"It is not so much the fire, sir," said Mr Bingley of the Abbey farmto Egremont, "but the temper of the people that alarms me. Do you know,sir, there were two or three score of them here, and, except my ownfarm servants, not one of them would lend a helping hand to put outthe flames, though, with water so near, they might have been of greatservice."
"You told my brother, Lord Marney, this?"
"Oh! it's Mr Charles I'm speaking to! My service to you, sir; I'm gladto see you in these parts again. It's a long time that we have had thatpleasure, sir. Travelling in foreign parts, as I have heard say?"
"Something of that; but very glad to find myself at home once more, MrBingley, though very sorry to have such a welcome as a blazing rick atthe Abbey farm."
"Well, do you know, Mr Charles, between ourselves," and Mr Bingleylowered his tone, and looked around him, "Things is very bad here; Ican't make out, for my part, what has become of the country. Tayn'tthe same land to live in as it was when you used to come to our moorcoursing, with the old lord; you remember that, I be sure, Mr Charles?"
"'Tis not easy to forget good sport, Mr Bingley. With your permission, Iwill put my horse up here for half an hour. I have a fancy to stroll tothe ruins."
"You wunna find them much changed," said the farmer, smiling. "They haveseen a deal of different things in their time! But you will taste ourale, Mr Charles?"
"When I return."
But the hospitable Bingley would take no denial, and as his companionwaived on the present occasion entering his house, for the sun had beensome time declining, the farmer, calling one of his labourers to takeEgremont's horse, hastened into the house to fill the brimming cup.
"And what do you think of this fire?" said Egremont to the hind.
"I think 'tis hard times for the poor, sir."
"But rick-burning will not make the times easier, my good man."
The man made no reply, but with a dogged look led away the horse to hisstable.
About half a mile from Marney, the dale narrowed, and the river tooka winding course. It ran through meads, soft and vivid with luxuriantvegetation, bounded on either side by rich hanging woods, save whereoccasionally a quarry broke the verdant bosom of the heights with itsrugged and tawny form. Fair stone and plenteous timber, and the currentof fresh waters, combined, with the silent and secluded scene screenedfrom every harsh and angry wind, to form the sacred spot that inold days Holy Church loved to hallow with its beauteous and enduringstructures. Even the stranger therefore when he had left the town abouttwo miles behind him, and had heard the farm and mill which he hadsince passed, called the Abbey farm and the Abbey mill, might havebeen prepared for the grateful vision of some monastic remains. As forEgremont, he had been almost born amid the ruins of Marney Abbey; itssolemn relics were associated with his first and freshest fancies; everyfootstep was as familiar to him as it could have been to one of theold monks; yet never without emotion could he behold these unrivalledremains of one of the greatest of the great religious houses of theNorth.
Over a space of not less than ten acres might still be observed thefragments of the great abbey: these were, towards their limit, ingeneral moss-grown and mouldering memorials that told where once rosethe offices and spread the terraced gardens of the old proprietors; heremight still be traced the dwelling of the lord abbot; and there, stillmore distinctly, because built on a greater scale and of materials stillmore intended for perpetuity, the capacious hospital, a name that didnot then denote the dwelling of disease, but a place where all therights of hospitality were practised; where the traveller from the proudbaron to the lonely pilgrim asked the shelter and the succour thatnever were denied, and at whose gate, called the Portal of the Poor,the peasants on the Abbey lands, if in want, might appeal each morn andnight for raiment and for food.
But it was in the centre of this tract of ruins, occupying a space ofnot less than two acres, that, with a strength that had defied time, andwith a beauty that had at last turned away the wrath of man, still roseif not in perfect, yet admirable, form and state, one of the noblestachievements of Christian art,--the Abbey church. The summer vault wasnow its only roof, and all that remained of its gorgeous windows wasthe vastness of their arched symmetry, and some wreathed relics of theirfantastic frame-work, but the rest was uninjured.
From the west window, looking over the transept chapel of the Virgin,still adorned with pillars of marble and alabaster, the eye wandereddown the nave to the great orient light, a length of nearly threehundred feet, through a gorgeous avenue of unshaken walls and columnsthat clustered to the skies, On each side of the Lady's chapel rose atower. One which was of great antiquity, being of that style which iscommonly called Norman, short and very thick and square, did not mountmuch above the height of the western front; but the other tower was ofa character very different, It was tall and light, and of a Gothic stylemost pure and graceful; the stone of which it was built, of a bright andeven sparkling colour, and looking as if it were hewn but yesterday.At first, its turretted crest seemed injured; but the truth is, it wasunfinished; the workmen were busied on this very tower the day that oldBaldwin Greymount came as the king's commissioner to inquire into theconduct of this religious house. The abbots loved to memorise theirreigns by some public work, which should add to the beauty of theirbuildings or the convenience of their subjects; and the last of theecclesiastical lords of Marney, a man of fine taste and a skilfularchitect, was raising this new belfry for his brethren when the sterndecree arrived that the bells should no more sound. And the hymn was nomore to be chaunted in the Lady's chapel; and the candles were no moreto be lit on the high altar; and the gate of the poor was to be closedfor ever; and the wanderer was no more to find a home.
The body of the church was in many parts overgrown with brambles and inall covered with a rank vegetation. It had been a very sultry day, andthe blaze of the meridian heat still inflamed the air; the kine forshelter, rather than for sustenance, had wandered through some brokenarches, and were lying in the shadow of the nave. This desecration of aspot, once sacred, still beautiful and solemn, jarred on the feelings ofEgremont. He sighed and turning away, followed a path that after afew paces led him into the cloister garden. This was a considerablequadrangle; once surrounding the garden of the monks, but all thatremained of that fair pleasaunce was a solitary yew in its centre,that seemed the oldest tree that could well live, and was, accordingto tradition, more ancient than the most venerable walls of the Abbey.Round this quadrangle was the refectory, the library and the kitchen,and above them the cells and dormitory of the brethren. An imperfectstaircase, not without danger, led to these unroofed chambers; butEgremont familiar with the way did not hesitate to pursue it, so that hesoon found himself on an elevation overlooking the garden, whilefurther on extended the vast cloisters of the monks, and adjoining wasa cemetery, that had once been enclosed, and communicated with thecloister garden.
It was one of those summer days that are so still, that they seem as itwere a holiday of nature. The weary wind was sleeping in some gratefulcavern, and the sunbeams basking on some fervent knoll; the riverfloated with a drowsy unconscious course: there was no wave in thegrass, no stir in the branches.
A silence so profound amid these solemn ruins, offered the perfectionof solitude; and there was that stirring in the mind of Egremont whichrendered him far from indisposed for this loneliness.
The slight words that he had exchanged with the farmer and the hind hadleft him musing. Why was England not the same land as in the days of hislight-hearted youth? Why were these hard times for the poor? He stoodamong the ruins that, as the farmer had well observed, had seen manychanges: changes of creeds, of dynasties, of laws, of manners. Neworders of men had arisen in the country, new sources of wealth hadopened, new dispositions of power to which that wealth had necessarilyled. His own house, his own order, had established themselves on theruins of that great body, the emblems of whose ancient magnificence andstrength surrounded him. And now his order was in turn menaced.
And thePeople--the millions of Toil, on whose unconscious energies during thesechangeful centuries all rested--what changes had these centuries broughtto them? Had their advance in the national scale borne a due relation tothat progress of their rulers, which had accumulated in the treasuriesof a limited class the riches of the world; and made their possessorsboast that they were the first of nations; the most powerful and themost free, the most enlightened, the most moral, and the most religious?Were there any rick-burners in the times of the lord abbots? And if not,why not? And why should the stacks of the Earls of Marney be destroyed,and those of the Abbots of Marney spared?
Brooding over these suggestions, some voices disturbed him, and lookinground, he observed in the cemetery two men: one was standing beside atomb which his companion was apparently examining.
The first was of lofty stature, and though dressed with simplicity,had nothing sordid in his appearance. His garments gave no clue tohis position in life: they might have been worn by a squire or by hisgamekeeper; a dark velveteen dress and leathern gaiters. As Egremontcaught his form, he threw his broad-brimmed country hat upon the groundand showed a frank and manly countenance. His complexion might in youthhave been ruddy, but time and time's attendants, thought and passion,had paled it: his chesnut hair, faded, but not grey, still clusteredover a noble brow; his features were regular and handsome, a well-formednose, the square mouth and its white teeth, and the clear grey eye whichbefitted such an idiosyncracy. His time of vigorous manhood, for he wasmuch nearer forty than fifty years of age, perhaps better suited hisathletic form, than the more supple and graceful season of youth.
Stretching his powerful arms in the air, and delivering himself ofan exclamation which denoted his weariness, and which had broken thesilence, he expressed to his companion his determination to rest himselfunder the shade of the yew in the contiguous garden, and inviting hisfriend to follow him, he took up his hat and moved away.
There was something in the appearance of the stranger that interestedEgremont; and waiting till he had established himself in his pleasantresting place, Egremont descended into the cloister garden anddetermined to address him.
Book 2 Chapter 5
Sybil, Or, The Two Nations Page 10
