where we observed the ruins of a mansion belonging to Mr. Farmer of
Monmouth. This house appears of an old date, and might probably claim
the attention of the curious antiquary, was he not so wrapt up in
contemplating the venerable abbey, which presents its Gothic pile in
solemn majesty. This august building, great in ruins, and awfully grand
in appearance, impels the stranger, as it were imperceptibly, to land and
inspect its noble arches, tottering pillars, and highly-finished windows:
the specimens of ancient architecture, which formerly were delicately
wrought by the hand of art, are now finely decked by that of nature. On
our first entrance our attention was too much engrossed to exchange the
mutual communication of thought; but the care which has been officiously
taken to remove every fragment lying scattered through the immense area
of the fabric, and the smoothness of the shorn grass, which no scythe
should have dared to clip, in a great measure perverts the character of
the scene: these circumstances but ill accord with the mutilated walls of
an ancient ruin, which has braved the pitiless storms of so many
centuries. In this respect we by no means agreed with Mr. Gilpin, who
thus describes it: “We excuse—perhaps we approve—the neatness that is
introduced within. It may add to the beauty of the scene—to its novelty
it undoubtedly does.” But when this disgust was a little abated, we
indulged those reflections which scenes of ancient grandeur naturally
recall.
This beautiful ruin is cruciform, measuring two hundred and thirty feet
in length, and thirty-three in breadth; the transept is one hundred and
sixty feet long. {298} This Cisterian Abbey was founded by Walter de
Clare in the year 1131, and dedicated to St. Mary in the reign of King
Henry VIII. It experienced the same fate with many other monasteries,
and was granted at its dissolution to the Earl of Worcester in the year
1537.
“As the Abbey of Tintern,” says the author of the Beauties, Harmonies,
and Sublimities of Nature, “is the most beautiful and picturesque of all
our Gothic monuments, so is the situation one of the most sequestered and
delightful. One more abounding in that peculiar kind of scenery, which
excites the mingled sensations of content, religion, and enthusiasm, it
is impossible to behold. There every arch infuses a solemn energy, as it
were, into inanimate nature: a sublime antiquity breathes mildly into the
heart; and the soul, pure and passionless, appears susceptible of that
state of tranquillity, which is the perfection of every earthly wish.
Never has Colonna wandered among the woods, surrounding this venerable
ruin, standing on the banks of a river, almost as sacred to the
imagination as the spot, where the Cephisus and the Ilyssus mingle their
waters, but he has wished himself a landscape-painter. He has never sat
upon its broken columns and beheld its mutilated fragments; and its
waving arches and pillars, decorated with festoons of ivy; but he has
formed the wish to forsake the world, and resign himself entirely to the
tranquil studies of philosophy. Is there a man, my Lelius, too rich, too
great, too powerful, for these emotions? Is there one too ignorant, too
vain and too presumptuous to indulge them? Envy him not! From him the
pillars of Palmyra would not draw one sigh; the massacre of Glencoe, the
matins of Moscow, or the Sicilian vespers, would elicit no tear.”
As we receded from the banks, Tintern Abbey, with the Gothic fret-work of
the eastern window, seemingly bound together by the treillage of ivy,
appeared in the most pleasing point of view; sloping hills and rich woods
forming a fine back-ground. As we drew nearer