But despite all this squandering of the treasures that it should have

been the business of the town authorities to preserve, the tower of the

Grey Friars has survived, and, next to the castle, it is one of the

chief ornaments of the town. Some other portions of the monastery are

incorporated in the buildings which now form the Grammar School. The

Grey Friars is on the north side of the town, outside the narrow limits

of the walls, and was probably only finished in time to witness the

dispersal of the friars who had built it. It is even possible that it

was part of a new church that was still incomplete when the Dissolution

of the Monasteries made the work of no account except as building

materials for the townsfolk. The actual day of the surrender was

January 19, 1538, and we wonder if Robert Sanderson, the Prior, and the

fourteen brethren under him, suffered much from the privations that

must have attended them at that coldest period of the year. At one time

the friars, being of a mendicant order, and inured to hard living and

scanty fare, might have made light of such a disaster, but in these

later times they had expanded somewhat from their austere ways of

living, and the dispersal must have cost them much suffering.

Going back to the reign of Henry VII. or there-abouts, we come across

the curious ballad of 'The Felon Sow of Rokeby and the Freres of

Richmond' quoted from an old manuscript by Sir Walter Scott in

'Rokeby.' It may have been as a practical joke, or merely as a good way

of getting rid of such a terrible beast, that

'Ralph of Rokeby, with goodwill,

The fryers of Richmond gave her till.'

Friar Middleton, who with two lusty men was sent to fetch the sow from

Rokeby, could scarcely have known that she was

'The grisliest beast that ere might be,

Her head was great and gray:

She was bred in Rokeby Wood;

There were few that thither goed,

That came on live [= alive] away.

'She was so grisley for to meete,

She rave the earth up with her feete,

And bark came fro the tree;

When fryer Middleton her saugh,

Weet ye well he might not laugh,

Full earnestly look'd hee.'

To calm the terrible beast when they found it almost impossible to hold

her, the friar began to read 'in St. John his Gospell,' but

'The sow she would not Latin heare,

But rudely rushed at the frear,'

who, turning very white, dodged to the shelter of a tree, whence he saw

with horror that the sow had got clear of the other two men. At this

their courage evaporated, and all three fled for their lives along the

Watling Street. When they came to Richmond and told their tale of the

'feind of hell' in the garb of a sow, the warden decided to hire on the

next day two of the 'boldest men that ever were borne.' These two,

Gilbert Griffin and a 'bastard son of Spaine,' went to Rokeby clad in

armour and carrying their shields and swords of war, and even then they

only just overcame the grisly sow.

If we go across the river by the modern bridge, we can see the humble

remains of St. Martin's Priory standing in a meadow by the railway. The

ruins consist of part of a Perpendicular tower and a Norman doorway.

Perhaps the tower was built in order that the Grey Friars might not

eclipse the older foundation, for St. Martin's was a cell belonging to

St. Mary's Abbey at York and was founded by Wyman, steward or dapifer

to the Earl of Richmond, about the year 1100, whereas the Franciscans

in the town owed their establishment to Radulph Fitz-Ranulph, a lord of

Middleham in 1258. The doorway of St. Martin's, with its zigzag

mouldings must be part of Wyman's building, but no other traces of it

remain. Having come back so rapidly to the Norman age, we may well stay

there for a time while we make our way over the bridge again and up the

steep ascent of Frenchgate to the castle.

On entering the small outer barbican, which is reached by a lane from

the market-place, we come to the base of the Norman keep. Its great

height of nearly 100 feet is quite unbroken from foundations to summit,

and the flat buttresses are featureless. The recent pointing of the

masonry has also taken away any pronounced weathering, and has left the

tower with almost the same gaunt appearance that it had when Duke Conan

saw it completed. Passing through the arch in the wall abutting the

keep, we come into the grassy space of over two acres, that is enclosed

by the ramparts. It is not known by what stages the keep reached its

present form, though there is every reason to believe that Conan, the

fifth Earl of Richmond, left the tower externally as we see it to-day.

This puts the date of the completion of the keep between 1146 and 1171.

The floors are now a store for the uniforms and accoutrements of the

soldiers quartered at Richmond, so that there is little to be seen as

we climb a staircase in the walls 11 feet thick, and reach the

battlemented turrets. Looking downwards, we gaze right into the

chimneys of the nearest houses, and we see the old roofs of the town

packed closely together in the shelter of the mighty tower. A few tiny

people are moving about in the market-place, and there is a thin web of

drifting smoke between us and them. Everything is peaceful and remote;

even the sound of the river is lost in the wind that blows freely upon

us from the great moorland wastes stretching away to the western

horizon. It is a romantic country that lies around us, and though the

cultivated area must be infinitely greater than in the fighting days

when these battlements were finished, yet I suppose the Vale of Mowbray

which we gaze upon to the east must have been green, and to some extent

fertile, when that Conan who was Duke of Brittany and also Earl of

Richmond looked out over the innumerable manors that were his Yorkshire

possessions. I can imagine his eye glancing down on a far more

thrilling scene than the green three-sided courtyard enclosed by a

crumbling grey wall, though to him the buildings, the men, and every

detail that filled the great space, were no doubt quite prosaic. It did

not thrill him to see a man-at-arms cleaning weapons, when the man and

his clothes, and even the sword, were as modern and everyday as the

soldier's wife and child that we can see ourselves, but how much would

we not give for a half-an-hour of his vision, or even a part of a

second, with a good camera in our hands?

In the lower part of what is called Robin Hood's Tower is the Chapel of

St. Nicholas, with arcaded walls of early Norman date, and a long and

narrow slit forming the east window. More interesting than this is the

Norman hall at the south-east angle of the walls. It was possibly used

as the banqueting-room of the castle, and is remarkable as being one of

the best preserved of the Norman halls forming separate buildings that

are to be found in this country. The hall is roofless, but the corbels

remain in a perfect state, and the windows on each side are well

preserved. The builder was probably Earl Conan, for the keep has

details of much the same character. It is generally called Scolland's

Hall, after the Lord of Bedale of that name, who was a sewer or dapifer

to the first Earl Alan of Richmond. Scolland was one of the tenants of

the Earl, and under the feudal system of tenure he took part in the

regular guarding of the castle.

There is probably much Norman work in various parts of the crumbling

curtain walls, and at the south-west corner a Norman turret is still to

be seen.

Alan, who received from the Conqueror the vast possessions of Earl

Edwin, was no doubt the founder of Richmond. He probably received this

splendid reward for his services soon after the suppression of the

Saxon efforts for liberty under the northern Earls. William, having

crushed out the rebellion in the remorseless fashion which finally gave

him peace in his new possessions, distributed the devastated Saxon

lands among his supporters; thus a great part of the earldom of Mercia

fell to this Breton.

The site of Richmond was fixed as the new centre of power, and the

name, with its apparently obvious meaning, may date from that time,

unless the suggested Anglo-Saxon derivation which gives it as

Rice-munt--the hill of rule--is correct. After this Gilling must soon

have ceased to be of any account. There can be little doubt that the

castle was at once planned to occupy the whole area enclosed by the

walls as they exist to-day, although the full strength of the place was

not realized until the time of the fifth Earl, who, as we have seen,

was most probably the builder of the keep in its final form, as well as

other parts of the castle. Richmond must then have been considered

almost impregnable, and this may account for the fact that it appears

to have never been besieged. In 1174, when William the Lion of Scotland

was invading England, we are told in Jordan Fantosme's Chronicle that

Henry II., anxious for the safety of the honour of Richmond, and

perhaps of its custodian as well, asked: 'Randulf de Glanvile est-il en

Richemunt?' The King was in France, his possessions were threatened

from several quarters, and it would doubtless be a relief to him to

know that a stronghold of such importance was under the personal

command of so able a man as Glanville. In July of that year the danger

from the Scots was averted by a victory at Alnwick, in which fight

Glanville was one of the chief commanders of the English, and he

probably led the men of Richmondshire.

It is a strange thing that Richmond Castle, despite its great

pre-eminence, should have been allowed to become a ruin in the reign of

Edward III.--a time when castles had obviously lost none of the

advantages to the barons which they had possessed in Norman times. The

only explanation must have been the divided interests of the owners,

for, as Dukes of Brittany, as well as Earls of Richmond, their English

possessions were frequently endangered when France and England were at

war. And so it came about that when a Duke of Brittany gave his support

to the King of France in a quarrel with the English, his possessions

north of the Channel became Crown property. How such a condition of

affairs could have continued for so long is difficult to understand,

but the final severing came at last, when the unhappy Richard II. was

on the throne of England. The honour of Richmond then passed to Ralph

Neville, the first Earl of Westmoreland, but the title was given to

Edmund Tudor, whose mother was Queen Catherine, the widow of Henry V.

Edmund Tudor, as all know, married Margaret Beaufort, the heiress of

John of Gaunt, and died about two months before his wife--then scarcely

fourteen years old--gave birth to his only son, who succeeded to the

throne of England as Henry VII. He was Earl of Richmond from his birth,

and it was he who carried the name to the Thames by giving it to his

splendid palace which he built at Shene. Even the ballad of 'The Lass

of Richmond Hill' is said to come from Yorkshire, although it is

commonly considered a possession of Surrey.

Protected by the great castle, there came into existence the town of

Richmond, which grew and flourished. The houses must have been packed

closely together to provide the numerous people with quarters inside

the wall which was built to protect the place from the raiding Scots.

The area of the town was scarcely larger than the castle, and although

in this way the inhabitants gained security from one danger, they ran a

greater risk from a far more insidious foe, which took the form of

pestilences of a most virulent character. After one of these

visitations the town of Richmond would be left in a pitiable plight.

Many houses would be deserted, and fields became 'over-run with briars,

nettles, and other noxious weeds.'

Easby Abbey is so much a possession of Richmond that we cannot go

towards the mountains until we have seen something of its charms. The

ruins slumber in such unutterable peace by the riverside that the place

is well suited to our mood to go a-dreaming of the centuries which have

been so long dead that our imaginations are not cumbered with any of

the dull times that may have often set the canons of St. Agatha's

yawning. The walk along the steep shady bank above the river is

beautiful all the way, and the surroundings of the broken walls and

traceried windows are singularly rich. There is nothing, however, at

Easby that makes a striking picture, although there are many

architectural fragments that are full of beauty. Fountains, Rievaulx

and Tintern, all leave Easby far behind, but there are charms enough

here with which to be content, and it is, perhaps, a pleasant thought

to know that, although on this sunny afternoon these meadows by the

Swale seem to reach perfection, yet in the neighbourhood of Ripon there

is something still finer waiting for us. Of the abbey church scarcely

more than enough has survived for the preparation of a ground-plan, and

many of the evidences are now concealed by the grass. The range of

domestic buildings that surrounded the cloister garth are, therefore,

the chief interest, although these also are broken and roofless. We can

wander among the ivy-grown walls which, in the refectory, retain some

semblance of their original form, and we can see the picturesque

remains of the common-room, the guest-hall, the chapter-house, and the

sacristy. Beyond the ruins of the north transept, a corridor leads into

the infirmary, which, besides having an unusual position, is remarkable

as being one of the most complete groups of buildings set apart for

this object. A noticeable feature of the cloister garth is a Norman

arch belonging to a doorway that appears to be of later date. This is

probably the only survival of the first monastery founded, it is said,

by Roald, Constable of Richmond Castle, in 1152. Building of an

extensive character was, therefore, in progress at the same time in

these sloping meadows, as on the castle heights, and St. Martin's

Priory, close to the town, had not long been completed. Whoever may

have been the founder of the abbey, it is definitely known that the

great family of Scrope obtained the privileges that had been possessed

by the Constable, and they added so much to the property of the

monastery that in the reign of Henry VIII. the Scropes were considered

the original founders. Easby thus became the stately burying-place of

the family and the splendid tombs that appeared in the choir of their

church were a constant reminder to the canons of the greatness of the

lords of Bolton. Sir Henry le Scrope was buried beneath a great stone

effigy, bearing the arms--azure, a bend or--of his house. Near by lay

Sir William le Scrope's armed figure, and round about were many others

of the family buried beneath flat stones. We know this from the

statement of an Abbot of Easby in the fourteenth century; and but for

the record of his words there would be nothing to tell us anything of

these ponderous memorials, which have disappeared as completely as

though they had had no more permanence than the yellow leaves that are

just beginning to flutter from the trees. The splendid church, the

tombs, and even the very family of Scrope, have disappeared; but across

the hills, in the valley of the Ure, their castle still stands, and in

the little church of Wensley there can still be seen the parclose

screen of Perpendicular date that one of the Scropes must have rescued

when the monastery was being stripped and plundered.

The fine gate-house of Easby Abbey, which is in a good state of

preservation, stands a little to the east of the parish church, and the

granary is even now in use.

On the sides of the parvise over the porch of the parish church are the

arms of Scrope, Conyers, and Aske; and in the chancel of this extremely

interesting old building there can be seen a series of wall-paintings,

some of which probably date from the reign of Henry III. This would

make them earlier than those at Pickering.

CHAPTER XII

SWALEDALE

There is a certain elevated and wind-swept spot, scarcely more than a

long mile from Richmond, that commands a view over a wide extent of

romantic country. Vantage-points of this type, within easy reach of a

fair-sized town, are inclined to be overrated, and, what is far worse,

to be spoiled by the litter of picnic parties; but Whitcliffe Scar is

free from both objections. In magnificent September weather one may

spend many hours in the midst of this great panorama without being

disturbed by a single human being, besides a possible farm labourer or

shepherd; and if scraps of paper and orange-peel are ever dropped here,

the keen winds that come from across the moors dispose of them as

efficaciously as the keepers of any public parks.

The view is removed from a comparison with many others from the fact

that one is situated at the dividing-line between the richest

cultivation and the wildest moorlands. Whitcliffe Scar is the Mount

Pisgah from whence the jaded dweller in towns can gaze into a promised

land of solitude,

'Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,

And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been.'

The eastward view of green and smiling country is undeniably beautiful,

but to those who can appreciate Byron's enthusiasm for the trackless

mountain there is something more indefinable and inspiring in the

mysterious loneliness of the west. The long, level lines of the

moorland horizon, when the sun is beginning to climb downwards, are cut

out in the softest blue and mauve tints against the shimmering

transparency of the western sky, and the plantations that clothe the

sides of the dale beneath one are filled with wonderful shadows, which

are thrown out with golden outlines. The view along the steep valley

extends for a few miles, and then is suddenly cut off by a sharp bend

where the Swale, a silver ribbon along the bottom of the dale,

disappears among the sombre woods and the shoulders of the hills.

In this aspect of Swaledale one sees its mildest and most civilized

mood; for beyond the purple hill-side that may be seen in the

illustration, cultivation becomes more palpably a struggle, and the

gaunt moors, broken by lines of precipitous scars, assume control of

the scenery.

From 200 feet below, where the river is flowing along its stony bed,

comes the sound of the waters ceaselessly grinding the pebbles, and

from the green pastures there floats upwards a distant ba-baaing. No

railway has penetrated the solitudes of Swaledale, and, as far as one

may look into the future in such matters, there seems every possibility

of this loneliest and grandest of the Yorkshire dales retaining its

isolation in this respect. None but the simplest of sounds, therefore,

are borne on the keen winds that come from the moorland heights, and

the purity of the air whispers in the ear the pleasing message of a

land where chimneys have never been.

Besides the original name of Whitcliffe Scar, this remarkable

view-point has, since 1606, been popularly known as 'Willance's Leap.'

In that year a certain Robert Willance, whose father appears to have

been a successful draper in Richmond, was hunting in the neighbourhood,

when he found himself enveloped in a fog. It must have been

sufficiently dense to shut out even the nearest objects; for, without

any warning, Willance found himself on the verge of the scar, and

before he could check his horse both were precipitated over the cliff.

We have no detailed account of whether the fall was broken in any way;

but, although his horse was killed instantly, Willance, by some almost

miraculous good fortune, found himself alive at the bottom with nothing

worse than a broken leg.

It is a difficult matter to decide which is the more attractive means

of exploring Swaledale; for if one keeps to the road at the bottom of

the valley many beautiful and remarkable aspects of the country are

missed, and yet if one goes over the moors it is impossible really to

explore the recesses of the dale. The old road from Richmond to Reeth

avoids the dale altogether, except for the last mile, and its ups and

its downs make the traveller pay handsomely for the scenery by the way.

But this ought not to deter anyone from using the road; for the view of

the village of Marske, cosily situated among the wooded heights that

rise above the beck, is missed by those who keep to the new road along

the banks of the Swale. The romantic seclusion of this village is

accentuated towards evening, when a shadowy stillness fills the

hollows. The higher woods may be still glowing with the light of the

golden west, while down below a softness of outline adds beauty to

every object. The old bridge that takes the road to Reeth across Marske

Beck needs no such fault-forgiving light, for it was standing in the

reign of Elizabeth, and, from its appearance, it is probably centuries

older.

The new road to Reeth from Richmond goes down at an easy gradient from

the town to the banks of the river, which it crosses when abreast of

Whitcliffe Scar, the view in front being at first much the same as the

nearer portions of the dale seen from that height. Down on the left,

however, there are some chimney-shafts, so recklessly black that they

seem to be no part whatever of their sumptuous natural surroundings,

and might almost suggest a nightmare in which one discovered that some

of the vilest chimneys of the Black Country had taken to touring in the

beauty spots of the country.

As one goes westward, the road penetrates right into the bold scenery

that invites exploration when viewed from 'Willance's Leap.' There is a

Scottish feeling--perhaps Alpine would be more correct--in the

steeply-falling sides of the dale, all clothed in firs and other dense

plantations; and just where the Swale takes a decided turn towards the

south there is a view up Marske Beck that adds much to the romance of

the scene. Behind one's back the side of the dale rises like a dark

green wall entirely in shadow, and down below half buried in foliage,

the river swirls and laps its gravelly beaches, also in shadow. Beyond

a strip of pasture begin the tumbled masses of trees which, as they

climb out of the depths of the valley, reach the warm, level rays of

sunlight that turns the first leaves that have passed their prime into

the fierce yellows and burnt siennas which, when faithfully represented

at Burlington House, are often considered overdone. Even the gaunt

obelisk near Marske Hall responds to a fine sunset of this sort, and

shows a gilded side that gives it almost a touch of grandeur.

Evening is by no means necessary to the attractions of Swaledale, for a

blazing noon gives lights and shades and contrasts of colour that are a

large portion of Swaledale's charms. If instead of taking either the

old road by way of Marske, or the new one by the riverside, one had

crossed the old bridge below the castle, and left Richmond by a very

steep road that goes to Leyburn, one would have reached a moorland that

is at its best in the full light of a clear morning.

The clouds are big, but they carry no threat of rain, for right down to

the far horizon from whence this wind is coming there are patches of

blue proportionate to the vast spaces overhead. As each white mass

passes across the sun, we are immersed in a shadow many acres in

extent: but the sunlight has scarcely fled when a rim of light comes

over the edge of the plain, just above the hollow where Downholme

village lies hidden from sight, and in a few minutes that belt of

sunshine has reached some sheep not far off, and rimmed their coats

with a brilliant edge of white. Shafts of whiteness, like searchlights,

stream from behind a distant cloud, and everywhere there is brilliant

contrast and a purity to the eye and lungs that only a Yorkshire moor

possesses.

A short two miles up the road to Leyburn, just above Gill Beck, there

is an ancient house known as Walburn Hall, and also the remains of the

chapel belonging to it, which dates from the Perpendicular period. The

buildings are now used as a farm, but there are still enough

suggestions of a dignified past to revivify the times when this was a

centre of feudal power.

Turning back to Swaledale by a lane on the south side of Gill Beck,

Downholme village is passed a mile away on the right, and the bold

scenery of the dale once more becomes impressive.

Two great headlands, formed by the wall-like terminations of Cogden and

Harkerside Moors, rising one above the other, stand out magnificently.

Their huge sides tower up nearly a thousand feet from the river, until

they are within reach of the lowering clouds that every moment threaten

to envelop them in their indigo embrace. There is a curious rift in the

dark cumulus revealing a thin line of dull carmine that frequently

changes its shape and becomes nearly obliterated, but its presence in

no way weakens the awesomeness of the picture. The dale appears to

become huger and steeper as the clouds thicken, and what have been

merely woods and plantations in this heavy gloom become mysterious

forests. The river, too, seems to change its character, and become a

pale serpent, uncoiling itself from some mountain fastness where no

living creatures besides great auks and carrion birds, dwell.

In such surroundings as these there were established in the Middle

Ages, two religious houses, within a mile of one another, on opposite

sides of the swirling river. On the north bank, not far from Marrick

village, you may still see the ruins of Marrick Priory in its beautiful

situation much as Turner painted it a century ago. Leland describes

Marrick as 'a Priory of Blake Nunnes of the Foundation of the Askes.'

It was, we know, an establishment for Benedictine Nuns, founded or

endowed by Roger de Aske in the twelfth century. At Ellerton, on the

other side of the river a little lower down, the nunnery was of the

Cistercian Order; for, although very little of its history has been

discovered, Leland writes of the house as 'a Priori of White clothid

Nunnes.' After the Battle of Bannockburn, when the Scots raided all

over the North Riding of Yorkshire, they came along Swaledale in search

of plunder, and we are told that Ellerton suffered from their violence.

Where the dale becomes wider, owing to the branch valley of

Arkengarthdale, there are two villages close together. Grinton is

reached first, and is older than Reeth, which is a short distance north

of the river. The parish of Grinton is one of the largest in Yorkshire.

It is more than twenty miles long, containing something near 50,000

acres, and according to Mr. Speight, who has written a very detailed

history of Richmondshire, more than 30,000 acres of this consist of

mountain, grouse-moor and scar. For so huge a parish the church is

suitable in size, but in the upper portions of the dales one must not

expect any very remarkable exteriors; and Grinton, with its low roofs

and plain battlemented tower, is much like other churches in the

neighbourhood. Inside there are suggestions of a Norman building that

has passed away, and the bowl of the font seems also to belong to that

period. The two chapels opening from the chancel contain some

interesting features, which include a hagioscope, and both are enclosed

by old screens.

Leaving the village behind, and crossing the Swale, you soon come to

Reeth, which may, perhaps, be described as a little town. It must have

thrived with the lead-mines in Arkengarthdale and along the Swale, for

it has gone back since the period of its former prosperity, and is glad

of the fact that its situation, and the cheerful green which the houses

look upon, have made it something of a holiday resort.

When Reeth is left behind, there is no more of the fine 'new' road

which makes travelling so easy for the eleven miles from Richmond. The

surface is, however, by no means rough along the nine miles to Muker,

although the scenery becomes far wilder and more mountainous with every

mile. The dale narrows most perceptibly; the woods become widely

separated, and almost entirely disappear on the southern side; and the

gaunt moors, creeping down the sides of the valley seem to threaten the

narrow belt of cultivation, that becomes increasingly restricted to the

river margins. Precipitous limestone scars fringe the browny-green

heights in many places, and almost girdle the summit of Calver Hill,

the great bare height that rises a thousand feet above Reeth. The farms

and hamlets of these upper parts of Swaledale are of the same greys,

greens, and browns as the moors and scars that surround them. The stone

walls, that are often high and forbidding, seem to suggest the

fortifications required for man's fight with Nature, in which there is

no encouragement for the weak. In the splendid weather that so often

welcomes the mere summer rambler in the upper dales the austerity of

the widely scattered farms and villages may seem a little

unaccountable; but a visit in January would quite remove this

impression, though even in these lofty parts of England the worst

winter snowstorm has, in quite recent years, been of trifling

inconvenience. Bad winters will, no doubt, be experienced again on the

fells; but leaving out of the account the snow that used to bury farms,

flocks, roads, and even the smaller gills, in a vast smother of

whiteness, there are still the winds that go shrieking over the

desolate heights, there is still the high rainfall, and there are still

destructive thunderstorms that bring with them hail of a size that we

seldom encounter in the lower levels.

The great rapidity with which the Swale, or such streams as the Arkle,

can produce a devastating flood can scarcely be comprehended by those

who have not seen the results of even moderate rainstorms on the fells.

When, however, some really wet days have been experienced in the upper

parts of the dales, it seems a wonder that the bridges are not more

often in jeopardy.

Of course, even the highest hills of Yorkshire are surpassed in wetness

by their Lakeland neighbours; for whereas Hawes Junction, which is only

about seven miles south of Muker, has an average yearly rainfall of

about 62 inches, Mickleden, in Westmorland, can show 137, and certain

spots in Cumberland aspire towards 200 inches in a year.

The weather conditions being so severe, it is not surprising to find

that no corn at all is grown in Swaledale at the present day. Some

notes, found in an old family Bible in Teesdale, are quoted by Mr.

Joseph Morris. They show the painful difficulties experienced in the

eighteenth century from such entries as: '1782. I reaped oats for John

Hutchinson, when the field was covered with snow,' and: '1799, Nov. 10.

Much corn to cut and carry. A hard frost.'

Muker, notwithstanding all these climatic difficulties, has some claim

to picturesqueness, despite the fact that its church is better seen at

a distance, for a close inspection reveals its rather poverty-stricken

state. The square tower, so typical of the dales, stands well above the

weathered roofs of the village, and there are sufficient trees to tone

down the severities of the stone walls, that are inclined to make one

house much like its neighbour, and but for natural surroundings would

reduce the hamlets to the same uniformity. At Muker, however, there is

a steep bridge and a rushing mountain stream that joins the Swale just

below. The road keeps close to this beck, and the houses are thus

restricted to one side of the way.

Away to the south, in the direction of the Buttertubs Pass, is Stags

Fell, 2,213 feet above the sea, and something like 1,300 feet above

Muker. Northwards, and towering over the village, is the isolated mass

of Kisdon Hill, on two sides of which the Swale, now a mountain stream,

rushes and boils among boulders and ledges of rock. This is one of the

finest portions of the dale, and, although the road leaves the river

and passes round the western side of Kisdon, there is a path that goes

through the glen, and brings one to the road again at Keld.

Just before you reach Keld, the Swale drops 30 feet at Kisdon Force,

and after a night of rain there are many other waterfalls to be seen in

this district. These are not to me, however, the chief attractions of

the head of Swaledale, although without the angry waters the gills and

narrow ravines that open from the dale would lose much interest. It is

the stern grandeur of the scarred hillsides and the wide mountainous

views from the heights that give this part of Yorkshire such a

fascination. If you climb to the top of Rogan's Seat, you have a huge

panorama of desolate country spread out before you. The confused jumble

of blue-grey mountains to the north-west is beyond the limits of

Yorkshire at last, and in their strong embrace those stern Westmorland

hills hold the charms of Lakeland.

If one stays in this mountainous region, there are new and exciting

walks available for every day. There are gloomy recesses in the

hillsides that encourage exploration from the knowledge that they are

not tripper-worn, and there are endless heights to be climbed that are

equally free from the smallest traces of desecrating mankind. Rare

flowers, ferns, and mosses flourish in these inaccessible solitudes,

and will continue to do so, on account of the dangers that lurk in

their fastnesses, and also from the fact that their value is nothing to

any but those who are glad to leave them growing where they are.

CHAPTER XIII

WENSLEYDALE

The approach from Muker to the upper part of Wensleydale is by a

mountain road that can claim a grandeur which, to those who have never

explored the dales, might almost seem impossible. I have called it a

road, but it is, perhaps, questionable whether this is not too

high-sounding a term for a track so invariably covered with large loose

stones and furrowed with water-courses. At its highest point the road

goes through the Buttertubs Pass, taking the traveller to the edge of

the pot-holes that have given their name to this thrilling way through

the mountain ridge dividing the Swale from the Ure.

Such a lonely and dangerous road should no doubt be avoided at night,

but yet I am always grateful for the delays which made me so late that

darkness came on when I was at the highest portion of the pass. It was

late in September, and it was the day of the feast at Hawes, which had

drawn to that small town farmers and their wives, and most, if not all,

the young men and maidens within a considerable radius. I made my way

slowly up the long ascent from Muker, stumbling frequently on the loose

stones and in the water-worn runnels that were scarcely visible in the

dim twilight. The huge, bare shoulders of the fells began to close in

more and more as I climbed. Towards the west lay Great Shunnor Fell,

its vast brown-green mass being sharply defined against the clear

evening sky; while further away to the north-west there were blue

mountains going to sleep in the soft mistiness of the distance. Then

the road made a sudden zig-zag, but went on climbing more steeply than

ever, until at last I found that the stony track had brought me to the

verge of a precipice. There was not sufficient light to see what

dangers lay beneath me, but I could hear the angry sound of a beck

falling upon quantities of bare rocks. If one does not keep to the

road, there is on the other side the still greater menace of the

Buttertubs, the dangers of which are too well known to require any

emphasis of mine. Those pot-holes which have been explored with much

labour, and the use of winches and tackle and a great deal of stout

rope, have revealed in their cavernous depths the bones of sheep that

disappeared from flocks which have long since become mutton. This road

is surely one that would have afforded wonderful illustrations to the

'Pilgrim's Progress,' for the track is steep and narrow and painfully

rough; dangers lie on either side, and safety can only be found by

keeping in the middle of the road.

What must have been the thoughts, I wonder, of the dalesmen who on

different occasions had to go over the pass at night in those still

recent times when wraithes and hobs were terrible realities? In the

parts of Yorkshire where any records of the apparitions that used to

enliven the dark nights have been kept, I find that these awesome

creatures were to be found on every moor, and perhaps some day in my

reading I shall discover an account of those that haunted this pass.

Although there are probably few who care for rough moorland roads at

night, the Buttertubs Pass in daylight is still a memorable place. The

pot-holes can then be safely approached, and one can peer into the

blackness below until the eyes become adapted to the gloom. Then one

sees the wet walls of limestone and the curiously-formed isolated

pieces of rock that almost suggest columnar basalt. In crevices far

down delicate ferns are growing in the darkness. They shiver as the

cool water drips upon them from above, and the drops they throw off

fall down lower still into a stream of underground water that has its

beginnings no man knows where. On a hot day it is cooling simply to

gaze into the Buttertubs, and the sound of the falling waters down in

these shadowy places is pleasant after gazing on the dry fell-sides.

Just beyond the head of the pass, where the descent to Hawes begins,

the shoulders of Great Shunnor Fell drop down, so that not only

straight ahead, but also westwards, one can see a splendid mountain

view. Ingleborough's flat top is conspicuous in the south, and in every

direction there are indications of the geology of the fells. The hard

stratum of millstone grit that rests upon the limestone gives many of

the summits of the hills their level character, and forms the

sharply-defined scars that encircle them. The sudden and violent

changes of weather that take place among these watersheds would almost

seem to be cause enough to explain the wearing down of the angularities

of the heights. Even while we stand on the bridge at Hawes we can see

three or four ragged cloud edges letting down on as many places

torrential rains, while in between there are intervals of blazing

sunshine, under which the green fells turn bright yellow and orange in

powerful contrast to the indigo shadows on every side. Such rapid

changes from complete saturation to sudden heat are trying to the

hardest rocks, and at Hardraw, close at hand, there is a still more

palpable process of denudation in active operation.

Such a morning as this is quite ideal for seeing the remarkable

waterfall known as Hardraw Scar or Force. The footpath that leads up

the glen leaves the road at the side of the 'Green Dragon' at Hardraw,

where the innkeeper hands us a key to open the gate we must pass

through. Being September, and an uncertain day for weather, we have the

whole glen to ourselves, until behind some rocks we discover a solitary

angler. There is nothing but the roughest of tracks to follow, for the

carefully-made pathway that used to go right up to the fall was swept

away half a dozen years ago, when the stream in a fierce mood cleared

its course of any traces of artificiality. We are deeply grateful, and

make our among the big rocks and across the slippery surfaces of shale,

with the roar of the waters becoming more and more insistent. The sun

has turned into the ravine a great searchlight that has lit up the rock

walls and strewn the wet grass beneath with sparkling jewels. On the

opposite side there is a dense blue shadow over everything except the

foliage on the brow of the cliffs, where the strong autumn colours leap

into a flaming glory that transforms the ravine into an astonishing

splendour. A little more careful scrambling by the side of the stream,

and we see a white band of water falling from the overhanging limestone

into the pool about ninety feet below. Off the surface of the water

drifts a mist of spray, in which a soft patch of rainbow hovers until

the sun withdraws itself for a time and leaves a sudden gloom in the

horseshoe of overhanging cliffs. The place is, perhaps, more in

sympathy with a cloudy sky, but, under sunshine or cloud, the spout of

water is a memorable sight, and its imposing height places Hardraw

among the small group of England's finest waterfalls. The mass of shale

that lies beneath this stratum is soft enough to be worked away by the

water until the limestone overhangs the pool to the extent of ten or

twelve feet, so that the water falls sheer into the circular basin,

leaving a space between the cliff and the fall where it is safe to walk

on a rather moist and slippery path that is constantly being sprayed

from the surface of the pool.

John Leland wrote, nearly four hundred years ago, '_Uredale_ veri

litle Corne except Bygg or Otes, but plentiful of Gresse in Communes,'

and although this dale is so much more genial in aspect, and so much

wider than the valley of the Swale, yet crops are under the same

disabilities. Leaving Gayle behind, we climb up a steep and stony road

above the beck until we are soon above the level of green pasturage.

The stone walls still cover the hillsides with a net of very large

mesh, but the sheep find more bent than grass, and the ground is often

exceedingly steep. Higher still climbs this venturesome road, until all

around us is a vast tumble of gaunt brown fells, divided by ravines

whose sides are scarred with runnels of water, which have exposed the

rocks and left miniature screes down below. At a height of nearly 1,600

feet there is a gate, where we will turn away from the road that goes

on past Dodd Fell into Langstrothdale, and instead climb a smooth grass

track sprinkled with half-buried rocks until we have reached the summit

of Wether Fell, 400 feet higher. There is a scanty growth of ling upon

the top of this height, but the hills that lie about on every side are

browny-green or of an ochre colour, and there is little of the purple

one sees in the Cleveland Hills.

The cultivated level of Wensleydale is quite hidden from view, so that

we look over a vast panorama of mountains extending in the west as far

as the blue fells of Lakeland. I have painted the westward view from

this very summit, so that any written description is hardly needed; but

behind us, as we face the scene illustrated here, there is a wonderful

expanse that includes the heights of Addlebrough, Stake Fell, and

Penhill Beacon, which stand out boldly on the southern side of

Wensleydale. I have seen these hills lightly covered with snow, but

that can give scarcely the smallest suggestion of the scene that was

witnessed after the remarkable snowstorm of January, 1895, which

blocked the roads between Wensleydale and Swaledale until nearly the

middle of March. Roads were dug out, with walls of snow on either side

from 10 to 15 feet in height, but the wind and fresh falls almost

obliterated the passages soon after they had been cut. In

Landstrothdale Mr. Speight tells of the extraordinary difficulties of

the dalesfolk in the farms and cottages, who were faced with starvation

owing to the difficulty of getting in provisions. They cut ways through

the drifts as high as themselves in the direction of the likeliest

places to obtain food, while in Swaledale they built sledges.

When we have left the highest part of Wether Fell, we find the track

taking a perfectly straight line between stone walls. The straightness

is so unusual that there can be little doubt that it is a survival of

one of the Roman ways connecting their station on Brough Hill, just

above the village of Bainbridge, with some place to the south-west. The

track goes right over Cam Fell, and is known as the Old Cam Road, but I

cannot recommend it for any but pedestrians. When we have descended

only a short distance, there is a sudden view of Semmerwater, the only

piece of water in Yorkshire that really deserves to be called a lake.

It is a pleasant surprise to discover this placid patch of blue lying

among the hills, and partially hidden by a fellside in such a way that

its area might be far greater than 105 acres.

Those who know Turner's painting of this lake would be disappointed, no

doubt, if they saw it first from this height. The picture was made at

the edge of the water with the Carlow Stone in the foreground, and over

the mountains on the southern shore appears a sky that would make the

dullest potato-field thrilling.

A short distance lower down, by straying a little from the road, we get

a really imposing view of Bardale, into which the ground falls suddenly

from our very feet. Sheep scamper nimbly down their convenient little

tracks, but there are places where water that overflows from the pools

among the bent and ling has made blue-grey seams and wrinkles in the

steep places that give no foothold even to the toughest sheep.

We lose sight of Semmerwater behind the ridge that forms one side of

the branch dale in which it lies, but in exchange we get beautiful

views of the sweeping contours of Wensleydale. High upon the further

side of the valley Askrigg's gray roofs and pretty church stand out

against a steep fellside; further down we can see Nappa Hall,

surrounded by trees, just above the winding river, and Bainbridge lies

close at hand. We soon come to the broad and cheerful green, surrounded

by a picturesque scattering of old but well preserved cottages; for

Bainbridge has sufficient charms to make it a pleasant inland resort

for holiday times that is quite ideal for those who are content to

abandon the sea. The overflow from Semmerwater, which is called the

Bam, fills the village with its music as it falls over ledges or rock

in many cascades along one side of the green.

There is a steep bridge, which is conveniently placed for watching the

waterfalls; there are white geese always drilling on the grass, and

there are still to be seen the upright stones of the stocks. The pretty

inn called the 'Rose and Crown,' overlooking a corner of the green

states upon a board that it was established in 1445.

A horn-blowing custom has been preserved at Bainbridge. It takes place

at ten o'clock every night between Holy Rood (September 27) and

Shrovetide, but somehow the reason for the observance has been

forgotten. The medieval regulations as to the carrying of horns by

foresters and those who passed through forests would undoubtedly

associate the custom with early times, and this happy old village

certainly gains our respect for having preserved anything from such a

remote period. When we reach Bolton Castle we shall find in the museum

there an old horn from Bainbridge.

Besides having the length and breadth of Wensleydale to explore with or

without the assistance of the railway, Bainbridge has as its particular

possession the valley containing Semmerwater, with the three romantic

dales at its head. Counterside, a hamlet perched a little above the

lake, has an old hall, where George Fox stayed in 1677 as a guest of

Richard Robinson. The inn bears the date 1667 and the initials

'B.H.J.,' which may be those of one of the Jacksons, who were Quakers

at that time.

On the other side of the river, and scarcely more than a mile from

Bainbridge, is the little town of Askrigg, which supplies its neighbour

with a church and a railway-station. There is a charm in its breezy

situation that is ever present, for even when we are in the narrow

little street that curves steeply up the hill there are quite

exhilarating peeps of the dale. We can see Wether Fell, with the road

we traversed yesterday plainly marked on the slopes, and down below,

where the Ure takes its way through bright pastures, there is a mist of

smoke ascending from Hawes. Blocking up the head of the dale are the

spurs of Dodd and Widdale Fells, while beyond them appears the blue

summit of Bow Fell. We find it hard to keep our eyes away from the

distant mountains, which fascinate one by appearing to have an

importance that is perhaps diminished when they are close at hand.

We find ourselves halting on a patch of grass by the restored

market-cross to look more closely at a fine old house overlooking the

three-sided space. There is no doubt as to the date of the building,

for a plain inscription begins 'Gulielmus Thornton posuit hanc domum

MDCLXXVIII.' The bay windows have heavy mullions and there is a dignity

about the house which must have been still more apparent when the

surrounding houses were lower than at present. The wooden gallery that

is constructed between the bays was, it is said, built as a convenient

place for watching the bull-fights that took place just below. In the

grass there can still be seen the stone to which the bull-ring was

secured. The churchyard runs along the west side of the little

market-place, so that there is an open view on that side, made

interesting by the Perpendicular church.

The simple square tower and the unbroken roof-lines are battlemented,

like so many of the churches of the dales; inside we find Norman

pillars that are quite in strange company, if it is true that they were

brought from the site of Fors Abbey, a little to the west of the town.

Wensleydale generally used to be famed for its hand-knitting, but I

think Askrigg must have turned out more work than any place in the

valley, for the men as well as the womenfolk were equally skilled in

this employment, and Mr. Whaley says they did their work in the open

air 'while gossiping with their neighbours.' This statement is,

nevertheless, exceeded by what appears in a volume entitled 'The

Costume of Yorkshire.' In that work of 1814, which contains a number of

George Walker's quaint drawings, reproduced by lithography, we find a

picture having a strong suggestion of Askrigg in which there is a

group of old and young of both sexes seated on the steps of the

market-cross, all knitting, and a little way off a shepherd is seen

driving some sheep through a gate, and he also is knitting.

From Askrigg there is a road that climbs up from the end of the little

street at a gradient that looks like 1 in 4, but it is really less

formidable. Considering its steepness the surface is quite good, but

that is due to the industry of a certain road-mender with whom I once

had the privilege to talk when, hot and breathless, I paused to enjoy

the great expanse that lay to the south. He was a fine Saxon type, with

a sunburnt face and equally brown arms. Road-making had been his ideal

when he was a mere boy, and since he had obtained his desire he told me

that he couldn't be happier if he were the King of England. The

picturesque road where we leave him, breaking every large stone he can

find, goes on across a belt of brown moor, and then drops down between

gaunt scars that only just leave space for the winding track to pass

through. It afterwards descends rapidly by the side of a gill, and thus

enters Swaledale.

There is a beautiful walk from Askrigg to Mill Gill Force. The distance

is scarcely more than half a mile across sloping pastures and through

the curious stiles that appear in the stone walls. So dense is the

growth of trees in the little ravine that one hears the sound of the

waters close at hand without seeing anything but the profusion of

foliage overhanging and growing among the rocks. After climbing down

among the moist ferns and moss-grown stones, the gushing cascades

appear suddenly set in a frame of such lavish beauty that they hold a

high place among their rivals in the dale.

Keeping to the north side of the river, we come to Nappa Hall at a

distance of a little over a mile to the east of Askrigg. It is now a

farmhouse, but its two battlemented towers proclaim its former

importance as the chief seat of the family of Metcalfe. The date of the

house is about 1459, and the walls of the western tower are 4 feet in

thickness. The Nappa lands came to James Metcalfe from Sir Richard

Scrope of Bolton Castle shortly after his return to England from the

field of Agincourt, and it was probably this James Metcalfe who built

the existing house.

The road down the dale passes Woodhall Park, and then, after going down

close to the Ure, it bears away again to the little village of

Carperby. It has a triangular green surrounded by white posts. At the

east end stands an old cross, dated 1674, and the ends of the arms are

ornamented with grotesque carved heads. The cottages have a neat and

pleasant appearance, and there is much less austerity about the place

than one sees higher up the dale. A branch road leads down to Aysgarth

Station, and just where the lane takes a sharp bend to the right a

footpath goes across a smooth meadow to the banks of the Ure. The

rainfall of the last few days, which showed itself at Mill Gill Force,

at Hardraw Scar, and a dozen other falls, has been sufficient to swell

the main stream at Wensleydale into a considerable flood, and behind

the bushes that grow thickly along the riverside we can hear the steady

roar of the cascades of Aysgarth. The waters have worn down the rocky

bottom to such an extent that in order to stand in full view of the

splendid fall we must make for a gap in the foliage, and scramble down

some natural steps in the wall of rock forming low cliffs along each

side of the flood. The water comes over three terraces of solid stone,

and then sweeps across wide ledges in a tempestuous sea of waves and

froth, until there come other descents which alter the course of parts

of the stream, so that as we look across the riotous flood we can see

the waters flowing in many opposite directions. Lines of cream-coloured

foam spread out into chains of bubbles which join together, and then,

becoming detached, again float across the smooth portions of each low

terrace.

Some footpaths bring us to Aysgarth village, which seems altogether to

disregard the church, for it is separated from it by a distance of

nearly half a mile. There is one pleasant little street of old stone

houses irregularly disposed, many of them being quite picturesque, with

mossy roofs and ancient chimneys. This village, like Askrigg and

Bainbridge, is ideally situated as a centre for exploring a very

considerable district. There is quite a network of roads to the south,

connecting the villages of Thoralby and West Burton with Bishop Dale,

and the main road through Wensleydale. Thoralby is very old, and is

beautifully situated under a steep hillside. It has a green overlooked

by little grey cottages, and lower down there is a tall mill with

curious windows built upon Bishop Dale Beck. Close to this mill there

nestles a long, low house of that dignified type to be seen frequently

in the North Riding, as well as in the villages of Westmorland. The

huge chimney, occupying a large proportion of one gable-end, is

suggestive of much cosiness within, and its many shoulders, by which it

tapers towards the top, make it an interesting feature of the house.

The dale narrows up at its highest point, but the road is enclosed

between grey walls the whole of the way over the head of the valley. A

wide view of Langstrothdale and upper Wharfedale is visible when the

road begins to drop downwards, and to the east Buckden Pike towers up

to his imposing height of 2,302 feet. We shall see him again when we

make our way through Wharfedale but we could go back to Wensleydale by

a mountain-path that climbs up the side of Cam Gill Beck from

Starbottom, and then, crossing the ridge between Buckden Pike and Tor

Mere Top, it goes down into the wild recesses of Waldendale. So remote

is this valley that wild animals, long extinct in other parts of the

dales, survived there until almost recent times.

When we have crossed the Ure again, and taken a last look at the Upper

Fall from Aysgarth Bridge, we betake ourselves by a footpath to the

main highway through Wensleydale, turning aside before reaching Redmire

in order to see the great castle of the Scropes at Bolton. It is a vast

quadrangular mass, with each side nearly as gaunt and as lofty as the

others. At each corner rises a great square tower, pierced, with a few

exceptions, by the smallest of windows. Only the base of the tower at

the north-east corner remains to-day, the upper part having fallen one

stormy night in November, 1761, possibly having been weakened during

the siege of the castle in the Civil War. We go into the court-yard

through a vaulted archway on the eastern side. Many of the rooms on the

side facing us are in good preservation, and an apartment in the

south-west tower, which has a fireplace, is pointed out as having been

used by Mary Queen of Scots when she was imprisoned here after the

Battle of Langside in 1568. It was the ninth Lord Scrope who had the

custody of the Queen, and he was assisted by Sir Francis Knollys. Mary,

no doubt, found the time of her imprisonment irksome enough, despite

the magnificent views over the dale which her windows appear to have

commanded; but the monotony was relieved to some extent by the lessons

in English which she received from Sir Francis, whom she describes as

her 'good schoolmaster.' While still a prisoner, Mary addressed to him

her first English letter, which begins: 'Master Knollys, I heve sum neus

from Scotland'; and half-way through she begs that he will excuse her

writing, seeing that she had 'neuur vsed it afor,' and was 'hestet.'

The letter concludes with 'thus, affter my commendations, I prey God

heuu you in his kipin. Your assured gud frind, MARIE R.'

On the opposite side of the steep-sided dale Penhill stands out

prominently, with its flat summit reflecting just enough of the setting

sun to recall a momentous occasion when from that commanding spot a

real beacon-fire sent up a great mass of flame and sparks. It was

during the time of Napoleon's threatened invasion of England, and the

lighting of this beacon was to be the signal to the volunteers of

Wensleydale to muster and march to their rendezvous. The watchman on

Penhill, as he sat by the piled-up brushwood, wondering, no doubt, what

would happen to him if the dreaded invasion were really to come about,

saw, far away across the Vale of Mowbray, a light which he at once took

to be the beacon upon Roseberry Topping. A moment later tongues of

flame and smoke were pouring from his own hilltop, and the news spread

up the dale like wildfire. The volunteers armed themselves rapidly, and

with drums beating they marched away, with only such delay as was

caused by the hurried leave-takings with wives and mothers, and all the

rest who crowded round. The contingent took the road to Thirsk, and on

the way were joined by the Mashamshire men. Whether it was with relief

or disappointment I do not know; but when the volunteers reached Thirsk

they heard that they had been called out by a false alarm, for the

light seen in the direction of Roseberry Topping had been caused by

accident, and the beacon on that height had not been lit.

Wensley stands just at the point where the dale, to which it has given

its name, becomes so wide that it begins to lose its distinctive

character. The village is most picturesque and secluded, and it is

small enough to cause some wonder as to its distinction in naming the

valley. It is suggested that the name is derived from _Wodenslag_,

and that in the time of the Northmen's occupation of these parts the

place named after their chief god would be the most important.

In the little church standing on the south side of the green there is

so much to interest us that we are almost unable to decide what to

examine first, until, realizing that we are brought face to face with a

beautiful relic of Easby Abbey, we turn our attention to the parclose

screen. It surrounds the family pew of Bolton Hall, and on three sides

we see the Perpendicular woodwork fitted into the east end of the north

aisle. The side that fronts the nave has an entirely different

appearance, being painted and of a classic order, very lacking in any

ecclesiastical flavour, an impression not lost on those who, with every

excuse, called it 'the opera box.' In the panels of the early part of

the screen are carved inscriptions and arms of the Scropes covering a

long period, and, though many words and letters are missing, it is

possible to make them more complete with the help of the record made by

the heralds in 1665.

A charming lane, overhung by big trees, runs above the river-banks for

nearly two miles of the way to Middleham; then it joins the road from

Leyburn, and crosses the Ure by a suspension bridge, defended by two

very formidable though modern archways. Climbing up past the church, we

enter the cobbled market-place, which wears a rather decayed appearance

in sympathy with the departed magnificence of the great castle of the

Nevilles. It commands a vast view of Wensleydale from the southern

side, in much the same manner as Bolton does from the north; but the

castle buildings are entirely different, for Middleham consists of a

square Norman keep, very massive and lofty, surrounded at a short

distance by a strong wall and other buildings, also of considerable

height, built in the Decorated period, when the Nevilles were in

possession of the stronghold. The Norman keep dates from the year 1190,

when Robert Fitz Randolph, grandson of Ribald, a brother of the Earl of

Richmond, began to build the Castle.

It was, however, in later times, when Middleham had come to the

Nevilles by marriage, that really notable events took place in this

fortress. It was here that Warwick, the 'King-maker,' held Edward IV.

prisoner in 1467, and in Part III. of the play of 'King Henry VI.,'

Scene V. of the fourth act is laid in a park near Middleham Castle.

Richard III.'s only son, Edward Prince of Wales, was born here in 1467,

the property having come into Richard's possession by his marriage with

Anne Neville.

We have already seen Leyburn Shawl from near Wensley, but its charm can

only be appreciated by seeing the view up the dale from its

larch-crowned termination. Perhaps if we had seen nothing of

Wensleydale, and the wonderful views it offers, we should be more

inclined to regard this somewhat popular spot with greater veneration;

but after having explored both sides of the dale, and seen many views

of a very similar character, we cannot help thinking that the vista is

somewhat overrated. Leyburn itself is a cheerful little town, with a

modern church and a very wide main street which forms a most extensive

market-place. There is a bull-ring still visible in the great open

space, but beyond this and the view from the Shawl Leyburn has few

attractions, except its position as a centre or a starting-place from

which to explore the romantic neighbourhood.

As we leave Leyburn we get a most beautiful view up Coverdale, with the

two Whernsides standing out most conspicuously at the head of the

valley, and it is this last view of Coverdale, and the great valley

from which it branches, that remains in the mind as one of the finest

pictures of this most remarkable portion of Yorkshire.

CHAPTER XIV

RIPON AND FOUNTAINS ABBEY

We have come out of Wensleydale past the ruins of the great Cistercian

abbey of Jervaulx, which Conan, Earl of Richmond, moved from Askrigg to

a kindlier climate, and we have passed through the quiet little town of

Masham, famous for its fair in September, when sometimes as many as

70,000 sheep, including great numbers of the fine Wensleydale breed,

are sold, and now we are at Ripon. It is the largest town we have seen

since we lost sight of Richmond in the wooded recesses of Swaledale,

and though we are still close to the Ure, we are on the very edge of

the dale country, and miss the fells that lie a little to the west. The

evening has settled down to steady rain, and the market-place is

running with water that reflects the lights in the shop-windows and

the dark outline of the obelisk in the centre. This erection is

suspiciously called 'the Cross,' and it made its appearance nearly

seventy years before the one at Richmond. Gent says it cost £564 11s.

9d., and that it is 'one of the finest in England.' I could, no doubt,

with the smallest trouble discover a description of the real cross it

supplanted, but if it were anything half as fine as the one at

Richmond, I should merely be moved to say harsh things of John

Aislabie, who was Mayor in 1702, when the obelisk was erected, and

therefore I will leave the matter to others. It is, perhaps, an

un-Christian occupation to go about the country quarrelling with the

deeds of recent generations, though I am always grateful for any traces

of the centuries that have gone which have been allowed to survive.

With this thought still before me, I am startled by a long-drawn-out

blast on a horn, and, looking out of my window, which commands the

whole of the market-place, I can see beneath the light of a lamp an

old-fashioned figure wearing a three-cornered hat. When the last

quavering note has come from the great circular horn, the man walks

slowly across the wet cobble-stones to the obelisk, where I watch him

wind another blast just like the first, and then another, and then a

third, immediately after which he walks briskly away and disappears

down a turning. In the light of morning I discover that the horn was

blown in front of the Town Hall, whose stucco front bears the

inscription: 'Except ye Lord keep ye cittie, ye Wakeman waketh in

vain.' The antique spelling is, of course, unable to give a wrong

impression as to the age of the building, for it shows its period so

plainly that one scarcely needs to be told that it was built in 1801,

although it could not so easily be attributed to the notorious Wyatt.

Notwithstanding much reconstruction there are still a few quaint houses

to be seen in Ripon, and there clings to the streets a certain flavour

of antiquity. It is the minster, nevertheless, that raises the 'city'

above the average Yorkshire town. The west front, with its twin towers,

is to some extent the most memorable portion of the great church. It is

the work of Archbishop Walter Gray, and is a most beautiful example of

the pure Early English style. Inside there is a good deal of

transitional Norman work to be seen. The central tower was built in

this period, but now presents a most remarkable appearance, owing to

its partial reconstruction in Perpendicular times, the arch that faces

the nave having the southern pier higher than the Norman one, and in

the later style, so that the arch is lop-sided. As a building in which

to study the growth of English Gothic architecture, I can scarcely

think it possible to find anything better, all the periods being very

clearly represented. The choir has much sumptuous carved woodwork, and

the misereres are full of quaint detail. In the library there is a

collection of very early printed books and other relics of the minster

that add very greatly to the interest of the place.

The monument to Hugh Ripley, who was the last Wakeman of Ripon and

first Mayor in 1604, is on the north side of the nave facing the

entrance to the crypt, popularly called 'St. Wilfrid's Needle.' A

rather difficult flight of steps goes down to a narrow passage leading

into a cylindrically vaulted cell with niches in the walls. At the

north-east corner is the curious slit or 'Needle' that has been thought

to have been used for purposes of trial by ordeal, the innocent person

being able to squeeze through the narrow opening.

In reality it is probably nothing more than an arrangement for lighting

two cells with one lamp. The crypt is of such a plainly Roman type, and

is so similar to the one at Hexham, that it is generally accepted as

dating from the early days of Christianity in Yorkshire, and there can

be little doubt that it is a relic of Wilfrid's church in those early

times.

At a very convenient distance from Ripon, and approached by a pleasant

lane, are the lovely glades of Studley Royal, the noble park containing

the ruins of Fountains Abbey. Below the well-kept pathway runs the

Skell, but so transformed from its early character that you would

imagine the pathways wind round the densely-wooded slopes, and give a

dozen different views of each mass of trees, each temple, and each bend

of the river. At last, from a considerable height, you have the lovely

view of the abbey ruins illustrated here. At every season its charm is

unmistakable, and even if no stately tower and no roofless arches

filled the centre of the prospect, the scene would be almost as

memorable. It is only one of the many pictures in the park that a

retentive memory will hold as some of the most remarkable in England.

Among the ruins the turf is kept in perfect order, and it is pleasant

merely to look upon the contrast of the green carpet that is so evenly

laid between the dark stonework. The late-Norman nave, with its solemn

double line of round columns, the extremely graceful arches of the

Chapel of the Nine Altars, and the magnificent vaulted perspective of

the dark cellarium of the lay-brothers, are perhaps the most

fascinating portions of the buildings. I might be well compared with

the last abbot but one, William Thirsk, who resigned his post,

forseeing the coming Dissolution, and was therefore called 'a varra

fole and a misereble ideote,' if I attempted in the short space

available to give any detailed account of the abbey or its wonderful

past. I have perhaps said enough to insist on its charms, and I know

that all who endorse my statements will, after seeing Fountains, read

with delight the books that are devoted to its story.

CHAPTER XV

KNARESBOROUGH AND HARROGATE

It is sometimes said that Knaresborough is an overrated town from the

point of view of its attractiveness to visitors, but this depends very

much upon what we hope to find there. If we expect to find lasting

pleasure in contemplating the Dropping Well, or the pathetic little

exhibition of petrified objects in the Mother Shipton Inn, we may be

prepared for disappointment. It seems strange that the real and lasting

charms of the town should be overshadowed by such popular and

much-advertised 'sights.' The first view of the town from the 'high'

bridge is so full of romance that if there were nothing else to

interest us in the place we would scarcely be disappointed. The Nidd,

flowing smoothly at the foot of the precipitous heights upon which the

church and the old roofs appear, is spanned by a great stone viaduct.

This might have been so great a blot upon the scene that Knaresborough

would have lost half its charm. Strangely enough, we find just the

reverse is the case, for this railway bridge, with its battlemented

parapets and massive piers, is now so weathered that it has melted into

its surroundings as though it had come into existence as long ago as

the oldest building visible. The old Knaresborough kept well to the

heights adjoining the castle, and even to-day there are only a handful

of later buildings down by the river margin.

When we have crossed the bridge, and have passed along a narrow roadway

perched well above the river, we come to one of the many interesting

houses that help to keep alive the old-world flavour of the town. Only

a few years ago the old manor-house had a most picturesque and rather

remarkable exterior, for its plaster walls were covered with a large

black and white chequer-work and its overhanging eaves and tailing

creepers gave it a charm that has since then been quite lost. The

restoration which recently took place has entirely altered the

character of the exterior, but inside everything has been preserved

with just the care that should have been expended outside as well.

There are oak-wainscoted parlours, oak dressers, and richly-carved

fireplaces in the low-ceiled rooms, each one containing furniture of

the period of the house. Upstairs there is a beautiful old bedroom

lined with oak, like those on the floor below, and its interest is

greatly enhanced by the story of Oliver Cromwell's residence in the

house, for he is believed to have used this particular bedroom.

Higher up the hill stands the church with a square central tower

surmounted by a small spike. It still bears the marks of the fire made

by the Scots during their disastrous descent upon Yorkshire after

Edward II.'s defeat at Bannockburn. The chapel north of the chancel

contains interesting monuments of the old Yorkshire family of Slingsby.

The altar-tomb in the centre bears the recumbent effigies of Francis

Slingsby, who died in 1600, and Mary his wife. Another monument shows

Sir William Slingsby, who accidentally discovered the first spring at

Harrogate. The Slingsbys, who were cavaliers, produced a martyr in the

cause of Charles I. This was the distinguished Sir Henry, who, in 1658,

'being beheaded by order of the tyrant Cromwell, ... was translated to

a better place.' So says the inscription on a large slab of black

marble in the floor of the chapel. The last of the male line of the

family was Sir Charles Slingsby, who was most unfortunately drowned by

the upsetting of a ferry-boat in the Ure in February, 1869.

When we have progressed beyond the market-place, we come out upon an

elevated grassy space upon the top of a great mass of rock whose

perpendicular sides drop down to a bend of the Nidd. Around us are

scattered the ruins of Knaresborough Castle--poor and of small account

if we compare them with Richmond, although the site is very similar;

where before the siege in 1644 there must have been a most imposing

mass of towers and curtain walls. Of the great keep, only the lowest

story is at all complete, for above the first-floor there are only two

sides to the tower, and these are battered and dishevelled. The walls

enclosed about the same area as Richmond, but they are now so greatly

destroyed that it is not easy to gain a clear idea of their position.

There were no less than eleven towers, of which there now remain

fragments of six, part of a gateway, and behind the old courthouse

there are evidences of a secret cell. An underground sally-port opening

into the moat, which was a dry one, is reached by steps leading from

the castle yard.

The keep is in the Decorated style, and appears to have been built in

the reign of Edward II. Below the ground is a vaulted dungeon, dark and

horrible in its hopeless strength, which is only emphasized by the tiny

air-hole that lets in scarcely a glimmering of light, but reveals a

thickness of 15 feet of masonry that must have made a prisoner's heart

sick. It is generally understood that Bolingbroke spared Richard II.

such confinement as this, and that when he was a prisoner in the keep

he occupied the large room on the floor above the kitchen. It is now a

mere platform, with the walls running up on two sides only. The kitchen

(sometimes called the guard-room) has a perfectly preserved roof of

heavy groining, supported by two pillars, and it contains a collection

of interesting objects, rather difficult to see, owing to the poor

light that the windows allow. There is a great deal to interest us

among the wind-swept ruins and the views into the wooded depths of the

Nidd, and we would rather stay here and trace back the history of the

castle and town to the days of that Norman Serlo de Burgh, who is the

first mentioned in its annals, than go down to the tripper-worn

Dropping Well and the Mother Shipton Inn.

The distance between Knaresborough and Harrogate is short, and after

passing Starbeck we come to an extensive common known as the Stray. We

follow the grassy space, when it takes a sharp turn to the north, and

are soon in the centre of the great watering-place.

There is one spot in Harrogate that has a suggestion of the early days

of the town. It is down in the corner where the valley gardens almost

join the extremity of the Stray. There we find the Royal Pump Room that

made its appearance in early Victorian times, and its circular counter

is still crowded every morning by a throng of water-drinkers. We wander

through the hilly streets and gaze at the pretentious hotels, the

baths, the huge Kursaal, the hydropathic establishments, the smart

shops, and the many churches, and then, having seen enough of the

buildings, we find a seat supported by green serpents, from which to

watch the passers-by. A white-haired and withered man, having the stamp

of a military life in his still erect bearing, paces slowly by; then

come two elaborately dressed men of perhaps twenty-five. They wear

brown suits and patent boots, and their bowler hats are pressed down on

the backs of their heads. Then nursemaids with perambulators pass,

followed by a lady in expensive garments, who talks volubly to her two

pretty daughters. When we have tired of the pavements and the people,

we bid farewell to them without much regret, being in a mood for

simplicity and solitude, and go away towards Wharfedale with the

pleasant tune that a band was playing still to remind us for a time of

the scenes we have left behind.

CHAPTER XVI

WHARFEDALE

Otley is the first place we come to in the long and beautiful valley of

the Wharfe. It is a busy little town where printing machinery is

manufactured and worsted mills appear to thrive. Immediately to the

south rises the steep ridge known as the Chevin. It answers the same

purpose as Leyburn Shawl in giving a great view over the dale; the

elevation of over 900 feet, being much greater than the Shawl, of

course commands a far more extensive panorama, and thus, in clear

weather, York Minster appears on the eastern horizon and the Ingleton

Fells on the west.

Farnley Hall, on the north side of the Wharfe, is an Elizabethan house

dating from 1581, and it is still further of interest on account of

Turner's frequent visits, covering a great number of years, and for the

very fine collection of his paintings preserved there. The

oak-panelling and coeval furniture are particularly good, and among the

historical relics there is a remarkable memento of Marston Moor in the

sword that Cromwell carried during the battle.

Ilkley has contrived to keep an old well-house, where the water's

purity is its chief attraction. The church contains a thirteenth-

century effigy of Sir Andrew de Middleton, and also three

pre-Norman crosses without arms. On the heights to the south of Ilkley

is Rumbles Moor, and from the Cow and Calf rocks there is a very fine

view.

About six miles still further up Wharfedale, Bolton Abbey stands by a

bend of the beautiful river. The ruins are most picturesquely placed on

ground slightly raised above the banks of the Wharfe. Of the domestic

buildings practically nothing remains, while the choir of the church,

the central tower, and north transepts are roofless and extremely

beautiful ruins. The nave is roofed in, and is used as a church at the

present time, and it is probable that services have been held in the

building practically without any interruption for 700 years. Hiding the

Early English west end is the lower half of a fine Perpendicular tower,

commenced by Richard Moone, the last Prior.

The great east window of the choir has lost its tracery, and the

Decorated windows at the sides are in the same vacant state, with the

exception of one. It is blocked up to half its height, like those on

the north side, but the flamboyant tracery of the head is perfect and

very graceful. Lower down there is some late-Norman interlaced arcading

resting on carved corbels.

From the abbey we can take our way by various beautiful paths to the

exceedingly rich scenery of Bolton woods. Some of the reaches of the

Wharfe through this deep and heavily-timbered part of its course are

really enchanting, and not even the knowledge that excursion parties

frequently traverse the paths can rob the views of their charm. It is

always possible, by taking a little trouble, to choose occasions for

seeing these beautiful but very popular places when they are unspoiled

by the sights and sounds of holiday-makers, and in the autumn, when the

woods have an almost undreamed-of brilliance, the walks and drives are

generally left to the birds and the rabbits. At the Strid the river,

except in flood-times, is confined to a deep channel through the rocks,

in places scarcely more than a yard in width. It is one of those spots

that accumulate stories and legends of the individuals who have lost

their lives, or saved them, by endeavouring to leap the narrow channel.

That several people have been drowned here is painfully true, for the

temptation to try the seemingly easy but very risky jump is more than

many can resist.

Higher up, the river is crossed by the three arches of Barden Bridge, a

fine old structure bearing the inscription: 'This bridge was repayred

at the charge of the whole West R ... 1676.' To the south of the bridge

stands the picturesque Tudor house called Barden Tower, which was at

one time a keeper's lodge in the manorial forest of Wharfedale. It was

enlarged by the tenth Lord Clifford--the 'Shepherd Lord' whose strange

life-story is mentioned in the next chapter in connection with

Skipton--but having become ruinous, it was repaired in 1658 by that

indefatigable restorer of the family castles, the Lady Anne Clifford.

At this point there is a road across the moors to Pateley Bridge, in

Nidderdale, and if we wish to explore that valley, which is now

partially filled with a lake formed by the damming of the Nidd for

Bradford's water-supply, we must leave the Wharfe at Barden. If we keep

to the more beautiful dale we go on through the pretty village of

Burnsall to Grassington, where a branch railway has recently made its

appearance from Skipton.

The dale from this point appears more and more wild, and the fells

become gaunt and bare, with scars often fringing the heights on either

side. We keep to the east side of the river, and soon after having a

good view up Littondale, a beautiful branch valley, we come to

Kettlewell. This tidy and cheerful village stands at the foot of Great

Whernside, one of the twin fells that we saw overlooking the head of

Coverdale when we were at Middleham. Its comfortable little inns make

Kettlewell a very fine centre for rambles in the wild dales that run up

towards the head of Wharfedale.

Buckden is a small village situated at the junction of the road from

Aysgarth, and it has the beautiful scenery of Langstrothdale Chase

stretching away to the west. About a mile higher up the dale we come to

the curious old church of Hubberholme standing close to the river, and

forming a most attractive picture in conjunction with the bridge and

the masses of trees just beyond. At Raisgill we leave the road, which,

if continued, would take us over the moors by Dodd Fell, and then down

to Hawes. The track goes across Horse Head Moor, and it is so very

slightly marked on the bent that we only follow it with difficulty. It

is steep in places, for in a short distance it climbs up to nearly

2,000 feet. The tawny hollows in the fell-sides, and the utter wildness

spread all around, are more impressive when we are right away from

anything that can even be called a path.

When we reach the highest point before the rapid descent into

Littondale we have another great view, with Pen-y-ghent close at hand

and Fountains Fell more to the south.

CHAPTER XVII

SKIPTON, MALHAM AND GORDALE

When I think of Skipton I am never quite sure whether to look upon it

as a manufacturing centre or as one of the picturesque market towns of

the dale country. If you arrive by train, you come out of the station

upon such vast cotton-mills, and such a strong flavour of the bustling

activity of the southern parts of Yorkshire, that you might easily

imagine that the capital of Craven has no part in any holiday-making

portion of the county. But if you come by road from Bolton Abbey, you

enter the place at a considerable height, and, passing round the margin

of the wooded Haw Beck, you have a fine view of the castle, as well as

the church and the broad and not unpleasing market-place.

The fine gateway of the castle is flanked by two squat towers. They are

circular and battlemented, and between them upon a parapet, which is

higher than the towers themselves, appears the motto of the Cliffords,

'Desormais' (hereafter), in open stone letters. Beyond the gateway

stands a great mass of buildings with two large round towers just in

front; to the right, across a sloping lawn, appears the more modern and

inhabited portion of the castle. The squat round towers gain all our

attention, but as we pass through the doorways into the courtyard

beyond, we are scarcely prepared for the astonishingly beautiful

quadrangle that awaits us. It is small, and the centre is occupied by a

great yew-tree, whose tall, purply-red trunk goes up to the level of

the roofs without any branches or even twigs, but at that height it

spreads out freely into a feathery canopy of dark green, covering

almost the whole of the square of sky visible from the courtyard. The

base of the trunk is surrounded by a massive stone seat, with plain

shields on each side. The aspect of the courtyard suggests more that of

a manor-house than a castle, the windows and doorways being purely

Tudor. The circular towers and other portions of the walls belong to

the time of Edward II., and there is also a round-headed door that

cannot be later than the time of Robert de Romillé, one of the

Conqueror's followers. The rooms that overlook the shady quadrangle are

very much decayed and entirely unoccupied. They include an old

dining-hall of much picturesqueness, kitchens, pantries, and butteries,

some of them only lighted by very narrow windows. The destruction

caused during the siege which took place during the Civil War might

have brought Skipton Castle to much the same condition as Knaresborough

but for the wealth and energy of that remarkable woman Lady Anne

Clifford, who was born here in 1589. She was the only surviving child

of George, the third Earl of Cumberland, and grew up under the care of

her mother, Margaret, Countess of Cumberland, of whom Lady Anne used to

speak as 'my blessed mother.' After her first marriage with Richard

Sackville, Earl of Dorset, Lady Anne married the profligate Philip,

Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery. She was widowed a second time in 1649,

and after that began the period of her munificence and usefulness. With

immense enthusiasm, she undertook the work of repairing the castles

that belonged to her family, Brougham, Appleby, Barden Tower, and

Pendragon being restored as well as Skipton.

Besides attending to the decayed castles, the Countess repaired no less

than seven churches, and to her we owe the careful restoration of the

parish church of Skipton. She began the repairs to the sacred building

even before she turned her attention to the wants of the castle. In her

private memorials we read how, 'In the summer of 1665 ... at her own

charge, she caus'd the steeple of Skipton Church to be built up againe,

which was pull'd down in the time of the late Warrs, and leaded it

over, and then repaired some part of the Church and new glaz'd the

Windows, in ever of which Window she put quaries, stained with a yellow

colour, these two letters--viz., A. P., and under them the year

1655... Besides, she raised up a noble Tomb of Black Marble in memory

of her Warlike Father.' This magnificent altar-tomb still stands within

the Communion rails on the south side of the chancel. It is adorned

with seventeen shields, and Whitaker doubted 'whether so great an

assemblage of noble bearings can be found on the tomb of any other

Englishman.' This third Earl was a notable figure in the reign of

Elizabeth, and having for a time been a great favourite with the Queen,

he received many of the posts of honour she loved to bestow. He was a

skilful and daring sailor, helping to defeat the Spanish Armada, and

building at his own expense one of the greatest fighting ships of his

time.

The memorials of Lady Anne give a description of her appearance in the

manner of that time: "The colour of her eyes was black like her

Father's," we are told, "with a peak of hair on her forehead, and a

dimple in her chin, like her father. The hair of her head was brown and

very thick, and so long that it reached to the calf of her legs when

she stood upright."

We cannot leave these old towers of Skipton Castle without going back

to the days of John, the ninth Lord Clifford, that "Bloody Clifford"

who was one of the leaders of the Lancastrians at Wakefield, where his

merciless slaughter earned him the title of "the Butcher." He died by a

chance arrow the night before the Battle of Towton, so fatal to the

cause of Lancaster, and Lady Clifford and the children took refuge in

her father's castle at Brough. For greater safety Henry, the heir, was

placed under the care of a shepherd whose wife had nursed the boy's

mother when a child. In this way the future baron grew up as an

entirely uneducated shepherd lad, spending his days on the fells in the

primitive fashion of the peasants of the fifteenth century. When he was

about twelve years old Lady Clifford, hearing rumours that the

whereabouts of her children had become known, sent the shepherd and his

wife with the boy into an extremely inaccessible part of Cumberland. He

remained there until his thirty-second year, when the Battle of

Bosworth placed Henry VII on the throne. Then the shepherd lord was

brought to Londesborough, and when the family estates had been

restored, he went back to Skipton Castle. The strangeness of his new

life being irksome to him, Lord Clifford spent most of his time in

Barden Forest at one of the keeper's lodges, which he adapted for his

own use. There he hunted and studied astronomy and astrology with the

canons of Bolton.

At Flodden Field he led the men-at-arms from Craven, and showed that by

his life of extreme simplicity he had in no way diminished the

traditional valour of the Cliffords. When he died they buried him at

Bolton Abbey, where many of his ancestors lay, and as his successor

died after the dissolution of the monasteries, the "Shepherd Lord" was

the last to be buried in that secluded spot by the Wharfe.

Skipton has always been a central spot for the exploration of this

southern portion of the dales. To the north is Kirby Malham, a pretty

little village with green limestone hills rising on all sides; a

rushing beck coming off Kirby Fell takes its way past the church, and

there is an old vicarage as well as some picturesque cottages.

We find our way to a decayed lych-gate, whose stones are very black and

moss-grown, and then get a close view of the Perpendicular church. The

interior is full of interest, not only on account of the Norman font

and the canopied niches in the pillars of the nave, but also for the

old pews. The Malham people seemingly found great delight in recording

their names on the woodwork of the pews, for carefully carved initials

and dates appear very frequently. All the pews have been cut down to

the accepted height of the present day with the exception of some on

the north side which were occupied by the more important families, and

these still retain their squareness and the high balustrades above the

panelled lower portions.

Just under the moorland heights surrounding Malham Tarn is the other

village of Malham. It is a charming spot, even in the gloom of a wintry

afternoon. The houses look on to a strip of uneven green, cut in two,

lengthways, by the Aire. We go across the clear and sparkling waters by

a rough stone footbridge, and, making our way past a farm, find

ourselves in a few minutes at Gordale Bridge. Here we abandon the

switchback lane, and, climbing a wall, begin to make our way along the

side of the beck. The fells drop down fairly sharply on each side, and

in the failing light there seems no object in following the stream any

further, when quite suddenly the green slope on the right stands out

from a scarred wall of rock beyond, and when we are abreast of the

opening we find ourselves before a vast fissure that leads right into

the heart of the fell. The great split is S-shaped in plan, so that

when we advance into its yawning mouth we are surrounded by limestone

cliffs more than 300 feet high. If one visits Gordale Scar for the

first time alone on a gloomy evening, as I have done, I can promise the

most thrilling sensations to those who have yet to see this astonishing

sight. It almost appeared to me as though I were dreaming, and that I

was Aladdin approaching the magician's palace. I had read some of the

eighteenth-century writer's descriptions of the place, and imagined

that their vivid accounts of the terror inspired by the overhanging

rocks were mere exaggerations, but now I sympathize with every word.

The scars overhang so much on the east side that there is not much

space to get out of reach of the water that drips from every portion.

Great masses of stone were lying upon the bright strip of turf, and

among them I noticed some that could not have been there long; this

made me keep close under the cliff in justifiable fear of another fall.

I stared with apprehension at one rock that would not only kill, but

completely bury, anyone upon whom it fell, and I thought those old

writers had underrated the horrors of the place.

Wordsworth writes of

"Gordale chasm, terrific as the lair Where the young lions couch,"

and he also describes it as one of the grandest objects in nature.

A further result of the Craven fault that produced Gordale Scar can be

seen at Malham Cove, about a mile away. There the cliff forms a curved

front 285 feet high, facing the open meadows down below. The limestone

is formed in layers of great thickness, dividing the face of the cliff

into three fairly equal sections, the ledges formed at the commencement

of each stratum allowing of the growth of bushes and small trees. A

hard-pressed fox is said to have taken refuge on one of these

precarious ledges, and finding his way stopped in front, he tried to

turn, and in doing so fell and was killed.

At the base of the perpendicular face of the cliff the Aire flows from

a very slightly arched recess in the rock. It is a really remarkable

stream in making its debut without the slightest fuss, for it is large

enough at its very birth to be called a small river. Its modesty is a

great loss to Yorkshire, for if, instead of gathering strength in the

hidden places in the limestone fells, it were to keep to more rational

methods, it would flow to the edge of the Cover, and there precipitate

itself in majestic fashion into a great pool below.

CHAPTER XVIII

SETTLE AND THE INGLETON FELLS

The track across the moor from Malham Cove to Settle cannot be

recommended to anyone at night, owing to the extreme difficulty of

keeping to the path without a very great familiarity with every yard of

the way, so that when I merely suggested taking that route one wintry

night the villagers protested vigorously. I therefore took the road

that goes up from Kirby Malham, having borrowed a large hurricane lamp

from the "Buck" Inn at Malham. Long before I reached the open moor I

was enveloped in a mist that would have made the track quite invisible

even where it was most plainly marked, and I blessed the good folk at

Malham who had advised me to take the road rather than run the risks of

the pot-holes that are a feature of the limestone fells. The little

town of Settle has a most distinctive feature in the possession of

Castleberg, a steep limestone hill, densely wooded except at the very

top, that rises sharply just behind the market-place. Before the trees

were planted there seems to have been a sundial on the side of the

hill, the precipitous scar on the top forming the gnomon. No one

remembers this curious feature, although a print showing the numbers

fixed upon the slope was published in 1778. The market-place has lost

its curious old tolbooth, and in its place stands a town hall of good

Tudor design. Departed also is much of the charm of the old Shambles

that occupy a central position in the square. The lower story, with big

arches forming a sort of piazza in front of the butcher's and other

shops, still remains in its old state, but the upper portion has been

restored in the fullest sense of that comprehensive term.

In the steep street that we came down on entering the town there may

still be seen a curious old tower, which seems to have forgotten its

original purpose. Some of the houses have carved stone lintels to their

doorways and seventeenth-century dates, while the stone figure on 'The

Naked Man' Inn, although bearing the date 1663, must be very much

older, the year of rebuilding being probably indicated rather than the

date of the figure.

The Ribble divides Settle from its former parish church at Giggleswick,

and until 1838 the townsfolk had to go over the bridge and along a

short lane to the village which held its church. Settle having been

formed into a separate parish, the parish clerk of the ancient village

no longer has the fees for funerals and marriages. Although able to

share the church, the two places had stocks of their own for a great

many years. At Settle they have been taken from the market square and

placed in the court-house, and at Giggleswick one of the first things

we see on entering the village is one of the stone posts of the stocks

standing by the steps of the market cross. This cross has a very well

preserved head, and it makes the foreground of a very pretty picture as

we look at the battlemented tower of the church through the

stone-roofed lichgate grown over with ivy. The history of this fine old

church, dedicated, like that of Middleham, to St Alkelda, has been

written by Mr. Thomas Brayshaw, who knows every detail of the old

building from the chalice inscribed "[Illustration] THE. COMMVNION.

CVPP. BELONGINGE. TO. THE. PARISHE. OF. IYGGELSWICKE. MADE. IN. ANO.

1585." to the inverted Norman capitals now forming the bases of the

pillars. The tower and the arcades date from about 1400, and the rest

of the structure is about 100 years older.

"The Black Horse" Inn has still two niches for small figures of saints,

that proclaim its ecclesiastical connections in early times. It is said

that in the days when it was one of the duties of the churchwardens to

see that no one was drinking there during the hours of service the

inspection used to last up to the end of the sermon, and that when the

custom was abolished the church officials regretted it exceedingly.

Giggleswick is also the proud possessor of a school founded in 1512. It

has grown from a very small beginning to a considerable establishment,

and it possesses one of the most remarkable school chapels that can be

seen anywhere in the country.

The greater part of this district of Yorkshire is composed of

limestone, forming bare hillsides honeycombed with underground waters

and pot-holes, which often lead down into the most astonishing caverns.

In Ingleborough itself there is Gaping Gill Hole, a vast fissure nearly

350 feet deep. It was only partially explored by M. Martel in 1895.

Ingleborough Cave penetrates into the mountain to a distance of nearly

1,000 yards, and is one of the best of these limestone caverns for its

stalactite formations. Guides take visitors from the village of Clapham

to the inmost recesses and chambers that branch out of the small

portion discovered in 1837.

In almost every direction there are opportunities for splendid mountain

walks, and if the tracks are followed the danger of hidden pot-holes is

comparatively small. From the summit of Ingleborough, and, indeed, from

most of the fells that reach 2,000 feet, there are magnificent views

across the brown fells, broken up with horizontal lines formed by the

bare rocky scars.

CHAPTER XIX

CONCERNING THE WOLDS

On wide uplands of chalk the air has a raciness, the sunlight a purity

and a sparkle, not to be found in lowlands. There may be no streams,

perhaps not even a pond; you may find few large trees, and scarcely any

parks; ruined abbeys and even castles may be conspicuously absent, and

yet the landscapes have a power of attracting and fascinating. This is

exactly the case with the Wolds of Yorkshire, and their characteristics

are not unlike the chalk hills of Sussex, or those great expanses of

windswept downs, where the weathered monoliths of Stonehenge have

resisted sun and storm for ages.

When we endeavour to analyse the power of attraction exerted by the

Wolds, we find it to exist in the sweeping outlines of the land with

scarcely a house to be seen for many miles, in the purity of the air

owing to the absence of smoke, in the brilliance of the sunlight due to

the whiteness of the roads and fields, and in the wonderful breezes

that for ever blow across pasture, stubble, and roots.

Above the eastern side of the valley, where the Derwent takes its deep

and sinuous course towards the alluvial lands, the chalk first makes

its appearance in the neighbourhood of Acklam, and farther north at

Wharram-le-Street, where picturesque hollows with precipitous sides

break up the edge of the cretaceous deposits. Eastwards the high

country, scarred here and there with gleaming chalk-pits, and netted

with roads of almost equal whiteness, continues to the great headland

of Flamborough, where the sea frets and fumes all the summer, and

lacerates the cliffs during the stormy months. The masses of flinty

chalk have shown themselves so capable of resisting the erosion of the

sea that the seaward termination of the Wolds has for many centuries

been becoming more and more a pronounced feature of the east coast of

England, and if the present rate of encroachment along the low shores

of Holderness is continued, this accentuation will become still more

conspicuous.

The open roads of the Wolds, bordered by bright green grass and hedges

that lean away from the direction of the prevailing wind, give wide

views to bare horizons, or glimpses beyond vast stretches of waving

corn, of distant country, blue and indistinct, and so different in

character from the immediate surroundings as to suggest the ocean.

At Flamborough the white cliffs, topped with the clay deposit of the

glacial ages, approach a height of 200 feet; but although the thickness

of the chalk is estimated to be from I,000 to I,500 feet, the greatest

height above sea-level is near Wilton Beacon, where the hills rise

sharply from the Vale of York to 808 feet, and the beacon itself is 23

feet lower. On this western side of the plateau the views are extremely

good, extending for miles across the flat green vale, where the Derwent

and the Ouse, having lost much of the light-heartedness and gaiety

characterizing their youth in the dales, take their wandering and

converging courses towards the Humber. In the distance you can

distinguish a group of towers, a stately blue-grey outline cutting into

the soft horizon. It is York Minster. To the north-west lie the

beautifully wooded hills that rise above the Derwent, and hold in their

embrace Castle Howard, Newburgh Priory, and many a stately park.

Towards the north the descents are equally sudden, and the panorama of

the Vale of Pickering, extending from the hills behind Scarborough to

Helmsley far away in the west, is most remarkable. Down below lies the

circumscribed plain, dead-level except for one or two isolated

hillocks. The soil is dark and rich, and there is a marshy appearance

everywhere, showing plainly the water-logged condition of the land even

at the present day.

There is scarcely a district in England to compare with the Yorkshire

Wolds for its remarkable richness in the remains of Early Man. As long

ago as the middle of last century, when archaeology was more of a

pastime than a science, this corner of the country had become famous

for the rich discoveries in tumuli made by a few local enthusiasts.

It has been suggested that the flint-bearing character of the Wolds

made this part of Yorkshire a district for the manufacture of

implements and weapons for the inhabitants of a much larger area, and

no doubt the possession of this ample supply of offensive material

would give the tribe in possession a power, wealth, and permanence

sufficient to account for the wonderful evidences of a great and

continuous population. In these districts it is only necessary to go

slowly over a ploughed field after a period of heavy rain to be fairly

certain to pick up a flint knife, a beautifully chipped arrow-head, or

an implement of less obvious purpose.

To those who have never taken any interest in the traces of Early Man

in this country, this may appear a musty subject, but to me it is quite

the reverse. The long lines of entrenchments, the round tumuli, and the

prehistoric sites generally--omitting lake dwellings--are most

invariably to be found upon high and windswept tablelands, wild or only

recently cultivated places, where the echoes have scarcely been

disturbed since the long-forgotten ages, when a primitive tribe mourned

the loss of a chieftain, or yelled defiance at their enemies from their

double or triple lines of defence.

In journeying in any direction through the Wolds it is impossible to

forget the existence of Early Man, for on the sky-line just above the

road will appear a row of two or three rounded projections from the

regular line of turf or stubble. They are burial-mounds that the plough

has never levelled--heaps of earth that have resisted the

disintegrating action of weather and man for thousands of years. If

such relics of the primitive inhabitants of this island fail to stir

the imagination, then the mustiness must exist in the unresponsive mind

rather than in the subject under discussion.

In making an exploration of the Wolds a good starting-place is the

old-fashioned town of Malton, whence railways radiate in five

directions, including the line to Great Driffield, which takes

advantage of the valley leading up to Wharram Percy, and there tunnels

its way through the high ground.

Choosing a day when the weather is in a congenial mood for rambling,

lingering, or picnicking, or, in other words, when the sun is not too

hot, nor the wind too cold, nor the sky too grey, we make our start

towards the hills. We go on wheels--it is unimportant how many, or to

what they are attached--in order that the long stretches of white road

may not become tedious. The stone bridge over the Derwent is crossed,

and, glancing back, we see the piled-up red roofs crowded along the

steep ground above the further bank, with the church raising its spire

high above its newly-restored nave. Then the wide street of Norton,

which is scarcely to be distinguished from Malton, being separated from

it only by the river, shuts in the view with its houses of whity-red

brick, until their place is taken by hedgerows. To the left stretches

the Vale of Pickering, still a little hazy with the remnants of the

night's mist. Straight ahead and to the right the ground rises up,

showing a wall chequered with cornfields and root-crops, with long

lines of plantations appearing like dark green caterpillars crawling

along the horizon.

The first village encountered is Rillington, with a church whose stone

spire and the tower it rests upon have the appearance of being copied

from Pickering. Inside there is an Early English font, and one of the

arcades of the nave belongs to the same period.

Turning southwards a mile or two further on, we pass through the pretty

village of Wintringham, and, when the cottages are passed, find the

church standing among trees where the road bends, its tower and spire

looking much like the one just left behind. The interior is

interesting. The pews are all of old panelled oak, unstained, and with

acorn knobs at the ends; the floor is entirely covered with glazed red

tiles. The late Norman chancel, the plain circular font of the same

period, and the massive altar-slab in the chapel, enclosed by wooden

screens on the north side, are the most notable features. Going to the

east we reach Helperthorpe, one of the Wold villages adorned with a new

church in the Decorated style. The village gained this ornament through

the generosity of the present Sir Tatton Sykes, of Sledmere, whose

enthusiasm for church building is not confined to one place. In his

own park at Sledmere four miles to the south, at West Lutton, East

Heslerton, and Wansford you may see other examples of modern church

building, in which the architect has not been hampered by having to

produce a certain accommodation at a minimum cost. And thus in these

villages the fact of possessing a modern church does not detract from

their charm; instead of doing so, the pilgrim in search of

ecclesiastical interest finds much to draw him to them.

As a contrast to Helperthorpe, the adjoining hamlet of Weaverthorpe has

a church of very early Norman or possibly Saxon date, and an inscribed

Saxon stone a century earlier than the one at Kirkdale, near Kirby

Moorside. The inscription is on a sundial over the south porch in both

churches; but while that of Kirkdale is quite complete and perfect,

this one has words missing at the beginning and end. Haigh suggests

that the half-destroyed words should read: "LIT OSCETVLI

ARCHIEPISCOPI." Then, without any doubt comes: "[ILLUSTRATION] IN:

HONORE: SCE: ANDREAE APOSTOLI: HEREBERTUS WINTONIE: HOC MONASTERIVM

FECIT: I IN TEMPORE REGN." Here the inscription suddenly stops and

leaves us in ignorance as to in whose time the monastery was built.

There seems little doubt at all that Father Haigh's suggested

completion of the sentence is correct, making it read: "IN TEMPORE

REGN[ALDI REGIS SECUNDI]," which would have just filled a complete

line.

The coins of Regnald II. of Northumbria bear Christian devices, and it

is known that he was confirmed in 942, while his predecessor of that

name appears to have been a pagan. If the restoration of the first

words of the inscription are correct, the stone cannot be placed

earlier than the year 952 (Dr. Stubbs says 958), when Oscetul succeeded

Wulstan to the See of York. However, even in a neighbourhood so replete

with antiquities this is sufficiently far back in the age of the

Vikings to be of thrilling interest, for you must travel far to find

another village church with an inscription carved nearly a thousand

years ago, at a time when the English nation was still receiving its

infusion of Scandinavian strength.

The arch of the tower and the door below the sundial have the

narrowness and rudeness suggesting the pre-Norman age, but more than

this it is unwise to say.

And so we go on through the wide sunny valley, watching the shadows

sweep across the fields, where often the soil is so thin that the

ground is more white than brown, scanning the horizon for tumuli, and

taking note of the different characteristics of each village. Not long

ago the houses, even in the small towns, were thatched, and even now

there are hamlets still cosy and picturesque under their mouse-coloured

roofs; but in most instances you see a transition state of tiles

gradually ousting the inflammable but beautiful thatch. The tiles all

through the Wolds are of the curved pattern, and though cheerful in the

brilliance of their colour, and unspeakably preferable to thin blue

slates, they do not seem to weather or gather moss and rich colouring

in the same manner as the usual flat tile of the southern counties.

We turn aside to look at the rudely carved Norman tympanum over the

church door at Wold Newton, and then go up to Thwing, on the rising

ground to the south, where we may see what Mr. Joseph Morris claims to

be the only other Norman tympanum in the East Riding. A cottage is

pointed out as the birthplace of Archbishop Lamplugh, who held the See

of York from 1688 to 1691. He was of humble parentage and it is said

that he would often pause in conversation to slap his legs and say,

"Just fancy me being Archbishop of York!" The name of the village is

derived from the Norse word _Thing_, meaning an assembly.

Keeping on towards the sea, we climb up out of the valley, and passing

Argam Dike and Grindale, come out upon a vast gently undulating plateau

with scarcely a tree to be seen in any direction. A few farms are

dotted here and there over the landscape, and towards Filey we can see

a windmill; but beyond these it seems as though the fierce winds that

assail the promontory of Flamborough had blown away everything that was

raised more than a few feet above the furrows.

The village of Bempton has, however, contrived to maintain itself in

its bleak situation, although it is less than two miles from the huge

perpendicular cliffs where the Wolds drop into the sea. The cottages

have a snug and eminently cheerful look, with their much-weathered

tiles and white and ochre coloured walls. From their midst rises the

low square tower of the church, and if it ever had a spire or pinnacles

in the past, it has none now; for either the north-easterly gales blew

them into the sea long ago, or else the people were wise enough never

to put such obstructions in the way of the winter blasts.

Turning southwards, we get a great view over the low shore of

Holderness, curving away into the haze hanging over the ocean, with

Bridlington down below, raising to the sky the pair of towers at the

west end of its priory--one short and plain, and the other tall and

richly ornamented with pinnacles. Going through the streets of sober

red houses of the old town, we come at length into a shallow green

valley, where the curious Gypsy Race flows intermittently along the

fertile bottom. The afternoon sunshine floods the pleasant landscape

with a genial glow, and throws long blue shadows under the trees of the

park surrounding Boynton Hall, the seat of the Stricklands. The family

has been connected with the village for several centuries, and some of

their richly-painted and gilded monuments can be seen in the church.

One of these is to Sir William Strickland, Bart., and another to Lady

Strickland, his wife, who was a sister of Sir Hugh Cholmley, the

gallant but unfortunate defender of Scarborough Castle during the Civil

War. In his memoirs Sir Hugh often refers to visits paid him by "my

sister Strickland."

After passing Thorpe Hall the road goes up to the breezy spot,

commanding wide views, where the little church of Rudstone stands

conspicuously by the side of an enormous monolith. Although the church

tower is Norman, it would appear to be a recent arrival on the scene in

comparison with the stone. Antiquaries are in fairly general agreement

that huge standing stones of this type belong to some very remote

period, and also that they are "associated with sepulchral purposes";

and the fact that they are usually found in churchyards would suggest

that they were regarded with a traditional veneration.

The road past the church drops steeply down into the pretty village,

and, turning northwards, takes us to the bend of the valley, where

North Burton lies, which we passed earlier in the day; so we go to the

left, and find ourselves at Kilham, a fair-sized village on the edge of

the chalk hills. Like Rudstone and a dozen places in its neighbourhood,

Kilham is situated in a district of extraordinary interest to the

archaeologist, the prehistoric discoveries being exceedingly numerous.

Chariot burials of the Early Iron Age have been discovered here, as

well as large numbers of Neolithic implements. There is a beautiful

Norman doorway in the nave of the church, ornamented with chevron

mouldings in a lavish fashion. Far more interesting than this, however,

are the fonts in the two villages of Cottam and Cowlam, lying close

together, although separated by a thinly-wooded hollow, about five

miles to the west. Cottam Church and the farm adjoining it are all that

now exists of what must once have been an extensive village. In the

church is a Norman font of cylindrical form, covered with the

wonderfully crude carvings of that period. There are six subjects, the

most remarkable being the huge dragon with a long curly tail in the act

of swallowing St. Margaret, whose skirts and feet are shown inside the

capacious jaws, while the head is beginning to appear somewhere behind

the dragon's neck. To the right is shown a gruesome representation of

the martyrdom of St. Lawrence, and then follow Adam and Eve by the Tree

of Life (a twisted piece of foliage), the martyrdom of St. Andrew, and

what seems to be another dragon.

On each side of the bridle-road by the church you can trace without the

least difficulty the ground-plan of many houses under the short turf.

The early writers do not mention Cottam, and so far I have come upon no

explanation for the wiping out of this village. Possibly its extinction

was due to the Black Death in 1349.

It is about four miles by road to Cowlam, although the two churches are

only about a mile and a half apart; and when Cowlam is reached there is

not much more in the way of a village than at Cottam. The only way to

the church from the road is through an enormous stackyard, speaking

eloquently of the large crops produced on the farm. As in the other

instance, a search has to be made for the key, entailing much

perambulation of the farm.

At length the door is opened, and the splendid font at once arrests the

eye. More noticeable than anything else in the series of carvings are

the figures of two men wrestling, similar to those on the font from the

village of Hutton Cranswick, now preserved in York Museum. The two

figures are shown bending forwards, each with his hands clasped round

the waist of the other, and each with a foot thrown forward to trip the

other, after the manner of the Westmorland wrestlers to be seen at the

Grasmere sports. It seems to me scarcely possible to doubt that the

subject represented is Jacob wrestling with the _man_ at Penuel.

At Sledmere, the adjoining village, everything has a well-cared-for and

reposeful aspect. Its position in a shallow depression has made it

possible for trees to grow, so that we find the road overhung by a

green canopy in remarkable contrast to the usual bleakness of the

Wolds. The park surrounding Sir Tatton Sykes' house is well wooded,

owing to much planting on what were bare slopes not very many years

ago.