much for the scene, and the Aislabies and the landscape-gardening of the eighteenth century have failed to spoil it. In fact, they have, as has been said, produced a contrast which is very impressive. The situation of Fountains Abbey at once challenges comparison with that of Bolton-a narrow valley, a winding stream, and wooded banks are the natural elements in both. But the Wharfe is essentially a more picturesque stream than the Skell, and the winding walks and simple rustic benches of the Duke of Devonshire's grounds are certainly in better taste than Anne Boleyn's Seat, the moon and crescent Ponds, and the Temples of Piety and Fame. At Fountains we hasten through carefully-planted groves, by glades, lakes, terraces, and statues, till a turn in the valley and a cutting in the trees reveal to us in startling perfection a ruin, of dates and styles varying from the first half of the twelfth century to the first half of the sixteenth. Whatever disappointment we may feel in the opening of the valley is forgotten in the beauty that haunts its deep recess. At Bolton all is reversed. The ruin comes first, and probably disappoints us, but we soon feel the enchantment of the rocky banks and the unfathomed Strid; and at last the distant view of Barden Tower, among the trees, completes the spell.

To those who do not care for Gothic architecture Fountains must remain a picturesque group of ruins in a fine situation, and nothing more. That is a matter of taste. But to say that an abbey is beautiful and impressive, and that, after all, it is the outcome of deliberate imposture and conscious hypocrisy, is to contradict all history and all philosophy. The lies that have obtained a hearing in the world have left no such record as this. Error there doubtless was, but it was the error of the higher and more spiritual natures; it was error such as that into which Christian fell in his journey towards the Heavenly City, and from which his friends and neighbours at home enjoyed an ignoble immunity. Superstition, too, was close at hand, but it was the superstition that haunts the strongest faith, as the shadow haunts the substance, rather than that which as surely dogs the steps of unbelief.

Happily it is as unnecessary, as in these pages it would be inopportune, to discuss at length the theological, ethical, and philosophical aspects of monasticism. But there can be no fruitful study of art-still less of an avowedly religious art—without some attempt to look below the surface. Painting, indeed, and sculpture, and, in a greater degree, literature, have their growth in history and their

G

roots in philosophy, but the most historic of all arts is architecture, and the slow upraising of a great building reveals to us the action of time and circumstance upon creative thought.

The history of Fountains Abbey opens with a strange chapter of conflict and disunion.

There is a sense in which every Christian church is a temple of concord; for the central fact of Christianity is an atonement, and its central doctrine a reconciliation. And yet we are reminded again and again that its Founder came not to bring peace, but a sword.

Reconciliation, in fact, is not toleration, and atonement is not compromise.

The blackness of evil and the wickedness of the enemy were felt in the twelfth century as we hardly feel them in these gentler days. The need and desire to come out of the brutal and degraded world and be separate was real then, but with us heaven. and saintliness are apt to be secretly regarded as Quixotic excesses bordering on fanaticism, while the goal of human progress in morals is placed somewhere nearer the "mean" of respectability. The wholesome and manly powers of hatred and contempt for what is base and bad are blunted in us, and in our bondage to the "common," which we mistake for freedom, we

are not unlike those old Bohemian heretics who spoke of the Prince of Darkness as "he who has been wronged." Not so the founders of this Abbey.

Some time in the second quarter of the thirteenth century, at the request of John, Abbot of Fountains, Hugh, a monk of Kirkstall, wrote, from the dictation of the venerable Serlo, a narrative of the founding and early fortunes of Fountains. The buildings are thus not left to speak for themselves; and if we miss the dreamy luxury of a solemn music without words, we gain a precise and detailed account which throws light upon the whole subject of English monasticism.

The story transports us at once to the subject of our first chapter-the Benedictine Monastery of St. Mary at York.

It is early in the twelfth century and scarcely fifty years since the great revival of monasticism in the north. Alas for the good Elfwin of Evesham ! already his work is perishing, already the new life, with its burning lamp and girded loins, is sinking into lethargic fatness and dim contentment.

But the life-work of men like Elfwin does not wholly perish. There is yet hope of St. Mary's, for side by side with degeneracy there is discontent. In the fast-drying Benedictine soil there is a root which already thirsts for the waters-prings. "There are

those," says the chronicle, "whom God has chosen to himself for a seed." Richard, the sacrist of St. Mary's, and Ralph, Gamel, Gregory, Hamo, Thomas, and Waltheof, were men of troublesome and punctilious conscience. Like Luther, they felt imperfection as less sensitive men feel positive sin. "They are ashamed to settle down on the hither side of perfection, to have tarried so long in the borders of Moab and put up with an heritage beyond Jordan. They are weary of the turmoil of the world and the din of cities; their whole heart pants for the desert, for manual labour, and prophet's fare." In vain they try to conceal their searchings of heart from the prior-he knows and shares them all.

When the number of these holy malcontents had grown to thirteen-the prescribed minimum for a new foundation-they began to consider what decisive step they should take. "It was not poverty that they feared, nor the severity of winter; their only thought was how their purpose could be carried out, and at the same time peace preserved among the brethren, and scandal avoided." project began to be talked about. of levity, contumacy, innovation. made his voice heard, and there

Soon, however, their
They were accused
Almost every one
was much noise in

the monastery. The matter was referred to Abbot