RIPON AND FOUNTAINS ABBEY
We have come out of Wensleydale past the ruins of the great Cistercian
abbey of Jervaulx, which Conan, Earl of Richmond, moved from Askrigg to
a kindlier climate, and we have passed through the quiet little town of
Masham, famous for its fair in September, when sometimes as many as
70,000 sheep, including great numbers of the fine Wensleydale breed, are
sold, and now we are at Ripon. It is the largest town we have seen since
we lost sight of Richmond in the wooded recesses of Swaledale, and
though we are still close to the Ure, we are on the very edge of the
dale country, and miss the fells that lie a little to the west. The
evening has settled down to steady rain, and the market-place is running
with water that reflects the lights in the shop-windows and the dark
outline of the obelisk in the centre. This erection is suspiciously
called ‘the Cross,’ and it made its appearance nearly seventy years
before the one at Richmond. Gent says it cost £564 11s. 9d., and that it
is ‘one of the finest in England.’ I could, no doubt, with the smallest
trouble discover a description of the real cross it supplanted, but if
it were anything half as fine as the one at Richmond, I should merely be
moved to say harsh things of John Aislabie, who was Mayor in 1702, when
the obelisk was erected, and therefore I will leave the matter to
others. It is, perhaps, an un-Christian occupation to go about the
country quarrelling with the deeds of recent generations, though I am
always grateful for any traces of the centuries that have gone which
have been allowed to survive. With this thought still before me, I am
startled by a long-drawn-out blast on a horn, and, looking out of my
window, which commands the whole of the market-place, I can see beneath
the light of a lamp an old-fashioned figure wearing a three-cornered
hat. When the last quavering note has come from the great circular horn,
the man walks slowly across the wet cobblestones to the obelisk, where I
watch him wind another blast just like the first, and then another, and
then a third, immediately after which he walks briskly away and
disappears down a turning. In the light of morning I discover that the
horn was blown in front of the Town Hall, whose stucco front bears the
inscription: ‘Except ye Lord keep ye cittie, ye Wakeman waketh in vain.’
The antique spelling is, of course, unable to give a wrong impression as
to the age of the building, for it shows its period so plainly that one
scarcely needs to be told that it was built in 1801, although it could
not so easily be attributed to the notorious Wyatt. There are still a
few quaint houses to be seen in Ripon, and there clings to the streets a
certain flavour of antiquity. It is the minster, nevertheless, that
raises the ‘city’ above the average Yorkshire town. The west front, with
its twin towers, is to some extent the most memorable portion of the
great church. It is the work of Archbishop Walter Gray, and is a most
beautiful example of the pure Early English style. Inside there is a
good deal of transitional Norman work to be seen. The central tower was
built in this period, but now presents a most remarkable appearance,
owing to its partial reconstruction in Perpendicular times, the arch
that faces the nave having the southern pier higher than the Norman one,
and in the later style, so that the arch is lopsided. As a building in
which to study the growth of English Gothic architecture, I can scarcely
think it possible to find anything better, all the periods being very
clearly represented. The choir has much sumptuous carved woodwork, and
the misereres are full of quaint detail. In the library there is a
collection of very early printed books and other relics of the minster
that add very greatly to the interest of the place.
The monument to Hugh Ripley, who was the last Wakeman of Ripon and first
Mayor in 1604, is on the north side of the nave facing the entrance to
the crypt, popularly called ‘St. Wilfrid’s Needle.’ A rather difficult
flight of steps goes down to a narrow passage leading into a
cylindrically vaulted cell with niches in the walls. At the north-east
corner is the curious slit or ‘Needle’ that has been thought to have
been used for purposes of trial by ordeal, the innocent person being
able to squeeze through the narrow opening. In reality it is probably
nothing more than an arrangement for lighting two cells with one lamp.
The crypt is of such a plainly Roman type, and is so similar to the one
at Hexham, that it is generally accepted as dating from the early days
of Christianity in Yorkshire, and there can be little doubt that it is a
relic of Wilfrid’s church in those early times.
At a very convenient distance from Ripon, and
[Illustration: RIPON MINSTER FROM THE SOUTH
IN its outline Ripon suggests Westminster, although the west front with
its twin towers is Early English and not classic. Underneath the present
building is the Saxon crypt of Wilfrid’s church, dating from the seventh
century.]
approached by a pleasant lane, are the lovely glades of Studley Royal,
the noble park containing the ruins of Fountains Abbey. The surroundings
of the great Cistercian monastery are so magnificent, and the roofless
church is so impressively solemn, that, although the place is visited by
many thousands every year, yet, if you choose a day when the weather or
some other circumstances keep other people away, you might easily
imagine that you were visiting the park and ruins as a special
privilege, and not as one of the public who, through Lord Ripon’s
kindness, are allowed to come and go with very few restrictions beyond
the payment of a shilling.
Just after leaving the lodge there appears on the right a most seductive
glade, overhung by some of the remarkable trees that give the park its
great fascination. The grassy slopes disappear in shadowy green recesses
in the foliage, in much the fashion of the forest scenes depicted in
tapestries. It is just such a background as the Elizabethans would have
loved to fill with the mythological beings that figured so largely in
their polite conversation. Down below the beautifully-kept pathway runs
the Skell, but so transformed from its early character that you would
imagine the crescent-shaped lakes and the strip of smooth water were in
no way connected with the mountain-stream that comes off Dallowgill
Moor. It is particularly charming that the peeps of the water, bordered
by smooth turf that occupies the bottom of the steep and narrow valley,
are only had at intervals through a great hedge of clipped yew. The
paths wind round the densely-wooded slopes, and give a dozen different
views of each mass of trees, each temple, and each bend of the river. At
last, from a considerable height, you have the lovely view of the abbey
ruins illustrated here. At every season its charm is unmistakable, and
even if no stately tower and no roofless arches filled the centre of the
prospect, the scene would be almost as memorable. It is only one of the
many pictures in the park that a retentive memory will hold as some of
the most remarkable in England.
Among the ruins the turf is kept in perfect order, and it is pleasant
merely to look upon the contrast of the green carpet that is so evenly
laid between the dark stonework. The late-Norman nave, with its solemn
double line of round columns, the extremely graceful arches of the
Chapel of the Nine Altars, and the magnificent vaulted perspective of
the dark cellarium of the lay-brothers, are perhaps the most
fascinating portions of the buildings. I might be well compared with the
last abbot but one, William Thirsk, who resigned his post, foreseeing
the coming Dissolution, and was therefore called ‘a varra fole and a
misereble ideote,’ if I attempted in the short space available to give
any detailed account of the abbey or its wonderful past. I have perhaps
said enough to insist on its charms, and I know that all who endorse my
statements will, after seeing Fountains, read with delight the books
that are devoted to its story.
KNARESBOROUGH AND HARROGATE