In a journey across our largest county, so famous for its grand
cathedrals and ruined castles and abbeys, one could not wish for greater
variety either in scenery or association. Between the Queen of Scots'
prison in Sheffield Manor and the reputed Dotheboys Hall a few miles
below the mediaeval-looking town of Barnard Castle, there is vast
difference of romance; and yet what more unromantic places than Bowes or
Sheffield! Indeed, take them all round, the towns and villages of
Yorkshire have a grey and dreary look about them; and the houses partake
of the pervading character, or want of character, of the busy
manufacturing centres. But the natural scenery is quite another matter,
and with such lovely surroundings one often sighs that the picturesque
and the utilitarian are so opposed to one another. We do not, however,
merely allude to the buildings in the southern part of the county, for
many villages in the prettiest parts have nothing architecturally
attractive about their houses. The snug creeper-clad cottage, so
familiar in the south of England, is, comparatively speaking, a rarity,
and one misses the warmth of colour amid the everlasting grey.
The express having dropped us in nearly the southernmost corner, our
object is to get out of the busy town of Sheffield as quickly as
possible; but, as before stated, romance lingers around the remains of
the ancient seat of the sixth Earl of Shrewsbury, who lies buried in the
parish church, for under his charge the Scots' queen remained here a
prisoner for many years; and Wolsey, too, was brought here on his way
to Leicester.
Upon the road to Barnsley there is little to delay us until we come to a
turning to the right a couple of miles or so to the south of the town.
After the continual chimney-shafts the little village of Worsborough is
refreshing. The church has many points of interest. The entrance porch
has a fine oak ceiling with carved bosses, and the original oak door is
decorated with carved oak tracery. The most interesting thing within is
the monument to Sir Roger Rockley, a sixteenth-century knight whose
effigy in armour lies beneath a canopy supported by columns very much
resembling a four-poster of the time of Henry VII. The similarity is
heightened by the fact that the tomb is entirely of carved oak, painted
and gilded. The bed, however, has two divisions, and beneath the
recumbent wooden effigy of Sir Roger with staring white eyes, is the
gruesome figure of a skeleton in a shroud, also made more startling by
its colouring. How the juvenile Worsboroughites must dread this spectre,
for its position in the church is conspicuous! There is a brass to
Thomas Edmunds, secretary to William, Earl of Strafford, who lived in
the manor-house close by, a plain stone gabled house with two wings and
a small central projection. It is a gloomy looking place, and once
possessed some gloomy relics of the martyr king, including the stool
upon which he knelt on Whitehall scaffold. These relics belonged to Sir
Thomas Herbert, the close attendant upon Charles during the later days
of his imprisonment, and descended to the Edmunds family by the marriage
of his widow with Henry Edmunds of Worsborough.[31] The park presumably
has become public property, and the road running through it is much
patronised by the black-faced gentlemen of the neighbouring collieries.
Nor are the ladies of the mining districts picturesque, although they
seem to affect the costume of the dames of old Peru by showing scarcely
more than an eye beneath their shawls.
Some three miles to the west of Worsborough is Wentworth Castle (a
successor to the older castle, the remains of which stood on the high
ground above), called by some Stainborough Hall to distinguish it from
Wentworth Woodhouse. The historic house stands high, commanding fine
views, but marred by mining chimney-shafts on the adjacent hills. The
exterior of the mansion is classic and formal, and exteriorly there is
little older than the time of George I.; the interior, however, takes us
back another century or more, and the panelled porters' hall and carved
black oak staircase were old when powdered wigs were introduced. In
Queen Anne's State rooms and in the cosy ante-chambers there are rich
tapestries, wonderful old cabinets, and costly china, reminding one of
the treasures of Holland House. But the finest room is the picture
gallery, one hundred and eighty feet in length and twenty-four feet in
breadth, and very lofty. The ceiling represents the sky with large gold
stars, and has a curious effect of making it appear much higher than it
really is. It belongs to the time of the second Earl of Strafford, who
built all this part of the house. The unfortunate first earl looks down
from the wall with dark melancholy eyes: a face full of character and
determination, and different vastly from the dreamy weakness revealed in
the profile of the sovereign who cut his head off. The despotic ruler of
Ireland is said to walk the chambers of the castle with his head under
his arm, which, strangely enough, seems to be the fashion with
decapitated ghosts; and Strafford is a busy ghost, for he has to divide
his haunting among two other mansions, Wentworth Woodhouse and Temple
Newsam. Here is Oliver, too, who made as great a mistake as Charles did
by resorting to the axe. The young Earl of Pembroke looks handsome in
his long fair ringlets; and so does the youthful Henrietta, Baroness
Wentworth (a pretty childish figure fondling a dog), whose end was every
way as tragic as her kinsman's.
Many of the bedrooms are named after birds and flowers, a pretty idea
that we have not met elsewhere. The colour blue predominates in those we
call to mind, namely, the "Blue-tit room," the "Kingfisher room," the
"Peacock room," the "Cornflower room," and the "Forget-me-not room."
Just outside the park, near a house that was formerly kept as a
menagerie, is a comfortable old-fashioned inn, the "Strafford Arms,"
the landlord of which was butler to two generations of the
Vernon-Wentworths, and in consequence he is quite an authority on
genealogical matters; and where his memory does not serve, has Debrett
handy at his elbow. Being a Somersetshire man he has brought the
hospitality of the western counties with him to the northern heights. He
points with pride to the cricket-ground behind the inn, the finest
"pitch" in Yorkshire.
[Illustration: TOMB, DARFIELD CHURCH.]
Let us avoid the town of Barnsley and turn eastwards towards Darfield,
whose interest is centred in its church. The ceilings of the aisles,
presumably like the picture gallery at Wentworth Castle, are supposed to
represent the heavens, but the colour is inclined to be sea-green, and
the clouds and stars are feathery. A fine Perpendicular font is
surmounted by an elaborate Jacobean cover; opposite, at the east
end of the church, is a fine but rather dilapidated tomb of a
fourteenth-century knight and his dame, and the effigy of the latter
gives a good idea of the costume of Richard II.'s time. Upon a wooden
stand close by there is a chained Bible, and the support looks so light
that one would think the whole could be carried off bodily, until one
tries its prodigious weight.
Another tomb, of the Willoughbys of Parham, bears upon it some strange
devices, including an owl with a crown upon its head. The
seventeenth-century oak pews and some earlier ones with carved
bench-ends, add considerably to the interest of the interior. The
ancient coffer in the vestry, as well as a carved oak chest and chairs,
must not pass unnoticed.
Barnborough to the east, and Great Houghton to the north-east, are both
famous in their way; the former for a traditional fight between a man
and a wild cat, which for ferocity knocked points off the Kilkenny
record. The Hall was once the property of Sir Thomas More (another of
those beheaded martyrs who are doomed to walk the earth with their heads
under their arms), and contains a "priest's hole," which, had it existed
in the Chancellor's day, might have tempted him to try and save his
life. Great Houghton Hall, the ancient seat of the Roders (a brass to
whom may be seen in Darfield church), is now an inn, indeed has been an
inn for over half a century. Once having been a stately mansion, it has
an air of mystery and romance; and there are rumours that before it
lost caste, in the transition stage between private and public life, one
of its chambers remained draped in black, in mourning for the Earl of
Strafford's beheading on Tower Hill in 1641. It is a huge building of
many mullioned windows and pinnacled gables; but within the last two
years the upper part of the big bays of the front have been destroyed,
and a verandah introduced which spoils this side, and whoever planned
this alteration can have had but little reverence for ancient buildings.
The rooms on the ground floor are mostly bare; but ascending a wide
circular stone staircase, with carved oak arches overhead, there are
pleasant surprises in store. You step into the spacious "Picture
gallery," devoid of ancestral portraits truly, but with panelled walls
and Tudor doorways. The mansion was stripped of its furniture over a
century and a half ago, but there are chairs of the Chippendale period
to compensate, and a great wardrobe of the Stuart period too big
presumably to get outside. Two bedrooms are panelled from floor to
ceiling and have fine overmantels, one of which has painted panels
depicting "Life" and "Death." But a great portion of the house is
dilapidated, and to see its ornamental plaster ceilings one would have
to risk disappearing through the floors below, like the demon in the
pantomime. Mine host of the "Old Hall Inn" is genuinely sympathetic, and
is quite of the opinion that the oak fittings that have been removed
would look best in their original position; and this is only natural,
for he has lived there all his life, and his mother was born in the
house; and he proudly points at the Jacobean pew in the adjacent church
where as a child he sat awestruck, holding his grandfather's hand while
the good old gentleman took his forty winks. The little church in its
cabbage-grown enclosure is quite an untouched gem, with formal array of
seventeenth-century pews with knobby ends, a fine carved oak pulpit and
sounding-board. Its exterior is non-ecclesiastical in appearance, with
rounded stone balustrade ornamentation. While photographing the building
an interested party observed that he had lived at Houghton all his life,
but had never observed there was a door on that side,--a proof that
residents in a place rarely see the most familiar objects. Nevertheless,
he discovered the door of the "Old Hall," and entered.
Pontefract Castle, so rich in historical associations, is disappointing,
because there is so little of it left. It is difficult in these
fragmentary but ponderous walls to imagine the fortress as it appeared
in the days of Elizabeth. From an ancient print of that time it looks
like a fortified city, with curious pinnacles and turrets upon its many
towers. The great round towers of the keep had upon the summit quite a
collection, like intermediate pawns and castles from a chessboard. The
curtain walls connected seven round towers, and there were a multitude
of square towers within. There is something very suggestive of the
Duncan-Macbeth stronghold in the narrow stairway between those giant
rounded towers. It is like a tomb, and one shudders at the thought of
the "narrow damp chambers" in the thickness of the wall of the Red
Tower, where tradition says King Richard II. was done to death. By the
irony of fate it was the lot of many proud barons during some part of
their career to occupy the least desirable apartment of their castles;
and thus it was with Edward II.'s cousin, Thomas Plantagenet, Earl of
Lancaster, who from his own dungeon was brought forth to be beheaded. In
a garden near the highwayman's resort, Ferrybridge, above Pontefract,
may be seen a stone coffin which was dug up in a field on the outskirts
of the castle, and supposed to be that of the unfortunate earl. At
Pontefract, too, Lord Rivers, Sir Thomas Vaughan, Sir Richard Grey, and
others were hurried into another world by the Protector Richard; so
altogether the castle holds a good record for deeds of darkness, and the
creepy feeling one has in that narrow stairway between those massive
walls is fully justified by past events. The old castle held out stoutly
for the king in the Civil Wars. For many months, in 1645, it stood a
desperate siege by Fairfax and General Poyntz before the garrison
capitulated. Three years later it was captured again for the Royalists
by Colonel Morrice, and held with great gallantry against General
Lambert even after the execution of Charles I. In the March following,
the stronghold surrendered, saving Morrice and five others who had not
shown mercy to Colonel Rainsborough when he fell into their hands. These
six had the option of escaping if they could within a week. "The
garrison," says Lord Clarendon, "made several sallies to effect the
desired escape, in one of which Morrice and another escaped; in another,
two more got away; and when the six days were expired and the other two
remained in the castle, their friends concealed them so effectually,
with a stock of provisions for a month, that rendering the castle and
assuring Lambert that the six were all gone, and he was unable to find
them after the most diligent search, and had dismantled the castle, they
at length got off also." There are still some small chambers hewn out of
the solid rock on which the castle is built, reached by a subterranean
passage on the north side; and perhaps here was the successful
lurking-place. Colonel Morrice and his companion, Cornet Blackburn, were
afterwards captured in disguise at Lancaster.
In the pleasure gardens of to-day, with various inscription boards
specifying the position of the Clifford Tower, Gascoyne's Tower, the
King's Tower, and so forth, we get but a hazy idea of this once
practically impregnable fortress, covering an area of seven acres.
Concerning Richard II.'s death, it is doubtful whether the truth will
ever be arrived at. The story that he escaped, and died nineteen years
afterwards in Scotland, is less likely than the supposition that he died
from the horrors of starvation; on the other hand, the story of the
attack by Sir Piers Exton's assassins is almost strengthened by the
evidence of a seventeenth-century tourist, who, prior to its destruction
in the Civil War, records: "The highest of the seven towers is the Round
Tower, in which that unfortunate prince was enforced to flee round a
poste till his barbarous butchers inhumanly deprived him of life. _Upon
that poste the cruell hackings and fierce blowes doe still remaine._"
Mr. Andrew Lang perhaps can solve this historic mystery; or perhaps he
has already done so? New Hall, close at hand, must have been a grand old
house; but it is now roofless, and crumbling to decay. It is a
picturesque late-Tudor mansion, with a profusion of mullioned windows
and a central bay. The little glass that remains only adds to its
forlorn appearance.
Ferrybridge and Brotherton both have an old-world look. The latter
place is famous for the battle fought there between Yorkists and
Lancastrians; and as the birthplace of Thomas de Brotherton, the fifth
son of King Edward I. The old inns of Ferrybridge recall the prosperous
coaching days; but the revival of business on the road which has been
brought about by cycle and motor, will have but little effect on this
village with a past. The hostelry by the fine stone bridge that gives
the place its name, has a past connected with notorious gentlemen of the
road, and an entry in an old account-book runs as follows: "A traveller
in a gold-laced coat ordered and drank two bottles of wine--doubtless
mischief to-night, for the traveller, methinks, is that villain Dick
Turpyn." How vividly this recalls that excellent picture by Seymour
Lucas, R.A., where a landlord of the Joe Willet type is eyeing, between
the whiffs from his long churchwarden, a suspicious guest, who having
tasted mine host's vintage has dropped asleep, regardless of the fact
that his brace of flintlocks are conspicuously visible.
Between here and Leeds are two fine mansions, Ledston Hall and Kippax
Park. The former is a very uncommon type of Elizabethan architecture,
almost un-English in character. It is a stone-built house of the time of
James I., with Dutch-like gables and narrow square towers. In the reign
of Charles I. it belonged to Thomas, Earl of Strafford; but his son, the
second earl, sold the estate. Kippax in its way is original in
construction, but savours somewhat of Strawberry Hill Gothic. The
ancient family of Bland have been seated here since the time of
Elizabeth, the direct male line, however, dying out in the middle of the
eighteenth century. Sir Thomas Bland was one of the gallant Royalists
who defended Pontefract Castle during the Civil War.
A few miles to the north-west is the grand old mansion, Temple Newsam.
Like Hatfield House, which in many respects it resembles, it is built of
red-brick with stone coigns, and the time-toned warm colour is
acceptable in this county of grey stone. It was built like many
so-called Elizabethan houses in the reign of James I., and, like Castle
Ashby, has around the three sides of the quadrangle a parapet of letters
in open stone work which runs as follows: "All glory and praise be given
to God the Father, the Son, and Holy Ghost on high, peace on earth,
goodwill towards men, honour and true allegiance to our gracious king,
loving affections amongst his subjects, health and plenty within this
house." The loyal sentiments are not those of Mary Queen of Scots'
husband, Lord Darnley, who was born in the earlier house, but of the
builder, Sir Anthony Ingram, who bought the estate from the Duke of
Lennox. Of all the spacious rooms, the picture gallery is the finest.
It is over a hundred feet in length and contains a fine collection of
old masters and some remarkable china. Albert Durer's hard and
microscopic art is well represented, as well as the opposite extreme in
Rembrandt's breadth of style. But the gem of all is a head by Reynolds
(of, we think, a Lady Gordon), a picture that connoisseurs would rave
about. A small picture of Thomas Ingram is almost identical with that of
the Earl of Pembroke we have mentioned at Wentworth Castle. In one of
the bedrooms (famous for their tapestry hangings and ancient beds) are
full-length portraits of Mary Queen of Scots, Queen Elizabeth, and James
I., the first like the well-known portraits at Hardwick and Welbeck. On
one of the staircases is an interesting picture of Henrietta, Duchess of
Orleans, in a turban, with the favourite spaniel who appears in many of
her portraits. She holds in her hand the picture of her lord and master,
the duke who was so jealous of her. A new grand staircase with
elaborately carved newels, after the style of that at Hatfield, has been
added to the mansion recently, and harmonises admirably with its more
ancient surroundings.
The park is fine and extensive, but beyond, the signs of the proximity
of busy Leeds obtrude and spoil the scenery. We went from here to the
undesirable locality of Hunslet in search of a place called Knowsthorpe
Hall, but had some considerable difficulty in finding it, for nobody
seemed to know it by that name. "You warnts the Island," observed a
mining gentleman, a light dawning upon him. So we got nearer by
inquiring for "the Island," but then the clue was lost. Thousands of
factory hands were pouring out of a very unlikely looking locality, but
nobody knew such a place. In desperation we plunged into a primitive
coffee-stall, around which black bogies were sitting at their mid-day
meal. One of them with more intelligence than the rest knew the place,
but couldn't describe how to get to it. "Go up yon road," he said, "and
ask for 'Whitakers.'" We followed the advice, and at the turning asked
for 'Whitakers.' "Is it the dressmakers ye mean?" was the reply of a
small boy to whom we put the question. "Yes," we said, in entire
ignorance whether it was the dressmakers or the almanac people. But
having got so far there were landmarks that did the rest, and presently
a big entrance gate was seen with painted on its side-pillars,
"Knowsthorpe Olde Hall."
[Illustration: GATEWAY, KNOWSTHORPE HALL.]
But there was no Island, not even a moat. The smoke of Leeds has given
the stone walls a coat of black, but otherwise it is not unpicturesque,
and would be more so if this original gateway remained. Within the last
two years this has been removed as well as the steps leading down from
the terrace. The gateway was called the "Stone Chairs," because of the
niches or seats on either side of it. It is now, we understand, at Hoare
Cross, near Burton-on-Trent. There is much oak within the house, and one
panelled room has a very fine carved mantelpiece. The oak staircase,
too, is graceful as well as uncommon in design. Close against one side
of the house is a stone archway with sculptured figures of the time of
James I. on either side of it, and the old lady in charge related the
history of this happy pair, how the gentleman had wooed the damsel (a
Maynard), but as he had not been to the wars she would have nothing to
say to him. Consequently he buckled on his sword and engaged in the
nearest battle; and to prove his valour, brought back with him as a
love-token the arm which he had lost,--a statement sounding somewhat
contradictory. Naturally after that she fell into his--other arm, and
accepted him on the spot. This daughter of Mars, of course, now
"revisits the glimpses of the moon" with her lover's arm, not around her
waist in the ordinary fashion, but in her hand; and those who doubt the
story may see her effigy thus represented. But the dignity of this happy
pair is somewhat marred, for the only use to which they are now put is
to form a stately entrance to--a hen-coop!
There are some interesting old houses between Leeds and Otley, the "Low"
Halls of Rawdon and Yeadon, for instance. The former is a good
Elizabethan house, and contains some interesting rooms. Low Hall,
Yeadon, dates farther back, though its chief characteristics are of the
same period. The interior is rich in ancient furniture, and there are
some Knellers, which the artist is said to have painted on the spot. The
saturnine features of the Merry Monarch are to be seen on one side of
the huge Tudor fireplace, and near at hand Nell Gwyn, probably a more
correct likeness than a flattering one. There are ancient cabinets,
chests, and tables contemporary with the house; and what is more
interesting still, the cabinets and chests contain relics of Mary Queen
of Scots, and the ruffs and collars that were fashionable three
centuries ago. A gallery, wainscoted with large panels of a later
period, extends the length of the house; and at the western extremity of
it a bedroom, also panelled, possesses a hiding-place or secret cupboard
which it would baffle the most persevering to discover, but when the
panel is pushed aside, the trick of it looks so very simple. Of the
Stuart relics we shall speak presently in referring to Mary Queen of
Scots' imprisonment at Bolton Castle.
Passing through Guiseley, which is situated in the midst of worsted
mills, with the stocks by a lamp-post in the middle of the street as if
they were a present-day necessity, you climb a hill and then come
suddenly upon a lovely view, with Otley, "the Switzerland of Yorkshire,"
lying in the Wharfe valley below. The Chevin Hill is over nine hundred
feet in height, and from it you are supposed to see York Cathedral on
one side and the mountains of Westmoreland on the other. As the Chevin
is the lion of the place, it is the duty of visitors to go to the top.
Alpine climbers may enjoy this sort of task, but there are some people
who do not even wish to say that they have seen a city some
six-and-twenty miles away; but such as these who go to Otley and do not
inconvenience themselves would be looked upon by the Otleyites with
pity. But there is another thing which the town is proud of too, and
that is its lofty Maypole, which, standing in a firm socket of stone, is
guarded round by iron rails. There are far more Maypoles in Yorkshire
than in any other county, and it is pleasing to find the people are thus
conservative; though truly when they get blown down, they don't often
trouble themselves enough to put them up again. There are some
interesting monuments in the church, one on the right of the chancel to
General Fairfax's grandparents, two stately recumbent effigies of James
I.'s time. There are mural monuments to the Fawkeses of Farnley Hall (a
much altered Elizabethan mansion, containing Cromwellian relics: the
Lord Protector's hat, sword, and watch, and Fairfax's drum) and a
Vavasour of Weston Hall, who was a philanthropist in his way, for he was
buried in wool to promote the local trade. He is represented on his
monument neatly packed, and looks so cosy that the bas-relief is
suggestive of the undertaker's advertisement, "Why live and be wretched
when you can be buried comfortably for five pound ten?" In the vestry
there is a splendid set of old oak chairs of which the verger is not a
little proud.
[Illustration: LEATHLEY STOCKS.]
[Illustration: STOCKS AT WESTON.]
A pleasant meadow walk by the riverside leads to Leathley, which has a
Norman church, but can scarcely be called a village, for there is no
inn. A formidable pair of stocks stand ready by the churchyard; but as
nothing stronger than milk can be procured, they have not been worn out
with too much work. Again, at Weston on the other side of the Wharfe
river we come across the roadside stocks (like the usual Yorkshire type,
with two uprights of stone) by the spreading roots of an ancient tree.
Weston Hall is a long low Tudor building, with at one end a broad bay of
three storeys. An old banqueting-house in the grounds is ornamented
with shields of arms; and formerly the windows of it were full of
heraldic stained glass, some of which is now in the windows of the Hall.
From here we went northwards in search of Swinsty Hall, over a lonely
moorland district. The road goes up and up until you are not surprised
when you come to a signpost pointing to "To Snowdon." To the left, you
are told, leads to "Blubberhouses," wherever that may be. For preference
we chose the latter road, and soon got completely lost in the wilds. The
only sign of civilisation was a barn, where we had the fortune to find
an old man who presumably spoke the pure dialect, for we couldn't make
head or tail of it. "Swinsty--ai, you go on ter road until it is," was
the direction he gave, and we went on and until it _wasn't_. At length,
however, after plodding knee deep in marshy land and saturated heather,
we found the object of our search perched in a lonely meadow above a
wide stretch of water. It looked as if it had a gloomy history; and no
wonder that some of the upper rooms are held in awe, for there the ghost
of a person with the unromantic name of Robinson is said to count over
his ill-gotten gains, which he brought down from London in waggons when
the Plague of 1666 was raging. He had the good fortune to escape
contamination, and once back with his plundered wealth he meant to have
what nowadays we call "a good time"; but the story has a moral, for it
got winded abroad how he got his gold, and nobody would have anything to
do with him or his money, and by the irony of fate he had to spend the
rest of his days in trying to wash away the germs of infection.
[Illustration: SWINSTY HALL.]
The hall is entered through a spacious porch in the roof of which is
hung an enormous bell. The room you enter is by no means gloomy. A
carved oak staircase with balustrade of peculiar form leads to other
rooms panelled to the ceiling, with fine overmantels. The leads of the
small window-panes are of fanciful design; one bears the date 1627 and
the initials I. W. H., and these occur again with the date 1639 in some
oak carving in one of the bedrooms. A "well" stone staircase between
rough-hewn stone walls leads up to the attics, which have open timber
roofs with semicircular span to the main beams. They look as if they
were but recently put up, so fresh does the wood look, and the pegs that
join the timbers still protrude as if they had just been hammered in,
and awaited the workman's axe to cut them level. A word upon the subject
of these old roofs may not be out of place. When old houses are
restored, of course it is the proper thing to open out an original
timber roof where the original hall or chamber has been divided and
partitioned, but in so many instances nowadays flat ceilings are
removed to show the open timbers which were _never intended to be
seen_. Bedrooms are thus made cold and bare, with not nearly enough
protection from the draughts from the tiles. The attics at Swinsty are a
proof of this, there being no great distance between the floor and the
roof. Another thing, if the floors were done away with here, Mr.
Robinson would have to come down a storey, and that is not desirable.
On the way to Swinsty, by the bye, a ruinous house is passed on the
right about midway between there and Otley. It is of no great
architectural interest, but is singular in construction, having a
projecting turret containing a spiral staircase at the back, which
presumably was the only entrance. It is lofty, and has square windows
with a bay in the centre, but it is now only a shell. Mr. Ingram in his
_Haunted Homes_ relates that Dob Park Lodge, as the place is called, is
reputed to be haunted by a huge black dog who has the power of speech,
and is said to watch over a hidden treasure in the vaults, like the dog
with saucer eyes in Hans Andersen. The entrance to these is locally
supposed to be somewhere at the foot of the winding stair, and so far
only one person has ventured to explore the depths; but when he did, he
actually saw a great chest of gold!--but then we must take into account
that he was very drunk. Fewston village, not far from Swinsty, is
picturesquely situated on a knoll above the lake or reservoir; but the
church, mostly of William III.'s time, has nothing of interest save a
few stalls and a pretty little font cover. The wooden spiked altar
rails might almost be the palings of a suburban garden, whilst the crude
square panes of red and blue of the chancel windows should be anywhere
but in a church.
To the north-east is "Catch'em Corner"; but it is uncertain what is to
be caught except a chill, for the position is very bleak. Striking
northwards we get into the delightful Nidd valley. To the right lies
Ripley, famous for the rood screen, the ancient glass, and Edwardian
tomb of the Ingilbys of the castle, which Tudor structure surrendered to
the Parliament a day or so before Marston Moor was fought. Here Cromwell
is said to have sat up all night before the battle, hob-a-nob with his
unwilling hostess.
Going northwards from Fewston, the prettiest part of the road to Pateley
is struck near the village of Dacre. The romantic rocks and glens
hereabouts are famous, and much frequented by tourists, consequently
sixpences and threepences have to be frequently disbursed. The price is
cheap enough, but the romance is spoiled. Hack Fall, near Masham, to the
north-east, is as lovely a spot as one could wish to see, but there are
too many signs of civilisation about. It is like taming a lion. The
guide-book tells you to go along until you get to a "refreshment
house," which almost reads like an advertisement in disguise.
There is a sculptured Saxon cross in Masham churchyard, and the church
contains a fine monument to the Wyvells of Burton Constable manor, an
old house near Finghall, to the north-west, where members of the family
are also buried. The famous Jervaulx Abbey ruins nestle in a hollow on
the right of the road to Middleham. When close upon it we asked the way
of a yokel, but he shook his head; and then it dawned upon him what we
meant: "It's Jarvey ye warnt," he said, and pointed straight ahead.
Scott's worthy, Prior Aylmer, would surely beam with joy at the tender
care bestowed upon the remains of the establishment over which he once
presided; and the park might grace the finest modern dwelling, judging
by the well-kept lawns and walks; but all this trimness looks less
natural to a ruin than the more rustic surroundings of Easby, for
example. The remains of the Cistercian monastery are rather fragmentary,
consisting mainly of some graceful octagonal pillars and a row of lofty
lancet windows in the wall of the refectory, and some round-headed
arches of the chapter-house. It was destroyed in 1539, and the beautiful
screen of the church carried off to Aysgarth, where it may now be seen.
Continuing along the road to Middleham, Danby Hall, the ancient seat of
the Scropes, is seen in the distance on the right; but the river
intervenes, and one has to go beyond East Witton before a crossing can
be obtained. This village, built on either side of a wide green, has
nothing out of the common except its Maypole and its very conspicuous
Blue Lion rampant. A blue lion is a little change after the hackneyed
red, and the beast looks proud of his originality. Witton probably was
much prettier before the jubilee celebration of George III.'s reign,
when the old church and most of the old houses were pulled down.
By the old grey bridge (with the pillar of a sundial in the centre,
dated 1674) the Cover and Yore Rivers join hands with not a little fuss,
like the enthusiasm of a new-made friendship. The road to Danby Hall
runs level with the river then branches to the left. The mansion is
Elizabethan; but the stone balustrade was added in the middle of the
seventeenth century, and the small cupola-crowned towers were added
subsequently. The oldest part is a square tower to the north-east,
where, in the time of religious persecution, there was a small oratory
or chapel for secret services. In the heraldic glass of the windows the
ancient family of Scrope may be traced from Lord Scrope who fought at
Flodden up to the present day, and their history may be followed by the
portraits of the various generations on the walls. A curious discovery
was made here in the early part of the last century. One of the chimneys
in a stack of four could not be accounted for, and a plummet of lead was
dropped down each of them, three of which found an outlet but the fourth
could not be found. To get at the bottom of the mystery, a not too bulky
party was lowered down, and he found himself in a small chamber full of
long cut-and-thrust swords, flintlock pistols, and the ancient saddlery
of untanned leather for a troop of fifty horse. Not much value was set
upon such things in those days, so the harness was put to good account
and utilised for cart-horse gear upon the farm. But the dispersal of the
ancient weapons has a history too, for at the time that England was
trembling with the fear of an invasion from the dreaded "Boney," a
cottage caught light one night on one of the surrounding hills; and this
being taken as a signal of alarm, the beacon on top of Penhill was
fired. The terror-stricken villagers rushed everywhere for weapons, but
none could be provided, and the good squire of Danby speedily
distributed the secret store which had been hidden in the house for the
Jacobite insurrection of 1715. In time the yokels returned, and there
was a week's rejoicing and merry-making that the blazing beacon after
all had only proved a flash in the pan. The pistols and swords, however,
were not returned save one, which may still be seen with the armourer's
marks on the blade, "Shotley" on one side and "Bridge" on the
other.[32] Another has found its way into the little museum at Bolton
Castle. In demolishing a cottage at Middleham it was discovered up in
the thatch roof, where it was put, perhaps, pending another alarm. The
hiding-place was converted into a butler's room by Major Scrope's
grandfather.
Among the portraits are some good Lelys, including two of Sir Carr
Scrope who was so enamoured of the Court physician's daughter.[33]
Another Lely of a handsome girl is said to represent one of the Royalist
Stricklands of Sizergh. Above the black oak staircase of James I.'s time
hangs a rare portrait of Mary of Modena; for one seldom sees her when
the beauty of youth had departed, for naturally she did not like to be
handed thus down to posterity. The queen looks sour here, which tallies
with the accounts we have of her in later life; but truly she had cause
enough to make her sour.
[Illustration: MIDDLEHAM CASTLE.]
From the Yore River the ground ascends to Middleham, now only a sleepy
looking village but called a "town." Above the roof-tops at the summit
of the hill stands the mediaeval castle where resided in great pomp that
turbulent noble, Warwick the "kingmaker." Here it was that he
imprisoned Edward IV., the monarch he had helped to put upon the throne,
for daring to marry the widowed daughter of Sir Richard Woodville in
preference to a Nevill. When, the year after reinstating Henry VI. for a
brief space, the great feudal baron ended his career on Barnet
battlefield, his castle at Middleham was handed over by Edward to his
brother Richard, who had also a claim upon it by his marriage with the
"kingmaker's" daughter. Here "Crookback," or rather "Crouchback," was
living before he usurped the Crown in 1483; and here his son the young
Prince Edward died upon the first anniversary, as a providential
punishment for the death of his little cousins in the Tower. Richard, by
the way, is said to have had another natural son who lived into the
reign of Edward VI. and died in a small house on the Eastwell estate
near Wye in Kent. Richard Plantagenet's death is duly recorded in the
parish register, distinguished by the mark of a V, which distinguishes
other entries of those of noble birth, and a plain tomb in the chancel
is supposed to be his place of interment. Until an old man he preserved
his incognito, when Sir Thomas Moyle discovered that a mason at work
upon his house was none other than a king's son. His youth had been
spent under charge of a schoolmaster, who had taken him to Bosworth
field and introduced him into Richard's tent. The king received him in
his arms and told him he was his father, and if he survived the battle
he would acknowledge him to be his son; but if fortune should go against
him, he should on no account reveal who he was. On the following day in
entering Leicester a naked figure lying across a horse's back was
pointed out to him as the same great person whose star and gaiter had
inspired him with awe.
The walls of the Norman castle keep are of immense thickness, and
protected without by others almost as formidable of a later date. The
great hall was on the first floor, and the tower where little Edward
Plantagenet was born (the Red Tower) at the south-west corner; but
tradition hasn't kept alive much to carry the imagination back to the
time when the powerful Nevill reigned here in his glory. The escape of
Edward IV. has been made realistic in the immortal bard's _King Henry
VI._, and Scene v. Part iii. might be read in less romantic spots than
in Wensleydale, with this grand old ruin standing out in the distance
like one of Dore's castles. In this case, distance "lends enchantment,"
as Middleham itself is by no means lovely. The ancient market-cross
would look far less commonplace and tomb-like were the top of it again
knocked off. The site of the swine market bears the cognosance of
"Crouchback," which is scarcely a compliment to his memory; but this
antique monument is put vastly in the shade by a jubilee fountain, the
only up-to-date thing in the place, and quite out of harmony with the
ring where bulls were baited within living memory.
In Spennithorne church, near Middleham, there is an ancient altar-tomb
of John Fitz-Randolph, of the family of the early lords of the castle
before the Nevills became possessed of it. Along the font are several
coloured shields of arms of the various families with whom they
intermarried. The nave of the church has an odd appearance, as the north
and south aisles are separated by a series of distinct arches, the
latter Early English, the former pure Norman. A very interesting
thirteenth-century screen was originally at Jervaulx Abbey. On the west
wall there is a large fresco of Father Time, dating perhaps two hundred
years later. The rector must be commended for hanging in his church a
brief summary of the points of interest, and many might follow this
laudable example.
[Illustration: QUEEN'S GAP, LEYBURN "SHAWL."]
[Illustration: BOLTON CASTLE.]
[Illustration: BELLERBY OLD HALL.]
Leyburn stands high among the hills, and must have been a picturesque
old market-place before the ancient town-hall, market-cross, and two
stately elms were removed. The great wide street has now a bare and by
no means attractive appearance, and were it not for the lovely
surroundings it would not form so popular a centre for exploring. The
"Shawl," the huge natural terrace, on a rocky base high up above the
tree-tops of the woods below, is, of course, its great feature, and a
more delightful walk could not be found in England, with the softest
turf to walk upon and the glorious panorama in front. Conspicuous among
the heights is flat-topped Penhill, standing boldly out against the wide
expanse of dale, upon whose crest are the ruins of a chapel of the old
Knights Templars. A gap in the rock, with a path running westwards
through the woods, is known as "Queen's Gap," for Mary Queen of Scots
when she fled from Bolton Castle got thus far when she was overtaken in
attempting to urge her horse through the narrow ravine. In consequence
of this, the "Shawl" locally is said to derive its name from the shawl
the prisoner dropped upon the way, giving her pursuers a clue; which on
the face of it is ridiculous, as the name is derived either from the
Saxon _Sholl_ or Scandinavian _Schall_. Bolton is some five miles away
to the west, and the poor captive was to have gone northwards to
Richmond and thence to her native land; and at Bellerby, between
Richmond and Leyburn, a halt was to have been made at the Hall, the seat
of the Royalist family of Scott, where a company of Scots guards was
stationed ready to receive her. The old Hall still stands on the
left-hand side of the village green as you enter, and looks as if it had
a history.
At Bolton the window may be seen from which she was lowered to the
ground, and one can trace the way she took in a north-easterly direction
across the rocky bed of the rushing stream into the woods below the
"Shawl." The window from which she escaped is the upper one of the three
running horizontally with the south-western tower. There is another
window to the prison-room which looks into the inner courtyard. The
apartment is grim and bare, with a small fireplace, and steps leading
down into a larger bare apartment, once the "drawing-room." Though
externally the castle is not so picturesque as Middleham, it is much
more perfect and interesting. The hooded stone fireplaces remain in the
walls, and various rooms can be located, from the hall and chapel to the
vault-like stables in the basement. The well, too, is perfect, with
scooped-out wall to the upper chambers, not forgetting the awful dungeon
in the solid rock. A large apartment with wide Tudor fireplace has been
converted into a museum, and the curiosities are of a varied nature,
from cocking spurs and boxing-gloves from the sporting centres of
Leyburn and Middleham to the bull-fight banderillos of Spain. There is
quite an assortment of weird-looking instruments of torture, which,
after all, are only toasting-dogs, huge cumbrous things like
antediluvian insects or much magnified microbes. How is it these
appurtenances of domestic comfort have entirely died out like the now
extinct warming-pan? But this museum can no way be compared with Mr.
Home's wonderful collections at Leyburn. Here you can learn something
about everything, for the kindly proprietor of the museum takes a pride
in describing his curios. Those who have been to Middleham and seen the
castle immortalised by Shakespere, may here study Edward IV.'s fair
hair. As rare a curiosity is a valentine of the time of William III.
From the treasures of Egyptian tombs you skip to the first invented
matches; from Babylonian inscriptions to early-Victorian samplers. And
the learned antiquarian relates how he was educated in the old Yore mill
at Aysgarth by old John Drummond, the grandson of the Jacobite Earl of
Perth, who had to hide himself in a farm in Bishopdale (How Rig) for his
hand in the '45, when the Scotch estates were confiscated for aiding the
cause of the Bonnie Prince. Were it not for Mr. Home's interest in
old-time customs, the bull-ring in the market-place would have
disappeared, for the socket was nearly worn through when he had it
repaired. He relates how at the last bull-baiting the infuriated beast
got away and sent the whole sportsmen flying, and at length was shot in
Wensley village.
Wensley nestles in the valley, surrounded by hills. The interior of the
church is rich in carvings from the ruinous abbey of Easby, near
Richmond. The stalls from Easby have at the ends exceptionally bold and
elaborate carvings with heraldic shields and arms, dating from the days
of Edward IV. A nearly life-size brass, of the third Edward's time, is
of its kind one of the finest in England,--an ecclesiastic in robes,
with crossed hands pointing downwards. By the entrance door is a quaint
old poor-box; but what first strikes the eye as you enter, is the
parclose screen from Easby Abbey, which, ill fitting its confined space,
partially blocks the windows; but the effect of the elaborate carving
against the tracery is very striking. It is early-Tudor in date, and
belonged to the Scrope chantry, whose arms appear upon it, with those of
Fitz-Hugh, Marmion, and other noble families. Within this screen,
evidently a good many years later, a manorial pew was made, the side of
which is within the parclose. To amalgamate the two, the latter has been
somewhat mangled, doors having been added, with a pendant aloft to
balance other large hollow pendants in the various arches. Unfortunately
the whole has been painted with a dull grey and grained, a feeble
attempt to represent marble, and parts of it are also gilt. A fixed
settle has been added to the interior, so unless carefully examined it
is difficult to detect how the parclose and pew were made into one. The
two-decker pulpit and the wide old-fashioned pews lined with faded green
baize and pink rep, bring us back to more modern times; but one would be
loath to see them removed if restoration funds were lavish. Beneath the
great manorial pew lie at rest the remains of the daughter of the
thirteenth Lord Scrope, who by marriage with the first Duke of Bolton
brought the castle into the Poulett family: until then the Scropes had
held possession through marriage with an heiress of the Nevills. The
third wife of Charles Poulett, second Duke of Bolton, was Henrietta
Crofts, the daughter of the Duke of Monmouth and Eleanor Needham.[34]
The Scrope who had charge of the Scots queen at Bolton Castle was Henry,
the eleventh lord, whose wife was sister to the captive's plotting
lover, the Duke of Norfolk, who also lost his head through these
ambitious schemes; and doubtless it was the duke who contrived the
queen's escape. She had been brought from the castle of Carlisle in July
1568, but after her attempt to escape was promptly removed (on January
26) to Tutbury Castle under charge of the Earl of Shrewsbury. The
furniture of her private altar at Bolton, the altar-cloth, part of a
rosary, a small bronze crucifix, and an alms-bag, are now preserved at
Low Hall, Yeadon, mentioned earlier in this chapter. Her hawking gloves
also: these are said to have been given to Lord Scrope upon her leaving.
Some miles to the west of Bolton is Nappa Hall (where the ancient family
of Metcalfe lived since the reign of Henry VI., and where Metcalfes live
to-day), a fortified manor-house with square towers (suggestive of
Haddon), which also claims association with the unfortunate queen. By
some accounts she slept here one night, by others two or more; and the
tradition in the Metcalfe family says nine, in the highest chamber of
the tallest tower. The date is not known, but probably she was brought
here on her way from Carlisle Castle. The bed on which she slept, the
top of which was very low, is now at Newby Hall, near Ripon. Our
sanitary views being very distinct from those enlightened times, the
pillars of these sixteenth-century beds are frequently raised (in some
cases unnecessarily high), and unless one wished to be half-smothered,
this is a natural thing to do if the bed is to be put to practical use;
but nowadays the collectors of ancient furniture are again reducing the
height, and bringing them down to their original proportions.
[Illustration: ASKRIGG.]
[Illustration: NAPPA HALL.]
In asking the way to Nappa from the village of Askrigg, we were told to
follow a "gentleman with a flock of sheep who was going up that way";
but as the distance was the matter of a couple of miles--and Yorkshire
miles too, we preferred to follow the telegraph poles, which, after all,
was more expeditious and quite as reliable. We give this as an instance
of the ordinary pace at which things move in these parts; and perhaps it
is as well, otherwise the old Hall built by William Taunton in 1678 (so
it says on the door), with its upper balcony of wood looking upon the
quaint old market-cross where the bull-ring used to be, might have given
way to co-operative stores or some new hideous building.
The village-green of Bainbridge to the west is quite shut in with hills,
and in the centre are the stocks, or rather the stone supports minus the
most important part, with a rough rock seat which must have added
considerably to the victim's discomfort. The principal curiosity,
however, is the ancient custom prevailing here of blowing a horn at 10
p.m. during the summer months, to guide belated travellers on the moors.
This was an excellent provision for safety hundreds of years ago, when
Bainbridge was practically in the midst of a forest, and even in the
twentieth century may have its uses. The older horn, that was used
half a century ago, is now in Bolton Castle Museum. It is very large,
and curiously twisted. The houses at Bainbridge are of the ordinary ugly
Yorkshire type; but on high ground overlooking a ravine stands a nice
old gabled grange, which must have tempted many an artist and
photographer to pause upon their way to the famous Falls. These, of
course, are very fine, but to our mind far less beautiful than the
single plunge of water just below the grange, from a wide and
scooped-out bed of precipitous rock. Nor are the high, low, and middle
Falls of Aysgarth half so picturesque, though in a sense they are more
boisterous, like coppery boiling water.
Aysgarth church is perched up high, and you have to climb up many steps
to reach it from the moss-grown bridge. The doors of most of the
Yorkshire churches we found were kept unlocked; but this was an
exception, so down those steps we had to come, to go in search of a key;
but reaching the bottom of the flight, up we had to go again to try and
find the rectory. Oh! the time that may be lost in hunting for a church
key, and what a blessing it would be if notices were stuck up in the
porches to say where they were kept. The interior of Aysgarth has a new
appearance, but the splendid painted screen from Jervaulx (placed east
and west instead of across the chancel) is worth a hunt for the key.
Another screen, dated 1536, has upon it the grotesque carving of a
fool's head with long-eared cap. Here again in the village are the
stocks; but the Maypole, which once was its pride, long since has made
its exit.
[Illustration: RICHMOND.]
By far the nearest way to Richmond from Leyburn is across the moor, a
rough and desolate road, but preferable to the terrible long way by
Catterick, more than double the distance (by rail it is four times the
distance!). This is the prettiest village of any on the way (which is
not saying much, be it said). The early fifteenth-century church has
some good monuments and brasses, one of the latter to a lady who for
many years before she died carried her winding-sheet about with her; and
one would naturally suppose one with such gruesome ideas would still
walk the earth for the edification of the timid, but she doesn't.
The entrance to Richmond by the nearest way is very charming. You come
suddenly upon the castle perched up over the river, and as you wind down
the hill the grouping of its towers is thrown into perspective, forming
a delightful picture with the river and the bridge for a foreground.
Three kings have been prisoners within these formidable Norman walls:
two kings of Scotland, William and David Bruce, and after the lapse of
three centuries, Charles I., who passed here on his way to Holdenby. The
stalls and misericordes in the fine old church came from Easby Abbey.
They are boldly carved, and one of them represents a sow playing a
fiddle for the edification of her little pigs. There is a curious
coloured mural monument, on the east side of the chancel, of Sir Timothy
Hutton and his wife and children--twelve of them, including four babes,
beneath two of which are these verses:
"As carefull mothers do to sleeping say,
Their babes that would too long the wanton play;
So to prevent my youths approaching crimes,
Nature my nurse had me to bed betimes."
The next is less involved:
"Into this world as strangers to an inn
This infant came, guest wise;
Where when 't had been and found no entertainment worth her stay,
She only broke her fast and went away."
Altogether it is a cheery tomb. Faith, Hope and Charity are there, one
of whom acts as nurse to one of the babes. Her ladyship's expression is
somewhat of the Aunt Sally type, but that was the sculptor's fault. The
ancient church plate includes a chalice dated 1640. The registers are
beautifully neat and clean, and full of curious matter, such as the
banns being read by the market-cross.
Apropos of Yorkshire marriages, the odd custom prevails in some parts of
emptying a kettle of boiling water, down--not the backs of the happy
pair, but down the steps of the front door as they drive away, that the
threshold may be "kept warm for another bride," we presume for _another_
swain. The way also of ascertaining whether the future career of those
united will be attended with happiness is simple and effective. All you
have to do is, as the bride steps out of the carriage, to fling a plate
containing small pieces of the wedding-cake out of a window upon the
heads of the onlookers. If the crowd is a small one, and the plate
arrives on the pavement and is smashed to pieces, all will go well; but
if somebody's head intervenes, the augury is ominous; which, after all,
is only natural, for is it not likely that one thus greeted would call
at the house to bestow his blessing upon somebody? What a pity this
pretty custom is not introduced into the fashionable marriages of St
George's, Hanover Square. It would at least create a sensation.
For the rest of Richmond church, well--it was restored by Sir Gilbert
Scott. It is regrettable to find the piscina on a level with the floor,
beneath a pew seat!
The curfew still rings at Richmond, telling the good people when to go
to bed; but whether they go or not is another matter. We are told it is,
or was, also rung for them to get up again at six o'clock; and the aged
official whose duty it was to ring the morning bell, like a wise man,
did so at his leisure, lying in bed with the rope hanging from the
ceiling.[35]
[Illustration: EASBY ABBEY.]
From the churchyard, Easby Abbey is seen in the distance in a romantic
spot by the river: and the walk there is delightful, along the terrace
above the Swale. Like the rest of these fine structures, it was
destroyed by the vindictive Henry in 1535. The water close at hand, the
old abbot's elm, and the little church and gatehouse beyond, altogether
make this a spot in which to linger and ruminate. The church walls are
covered with curious and very well preserved paintings of the twelfth
century, giving a good idea of the costume of the period. The tempting
serpent, too, is shown twisted in artistic coils around a very
pre-Raphael looking tree; and in another scene the partakers of the
fruit are doubled up with remorse, or dyspepsia.
So close at hand as is Bolton on Swale, to the east, it would be a pity
not to mention Henry Jenkins, who died there in 1670, aged one hundred
and sixty-nine!--a man in Charles II.'s reign who remembered the
dissolution of the monasteries, and who recollected as a boy assisting
in carrying arrows in a cart to the battle of Flodden field (where
veteran soldiers remembered the accession of King Edward IV.), was a
wonder compared with the feeble memory of our present-day centenarians,
who rarely recollect anything worth recording. When we think how nearly
we are linked with 1670 by the life of Mrs. William Stuart, who died in
the late queen's reign, and who heard from the lips of her grandmother
how she had been taken to Court in a black-draped Sedan when Whitehall
was in mourning for the death of the king's sister, Henrietta, Duchess
of Orleans,--it would have been possible for the little girl to have
spoken with old Jenkins, and thus with only three lives to have linked
the early part of the reign of Henry VIII. with that of Victoria.