_Monday, October 23rd._
We left Pateley Bridge at seven o'clock in the morning, and after
walking about two miles on the Ripley Road, turned off to the left along
a by-lane to find the wonderful Brimham rocks, of which we had been
told. We heard thrashing going on at a farm, which set us wondering
whether we were on the same road along which Chantrey the famous
sculptor walked when visiting these same rocks. His visit probably would
not have been known had not the friend who accompanied him kept a diary
in which he recorded the following incident.
They were walking towards the rocks when they, like ourselves, heard the
sound of thrashing in a barn, which started an argument between them on
their relative abilities in the handling of the flail. As they could not
settle the matter by words, they resolved to do so by blows; so they
made their way to the farm and requested the farmer to allow them to try
their hand at thrashing corn, and to judge which of them shaped the
better. The farmer readily consented, and accompanied them to the barn,
where, stopping the two men who were at work, he placed Chantrey and his
friend in their proper places. They stripped for the fight, each taking
a flail, while the farmer and his men watched the duel with smiling
faces. It soon became evident that Chantrey was the better of the two.
The unequal contest was stopped, much to the chagrin of the keeper of
the diary, by the judge giving his verdict in favour of the great
sculptor. This happened about seventy years before our visit, but even
now the old-fashioned method of thrashing corn had not yet been ousted
by steam machinery, and the sound of the flails as they were swung down
upon the barn floors was still one of the commonest and noisiest that,
during the late autumn and winter months, met our ears in country
villages.
When the time came for the corn to be thrashed, the sheaves were placed
on the barn floor with their heads all in the same direction, the
binders which held them together loosened, and the corn spread out. Two
men were generally employed in this occupation, one standing opposite
the other, and the corn was separated from the straw and chaff by
knocking the heads with sticks. These sticks, or flails, were divided
into two parts, the longer of which was about the size of a
broom-handle, but made of a much stronger kind of wood, while the other,
which was about half its length, was fastened to the top by a hinge made
of strong leather, so that the flail was formed into the shape of a
whip, except that the lash would not bend, and was as thick as the
handle. The staff was held with both hands, one to guide and the other
to strike, and as the thrashers were both practically aiming at the same
place, it was necessary, in order to prevent their flails colliding,
that one lash should be up in the air at the same moment that the other
was down on the floor, so that it required some practice in order to
become a proficient thrasher. The flails descended on the barn floors
with the regularity of the ticking of a clock, or the rhythmic and
measured footsteps of a man walking in a pair of clogs at a quickstep
speed over the hard surface of a cobbled road. We knew that this
mediæval method of thrashing corn would be doomed in the future, and
that the old-fashioned flail would become a thing of the past, only to
be found in some museum as a relic of antiquity, so we recorded this
description of Chantrey's contest with the happy memories of the days
when we ourselves went a-thrashing corn a long time ago!
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF BRIMHAM ROCKS.]
What Chantrey thought of those marvellous rocks at Brimham was not
recorded, but, as they covered quite fifty acres of land, his friend,
like ourselves, would find it impossible to give any lengthy description
of them, and might, like the auctioneers, dismiss them with the
well-known phrase, "too numerous to mention."
To our great advantage we were the only visitors at the rocks, and for
that reason enjoyed the uninterrupted services of the official guide, an
elderly man whose heart was in his work, and a born poet withal.
[Illustration: THE DANCING-BEAR ROCK.]
The first thing we had to do was to purchase his book of poems, which,
as a matter of course, was full of poetical descriptions of the
wonderful rocks he had to show us--and thoroughly and conscientiously
he did his duty. As we came to each rock, whether we had to stand below
or above it, he poured out his poetry with a rapidity that quite
bewildered and astonished us. He could not, of course, tell us whether
the rocks had been worn into their strange forms by the action of the
sea washing against them at some remote period, or whether they had been
shaped in the course of ages by the action of the wind and rain; but we
have appealed to our geological friend, who states, in that emphatic way
which scientific people adopt, that these irregular crags are made of
millstone grit, and that the fantastic shapes are due to long exposure
to weather and the unequal hardness of the rock. Our guide accompanied
us first to the top of a great rock, which he called Mount Pisgah, from
which we could see on one side a wilderness of bare moors and mountains,
and on the other a fertile valley, interspersed with towns and villages
as far as the eye could reach. Here the guide told my brother that he
could imagine himself to be like Moses of old, who from Pisgah's lofty
height viewed the Promised Land of Canaan on one side, and the
wilderness on the other! But we were more interested in the astonishing
number of rocks around us than in the distant view, and when our guide
described them as the "finest freak of nature of the rock kind in
England," we thoroughly endorsed his remarks. We had left our luggage at
the caretaker's house, which had been built near the centre of this
great mass of stones in the year 1792, by Lord Grantley, to whom the
property belonged, from the front door of which, we were told, could be
seen, on a clear day, York Minster, a distance of twenty-eight miles as
the crow flies. As may be imagined, it was no small task for the guide
to take us over fifty acres of ground and to recite verses about every
object of interest he showed us, some of them from his book and some
from memory. But as we were without our burdens we could follow him
quickly, while he was able to take us at once to the exact position
where the different shapes could be seen to the best advantage. How long
it would have taken that gentleman we met near Loch Lomond in Scotland
who tried to show us "the cobbler and his wife," on the top of Ben
Arthur, from a point from which it could not be seen, we could not
guess, but it was astonishing how soon we got through the work, and were
again on our way to find "fresh fields and pastures new."
[Illustration: THE HIGH ROCK.]
We saw the "Bulls of Nineveh," the "Tortoise," the "Gorilla," and the
"Druids' Temple"--also the "Druids' Reading-desk," the "Druids' Oven,"
and the "Druid's Head." Then there was the "Idol," where a great stone,
said to weigh over two hundred tons, was firmly balanced on a base
measuring only two feet by ten inches. There was the usual Lovers' Leap,
and quite a number of rocking stones, some of which, although they were
many tons in weight, could easily be rocked with one hand. The largest
stone of all was estimated to weigh over one hundred tons, though it was
only discovered to be movable in the year 1786. The "Cannon Rock" was
thirty feet long, and, as it was perforated with holes, was supposed to
have been used as an oracle by the Ancients, a question asked down a
hole at one end being answered by the gods through the priest or
priestess hidden from view at the other. The different recesses, our
guide informed us, were used as lovers' seats and wishing stones. The
"Frog and the Porpoise," the "Oyster Rock," the "Porpoise's Head," the
"Sphinx," the "Elephant and Yoke of Oxen," and the "Hippopotamus's Head"
were all clearly defined. The "Dancing Bear" was a splendidly shaped
specimen, and then there was a "Boat Rock," with bow and stern complete.
But on the "Mount Delectable," as our guide called it, there was a very
romantic courting and kissing chair, which, although there was only room
for one person to sit in it at a time, he assured us was, in summer
time, the best patronised seat in the lot.
We remunerated him handsomely, for he had worked hard and, as "England
expects," he had done his duty. He directed us to go along a by-lane
through Sawley or Sawley Moor, as being the nearest way to reach
Fountains Abbey: but of course we lost our way as usual. The Brimham
Rocks were about 1,000 feet above sea-level, and from them we could see
Harrogate, which was, even then, a fashionable and rising inland
watering-place. Our guide, when he showed us its position in the
distance, did not venture to make any poetry about it, so we quote a
verse written by another poet about the visitors who went there:
Some go for the sake of the waters--
Well, they are the old-fashioned elves--
And some to dispose of their daughters,
And some to dispose of themselves.
But there must be many visitors who go there to search in its bracing
air for the health they have lost during many years of toil and anxiety,
and to whom the words of an unknown poet would more aptly apply:
We squander Health in search of Wealth,
We scheme, and toil, and save;
Then squander Wealth in search of Health,
And only find a Grave.
We live! and boast of what we own!
We die! and only get a STONE!
[Illustration: FOUNTAINS AND THE RIVER SKELL.]
[Illustration: FOUNTAINS ABBEY. "How grand the fine old ruin appeared,
calmly reposing in the peaceful valley below."]
[Illustration: THE CLOISTERS, FOUNTAINS ABBEY. "Many great warriors were
buried beneath the peaceful shade of Fountains Abbey."]
[Illustration: THE NAVE]
Fortunately we happened to meet with a gentleman who was going part of
the way towards Fountains Abbey, and him we accompanied for some
distance. He told us that the abbey was the most perfect ruin in
England, and when we parted he gave us clear instructions about the way
to reach it. We were walking on, keeping a sharp look out for the abbey
through the openings in the trees that partially covered our way, when
suddenly we became conscious of looking at a picture without realising
what it was, for our thoughts and attention had been fixed upon the
horizon on the opposite hill, where for some undefined reason we
expected the abbey to appear. Lo and behold, there was the abbey in the
valley below, which we might have seen sooner had we been looking down
instead of up. The effect of the view coming so suddenly was quite
electrical, and after our first exclamation of surprise we stood there
silently gazing upon the beautiful scene before us; and how grand the
fine old ruin appeared calmly reposing in the beautiful valley below! It
was impossible to forget the picture! Why we had expected to find the
abbey in the position of a city set upon a hill which could not be
hid we could not imagine, for we knew that the abbeys in the olden times
had to be hidden from view as far as possible as one means of protecting
them from warlike marauders who had no sympathy either with the learned
monks or their wonderful books. Further they required a stream of water
near them for fish and other purposes, and a kaleyard or level patch of
ground for the growth of vegetables, as well as a forest--using the word
in the Roman sense, to mean stretches of woodland divided by open
spaces--to supply them with logs and with deer for venison, for there
was no doubt that, as time went on, the monks, to use a modern phrase,
"did themselves well." All these conditions existed near the magnificent
position on which the great abbey had been built. The river which ran
alongside was named the Skell, a name probably derived from the Norse
word _Keld_, signifying a spring or fountain, and hence the name
Fountains, for the place was noted for its springs and wells, as--
From the streams and springs which Nature here contrives,
The name of Fountains this sweet place derives.
[Illustration: THE GREAT TOWER]
The history of the abbey stated that it was founded by thirteen monks
who, wishing to lead a holier and a stricter life than then prevailed in
that monastery, seceded from the Cistercian Abbey of St. Mary's at York.
With the Archbishop's sanction they retired to this desolate spot to
imitate the sanctity and discipline of the Cistercians in the Abbey of
Rieval. They had no house to shelter them, but in the depth of the
valley there grew a great elm tree, amongst the branches of which they
twisted straw, thus forming a roof beneath which they might dwell. When
the winter came on, they left the shelter of the elm and came under that
of seven yew-trees of extraordinary size. With the waters of the River
Skell they quenched their thirst, the Archbishop occasionally sent them
bread, and when spring came they built a wooden chapel. Others joined
them, but their accession increased their privations, and they often had
no food except leaves of trees and wild herbs. Even now these herbs and
wild flowers of the monks grew here and there amongst the old ruins.
Rosemary, lavender, hyssop, rue, silver and bronze lichens, pale rosy
feather pink, a rare flower, yellow mullein, bee and fly orchis, and
even the deadly nightshade, which was once so common at Furness Abbey.
One day their provisions consisted of only two and a half loaves of
bread, and a stranger passing by asked for a morsel. "Give him a loaf,"
said the Abbot; "the Lord will provide,"--and so they did. Marvellous to
relate, says the chronicle, immediately afterwards a cart appeared
bringing a present of food from Sir Eustace Fitz-John, the lord of the
neighbouring castle of Knaresborough, until then an unfriendly personage
to the monks.
[Illustration: "Beneath whose peaceful shades great warriors rest."]
Before long the monks prospered: Hugh, the Dean of York, left them his
fortune, and in 1203 they began to build the abbey. Other helpers came
forward, and in course of time Fountains became one of the richest
monasteries in Yorkshire. The seven yew trees were long remembered as
the "Seven Sisters," but only one of them now remains. Many great
warriors were buried beneath the peaceful shade of Fountains Abbey, and
many members of the Percy family, including Lord Henry de Percy, who,
after deeds of daring and valour on many a hard-fought field as he
followed the banner of King Edward I all through the wilds of Scotland,
prayed that his body might find a resting-place within the walls of
Fountains Abbey. Lands were given to the abbey, until there were 60,000
acres attached to it and enclosed in a ring fence. One of the monks from
Fountains went to live as a hermit in a secluded spot adjoining the
River Nidd, a short distance from Knaresborough, where he became known
as St. Robert the Hermit. He lived in a cave hewn out of the rock on one
side of the river, where the banks were precipitous and covered with
trees. One day the lord of the forest was hunting, and saw smoke rising
above the trees. On making inquiries, he was told it came from the cave
of St. Robert. His lordship was angry, and, as he did not know who the
hermit was, ordered him to be sent away and his dwelling destroyed.
These orders were in process of being carried out, and the front part of
the cave, which was only a small one, had in fact been broken down, when
his lordship heard what a good man St. Robert the Hermit was. He ordered
him to be reinstated, and his cave reformed, and he gave him some land.
When the saint died, the monks of Fountains Abbey--anxious, like most of
their order, to possess the remains of any saint likely to be popular
among the religious-minded--came for his body, so that they might bury
it in their own monastery, and would have taken it away had not a number
of armed men arrived from Knaresborough Castle. So St. Robert was buried
in the church at Knaresborough.
[Illustration: THE BOUNDARY STONE KNARESBOROUGH FOREST.]
St. Robert the Hermit was born in 1160, and died in 1218, so that he
lived and died in the days of the Crusades to the Holy Land. Although
his name was still kept in remembrance, his Cave and Chapel had long
been deserted and overgrown with bushes and weeds, while the overhanging
trees hid it completely from view. But after a lapse of hundreds of
years St. Robert's Cave was destined to come into greater prominence
than ever, because of the sensational discovery of the remains of the
victim of Eugene Aram, which was accidentally brought to light after
long years, when the crime had been almost forgotten and the murderer
had vanished from the scene of his awful deed.
The tragedy enacted in St. Robert's Cave has been immortalised in poetry
and in story: by Lord Lytton in his story of "Eugene Aram" and by Tom
Hood in "The Dream of Eugene Aram." Aram was a man of considerable
attainments, for he knew Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and other languages, and
was also a good mathematician as well as an antiquarian. He settled in
Knaresborough in the year 1734, and among his acquaintances were one
Daniel Clark and another, John Houseman, and these three were often
together until suddenly Daniel Clark disappeared. No one knew what had
become of him, and no intelligence could be obtained from his two
companions. Aram shortly afterwards left the town, and it was noticed
that Houseman never left his home after dark, so they were suspected of
being connected in some way with the disappearance of Clark. It
afterwards transpired that Aram had induced Clark to give a great
supper, and to invite all the principal people in the town, borrowing
all the silver vessels he could from them, on the pretence that he was
short. The plot was to pretend that robbers had got in the house and
stolen the silver. Clark fell in with this plot, and gave the supper,
borrowing all the silver he could. After all was over, they were to meet
at Clark's house, put the silver in a sack, and proceed to St. Robert's
Cave, which at that time was in ruins, where the treasure was to be
hidden until matters had quieted down, after which they would sell it
and divide the money; Clark was to take a spade and a pick, while the
other two carried the bag in turns. Clark began to dig the trench within
the secluded and bush-covered cave which proved to be his own grave, and
when he had nearly finished the trench, Aram came behind and with one of
the tools gave him a tremendous blow on the head which killed him
instantly, and the two men buried him there.
[Illustration: ST. ROBERT'S AND EUGENE ARAM'S CAVE.]
Clark's disappearance caused a great sensation, every one thinking he
had run away with the borrowed silver. Years passed away, and the matter
was considered as a thing of the past and forgotten, until it was again
brought to recollection by some workmen, who had been digging on the
opposite side of the river to St. Robert's Cave, finding a skeleton of
some person buried there. As the intelligence was spread about
Knaresborough, the people at once came to the conclusion that the
skeleton was that of Daniel Clark, who had disappeared fourteen years
before. Although Aram had left the neighbourhood soon after Clark
disappeared, and no one knew where he had gone, Houseman was still in
the town, and when the news of the finding of the skeleton reached him,
he was drinking in one of the public-houses, and, being partly drunk,
his only remark was, "It's no more Dan Clark's skeleton than it's mine."
Immediately he was accused of being concerned in the disappearance of
Clark, and ultimately confessed that Aram had killed Clark, and that
together they had buried his dead body in St. Robert's Cave. Search was
made there, and Clark's bones were found. One day a traveller came to
the town who said he had seen Aram at Lynn in Norfolk, where he had a
school. Officers were at once sent there to apprehend Aram, and the same
night--
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between
With gyves upon his wrist.
Aram was brought up for trial, and made a fine speech in defending
himself; but it was of no avail, for Houseman turned "King's Evidence"
against him, telling all he knew on condition that he himself was
pardoned. The verdict was "Guilty," and Aram was hanged at York in the
year 1759.
[Illustration: ST. ROBERTS CHAPEL.]
Fountains Abbey in its prime must have been one of the noblest and
stateliest sanctuaries in the kingdom. The great tower was 167 feet
high, and the nave about 400 feet long, while the cloisters--still
almost complete, for we walked under their superb arches several times
from one end to the other--were marvellous to see. One of the wells at
Fountains Abbey was named Robin Hood's Well, for in the time of that
famous outlaw the approach to the Abbey was defended by a very powerful
and brave monk who kept quite a number of dogs, on which account he was
named the Cur-tail Friar. Robin Hood and Little John were trying their
skill and strength in archery on the deer in the forest when, in the
words of the old ballad:
Little John killed a Hart of Greece
Five hundred feet him fro,
and Robin was so proud of his friend that he said he would ride a
hundred miles to find such another, a remark--
That caused Will Shadlocke to laugh.
He laughed full heartily;
There lives a curtail fryer in Fountains Abbey
Will beate bothe him and thee.
The curtell fryer, in Fountains Abbey,
Well can a strong bow draw;
He will beate you and your yeomen.
Set them all in a row.
[Illustration: ROBIN HOOD'S WELL, FOUNTAINS ABBEY.]
So Robin, taking up his weapons and putting on his armour, went to seek
the friar, and found him near the River Skell which skirted the abbey.
Robin arranged with the friar that as a trial of strength they should
carry each other across the river. After this had been accomplished
successfully Robin asked to be carried over a second time. But the friar
only carried him part way and then threw him into the deepest part of
the river, or, in the words of the ballad:
And coming to the middle streame
There he threw Robin in;
"And chuse thee, chuse thee, fine fellow,
Whether thou wilt sink or swim."
Robin evidently did not care to sink, so he swam to a willow bush and,
gaining dry land, took one of his best arrows and shot at the friar. The
arrow glanced off the monk's steel armour, and he invited Robin to shoot
on, which he did, but with no greater success. Then they took their
swords and "fought with might and maine":
From ten o' th' clock that very day
Till four i' th' afternoon.
Then Robin came to his knee
Of the fryer to beg a boone.
"A boone, a boone, thou curtail fryer,
I beg it on my knee;
Give me leave to set my horn to my mouth
And to blow blastes three."
The friar consented contemptuously, for he had got the better of the
fight; so Robin blew his "blastes three," and presently fifty of his
yeomen made their appearance. It was now the friar's turn to ask a
favour.
"A boone, a boone," said the curtail fryer,
"The like I gave to thee:
Give me leave to set my fist to my mouth
And to whute whues three."
and as Robin readily agreed to this, he sounded his "whues three," and
immediately--
Halfe a hundred good band-dogs
Came running o'er the lee.
"Here's for every man a dog
And I myself for thee."
"Nay, by my faith," said Robin Hood,
"Fryer, that may not be."
Two dogs at once to Robin Hood did goe.
The one behinde, the other before;
Robin Hood's mantle of Lincoln greene
Offe from his backe they tore.
And whether his men shot east or west.
Or they shot north or south,
The curtail dogs, so taught they were,
They kept the arrows in their mouth.
"Take up the dogs," said Little John;
"Fryer, at my bidding be."
"Whose man art thou," said the curtail fryer,
"Come here to prate to me!"
"I'm Little John, Robin Hood's man.
Fryer, I will not lie.
If thou tak'st not up thy dogs,
I'll take them up for thee."
Little John had a bowe in his hands.
He shot with mighte and maine;
Soon half a score of the fryer's dogs
Lay dead upon the plaine.
"Hold thy hand, good fellow," said the curtail fryer.
"Thy master and I will agree,
And we will have new order ta'en
With all the haste may be."
Then Robin Hood said to the friar:
"If thou wilt forsake fair Fountains Dale
And Fountains Abbey free,
Every Sunday throughout the yeare
A noble shall be thy fee.
"And every holiday throughout the yeare
Changed shall thy garment be
If thou wilt go to fair Nottinghame
And there remaine with me."
This curtail fryer had kept Fountains Dale
Seven long years and more;
There was neither knight, lord or earle
Could make him yield before.
According to tradition, the friar accepted Robin's offer and became the
famous Friar Tuck of the outlaw's company of Merrie Men whom in
_Ivanhoe_ Scott describes as exchanging blows in a trial of strength
with Richard Coeur de Lion. It was said that when Robin Hood died, his
bow and arrows were hung up in Fountains Abbey, where they remained for
centuries.
We procured some refreshments near the abbey, and then walked on to
Ripon, through the fine park and grounds of Studley Royal, belonging to
the Marquis of Ripon, and we esteemed it a great privilege to be allowed
to do so. The fine trees and gardens and the beautiful waters, with some
lovely swans floating on them, their white plumage lit up with the rays
of the sun, which that day shone out in all its glory, formed such a
contrast to the dull and deserted moors, that we thought the people of
Ripon, like ourselves, ought to be thankful that they were allowed to
have access to these beautiful grounds.
The town of Ripon, like many others in the north of England, had
suffered much in the time of the wars, and had had an eventful history,
for after being burnt by the Danes it was restored by Alfred the Great
in the year 860, only to be destroyed once more by William the Conqueror
in his ruthless march through the northern counties. A survival of
Alfred's wise government still existed in the "Wake-man," whose duty it
was to blow a horn at nine o'clock each night as a warning against
thieves. If a robbery occurred during the night, the inhabitants were
taxed with the amount stolen. A horn was still blown, three blasts being
given at nine o'clock at the Market Cross and three immediately
afterwards at the Mayor's door by the official horn-blower, during which
performances the seventh bell in the cathedral was tolled. The ancient
motto of the town was:
EXCEPT Ye LORD KEEP Ye CITTIE Ye WAKEMAN WAKETH IN VAIN.
In 1680 the silver badges that adorned the horn were stolen by thieves,
but they had long since been replaced, and the horn was now quite a
grand affair, the gold chain purchased for it in 1859 costing £250.
The town was again burnt by Robert Bruce in 1319, when the north of
England was being devastated after the disastrous Battle of Bannockburn;
but it soon revived in importance, and in 1405 Henry IV and his court
retired thither to escape the plague which at that time was raging in
London.
In the time of the Civil War Charles I was brought to Ripon by his
captors, and lodged for two nights in a house where he was sumptuously
entertained, and was so well pleased with the way he had been treated
that his ghost was said to have visited the house after his death. The
good old lady who lived there in those troubled times was the very
essence of loyalty and was a great admirer of the murdered monarch. In
spite of Cromwell she kept a well-furnished wine-cellar, where bottles
were continually being found emptied of their contents and turned upside
down. But when she examined her servants about this strange phenomenon,
she was always told that whenever the ghost of King Charles appeared,
the rats twisted their tails round the corks of the bottles and
extracted them as cleverly as the lady's experienced butler could have
done himself, and that they presented their generous contents in
brimming goblets to the parched lips of His Majesty, who had been so
cruelly murdered. This reply was always considered satisfactory and no
further investigation was made! "Let me suffer loss," said the old lady,
"rather than be thought a rebel and add to the calamities of a murdered
king! King Charles is quite welcome!"
[Illustration: RIPON MINSTER.]
Eugene Aram, we were informed, spent some years of his life in Ripon at
a house in Bond-Gate.
St. Wilfrid was the patron saint of Ripon, where he was born. Legend
states that at his birth a strange supernatural light shone over the
house, and when he died, those who were in the death chamber claimed
that they could hear the rustling of the angels' wings who had come to
bear his spirit away. As we saw some figures relating to him in the
cathedral we presumed that he must have been its patron saint. We found
afterwards it was dedicated to St. Peter and St. Wilfrid. St. Wilfrid
was an enthusiast in support of the Church control of Rome. One
sympathises with the poor king, who had to decide between the claims of
Rome and the Celtic Church, whether priests should have their hair cut
this way or that, and if the date of Easter should be decided by the
moon or by some other way. He seems to have been a simple-minded fellow,
and his decision was very practical. "I am told that Christ gave Peter
the keys of heaven to keep, and none can get in without his permission.
Is that so?" to which Wilfrid quickly answered "Yes." "Has your saint
any power like that?" he asked Oswin, who could but say "No." "Then,"
said the king, "I vote for the side with the greater power," and decided
in favour of Wilfrid. Like other cathedrals, Ripon had suffered much in
the wars, but there were many ancient things still to be seen there.
Near the font was a tomb covered with a slab of grey marble, on which
were carved the figures of a man and a huge lion, both standing amongst
some small trees. It was supposed to have covered the body of an Irish
prince who died at Ripon on his way home from the Holy War, in
Palestine, and who brought back with him a lion that followed him about
just like a dog. In the cathedral yard there was an epitaph to a
fisherman:
Here lies poor but honest Bryan Tunstall. He was a most expert angler
until Death, envious of his merit, threw out his line, and landed him
here
21st day of April, 1790.
[Illustration: RIPON MINSTER, WEST FRONT]
We left Ripon by the Boroughbridge road, and when about a mile from the
town we met one of the dignitaries of the cathedral, who from his dress
might have been anything from an archdeacon upwards. We asked him if he
could tell us of any objects of interest on our farther way. He told us
of Aldborough, with its Roman remains and the Devil's Arrows, of which
we had never heard before; and he questioned us about our long tramp,
the idea of which quite delighted him. We told him that we had thrown
our mackintoshes away, and why we had done so, and had bought umbrellas
instead; and he said, "You are now standing before a man who would give
fifty pounds if he had never worn a mackintosh, for they have given me
the rheumatism!"
The church at Kirkby Hill had just been restored. We saw an epitaph in
the churchyard similar to one which we found in a graveyard later on,
farther south:
Whence I came it matters not.
To whom related or by whom begot;
A heap of dust is all that remains of me,
'Tis all I am, and all the proud shall be.
[Illustration: THE DEVIL'S ARROWS.]
We soon reached the famous Boroughbridge, one of the most historical
places in all England, the borough meaning Aldborough, the ISUER of the
Brigantes and the ISURIUM of the Romans. Here we crossed the bridge
spanning the Yorkshire River Ouse, which almost adjoined Aldborough, and
were directed for lodgings to the house of a widowed lady quite near the
church. It was nearly dark then, the moon, though almost at the full
that night, not having yet risen. We decided to wait until after a
substantial meal before visiting the Devil's Arrows a short distance
away. There were only three of them left--two in a field on one side of
the road, and one in a field opposite. The stones were standing upright,
and were, owing to their immense size, easily found. We had inspected
the two, and were just jumping over the gate to cross the narrow lane to
see the other in the next field, when we startled a man who was
returning, not quite sober, from the fair at Boroughbridge. As we had
our sticks in our hands, he evidently thought we were robbers and meant
mischief, for he begged us not to molest him, saying he had only
threepence in his pocket, to which we were welcome. We were highly
amused, and the man was very pleased when he found he could keep the
coppers, "to pay," as he said, "for another pint." The stones, weighing
about 36 tons each, were 20 to 30 feet high, and as no one knew who
placed them there, their origin was ascribed to the Devil; hence their
name, "the Devil's Arrows." Possibly, as supposed in other similar
cases, he had shot them out of his bow from some great hill far away,
and they had stuck in the earth here. There was fairly authentic
evidence that twelve was the original number, and the bulk of opinion
favoured an origin concerned with the worship of the sun, one of the
earliest forms known. Others, however, ascribe them to the Romans, who
erected boundary stones, of which several are known, on the hills
farther south. We returned to our lodgings, but not to sleep, for our
sleeping apartment was within a few feet of the church clock, on the
side of a very low steeple. As we were obliged to keep our window open
for fresh air, we could hear every vibration of the pendulum, and the
sound of the ponderous bell kept us awake until after it struck the hour
of twelve. Then, worn out with fatigue, we heard nothing more until we
awoke early in the morning.
[Illustration: ALDBOROUGH CHURCH, BOROUGHBRIDGE.]
(_Distance walked twenty miles_.)
_Tuesday, October 24th._
The history of Aldborough, the old _burh_ or fortified Saxon settlement,
in spite of its Saxon name, could clearly be traced back to the time of
the Brigantes, the ancient Britons, who inhabited the territory between
the Tweed and the Humber. A Celtic city existed there long before
Romulus and Remus founded the city of Rome, and it was at this city of
ISUER, between the small River Tut and its larger neighbour the Yore,
that their queen resided. Her name, in Gaelic, was Cathair-ys-maen-ddu
("Queen of stones black"), rather a long name even for a queen, and
meaning in English the Queen of the City of the Black Stones, the
remaining three, out of the original twelve, being those, now known as
the Devil's Arrows, which we had seen the preceding night.
[Illustration: CAER CARADOC HILL, CHURCH STRETTON.]
The Romans, however, when they invaded Britain, called her Cartismunda,
her city ISURIUM, and the Brigantes' country they named Brigantia. But
as the Brigantes made a determined resistance, their invasion of this
part of England, begun in A.D. 47, was not completed until A.D. 70.
Queen Cartismunda was related to the King of Siluria, which then
embraced the counties of Hereford and Monmouth, besides part of South
Wales. He was one of the greatest of the British chieftains, named
Caradoc by the Britons and Caractacus by the Romans. He fought for the
independence of Britain, and held the armies of the most famous Roman
generals at bay for a period of about nine years. But eventually, in
A.D. 50, he was defeated by the Roman general Ostorius Scapula, in the
hilly region near Church Stretton, in Shropshire, not far from a hill
still known as Caer Caradoc, his wife and daughters being taken
prisoners in the cave known as Caradoc's Cave. He himself escaped to the
Isle of Mona, afterwards named Anglesey, with the object of rallying the
British tribes there.
It so happened that some connection existed between Queen Cartismunda
and the Romans who had defeated Caradoc, and after that event Ostorius
Scapula turned his army towards the north, where he soon reached the
border of Brigantia.
As soon as the queen, of whose morals even the Britons held no high
opinion, heard of his arrival, she and her daughters hastened to meet
the conqueror to make terms. If beauty had any influence in the
settlement, she seems to have had everything in her favour, as, if we
are to believe the description of one of the Romans, who began his
letter with the words "Brigantes faemina dulce," the Brigantes ladies
must have been very sweet and beautiful.
A most objectional part of the bargain was that Caractacus should be
delivered up to the Roman general. So the queen sent some relatives to
Mona to invite him to come and see her at Isuer, and, dreaming nothing
of treachery, he came; but as soon as he crossed the border into the
queen's country he was seized, bound and handed over to Ostorius, who
sent him to Rome, together with his already captured wife and daughters.
On arrival at Rome Caractacus was imprisoned with some of his countrymen
and in course of time brought before the Emperor Claudius. The brave and
fearless speech he made before the Emperor on that occasion is one of
the most famous recorded in history, and has been immortalised both in
prose and poetry.
"Now I have spoken, do thy will;
Be life or death my lot.
Since Britain's throne no more I fill,
To me it matters not.
My fame is clear; but on my fate
Thy glory or thy shame must wait."
He ceased: from all around upsprung
A murmur of applause;
For well had truth and freedom's tongue
Maintained their holy cause.
The conqueror was the captive then--
He bade the slave be free again.
Tradition states that one of his companions in the prison in Rome was
St. Paul, who converted him to the Christian faith, with two of his
fellow-countrymen, Linus and Claudia, who are mentioned in St. Paul's
second Epistle to Timothy (iv. 21).
Descendants of Caradoc are still to be traced in England in the family
of Craddock, whose shield to this day is emblazoned with the words:
"Betrayed! Not conquered."
We awoke quite early in the morning--a fact which we attributed to the
church clock, although we could not remember hearing it strike. My
brother started the theory that we might have been wakened by some
supernatural being coming through the open window, from the greensward
beneath, where "lay the bones of the dead." Aldborough church was
dedicated to St. Andrew, and the register dated from the year
1538--practically from the time when registers came into being. It
contained a curious record of a little girl, a veritable "Nobody's
child," who, as a foundling, was brought to the church and baptized in
1573 as "Elizabeth Nobody, of Nobody."
[Illustration: KNARESBOROUGH CASTLE.]
Oliver Cromwell, about whom we were to hear so much in our further
travels, was here described in the church book as "an impious
Arch-Rebel," but this we afterwards found was open to doubt. He fought
one of his great battles quite near Aldborough, and afterwards besieged
Knaresborough Castle, about eight miles away. He lodged at an
old-fashioned house in that town. In those days fireplaces in bedrooms
were not very common, and even where they existed were seldom used, as
the beds were warmed with flat-bottomed circular pans of copper or
brass, called "warming-pans," in which were placed red-hot cinders of
peat, wood, or coal. A long, round wooden handle, like a broomstick, was
attached to the pan, by means of which it was passed repeatedly up and
down the bed, under the bedclothes, until they became quite warm, both
above and below. As this service was performed just before the people
retired to rest, they found a warm bed waiting for them instead of a
cold one. But of course this was in the "good old times." Afterwards,
when people became more civilised (!), they got into bed between linen
sheets that were icy cold, and after warming them with the heat of their
bodies, if they chanced to move an inch or two during the night they
were either awakened, or dreamed about icebergs or of being lost in the
snow!
The young daughter of the house where Oliver Cromwell lodged at
Knaresborough had the task of warming Oliver's bed for him, and in after
years when she had grown up she wrote a letter in which she said: "When
Cromwell came to lodge at our house I was then but a young girl, and
having heard so much talk about the man, I looked at him with wonder.
Being ordered to take a pan of coals and 'aire' his bed, I could not
forbear peeping over my shoulders to see this extraordinary man, who was
seated at the far side of the room untying his garters. Having aired the
bed I went out, and shutting the door after me, I peeped through the
keyhole, when I saw him rise from his seat, advance to the bed, and fall
on his knees, in which attitude I left him for some time. When returning
I found him still at prayer---and this was his custom every night as
long as he stayed at our house--I concluded he must be a good man, and
this opinion I always maintained, though I heard him blamed and
exceedingly abused."
Aldborough was walled round in the time of the Romans, and portions of
the walls were still to be seen. So many Roman relics had been found
here that Aldborough had earned the title of the Yorkshire Pompeii. So
interested were we in its antiquities that we felt very thankful to the
clerical dignitary at Ripon for having advised us to be sure to visit
this ancient borough.
[Illustration: TESSELLATED ROMAN PAVEMENT UNEARTHED AT ALDBOROUGH.]
We now wended our way to one of the village inns, where we had been told
to ask permission from the landlord to see the Roman tessellated
pavement in his back garden. We were conducted to a building, which had
been roofed over to cover it. Our attendant unlocked the door, and after
the sawdust which covered the floor had been carefully brushed aside,
there was revealed to our gaze a beautifully executed floor, in which
the colours of the small tiles were as bright as if they had been
recently put there. We could scarcely realise that the work we were
looking at was well-nigh two thousand years old: it looked more like the
work of yesterday. It had been accidentally discovered by a man who was
digging in the garden, at about two feet below the surface of the soil;
it was supposed to have formed the floor of a dwelling belonging to some
highly placed Roman officer. We were speculating about the depth of soil
and the difference in levels between the Roman Period and the present,
but we found afterwards that the preservation of this beautiful work,
and of others, was due not to any natural accumulations during the
intervening centuries, but to the fact that the devastating Danes had
burnt the town of Aldborough, along with many others, in the year 870,
and the increased depth of the soil was due to the decomposition of the
burnt ruins and debris. When we noted any event or object dating from
1771, we described it as "one hundred years before our visit," but here
we had an event to record that had happened one thousand years before.
Neither the attendant nor the landlord would accept any remuneration for
their services, and to our cordial thanks replied, "You are quite
welcome." We now went to see the cottage museum, which was well filled
with Roman relics of all kinds, arranged in such fashion as would have
done credit to a very much larger collection. The Roman remains stored
here were described as "one of the most comprehensive collections of
Roman relics in England," and included ornaments and articles in glass,
iron, and bronze. There was also much pottery and tiles; also coins,
images, and all kinds of useful and ornamental articles of the time of
the Roman Occupation in Britain. Besides self-coloured tiles, there were
some that were ornamented, one representing the "Capitoli Wolf," a
strange-looking, long-legged animal, with its face inclined towards the
spectator, while between its fore and hind legs could be seen in the
distance the figures of Romulus and Remus, the founders of the city of
Rome, who, tradition states, were suckled in their infancy by a wolf.
But my brother reminded me that none of these things were fit to eat,
and that our breakfast would now be ready, so away we sped to our
lodgings to get our breakfast and to pay our bill, and bid good-bye to
our landlady, who was a worthy, willing old soul. Just across the river,
about a mile away, was the site of the "White Battle," fought on October
12th, 1319--one of the strangest and most unequal battles ever fought.
It occurred after the English had been defeated at Bannockburn, and when
the Scots were devastating the North of England. The Scots had burnt and
plundered Boroughbridge in 1318 under Sir James Douglas, commonly known,
on account perhaps of his cruelty, as the "Black Douglas." Even the
children were afraid when his name was mentioned, for when they were
naughty they were frightened with the threat that if they were not good
the Black Douglas would be coming; even the very small children were
familiar with his name, for a nursery song or lullaby of that period
was--
Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye,
Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye,
The Black Douglas shall not get ye.
Just before the "White Battle" the English Queen Isabel, wife of Edward
II, had taken up her abode with a small retinue in the country near
York, when an effort was made by the Scots to capture her; they nearly
succeeded, for she only just managed to get inside the walls of York
when the Scots appeared and demanded admittance. This was refused by the
aged Archbishop Melton, who had the bulwarks manned and the
fortifications repaired and defended. The Scots were enraged, as York
was strongly fortified, and they shouted all manner of epithets to the
people behind the walls; one of them actually rode up to the Micklegate
Bar and accused the queen of all manner of immoralities, challenging any
man to come forth and clear her fame. The Archbishop in a stirring
appeal called upon every man and youth to attack the invaders. His
eloquence was irresistible, and although there were not more than fifty
trained soldiers in the city, they attacked the Scots, who retreated.
The Archbishop's army was utterly unskilled in the arts of war, and
carried all kinds of weapons, many of them obsolete. The Bishop of Ely,
Lord High Chancellor of England, rode alongside the Archbishop, and
behind them rode the Lord Mayor, followed by a multitude of clergy in
white surplices, with monks, canons, friars, and other ecclesiastics,
all fully dressed in the uniform of their offices. But only one result
was possible, for they were opposed to 16,000 of Robert Bruce's
best-trained soldiers. Meantime the Scots did not know the character of
the foe before whom they were retreating, but, crossing the River Swale
near the point where it meets the Yore, they set fire to a number of
haystacks, with the result that the smoke blew into the faces of the
Archbishop and his followers, as the wind was blowing in their
direction. They, however, pressed bravely forward, but the Scots
attacked them both in front and rear, and in less than an hour four
thousand men and youths, their white robes stained with blood, were
lying dead on the field of battle, while many were drowned in the river.
The sight of so many surpliced clergy struck terror into the heart of
the Earl of Murray and his men, who, instead of pursuing farther the
retreating army, amongst whom were the aged Archbishop and his
prelates--the Lord Mayor had been killed--retired northwards.
Through the long hours of that night women, children, and sweethearts
gazed anxiously from the walls of York, watching and waiting for those
who would never return, and for many a long year seats were vacant in
the sacred buildings of York. Thus ended the "Battle of the White," so
named from the great number of surpliced clergy who took part therein.
The old Archbishop escaped death, and one of the aged monks wrote that--
The triumphal standard of the Archbishop also was saved by the
cross-bearer, who, mounted on a swift horse, plunged across the
river, and leaving his horse, hid the standard in a dense thicket,
and escaped in the twilight. The pike was of silver, and on the top
was fixed the gilded image of our Lord Jesus Christ. Near where it
was hidden a poor man was also hiding, and he twisted some bands of
hay round it, and kept it in his cottage, and then returned it to the
Bishop.
About this time England was like a house divided against itself, for the
barons had revolted against King Edward II. A battle was again fought at
Boroughbridge on June 22nd, 1322, between the rebel army led by the
Earls of Lancaster and Hereford, and the King's forces who were pursuing
them. They were obliged to retreat over the bridge, which at that time
was built of wood; but when they reached it, they found another part of
the King's army of whose presence they were unaware, so they had to
fight for the possession of the bridge. During the fight a Welshman,
armed with a long spear, and who was hidden somewhere beneath the
bridge, contrived to thrust his spear through an opening in the timbers
right into the bowels of Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford, who
fell forward mortally wounded. Thus died one of the most renowned
warriors in England. The Earl of Lancaster made a final effort to cross
the bridge, but his troops gave way and fled, the Earl taking refuge in
the old chapel of Boroughbridge, from which he was dragged, stripped of
his armour, and taken to York. Thence he was conveyed to his own castle
at Pontefract, and lowered into a deep dungeon, into which, we were
told, when we visited that castle later, he had himself lowered others,
and soon afterwards he was condemned to death by the revengeful Edward,
who had not forgotten the Earl's share in the death of his favourite,
Piers Gaveston. Mounted on a miserable-looking horse, amidst the gibes
and insults of the populace, he was led to the block, and thus died
another of England's famous warriors.
[Illustration: OLIVER CROMWELL, THE GREAT PARLIAMENTARIAN.]
Needless to relate, we had decided to visit York Minster as our next
great object of interest after Fountains Abbey, and by accident rather
than design we had in our journey to and from York to pass over two
battle-fields of first importance as decisive factors in the history of
England--viz., Marston Moor and Towton Field. Marston Moor lay along our
direct road from Aldborough to York, a distance of about sixteen miles.
Here the first decisive battle was fought between the forces of King
Charles I and those of the Parliament. His victory at Marston Moor gave
Cromwell great prestige and his party an improved status in all future
operations in the Civil War. Nearly all the other battles whose sites we
had visited had been fought for reasons such as the crushing of a
rebellion of ambitious and discontented nobles, or perhaps to repel a
provoked invasion, and often for a mere change of rulers. Men had fought
and shed their blood for persons from whom they could receive no
benefit, and for objects in which they had no interest, and the country
had been convulsed and torn to pieces for the gratification of the
privileged few. But in the Battle of Marston Moor a great principle was
involved which depended en the issue. It was here that King and People
contended--the one for unlimited and absolute power, and the other for
justice and liberty. The iron grasp and liberty-crushing rule of the
Tudors was succeeded by the disgraceful and degrading reign of the
Stuarts. The Divine Right of Kings was preached everywhere, while in
Charles I's corrupt and servile Court the worst crimes on earth were
practised. Charles had inherited from his father his presumptuous
notions of prerogative and Divine Right, and was bent upon being an
absolute and uncontrolled sovereign. He had married Henrietta, the
daughter of the King of France, who, though possessed of great wit and
beauty, was of a haughty spirit, and influenced Charles to favour the
Roman Catholic Church as against the Puritans, then very numerous in
Britain, who "through the Bishop's courts were fined, whipt, pilloried,
and imprisoned, so that death was almost better than life."
[Illustration: JOHN HAMPDEN.]
A crisis had to come, and either one man must yield or a whole nation
must submit to slavery. The tax named "Ship Money," originally levied in
the eleventh century to provide ships for the Navy, was reintroduced by
Charles in 1634 in a very burdensome form, and the crisis came which
resulted in the Civil War, when Hampden, who resided in the
neighbourhood of the Chiltern Hills, one of the five members of
Parliament impeached by Charles, refused to pay the tax on the ground
that it was illegal, not having been sanctioned by Parliament. He lost
his case, but the nation was aroused and determined to vindicate its
power. Hampden was killed in a small preliminary engagement in the early
stages of the war. The King was supported by the bulk of the nobility,
proud of their ancient lineage and equipments of martial pomp, and by
their tenants and friends; while the strength of the Parliamentary Army
lay in the town population and the middle classes and independent
yeomanry: prerogative and despotic power on the one hand, and liberty
and privilege on the other. The Royal Standard was raised at Nottingham
and the din of arms rang through the kingdom. The fortress of Hull had
been twice besieged and bravely defended, and the drawn Battle of
Edgehill had been fought. In the early part of 1644 both parties began
the war in earnest. A Scottish army had been raised, but its advance had
been hindered by the Marquis of Newcastle, the King's commander in the
north. In order to direct the attention of Newcastle elsewhere, Lord
Fernando Fairfax and Sir Thomas his son, who had been commissioned by
Parliament to raise forces, attacked Bellasis, the King's Yorkshire
Commander, and Governor of York, who was at Selby with 2,000 men, and
defeated them with great loss, capturing Bellasis himself, many of his
men, and all his ordnance. Newcastle, dismayed by the news, hastened to
York and entered the city, leaving the Scots free to join Fairfax at
Netherby, their united forces numbering 16,000 foot and 4,000 horse.
These partially blockaded York, but Newcastle had a strong force and was
an experienced commander, and with a bridge across the River Ouse, and a
strong body of horse, he could operate on both sides of the stream; so
Crawford, Lindsey, and Fairfax sent messengers to the Earl of
Manchester, who was in Lincolnshire, inviting him to join them. He
brought with him 6,000 foot and 3,000 horse, of the last of which Oliver
Cromwell was lieutenant-general. Even then they could not invest the
city completely; but Newcastle was beginning to lose men and horses, and
a scarcity of provisions prevailed, so he wrote to the King that he must
surrender unless the city could be relieved. Charles then wrote to
Prince Rupert, and said that to lose York would be equivalent to losing
his crown, and ordered him to go to the relief of York forthwith.
[Illustration: PRINCE RUPERT.]
Rupert, the son of Frederick V, Elector of Bavaria, and a nephew of
Charles I, was one of the most dashing cavalry officers in Europe. He
lost no time in carrying out his commission, and in a few days Newcastle
received a letter saying that he was stabling his horses that same night
at Knaresborough, and that he would be at York the following day,
Rupert's own horse being stabled that same night in the church at
Boroughbridge. The news was received with great rejoicings by the
besieged garrison and the people in York, but spread dismay amongst the
besiegers, who thought York was about to capitulate. To stay in their
present position was to court disaster, so they raised the siege and
encamped on Hessey Moor, about six miles away, in a position which
commanded the road along which Rupert was expected to travel. But by
exercise of great military skill he crossed the river at an unexpected
point and entered York on the opposite side. The Prince, as may be
imagined, was received with great rejoicings; bells were rung, bonfires
lighted, and guns fired, and the citizens went wild with triumphant
excitement. Difficulties arose, however, between Newcastle, who was a
thoughtful and experienced commander, and Rupert, who, having relieved
the city, wanted to fight the enemy at once. As he scornfully refused
advice, Newcastle retired, and went with the army as a volunteer only,
Meantime there were dissensions among the Parliamentary generals, who
were divided in their opinions--the English wishing to fight, and the
Scots wishing to retreat. They were all on their way to Tadcaster, in
search of a stronger position, when suddenly the vanguard of Rupert
reached the rearguard of the other army at the village of Long Marston.
This division of the retreating army included their best soldiers, and
was commanded by Leslie and two other brave men, Sir Thomas Fairfax and
Oliver Cromwell. Their rearguard halted, and, seeing the plain covered
with pursuers, they sent word to the generals who had gone on in front,
asking them to return and take possession of the dry land of the Moor,
which was higher than that occupied by the Royalist army. Oliver
Cromwell had already risen in the opinion of the army by his conduct in
Lincolnshire, and he was dreaded by the Royalists, for he had already
shown his ability to command. Stalwart and clumsy in frame, he had an
iron constitution, and was a bold and good rider and a perfect master of
the broadsword then in use. He had also a deep knowledge of human
nature, and selected his troopers almost entirely from the sons of
respectable farmers and yeomen, filled with physical daring and
religious convictions, while his own religious enthusiasm, and his
superiority in all military virtues, gave him unbounded power as a
leader:
What heroes from the woodland sprung
When through the fresh awakened land
The thrilling cry of freedom rung.
And to the work of warfare strung
The Yeoman's iron hand.
The generals who had gone on in front now returned with their men to the
assistance of their rearguard, and the whole army was brought into
position on the high ground in the middle of the day, July 2nd, 1644.
The position was a good one, sloping down gradually towards the enemy.
The Royalist army numbered about 23,500 men, and that of the Parliament
slightly more. It must have been a wonderful sight to see these 50,000
of the best and bravest men the kingdom could produce, ready to wound
and kill each other. The war-cry of the Royalists was "God and the
King," and that of the others was "God with us"--both sides believing
they were fighting for the cause of religion. There were curses on one
side and prayers on the other, each captain of the Parliament prayed at
the head of his company and each soldier carried a Bible bearing the
title "The Souldier's Pocket Bible, issued for use in the Commonwealth
Army in 1643." It only consisted of fifteen pages of special passages
that referred particularly to the soldier's life and temptations.
Cromwell stood on the highest point of the field--the exact position,
locally know as "Cromwell's Gap," was pointed out to us--but at the time
of the great battle it was covered with a clump of trees, of which now
only a few remained. The battle, once begun, raged with the greatest
fury; but Cromwell and his "Ironsides" (a name given to them because of
their iron resolution) were irresistible, and swept through the enemy
like an avalanche; nothing could withstand them--and the weight of their
onset bore down all before it. Their spirit could not be subdued or
wearied, for verily they believed they were fighting the battles of the
Lord, and that death was only a passport to a crown of glory.
Newcastle's "White Coats," a regiment of thoroughly trained soldiers
from the borders of Cheshire and Wales, who would not retreat, were
almost annihilated, and Prince Rupert himself only escaped through the
superior speed of his horse, and retired into Lancashire with the
remains of his army, while Newcastle and about eighty others fled to
Scarborough, and sailed to Antwerp, leaving Sir Thomas Glemham, the
Governor of York, to defend that city. But as most of his artillery had
been lost at Marston Moor, and the victors continued the siege, he was
soon obliged to surrender. He made a very favourable agreement with the
generals of the Parliamentarian forces, by the terms of which,
consisting of thirteen clauses, they undertook to protect the property
and persons of all in the city, not plunder or deface any churches or
other buildings, and to give a safe conduct to officers and men--who
were to march out with what were practically the honours of war--as far
as Skipton.
The agreement having been signed by both parties on July 16th, 1644, Sir
Thomas Glemham, with his officers and men, marched out of the city of
York with their arms, and "with drums beating, colours flying, match
lighted, bullet in mouth, bag and baggage," made for Skipton, where they
arrived safely. The Battle of Marston Moor was a shock to the Royalist
cause from which it never recovered.
[Illustration: YORK MINSTER.]
From Marston Moor we continued along the valley of the River Ouse until
we arrived at the city of York, which Cromwell entered a fortnight after
the battle; but we did not meet with any resistance as we passed through
one of its ancient gateways, or "bars." We were very much impressed with
the immense size and grandeur of the great Minster, with its three
towers rising over two hundred feet in height. We were too late to see
the whole of the interior of this splendid old building, but gazed with
a feeling of wonder and awe on one of the largest stained-glass windows
in the world, about seventy feet high, and probably also the oldest, as
it dated back about five hundred years. The different scenes depicted in
the beautiful colours of the ancient glass panels represented every
important Biblical event from the Creation downwards. We were surprised
to find the window so perfect, as the stained-glass windows we had seen
elsewhere had been badly damaged. But the verger explained that when the
Minster was surrendered to the army of the Commonwealth in the Civil
War, it was on condition that the interior should not be damaged nor any
of the stained glass broken. We could not explore the city further that
afternoon, as the weather again became very bad, so we retreated to our
inn, and as our sorely-tried shoes required soling and heeling, we
arranged with the "boots" of the inn to induce a shoemaker friend of his
in the city to work at them during the night and return them thoroughly
repaired to the hotel by six o'clock the following morning. During the
interval we wrote our letters and read some history, but our room was
soon invaded by customers of the inn, who were brought in one by one to
see the strange characters who had walked all the way from John o'
Groat's and were on their way to the Land's End, so much so that we
began to wonder if it would end in our being exhibited in some show in
the ancient market-place, which we had already seen and greatly admired,
approached as it was then by so many narrow streets and avenues lined
with overhanging houses of great antiquity. We were, however, very
pleased with the interest shown both in ourselves and the object of our
walk, and one elderly gentleman seemed inclined to claim some sort of
relationship with us, on the strength of his having a daughter who was a
schoolmistress at Rainford village, in Lancashire. He was quite a jovial
old man, and typical of "a real old English gentleman, one of the olden
time." He told us he was a Wesleyan local preacher, but had developed a
weakness for "a pipe of tobacco and a good glass of ale." He said that
when Dick Turpin rode from London to York, his famous horse, "Black
Bess," fell down dead when within sight of the towers of the Minster,
but the exact spot he had not been able to ascertain, as the towers
could be seen from so long a distance. York, he said, was an older city
than London, the See of York being even older than that of Canterbury,
and a Lord Mayor existed at York long before there was one in London. He
described the grand old Minster as one of the "Wonders of the World." He
was very intelligent, and we enjoyed his company immensely.
[Illustration: YORK MINSTER.]
[Illustration: MICKLEGATE BAR, YORK.]
[Illustration: STONE GATE, YORK.]
York was the "Caer Ebranc" of the Brigantes, where Septimus Severus, the
Roman Emperor, died in A.D. 211, and another Emperor, Constantius, in
306. The latter's son, who was born at York, was there proclaimed
Emperor on the death of his father, to become better known afterwards as
Constantine the Great. In A.D. 521 King Arthur was said to have spent
Christmas at York in company with his courtiers and the famous Knights
of the Round Table; but Geoffrey of Monmouth, who recorded this, was
said to have a lively imagination in the way of dates and perhaps of
persons as well. It is, however, certain that William the Conqueror
built a castle there in 1068, and Robert de Clifford a large tower.
(_Distance walked sixteen miles_.)
_Wednesday, October 25th._
The boots awoke us early in the morning, only to say that he had sent a
messenger unsuccessfully into the town for our shoes; all the
consolation he got was that as soon as they were finished, his friend
the shoemaker would send them down to the hotel. It was quite an hour
after the time specified when they arrived, but still early enough to
admit of our walking before breakfast round the city walls, which we
found did not encircle the town as completely as those of our county
town of Chester. Where practicable we explored them, and saw many
ancient buildings, including Clifford's Tower and the beautiful ruins of
St. Mary's Abbey. We also paid a second visit to the ancient
market-place, with its quaint and picturesque surroundings, before
returning to our inn, where we did ample justice to the good breakfast
awaiting our arrival.
[Illustration: MONK BAR, YORK.]
We left the City of York by the same arched gateway through which we had
entered on the previous day, and, after walking for about a mile on the
Roman road leading to Tadcaster, the CALCARIA of the Romans and our next
stage, we arrived at the racecourse, which now appeared on our left.
Here we entered into conversation with one of the officials, who
happened to be standing there, and he pointed out the place where in
former years culprits were hanged. From what he told us we gathered that
the people of York had a quick and simple way of disposing of their
criminals, for when a man was sentenced to be hanged, he was taken to
the prison, and after a short interval was placed in a cart, to which a
horse was attached, and taken straightway to the gallows. Here a rope
was suspended, with a noose, or running knot, at the end, which was
placed round the culprit's neck, and after other preliminaries the
hangman saw to it that the man's hands were securely handcuffed and the
noose carefully adjusted. At a given signal from him the cart was drawn
from under the man's feet, leaving him swinging and struggling for
breath in the air, where he remained till life was extinct. The judge
when passing the death-sentence always forewarned the prisoner what
would happen to him, and that he would be taken from there to the
prison, and thence to the place of execution, "where you will be hanged
by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead." Why he repeated the last
word over and over again we could not explain. It was spoken very
solemnly, and after the first time he used it there was a pause, and
after the second, a longer pause, and then came the third in an almost
sepulchral tone of voice, while a death-like silence pervaded the court,
each word sounding like an echo of the one before it:
dead!--dead!!--dead!!! Perhaps, like the Trinity, it gave a sense of
completion.
[Illustration: ST. MARY'S ABBEY, YORK.]
The executions in those days were public, and many people attended them
as they would a fair or the races; and when held outside the towns, as
at York, a riotous mob had it in its power either to lynch or rescue the
prisoner. But hangings were afterwards arranged to take place on a
scaffold outside the prison wall, to which the prisoner could walk from
the inside of the prison. The only one we ever went to see was outside
the county gaol, but the character of the crowd of sightseers convinced
us we were in the wrong company, and we went away without seeing the
culprit hanged! There must have been a great crowd of people on the York
racecourse when Eugene Aram was hanged, for the groans and yells of
execration filled his ears from the time he left the prison until he
reached the gallows and the cart was drawn from under him, adding to the
agony of the moment and the remorse he had felt ever since the foul
crime for which he suffered. As we stood there we thought what an awful
thing it must be to be hanged on the gallows.[Footnote: In later years
we were quite horrified to receive a letter from a gentleman in
Yorkshire who lived in the neighbouring of Knaresborough in which he
wrote: "I always feel convinced in my own mind that Eugene Aram was
innocent. Note these beautiful lines he wrote the night before his
execution:
"Come, pleasing rest! eternal slumber fall,
Seal mine, that once must seal the eyes of all;
Calm and composed, my soul her journey takes,
No _guilt_ that _troubles_, and no _heart_ that _aches_!
Adieu, thou sun! all bright like her arise;
Adieu, fair friends! and all that's good and wise.
"I could give you," he added, "the most recent thoughts and opinions
about the tragedy, and they prove beyond doubt his innocence!"]
But, like other dismal thoughts, we got rid of it as soon as possible by
thinking how thankful we should be that, instead of being hanged, we
were walking through the level country towards Tadcaster, a Roman
station in the time of Agricola.
From some cause or other we were not in our usual good spirits that day,
which we accounted for by the depression arising from the dull autumnal
weather and the awful histories of the wars he had been reading the
previous night. But we afterwards attributed it to a presentiment of
evil, for we were very unfortunate during the remainder of the week.
Perhaps it is as well so; the human race would suffer much in
anticipation, did not the Almighty hide futurity from His creatures.
[Illustration: OLD GOTHIC CHURCH, TADCASTER.]
Just before reaching Tadcaster we crossed the River Wharfe, which we had
seen higher up the country, much nearer its source. Here we turned to
the left to visit Pontefract, for the sole reason, for aught we knew,
that we had heard that liquorice was manufactured there, an article that
we had often swallowed in our early youth, without concerning ourselves
where or how that mysterious product was made. It was quite a change to
find ourselves walking through a level country and on a level road, and
presently we crossed the River Cock, a small tributary of the Wharfe,
close by the finely wooded park of Grimstone, where Grim the Viking, or
Sea Pirate, settled in distant ages, and gave his name to the place; he
was also known as "the man with the helmet." We then came to the small
hamlet of Towton, where on the lonely heath was fought the Battle of
Towton Field, one of the most bloody battles recorded in English
history. This great and decisive battle was fought in the Wars of the
Roses, between the rival Houses of York and Lancaster, for the
possession of the English Crown--a rivalry which began in the reign of
Henry VI and terminated with the death of Richard III at the Battle of
Bosworth Field. It has been computed that during the thirty years these
wars lasted, 100,000 of the gentry and common people, 200 nobles, and 12
princes of the Royal Blood were killed, all this carnage taking place
under the emblems of love and purity, for the emblem or badge of the
House of Lancaster was the red rose, and that of York the white. The
rivalry between the two Houses only came to an end when Henry VII, the
Lancastrian, married the Princess Elizabeth, the daughter of Edward IV,
the Yorkist. The Battle of Towton, like many others both before and
since, was fought on a Sunday, which happened to be Palm Sunday in the
year 1461, and the historian relates that on that day the "heavens were
overcast, and a strong March wind brought with it a blinding snowstorm,
right against the faces of the Lancastrians as they advanced to meet the
Yorkists, who quickly took advantage of the storm to send many furious
showers of arrows from their strong bows right into the faces of the
Lancastrians, causing fearful havoc amongst them at the very outset of
the battle. These arrows came as it were from an unknown foe, and when
the Lancastrians shot their arrows away, they could not see that they
were falling short of the enemy, who kept advancing and retreating, and
who actually shot at the Lancastrians with their own arrows, which had
fallen harmlessly on the ground in front of the Yorkists. When the
Lancastrians had nearly emptied their quivers, their leaders hurried
their men forward to fight the enemy, and, discarding their bows, they
continued the battle with sword, pike, battle-axe, and bill. Thus for
nearly the whole of that Sabbath day the battle raged, the huge
struggling mass of humanity fighting like demons, and many times during
that fatal day did the fortune of war waver in the balance: sometimes
the White Rose trembling and then the Red, while men fought each other
as if they were contending for the Gate of Paradise! For ten hours, with
uncertain result, the conflict raged, which Shakespeare compared to "the
tide of a mighty sea contending with a strong opposing wind," but the
arrival of 5,000 fresh men on the side of the Yorkists turned the scale
against the Lancastrians, who began to retreat, slowly at first, but
afterwards in a disorderly flight. The Lancastrians had never
anticipated a retreat, and had not provided for it, for they felt as
sure of victory as the great Duke of Wellington at Waterloo, who, when
he was asked by a military expert what provision he had made for retreat
in the event of losing the battle, simply answered, "None!" The
Lancastrians were obliged to cross the small River Cock in their
retreat, and it seemed almost impossible to us that a small stream like
that could have been the cause of the loss of thousands upon thousands
of the finest and bravest soldiers in England. But so it happened. There
was only one small bridge over the stream, which was swollen and ran
swiftly in flood. This bridge was soon broken down with the rush of men
and horses trying to cross it, and although an active man to-day could
easily jump over the stream, it was a death-trap for men weighted with
heavy armour and wearied with exertion, the land for a considerable
distance on each side the river being very boggy. As those in front sank
in the bog, those from behind walked over them, and as row after row
disappeared, their bodies formed the road for others to walk over. The
carnage was terrible, for King Edward had ordered that no quarter must
be given and no prisoners taken. It was estimated that 28,000 of the
Lancastrians were slaughtered in this battle and in the pursuit which
followed, and that 37,776 men in all were killed on that dreadful day.
In some parts of Yorkshire the wild roses were very beautiful, ranging
in colour from pure white to the deepest red, almost every shade being
represented; the variation in colour was attributed to the difference in
the soil or strata in which they grew. But over this battle-field and
the enormous pits in which the dead were buried there grew after the
battle a dwarf variety of wild rose which it was said would not grow
elsewhere, and which the country people thought emblematical of the
warriors who had fallen there, as the white petals were slightly tinged
with red, while the older leaves of the bushes were of a dull bloody
hue; but pilgrims carried many of the plants away before our time, and
the cultivation of the heath had destroyed most of the remainder. In the
great Battle of Towton Field many noblemen had perished, but they
appeared to have been buried with the rank and file in the big pits dug
out for the burial of the dead, as only a very few could be traced in
the local churchyards. The Earl of Westmorland, however, had been buried
in Saxton church and Lord Dacres in Saxton churchyard, where his remains
rested under a great stone slab, 7 feet long, 4-1/2 feet wide, and 7
inches thick, the Latin inscription on which, in old English characters,
was rapidly fading away:
HIC JACET RANULPHUS D.S. DE DAKREET--MILES ET OCCISUS ERAT IN BELLO
PRINCIPE HENRICO VIe ANNO DOM 1461.--29 DIE MARTII VIDELICET DOMICA
DIE PALMARUM--CUJUS ANIME PROPITIETUR DEUS.--AMEN.