(_For the Mirror_.)
Glide, Avon, gently glide....
More prodigal in beauty than the dreams
Of fantasy,... beneath the chain
Of mingled wood and precipice, that seems
To buttress up the wave, whose silvery gleams
Stretch far beyond, where Severn leads the train.
Gilpin says, and says truly, that "the west is the region of fine
landscape;" it also follows as a natural consequence that it
predominates in the number of its artists. The beautiful vignette of
Clifton in a recent number of the MIRROR,[9] has recalled a multitude of
interesting recollections to my mind. I have passed a good deal of time
there at several periods, and as the writer of the description
accompanying the vignette has been led into an error or two, perhaps a
few desultory notes by way of _pendant_ to his paper, may not be
entirely devoid of interest to the reader.
[9] See MIRROR, No. 390.
The old Tower on the Downs no longer exists. A Tower designed for an
observatory has been erected near its former site, which is fitted up
with several large telescopes, and a camera obscura, to which the public
are admitted. This Tower which is seen in the engraving, stands, as
stated, on an extensive Roman camp, or fortification. It would have been
difficult to have selected a more appropriate situation for such a
building; for the combination of picturesque and sublime scenery, united
with the beauties of art, is no where more enthrilling to the mind than
at Clifton.
Clifton Hot Wells has long been celebrated as a watering-place.
Smollett, in his "Humphry Clinker," has given a very interesting picture
of its society in the middle of the last century. Clifton is now,
however, considerably neglected. Omnipotent fashion has migrated to
Cheltenham, though no comparison can be made with Clifton on any other
score. The natives of the Emerald Isle, indeed, since the introduction
of steam navigation, come in crowds to the Hot Wells. Though the "music
of the waters" cannot be heard there, yet you may in a few hours be
transported to scenes where Ocean revels in his wildest grandeur. Few
places are more favourably situated for the tourist. There is a regular
communication by steam with the romantic and interesting coasts of North
Devon and South Wales; while the sylvan Wye, Piercefield, Ragland, and
above all, Tintern, are within the compass of a day's excursion. Clifton
can boast of much architectural magnificence: its buildings rising from
the base to the summit of a crescent-shaped eminence remind me, in a
distant view, of an ancient Greek city; while the tiers of crescents
have a singularly fine effect, and seem to fill a sort of gap in the
landscape.
The rise of the tide in the Avon, in common with most of the ports on
the Bristol Channel, is a very extraordinary phenomenon. The whole
strength of the mighty Atlantic seems to rush up the Channel with
impetuous force. At Rownham Ferry, five miles inland, near the entrance
to Cumberland-Basin, the spring-tides frequently rise thirty-seven feet.
The tide rises at Chepstow, farther up the Severn, more than sixty feet,
and a mark on the rocks below the bridge there, denotes that it has
risen to the height of seventy feet, which is perhaps the greatest
altitude of the tides in the world.
The views on the Downs, above the Hot Wells, are infinitely varied and
delightful, and glimpses constantly occur of the Avon
"Winding like cragged Peneus, through his foliaged vale,"
while "ocean fragrance" is wafted around. The scenery on the Avon is
said strikingly to resemble the vale of Tempe in Greece. The student of
nature may there enjoy "communion sweet," with all that his heart holds
dear as life's blood. How often have I wandered through that valley of
cliffs by the light of the "cold, pale moon," watching their dark and
gigantic masses and silvery foliage, thrown into bold outline on the sky
above, with not an echo, save the solitary cry of the bittern; and
perhaps only aroused by an impetuous steamer, like some unearthly thing,
rushing rapidly past me. Parties of musicians sometimes place themselves
amongst the rocks at night when the effect is extremely fine. Perhaps
autumn is the fittest season for enjoying these scenes. At that season
the many coloured liveries of the foliage, the lonely woodland
wilderness and rocky paths, and the mists which in the earlier part of
the day linger on the tops of the cliffs and woods, when partially
dispersed by the suns rays, give a character of vastness and sublimity
to the scenery which it would be difficult to describe. I would
particularly point out on these occasions the view from the hill near
the new church at Clifton, towards Long Ashton, and Dundry Tower.
I visited the latter place during the last summer. It was a glorious
sunset in July, when after climbing a long and mazy turret-stair, we
stood at the summit of Dundry Tower. A magnificent landscape of vast
extent, stretching around on every point of the compass, burst almost
simultaneously on the sight, embracing views of the Bristol Channel, the
mountains of South Wales and Monmouthshire, the Severn, Gloucestershire
and the Malvern Hills, Bath, the Vale of White Horse in Berkshire, and
the Mendip Range; while at the foot of the rich champagne valley below
you, which gradually descends for about five miles, lies the city of
Bristol with its numerous fine churches; and a splendid view of Clifton
completed the scene. This may be said to be a succession of truly
English landscapes.
The recollection of such a moment as this, is treasured up in the memory
as a green spot in the oasis of existence. Fancies come thickly crowding
on the mind, which banish for the moment, all feelings of the drear
realities of life; if one may be pardoned for being sometimes romantic,
it is surely on such occasions as these. We descended the tower--"Please
remember the Sexton----!"
The church of Dundry is of great antiquity, and the tower, which is one
of the most extraordinary in England, is a fine specimen of early church
architecture.
There is another tower, remarkable for the beauty of its situation,
which overlooks the Avon, about two miles west of Clifton, at the
extremity of the Downs. It is of an octagonal shape, and its name
(Cooke's Folly) is said to be derived from the following circumstance:--
Several centuries since, the proprietor of the land, a gentleman named
Cooke, dreamed that his only son was destined to be killed by the sting
of an adder. This idea took such hold of his mind, that in order to
avert the dreaded catastrophe, he built this tower, to which he rigidly
confined his son. The tradition goes on to relate the futility of all
human precautions against the decrees of fate: for a short period after
the erection of the tower, an attendant happening to bring in some
bundles of fagots in which an adder was coiled, the youth was stung by
it and died in consequence.
There has been a beautiful lithographic engraving, published in Bristol,
of Cooke's Folly, which includes a view of King's Road.