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*^< ** *4- | \ iv 30 UlllUlilU
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Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
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*^≪ ** *4- | \ Iv 30 Ulllulilu
Bnrnnlin
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VIVIAN ON THE WYE . Fytte the First . Several , of my " kyind friends" have expressed a flattering curiosity respecting my long silence . Let me confess the truth—I have not had the heart to write—my pens have been allowed to rust , the cream-laid paper has spread its fair temptations before me in vain , till dust and smoke soiled its virgin purity , and all the " bright imaginings" I might have confided to it have faded . Literature ! who thinks of Literature when his hopes are lacerated ? Who can write when his eyes are brimming with tears ? I made Julia an offer of my hand and copyrights , and she , with a remorseless vanity only intelligible on the supposition of lunacy— " declined I " ****** ****
One day when Gloom o ' ershadowed me like a Cypress , and robbed my cutlets of their relish , a knock at the door announced a visitor : it was Peter McPousto , an intense philosopher of my acquaintance , author of the Phenomenology of Cognition , the Genesis of the Prothetic Ineffable , and other works of a light and entertaining character in metaphysics . He came to propose a Walk up the Wye . There was health , enjoyment , oblivion , appetite , in the very phrase . Fresh breezes fanned my cheeks as he spoke . I saw as in a flash the panorama of beauty awaiting us while he estimated the expense and made researches in Bradshaw . Everything was settled in the briefest manner , and on Monday morning , the 16 th of September , we
placed ourselves in a second class carriage on the Great Western , and screamed to Bristol . It was then half-past two , and as the coach did not start for Chepstovv till half-past four , we found ourselves with two hours to kill . McPousto , whose appetite is large and expensive , thought that an analytical investigation into the phoenomenology of nutrition might be pursued by means of dinner , for which two hours were barely enough . Being of a mild and yielding disposition , I allowed him to have his way , and , dinner ordered , strolled with him tD see the sight of Bristol—Redcliffe
Church . A dissertation on the beauty of this old gothic relic , with some considerations on the symbolism of architecture might very well be introduced here , together with a slight historical survey of the history of Bristolits diamond mines and glove factories—and a poetic rhapsody on Chatterton , " the marvellous boy ; " but perhaps you would receive it with mediocre gratitude , and so I pass over to the White Lion , where the sight and odour of a juicy steak make McPousto ' s nostrils collapse with luxurious anticipation . For an intellectual man Peter is certainly fond of his food !
But the coach is at the door ! A real old-fashioned stage coach , with an impatient team , luggage piied like mountains , and a ruddy-faced driver , with a most unmistakeable " Please-to-remember-the-coachman" sort of countenance , and outside it sit varied gents with flaming cigars . We mount—All right ! Away she goes ! Five-and-twenty years are traversed backwards , as the coach sharply rattles over the stones , and we seem to hear the echoes of those wheels that whirled us to and from school . Mysterious power of association ! thus in an instant withdrawing the veil which has slowly descended upon the past , and peopling the mind with the vanishing forms of a troubled boyhood ....
But if 1 once get fairly set going on that line , the boiler will burst before I stop ; so I will abruptly pull up , and over the ashy fire of my cigar scrutinize our fellow outsiders . Pleasant sight ! Two genuine English faces , broad , healthy , manly , energetic , kindly , though not much vexed by " thoughts beyond the reaches of their souls . " They may be small farmers or country tradesmen . Let us open upon them . McPousto , who , in spite of his philosophy , has an engaging manner , inspiring confidence , gets them fairly into conversation ; and very pleasant it is , though it would look dull enough in print . We reached Chepstow by seven o ' clock , and after performing those ablutions which the travelling Christian rushes to as the first of duties , we
interrogated a wall-eyed waiter respecting the array of amusements which tempted the visitors of that ancient town . " Any theatre open to-night ?" " No , sir . " " Any concerts ? " None , sir . " " Any Casino ? " ( McPousto is a tremendous fellow after the girls ! Philosopher as he is , champagne and low dresses are irresistible . ) The waiter had evidently never heard of such places . " Well , is there a billiard table in the place ? " Here he brightened up a bit . " Why , sir , there did used to be one at the 'Orns ; but I ' m not sure how it stands now . " The mere hope was enough , so forth we sallied in quest of the Horns j but the landlord , when I asked him , scratched his head with his pine , and replied , " That it did use to be here ;
but it ' up in the loft now . " I cannot describe our disappointment ! To find yourself out of your " ordinary plate , * ' as the French say , and thrown into a " plate" like Chepstow , with not a possibility of murdering the slow hours , with no theatre , no concerts , no billiards , " no nothing , " condemned to mope in the coffee-room of your hotel till bedtime , is not a situation of great hilarity . What was to be done ? Peter proposed a ramble . We sauntered out of the town , and indulged in a little entertaining metaphysics j this freshening our appetites , we came back ready for tea , and in the coffeeroom went through that meal in a style of grim dignity only to be found in England : for there were two other gentlemen besides ourselves , also teaing . Now you perfectly understand the sudden check to that " flow of soul " which the presence of a stranger creates ; you picture to yourselves how we
four eyed each other like cats on a wall , and yet took no more social interest in each other than if we had severally been tables and chairs ; how the conversation became fragmentary , and carried on in the low tones of diplomatic secrecy ; how the only honest sound of the human voice was in an authoritative " Waiter—muffins ! " after which it sunk into a chilling whisper ; how , in short , we four made ourselves mutually uncomfortable all because we had " never been introduced . " Having swallowed our tea , we made a rapid exit to the bar-parlour , where the " fragrant weed" soothed the troubled waters of our tea .
Tuesday morning we were tip at—never mind the hour—it was before breakfast ; and our first visit was , of course , to the castle , a very noble ruin frowning upon the river . I will not trouble you with any historical details , partly because I know nothing about them , and scorn to read guide books . Besides , we went there to enjoy ourselves . We went to scramble up the crumbling towers , loll in the sun , drink in beauty with our eyes , to exclaim " oh ! " and see admiration reflected in each other ' s faces ; not to listen to a mumbling cicerone drawling out his never-varying statement of supereminently uninteresting facts , forgotten as soon as heard . We did right . A rare two hours we spent under the bright sun , which threw a garment of checquered beauty over the whole scene ! We prided ourselves on the purity of our enjoyment not being disturbed by any " useful information 1 "
Having glutted our eyes , and given as much time as we could spare , we sent the trunk on by coach to Monmouth , and , taking necessities in a small carpet bag , set out for Tintern . How it was we lost our way has never been explained , but lose it we did , and found ourselves wandering through endless lanes ( charming they were !) instead of keeping to the high road . But the accident was fortunate . It made our walk some few miles longer , but it made it more various . The weather was superb . We seemed to gulp
down health at every inspiration . Our spirits were buoyant : Our cigars un- > exceptionable ; our conversation varied ; our laughter sharp , clear , genuine . The lanes were purple with heavy clusters of blackberries , which we ate with the voracity of schoolboys . The birds were rehearsing their grand opera over our heads ; the bright blue dragon flies darted about in the sunlight , and we—two pale , sedentary men , released from the oppressive atmosphere of cities—rioted in the clear keen air and bright sun with bounding pulses , which made us incessantly exclaim , " This is quite perfect 1 "
About half-past three the matchless Abbey of Tintern burst upon us ; but with an indifference to the picturesque and a preference for the culinary which may look shocking on paper , though reasonable enough on a journey we only threw Parthian glances at the ruin while retreating to cutlets at the Rose and Crown . Never were such cutlets ! How much of their excellence was subjective , as McPousto would say , and how much objective—whether the excellence rose out of our keen appetites , or whether it oozed from the juicy meat , is nothing to the point ; I maintain my original assertion , never were such cutlets ! The Rose and Crown is a pleasant little inn , modest in pretensions , but cool with cleanliness , and—important item I—very reasonable in its charges . We stayed there two days , and the bill was about thirty shillings—or seven and sixpence each daily .
After dinner , and that meditative cigar which comes to assist digestion and to calm the mind , we set out for the Wynd Cliff , which we should have visited on our way from Chepstow had we not lost our route . It is only two and a half miles from Tintern , and we felt equal to twenty ! The landlady warned us that the ascent by night was dangerous , but the " damme who ' s afraid" spirit laughed to scorn her warnings—to remember them with something like remorse when we found ourselves descending by uncertain moonlight a fearfully precipitous and slippery path ! Geographers , geologists , or whoever settle those matters , declare that the Wynd Cliff is eight hundred feet high ; that may be its height to ascend , but to descend I pledge you my word it is more like two thousand , especially in the dark !
From the summit , when you , panting , arrive there , may be seen the counties of Monmouth , Gloucester , Hereford , Brecon , Glamorgan , Wilts , Somerset , Devon—a tolerably wide range ! And beautiful the sight is . I remember it nine years ago , under a July sun . But on this night the moon was incessantly veiling herself in clouds , and our view was only that of a hazy mountainous distance , with the winding Wye shining below . There was something very solemn and beautiful in the scene—•• The holy time was quiet aa a nun , Uruathlcss with adoration . "
Our romantic feelings were a little disturbed by the constant peril of our necks during the descent ; but when we were once more safe on the high road , we forgot that little discomfort , and passed through the moonlight singing with mighty lungs our reminiscences of the Italian , opera . A quiet supper and a pleasant talk closed this delightful day .
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A MAIDEN'S SONG . I love ! and Love hath given roe sweet thoughts to God akin ! And oped a living paradise , my heart of hearts within ! O , from this Eden of my soul , God keep the serpent , Sin I I love ! and into Angel-land with starry glimpse I peer , And a bright rainbow orbs my henrt for every falling tear ; I drink in beauty like heaven-wine , when One is smiling near . Dear God in heaven , keep -without stain my bosom ' s white-winged dove ! O , clothe it moot for angel-arms , and give it place above ; For there is nothing from the world I yeoin to take but Love ! Gebaxd Mabsby .
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<* t * o ^ nuld do our utmost to encourage the Beautiful , for the Useful encourages itself . — wesauuiu « Goethe .
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Oct . 12 , 1850 . ] SH $ % taHVt * 693
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Citation
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Leader (1850-1860), Oct. 12, 1850, page 693, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/l/issues/vm2-ncseproduct1856/page/21/
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