The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, by Various
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Various >> The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction,
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."
H.
* * * * *
CROMLEH IN ANGLESEA.
[Illustration: 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.
* * * * *
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!
* * * * *
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."
* * * * *
"TINTORETTO," says his biographer, "produced works in which the most
captious of critics could not find a shade of defect."
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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_.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
THE PINE-APPLE.
Oviedo extols the pine-apple above all the fruits which grew in the
famous gardens of his time, and above all that he had tasted in his
travels in Spain, France, England, Germany, the whole of Italy, Sicily,
the Tyrol, and the whole of the Low Countries. "No fruit," says he,
"have I known or seen in all these parts, nor do I think that in the
world there is one better than it, or equal to it, in all those points
which I shall now mention, and which are, beauty of appearance,
sweetness of smell, taste of excellent savour; so that there being three
senses out of the five which can be gratified by fruit, such is its
excellence above all other fruits or dainties in the world, that it
gratifies those three, and even the fourth also; to wit the touch. As
for the fifth, that is to say, the hearing, fruit, indeed, can neither
hear nor listen, but in its place the reader may hear and attend to what
is said of this fruit, and he will perceive that I do not deceive myself
in what I shall say of it. For albeit fruit can as little be said to
possess any of the other four senses, in relation to the which I have,
as above, spoken, of these I am to be understood in the exercise and
person of him who eats, not of the fruit itself, which hath no life,
save the vegetative one, and wants both the sensitive and rational, all
three of which exist in man. And he, looking at these pines, and
smelling to them, and tasting them, and feeling them, will justly,
considering these four parts or particularities, attribute to it the
principality above all other fruits."
* * * * *
STONE-MASON'S CRITICISM
Mr. Bowles, the vicar of Bremhill, Wilts, is accustomed occasionally to
write epitaphs for the young and aged dead among his own parishioners.
An epitaph of his, on an aged father and mother, written in the
character of a most exemplary son--the father living to eighty-seven
years--ran thus:--
"My father--my poor mother--both are gone,
And o'er your cold remains I place this stone,
In memory of your virtues. May it tell
How _long one_ parent lived, and _both_ how well,"
&c.
When this was shown to the stone-mason critic, (and Mr. Bowles
acknowledges he has heard worse public critics in his time,) he
observed, that the lines _might_ do with a _little_ alteration--thus:--
"My father, and my mother too, are dead,
And here I _put_ this grave-stone at their head;
My father lived to eighty-seven, my mother
No quite _so long_--and _one_ died after _t'other_."
* * * * *
PLEASURES OF HISTORY.
The effect of historical reading is analogous, in many respects to that
produced by foreign travel. The student, like the tourist, is
transported into a new state of society. He sees new fashions. He hears
new modes of expression. His mind enlarged by contemplating the wide
diversities of laws, of morals, of manners. But men may travel far, and
return with minds as contracted as if they had never retired from their
own market-towns. In the same manner, men may know the dates of many
battles, and the genealogies of many noble houses, and yet be no wiser.
Most people look at past times, as princes look at foreign countries.
More than one illustrious stranger has landed on our island amidst the
shouts of a mob, has dined with the king, has hunted with the master of
the stag-hounds, has seen the guards reviewed, and a Knight of the
Garter installed; has cantered along Regent-street; has visited St.
Paul's, and noted down its dimensions, and has then departed, thinking
that he has seen England. He has, in fact, seen a few public buildings,
public men, and public ceremonies. But of the vast and complex system of
society, of the fine shades of national character, of the practical
operation of government and laws, he knows nothing.--_Edin. Rev._
* * * * *
CHARMS OF SAVAGE LIFE.
It is remarkable that whites or creoles do not always avail themselves
of opportunities to return to civilized society. There seem to be
pleasures in savage life, which those who have once tasted, seldom wish
to exchange for the charms of more polished intercourse. For example, a
creole boy was carried off at the age of 13; at 26 he returned to Buenos
Ayres, on some speculation of barter. He said that whoever had lived
upon horse-flesh would never eat beef, unless driven by necessity or
hunger; he described the flesh of a colt to be the most deliciously
flavoured of all viands. This man, having transacted the business which
led him to Buenos Ayres, returned voluntarily to his native haunts, and
is probably living amongst the Indians to this day.--_Mem. Gen. Miller_.