steep sides, or crown their pinnacles with masses of verdure; while here
and there a cottage, with its whitewashed walls, gives new life and
interest to the scene.
How oft the pilgrim, lingering here,
Beneath that yew’s sepulchral shade,
Hath dropt the penitential tear,
And, sighing to himself, hath said--
There’s solace here for all my woe,
<g>St. Mary’s</g> altar gleams below;
And blessèd be the hand divine,
That leads the pilgrim to her <g>shrine</g>.
But the point from which the Abbey of Tinterne is seen to most
advantage, is that chosen by Mr. Bartlett in the illustration opposite.
The way to the ‘<g>Devil’s Pulpit</g>,’ as it is called, runs along the left
bank of the Wye, and, in its winding course, presents many little
glimpses of the vale and river, that, like small cabinet-pictures, serve
as a gradual introduction to the splendid panorama of nature--the
features of which are here so faithfully illustrated by the pencil, as
to render description superfluous.
The river, rolling far below--
Here swift as time, there still and slow;
O’ershadowed here with arching bowers,
There sweetly fringed with summer flowers;
The Vale--where, through its orchard trees,
The curling vapour meets the breeze,
And, vast and venerably grand,
The <g>Abbey’s</g> mouldering arches stand,--
All these a wondrous scene impart,
To charm the eye and melt the heart;
The scroll of ages to unfold,
And paint the wondrous men of old.
Of this lofty and romantic scene Mr. Thomas writes:--“Who shall describe
the glories of this splendid view? Who cannot but involuntarily think of
the second scene in the Temptation, when the prince of the power of the
air took the Prince of peace into an exceeding high mountain, and showed
him all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, in a moment of
time? But let no satanic thought break in upon the holy influence which
the soul delights to cherish in this lovely spot! It seems as though
imagination, that potent enchantress of the mind, had transmitted us to
some pinnacled mountain to show us the peace, the beauty, and permanence
of the works of God, in vivid contrast with the feeble, the transitory,
the desolated works of man--the ruined abbey encircled by the
everlasting hills. This comprehensive panorama contains the most
pleasing combination of nature and art, mountain and meadow, water and
wood. There flows the glassy Wye, coiled like a serpent, and either
buried in woods, or gliding peacefully through meadows spangled with
fleecy flocks. Its buoyant bosom bears a little bark freighted with the
gay partizans of pleasure, whose scarlet banner is playing with the
summer’s breeze. The distant sounds of a solitary flute harmonize with
the busy hum of bees, and the song of some half-secluded bird. Again, we
hear the hoarser cry of the mariner, and the metallic voice of an
industrious anvil. The unpretending church of Tinterne, in its unspotted
whiteness, contrasts with its aged companion--a sombre yew, which, like
an ample pall, is overshadowing the clustered monuments of death.”
<g>Lancaut</g> cliffs, which contribute a striking feature to this part of the
scenery, are rendered still more interesting by the following
tradition:--During the calamitous war, so often referred to in these
pages, Sir John Winter was eminently distinguished by his devotion to
the royal cause. The personal risks and pecuniary sacrifices to which he
was daily exposed, only served to give more warmth to his loyalty. When
the Parliament sent their first troops to the banks of the Wye, Winter
converted his house at Sidney into a fortress; and so promptly and
skilfully was this accomplished, that it was rendered not merely
inaccessible, but so well provisioned and fortified as to be able to
stand a siege. In this, perhaps, there was some little exaggeration; for
the garrison, then at Gloucester, and acting under the direction of
skilful and determined leaders, were not likely to have been foiled, had
they made any such attempt. Their grand object was Chepstow Castle; and
if that fortress was ultimately found to be untenable, the defence of a
private fortalice must have been a rash and hopeless attempt. It proves,
nevertheless, that his loyalty admitted of no fear, and was prepared for
every extremity. Acting under the command of Lord Herbert--whose
operations will be detailed in our account of Raglan--Winter, by his
rapid movements, frequently alarmed the troops under General Massey. But
after the siege of Gloucester was raised by the Earl of Essex, the
king’s interest in that part of the country was much impaired; and the
Parliamentary forces continuing to advance, Sir John Winter was
compelled by urgent duties to abandon his own residence, and retire
across the frontier. In his retreat, however, through the forest of
Tudenham, Cromwell’s dragoons were immediately on his traces; escape was
seemingly impossible--he was completely hemmed in by the enemy on one
hand, and the Wye on the other; and though well mounted, he soon
perceived that his pursuers were sensibly gaining upon him. Determined
that they should never boast of having taken him prisoner, he turned his
horse’s head suddenly towards the rocks, which now bear his name, and by
means, he knew not how, quickly disappeared and descended the cliffs in
safety. At the base of these rolled the Wye, then in flood tide; but
plunging into the river, his gallant steed carried him safely to the
opposite bank, where he was soon joined by a party of royalists, and
congratulated upon his miraculous escape. The point at which he
descended the rocks is still called <g>Winter’s leap</g>. Of his escape, by
scrambling down the cliff, there is no doubt; but to represent it as the
result of a _leap_[98] on horseback, would be to assume the peculiar
privilege of “Geoffrey of Monmouth.”
After this perilous feat, the hardy royalist returned to his house at
Sidney; but finding it, on closer inspection, to be quite untenable, he
had it demolished, and then, joining the king’s forces, took part in the
battle of Naseby, which gave a finishing blow to the king’s affairs.
[Illustration: A] walk from the <g>Abbey</g> to the village of Tinterne Parva,
will never fail to interest the stranger; in this short distance, many
new features and new combinations of scenery crowd upon the view, and
carry the mind back to remote times, when the cloister bell was the only
sound that broke in upon the stillness of the scene. Sweeping round the
outer ring of the crescent, within which the river flows in a deep
smooth channel, the road is overhung by masses of rock, shaded by trees,
and skirted by cottages, which, from the situations they occupy, rather
than any taste or merit in their construction, present a picturesque
appearance. As we advance, the scene is continually changing: the old
abbey walls, beautiful from whatever point they are contemplated, assume
a comparatively new aspect from the western approach, particularly about
sunset, when the whole building appears as if bathed in a flood of
yellow light. To enjoy the scenery of the place under such
circumstances, is worth a long day’s pilgrimage. The river, which here
doubles upon itself, so as to take the form of a horse shoe, is of a
depth navigable for small craft; and though here and there fretted by
rocks, the surface, as we passed, was smooth and limpid; through which,
as in a mirror, the picturesque scenery on its banks appeared in
distinct and beautiful reflexion.
Near to the Cross, the ancient market-place of the village, the stranger
is shown a ruined edifice, partly covered with ivy, and bearing the
evidence of having suffered less from time than violence. This is
supposed to have been the villa, or extra-cloister residence of the
abbots of Tinterne, to which at certain seasons they could retire from
the exercise of their public functions, and enjoy the privileges of
social life--the society and conversation of friends and strangers,
without the forms and austerities of the cloister. Of this building,
nothing but a few shapeless walls is left; but from the size and
structure of the windows, square-headed and divided by transoms, it
seems probable that the house is not earlier than the reign of
Elizabeth. Mr. Thomas thinks, that from its Tudor-Gothic style, it was
probably built by the abbot and some of the brotherhood, as a retreat
about the period when the original foundation was dissolved. During the
war which devastated the frontier in 1645-6, it was taken and ransacked
by the soldiers of the Commonwealth. Since that period it has often
changed its owners; and at one time, we are told, though on rather
uncertain ground, it was the residence of the family of Fielding the
novelist--
Whose name
Still draws the pilgrim to its shattered frame,
And bids him linger ’neath its shadow.
The parish church of Tinterne Parva is a small but very ancient
building, irregularly divided into porch, nave, and chancel. Its
erection, according to the historian of the abbey, was anterior to the
foundation of the monastery itself; and by some writers it is even
considered to have been the parent church. The evidences of its great
antiquity may be found in the building itself; and a practised eye will
detect indications of a British origin, in certain niches or circular
arched windows in the massive walls of the western side. The porch,
which is chaste and in good preservation, is a subsequent erection, and
yet of a remote age. The chancel, which “most uncouthly joins the nave,”
is the latest portion of the fabric. There are fragments of some antique
monuments scattered about the floor--memorials of ecclesiastics--which,
the writer sarcastically observes, “have been judiciously cut up, and
squared, to mend the pavement!” By this sage arrangement, the parochial
economy has been brought into the sharpest practice; and although it has
evinced no special veneration for the sainted dead, or the hallowed
relics of antiquity, yet “the ruinous expense of hauling fresh slabs
from the quarry, on the opposite side of the way, has been most
considerately spared.” Moreover, he adds, “the pipe of the stove within,
is picturesquely thrust through the only Gothic window remaining in the
nave!”[99]
As if its smoke, though dark and somewhat denser,
Were meant to represent the ancient Censer,
That once, with daily sacrifice, perfumed
The ground where saints and heroes lay inhumed.
By the churchyard stile, as Mr. Thomas happily describes it, “and
beneath the dark mantling boughs of the yew-tree, a scene of exquisite
sweetness steals upon the eye. The beautiful meadows beyond are skirted
by a ridge of lofty woods, with the gentle Wye flowing like a liquid
mirror below. Beneath the
[Illustration: _The Ferry at Tintern._]
renewed limbs of an aged elm-tree, hollowed and blasted by the storms of
many winters, a flock of unmolested sheep repose in grateful shade;
these are, indeed, made “to lie down in green pastures,” and are “led
beside the still waters.”
It would be difficult to picture to the mind’s eye a scene of more
enchanting repose; in such a place as this, with such objects before
him, the verdant pastures, the pendent groves, the winding river, the
tranquil sky,--where the very clouds, with their fleecy wings stretched
forth in vain to catch the subtile current, seem like a fleet becalmed
on the wide ocean, waiting for the breeze;--with these before him,
ambition forgets the world; sorrow looks up with more cheerful
resignation; cares and disappointments lose both their weight and their
sting: with so little of sordid earth, so much of the sublimity of
nature to contemplate, his thoughts become chastened, soothed, and
elevated; and the heart expands under a new sense of happiness, and a
feeling of brotherly kindness and benevolence towards everything that
breathes. He feels the poet’s exhortation in all its force--
When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come, like a blight,
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, the shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,
Go forth into the open sky, and list
To Nature’s teaching!