A Month in Yorkshire

by Walter White

By nine o’clock the next morning I was in Ripon, having been obliged to content myself with a glimpse of Northallerton from the railway; and to forego a ramble to the Standard Hill. I was soon on the top of the minster tower looking abroad on the course of the Ure, no longer a dale, as where we last saw it, but a broad vale teeming with corn, and adorned with woods, conspicuous among which are the broad forest-like masses of Studley Royal—the site of Fountains Abbey. Norton Conyers, the seat of the Nortons, whose names figure in Wordsworth’s poem, lies a few miles up the stream; and a few miles in the other direction are Boroughbridge and Aldborough, once important British and Roman stations. There the base Cartismandua, betrayer of Caractacus, held her court? there the vast rude camp of the legions grew into a sumptuous city; and there was fought one of the battles of the Roses, fatal to Lancaster; and there for years was a stronghold of the boroughmongers. The horizon no longer shows a ring of bleak moorlands, but green swells and wood all round to the east, where the hills of Cleveland terminate the view.

Then, while sauntering on the floor of the stately edifice we may remember that in 661 the King of Northumbria gave a piece of land here to one of his abbots for the foundation of a religious house: that Wilfrid, the learned bishop, replaced the first modest structure by a magnificent monastery, which the heathen Danes burnt and wasted in 860; but Wilfrid, who was presently created Archbishop of York, soon rebuilt his church, surpassing the former in magnificence, and by his learning and resolute assertion of his rights won, for himself great honour, and a festival day in the calendar. The anniversary of his return from Rome whither he went to claim his privileges, is still celebrated in Ripon, by a procession as little accordant with modern notions as that which perpetuates Peeping Tom’s infamous memory at Coventry. The present edifice was built by Roger of Bishopbridge, Archbishop of York in the twelfth century, and renowned for his munificence; but the variations of style—two characters of Norman, and Perpendicular, and a medley in the window, still show how much of the oldest edifice was incorporated with the new, and the alterations at different times.

The crypt is believed to be a portion of the church built by Wilfrid; to reach it you must pass through narrow, darksome passages, and when there, the guide will not fail to show you the hole known as Wilfrid’s needle—a needle of properties as marvellous as the garment offered to the ladies of King Arthur’s court—for no unchaste maiden can pass through the eye. The bone-house and a vault, walled and paved with human bones, still exists; and the guide, availing himself of a few extraordinary specimens, still delivers his lecture surrounded by ghastly accompaniments.

Without seeing the minster, you would guess Ripon to be a cathedral town; it has the quiet, respectable air which befits the superiorities of the church. The market cross is a tall obelisk, and if you happen to be near it at nine in the evening, you will, perhaps, think of the sonorous custom at Bainbridge, for one of the constables blows three blasts on the horn every night at the mayor’s door, and three more by the market cross. And so the days of Victoria witness a custom said to have been begun in the days of Alfred. The horn is an important instrument in Ripon; it was brought out and worn on feasts and ceremonial days by the “wakeman,” or a serjeant; certain of the mayors have taken pride in beautifying it, and supplying a new belt, and the town arms show a golden horn and black belt ornamented with silver.

At Beverley there are few signs of visitors; here, many, attracted by Fountains Abbey. Carriage after carriage laden with sight-seers rattled past as I walked to Studley, a distance of nearly three miles. Even at the toll-bar on the way you can buy guide-books, as well as ginger-beer. Beyond the gate you may leave the road for a field-path, which crosses the street of Studley, and brings you to a short cut through the park. Soon we come to the magnificent beechen avenue, and standing at the upper end we see a long green walk, with the minster in the distance, and beyond that the dark wold. Then by another avenue on the left we approach the lake and the lodge, where you enter your name in a book, pay a shilling, and are handed over, with the party that happens to be waiting, to the care of a guide. He leads you along broad gravelled paths, between slopes of smooth green turf, flower-beds, shrubberies, rock work, and plantations, to vistas terminated by statues, temples, and lakes filled with coffee-coloured water. To me, the trees seemed more beautiful than anything else; and fancy architecture looked poor by the side of tall beeches, larches, and magnificent Norway pines. And I could not help wishing that Earl de Grey, to whom the estate belongs, would abolish the puerile theatrical trick called The Surprise. Arrived on the brow of an eminence, which overlooks the valley of the little river Skell, you are required to stand two or three yards in the rear of a wooden screen. Then the guide, with a few words purporting, “Now, you shall see what you shall see,” throws open the doors of the screen, and Fountains Abbey appears in the hollow below. As if the view of such a ruin could be improved by artifice!

Then a descent to Robin Hood’s Well—a spring of delicious water, which you will hardly pass without quaffing a draught to the memory of the merry outlaw. And now we are near the ruin, and, favoured by the elevation of the path, can overlook at once all the ground plan, the abbot’s quarters—under which the Skell flows through an arched channel—the dormitory, the refectory, the lofty arches of the church, and the noble tower rising to a height of one hundred and sixty-six feet.

We were admiring the great extent and picturesque effects of the ruins, when a harsh whistle among the trees on the left struck up Pop goes the Weasel; singularly discordant in such a place. I could not help saying that the whistler deserved banishment, to the edge of the park at least—when the guide answered, “Yes, but he blows the whistle with his nose.” If Earl de Grey would abolish that nosing of a vulgar melody, as well as The Surprise, many a visitor would feel grateful.

Presently we cross the bridge, and there are the yew-trees, one of which sheltered the pious monks, who, scandalized by the lax discipline of the brethren in the Benedictine Abbey of St. Mary’s, at York, separated from them, migrated hither in December, 1132, and lived for some months, enduring great privations, with no other roof but the trees. Skelldale was then a wild and desolate spot; but the Cistercians persevered; Thurstan befriended them, and in course of years one of the grandest monastic piles that England could boast arose in the meadow bordering the narrow stream. Its roll of abbots numbers thirty-nine names, some of high distinction, whose tombs may yet be seen.

After taking you aside to look at Fountains Hall, a Tudor mansion, the guide leads the way to the cloisters, and, unlocking a door, admits you to the interior of the ruins. The view of the nave, with its Norman pillars and arches extending for nearly two hundred feet, is remarkably imposing; and as you pace slowly over the soft green carpet into the transept, thence to the choir and Lady chapel, each more beautiful than the last, you experience unwonted emotions of delight and surprise. Once within the Lady chapel, you will hardly care to leave it for any other portion of the ruins, until the door is unlocked for departure.

The return route is on the opposite side of the valley to that by which you approach. From a hollow in the cliff, a little way on, you may, on turning to take a last look of the ruins, waken a clearly articulate echo; but, alas! the lurking voice is made to utter overmuch nonsense. What would the devout monks say could they hear it? However, if history is to be depended on, even they were not perfect; for towards the close of their career, they fell into evil ways, and became a reproach. As we read: