A short distance below Monmouth the Wye again enters a narrow glen, hardly less beautiful if less romantic, than the gorge which it has traversed on its course from Ross to Monmouth. The hills once more close in upon the river, leaving but seldom even a strip of level meadow between its margin and their slopes. The steeply wooded banks are so wild and so continuous that at times we seem to be passing through an undisturbed remnant of primeval forest. At Red Brook, however, there are signs of human activity. A pretty glen here descends from among the hills to the left bank of the Wye. By the riverside are little quays with barges alongside, and, alas, it must also be added, tall chimneys pouring forth smoke to mar the beauty of a lovely spot.
At Bigswier the river is spanned by an iron bridge, thrown lightly from bank to bank, and is of sufficiently pleasing design to harmonize with the surroundings. From this point the Wye is affected by the tide, but not to any appreciable extent, until a few miles below, in the neighbourhood of Tintern. On a hill overlooking Bigswier stand the church and castle of St. Briavels. The castle was erected soon after the Norman conquest as one of the border defenses; it stands on the edge of the ancient Forest of Dean, and saw much rough work in its early days. The old keep is in ruins, but the other portions are used as a residence.
The next village encountered, on our way down the stream, is Llandago, which nestles among gardens and orchards, and rises tier above tier on the thickly wooded hill which rises steeply from the road beside the river. Near by is Offa’s Chair--a point in the great earthwork known as Offa’s Dyke, which once extended from Tidenham, across Herefordshire and Radnorshire, to the Flintshire hills beyond Mold, and perhaps to the coast of North Wales. As the valley again slightly expands, shelving bands of sward, dotted with houses, announce that we are approaching the precincts of the far-famed Tintern Abbey. First we must pass the long and scattered village of Tintern Parva, whose pretty white cottages and pleasant gardens extend for a mile along the river’s bank, which here makes another of its sharp bends. Cunningly indeed did the monks of old choose their dwelling places. There is no spot for many a mile which so completely fulfils the requirements of quiet and seclusion with certain mundane comforts, as that which they have selected. As one gazes at this noble relic, and the winding Wye stealing past it through the hills, one must accord the first place among the classic ruins of this island, in so far as regards the beauty of its situation. Forests were near at hand to supply them with fuel without stint, and game for their table on days of feasting. The tidal river would bring the barks of merchandise to their very door, and its leaping salmon would alleviate the severity of their fast days. Chepstow, with its castle, guarded them from marauders by the sea, and they were far enough within the line of border fortresses to fear no ill from incursions from the mountains of Wales.
The plan of the foundation of the Abbey is cruciform, and what remains of the grey skeleton of the edifice affords a fine example of early Twelfth-Century work. It was founded in the year 1131 by one Walter de Clare “for the good of his soul, and the soul of his kinsmen,” and was confined to the use of monks of the Cistercian order. Two inscribed tombs in the cloisters give the names of two of the abbots, but, apart from such fragmentary scraps of information, the history of Tintern may be said to have perished with the Abbey. The scene on entering the interior, is most impressive. Vaulted roof and central tower are gone, but the arches which supported the latter are intact. The glass, of course, has long since perished with the windows, even the mullions and tracery are gone; ivy, ferns, and herbage, form a coping for the wall; the greensward has replaced the pavement of stone or tiles; but still it is hardly possible to imagine a more imposing and lovely scene than these ruins.
Between Tintern and Chepstow the scenery of the Wye assumes an entirely fresh character. As we approach the Wynd cliff, the grassy bed of the river opens out into a sort of amphitheatre, and we can trace the huge horseshoe curve swept out upon its floors by the stream, between the base of the Wynd cliff which it washes, and the mural escarpment of Bannagor and Tidenham Crags, which form the opposite boundary of this great river-trench. It is a steep climb to the top of the Wynd cliff, but the glorious prospect obtained from the summit well repays the effort. Below is the beautiful horseshoe fold of the Wye, bounded by richly-wooded slopes that sweep from the right with a curve in the form of a sickle. Where the curve ends there stands an imposing wall of rock with a reddish base, its brow of dazzling white lined with green woodland, while far away towards the coast the point where the river enters the Severn estuary, which is here broadening out on its way towards the distant sea, is faintly visible. The beautiful grounds of Piercefield lie between the Wynd cliff and Chepstow. Art has here assisted Nature, in this domain, by carrying paths through a belt of woodland, with outlooks cunningly contrived to command the best views. These grounds are thrown open to the public on certain days.
The town of Chepstow occupies the right bank of the Wye, and is built upon a slope, which descends in places rather abruptly from the general level of the surrounding country to the river’s brink. Formerly it was enclosed by walls, like Monmouth, considerable portions of which are here and there preserved, especially in the neighbourhood of the castle. One of the gates still remains in High Street. It is called the Town Gate, and was for a long time used as a prison. Chepstow Castle is approached by a gentle acclivity clothed with greensward.
THE INDIAN RIVER
L. C. BRYAN
This river, or sound, spans a region of a hundred and forty miles from north to south, is salt, and yet almost without tide, neither rising nor falling more than a few inches by the winds; lies upon the very shore of the Atlantic, and from one to seven miles wide--a most placid, safe and beautiful inland sea in the very teeth of a wild tempestuous ocean.
Unlike the St. John’s or any other possible river, having no considerable rise or fall, its bordering lands are not overflowed, and unlike other seacoast waterways, it is not cumbered with interminable salt marshes. Its waters beat upon a bold, often abrupt shore, diversified into high and low lands of every grade and covered with the luxuriant vegetation common to warm climates.
Wonderfully beautiful is Indian River. There is no other such sheet of water in the world. Nature, with lavish hand, spread its waters and adorned its shores. The design of the Great Master Artist is seen in the narrow strip of land as a levee separating the river from the Atlantic, and in the forest on the levee as a great wind-break to curb the fierce winds of the ocean. Properly speaking, it is not a river, but a sound, or arm of the sea. Its centre is on an air line north and south 140 miles long, while its banks curve in and out in beautiful bays and grottoes. A few small creeks empty into it from the west, while the water empties into it from the Atlantic through Indian River Inlet and Jupiter Inlet.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY DETROIT PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPANY THE INDIAN]
It is a sea without its dangers, a river without a current, seldom calm, but always in motion from the winds. From this constant motion its water is kept pure. The winds of winter, coming from the north-west, are softened and warmed by the waters of the upper St. John’s River, and the pine forests on the west of the hammocks of this river, and the winds of summer coming from the east, are tempered and cooled by the Gulf Stream, making the climate most delightful in winter and summer, and, perhaps, most to be desired of any in America.
Of the Indian River we find the following from the able pen of ex-Governor Gleason:
“Indian River, as it is called, is a sound, and lies parallel to the Atlantic, separated from it by a narrow strip of land varying from a few rods to three miles in width; it is a sheet of pure tide water, salt, clear and transparent. It has two inlets from the ocean--Indian River Inlet, about 100 miles from its north head, and Jupiter Inlet at its extreme southern end. From its north head to within twenty-five miles of Jupiter Inlet, it is from one to six miles wide; from Jupiter Inlet to the mouth of the St. Lucie River, a distance of about twenty-five miles, it is from one-fourth of a mile to a mile in width, and is known as Jupiter Narrows. It is affected very little by the tide and the current moves by the wind. Being in the region of the trade winds, with almost a constant breeze from the east during the daytime, it affords peculiar facilities for sailing up and down the river, and the people take advantage of it. Every house is either on the river bank or a short distance up some navigable stream flowing into it, and has a boat landing. It is the Venice of America, and one can seldom look out upon the water without seeing boats sailing both ways. The river is well supplied with the finest oysters, sea-turtles, and a great variety of fish, among which are mullet, cavalli, snapper, blue fish, sheepshead and sea-trout. The manatee is caught at the mouth of the St. Lucie and Jupiter Inlet. Some of them weigh from 1,500 to 2,000 pounds and are very grand eating. They are found nowhere else in the United States, their principal habitat being near the mouths of the streams flowing into the Caribbean Sea, where they feed upon a peculiar grass called manatee, which grows at the bottom of most tide-water streams in the tropics.”