Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, September 21, 1858

Our Correspondence.

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

NUMBER LX.

WATERSMEET, North Devon, Sept. 21.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—

"There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As that vale, in whose bosom the bright waters meet!"

So sings the poet Moore of his beauteous "Vale of Avoca." His lines, however, may be allowed a wider application; and seated as I now am, in this lovely valley of "Watersmeet," watching the meeting of the waters of the mountain stream of the Brendon with those of its sister streamlet, the East Lyn—listening to the harmony of their flowing melody, and the carolling of sweet birds—with rich woods all around me, rising from the deep gorge in which I am. And extending far, in all directions—intersected with winding paths, and romantic little dells—with soft beds of moss beneath my feet, and exquisite little gems of flowers, and splendid ferns on all sides—with a cloudless sky above, and bright sunshine streaming upon me through every opening in the woods—with the clear, bright rills, now dancing merrily along, then leaping over the grey rocks, that vainly strive to arrest their career—here, singing each her separate little song of gladness, and striking out her course—there, each united to her sister stream, sounding forth louder music in harmonious concert, and flowing onward in loving fellowship, lost in each other, until, a little lower down the valley, they are met by another sister, and finally absorbed in the mighty ocean. Who, I repeat, with such sights and sounds around, can help believing that

"There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As THIS vale, in whose bosom the bright waters meet?"

I have said nothing of the gem of a cottage close by me, belonging to the Rev. W. Halliday, of Glenthorne, and situated at the union of the streams. We have been over it, and pronounce it just what a residence in such a lovely spot should be.

LYNMOUTH, Tuesday night.

So many beautiful scenes have been crowded into the last few weeks, and doubly crowded into the last few days, that to attempt giving many particulars, in space and time so limited as mine, is out of the question. In my last, I tried to give a brief sketch of Ilfracombe. Not less renowned are the neighboring sea coast places in North Devon, Lynmouth and Lynton—indeed, the varied sublimity and beauty of the scenery here, baffles all attempt at description. The Poet, Southey, says:—"Lynmouth is the finest spot I ever saw, except Cintra and Arrabida. Two rivers join here, the East and the West Lyn. Each of these flows through a Combe, (or valley, enclosed on either side with hills,) rolling down over huge stones, like a long water-fall. Immediately at their junction,

they enter the sea, and the rivers and the sea make but one noise of uproar."

Yesterday I joined in an excursion to "the Valley of Rocks," a strange, wild scene! It is a narrow valley, between two ridges of steep hills, some of which are covered with green sward; others are completely bare, being huge piles of grey rocks and stones, heaped together in Chaotic confusion. Strange names have these picturesque pinnacles—"Rugged Jack," "The Devil's Cheesepress," and "The Castle Rock," &c. The vale that runs between, and through which we passed, is covered with ferns, amidst which lie fragments of rock and stone, while far below stretches the vast expanse of old ocean.—Half a mile beyond this curious valley, stands Lee Abbey, delightfully situated in a bay on the coast, with a splendid sea view, and fine walks, winding round the cliffs. Having rambled to our hearts' content through the grounds, kindly thrown open to the public by the proprietor, we returned to Lynmouth by the Cliff road, or "North Walk," which overhangs the ocean, and is one of the grandest sea walks I know, winding round cliff after cliff, and presenting sublime views of the sea, and of the many colored hues of the adjoining rocks.

One of the finest spots near belongs to Sir W. Herries, and each day I have delighted myself with a walk in his grounds. Passing through garden and shrubberies, you enter a gate, leading up a narrow ravine, by the side of the waters of the West Lyn. The river is here a succession of cataracts, its channels obstructed by huge masses of gray rock, and over them and between them thunder the angry waters, "dashing and splashing, roaring and soaring;" the sides of the gorge are thickly wooded with oad and beech, and underwood; beautiful forms of ferns grow by the side of the waters.

"Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep; And in the stream the long leaved flowers weep; And from the craggy lodge the poppy hangs in sleep."

We had a six hours' ramble and pic-nic to-day—commencing with Watersmeet, thence to Ilford Bridges and Barton Wood, (where we lost first our path, next ourselves, and I well nigh shared the fate of Absolom, as my donkey forced its way into unknown regions, thick with underwood, and rudely tore asunder branches of trees, entwined in loving friendship!) to Long Pool, a famous rendezvous for artists—to Brendon village and church—and finally to Lyn Cliff, (or Summer House Hill,) whence we had a splendid panorama of Lynton, Lynmouth, Countisbury, and the sea. Towards Lynton, the open valleys resemble mountain ravines in their shape and character, scaried with overhanging precipices, clothed to their very summits with oak and beech wood, and intersected by streams, whose rocky channels and head long course claim kindred for them, with some of the snow-fed torrents of the mountain regions of Switzerland. All that is lovely in inland scenery, and all that is grand and sublime in sea and rock, may be found on this beautiful coast of North Devon. Myrtles, geraniums, fuchsias and hydrangeas flourish without protection all the year round, and blossom in resplendent beauty

and lustre. Very curiously, the color of the dydrangea blossoms at Lynmouth, is blue, instead of pink; at Ilfracombe, all the blossoms that I noticed were pink, as usual.

BRISTOL, Oct. 2d, 1858

I am, once again, in a large city, although, by no means, amidst its "hum and din." My voyage from the beautiful North Devon coast, by sea and by the rivers Severn and Avon, was exceedingly stormy. If I were a landed proprietor near Lynmouth, I am inclined to think I should make some effort towards the erection of a pier there. It is not very agreeable for travelers to climb, in the midst of pouring rain, for half a quarter of a mile, over slippery rocks and huge boulders, (with little lakes between them,) and embark in the little boat which is to take them out to the steamer, wending its way from Bideford to Bristol. A pier is absolutely needed at Lynmouth, and should be built, COUTE QUI COUTE.

The day was too rainy to admit of my fully appreciating the banks of the Avon, as we came between them, and near Bristol; but I have since looked upon them from the heights of Clifton Downs, and do not consider that their beauties have been over estimated. The scenery is truly romantic and picturesque. Here are [illegible]ing rooks, lofty and precipitous cliffs, overhanging precipices, richly wooded ravines, dusky dells, in any number, and of every variety. My day, spent on the Clifton Downs, will not soon be forgotten; but if there was a possibility of my forgetting, a beautifully variegated specimen of the Spa, there presented to me, cannot fail to keep it in remembrance.

Who has not heard of the Church of St. Mary, Redcliff, the finest Parish Church in England? I seem to have known its name as long as I remember anything; and I gave part of the first morning after reaching Bristol to seeing this splended edifice. The Church was originally dedicated to the Virgin Mary; it is built on a red, sandy rock, or cliff, from which its name is derived. The four varieties of architecture denote that it was built at four different periods, under different architects. Viewing the outside of the Church, you cannot but be struck with its majestic and venerable appearance; and on entering it, its lofty, vaulted roof which is all of stone and every where carved with devices, and ornaments of curious workmanship—its long middle aisle—its noble pillars, inimitably wrought into the most delicate mouldings—and indeed, the exquisite beauty and lightness of the whole fabric excite feelings of delight and admiration, and instinctively (as it were) awe the mind into a devotional feeling. As we entered the Church, the rich tones of the organ met our ear, and, in conjunction with the striking and solemn scene before us, its sacred psalms of praise, tended in no small degree, to lift our souls aloft, far away from the pomps and vanities of the world below, to that higher region where angel voices "sing the song of Moses, the servant of God, and the song of the Lamb." I could have spent an entire day in St. Mary, Redcliff, looking and listening without speaking or being spoken to. In this church are three fine paintings, by Hogarth, very different in the style to any I had previously

seen by that artist. "The three Marys at the Sepulchre," "Sealing the stone, and setting the watch," and "the Ascension," are the subjects. They are all fine paintings, especially the "Sealing" picture. The guide told us that Hogarth had only painted one other picture in the same style, and that is in St. Thomas's Hospital. Among the curiosities to be seen at St. Mary's, is a huge bone, said, by tradition, to be the bone of a cow, slain by Guy, the famous Earl of Warwick; but it looks far more like the bone of a whale!

There is nothing striking or remarkable in Bristol Cathedral, (which I visited on the same day,) but the Chapter Room, which is of Norman architecture, and said to be the only perfect Norman Chapter Room in the kingdom. It is a finely proportioned apartment, and the architecture is very rich and beautiful. The Norman archway on College Green is also very fine. I looked with much interest on the monument to the great Bishop Butler whose, "Analogy" is known wherever the English language is spoken. Nor must I forget to name that of Southey, in the Cathedral, nor that of poor Chatterton in the Churchyard of St. Mary, Redcliff. Several of Chantrey's beautiful sculptures are here, and the Museum of the Bristol Institution is the original inimitable piece of sculpture by Barley—"Eve at the Fountain."

Time fails me to tell of the many points of interest I have been taken to visit by my kind friends here, some of whom have done little but "spend and be spent" in my service. My visits to the Blind Asylum, the Red Lodge Reformatory Girls' School, and last, but not least; to that wonder of wonders, that almost miracle the School for Orphans, established by Mr. Muller, interested me excessively.

My visit to Bristol was in no respect designed as an anti-slavery visit. Six months of this year, spent one-third in illness, and two-thirds in holiday, were designed to be closed by a long looked for meeting, in a few weeks, with anti-slavery and other friends in Halifax; but (most unexpectedly to me) I was found out here, and kindly invited to meet friends of the slave in several places. This I had much pleasure in doing, and satisfactory in every respect were the results of our meetings. Next time I visit Bristol, (and I have promised [D. V.] to do so,) I hope to blend an anti-slavery visit with a renewed visit to these dear and kind friends, who have made me feel so much at home in their happy circle, that I feel it will be a trying business to say good bye to them. The privilege has been afforded me of saying a few words upon slavery to the girls of the Red Lodge School, and also to the inmates of the Blind Asylum. A more attentive audience I never had than at the latter institution. Three of the men there told me at the close that YOU had shaken hands with them eleven years ago; and when I told them that, on your behalf, I should send them a copy of "My Bondage and My Freedom," such a gleam of sunshine came over their faces, (sightless though they were,) that made one feel assured the All Wise Disposer is also the All Merciful, and that when, in His Infinite wisdom, He sees fit to withhold from any of His creatures, and of his His good gifts. He gives them, in some other other way

full compensation. By several of the superintendents of the Blind Asylum, I was assured that the community there are among the happiest they have ever known; that a word of discord is rarely heard, a quarrel never, and that their love one for another is extraordinary. Last Monday I went to hear them sing, and exquisitely touching and harmonious were their songs—all sacred melodies—well selected, and sung with rare feeling by voices that seemed not of this earth. Of Muller's School I must tell you next time. Pardon abruptness, and believe me,

Yours, every truly,

JULIA GRIFFITHS