COLLOQUY II. ON a fine evening, a little before sunset, I rambled towards the Valley of Rocks. It was the close of a lovely day, and from a distant dell was heard the little nightingale's wild and melodious song, which echoed and reechoed in the valley I had just reached. At the extreme end of this valley stands the Castle Rock, an insulated pile of stone, rugged and precipitous, rising loftily and abruptly to the height of three or four hundred feet from the beach which bounds the Bristol Channel. On the land-side its summit may be approached by a somewhat gradual slope. Here it is cut off from the main promontory by a ravine of half its depth, as though, in this ravine, which forms a sort of arm to the valley, there had at one period been a river which poured its contents into the sea below, thus forming, it may be conceived, a beautiful cascade. From this ravine, if such it may be called, a magnificent sea-view is presented to the eye. On either side rise towering pillars of rock; across the channel are perceived the Welch coast and mountains; and a little to the left, at evening, the setting sun sinking below the horizon, and throwing its feeble rays on the still waters from which they are reflected, casting a light of varied hues and softness. This valley is known to the Devonians as the Valley of Rocks; it was formerly called the Valley of Stones; and at a still more remote period, the Valley of Deans or Danes. Being bounded on both sides by lofty piles of rock, it was doubtless selected by the Danish soldiers for an encampment. Its contiguity to the sea, and to a fine, undulated country, rendered it a place of great security. To have found a better station in those days of rapine and strife was almost impossible. Lynton is situated at the entrance of this valley, which is about a mile in length. It terminates in a beautiful woody glen, which bends its course inland, with here and there knolls, many hundred feet high, covered with small oaks, which, when in leaf, give a peculiar charm to the scenery. Contrasted with the huge beds and piles of rock, it appears, perhaps, to greater advantage than it otherwise would. From these knolls the sea and opposite coast are noble objects, especially from a spot called Duty Point, which is rather the termination of a headland of gigantic height, yawning terrifically over the channel's bank, where the sea-gull is watching for prey, and the little bark appears a distant object—a mere speck on the ocean, from the great elevation of the cliff. In the valley itself, which is so much talked of, the tourist may, perhaps, be disappointed: but a walk is connected with it that forms the chief point of attraction, and which is grand beyond conception. To the valley belongs a wildness, a desolation, and a lonesomeness, peculiarly its own. Not a tree nor a shrub graces its banks. It recalls to our memory the description given of the sites of ancient Babylon, and other by-gone eastern cities, by Keith and Buckingham. It is awe-striking-sublime without being beautiful. In the evening a gloom prevails, which gives it a still more solemn appearance. This gloominess is attributable to the high promontories obstructing the rays of the sun, now setting behind them. In boisterous weather, when the wind comes whistling by, and the surge of the sea is beating vehemently against the towering cliffs, sending up its spray to a great height, and occasioning a reverberating sound like distant thunder, there is a solemn grandeur about the whole scene that defies description. A fitter place could not well be conceived than this in impetuous weather for calling up spectral illusions in the mind. Here Fancy, roaming at large, may indulge in all her ghostly and terrific reveries, and even hear some unknown voice in the winds telling you, in the words of Warton, in his "Pleasures of Melancholy," that a "ghostly shape "At distance seen, invites, with beck'ning hand, "Thy lonesome steps." How often have I watched the small, frail bark from this point, when the sea threatened immediate destruction to her and her little crew! How intently have I gazed on the wrecks sometimes spread over the watery waste, the relics of which were the ensigns of death to those toil-worn mariners who, while reposing in sleep, had been roused by the cry of the watch ! "Arise, O sleeper! oh, arise and see, "There's not a twiny thread 'twixt death and thee! Here have I Quarles. "stood, till through the vast profound, "The vaulted deep and trembling shore resound. Boyd's Dante. It was at a period, however, when the channel was not disturbed by storm or tempest-when not so much as a breath of wind, nor a ripple on the sea, was perceptible —and when a still light was cast on the shadowed rocks, that the Professor again made himself visible. The first glance occasioned a slight tremor through my frame, which was soon dissipated by his placid and inviting demeanour. By the time I had recovered from my momentary terror he spoke. His voice appeared more sweet and melodious than ever. The interest he had excited in my mind gave a charm to every word and look. It was a spell I was unwilling to break; for I confess it grew stronger and stronger as he continued to excite my imagination, give food for my reason, and delight to my senses. His conversation was the more captivating as it grew familiar to me; and I began to think I should look for his periodical visits with impatience and infatuation. It even occurred to me that this enthusiasm may become an evil, by engrossing too much of my attention, and taking me from duties, social and moral, which it was incumbent on me to perform. At present it had done this, for to divide my thoughts was a task which I had neither the will nor the power to effect. We all know the overpowering authority of the will-its wonder-working influence. To that man yields; it is a magnet that draws him whithersoever it would. Reason is its slave ; sentiment its handmaid; for all is brought in subjection to its authority. It is, unfortunately, too much under the dominion of our imaginative faculties-too much the servant of our passions, and, by them, leads us to the commission of evil. It is a baneful attribute when not properly directed, urging man to the perpetration of the deepest crimes, which are varied in proportion to its capriciousness. STEWART. Our last interview was one of great moment, as it referred to events connected with the future. To-day we must consider the particular object of my visit, which has more immediate reference to the present and the past. I do not, however, intend to lay restrictions upon our converse, to the exclusion of such digressions as may arise out of the subject in question, and be, in their turn, of a profitable and entertaining cast. Whenever any thing useful can be elicited, let it be done. We must know nothing of fastidiousness, nothing of that excessive caution which affects to be wise and lenient under the cover of being charitable. Whatever abuse presents itself, suffer it not to pass unnoticed. Unless it be drawn from its retreat, and animadverted upon, it will continue its pernicious influence. It must be exposed to the gaze of the world in all its hideousness and deformity, that men may no longer be duped by its speciousness. There is a false delicacy in not exposing prevalent errors, on the presumption that acrimony and jealousy have prompted to their exposure. The most philanthropic man hopes to see them expunged-the wisest endeavours to effect it. PHRENOLOGIST. I readily concur with you in this opinion. It is obvious that the improvement of the world is checked by attempts to conceal those defects which have stolen insidiously into our social systems, and corrupted the springs of society. It is delightful, however, to know that such defects are merely of a temporary duration—that they lose their force and very existence in the mansions of the redeemed. I have thought much of our late interview. |