Come into mey cabin, reed Robin!
Threyce welcome, blithe warbler, to me!
Noo Siddaw hes thrown a wheyte cap on,
Agean I'll gie shelter to thee!
Come, freely hop into mey pantry;
Partake o' mey puir holsome fare;
Tho' seldom I bwoast of a dainty.
Yet meyne, man or burd sal aye share.
* * * * *
O whoar is thy sweetheart, reed Robin?
Gae bring her frae hoosetop or tree:
I'll bid her be true to sweet Robin,
For fause was a fav'rite to me.
You'll share iv'ry crumb i' mey cabin,
We'll sing the weyld winter away--
I winna deceive ye, puir burdies!
Let mortals use me as they may.
On leaving our shelter, we passed a large mill, apparently deserted, and
soon afterwards reached Newby Bridge, where we crossed the River Leven,
which was rapidly conveying the surplus water from Windermere towards
the sea. Near this was a large hotel, built to accommodate stage-coach
traffic, but rendered unnecessary since the railway had been cut, and
consequently now untenanted. We had already crossed the bridge at the
head of Lake Windermere, and now had reached the bridge at the other
end. An old book, published in 1821, gave us the following interesting
information about the lake:
It was at one time thought to be unfathomable, but on the third and
fourth of June, 1772, when the water was six feet below its greatest
known height, and three feet above the lowest ebb, a trial was made
to ascertain by soundings the depth and form of the lake. Its
greatest depth was found to be near Ecclesrigg Crag--201 feet. The
bottom of the lake in the middle stream is a smooth rock; in many
places the sides are perpendicular, and in some places they continue
so for a mile without interruption. It abounds with fish, and the
Rivers Brathay and Rothay feed the lake at the upper end, and in the
breeding-season the trout ascend the Rothay, and the char the Brathay
only; but in the winter, when these fish are in season, they come
into the shallows, where they are fished for in the night, at which
time they are the more easily driven into the nets.
We now turned along an old coach road which crossed the hills over
Cartmel Fell to Kendal, and appeared to be very little used. Our road
climbed steadily for about two miles, when suddenly there came a bright
interval between the showers, and we had a magnificent view of a portion
of Lake Windermere, with a steamboat leaving the landing-stage near
Newby Bridge. We stood, as it were, riveted to the spot; but another
shower coming on, the view vanished like a dream, though it lasted
sufficiently long to bring us encouragement and to cheer us upon our wet
and lonely way. The showers seemed as full of water as ever they could
hold, and sheltering-places were by no means plentiful. Sometimes
sheltering behind trees and sometimes in farm buildings, we proceeded
but slowly, and about eight miles from Kendal we halted for lunch at a
small inn, where we found cover for so long a time that, after walking
about three miles from that town, we called at another inn for tea. It
was astonishing how well we were received and provided for at these
small inns in the country. Every attention was given to us, a fire
lighted to dry our coats, and the best food the place could provide was
brought on to the table. We were shown into the parlour, and the best
cups and saucers were brought out from the corner cupboards.
The temperance movement appeared to be permeating the most unlikely
places, and we were astonished to find the crockery here painted with
temperance signs and mottoes, including a temperance star, and the
words "Be them faithful unto death." This seemed all the more remarkable
when we saw that the sign on the inn was the "Punch Bowl." The rain had
apparently been gradually clearing off, while we were at tea, but it
came on again soon after we left the comfortable shelter of the inn, so
we again took refuge--this time in the house of a tollgate, where we had
a long talk with the keeper. He pointed out a road quite near us which
had been made so that vehicles could get past the toll-bar on their way
to and from Kendal without going through the gates and paying toll. This
had been constructed by a landowner for the use of himself and his
tenants. As a retort the toll people had erected a stump at each side of
the entrance, apparently with the object of placing a chain across the
road, and had also erected a wooden hut to shelter a special toll-keeper
who only attended on Kendal market days. Some mischievous persons,
however, had overturned the hut, and we did not envy the man who on a
day like this had to attend here to collect tolls without any shelter to
protect him from the elements. Tollgates and turnpikes were ancient
institutions on the British roads, and in many places were in the hands
of Turnpike Trusts, who often rented the tolls to outsiders and applied
the rent chiefly to the repair of the roads. A fixed charge was made on
cattle and vehicles passing through the gates, and the vehicles were
charged according to the number of animals and wheels attached to them,
a painted table of tolls being affixed to the tollhouse. The gates were
kept closed, and were only opened when vehicles and cattle arrived, and
after payment of the charges. There was no charge made to pedestrians,
for whom a small gate or turnstile was provided at the side nearest the
tollhouse. The contractors who rented the tolls had to depend for their
profit or loss upon the total amount of the tolls collected minus the
amount of rent paid and toll-keepers' wages. Towards the close of the
Trusts the railways had made such inroads upon the traffic passing by
road that it was estimated that the cost of collection of tolls amounted
to 50 per cent. of the total sum collected.
The tollgate-keeper informed us that Dick Turpin, the highwayman, never
paid any tolls, for no collector dare ask him for payment, and if the
gate was closed, "Black Bess," his favourite mare, jumped over it.
He had a lot to tell us about Furness Abbey. He knew that it had been
built by King Stephen, and he said that not far from it there was a park
called Oxen Park, where the king kept his oxen, and that he had also a
Stirk Park.
He asked us if we had seen the small and very old church of Cartmel
Fell, and when we told him we had not, he said that travellers who did
not know its whereabouts often missed seeing it, for, although not far
from the road, it was hidden from view by a bank or small mound, and
there was a legend that some traveller, saint, or hermit who slept on
the bank dreamed that he must build a church between two rivers running
in opposite directions. He travelled all the world over, but could not
find any place where the rivers ran in opposite directions, so he came
back disappointed, only to find the rivers were quite near the place he
started from. The church was of remote antiquity, and was dedicated to
St. Anthony, the patron saint of wild boars and of wild beasts
generally; but who built the church, and where the rivers were to be
found, did not transpire.
We had carried our mackintoshes all the way from John o' Groat's, and
they had done us good service; but the time had now arrived when they
had become comparatively useless, so, after thanking the keeper of the
tollhouse for allowing us to shelter there, we left them with him as
relics of the past. The great objection to these waterproofs was that
though they prevented the moisture coming inwards, they also prevented
it going outwards, and the heat and perspiration generated by the
exertion of walking soon caused us to be as wet as if we had worn no
protection at all. Of course we always avoided standing in a cold wind
or sitting in a cold room, and latterly we had preferred getting wet
through to wearing them.
We arrived in Kendal in good time, and stayed at the temperance hotel.
In the town we purchased two strong but rather rustic-looking umbrellas,
without tassels or gold or silver handles--for umbrellas in the rainy
region of the "North Countrie" were wanted for use and not for ornament.
We found them quite an agreeable change from the overalls. Of course we
held them up skilfully, and as we thought almost scientifically, when
walking in the rain, and it was astonishing how well they protected us
when holding them towards the same side and angle as the falling rain.
Many people we met were holding them straight up, and looking quite
happy, reminding us of the ostrich when hunted and hard pressed, hiding
its head in the sand and imagining that its body was covered also! The
draper who sold us the umbrellas told us that Professor Kirk, whom we
had heard in Edinburgh, was to deliver an address in the evening on the
Good Templar Movement, so we decided to attend. The Professor, a good
speaker, informed us that there were between five and six hundred
members of the Order in Kendal. Mr. Edward Dawson of Lancaster also
addressed the meeting, and told us there were about three hundred
members in Lancaster, while the Professor estimated the number in
Scotland at between fifty and sixty thousand. It was quite a new
movement, which had its origin apparently in America, and was becoming
the prevailing subject of conversation in the country we travelled
through.
[Illustration: KENDAL CASTLE.]
Kendal was an ancient place, having been made a market town by licence
from Richard Coeur de Lion. Philippa, the Queen of Edward III, wisely
invited some Flemings to settle there and establish the manufacture of
woollen cloth, which they did. Robin Hood and his "merrie men" were
said to have been clothed in Kendal Green, a kind of leafy green which
made the wearers of it scarcely distinguishable from the foliage and
vegetation of the forests which in Robin Hood's time covered the greater
part of the country. Lincoln Green was an older cloth of pure English
manufacture.
Robin Hood was the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon, and Shakespeare makes
Falstaff say--
All the woods
Are full of outlaws that in Kendal Green
Followed the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon.
Catherine Parr was born at Kendal, and an old writer, noting that she
was the last Queen of Henry VIII, added, "a lady who had the good
fortune to descend to the grave with her head on, in all probability
merely by outliving her tyrant." This beautiful and highly accomplished
woman had already been married twice, and after the King's death took a
fourth husband. She narrowly escaped being burnt, for the King had
already signed her death-warrant and delivered it to the Lord
Chancellor, who dropped it by accident, and the person who found it
carried it to the Queen herself. She was actually in conversation with
the King when the Lord Chancellor came to take her to the Tower, for
which the King called him a knave and a fool, bidding him "Avaunt from
my presence." The Queen interceded for the Chancellor; but the King
said, "Ah, poor soul, thou little knowest what _he_ came about; of my
word, sweetheart, he has been to thee a very knave."
[Illustration: KENDAL CHURCH.]
Kendal possessed a fine old church, in one of the aisles of which was
suspended a helmet said to have belonged to Major Phillipson, whose
family was haunted by the two skulls, and who was nicknamed by
Cromwell's men "Robert the Devil" because of his reckless and daring
deeds. The Phillipsons were great Royalists, and Colonel Briggs of
Kendal, who was an active commander in the Parliamentary Army, hearing
that the major was on a visit to his brother, whose castle was on the
Belle Isle in Lake Windermere, resolved to besiege him there; but
although the siege continued for eight months, it proved ineffectual.
When the war was over, Major Phillipson resolved to be avenged, and he
and some of his men rode over to Kendal one Sunday morning expecting to
find Colonel Briggs in the church, and either to kill him or take him
prisoner there. Major Phillipson rode into the church on horseback, but
the colonel was not there. The congregation, much surprised and annoyed
at this intrusion, surrounded the major, and, cutting the girths,
unhorsed him. On seeing this, the major's party made a furious attack on
the assailants, and the major killed with his own hand the man who had
seized him, and, placing the ungirthed saddle on his horse, vaulted into
it and rode through the streets of Kendal calling upon his men to follow
him, which they did, and the whole party escaped to their safe resort in
the Lake of Windermere.
This incident furnished Sir Walter Scott with materials for a similar
adventure in "Rokeby," canto vi.:
All eyes upon the gateway hung.
When through the Gothic arch there sprung
A horseman arm'd, at headlong speed--
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed.
Fire from the flinty floor was spurn'd.
The vaults unwonted clang return'd!--
One instant's glance around he threw,
From saddle-bow his pistol drew.
Grimly determined was his look!
His charger with the spurs he strook--
All scatter'd backward as he came,
For all knew Bertram Risingham!
Three bounds that noble courser gave;
The first has reach'd the central nave,
The second clear'd the chancel wide.
The third--he was at Wycliffe's side.
* * * * *
While yet the smoke the deed conceals,
Bertram his ready charger wheels;
But flounder'd on the pavement-floor
The steed, and down the rider bore,
And, bursting in the headlong sway.
The faithless saddle-girths gave way.
'Twas while he toil'd him to be freed.
And with the rein to raise the steed.
That from amazement's iron trance
All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once.
(_Distance walked fifteen miles_.)
_Friday, October 20th._
We left Kendal before breakfast, as we were becoming anxious about
maintaining our average of twenty-five miles per day, for we had only
walked nineteen miles on Wednesday and fifteen miles yesterday, and we
had written to our friends some days before saying that we hoped to
reach York Minster in time for the services there on Sunday.
[Illustration: KIRKBY LONSDALE CHURCH.]
In the meantime we had decided to visit Fountains Abbey, so, crossing
the River Kent, we walked nine miles along a hilly road over the fells,
which were about 800 feet above sea-level. We stopped at a place called
Old Town for breakfast, for which our walk through the sharp clear air
on the fells had given us an amazing appetite. We then walked quickly
down the remaining three miles to Kirkby Lonsdale, passing on our way
the beautiful grounds and residence of the Earl of Bective. At the
entrance to the town we came to the school, and as the master happened
to be standing at the door, we took the opportunity of asking him some
particulars about Kirkby Lonsdale and our farther way to Fountains
Abbey. He was a native of Scotland, and gave us some useful and reliable
information, being greatly interested in the object of our journey. We
found Kirkby Lonsdale to be quite a nice old-fashioned town with a
church dedicated to St. Mary--a sign, we thought, of its antiquity; the
interior had been recently restored by the Earl of Bective at a cost of
about £11,000. An old board hanging up in the church related to one of
the porches, on which was painted a crest and shield with the date 1668,
and the following words in old English letters:
This porch by y' Banes first builded was,
(Of Heighholme Hall they weare,)
And after sould to Christopher Wood
By William Banes thereof last heyre.
And is repayred as you do see
And sett in order good
By the true owner nowe thereof
The foresaid Christopher Wood.
There was also painted in the belfry a rhyming list of the "ringers'
orders":
If to ring ye do come here,
You must ring well with hand and ear;
Keep stroke and time and go not out,
Or else you'll forfeit without doubt.
He that a bell doth overthrow
Must pay a groat before he go;
He that rings with his hat on,
Must pay his groat and so begone.
He that rings with spur on heel,
The same penalty he must feel.
If an oath you chance to hear,
You forfeit each two quarts of beer.
These lines are old, they are not new.
Therefore the ringers must have their due.
_N.B._--Any ringer entering a peal of six pays his shilling.
The first two lines greatly interested my brother, whose quick ear could
distinguish defects when they occurred in the ringing of church bells,
and he often remarked that no ringer should be appointed unless he had a
good ear for music.
There were one or two old-fashioned inns in the town, which looked very
quaint, and Kirkby Old Hall did duty for one of them, being referred to
by the rhymester "Honest" or "Drunken Barnaby" in his Latin Itinerary of
his "Travels in the North":
I came to Lonsdale, where I staid
At Hall, into a tavern made.
Neat gates, white walls--nought was sparing,
Pots brimful--no thought of caring;
They eat, drink, laugh; are still mirth-making,
Nought they see that's worth care-taking.
The men of the North were always warlike, and when in the year 1688, in
the time of James II, a rumour was circulated that a large French Army
had landed on the coast of Yorkshire, a great number of men assembled on
the outskirts of the town and were waiting there ready for the call to
arms, when news came that it was a false alarm. Of course this event had
to be recorded by the local poet, who wrote:
In eighty-eight, was Kirby feight.
When nivver a man was slain;
They ate the'r mey't, an' drank the'r drink,
An' sae com' merrily heame again.
We were sorry we could not stay longer in the neighbourhood of Kirkby
Lonsdale, as the scenery in both directions along the valley of the
River Lune was very beautiful. As we crossed the bridge over it we
noticed an old stone inscribed:
Fear God
Honer the
King 1633,
and some other words which we could not decipher. The bridge was rather
narrow, and at some unknown period had replaced a ford, which was at all
times difficult to cross, and often dangerous, and at flood-times quite
impassable, as the river here ran between rocks and across great
boulders; it was, however, the only ready access to the country beyond
for people living in Kirkby Lonsdale. One morning the inhabitants awoke
to find a bridge had been built across this dangerous ford during the
night, and since no one knew who had built it, its erection was
attributed to his Satanic Majesty, and it was ever afterwards known as
the Devil's Bridge.
The bridge was very narrow, and, although consisting of three arches,
one wide and the others narrow, and being 180 feet long, it was less
than twelve feet wide, and had been likened to Burns' Auld Brig o' Ayr,
With your poor narrow footpath of a street.
Where twa wheelbarrows tremble when they meet.
The country people had a tradition that it was built in windy weather by
the Devil, who, having only one apron full of stones, and the breaking
of one of his apron-strings causing him to lose some of them as he flew
over Casterton Fell, he had only enough left to build a narrow bridge.
[Illustration: DEVIL'S BRIDGE, KIRKBY LONSDALE.]
Another legend states that "Once upon a time there lived a queer old
woman whose cow and pony pastured across the river and had to cross it
on their way to and from home. The old woman was known as a great cheat.
One dark and wet night she heard her cow bellow, and knew that she was
safely across the ford; but as the pony only whined, she thought that he
was being carried away by the flood. She began to cry, when suddenly the
Devil appeared, and agreed to put up a bridge that night on conditions
named in the legend:
"To raise a bridge I will agree.
That in the morning you shall see.
But mine for aye the first must be
That passes over.
So by these means you'll soon be able
To bring the pony to his stable.
The cow her clover."
In vain were sighs and wailings vented,
As she at last appeared contented.
It was a bargain--she consented--
For she was Yorkshire.
Now home she goes in mighty glee.
Old Satan, too, well pleased he
Went to his work, sir.
He worked hard all night, and early in the morning the bridge was made,
as the old woman knew by the terrible noise. He called to the old woman
to come over, but she brought her little mangy dog, and, taking a bun
out of her pocket, threw it over the bridge. The dog ran over after it.
"Now--crafty sir, the bargain was
That you should have what first did pass
Across the bridge--so now--alas!
The dog's your right."
The cheater--cheated--struck with shame.
Squinted and grinned: then, in a flame
He vanished quite.
[Illustration: EBBING AND FLOWING WELL.]
On reflection we came to the conclusion that whenever and however it was
built, the bridge was of a type not uncommon in Cheshire, and often
called Roman bridges, but erected in all probability in mediæval times,
when only width enough was required for the passing of one horse--in
other words, when most roads were nothing but bridlepaths. We were glad
of the assistance afforded by the bridge for the rushing waters of the
River Lune were swollen by the heavy rains, and our progress in that
direction would have been sadly delayed had we arrived there in the time
of the ancient ford. We now passed the boundaries of Lancashire and
Westmorland and entered the county of York, the largest in England. A
large sale of cattle was taking place that day at a farm near the
bridge, and for some miles we met buyers on their way to the sale, each
of whom gave us the friendly greeting customary in the hilly districts
of that hospitable county. Seven miles from Kirkby Lonsdale we stopped
at Ingleton for some dinner, and just looked inside the church to see
the fine old Norman font standing on small pillars and finely sculptured
with scenes relating chiefly to the childhood of our Saviour. Joseph
with his carpenter's tools and the Virgin Mary seated with the infant
Saviour on her knees, the Eastern Magi bringing their offerings, Herod
giving orders for the destruction of the young children, Rachel weeping,
and others--all damaged in the course of centuries, though still giving
one an idea of the great beauty of the font when originally placed in
position. We heard about the many waterfalls to be seen--perhaps as many
as could be visited in the course of a whole week; but we had seen--and
suffered--so much water and so many waterfalls, that for the time being
they formed no attraction. Still we resolved to see more of this
interesting neighbourhood on a future occasion.
Passing through Clapham, said to be one of the finest villages in
England, and where there was a cave supposed to run about half a mile
underground, we came to some fine limestone cliffs to the left of our
road, which were nearly white as we approached nearer to the town of
Settle, situated at the foot of Giggleswick Scar, alongside which our
road passed. We visited the Ebbing and Flowing Well, where the much-worn
stones around it proclaimed the fact that for many ages pilgrims had
visited its shrine; but how "Nevison's Nick," a famous highwayman, could
have ridden his horse up the face of the rock leading up to it--even
with the aid of his magic bridle--was more than we could understand.
Another legend stated that a nymph pursued by a satyr was so afraid that
he would overtake her that she prayed to the gods to change her into a
spring. Her prayer was granted, and the ebbs and flows in the water were
supposed to represent the panting of the nymph in her flight.
[Illustration: THE MARKET-PLACE, SETTLE.]
We turned aside to visit Giggleswick village, with its old cross, which
seemed to be nearly complete, and we found the old church very
interesting. It contained some ancient monuments, one of which
represented Sir Richard Temple, born 1425, knighted at the Battle of
Wakefield, 1460, attainted for treason 1461, pardoned by King Edward IV,
and died 1488, the head of his charger being buried with him. There was
also the tomb of Samuel Watson, the "old Quaker," who interrupted the
service in the church in 1659, when the people "brok his head upon ye
seates." Then there was the famous Grammar School, a very old foundation
dating back to early in the sixteenth century. We were delighted with
our visit to Giggleswick, and, crossing the old bridge over the River
Ribble, here but a small stream, we entered the town of Settle and
called for tea at Thistlethwaite's Tea and Coffee Rooms. There were
several small factories in the neighbourhood. We noticed that a concert
had recently been held in the town in aid of a fund for presenting a
lifeboat to the National Society, one having already been given by this
town for use on the stormy coasts of the Island of Anglesey.
[Illustration: GIGGLESWICK CHURCH.]
Leaving Settle by the Skipton road, we had gone about a mile when we met
two men who informed us we were going a long way round either for Ripon
or York. They said an ancient road crossed the hills towards York, and
that after we had climbed the hill at the back of the town we should see
the road running straight for fourteen miles. This sounded all right,
and as the new moon was now shining brightly, for it was striking six
o'clock as we left the town, we did not fear being lost amongst the
hills, although they rose to a considerable height. Changing our course,
we climbed up a very steep road and crossed the moors, passing a small
waterfall; but whether we were on or off the ancient road we had no
means of ascertaining, for we neither saw nor met any one on the way,
nor did we see any house until we reached the ancient-looking village of
Kirby Malham. Here we got such very voluminous directions as to the way
to Malham that neither of us could remember them beyond the first turn,
but we reached that village at about ten o'clock. We asked the solitary
inhabitant who had not retired to rest where we could find lodgings for
the night. He pointed out a house at the end of the "brig" with the word
"Temperance" on it in large characters, which we could see easily as the
moon had not yet disappeared, and told us it belonged to the village
smith, who accommodated visitors. All was in darkness inside the house,
but we knocked at the door with our heavy sticks, and this soon brought
the smith to one of the upper windows. In reply to our question, "Can we
get a bed for the night?" he replied in the Yorkshire dialect, "Our
folks are all in bed, but I'll see what they say." Then he closed the
window, and all was quiet except the water, which was running fast under
the "brig," and which we found afterwards was the River Aire, as yet
only a small stream. We waited and waited for what seemed to us a very
long time, and were just beginning to think the smith had fallen asleep
again, when we heard the door being unbolted, and a young man appeared
with a light in his hand, bidding us "Come in," which we were mighty
glad to do, and to find ourselves installed in a small but very
comfortable room. "You will want some supper," he said; and we assured
him it was quite true, for we had not had anything to eat or drink since
we left Settle, and, moreover, we had walked thirty-five miles that day,
through fairly hilly country. In a short time he reappeared with a quart
of milk and an enormous apple pie, which we soon put out of sight; but
was milk ever so sweet or apple pie ever so good! Forty-five years have
passed away since then, but the memory still remains; and the sweet
sleep that followed--the rest of the weary--what of that?
(_Distance walked thirty-five miles_.)
_Saturday, October 21st._
One great advantage of staying the night in the country was that we were
sure of getting an early breakfast, for the inns had often farms
attached to them, and the proprietors and their servants were up early
to attend to their cattle. This custom of early rising also affected the
business of the blacksmiths, for the farmers' horses requiring attention
to their shoes were always sent down early to the village smithy in
order that they could be attended to in time to turn out to their work
on the roads or in the fields at their usual hour. Accordingly we were
roused from our sound slumber quite early in the morning, and were glad
to take advantage of this to walk as far as possible in daylight, for
the autumn was fast coming to a close. Sometimes we started on our walk
before breakfast, when we had a reasonable prospect of obtaining it
within the compass of a two-hours' journey, but Malham was a secluded
village, with no main road passing through it, and it was surrounded by
moors on every side.
There were several objects of interest in Malham which we were told were
well worth seeing: Malham Cove, Janet's Foss or Gennetth's Cave, and
Gordale Scar. The first of these we resolved to see before breakfast.
We therefore walked along a path which practically followed the course
of the stream that passed under the brig, and after a fine walk of about
three-quarters of a mile through the grass patches, occasionally
relieved by bushes and trees, we reached the famous cove. Here our
farther way was barred by an amphitheatre of precipitous limestone rocks
of a light grey colour, rising perpendicularly to the height of about
200 feet, which formed the cove itself. From the base of these rocks,
along a horizontal bedding plane and at one particular spot, issued the
stream along which we had walked, forming the source of the River Aire,
which flows through Skipton and on to Leeds, the curious feature about
it being that there was no visible aperture in the rocks, neither arch
nor hole, from which it could come. The water appeared to gain volume
from the loose stones under our feet, and as we had not seen a sight
like this in all our travels, we were much surprised to find it forming
itself immediately into a fair-sized brook. We gazed upwards to the top
of the rocks, which were apparently unprotected, and wondered what the
fate would be of the lost traveller who unconsciously walked over them,
as there seemed nothing except a few small bushes, in one place only, to
break his fall. We heard afterwards of a sorrowful accident that had
happened there. It related to a young boy who one day, taking his little
brother with him for company, went to look for birds' nests. On reaching
the cove they rambled to the top of the cliff, where the elder boy saw a
bird's nest, to which he went while his little brother waited for him at
a distance, watching him taking the eggs. All at once he saw him stoop
down to gather some flowers to bring to him, and then disappear. He
waited some time expecting his brother to return, but as he did not
come back the little fellow decided to go home. On the way he gathered
some flowers, which he gleefully showed to his father, who asked him
where he had got them, and where his brother was. The child said he had
gone to sleep, and he had tried to waken him but couldn't; and when he
told the full story, the father became greatly alarmed, and, taking his
child with him, went to the foot of the cliffs, where he found his son
lying dead where he had fallen, with the flowers still clasped in his
hand!
[Illustration: MALHAM COVE.]
We were afterwards told that above the cliff and a few miles up a valley
a great stream could be seen disappearing quietly down into the rock. It
was this stream presumably which lost itself in a subterranean channel,
to reappear at the foot of Malham Cove.
After breakfast we again resumed our journey, and went to inspect
Janet's Cave or Foss--for our host told us that it was no use coming to
see a pretty place like Malham without viewing all the sights we could
while we were there. We walked up a lovely little glen, where it was
said a fairy once resided, and which if it had been placed elsewhere
would certainly have been described as the Fairy Glen; but whether or
not Janet was the name of the fairy we did not ascertain. In it we came
to a pretty little waterfall dropping down from one step to another, the
stream running from it being as clear as crystal. The rocks were lined
with mosses, which had become as fleecy-looking as wool, as they were
almost petrified by the continual dropping of the spray from the
lime-impregnated water that fell down the rocks. There were quite a
variety of mosses and ferns, but the chief of the climbing plants was
what Dickens described "as the rare old plant, the ivy green," which not
only clung to the rocks, but had overshadowed them by climbing up the
trees above. To see the small dark cave it was necessary to cross the
stream in front of the waterfall, and here stepping-stones had been
provided for that purpose, but, owing to the unusual depth of water,
these were covered rather deeply, with the result that all the available
spaces in our boots were filled with water. This was, of course, nothing
unusual to us, as we had become quite accustomed to wet feet, and we now
looked upon it as an ordinary incident of travel. The cave was said to
have been the resort of goblins, and when we wondered where they were
now, my brother mildly suggested that we might have seen them if we had
possessed a mirror. We had seen a list of the names of the different
mosses to be found in the Malham district, but, as these were all in
Latin, instead of committing them to memory, we contented ourselves with
counting the names of over forty different varieties besides hepaties,
lichens, ferns, and many flowers:
Hie away, hie away,
Over bank and over brae,
Where the copsewood is the greenest,
Where the fountains glisten sheenest.
Where the lady-fern grows strongest,
Where the morning dew lies longest,
Where the blackcock sweetest sips it.
Where the fairy latest trips it;
Hie to haunts right seldom seen,
Lovely, lonesome, cool and green;
Over bank and over brae
Hie away, hie away!
So we now "hied away" to find Gordale Scar, calling at a farmhouse to
inquire the way, for we knew we must cross some land belonging to the
farm before we could reach the Scar. We explained to the farmer the
object of our journey and that we wished afterwards to cross the moors.
After directing us how to reach the Scar, he said there was no necessity
for us to return to Malham if we could climb up the side of the
waterfall at the Scar, since we should find the road leading from Malham
a short distance from the top. He wished us good luck on our journey,
and, following his instructions, we soon reached Gordale Scar. It was
interesting to note the difference in the names applied to the same
objects of nature in the different parts of the country we passed
through, and here we found a scar meant a rock, a beck a brook, and a
tarn, from a Celtic word meaning a tear, a small lake. Gordale Scar was
a much more formidable place than we had expected to find, as the rocks
were about five yards higher than those at Malham Cove, and it is almost
as difficult to describe them as to climb to the top!
[Illustration: GORDALE SCAR.]
Gordale Beck has its rise near Malham Tarn, about 1,500 feet above
sea-level; and, after running across the moor for about three miles,
gathering strength in its progress, it reaches the top of this cliff,
and, passing over it, has formed in the course of ages quite a
considerable passage, widening as it approaches the valley below, where
it emerges through a chasm between two rocks which rise to a great
height. It was from this point we had to begin our climb, and few people
could pass underneath these overhanging rocks without a sense of danger.
The track at this end had evidently been well patronised by visitors,
but the last of these had departed with the month of September, and as
it was now late in October we had the Scar all to ourselves. It was,
therefore, a lonely climb, and a very difficult one as we approached the
top, for the volume of water was necessarily much greater after the
heavy autumnal rainfall than when the visitors were there in the summer;
and as we had to pass quite near the falls, the wind blew the spray in
some places over our path. It seemed very strange to see white foaming
water high above our heads. There was some vegetation in places; here
and there a small yew tree, which reminded us of churchyards and the
dark plumes on funeral coaches; but there were also many varieties of
ferns in the fissures in the rocks. When we neared the top, encumbered
as we were with umbrellas, walking-sticks, and bags, we had to assist
each other from one elevation to another, one climbing up first and the
other handing the luggage to him, and we were very pleased when we
emerged on the moors above.
[Illustration: KILNSEY CRAGS.]
Here we found the beck running deeply and swiftly along a channel which
appeared to have been hewn out expressly for it, but on closer
inspection we found it quite a natural formation. We have been told
since by an unsentimental geologist that the structure is not difficult
to understand. As in the case of the Malham Cove stream, this one passed
into the rock and gradually ate out a hollow, while ultimately escaping
from the cliff as in the cove; but the roof of the cave collapsed,
forming the great chasm and revealing the stream as it leaped down from
one level to another. Looking about us on the top we saw lonely moors
without a house or a tree in sight, and walked across them until we came
to a very rough road--possibly the track which we expected to find
leading from Malham. Malham Tarn was not in sight, but we had learned
that the water was about a mile in length and the only things to be seen
there were two kinds of fish--perch and trout---which often quarrelled
and decimated each other. The weather was dull, and we had encountered
several showers on our way, passing between the Parson's Pulpit to the
left, rising quite 1,700 feet, and the Druid's Altar to our right; but
we afterwards learned that it was a poor specimen, and that there were
much finer ones in existence, while the Parson's Pulpit was described as
"a place for the gods, where a man, with a knowledge of nature and a
lover of the same, might find it vantage ground to speak or lecture on
the wonders of God and nature."
We were pleased to get off the moors before further showers came on, and
before we reached Kilnsey, where this portion of the moors terminated
abruptly in the Kilnsey Crags, we passed by a curious place called
Dowker Bottom Cave, where some antiquarian discoveries had been made
about fifteen years before our visit, excavations several feet below the
lime-charged floor of the cave having revealed the fact that it had been
used by cave-dwellers both before and after the time of the Romans:
there were also distinct traces of ancient burials.
The monks of Furness Abbey formerly owned about 6,000 acres of land in
this neighbourhood, and a small vale here still bore the name of
Fountains Dell; but the Scotch raiders often came down and robbed the
monks of their fat sheep and cattle. The valley now named Littondale was
formerly known as Amerdale, and was immortalised as such by Wordsworth
in his "White Doe of Rylstone":
Unwooed, yet unforbidden.
The White Doe followed up the vale,
Up to another cottage, hidden
In the deep fork of Amerdale.
The road passes almost under Kilnsey Crag, but though it seemed so near,
some visitors who were throwing stones at it did not succeed in hitting
it. We were a little more successful ourselves, but failed to hit the
face of the rock itself, reminding us of our efforts to dislodge rooks
near their nests on the tops of tall trees: they simply watched the
stones rising upwards, knowing that their force would be spent before
either reaching their nests or themselves. On arriving at Kilnsey, we
called at the inn for refreshments, and were told that the ancient
building we saw was Kilnsey Old Hall, where, if we had come earlier in
the year, before the hay was put in the building, we could have seen
some beautiful fresco-work over the inside of the barn doors!
After lunch we had a very nice walk alongside the River Wharfe to a
rather pretty place named Grassington, where an ancient market had been
held since 1282, but was now discontinued. We should have been pleased
to stay a while here had time permitted, but we were anxious to reach
Pateley Bridge, where we intended making our stay for the week-end. We
now journeyed along a hilly road with moors on each side of us as far as
Greenhow Hill mines, worked by the Romans, and there our road reached
its highest elevation at 1,320 feet above sea-level--the village church
as regarded situation claiming to be the highest in Yorkshire. We had
heard of a wonderful cave that we should find quite near our road, and
we were on the look-out for the entrance, which we expected would be a
black arch somewhere at the side of the road, but were surprised to find
it was only a hole in the surface of a field. On inquiry we heard the
cave was kept locked up, and that we must apply for admission to the
landlord of the inn some distance farther along the road. We found the
landlord busy, as it was Saturday afternoon; but when we told him we
were walking from John o' Groat's to Land's End and wanted to see all
the sights we could on our way, he consented at once to go with us and
conduct us through the cave. We had to take off our coats, and were
provided with white jackets, or slops, and a lighted candle each. We
followed our guide down some steps that had been made, into what were to
us unknown regions.
We went along narrow passages and through large rooms for about two
hundred yards, part of the distance being under the road we had just
walked over. We had never been in a cave like this before. The
stalactites which hung from the roof of the cavern, and which at first
we thought were long icicles, were formed by the rain-water as it slowly
filtered through the limestone rock above, all that could not be
retained by the stalactite dropping from the end of it to the floor
beneath. Here it gradually formed small pyramids, or stalagmites, which
slowly rose to meet their counterparts, the stalactites, above, so that
one descended while the other ascended. How long a period elapsed before
these strange things were formed our guide could not tell us, but it
must have been very considerable, for the drops came down so slowly. It
was this slow dropping that made it necessary for us to wear the white
jackets, and now and then a drop fell upon our headgear and on the
"slops." Still we felt sure it would have taken hundreds of years before
we should have been transformed into either stalactites or stalagmites.
In some of the places we saw they had long since met each other, and in
the course of ages had formed themselves into all kinds of queer shapes.
In one room, which our guide told us was the "church," we saw the
"organ" and the "gallery," and in another the likeness of a "bishop,"
and in another place we saw an almost exact representation of the four
fingers of a man's hand suspended from the roof of the cave. Some of the
subterranean passages were so low that we could scarcely creep through
them, and we wondered what would become of us if the roof had given way
before we could return. Many other images were pointed out to us, and we
imagined we saw fantastic and other ghostly shapes for ourselves.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE CAVE.]
We were careful to keep our candles alight as we followed our guide on
the return journey, and kept as close together as we could. It was
nearly dark when we reached the entrance of the cavern again, and our
impression was that we had been in another world. Farther south we
explored another and a larger cave, but the vandals had been there and
broken off many of the "'tites," which here were quite perfect. We had
not felt hungry while we were in the cave, but these well-known pangs
came on us in force immediately we reached the open air, and we were
glad to accept the landlord's offer to provide for our inward
requirements, and followed him home to the inn for tea. The landlord had
told the company at the inn about our long walk, and as walking was more
in vogue in those days than at later periods, we became objects of
interest at once, and all were anxious to form our acquaintance.
[Illustration: STUMP CROSS CAVES The Four Fingers. The "'tites" and
"'mites."]
We learned that what we had noted as the Greenhow Cave was known by the
less euphonius name of the "Stump Cross Cavern." It appeared that in
ancient times a number of crosses were erected to mark the limits of the
great Forest of Knaresborough, a royal forest as far back as the twelfth
century, strictly preserved for the benefit of the reigning monarch. It
abounded with deer, wild boars, and other beasts of the chase, and was
so densely wooded that the Knaresborough people were ordered to clear a
passage through it for the wool-carriers from Newcastle to Leeds. Now we
could scarcely see a tree for miles, yet as recently as the year 1775
the forest covered 100,000 acres and embraced twenty-four townships.
Before the Reformation, the boundary cross on the Greenhow side was
known as the Craven Cross, for Craven was one of the ancient counties
merged in what is called the West Riding. The Reformers objected to
crosses, and knocked it off its pedestal, so that only the stump
remained. Thus it gradually became known as the Stump Cross, and from
its proximity the cavern when discovered was christened the Stump Cross
Cavern. We were informed that the lead mines at Greenhow were the oldest
in England, and perhaps in the world, and it was locally supposed that
the lead used in the building of Solomon's Temple was brought from here.
Two bars of lead that had been made in the time of the Romans had been
found on the moors, and one of these was now to be seen at Ripley Castle
in Yorkshire, while the other was in the British Museum.
Eugene Aram, whose story we heard for the first time in the inn, was
born at a village a few miles from Greenhow. The weather had been
showery during the afternoon, but we had missed one of the showers,
which came on while we were in the cavern. It was now fine, and the moon
shone brightly as we descended the steep hill leading to Pateley Bridge.
We had crossed the River Dibb after leaving Grassington, and now, before
crossing the River Nidd at Pateley Bridge, we stayed at the "George
Inn," an old hostelry dating from the year 1664.
(_Distance walked twenty-one and a half miles_.)
_Sunday, October 22nd._
We spent a fairly quiet day at Pateley Bridge, where there was not a
great deal to see. What there was we must have seen, as we made good use
of the intervals between the three religious services we attended in
exploring the town and its immediate neighbourhood. We had evidently not
taken refuge in one of the inns described by Daniel Defoe, for we were
some little distance from the parish church, which stood on a rather
steep hill on the opposite bank of the river. Near the church were the
ruins of an older edifice, an ancient description running, "The old
Chappel of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Pateley Brigg in Nidderdale." We
climbed the hill, and on our way came to an old well on which was
inscribed the following translation by Dryden from the Latin of Ovid [43
B.C.-A.D. 18]:
Ill Habits gather by unseen degrees,
As Brooks run rivers--Rivers run to Seas.
and then followed the words:
The way to church.
We did not go there "by unseen degrees," but still we hoped our good
habits might gather in like proportion. We went to the parish church
both morning and evening, and explored the graveyards, but though
gravestones were numerous enough we did not find any epitaph worthy of
record--though one of the stones recorded the death in July 1755 of the
four sons of Robert and Margaret Fryer, who were born at one birth and
died aged one week.
In the afternoon we went to the Congregational Chapel, and afterwards
were shown through a very old Wesleyan Chapel, built in 1776, and still
containing the old seats, with the ancient pulpit from which John Wesley
had preached on several occasions.
It was curious to observe how anxious the compilers of the histories of
the various places at which we stayed were to find a remote beginning,
and how apologetic they were that they could not start even earlier.
Those of Pateley Bridge were no exception to the rule. The Roman
Occupation might perhaps have been considered a reasonable foundation,
but they were careful to record that the Brigantes were supposed to have
overrun this district long before the Romans, since several stone
implements had been found in the neighbourhood. One of the Roman pigs of
lead found hereabouts, impressed with the name of the Emperor
"Domitian," bore also the word "Brig," which was supposed to be a
contraction of Brigantes. A number of Roman coins had also been
discovered, but none of them of a later date than the Emperor Hadrian,
A.D. 139, the oldest being one of Nero, A.D. 54-68.
[Illustration: THE OLD PARISH CHURCH, PATELEY BRIDGE.]
Previous to the fourteenth century the River Nidd was crossed by means
of a paved ford, and this might originally have been paved by the
Romans, who probably had a ford across the river where Pateley Bridge
now stands for the safe conveyance of the bars of lead from the Greenhow
mines, to which the town owed its importance, down to the beginning of
the nineteenth century. But though it could boast a Saturday market
dating from the time of Edward II, it was now considered a quiet and
somewhat sleepy town.
The valley along which the River Nidd runs from its source in the moors,
about ten miles away, was known as Nidderdale. In the church book at
Middlesmoor, about six miles distant, were two entries connected with
two hamlets on the banks of the Nidd near Pateley Bridge which fix the
dates of the christening and marriage of that clever murderer, Eugene
Aram. We place them on record here:
RAMSGILL.--Eugenious Aram, son of Peter Aram, bap. ye 2nd of October,
1704. LOFTUS.--Eugenius Aram and Anna Spence, married May 4th, after
banns thrice pub. 1731.
We retired to rest early. Our last week's walk was below the average,
and we hoped by a good beginning to make up the mileage during the
coming week, a hope not to be fulfilled, as after events proved.