During this concert, “you turn round to behold the <g>abbey</g> embosomed amidst apple-trees, and so singularly foreshortened that the beautiful western window appears through the eastern. The entrance of the western valley is at the same time so happily disposed, that the effulgent light of the setting sun is seen through the roseate windows, gilding the interior of the abbey with an unearthly brightness; whilst, to complete the scene, multitudes of noisy daws are seen careering in fanciful circles, high in the balmy air, before they retire to roost within the mantling ivy of the ‘roofless house of God.’”
At such an hour how appropriate the lines:--
“When day, with farewell beam, delays Among the opening clouds of even, And we could almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven; Those hues which mark the sun’s decline, So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine!”--_Moore._
At length a poetic sound breaks upon the ear--the whetting of a scythe; and how picturesque are the fields beyond! After passing through a succession of luxurious meadows, you arrive at the humble and ivied ruins of a <g>Piscatory</g>. This building is apparently of ancient date, and was intended to supply the monastery during those numerous fasts in which the good <g>abbots</g> were wont to exchange “the very best meat for the very best fish.”[175] Soon after passing this ruin, the hitherto placid Wye falls noisily over a broad and shallow weir, and the steep wood encroaches upon its rocky bank. Our footsteps, therefore, pursue a sinuous path through its deep and pensive shade, until we somewhat suddenly emerge upon a tabular meadow, encompassed by an amphitheatre of ivied rocks, a stupendous rampart, at whose base the Wye is winding, and, at the same time, reflecting in its peaceful bosom the majestic scene.[176]
<g>Climate of Tinterne.</g>--On this subject, a late intelligent medical practitioner at Tinterne says:--“I may here remark, that I am unacquainted with any warmer spot than this in England. Protected on the north and west by a steep hill, it is open alone to the east and south: it has therefore the sun upon it during the greater part of the day. On the third of February, 1839, at half-past 2 in the afternoon,” he adds, “while my thermometer on the mantel-shelf over the fire ranged at 60°, it rose to 99° outside the door. At nightfall, which ushered in a severe frost, the mercury fell to 44°. On the twenty-third of the same month, at 3 o’clock P.M., the thermometer ranged at 109° Fahrenheit, or nearly 34° Reaumur; at half-past 11 at night, the mercury fell to 45° Fahr. On the fifteenth of May, at 12.16 P.M., the thermometer on the mantel-shelf indicated 50° Fahr. At 3 P.M. a violent snow-storm came on, succeeded at nightfall by a nipping frost.” These facts sufficiently indicate