_York City and Minster.—Journey to Lincoln.—Travellers imposed
upon.—Innkeepers.—Ferry over the Trent.—Lincoln.—Great Tom.—Newark.—
Alconbury Hill._
Wednesday.
From Borough-Bridge, which is a little town full of good inns, we took
chaise in the morning for York. The road was a straight line over a dead
flat; the houses which we passed of red brick, roofed with red tiles,
uglier than common cottages, and not promising more comfort within. York
is one of the few English cities with the name of which foreigners are
familiar. I was disappointed that its appearance in the distance was not
finer,—we saw its huge cathedral rising over the level,—but that was
all; and I found that the second city in England was as little imposing
as the metropolis upon a first view. We drove under an old gateway and
up a narrow street, ordered dinner at the inn, and set out to see the
cathedral, here called the minster.
Though I had seen the cathedral churches of Exeter, Salisbury,
Westminster, and Worcester, my expectations were exceeded here; for
though on the outside something, I know not what, is wanting, the
interior surpasses any thing to be seen elsewhere. It is in magnitude
that York minster is unrivalled; it is of the best age of Gothic, and in
admirable repair:—this praise must be given to the English heretics,
that they preserve these monuments of magnificent piety with a proper
care, and do not suffer them to be disfigured by the barbarism of modern
times. Here indeed we felt the full effect of this wonderful
architecture, in which all the parts are highly ornamented, yet the
multiplicity of ornaments contributes to one great impression. We
ascended the tower by such a wearying round of steps that I was
compelled to judge more respectfully of its height, than we had done
when beholding it from below. The day was hazy; we saw however
sufficiently far into a flat country; and the city, and the body of the
immense building below us, with its towers and turrets, its buttresses
and battlements, were objects far more impressive than any distant view.
Having satisfied our curiosity here, we strolled in search of other
objects, saw the castle, which is converted into a prison, and found our
way to a public walk beside the river Ouse, a sluggish and muddy stream,
which, however, as it is navigable, the people of York would be loth to
exchange for one of the wild Cumberland rivers, which we could not but
remember with regret. There is a bridge over it of remarkable
architecture, whose irregular arches, with the old houses adjoining,
form a highly picturesque pile. While we were looking at it, we heard
some one from the ships sing out, "There he goes!" and this was repeated
from vessel to vessel, and from shore to shore, chiefly by boys and
children, in a regular tone, and at regular intervals, almost like
minute guns. It was some time, before we paid any attention to this; but
at last it was repeated so often that it forced itself upon our notice,
and we enquired of a woman, whose little girl was joining in the cry,
what it meant. She told us it was a man, then crossing at the ferry,
whom the children always called after in this way:—she could give no
further account, and did not know that he had done any thing to provoke
it. He was a man in years, and of decent appearance. It is possible that
he may have committed some offence which drew upon him the public
notice,—but it is equally possible that this was begun in sport; and if
so, as the woman indeed understood it to be, it is one of the strangest
instances of popular persecution I ever witnessed. Age and deformity, I
may here remark, are always objects of ridicule in England; it is
disgraceful to the nation to see how the rabble boys are permitted to
torment a poor idiot, if they find one in the streets.
* * * * *
Thursday.
At five in the morning we left York, I could not but admire the
punctuality of the old coachman. He was on his box, we on the
roof,—every thing ready to start. One church clock struck,—another
followed,—house clocks all around us,—"All but the minster," said the
old man,—for the minster was his signal. Presently that began with its
finer tone,—and before the first quarter had ended, crack went his whip
and we were off. It was a cloudy morning,—we passed through Tadcaster,
and a few smaller places not worth naming, because not worth
remembering, till we reached Ferry-bridge to breakfast. The bridge is
new and handsome, yet our bridges are in a better taste than those of
the English:—the river, a slow stream, as dull and uninteresting as a
canal. On to Doncaster, one of the handsomest towns I have ever
seen:—the country around is as insipid as the plains of Old Castille,
though perhaps the Doncastrians are of a different opinion, as their
race-ground is one of the best in England. The scenery improved when we
entered the province of Nottinghamshire, and the sun came out and
brightened every thing; here we saw a few hop-gardens. Our places were
taken to an inn called Markham Moor, from whence we expected to reach
Lincoln time enough to see it easily that evening. It was nineteen miles
from the inn: they told us they had no chaise at home, and must send for
one from Tuxford, therefore we had better go on to Tuxford, which was
two miles further, and then we should be one mile nearer Lincoln. To
this we readily agreed,—but our coach dined at this Markham Moor,—here
would be an hour lost, ill to be spared when we were prest for time:
another stage passed us while we were deliberating, and by the
landlord's especial advice we mounted this and advanced. Lincoln
cathedral was distinctly in sight at this distance.
At Tuxford we ordered chaise for Lincoln, which we had been told was
eighteen miles distant,—the waiter said it was twenty, the landlady that
it was twenty-one. "Why have they no _Corregidores_ in England?" said I
to my companion, who wished as heartily, but as vainly, as myself for
summary redress. The woman knew that we knew we were imposed on, and
expressed it in her countenance and manner. There was no remedy but the
never-failing panacea of patience. Mark the complication of
roguery.—Instead of taking a cross road, which would have cut off two
miles, we were driven back to Markham Moor, by which excellent manœuvre
we had to pay for twenty-one, instead of nineteen, and an additional
turnpike into the bargain. We called at this inn, and asked for the
landlord, meaning to tell him our opinion of his conduct; but he did not
choose to appear. No class of people in England require the
superintendance of law more than the inn-keepers. They fix their own
prices, without any other restriction than their own conscience, and
uniformly charge the fraction of a mile as a whole one, so that the
traveller pays for a mile, in almost every stage, more than he travels.
False weights and measures are punishable here, why should this kind of
measure be exempted?
When we had proceeded about half a league further, the driver dismounted
to open a gate. Just on the other side was a little bridge over a ditch
of clear and slowly-flowing water: the wall of this bridge was continued
far enough, as might have been supposed, for security, and then sloped
aside from the road, and ended. By the side of the road was a steep
bank, not higher than with a bound one might spring up; at the bottom of
this was a young hedge fenced with rails on both sides, at right angles
with the ditch-stream. Our horses went on before the driver could
remount, and they chose to bend this way; the chaise was soon in such a
situation that it was prudent for us with all speed to alight; he held
the horses and out we got; but to get them into the road was not so
easy. Both were spirited beasts, indeed we had been admiring them;—both
were startlish, and the mare vicious;—she had lately run with a chaise
into the river at Newark, and drowned the post-boy. They began to
plunge,—the weight of the chaise, which was on the declivity, pressed
upon them, the horse leapt at the rails and broke them down, the mare
fell in the bottom, and had the bank been in the slightest degree
steeper the chaise must have rolled upon her. As it was, we expected to
see her killed, or her bones broken at least. D. called to the driver to
cut the traces instantly and let the horse loose, or he would frighten
the mare still more, and make bad worse:—he hesitated to do this till
after more plunging the mare got into the ditch:—however, the traces
were loosed, and the beasts got into the road with little other hurt
than the violent agitation they were in. We now exerted all our strength
to drag up the chaise, but to no purpose. D. went one way for help, the
driver another, while I sate upon the wall of the bridge and looked at
the stream. D. brought with him a man and two boys, and the driver a
carthorse, who soon did the business,—and we proceeded not without some
apprehensions of another accident, from the fear of the horses, but,
thanks be to God, all went on well.
We came presently to Dunham Ferry,—the interruption and expence of
crossing here were well compensated by the beauty of the scene. The
Trent at this place is the largest fresh-water river which I have seen
in England,—indeed I believe it rolls a greater body of fresh water to
the sea than any other. Two of its huge arms, which embraced a long
island, met just above the ferry, like two large rivers. The opposite
bank was high and broken. The island terminated in a sharp point, to
which the stream had worn it, and just at this point were about a score
or five-and-twenty remarkably large willow-trees, as tall as elms. Some
men of taste must have planted them two centuries ago; the rest of the
island, as far as we could see, was fine meadow land,—and a colony of
rooks had established their commonwealth in the trees. The country up
the river was a dead flat, with a handsome church in the distance, and
another on the shore which we were leaving; many little islands, with a
bush or two upon them, in the stream below,—the price at the ferry was
half-a-crown, which we thought exorbitantly dear.
The road now ran between plantations of birch, oak, beech, and hazel,
with ditches of clear weedy water on each side, which sometimes spread
into little pools in which the overhanging boughs and bank weeds were
reflected,—a complete contrast to the mountain streams, and yet
beautiful. It opened upon a marsh, and we once more beheld the cathedral
upon its height, now two leagues distant. This magnificent building
stands at the end of a long and high hill, above the city. To the north
there are nine windmills in a row. It has three towers, the two smaller
ones topped with the smallest spires I have ever seen;—they were
beautiful in the distance—yet we doubted whether they ought to have been
there, and in fact they are of modern addition, and not of stone, so
that on a near view they disgrace and disfigure the edifice. Imagine
this seen over a wide plain, this the only object,—than which the power
of man could produce no finer. The nearer we approached the more dreary
was the country—it was one wide fen,—but the more beautiful the city,
and the more majestic the cathedral: Never was an edifice more happily
placed; it overtops a city built on the acclivity of a steep hill,—its
houses intermingled with gardens and orchards. To see it in full
perfection, it should be in the red sunshine of an autumnal evening,
when the red roofs, and red brick houses would harmonize with the sky
and the fading foliage.
Our disasters had delayed us till it was too late to see the church. So
we sate down to a late dinner upon some of the wild fowl of the fens.
Friday.
The exterior of Lincoln cathedral is far more beautiful than that of
York, the inside is far inferior. They have been obliged in some places
to lay a beam from one column to another, to strengthen them; they have
covered it with Gothic work, and it appears at first like a continuation
of the passages above. It is to be wished that in their other modern
works there had been the same approximation to the taste of better
times. A fine Roman pavement was discovered not many years ago in the
centre of the cloister; they have built a little brick building over it
to preserve it with commendable care; but so vile a one as to look like
one of those houses of necessity which are attached to every cottage in
this country—and which it is to be hoped will one day become as general
in our own. A library forms one side of the cloister-quadrangle, which
is also modern and mean. Another vile work of modern time is a picture
of the Annunciation over the altar.
Most of the old windows were demolished in the days of fanaticism; their
place has not been supplied with painted glass,—and from the few which
remain, the effect of the coloured light crowning the little crockets
and pinnacles, and playing upon the columns with red and purple and
saffron shades of light, made us the more regret that all were not in
the same state of beauty. We ascended the highest tower, crossing a
labyrinth of narrow passages; it was a long and wearying way,—the
jackdaws who inhabit these steeples have greatly the advantage of us in
getting to the top of them. How very much must these birds be obliged to
man for building cathedrals for their use! It is something higher than
York, and the labour of climbing it was compensated by a bird's eye view
all around us.
We ascended one of the other towers afterwards to see Great Tom, the
largest bell in England. At first it disappointed me, but the
disappointment wore off, and we became satisfied that it was as great a
thing as it was said to be. A tall man might stand in it, upright; the
mouth measures one and twenty English feet in circumference, and it
would be a large tree of which the girth equalled the size of its
middle. The hours are struck upon it with a hammer. I should tell you
that the method of sounding bells in England is not by striking, but by
swinging them: no bell, however, which approaches nearly to the size of
this is ever moved, except this; it is swung on Whitsunday, and when the
judges arrive to try the prisoners,—another fit occasion would be at
executions, to which it would give great solemnity, for the sound is
heard far and wide over the fens. On other occasions it was disused,
because it shook the tower, but the stones have now been secured with
iron cramps.—Tom, which is the familiar abbreviation of Thomas, seems to
be the only name which they give to a bell in this country.
Only one coach passes through Lincoln on the way to London, and that
early in the morning, we were therefore obliged to return again into the
great north road, which we did by taking chaise to Newark; the road is a
straight line, along an old Roman way. A bridge over the Trent and the
ruins of a castle, which long held out for the king in the great civil
war, are the only remarkable objects in this town,—except indeed that I
saw the name _Ordoyno_ over a shop. The day ended in rain; we got into a
stage in the evening, which took us through the towns of Grantham,
Stamford, and Stilton, and dropt us in the middle of the night at a
single inn called Alconbury-Hill,—where after a few minutes we succeeded
in obtaining admittance and went to bed.