“Sed ne potandi sit illa conditio,
Qui tenet, teneat, donec de medio
Fiat, hinc esset lis et contradictio,--
Ad plenum bibitur sine litigio.
Tunc legem statuunt pactumque mutuum,
Ne sit in calice quicquam residuum:
Sic, sine requie ventris et manuum,
Vas plenum vacuant, et replent vacuum.”
Another well-known writer, who was no friend of the Cistercians,
Giraldus Cambrensis, has left a glowing description of their jovial mode
of living. The silence enjoined by their statutes had given place to
boisterous jests; and the solemn reading of the bible or saints’
legends, commanded by the founder of the order, had been replaced by the
clang of minstrelsy and the feats and grimaces of the jongleurs.
Giraldus, among innumerable anecdotes of the private life of the
Cistercian monks, has preserved one which is curious not only on this
account, but because it is the groundwork of a numerous class of ballads
which were popular at a later period.[232]
It happened one day that King Henry II. was indulging in hunting, the
favourite amusement of the Anglo-Norman princes, probably in the woods
of Hampshire. Eager in pursuit of the chase, the king was separated from
his companions, and, missing his way, came at night-fall to a house of
Cistercian monks on the border of the wood, and, pretending to be one of
King Henry’s knights, he demanded a lodging there. The abbot and
brethren received the wanderer with a hospitable welcome; and after
supper the former called for a plentiful supply of the choicest liquor
in the abbey. In the merry days of Old England, a particular form in
drinking, derived from our Saxon forefathers, was universally observed:
with each full cup one party pledged the other with the word (or rather
words) _Wæsheil_, equivalent to _Health to thee!_ and the origin of the
more modern _wassail_: the answer was _Drincheil_, or, _I drink thy
health_. But great topers and men of social habits, instead of using the
common expression, invented drinking words of their own, private signals
of affectionate regard, which appear to have had no particular meaning.
Such was the case with the abbot in our story: the supposed knight, in
return for his hospitable entertainment, had promised to use his
influence with the king in furtherance of a suit which the abbot
intended to prefer the next morning; and the latter, in the openness of
his heart, pledged his guest with his private drinking-word, which was
_pril_, and he instructed him in the proper mode of answering, which was
by the similar word _wril_. In this manner they spent a considerable
portion of the night with the monks in great joviality, the walls
resounding to the continual shouts of _pril_ and _wril_. After having
taken a short repose, the king departed at the break of day, and
hastened to a neighbouring town where he had established his court: he
there gave strict orders to the officers of his household, that they
should give the abbot immediate admission to his presence. Accordingly,
at an early hour in the forenoon, the abbot, attended by two of his
monks, repaired to the court, light-hearted with the expectation of the
good offices of his guest of the preceding night. On his arrival, he was
astonished to find that the servants of the king appeared as though
aware of his mission, and that they passed him with unusual quickness
and attention from one room to another, until he found himself suddenly
in the royal presence. The monarch, who in his altered dress was not
recognized by his host, caused the abbot to be seated by his side, and
scarcely giving him time to utter his petition, told him that he had
been made acquainted with his wishes, and that they were already
granted. The abbot, after returning his humble thanks, would have taken
his leave; but the king insisted on retaining him and his two monks to
dinner. At table the abbot was seated near the king, and was treated
with the greatest attention; and after the eating was over, large
drinking-cups were placed before all the guests, and filled with
excellent wine. The king then, suddenly taking up his own cup, and
addressing himself to the abbot, said, “Father abbot, I say to thee
_pril_.” The abbot, suddenly recognizing his guest, was struck with
confusion, and besought the king in humble manner for his grace and
forgiveness; but the king stopped him short, and making use of a popular
oath, declared, that it was his will they should be good fellows
together on the present occasion, just as they had been the previous
night in the abbot’s refectory; and that he thought it but right and
fair, that as he had answered _wril_ to the abbot’s _pril_ before, the
abbot should now pay him the same compliment. And thus the knights and
monks, as well as the king and abbot, passed the remainder of the day in
drinking _pril_ and _wril_ to each other, amid shouts of laughter and
merriment.
Over the series of buildings which we have been describing was another
floor, on which we trace the remains of a number of smaller chambers.
These were probably the <g>Dormitories</g>, or bed-chambers of the monks. They
were placed near the church, because the monks were obliged to leave
their beds in the night to perform the _vigilæ nocturnæ_, or night
service, which lasted from two o’clock to nearly four, when they
returned to their repose.
Adjoining to the hall, or refectory, are the <g>Buttery</g> and <g>Kitchen</g>, which
form the southern extremity of the abbey, separated from the fields only
by the outer wall. The former of these offices is a small room, with
little to indicate the purposes to which it was formerly applied. The
kitchen, on the contrary,
[Illustration]
is a large and strong vaulted apartment, forty-eight feet in length, and
eighteen wide. Its roof still remains unbroken. The most remarkable
characteristic of this kitchen is its spacious fireplace; its form is
that which was common in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and
perhaps earlier, and of which we have many examples in the illuminations
of ancient manuscripts. The kitchen appears to have possessed, when in a
perfect state, a considerable share of architectural elegance. The
ornamental springings of the arches of the roof still remain. The
kitchen appears to have communicated with the inner court of the abbey
by a door to the right of the fire-place; opposite which there seems to
have been a door in the outer wall, communicating with the country, by
which provisions, &c. were conveyed into the house. Two openings in the
wall, one connecting the kitchen with the buttery, the other forming a
communication between the buttery and the refectory, were used for
passing the dishes to the attendants who were serving at table. On the
south side of the kitchen, beneath the floor, is a subterranean passage,
now uncovered, which communicates with a series of other passages or
vaults, under the field, and said to terminate beneath a coppice at a
short distance from the abbey. These vaults, which are generally
supposed to have been a common sewer, or a place intended for
concealment and retreat, have every appearance of having been the
<g>Cellars</g> of the abbey, which very properly were attached to the kitchen
and buttery. Most of these vaults have been explored: there is a large
breach through the vaulted roof of one of them in the field on the
outside of the walls of the abbey.
The series of buildings which we have just described separates the
Fountain Court from the second court of the abbey, which also appears to
have been surrounded with buildings, at least on three sides. This
second court forms at present a fair lawn, on which pic-nic parties
visiting the ruins take their dinner or tea, and which is designated as
the Abbey Garden. On three sides are the remains of a raised terrace:
this, combined with some other circumstances, leads us to conclude that
the so-called garden was the <g>Cloisters</g> of the abbey. The present terrace
was the floor of the cloister, which we know was, in most instances,
raised above the level of the enclosed court. This cloister appears to
have formed an exact square, like the first court. The windows of the
sacristy, chapter-house, parlour, and refectory, looked into it on the
west side. The north-west corner adjoined the transept and choir of the
church. On the south it was probably separated from the kitchen by a
small court, or by less important offices. At the east side of this
court, there are traces of a smaller court, and considerable ruins of a
large building, with vaulted rooms on the ground-floor, and chambers
above. This may have been the <g>Abbot’s House</g>. It appears to have
communicated with the woods behind, perhaps by one of those “privie
posternes” mentioned in the old satirists, by which the abbots are said
to have introduced into their lodgings persons of a very equivocal
character.
The ground on which the Abbey of Netley is built is a gentle declivity,
sloping towards the beach. Although much concealed by trees and
brushwood, the ruins are seen to effect from several different points.
Perhaps the most interesting general view is that from the north, where
the hill rises rather abruptly from the walls of the church, affording
almost a bird’s-eye view of the interior. The effect of the picture thus
presented to the view has been in some degree lessened by the
destruction of the ivy with which, some years ago, the walls were
clothed. “This destruction was begun by the French emigrant royalists
who were encamped on the neighbouring common, previously to the
ill-fated expedition to Quiberon during the revolutionary war; but it
was recently carried on, much more effectually, by order of the late
Lady Holland, then its proprietor, who is said to have been induced to
commit this desecration by the representation of a member of the
Dilettanti Club, who unfortunately had read in Pausanias of the injury
which a certain ancient temple in Bœotia had sustained from the ivy
which encircled it loosening the cement of the stones, and separating
them from each other, and who, in consequence, implored her ladyship to
prevent her temple from sharing a similar fate.”[233] The beauty of the
scene is here increased by the Southampton Water, which appears in the
background, the distant view of the New Forest, and the still more
remote shores of the Isle of Wight; and from time to time a steamer,
working its busy way to or from the sea, contrasts strangely with the
hoary walls below.
Descending the hill towards the right, the view of the west side of the
abbey, with the great west window of the church rising above the green
trees, is remarkably picturesque. To the left the hill continues to some
distance, giving us a succession of pleasing views, including the east
end of the church, and the picturesque mass of ruins which we have
supposed to belong to the abbot’s house. We then descend to lower
ground, and obtain a view across the second, or cloister court, which
however is in some measure spoiled by the wall that separates it from
the fields.
[Illustration]
The <g>South Front</g> of the abbey is at present concealed from a distant view
by numerous trees. When near it, we may judge by its appearance in its
present ruined state, that when entire it must have been a very striking
object viewed from the water. On this side was the entrance to the
abbey, but it does not appear to have had a gateway tower. To the right,
a mass of building stands much in advance of the front of the court:
this building contains the buttery and the kitchen. The style of the
windows and doors in this part of the abbey shows that it had undergone
extensive repairs, either a short period before the Dissolution, or
afterwards, when it was first made a private habitation.
At some distance behind the abbey, the monks had two fish-ponds, which
are still in perfect preservation. The first is nearly square, bordered
with underwood, and backed with flourishing oaks. The upper pond is
still more picturesque, being partly overhung with fine trees. The
neighbourhood of Netley Abbey was perhaps more thickly wooded in ancient
times than at present. In the steward’s book of the town of Southampton,
under the year 1469, is an entry of two pounds three shillings and
fourpence, “paid to the Abbot of Netteley for a grove of woode bought by
the maire for to make piles and hegges by the sea syde.”
The English monks, in selecting the sites of their houses, always
endeavoured to secure a good supply of fish and game. The woods and
waters
[Illustration]
in the neighbourhood of Netley were peculiarly advantageous in this
point of view, and the <g>Buttery</g> and <g>Kitchen</g> must have been abundantly
furnished with every article of provision which could raise the
appetites of the brethren within. The manuscripts of the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries, although written by the monks themselves, are full
of stories illustrating their attachment to good living. Giraldus
Cambrensis, the historian from whom we have already quoted one anecdote
of monastic life, gives us a remarkable description of the multitude and
variety of dishes with which the tables of the monks in his days were
loaded; the numerous kinds of fish and meats dressed in every possible
manner, and arranged by the ingenuity of skilful cooks so as to provoke
their pampered appetites; the numerous savoury sauces; the rich and rare
wines which were supplied by distant lands.[234] This writer has
preserved an amusing story concerning the monks of St. Switlmn’s at
Winchester:--One day, when King Henry II. was hunting in the
neighbourhood of Guilford, the prior of St. Swithun’s, accompanied by a
party of his monks, went to meet him, with countenances which indicated
extreme chagrin and sorrow, and, although the spot was little better
than a quagmire, they fell upon their knees in a position of the most
abject supplication. When the king desired them to state their griefs,
they told him that their bishop had diminished the number of courses
that had been from time immemorial served to their table. The king
inquired what number of courses were usually allowed them: they said,
thirteen, which the bishop had reduced to ten. The king, in
astonishment, turned round to his attendants:--“_Per oculos Dei!_” said
he, (for that was his usual oath,) “see here these unhappy monks! I
thought by their sorrowful looks that their whole monastery had been
burnt, or that some equal disaster had befallen them; and, behold, they
complain that their bishop has taken three courses from their table, and
left them but ten. May the bishop fare the worse, if he do not
immediately take away the ten, and leave them only three! I, although
King of England, am satisfied with that number.” We are told, in another
monkish story, of an abbot who was so cruel to his monks, that he
reduced them to the number here recommended by the king, and allowed
them but three courses: the monks prayed daily for the death of their
superior; and for this or some other cause he soon died. Another came,
who reduced them to two: whereupon they prayed more fervently than ever
for release from his rule. He also died; and there came a third, who
deprived them of another course. The unfortunate brethren, now driven to
desperation, met together to consider what was best to be done. One
among the rest stepped forward and said, “Happen what will, let us pray
no longer: every time we have prayed for a new abbot, we have obtained
one worse than his predecessor; and if this man should go, we shall have
one who will reduce us to actual starvation.” Against the monkish vice
of gluttony, we must however place in the scale the virtue of
hospitality. The weary traveller was always welcome to the table of the
monastery. We are tempted to quote another monkish story. It is said
that a certain religious house, in which the virtue just alluded to had
been neglected, was reduced to poverty, and a meeting was held in the
chapter-house to deliberate on the means of regaining their former
state. Then a monk stood up in the midst of the others, and said, “We
have driven away two servants: as long as they were with us, all good
things abounded in our house; since they went, our prosperity is
defeated; but if we invite one
[Illustration]
back, they will both return.” “Who are they?” said the abbot; “let us
call them back by all means.” The monk answered, “One is called <g>Date</g>,
and the other <g>Dabitur-vobis</g>: since we drove away Date, Dabitur-vobis has
left us; but let us immediately recall Date, and Dabitur-vobis and
everything will be well.” The monks themselves had an easy method of
atoning for the peccadilloes of the table; but a few paces from the
refectory stood the <g>Confessional</g>, and there they received a ready
<g>Absolution</g>.
The ruins of Netley Abbey attract numerous visitors from the
neighbouring town of Southampton; and there is scarcely a stone within
the reach of ordinary mortals which is not disfigured by a crowd of
initials rudely “incised” by their barbarian and sacrilegious hands. In
more propitious times, pilgrims of a holier class have visited the
hallowed spot,
“Where Netley’s ruins, bordering on the flood,
Forlorn in melancholy greatness stand.”
Horace Walpole was enraptured with what he terms, “not the ruins of
Netley, but of Paradise. Oh, the purpled abbots; what a spot they had
chosen to slumber in! The scene is so beautifully tranquil, yet so
lively, that they seem only to have retired into the world.” When he
visited Netley, there were standing “fragments of beautiful fretted
roofs, pendent in the air, with all variety of Gothic patterns of
windows topped round and round with ivy.” The last remains of the
“fretted roof” have long fallen; and, as we have before observed, most
of the windows have, since Walpole’s time, been stripped of their ivy.
Among the poets who have here sought inspiration, we must not pass over
the names of Gray and Bowles. The former has left us a glowing
description of the thoughts which these ruins raised. “In the bosom of
the woods,” he tells us in one of his letters, “concealed from profane
eyes, lie hidden the ruins of Netley Abbey. There may be richer and
greater houses of religion, but the abbot is content with his situation.
See there, at the top of that hanging meadow, under the shade of those
old trees that bend into a half-circle about it, he is walking slowly
(good man!) and bidding his beads for the souls of his benefactors,
interred in that venerable pile that lies beneath him. Beyond it (the
meadow still descending) nods a thicket of oaks that mask the building,
and have excluded a view too garish and luxuriant for a holy eye; only
on either hand they leave an opening to the blue glittering sea. Did you
not observe how, as that white sail shot by and was lost, he turned and
crossed himself, to drive the tempter from him that had thrown that
distraction in his way?” We must ourselves now take a parting glance of
this venerable picture of the transitoriness of all earthly greatness.
Bowles has given us a beautiful sonnet