Clifton Hot Wells has long been celebrated as a watering-place.  Smollett, in his “Humphry Clinker,” has given a very interesting picture of its society in the middle of the last century.  Clifton is now, however, considerably neglected.  Omnipotent fashion has migrated to Cheltenham, though no comparison can be made with Clifton on any other score.  The natives of the Emerald Isle, indeed, since the introduction of steam navigation, come in crowds to the Hot Wells.  Though the “music of the waters” cannot be heard there, yet you may in a few hours be transported to scenes where Ocean revels in his wildest grandeur.  Few places are more favourably situated for the tourist.  There is a regular communication by steam with the romantic and interesting coasts of North Devon and South Wales; while the sylvan Wye, Piercefield, Ragland, and above all, Tintern, are within the compass of a day’s excursion.  Clifton can boast of much architectural magnificence:  its buildings rising from the base to the summit of a crescent-shaped eminence remind me, in a distant view, of an ancient Greek city; while the tiers of crescents have a singularly fine effect, and seem to fill a sort of gap in the landscape.

The rise of the tide in the Avon, in common with most of the ports on the Bristol Channel, is a very extraordinary phenomenon.  The whole strength of the mighty Atlantic seems to rush up the Channel with impetuous force.  At Rownham Ferry, five miles inland, near the entrance to Cumberland-Basin, the spring-tides frequently rise thirty-seven feet.  The tide rises at Chepstow, farther up the Severn, more than sixty feet, and a mark on the rocks below the bridge there, denotes that it has risen to the height of seventy feet, which is perhaps the greatest altitude of the tides in the world.

The views on the Downs, above the Hot Wells, are infinitely varied and delightful, and glimpses constantly occur of the Avon

  “Winding like cragged Peneus, through his foliaged vale,”

while “ocean fragrance” is wafted around.  The scenery on the Avon is said strikingly to resemble the vale of Tempe in Greece.  The student of nature may there enjoy “communion sweet,” with all that his heart holds dear as life’s blood.  How often have I wandered through that valley of cliffs by the light of the “cold, pale moon,” watching their dark and gigantic masses and silvery foliage, thrown into bold outline on the sky above, with not an echo, save the solitary cry of the bittern; and perhaps only aroused by an impetuous steamer, like some unearthly thing, rushing rapidly past me.  Parties of musicians sometimes place themselves amongst the rocks at night when the effect is extremely fine.  Perhaps autumn is the fittest season for enjoying these scenes.  At that season the many coloured liveries of the foliage, the lonely woodland wilderness and rocky paths, and the mists which in the earlier part of the day linger on the tops of the cliffs and woods, when partially dispersed by the suns rays, give a character of vastness and sublimity to the scenery which it would be difficult to describe.  I would particularly point out on these occasions the view from the hill near the new church at Clifton, towards Long Ashton, and Dundry Tower.