CHAPTER XXV

THE MANUFACTURING DISTRICT

INDEX

List of Illustrations

1. York from the Central Tower of the Minster

2. Sleights Moor from Swart Houe Cross

3. An Autumn Scene on the Esk

4. Runswick Bay

5. Sunrise from Staithes Beck

6. Robin Hood's Bay

7. Whitby Abbey from the Cliffs

8. The Red Roofs of Whitby

9. An Autumn Day at Guisborough

10. The Skelton Valley

11. In Pickering Church

12. The Market-Place, Helmsley

13. Richmond Castle from the River

14. A Rugged View above Wensleydale

15. A Jacobean House at Askrigg

16. Aysgarth Force

17. View up Wensleydale from Leyburn Shawl

18. Ripon Minster from the South

19. Fountains Abbey

20. Knaresborough

21. Bolton Abbey, Wharfedale

22. Settle

23. Wind and Sunshine on the Wolds

24. Filey Brig

25. The Outermost Point of Flamborough Head

26. Hornsea Mere

27. The Market-Place, Beverley

28. Patrington Church

29. Coxwold Village

30. The West Front of the Church of Byland Abbey

31. Bootham Bar, York

32. Kirkstall Abbey, Leeds

_Sketch Map_

YORKSHIRE

CHAPTER I

ACROSS THE MOORS FROM PICKERING TO WHITBY

The ancient stone-built town of Pickering is to a great extent the

gateway to the moors of North-eastern Yorkshire, for it stands at the

foot of that formerly inaccessible gorge known as Newton Dale, and is

the meeting-place of the four great roads running north, south, east,

and west, as well as of railways going in the same directions. And this

view of the little town is by no means original, for the strategic

importance of the position was recognised at least as long ago as the

days of the early Edwards, when the castle was built to command the

approach to Newton Dale and to be a menace to the whole of the Vale of

Pickering.

The old-time traveller from York to Whitby saw practically nothing of

Newton Dale, for the great coach-road bore him towards the east, and

then, on climbing the steep hill up to Lockton Low Moor, he went almost

due north as far as Sleights. But to-day everyone passes right through

the gloomy cañon, for the railway now follows the windings of Pickering

Beck, and nursemaids and children on their way to the seaside may gaze

at the frowning cliffs which seventy years ago were only known to

travellers and a few shepherds. But although this great change has been

brought about by railway enterprise, the gorge is still uninhabited,

and has lost little of its grandeur; for when the puny train, with its

accompanying white cloud, has disappeared round one of the great

bluffs, there is nothing left but the two pairs of shining rails, laid

for long distances almost on the floor of the ravine. But though there

are steep gradients to be climbed, and the engine labours heavily,

there is scarcely sufficient time to get any idea of the astonishing

scenery from the windows of the train, and you can see nothing of the

huge expanses of moorland stretching away from the precipices on either

side. So that we, who would learn something of this region, must make

the journey on foot; for a bicycle would be an encumbrance when

crossing the heather, and there are many places where a horse would be

a source of danger. The sides of the valley are closely wooded for the

first seven or eight miles north of Pickering, but the surrounding

country gradually loses its cultivation, at first gorse and bracken,

and then heather, taking the place of the green pastures.

At the village of Newton, perched on high ground far above the dale, we

come to the limit of civilization. The sun is nearly setting. The

cottages are scattered along the wide roadway and the strip of grass,

broken by two large ponds, which just now reflect the pale evening sky.

Straight in front, across the green, some ancient barns are thrown up

against the golden sunset, and the long perspective of white road, the

geese, and some whitewashed gables, stand out from the deepening tones

of the grass and trees. A footpath by the inn leads through some dewy

meadows to the woods, above Levisham Station in the valley below. At

first there are glimpses of the lofty moors on the opposite side of the

dale where the sides of the bluffs are still glowing in the sunset

light; but soon the pathway plunges steeply into a close wood, where

the foxes are barking, and where the intense darkness is only

emphasized by the momentary illumination given by lightning, which now

and then flickers in the direction of Lockton Moor. At last the

friendly little oil-lamps on the platform at Levisham Station appear

just below, and soon the railway is crossed and we are mounting the

steep road on the opposite side of the valley. What is left of the

waning light shows the rough track over the heather to High Horcum. The

huge shoulders of the moors are now majestically indistinct, and

towards the west the browns, purples, and greens are all merged in one

unfathomable blackness. The tremendous silence and the desolation

become almost oppressive, but overhead the familiar arrangement of the

constellations gives a sense of companionship not to be slighted. In

something less than an hour a light glows in the distance, and,

although the darkness is now complete, there is no further need to

trouble ourselves with the thought of spending the night on the

heather. The point of light develops into a lighted window, and we are

soon stamping our feet on the hard, smooth road in front of the

Saltersgate Inn. The door opens straight into a large stone-flagged

room. Everything is redolent of coaching days, for the cheery glow of

the fire shows a spotlessly clean floor, old high-backed settles, a gun

hooked to one of the beams overhead, quaint chairs, and oak stools, and

a fox's mask and brush. A gamekeeper is warming himself at the fire,

for the evening is chilly, and the firelight falls on his box-cloth

gaiters and heavy boots as we begin to talk of the loneliness and the

dangers of the moors, and of the snow-storms in winter, that almost

bury the low cottages and blot out all but the boldest landmarks. Soon

we are discussing the superstitions which still survive among the

simple country-folk, and the dark and lonely wilds we have just left

make this a subject of great fascination.

Although we have heard it before, we hear over again with intense

interest the story of the witch who brought constant ill-luck to a

family in these parts. Their pigs were never free from some form of

illness, their cows died, their horses lamed themselves, and even the

milk was so far under the spell that on churning-days the butter

refused to come unless helped by a crooked sixpence. One day, when as

usual they had been churning in vain, instead of resorting to the

sixpence, the farmer secreted himself in an outbuilding, and, gun in

hand, watched the garden from a small opening. As it was growing dusk

he saw a hare coming cautiously through the hedge. He fired instantly,

the hare rolled over, dead, and almost as quickly the butter came. That

same night they heard that the old woman, whom they had long suspected

of bewitching them, had suddenly died at the same time as the hare, and

henceforward the farmer and his family prospered.

In the light of morning the isolation of the inn is more apparent than

at night. A compact group of stable buildings and barns stands on the

opposite side of the road, and there are two or three lonely-looking

cottages, but everywhere else the world is purple and brown with ling

and heather. The morning sun has just climbed high enough to send a

flood of light down the steep hill at the back of the barns, and we can

hear the hum of the bees in the heather. In the direction of Levisham

is Gallows Dyke, the great purple bluff we passed in the darkness, and

a few yards off the road makes a sharp double bend to get up

Saltersgate Brow, the hill that overlooks the enormous circular bowl of

Horcum Hole, where Levisham Beck rises. The farmer whose buildings can

be seen down below contrives to paint the bottom of the bowl a bright

green, but the ling comes hungrily down on all sides, with evident

longings to absorb the scanty cultivation. The Dwarf Cornel a little

mountain-plant which flowers in July, is found in this 'hole.' A few

patches have been discovered in the locality, but elsewhere it is not

known south of the Cheviots.

Away to the north the road crosses the desolate country like a

pale-green ribbon. It passes over Lockton High Moor, climbs to 700 feet

at Tom Cross Rigg and then disappears into the valley of Eller Beck, on

Goathland Moor, coming into view again as it climbs steadily up to

Sleights Moor, nearly 1,000 feet above the sea. An enormous stretch of

moorland spreads itself out towards the west. Near at hand is the

precipitous gorge of Upper Newton Dale, backed by Pickering Moor, and

beyond are the heights of Northdale Rigg and Rosedale Common, with the

blue outlines of Ralph Cross and Danby Head right on the horizon.

The smooth, well-built road, with short grass filling the crevices

between the stones, urges us to follow its straight course northwards;

but the sternest and most remarkable portion of Upper Newton Dale lies

to the left, across the deep heather, and we are tempted aside to reach

the lip of the sinuous gorge nearly a mile away to the west, where the

railway runs along the marshy and boulder-strewn bottom of a natural

cutting 500 feet deep. The cliffs drop down quite perpendicularly for

200 feet, and the remaining distance to the bed of the stream is a

rough slope, quite bare in places, and in others densely grown over

with trees; but on every side the fortress-like scarps are as stern and

bare as any that face the ocean. Looking north or south the gorge seems

completely shut in. There is much the same effect when steaming through

the Kyles of Bute, for there the ship seems to be going full speed for

the shore of an entirely enclosed sea, and here, saving for the

tell-tale railway, there seems no way out of the abyss without scaling

the perpendicular walls. The rocks are at their finest at Killingnoble

Scar, where they take the form of a semicircle on the west side of the

railway. The scar was for a very long period famous for the breed of

hawks, which were specially watched by the Goathland men for the use of

James I., and the hawks were not displaced from their eyrie even by the

incursion of the railway into the glen, and only recently became

extinct.

We can cross the line near Eller Beck, and, going over Goathland Moor,

explore the wooded sides of Wheeldale Beck and its water-falls.

Mallyan's Spout is the most imposing, having a drop of about 76 feet.

The village of Goathland has thrown out skirmishers towards the heather

in the form of an ancient-looking but quite modern church, with a low

central tower, and a little hotel, stone-built and fitting well into

its surroundings. The rest of the village is scattered round a large

triangular green, and extends down to the railway, where there is a

station named after the village.

CHAPTER II

ALONG THE ESK VALLEY

To see the valley of the Esk in its richest garb, one must wait for a

spell of fine autumn weather, when a prolonged ramble can be made along

the riverside and up on the moorland heights above. For the dense

woodlands, which are often merely pretty in midsummer, become

astonishingly lovely as the foliage draping the steep hill-sides takes

on its gorgeous colours, and the gills and becks on the moors send down

a plentiful supply of water to fill the dales with the music of rushing

streams.

Climbing up the road towards Larpool, we take a last look at quaint old

Whitby, spread out before us almost like those wonderful old prints of

English towns they loved to publish in the eighteenth century. But

although every feature is plainly visible--the church, the abbey, the

two piers, the harbour, the old town and the new--the detail is all

lost in that soft mellowness of a sunny autumn day. We find an

enthusiastic photographer expending plates on this familiar view, which

is sold all over the town; but we do not dare to suggest that the

prints, however successful, will be painfully hackneyed, and we go on

rejoicing that the questions of stops and exposures need not trouble

us, for the world is ablaze with colour.

Beyond the great red viaduct, whose central piers are washed by the

river far below, the road plunges into the golden shade of the woods

near Cock Mill, and then comes out by the river's bank down below, with

the little village of Ruswarp on the opposite shore. The railway goes

over the Esk just below the dam, and does is very best to spoil every

view of the great mill built in 1752 by Mr. Nathaniel Cholmley.

The road follows close beside the winding river and all the way to

Sleights there are lovely glimpses of the shimmering waters, reflecting

the overhanging masses of foliage. The golden yellow of a bush growing

at the water's edge will be backed by masses of brown woods that here

and there have retained suggestions of green, contrasted with the deep

purple tones of their shadowy recesses. These lovely phases of Eskdale

scenery are denied to the summer visitor, but there are few who would

wish to have the riverside solitudes rudely broken into by the passing

of boatloads of holiday-makers. Just before reaching Sleights Bridge we

leave the tree-embowered road, and, going through a gate, find a

stone-flagged pathway that climbs up the side of the valley with great

deliberation, so that we are soon at a great height, with a magnificent

sweep of landscape towards the south-west, and the keen air blowing

freshly from the great table-land of Egton High Moor.

A little higher, and we are on the road in Aislaby village. The steep

climb from the river and railway has kept off those modern influences

which have made Sleights and Grosmont architecturally depressing, and

thus we find a simple village on the edge of the heather, with

picturesque stone cottages and pretty gardens, free from companionship

with the painfully ugly modern stone house, with its thin slate roof.

The big house of the village stands on the very edge of the descent,

surrounded by high trees now swept bare of leaves.

The first time I visited Aislaby I reached the little hamlet when it

was nearly dark. Sufficient light, however, remained in the west to

show up the large house standing in the midst of the swaying branches.

One dim light appeared in the blue-grey mass, and the dead leaves were

blown fiercely by the strong gusts of wind. On the other side of the

road stood an old grey house, whose appearance that gloomy evening well

supported the statement that it was haunted.

I left the village in the gathering gloom and was soon out on the

heather. Away on the left, but scarcely discernible, was Swart Houe

Cross, on Egton Low Moor, and straight in front lay the Skelder Inn. A

light gleamed from one of the lower windows, and by it I guided my

steps, being determined to partake of tea before turning my steps

homeward. I stepped into the little parlour, with its sanded floor, and

demanded 'fat rascals' and tea. The girl was not surprised at my

request, for the hot turf cakes supplied at the inn are known to all

the neighbourhood by this unusual name.

The course of the river itself is hidden by the shoulders of Egton Low

Moor beneath us, but faint sounds of the shunting of trucks are carried

up to the heights. Even when the deep valleys are warmest, and when

their atmosphere is most suggestive of a hot-house, these moorland

heights rejoice in a keen, dry air, which seems to drive away the

slightest sense of fatigue, so easily felt on the lower levels, and to

give in its place a vigour that laughs at distance. Up here, too, the

whole world seems left to Nature, the levels of cultivation being

almost out of sight, and anything under 800 feet seems low. Towards the

end of August the heights are capped with purple, although the distant

moors, however brilliant they may appear when close at hand, generally

assume more delicate shades, fading into greys and blues on the

horizon.

Grosmont was the birthplace of the Cleveland Ironworks, and was at one

time more famous than Middlesbrough. The first cargo of ironstone was

sent from here in 1836, when the Pickering and Whitby Railway was

opened.

We will go up the steep road to the top of Sleights Moor. It is a long

stiff climb of nearly 900 feet, but the view is one of the very finest

in this country, where wide expanses soon become commonplace. We are

sufficiently high to look right across Fylingdales Moor to the sea

beyond, a soft haze of pearly blue over the hard, rugged outline of the

ling. Away towards the north, too, the landscape for many miles is

limited only by the same horizon of sea, so that we seem to be looking

at a section of a very large-scale contour map of England. Below us on

the western side runs the Mirk Esk, draining the heights upon which we

stand as well as Egton High Moor and Wheeldale Moor. The confluence

with the Esk at Grosmont is lost in a haze of smoke and a confusion of

roofs and railway lines; and the course of the larger river in the

direction of Glaisdale is also hidden behind the steep slopes of Egton

High Moor. Towards the south we gaze over a vast desolation, crossed by

the coach-road to York as it rises and falls over the swells of the

heather. The queer isolated cone of Blakey Topping and the summit of

Gallows Dyke, close to Saltersgate, appear above the distant ridges.

The route of the great Roman road from the south to Whitby can also be

seen from these heights. It passes straight through Cawthorn Camp, on

the ridge to the west of the village of Newton, and then runs along

within a few yards of the by-road from Pickering to Egton. It crosses

Wheeldale Beck, and skirts the ancient dyke round July or Julian Park,

at one time a hunting-seat of the great De Mauley family. The road is

about 12 feet wide, and is now deep in heather; but it is slightly

raised above the general level of the ground, and can therefore be

followed fairly easily where it has not been taken up to build walls

for enclosures.

If we go down into the valley beneath us by a road bearing south-west,

we shall find ourselves at Beck Hole, where there is a pretty group of

stone cottages, backed by some tall firs. The Eller Beck is crossed by

a stone bridge close to its confluence with the Mirk Esk. Above the

bridge, a footpath among the huge boulders winds its way by the side of

the rushing beck to Thomasin Foss, where the little river falls in two

or three broad silver bands into a considerable pool. Great masses of

overhanging rock, shaded by a leafy roof, shut in the brimming waters.

It is not difficult to find the way from Beck Hole to the Roman camp on

the hill-side towards Egton Bridge. The Roman road from Cawthorn goes

right through it, but beyond this it is not easy to trace, although

fragments have been discovered as far as Aislaby, all pointing to

Whitby or Sandsend Bay. Round the shoulder of the hill we come down

again to the deeply-wooded valley of the Esk. And in time we reach

Glaisdale End, where a graceful stone bridge of a single arch stands

over the rushing stream. The initials of the builder and the date

appear on the eastern side of what is now known as the Beggar's Bridge.

It was formerly called Firris Bridge, after the builder, but the

popular interest in the story of its origin seems to have killed the

old name. If you ask anyone in Whitby to mention some of the sights of

the neighbourhood, he will probably head his list with the Beggar's

Bridge, but why this is so I cannot imagine. The woods are very

beautiful, but this is a country full of the loveliest dales, and the

presence of this single-arched bridge does not seem sufficient to have

attracted so much popularity. I can only attribute it to the love

interest associated with the beggar. He was, we may imagine, the

Alderman Thomas Firris who, as a penniless youth, came to bid farewell

to his betrothed, who lived somewhere on the opposite side of the

river. Finding the stream impassable, he is said to have determined

that if he came back from his travels as a rich man he would put up a

bridge on the spot he had been prevented from crossing.

CHAPTER III

THE COAST FROM WHITBY TO REDCAR

Along the three miles of sand running northwards from Whitby at the

foot of low alluvial cliffs, I have seen some of the finest

sea-pictures on this part of the coast. But although I have seen

beautiful effects at all times of the day, those that I remember more

than any others are the early mornings, when the sun was still low in

the heavens, when, standing on that fine stretch of yellow sand, one

seemed to breathe an atmosphere so pure, and to gaze at a sky so

transparent, that some of those undefined longings for surroundings

that have never been realized were instinctively uppermost in the mind.

It is, I imagine, that vague recognition of perfection which has its

effect on even superficial minds when impressed with beautiful scenery,

for to what other cause can be attributed the remark one hears, that

such scenes 'make one feel good'?

Heavy waves, overlapping one another in their fruitless bombardment of

the smooth shelving sand, are filling the air with a ceaseless thunder.

The sun, shining from a sky of burnished gold, throws into silhouette

the twin lighthouses at the entrance to Whitby Harbour, and turns the

foaming wave-tops into a dazzling white, accentuated by the long

shadows of early day. Away to the north-west is Sandsend Ness, a bold

headland full of purple and blue shadows, and straight out to sea,

across the white-capped waves, are two tramp steamers, making, no

doubt, for South Shields or some port where a cargo of coal can be

picked up. They are plunging heavily, and every moment their bows seem

to go down too far to recover.

The two little becks finding their outlet at East Row and Sandsend are

lovely to-day; but their beauty must have been much more apparent

before the North-Eastern Railway put their black lattice girder bridges

across the mouth of each valley. But now that familiarity with these

bridges, which are of the same pattern across every wooded ravine up

the coast-line to Redcar, has blunted my impressions, I can think of

the picturesqueness of East Row without remembering the railway. It was

in this glen, where Lord Normanby's lovely woods make a background for

the pretty tiled cottages, the mill, and the old stone bridge, which

make up East Row,[1] that the Saxons chose a home for their god Thor.

Here they built some rude form of temple, afterwards, it seems,

converted into a hermitage. This was how the spot obtained the name

Thordisa, a name it retained down to 1620, when the requirements of

workmen from the newly-started alum-works at Sandsend led to building

operations by the side of the stream. The cottages which arose became

known afterwards as East Row.

[Footnote 1: Since this was written one or two new houses have been

allowed to mar the simplicity of the valley.--G.H.]

Go where you will in Yorkshire, you will find no more fascinating

woodland scenery than that of the gorges of Mulgrave. From the broken

walls and towers of the old Norman castle the views over the ravines on

either hand--for the castle stands on a lofty promontory in a sea of

foliage--are entrancing; and after seeing the astoundingly brilliant

colours with which autumn paints these trees, there is a tendency to

find the ordinary woodland commonplace. The narrowest and deepest gorge

is hundreds of feet deep in the shale. East Row Beck drops into this

canon in the form of a water-fall at the upper end, and then almost

disappears among the enormous rocks strewn along its circumscribed

course. The humid, hot-house atmosphere down here encourages the growth

of many of the rarer mosses, which entirely cover all but the

newly-fallen rocks.

We can leave the woods by a path leading near Lord Normanby's modern

castle, and come out on to the road close to Lythe Church, where a

great view of sea and land is spread out towards the south. The long

curving line of white marks the limits of the tide as far as the

entrance to Whitby Harbour. The abbey stands out in its loneliness as

of yore, and beyond it are the black-looking, precipitous cliffs ending

at Saltwick Nab. Lythe Church, standing in its wind-swept graveyard

full of blackened tombstones, need not keep us, for, although its

much-modernized exterior is simple and ancient-looking, the interior is

devoid of any interest.

The walk along the rocky shore to Kettleness is dangerous unless the

tide is carefully watched, and the road inland through Lythe village is

not particularly interesting, so that one is tempted to use the

railway, which cuts right through the intervening high ground by means

of two tunnels. The first one is a mile long, and somewhere near the

centre has a passage out to the cliffs, so that even if both ends of

the tunnel collapsed there would be a way of escape. But this is small

comfort when travelling from Kettleness, for the down gradient towards

Sandsend is very steep, and in the darkness of the tunnel the train

gets up a tremendous speed, bursting into the open just where a

precipitous drop into the sea could be most easily accomplished.

The station at Kettleness is on the top of the huge cliffs, and to

reach the shore one must climb down a zigzag path. It is a broad and

solid pathway until half-way down, where it assumes the character of a

goat-track, being a mere treading down of the loose shale of which the

enormous cliff is formed. The sliding down of the crumbling rock

constantly carries away the path, but a little spade-work soon makes

the track firm again. This portion of the cliff has something of a

history, for one night in 1829 the inhabitants of many of the cottages

originally forming the village of Kettleness were warned of impending

danger by subterranean noises. Fearing a subsidence of the cliff, they

betook themselves to a small schooner lying in the bay. This wise move

had not long been accomplished, when a huge section of the ground

occupied by the cottages slid down the great cliff and the next morning

there was little to be seen but a sloping mound of lias shale at the

foot of the precipice. The villagers recovered some of their property

by digging, and some pieces of broken crockery from one of the cottages

are still to be seen on the shore near the ferryman's hut, where the

path joins the shore.

This sandy beach, lapped by the blue waves of Runswick Bay, is one of

the finest and most spectacular spots to be found on the rocky

coast-line of Yorkshire. You look northwards across the sunlit sea to

the rocky heights hiding Port Mulgrave and Staithes, and on the further

side of the bay you see tiny Runswick's red roofs, one above the other,

on the face of the cliff. Here it is always cool and pleasant in the

hottest weather, and from the broad shadows cast by the precipices

above one can revel in the sunny land- and sea-scapes without that fishy

odour so unavoidable in the villages. When the sun is beginning to

climb down the sky in the direction of Hinderwell, and everything is

bathed in a glorious golden light, the ferryman will row you across the

bay to Runswick, but a scramble over the rocks on the beach will be

repaid by a closer view of the now half-filled-up Hob Hole. The

fisherfolk believed this cave to be the home of a kindly-disposed fairy

or hob, who seems to have been one of the slow-dying inhabitants of the

world of mythology implicitly believed in by the Saxons. And these

beliefs died so hard in these lonely Yorkshire villages that until

recent times a mother would carry her child suffering from

whooping-cough along the beach to the mouth of the cave. There she would

call in a loud voice, 'Hob-hole Hob! my bairn's getten t'kink cough.

Tak't off, tak't off.'

The same form of disaster which destroyed Kettleness village caused the

complete ruin of Runswick in 1666, for one night, when some of the

fisherfolk were holding a wake over a corpse, they had unmistakable

warnings of an approaching landslip. The alarm was given, and the

villagers, hurriedly leaving their cottages, saw the whole place slide

downwards, and become a mass of ruins. No lives were lost, but, as only

one house remained standing, the poor fishermen were only saved from

destitution by the sums of money collected for their relief.

Scarcely two miles from Hinderwell is the fishing-hamlet of Staithes,

wedged into the side of a deep and exceedingly picturesque beck.

The steep road leading past the station drops down into the village,

giving a glimpse of the beck crossed by its ramshackle wooden

foot-bridge--the view one has been prepared for by guide-books and

picture postcards. Lower down you enter the village street. Here the

smell of fish comes out to greet you, and one would forgive the place

this overflowing welcome if one were not so shocked at the dismal

aspect of the houses on either side of the way. Many are of

comparatively recent origin, others are quite new, and a few--a very

few--are old; but none have any architectural pretensions or any claims

to picturesqueness, and only a few have the neat and respectable look

one is accustomed to expect after seeing Robin Hood's Bay.

I hurried down on to the little fish-wharf--a wooden structure facing

the sea--hoping to find something more cheering in the view of the

little bay, with its bold cliffs, and the busy scene where the cobbles

were drawn up on the shingle. Here my spirits revived, and I began to

find excuses for the painters. The little wharf, in a bad state of

repair, like most things in the place, was occupied by groups of

stalwart fisherfolk, men and women.

The men were for the most part watching their womenfolk at work. They

were also to an astonishing extent mere spectators in the arduous work

of hauling the cobbles one by one on to the steep bank of shingle. A

tackle hooked to one of the baulks of timber forming the staith was

being hauled at by five women and two men! Two others were in a

listless fashion leaning their shoulders against the boat itself. With

the last 'Heave-ho!' at the shortened tackle the women laid hold of the

nets, and with casual male assistance laid them out on the shingle,

removed any fragments of fish, and generally prepared them for stowing

in the boat again.

A change has come over the inhabitants of Staithes since 1846, when Mr.

Ord describes the fishermen as 'exceedingly civil and courteous to

strangers, and altogether free from that low, grasping knavery peculiar

to the larger class of fishing-towns.' Without wishing to be

unreasonably hard on Staithes, I am inclined to believe that this

character is infinitely better than these folk deserve, and even when

Mr. Ord wrote of the place I have reason to doubt the civility shown by

them to strangers. It is, according to some who have known Staithes for

a long long while, less than fifty years ago that the fisherfolk were

hostile to a stranger on very small provocation, and only the entirely

inoffensive could expect to sojourn in the village without being a

target for stones.

No doubt many of the superstitions of Staithes people have languished

or died out in recent years, and among these may be included a

particularly primitive custom when the catches of fish had been

unusually small. Bad luck of this sort could only be the work of some

evil influence, and to break the spell a sheep's heart had to be

procured, into which many pins were stuck. The heart was then burnt in

a bonfire on the beach, in the presence of the fishermen, who danced

round the flames.

In happy contrast to these heathenish practices was the resolution

entered into and signed by the fishermen of Staithes, in August, 1835,

binding themselves 'on no account whatever' to follow their calling on

Sundays, 'nor to go out without boats or cobbles to sea, either on the

Saturday or Sunday evenings.' They also agreed to forfeit ten shillings

for every offence against the resolution, and the fund accumulated in

this way, and by other means, was administered for the benefit of aged

couples and widows and orphans.

The men of Staithes are known up and down the east coast of Great

Britain as some of the very finest types of fishermen. Their cobbles,

which vary in size and colour, are uniform in design and the brilliance

of their paint. Brick red, emerald green, pungent blue and white, are

the most favoured colours, but orange, pink, yellow, and many others,

are to be seen.

Looking northwards there is a grand piece of coast scenery. The masses

of Boulby Cliffs, rising 660 feet from the sea, are the highest on the

Yorkshire coast. The waves break all round the rocky scaur, and fill

the air with their thunder, while the strong wind blows the spray into

beards which stream backwards from the incoming crests.

The upper course of Staithes Beck consists of two streams, flowing

through deep, richly-wooded ravines. They follow parallel courses very

close to one another for three or four miles, but their sources extend

from Lealholm Moor to Wapley Moor. Kilton Beck runs through another

lovely valley densely clothed in trees, and full of the richest

woodland scenery. It becomes more open in the neighbourhood of Loftus,

and from thence to the sea at Skinningrove the valley is green and open

to the heavens. Loftus is on the borders of the Cleveland mining

district, and it is for this reason that the town has grown to a

considerable size. But although the miners' new cottages are

unpicturesque, and the church only dates from 1811, the situation is

pretty, owing to the profusion of trees among the houses, has

railway-sidings and branch-lines running down to it, and on the hill

above the cottages stands a cluster of blast-furnaces. In daylight they

are merely ugly, but at night, with tongues of flame, they speak of the

potency of labour. I can still see that strange silhouette of steel

cylinders and connecting girders against a blue-black sky, with silent

masses of flame leaping into the heavens.

It was long before iron-ore was smelted here, before even the old

alum-works had been started, that Skinningrove attained to some sort of

fame through a wonderful visit, as strange as any of those recounted by

Mr. Wells. It was in the year 1535--for the event is most carefully

recorded in a manuscript of the period--that some fishermen of

Skinningrove caught a Sea Man. This was such an astounding fact to

record that the writer of the old manuscript explains that 'old men

that would be loath to have their credyt crackt by a tale of a stale

date, report confidently that ... a _sea-man_ was taken by the

fishers.' They took him up to an old disused house, and kept him there

for many weeks, feeding him on raw fish, because he persistently

refused the other sorts of food offered him. To the people who flocked

from far and near to visit him he was very courteous, and he seems to

have been particularly pleased with any 'fayre maydes' who visited him,

for he would gaze at them with a very earnest countenance, 'as if his

phlegmaticke breaste had been touched with a sparke of love.'

The lofty coast-line we have followed all the way from Sandsend

terminates abruptly at Huntcliff Nab, the great promontory which is

familiar to visitors to Saltburn. Low alluvial cliffs take the place of

the rocky precipices, and the coast becomes flatter and flatter as you

approach Redcar and the marshy country at the mouth of the Tees. The

original Saltburn, consisting of a row of quaint fishermen's cottages,

still stands entirely alone, facing the sea on the Huntcliff side of

the beck, and from the wide, smooth sands there is little of modern

Saltburn to be seen besides the pier. For the rectangular streets and

blocks of houses have been wisely placed some distance from the edge of

the grassy cliffs, leaving the sea-front quite unspoiled.

The elaborately-laid-out gardens on the steep banks of Skelton Beck are

the pride and joy of Saltburn, for they offer a pleasant contrast to

the bare slopes on the Huntcliff side and the flat country towards

Kirkleatham. But in this seemingly harmless retreat there used to be

heard horrible groanings, and I have no evidence to satisfy me that

they have altogether ceased. For in this matter-of-fact age such a

story would not be listened to, and thus those who hear the sounds may

be afraid to speak of them. The groanings were heard, they say, 'when

all wyndes are whiste and the rea restes unmoved as a standing poole.'

At times they were so loud as to be heard at least six miles inland,

and the fishermen feared to put out to sea, believing that the ocean

was 'as a greedy Beaste raginge for Hunger, desyers to be satisfyed

with men's carcases.'

In 1842 Redcar was a mere village, though more apparent on the map than

Saltburn; but, like its neighbour, it has grown into a great

watering-place, having developed two piers, a long esplanade, and other

features, which I am glad to leave to those for whom they were made,

and betake myself to the more romantic spots so plentiful in this broad

county.

CHAPTER IV

THE COAST FROM WHITBY TO SCARBOROUGH

Although it is only six miles as the crow flies from Whitby to Robin

Hood's Bay, the exertion required to walk there along the top of the

cliffs is equal to quite double that distance, for there are so many

gullies to be climbed into and crawled out of that the measured

distance is considerably increased. It is well to remember this, for

otherwise the scenery of the last mile or two may not seem as fine as

the first stages.

As soon as the abbey and the jet-sellers are left behind, you pass a

farm, and come out on a great expanse of close-growing smooth turf,

where the whole world seems to be made up of grass and sky. The

footpath goes close to the edge of the cliff; in some places it has

gone too close, and has disappeared altogether. But these diversions

can be avoided without spoiling the magnificent glimpses of the

rock-strewn beach nearly 200 feet below. From above Saltwick Bay there

is a grand view across the level grass to Whitby Abbey, standing out

alone on the green horizon. Down below, Nab runs out a bare black arm

into the sea, which even in the calmest weather angrily foams along the

windward side. Beyond the sturdy lighthouse that shows itself a

dazzling white against the hot blue of the heavens commence the

innumerable gullies. Each one has its trickling stream, and bushes and

low trees grow to the limits of the shelter afforded by the ravines;

but in the open there is nothing higher than the waving corn or the

stone walls dividing the pastures--a silent testimony to the power of

the north-east wind.

After rounding the North Cheek, the whole of Robin Hood's Bay is

suddenly laid before you. I well remember my first view of the wide

sweep of sea, which lay like a blue carpet edged with white, and the

high escarpments of rock that were in deep purple shade, except where

the afternoon sun turned them into the brightest greens and umbers.

Three miles away, but seemingly very much closer, was the bold headland

of the Peak, and more inland was Stoupe Brow, with Robin Hood's Butts

on the hill-top. The fable connected with the outlaw is scarcely worth

repeating, but on the site of these butts urns have been dug up, and

are now to be found in Scarborough Museum. The Bay Town is hidden away

in a most astonishing fashion, for, until you have almost reached the

two bastions which guard the way up from the beach, there is nothing to

be seen of the charming old place. If you approach by the road past the

railway station it is the same, for only garishly new hotels and villas

are to be seen on the high ground, and not a vestige of the

fishing-town can be discovered. But the road to the bay at last begins

to drop down very steeply, and the first old roofs appear. The oath at

the side of the road develops into a very lone series of steps, and in

a few minutes the narrow street flanked by very tall houses, has

swallowed you up.

Everything is very clean and orderly, and, although most of the houses

are very old, they are generally in a good state of repair, exhibiting

in every case the seaman's love of fresh paint. Thus, the dark and worn

stone walls have bright eyes in their newly-painted doors and windows.

Over their door-steps the fishermen's wives are quite fastidious, and

you seldom see a mark on the ochre-coloured hearth-stone with which the

women love to brighten the worn stones. Even the scrapers are sleek

with blacklead, and it is not easy to find a window without spotless

curtains. At high tide the sea comes half-way up the steep opening

between the coastguards' quarters and the inn which is built on another

bastion, and in rough weather the waves break hungrily on to the strong

stone walls, for the bay is entirely open to the full force of gales

from the east or north-east. All the way from Scarborough to Whitby the

coast offers no shelter of any sort in heavy weather, and many vessels

have been lost on the rocks. On one occasion a small sailing-ship was

driven right into this bay at high tide, and the bowsprit smashed into

a window of the little hotel that occupied the place of the present

one.

The railway southwards takes a curve inland, and, after winding in and

out to make the best of the contour of the hills, the train finally

steams very heavily and slowly into Ravenscar Station, right over the

Peak and 630 feet above the sea. On the way you get glimpses of the

moors inland, and grand views over the curving bay. There is a station

named Fyling Hall, after Sir Hugh Cholmley's old house, half-way to

Ravenscar.

Raven Hall, the large house conspicuously perched on the heights above

the Peak, is now converted into an hotel. There is a wonderful view

from the castellated terraces, which in the distance suggest the

remains of some ruined fortress. At the present time there is nothing

to be seen older than the house whose foundations were dug in 1774.

While the building operations were in progress, however, a Roman

inscribed stone, now in Whitby Museum, was unearthed. It states that

the 'Castrum' was built by two prefects whose names are given. This was

one of the fortified signal stations built in the 4th century A.D. to

give warning of the approach of hostile ships.

Following this lofty coast southwards, you reach Hayburn Wyke, where a

stream drops perpendicularly over some square masses of rock.

There is a small stone circle not far from Hayburn Wyke Station, to be

found without much trouble, and those who are interested in Early Man

will scarcely find a neighbourhood in this country more thickly

honey-combed with tumuli and ancient earth-works. There is no

particularly plain pathway through the fields to the valley where this

stone circle can be seen, but it can easily be found after a careful

study of the large-scale Ordnance Map which they will show you at the

hotel.

CHAPTER V

SCARBOROUGH

Dazzling sunshine, a furious wind, flapping and screaming gulls, crowds

of fishing-boats, and innumerable people jostling one another on the

sea-front, made up the chief features of my first view of Scarborough.

By degrees I discovered that behind the gulls and the brown sails were

old houses, their roofs dimly red through the transparent haze, and

above them appeared a great green cliff, with its uneven outline

defined by the curtain walls and towers of the castle which had made

Scarborough a place of importance in the Civil War and in earlier

times.

The wide-curving bay was filled with huge breaking waves which looked

capable of destroying everything within their reach, but they seemed

harmless enough when I looked a little further out, where eight or ten

grey war-ships were riding at their anchors, apparently motionless.

From the outer arm of the harbour, where the seas were angrily

attempting to dislodge the top row of stones, I could make out the

great mass of grey buildings stretching right to the extremity of the

bay.

I tried to pick out individual buildings from this city-like

watering-place, but, beyond discovering the position of the Spa and one

or two of the mightier hotels, I could see very little, and instead

fell to wondering how many landladies and how many foreign waiters the

long lines of grey roofs represented. This raised so many unpleasant

recollections of the various types I had encountered that I determined

to go no nearer to modern Scarborough than the pier-head upon which I

stood. A specially big wave, however, soon drove me from this position

to a drier if more crowded spot, and, reconsidering my objections, I

determined to see something of the innumerable grey streets which make

up the fashionable watering-place. The terraced gardens on the steep

cliffs along the sea-front were most elaborately well kept, but a more

striking feature of Scarborough is the magnificence of so many of the

shops. They suggest a city rather than a seaside town, and give you an

idea of the magnitude of the permanent population of the place as well

as the flood of summer and winter visitors. The origin of Scarborough's

popularity was undoubtedly due to the chalybeate waters of the Spa,

discovered in 1620, almost at the same time as those of Tunbridge Wells

and Epsom.

The unmistakable signs of antiquity in the narrow streets adjoining the

harbour irresistibly remind one of the days when sea-bathing had still

to be popularized, when the efficacy of Scarborough's medicinal spring

had not been discovered, of the days when the place bore as little

resemblance to its present size or appearance as the fishing-town at

Robin Hood's Bay.

We do not know that Piers Gaveston, Sir Hugh Cholmley, and other

notabilities who have left their mark on the pages of Scarborough's

history, might not, were they with us to-day, welcome the pierrot, the

switchback, the restaurant, and other means by which pleasure-loving

visitors wile away their hardly-earned holidays; but for my part the

story of Scarborough's Mayor who was tossed in a blanket is far more

entertaining than the songs of nigger minstrels or any of the

commercial attempts to amuse.

This strangely improper procedure with one who held the highest office

in the municipality took place in the reign of James II., and the

King's leanings towards Popery were the cause of all the trouble.

On April 27, 1688, a declaration for liberty of conscience was

published, and by royal command the said declaration was to be read in

every Protestant church in the land. Mr. Thomas Aislabie, the Mayor of

Scarborough, duly received a copy of the document, and, having handed

it to the clergyman, Mr. Noel Boteler, ordered him to read it in church

on the following Sunday morning. There seems little doubt that the

worthy Mr. Boteler at once recognized a wily move on the part of the

King, who under the cover of general tolerance would foster the growth

of the Roman religion until such time as the Catholics had attained

sufficient power to suppress Protestantism. Mr. Mayor was therefore

informed that the declaration would not be read. On Sunday morning

(August 11) when the omission had been made, the Mayor left his pew,

and, stick in hand, walked up the aisle, seized the minister, and caned

him as he stood at his reading-desk. Scenes of such a nature did not

occur every day even in 1688, and the storm of indignation and

excitement among the members of the congregation did not subside so

quickly as it had risen.

The cause of the poor minister was championed in particular by a

certain Captain Ouseley, and the discussion of the matter on the

bowling-green on the following day led to the suggestion that the Mayor

should be sent for to explain his conduct. As he took no notice of a

courteous message requesting his attendance, the Captain repeated the

summons accompanied by a file of musketeers. In the meantime many

suggestions for dealing with Mr. Aislabie in a fitting manner were

doubtless made by the Captain's brother officers, and, further, some

settled course of action seems to have been agreed upon, for we do not

hear of any hesitation on the part of the Captain on the arrival of the

Mayor, whose rage must by this time have been bordering upon apoplexy.

A strong blanket was ready, and Captains Carvil, Fitzherbert, Hanmer,

and Rodney, led by Captain Ouseley and assisted by as many others as

could find room, seizing the sides, in a very few moments Mr. Mayor was

revolving and bumping, rising and falling, as though he were no weight

at all.

If the castle does not show many interesting buildings beyond the keep

and the long line of walls and drumtowers, there is so much concerning

it that is of great human interest that I should scarcely feel able to

grumble if there were still fewer remains. Behind the ancient houses in

Quay Street rises the steep, grassy cliff, up which one must climb by

various rough pathways to the fortified summit. On the side facing the

mainland, a hollow, known as the Dyke, is bridged by a tall and narrow

archway, in place of the drawbridge of the seventeenth century and

earlier times. On the same side is a massive barbican, looking across

an open space to St. Mary's Church, which suffered so severely during

the sieges of the castle. The maimed church--for the chancel has never

been rebuilt--is close to the Dyke and the shattered keep, and so

apparent are the results of the cannonading between them that no one

requires to be told that the Parliamentary forces mounted their

ordnance in the chancel and tower of the church, and it is equally

obvious that the Royalists returned the fire hotly.

The great siege lasted for nearly a year, and although his garrison was

small, and there was practically no hope of relief, Sir Hugh Cholmley

seems to have kept a stout heart up to the end. With him throughout

this long period of privation and suffering was his beautiful and

courageous wife, whose comparatively early death, at the age of

fifty-four, must to some extent be attributed to the strain and fatigue

borne during these months of warfare. Sir Hugh seems to have almost

worshipped his wife, for in his memoirs he is never weary of describing

her perfections.

'She was of the middle stature of women,' he writes, 'and well shaped,

yet in that not so singular as in the beauty of her face, which was but

of a little model, and yet proportionable to her body; her eyes black

and full of loveliness and sweetness, her eyebrows small and even, as

if drawn with a pencil, a very little, pretty, well-shaped mouth, which

sometimes (especially when in a muse or study) she would draw up into

an incredible little compass; her hair a sad chestnut; her complexion

brown, but clear, with a fresh colour in her cheeks, a loveliness in

her looks inexpressible; and by her whole composure was so beautiful a

sweet creature at her marriage as not many did parallel, few exceed

her, in the nation; yet the inward endowments and perfections of her

mind did exceed those outward of her body, being a most pious virtuous

person, of great integrity and discerning judgment in most things.'

On one occasion during the siege Sir John Meldrum, the Parliamentary

commander, sent proposals to Sir Hugh Cholmley, which he accompanied

with savage threats, that if his terms were not immediately accepted he

would make a general assault on the castle that night, and in the event

of one drop of his men's blood being shed he would give orders for a

general massacre of the garrison, sparing neither man nor woman.

To a man whose devotion to his beautiful wife was so great, a threat of

this nature must have been a severe shock to his determination to hold

out. But from his own writings we are able to picture for ourselves Sir

Hugh's anxious and troubled face lighting up on the approach of the

cause of his chief concern. Lady Cholmley, without any sign of the

inward misgivings or dejection which, with her gentle and shrinking

nature, must have been a great struggle, came to her husband, and

implored him to on no account let her peril influence his decision to

the detriment of his own honour or the King's affairs.

Sir John Meldrum's proposals having been rejected, the garrison

prepared itself for the furious attack commenced on May 11.

The assault was well planned, for while the Governor's attention was

turned towards the gateway leading to the castle entrance, another

attack was made at the southern end of the wall towards the sea, where

until the year 1730 Charles's Tower stood. The bloodshed at this point

was greater than at the gateway. At the head of a chosen division of

troops, Sir John Meldrum climbed the almost precipitous ascent with

wonderful courage, only to meet with such spirited resistance on the

part of the besieged that, when the attack was abandoned, it was

discovered that Meldrum had received a dangerous wound penetrating to

his thigh, and that several of his officers and men had been killed.

Meanwhile, at the gateway, the first success of the assailants had been

checked at the foot of the Grand Tower or Keep, for at that point the

rush of drab-coated and helmeted men was received by such a shower of

stones and missiles that many stumbled and were crushed on the steep

pathway. Not even Cromwell's men could continue to face such a

reception, and before very long the Governor could embrace his wife in

the knowledge that the great attack had failed.

At last, on July 22, 1645--his forty-fifth birthday--Sir Hugh was

forced to come to an agreement with the enemy, by which he honourably

surrendered the castle three days later. It was a sad procession that

wound its way down the steep pathway, littered with the debris of

broken masonry: for many of Sir Hugh's officers and soldiers were in

such a weak condition that they had to be carried out in sheets or

helped along between two men, and the Parliamentary officer adds rather

tersely, that 'the rest were not very fit to march.' The scurvy had

depleted the ranks of the defenders to such an extent that the women in

the castle, despite the presence of Lady Cholmley, threatened to stone

the Governor unless he capitulated.

Three years later the castle was again besieged by the Parliamentary

forces, for Colonel Matthew Boynton, the Governor, had declared for the

King. The garrison held out from August to December, when terms were

made with Colonel Hugh Bethell, by which the Governor, officers,

gentlemen, and soldiers, marched out with 'their colours flying, drums

beating, musquets loaden, bandeleers filled, matches lighted, and

bullet in mouth, to a close called Scarborough Common,' where they laid

down their arms.

Before I leave Scarborough I must go back to early times, in order that

the antiquity of the place may not be slighted owing to the omission of

any reference to the town in the Domesday Book. Tosti, Count of

Northumberland, who, as everyone knows, was brother of the Harold who

fought at Senlac Hill, had brought about an insurrection of the

Northumbrians, and having been dispossessed by his brother, he revenged

himself by inviting the help of Haralld Hadrada, King of Norway. The

Norseman promptly accepted the offer, and, taking with him his family

and an army of warriors, sailed for the Shetlands, where Tosti joined

him. The united forces then came down the east coast of Britain until

they reached Scardaburgum, where they landed and prepared to fight the

inhabitants. The town was then built entirely of timber, and there was,

apparently, no castle of any description on the great hill, for the

Norsemen, finding their opponents inclined to offer a stout resistance,

tried other tactics. They gained possession of the hill, constructed a

huge fire, and when the wood was burning fiercely, flung the blazing

brands down on to the wooden houses below. The fire spread from one hut

to another with sufficient speed to drive out the defenders, who in the

confusion which followed were slaughtered by the enemy.

This occurred in the momentous year 1066, when Harold, having defeated

the Norsemen and slain Haralld Hadrada at Stamford Bridge, had to hurry

southwards to meet William the Norman at Hastings. It is not

surprising, therefore, that the compilers of the Conqueror's survey

should have failed to record the existence of the blackened embers of

what had once been a town. But such a site as the castle hill could not

long remain idle in the stormy days of the Norman Kings, and William le

Gros, Earl of Albemarle and Lord of Holderness, recognising the natural

defensibility of the rock, built the massive walls which have withstood

so many assaults, and even now form the most prominent feature of

Scarborough.

Until 1923 there was no knowledge of there having been any Roman

occupation of the promontory upon which the castle stands. Excavations

made in that year have shown that a massively-built watch tower was

maintained there during the last phase of Roman control in Britain.

This was one of a chain of signal or lookout stations placed along the

Yorkshire coast when the threat of raiders from the mouths of the

German rivers had become serious.

CHAPTER VI

WHITBY

Behold the glorious summer sea

As night's dark wings unfold,

And o'er the waters, 'neath the stars,

The harbour lights behold.

_E. Teschemacher_.

Despite a huge influx of summer visitors, and despite the modern town

which has grown up to receive them, Whitby is still one of the most

strikingly picturesque towns in England. But at the same time, if one

excepts the abbey, the church, and the market-house, there are scarcely

any architectural attractions in the town. The charm of the place does

not lie so much in detail as in broad effects. The narrow streets have

no surprises in the way of carved-oak brackets or curious panelled

doorways, although narrow passages and steep flights of stone steps

abound. On the other hand, the old parts of the town, when seen from a

distance, are always presenting themselves in new apparel.

In the early morning the East Cliff generally appears as a pale grey

silhouette with a square projection representing the church, and a

fretted one the abbey.

But as the sun climbs upwards, colour and definition grow out of the

haze of smoke and shadows, and the roofs assume their ruddy tones. At

midday, when the sunlight pours down upon the medley of houses

clustered along the face of the cliff, the scene is brilliantly

coloured. The predominant note is the red of the chimneys and roofs and

stray patches of brickwork, but the walls that go down to the water's

edge are green below and full of rich browns above, and in many places

the sides of the cottages are coloured with an ochre wash, while above

them all the top of the cliff appears covered with grass. There is

scarcely a chimney in this old part of Whitby that does not contribute

to the mist of blue-grey smoke that slowly drifts up the face of the

cliff, and thus, when there is no bright sunshine, colour and details

are subdued in the haze.

In many towns whose antiquity and picturesqueness are more popular than

the attractions of Whitby, the railway deposits one in some

distressingly ugly modern excrescence, from which it may even be

necessary for a stranger to ask his way to the old-world features he

has come to see. But at Whitby the railway, without doing any harm to

the appearance of the town, at once gives a visitor as typical a scene

of fishing-life as he will ever find. When the tide is up and the

wharves are crowded with boats, this upper portion of Whitby Harbour is

at its best, and to step from the railway compartment entered at King's

Cross into this picturesque scene is an experience to be remembered.

In the deepening twilight of a clear evening the harbour gathers to

itself the additional charm of mysterious indefiniteness, and among the

long-drawn-out reflections appear sinuous lines of yellow light beneath

the lamps by the bridge. Looking towards the ocean from the outer

harbour, one sees the massive arms which Whitby has thrust into the

waves, holding aloft the steady lights that

'Safely guide the mighty ships

Into the harbour bay.'

If we keep to the waterside, modern Whitby has no terrors for us. It is

out of sight, and might therefore have never existed. But when we have

crossed the bridge, and passed along the narrow thoroughfare known as

Church Street to the steps leading up the face of the cliff, we must

prepare ourselves for a new aspect of the town. There, upon the top of

the West Cliff, stand rows of sad-looking and dun-coloured

lodging-houses, relieved by the aggressive bulk of a huge hotel, with

corner turrets, that frowns savagely at the unfinished crescent, where

there are many apartments with 'rooms facing the sea.'

Turning landwards we look over the chimney stacks of the topmost

houses, and see the silver Esk winding placidly in the deep channel it

has carved for itself; and further away we see the far off moorland

heights, brown and blue, where the sources of the broad river down

below are fed by the united efforts of innumerable tiny streams deep in

the heather. Behind us stands the massive-looking parish church, with

its Norman tower, so sturdily built that its height seems scarcely

greater than its breadth. There is surely no other church with such a

ponderous exterior that is so completely deceptive as to its internal

aspect, for St. Mary's contains the most remarkable series of

beehive-like galleries that were ever crammed into a parish church.

They are not merely very wide and ill-arranged, but they are superposed

one abode the other. The free use of white paint all over the sloping

tiers of pews has prevented the interior from being as dark as it would

have otherwise been, but the result of all this painted deal has been

to give the building the most eccentric and indecorous appearance.

The early history of Whitby from the time of the landing of Roman

soldiers in the inlet seems to be very closely associated with the

abbey founded by Hilda about two years after the battle of Winwidfield,

fought on November 15, A.D. 654; but I will not venture to state an

opinion here as to whether there was any town at Streoneshalh before

the building of the abbey, or whether the place that has since become

known as Whitby grew on account of the presence of the abbey. Such

matters as these have been fought out by an expert in the archaeology

of Cleveland--the late Canon Atkinson, who seemed to take infinite

pleasure in demolishing the elaborately constructed theories of those

painstaking historians of the eighteenth century, Dr. Young and Mr.

Lionel Charlton.

Many facts, however, which throw light on the early days of the abbey

are now unassailable. We see that Hilda must have been a most

remarkable woman for her times, instilling into those around her a

passion for learning as well as right-living, for despite the fact that

they worked and prayed in rude wooden buildings, with walls formed,

most probably, of split tree-trunks, after the fashion of the church at

Greenstead in Essex, we find the institution producing, among others,

such men as Bosa and John, both Archbishops of York, and such a poet as

Caedmon. The legend of his inspiration, however, may be placed beside

the story of how the saintly Abbess turned the snakes into the fossil

ammonites with which the liassic shores of Whitby are strewn. Hilda,

who probably died in the year 680, was succeeded by Aelfleda, the

daughter of King Oswiu of Northumbria, whom she had trained in the

abbey, and there seems little doubt that her pupil carried on

successfully the beneficent work of the foundress.

Aelfleda had the support of her mother's presence as well as the wise

counsels of Bishop Trumwine, who had taken refuge at Streoneshalh,

after having been driven from his own sphere of work by the

depredations of the Picts and Scots. We then learn that Aelfleda died

at the age of fifty-nine, but from that year--probably 713--a complete

silence falls upon the work of the abbey; for if any records were made

during the next century and a half, they have been totally lost. About

the year 867 the Danes reached this part of Yorkshire, and we know that

they laid waste the abbey, and most probably the town also; but the

invaders gradually started new settlements, or 'bys,' and Whitby must

certainly have grown into a place of some size by the time of Edward

the Confessor, for just previous to the Norman invasion it was assessed

for Danegeld to the extent of a sum equivalent to £3,500 at the present

time.

After the Conquest a monk named Reinfrid succeeded in reviving a

monastery on the site of the old one, having probably gained the

permission of William de Percy, the lord of the district. The new

establishment, however, was for monks only, and was for some time

merely a priory.

The form of the successive buildings from the time of Hilda until the

building of the stately abbey church, whose ruins are now to be seen,

is a subject of great interest, but, unfortunately, there are few facts

to go upon. The very first church was, as I have already suggested, a

building of rude construction, scarcely better than the humble

dwellings of the monks and nuns. The timber walls were most probably

thatched, and the windows would be of small lattice or boards pierced

with small holes. Gradually the improvements brought about would have

led to the use of stone for the walls, and the buildings destroyed by

the Danes may have resembled such examples of Anglo-Saxon work as may

still be seen in the churches of Bradford-on-Avon and Monkwearmouth.

The buildings erected by Reinfrid under the Norman influence then

prevailing in England must have been a slight advance upon the

destroyed fabric, and we know that during the time of his successor,

Serlo de Percy, there was a certain Godfrey in charge of the building

operations, and there is every reason to believe that he completed the

church during the fifty years of prosperity the monastery passed

through at that time. But this was not the structure which survived,

for towards the end of Stephen's reign, or during that of Henry II.,

the unfortunate convent was devastated by the King of Norway, who

entered the harbour, and, in the words of the chronicle, 'laid waste

everything, both within doors and without.' The abbey slowly recovered

from this disaster, and the reconstruction commenced in 1220, still

makes a conspicuous landmark from the sea. It was after the Dissolution

that the abbey buildings came into the hands of Sir Richard Cholmley,

who paid over to Henry VIII. the sum of £333 8s. 4d. The manors of

Eskdaleside and Ugglebarnby, with all 'their rights, members and

appurtenances as they formerly had belonged to the abbey of Whiby,'

henceforward belonged to Sir Richard and his successors.

Sir Hugh Cholmley, whose defence of Scarborough Castle has made him a

name in history, was born on July 22, 1600, at Roxby, near Pickering.

He has been justly called 'the father of Whitby,' and it is to him we

owe a fascinating account of his life at Whitby in Stuart and Jacobean

times. He describes how he lived for some time in the gate-house of the

abbey buildings, 'till my house was repaired and habitable, which then

was very ruinous and all unhandsome, the wall being only of timber and

plaster, and ill-contrived within: and besides the repairs, or rather

re-edifying the house, I built the stable and barn, I heightened the

outwalls of the court double to what they were, and made all the wall

round about the paddock; so that the place hath been improved very

much, both for beauty and profit, by me more than all my ancestors, for

there was not a tree about the house but was set in my time, and almost

by my own hand.'

In the spring of 1636 the reconstruction of the abbey house was

finished, and Sir Hugh moved in with his family. 'My dear wife,' he

says '(who was excellent at dressing and making all handsome within

doors), had put it into a fine posture, and furnished with many good

things, so that, I believe, there were few gentlemen in the country, of

my rank, exceeded it.... I was at this time made Deputy-lieutenant and

Colonel over the Train-bands within the hundred of Whitby Strand,

Ruedale, Pickering, Lythe and Scarborough town; for that, my father

being dead, the country looked upon me as the chief of my family.'

'I had between thirty and forty in my ordinary family, a chaplain who

said prayers every morning at six, and again before dinner and supper,

a porter who merely attended the gates, which were ever shut up before

dinner, when the bell rung to prayers, and not opened till one o'clock,

except for some strangers who came to dinner, which was ever fit to

receive three or four besides my family, without any trouble; and

whatever their fare was, they were sure to have a hearty welcome. As a

definite result of his efforts, 'all that part of the pier to the west

end of the harbour' was erected, and yet he complains that, though it

was the means of preserving a large section of the town from the sea,

the townsfolk would not interest themselves in the repairs necessitated

by force of the waves. 'I wish, with all my heart,' he exclaims, 'the

next generation may have more public spirit.'

CHAPTER VII

THE CLEVELAND HILLS

On their northern and western flanks the Cleveland Hills have a most

imposing and mountainous aspect, although their greatest altitudes do

not aspire to more than about 1,500 feet. But they rise so suddenly to

their full height out of the flat sea of green country that they often

appear as a coast defended by a bold range of mountains. Roseberry

Topping stands out in grim isolation, on its masses of alum rock, like

a huge sea-worn crag, considerably over 1,000 feet high. But this

strangely menacing peak raises his defiant head over nothing but broad

meadows, arable land, and woodlands, and his only warfare is with the

lower strata of storm-clouds, which is a convenient thing for the

people who live in these parts; for long ago they used the peak as a

sign of approaching storms, having reduced the warning to the

easily-remembered couplet:

'When Roseberry Topping wears a cap,

Let Cleveland then beware of a clap.'

From the fact that you can see this remarkable peak from almost every

point of the compass except south-westwards, it must follow that from

the top of the hill there are views in all those directions. But to see

so much of the country at once comes as a surprise to everyone.

Stretching inland towards the backbone of England, there is spread out

a huge tract of smiling country, covered with a most complex network of

hedges, which gradually melt away into the indefinite blue edge of the

world where the hills of Wensleydale rise from the plain. Looking

across the little town of Guisborough, lying near the shelter of the

hills, to the broad sweep of the North Sea, this piece of Yorkshire

seems so small that one almost expects to see the Cheviots away in the

north. But, beyond the winding Tees and the drifting smoke of the great

manufacturing towns on its banks, one must be content with the county

of Durham, a huge section of which is plainly visible. Turning towards

the brown moorlands, the cultivation is exchanged for ridge beyond

ridge of total desolation--a huge tract of land in this crowded England

where the population for many square miles at a time consists of the

inmates of a lonely farm or two in the circumscribed cultivated areas

of the dales.

Eight or nine hundred years ago these valleys were choked up with

forests. The Early British inhabitants were more inclined to the

hill-tops than the hollows, if the innumerable indications of their

settlements be any guide, and there is every reason for believing that

many of the hollows in the folds of the heathery moorlands were rarely

visited by man. Thus, the suggestion has been made that a few of the

last representatives of now extinct monsters may have survived in these

wild retreats, for how otherwise do we find persistent stories in these

parts of Yorkshire, handed down we cannot tell how many centuries, of

strange creatures described as 'worms'? At Loftus they show you the

spot where a 'grisly worm' had its lair, and in many places there are

traditions of strange long-bodied dragons who were slain by various

valiant men.

On Easby Moor, a few miles to the south of Roseberry Topping, the tall

column to the memory of Captain Cook stands like a lighthouse on this

inland coastline. The lofty position it occupies among these brown and

purply-green heights makes the monument visible over a great tract of

the sailor's native Cleveland. The people who live in Marton, the

village of his birthplace, can see the memorial of their hero's fame,

and the country lads of to-day are constantly reminded of the success

which attended the industry and perseverance of a humble Marton boy.

The cottage where James Cook was born in 1728 has gone, but the field

in which it stood is called Cook's Garth. The shop at Staithes,

generally spoken of as a 'huckster's,' where Cook was apprenticed as a

boy, has also disappeared; but, unfortunately, that unpleasant story of

his having taken a shilling from his master's till, when the

attractions of the sea proved too much for him to resist, persistently

clings to all accounts of his early life. There seems no evidence to

convict him of this theft, but there are equally no facts by which to

clear him. But if we put into the balance his subsequent term of

employment at Whitby, the excellent character he gained when he went to

sea, and Professor J.K. Laughton's statement that he left Staithes

'after some disagreement with his master,' there seems every reason to

believe that the story is untrue.

I have seldom seen a more uninhabited and inhospitable-looking country

than the broad extent of purple hills that stretch away to the

south-west from Great Ayton and Kildale Moors. Walking from Guisborough

to Kildale on a wild and stormy afternoon in October, I was totally

alone for the whole distance when I had left behind me the baker's boy

who was on his way to Hutton with a heavy basket of bread and cakes.

Hutton, which is somewhat of a model village for the retainers attached

to Hutton Hall, stands in a lovely hollow at the edge of the moors. The

steep hills are richly clothed with sombre woods, and the peace and

seclusion reigning there is in marked contrast to the bleak wastes

above. When I climbed the steep road on that autumn afternoon, and,

passing the zone of tall, withered bracken, reached the open moorland,

I seemed to have come out merely to be the plaything of the elements;

for the south-westerly gale, when it chose to do so, blew so fiercely

that it was difficult to make any progress at all. Overhead was a dark

roof composed of heavy masses of cloud, forming long parallel lines of

grey right to the horizon. On each side of the rough, water-worn road

the heather made a low wall, two or three feet high, and stretched

right away to the horizon in every direction. In the lulls, between the

fierce blasts, I could hear the trickle of the water in the rivulets

deep down in the springy cushion of heather. A few nimble sheep would

stare at me from a distance, and then disappear, or some grouse might

hover over a piece of rising ground; but otherwise there were no signs

of living creatures. Nearing Kildale, the road suddenly plunged

downwards to a stream flowing through a green, cultivated valley, with

a lonely farm on the further slope. There was a fir-wood above this,

and as I passed over the hill, among the tall, bare stems, the clouds

parted a little in the west, and let a flood of golden light into the

wood. Instantly the gloom seemed to disappear, and beyond the dark

shoulder of moorland, where the Cook monument appeared against the

glory of the sunset, there seemed to reign an all-pervading peace, the

wood being quite silent, for the wind had dropped.

The rough track through the trees descended hurriedly, and soon gave a

wide view over Kildale. The valley was full of colour from the glowing

west, and the steep hillsides opposite appeared lighter than the indigo

clouds above, now slightly tinged with purple. The little village of

Kildale nestled down below, its church half buried in yellow foliage.

The ruined Danby Castle can still be seen on the slope above the Esk,

but the ancient Bow Bridge at Castleton, which was built at the end of

the twelfth century, was barbarously and needlessly destroyed in 1873.

A picture of the bridge has, fortunately, been preserved in Canon

Atkinson's 'Forty Years in a Moorland Parish.' That book has been so

widely read that it seems scarcely necessary to refer to it here, but

without the help of the Vicar, who knew every inch of his wild parish,

the Danby district must seem much less interesting.

CHAPTER VIII

GUISBOROUGH AND THE SKELTON VALLEY

Although a mere fragment of the Augustinian Priory of Guisborough is

standing to-day, it is sufficiently imposing to convey a powerful

impression of the former size and magnificence of the monastic church.

This fragment is the gracefully buttressed east-end of the choir, which

rises from the level meadow-land to the east of the town. The stonework

is now of a greenish-grey tone, but in the shadows there is generally a

look of blue. Beyond the ruin and through the opening of the great east

window, now bare of tracery, you see the purple moors, with the

ever-formidable Roseberry Topping holding its head above the green

woods and pastures.

The destruction of the priory took place most probably during the reign

of Henry VIII., but there are no recorded facts to give the date of the

spoiling of the stately buildings. The materials were probably sold to

the highest bidder, for in the town of Guisborough there are scattered

many fragments of richly-carved stone, and Ord, one of the historians

of Cleveland, says: 'I have beheld with sorrow, and shame, and

indignation, the richly ornamented columns and carved architraves of

God's temple supporting the thatch of a pig-house.'

The Norman priory church, founded in 1119, by the wealthy Robert de

Brus of Skelton, was, unfortunately, burnt down on May 16, 1289. Walter

of Hemingburgh, a canon of Guisborough, has written a quaintly detailed

account of the origin of the fire. Translated from the monkish Latin,

he says 'On the first day of rogation-week, a devouring flame consumed

our church of Gysburn, with many theological books and nine costly

chalices, as well as vestments and sumptuous images; and because past

events are serviceable as a guide to future inquiries, I have thought

it desirable, in the present little treatise, to give an account of the

catastrophe, that accidents of a similar nature may be avoided through

this calamity allotted to us. On the day above mentioned, which was

very destructive to us, a vile plumber, with his two workmen, burnt our

church whilst soldering up two holes in the old lead with fresh pewter.

For some days he had already, with a wicked disposition, commenced, and

placed his iron crucibles, along with charcoal and fire, on rubbish, or

steps of a great height, upon dry wood with some turf and other

combustibles. About noon (in the cross, in the body of the church,

where he remained at his work until after Mass) he descended before the

procession of the convent, thinking that the fire had been put out by

his workmen. They, however, came down quickly after him, without having

completely extinguished the fire; and the fire among the charcoal

revived, and partly from the heat of the iron, and partly from the

sparks of the charcoal, the fire spread itself to the wood and other

combustibles beneath. After the fire was thus commenced, the lead

melted, and the joists upon the beams ignited; and then the fire

increased prodigiously, and consumed everything.' Hemingburgh concludes

by saying that all that they could get from the culprits was the

exclamation, 'Quid potui ego?' Shortly after this disaster the Prior

and convent wrote to Edward II., excusing themselves from granting a

corrody owing to their great losses through the burning of the

monastery, as well as the destruction of their property by the Scots.

But Guisborough, next to Fountains, was almost the richest

establishment in Yorkshire, and thus in a few years' time there arose

from the Norman foundations a stately church and convent built in the

Early Decorated style.

One of the most interesting relics of the great priory is the

altar-tomb, believed to be that of Robert de Brus of Annandale. The

stone slabs are now built into the walls on each side of the porch of

Guisborough Church. They may have been removed there from the abbey for

safety at the time of the dissolution. Hemingburgh, in his chronicle

for the year 1294, says: 'Robert de Brus the fourth died on the eve of

Good Friday; who disputed with John de Balliol, before the King of

England, about the succession to the kingdom of Scotland. And, as he

ordered when alive, he was buried in the priory of Gysburn with great

honour, beside his own father.' A great number of other famous people

were buried here in accordance with their wills. Guisborough has even

been claimed as the resting place of Robert Bruce, the champion of

Scottish freedom, but there is ample evidence for believing that his

heart was buried at Melrose Abbey and his body in Dunfermline Abbey.

The central portion of the town of Guisborough, by the market-cross and

the two chief inns, is quaint and fairly picturesque, but the long

street as it goes westward deteriorates into rows of new cottages,

inevitable in a mining country.

Mining operations have been carried on around Guisborough since the

time of Queen Elizabeth, for the discovery of alum dates from that

period, and when that industry gradually declined, it was replaced by

the iron mines of today. Mr. Thomas Chaloner of Guisborough, in his

travels on the Continent about the end of the sixteenth century, saw

the Pope's alum works near Rome, and was determined to start the

industry in his native parish of Guisborough, feeling certain that alum

could be worked with profit in his own country. As it was essential to

have one or two men who were thoroughly versed in the processes of the

manufacture, Mr. Chaloner induced some of the Pope's workmen by heavy

bribes to come to England. The risks attending this overt act were

terrible, for the alum works brought in a large revenue to His

Holiness, and the discovery of such a design would have meant capital

punishment to the offender. The workmen were therefore induced to get

into large casks, which were secretly conveyed on board a ship which

was shortly sailing for England.

When the Pope received the intelligence some time afterwards, he

thundered forth against Mr. Chaloner and the workmen the most awful and

comprehensive curse. They were to be cursed most wholly and thoroughly

in every part of their bodies, every saint was to curse them, and from

the thresholds of the holy church of God Almighty they were to be

sequestered, that they might 'be tormented, disposed of, and delivered

over with Dathan and Abiram, and with those who say unto the Lord God,

"Depart from us; we desire not to know thy ways."'

The broad valley stretching from Guisborough to the sea contains the

beautifully wooded park of Skelton Castle. The trees in great masses

cover the gentle slopes on either side of the Skelton Beck, and almost

hide the modern mansion. The buildings include part of the ancient

castle of the Bruces, who were Lords of Skelton for many years.

CHAPTER IX

FROM PICKERING TO RIEVAULX ABBEY

The broad Vale of Pickering, watered by the Derwent, the Rye and their

many tributaries, is a wonderful contrast to the country we have been

exploring. The level pastures, where cattle graze and cornfields

abound, seem to suggest that we are separated from the heather by many

leagues; but we have only to look beyond the hedgerows to see that the

horizon to the north is formed by lofty moors only a few miles distant.

Just where the low meadows are beginning to rise steadily from the vale

stands the town of Pickering, dominated by the lofty stone spire of its

parish church and by the broken towers of the castle. There is a wide

street, bordered by dark stone buildings, that leads steeply from the

river to the church. The houses are as a rule quite featureless, but we

have learnt to expect this in a county where stone is abundant, for

only the extremely old and the palpably new buildings stand out from

the grey austerity of the average Yorkshire town. In rare cases some of

the houses are brightened with white and cream paint on windows and

doors, and if these commendable efforts became less rare, Pickering

would have as cheerful an aspect to the stranger as Helmsley, which we

shall pass on our way to Rievaulx.

Approached by narrow passages between the grey houses and shops, the

church is most imposing, for it is not only a large building, but the

cramped position magnifies its bulk and emphasizes the height of the

Norman tower, surmounted by the tall stone spire added during the

fourteenth century. Going up a wide flight of steps, necessitated by

the slope of the ground, we enter the church through the beautiful

porch, and are at once confronted with the astonishingly perfect

paintings which cover the walls of the nave. The pictures occupy nearly

all the available wall-space between the arches and the top of the

clerestory, and their crude quaintnesses bring the ideas of the first

half of the fifteenth century vividly before us. There is a spirited

representation of St. George in conflict with a terrible dragon, and

close by we see a bearded St. Christopher holding a palm-tree with both

hands, and bearing on his shoulder the infant Christ. Then comes

Herod's feast, with the King labelled _Herodi_. The guests are

shown with their arms on the table in the most curious positions, and

all the royal folk are wearing ermine. The coronation of the Virgin,

the martyrdom of St. Thomas à Becket, and the martyrdom of St. Edmund,

who is perforated with arrows, complete the series on the north side.

Along the south wall the paintings show the story of St. Catherine of

Alexandria and the seven Corporal Acts of Mercy. Further on come scenes

from the life of our Lord.

The simple Norman arcade on the north side of the nave has plain round

columns and semicircular arches, but the south side belongs to later

Norman times, and has ornate columns and capitals. At least one member

of the great Bruce family, who had a house at Pickering called Bruce's

Hall, and whose ascendency at Guisborough has already been mentioned,

was buried here, for the figure of a knight in chain-mail by the

lectern probably represents Sir William Bruce. In the chapel there is a

sumptuous monument bearing the effigies of Sir David and Dame Margery

Roucliffe. The knight wears the collar of SS, and his arms are on his

surcoat.

When John Leland, the 'Royal Antiquary' employed by Henry VIII., came

to Pickering, he described the castle, which was in a more perfect

state than it is to-day. He says: 'In the first Court of it be a 4

Toures, of the which one is caullid Rosamunde's Toure.' Also of the

inner court he writes of '4 Toures, wherof the Kepe is one.' This keep

and Rosamund's Tower, as well as the ruins of some of the others, are

still to be seen on the outer walls, so that from some points of view

the ruins are dignified and picturesque. The area enclosed was large,

and in early times the castle must have been almost impregnable. But

during the Civil War it was much damaged by the soldiers quartered

there, and Sir Hugh Cholmley took lead, wood, and iron from it for the

defence of Scarborough. The wide view from the castle walls shows

better than any description the importance of the position it occupied,

and we feel, as we gaze over the vale or northwards to the moors, that

this was the dominant power over the whole countryside.

Although Lastingham is not on the road to Helmsley, the few additional

miles will scarcely be counted when we are on our way to a church

which, besides being architecturally one of the most interesting in the

county, is perhaps unique in having at one time had a curate whose wife

kept a public-house adjoining the church. Although this will scarcely

be believed, we have a detailed account of the matter in a little book

published in 1806.

The clergyman, whose name was Carter, had to subsist on the slender

salary of £20 a year and a few surplice fees. This would not have

allowed any margin for luxuries in the case of a bachelor; but this

poor man was married, and he had thirteen children. He was a keen

fisherman, and his angling in the moorland streams produced a plentiful

supply of fish--in fact, more than his family could consume. But this,

even though he often exchanged part of his catches with neighbours, was

not sufficient to keep the wolf from the door, and drastic measures had

to be taken. The parish was large, and, as many of the people were

obliged to come 'from ten to fifteen miles' to church, it seemed

possible that some profit might be made by serving refreshments to the

parishioners. Mrs. Carter superintended this department, and it seems

that the meals between the services soon became popular. But the story

of 'a parson-publican' was soon conveyed to the Archdeacon of the

diocese, who at the next visitation endeavoured to find out the truth

of the matter. Mr. Carter explained the circumstances, and showed that,

far from being a source of disorder, his wife's public-house was an

influence for good. 'I take down my violin,' he continued, 'and play

them a few tunes, which gives me an opportunity of seeing that they get

no more liquor than necessary for refreshment; and if the young people

propose a dance, I seldom answer in the negative; nevertheless, when I

announce time for return, they are ever ready to obey my commands.' The

Archdeacon appears to have been a broad-minded man, for he did not

reprimand Mr. Carter at all; and as there seems to have been no mention

of an increased stipend, the parson publican must have continued this

strange anomaly.

The writings of Bede give a special interest to Lastingham, for he

tells us how King Oidilward requested Bishop Cedd to build a monastery

there. The Saxon buildings that appeared at that time have gone, so

that the present church cannot be associated with the seventh century.

No doubt the destruction was the work of the Danes, who plundered the

whole of this part of Yorkshire. The church that exists today is of

Transitional Norman date, and the beautiful little crypt, which has an

apse, nave and aisles, is coeval with the superstructure.

The situation of Lastingham in a deep and picturesque valley surrounded

by moors and overhung by woods is extremely rich.

Further to the west there are a series of beautiful dales watered by

becks whose sources are among the Cleveland Hills. On our way to

Ryedale, the loveliest of these, we pass through Kirby Moorside, a

little town which has gained a place in history as the scene of the

death of the notorious George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham, on

April 17, 1687. The house in which he died is on the south side of the

King's Head, and in one of the parish registers there is the entry

under the date of April 19th, 'Gorges viluas, Lord dooke of Bookingam,

etc.' Further down the street stands an inn with a curious porch,

supported by turned wooden pillars, bearing the inscription:

'Anno: Dom 1632 October xi

William Wood'

Kirkdale, with its world-renowned cave, to which we have already

referred, lies about two miles to the west. The quaint little Saxon

church there is one of the few bearing evidences of its own date,

ascertained by the discovery in 1771 of a Saxon sun-dial, which had

survived under a layer of plaster, and was also protected by the porch.

A translation of the inscription reads: 'Orm, the son of Gamal, bought

St. Gregory's Minster when it was all broken and fallen, and he caused

it to be made anew from the ground, for Christ and St. Gregory, in the

days of King Edward and in the days of Earl Tosti, and Hawarth wrought

me and Brand the prior (priest or priests).' By this we are plainly

told that a church was built there in the reign of Edward the

Confessor.

A pleasant road leads through Nawton to the beautiful little town of

Helmsley. A bend of the broad, swift-flowing Rye forms one boundary of

the place, and is fed by a gushing brook that finds its way from

Rievaulx Moor, and forms a pretty feature of the main street.

A narrow turning by the market-house shows the torn and dishevelled

fragment of the keep of Helmsley Castle towering above the thatched

roofs in the foreground. The ruin is surrounded by tall elms, and from

this point of view, when backed by a cloudy sunset makes a wonderful

picture. Like Scarborough, this stronghold was held for the King during

the Civil War. After the Battle of Marston Moor and the fall of York,

Fairfax came to Helmsley and invested the castle. He received a wound

in the shoulder during the siege; but the garrison having surrendered

on honourable terms, the Parliament ordered that the castle should be

dismantled, and the thoroughness with which the instructions were

carried out remind one of Knaresborough, for one side of the keep was

blown to pieces by a terrific explosion and nearly everything else was

destroyed.

All the beauty and charm of this lovely district is accentuated in

Ryedale, and when we have accomplished the three long uphill miles to

Rievaulx, and come out upon the broad grassy terrace above the abbey,

we seem to have entered a Land of Beulah. We see a peaceful valley

overlooked on all sides by lofty hills, whose steep sides are clothed

with luxuriant woods; we see the Rye flowing past broad green meadows;

and beneath the tree-covered precipice below our feet appear the

solemn, roofless remains of one of the first Cistercian monasteries

established in this country. There is nothing to disturb the peace that

broods here, for the village consists of a mere handful of old and

picturesque cottages, and we might stay on the terrace for hours, and,

beyond the distant shouts of a few children at play and the crowing of

some cocks, hear nothing but the hum of insects and the singing of

birds. We take a steep path through the wood which leads us down to the

abbey ruins.

The magnificent Early English choir and the Norman transepts stand

astonishingly complete in their splendid decay, and the lower portions

of the nave, which, until 1922, lay buried beneath masses of

grass-grown débris, are now exposed to view. The richly-draped

hill-sides appear as a succession of beautiful pictures framed by the

columns and arches on each side of the choir. As they stand exposed to

the weather, the perfectly proportioned mouldings, the clustered

pillars in a wonderfully good state of preservation, and the almost

uninjured clerestory are more impressive than in an elaborately-restored

cathedral.

CHAPTER X

DESCRIBES THE DALE COUNTRY AS A WHOLE

When in the early years of life one learns for the first time the name

of that range of mountains forming the backbone of England, the

youthful scholar looks forward to seeing in later years the prolonged

series of lofty hills known as the 'Pennine Range.' His imagination

pictures Pen-y-ghent and Ingleborough as great peaks, seldom free from

a mantle of clouds, for are they not called 'mountains of the Pennine

Range,' and do they not appear in almost as large type in the school

geography as Snowdon and Ben Nevis? But as the scholar grows older and

more able to travel, so does the Pennine Range recede from his vision,

until it becomes almost as remote as those crater-strewn mountains in

the Moon which have a name so similar.

This elusiveness on the part of a natural feature so essentially static

as a mountain range is attributable to the total disregard of the name

of this particular chain of hills. In the same way as the term 'Cumbrian

Hills' is exchanged for the popular 'Lake District,' so is a large

section of the Pennine Range paradoxically known as the 'Yorkshire

Dales.'

It is because the hills are so big that the valleys are deep and it is

owing to the great watersheds that these long and narrow dales are

beautified by some of the most copious and picturesque rivers in

England. In spite of this, however, when one climbs any of the fells

over 2,000 feet, and looks over the mountainous ridges on every side,

one sees, as a rule, no peak or isolated height of any description to

attract one's attention. Instead of the rounded or angular projections

from the horizon that are usually associated with a mountainous

district, there are great expanses of brown table-land that form

themselves into long parallel lines in the distance, and give a sense

of wild desolation in some ways more striking than the peaks of

Scotland or Wales. The thick formations of millstone grit and limestone

that rest upon the shale have generally avoided crumpling or

distortion, and thus give the mountain views the appearance of having

had all the upper surfaces rolled flat when they were in a plastic

condition. Denudation and the action of ice in the glacial epochs have

worn through the hard upper stratum, and formed the long and narrow

dales; and in Littondale, Wharfedale, Wensleydale, and many other

parts, one may plainly see the perpendicular wall of rock sharply

defining the upper edges of the valleys. The softer rocks below

generally take a gentle slope from the base of the hard gritstone to

the riverside pastures below. At the edges of the dales, where

water-falls pour over the wall of limestone--as at Hardraw Scar, near

Hawes--the action of water is plainly demonstrated, for one can see the

rapidity with which the shale crumbles, leaving the harder rocks

overhanging above.

Unlike the moors of the north-eastern parts of Yorkshire, the fells are

not prolific in heather. It is possible to pass through

Wensleydale--or, indeed, most of the dales--without seeing any heather

at all. On the broad plateaux between the dales there are stretches of

moor partially covered with ling; but in most instances the fells and

moors are grown over at their higher levels with bent and coarse grass,

generally of a browny-ochrish colour, broken here and there by an

outcrop of limestone that shows grey against the swarthy vegetation.

In the upper portions of the dales--even in the narrow riverside

pastures--the fences are of stone, turned a very dark colour by

exposure, and everywhere on the slopes of the hills a wide network of

these enclosures can be seen traversing even the most precipitous

ascents. Where the dales widen out towards the fat plains of the Vale

of York, quickset hedges intermingle with the gaunt stone, and as one

gets further eastwards the green hedge becomes triumphant. The stiles

that are the fashion in the stone-fence districts make quite an

interesting study to strangers, for, wood being an expensive luxury,

and stone being extremely cheap, everything is formed of the more

enduring material. Instead of a trap-gate, one generally finds an

excessively narrow opening in the fences, only just giving space for

the thickness of the average knee, and thus preventing the passage of

the smallest lamb. Some stiles are constructed with a large flat stone

projecting from each side, one slightly in front and overlapping the

other, so that one can only pass through by making a very careful

S-shaped movement. More common are the projecting stones, making a

flight of precarious steps on each side of the wall.

Except in their lowest and least mountainous parts, where they are

subject to the influences of the plains, the dales are entirely

innocent of red tiles and haystacks. The roofs of churches, cottages,

barns and mansions, are always of the local stone, that weathers to

beautiful shades of green and grey, and prevents the works of man from

jarring with the great sweeping hill-sides. Then, instead of the

familiar grey-brown haystack, one sees in almost every meadow a

neatly-built stone house with an upper storey. The lower part is

generally used as a shelter for cattle, while above is stored hay or

straw. By this system a huge amount of unnecessary carting is avoided,

and where roads are few and generally of exceeding steepness a saving

of this nature is a benefit easily understood.

The villages of the dales, although having none of the bright colours

of a level country, are often exceedingly quaint, and rich in soft

shades of green and grey. In the autumn the mellowed tints of the stone

houses are contrasted with the fierce yellows and browny-reds of the

foliage, and the villages become full of bright colours. At all times,

except when the country is shrivelled by an icy northern wind, the

scenery of the dales has a thousand charms.

CHAPTER XI

RICHMOND

For the purposes of this book we may consider Richmond as the gateway

of the dale country. There are other gates and approaches, some of

which may have advocates who claim their superiority over Richmond as

starting-places for an exploration of this description, but for my

part, I can find no spot on any side of the mountainous region so

entirely satisfactory. If we were to commence at Bedale or Leyburn,

there is no exact point where the open country ceases and the dale

begins; but here at Richmond there is not the very smallest doubt, for

on reaching the foot of the mass of rock dominated by the castle and

the town, Swaledale commences in the form of a narrow ravine, and from

that point westwards the valley never ceases to be shut in by steep

sides, which become narrower and grander with every mile.

The railway that keeps Richmond in touch with the world does its work

in a most inoffensive manner, and by running to the bottom of the hill

on which the town stands, and by there stopping short, we seem to have

a strong hint that we have been brought to the edge of a new element in

which railways have no rights whatever. This is as it should be, and we

can congratulate the North-Eastern Company for its discretion and its

sense of fitness. Even the station is built of solid stonework, with a

strong flavour of medievalism in its design, and its attractiveness is

enhanced by the complete absence of other modern buildings. We are thus

welcomed to the charms of Richmond at once. The rich sloping meadows by

the river, crowned with dense woodlands, surround us and form a

beautiful setting of green for the town, which has come down from the

fantastic days of the Norman Conquest without any drastic or unseemly

changes, and thus has still the compactness and the romantic outline of

feudal times.

From whatever side you approach it, Richmond has always some fine

combination of towers overlooking a confusion of old red roofs and of

rocky heights crowned with ivy-mantled walls, all set in the most

sumptuous surroundings of silvery river and wooded hills, such as the

artists of the age of steel-engraving loved to depict. Every one of

these views has in it one dominating feature in the magnificent Norman

keep of the castle. It overlooks church towers and everything else with

precisely the same aloofness of manner it must have assumed as soon as

the builders of nearly eight hundred years ago had put the last stone

in place. Externally, at least, it is as complete to-day as it was

then, and as there is no ivy upon it, I cannot help thinking that the

Bretons who built it in that long distant time would swell with pride

were they able to see how their ambitious work has come down the

centuries unharmed.

We can go across the modern bridge, with its castellated parapets, and

climb up the steep ascent on the further side, passing on the way the

parish church, standing on the steep ground outside the circumscribed

limits of the wall which used to enclose the town in early times.

Turning towards the castle, we go breathlessly up the cobbled street

that climbs resolutely to the market-place in a foolishly direct

fashion, which might be understood if it were a Roman road. There is a

sleepy quietness about this way up from the station, which is quite a

short distance, and we look for much movement and human activity in the

wide space we have reached; but here, too, on this warm and sunny

afternoon, the few folks who are about seem to find ample time for

conversation and loitering.

On one side of us is the King's Head, whose steep tiled roof and square

front has just that air of respectable importance that one expects to

find in an old established English hotel. It looks across the cobbled

space to the curious block of buildings that seems to have been

intended for a church but has relapsed into shops. The shouldering of

secular buildings against the walls of churches is a sight so familiar

in parts of France that this market place has an almost Continental

flavour, in keeping with the fact that Richmond grew up under the

protection of the formidable castle built by that Alan Rufus of

Brittany who was the Conqueror's second cousin. The town ceased to be a

possession of the Dukes of Brittany in the reign of Richard II., but

there had evidently been sufficient time to allow French ideals to

percolate into the minds of the men of Richmond, for how otherwise can

we account for this strange familiarity of shops with a sacred building

which is unheard of in any other English town? Where else can one find

a pork-butcher's shop inserted between the tower and the nave, or a

tobacconist doing business in the aisle of a church? Even the lower

parts of the tower have been given up to secular uses, so that one only

realizes the existence of the church by keeping far enough away to see

the sturdy pinnacled tower that rises above the desecrated lower

portions of the building. In this tower hangs the curfew-bell, which is

rung at 6 a.m. and 8 p.m., a custom, according to one writer, 'that has

continued ever since the time of William the Conqueror.'

All the while we have been lingering in the market-place the great

keep has been looking at us over some old red roofs, and urging us to

go on at once to the finest sight that Richmond can offer, and,

resisting the appeal no longer, we make our way down a narrow little

street leading out to a walk that goes right round the castle cliffs at

the base of the ivy-draped walls.

From down below comes the sound of the river, ceaselessly chafing its

rocky bottom and the big boulders that lie in the way. You can

distinguish the hollow sound of the waters as they fall over ledges

into deep pools, and you can watch the silvery gleams of broken water

between the old stone bridge and the dark shade of the woods. The

masses of trees clothing the side of the gorge add a note of mystery to

the picture by swallowing up the river in their heavy shade, for, owing

to its sinuous course among the cliffs, one can see only a short piece

of water beyond the bridge.

The old corner of the town at the foot of Bargate appears over the edge

of the rocky slope, but on the opposite side of the Swale there is

little to be seen beside the green meadows and shady coppices that

cover the heights above the river.

There is a fascination in this view in its capacity for change. It

responds to every mood of the weather, and every sunset that glows

across the sombre woods has some freshness, some feature that is quite

unlike any other. Autumn, too, is a memorable time for those who can

watch the face of Nature from this spot, for when one of those opulent

evenings of the fall of the year turns the sky into a golden sea of

glory, studded with strange purple islands, there is unutterable beauty

in the flaming woods and the pale river.

On the way back to the market-place we pass a decayed arch that was

probably a postern in the walls of the town. There can be no doubt

whatever of the existence of these walls, for Leland begins his

description of the town with the words '_Richemont_ Towne is

waullid,' and in another place he says: 'Waullid it was, but the waul

is now decayid. The Names and Partes of 4 or 5 Gates yet remaine.' We

cannot help wondering why Richmond could not have preserved her gates

as York has done, or why she did not even make the effort sufficient to

retain a single one, as Bridlington and Beverley did. The two

posterns--one we have just mentioned, and the other in Friar's Wynd, on

the north side of the market-place, with a piece of wall 6 feet thick

adjoining--are interesting, but we would have preferred something much

finer than these mere arches; and while we are grumbling over what

Richmond has lost, we may also measure the disaster which befell the

market-place in 1771, when the old cross was destroyed. Before that

year there stood on the site of the present obelisk a very fine cross

which Clarkson, who wrote about a century ago, mentions as being the

greatest beauty of the town to an antiquary. A high flight of steps led

up to a square platform, which was enclosed by a richly ornamented wall

about 6 feet high, having buttresses at the corners, each surmounted

with a dog seated on its hind-legs. Within the wall rose the cross,

with its shaft made from one piece of stone. There were 'many curious

compartments' in the wall, says Clarkson, and 'a door that opened into

the middle of the square,' but this may have been merely an arched

opening. The enrichments, either of the cross itself or the wall,

included four shields bearing the arms of the great families of

Fitz-Hugh, Scrope (quartering Tibetot), Conyers, and Neville. From the

description there is little doubt that this cross was a very beautiful

example of Perpendicular or perhaps Decorated Gothic, in place of which

we have a crude and bulging obelisk bearing the inscription: 'Rebuilt

(!) A.D. 1771, Christopher Wayne, Esq., Mayor'; it should surely have

read: 'Perpetrated during the Mayoralty of Christopher Wayne Goth.'

Although, as we have seen, Leland, who wrote in 1538, mentions

Frenchgate and Finkel Street Gate as 'down,' yet they must have been

only partially destroyed, or were rebuilt afterwards, for Whitaker,

writing in 1823, mentions that they were pulled down 'not many years

ago' to allow the passage of broad and high-laden waggons. There can be

little doubt, therefore, that, swollen with success after the

demolition of the cross, the Mayor and Corporation proceeded to attack

the remaining gateways, so that now not the smallest suggestion of

either remains. But even here we have not completed the list of

barbarisms that took place about this time. The Barley Cross, which

stood near the larger one, must have been quite an interesting feature.

It consisted of a lofty pillar with a cross at the top, and rings were

fastened either on the shaft or to the steps upon which it stood, so

that the cross might answer the purpose of a whipping-post. The pillory

stood not far away, and the May-pole is also mentioned.