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Various
The exterior architecture of the chapel is almost
destitute of ornament; if we except the reeded windows,
and the double buttresses at the angles of the tower,
which is stated to be short of its original height.
On the east side, two angular lines mark the connexion
which the chapel had with the other buildings, and
a part of the ground plan may be traced by an adjoining
wall, in which are the remains of two circular arches,
comparatively little impaired. Mr. Rhodes observes
“a wreath of ivy which falls from the top of
the tower, and nearly invests one side of it, breaks
the dull monotony of its outline, and produces a tolerably
good effect: in other respects it is not strikingly
attractive as a picturesque object. The Abbey
of Bello-Capite will ever be dear to the antiquary
who will visit it with veneration and delight; nor
will the artist pass it by unnoticed. The magnificent
woods, and the beautiful hills that environ the Abbey
of Beauchief, amply compensate for any deficiency of
grandeur in the subordinate adornments of so rich
a scene.”
Beauchief Abbey, though once a considerable structure,
was never proportionally wealthy. At the time
of its dissolution, (Henry VIII.) the whole of its
revenues were estimated but at 157_l_; and with the
materials furnished by its demolition was built Beauchief
House upon the same estate, granted by Henry VIII.
to Sir William Shelly. The mansion is still tenanted.
Crosses.
These emblematic relics stand in two of the villages
in the Peak district: viz. Eyam and
Wheston. They are places of little importance;
though a touching interest is attached to Eyam, from
it having been visited by the Great Plague of the
year 1666; its population, at this time, was about
330; of whom 259 fell by the plague.[2] The history
of this calamitous visitation forms the subject of
a meritorious poem by W. and M. Howitt, entitled the
Desolation of Eyam, in which the piety of Mr.
Mompesson, (who then held the living of Eyam,) his
pastoral consolations to his mourning people, and the
amiable character of his beautiful wife, who fell
a victim to the plague,—are narrated with
true pathos. Yet, this afflicting episode in village
history—
So sad, so tender and so true.
having been but recently related by our ingenious
contemporary, Mr. Hone,[3] we quote but two of the
opening stanzas by the Messrs. Howitt:
Among the verdant mountains of the Peak
There lies a quiet hamlet,
where the slope
Of pleasant uplands wards the north-wind’s
bleak;
Below wild dells romantic
pathways ope;
Around, above it, spreads
a shadowy cope
Of forest trees: flower, foliage,
and clear rill
Wave from the cliffs, or down
ravines elope;
It seems a place charmed from the power
of ill
By sainted words of old: so lovely,
lone, and still.
