CLIFTON HOT WELLS.
(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.
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.
VYVYAN.