|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 38
* * * * *
_May 10_.
It was on a lovely morning that I found myself on board the little
steamer _Wye_, passing out of Bristol harbour. In going down the river,
we saw on our right, the stupendous rocks of St. Vincent towering some
four or five hundred feet above our heads. By the swiftness of our fairy
steamer, we were soon abreast of Cook's Folly, a singular tower, built
by a man from whom it takes its name, and of which the following
romantic story is told:--"Some years since a gentleman, of the name of
Cook, erected this tower, which has since gone by the name of 'Cook's
Folly.' A son having been born, he was desirous of ascertaining, by
means of astrology, if he would live to enjoy his property. Being
himself a firm believer, like the poet Dryden, that certain information
might be obtained from the above science, he caused the child's
horoscope to be drawn, and found, to his dismay, that in his third,
sixteenth, or twenty-first year, he would be in danger of meeting with
some fearful calamity or sudden death, to avert which he caused the
turret to be constructed, and the child placed therein. Secure, as he
vainly thought, there he lived, attended by a faithful servant, their
food and fuel being conveyed to them by means of a pully-basket, until
he was old enough to wait upon himself. On the eve of his twenty-first
year, his parent's hopes rose high, and great were the rejoicings
prepared to welcome the young heir to his home. But, alas! no human
skill could avert the dark fate which clung to him. The last night he
had to pass alone in the turret, a bundle of faggots was conveyed to him
as usual, in which lay concealed a viper, which clung to his hand. The
bite was fatal; and, instead of being borne in triumph, the dead body of
his only son was the sad spectacle which met the sight of his father."
We crossed the channel and soon entered the mouth of that most
picturesque of rivers, the Wye. As we neared the town of Chepstow the
old Castle made its appearance, and a fine old ruin it is. Being
previously provided with a letter of introduction to a gentleman in
Chepstow, I lost no time in finding him out. This gentleman gave me a
cordial reception, and did what Englishmen seldom ever do, lent me his
saddle horse to ride to the Abbey. While lunch was in preparation I took
a stroll through the Castle which stood near by. We entered the Castle
through the great door-way and were soon treading the walls that had
once sustained the cannon and the sentinel, but were now covered with
weeds and wild flowers. The drum and fife had once been heard within
these walls--the only music now is the cawing of the rook and daw. We
paid a hasty visit to the various apartments, remaining longest in those
of most interest. The room in which Martin the Regicide was imprisoned
nearly twenty years, was pointed out to us. The Castle of Chepstow is
still a magnificent pile, towering upon the brink of a stupendous cliff,
on reaching the top of which, we had a splendid view of the surrounding
country. Time, however, compelled us to retrace our steps, and after
partaking of a lunch, we mounted a horse for the first time in ten
years, and started for Tintern Abbey. The distance from Chepstow to the
Abbey is about five miles, and the road lies along the banks of the
river. The river is walled in on either side by hills of much beauty,
clothed from base to summit with the richest verdure. I can conceive of
nothing more striking than the first appearance of the Abbey. As we
rounded a hill, all at once we saw the old ruin standing before us in
all its splendour. This celebrated ecclesiastical relic of the olden
time is doubtless the finest ruin of its kind in Europe. Embosomed
amongst hills, and situated on the banks of the most fairy-like river in
the world, its beauty can scarcely be surpassed. We halted at the
"Beaufort Arms," left our horse, and sallied forth to view the Abbey.
The sun was pouring a flood of light upon the old grey walls, lighting
up its dark recesses, as if to give us a better opportunity of viewing
it. I gazed with astonishment and admiration at its many beauties, and
especially at the superb gothic windows over the entrance door. The
beautiful gothic pillars, with here and there a representation of a
praying priest, and mailed knights, with saints and Christian martyrs,
and the hundreds of Scriptural representations, all indicate that this
was a place of considerable importance in its palmy days. The once
stone floor had disappeared, and we found ourselves standing on a floor
of unbroken green grass, swelling back to the old walls, and looking so
verdant and silken that it seemed the very floor of fancy. There are
more romantic and wilder places than this in the world, but none more
beautiful. The preservation of these old abbeys should claim the
attention of those under whose charge they are, and we felt like joining
with the poet and saying:--
"O ye who dwell
Around yon ruins, guard the precious charge
From hands profane! O save the sacred pile--
O'er which the wing of centuries has flown
Darkly and silently, deep-shadowing all
Its pristine honours--from the ruthless grasp
Of future violation."
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|