The Lord Dacres
Was slain at Nor acres,
for his lordship had been killed in a field known as the North Acres. He
had removed his gorget, a piece of armour which protected the throat,
for the purpose, it was supposed, of getting a drink to quench his
thirst, when he was struck in the throat by a bolt, or headless arrow,
shot from a cross-bow by a boy who was hiding in a bur-tree or elder
bush. The boy-archer must have been a good shot to hit a warrior clothed
from head to foot in armour in the only vulnerable point exposed, but in
those days boys were trained to shoot with bows and arrows from the
early age of six years, their weapons, being increased in size and
strength as they grew older; their education was not considered complete
until they could use that terrible weapon known as the English long-bow,
and hit the smallest object with their arrows. Lord Dacres was buried in
an upright position, and his horse was buried with him; for many years
the horse's jaw-bone and teeth were preserved at the vicarage, One of
his lordship's ancestors, who died fighting on Flodden Field, had been
buried in a fine tomb in Lanercrost Abbey.
Lord Clifford was another brave but cruel warrior who was killed in a
similar way. He had removed his helmet from some unexplained
cause--possibly to relieve the pressure on his head--when a random arrow
pierced his throat; but his death was to many a cause of rejoicing, for
owing to his cruel deeds at the Battle of Wakenfield, he had earned the
sobriquet of "the Butcher." While that battle was raging, the Duke of
York's son, the Earl of Rutland, a youth only seventeen years of age,
described as "a fair gentleman and maiden-like person," was brought by
his tutor, a priest, from the battle-field to shelter in the town. Here
he was perceived by Clifford, who asked who he was. The boy, too much
afraid to speak, fell on his knees imploring for mercy, "both by holding
up his hands and making dolorous countenance, for his speech was gone
from fear." "Save him," said the tutor, "for he is a prince's son and,
peradventure, might do you good hereafter." With that word Clifford
marked him, and said, "By God's blood thy father slew mine, and so will
I thee, and all thy kin," and, saying this, he struck the Earl to the
heart with his dagger, and bade the tutor bear word to his mother and
brothers what he had said and done. Not content with this, when he came
to the body of the Duke, the child's father, he caused the head to be
cut off and a paper crown to be placed on it; then, fixing it on a pole,
he presented it to the Queen, saying, "Madame, your war is done--here is
your King's ransom." The head was placed over the gates of York by the
side of that of the Earl of Salisbury, whom Queen Margaret had ordered
to be beheaded.
For some little time we had been walking through what was known as the
"Kingdom of Elmet," but whether this was associated with the helmet of
Grim we were unable to ascertain, though we shrewdly suspected it was an
old Celtic word. We arrived at the village of Sherburn-in-Elmet, an
important place in ancient times, where once stood the palace of
Athelstan, the grandson of Alfred the Great, the first ruler of all
England, who was crowned King of England in the year 925. In celebration
of his great victory over the combined army of the Danes and Scots at
Brunnanburgh, King Athelstan presented his palace here, along with other
portions of the Kingdom of Elmet, to the See of York, and it remained
the Archbishop of York's Palace for over three hundred years. But when
the See of York was removed to Cawick, a more convenient centre, the
Sherburn Palace was pulled down, and at the time of our visit only the
site and a portion of the moat remained. We were much interested in the
church, as the historian related that "within the walls now existing the
voices of the last Saxon archbishop and the first Norman archbishop have
sounded, and in the old church of Sherburn has been witnessed the
consummation of the highest ambition of chivalric enterprise, and all
the pomp attending the great victory of Athelstan at Brunnanburgh."
Here in the time of Edward II, in 1321, "a secret conclave was held,
attended by the Archbishop, the Bishops of Durham and Carlisle, and
Abbots from far and near, the Earls of Lancaster and Hereford, and many
Barons, Baronets, and Knights. To this assembly Sir John de Bek, a
belted Knight, read out the Articles which Lancaster and his adherents
intended to insist upon." But what interested us most in the church was
the "Janus Cross" The Romans dedicated the month of January to Janus,
who was always pictured with two faces, as January could look back to
the past year and forwards towards the present. The Janus Cross here had
a curious history; it had been found in the ruins of an ancient chapel
in the churchyard dedicated to the "Honour of St. Mary and the Holy
Angels." One of the two churchwardens thought it would do to adorn the
walls of his residence, but another parishioner thought it would do to
adorn his own, and the dispute was settled by some local Solomon, who
suggested that they should cut it in two and each take one half. So it
was sawn vertically in two parts, one half being awarded to each. In
course of time the parts were again united and restored to the church.
[Illustration: ST. JANUS CROSS, SHERBURN-IN-ELMERT CHURCH.]
Arriving at Ferry Bridge, we crossed the River Aire, which we had seen
at its source, but which here claimed to have become one of the most
useful rivers in Yorkshire, for its waters were valuable for navigation
and for the manufacturing towns near which they passed.
My foot, which had pained me ever since leaving York, so that I had been
limping for some time, now became so painful that I could scarcely walk
at all. Still, we were obliged to reach Pontefract in order to procure
lodgings for the night, so my brother relieved me of all my luggage
excepting the stick, in order that I might hobble along to that town. It
was with great difficulty that I climbed up the hill to the inn, which
was in the upper part of the town, and there I was painfully relieved by
the removal of my boot, and found that my ankle was seriously swollen
and inflamed. It might, of course, have arisen through over-exertion,
but we came to the conclusion that it was caused through the repair of
my boots at York. Before arriving there the heels were badly worn down
at one side, and as I had been practically walking on the sides of my
feet, the sudden reversion to the flat or natural position had brought
on the disaster that very nearly prevented us from continuing our walk.
We applied all the remedies that both our hostess and ourselves could
think of, but our slumbers that night were much disturbed, and not
nearly so continuous as usual.
(_Distance walked twenty-three and a half miles_.)
_Thursday, October 26th._
[Illustration: THE OLD CHURCH, PONTEFRACT.]
The great object of interest at Pontefract was the castle, the ruins of
which were very extensive. Standing on the only hill we encountered in
our walk of the previous day, it was formerly one of the largest and
strongest castles in England, and had been associated with many stirring
historical events. It was here that King Richard II was murdered in the
year 1399, and the remains of the dismal chamber where this tragedy took
place still existed. During the Wars of the Roses, when in 1461 Queen
Margaret appeared in the north of Yorkshire with an army of 60,000 men,
the newly appointed King, Edward IV, sent the first portion of his army
to meet her in charge of his most influential supporter, the Earl of
Warwick, the "King Maker." The King followed him to Pontefract with the
remainder of his army, and the old castle must have witnessed a
wonderful sight when that army, to the number of 40,660 men, was
marshalled in the plains below.
But it was in the Civil War that this castle attained its greatest
recorded notoriety, for it was besieged three times by the forces of the
Parliament. Sir Thomas Fairfax was in charge of the first siege, and
took possession of the town in 1644, driving the garrison into the
castle. He had a narrow escape from death on that occasion, as a
cannon-ball passed between him and Colonel Forbes so close that the wind
caused by its passage knocked both of them down to the ground, Forbes
losing the sight of one of his eyes. The castle was strongly defended,
but just as one of the towers collapsed, a shot from the castle struck a
match, and the spark, falling into Fairfax's powder stores, caused a
tremendous explosion which killed twenty-seven of his men. In January
1645 Forbes sent a drum to the castle to beat a parley, but the
Governor, Colonel Lowther, and his brave garrison said they would go on
with the defence to the last extremity. The besiegers then began to lay
mines, but these were met by counter-mines driven by the garrison, who
now began to suffer from want of food. At this critical moment a
Royalist force of 2,000 horse arrived under Sir Marmaduke Langdale, who
had made a forced march from Oxford to relieve the garrison. He drove
off the besiegers, first to Ferry Bridge, and afterwards to Sherburn and
Tadcaster, inflicting severe loss, and so the garrison was revictualled.
The Parliamentary forces, however, soon made their appearance again, and
on March 21st, 1645, the second siege began. They again took possession
of the town, and after four months of incessant cannonading the garrison
capitulated and the castle was garrisoned by the other side.
The war continued in other parts of the country, and towards the end of
it a conspiracy was formed by the Royalists to recover possession of the
castle, which through the treachery of a Colonel Maurice was successful.
Many of the garrison at that time lived outside the walls of the castle,
and Maurice persuaded the Governor, Cotterel, to order them to move
their homes inside, to which he assented, issuing an order in the
country for beds to be provided on a certain day. Taking advantage of
this, Maurice and another conspirator dressed themselves as country
gentlemen, with swords by their sides, and with nine others, disguised
as constables, made their appearance at the castle entrance early in the
morning, so as to appear like a convoy guarding the safe passage of the
goods. The Governor, who kept the keys, was still in bed, and the
soldier on guard at the inside of the gates, who was in league with
Maurice, went to inform him the beds had arrived. He handed over the
keys, and, not suspecting treachery, remained in bed with his sword at
his side as usual. The remainder of the conspirators then drew their
swords, and the garrison, on condition that their lives should be
spared, surrendered, and were put into one of the prison dungeons. The
conspirators then went to the room of the Governor, who, hearing a
noise, jumped out of bed and defended himself, but was soon wounded,
disarmed, and placed in the dungeon along with the rest, while the
Royalists took possession of the castle. This happened in June 1648.
The dungeons in the castle, which were still to be seen, were of the
most awful description, for, sunk deep down into the solid rock, it was
scarcely necessary to write over them--
Abandon Hope, all ye who enter here.
There was one dungeon under the Round Tower, which was reached by
passing down some winding steps, into which no ray of light ever
entered, as dark and dismal a place as could be imagined. Here Earl
Rivers and his fellow peers were incarcerated, praying for their
execution to end their misery. There was also a cellar for the storage
of food and drink, sunk some forty or fifty feet in the solid rock, and
capable of holding two or three hundred men, and this too was used as a
dungeon by the Royalists. Here the prisoners taken by the Royalist army
were confined, and many of their names appeared cut in the walls of
solid rock. The history of these places, if it could be written, would
form a chapter of horrors of the most dreadful character, as in olden
times prisoners were often forgotten by their captors, and left in the
dungeons to perish.
It was not without a tinge of satisfaction that we heard that the Earl
of Lancaster, to whom the castle belonged, was himself placed in one of
these dungeons after the Battle of Boroughbridge in 1322, and after
being imprisoned there a short time, where he had so often imprisoned
others, was led out to execution.
The third siege of Pontefract Castle happened in the autumn of 1648, for
after the Parliamentarians had gained the upper hand, the castles that
still held out against them were besieged and taken, but the turn of
Pontefract Castle came last of all. Oliver Cromwell himself undertook to
superintend the operations, and General Lambert, one of the ablest of
Cromwell's generals, born at Kirkby Malham, a Yorkshire village through
which we had passed some days before, was appointed Commander-in-Chief
of the forces. He arrived before the castle on December 4th, 1648, but
such was the strength of the position that though he had a large number
of soldiers and a great service of artillery, it was not until March
25th, 1649, when scarcely one hundred men were left to defend the walls,
that the garrison capitulated. Meantime the tremendous effect of the
artillery brought to bear against them had shattered the walls, and
finally Parliament ordered the castle to be dismantled. With the
surrender of this castle the Civil War came to an end, but not before
King Charles I had been beheaded.
[Illustration: THE GATE AND KEEP, PONTEFRACT CASTLE.]
Last year, before we began our walk from London to Lancashire, we
visited Whitehall and saw the window in the Banqueting-hall through
which, on January 30th, 1649, about two months before Pontefract Castle
surrendered, he passed on his way to the scaffold outside.
In its prime Pontefract Castle was an immense and magnificent
fortification, and from its ruins we had a fine view on all sides of the
country it had dominated for about six hundred years.
We were now journeying towards the more populous parts of the country,
and the greater the mileage of our walk, the greater became the interest
taken both in us and our adventures. Several persons interviewed us in
our hotel at Pontefract, and much sympathy was extended towards myself,
as my foot was still very painful in spite of the remedies which had
been applied to it; but we decided not to give in, my brother kindly
consenting to carry all the luggage, for we were very anxious not to
jeopardise our twenty-five miles' daily average beyond recovery. My boot
was eased and thoroughly oiled; if liquorice could have done it any
good, we could have applied it in addition to the other remedies, as we
had bought some both for our own use and for our friends to eat when we
reached home. All we had learned about it was that it was made from the
root of a plant containing a sweet juice, and that the Greek name of it
was _glykyr-rhiza_, from _glykys_, sweet, and _rhiza_, root. After
making a note of this formidable word, I did not expect my brother to
eat any more liquorice; but his special aversion was not Greek, but
Latin, as he said both his mind and body had been associated with that
language through the medium of the cane of his schoolmaster, who
believed in the famous couplet:
'Tis Education forms the common mind.
And with the cane we drive it in behind!
He was always suspicious of the Latin words attached to plants, and
especially when quoted by gardeners, which I attributed to jealousy of
their superior knowledge of that language; but it appeared that it was
founded on incidents that occurred many years ago.
He was acquainted with two young gardeners who were learning their
business by working under the head gardener at a hall in Cheshire, the
owner of which was proud of his greenhouses and hothouses as well as of
the grounds outside. As a matter of course everything appeared up to
date, and his establishment became one of the show-places in the
neighbourhood. The gardener, an elderly man, was quite a character. He
was an Irishman and an Orangeman as well, and had naturally what was
known in those parts as "the gift of the gab." The squire's wife was
also proud of her plants, and amongst the visitors to the gardens were
many ladies, who often asked the gardener the name of a plant that was
strange to them. As no doubt he considered it _infra dig._ to say he did
not know, and being an Irishman, he was never at a loss when asked,
"What do you call this plant?" he would reply, "Oh, that, mum, is the
Hibertia Canadensus, mum!" and a further inquiry would be answered in a
similar manner--"That, mum, is the Catanansus Rulia, mum!" and again the
lady would thank him and walk on apparently quite pleased and happy,
probably forgetting the name of the plant before she had gone through
the gardens. The young men were often at work in the houses while the
visitors were going through, and of course they were too deeply engaged
in their work either to see the visitors or to hear all the conversation
that was going on, but they told my brother that they could always tell
when the gardener did not know the real name of a plant by his
invariably using these two names on such occasions, regardless of the
family or species of the plant in question.
Pomfret was the local abbreviation of Pontefract, the name of the town,
and "Pomfret Liquorice" claimed not only to be a sweetmeat, but a throat
remedy as well, and was considered beneficial to the consumer. The
sample we purchased was the only sweet we had on our journey, for in
those days men and women did not eat sweets so much as in later times,
they being considered the special delicacies of the children. The sight
of a man or woman eating a sweet would have caused roars of ridicule.
Nor were there any shops devoted solely to the sale of sweets in the
country; they were sold by grocers to the children, though in nothing
like the variety and quantity that appeared in later years. The most
common sweet in those days was known as "treacle toffy," which was sold
in long sticks wrapped from end to end in white paper, to protect the
children's fingers when eating it, in spite of which it was no unusual
sight to see both hands and faces covered with treacle marks, and thus
arose the name of "treacle chops," as applied to boys whose cheeks were
smeared with treacle. There was also toffy that was sold by weight, of
which Everton toffee was the chief favourite. My brother could remember
a little visitor, a cousin of ours, who could not speak very plainly,
and who always called a cup a "tup," being sent to the village shop for
a pound of coffee, and his delight when he returned laden with a pound
of toffy, which was of course well-nigh devoured before the mistake was
found out!
By this day we were ready for anything except walking as we crawled out
of the town to find our way to Doncaster, and our speed, as might be
imagined, was not excessive; for, including stoppages, which were
necessarily numerous, we only averaged one mile per hour! There was a
great bazaar being held in Pontefract that day, to be opened by Lord
Houghton, and we met several carriages on their way to it. After we had
walked some distance, we were told--for we stopped to talk to nearly
every one we met--that we were now passing through Barnsdale Forest. We
could not see many trees, even though this was formerly the abode of
Robin Hood and Little John, as well as Will Scarlett.
It was in this forest that Robin, hearing of the approach of the Bishop
of Hereford, ordered his men to kill a good fat deer, and to make a
repast of it by the side of the highway on which the Bishop was
travelling. Robin dressed himself and six of his men in the garb of
shepherds, and they took their stand by the fire at which the venison
was being roasted. When the Bishop came up, with his retinue, he asked
the men why they had killed the King's deer, and said he should let the
King know about it, and would take them with him to see the King.
"Oh pardon, oh pardon," said bold Robin Hood,
"Oh pardon, I thee pray.
For it becomes not your Lordship's coat
To take so many lives away."
"No pardon, no pardon," said the Bishop,
"No pardon I thee owe;
Therefore make haste and come along with me,
For before the King ye shall go."
Then Robin pulled his bugle horn from beneath his coat and blew a long
blast, and threescore and ten of his followers quickly appeared--
All making obeysance to Robin Hood,
'Twas a comely sight to see;
"What is the matter, master?" said Little John,
"That you blow so heartily?"
Robin replied that the Bishop of Hereford refused all pardon for slaying
the deer, and had said they must at once accompany him to the King.
Little John then suggested that they should cut off the Bishop's head
and throw him in a grave; but the Bishop craved pardon of the outlaw for
his interference, and declared that had he known who was on the road,
"he would have gone some other way."
"No pardon, no pardon," said bold Robin Hood,
"No pardon I thee owe;
Therefore make haste and come along with me,
For to merry Barnsdale you shall go."
So thither they led the Bishop, and made him sup with them right merrily
and royally.
"Call in a reckoning," said the Bishop,
"For methinks it grows wondrous high;"
"Lend me your purse, master," said Little John,
"And I'll tell you by and bye!"
Little John took the Bishop's cloak
And spread it upon the ground.
And out of the Bishop's portmanteau
He told three hundred pound.
"Here's money enough, master," said Little John,
"And a comely sight to see;
It makes me in charity with the Bishop,
Though he heartily loveth not me."
Robin took the Bishop by the hand,
And he caused the music to play;
And he made the Bishop to dance in his boots.
And glad he could get away!
[Illustration: DONCASTER RACECOURSE. "We had walked for five days over
the broad acres of Yorkshire and had seen many fine horses, for
horse-breeding was a leading feature of that big county, and horses a
frequent subject of conversation."]
We heard all sorts of stories from the roadmen, some of which might not
be true; but in any case about seven miles from Doncaster we reached
Robin Hood's Well, at the side of the road. It was quite a substantial
structure, built of soft limestone, and arched over, with a seat
inside--on which doubtless many a weary wayfarer had rested before us.
The interior was nearly covered with inscriptions, one dated 1720 and
some farther back than that. We had a drink of water from the well, but
afterwards, when sitting on the seat, saw at the bottom of the well a
great black toad, which we had not noticed when drinking the water. The
sight of it gave us a slight attack of the horrors, for we had a
particular dread of toads. We saw at the side of the road a large house
which was formerly an inn rejoicing in the sign of "Robin Hood and
Little John," one of the oldest inns between York and London. We called
at a cottage for tea, and here we heard for the first time of the
Yorkshireman's coat-of-arms, which the lady of the house told us every
Yorkshireman was entitled to place on his carriage free of tax! It
consisted of a flea, and a fly, a flitch of bacon, and a magpie, which
we thought was a curious combination. The meaning, however, was
forthcoming, and we give the following interpretation as given to us:
A flea will bite! and so will a Yorkshireman;
A fly will drink out of anybody's cup! and so will a Yorkshireman;
A magpie will chatter! and so will a Yorkshireman:
And a flitch of bacon looks best when it's hung! and so does a
Yorkshireman.
We fancied a Lancashire man must have written that ditty.
[Illustration: ROBIN HOOD'S WELL.]
The moon was shining brightly as we left the cottage, and a man we met,
when he saw me limping so badly, stopped us to inquire what was the
matter. He was returning from Doncaster, and cheered us up by pointing
to the moon, saying we should have the "parish lantern" to light us on
our way. This appeared to remind him of his parish church, where a
harvest thanksgiving had just been held, with a collection on behalf of
the hospital and infirmary. He and seven of his fellow servants had
given a shilling each, but, although there were "a lot of gentry" at the
service, the total amount of the collection was only one pound odd. The
minister had told them he could scarcely for shame carry it in, as it
was miserably small for an opulent parish like that!
We arrived at Doncaster at 8.30 p.m., and stayed at the temperance hotel
in West Laith Street. The landlord seemed rather reluctant about letting
us in, but he told us afterwards he thought we were "racing characters,"
which greatly amused us since we had never attended a race-meeting in
our lives!
(_Distance walked fourteen miles_.)
_Friday, October 27th._
Our host at Doncaster took a great interest in us, and, in spite of my
sprained ankle, we had a good laugh at breakfast-time at his mistaking
us for "racing characters." My brother related to him his experiences on
the only two occasions he ever rode on the back of a horse unassisted.
The first of these was when, as quite a young boy, he went to visit his
uncle who resided near Preston in Lancashire, and who thought it a
favourable opportunity to teach him to ride. He was therefore placed on
the back of a quiet horse, a groom riding behind him on another horse,
with orders not to go beyond a walking pace; but when they came near the
barracks, and were riding on the grass at the side of the road, a
detachment of soldiers came marching out through the entrance, headed by
their military band, which struck up a quickstep just before meeting the
horses. My brother's horse suddenly reared up on its hind legs, and
threw him off its back on to the grass below, or, as he explained it,
while the horse reared up he reared down! He was more frightened than
hurt, but the groom could not persuade him to ride on the horse's back
any farther, so he had to lead the horses home again, a distance of two
miles, while my brother walked on the footpath.
It was years before he attempted to ride on horseback again, but this
time he was mounted upon an old horse white with age, and very quiet,
which preferred walking to running; this second attempt also ended
disastrously. It was a very hot day, and he had ridden some miles into
the country when he came to a large pit, on the opposite side of the
road to a farmhouse, when, without any warning, and almost before my
brother realised what was happening, the horse walked straight into this
pit, and, in bending its head to drink at the water, snatched the bridle
out of his hands. He had narrowly escaped drowning on several occasions,
and was terrified at the thought of falling into the water, so,
clutching hold of the horse's mane with both hands, he yelled out with
all his might for help--which only served to make the horse move into a
deeper part of the pit, as if to have a bathe as well as a drink. His
cries attracted the attention of some Irish labourers who were at work
in a field, and they ran to his assistance. One of them plunged into the
water, which reached half way up his body, and, taking hold of my
brother, carried him to the road and then returned for the horse. He was
rewarded handsomely for his services, for my brother verily believed he
had saved him from being drowned. He was much more afraid of the water
than of the horse, which was, perhaps, the reason why he had never
learned to swim, but he never attempted to ride on horseback again. On
the wall in front of the farmhouse an old-fashioned sundial was
extended, on the face of which were the words:
Time that is past will never return,
and on the opposite corner were the Latin words _Tempus fugit_ (Time
flies). My brother seemed to have been greatly impressed by these
proverbs, and thought of them as he led the white horse on his
three-mile walk towards home; they seemed engraven upon his memory, for
he often quoted them on our journey.
[Illustration: THE GUILDHALL, DONCASTER.]
My ankle seemed to be a shade easier, and, after the usual remedies had
again been applied, we started on another miserable walk, or limp, for
we only walked twelve miles in twelve hours, following the advice of our
host to take it easy, and give the ankle time to recover. We rested many
times on the road, stopped to talk to many people, got to know all about
the country we were passing through, read papers and books, called for
refreshments oftener than we needed them, wrote letters to our friends,
and made copious entries in our diaries---in fact did everything except
walk. The country was very populous, and we attracted almost universal
sympathy: myself for my misfortune, and my brother for having to carry
all the luggage.
Doncaster takes its name from the River Don, on which it is situated,
and it was the only town in England, after London and York, that
possessed a "Mansion House." We had walked for five days over the broad
acres of Yorkshire and had seen many fine horses, for horse-breeding, we
found, was a leading feature in that big county, and horses a frequent
subject of conversation. Doncaster was no exception to the rule, as the
Doncaster Races were famous all over England, and perhaps in other
countries beyond the seas. We were too late in the year for the great
St. Leger race, which was held in the month of September, and was always
patronised by Royalty. On that occasion almost every mansion in the
county was filled with visitors "invited down" for the races, and there
was no doubt that agricultural Yorkshire owed much of its prosperity to
the breeding of its fine horses. The racecourse was situated on a moor a
little way out of the town, the property of the Corporation, and it was
said that the profit made by the races was so great that the Doncaster
people paid no rates. This might of course be an exaggeration, but there
could be no doubt that the profit made by the Corporation out of the
moor on which the races were held would largely reduce the rates of the
town.
Doncaster races owed their origin to a famous Arab horse named
Rasel-Fedawi (or the "Headstrong"), which was purchased from the Anazeh
tribe of Arabs by a Mr. Darley, an Englishman who at that time resided
at Aleppo, a Turkish trading centre in Northern Syria. This gentleman
sent the horse to his brother at Aldby Park in Yorkshire, and what are
now known as "thoroughbreds" have descended from him. His immediate
descendants have been credited with some wonderful performances, and the
"Flying Childers," a chestnut horse with a white nose and four white
legs, bred from a mare born in 1715, named "Betty Leedes," and owned by
Leonard Childers of Doncaster, was never beaten. All sorts of tales were
told of his wonderful performances: he was said to have covered 25 feet
at each bound, and to have run the round course at Newmarket, 3 miles 6
furlongs, in six minutes and forty seconds. After him came another
famous horse named "Eclipse" which could, it was said, run a mile a
minute. When he died in 1789 his heart was found to weigh 14 pounds,
which accounted for his wonderful speed and courage. Admiral Rous
records that in the year 1700 the English racehorse was fifteen hands
high, but after the Darley Arabian, the average height rose to over
sixteen hands. It was said that there were races at Doncaster in the
seventeenth century, but the great St. Leger was founded by General St.
Leger in 1778, and the grand stand was built in the following year. The
Yorkshire gentlemen and farmers were naturally all sportsmen, and were
credited with keeping "both good stables and good tables." The
invitation to "have a bite and a sup" was proverbial, especially in the
wold or moorland districts, where hospitality was said to be unbounded.
A learned man wrote on one occasion that "an honest walk is better than
a skilled physician. It stimulates heart, brain, and muscles alike,
sweeping cobwebs from the mind and heaviness from the heart." But this
was probably not intended to apply to a man with a sore foot, and it was
difficult to understand why the ankle failure had come so suddenly. We
could only attribute it to some defect in the mending of the boot at
York, but then came the mystery why the other ankle had not been
similarly affected. The day was beautifully fine, but the surroundings
became more smoky as we were passing through a mining and manufacturing
district, and it was very provoking that we could not walk through it
quickly. However, we had to make the best of it, imagining we were
treading where the saints had trod, or at any rate the Romans, for this
was one of their roads to the city of York upon which their legions must
have marched; but while we crossed the rivers over bridges, the Romans
crossed them by paved fords laid in the bed of the streams, traces of
which were still to be seen.
We made a long stay at Comsborough, and saw the scanty remains of the
castle, to which Oliver Cromwell had paid special attention, as, in the
words of the historian, "he blew the top off," which had never been
replaced. And yet it had a very long history, for at the beginning of
the fourth century it was the Burgh of Conan, Earl of Kent, who with
Maximian made an expedition to Armorica (now Brittany), where he was
eventually made king, which caused him to forsake his old Burgh in
England. Maximian was a nephew of King Coel, or Cole, the hero of the
nursery rhyme, of which there are many versions:
Old King Cole was a jolly old soul,
And a jolly old soul was he;
He called for his ale, and he called for his beer,
And he called for his fiddle-diddle-dee.
[Illustration: CONISBOROUGH CASTLE.]
But he seemed to have been a jolly old sinner as well, for he formed the
brilliant idea of supplying his soldiers with British wives, and
arranged with his father-in-law, the Duke of Cornwall, to send him
several shiploads from the "old country," for British women were famous
for their beauty. His request was complied with, but a great storm came
on, and some of the ships foundered, while others were blown out of
their course, as far as Germany, where the women landed amongst savages,
and many of them committed suicide rather than pass into slavery. Who
has not heard of St. Ursula and her thousand British virgins, whose
bones were said to be enshrined at Cologne Cathedral, until a prying
medico reported that many of them were only dogs' bones--for which
heresy he was expelled the city as a dangerous malignant.
Troublesome times afterwards arose in England, and on the Yorkshire
side, Briton and Saxon, and Pict and Scot, were mixed up in endless
fights and struggles for existence. It was about this period that
Vortigern, the British King, invited Hengist and Horsa, the Saxon
Princes, to lend their assistance against the Picts and the Scots, which
they did for a time; and when Hengist asked for a residence in his
country, the King gave him Conan's Burgh, which was then vacant. Conan
was never again seen in England, but in 489 his great-grandson Aurelius
Ambrosius became King of the Britons. In the meantime the Saxons had so
increased in numbers that they determined to fight for the possession of
the country, and, headed by Hengist, who had turned traitor, fought a
great battle, in the course of which Eldol, Duke of Gloucester,
encountered Hengist in single combat, and, seizing him by the helmet,
dragged him into the British ranks shouting that God had given his side
the victory. The Saxons were dismayed, and fled in all directions, and
Hengist was imprisoned in his own fortress of Conisborough, where a
council of war was held to decide what should be his fate. Some were
against his being executed, but Eldol's brother Eldad, Bishop of
Gloucester, "a man of great wisdom and piety," compared him to King
Agag, whom the prophet "hewed to pieces," and so Hengist was led through
the postern gate of the castle to a neighbouring hill, and beheaded.
Here Aurelius commanded him to be buried and a heap of earth to be
raised over him, because "he was so good a knight." A lady generally
appeared in these old histories as the cause of the mischief, and it was
said that one reason why King Vortigern was so friendly with Hengist was
that Hengist had a very pretty daughter named Rowena, whom the King
greatly admired: a road in Conisborough still bears her name.
Aurelius then went to Wales, but found that Vortigern had shut himself
up in a castle into which Aurelius was unable to force an entrance, so
he burnt the castle and the King together; and in a wild place on the
rocky coast of Carnarvonshire, Vortigern's Valley can still be seen. Sir
Walter Scott, who was an adept in selecting old ruins for the materials
of his novels, has immortalised Conisborough in his novel of _Ivanhoe_
as the residence, about the year 1198, of the noble Athelstane or
Athelstone, who frightened his servants out of their wits by demanding
his supper when he was supposed to be dead.
Yorkshire feasts were famous, and corresponded to the "wakes" in
Lancashire and Cheshire. There was a record of a feast at Conisborough
on the "Morrow of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross," September 15th,
1320, in the "14th year of King Edward, son of King Edward," which was
carried out by Sir Ralph de Beeston, one of our Cheshire knights, and
Sir Simon de Baldiston (Stewards of the Earl of Lancaster), to which the
following verse applied:
They ate as though for many a day
They had not ate before.
And eke as though they all should fear
That they should eat no more.
And when the decks were fairly cleared
And not a remnant nigh,
They drank as if their mighty thirst
Would drain the ocean dry.
A curious old legend was attached to the town well in Wellgate, which
formerly supplied most of the inhabitants of Conisborough with water;
for once upon a time, when the town was suffering from a great drought,
and the people feared a water famine, they consulted an old man known by
the name of St. Francis, who was very wise and very holy. He told the
people to follow him singing psalms and hymns to the Willow Vale, on the
Low Road. There he cut a wand from a willow tree, and stuck it into the
ground, and forthwith a copious supply of water appeared which had
flowed steadily ever since. The wand had been so firmly and deeply
stuck into the ground by St. Francis that it took root and grew into a
large tree.
In 1863 there was a great flood in Sheffield, which did a lot of damage,
and amongst the debris that floated down the river was noticed a cradle
containing a little baby. It was rescued with some difficulty, and was
still alive when we passed through the town, being then eight years old.
[Illustration: ROCHE ABBEY.]
After leaving Conisborough we lost sight of the River Don, which runs
through Mexborough; but we came in touch with it again where it was
joined by the River Rother, at Rotherham. Here we crossed over it by the
bridge, in the centre of which stood the decayed Chapel of our Lady. On
our way we had passed to our right Sprotborough, where in 664 King
Wulfhere when out hunting came to a cave at the side of the river where
a hermit named St. Ceadde or St. Chad dwelt, the country at that time
being "among sheep and distant mountains which looked more like
lurking-places for robbers and dens of wild beasts than dwellings of
men." There were many objects of interest on each side of our road,
including, a few miles to the left, Roche Abbey, the seat of the Earl of
Scarborough, and to the right Wentworth House, one of the largest
private houses in England, and the seat of Earl Fitzwilliam, the owner
of the far-famed Wharncliffe Crags, which are skirted by the waters of
the River Don.
It was in Wharncliffe Forest that Friar Tuck, the jolly chaplain of
Robin Hood, had his abode; and below the crags, in the bed of the River
Don, there was a rock that appeared to be worn by the friction of some
cylindrical body coiled about it. This was supposed to be the famous
Dragon of Wantley, an old name for Wharncliffe. It was here that the
monster was attacked and slain by Guy, the famous Earl of Warwick. Near
the top of the crag, which was formerly a hunting-seat, stood a lodge
where an inscription on a stone in the floor of the back kitchen stated
that "Geoffrey de Wortley, Knight of the body to the Kings Richard III,
Henry VII, and Henry VIII, built this Lodge for his pleasure, so that he
might hear the red deer bray." In the lodge too was a most ponderous
boot said to have been worn by Oliver Cromwell at the Battle of Marston
Moor. We stayed at Rotherham for the night.
(_Distance walked twelve miles_.)
_Saturday, October 28th._
The inn where we stayed the night had not been very satisfactory, as,
although the cooking was good, the upper apartments were below the
average. We took to the road again as early as possible, especially as a
decided improvement showed itself in the condition of my swollen foot,
and we were able to make a little better progress. For some days we had
been walking through a comparatively level country, but from the
appearance of the hills to our right as well as before us, we
anticipated a stiff climb. It was not until we approached Sheffield that
the tug of war began, and, strange to say, I found it easier to walk
uphill than on a level surface. Meantime we continued through a level
and busy country, and were in no danger of losing our way, for there
were many people to inquire of in case of necessity. At one time it had
been a wild and lonely place, known as Attercliffe Common, and we were
told that Dick Turpin had been gibbeted there. We had often heard of
Turpin, and knew that he was hanged, but did not remember where, so we
were anxious to see the exact spot where that famous "knight of the
road" ended his existence. We made inquiries from quite a number of
people, but could get no satisfactory information, until we met with an
elderly gentleman, who informed us that it was not Dick Turpin who was
gibbeted there, but a "gentleman" in the same profession, whose name was
Spence Broughton, the only trace of him now being a lane that bore his
name. As far as he knew, Dick Turpin had never been nearer Sheffield
than Maltby, a village five miles away, and that was on his ride from
London to York. He was hanged at Tyburn.
The hills we could see were those of the Pennine range, with which we
must have formed acquaintance unconsciously when farther north, as
although the high hills in the Lake District, through which we had
passed, were not included in the range, some of the others must have
been, since the Pennines were bounded on one side by Cumberland,
Westmorland, and Lancashire, and on the other by Northumberland, Durham,
and Yorkshire, attaining an elevation of 3,000 feet in the north and
2,000 feet in the south. The Pennines here were described to us as the
"backbone of England," for they were looked upon as being in the centre,
equidistant from the east and west coasts, and hereabouts thirty miles
in breadth. The district verging upon Sheffield was well known to the
Romans as producing the best iron in the world, the ore or iron-stones
being obtained in their time by digging up the earth, which was left in
great heaps after the iron-stones had been thrown out; many of these
excavations were still to be seen. In manufacturing the iron they took
advantage of the great forests around them to provide the fuel for
smelting the ore, for it was a great convenience to have the two
elements so near at hand, as it saved carriage from one to the other.
Forests still existed thereabouts in the time of Robin Hood, and were
well known to him and his band of "merrie men," while his jovial
chaplain, Friar Tuck, had his hermitage amongst their deep recesses.
Many woods round Sheffield still remained in the time of Mary Queen of
Scots, who passed some portion of her imprisonment at the old Manor
House, which was then a castellated mansion. Visitors were now conducted
up a narrow flight of stairs to a flat roof covered with lead, from
which that unfortunate Queen had looked out over the hills and forests,
and breathed the pure air as it passed over them. But now all appeared
to be fire and smoke, and the great works which belched them forth
seemed a strange and marvellous sight to us after walking so long
through such lonely districts.
[Illustration: THE SMOKE OF SHEFFIELD. "The district verging upon
Sheffield was well known to the Romans as producing the best iron in the
world."]
Sheffield has a world-wide reputation for its cutlery and for its other
productions in brass, iron, and steel, for the manufacture of which pure
water of a particular variety was essential. The town was well provided
in that respect, for no less than five rivers flowed towards Sheffield
from the Pennine range above. From the finest steel all sorts of things
were made, ranging from the smallest needle or steel pen up to the
largest-sized gun or armour-plate. It would no doubt have interested us
greatly to look through one of the works, but such as we passed were
labelled "No admittance except on business," which we interpreted to
mean that no strangers were allowed to enter, lest they might carry away
with them the secrets of the business, so we walked slowly onward in the
hope of reaching, before nightfall, our next great object of interest,
"The Great Cavern and Castle of Peveril of the Peak." Passing along the
Ecclesall Road, we saw, in nicely wooded enclosures, many of the houses
of manufacturers and merchants, who, like ourselves in after life, left
their men to sleep in the smoke while they themselves went to breathe
the purer air above, for Ecclesall was at a fair elevation above the
town. But one gentleman whom we saw assured us that, in spite of the
heavy clouds of smoke we had seen, the town was very healthy, and there
was more sunshine at Sheffield than in any other town in England.
Shortly afterwards we came to a finger-post where a road turned off
towards Norton and Beauchief Abbey. Norton was the village where the
sculptor Chantrey, of whom, and his works, we had heard so much, was
born, and the monument to his memory in the old church there was an
attraction to visitors. Chantrey was a man of whom it might safely be
said "his works do follow," for my brother, who always explored the wild
corners of the country when he had the opportunity, was once travelling
in Wales, and told a gentleman he met that he intended to stay the night
at the inn at the Devil's Bridge. This was not the Devil's Bridge we had
crossed so recently at Kirkby Lonsdale, but a much more picturesque one,
which to visit at that time involved a walk of about thirteen miles in
the mountainous region behind Aberystwyth.
"Have you ever seen that fine monument by Chantrey there?" asked the
gentleman.
"No," said my brother in astonishment, knowing the wild nature of the
country thereabouts.
"Well," he said, "mind you go and see it! Here is my card, and when you
have seen it, write me whether you have seen a finer monument in all
your life."
My brother found the monument in a small church about three miles from
the hotel in the hills above. He was very much astonished and deeply
impressed by the sculpture, acknowledging in his promised letter that it
was by far the finest he had seen. The origin of it was as follows:
The owner of the estate had an only child, a daughter, lovely, clever,
and accomplished, but slightly deformed in her back. When she was
twenty-one years old she was taken by her parents to London to have her
back straightened, but never recovered from the operation. The statuary
represented the daughter lying on a couch, her father standing at the
head looking down into the eyes of his dying daughter, while her mother
is kneeling at the foot in an attitude of prayer. The daughter's
instruments of music and painting, with her books, appear under the
couch, while every small detail, from the embroidery on the couch to the
creases in the pillow, are beautifully sculptured.
This great work of art cost £6,000, and was exhibited in London for some
time before it was placed in the small church of Hafod. It was said to
have made Chantrey's fortune.
[Illustration: THE CHANTREY MONUMENT IN HAFOD CHURCH.]
Beauchief Abbey, we were informed, was built by the murderers of Thomas
a Becket in expiation of their sin, but only a few fragments of the
buildings now remained. We halted for rest and refreshments at the "Fox
House Inn," which stood at a junction of roads and was formerly the
hunting-box of the Duke of Rutland.
We had by this time left the county of York and penetrated about four
miles into Derbyshire, a county we may safely describe as being peculiar
to itself, for limestone abounded in the greater part of its area. Even
the roads were made with it, and the glare of their white surfaces under
a brilliant sun, together with the accumulation of a white dust which
rose with the wind, or the dangerous slippery mud which formed on them
after rain or snow or frost, were all alike disagreeable to wayfarers.
But in later times, if the worthy writer who ventured into that county
on one occasion, had placed his fashionable length on the limy road when
in a more favourable condition than that of wet limy mud, he might have
written Derbyshire up instead of writing it down, and describing it as
the county beginning with a "Big D."
[Illustration: THE PLAGUE COTTAGES, EYAM.]
The colour of the green fields which lined the roads contrasted finely
in the distance with the white surface of the roads, both fields and
roads alike were neatly fenced in with stone walls. We wondered many
times where all these stones could have come from, and at the immense
amount of labour involved in getting them there and placing them in
position. Their purpose in breaking the force of the wind was clear, for
the greater part of the county consisted of moors, some portions of
which were being cultivated, and although they were almost entirely
devoid of trees, there were plenty of trees to be seen in the valleys,
the Dales of Derbyshire being noted for their beauty. The River Derwent
ran along the valley opposite the inn, and on the other side was the
village of Eyam, which became famous in the time of the Great Plague of
London in 1665. It seemed almost impossible that a remote village like
that could be affected by a plague in London, but it so happened that a
parcel arrived by coach from London addressed to a tailor in Eyam, who
opened it with the result that he contracted the disease and died; in
the same month five others died also, making a total of six for
September, which was followed by 23 deaths in October, 7 in November,
and 9 in December. Then came a hard frost, and it was thought that the
germs would all be killed, but it broke out again in the following June
with 19 deaths, July 56, August 77, September 24, and October 14, and
then the plague died out--possibly because there were very few people
left. During all this time Eyam had been isolated from the rest of the
world, for if a villager tried to get away he was at once driven back,
and for any one to go there was almost certain death. The Earl of
Devonshire, who nobly remained at Chatsworth all the time, sent
provisions periodically to a certain point where no one was allowed to
pass either inwards or outwards. At this time even the coins of the
realm were considered to be infectious, and large stones hollowed out
like basins, which probably contained some disinfectant, were placed
between Eyam and the villages which traded with them. Meantime the
rector of Eyam, whose name was Mompesson, stood his ground like a true
hero, ministering to his parishioners; and, although his wife contracted
the disease and died, and though he referred to himself as "a dying
man," yet was he mercifully preserved; so too was the Rev. Thomas
Stanley, who had been ejected from the rectory after eighteen years'
service because he would not subscribe to the Corporation Act of 1661.
He stood by Mompesson and did his duty quite as nobly; and some years
afterwards, when some small-minded people appealed to the Duke of
Devonshire as Lord Lieutenant of the county to have Stanley removed, he
indignantly refused and rebuked the petitioners very strongly.
William and Mary Howitt wrote a long poem entitled "The Desolation of
Hyam," and described the village as--
Among the verdant mountains of the Peak
There lies a quiet hamlet, where the slope
Of pleasant uplands wards the north winds bleak:
Below, wild dells romantic pathways ope:
Around, above it, spreads a shadowy cope
Of forest trees: flower, foliage and clear rill
Wave from the cliffs, or down ravines elope:
It seems a place charmed from the power of ill
By sainted words of old:--so lovely, lone and still.
William Wood wrote the _Plague Chronicle_, and on his gravestone was
inscribed:
Men like visions are;
Time all doth claim;
He lives who dies and leaves
A lasting name.
We had often read the wonderful epitaphs on the tombs of the nobility,
but we had been warned that in former times these were often written by
professional men who were well paid for their services, and the greater
the number of heavenly virtues attributed to the deceased, the greater
of course the fee; but those written by the poetical curate of Eyam were
beyond suspicion if we may judge from the couplet he wrote to be placed
on the gravestone of a parishioner:
Since life is short and death is always nigh,
On many years to come do not rely.
We were now passing through Little John's country, and we heard more
about him in this neighbourhood than of his master, Robin Hood, for
Little John's Well was not far away, and Hathersage, our next stage, was
where he was buried. We were very much interested in Robin Hood and
Little John, as my name was Robert, and my brother's name was John. He
always said that Little John was his greatest ancestor, for in the old
story-books his name appeared as John Nailer. But whether we could claim
much credit or no from the relationship was doubtful, as the stanza in
the old ballad ran:
Robin Hood did little good
And Little John did less.
In later times the name had been altered to Naylor, in order, we
supposed, to hide its humble though honourable origin; for there was no
doubt that it was a Nailer who fastened the boards on Noah's Ark, and
legend stated that when he came to nail the door on, he nailed it from
the inside!
The stanza, he explained, might have been written by the Bishop of
Hereford or one of Robin Hood's other clients, whom he and Little John
had relieved of his belongings; but the name Naylor was a common one in
South Yorkshire, and, although our branch of the family were natives of
South Lancashire, their characteristics showed they were of the same
stock, since, like Little John, they were credited with having good
appetites and with being able to eat and retain any kind of food and in
almost any quantity. On one occasion we happened to meet with a
gentleman named Taylor, and, after remarking there was only one letter
different between his name and ours, my brother said, "But we are much
the older family," and then named the Noah's Ark incident; when the
gentleman quietly remarked, "I can beat you." "Surely not," said my
brother. "Yes, I can," replied Mr. Taylor, "for my ancestor made the
tails for Adam's coat! He was a Tailer." My brother collapsed!
But the greatest blow he received in that direction was when he found a
much more modern story of "Robin Hood and Little John," which gave
Little John's real name as John Little, saying that his name was changed
to Little John because he was such a big man. My brother was greatly
annoyed at this until he discovered that this version was a
comparatively modern innovation, dating from the time of Sir Walter
Scott's _Talisman_, published in 1825, and inserted there because the
proper name would not have suited Sir Walter's rhyme:
"This infant was called 'John Little,' quoth he;
"Which name shall be changed anon.
The words we'll transpose, so wherever he goes
His name shall be called Little John."
On our way from the "Fox House Inn" to Hathersage we passed some
strange-looking rocks which were said to resemble the mouth of a huge
toad; but as we had not studied the anatomy of that strange creature,
and had no desire to do so, a casual glance as we walked along a down
gradient into Hathersage was sufficient. As we entered the village we
saw a party of men descending a road on our right, from whom we inquired
the way to Little John's grave, which they told us they had just been to
visit themselves. They directed us to go up the road that they had just
come down, and one of them advised us to call at the small inn which we
should find at the top of the hill, while another man shouted after us,
"Aye! and ther's a mon theere 'ats getten 'is gun!" We found the inn,
but did not ask to see the gun, being more interested at the time in
bows and arrows, so we called at the inn and ordered tea. It was only a
cottage inn, but the back of it served as a portion of the churchyard
wall, and the mistress told us that when Little John lay on his deathbed
in the room above our heads, he asked for his bow and arrow, and,
shooting through the window which we would see from the churchyard at
the back of the inn, desired his men to bury him on the spot where they
found his arrow.
[Illustration: THE TOAD'S MOUTH.]
We went to see the grave while our tea was being prepared, and found it
only a few yards from the inn, so presumably Little John was very weak
when he shot the arrow. The grave stood between two yew trees, with a
stone at the head and another at the foot, the distance between them
being ten feet.
The church was a very old one, dating from the early part of the
fourteenth century. It was said that a search for Little John's skeleton
had been made in 1784, when only a thigh-bone had been found; but as
this measured twenty-nine and a half inches, a very big man must have
been buried there.
On our right across the moor rose sharply what seemed to be a high,
continuous cliff, which we were told was the "edge" of one of the thick,
hard beds of millstone grit, and as we proceeded the edge seemed to be
gradually closing in upon us.
After tea we walked slowly on to Castleton, where we selected a clean
and respectable-looking private house to stay and rest over the
week-end, until Monday morning.
(_Distance walked twenty-two miles_.)
_Sunday, October 29th._
We were very comfortable in our apartments at Castleton, our host and
hostess and their worthy son paying us every possible attention. They
were members of the Wesleyan Church, and we arranged with the young man
that if he would go with us to the Parish Church in the morning, we
would go to the Wesleyan Chapel in the evening with him. So in the
morning we all went to church, where we had a good old-fashioned
service, and saw a monument to the memory of a former vicar, a Mr.
Bagshawe, who was Vicar of Castleton from 1723 to 1769; the epitaph on
it described him as--
A man whose chief delight was in the service of his Master--a sound
scholar--a tender and affectionate husband--a kind and indulgent
parent--and a lover of peace and quietness, who is gone to that place
where he now enjoys the due reward of his labours.
This Vicar had kept a diary, or journal, from which it appeared that he
began life in a good position, but lost his money in the "South Sea
Bubble," an idea floated in the year 1710 as a financial speculation to
clear off the National Debt, the Company contracting to redeem the whole
debt in twenty-six years on condition that they were granted a monopoly
of the South Sea Trade. This sounded all right, and a rush was made for
the shares, which soon ran up in value from £100 to £1,000, fabulous
profits being made. Sir Robert Walpole, who was then Chancellor of the
Exchequer, and afterwards Prime Minister for the long period of
twenty-two years, was strongly opposed to the South Sea Scheme, and
when, ten years later, he exposed it, the bubble burst and the whole
thing collapsed, thousands of people, including the worthy Vicar of
Castleton, being ruined.
[Illustration: CASTLETON CHURCH.]
It also appeared from the diary that, like the vicar Goldsmith
describes, he was "passing rich on forty pounds a year," for he never
received more than £40 per year for his services. The prices he paid for
goods for himself and his household in the year 1748 formed very
interesting reading, as it enabled us to compare the past with the
present.
Bohea Tea was 8s. per pound; chickens, threepence each; tobacco, one
penny per ounce; a shoulder of mutton cost him fifteen-pence, while the
forequarter of a lamb was eighteen-pence, which was also the price of a
"Cod's Head from Sheffield."
He also recorded matters concerning his family. He had a son named Harry
whom he apprenticed to a tradesman in Leeds. On one occasion it appeared
that the Vicar's wife made up a parcel "of four tongues and four pots of
potted beef" as a present for Hal's master. One of the most pleasing
entries in the diary was that which showed that Harry had not forgotten
his mother, for one day a parcel arrived at the Vicarage from Leeds
which was found to contain "a blue China cotton gown," a present from
Hal to his mother.
Who fed me from her gentle breast.
And hush'd me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheeks sweet kisses prest?
My Mother.
Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle bed.
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.
Who taught my infant lips to pray.
And love God's holy Book and day.
And walk in Wisdom's pleasant way?
My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who wast so very kind to me?
My Mother.
Ah! no, the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care.
My Mother.
When thou art feeble, old, and grey.
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.
After dinner we decided to visit the Castle of _Peveril of the Peak_,
and as the afternoon was very fine we were able to do so, under the
guidance of our friend. We were obliged to proceed slowly owing to my
partially disabled foot, and it took us a long time to reach the
castle, the road being very narrow and steep towards the top--in fact,
it was so difficult of approach that a handful of men could have
defeated hundreds of the enemy. We managed to reach the ruins, and there
we reposed on the grass to view the wild scenery around us and the
curious split in the limestone rocks through which led the path known as
the "Winnats," a shortened form of Wind Gates, owing to the force of the
wind at this spot. The castle was not a large one, and there were higher
elevations quite near; but deep chasms intervened, and somewhere beneath
us was the largest cave in England. While we were resting our friend
related the history of the castle, which had been built by William
Peverell in 1068, and rebuilt by Henry II in 1176-7 after he had
received here the submission of Malcolm, King of Scotland. Peverell was
a natural son of William the Conqueror, who had distinguished himself at
the Battle of Hastings, for which William had bestowed upon him many
manors in Derbyshire. What was known as the Peak of Derbyshire we found
was not one single rock, as we supposed, but a huge tableland with
rising heights here and there. Our friend, whose name was William, told
us a legend connected with the Peverell family. Pain Peverell, the Lord
of Whittington, in Shropshire, had two daughters, the elder of whom was
very beautiful, and had so many admirers that she could not decide which
of them to accept. So she consulted her father on the matter, who
advised her to accept only the "Bravest of the Brave," or the one who
could prove himself to excel all others in martial skill. Her father
therefore proclaimed a tournament, which was to take place, in the words
of an ancient writer, at "Peverell's Place in the Peke," inviting all
young men of noble birth to compete for the hand of the beautiful
"Mellet," whose dowry was to be Whittington Castle. The contest, as
might be supposed, was a severe one, and was won by a knight bearing a
maiden shield of silver with a peacock for his crest, who vanquished,
amongst others, a Knight of Burgundy and a Prince of Scotland. He proved
to be Fitzwarren, and the Castle of Whittington passed to him together
with his young bride.
[Illustration: CASTLETON ROCKS.]
Our friend was surprised when we told him we knew that castle and the
neighbourhood very well, and also a cottage there where Dick Whittington
was born, who afterwards became Sir Richard de Whittington, Lord Mayor
of London. We again discussed the question of the desirability of
returning home, as we were now much nearer than when at Furness Abbey,
where we had nearly succumbed to home-sickness before; but my brother
said he should continue the journey alone if I gave in, and as he kindly
consented again to carry all the luggage, I agreed to complete the
journey with him.
[Illustration: THE WINNATS, CASTLETON.]
I walked down the hill supported by my brother on one side and our
friend on the other, and returned to the latter's home for tea, after
which our host showed us some remarkable spar stones--dog-tooth spar we
were told was their name--found in the lead mines, whose white crystals
glistened in the light, and I could see by the covetous look in my
brother's eyes that he was thinking of the rockeries at home. His look
was also seen by our worthy host, for he subsequently presented him with
the stones, which my brother afterwards declared were given to him as a
punishment for coveting his neighbour's goods. It was now time to fulfil
our engagement to accompany our friend to the Wesleyan Chapel and to go
through what proved one of the most extraordinary services we ever
attended. Our host and hostess went with us, but they sat in a pew,
while we three sat on a form. We remained for the "Prayer Meeting,"
which the minister announced would be held after the usual service. We
had read that the "Amens" of the early Christians could be heard at long
distances, but we never attended a meeting where the ejaculations were
so loud and fervent as they were here. Each man seemed to vie with his
neighbour as to which could shout the louder, and every one appeared to
be in great earnest. The exclamations were not always "Amens," for we
heard one man shout "Aye!" at exactly the same moment as another man
shouted "Now!" and if the Leader had not been possessed of a stentorian
voice he would not at times have been able to make himself heard. The
primitive custom of conducting prayer meetings was evidently kept up at
Castleton, as might perhaps have been expected in a place which before
the appearance of the railway was so remote and inaccessible, but it
was difficult to realise that "yes" and "no," or "aye" and "now," could
have the same meaning when ejaculated at the same moment. Still, it
might have been so in this case. Who knows!
In travelling through the country we had noticed that in the
neighbourhood of great mountains the religious element was more
pronounced than elsewhere, and the people's voices seemed stronger. At
the close of this second service, for which nearly the whole of the
congregation stayed, the conductor gave out one of Isaac Watts's
well-known hymns, and the congregation sang it with heart and voice that
almost made the rafters in the roof of the chapel vibrate as if even
they were joining in the praises of the Lord! These were the first two
verses:
Jesus shall reign where'er the sun
Doth his successive journeys run;
His Kingdom stretch from shore to shore,
Till moons shall wax and wane no more.
People and realms of every tongue
Dwell on His love with sweetest song,
And infant voices shall proclaim
Their early blessing on His Name.
We must say we joined as heartily as any of the others, for it was sung
to one of the good old Methodist tunes common to all the Churches in the
days of Wesley. As we walked back through the village we felt all the
better for having attended the full service, and later, when we watched
the nearly full moon rise in the clear night air above the hills, our
thoughts turned instinctively towards the Great Almighty, the Father and
Maker and Giver of All!