through the small and rather rudely furnished rooms; and one must
indeed be totally lacking in poetic instinct if he cannot feel at
least a touch of sympathy with the pleasant surroundings so often
the theme of the great laureate of the simple life. We sit in the
rustic seat which Wordsworth was wont to occupy and can look over the
gray roof of the cottage to the long succession of hills stretching
away until their blue outlines are silhouetted against the sunset
sky--verily an inspiration even to the most matter-of-fact intellect.
We know that much of Wordsworth's best work was composed in the little
garden to the rear of the cottage--a bit of earth that he loved with an
intensity that has found more than one expression in his written words.
And it was of the very seat upon which we sit that he wrote:
"Beneath these fruit tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet
My last year's friends together."
But to know more of the simple, happy life at Dove Cottage, one may
read from the letter written by Dorothy in 1800:
"We are daily more delighted with Grasmere and its neighborhood. Our
walks are perpetually varied, and we are more fond of the mountains as
our acquaintance with them increases. We have a boat upon the lake, and
a small orchard and smaller garden, which, as it is the work of our
own hands, we regard with pride and partiality. Our cottage is quite
large enough for us, though very small; and we have made it neat and
comfortable within doors; and it looks very nice on the outside; for
though the roses and honeysuckles which we have planted against it
are only of this year's growth, yet it is covered all over with green
leaves and scarlet flowers; for we have trained scarlet beans upon
threads, which are not only exceedingly beautiful but very useful, as
their produce is immense. We have made a lodging-room of the parlor
below stairs, which has a stone floor, therefore we have covered it
all over with matting. We sit in a room above stairs, and we have one
lodging-room with two single beds, a sort of lumber-room, and a small
low unceiled room, which I have papered with newspapers, and in which
we have put a small bed."
But come! We may not stop at Dove Cottage for the night; it would now
offer but sorry cheer, and Windermere seems the most available place
to tarry. We pass close to the water's edge along Grasmere, and Rydal
brings up new associations of the poet--here on the "Mount" overlooking
the tiny lake is the house where Wordsworth lived in his later and more
prosperous years, still the home of his granddaughter, we are told.
But the tripper is not welcome and the envious tangle of trees and
shrubbery denies to the wayfarer even a glimpse of the house.
The beautiful situation of the Lowwood Hotel attracts our attention
as we follow the margin of the lake, but we pass on in our swift race
for Windermere. Coming thither we inquire of a policeman in the market
place for the best hotel. He is diplomatic enough to disclaim fitness
to judge, but adds confidentially, "You'll make no mistake if you go to
the Hold Hengland; that's where the quality goes." We thank him--praise
Heaven that is all one is expected to do, or in fact, may do for a
policeman in Britain!--but when we view the Old England we are seized
with regret that we passed Lowwood with its magnificent frontage on
the lake. It is nothing to retrace the half dozen miles to the most
pretentious hotel in the Lake District, though probably far from the
most comfortable, and certainly anything but the place for travelers
of an economical turn. What motorist could forget or forgive the
charge of half a crown for simple garage--two and one-half times the
standard price in England! Still, the view of the lake from Lowwood as
the evening falls compensates for many shortcomings. The twilight has
transformed the limpid waters into a sheet of dull silver, touched with
faint rose hues from the last glow of the sun. The hills beyond stand
in dark blue outline against a pale opalescent sky and the dim gray
towers of Wray Castle rear their massive bulk in the foreground. There
is no more enchanting view from the shores of Windermere Lake and we
saw it under the most favorable conditions.
A sharp change has come over the scene when we resume our journey in
the morning. A light rain is falling and the mist hovering over the
lake half hides the distant hills. Gray tones predominate everywhere,
contrasting cheerlessly with the brilliance of the preceding day. But
such a day may be looked for as the rule rather than the exception, for
the rainfall of the Lake District is much the heaviest in England. We
pass Ambleside at the head of the lake, and follow the steep, ill-kept
road, slippery from the rain, to Coniston, a very quiet village,
nestling at the foot of the great hills at the head of Coniston Water.
In the churchyard here John Ruskin was laid to rest--a Celtic cross
marks the spot--and a museum in the town contains many of his sketches
and manuscripts. The road southward closely follows Coniston Water,
though with many slight but sharp undulations, winding through a dense
growth of young trees. We pass directly under Brantwood, the plain old
house where Ruskin lived, and catch glimpses of the oriel window of
leaded glass in which he was wont to sit at his work. The house is
situated on a wooded hillside and commands a fine view of the lake. The
road from Brantwood to the end of the lake is so narrow, so tortuous
and so obscured by the trees that extreme caution is necessary. It is
still early and the way is quite clear; we experience no trouble, yet
we are glad indeed to get into the main road to Dalton and Ulverston.
Furness Abbey, once neglected and rather inaccessible, has more
recently become one of the best known and most easily reached of the
historic spots of northern England. Among the multifarious activities
of the late Duke of Devonshire, was the building of the railroad that
leads to Barrow-in-Furness and the development of that town into an
important port of sixty thousand inhabitants. A few miles north of the
town are the extensive ruins of Furness Abbey, a Cistercian foundation
of the twelfth century, situated in a narrow valley underneath
overshadowing hills from which the red sandstone used in the building
was taken. The keen business sense of the duke recognized in this
splendid ruin a decided factor to assist in his plan of development.
The grounds surrounding the abbey were converted into a handsome park,
a station was opened on the railroad just opposite, and a large hotel
was built near by.
Furness Abbey, however, carefully groomed and in charge of voluble
guides posted in the minutest detail of architecture and history, can
hardly impress one as it did when, a lonely and crumbling ruin, it
was the goal of only the infrequent visitor. Its story is a long one
but of interest only to the specialist or antiquarian. To the layman
the tales of the different abbeys seem wonderfully alike: founded in
religious zeal, a period of penury, then of prosperity, and finally
one of great power and affluence. Then came the quarrel of Henry VIII.
with Rome and through the activity of the king's agents the abbeys
were plundered and partially destroyed. The direct damage inflicted by
the looters was usually limited to tearing the lead from the roofs,
smashing the windows, and defacing the tombs. Then followed the long
ages of neglect and the decay consequent upon the rains of summer and
the storms of winter. But more than all other causes that contributed
to the ruin and sometimes complete effacement of the magnificent abbey
buildings, was the vandalism that converted them into stone walls and
hovels--every one became the neighborhood quarry and in many instances
we owe the fragments that remain to the solidity that made tearing down
a difficult task.
Furness Abbey is well worth a visit. While only fragments of its walls
remain, excavations have been made with such care and intelligence
that one has the whole groundwork of the great establishment before him
and may gain from it an excellent idea of monastic life. With the sole
exception of Fountains, it is probably the most extensive monastic ruin
in Britain, and while it lacks much of the beauty and impressiveness of
its Yorkshire rival, it serves to give one a better insight into the
daily life of the ancient occupants. Judged by our standard, it must
have been a rigorous, cheerless life, though it probably contrasted
more favorably with conditions of its own time. There is today a
growing belief that, on the average, the life of the monks was not so
easy nor so corrupt as apologists for the ruthless despoilation of the
abbeys would have us think.
I have consumed in these vagaries the space that I should have devoted
to the description of the abbey; but descriptions are easy to be had
and the best of them will fall short of the interest and beauty that
awaits the visitor to the charming Lancashire ruin. One may well stay a
day at the hotel, than which there are few in England more comfortable,
more beautifully located, or better in appointment.
We have covered three thousand miles in our wanderings and a certain
weariness possesses us. We feel that a rest of a day or two will not
come amiss, and no place within reach appeals to us as old York. To
our notion the resort towns with their ostentatious hotels--Harrogate
and Ilkley are nearer--cannot compare with the cathedral city and its
Station Hotel as a place where one may be at ease. The Station, with
its unpretentious and prosaic name, is the property of the railway
company, a great rambling building of yellow brick, unhampered by
limitations of space and so arranged that every guest-room has light
and air from the outside. There are spacious and finely kept grounds in
front and at some distance to the rear is the station, but not close
enough to disturb the quiet of the hotel.
But York is full two days' journey at our rate of traveling; there is
much to see on the way and our route will be anything but a direct one.
We leave Furness Abbey in the early afternoon and the skies, which
had cleared as we reached Coniston, are lowering again. The road by
which we came carries us to Ulverston, and from thence we soon come
to Lake Side, at the lower end of Windermere. The fine road to the
north closely skirts the lake, but the trees stand so thickly that we
catch only occasional glimpses of the water. A light summer shower is
falling, and the fleeting sun and shadow over the mirrorlike surface,
mottled with patches of gleaming blue and almost inky blackness, gives
us another of the endless phases of the beauty of Lakeland. For
seven or eight miles we keep close to the shore, through Bowness to
Windermere, two quiet little towns largely given over to hotels and
lodging-houses. The great vogue of the Lake District as a resort is
comparatively recent, and as a consequence one finds in these towns a
mingling of the ancient and modern. Windermere, which grew out of the
little village of Birthswaite, is especially accessible, being reached
in about an hour by train from Manchester.
Kendal, the county town of Westmoreland, is only seven or eight miles
from Windermere. Once a manufacturing center of importance, famous for
its woolens and "Kendal Green," it has been gradually transformed into
a quiet, unprogressive market town. The King's Arms Hotel is one of the
most typical and interesting of the old-time buildings. It abounds in
narrow hallways, odd corners, beamed ceilings and paneled rooms, all
behind a very common and unpretentious exterior. We have noted many
narrow alleys leading into the main street and some of these still have
heavy gates at the entrance. We are told that Kendal suffered from
frequent incursions of the Scots during the almost endless years of
border strife, and these alleys afforded quick refuge for the citizens
of the town. The gates were closed and the marauders thus confined to
the main street, where they became easy targets for the men behind
the barriers. But no such exciting incident breaks the sleepy quiet
of Kendal today, though the scene before us is not without animation.
It is market day and the streets are thronged with farmers from the
prosperous valley in which the town is situated. Cattle, sheep and
produce seem to be the chief topics of conversation so far as we can
gather from snatches of the broad North Country dialect of the men
about the town.
Our stay at Kendal is a short one--we are soon away for the
"Yorkshire Dales,
Among the rocks and winding scars,
Where deep and low the hamlets lie
Beneath their little patch of sky
And little lot of stars."
So Wordsworth describes the narrow green valleys running between the
long ridges of moorland hills and opening into the wide fertile plain
in the center of which stands the city of York.
We drop southward for some little distance and then turn to the
east, through the very heart of the hills. Just before we come to
Settle, our attention is attracted by a group of people looking
curiously into a stone trough by the wayside. There are expressions
of disappointment--"It's not working today." We are told that this
is Settle's ebbing and flowing well, famous over all Yorkshire and
concerning which a learned antiquary has written a book. But the well
is out of commission today--the long drouth has affected the spring
until for the second time in the last twenty-five years the phenomenon
has ceased. Ordinarily there is a regular ebb and flow of the waters
at intervals of from five to fifteen minutes. It is known that this
strange spring has been in existence for hundreds of years, but the
phenomenon has never been satisfactorily explained.
A little farther we find a striking instance of how a bad name
will linger long after its original significance has vanished; for
Hellifield was once Hell-in-the-Field, because of its reputation for
wickedness. But surely this straggling little village hardly looks
its formidable cognomen today. A few miles on the Skipton road brings
us in view of a strangely incongruous spectacle; on one of the rough
hills an oriental temple stands with huge dome and slender minarets
sharply outlined against the evening sky--a sight that almost savors
of enchantment in such surroundings. But it is real enough, for an
eccentric Londoner who embraced Buddhism some years ago, spent a
fortune in erecting this temple on the bare northern hills.
Skipton is near the head of Airedale, but we see here no sign of the
multitudinous factories that taint the skies and sully the waters
farther down the Aire, which, if one were to follow it for twenty-five
miles, would take him through the heart of Leeds. But Skipton is only
a market town--fairly prosperous, for the narrow vale which surrounds
it is famed as one of the richest pastoral bits of Yorkshire. The
fading light accentuates the gray monotone of the old houses, and
gives a further touch of cheerlessness to the somewhat bleak aspect
of the place. The large market square is paved with cobblestones and
around it in promiscuous array stand public and business buildings,
among them two hotels, large but rather unprepossessing structures. A
hurried glance at the interior of each confirms our first impressions
and we bid Skipton a hasty farewell. We pass under the high walls
of the old castle to reach the Ilkley road. The grim gateway is
flanked by two huge embattled round towers and the walls are pierced
by small mullioned windows. Skipton Castle was once the stronghold
of the Cliffords, and some say the birthplace of Fair Rosamond,
rather than the almost vanished castle on the Welsh Wye, which also
claims the distinction--if indeed it be such. It is wonderfully
well preserved--few other Yorkshire castles can vie with it in this
particular--and stands today as sullen and proud as it must have seemed
when the wars of the Roses swept over the land.
A narrow upland road bordered by stone fences and leading
through bleak hills carries us over the moorland ridge that lies
between Airedale and Wharfdale, and on entering the latter, the
comfortable-looking Devonshire Arms stands squarely across our way. We
find it a quiet, pleasant place, seemingly half inn and half home for
the family of the genial landlord. It is situated near the entrance to
the grounds of Bolton Abbey and its pretty gardens to the rear slope
down to the rippling Wharfe. The inn is the property of the Duke of
Devonshire, to whom the abbey grounds belong, and as he was averse
to Sunday visitors at the abbey, the hotel is licensed as a "six-day
house." No one may be taken in and no meal served to anyone not already
a guest, on Sunday. When we left the hotel we did not expect to return,
and by paying our bill practically gave up our status as guests of the
Devonshire Arms. But it chanced that we were back in time for lunch and
a serious discussion took place between our landlord and his assistants
as to whether we might be accommodated or not. It was finally decided
to stretch a point in our favor and to assume that we had not severed
our relations when we left in the morning.
A desire possesses us to see something of the most retired portions
of the Yorkshire moors and from Skipton we start due north over the
hills. We pass Rylstone, the tiny village given to fame by Wordsworth
in his ballad, "The White Doe of Rylstone," and re-enter Wharfdale at
Grassington. The unbroken moors stretch northward on either side of
the river--a country quite devoid of roads excepting the indifferent
ones on each side of the Wharfe--to the village of Kettlewell. We
follow the right-hand road, narrow, steep and winding, and altogether
a severe test for a motor. Fortunately it is quite clear, for in
many places vehicles could scarcely pass each other. Nothing could
be harsher and bleaker than the country, even as we saw it in the
prime of summer time, and the little towns seem almost a part of the
country itself. It would be hard to imagine that there was ever a time
when Grassington, Coniston or Kettlewell did not nestle, angular and
weather-beaten, at the foot of the eternal hills, and they are as bare
and as devoid of the picturesque touches of the village of southern
England as the hills they lie beneath. They seem to have little excuse
for existence and it is not clear to a casual visitor how the lonely
moors that encircle them can afford sustenance to their inhabitants.
Lead-mining once employed many people, though at present most of the
mines are exhausted. Kettlewell is in the very center of the moor; no
railroad comes within many miles of the town. It lies along a narrow
valley--a mere cleft in the hills--that opens into Wharfdale, which
itself becomes very narrow here. It is a center for those who would
explore the mysteries of the surrounding moors or who desire to hunt or
fish in almost primal solitude. That there are many such visitors is
attested by the rather good-looking inns at Kettlewell, and altogether,
the village seems less forlorn than the others we have just passed. The
place is not as quiet as one would expect from its retired location;
coaches are discharging their loads of trippers and evidently do a
thriving business.
One might find it very interesting to continue northward to
Askrigg, another old and quaint moorland town, and from this to
visit Wensleydale--which we do later--but our present plans do not
contemplate this. The road is a very indifferent one, though probably
not much worse than that over which we came. Returning from Kettlewell
we take the opposite side of the Wharfe, passing at first close to the
river and then beneath gray and red cliffs that ominously overhang the
road. From the hill-crests at times we have wide panoramas of the dale,
with the silver ribbon of the Wharfe stealing through it. The road
takes us back to the village of Grassington; from thence we follow a
road whose steep hills and sharp turns engage the closest attention of
the driver until we reach the Devonshire Arms, as before related.
A short cut across Rumbles Moor brings us to the road to Keighley,
the last link in the chain of manufacturing towns stretching up the
Aire from Leeds and which we must pass to reach Haworth, a name that
suggests to anyone conversant with English letters the gifted but
unfortunate Bronte family. Haworth has no doubt been influenced in
population and activity by its busy neighbor, Keighley, but the "four
tough scrambling miles" that Charles Dickens found on his visit a
third of a century ago still lie between. The whole distance is a
continual climb, terminating at the top of the hill, to which the
old town seems to cling rather precariously. Indeed, there were few
more forbidding ascents that confronted us than this terribly steep,
rough street--so steep that the paving stones have been set on edge to
enable the horses to climb it. It is bordered with old-world buildings,
gray and weather-beaten, and forms a fit avenue to the church that
dominates the town from the hill and whose massive square tower looks
far over the desolate moorlands beyond it. We visited hundreds of
ancient churches in England and the surroundings of many were somber
and even depressing, but surely none approached Haworth churchyard
in the deep, all-pervading gloom that hovered over the blackened
and thickly clustered gravestones and dimmed the very sunlight that
struggled through the trees which encircle the place. The hilltop is
given up to the churchyard and there seems to be scarcely room for
another grave, so thickly stand the mouldering memorials, which mostly
antedate the time of the Brontes. Out beyond, to the westward, lie the
wild black and purple moors, sweeping away even higher than the church
itself and ending in a long wave of hills rippling darkly against the
horizon.
When "Jane Eyre," published in 1847, astonished the literary world,
few indeed would have guessed that the humble authoress lived in this
lonely village, then by far lonelier and more remote than it is today;
and it is still a wonder how one with such surroundings and of such
limited experience was able to fathom life so deeply. But one need not
be at a loss to account for the strain of melancholy that runs through
the writings of the gifted sisters. The isolated, dreary village, the
church and rectory, then almost ruinous, the desolate moor lands and
the family tragedy--the only son dying an irreclaimable drunkard--might
furnish a background of gloom even for Wuthering Heights. The sisters
rest in early graves, Charlotte, the eldest, dying last, in 1855, at
the age of thirty-nine. All, together with the father and unhappy
brother, are buried in Haworth churchyard save Anne, who lies in St.
Mary's at Scarborough.
[Illustration: HAWORTH CHURCH.]
Haworth has shared the growth in population that has filled Airedale
with manufacturing towns and is now a place of some eight thousand
people. It delights to honor the memory of its distinguished daughters,
and the local Bronte Club has established a museum containing many
interesting relics, manuscripts, and rare editions.
Retracing our route to Wharfdale, we follow the fine road through
Ilkley and Otley into the broad green lowlands which surround Old York.
There is no more beautiful country in England than that through which
we course swiftly along. We catch continual vistas of the Wharfe, no
longer a brawling moorland stream, but sleeping in broad, silvery
reaches in the midst of the luxuriant meadows. We leave the river road
for Harrogate, pause a few moments to renew our acquaintance with
quaint old Knaresborough, and from thence we glide over twenty miles of
perfect road into York.
XII
SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES