lad, to work in "owd Jackie's" smithy, and who in the long-ago worked,
played, and fought with him in the village or read with him on the
moors. One remembers that he was from the first an insatiable student,
often reading as he plied the bellows or switched the flies from a
customer's horse. His master "Jackie" Birch, who was native of Eugene
Aram's home, is recalled as a selfish and unpopular man, who had no
sympathy with the lad's studious habit, but tolerated it when it did not
interfere with his work. Collyer's love of books was contagious, and
soon a little circle of lads habitually assembled, whenever released
from toil, to read with him the volumes borrowed from friends or
purchased by clubbing their own scant hoards. A survivor of this group
walked with us through the village, pointing out the spots associated
with Collyer's life here, and afterward showed us upon the slopes of the
overlooking hills the nooks where the lads read together in summer
holidays. Collyer was especially intimate with the Dobsons: of these
John was best beloved, because he shared most fully Collyer's studies
and aspirations; between the two an affectionate friendship was formed
which, despite long separation and disparity of position,--for John
remained a laborer,--ended only with his death. When, thirty years ago,
Collyer--honored and famous--revisited the scenes of his early struggles
and was eagerly invited to opulent and cultured homes, he turned away
from all to abide in the humble cottage of Dobson, which we found near
the site of the smithy and occupied by others who were friends of
Collyer's youth. His associates of the early time--some of them old and
poor--tell us with obvious pleasure and pride of his visits to their
poor homes in these later summers when he comes to the place, and we
suspect he often leaves with them more substantial tokens of his
remembrance than kind words and wishes: indeed, he once made us his
almoner to the more needy of them, one of whom we found in the
workhouse. Some of his old-time friends recall the circumstances of his
conversion under the preaching of a Wesleyan named Bland, his own
eloquent and touching prayers, and his first timorous essays to conduct
the services of the little chapel to which the villagers were bidden by
the bellman, who proclaimed through the streets, "The blacksmith will
preach t'night." When he preaches at Ilkley now, the Assembly-rooms are
thronged with friends, old and new, eager to hear him. "Jackie" sleeps
with his fathers, and the smithy is replaced by a modern cottage, into
whose masonry many blackened stones from the old forge were
incorporated. One of Collyer's chums showed us the door of the smithy
which he had rescued from demolition and religiously preserved, and
presented us with a photograph which we were assured represents the
building just as Collyer knew it,--a long, low fabric of stone, with a
shed joined at one end, two forge chimneys rising out of the roof, and
the rough doors and window-shutters placarded with public notices.
Before the forge was demolished, the large two-horned anvil on which
Collyer wrought twelve years was bought for a price and removed to
Chicago, where it is still preserved in the study of Unity Church,
albeit Collyer long ago predicted to the writer, with a characteristic
twinkle and a sweet hint of the dialect his tongue was born to, "they'll
soon be sellin' _thet_ for old iron."
[Sidenote: Wharfedale Antiquities]
The health-giving waters of the hill-sides attract hundreds of invalids
and idlers, and the Ilkley of to-day is a smart town of well-kept
houses, hotels, and shops, amid which we find here and there a quaint
low-roofed structure which is a relic of the village of Collyer's
boyhood. Among the survivals is the chapel--now a local museum,
inaugurated by Collyer--where our "blacksmith" was converted and where
he labored at the spiritual anvil as a local preacher. He has told us
that for his labors in the Wesleyan pulpit during several years in
Yorkshire and America he received in all seven dollars and fifty cents;
he expounded for love, but pounded for a living. Another survival is the
ancient parish church, built upon the site of the Roman fortress Olicana
and of stones from its ruined walls, which preserves in its masonry many
antiquarian treasures of Roman sculpture and inscription. Standing
without are three curious monolithic columns, graven with mythological
figures of men, dragons, birds, etc., which give them an archaeological
value beyond price. A doltish rector damaged them by using them as
gate-posts; from this degradation the hands of Collyer helped to rescue
them, and the same hands fashioned at the forge the neat iron gates
which enclose the church-yard.
[Sidenote: Scenery]
By the village and through the dale which Gray thought so beautiful
flows the Wharfe; winding amid verdant meads, rushing between lofty
banks, or loitering in sunny shallows, it holds its shining course to
the Ouse, beyond the fateful field of Towton, where the red rose of
Lancaster went down in blood. Ilkley nestles cosily at the foot of green
slopes which swell away from the stream and are dotted with copses and
embowered villas. Farther away the dim lines rise to the heights of the
Whernside, whence we look to the chimneys of Leeds and the towers of
York's mighty minster. Detached from Rumbald's cliffs lie two masses,
called "Cow and Calf Rocks," bearing the imprint of giant Rumbald's
foot: these rocks are a resort of the young people, and here Collyer and
his friends oft came with their books. From this point Wharfedale, domed
by a summer sky, seems a paradise of loveliness; its every aspect, from
the glinting stream to the highest moorland crags, is replete with the
beauty Turner loved to paint and which here first inspired his genius.
Ruskin discerns this Wharfedale scenery throughout the great artist's
works, bits of its beauty being unconsciously wrought into other scenes.
These landscapes were a daily vision to the eyes of Collyer in the days
when Turner still came to the neighborhood. This region abounds with
memorials of the mighty past, with treasures of Druidical, Runic, and
Roman history and tradition, but the literary pilgrim finds it rife with
associations for him still more interesting: here lived the ancestors of
our Longfellow, and the family whence Thackeray sprang; the fathers of
that gentle singer, Heber, dwelt in their castle here and sleep now
under the pavement of the church; a little way across the moors the
Brontes dwelt and died. Here, too, lived the Fairfaxes,--one of them a
poet and translator of Tasso,--and among their tombs we find that of
Fawkes of Farnley, Turner's early friend and patron, while at the
near-by hall are the rooms the painter occupied during the years he was
transferring to canvas the beauties he here beheld. Farnley holds the
best private collection of Turner's works, comprising, besides many
finished pictures, numerous drawings and color-sketches made here.
[Sidenote: Bolton Abbey]
A delightful excursion from Ilkley, one never omitted by Collyer from
his summer saunterings in Wharfedale, is to the sacred shades of Bolton
Abbey. The way is enlivened with the prattle and sheen of the limpid
Wharfe. A mile past the hamlet of Addingham, where Collyer preached his
first sermon, the stream curves about a slight eminence which is crowned
by the ruins of the ancient shrine. Some portions of the walls are
fallen and concealed by shrubbery; other portions withstand the ravages
of the centuries, and we see the crumbling arches, ruined cloisters, and
mullioned windows, mantled with masses of ivy and bloom and set in the
scene of restful beauty which Turner painted and Rogers and Wordsworth
poetized. Our pleasure in the ruin and its environment of wood, mead,
and stream is enhanced by the companionship of one who had, on another
summer's day, explored the charms of the spot with George Eliot, and who
repeats to us her expressions of rapturous delight at each new vista.
Wordsworth loved this spot, and the incident to which the Abbey owed its
erection--the drowning of young Romilly, the noble "Boy of Egremond," in
the gorge near by--is beautifully told by him in the familiar poems
written here.
[Sidenote: Nidderdale]
[Sidenote: Aram's Schools]
Another excursion, by Knaresborough and the deadly field of Marston
Moor, brings us into lovely Nidderdale, where stalks the dusky ghost of
the Eugene Aram of Bulwer's tale and Hood's poem amid the scenes of his
early life and of the crime for which he died. In the upper portion of
the valley the Nidd winds like a ribbon of silver between green braes
and moorland hills which rise steeply to the narrow horizon. From either
side brooklets flow through wooded glens to join the wimpling Nidd, and
at the mouth of one of these we find Ramsgill, where Aram was born. It
is a straggling hamlet of thatched cottages, set among bowering orchards
and gardens and wearing an aspect of tranquil comfort. The site of the
laborer's hut in which the gentle student was born is shown at the back
of one of the newer cottages of the place. Farther up the picturesque
stream is the pretty village of Lofthouse, an assemblage of gray stone
houses nestled beneath clustering trees, to which Aram returned after a
short residence at Skipton, in the dale of the Brontes. Here he wooed
sweet Annie Spence and passed his early years of married life; here his
first children were born and one of them died. At the church in near-by
Middlesmoor he was married; here his first child was christened, and in
the bleak church-yard it was buried. Near a sombre "gill" which opens
into the valley some distance below was Gowthwaite Hall, where Aram
taught his first pupils,--an ancient, rambling structure of stone, two
stories in height, with many steep gables and wide latticed windows.
Venerable trees shaded the walls, leafy vines climbed to and overran the
roofs, and a quaint garden of prim squares and formally trimmed foliage
lay at one side. We found these externals little changed since Aram was
tutor here. The partition of the mansion into three tenements had
altered the arrangement of the interior, but the wide stairway still led
from the entrance to the upper room at the east end, where Aram taught:
it was a large, lofty apartment, reputed to be haunted, changed since
his time only by the closing of one casement. Richard Craven was then
tenant of the Hall, and his son, the erudite doctor, doubtless received
his first tuition in this room and from Aram.
[Sidenote: Place of Murder]
Some miles down the valley is Knaresborough, to which Aram removed from
Lofthouse to establish a school, and where eleven years later the murder
was committed. Soon after, Aram removed from the neighborhood, and
during his residence at Lynn, where he was arrested for the crime, he
was some time tutor in the house of Bulwer's grandfather, a circumstance
which led to the production of the fascinating tale. A little way out of
Knaresborough, in a recess at the base of the limestone cliffs which
here border the murmuring Nidd, is the place where Clarke was killed
and buried. This impressive spot was long the hermitage of "Saint
Robert," who formed the cave out of the crag. In clearing the rubbish
from the place after the publication of Bulwer's tale, the remains of a
little shrine were found, and a coffin hewn from the rock, which proved
that the hermitage had before been a place of burial, as urged by Aram
in his defence. Upon a hill of the forest not far away the body of Aram
hung in irons, and local tradition avers that his widow watched to
recover the bones as they fell, and when she had at last interred them
all, emigrated with her children to America.
[Sidenote: Belief in Aram's Innocence]
It is noteworthy that belief in his innocence was universal among those
who knew him in this countryside. Incidents illustrating his
self-denial, patient forbearance, disregard for money, and care to
preserve even the lowest forms of life are still cherished and recounted
here as showing that robbery and murder were for him impossible crimes.
We were reminded, too, that at the time of Clarke's disappearance Aram
was husband of a woman of his own station, father of a family, and
master of a moderately prosperous school,--conditions of which Bulwer
could scarcely have been unaware, and which are inconsistent with the
only motives suggested as inciting Aram to crime. In the opinion of the
descendants of Aram's old neighbors in his native Nidderdale, Houseman
was alone guilty; and if Aram had, instead of undertaking to conduct his
own defence, intrusted it to proper counsel, the trial would have
resulted in his acquittal.
HOME OF SYDNEY SMITH
_Heslington-Foston, Twelve Miles from a Lemon-Church--Rector's Head--
Study--Room-of-all-work--Grounds--Guests--Universal Scratcher--
Immortal Chariot--Reminiscences._
[Sidenote: Heslington]
The metropolis of England holds many places which knew "the greatest of
the many Smiths:" dwellings he some time inhabited, mansions in which he
was the honored guest, pulpits and rostrums from which he discoursed,
the room in which he died, the tomb where loving hands laid him beside
his son. But it is in a remote valley of Yorkshire, where half his adult
years were passed in a lonely retreat among the humble poor, that we
find the scenes most intimately associated with the fruitful period of
his life. In the lovely dale of York, not far from one of the ancient
gates and within sound of the bells of the great minster, is the village
of Heslington, Smith's first place of abode in Yorkshire. His dwelling
here--lately the rectory of a parish which has been created since his
time, and one of the best houses of the village--is a spacious and
substantial old-fashioned mansion of brick, two stories in height and
delightfully cosy in appearance. Large bow-windows, built by Smith,
project from the front and rise to the eaves. The rooms are of
comfortable dimensions, and that in which Smith wrote is "glorified" by
the sunlight from one of his great windows, near which his writing-table
was placed. The house stands a rod or two from the highway, amid a mass
of foliage; an iron railing borders the yard, trees grow upon either
side, and at the back is an ample garden which was Smith's especial
delight, and which he paced for hours as he pondered his compositions.
It was here that the dignified Jeffrey of the _Edinburgh Review_ rode
the children's pet donkey over the grass. Smith's famous "Peter Plimley"
letters were produced at Heslington. He never felt at home here, because
he constantly contemplated removing. His own parish had no rectory, and
he was permitted by his bishop to reside here while he sought to
exchange the living for another: failing in this, he was allowed a
further term in which to erect a dwelling in his parish, consequently
Heslington was his home for some years. During this time he made weekly
excursions to his church, twelve miles distant, behind a steed which he
commemorates as Peter the Cruel, and in the year he built his parsonage
the excursions were so frequent that he computed he had ridden Peter
"several times round the world, going and coming from Heslington."
[Sidenote: Foston-le-Clay]
[Sidenote: Smith's Parsonage]
[Sidenote: Fields and Farmsteading]
In the remoter hamlet of Foston, "twelve miles from a lemon," we find
the church where he ministered for twenty years and the house which was
his home longer than any other. Our way thither--the same once so
familiar to Smith and his cruel steed--lies along the green valley
through which the wimpling Foss ripples and sings on its way to the
Ouse. In sun and shadow our road leads through a pleasant country until
we see the roofs of Smith's parsonage rising among the tree-tops. The
Rector's Head, as the wit delighted to call his home, stands among the
glebe-lands at a little distance from the highway, and a
carriage-drive--constructed by Smith after some of his guests had been
almost inextricably mired in their attempts to reach his door--conducts
from a road-side gate near the school through the tasteful and well-kept
grounds. Before we reach the rectory a second barrier is encountered,
Smith's "Screeching Gate," which, like the gate at "Amen Corner,"
remains just as it was when he bestowed its name. The mansion, of which
he was both architect and builder, described by him and his friend Loch
as "the ugliest house ever seen," presents a singularly attractive
aspect of cosiness and comfort. The edifice is somewhat improved since
the great essayist dwelt beneath its roof, but the original structure
remains,--an oblong brick fabric, of ample proportions and
unpretentious architecture, two stories in height, with hip-roofs of
warm-tinted tiles. A large bay-window struts from one side wall; a
beautiful conservatory abuts upon another side; a little porch,
overgrown with creepers and flowers, protects the entrance. The once
plain brickwork, which rose bare of ornamentation, is mantled with ivy
and flowering vines which clamber to the roofs and riot along the walls,
imparting to the "unparsonic parsonage" a picturesque charm which no
architectural decoration could produce. The bare field in which Smith
erected his house has been transformed into an Eden of beauty and bloom;
on every side are velvety lawns, curving walks, beds of flowers, patches
of shrubbery, and groups of woodland trees, forming a pretty park,
mostly planned by Smith and planted by his hand. Within, we find the
apartments spacious and cheerful: the windows are the same that were
screened by the many-hued patchwork shades designed by Smith and wrought
by the deft fingers of his daughters, the chimney-pieces of Portland
stone which he erected remain, but tasteful and elegant furniture now
replaces the rude handiwork of the village carpenter, which was disposed
through these rooms during Smith's incumbency. He blithely tells a
guest, "I needed furniture; I bought a cart-load of boards and got the
carpenter, Jack Robinson; told him, 'Jack, furnish my house,' and you
see the result." Some of the resulting furniture is still preserved in
the neighborhood and valued above price. From the bay-window of the
parlor the gray towers of York's colossal cathedral are seen ten miles
away; the room adjoining at the left is the memorable apartment which
was Smith's study, school-room, court, surgery, and what-not. Here his
gayly-bound books were arranged by his daughter, the future Lady
Holland, and here, when not applied to him, his famous "rheumatic armor"
stood in a bag in yonder corner. Here he wrote his sermons, his
brilliant and witty essays, the wise and effective disquisitions on the
disabilities of the Catholics, the coruscating and incisive articles for
the Review which electrified the English world. In this room he taught
his children and gave Bible lessons to the youth of the parish, some of
whom survive to praise and bless him; here, too, he prescribed for the
sick and dispensed mercy rather than justice to culprits haled before
him; for, as his letters declare, he was at once "village magistrate,
village parson, village doctor, village comforter, and Edinburgh
Reviewer." To these manifold avocations he added, despite his "not
knowing a turnip from a carrot," that of the farmer, and managed the
three hundred acres of glebe-lands which were so unproductive that no
one else would cultivate them. A door-way of the rectory overlooks most
of the plantation, and he suspended here a telescope and a tremendous
speaking-trumpet by means of which he could observe and direct much of
his operations without himself going afield. Behind the house, and
screened by trees which Smith planted, are the farmstead buildings he
planned; here are the stables and pens where he was welcomed by every
individual of his stock, whom he daily visited to feed and pet; here is
the enclosure where he found his fuddled pigs "grunting God save the
King about the sty" after he had administered a medicament of fermented
grains. In the adjoining field is the site of his "Universal
Scratcher,"--a sharp-edged pole having a tall support at one extremity
and a low one at the other, which so adapted it to the height of every
animal that "they could scratch themselves with the greatest facility
and luxury; even the 'Reviewer' [himself] could take his turn."
[Sidenote: Guests--Reminiscences]
Of Smith's life in this retirement his many letters and the memoirs of
his daughter give us pleasant pictures. Although he said his whole life
had "been passed like a razor, in hot water or a scrape," the years
spent here seem to have been happy ones. Even his removal to this house
while it was yet so damp that the walls ran down with wet and the
grounds were so miry that his wife lost her shoes at the door, was made
enjoyable. He writes to one friend, "I am too busy to be lonely;" to
another, "I thank God who made me poor that he also made me merry, a
better gift than much land with a doleful heart;" to another, "I am
content and doubling in size every year;" to Lady Grey, "Come and see
how happy people can be in a small parsonage;" to Jeffrey, "My situation
is one of great solitude, but I possess myself in cheerfulness." He had
expended upon his improvements here more than the living was worth,
therefore economy ruled the selection of the _personnel_ of this
establishment. Faithful Annie Kay was first employed as child's-maid;
later she was housekeeper and trusted friend, removed from here with her
loved master, attended him in his last illness, and lies near him in the
long sleep. A garden girl, made like a mile-stone, was hired by Smith,
who "christened her Bunch, gave her a napkin, and made her his butler."
Jack Robinson was retained as general factotum of the place, and Molly
Mills, "a yeowoman, with short petticoat, legs like mill-posts, and
cheeks shrivelled like winter apples," did duty as "cow-, pig-,
poultry-, garden-, and post-woman." Guests testify that good-natured
training had, out of this unpromising material, produced such efficient
servants that the household ran smoothly in the stress of much company.
For, despite the seclusion of Smith's retreat, his fame and the charm
and wit of his conversation drew many visitors to his house. Lords
Carlisle and Morpeth were almost weekly guests; Sir Humphry Davy and his
gifted wife were many times guests for days together; among those who
came less frequently were Jeffrey, Macaulay, Marcet, Dugald Stewart,
John Murray, Mackintosh, and Lord and Lady Holland, with many of less
fame; and we may imagine something of the scintillant converse these
rooms knew when the master wit entertained such company. Neither his
friends nor his literary pursuits were allowed to interfere with his
attentions to the simple rustics of his parish; in sickness and trouble
he was tireless in their service, furnishing medicines, food, and
clothing out of his slender means. During the prevalence of an
infectious fever he was constantly among them, as physician, nurse, and
priest. The oldest parishioners speak of him by his Christian name, and
testify that he was universally beloved. One lately remembered that
Sydney had cared for his father during a long illness and maintained the
family until he could return to his work. Another had been accustomed,
as a child, to run after Sydney on the highway and cling to him until he
bestowed the sugar-plums he always carried in his pockets. In one
portion of the glebe we found small enclosures of land stocked with
abundant fruit-trees and called Sydney's Orchards, which were planted by
him and given to the parishioners at a nominal rental.
[Sidenote: The Chariot]
Smith's solitary excursions through the parish were made astride a gaunt
charger, called by him Calamity, noted for length of limb and strength
of appetite, as well as for a propensity to part company with his rider,
sometimes throwing the great Smith "over his head into the next parish."
But when the rector's family were to accompany him, the ancient green
chariot was employed. This was believed to have been the first vehicle
of the kind, was purchased by Smith at second (or twenty-second) hand,
and was from time to time partially restored by the unskilled village
mechanics. Anent this structure the delightful Smith writes, "Each year
added to its charms: it grew younger and younger: a new wheel, a new
spring; I christened it the Immortal: it was known everywhere: the
village boys cheered it, the village dogs barked at it." To the ends of
the shafts Smith attached a rod so that it projected in front of the
horse and sustained a measure of grain just beyond his reach,--a device
which evoked a maximum of speed from the beast with the minimum of
exertion on the part of the driver, the deluded horse being "stimulated
to unwonted efforts by hope of overtaking the provender." We have talked
with some in the vicinage who remembered seeing Smith and his family
riding in this perennial chariot, drawn by a plough-horse which was
harnessed with plough-lines and driven by a plough-boy.
[Sidenote: Smith's Church]