AN EXCURSION TO THE RUINS OF RIEVAULX AND BYLAND ABBEYS; AND TO THE
RESIDENCE OF LAURENCE STERNE, COXWOLD, YORKSHIRE.
(_For the Mirror_.)
"The air around was breathing balm,
The aspen scarcely seem'd to sway;
And, as a sleeping infant calm,
The river stream'd away--
Devious as error--deep as love,
And blue and bright as heaven above."
_Alaric A. Watts_.
Though I am as romantic a being as ever breathed on the face of this
beautiful earth; yet, I will promise the reader, that in detailing the
events of an interesting day, I will not tinge them with that colouring;
yet, such a glorious bard as Wordsworth could, alone, do justice to our
excursion. Leave him to wander alone in that woody dell, with the
thrilling picture spread around him--the sinking walls of elaborate
Gothic, clouded by the hanging woods--the rural dwellings of the
illiterate peasantry scattered below the templed mount--and the mourning
stream and its rustic bridge--thus entranced, his fairy spirit would
pour forth a flood of pensive and philosophic song.
It was on the dawning of a fine morning in August, that I left the
brick-and-mortar purlieus of home, and in company with two young
friends, commenced this excursion. The diversified chain of the
Hambleton Hills, bounding the fruitful valley of Mowbray, rose at the
distance of six miles before us; and whose summit we intended reaching
before breakfast. The varying aspect of these rocky eminences requires
the descriptive charms of Sir Walter Scott, or the pencil of Salvator
Rosa, to do them justice. Within two miles of them, you might imagine
yourself in the ruins of the Roman amphitheatre, whose circular walls
reared their dark-gray forms to the heaven; and the inimitable
description which Byron has given us of that edifice, occurs to the
recollection; though no waving weeds and dew-nurtured trees crown the
apparent ruin--
"Like laurel on the bald first Caesar's head."
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."
* * * * *
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."