The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 328, August 23, 1828

Lastly, my dear Puss, show me a man who possesses as many kinds of knowledge as you do, and I will proclaim him a living cyclopædia, or concentration of human wisdom. But, what do I see? I am praising you, and you are fast asleep! This is still greater philosophy.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

(For the Mirror.)

 
Yes, radiant spirit, thou hast pass'd
Unto thy latest home,
And o'er our widow'd hearts is cast
A deep and with'ring gloom!
For when on earth thou wert as bright
As angel form might be:
And mem'ry shall exist in night,
If we think not of thee.
 
 
For, oh, thy beauty o'er us came
Like a fair sunset beam,
And the sweet music of thy name
Was pure as aught might deem.
With silent lips we gaz'd on thee,
And awe-suspended breath—
But thine entrancing witchery
Abideth not in death.
 
 
And all that we suppos'd most fair
Is but a mockery now;
No beam illumes the silken hair
That traced thy smiling brow.
The cheerless dust upon thee lies,
Death's seal is on thee set,
But the bright spirit of thine eyes
Shines o'er our mem'ry yet!
 
 
As in some dark and hidden shell
Lies ocean's richest gem,
So in our hearts shall ever dwell
The spells thou'st breath'd in them!
Why should we weep o'er the young flow'rs
That cluster on thy sod?
Stars like them glow in heav'n's bright bow'rs
To light thee up to God!
 

R.A.

"TROUT BINNING" IN WEST-MORELAND

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

 
—"Now is the time,
While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile,
To tempt the trout."
 

THOMSON.

I have not yet done with this subject; and as it strikes me you are an angler, I think the article a seasonable bait for you.

I was certainly much entertained with your extracts from Sir Humphry Davy's Salmonia; and from your being pleased to mention my name in commenting on its merits, I took the hint, and resolved to send you another leaf from my journal. You will easily imagine the abundance of fish in Westmoreland when I inform you, that they seldom use the line there, except in rivers, since they can take them much easier with their hands as before mentioned. I will now account for the trout frequenting such small brooks. There are frequent floods in that county, at certain periods of the year, which sweep the fish in shoals from the mountain rivulets, or perhaps the fish always go down with the flood, for the rivers and rivulets are all well stocked afterwards; and in my opinion it is on account of the rivers being so full, that great quantities are obliged to inhabit the neighbouring brooks, all which empty themselves in the rivers. At the latter end of the year, that is, the spawning season, the large trouts (which are become very loose and flabby) take to the small brooks to deposit their spawn; after which they return to the rivers. At this time there are, in consequence, many young trouts, which remain, I should imagine, till next year, when I believe they go to the rivers; for during that time I have seldom caught trouts weighing more than from half a pound to a pound, though in such a "beck" as "Cannon's," which runs directly into the Eden, I have taken them at all times very large—and this is how I account for the difference. I should observe, that at the "back end" of the year, immensely large trouts may be caught, which come up to spawn; but they are generally, when caught, immediately thrown into their element again, as they are worth nothing, on account of the looseness of their flesh.

But to the subject. Trout binning is a name given to a peculiar method of taking trout. A man wades any rocky stream (Pot-beck for instance) with a sledge-hammer, with which he strikes every stone likely to contain fish. The force of the blow stuns the fish, and they roll from under the rock half dead, when the "binner" throws them out with his hand.

Night-Fishing.—I have frequently gone out with a fishing party at about ten o'clock at night to spear trout. We supplied ourselves with an eel spear and a lantern, and visited Cannon's "beck." We drew the light gently over the water near the brink. Immediately the light appeared, both trouts and eels were splashing about the lantern in great quantities. We then took the spear, and as they approached, thrust it down upon them, sometimes bringing up with it three or four together. One night we took nearly twenty pounds of trout and eels, which, for the short time we were out, may be considered very fair sport, and some of those were of a very large size.

Should you notice this, I may be led to recur to the subject in a future paper.

W.H.H.

 
A proud man is a fool in fermentation,
that swells and boils over like a porridge-pot.
He sets out his feathers like an owl,
to swell and seem bigger than he is.
 

THE TOPOGRAPHER

AN EXCURSION TO THE RUINS OF RIEVAULX AND BYLAND ABBEYS; AND TO THE RESIDENCE OF LAURENCE STERNE, COXWOLD, YORKSHIRE

(For the Mirror.)

 
"The air around was breathing balm,
The aspen scarcely seem'd to sway;
And, as a sleeping infant calm,
The river stream'd away—
Devious as error—deep as love,
And blue and bright as heaven above."
 

Alaric A. Watts.

Though I am as romantic a being as ever breathed on the face of this beautiful earth; yet, I will promise the reader, that in detailing the events of an interesting day, I will not tinge them with that colouring; yet, such a glorious bard as Wordsworth could, alone, do justice to our excursion. Leave him to wander alone in that woody dell, with the thrilling picture spread around him—the sinking walls of elaborate Gothic, clouded by the hanging woods—the rural dwellings of the illiterate peasantry scattered below the templed mount—and the mourning stream and its rustic bridge—thus entranced, his fairy spirit would pour forth a flood of pensive and philosophic song.

It was on the dawning of a fine morning in August, that I left the brick-and-mortar purlieus of home, and in company with two young friends, commenced this excursion. The diversified chain of the Hambleton Hills, bounding the fruitful valley of Mowbray, rose at the distance of six miles before us; and whose summit we intended reaching before breakfast. The varying aspect of these rocky eminences requires the descriptive charms of Sir Walter Scott, or the pencil of Salvator Rosa, to do them justice. Within two miles of them, you might imagine yourself in the ruins of the Roman amphitheatre, whose circular walls reared their dark-gray forms to the heaven; and the inimitable description which Byron has given us of that edifice, occurs to the recollection; though no waving weeds and dew-nurtured trees crown the apparent ruin—

 
"Like laurel on the bald first Caesar's head."
 

On a nearer view, they change their appearance, and you might suppose that the remains of some fortified castle, typical of the feudal system, looked over the heather which clothes their rocky sides; whilst the detached pieces of rock, which rolled from the summit eighty years ago, appear amongst the furze, like the tombs of Jewish patriarchs in the valley of Jehosaphat at Jerusalem, darkened by the lapse of ages. To the right of our path lay the solitary and frail memorials of the monastery of Hode, founded by Roger de Mowbray, and afterwards attached to the abbey of Byland. Shortly after passing Hode, we arrived at the base of Hambleton, and began to ascend its rocky front; we had climbed half the ascent, when, on cautiously turning ourselves, an indescribable picture presented itself in the vale and its objects below; the solemn silence of the early hour—the first greeting of the morning sun—the glittering and distant lake of Gormire, guarded by towering hills to the right—and, to the left, rocks which have stood whilst generations of heroes and kings have passed away; and, beyond this vivid scene, in dim perspective, arose the western hills, tinged with delicate blue, and scarcely discernible from the clouds which floated over them. Even the enraptured travellers, who stood gazing from the summit of Mont Blanc, were not more delighted than the enthusiastic trio who looked from the brow of Hambleton on that memorable morning. But our object was not attained, and we set forward with replenished vigour, to cross the heather-heath, whose bleak aspect prepared us for the paradise which smiled below the other side of the hills. The first prominent object which met our view, was the terrace, with its classical temples at each of its terminations; and next, the wood encircled hamlet of Scawton, at whose little alehouse we enjoyed a hearty breakfast; and then set forward to explore our beloved region of Rievaulx; our path being through a mountainous wood, which nearly kissed the sky, and obscured the rustic road which divided it: after several windings through this leafy labyrinth, we arrived at a point where the wood was more open, and the dell considerably wider. It was after passing a picturesque cottage and bridge, that the first view of Rievaulx Abbey broke upon us. It was then that the first outline of its "Gothic grandeur" was displayed to us. Crossing the little bridge of Rieval, we proceeded along the banks of the Rye, which morosely rolled along, scarcely deigning to murmur its complaints to the woody hills which skirted it, as if in pique for the ruin of its sublime temple, and the disappearance of its monastic lords. The village of Rieval, constructed out of the wreck of the spacious abbey, displays some reverence for the preservation of inscriptions dug out of the building; and the little windows which lit the cells of studious monks five hundred years ago, now grace the cottages of illiterate peasants. We took a facsimile of one inscription, in Saxon letters, merely denoting the name of the monastery.

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—