* * * During the whole course of our voyage
from Ross, we had scarcely 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-accommodated
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
>> note 1 from
the hills to the water-side, were particularly
beautiful, and well-inhabited. Flocks of
sheep were everywhere hanging on their
green steeps; and herds of cattle occupying
the lower grounds. We often sailed past
groups of them laving their sides in the
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 miniature,
where little barks lay moored, taking in
ore and other commodities from the mountains.
These vessels, designed plainly for rougher
water than they at present encountered, shewed
us, without any geographical knowledge, 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.
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 great eminence in the middle
of a circular valley, beautifully screened
on all sides by woody hills, through which
the river winds its course; and the hills,
closing on its entrance and on its 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
enchanting piece of scenery. 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.
![[Click on image to enlarge]](../../images/romantic/wye2.jpg)
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. Though 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 gable-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 aisles, which are both
disagreeable in themselves, and confound
the perspective.
But were the building ever so beautiful,
encompassed 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.
But if Tintern-abbey be less striking
as a distant object, it exhibits,
on a nearer view (when the whole together
cannot be seen) a very enchanting piece of
ruin. The eye settles upon some of its nobler
parts. Nature has now made it her own. Time
has worn off all traces of the chisel: it
has blunted the sharp edges of the rule and
compass, 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 lichens, 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 those
parts where we can obtain a nearer view of
it. But when we enter it we see it
in most perfection; 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 the wall; but in corresponding
parts one always remains to tell the story.
The pavement 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 aisles 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, its 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
left with all its rough fragments of ruin
scattered 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 its 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 its novelty it undoubtedly does.
Among other things in this scene of desolation,
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 pretence of
carrying us to some part of the ruins, which
each could shew; and which was far superior
to anything which could be shewn by anyone
else. The most lucrative occasion could not
have excited more jealousy and contention.
One poor woman we followed, who had engaged
to shew us the monks' library. She could
scarcely crawl; shuffling along her palsied
limbs and meagre 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 as we were. I
never saw so loathsome a human dwelling.
It was a cavern 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 utensil 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 its 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, 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 silence;
but its immediate environs only are meant.
Within 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 elegant
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.
But one great disadvantage began here to
invade us. Hitherto the river had been clear
and splendid, reflecting the several objects
on its banks. But its waters now became oozy
and discoloured. Sludgy shores too appeared
on each side, and other symptoms which discovered
the influence of a tide. * * *