“Pleased Vaga echoes through its winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.”
The German language with all its richness is somewhat awkward and intractable for translation, especially from the English, which from being made up of various languages, possesses a peculiar facility in rendering foreign thoughts.[156] To me these two lines appear almost untranslatable: as often as I have attempted it, the thought lost all its grace;—perhaps, however, the awkwardness was mine.
It is no small advantage to the Wye, that two of the most beautiful ruins in the world lie on its banks; and never was I more convinced than here, that a prophet has no honour in his own country. How else would so many Englishmen travel thousands of miles to fall into ecstacies at beauties of a very inferior order to these! I must ask one more question;—why ruins have so much stronger an effect on the mind than the highest perfect specimen of architectural beauty? It seems almost as if these works of man did not attain their full perfection till Nature had tempered and corrected them:—and yet it is well that man should again step in, just at that point where Nature begins to efface all traces of his hand. A vast and well-preserved ruin is the most beautiful of buildings.
I have already mentioned that the environs of Bristol have a high and a deserved reputation. In luxuriance of vegetation and fertility they can be surpassed by none,—in picturesque effect by few; ‘C’est comme la terre promise.’ Whatever one beholds, and (as a gourmand I add) whatever one tastes, is in full perfection.
Bristol, a city of a hundred thousand inhabitants, lies in a deep valley: Clifton, which rises in terraces on the hills immediately above it, seems only a part of the same town: it is easy to conceive that extraordinary effects must result from such a situation. Three venerable Gothic churches rise out of the confused mass of houses in the valley. Like the proud remains of feudal and priestly dominion (for these, though hostile brothers, went hand in hand,) they appear to rear their gray heads with a feeling of their ancient greatness, in scorn of the mushroom growth of modern times. One of them especially, Radcliffe Church, is a wonderful structure;—unfortunately, the sandstone of which it is built has suffered so much from time, that its ornaments are nearly fretted away. I went in while the organ was playing; and although I entered in the most quiet and respectful manner, and placed myself in a corner whence I could catch a stolen glance at the interior, the illiberality of the English Church would not allow me this satisfaction, and the preacher sent an old woman to tell me that I must sit down. As it is not the custom in Catholic churches to interrupt the devotions of a congregation on such light grounds even if strangers go in without any caution to view whatever is worth seeing in the church, I might justly wonder that English Protestant piety should have so little confidence in its own strength, as to be thus blown about by the slightest breath. The riddle was explained to me afterwards: I should have had to pay for my seat, and the truly pious motive was the sixpence. However, I had had enough, and left their ‘mummery’[157] without paying.
As soon as I returned to the inn I ordered a post-chaise, seated myself on the driver’s seat,—not like the Emperor of China, as the place of honour, but as the place for seeing,—and began my excursions in the environs. I first visited the warm baths. They are situated just at the beginning of a rocky valley, which has a great resemblance to the Planische Grund near Dresden, only that the rocks are higher and the expanse of water much finer. Just in this spot we met the mayor in his state equipage, much more splendid than that of our kings on the continent. It formed a curious contrast with the solitary rocky scenery. As he passed, the postilion pointed out to me a distant ruined tower called ‘Cook’s Folly,’ the property of a former mayor, a merchant, who ruined himself in building it, and now lives in a ruin. He could not complete the Gothic castle which he began to build in a most beautiful situation; perhaps it is a greater ornament to the scene in its present state.
Ascending from the rocky valley we reached an extensive table-land, which serves as a race-course, and thence over rising ground to Lord de Clifford’s park, the entrance to which is very beautiful. You drive for about a mile and a half on the side of a high hill, through a winding avenue of primeval oaks, planted far enough from each other to stretch out their giant arms on every side to their full extent before they touch. Beneath their branches you catch the finest views of the rich vale of Bristol. It is like a noble gallery of pictures; under every tree you find a different one. To the right, on the rising ground appears a dark belt of plantation edging the green turf. Laurel, arbutus, and other evergreens border the road, till at a sudden turn the house and flower-garden burst upon the eye in all their decorated beauty. At the end of this park lies a ridge of hills, along whose narrow crest you drive some miles, and arrive at a noble sea view. At our feet lay the Russian fleet at anchor. It is bound to the Mediterranean, and in the storm of last week narrowly escaped shipwreck on this coast:—the English declare this was entirely caused by the ignorance and unskilfulness of the sailors. I afterwards made the acquaintance of the captain and five other officers. To my great surprise they spoke no foreign language, so that our conversation was limited to signs: in other respects they seemed a polite and civilized sort of people.
Not far from this park is an interesting establishment called ‘The Cottages.’ The proprietor, Mr. Harford, has endeavoured to realize the ‘beau idéal’ of a village. A beautiful green space in the midst of the wood is surrounded by a winding road; on it are built nine cottages, all of different forms and materials;—stone, brick, wood, &c., and roofed with thatch, tiles, and slate; each surrounded with different trees, and enwreathed with various sorts of clematis, rose, honeysuckle, and vine. The dwellings, which are perfectly detached though they form a whole, have separate gardens, and a common fountain, which stands in the centre of the green, overshadowed by old trees. The gardens, divided by neat hedges, form a pretty garland of flowers and herbs around the whole village. What crowns the whole is, that the inhabitants are all poor families, whom the generous proprietor allows to live in the houses rent free. No more delightful or well-chosen spot could be found as a refuge for misfortune: its perfect seclusion and snugness breathe only peace and forgetfulness of the world.
Immediately opposite to the wood, a modern Gothic castle rears its head at a distance, from amid ancient oaks. I wished to see it, as well as the park around it, but could not get permission. Whenever the high road lies through an English park, a part of the wall is replaced by a ha-ha, or a transparent iron fence, that the passer-by may throw a modest and curious glance into the forbidden paradise: but this effort exhausts the stock of liberality usually possessed by an English land-owner. As it was Sunday too, I gave up all hope of moving the churlish porter to make any exception in my favour: on his brow was clearly written the converse of Dante’s infernal inscription, ‘Voi che venite—di entrare lasciate ogni speranza.’
I returned by way of Clifton, from which Bristol appeared to lie under my feet. The scene was greatly enlivened by the multitude of gaily-dressed church-goers of both sexes, whom I met in every road and lane. In strong contrast with these cheerful groups, was a large house painted entirely black, with white windows, and looking like an enormous catafalque. I was told it was the public hospital, and a gentleman offered to show it to me. The interior was much more attractive than the exterior: its fine spacious apartments, and the exquisite cleanliness which pervades every part, must render it a most comfortable abode for the sick and suffering. In no place did I perceive the slightest offensive smell, except in the apothecary’s shop. The right wing of the building is appropriated to male, the left to female patients; in both, the lower story to medical, the upper to surgical cases. The operating room was remarkably elegant, furnished with several marble basins, into which water was turned by cocks, so that in any part of the room the blood could be instantly washed away. In the centre was a mahogany sort of couch with leather cushions for the patients. In short, there was everything that an ameteur could desire. But beneficent as is their art, surgeons are generally rather unfeeling; the gentleman who accompanied me did not form an exception. In one of the apartments I observed a woman who had completely covered herself with the bed-clothes, and asked him in a low voice, what was her disease. “O,” replied he quite aloud, “that is an incurable case of aneurism; as soon as it bursts she must die.” The shrinking motion and the low groan under the bed-clothes, showed me but too clearly what agony this intelligence caused, and made me deeply regret my inquiry. In one of the men’s wards I saw a man lying in bed, white and motionless as marble; and as we were at a considerable distance, I asked the nature of his disorder. “I don’t know myself,” replied my companion, “but I’ll soon ask him.” “For Heaven’s sake don’t” said I: but he was off in an instant, felt the man’s hand as it lay motionless, and came back saying with a laugh, “He is cured, for he is dead.”