which they flow; and form channels for themſelves by conſtant fluxion. But ſome⯑times, as in theſe ſcenes, we ſee a channel marked with ſuch preciſion; that it appears as if originally intended only for the bed of a river.

After ſailing four miles from Roſs, we came to Goodrich-caſtle; where a grand view preſented itſelf; and we reſted on our oars to examine it. A reach of the river, forming a noble bay, is ſpread before the eye. The bank, on the right, is ſteep, and covered with wood; beyond which a bold promon⯑tory ſhoots out, crowned with a caſtle, riſing among trees.

This view, which is one of the grandeſt on the river, I ſhould not ſcruple to call []

[31] correctly pictureſque; which is ſeldom the cha⯑racter of a purely natural ſcene.

Nature is always great in deſign. She is an admirable colouriſt alſo; and harmonizes tints with infinite variety, and beauty. But ſhe is ſeldom ſo correct in compoſition, as to produce an harmonious whole. Either the foreground, or the background, is diſpropor⯑tioned: or ſome awkward line runs acroſs the piece: or a tree is ill-placed: or a bank is formal: or ſomething or other is not exactly what it ſhould be. The caſe is, the immen⯑ſity of nature is beyond human comprehenſion. She works on a vaſt ſcale; and, no doubt, harmoniouſly, if her ſchemes could be com⯑prehended. The artiſt, in the mean time, is confined to a ſpan; and lays down his little rules, which he calls the principles of pictureſque beauty, merely to adapt ſuch dimi⯑nutive parts of nature's ſurfaces to his own eye, as come within it's ſcope.

Hence therefore, the painter, who adheres ſtrictly to the compoſition of nature, will rarely make a good picture. His picture muſt con⯑tain a whole: his archetype is but a part.

In general however he may obtain views of ſuch parts of nature, as with the addition [32]of a few trees; or a little alteration in the foreground, (which is a liberty, that muſt always be allowed) may be adapted to his rules; though he is rarely ſo fortunate as to find a landſcape completely ſatisfactory to him. In the ſcenery indeed at Goodrich-caſtle the parts are few; and the whole is a very ſimple exhibition. The complex ſcenes of nature are generally thoſe, which the artiſt finds moſt refractory to his rules of compoſition.

In following the courſe of the Wye, which makes here one of it's boldeſt ſweeps, we were carried almoſt round the caſtle, ſurveying it in a variety of forms. Many of theſe re⯑troſpects are good; but, in general, the caſtle loſes, on this ſide, both it's own dignity, and the dignity of it's ſituation.

The views from the caſtle, were mentioned to us, as worth examining: but the rain was now ſet in, and would not permit us to land.

As we leave Goodrich-caſtle, the banks, on the left, which had hitherto contributed leſs [33]to entertain us, began now principally to attract our attention; rearing themſelves gra⯑dually into grand ſteeps; ſometimes covered with thick woods; and ſometimes forming vaſt concave ſlopes of mere verdure; unadorned, except here and there, by a ſtraggling tree: while the flocks, which hung browzing upon them, ſeen from the bottom, were diminiſhed into white ſpecks.

The view at Rure-dean-church unfolds itſelf next; which is a ſcene of great grandeur. Here, both ſides of the river are ſteep, and both woody; but in one the woods are in⯑termixed with rocks. The deep umbrage of the foreſt of Dean occupies the front; and the ſpire of the church riſes among the trees. The reach of the river, which exhibits this ſcene, is long; and, of courſe, the view, which is a noble piece of natural perſpective, continues ſome time before the eye: but when the ſpire comes directly in front, the grandeur of the landſcape is gone.

[34]The ſtone-quarries, on the right, from which the bridge of Briſtol was built; and, on the left, the furnaces of Biſhop's-wood, vary the ſcene, tho they are objects of no great importance in themſelves.

For ſome time, both ſides of the river continue ſteep and beautiful. No particular object indeed characterizes either: but here nature characterizes her own ſcenes. We admire the infinite variety, with which ſhe ſhapes, and adorns, theſe vaſt concave, and convex forms. We admire alſo that varied touch, with which ſhe expreſſes every object.

Here we ſee one great diſtinction between her painting, and that of all her copyiſts. Artiſts univerſally are manneriſts in a certain degree. Each has his particular mode of forming particular objects. His rocks, his trees, his figures are caſt in one mould: at leaſt they poſſeſs only a varied ſameneſs. Ruben's figures are all full-fed: Salvator's, ſpare, and long-legged.

[35]The artiſt alſo diſcovers as little variety in filling up the ſurfaces of bodies, as he does in delineating their forms. You ſee the ſame touch, or ſomething like it, univerſally prevail; tho applied to different ſubjects.

In every part of painting except execution, an artiſt may be aſſiſted by the labours of thoſe, who have gone before him. He may improve his ſkill in compoſition—in light and ſhade—in perſpective—in grace and ele⯑gance; that is, in all the ſcientific parts of his art: but with regard to execution, he muſt ſet up on his own ſtock. A manneriſt, I fear, he muſt be. If he get a manner of his own, he may be an agreeable manneriſt: but if he copy another's, he will certainly be a formal one. The more cloſely he copies nature, the better chance he has of being free from this general defect.

At Lidbroke is a large wharf, where coals are ſhipped for Hereford, and other places. Here the ſcene is new, and pleaſing. All has thus far been grandeur, and tranquillity. It is now life, and buſtle. A road runs dia⯑gonally along the bank; and horſes, and carts [36]appear paſſing to the ſmall veſſels, which lie againſt the wharf, to receive their burdens. Cloſe behind, a rich, woody hill hangs ſloping over the wharf, and forms a grand back⯑ground to the whole. The contraſt of all this buſineſs, the engines uſed in lading, and unlading, together with the ſolemnity of the ſcene, produce all together a pictureſque aſ⯑ſemblage. The ſloping hill is the front-ſcreen; the two ſide-ſcreens are low.

The front ſoon becomes a lofty ſide-ſcreen on the left; and ſweeping round the eye at Welſh-Bicknor, forms a noble amphitheatre.

At Cold-well, the front-ſcreen firſt appears as a woody hill, ſwelling to a point. In a few minutes, it changes it's ſhape, and the woody hill becomes a lofty ſide-ſcreen, on the right; while the front unfolds itſelf into a majeſtic piece of rock-ſcenery.

Here we ſhould have gone on ſhore, and walked to the New-Weir, which by land is [37]only a mile; though by water, I believe, it is three times as far. This walk would have afforded us, we were informed, ſome very noble river-views: Nor ſhould we have loſt any thing by relinquiſhing the water; which in this part was unintereſting.

The whole of this information we ſhould probably have found true; if the weather had permitted us to have profitted by it. The latter part of it was certainly well-founded: for the water-views, in this part, were very tame. We left the rocks, and precipices behind; exchanging them for low-banks, and ſedges.

But the grand ſcenery ſoon returned. We approached it however gradually. The views at White-church were an introduction to it. Here we ſailed through a long reach of hills; whoſe ſloping ſides were covered with large, lumpiſh, detached ſtcones; which ſeemed, in a courſe of years, to have rolled from a girdle of rocks, that ſurrounds the upper regions of theſe high grounds on both ſides of the river; but particularly on the left.

[38]From theſe rocks we ſoon approached the New-Weir; which may be called the ſecond grand ſcene on the Wye.

The river is wider, than uſual, in this part; and takes a ſweep round a towering pro⯑montory of rock; which forms the ſide-ſcreen on the left; and is the grand feature of the view. It is not a broad, fractured face of rock; but rather a woody hill, from which large projections, in two or three places, burſt out; rudely hung with twiſting branches, and ſhaggy furniture; which, like mane round the lion's head, give a more ſavage air to theſe wild exhibitions of nature. Near the top a pointed fragment of ſolitary rock, riſing above the reſt, has rather a fantaſtic ap⯑pearance: but it is not without it's effect in marking the ſcene.

A great matter in landſcape has adorned an imaginary view with a circumſtance exactly ſimilar:

[]

[39]On the right ſide of the river, the bank forms a woody amphitheatre, following the courſe of the ſtream round the promontory. It's lower ſkirts are adorned with a hamlet; in the midſt of which, volumes of thick ſmoke, thrown up at intervals, from an iron-forge, as it's fires receive freſh fuel, add double grandeur to the ſcene.

But what peculiarly marks this view, is a circumſtance on the water. The whole river, at this place, makes a precipitate fall; of no great height indeed; but enough to merit the title of a caſcade: tho to the eye above the ſtream, it is an object of no conſequence. In all the ſcenes we had yet paſſed, the water moving with a ſlow, and ſolemn pace, the objects around kept time, as it were, with it; and every ſteep, and every rock, which hung over the river, was ſolemn, tranquil, and ma⯑jeſtic. But here, the violence of the ſtream, and the roaring of the waters, impreſſed a new character on the ſcene: all was agitation, and uproar; and every ſteep, and every rock ſtared with wildneſs, and terror.

[40]A fiſhing-boat is uſed in this part of the river, which is curious. It is conſtructed of waxed canvas, ſtretched over a few ſlight ribs; and holds only a ſingle man. It is called a coricle; and is derived probably, as it's name imports, from the ancient boat, which was formed of leather.

An adventrous fellow, for a wager, once navigated a coricle as far as the iſle of Lundy, at the mouth of the Briſtol-channel. A full fortnight, or more, he ſpent in this dangerous voyage; and it was happy for him, that it was a fortnight of ſerene weather. Many a current, and many an eddy; many a flowing tide, and many an ebbing one, afforded him occaſion to exert all his ſkill, and dexterity. Sometimes his little bark was carried far to leeward; and ſometimes as far to windward: but ſtill he recovered his courſe; perſevered in his under⯑taking; and at length happily atchieved it. When he returned to the New-Weir, report ſays, the account of his expedition was received like a voyage round the world.

[41]Below the New-Weir are other rocky views of the ſame kind, though leſs beautiful. But deſcription flags in running over ſuch a monotony of terms. High, low, ſteep, woody, rocky, and a few others, are all the colours of language we have, to deſcribe ſcenes; in which there are infinite gradations; and, amidſt ſome general ſameneſs, infinite pe⯑culiarities.

After we had paſſed a few of theſe ſcenes, the hills gradually deſcend into Monmouth; which lies too low to make any appearance from the water: but on landing, we found it a pleaſant town, and neatly built. The town⯑houſe, and church, are both handſome.

The tranſmutations of time are often ludicrous. Monmouth-caſtle was formerly the palace of a king; and birth-place of a mighty prince: it is now converted into a yard for fatting ducks.

The ſun had ſet before we arrived at Mon⯑mouth. Here we met our chaiſe: but, on [42]enquiry, finding a voyage more likely to produce amuſement, than a journey, we made a new agreement with our bargemen; and embarked again, the next morning.

[]

SECT. IV.

AS we left Monmouth, the banks, on the left, were, at firſt, low; but on both ſides they ſoon grew ſteep, and woody; varying their ſhapes, as they had done the day before. The moſt beautiful of theſe ſcenes is in the neighbourhood of St. Breval's caſtle; where the vaſt, woody declivities, on each hand, are uncommonly magnificent. The caſtle is at too great a diſtance to make any object in the view.

The weather was now ſerene: the ſun ſhone; and we ſaw enough of the effect of light, in the exhibitions of this day, to regret the want of it the day before.

[44]During the whole courſe of our voyage from Roſs, we had ſcarce ſeen one corn-field. The banks of the Wye conſiſt, almoſt entirely either of wood, or of paſturage; which I mention as a circumſtance of peculiar value in landſcape. Furrowed-lands, and waving-corn, however charming in paſtoral poetry, are ill-accommo⯑dated to painting. The painter never deſires the hand of art to touch his grounds.—But if art muſt ſtray among them—if it muſt mark out the limits of property, and turn them to the uſes of agriculture; he wiſhes, that theſe limits may, as much as poſſible, be concealed; and that the lands they circumſcribe, may approach, as nearly as may be, to nature—that is, that they may be paſturage. Paſturage not only preſents an agreeable ſurface: but the cattle, which graze it, add great variety, and animation to the ſcene.

The meadows, below Monmouth, which ran ſhelving from the hills to the water-ſide, were particularly beautiful, and well-inhabited. Flocks of ſheep were every where hanging on their green ſteeps; and herds of cattle occu⯑pying the lower grounds. We often failed paſt groups of them laving their ſides in the []

[45]water: or retiring from the heat under ſheltered banks.

In this part of the river alſo, which now begins to widen, we were often entertained with light veſſels gliding paſt us. Their white ſails paſſing along the ſides of woodland hills were very pictureſque.

In many places alſo the views were varied by the proſpect of bays, and harbours in mi⯑niature; where little barks lay moored, taking in ore, and other commodities from the moun⯑tains. Theſe veſſels, deſigned plainly for rougher water, than they at preſent incountred, ſhewed us, without any geographical know⯑ledge, that we approached the ſea.

From Monmouth we reached, by a late breakfaſt-hour, the noble ruin of Tintern⯑abbey; which belongs to the Duke of Beaufort; and is eſteemed, with its appendages, the moſt beautiful and pictureſque view on the river.

[46]Caſtles, and abbeys have different ſituations, agreeable to their reſpective uſes. The caſtle, meant for defence, ſtands boldly on the hill; the abbey, intended for meditation, is hid in the ſequeſtered vale.

Such is the ſituation of Tintern-abbey. It occupies a gentle eminence in the middle of a circular valley, beautifully ſcreened on all ſides by woody hills; through which the river winds it's courſe; and the hills, cloſing on it's en⯑trance, and on it's exit, leave no room for inclement blaſts to enter. A more pleaſing retreat could not eaſily be found. The woods, and glades intermixed; the winding of the river; the variety of the ground; the ſplendid ruin, contraſted with the objects of nature; and the elegant line formed by the ſummits of the hills, which include the whole; make all together a very inchanting piece of ſcenery. []

[]

[47]Every thing around breathes an air ſo calm, and tranquil; ſo ſequeſtered from the commerce of life; that it is eaſy to conceive, a man of warm imagination, in monkiſh times, might have been allured by ſuch a ſcene to become an inhabitant of it.

No part of the ruins of Tintern is ſeen from the river, except the abbey-church. It has been an elegant Gothic pile; but it does not make that appearance as a diſtant object, which we expected. Tho the parts are beautiful, the whole is ill-ſhaped. No ruins of the tower are left, which might give form, and contraſt to the buttreſſes, and walls. Inſtead of this, a number of gabel-ends hurt the eye with their regularity; and diſguſt it by the vulgarity of their ſhape. A mallet judiciouſly uſed (but who durſt uſe it?) might be of ſervice in fracturing ſome of them; particularly thoſe of the croſs iſles, which are not only diſagreeable in themſelves, but confound the perſpective.

But were the building ever ſo beautiful, incompaſſed as it is with ſhabby houſes, it could make no appearance from the river. From a ſtand near the road, it is ſeen to more advantage.

[48]But if Tintern-abbey be leſs ſtriking as a diſtant object, it exhibits, on a nearer view, (when the whole together cannot be ſeen, but the eye ſettles on ſome of it's nobler parts,) a very inchanting piece of ruin. Nature has now made it her own. Time has worn off all traces of the rule: it has blunted the ſharp edges of the chiſſel; and broken the regularity of oppoſing parts. The figured ornaments of the eaſt-window are gone; thoſe of the weſt-window are left. Moſt of the other windows, with their principal ornaments, remain.

To theſe were ſuperadded the ornaments of time. Ivy, in maſſes uncommonly large, had taken poſſeſſion of many parts of the wall; and given a happy contraſt to the grey-coloured ſtone, of which the building is compoſed. Nor was this undecorated. Moſſes of various hues, with lychens, maiden-hair, penny-leaf, and other humble plants, had over-ſpread the ſurface; or hung from every joint, and crevice. Some of them were in flower, others only in leaf; but all together gave thoſe full-blown tints, which add the richeſt finiſhing to a ruin.

Such is the beautiful appearance, which Tintern-abbey exhibits on the outſide in thoſse [49]parts, where we can obtain a near view of it. But when we enter it, we ſee it in moſt perfec⯑tion: at leaſt, if we conſider it as an independent object, unconnected with landſcape. The roof is gone: but the walls, and pillars, and abutments, which ſupported it, are entire. A few of the pillars indeed have given way; and here and there, a piece of the facing of he wall: but in correſpondent parts, one always remains to tell the ſtory. The pave⯑ment is obliterated: the elevation of the choir is no longer viſible: the whole area is reduced to one level; cleared of rubbiſh; and covered with neat turf, cloſely ſhorn; and interrupted with nothing, but the noble columns, which formed the iſles, and ſupported the tower.

When we ſtood at one end of this awful piece of ruin; and ſurveyed the whole in one view—the elements of air, and earth, it's only covering, and pavement; and the grand, and venerable remains, which terminated both—perfect enough to form the perſpective; yet broken enough to deſtroy the regularity; the eye was above meaſure delighted with the beauty, the greatneſs, and the novelty of the ſcene. More pictureſque it certainly would have been, if the area, unadorned, had been [50]left with all it's rough fragments of ruin ſcat⯑tered round; and bold was the hand that removed them: yet as the outſide of the ruin, which is the chief object of pictureſque curioſity, is ſtill left in all it's wild, and native rudeneſs; we excuſe—perhaps we approve—the neatneſs, that is introduced within. It may add to the beauty of the ſcene—to it's novelty it undoubt⯑edly does.

Among other things in this ſcene of de⯑ſolation, the poverty and wretchedneſs of the inhabitants were remarkable. They occupy little huts, raiſed among the ruins of the monaſtery; and ſeem to have no employment, but begging: as if a place, once devoted to indolence, could never again become the ſeat of induſtry. As we left the abbey, we found the whole hamlet at the gate, either openly ſoliciting alms; or covertly, under the pre⯑tence of carrying us to ſome part of the ruins, which each could ſhew; and which was far ſuperior to any thing, which could be ſhewn by any one elſe. The moſt lucrative occaſion could not have excited more jealouſy, and contention.

[51]One poor woman we followed, who had engaged to ſhew us the monk's library. She could ſcarce crawl; ſhuffling along her palſied limbs, and meager, contracted body, by the help of two ſticks. She led us, through an old gate, into a place overſpread with nettles, and briars; and pointing to the remnant of a ſhattered cloiſter, told us, that was the place. It was her own manſion. All indeed ſhe meant to tell us, was the ſtory of her own wretchedneſs; and all ſhe had to ſhew us, was her own miſerable habitation. We did not expect to be intereſted: but we found we were. I never ſaw ſo loathſome a human dwelling. It was a cavity, loftily vaulted, between two ruined walls; which ſtreamed with various-coloured ſtains of unwholeſome dews. The floor was earth; yielding, through moiſture, to the tread. Not the mereſt uten⯑ſil, or furniture of any kind appeared, but a wretched bedſtead, ſpread with a few rags, and drawn into the middle of the cell, to prevent it's receiving the damp, which trickled down the walls. At one end was an aperture; which ſerved juſt to let in light enough to diſcover the wretchedneſs within.—When we ſtood in the midſt of this cell of miſery; [52]and felt the chilling damps, which ſtruck us in every direction, we were rather ſurpriſed, that the wretched inhabitant was ſtill alive; than that ſhe had only loſt the uſe of her limbs.

The country about Tintern-abbey hath been deſcribed as a ſolitary, tranquil ſcene: but it's immediate environs only are meant. With⯑in half a mile of it are carried on great iron⯑works; which introduce noiſe and buſtle into theſe regions of tranquillity.

The ground, about theſe works, appears from the river to conſiſt of grand woody hills, ſweeping, and interſecting each other, in ele⯑gant lines. They are a continuation of the ſame kind of landſcape, as that about Tintern-abbey; and are fully equal to it.

As we ſtill deſcend the river, the ſame ſcenery continues. The banks are equally ſteep, winding, and woody; and in ſome parts diverſified by prominent rocks, and ground finely broken, and adorned.

[53]But one great diſadvantage began here to invade us. Hitherto the river had been clear, and ſplendid; reflecting the ſeveral objects on it's banks. But it's waters now became ouzy, and diſcoloured. Sludgy ſhores too appeared, on each ſide; and other ſymptoms, which diſcovered the influence of a tide.

SECT. V.

MR. Morris's improvements at Persfield, which we ſoon approached, are gene⯑rally thought as much worth a traveller's no⯑tice, as any thing on the banks of the Wye. We puſhed on ſhore cloſe under his rocks; and the tide being at ebb, we landed with ſome difficulty on an ouzy beach. One of our bargemen, who knew the place, ſerved as a guide; and under his conduct we climbed the ſteep by an eaſy, regular zig-zag; and gained the top.

The eminence, on which we ſtood, (one of thoſe grand eminences, which overlooks the Wye,) is an intermixture of rock, and wood; and forms, in this place, a concave ſemicircle; ſweeping round in a ſegment of two miles. The river winds under it; and the ſcenery, of courſe, is ſhewn in various [56]directions. The river itſelf indeed, as we juſt obſerved, is charged with the impurities of the ſoil it waſhes; and when it ebbs, it's verdant banks become ſlopes of mud: but if we except theſe diſadvantages, the ſituation of Persfield is noble.

Little indeed was left for improvement, but to open walks, and views, through the woods, to the various objects around them. All this the ingenious proprietor hath done with great judgment; and hath ſhewn his rocks, his woods, and his precipices, under various forms; and to great advantage. Some⯑times a broad face of rock is preſented, ſtretch⯑ing along a vaſt ſpace, like the walls of a citadel. Sometimes it is broken by interven⯑ing trees. In other parts, the rocks riſe above the woods; a little farther, they ſink below them: ſometimes, they are ſeen through them; and ſometimes one ſeries of rocks appears riſing above another: and tho many of theſe objects are repeatedly ſeen, yet ſeen from dif⯑ferent ſtations, and with new accompaniments, they appear new. The winding of the pre⯑cipice is the magical ſecret, by which all theſe inchanting ſcenes are produced.

[57]We cannot however call theſe views pic⯑tureſque. They are either preſented from too high a point; or they have little to mark them as characteriſtic; or they do not fall into ſuch compoſition, as would appear to advantage on canvas. But they are extremely romantic; and give a looſe to the moſt pleaſing riot of imagination.

Theſe views are chiefly ſhewn from different ſtands in a cloſe walk, carried along the brow of the precipice. It would be invidious per⯑haps to remark a degree of tediouſneſs in this walk; and too much ſameneſs in many of the views; notwithſtanding the general variety, which inlivens them: but the intention pro⯑bably is not yet complete; and many things are meant to be hid, which are now too pro⯑fuſely ſhewn^*.

Having ſeen every thing on this ſide of the hill, the walks we purſued, led us over the ridge of it to the oppoſite ſide. Here the ground, depoſiting it's wild appearance, aſſumes a more civilized form. It conſiſts of a great [58]variety of lawns, intermixed with wood, and rock; and, tho it often riſes, and falls, yet it deſcends without any violence into the coun⯑try beyond it.

The views, on this ſide, are not the ro⯑mantic ſteeps of the Wye: but tho of another ſpecies, they are equally grand. They are chiefly diſtances, conſiſting of the vaſt waters of the Severn, here an arm of the ſea; bounded by a remote country—of the mouth of the Wye entering the Severn—and of the town of Chepſtow, and it's caſtle, and abbey. Of all theſe diſtant objects an admirable uſe is made; and they are ſhewn, (as the rocks of the Wye were on the other ſide) ſometimes in parts; and ſometimes all together. In one ſtation we had the ſcenery of both ſides of the hill at once.

It is a pity, the ingenious embelliſher of theſe ſcenes could not have been ſatisfied with the grand beauties of nature, which he com⯑manded. The ſhrubberies he has introduced in this part of his improvements, I fear, will rather be eſteemed paltry. As the embelliſh⯑ments of a houſe; or as the ornament of little ſcenes, which have nothing better to recom⯑mend them, a few flowering ſhrubs artfully [59]compoſed may have their elegance and beauty: but in ſcenes, like this, they are only ſplendid patches, which injure the grandeur, and ſim⯑plicity of the whole.

It is not the ſhrub, which offends: it is the formal introduction of it. Wild under⯑wood may be an appendage of the grandeſt ſcene. It is a beautiful appendage. A bed of violets, or lillies may enamel the ground, with propriety, at the root of an oak: but if you introduce them artificially in a border, you introduce a trifling formality; and diſ⯑grace the noble object, you wiſh to adorn.

From the ſcenes of Persfield we walked to Chepſtow; our barge drawing too much water to paſs the ſhallows, till the return of the tide. In this walk we wiſhed for more time, than we could command, to examine the romantic ſcenes which ſurrounded us: but we were obliged to return, that evening, to Monmouth.

[60]The road, at firſt, affords beautiful diſtant views of thoſe woody hills, which had en⯑tertained us on the banks of the Wye; and which appeared to as much advantage, when connected with the country, as they had already done in union with the river. But the coun⯑try ſoon loſes it's pictureſque form; and aſſumes a bleak unpleaſant wildneſs.

About ſeven miles from Chepſtow, we had an extenſive view into Wales, bounded by mountains very remote. But this view, tho much celebrated, has little, except the gran⯑deur of extenſion, to recommend it. And yet, it is poſſible, that in ſome lights it may be very pictureſque; and that we might only have had the misfortune to ſee it in an un⯑favourable one. Different lights make ſo great a change even in the compoſition of landſcape—at leaſt in the apparent compoſition of it, that they create a ſcene perfectly new. In diſtance eſpecially this is the cafe. Hills and vallies may be deranged; awkward abrupt⯑neſſes, and hollows introduced; and the effect [61]of woods, and caſtles, and all the ornamental detail of a country, loſt. On the other hand, theſe ingredients of landſcape may in reality be awkwardly introduced; yet through the magical influence of light, they may be altered, ſoftened, and rendered pleaſing.

In a mountainous country particularly, I have often ſeen, during the morning hours, a range of hills, rearing their ſummits, in ill-diſpoſed, fantaſtic ſhapes. In the af⯑ternoon, all this incorrect rudeneſs hath been removed; and each miſhapen ſummit hath ſoftened beautifully into ſome pleaſing form.

The different ſeaſons of the year alſo pro⯑duce the ſame effect. When the ſun rides high in ſummer; and when, in the ſame meridian, he juſt ſkirts the horizon in win⯑ter, he forms the mountain-tops, and indeed the whole face of a country, into very dif⯑ferent appearances.

Fogs alſo vary a diſtant country as much as light, ſoftening the harſh features of land⯑ſcape; and ſpreading over them a beautiful, grey, harmonizing tint.

[62]We remark further, on this ſubject, that ſcarce any landſcape will ſtand the teſt of different lights. Some ſearching ray, as the ſun veers round, will expoſe it's defects. And hence it is, that almoſt every landſcape is ſeen beſt under ſome peculiar illlumination—either of an evening, or of a morning, or, it may be, of a meridian, ſun.

During many miles we kept upon the heights; and, through a long, and gentle deſcent, approached Monmouth. Before we reached it we were benighted: but as far as we could judge of a country through the grey obſcurity of a ſummer-evening, this ſeemed to abound with many beautiful, woody val⯑lies among the hills, which we deſcended. A light of this kind, tho not ſo favourable to landſcape, is very favourable to the ima⯑gination. This active power embodies half-ſormed images; and gives exiſtence to the moſt illuſive ſcenes. Theſe it rapidly com⯑bines; and often compoſes landſcapes, perhaps more beautiful, than any, that exiſt in na⯑ture. They are formed indeed from nature—from the moſt beautiful of her ſcenes; [63]and having been treaſured up in the memory, are called into theſe imaginary creations by ſome diſtant reſemblances, which ſtrike the eye in the multiplicity of dubious ſurfaces, that float before it.

SECT. VI.

HAVING thus navigated the Wye be⯑tween Roſs, and Chepſtow, we had ſuch pleaſing accounts of it's beautiful ſcenery above Roſs, that if our time had permitted, we could have wiſhed to have explored it.

A journal however fell into my hands, (ſince the firſt edition of this book was print⯑ed) of a tour to the ſource of the Wye; and from thence through the midland counties of Wales; which I ſhall put into a little form; and making a few remarks on different parts of it, ſhall inſert here for the benefit of thoſe, who may have more time than we had.

From Roſs to Hereford the great road leaves the river, which is hardly once ſeen. But it is not probable, that much is loſt; for the whole country here has a tame appearance.

[66]The cathedral of Hereford conſiſts, in many parts, of rich Gothic. The weſt-front is falling faſt to decay, and is every year re⯑ceiving more the form of a fine ruin^*.

At Hereford we again meet the Wye; of which we have ſeveral beautiful views from the higher grounds. The road now follows the courſe of the river to the Hay; winding along it's northern banks.

About ſix miles from Hereford, and very little out of the road, ſtands Foxley. The form of the grounds about it, and the beautiful woods that ſurround it, are ſaid to be worth ſeeing. My journaliſt ſays it contains a choice collection of pictures; and ſome good drawings of landſcape by the late Mr. Price.

The ruins of Bradwardine-caſtle appear ſoon in view; tho but little of them remains. At a bridge near them you croſs the Wye, and now traverſe the ſouth-ſide of the river. The country, which had been greatly varied before, begins now to form bolder ſwells. Among theſe Mirebich-hill, which riſes full in front, continues ſome time before the eye, as a conſi⯑derable object.

[67]Leaving Witney-bridge on the right, you ſtill continue your courſe along the ſouthern bank of the river; and come ſoon in view of the ruins of Clyfford-caſtle; where tradition informs us, the celebrated Roſamond ſpent her early life.

Soon after, you arrive at the Hay; a town pleaſantly ſituated on the Wye. It was for⯑merly a Roman ſtation; and was long after⯑wards conſidered as a place of great ſtrength; being defended by a caſtle, and lofty walls, till Owen Glendouer laid it in aſhes in one of thoſe expeditions, in which he drove Harry Bullin-broke

If you have time to make a little excurſion, you will find about half way between the Hay, and Abergavenny, the ruins of Llan⯑tony-priory. Dugdale deſcribes it, in his Monaſticon, as a ſcene richly adorned with wood. But Dugdale lived a century ago; which is a term that will produce, or de⯑ſtroy, [68]the fineſt ſcenery. It has had the lat⯑ter effect here; for the woods about Llan⯑tony-priory are now totally deſtroyed; and the ruin is wholly naked, and deſolate.

After this excurſion, you return again to the Hay; and continue your rout to Bualt, ſtill on the ſouth ſide of the river.

On the north ſide, about four miles beyond the Hay, ſtands Maeſlough, the ancient ſeat of the Howarths. The houſe ſhews the ne⯑glect of it's poſſeſſor: but the ſituation is in it's kind perhaps one of the fineſt in Wales. The view from the hall-door is ſpoken of as wonderfully amuſing. A lawn extends to the river; which incircles it with a curve, at the diſtance of half a mile. The banks are in⯑riched with various objects; among which two bridges, with winding roads, and the tower of Glaſbury-church, ſurrounded by wood, are conſpicuous. A diſtant country equally inriched, fills the remote parts of the landſcape, which is terminated by mountains. One of the bridges in this view, that at Glaſbury, is remarkably light, and elegant, conſiſting of ſeveral arches.—How theſe various objects are brought [69]together, I know not. I ſhould fear there were too many of them.

As you continue your rout to Bualt, the country grows grander, and more pictureſque. The valley of the Wye becomes contracted, and the road runs at the bottom; along the edge of the water.

It is poſſible, I think, the Wye may in this place be more beautiful, than in any other part of it's courſe. Between Roſs, and Chep⯑ſtow, the grandeur, and beauty of it's banks are it's chief praiſe. The river itſelf has no other merit, than that of a winding ſurface of ſmooth water. But here, added to the ſame decoration from it's banks, the Wye itſelf aſſumes a more beautiful character; pouring over ſhelving rocks; and forming itſelf into eddies, and caſcades, which a ſolemn pa⯑rading ſtream through a flat channel, cannot exhibit.

An additional merit alſo accrues to ſuch a river from the different forms it aſſumes, ac⯑cording to the fullneſs, or emptineſs of the ſtream. There are rocks of all ſhapes, and ſizes; which always vary the appearance of the water, as it ruſhes over, or plays among [70]them: ſo that ſuch a river, to a pictureſque eye, is a continued fund of new entertainment.

The Wye alſo, in this part of it's courſe, ſtill receives farther beauty from the woods, which adorn it's banks; and which the na⯑vigation of the river, in it's lower reaches, cannot allow. Here the whole is perfectly rural, and unincumbered. Even a boat, I believe, is never ſeen beyond the Hay. The boat itſelf might be an ornament: but we would not give up for it ſuch a river, as would not ſuffer a boat.

Some beauties however the ſmooth river poſſeſſes above the rapid one. In the latter you cannot have thoſe reflections, which are ſo ornamental to the former.—Nor can you have in the rapid river, the opportunity of contemplating the grandeur of it's banks from the ſurface of the water—unleſs indeed the road winds cloſe with the river at the bot⯑tom, when perhaps you may ſee them with additional advantage.

The foundation of theſe criticiſms on ſmooth and agitated water, is this. When water is exhibited in ſmall quantities, it wants the agitation of a torrent, a caſcade, or ſome other adventitious circumſtance, to give it conſe⯑quence. [71]But when it is ſpread out in the reach of ſome capital river—in a lake—or an arm of the ſea—it is then able to ſupport it's own dignity. In the former caſe it aims at beauty: in the latter at grandeur. Now the Wye has in no part of it's courſe, a quantity of water ſufficient to give it any great degree of grandeur; ſo that of conſequence the ſmooth part muſt, on the whole, yield to the more agitated, which poſſeſſes more beauty.

In this wild inchanting country ſtands Llan⯑goed, the houſe of ſir Edward Williams. It is adorned, like the houſe at Foxley, with woods, and playing grounds: but is a ſcene totally different. Here however are finer trees, than thoſe at Foxley; which, when examined as individuals, appear to great advantage: tho my journaliſt has heard, that ſome of the fineſt of them have lately been cut down.

The road ſtill continues through the ſame beautiful country, along the banks of the Wye; and in a few miles farther brings you to Bualt. This town is ſeated in a pleaſant vale, ſurrounded with woods.

[72]A little beyond Bualt, where the river Irvon falls into the Wye, is a field, ſtill marked by tradition, in which Llewellin, the laſt prince of Wales, was put to death. Some hiſtorians ſay, he was killed in battle; but the tradi⯑tional account of his being killed near Bualt ſeems more probable; and that he fell by the hands of an aſſaſſin. When Edward invaded Wales, we are informed, that Llewellin had intrenched himſelf in the faſtneſſes of Snow⯑don. Here he might probably have foiled his adverſary: but ſome of his troops having been ſucceſsful againſt the earl of Surrey, one of Edward's generals, Llewellin came down from his ſtrong holds, with the hope of improving his advantage, and offered Edward battle. Llewellin was totally routed; and tra⯑dition ſays that in his flight into Glamorgan⯑ſhire, he ſlept the night before he was mur⯑dered, at Llechryd, which is now a farm⯑houſe. Here the farrier, who ſhod his horſe, knew him under his diſguiſe; and betrayed him to the people of Bualt, who put him to death; and are to this day ſtigmatized with [73]the name of Brad wyr y Bualht, or the trai⯑tors of Bualt.

At Bualt you croſs the Wye again, and now purſue your rout along the north ſide of the river. The ſame grand ſcenery con⯑tinues—lofty banks—woody vales—a rocky channel, and a rapid ſtream winding through it.

Soon after you come to the ſulphureous ſprings of Llanydrindod, which you leave on the right; and croſſing the river Ithon, you reach Rhaader; a town about thirteen miles beyond Bualt.—To a Welſhman the appear⯑ance of the Wye at Rhaader, need not to be deſcribed. The word ſignifies a waterfall. There is no caſcade indeed of conſequence near the place; but the river being pent up within cloſe rocky banks, and the channel being ſteep, the whole is a ſucceſſion of water-falls.

[74]As you leave Rhaader, you begin to ap⯑proach the ſources of the Wye. But the river having now loſt it's chief ſupplies, becomes more and more inſignificant; and as the country becomes wilder, and more mountain⯑ous; the ſcenery of the river is now diſpro⯑portioned. There is not a ſufficiency of water in the landſcape to balance the land.

Llangerig, which is about twelve miles from Rhaader, is the laſt village you find on the banks of the Wye. Soon after all ſigns of inhabitancy ceaſe. You begin to aſcend the ſkirts of Plinlimmon; and after riſing gradually about ten miles from Llangerig, you arrive at the ſources of a river, which through a courſe of ſo many leagues hath afforded you ſo much entertainment.

It is a ſingular circumſtance, that within a quarter of a mile of the well-head of the Wye, ariſes the Severn. The two ſprings are nearly alike: but the fortunes of rivers, like thoſe of men, are owing to various little cir⯑cumſtances, of which they take the advantage [75]in the early part of their courſe. The Severn meeting with a track of ground, riſing on the right, ſoon after it leaves Plinlimmon, receives a puſh towards the north-eaſt. In this direc⯑tion it continues it's courſe to Shrewſbury. There it meets another obſtruction, which turns it as far to the ſouth-eaſt. Afterwards ſtill meeting with favourable opportunities, it ſucceſsfully improves them; inlarging it's cir⯑cle; ſweeping from one country to another; receiving large acceſſions every where of wealth and grandeur; till at length with a full tide, it enters the ocean as an arm of the ſea.—In the mean time the Wye, meeting with no particular opportunities of any conſequence to improve it's fortunes, never makes any figure as a capital river; and at length becomes ſubſervient to that very Severn, whoſe birth, and early ſetting out in life, were exactly ſimilar to it's own.—Between theſe two rivers is comprehended a diſtrict, conſiſting of great part of the counties of Montgomery, Radnor, Salop, Worceſter, Hereford, and Gloceſter. Of the laſt county merely that beautiful portion is incloſed, which forms the foreſt of Dean.

[76]The country about Plinlimmon, vaſt, wild, and unfurniſhed, is neither adorned with ac⯑companiments, to be a ſcene of beauty: nor ſhould I ſuppoſe from the accounts I have received, that it's dreary waſtes could afford ſuch materials, as could form a ſcene of grandeur.—Tho grandeur conſiſt in ſimpli⯑city, it muſt take ſome form of landſcape; otherwiſe it is a ſhapeleſs waſte—monſtrous without proportions.—As there is nothing therefore in theſe inhoſpitable regions to de⯑tain you long; and no refreſhment to be had, except a draught of pure water from the fountains of the Wye, you will ſoon be in⯑clined to return to Rhaader.

From Rhaader my journal leads into Cardi⯑ganſhire. Croſſing the Wye you aſcend a very ſteep mountain, about ſeven miles over. Then ſkirting the banks of a ſweet little river, the Elan, which falls into the Wye, you paſs through a corner of Montgomeryſhire; which brings you to the verge of Cardiganſhire.

The paſſage into this county is rather tre⯑mendous. You ſtand on very high ground; and ſee extending far below, a long, narrow, [77]contracted valley. The perſpective, from the top gives it rather the appearance of a chaſm. Down one of the precipitous ſides of this valley, I underſtand, the road hurries you; while the river Iſtwith at the bottom is ready to receive you, if your foot ſhould ſlip, or your horſe ſtumble.

Having deſcended ſafely to the bottom of the valley; and having now paſſed through it, you croſs the river, at it's cloſe, over a handſome bridge; and arrive at the village of Pentre. Near this place is Havod, the ſeat of Mr. Johnes, member for Radnorſhire; which affords ſo much beautiful ſcenery, that you ſhould by no means paſs by it. It will open ſud⯑denly upon you, at the cloſe of a beautiful approach. The houſe is new; built in a ſtile I learn, between Gothic, and Mooriſh. It is a ſtyle of building I am not acquainted with; but I am informed it has a good effect. It is a large commodious manſion, richly furniſhed. One thing is worth obſerv⯑ing. Over the chimney of the dining-room is placed, or to be placed, (for I believe the houſe is not finiſhed,) a neat tablet of white marble with this inſcription:

[78]The Welſh gentry are very remarkable for their hoſpitality; which ſometimes, I have heard, will not allow the inequales cyathos; but brings all to a brimming level. The ſpirit of this inſcription, I hope, is diffuſing itſelf more and more over the country.

But elegant houſes, and rich furniture are every where to be found. The ſcenery at Havod is the object; and ſuch ſcenery is rarely met with.—The walks are divided into what is called the lady's-walk, a circuit of about three miles—and the gentleman's-walk, about ſix. To theſe is added a more extenſive round, which might properly come under the denomination of a riding, if in all parts it was acceſſible to horſe men.

The general ground-plot of theſe walks, and the ſcenery through which they convey you, is this.

The river Iſtwith runs at the diſtance of about a quarter of a mile from the houſe, which ſtands upon a lawn, conſiſting of varied grounds deſcending to the river. It is a rapid ſtream, and it's channel is filled with rocks, like many other Welſh ſtreams, which form cataracts, and caſcades in various parts—more broken, and convulſed, than [79]the Wye about Bualt. It's banks conſiſt of great variety of wooded receſſes—hills—ſides of mountains—and contracted vallies—thwarting, and oppoſing each other in various forms: and adorned with little caſ⯑cades running every where among them, in guttered chaſms. Of the grandeur and beauty of theſe ſcenes I can ſpeak as an eye-witrieſs: for tho I was never on the ſpot, I have ſeen a large collection of drawings, and ſketches (not fewer than between twenty and thirty) which were taken from them.

Through this variety of grand ſcenery the ſeveral walks are conducted. The views ſhift rapidly from one to another; each being characterized by ſome circumſtance pecu⯑liar to itſelf.

The artificial ornaments are ſuch chiefly, as are neceſſary. Many bridges are wanted, both in croſſing the Iſtwith; and the ſeveral ſtreams, which run into it from the ſur⯑rounding hills. They are varied as much as that ſpecies of architecture will admit, from the ſtone arch to the Alpine plank—In one place you ſee a cottage, pleaſantly ſeated among the thickets of a woody hill, which Mr. Johnes intends to fit up for the accom⯑modation [80]of a band of muſicians; for ſo a pack of hounds may be called among the hills, and dales, and ecchoing rocks of theſe grand ſcenes.

Among the natural curioſities of the place, is a noble caſcade ſixty feet high, which is ſeen through a cavern, partly natural, and partly artificial. You enter it by a paſſage, cut through a rock four feet broad, and ſeven high; which continues about twenty yards; and brings you into a very lofty, perforated cavern, through which you ſee the caſcade to great advantage.

From the ſcenes of Havod, you continue your excurſions, among ſome other grand, and beautiful ſcenery in that country.

You are carried firſt to the Devil's bridge, about four miles from Havod. I do not clearly underſtand the nature of the ſcenery here from the account given in my journal; but I ſhould ſuppoſe it is only one grand piece of foreground, without any diſtance, or accompaniments; and probably one of thoſe ſcenes, which is itſelf ſufficient to form a picture. The plan of it is, a rocky chaſm; over which is thrown [81]an arch. Between theſe cheeks, and juſt beneath the bridge, the river Funnach falls abruptly down the ſpace of ſeveral yards; and afterwards meeting with other ſteeps, makes it's way, after a few of theſe interruptions, into the Rhydol, a little below. The bridge, I ſhould ſuppoſe, is an intereſting object. It conſiſts I underſtand of two arches, one thrown over the other: the under one, which is that ſaid to be built by the devil, was not thought ſufficient⯑ly ſtrong. The common people ſuppoſe, when he built it, he had ſome miſchief in his head.

From the Devil's bridge, you viſit another, called Monk's bridge; where the ſame kind of ſcenery is exhibited under a different modi⯑fication.

From thence you deſcend into the vale of Rhydol, called ſo from the river of that name, which paſſes through it.

If the Welſh counties, diſtinguiſhed for ſo much beauty of ſcenery of various kinds, are remarkable for pre-eminence in any mode, I think it is in their vales. Their lakes are infi⯑nitely exceeded, both in grandeur, and beauty, by thoſe of Cumberland, Weſtmoreland, and Scotland. Nor are their mountains, as far as [82]I have obſerved, of ſuch pictureſque form, as many as I have ſeen in thoſe countries. They are often of a heavy, lumpiſh kind: for there are orders of architecture in mountains, as well as in palaces. Their rivers I allow are often very pictureſque; and ſo are their ſea-coaſt views. But their vales and vallies, I think, exceed thoſe of any country I ever ſaw.

The vale of Rhydol is deſcribed as a very grand, and extenſive ſcene, continuing not leſs than ten miles, among rocks, hanging woods, and varied ground, which in ſome parts, becomes mountainous; while the river is every where a beautiful object; and twice, or three times, in it's paſſage through the vale, is interrupted in it's courſe, and formed into a caſcade. This is a circumſtance in a vale, I think, rather uncommon. In a contracted valley it is frequent: but an extended vale, as I apprehend this to be, is ſeldom ſo inter⯑rupted, as not to give way to the river, on one ſide, or the other. I can eaſily however imagine, that when the whole vale is inter⯑rupted, as I conceive it to be here, it will occaſion a very beautiful ſcene, if the eye from ſo good a foreground hath ſuch an elevated ſtation, as will enable it to trace the winding [83]of the vale, as a diſtance, beyond the caſcade. But this is perhaps reaſoning (as we often do on higher ſubjects,) without ſufficient grounds. On the ſpot, I ſhould probably find, that all theſe conceptions are wrong—that the ob⯑ſtrudtions of the river in the vale of Rhydol are no advantage to the ſcene—or perhaps, after all, that the vale of Rhydol does not deſerve that name; but is only a contracted valley of conſiderable length.

At the end of this vale or valley, by which⯑ſoever of theſe names it ought to be diſtin⯑guiſhed, ſtand the ruins of Abyryſthwick-caſtle. Of this fortreſs little now remains, but a ſolitary tower, over-looking the ſea. Once it was the reſidence of the great Cad⯑wallader; and in all the Welſh-wars was conſidered as a fortreſs of the firſt conſequence. Even ſo late as the civil wars of the laſt century it was eſteemed a place of great ſtrength.

But the rich lead-mines, in it's neighbour⯑hood were the baſis of it's glory. Theſe mines are ſaid to have yielded near a hundred ounces of ſilver from a ton of lead; and to have produced a profit of two thouſand pounds a month. Here Sir Hugh Middleton made that vaſt fortune, which he expended after⯑wards [84]on the new river. But a gentleman of the name of Buſhel, raiſed theſe mines to their greateſt height. He was allowed by Charles the firſt the privilege of ſetting up a mint in this caſtle, for the benefit of paying his workmen. Here therefore all the buſineſs of the mines was tranſacted, which made Abyryſthwick-caſtle a place of more conſe⯑quence, and reſort than any other place in Wales. King Charles alſo appointed Mr. Buſhel governor of the iſle of Lundy; where he made a harbour for the ſecurity of his veſſels, which carried the produce of his mines up the Severn. When the civil wars broke out, he had an opportunity of ſhewing his gratitude; which he did with the mag⯑nificence of a prince. He cloathed the king's whole army; and offered his majeſty a loan, which was conſidered as a gift, of forty thouſand pounds. Afterwards, when Charles was preſſed by the parliament, Mr. Buſhel raiſed him a regiment, among his miners, at his own expence.

From the vale of Rhydol, you ſeek again the banks of the Iſtwitb; and enter a vale, which takes it name from the river.

[85]This ſcene is another proof of what I have juſt obſerved of the Welſh vales. From the accounts I have heard of it, I ſhould ſuppoſe it a ſcene of extraordinary beauty—leſs romantic than the vale of Rhydol; but more ſylvan. Nature has introduced the rock more ſparingly; but ſhe has made great amends by wood: tho there is one part of it mentioned, in which an immenſe rock forms a very grand feature.—It is much eaſier however to conceive the variety of theſe ſcenes, than to deſcribe them. Nature's alphabet conſiſts only of four letters; wood—water—rock—and ground: and yet with theſe four letters ſhe forms ſuch varied compoſitions; ſuch infinite combinations, as no language with an alphabet of twenty-four can deſcribe.

From the vale of Iſtwith, you may viſit the ruins of the abbey of Strata Florida. But as far as I find there is little among thoſe ruins worth notice, except a Saxon gate⯑way; and that I ſhould think, can hardly be an object of much beauty.

The painter therefore, who can make little uſe of this old abbey, conſigns it over to the antiquarian; who tells you, that it was formerly the ſacred repoſitory of the [86]bones of ſeveral of the Welſh princes; and that here the records, and acts of the prin⯑cipality were preſerved for many generations.

From the ruins of Strata Florida you return to Hereford, through Rhosfair, Rhaader, Pinabout, and new Radnor; in which rout I find nothing in my journal mentioned, as worth notice; tho it is hardly poſſible, that in ſo large a tract of rough country, there ſhould not be many pictureſque paſſages.

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SECT. VII.

FROM Monmouth to Abergavenny, by Ragland-caſtle, the road is a good ſtone cauſeway, (as the roads, in theſe parts, com⯑monly are,) and leads through a pleaſant, incloſed country; diſcovering, on each ſide, extenſive views of rich cultivation.

Ragland-caſtle ſeemed to ſtand, (as we ſaw it from the heights) in a vale: but as we deſcended, it took an elevated ſtation. It is a large, and very noble ruin: more perfect than ruins of this kind commonly are. It contains two areas within the ditch; into each of which you enter by a lofty, and deep gateway.

The buildings, which circumſcribe the firſt area, conſiſit of the kitchen, and offices. [88]It is amuſing to hear ſtories of ancient hoſ⯑pitality. ‘Here are the remains of an oven, ſaid our conductor, which was large enough to bake a whole ox; and of a fire-range, wide enough to roaſt him.’

The grand hall, or banquetting-room, a large and lofty apartment, forms the ſcreen between the two areas; and is perfect, except the roof. The muſic-gallery may be diſ⯑tinctly traced; and the butteries, which divide the hall from a parlour. Near the hall is ſhewn a narrow chapel.

On viewing the comparative ſize of halls and chapels in old caſtles, one can hardly, at firſt, avoid obſerving, that the founders of theſe ancient ſtructures ſuppoſed, a much greater number of people would meet toge⯑ther to feaſt, than to pray. But yet we may perhaps account for the thing, without calling in queſtion the piety of our anceſtors. The hall was meant to regale a whole country; while the chapel was intended only for the private uſe of the inhabitants of the caſtle.

The whole area of the firſt incloſure, is vaulted, and contains cellars, dungeons, and other ſubterraneous apartments.—The build⯑ings []

[89]of the ſecond area are confined merely to chambers.

Near the caſtle ſtands the citadel, a large octagonal tower; two or three ſides of which are ſtill remaining. This tower is incircled by a ſeparate moat; and was formerly joined to the caſtle by a draw-bridge.

Ragland-caſtle owes it's preſent pictu⯑reſque form to Cromwell; who laid his iron hands upon it; and ſhattered it into ruin. A window is ſhewn, through which a girl in the garriſon, by waving a handkerchief, introduced his troops.

From Ragland-caſtle the views are ſtill extenſive, the roads incloſed, and the country rich. The diſtances are ſkirted by the Brecknoc-hills; among which the Sugar-loaf makes a remarkable appearance.

The Brecknoc-hills are little more, than gentle ſwellings, cultivated to the top. For many miles they kept their ſtation in a diſtant range on each ſide. But, by degrees, they began to cloſe in; approximating more and more; and leaving in front, a narrow paſs between them; through which an [90]extenſive country appeared. Through this paſs, we hoped, the progreſs of our road would lead us; as it ſeemed to open into a fair, and beautiful country.

It led us firſt to Abergavenny, a ſmall town, which has formerly been fortified, lying under the hills. We approached it by the caſtle; of which nothing remains, but a few ſtaring ruins.

From hence we were carried, as we ex⯑pected, through the paſs, which we had long obſerved at a diſtance. It opened into the vale of Uſk.

The vale of Uſk, is a delightful ſcene. The river, from whence it borrows it's name, winds through the middle of it; and the hills, on both ſides, are diverſified with woods, and lawns. In many places, they are partially cultivated. We could diſtinguiſh little cottages, and farms, faintly traced along their ſhadowy ſides; which, at ſuch a diſtance, rather varied, and inriched the ſcene; than impreſſed it with any regular, and unpleaſing ſhapes.

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[91]Through this kind of road we paſſed many miles. The Uſk continued, every where, our amuſing companion: and if, at any time, it made a more devious curve, than uſual, we were ſure to meet it again, at the next turn. Our paſſage through the vale was ſtill more inlivened by many little foaming rills, which croſſed the road (ſome of them ſo large, as to make bridges neceſſary,) and two ruined caſtles; with which, at proper intervals, the country is adorned.

After leaving the latter of them, called Tretower-caſtle, we mounted ſome high grounds; which gave a variety to the ſcene, tho not ſo pictureſque an exhibition of it. Here the road brought us in view of Langor's-pool; which is no very inconſi⯑derable lake. As we deſcended theſe heights, the Uſk met us once more at the bottom, and conducted us into Brecknoc.

Brecknoc is a very romantic place, abound⯑ing with broken grounds, torrents, diſ⯑mantled towers, and ruins of every kind. I have ſeen few places, where a landſcape-painter [92]might get a collection of better ideas. The caſtle has once been large; and is ſtill a ruin of dignity. It is eaſy to trace the main body, the citadel, and all the parts of ancient fortification.

In many places indeed theſe works are too much ruined, even for pictureſque uſe. Yet, ruined as they are, as far as they go, they are very amuſing. The arts of modern fortification are ill calculated for the pur⯑poſes of landſcape. The angular, and formal works of Vauban, and Cohorn, when it comes to their turn to be ſuper⯑ſeded by works of ſuperior invention, will make a poor figure in the annals of pictu⯑reſque beauty. No eye will ever be delighted with their ruins: while not the leaſt frag⯑ment of a Britiſh or a Norman caſtle exiſts, that is not ſurveyed with delight.

But the moſt beautiful ſcenery we ſaw at Brecknoc, is about the abbey. We had a view of it, tho but a tranſient view, from a little bridge in the neighbourhood. There we ſaw a ſweet limpid ſtream, gliſtening over a bed of pebbles; and forming two or three caſcades, as it hurried to the bridge. It iſſued from a wood, with [93]which it's banks were beautifully hung. Amidſt the gloom aroſe the ruins of the ab⯑bey, tinged with a bright ray, which diſ⯑covered a profuſion of rich Gothic work⯑manſhip; and exhibited in pleaſing contraſt the grey ſtone, of which the ruins are compoſed, with the feathering foliage, that floated round them: but we had not time to examine, how all theſe beauteous parts were formed into a whole.—The ima⯑gination formed it, after the viſion vaniſh⯑ed. But tho it might poſſibly create a whole, more agreeable to the rules of paint⯑ing; yet it could ſcarce do juſtice to the beauty of the parts.

From Brecknoc, in our road to Trecaſtle, we enter a country very different from the vale of Uſk. This too is a vale: but nature always marks even kindred ſcenes with ſome peculiar character. The vale of Uſk is almoſt one continued winding ſweep. The road now played among a variety of hills. The whole ſeemed to conſiſt of one great vale divided into a multiplicity of parts. All together, they wanted unity; but ſeparately, afforded a number [94]of thoſe pleaſing paſſages, which, treaſured up in the memory, become the ingredients of future landſcapes.

Sometimes the road, inſtead of winding round the hills, took the ſhorteſt way over them. In general, they are cultivated, like thoſe of the vale of Uſk: but as the cultivation in many of them is brought too near the eye, it becomes rather offenſive. Our beſt ideas were obtained from ſuch, as were adorned with wood; and fell, in various forms, into the vallies below.

In theſe ſcenes we loſt the Uſk, our ſweet, playful companion in the vale: but other rivers of the ſame kind frequently met us, tho they ſeldom continued long; diſ⯑appearing in haſte, and hiding themſelves among the little, tufted receſſes, at the bottom of the hills.

In general, the Welſh gentlemen, in theſe parts, ſeem fond of whitening their houſes, which gives them a diſagreeable glare. A ſpeck of white is often beautiful; but white, in profuſion, is, of all tints, the moſt in⯑harmonious. A white feat, at the corner of [95]a wood, or a few white cattle grazing in a meadow, inliven a ſcene perhaps more, than if the ſeat, or the cattle, had been of any other colour. They have meaning, and effect. But a front, and two ſtaring wings; an extent of rails; a huge, Chineſe bridge; the tower of a church; and a variety of other large objects, which we often ſee daubed over with white, make a diſagreeable ap⯑pearance; and unite ill with the general ſimplicity of nature's colouring.

Nature never colours in this offenſive way. Her ſurfaces are never white. The chalky cliff is the only permanent object of the kind, which ſhe allows to be her's; and this ſeems rather a force upon her from the boi⯑ſterous action of a furious element. But even here it is her conſtant endeavour to correct the offenſive tint. She hangs her cliffs with ſarmphire, and other marine plants; or ſhe ſtains them with various hues; ſo as to remove, in part at leaſt, the diſguſting glare. The weſtern end of the iſle of Wight, called the Needle-cliffs, is a re⯑markable inſtance of this. Theſe rocks are of a ſubſtance nearly reſembling chalk: but nature has ſo reduced their unplea⯑ſant [96]luſtre by a variety of chaſtiſing tints, that in moſt lights they have even a beau⯑tiful effect. She is continually at work alſo, in the ſame manner, on the white cliffs of Dover; tho her endeavours here are more counteracted by a greater expoſure. But here, and in all other places, were it not for the intervention of foreign cauſes, ſhe would in time throw her green mantle over every na⯑ked and expoſed part of her ſurface.

In theſe remarks I mean only to inſinuate—that white is a hue, which nature ſeems ſtudious to expunge from all her works, ex⯑cept in the touch of a flower, an animal, a cloud, a wave, or ſome other diminutive, or tranſient object—and that her mode of co⯑louring ſhould always be the model of cur's.

In animadverting however on white objects, I would only cenſure the mere raw tint. It may eaſily be corrected, and turned into ſtone-colours of various hues; which tho light, if not too light, may often have a good effect.

Mr. Lock, who did me the favour to overlook theſe papers, made ſome remarks on this part of my ſubject, which are ſo new, and ſo excellent, that I cannot without im⯑propriety, take the credit of them myſelf.

SECT. VIII.

FROM Trecaſtle we aſcended a ſteep of three miles; which the country people call a pitch. It raiſed us to a level with the neighbouring hills; whoſe rugged ſum⯑mits formed all the landſcape we had. No ſweet views into the vallies below preſented themſelves. All around was wild, and barren.

From theſe heights we deſcended gently, through a ſpace of ſeven miles. As we approached the bottom, we ſaw, at a diſtance, the town of Llandovery, ſeated in the meadows below, at the conflux of ſeveral rivulets. Unadorned with wood, it made only a naked appearance: but light wreaths of ſmoke, riſing from it in ſeveral parts, ſhewed that it was inhabited: while a ray of the ſetting ſun ſingled it out among the objects of the vale; and gave it ſome little [100]conſequence in the landſcape. As we de⯑ſcended into it, it's importance increaſed. We were met by an old caſtle, which had formerly defended it, tho nothing remains, except the ruins of the citadel.

Llandovery ſtands at the entrance of the vale of Towy; which, like other vales, receives it's name from the river, that winds through it. This delightful ſcene opened before us, as we left Llandovery, in our way to Llandilo; which ſtands about twelve miles lower in the vale.

The vale of Towy is ſtill leſs a ſcene of cultivation than that of Uſk. The wood⯑land views are more frequent; and the whole more wild, and ſimple. The ſcenery ſeems preciſely of that kind, with which a great maſter in landſcape was formerly enamoured.

In this vale, the river Towy, tho it fre⯑quently met us, and always kept near us; [101]yet did not ſo conſtantly appear, and bear us ſuch cloſe company, as the Uſk had done before. Some heights too we aſcended; but ſuch heights as were only proper ſtands, from whence we viewed in greater perfection the beauties of the vale.

This is the ſcene, which Dyer celebrated, in his poem of Grongar-hill. Dyer was bred a painter; and had here a pictureſque ſubject: but he does not give us ſo good a landſcape, as might have been expected. We have no where a complete, formed diſtance; tho it is the great idea ſuggeſted by ſuch a vale as this: no where any touches of that beautiful obſcurity, which melts a variety of objects into one rich whole. Here and there, we have a few accidental ſtrokes, which belong to diſtance; tho ſeldom maſ⯑terly ^*: I call them accidental; becauſe they [102]are not employed in producing a landſcape; nor do they in fact unite in any ſuch idea; but are rather introductory to ſome moral ſentiment; which, however good in itſelf, is here forced, and miſtimed.

Dinevawr-caſtle, which ſtands about a mile from Llandilo, and the ſcenery around it, were the next objects of our curioſity. This caſtle is ſeated on one of the ſides of the vale of Towy; where it occupies a bold eminence, richly adorned with wood. It was uſed, not long ago, as a manſion: but Mr. Rice, the proprietor of it, has built a handſome houſe in his park, about a mile from the caſtle; which, however, he ſtill preſerves, as one of the greateſt ornaments of his place.

This caſtle alſo is taken notice of by Dyer in his Grongar-hill; and ſeems intended as an object in a diſtance. But his diſtances, []

[103]I obſerved, are all in confuſion; and indeed it is not eaſy to ſepavate them from his foregrounds.

The landſcape he gives us, in which the caſtle of Dinevawr makes a part, is ſeen from the brow of a diſtant hill. The firſt object, that meets his eye, is a wood. It is juſt beneath him; and he eaſily diſtin⯑guiſhes the ſeveral trees, of which it is compoſed;

This is perfectly right: objects ſo near the eye ſhould be diſtinctly marked. What next ſtrikes him, is a purple-grove; that is, I preſume, a grove, which has gained it's purple-hue from diſtance. This is, no doubt, very juſt colouring; tho it is here, I think, introduced rather too early in the landſcape. The blue, and purple tints belong chiefly to the moſt removed objects; which ſeem not here to be intended. Thus far however I ſhould not greatly cavil.

[104]The next object he ſurveys, is a level lawn, from which a hill, crowned with a caſtle, which is meant, I am informed, for that of Dinevawr, ariſes. Here his great want of keeping appears. His caſtle, in⯑ſtead of being marked with ſtill fainter colours, than the purple-grove, is touched with all the ſtrength of a foreground. You ſee the very ivy creeping upon it's walls. Tranſgreſſions of this kind are common in deſcriptive poetry. Innumerable inſtances might be collected from much better poems, than Grongar-hill. But I mention only the inaccuracies of an author, who, as a painter, ſhould at leaſt have obſerved the moſt obvious principles of his art.—With how much more pictureſque beauty does Milton introduce a diſtant caſtle:

Here we have all the indiſtinct: colouring, which obſcures a diſtant object. We do not ſee the iron-grated window, the port⯑cullis, the ditch, or the rampart. We can juſt diſtinguiſh a caſtle from a tree; and a tower from a battlement.

[105]The ſcenery around Dinevawr-caſtle is very beautiful; conſiſting of a rich pro⯑fuſion of wood, and lawn. But what par⯑ticularly recommends it, is the great variety of the ground. I know few places, where a painter might ſtudy the inequalities of a ſurface with more advantage.

Nothing gives ſo juſt an idea of the beau⯑tiful ſwellings of ground, as thoſe of water; where it has ſufficient room to undulate, and expand. In ground, which is compoſed of refractory materials, you are preſented often with harſh lines, angular inſertions, and diſ⯑agreeable abruptneſſes. In water, whether in gentle, or in agitated motion, all is eaſy; all is ſoftened into itſelf; and the hills and the vallies play into each other in a va⯑riety of beautiful forms. In agitated water abruptneſſes indeed there are; but yet they are ſuch as, in ſome part or other, unite properly with the ſurface around them; and are, on the whole, perfectly harmonious. Now if the ocean, in any of theſe ſwellings, and agitations, could be arreſted, and fixed, it would produce that pleaſing variety, which [106]we admire in ground. Hence it is common to fetch our images from water, and apply them to land. We talk of an undulating line, a playing lawn, and a billowy ſurface; and give a much ſtronger, and more adequate idea, by ſuch imagery, than plain language can poſſibly preſent.

The woods, which adorn theſe beautiful ſcenes about Dinevawr-caſtle, and which are clumped with great beauty, conſiſt chiefly of the fineſt oak; ſome of them of large Spaniſh cheſnuts. There are a few, and but a few, young plantations.

The pictureſque ſcenes, which this place affords, are numerous. Wherever the caſtle appears, and it appears almoſt every where, a landſcape purely pictureſque is generally pre⯑ſented. The ground is ſo beautifully diſpoſed, that it is almoſt impoſſible to have bad com⯑poſition. And the oppoſite ſide of the vale often appears as a back-ground; and makes a pleaſing diſtance.

Some where, among the woody ſcenes of Dinevawr, Spenſer hath conceived, with that ſplendor of imagination, which brightens all []

[107]his deſcriptions, the cave of Merlin to be ſeated. Whether there is any opening in the ground, which favours the fiction, I find no account; the ſtanzas however are too much in place to be omitted.

[108]As we returned from Dinevawr-caſtle, into the road, a noble ſcene opened before us. It is a diſtant view of a grand, circular part of the vale of Towy, (circular at leaſt in ap⯑pearance) ſurrounded by hills, one behind ano⯑another; and forming a vaſt amphitheatre. Through this expanſe, (which is rich to profuſion with all the objects of cultivation, melted together into one maſs by diſtance) the Towy winds in various meanders. The eye cannot trace the whole ſerpentine courſe of the river; but ſees it, here and there, in glittering ſpots, which gives the imagination a pleaſing employment in making out the whole. The neareſt hills partake of the rich⯑neſs of the vale: the diſtant hills, which riſe gently above the others, ſeem barren.

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SECT. IX.

FROM Dinevawr-caſtle we ſet out, acroſs the country, for Neath. A good turn⯑pike-road, we were aſſured, would lead us thither: but we were told much of the diffi⯑culty of paſſing the mountain, as they empha⯑tically call a ridge of very high ground, which lay before us.

Though we had left the vale of Towy, the country continued to wear the ſame face of hill, and dale, which it had ſo long worn. On the right, we had ſtill a diſtant view of the ſcenery of Dinevawr-caſtle; which appeared like a grand, woody bank. The woods alſo of Golden-grove varied the ſcene. Soon after, other caſtles, ſeated lof⯑tily on riſing grounds, adorned other vales; [110]Truſlan-caſtle on the right, and Kirkennel on the left.

But all theſe beautiful ſcenes, by degrees, were cloſed. Caſtles, and winding rivers, and woody banks were left behind, one after ano⯑ther; and we approached, nearer and nearer, the bleak mountain; which ſpread it's dark mantle athwart the view.

It did not however approach precipitately. Tho it had long blotted out all diſtance; yet it's environs afforded a preſent ſcene; and partook of the beautiful country we had paſſed. The ground about it's foot was agreeably diſ⯑poſed; ſwelling into a variety of little knolls, covered with oak; which a foaming rivulet, winding along, ſhaped into tufted iſlands, and peninſulas of different forms; wearing away the ſoil in ſome parts from the roots of the trees; and in others delving deep channels: while the mountain afforded a dark, ſolemn background to the whole.

At length we began to aſcend it's ſteeps; but before we had riſen too high, we turned [111]round to take a retroſpect of all the rich ſcenes together, which we had left behind. It was a noble view; diſtance melting into diſtance; till the whole was cloſed by a ſemi⯑circle of azure mountains, ſcarce diſtinguiſh⯑able from the azure ſky, which abſorbed them.

Still aſcending the ſpiral road round the ſhaggy ſide of the mountain, we arrived at, what is called it's gate. Here all idea of cultivation ceaſed. That was not deplorable: but with it our turnpike-road ceaſed alſo; which was finiſhed, on this ſide, no farther than the mountain-gate. We had gotten a guide however to conduct us over the path⯑leſs deſart. But it being too ſteep, and rug⯑ged to aſcend on wheels, we were obliged to lighten our carriage, and aſcend on foot.

In the midſt of our labour, our guide called out, that he ſaw a ſtorm coming on, along the tops of the mountains; a circumſtance indeed, which in theſe hilly countries, cannot often be avoided. We aſked him, How far it was off? He anſwered, Ten minutes. In leſs time, ſky, mountains, vallies were all wrapt in one cloud of driving rain and ob⯑ſcurity.

[112]Our recompence conſiſted in following with our eye the rear of the ſtorm; obſerving through it's broken ſkirts, a thouſand beautiful effects, and half-formed images, which were continually opening, loſt, and varying; till the ſun breaking out, the whole reſplendent landſcape appeared again, with double radi⯑ance, under the leaden gloom of the retiring tempeſt.

When we arrived at the top of the moun⯑tain, we found a level plain; which continued at leaſt two miles. It was a noble terrace; but was too widely ſpread, to give us a diſplay of much diſtant ſcenery.

At length, we began to deſcend the moun⯑tain; and ſoon met an excellent turnpike-road, down which we ſlid ſwiftly, in an elegant ſpiral; and found, when we came to the bottom, that we had ſpent near four hours in ſurmounting this great obſtruction.

Having thus paſſed the mount Cenis of this country, we fell into the ſame kind of beautiful ſcenery on this ſide of it, which we had left on the other: only here the ſcene [113]was continually ſhifting, as if by magical interpoſition.

We were firſt preſented with a view of a deep, woody glen, lying below us; which the eye could not penetrate, reſting only on the tops, and tuftings of the trees.

This ſuddenly vaniſhed; and a grand, rocky bank aroſe in front; richly adorned with wood.

It was inſtantly gone; and we were ſhut up in a cloſe, woody lane.

In a moment, the lane opened on the right, and we had a view of an inchanting vale.

We caught it's beauties as a viſion only. In an inſtant, they fled; and in their room aroſe two bold woody promontories. We could juſt diſcover between them, as they floated paſt, a creek, or the mouth of a river, or a channel of the ſea; we knew not what it was: but it ſeemed divided by a ſtretch of land of dingy hue; which ap⯑peared like a ſand-bank.

This ſcene ſhifting, immediately aroſe, on our left, a vaſt hill, covered with wood; through which, here and there, projected huge maſſes of rock.

[114]In a few moments it vaniſhed, and a grove of trees ſuddenly ſhot up in it's room.

But before we could even diſcover of what ſpecies they were, the rocky hill, which had juſt appeared on the left, winding rapidly round, preſented itſelf full in front. It had now acquired a more tremendous form. The wood, which had before hid it's terrors, was now gone; and the rocks were all left, in their native wildneſs, every where burſting from the ſoil.

Many of the objects, which had floated ſo rapidly paſt us, if we had had time to exa⯑mine them, would have given us ſublime, and beautiful hints in landſcape: ſome of them ſeemed even well combined, and ready prepared for the pencil: but, in ſo quick a ſucceſſion, one blotted out another.—The country at length giving way on both fides, a view opened, which ſuffered the eye to reſt upon it.

The river Neath, covered with ſhipping, was ſpread before us. It's banks were inriched with wood; amidſt which aroſe the ruins of Neath-abbey, with it's double []

[115]tower. Beyond the river, the country aroſe in hills; which were happily adorned, when we ſaw them, in a clear, ſerene evening, with one or two of thoſe diſtant forges, or charcoal-pits, which we admired on the banks of the Wye; wreathing a light veil of ſmoke along their ſummits, and blending them with the ſky.—Through this landſcape we entered the town of Neath; which, with it's old caſtle, and bridges, excited many pictureſque ideas.

SECT. X.

AS we left Neath, a grand viſta of woody mountains, purſuing each other along the river, and forming, no doubt, ſome inchanting vale, if we had had time to examine it, ſtretched into remote diſtance.

The viſtas of art are tame, and formal. They conſiſt of ſtreets, with the unvarying repetition of doors, and windows—or they conſiſt of trees planted nicely in rows; a ſucceſſion of mere vegetable columns—or they conſiſt of ſome other ſpecies of regularity. But nature's viſtas are of a different caſt. She forms them ſometimes of mountains, ſometimes of rocks, and ſometimes of woods. But all her works even of this formal kind, are the works of a maſter. If the idea of regularity be impreſſed on the general form, the parts are broken with a thouſand varieties. [118]Her viſtas are models to paint from.—In this before us, both the mountains them⯑ſelves were beautiful; and the perſpective combination of them.

The broken ground about a copper-work, a little beyond the town, would afford hints for a noble landſcape. Two contiguous hills appear as if riven aſunder; and lay open a very pictureſque ſcene of rocky fragments, interſperſed with wood; through which a torrent, forcing it's way, forms two or three caſcades, before it reaches the bottom.

A little beyond this, the views, which had entertained us, as we entered Neath, entertained us a ſecond time, as we left it. The river, covered with ſhipping, preſented itſelf again. The woody ſcenery aroſe on it's banks: and the abbey appeared among the woods; tho in different perſpective, and in a more removed ſituation.

[119]Here too we were again preſented with thoſe two woody promontories, which we had ſeen before, with a creek, or channel between them, divided by what ſeemed a ſand-bank. We had now approached much nearer, and found we had been right in our conjecture. The extenſive object we had ſeen, was the bank of Margam; which, when the ſea retires, is a vaſt, ſandy flat.

From hence we had, for a conſiderable time, continued views, on the left, of grand, woody promontories, purſuing each other, all rich to profuſion; with ſea-views on the right. Such an intermixture of high⯑lands, and ſea, where the objects are beautiful, and well diſpoſed, makes, in general, a very pleaſing mode of compoſition. The rough⯑neſs of the mountains above, and the ſmooth expanſe of the waters below, wonderfully aid each other by the force of contraſt.

From theſe views we were hurried, at once, upon a black ſea-coaſt; which gave [120]a kind of relief to the eye, ſurfeited with rich landſcape to ſatiety. Margam-ſand-bank, which, ſeen partially, afforded a ſweet, chaſtiſing tint to the verdure of the woody promontories, through which we had twice ſeen it; became now (when unſupported, and ſpread abroad in all it's extenſion) a cold, diſguſting object.—But relief was every where at hand; and we ſeldom ſaw it long, without ſome intervention of woody ſcenery.

As we approached the river Abravon, our views degenerated ſtill more. Margam⯑ſand-bank, which was now only the boundary of marſhes, became offenſive to the eye: and tho, on the left, the woody hills continued ſtill ſhooting after us, yet they had loſt their pleaſing ſhapes. No variety of breaks, like the members of architecture, gave a lightneſs, and elegance to their forms. No mantling furniture inveſted their ſides; nor tufted fringe adorned their promontories; nor clumps of ſcattered oak diſcovered the ſky, through interſtices, along their towering ſummits. Inſtead of this, they had de⯑generated [121]into mere uniform lumps of matter; and were every where overſpread with one heavy, uninterrupted buſh.

Of this kind were Lord Manſell's woods, which covered a promontory. Time, with it's lenient hand, may hereafter hang new beauties upon theſe hills; when it has cor⯑rected their heavineſs, by improving the lux⯑uriance of youthful foliage into the lighter forms of aged trees.

From Lord Manſell's to Pyle, which ſtands on a bleak coaſt, the ſpirit of the country is totally loſt.

Here we found the people employed in ſending proviſions to the ſhore, where a Dutch Weſt-India ſhip had juſt been wrecked. Fifteen lives were loſt; and among them the whole family of a Zealand merchant, who was bring⯑ing his children for education to Amſterdam. The populace came down in large bodies to pillage the wreck; which the officers of the cuſtoms, and gentlemen of the country, aſ⯑ſembled to protect.—It was a buſy ſcene, compoſed of multitudes of men, carts, horſes, and horſemen.

[122]The buſtle of a croud is not ill-adapted to the pencil: but the management of it requires great artifice. The whole muſt be maſſed together, and conſidered as one body.

I mean not to have the whole body ſo agglomerated, as to conſiſt of no detached groups: but to have theſe groups (of which there ſhould not be more than two or three) appear to belong to one whole, by the artifice of compoſition, and the effect of light.

This great whole muſt be varied alſo in it's parts. It is not enough to ſtick bodies and heads together. Figures muſt be con⯑traſted with figures; and life, ſpirit, and action muſt pervade the whole.

Thus in managing a croud, and in mana⯑ging a landſcape, the ſame general rules are to be obſerved. Tho the parts muſt be con⯑traſted, the whole muſt be combined. But the difficulty is the greater in a croud; as it's parts, conſiſting of animated bodies, require a nicer obſervation of form: being all ſimilar [123]likewiſe, they require more art in the com⯑bination of them.

Compoſition indeed has never a more difficult work, than when it is engaged in combining a croud. When a number of people, all coloured alike, are to be drawn up in rank and file; it is not in the art of man to combine them in a pictureſque manner. We can in⯑troduce a rencounter of horſe, where all re⯑gularity is broken—or we can exhibit a few general officers, with their aids de camp, on the foreground, and cover a fighting army with ſmoke at a diſtance; but the files of war, the regiment, or ſquadron in military array, admit no pictureſque compoſition. Modern heroes therefore muſt not look to have their achievements recorded on canvas, till they abrogate their formal arts.—But even when we take all the advantages of ſhape, and colour, with which the human form can be varied, or cloathed, we find it ſtill a matter of difficulty enough.

I do not immediately recollect having ſeen a croud better managed, than Hogarth has managed one in the laſt print of his idle prentice. In combining the multifarious com⯑pany, which attends the ſpectacle of an exe⯑cution, [124]he hath exemplified all the obſervations I have made. I have not the print before me; but I have often admired it in this light: nor do I recollect obſerving any thing offenſive in it; which is rare in the management of ſuch a multitude of figures.

The ſubject before us is as well adapted, as any ſpecies of croud can be, to exhibit the beauties of compoſition. Horſes, carts, and men, make a good aſſemblage: and this va⯑riety in the parts would appear to great ad⯑vantage in contraſt with the ſimplicity of a winding ſhore; and of a ſtranded ſhip, (a large, dark object,) heeling on one ſide, in a corner of the piece.

SECT. XI.

FROM Pyle the country grows ſtill worſe, till at laſt it degenerates into a vile heath; and continues a long time totally unadorned, or at beſt with a few tranſient beauties.

At Bridgend, where we meet the river Og⯑more, a beautiful landſcape burſts again upon us. Woody banks ariſe on both ſides; on the right eſpecially, which continue a con⯑ſiderable way, marking the courſe of the liver. On the left is a rich diſtance.

From hence we paſs in view of cultivated vallies, into which the rich diſtance, we had juſt ſeen, began to form itſelf: while the road winds over a kind of terrace above them. [126]An old caſtle, alſo inriches the ſcene; till at length the terrace giving way, we ſink into the vale; and enter Cowbridge.

The heights beyond Cowbridge give us the firſt view of the Briſtol channel on the right. The country between the eye and the water has a marſhy appearance; but being well blended, and the lines broken, it makes a tolerable diſtance. The road paſſes through pleaſant incloſed lanes.

At the fifth ſtone, before we reached Car⯑diff, we had a moſt grand, and extenſive view, from the heights of Clanditham. It contained an immenſe ſtretch of country, melt⯑ing gradually into a faint blue ſemicircle of mountains, which edged the horizon.—This ſcene indeed, painted in ſyllables, words, and ſentences, appears very like ſome of the ſcenes we had met with before: but in na⯑ture it was very different from any of them.

[127]In diſtant views of cultivated countries, ſeen from lofty ſtands; the parts, which lie neareſt the eye, are commonly diſguſting. The di⯑viſions of property into ſquares, rhomboids, and other mathematical forms, are unplea⯑ſant. A view of this kind therefore does not aſſume it's beauty, till you deſcend a little into the vale; till the hedgrows begin to lengthen; and form thoſe agreeable diſcri⯑minations, of which Virgil ^* takes notice; where fields, and meadows become extended ſtreaks; and yet are broken in various parts by riſing grounds, caſtles, and other objects, with which diſtances abound: melting away from the eye, in one general azure tint; juſt, here and there, diverſified with a few lines of light and ſhade; and dotted with a few indiſtinct objects. Then, if we are ſo happy as to find a ruin, a ſpreading tree, a bold rock, or ſome other object, large enough, with it's appendages to become a foreground, and balance the diſtance, (ſuch as we found [128]among the abrupt heights of Coteſwold ^*;) we have the chance of being preſented with a noble picture, which diſtance alone cannot give.

Hence appears the abſurdity of carrying a painter to the top of a high hill, to take a view. He cannot do it. Extenſion alone, tho amuſing in nature, will never make a picture. It muſt be ſupported.

Cardiff lies low; tho it is not unpleaſantly ſeated, on the land-ſide, among woody hills. As we approached, it appeared with more of the furniture of antiquity about it, than any town we had ſeen in Wales: but on the ſpot the pictureſque eye finds it too intire to be in full perfection. The caſtle, which was formerly the priſon of the unfortunate Robert, ſon of William the firſt, who languiſhed here the laſt twenty years of his life, is ſtill, I believe, a priſon, and in good repair.

From the town and parts adjacent, the windings and approach of the river Tave from the ſea, with a full tide, make a grand ap⯑pearance. This is, on the whole, the fineſt eſtuary, we had ſeen in Wales.

[129]From the heights beyond Cardiff, the views of the channel, on the right, continue; and of the Welſh mountains on the left. The Sugar-loaf, near Abergavenny, appears ſtill diſtinctly. The road leads through incloſed lanes.

Newport lies pleaſantly on a declivity. A good view might be taken from the retroſpect of the river, the bridge, and the caſtle. A few ſlight alterations would make it pic⯑tureſque.

Beyond Newport ſome of the views of the channel were finer than any we had ſeen. The coaſt, tho it continues flat, be⯑comes more woody, and the parts are larger.

About ſeven miles from Newport, the road winds among woody hills; which, here and there, form beautiful dips at their interſections. On one of theſe knolls ſtand the ruins of a [130]caſtle; which has once made a grand appea⯑rance; but it is now degraded into a modern dwelling.

As we approached the paſſage over the Briſtol channel, the views of it became ſtill more intereſting. On the right, we left the magnificent ruins of Caldicot-caſtle; and ar⯑rived at the ferry-houſe, about three in the afternoon, where we were ſo fortunate as to find the boat preparing to ſet ſail. It had attempted to croſs at high water, in the morning: but after toiling three hours againſt the wind, it was obliged to put back. This afforded another opportunity, when the water was at ebb: for the boat can paſs only at the two extremes of the tide; and ſeldom oftener than once in a day.

We had ſcarce alighted at the ferry-houſe, when we heard the boatman winding his horn from the beach, about a quarter of a mile below, as a ſignal to bring down the horſes. When they were all embarked, the horn ſounded again for the paſſengers. A very multifarious company aſſembled; and a mi⯑ſerable walk we had to the boat through [131]ſludge; and over ſhelving, and ſlippery rocks. When we got to it, we found eleven horſes on board, and above thirty people; and our chaiſe (which we had intended to convert into a cabin during the voyage) ſlung into the ſhrouds.

The boat, after ſome ſtruggling with the ſhelves, at length gained the channel. The wind was unfavourable, which obliged us to make ſeveral tacks, as the ſeamen phraſe them. Theſe tacks occaſioned a fluttering in the ſail: and this produced a fermentation among the horſes; till their fears reduced them again to order.

Livy gives us a beautiful picture of the terror of cattle, in a ſcene of this kind.—‘Primus erat pavor, quum, ſoluta rati, in alturn raperentur. Ibi urgentes inter ſe, cedentibus extremis ab aquâ, trepidationem aliquantam edebant; donec quietem ipſe timor circum⯑ſpicientibus aquam feciſſet^*.’

[132]The ſcenery of this ſhort voyage was of little value. We had not here the ſteep, fold⯑ing banks of the Wye to produce a ſucceſſion of new landſcapes. Our picture now was motionleſs. From the beginning: to the end of the voyage, it continued the ſame. It was only a diſplay of water; varied by that little change introduced by diſtance, on a coaſt, which ſeen from ſo low a point, as the ſurface of the water, became a mere thread. The ſcreens bore no proportion to the area.

After beating near two hours againſt the wind our voyage concluded, as it began, with an uncomfortable walk through the ſludge, to the high-water mark.

The worſt part of the affair, is, the uſage of horſes. If they are unruly, or any accident occurs, there is hardly a poſſibility, at leaſt if the veſſel be crouded, of affording them relief. Early in our voyage, as the boat heeled, one of the poor animals fell down. Many an ineffectual ſtruggle it made to riſe; but nothing could be done, till we arrived at the other ſide.

[133]The operation too of landing horſes, is equally diſagreeable. They are forced out of the boat, through an aperture in the ſide of it; which is ſo inconvenient a mode of egreſs, that in leaping, many have been hurt from the difficulty of deſengaging their hinder ledgs.

This paſſage, as well as the other over the Severn (for there is one alſo a little above) are often eſteemed dangerous. The tides are uncommonly rapid in this chan⯑nel; and when a briſk wind happens to blow in a contrary direction, the waters are very rough. The boats too are often ill-managed; for what is done repeatedly, is often done careleſsly. A Britiſh admiral, I have heard, who had lived much at ſea, riding up to one of theſe ferries, with an intention to paſs over, and obſerving the boat, as ſhe was working acroſs the channel from the other ſide, he declared he durſt not truſt himſelf to the ſeamanſhip of ſuch fellows as managed her; and turning his horſe, went round by Gloceſter.

Several melancholy accidents indeed within the courſe of a dozen years, have thrown diſcredit on theſe ferries. One I had from a gentleman, who himſelf providentially eſcaped being loſt. He went to the beach, [134]juſt as the veſſel was unmooring. His horſe had been embarked before, together with ſixty head of cattle. A paſſage with ſuch company appeared ſo diſagreeable, that he, and about ſix or ſeven paſſengers more, whom he found on the beach, among whom was a young lady, agreed to get into an open boat, and be towed over by the large one.

The paſſage was rough, and they obſerved the cattle on board the larger veſſel, rather troubleſome. About half way over, an ox, which ſtood near the aperture in the ſide of the veſſel, mentioned above for the entrance, and egreſs of cattle, intangled his horn in a wooden ſlider, which cloſes it, and which happened, according to the careleſs cuſtom of boatmen, to be unpin⯑ned. The beaſt finding his head fixed, and endeavouring to diſengage himſelf, drew up the ſlider. The veſſel heeled; the tide ruſhed in; and all was inſtant confuſion. The dan⯑ger, and the impoſſibility of oppoſing it, in ſuch a croud, ſtruck every one at once.

In the mean time, the paſſengers in the open boat, who were equally conſcious of the ruin, had nothing left, but to cut [135]the rope, which tied them to the ſinking veſſel. But not a knife could be found in the whole company. After much con⯑fuſion, a little, neat, tortoiſe-ſhell penknife was produced; with which unequal inſtru⯑ment they juſt got the rope ſevered, when the large veſſel, and all it's contents, went down. All on board periſhed, except two or three oxen, which were ſeen float⯑ing on the ſurface; and it was believed got to ſhore.

The joy of the paſſengers in the boat was however ſhort-lived. It ſoon appeared they had eſcaped only one mode of death. They were left to themſelves in a wide expanſe of water; at the mercy of a tide, ebbing with a violent current to the ſea; without oars, or ſail; and without one perſon on board, who had ever handled either. A gentleman among them had juſt authority enough to keep them all quiet; without which their ſafety could not have been inſured a moment. He then took up a paddle, the only inſtrument on board, with an intention, if poſſible, to get the boat on ſhore. But the young lady, who was his niece, throwing her arms around [136]him, in an agony of diſtreſs not knowing what ſhe did, would not let him proceed. He was obliged to quiet her by threatening in a furious tone to ſtrike her down inſtantly with the oar, if ſhe did not deſiſt. Not⯑withſtanding all his efforts, they were hurried away by the ebbing waters, as far as King⯑road; where the violence of the tide ſlackening, he prevented the boat from going out to ſea; and got her by degrees to ſhore.

The gentleman, who told me this ſtory, I obſerved, was one of the perſons, who were ſaved. From him I had the account of the loſs of an open boat, in the ſame paſſage, from the obſtinacy of a paſſenger.

The wind was rough, and a perſon on board loſt his hat; which floated away in a contrary direction. He begged the waterman to turn round to recover it: but the waterman told him, it was as much as their lives were worth to attempt it. On which the paſ⯑ſenger, who ſeemed to be a tradeſman, ſtarted up, ſeiſed the helm, and ſwore the fellow ſhould return. In the ſtruggle, the helm got a wrong twiſt, and the boat inſtantly filled, and went to the bottom. It appeared afterwards that the hat was a hat of value; [137]for the owner had ſecreted ſeveral bills in the lining of it.

For ourſelves however we found the paſſage only a diſagreeable one; and if there was any danger, we ſaw it not. The danger chiefly, I ſuppoſe, ariſes from careleſſneſs, and over⯑loading the boat.

As our chaiſe could not be landed, till the tide flowed up the beach, we were obliged to wait at the ferry-houſe. Our windows overlooked the channel, and the Welſh-coaſt, which ſeen from a higher ſtand, became now a woody, and beautiful diſtance. The wind was briſk, and the ſun clear; except that, at intervals, it was intercepted by a few float⯑ing clouds. The playing lights, which aroſe from this circumſtance, on the oppoſite coaſt, were very pictureſque. Purſuing each other, they ſometimes juſt caught the tufted tops of trees; then gleaming behind ſhadowy woods, they ſpread along the vales, till they faded inſenſibly away.

Often theſe partial lights are more ſta⯑tionary; when the clouds, which fling their lengthened ſhadows on diſtant grounds, hang, [138]ſome time, balanced in the air. But when⯑ever found, or from whatever ſource derived, the painter obſerves them with the greateſt accuracy: he marks their different appear⯑ances; and lays them up in his memory among the choice ingredients of diſtant landſcape. Almoſt alone they are ſufficient to vary diſ⯑tance. A multiplicity of objects, melted har⯑moniouſly together, contribute to inrich it; but without throwing in thoſe gleaming lights, the artiſt can hardly avoid heavineſs ^*.

SECT. XII

FROM the ferry-houſe to Briſtol, the views are amuſing. The firſt ſcene preſented to us, was a ſpacious lawn, about a mile in diameter, the area of which was flat; and the boundary, a grand, woody bank; adorned with towers and villas, ſtanding either boldly near the top; or ſeated in woody re⯑ceſſes near the bottom. The horizon line is well varied, and broken.

The whole of this landſcape is too large; and not characterized enough to make a pic⯑ture; but the contraſt between the plain, and the wood, both of which are objects of equal grandeur, is pleaſing: and many of the parts, taken ſeparately, would form into good com⯑poſition.

[140]When we left the plain, the road carried us into ſhady lanes, winding round woody eminences; one of which was crowned with an artificial caſtle. The caſtle indeed, which conſiſted of one tower, might have been better imagined: the effect however was good, tho the object was paltry.

About three miles on this ſide of Briſtol, we had a grand view of riſing country. It conſiſted of a pleaſing mixture of wood, and lawn: the parts were large: and the houſes, and villages ſcattered in good proportion. The whole, when we ſaw it, was overſpread with a purpliſh tint, which, as the objects were ſo near, we could not account for; but it united all the parts together in very pleaſing harmony.

Nature's landſcapes are generally harmo⯑nized. Whether the ſky is inlightened, or whether it lowers; whether it is tinted, or whether it is untinted, it gives it's yellow luſtre, or it's grey obſcurity, to the ſurface of the earth. It is but ſeldom however, that [141]we meet with thoſe ſtrong harmonizing tints, which the landſcape before us preſented.

As the air is the vehicle of theſe tints, diſtant objects will of courſe participate of them in the greateſt degree; the foregrounds will be little affected, as they are ſeen only through a very thin veil of air. But when the painter thinks it proper to introduce theſe ſtrong tints into his diſtances, he will give his foregrounds likewiſe in ſome degree, a participating hue; more perhaps than in real⯑ity belongs to them; or, at leaſt, he will work them up with ſuch colours, mute, or vivid, as accord beſt with the general tone of his landſcape.—How far it is proper for him to attempt theſe uncommon ap⯑pearances of nature, is not a decided queſtion. If the landſcape before us ſhould be painted with that full purple glow, with which we ſaw it overſpread; the connoiſſeur would probably take offence, and call it affected.

The approach to Briſtol is grand; and the environs every where ſhew the neighbour⯑hood of an opulent city; tho the city itſelf lay concealed, till we entered it. For a [142]conſiderable way, the road led between ſtone⯑walls, which bounded the fields on each ſide. This boundary, tho, of all others, the moſt unpleaſing, is yet proper as you approach a great town: it is a kind of connecting thread.

The narrowneſs of the port of Briſtol, which is formed by the banks of the river, is very ſtriking. It may be called a dry harbour, notwithſtanding the river: for the veſſels, when the tide ebbs, lie on an ouzy bed, in a deep channel. The returning tide lifts them to the height of the wharfs. It exhibits of courſe none of thoſe beautiful winding ſhores, which often adorn an eſtuary. The port of Briſtol was probably firſt formed, when veſſels, afraid of being cut from their harbours by corſairs, ran up high into the country for ſecurity.

The great church is a remnant only of the ancient fabric. It has been a noble pile, when the nave was complete, and the ſtunted tower crowned with a ſpire, as I ſuppoſe, it once was. We were ſorry we did not look into Ratcliff-church, which is ſaid to be an elegant piece of Gothic architecture.

[143]The country around Briſtol is beautiful; tho we had not time to examine it. The ſcenery about the Hot-wells is in a great degree pictureſque. The river is cooped between two high hills; both of which are adorned with a rich profuſion of rock, wood, and verdure. Here is no offſkip indeed; but as far as foregrounds alone make a picture, (and they will do much better alone, than diſtances) we are preſented with a very beau⯑tiful one.—Between theſe hills ſtands the pump-room, cloſe to the river; and every ſhip, that ſails into Briſtol, fails under it's windows.

The road between Briſtol and Bath contains very little worth notice. We had been informed of ſome grand retroſpect: views; but we did not find them. We were told afterwards, that there are two roads between Bath and Briſtol; of which the Gloceſter⯑ſhire road is the more pictureſque. If ſo, we unfortunately took the wrong one.

[144]At Bath the buildings are ſtrikingly ſplen⯑did: but the pictureſque eye finds little amuſe⯑ment among ſuch objects. The circus, from a corner of one of the ſtreets, that run into it, is thrown into perſpective; and if it be happily inlightened, is ſeen with advantage. The creſcent is built in a ſimpler, and greater ſtyle of architecture.

I have heard an ingenious friend, Col. Mit⯑ford, who is well-verſed in the theory of the pictureſque, ſpeak of a very beautiful, and grand effect of light, and ſhade, which he had ſometimes obſerved from an afternoon-fun, in a bright winter-day, on this ſtructure. No ſuch effect could happen in ſummer; as the ſun, in the ſame meridian, would be then too high. A grand maſs of light, falling on one ſide of the Creſcent, melted imper⯑ceptibly into as grand a body of ſhade on the other; and the effect roſe from the oppoſition, and graduation of theſe extremes. It was ſtill increaſed by the pillars, and other mem⯑bers of architecture, which beautifully varied, and broke both the light and the ſhade; and gave a wonderful richneſs to each. The [145]whole, he ſaid, ſeemed like an effort of nature to ſet off art; and the eye roved about in aſtoniſhment to ſee a mere maſs of regularity become the ground of ſo inchanting a diſplay of harmony, and pictureſque effect. The elliptical form of the building was the magical ſource of this exhibition.

As objects of curioſity, the parades, the baths, the rooms, and the abbey, are all worth feeing. The riſing grounds about Bath, as they appear from the town, are a great ornament to it: tho they have nothing plea⯑ſing in themſelves. There is no variety in the out-line; no breaks; no maſſes of woody ſcenery.

From Bath to Chippenham the road is plea⯑ſant; but I know not, that it deſerves any higher epithet.

From Chippenham to Marlborough, we paſſed over a wild plain, which conveys no idea, but that of vaſtneſs, unadorned with beauty.

[146]Nature, in ſcenes like theſe, ſeems only to have chalked out her deſigns. The ground is laid in; but left unfiniſhed. The orna⯑mental part is wanting—the river, or the lake winding through the bottom, which lies in form to receive it—the hanging rocks, to adorn ſome ſhooting promontory—and the woody ſcreens to incompaſs, and give richneſs to the whole.

Marlborough-down is one of thoſe vaſt, dreary ſcenes, which our anceſtors, in the dignity of a ſtate of nature, choſe as a repoſitory of their dead. Every where we fee the tumuli, which were raiſed over their aſhes; among which the largeſt is Silbury-hill. Theſe ſtructures have no date in the hiſtory of time; and will be, in all probability, among it's moſt laſting monuments. Our anceſtors had no ingenious arts to gratify their ambition; and as they could not aim at immortality by a buſt, a ſtatue, or a piece of bas-relief, they endeavoured to obtain it by works of enormous labour. It was thus in other bar⯑barous countries. Before the introduction of [147]arts in Egypt, kings endeavoured to immor⯑talize themſelves by lying under pyramids.

As we paſſed, what are called, the ruins of Abury, we could not but admire the in⯑duſtry, and ſagacity of thoſe antiquarians, who can trace a regular plan in ſuch a maſs of con⯑fuſion^*.

At the great inn at Marlborough, formerly a manſion of the Somerſet-family, one of theſe tumuli ſtands in the garden, and is whimſically cut into a ſpiral walk; which, aſcending imperceptibly, is lengthened into half a mile. The conceit at leaſt gives an idea of the bulk of theſe maſſy fabrics.

From Marlborough the road takes a more agreeable appearance. Savernake-foreſt, through which it paſſes, is a pleaſant, woody ſcene: and great part of the way afterwards is adorned with little groves, and opening glades, which form a variety of ſecond diſtances on the right. [148]But we ſeldom found a foreground to ſet them off to advantage.

The country ſoon degenerates into open corn-lands: but near Hungerford, which is not an unpleaſant town, it recovers a little ſpirit; and the road paſſes through cloſe lanes; with breaks here and there, into the country between the boles of the trees.

As we approach Newberry, we had a view of Donnington-caſtle; one of thoſe ſcenes, where the unfortunate Charles reaped ſome glory. Nothing now remains of this gallant fortreſs, but a gate-way and two towers. The hill, on which it ſtands, is ſo overgrown with bruſh-wood, that we could ſcarce diſcern any veſtiges either of the walls of the caſtle; or of the works, which had been thrown up againſt it.

This whole woody hill, and the ruins upon it, are now tenanted, as we were informed by our guide, only by ghoſts; which however add much to the dignity of theſe forſaken [149]habitations; and are for that reaſon, of great uſe in deſcription.

In Virgil's days, when the Tarpeian rock was graced by the grandeur of the capitol, it was ſufficiently enobled. But in it's early ſtate, when it was ſylveſtribus horrida dumis, it wanted ſomething to give it ſplendor. The poet therefore has judiciouſly added a few ideas of the awful kind; and has contrived by this machinery to impreſs it with more dignity in it's rude ſtate, than it poſſeſſed in it's adorned one:

Of theſe imaginary beings the painter, in the mean time, makes little uſe. The intro⯑duction, of them, inſtead of raiſing, would depreciate his ſubject. The characters indeed of Jupiter, Juno, and all that progeny, are rendered as familiar to us, through the antique, as thoſe of Alexander, and Caeſar. But the judicious artiſt will be cautious how he goes [150]farther. The poet will introduce a phantom of any kind without ſcruple. He knows his advantage. He ſpeaks to the imagination; and if he deal only in general ideas, as all good poets on ſuch ſubjects will do, every reader will form the phantom according to his own conception. But the painter, who ſpeaks to the eye, has a more difficult work. He cannot deal in general terms: he is obliged to particularize: and it is not likely, that the ſpectator will have the ſame idea of a phantom, which he has.—The painter therefore acts prudently in abſtaining, as much as poſſible, from the repreſentation of fictitious beings.

The country about Newberry furniſhed little amuſement. But if it is not pictureſque, it is very hiſtorical.

In every hiſtorical country there are a ſet of ideas, which peculiarly belong to it. Haſtings, and Tewkſbury; Runnemede, and Clarendon, have all their aſſociate ideas. The ruins of abbeys, and caſtles have another ſet: and it is a ſooth⯑ing amuſement in travelling to aſſimilate the mind to the ideas of the country. The ground [151]we now trod, has many hiſtorical ideas aſ⯑ſociated with it; two great battles, a long ſiege, and the death of the gallant Lord Falk⯑land.

The road from Newberry to Reading leads through lanes, from which a flat and woody country is exhibited on the right; and riſing grounds on the left. Some unpleaſant com⯑mon fields intervene.

In the new road from Reading to Henly, the high grounds overlook a very pictureſque diſtance on the right. The country indeed is flat; but this is a circumſtance we do not diſlike in a diſtance, when it contains a variety of wood and plain; and when the parts are large, and well-combined.

Henley lies pleaſantly among woody hills: but the chalk, burſting every where from the ſoil, ſtrikes the eye in ſpots; and injures the landſcape.

[152]From hence we ſtruck again into the road acroſs Hounſlow-heath; having crouded much more within the ſpace of a fortnight (to which our time was limited) than we ought to have done.