so impress the stranger who rambles about its streets. Two or three
large factories are responsible for its size, but these have little
altered its old-time heart. The center of this is marked by St.
Wulfram's Church, one of the noblest parish churches in the Kingdom. Its
spire, a shapely Gothic needle of solid stone, rises nearly three
hundred feet into the heavens, springing from a massive square tower
perhaps half the total height. The building shows nearly all Gothic
styles, though the Decorated and Early English predominate. It dates
from the thirteenth century and has many interesting monuments and
tombstones. Its gargoyles, we agreed, were as curious as any we saw in
England; uncanny monsters and queer demons leer upon one from almost any
viewpoint. Inside there is a marvelously carved baptismal font and a
chained library of the sixteenth century similar to the one in Wimborne
Minster. Altogether, St. Wulfram's is one of the notable English country
churches, though perhaps among the lesser known. Grantham also possesses
an ancient almshouse of striking architecture and a grammar school which
once included among its pupils Sir Isaac Newton, who was born at
Woolsthorpe Manor, near the town.
[Illustration: ST. WULFRAM'S CHURCH--GRANTHAM]
Old Whitby appeals to our recollection as worth a second visit and we
depart from our prearranged route at Doncaster, reaching York in the
late afternoon. It has been a cold, rainy day and we cannot bring
ourselves to pass the Station Hotel, though Whitby is but fifty miles
farther and might be reached before nightfall.
We have previously visited York many times, but have given our time
mainly to the show-places and we devote the following forenoon to the
shops. There are many interesting book-stalls and no end of
antique-stores with many costly curios, such as a Scotch claymore,
accompanied by documents to prove that it once belonged to Prince
Charlie. The shops, it seemed to us, were hardly up to standard for a
city of nearly one hundred thousand. But York, while of first rank as an
ecclesiastical seat and famous for its quaint corners and antiquity, is
not of great commercial or manufacturing importance. It is a busy
railroad center, with hundreds of trains daily, and next to Chester
probably attracts a greater number of tourists than any other English
provincial town. Leeds, Bradford, Sheffield, Hull, Middlesbrough,
Halifax and Huddersfield are all Yorkshire cities with larger population
and greater commercial activities. Of English churches we should be
inclined to give York Cathedral first place, though viewpoints on such
matters are so widely different that this may be disputed by good
authorities. In size, striking architecture and beautiful windows, it is
certainly not surpassed, though it has not the historical associations
of many of its rivals.
Whitby is but fifty miles from York. An excellent road runs through a
green, prosperous country as far as Pickering--about a score of
miles--but beyond this we plunge into the forbidding hills of the
bleakest, blackest of English moors. It is too early for the
heather-bloom, which will brighten the dreary landscape a few weeks
later, and a drizzling rain is falling from lowering clouds. The stony
road, with steep grades and sharp turns, requires closest attention and,
altogether, it is a run that is pleasant only in retrospect when
reviewed from a cozy arm-chair by the evening fire.
I am going to write a chapter giving our impressions of Old Whitby
which, I hope, will reflect a little of its charm and romance, so we may
pass it here. We resume our journey after a pleasant pause in the old
town and proceed by Guisborough, Stockton and Darlington to Bishop
Auckland, where we again take up our northern route.
Bishop Auckland gets its ecclesiastical prefix from the fact that since
the time of Edward I. it has been the site of one the palaces of the
Bishops of Durham. The present building covers a space of no less than
five acres and is surrounded by a park more than a square mile in
extent. The palace is splendid and spacious, though very irregular, the
result of additions made from time to time in varying architectural
styles. It is easy to see how the maintenance of such an
establishment--and others besides--keeps the good bishop poor, though
his salary is about the same as that of the President of the United
States. The town is pleasantly situated on an eminence near the
confluence of the river Wear and a smaller stream. About a mile distant,
at Escomb, is a church believed to date from the seventh century. It is
quite small but very solidly built, the walls tapering upward from the
ground, and some of the bricks incorporated in it are clearly of Roman
origin, one of them bearing an old Latin inscription.
Bishop Auckland marks the western termination of Durham's green fields
and fine parks; we descend a steep, rough hill and soon find ourselves
on a very bad road leading through a bleak mining country. Tow-Law is
the first of several bald, angular villages with scarce a tree or shrub
to relieve their nakedness; the streets are thronged with dirty, ragged
urchins and slatternly women sit on the doorsteps along the road. The
country is disfigured with unsightly buildings and piles of waste from
the coal-mines; and the air is loaded with sooty vapors. It is a relief
to pass into the picturesque hills of Northumberland, where, even though
the road does not improve, there are many charming panoramas of wooded
vales with here and there a church-tower, a ruin or a village. Towns on
the road are few; we cross the Tyne at Corbridge, where a fine old
bridge flings its high stone arches across the wide river. It is the
oldest on the Tyne, having braved the floods for nearly two centuries
and a half. In 1771 a great flood swept away every other bridge on the
river, but this sturdy structure survived to see the era of the motor
car. A bridge has existed at this point almost continuously since Roman
times, and the Roman piers might have been seen until very recently. The
vicinity is noted for Roman remains--sections of the Great Wall and the
site of a fortified camp being near at hand. Many relics have been
discovered near by and researches are still going on. The village by the
bridge is small and unimportant, though it has an ancient church which
shows traces of Roman building materials. Most remarkable is the Peel
tower in the churchyard, where the parson is supposed to have taken
refuge during the frequent Scotch incursions of the border wars.
Leaving the bridge we follow the Roman Watling Street, which proceeds in
almost a straight line through the hills. It leads through a country
famous in song and story; every hill and valley is reminiscent of
traditions of the endless border wars in which Northumberland figured so
largely and for so many years. Its people, too, were generally adherents
of the Stuarts and it was near the village of Woodburn, through which we
pass, that the Jacobites attacked the forces of George I., only to meet
with crushing defeat, resulting in the ruin of many of the noblest
families of the county. A little farther, in the vale of Otterburn, was
the scene of the encounter of the retainers of Douglas and Percy,
celebrated in many a quaint ballad. In the next few miles are Byrness
and Catcleugh, two fine country-seats quite near the roadside, and there
is a diminutive but very old church close to the former house. Byrness
is the seat of a famous foxhunting squire who keeps a large pack of
hounds and pursues the sport with great zeal. The wild, broken country
and sparse population are especially favorable to hunting in the saddle.
There is no lack of genuine sport, since the wild fox is a menace to
lambs and must be relentlessly pursued to the death. Just opposite
Catcleugh House a fine lake winds up the valley for nearly two miles. It
seems prosaic when we learn that it is an artificial reservoir,
affording a water supply for Newcastle-on-Tyne, but it is none the less
a charming accessory to the scenery. Beyond this the road runs through
almost unbroken solitude until it crosses the crest of the Cheviots and
enters the hills of Scotland.
IX
OLD WHITBY
It is a gray, lowering evening when we climb the sharply rising slope to
the Royal Hotel to take up our domicile for a short sojourn in Old
Whitby. The aspect of the town on a dull wet evening when viewed from
behind a broad window-pane is not without its charm, though I may not be
competent to reflect that charm in my printed page. It is a study in
somber hues, relieved only by the mass of glistening red tiles clustered
on the opposite hillside and by an occasional lighted window. The
skeleton of the abbey and dark solid bulk of St. Mary's Church are
outlined against the light gray of the skies, which, on the ocean side,
bend down to a restless sea, itself so gray that you could scarce mark
the dividing line were it not for the leaden-colored waves breaking into
tumbling masses of white foam. Looking up the narrow estuary into which
the Esk discharges its waters, one gets a dim view of the mist-shrouded
hills on either side and of numerous small boats and sailing vessels
riding at anchor on the choppy waves.
It is a wild evening, but we are tempted to undertake a ramble about the
town, braving the gusty blasts that sweep through the narrow lanes and
the showers of spray that envelop the bridge by which one crosses to the
opposite side of the inlet. There is little stirring on the streets and
the alleylike lanes are quite deserted. Most of the shops are closed and
only the lights streaming from windows of the houses on the hillside
give relief to the deepening shadows. The gathering darkness and the
increasing violence of the wind deter us from our purpose of climbing
the long flight of steps to the summit of the cliff on which the abbey
stands and we slowly wend our way back to the hotel.
The following morning a marked change has taken place. The mists of the
previous evening have been swept away and the intensely blue sky is
mottled with white vapory clouds which scurry along before a stiff
sea-breeze. The deep indigo blue of the ocean is flecked with masses of
white foam rolling landward on the crests of the waves, which break into
spray on the rocks and piers. The sea-swell enters the estuary, tossing
the numerous fishing smacks which ride at anchor and lending a touch of
animation to the scene. The abbey ruin and church, always the dominating
feature of East Cliff, stand out clearly against the silvery horizon and
present a totally different aspect from that which impressed us last
evening. In the searching light of day, the broken arches and tottering
walls tell plainly the story of the ages of neglect and plunder that
they have undergone and speak unmistakably of a vanished order of
things. Last night, shrouded as they were in mysterious shadows, the
traces of wreck and ruin were half concealed and it did not require an
extraordinarily vivid imagination to picture the great structures as
they were in their prime and to re-people them with their ancient
habitants, the gray monks and nuns. To-day the red and white flag of St.
George is flying from the low square tower of St. Mary's and crowds of
Sunday worshipers are ascending the broad flight of stairs. Services
have been held continuously in the plain old edifice for seven
centuries--its remote situation and lack of anything to attract the
looter or enrage the iconoclast kept it safe during the period which
desecrated or destroyed so many churches.
The history of a town like Whitby is not of much moment to the casual
sojourner, who is apt to find himself more attracted by its romance than
by sober facts. Still, we are glad to know that the place is very
ancient, dating back to Saxon times. It figured in the wars with the
Danes and in the ninth century was so devastated as to be almost
obliterated for two hundred years. It was not until the reign of
Elizabeth that it took rank as a seaport. The chief industry up to the
last century was whale-fishing, and a hardy race of sea-faring men was
bred in the town, among them Captain Cook, the famous explorer. While
fishing was ostensibly the chief means of livelihood of the inhabitants
of Whitby, it could hardly have been wholly responsible for the wealth
that was enough to attract Robin Hood and his retainers to the town and
they did not go away empty-handed by any means. The Abbot of Whitby
protected his own coffers by showing the outlaw every courtesy, but
Robin was not so considerate of the purses of the townspeople. Probably
he felt little compunction at easing the reputed fishermen of their
wealth, for he doubtless knew that it was gained by smuggling and it
was, after all, only a case of one outlaw fleecing another. The position
of the town behind some leagues of sterile moor, traversed by
indifferent and even dangerous roads, was especially favorable for such
an irregular occupation; and it moreover precluded Whitby from figuring
in the great events of the Kingdom, being so far removed from the
theatre of action. With the decline of the whale-fisheries, the mining
and manufacture of jet began to assume considerable proportion and is
to-day one of the industries of the place. This is a bituminous
substance--in the finished product, smooth, lustrous and intensely
black. It is fashioned into personal ornaments of many kinds and was
given a great vogue by Queen Victoria. It is found only in the vicinity
of Whitby and is sold the world over, though it has to compete with
cheap imitations, usually made of glass.
St. Hilda's Abbey is the chief monument of antiquity in Whitby and aside
from actual history it has the added interest of being interwoven with
the romantic lines of Scott's "Marmion." Situated on the summit of East
Cliff, it has been for several centuries the last object to bid farewell
to the departing mariner and the first to gladden his eyes on his
return. Seldom indeed did the old monks select such a site; they were
wont to seek some more sheltered spot on the shore of lake or river--as
at Rievaulx, Fountains or Easby. But this abbey was founded under
peculiar conditions, for the original was built as far back as 658 in
fulfillment of a vow made by King Oswy of Northumbria. In accordance
with the spirit of his time, the king made an oath on the verge of a
battle with one of his petty neighbors that if God granted him the
victory he would found an abbey and that his own daughter, the Lady
Hilda, should be first abbess. All traces of this early structure have
disappeared, but it was doubtless quite insignificant compared with its
successor, for the Saxons never progressed very far in the art of
architecture. The fame of Hilda's piety and intelligence attracted many
scholars to the abbey, among them Caedmon, "the father of English
poetry," who, as the inscription on the stately memorial in St. Mary's
churchyard reads, "fell asleep hard by A. D. 680." The death of the good
abbess also occurred in the same year. Her successor, Elfleda, governed
for a third of a century, after which little record remains. The
original abbey was probably destroyed in the Danish wars. It was revived
after the Conquest in 1078 by monks of the Benedictine order and
gradually a vast pile of buildings was erected on the headland, but of
these only the ruined church remains. The great size and splendid design
of the church would seem to indicate that in its zenith of power and
prosperity Whitby Abbey must have been of first rank. Its active history
ended with its dissolution by Henry VIII. Scott in "Marmion" represents
the abbey as being under the sway of an abbess in 1513, the date of
Flodden, but this is an anachronism, since an abbot ruled it in its last
days and the nuns had long before vanished from its cloisters.
He was a pretty poor saint in the "days of faith" who did not have
several miracles or marvels to his credit and St. Hilda was no exception
to the rule. One legend runs that the early inhabitants were pestered by
snakes and that the saint prayed that the reptiles be transmuted into
stone; and for ages the ammonite shells which abound on the coast and
faintly resemble a coiled snake were pointed out as evidence of the
efficacy of Hilda's petition. It was also said of the sea-birds that
flew over Whitby's towers that
"Sinking down on pinions faint,
They do their homage to the saint."
And an English writer humorously suggests that perhaps "the birds had a
certain curiosity to see what was going on in this mixed brotherhood of
monks and nuns." The most persistent marvel, however, which was credited
by the more superstitious less than a century ago, was that from West
Cliff under certain conditions the saint herself, shrouded in white,
might be seen standing in one of the windows of the ruin; though it is
now clear that the apparition was the result of a peculiar reflection of
the sun's rays.
The salt sea winds, the driving rain of summer and the wild winter
storms have wrought much havoc in the eight hundred years that "High
Whitby's cloistered pile" has braved the elements. A little more than
fifty years ago the central tower crashed to earth, carrying many of the
surrounding arches with it, and the mighty fragments still lie as they
fell. The remaining walls and arches are now guarded with the loving
care which is being lavished to-day upon the historic ruins of England
and one can only regret that the spirit which inspires it was not
aroused at least a hundred years ago.
St. Mary's, a stone's throw from the abbey, is one of the crudest and
least ornate of any of the larger churches which we saw in England. Its
lack of architectural graces may be due to the fact that it was
originally built--about 1110, by de Percy, Abbot of Whitby--for "the use
of the common people of the town," the elaborate abbey church being
reserved for the monks. Perhaps the worthy abbot little dreamed that the
plain, massive structure which he thought good enough for the laity
would be standing, sturdy and strong and still in daily use centuries
after his beautiful abbey fane, with its graceful arches, its gorgeous
windows and splendid towers had fallen into hopeless ruin. All around
the church are blackened old gravestones in the midst of which rises the
tall Caedmon Cross, erected but a few years ago. To reach St. Mary's one
must ascend the hundred and ninety-nine broad stone steps that lead up
the cliff--a task which would test the zeal of many church-goers in
these degenerate days.
[Illustration: PIER LANE, WHITBY
From original painting by J. V. Jelley, exhibited in 1910 Royal Academy]
We enjoyed our excursions about the town, for among the network of
narrow lanes we came upon many odd nooks and corners and delightful old
shops. The fish-market, where the modest catch of local fishermen is
sold each day, is on the west side. The scene here is liveliest during
the months of August and September, when the great harvest of the sea is
brought in at Whitby. It was on the west side, too, that we found Pier
Lane after a dint of inquiry--for the little Royal Academy picture which
graces these pages had made us anxious to see the original. Many of the
natives shook their heads dubiously when we asked for directions, but a
friendly policeman finally piloted us to the entrance of the lane. It
proved a mere brick-paved passageway near the fish-market, about five or
six feet in width, and from the top we caught the faint glimpse of the
abbey which the artist has introduced into the picture. It is one of the
many byways that intersect the main streets of the town--though these
streets themselves are often so narrow and devious as to scarce deserve
the adjective I have applied to them. Whitby has no surprises in
overhanging gables, carved oak beams, curiously paneled doorways or
other bits of artistic architecture such as delight one in Ludlow,
Canterbury or Shrewsbury. Everything savors of utility; the oldtime
Yorkshire fisherman had no time and little inclination to carve oak and
stone for his dwelling. I am speaking of the old Whitby, crowded along
the waterside--the new town, with its ostentatious hotels and
lodging-houses, extends along the summit of West Cliff and while very
necessary, no doubt, it adds nothing to the charm of the place. As an
English artist justly observes, "While Whitby is one of the most
strikingly picturesque towns in England, it has scarcely any
architectural attractions. Its charm does not lie so much in detail as
in broad effects"--the effects of the ruin, the red roofs, the
fisher-boats, the sea and the old houses, which vary widely under the
moods of sun and shade that flit over the place. The words of a writer
who notes this variation throughout a typical day are so true to life
that I am going to repeat them here:
"In the early morning the East Cliff generally appears merely as a pale
gray silhouette with a square projection representing the church, and a
fretted one the abbey. But as the sun climbs upwards, colour and
definition grow out of the haze of smoke and shadows, and the roofs
assume their ruddy tones. At midday, when the sunlight pours down upon
the medley of houses clustered along the face of the cliff, the scene is
brilliantly colored. The predominant note is the red of the chimneys and
roofs and stray patches of brickwork, but the walls that go down to the
water's edge are green below and full of rich browns above, and in many
places the sides of the cottages are coloured with an ochre wash, while
above them all the top of the cliff appears covered with grass. On a
clear day, when detached clouds are passing across the sun, the houses
are sometimes lit up in the strangest fashion, their quaint outlines
being suddenly thrown out from the cliff by a broad patch of shadow upon
the grass and rocks behind. But there is scarcely a chimney in this old
part of Whitby that does not contribute to the mist of blue-gray smoke
that slowly drifts up the face of the cliff, and thus, when there is no
bright sunshine, colour and detail are subdued in the haze."
In St. Mary's churchyard there is another cross besides the stately
memorial dedicated to Caedmon that will be pointed out to you--a small,
graceful Celtic cross with the inscription:
"Here lies the body of Mary Linskill.
Born December 13, 1840. Died April 9, 1891.
After life's fitful fever she sleeps well
Between the Heather and the Northern Sea."
If Caedmon was Whitby's first literary idol, Mary Linskill is the last
and best loved, for hundreds of Whitby people living to-day knew the
gentle authoress personally. She was a native of the town and being
early dependent on her own resources, she served an apprenticeship in a
milliner's shop and later acted as an amanuensis to a literary
gentleman. It was in this position, probably, that she discovered her
own capacity for writing and her ability to tell a homely story in a
simple, pleasing way. Her first efforts in the way of short stories
appeared in "Good Words." Her first novel, "Cleveden," was published in
1876 and many others followed at various intervals. Perhaps the best
known are distinctly Whitby stories--"The Haven Under the Hill," and
"Between the Heather and the Northern Sea." Her novels in simplicity of
plot and quiet sentiment may be compared with those of Jane Austen,
though her rank as a writer is far below that of the Hampshire
authoress. Her stories show a wealth of imagination and a true artistic
temperament, but they are often too greatly dominated by melancholy to
be widely popular. Most of them dwell on the infinite capacity of women
for self-sacrifice and sometimes the pathetic scenes may be rather
overdrawn. There are many beautiful descriptive passages and I quote one
from "The Haven Under the Hill," because it sets forth in such a
delightful manner the charm of Old Whitby itself:
"Everywhere there was the presence of the sea. On the calmest day you
heard the low, ceaseless roll of its music as it plashed and swept about
the foot of the stern, darkly towering cliffs on either side of the
harbour-bar. Everywhere the place was blown through and through with the
salt breeze that was 'half an air and half a water,' scented with
sea-wrack and laden not rarely with drifting flakes of heavy yeastlike
foam.