If, however, we forget for a few minutes that Rievaulx Abbey lies down there in the valley, if we forget Walter of Espec and his monks, and remember only the days when this temple was built, the Ionic portico has its uses. It gives us a vision of the age of powder and hoops, of the fair ladies who rustled here on the soft turf when George was king. The closely cropped sward was suited to the dainty feet, the scenery not so "savage" as to wound the dainty susceptibilities. Indeed, in any century, this scene could only heal.
There is a path that winds down the hill to the abbey, and if our car is independent of us this is the best way to go. But if she is unattended and cannot meet us in the valley we must drive down the steep hill to the village. The surface of this hill is composed of ruts and loose stones, but the beauty of the woods is compensation for nearly anything.
RIEVAULX ABBEY FROM THE TERRACE.
If Fountains Abbey speaks of power, Rievaulx breathes peace. Taking everything into consideration, I think its beauty has only one rival in England. The valley of the Rye is far lovelier than Studley Park; the building itself is far lovelier than Bolton. Only Tintern can rival it; not even Tintern can eclipse it. For at Tintern the feeling of Cistercian seclusion can only be acquired through the imagination: a high-road is close at hand; a brisk trade in picture postcards and Goss china is carried on at the abbey door; to be alone is almost impossible. But here at Rievaulx we may chance to stand in perfect solitude, perfect stillness, under the mighty archway that soars in dignified simplicity so far above our heads, and separates us as though by invisible gates from the world. No imagination is needed here to conjure up the aloofness of the white monks—the actual fact is here. Through the empty windows—once filled, in defiance of the early Cistercian ideals, with some of the first efforts of English glass-stainers—we see the wild hillside rising from the very walls, and above it the rampart of trees; the grass under our feet grows like the grass of the field; the world makes no sign, and on each side of us the slender arches point to heaven. There is something here that is more than beauty; the very air seems charged with the prayers of holy men long dead. The weather-worn slab of the high altar is unfortunately enclosed by a railing, which is doubtless needed, in this Christian country, to save it from desecration. Not near this stone, as one might expect, but in the ruined chapter-house, lies the dust of the monk who came here in his old age to hide his "broad but well-featured face" under the shadow of a cowl, and to subdue his trumpet-like voice to the singing of psalms—the monk who had founded this abbey in the days when he was a famous soldier—Walter of Espec.
RIEVAULX ABBEY.
Walter founded three monasteries: one at Kirkham, which we shall presently see; one here; one at Wardon in Bedfordshire. Incorporated with Leland's Itinerary is a document which tells us how Walter's only son fell from his horse and broke his neck upon a stone cross, and how in consequence Walter founded the monasteries of Kirkham and Rievaulx with some of the wealth for which he had now no heir. Dugdale, the seventeenth-century antiquarian, believed the tale, and told it for truth in his "Monasticon." Yet now we are bidden to reject the story of the younger Walter's sad end; nay, even to doubt that he ever lived! He is not mentioned, say those who know, in the foundation-charter of the abbey; there is nowhere in any document a statement that Walter of Espec ever had a son. However, till we find a definite statement that he had none, we shall probably continue to accept or reject the story according to temperament.