94 

 TALES BY A TOPOGRAPHER, 



BY THE AUTHOR OF " WILMOT WARWICK.*' 



No. 1.— THE LEGEND OF THE ABBEY TOWER. 

 INTRODUCTORY. THE ABBEY, GHOST AND DOCTOR. 



Whatever portion of interest may be excited by the perusal of 

 my "Legend," it will at least be conceded, that its title is highly 

 romantic; and I may further add, that the abbey alluded to is as 

 venerable and gloomy a remain as Monk Lewis or Ann Ratcliff 

 might desire for a scene of mystery and blood. It is among the 

 more celebrated of those earlier Norman works, which impress, rather 

 by their magnitude and solidity, than by any peculiar excellence of 

 form or proportion, and derive, perhaps, more than any other class 

 of buildings, a grace from age and decay. As architecture pro- 

 gressed in our island — or, at least, during a progression of several 

 ages — our churches and monasteries exhibited such a vast growth 

 of science, tasteful design and masterly execution, that the advances 

 of time and " wasteful ruin" became proportionally more and more 

 hostile; and now, however charmed with the picturesque of Tintern 

 and Netley, the pleasure of its contemplation cannot be otherwise 

 than allowed by a sorrowing tribute to the perished or violated 

 beauties of artificial perfection. The sublime effect of buildings, 

 such as Netley and Tintern ivcre, and such as many of our ecclesi- 

 astical specimens still are, acknowledges a cause far superior to that 

 of mere mass or magnitude. Vast as their scale may be, and mas- 

 culine as their general character may appear, there is yet evinced in 

 their proportions and decorations, such a minute attention to that 

 leading canon of art — the exact adjustment of strength and beauty, 

 that we regard them with a two-fold feeling of awe and delight — as 

 we do the combination of deity and man in the Apollo, or the union 

 of wisdom and womanhood in Minerva. With such impressions 

 the idea of " mouldering age" and " ivy mantles," loses much of 

 its charm. The aspect of a rugged old Neptune, half concealed 

 with coral and sea weed, may be pleasing enough ; but the maddest 

 lover of the picturesque would scarcely desire to behold the Venus 

 de Medici in a moss shawl or lichen petticoat. 



But, as distinguished from the airy character of the pointed style, 

 the sturdy Norman fabric, rock -like in its massive substance, seemed 

 also like the rock, to hold out an arrogant challenge to time and 

 tempest; and there is a kind of poetical justice in its subjugation, 

 shewing, that the stability of man's mightiest works must depend 



