Chapter 2

On a nearer view, they change their appearance, and you might suppose that the remains of some fortified castle, typical of the feudal system, looked over the heather which clothes their rocky sides; whilst the detached pieces of rock, which rolled from the summit eighty years ago, appear amongst the furze, like the tombs of Jewish patriarchs in the valley of Jehosaphat at Jerusalem, darkened by the lapse of ages. To the right of our path lay the solitary and frail memorials of the monastery of Hode, founded by Roger de Mowbray, and afterwards attached to the abbey of Byland. Shortly after passing Hode, we arrived at the base of Hambleton, and began to ascend its rocky front; we had climbed half the ascent, when, on cautiously turning ourselves, an indescribable picture presented itself in the vale and its objects below; the solemn silence of the early hour--the first greeting of the morning sun--the glittering and distant lake of Gormire, guarded by towering hills to the right--and, to the left, rocks which have stood whilst generations of heroes and kings have passed away; and, beyond this vivid scene, in dim perspective, arose the western hills, tinged with delicate blue, and scarcely discernible from the clouds which floated over them. Even the enraptured travellers, who stood gazing from the summit of Mont Blanc, were not more delighted than the enthusiastic _trio_ who looked from the brow of Hambleton on that memorable morning. But our object was not attained, and we set forward with replenished vigour, to cross the heather-heath, whose bleak aspect prepared us for the paradise which smiled below the other side of the hills. The first prominent object which met our view, was the terrace, with its classical temples at each of its terminations; and next, the wood encircled hamlet of Scawton, at whose little alehouse we enjoyed a hearty breakfast; and then set forward to explore our beloved region of Rievaulx; our path being through a mountainous wood, which nearly kissed the sky, and obscured the rustic road which divided it: after several windings through this leafy labyrinth, we arrived at a point where the wood was more open, and the dell considerably wider. It was after passing a picturesque cottage and bridge, that the first view of Rievaulx Abbey broke upon us. It was then that the first outline of its "Gothic grandeur" was displayed to us. Crossing the little bridge of Rieval, we proceeded along the banks of the Rye, which morosely rolled along, scarcely deigning to murmur its complaints to the woody hills which skirted it, as if in pique for the ruin of its sublime temple, and the disappearance of its monastic lords. The village of Rieval, constructed out of the wreck of the spacious abbey, displays some reverence for the preservation of inscriptions dug out of the building; and the little windows which lit the cells of studious monks five hundred years ago, now grace the cottages of illiterate peasants. We took a facsimile of one inscription, in Saxon letters, merely denoting the name of the monastery.

The rustic beauty of the hamlet has been copiously eulogized by antiquarians and provincial historians. The beautiful foliage of its trees, varying in colour, appears like fleecy clouds of verdure, rising one above the other, over which a still deeper shadow is cast by the towering woods on each side of the valley; and in the midst of this fairy region, as if conscious of its proud pre-eminence, rises the sacred edifice, clothed in mourning of nature's deepest shade:[5]

Oh! many an hour of ecstasy I past within its fading towers; When life, and love, and poesy, Hung on my harp their sweetest flowers.

To indulge a little in reverie--"how are the mighty fallen!"--Here was once worshipped the virgin amidst the glittering pomp of monkish solemnity; when burst the beams of morning through the tracery of yon mighty window--

"Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings,"

and threw the glowing emblazonry of the tinted pane upon the Mosaic pavement of the choir; while the loud and slowly-pealing matin reverberated through the sumptuous church. Here was interred with ceremony of waxen taper and mid-night requiem, the noble founder of this dilapidated fane, Sir Walter L'Espec, beneath that wreck of pillar and architrave and those carved remains of the chisel's achievement--he who deemed that the sepulchre

"Should canopy his bones till doomsday; But all things have their end."

The ruins of this religious house are more entire and superb than any other in the kingdom. The nave of the church is wholly gone; but the choir, one of its aisles, great part of the tower, and both the transepts, still remain. The church, instead of being east and west, approaches more to the direction of north and south; so that the choir is at the south end, and the aisle which should have been north, is on the east. Some have supposed this anomaly to be produced at the rebuilding of the church; but Drake in his "Evenings in Autumn," thinks it was in consequence of the disposition of the ground, which forms a lofty mount on the east. Adjoining the ruins of the nave on the west, are the remains of the cloisters, measuring one hundred feet each way. On the opposite side stands a splendid building, extending in length towards the west one hundred feet, and in breadth thirty; this structure appears to have been the refectory, accompanied by a music gallery. Parallel to this, and in a line with the transept, is another extensive ruin, several feet longer than the refectory, and about the same breadth, which was the dormitory; at the west end of which the walls are ancient, and seem to be coeval with the original abbey.[6] The form and ground plan of this building are the same with the abbey of Whitby; though the latter is not so copious in its dimensions. Several members of the noble families of Ross, Scroop, Maltbys, and Oryby, were interred in the chapter-house and choir here. Aelred, the third abbot of Rievaulx, was a man of great literary qualifications, and this abbey possessed an extensive library, which was destroyed by the Scots, in one of their lawless incursions--when the studious produce of the holy brotherhood, assembled by years of incessant study was committed to the reckless flames--and doubtless amongst the collection were many works of the learned abbot Aelred; a character from whom we might suppose the "northern magician" had sketched the striking portraiture of the enthusiastic father Eustace, in his "Monastery."

After inspecting this interesting edifice, we left its hallowed precincts, and took the hilly path leading to a beautiful terrace, which overlooks the vale; each end of which is decorated with two modern temples, one in the Grecian and the other in the Roman style of architecture. Here are some gaudy copies of the old masters, with some originals, which adorn the centre and side compartments of the ceiling--Guido's Aurora, (copy); Hero and Leander; Diana and Endymion; Hercules and Omphale, &c,--the whole by the pencil of Bernini, an Italian artist. From this terrace the view is enchanting; the distant hills of barren Hambleton subsiding into the fruitful vale; and nearer, fertile fields intersected with wood and mossy rocks; and immediately beneath the eye, the pale and ivied ruin, mouldering over the dust of heroes who fought at Cressy, and of noble pilgrims who died in the Holy Land, and were conveyed to this far-famed sanctuary for interment--

"Which now lies naked to the injuries Of stormy weather."

Not far from this Elysium is the seat of Lord Feversham, (late Charles S. Duncombe, Esq.) the owner of the estate, called Duncombe Park, where is a piece of fine sculpture, called the Dog of Alcibiades, said to be the work of Myron, and ranked among the five dogs of antiquity. Here is also the famous Discobolus, which is esteemed the first statue in England. Among the splendid collection of paintings is a candle-light scene (woman and child) by Rubens, which cost 1,500 guineas. The mansion was designed by Sir J. Vanbrugh. Leaving this bewitching retreat, we proceeded down the sides of the woody mount; and after some tedious inquiries respecting our road through this wild region, we were directed to take a path through a sloping wood; but useless are all attempts to describe our route through this wilderness. Sometimes our weary feet were relieved from the rough stones and briars by an intervening lawn; and at others we were entirely shrouded from "day's garish eye" by entwining trees. Our rugged pilgrimage was rendered more endurable by the anticipation of shortly seeing Byland abbey; but still my romantic spirit was loitering in the pillared aisles of Rievaulx. By and by we quitted the wood, and having descended a deep ravine, we climbed a barren moor, over which we had proceeded half way, when to my unutterable joy, we discovered the far-off fane of Rievaulx, whose wan towers just peered from out of the hanging woods. Pursuing our way we soon exchanged the trackless moor for a much more grateful domain. A sloping wood on each side of us opened into a wider expanse, and the turrets of Byland abbey appeared in the distance. At this moment we forgot the toil of threading harassing woods and crossing wide heaths. After refreshing ourselves we proceeded to view the ruin.

Byland abbey was founded in 1177, by the famous Roger de Mowbray, who amply endowed it, and was buried here. He retired hither after being perplexed and fatigued with useless crusades, and suffering the deprivation of nearly all his property by Henry II. Martin Stapylton, Esq. the present proprietor of Byland, discovered from some ancient manuscripts the precise situation in the ruin, where were deposited the bones of the illustrious chieftain; and after removing these relics of mortality which had been hid for six hundred years, he conveyed them in his carriage to Myton, and interred them in the church-yard. The abbey of Byland is memorable for having given concealment, (though not a sanctuary!) to Edward II. who, when flying from his enemies in the north, in 1322, took shelter here, and was surprised by them when at dinner, narrowly escaping, by the swiftness of his horse, to York; and leaving his money, plate, and privy seal, a booty to the savage and exterminating Scots. Byland abbey has nearly disappeared; the only perfect remains are the west end, a fine specimen of Saxon and Gothic, and a small portion of the choir. The church, its transepts, north and south aisles, and chancel, are gone; and the dormitory, refectory, cloisters, &c. have scarcely left any trace of their gorgeous existence. The lonely ash and sturdy briar vegetate over the ashes of barons and prelates; and the unfeeling peasants intrude their rustic games on the holy place, ignorant of its former importance, and unconscious of the poetical feeling which its remains inspire. We quitted its interior to inspect a gateway situated at a considerable distance from the principal ruin, through which the abbey appears to great advantage about four hundred yards beyond this arch.

[5] For an interesting account of the founding and a view of this abbey, see the MIRROR for Sept. 30, 1826.

[6] Eastmead's "Historia Rievallensis."

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ON VIEWING THE RUINS OF BYLAND ABBEY THROUGH THE DETACHED GATEWAY ON THE WEST.

Oh! beauteous picture! thou art ruin's theme, And envious time the Gothic canvass sears. Thy soft decay now almost wakes my tears, And art thou mutable? or do I dream? The transept moulders to its mound again; The fluted window buries in its fall The rainbow flooring of the fretted hall; And long the altar on that earth has lain. Now could I weep to see each mourning weed So deeply dark around thy wasting brow; If life and art are then so brief--I bow With less of sorrow to what is decreed: Ye faded cloisters--ye departing aisles! Your day is past, and dim your glory smiles!

Four miles from Byland is Coxwold, once the residence of the celebrated Laurence Sterne, author of _Tristram Shandy_, &c. It is a beautiful and romantic retreat, excelling the "laughing vine-clad hills of France," which attracted the spirit of our English Rabelais to luxuriate amidst them. Here we gained admittance to the little church, an interesting edifice, noted for its sumptuous monuments to commemorate the Fauconbridge and Belasyse families, and for its being the scene of Sterne's curacy. A small barrel organ now graces its gallery, which responded to the morning and evening service in Yorick's day. On prying about the belfry we discovered an old helmet, with the gilding on it still discernible, which we at first supposed to be intended as a decoration to some tomb; but its weight and size precluded that supposition. In the church of Coxwold, the moralist might amass tomes of knowledge, and acquire the most forcible conviction of the fleeting nature of earth and its possessors. On glancing around he would perceive the heraldic honours of a most noble and ancient family now extinct--the paltry remains of the splendid helmet, which had decked, perhaps, the proud hero of feudal power, thrown into a degrading hole with the sexton's spade, and the sacred rostrum where the eloquence of the second Rabelais has astonished the village auditors, and perhaps led them to doubt that such intellect was mutable, now filled by another! Our curiosity was attracted, on leaving the church, to Shandy Hall, once the residence of Sterne, situated at the termination of the village. Two females, elegantly attired in mourning, were parading the garden; immediately I saw them I thought of the beautiful Eliza; she to whom the fickle Yorick swore eternal attachment, and then "lit up his heart at the shrine of another," leaving Eliza to wonder--

"------that fresh features Have such a charm for us poor human creatures."

Perhaps in this edifice, Eugenius, (the witty Duke of Wharton,[7]) and his boon companion, have sported their puns and repartees over the glass; whilst the laughter-moving Sterne, pursuing the dictates of his heart, has wet the dimpling cheek of Eugenius by some random effusion of imagination and sensibility. What two noble spirits have there displayed their intellectual brilliance; and what a gratification to have heard the author of "The Monk at Calais," and "My uncle Toby," eliciting smiles and tears by turns, till the delighted heart could scarcely determine whether joy or sorrow caused the most exquisite feeling.

But to conclude our peregrination--the glory of Hode, Rievaulx, and Byland abbeys has departed--their founders, ecclesiastics and patrons, have become dust--the crumbling arch and tottering pillar alone record "the whereabouts" of the rendezvous of heroes and kings--and rooks construct their dwellings where the silver crucifix once reared its massy form, before crowds of adoring monks--the hoarse croak of the raven is now heard through that valley where pealed the vesper bell; and the melancholy music of the lonely river succeeds the solemn chant of mass;--laugh and jest resound where monkish praise quivered through the Gothic space--the helmet and coronet of blood and birth are fallen from their wearers--and the genius and eccentricity of Sterne, and the wit of Wharton, are for ever extinct:

"And fortress, fane and wealthy peer Along the tide of time are borne. And feudal strife, with noble tears Forgotten in the lapse of years."

[7] Of Skelton Castle, author of "Crazy Tales," and of the "Continuation of Sterne's Sentimental Journey."

H.

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CROMLEH IN ANGLESEA.

Cromlehs are among the most interesting of all monumental relics of our ancestors; but the question of their original purposes has excited much controversy among the lovers of antiquarian lore. They are immense stones, by some believed to have been the altars, by others, the tombs, of the Druids; but Mr. Toland explains the word _cromleac_, or _cromleh_, from the Irish _crom_, to adore, and _leac_, a stone--stone of adoration. Crom was also one of the Irish names of God; hence cromleac may mean the stone of Crom, or of the Supreme God. The cromleac is also called _Bothal_, from the Irish word _Both_, a house, and _al_, or _Allah_, God; this is evidently the same with _Bethel_, or house of God, of the Hebrews.

The above vignette represents a Cromleh at Plas Newydd, the seat of the Marquess of Anglesea, in the Isle of Anglesea. This part of the island is finely wooded, and forcibly recalls to the mind its ancient state, when it was the celebrated seat of the Druids, the terrific rites of whose religion were performed in the gloom of the thickest groves.

The Cromleh at Plas Newydd is 12 feet 9 inches long, and 13 feet 2 inches broad, in the broadest part. Its greatest depth or thickness is 5 feet. Its contents cannot be less in cubic feet and decimal parts than 392,878,125. It follows, therefore, from calculating according to the specific gravity of stone of its kind, that it cannot weigh less than 30 tons 7 hundreds. The engraving is copied from "The Celtic Druids," by Godfrey Higgins, Esq. F.S.A. 4to, 1827, one of the most valuable antiquarian volumes it has ever been our good fortune to secure; and by the aid of an esteemed correspondent, we hope shortly to introduce a few of its curiosities more in detail than we are enabled to do at present.

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NOTES OF A READER.

WOMAN AND SONG.

(_From a graceful little volume, entitled, "Poetical Recreations," by C.A. Hulbert._)

Oh, who shall say that woman's ear Thrills to the minstrel's voice in vain? She hath a balm diffusing tear, She hath a softer, holier strain-- A cheering smile of hope to give, A voice to bid the mourner live.

She hath a milder beam of praise, Her heart a soil where Truth may bloom, And while her drooping flowers we raise, They yield us back a rich perfume. Her influence bids our talents rise 'Neath Love and Fancy's native skies!

I heard an infant's lisping tongue Address his mother's smiling eye, And fondly ask his favourite song-- His soul seemed wrapt in harmony; She sung--and gave the cheering kiss, Which made the poet's fortune his.

His mother saw his fancies stray To fragrant poesy, and leave The dull pursuit of fortune's way, 'Till some would chide and others grieve; But she had marked the rising flame, And led and nourish'd it to fame!

When verse his mind to writing bore, And genius shed its lustre there, How proudly did she con it o'er, Unconscious fell the blissful tear: 'Twas her's to lighten care's control, And raise the drooping, pensive soul.

Her labour past, another breast, Still lovely woman's, urged his pen-- Pure love was sent to make him blest, And bid his fancies flow again: She yielded to his minstrel pride The heart, the hand to lips denied!

Quick roll'd the years in tranquil peace, The peace by harmony begun. And numbers charm'd each day of bliss, That flowing verse and concord won: His Mary's music soothed his woe, And chased the tear that chanced to flow.

Death came--and Poetry was o'er, The chords of song had ceas'd to thrill, The Minstrel's name was heard no more, But one true heart was heaving still-- His Mary's voice would nightly weave Its lone, deep notes around his grave!

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CLAUDE LORRAINE.

Lanzi, in his _History of Italian Painting_, gives the following exquisite encomium on this prince of landscape painters:

"His landscapes present to the spectator an endless variety; so many views of land and water, so many interesting objects, that, like an astonished traveller, the eye is obliged to pause and measure the extent of the prospect, and his distances of mountain and of sea, are so illusive, that the spectator feels, as it were, fatigued by gazing. The edifices and temples which so finely round off his compositions, the lakes peopled with aquatic birds, the foliage diversified in conformity to the different kinds of trees, all is nature in him; every object arrests the attention of an amateur, every thing furnishes instruction to a professor. There is not an effect of light, or a reflection in water which he has not imitated; and the various changes of the day are nowhere better represented than in Claude. In a word, he is truly the painter who, in depicting the three regions of air, earth, and water, has combined the whole universe. His atmosphere almost always bears the impress of the sky at Rome, whose horizon is, from its situation, rosy, dewy, and warm. He did not possess any peculiar merit in his figures, which are insipid, and generally too much attenuated; hence he was accustomed to remark to the purchasers of his pictures, that he sold them the landscape, and presented them with the figures gratis."

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"TINTORETTO," says his biographer, "produced works in which the most captious of critics could not find a shade of defect."

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KISSING THE FOOT.

Rollo, the celebrated Danish hero, (whose stature is said to have been so gigantic, that no horse could carry him) on becoming a feudatory of the French crown, was required, in conformity with general usage, to kiss the foot of his superior lord; but he refused to stoop to what he considered so great a degradation; yet as the homage could not be dispensed with, he ordered one of his warriors to perform it for him. The latter, as proud as his chief, instead of stooping to the royal foot, raised it so high, that the poor monarch fell to the ground, amid the laughter of the assembly.

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BOHEMIAN BLESSING.

Now sleep in blessedness--till morn Brings its sweet light; And hear the awful voice of God Bid ye--Good Night! Yet ere the hand of slumber close The eye of care, For the poor huntsman's soul's repose Pour out one prayer.

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REVIEWING.

There are three ways of reviewing a book. First, to take no more notice of it, or of its author, than if neither the one nor the other had ever been produced--cautiously to avoid the most distant allusions to their names, characters, or professions, thereby avoiding all personality, in their case at least, all intrusion, either into public or private life. Secondly, to select all the good passages, and to comment upon them with such power and vivacity, that beside your pearls they seem paste. Thirdly, to select all the best passages, and to string them all together on a very slight thread--like dew-drops on gossamer--and boldly palm it upon the public as an original article.--_Blackwood's Mag_.

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MOTTOES FOR SUN DIALS.

_By the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles_.

MORNING SUN.--_Tempus volat_. OH! early passenger, look up--be wise, And think how, night and day, TIME ONWARD FLIES.

NOON.--_Dum tempus habemus, operemur bonum_. Life steals away--this hour, oh man, is lent thee, Patient to "WORK THE WORK OF HIM WHO SENT THEE."

SETTING SUN.--_Redibo, tu nunquam_. Haste, traveller, the sun is sinking now-- He shall return again--but never thou.

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THE PINE-APPLE.