York is by far the largest of the English shires, a widely diversified
country, ranging from fertile farm land to broken hills and waste
moorland, while its river valleys and considerable coast line present
greatly varied but always picturesque scenery. The poet describes the
charms of Yorkshire as yielding
"Variety without end, sweet interchange
Of hill and valley, river, wood and plain."
Nor did we find this description at all inapt as we drove over its
excellent roads during the fine July weather. But the Yorkshire country
is doubly interesting, for if the landscape is of surpassing beauty, the
cities, the villages, the castles and abbeys, and the fields where some
of the fiercest battles in Britain have been fought, have intertwined
their associations with every hill and valley. Not only the size of the
shire, but its position--midway between London and the Scottish border,
and extending almost from coast to coast--made it a bulwark, as it were,
against the incursions of the Scots and their numerous sympathizers in
the extreme north of England. No part of England is more thickly strewn
with attractions for the American tourist and in no other section do
conditions for motor travel average better.
From London to York, the capital city of the shire, runs the Great North
Road, undoubtedly the finest highway in all Britain. It is laid out on a
liberal scale, magnificently surfaced and bordered much of the way by
wide and beautifully kept lawns and at times skirted with majestic
trees. We saw a facsimile of a broadside poster issued about a century
ago announcing that the new lightning coach service installed on this
road between London and York would carry passengers the distance of one
hundred and eighty-eight miles in the astonishingly short space of four
days. This coach, of course, traveled by relays, and at what was then
considered breakneck speed. Over this same highway it would now be an
easy feat for a powerful car to cover the distance in three or four
hours. The great North Road was originally constructed by the Romans to
maintain the quickest possible communication between London and
Eboracum, as York was styled during the Roman occupation.
The limitation of our time had become such that we could but feel that
our tour through Yorkshire must be of the most superficial kind. Not
less than two weeks of motoring might well be spent in the county and
every day be full of genuine enjoyment. The main roads are among the
best in England and afford access to most of the important points. We
learned, however, that there is much of interest to be reached only from
byways, but that these may lead over steep and even dangerous hills and
are often in not much better condition than our American roads.
We left Durham about noon, following a rather indirect route to
Darlington; from thence, through hawthorne-bordered byways, we came to
Richmond, one of the quaintest and most representative of the old
Yorkshire towns. We happened here on market day and the town was crowded
with farmers from the surrounding country. Here we saw many types of the
Yorkshire man, famed for his shrewdness and fondness for what we would
call "dickering." Much of the buying and selling in English towns is
done on market day; live stock, produce, farm implements, and almost
every kind of merchandise are sold at auction in the public market
place. If a farmer wants to dispose of a horse or to buy a mowing
machine, he avails himself of this auction and the services of a
professional auctioneer. Such an individual was busily plying his
vocation in front of the King's Head Hotel, and the roars of laughter
from the farmers which greeted his sallies as he cried his wares
certainly seemed to indicate that the charge that Englishmen can not
appreciate humor--at least of a certain kind--is a base slander. As
Richmond is the center of one of the best farming districts in
Yorkshire, its market day was no doubt a typical one.
Richmond Castle at one time was one of the most formidable and strongly
situated of the northern fortresses. It stands on an almost
perpendicular rock, rising one hundred feet above the River Swale, but
with the exception of the Norman keep the ruins are scanty indeed. There
is enough of the enclosing walls to give some idea of the extent of the
original castle, which covered five acres, its magnificent position
commanding the whole of the surrounding country. The keep is now used as
a military storehouse. The soldier-guard in charge was very courteous
and relieved us the necessity of securing a pass from the commandant, as
was required by a notice at the castle entrance. He conducted us to the
top of the great tower, from which we were favored with one of the
finest views in Central England and one that is almost unobstructed in
every direction. Unfortunately, a blue mist obscured much of the
landscape, but the guard told us that on clear days York Minster, more
than forty miles away, could be easily seen. Near at hand, nestling in
the valley of the Swale, are the ivy-covered ruins of Easby Abbey; while
still nearer, on the hillside, the great tower of Grey Friars Church is
all that remains of another once extensive monastery. In no way can one
get a more adequate idea of the parklike beauty of the English
landscape than to view it from such point of vantage as the keep of
Richmond Castle. Richmond Church is an imposing structure standing near
the castle and has recently been restored as nearly as possible to its
ancient state. An odd feature of the church is the little shop built in
the base of the tower, where a tobacconist now plies his trade.
From the castle tower, looking down the luxuriant valley, we noticed at
no great distance, half hidden by the trees, the outlines of a ruined
church--the Easby Abbey which I have just mentioned as one of the
numerous Yorkshire ruins. It is but a few furlongs off the road by which
we left Richmond and the byway we entered dropped down a sharp hill to
the pleasant spot on the riverside, where the abbey stands. The location
is a rather secluded one and the painstaking care noticeable about so
many ruins is lacking. It is surrounded by trees, and a large elm
growing in the very midst of the walls and arches flung a network of sun
and shade over the crumbling stones. The murmur of the nearby Swale and
the notes of the English thrushes filled the air with soft melody. Amid
such surroundings, we hardly heard the old custodian as he pointed out
the different apartments and told us the story of the palmy days of the
abbey and of its final doom at the relentless hands of Henry VIII. Near
by is a tiny church, which no doubt had served the people of the
neighborhood as a place of worship since the abbey fell into ruin.
The day, which had so far been fine, soon began to turn cold--one of
those sudden and disagreeable changes that come in England and Scotland
in the very midst of summertime, an experience that happens so often
that one can not wonder at Byron's complaint of the English winter,
"closing in July to re-commence in August." At no time in the summer
were we able to dispense for any length of time with heavy wraps and
robes while on the road. From Richmond we hastened away over a fine and
nearly straight road to Ripon, whose chief attraction is its cathedral.
Speaking of cathedrals again, I might remark that our tour took us to
every one of these, with one exception--in England and Scotland, about
thirty in all--and the exception, Beverly Minster, is but newly created
and relatively of lesser importance.
Ripon is one of the smaller cathedrals and of less importance in
historical associations. It occupies a magnificent site, crowning a hill
rising in the very center of the town, and from a distance gives the
impression of being larger than it really is. It presents a somewhat
unfinished aspect with its three low, square-topped towers, once
surmounted by great wooden spires, which became unsafe and were taken
down, never to be replaced. These must have added wonderfully to the
dignity and proper proportion of the church.
Just outside Ripon lies Fountains Abbey, undoubtedly the most striking
and best preserved ecclesiastical ruin in England. It is on the estate
of the Marquis of Ripon, adjoining the town, and this nobleman takes
great pride in the preservation of the abbey. The great park, which also
surrounds his residence, is thrown open every day and one has full
liberty to go about it at pleasure. It is a popular resort, and on the
day of our visit the number of people passing through the gate exceeded
five hundred. The gatekeeper assured us that a thousand visitors on a
single day was not an uncommon occurrence. The abbey stands in a wooded
valley on the margin of a charming little river, and underneath and
around the ruin is a lawn whose green loveliness is such as can be found
in England alone. There is no room in this record for the description of
such a well known place or for its story. The one feature which
impressed us most, and which is one of the finest specimens of Norman
architecture in England, is the great cellarium, where the monks stored
their wine in the good old days. The vaulted roof of this vast
apartment, several hundred feet in length, is in perfect condition and
shows how substantially the structure must have been built Fountains
Abbey shared the fate of its contemporaries at the hand of Henry VIII,
who drove the monks from its shelter, confiscating their property and
revenues. It was growing late when we left Ripon for York, but the road
was perfect and we had no trouble in covering the twenty miles or more
in about an hour. We were soon made comfortable at the Station Hotel in
York, one of the oldest and most interesting of the larger cities.
The following day being Sunday, we availed ourselves of the opportunity
of attending services at the Minster. The splendid music of the great
organ was enough to atone for the long dreary chant of the litany, and
the glory of the ancient windows, breaking the gloom of the church with
a thousand shafts of softened light, was in itself an inspiration more
than any sermon--at least to us, to whom these things had the charm of
the unusual.
York Minster, with the exception of St. Paul's in London, is the largest
cathedral in England and contests with Canterbury for first place in
ecclesiastical importance. Its greatest glory is its windows, which are
by far the finest of any in England. Many of them date back to the
Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries, and when one contemplates their
subdued beauty it is easy to understand why stained-glass making is now
reckoned one of the lost arts. These windows escaped numerous
vicissitudes which imperiled the cathedral, among them the disastrous
fires which nearly destroyed it on two occasions within the last
century. The most remarkable of them all is the "Five Sisters" at the
end of the nave, a group of five slender, softly-toned windows of
imposing height. The numerous monuments scattered throughout the church
are of little interest to the American visitor. We were surprised at the
small audiences which we found at the cathedrals where we attended
services. A mere corner is large enough to care for the congregations,
the vast body of the church being seldom used except on state occasions.
Though York is a city of seventy-five thousand population, I think there
were not more than four or five hundred people in attendance, though the
day was exceptionally fine.
There are numerous places within easy reach of York which one should not
miss. A sixty-mile trip during three or four hours of the afternoon gave
us the opportunity of seeing two abbey ruins, Helmsley Castle and
Laurence Sterne's cottage at Coxwold. Our route led over a series of
steep hills almost due north to Helmsley, a town with unbroken
traditions from the time of the Conqueror. Its ancient castle
surrendered to Fairfax with the agreement that "it be absolutely
demolished and that no garrison hereafter be kept by either party." So
well was this provision carried out that only a ragged fragment remains
of the once impregnable fortress, which has an added interest from its
connection with Scott's story, "The Fortunes of Nigel"
Two miles from Helmsley is Rievaulx Abbey, situated in a deep, secluded
valley, and the narrow byway leading to the ruin was so steep and rough
that we left the car and walked down the hill. A small village nestles
in the valley, a quiet, out-of-the-way little place whose thatched
cottages were surrounded by a riot of old-fashioned flowers and their
walls dashed with the rich color of the bloom-laden rose vines. Back of
the village, in lonely grandeur, stands the abbey, still imposing
despite decay and neglect. Just in front of it is the cottage of the old
custodian, who seemed considerably troubled by our application to visit
the ruins. He said that the place was not open on Sunday and gave us to
understand that he had conscientious scruples against admitting anyone
on that day. The hint of a fee overcame his scruples to such an extent
that he intimated that the gates were not locked anyway and if we
desired to go through them he did not know of anything that would
prevent us. We wandered about in the shadows of the high but crumbling
walls, whose extent gave a strong impression of the original glory of
the place, and one may well believe the statement that, at the time of
the Dissolution, Rievaulx was one of the largest as well as richest of
the English abbeys. The old keeper was awaiting us at the gateway and
his conscientious scruples were again awakened when we asked him for a
few post-card pictures. He amiably intimated his own willingness to
accommodate us, but said he was afraid that the "old woman" (his wife)
wouldn't allow it, but he would find out. He returned after a short
interview in the cottage and said that there were some pictures on a
table in the front room and if we would go in and select what we wanted
and leave the money for them it would be all right.
[Illustration: OLD COTTAGES AT COCKINGTON.]
On our return from Helmsley, we noticed a byway leading across the
moorland with a sign-board pointing the way "to Coxwold." We were
reminded that in this out-of-the-way village Laurence Sterne, "the
father of the English novel," had lived many years and that his cottage
and church might still be seen. A narrow road led sharply from the
beautiful Yorkshire farm lands, through which we had been traveling, its
fields almost ready for the harvest, into a lonely moor almost as brown
and bare as our own western sagebrush country. It was on this
unfrequented road that we encountered the most dangerous hill we passed
over during our trip, and the road descending it was a reminder of some
of the worst in our native country. They called it "the bank," and the
story of its terrors to motorists, told us by a Helmsley villager, was
in no wise an exaggeration. It illustrates the risk often attending a
digression into byroads not listed in the road-book, for England is a
country of many hilly sections. I had read only a few days before of the
wreck of a large car in Derbyshire where the driver lost control of his
machine on a gradient of one in three. The car dashed over the
embankment, demolishing many yards of stone wall and coming to rest in a
valley hundreds of feet beneath. And this was only one of several
similar cases. Fortunately, we had only the descent to make. The bank
dropped off the edge of the moorland into a lovely and fertile valley,
where, quite unexpectedly, we came upon Bylands Abbey, the rival of
Rievaulx, but far more fallen into decay. It stood alone in the midst of
the wide valley; no caretaker hindered our steps to its precincts and no
effort had been made to prop its crumbling walls or to stay the green
ruin creeping over it. The fragment of its great eastern window, still
standing, was its most imposing feature and showed that it had been a
church of no mean architectural pretension. The locality, it would seem,
was well supplied with abbeys, for Rievaulx is less than ten miles away,
but we learned that Bylands was founded by monks from the former
brotherhood and also from Furness Abbey in Lancashire. In the good old
days it seems to have been a common thing when the monks became
dissatisfied with the establishment to which they were attached for the
dissenters to start a rival abbey just over the way.
Coxwold is a sleepy village undisturbed by modern progress, its thatched
cottages straggling up the crooked street that leads to the hilltop,
crowned by the hoary church whose tall, massive octagonal tower
dominates the surrounding country. It seems out of all proportion to the
poverty-stricken, ragged-looking little village on the hillside, but
this is not at all an uncommon impression one will have of the churches
in small English towns. Across the road from the church is the old-time
vicarage, reposing in the shade of towering elms, and we found no
difficulty whatever in gaining admission to "Shandy Hall," as it is now
called. We were shown the little room not more than nine feet square
where Sterne, when vicar, wrote his greatest book, "Tristram Shandy."
The kitchen is still in its original condition, with its rough-beamed
ceiling and huge fireplace. Like most English cottages, the walls were
covered with climbing roses and creepers and there was the usual
flower-garden in the rear. The tenants were evidently used to visitors,
and though they refused any gratuity, our attention was called to a box
near the door which was labeled, "For the benefit of Wesleyan Missions."
Two or three miles through the byways after leaving Coxwold brought us
into the main road leading into York. This seemed such an ideal place
for a police trap that we traveled at a very moderate speed, meeting
numerous motorists on the way. The day had been a magnificent one,
enabling us to see the Yorkshire country at its best. It had been
delightfully cool and clear, and lovelier views than we had seen from
many of the upland roads would be hard to imagine. The fields of yellow
grain, nearly ready for harvesting, richly contrasted with the
prevailing bright green of the hills and valleys. Altogether, it was a
day among a thousand, and in no possible way could one have enjoyed it
so greatly as from the motor car, which dashed along, slowed up, or
stopped altogether, as the varied scenery happened to especially please
us.
York abounds in historic relics, odd corners and interesting places. The
city was surrounded by a strong wall built originally by Edward I, and
one may follow it throughout its entire course of more than two miles.
It is not nearly so complete as the famous Chester wall, but it encloses
a larger area. It shows to even a greater extent the careful work of the
restorer, as do the numerous gate-towers, or "bars," which one meets in
following the wall. The best exterior views of the minster may be had
from vantage points on this wall, and a leisurely tour of its entire
length is well worth while. The best preserved of the gate-towers is
Micklegate Bar, from which, in the War of the Roses, the head of the
Duke of York was exhibited to dismay his adherents. There were
originally forty of these towers, of which several still exist. Aside
from its world-famous minster, York teems with objects and places of
curious and archaeological interest. There are many fine old churches
and much mediaeval architecture. In a public park fragments still remain
of St. Mary's Abbey, a once magnificent establishment, destroyed during
the Parliamentary wars; but it must be said to the everlasting credit of
the Parliamentarians that their commanders spared no effort to protect
the minster, which accounts largely for its excellent preservation. The
Commander-in-Chief, General Fairfax, was a native of Yorkshire and no
doubt had a kindly feeling for the great cathedral, which led him to
exert his influence against its spoliation. Such buildings can stand
several fires without much damage, since there is little to burn except
the roof, and the cathedrals suffered most severely at the hands of the
various contending factions into which they fell during the civil wars.
The quaintest of old-time York streets is The Shambles, a narrow lane
paved with cobblestones and only wide enough to permit the passing of
one vehicle at a time. It is lined on either side with queer,
half-timbered houses, and in one or two places these have sagged to such
an extent that their tops are not more than two or three feet apart. In
fact it is said that neighbors in two adjoining buildings may shake
hands across the street. The Shambles no doubt took its name from the
unattractive row of butcher shops which still occupy most of the small
store-rooms on either side. Hardly less picturesque than The Shambles is
the Petergate, and no more typical bits of old-time England may be found
anywhere than these two ancient lanes. Glimpses of the cathedral towers
through the rows of odd buildings is a favorite theme with the artists.
Aside from its antiquity, its old-world streets and historic buildings
are quite up to the best of the English cities. It is an important
trading and manufacturing point, though the prophecy of the old saw,
"Lincoln was, London is, York shall be.
The greatest city of the three,"
seems hardly likely to be realized.