Leave Redcar--A Cricket-Match--Coatham--Kirkleatham--The Old
Hospital--The Library--Sir William Turner's Tomb--Cook, Omai,
and Banks--The Hero of Dettingen--Yearby Bank--Upleatham--
Guisborough--Past and Present--Tomb of Robert Bruce--Priory
Ruins--Hemingford, Pursglove, and Sir Thomas Chaloner--Pretty
Scenery--The Spa--More Money, Less Morals--What George Fox's
Proselytes did--John Wesley's Preaching--Hutton Lowcross--
Rustics of Taste--Rosebury Topping--Lazy Enjoyment--The
Prospect: from Black-a-moor to Northumberland--Cook's Monument
--Canny Yatton--The Quakers' School--A Legend--Skelton--Sterne
and Eugenius--Visitors from Middlesbro'--A Fatal Town--Newton--
Digger's Talk--Marton, Cook's Birthplace--Stockton--Darlington.
However, we will be of good cheer, for Nature forsakes not the trustful
heart. Hill and dale, breezy moorland, craggy mountains, and lovely
valleys stretch away before us well-nigh to the western tides; and there
we shall find perennial woods, where rustling leaves, and rushing
waterfalls will compensate us for the loss of the voice of the sea.
I started for Guisborough, taking a short cut across the fields to
Kirkleatham. In the first field, on the edge of the town, I saw what
accounted to me for the lifelessness of Redcar--a cricket-match. As well
might one hope to be merry at a funeral as at a game of cricket,
improved into its present condition; when the ball is no longer bowled,
but pelted, and the pelter's movements resemble those of a jack-pudding;
when gauntlets must be worn on the hands and greaves on the shins; and
other inventions are brought into use to deprive pastime of anything
like enjoyment. That twenty-two men should ever consent to come together
for such a mockery of pleasure, is to me a mystery. Wouldn't Dr.
Livingstone's Makalolo laugh at them! The only saving point attending it
is, that it involves some amount of exercise in the open air. No wonder
that the French duchess, who was invited to see a game, sent one of her
suite, after sitting two hours, to enquire, "vhen the creekay vas going
to begin." The Guisborough band was doing its best to enliven the
field; but I saw no exhilaration. Read Miss Mitford's description of a
cricket-match on the village green; watch a schoolboys' game, consider
the mirth and merriment that they get out of it, and sympathise with
modern cricket if you can.
The fields are pleasant and rural; haymakers are at work; we cross a
tramway, one of those laid to facilitate the transport of Cleveland
ironstone; we get glimpses of Coatham, and come nearer to the woods, and
at length emerge into the road at Kirkleatham. Here let us turn aside to
look at the curious old hospital, built in 1676 by Sir William Turner,
citizen and woollen-draper of London, and lord mayor, moreover, three
years after the Great Fire. There it stands, a centre and two wings,
including a chapel, a library and museum, and a comfortable lodging for
ten old men, as many old women, and the same number of boys and girls.
The endowment provides for a good education for the children, and a
benefaction on their apprenticeship; and the services of a chaplain.
Among the curiosities shown to visitors are a waxen effigy of Sir
William, wearing the wig and band that he himself once wore; the
likeness of his son and heir in the stained glass of one of the windows;
St. George and the Dragon, singularly well cut out of one piece of
boxwood; the fragment of the tree from Newby Park, presented by Lord
Falconberg, on which appears, carved:--
This Tre long time witnese beare
Of toww lovrs that did walk heare.
It was no random hand that selected the library; some of the books are
rare. One who loves old authors, will scan the shelves with pleasure. "I
could easily have forgotten my dinner in this enchanting room," says
William Hutton. Interesting in another way is the ledger of the worthy
citizen and woollen-draper here preserved: it shows how well he kept his
accounts, and that he was not vain-glorious. On one of the pages, where
the sum of his wealth appears as 50,000_l._, he has written, "Blessed be
the Almighty God, who has blest me with this estate."
The church, not far from the hospital, is worth a visit. Conspicuous in
the chancel are the monuments of the Turners, adorned with sculptures
and long inscriptions. Of Sir William, we read that he lies buried
"amongst the poor of his hospital--the witnesses of his piety,
liberality, and humility." There is the mausoleum erected by Cholmley
Turner, in 1740, to the memory of his son, who died at Lyon, of which
Schumacher was the sculptor, and near it the tomb of Sir Charles Turner,
the last of the family. Cook, accompanied by Omai and Sir Joseph Banks,
paid him a visit in 1775. Some of the church plate was presented by Sir
William; but that used for the communion was thrown up by the sea about
a century ago, within the privilege of the lord of the manor.
This quiet little village of Kirkleatham was the birthplace of Tom
Browne the famous dragoon, who at the battle of Dettingen cut his way
single-handed into the enemy's line, recovered the standard of the troop
to which he belonged, and fought his way back in triumph; by which
exploit he made his name ring from one end of England to the other, and
won a place for his likeness on many a sign-board. You may see his
portrait here if you will, and his straight basket-hilted sword.
After a glance at the hall, a handsome building, we return to the road,
and ascend Yearby bank--a bank which out of Yorkshire would be called a
hill. Look back when near the top, and you will have a pleasing
prospect: Kirkleatham nestled among the trees, the green fields
refreshing to the eye; Eston Nab and the brown estuary beyond. Here we
are on the verge of the Earl of Zetland's richly wooded estate--
"Behold Upleatham, slop'd with graceful ease,
Hanging enraptur'd o'er the winding Tees"--
and the breeze makes merry among the branches that overhang us on both
sides till a grand fragment of a ruin appears in sight--the tall east
window of a once magnificent Priory--rising stately in decay from amidst
the verdure of a fertile valley, and we enter the small market-town of
Guisborough.
Having refreshed myself at _The Buck_, I took an evening stroll, not a
little surprised at the changes which the place had undergone since I
once saw it. Then it had the homely aspect of a village, and scarce a
sound would you hear after nine at night in its long wide street: now at
both ends new houses intrude on the fields and hedgerows, the side lanes
have grown into streets lit by gas and watched by policemen. Tippling
iron-diggers disturb the night with noisy shouts when sober folk are
a-bed, and the old honest look has disappeared for ever. In the olden
time it was said, "The inhabitants of this place are observed by
travellers to be very civil and well bred, cleanly in dressing their
diet, and very decent in their houses." The old hall is gone, but the
gardens remain: you see the ample walnut-trees and the primeval yew
behind the wall on your way to the churchyard. Seven centuries have
rolled away since that Norman gateway was built, and it looks strong
enough to stand another seven. Under the shadow of those trees was a
burial-place of the monks: now the shadow falls on mutilated statues and
other sculptured relics, and on the tomb of Robert Brus, one of the
claimants of the Scottish throne and founder of the abbey, who was
buried here in 1294. Even in decay it is an admirable specimen of
ancient art.
From the meadow adjoining the churchyard you get a good view of the
great east window, or rather of the empty arch which the window once
filled; and looking at its noble dimensions, supported by buttresses,
flanked by the windows of the aisles, and still adorned with crumbling
finials, you will easily believe what is recorded of Guisborough
Priory--that it was the richest in Yorkshire. It was dedicated to St.
Augustine, and when the sacred edifice stood erect in beauty, the tall
spire pointing far upwards, seen miles around, many a weary pilgrim must
have invoked a blessing on its munificent founder--a Bruce of whom the
Church might well be proud.
Hemingford, whose chronicle of events during the reigns of the first
three Edwards contains many curious matters of ecclesiastical history,
was a canon of Guisborough; and among the priors we find Bishop
Pursglove, him of whom our ancient gossip Izaak makes loving mention.
Another name associated with the place is Sir Thomas Chaloner, eminent
alike in exercises of the sword, and pen, and statesmanship. It was here
in the neighbourhood that he discovered alum, as already mentioned, led
thereto by observing that the leaves of the trees about the village were
not so dark a green as elsewhere, while the whitish clay soil never
froze, and "in a pretty clear night shined and sparkled like glass upon
the road-side."
Skeletons and stone coffins have been dug up from time to time, and
reburied in the churchyard. On one occasion the diggers came upon a
deposit of silver plate; and from these and other signs the presence of
a numerous population on the spot in former days has been inferred. Our
quaint friend, who has been more than once quoted, says: "Cleveland hath
been wonderfully inhabited more than yt is nowe ... nowe all their
lodgings are gone; and the country, as a widow, remayneth mournful." And
among the local traditions, there is the not uncommon one, which hints
obscurely at a subterranean passage, leading from the Priory to some
place adjacent, within which lay a chest of gold guarded by a raven.
Situate near the foot of a finely-wooded range of hills, the ruin shows
effectively with the green heights for a background. More delightful
than now must the prospect have been in the early days, and even within
the present century, when no great excavations of ironstone left yellow
blots in the masses of foliage.
The sun went down while I sauntered about, and when I took my last look
at the great east window the ruddy blaze streamed through its lofty
space, and as each side grew dark with creeping glooms, filled it with
quivering beams whereunto all the glory of glass would be but a mockery.
Guisborough may claim to rank among watering-places, for it has a spa,
with appliances for drinking and bathing, down in a romantic nook of Spa
Wood, watered by Alumwork beck. The walk thither, and onwards through
Waterfall wood to Skelton, is one of the prettiest in the neighbourhood.
And on the hill-slopes, Bellman bank--formerly Bellemonde--still claims
notice for pleasing scenery. The medicinal properties of the spring were
discovered in 1822. The water, which is clear and sparkling, tastes and
smells slightly of sulphur and weak alkaline constituents, and is
considered beneficial in diseases of the skin and indigestion. And in
common with other small towns in Yorkshire, Guisborough has a free
grammar-school, which, at least, keeps alive the memory of its founder.
Mine host of _The Buck_ said, as we talked together later in the evening
about the changes that had taken place, that although more money came
into the town than in years gone by, he did not think that better habits
or better morals came in along with it. A similar remark would be made
wherever numbers of rude labourers earn high wages. Even in the good old
times there was something to complain of. George Fox tells us,
concerning his proselytes in Cleveland, that they fell away from their
first principles and took to ranting; and at the time of his later
visits "they smoked tobacco and drank ale in their meetings, and were
grown light and loose." And John Wesley, on his first visit to
Guisborough, in 1761, found what was little better than practical
heathenism. He preached from a table standing in the market-place, where
"there was," as he writes, "so vehement a stench of stinking fish as was
ready to suffocate me." The people "roared;" but as the zealous apostle
of Methodism went on in his sermon they gradually became overawed, and
listened in silence. Did their forefathers ever roar when Paulinus
preached to them from a mossy rock, or under the shadow of a spreading
oak? Wesley, however, made an impression, and followed it up by visits
in four subsequent years.
At any rate, there was no noise to disturb the Sunday quiet when I went
forth on the morrow. While passing along the street I noticed many
cottagers reading at their doors, and exposing a pair of clean white
shirt-sleeves to the morning sun. Turning presently into a road on the
left, which rises gently, you get an embowered view of the town,
terminated by the soaring arch. Then we come to Hutton Lowcross, a
pleasant hamlet, which suggests a thought of the days of old, for it
once had an hospital and a Cistercian nunnery. Hutton joined to the name
of a village is a characteristic of Cleveland. In one instance--a few
miles from this--it helps out an unflattering couplet:
"Hutton Rudby, Entrepen,
Far more rogues than honest men."
We cross the railway near a station, which, as a cottager told me is
"Mr. Pease's station; built for hisself, and not for everybody;" and
take a bridle road leading to the hill. I fell in with a couple of
rustics, who were able to enjoy the scenery amid which they had lived
for years. They lay under a tree, at a spot open to the prospect down
the valley; and as I commended their choice, one replied "I do like to
come and set here of a Sunday better than anything else. 'Tis so nice to
hear the leaves a-rustlin' like they do now." But the view there was
nothing to what I should see from the hill-top: there couldn't be a
prettier sight in England than that.
I felt willing to believe them; and a few minutes later strode from the
steep, narrow lane, where ferns, foxgloves, wild roses, and elders
overhang the way, to the open expanse of Guisborough moors. Here a track
runs along the undulating slope to the foot of the hills, which roll
away on the left to the wild region of Black-a-moor, with many a
pleasant vale and secluded village between, while on the right spreads
the cultivated plain, of which, ere long, we shall get a wider view; for
now Rosebury Topping comes clear in sight, from gorse-patched base to
rocky apex, and your eye begins to select a place for ascent. It is
approachable on all sides; no swamp betrays the foot, but the steepness
in some places compels you to use hands as well as feet. The morning was
already hot, and I was fain to sit down in the belt of bracken above the
gorse and breathe awhile, glad to have climbed beyond reach of the
flies. From the fern you mount across clean, soft turf to the bare wall
of rock which encircles the northern half of the summit, where the
breeze of the plain is a brisk wind, cooling and invigorating as it
sweeps across. I threw off my knapsack, and choosing a good
resting-place, lay down in idle enjoyment of being able to see far
enough.
Who that has travelled knows not what an enjoyment it is to recline at
length on a hill-top, the head reposing on a cushion of moss, and to
have nothing to do but let the eye rove at will over the wide-spread
landscape below? Sheltered by the rock, you breathe the coolness of
upper air without its rapid chill, and indulge for a while in lazy
contemplation. It is the very luxury of out-door existence. Perhaps you
are somewhat overcome by the labour of the ascent, and unconsciousness
steals gently on you; and a snatch of slumber in such a spot, while the
winds whisper of gladness in your ear, and a faint hush floats to and
fro among the blades of grass, is a pleasure which can be imagined only
by one who beholds at his awaking the blue sky and the broad earth of
the great Giver.
At length curiosity prevails. Here we are a thousand and twenty-two feet
above the sea--an elevation that sounds small after Switzerland and
Tyrol; but a very little experience of travelling convinces one that the
highest hills are not those which always command the most pleasing
views. Standing on the top of the crag you may scan the whole ring of
the horizon, from the sea on the east to the high summits of the west;
from the bleak ridges of Black-a-moor to the headlands of
Northumberland, seen dimly through the smoky atmosphere of the Durham
coal-fields.
Considering, reader, that I may please myself at times, as well as you,
I borrow again from our honest friend, whose admiration of the
picturesque appears to have equalled his ability to note the useful.
"There is," he says, "a most goodly prospecte from the toppe of thys
hyll, though paynefully gayned by reason of the steepnesse of yt....
There you may see a vewe the like whereof I never saw, or thinke that
any traveller hath seen any comparable unto yt, albeit I have shewed yt
to divers that have paste through a greate part of the worlde, both by
sea and land. The vales, rivers, great and small, swelinge hylls and
mountaynes, pastures, meadows, woodes, cornefields, parte of the
Bishopricke of Durham, with the newe porte of Tease lately found to be
safe, and the sea replenyshed with shippes, and a most pleasant flatt
coaste subjecte to noe inundation or hazarde make that countrye happy if
the people had the grace to make use of theire owne happinesse, which
may be amended if it please God to send them trafique and good example
of thrifte." All this is still true; but Tees has now other ports, and
Middlesborough, which has grown rapidly as an American town, and the
iron furnaces, spread a smoky veil here and there across the landscape,
which, when our narrator looked down upon it, lay everywhere clear and
bright in the sunshine.
The name of the hill is said to be derived from _Ross_, a heath or moor;
_Burg_, a fortress; and _Toppen_, Danish for apex. If you incline to go
back to very early days--as the Germans do--try to repeople the rows of
basin-like pits which, traceable around the slope of the hill, are, so
the students of antiquity tell us, the remains of ancient British
dwellings. Were they inhabited when the Brigantes first mustered to
repel the Romans? Rebuild the hermitage which, constructed once by a
solitary here in the rock, was afterwards known as the smith's forge or
cobbler's shop; and restore the crevice which, far-famed as Wilfrid's
needle, tempted many a pilgrim to the expiatory task of creeping through
the needle's eye. No traces of them are now left, for the remains which
Time respected were destroyed some years ago by quarrymen, and with them
the perfect point of the cone.
Rosebury Topping was once talked of as the best site for a monument to
the memory of Cook, where it would be seen from his birthplace and for
miles around. But another spot was chosen, and looking to the south-east
you see the tall, plain column on Easby heights, about three miles
distant. It was erected in 1827, at the cost of Mr. Robert Campion, of
Whitby. At the foot of the hill, in the same direction, partly concealed
by trees, and watered by the river Leven, lies the village of Great
Ayton--canny Yatton--where Cook went to school after finishing his
course of Mary Walker's lessons. In the churchyard is a stone, which
records the death of Cook's mother, and of some of his brothers and
sisters, supposed to have been wrought by his father, who was a working
mason. It is said, however, that the old man was unable to read until
the age of seventy-five, when he learned in order that he might have the
pleasure of reading the narrative of his son's voyages of discovery. Of
other noteworthy objects in the village are a monument to Commodore
Wilson in the church; a Chapel-well of the olden time; and an
agricultural school, with seventy-five acres of good land attached,
belonging to the Quakers. Farming work and in-doors work are there
taught to boys and girls in a thoroughly practical way, carrying out the
intentions of the chief promoter, who gave the land and 5000_l._ to
establish the institution.
A few yards below the rocks a spring trickles slowly into a hollow under
a stone, but the quantity of water is too small to keep itself free from
the weeds and scum which render it unfit for drinking. It can hardly be
the fatal spring of the tradition, wherein is preserved the memory of a
Northumbrian queen and Prince Oswy, her son. Soothsayers had foretold
the boy's death by drowning on a certain day: the mother, to keep him
from harm, brought him to this lofty hill-side early on the threatened
day, where, at all events, he would be in no danger from water. Fondly
she talked with him for a while and watched his play: but drowsiness
stole over her and she fell asleep. By-and-by she woke, and looked
hastily round for her darling. He was nowhere to be seen. She flew
hither and thither, searching wildly, and at last found him lying dead,
with his face in the spring.
Looking to the north-east we see Skelton, backed by the Upleatham woods.
Though but a speck in the landscape, it has contributed more to history
than places which boast acres of houses. "From this little nook of
Cleveland," says the local historian, "sprang mighty monarchs, queens,
high-chancellors, archbishops, earls, barons, ambassadors, and knights,
and, above all, one brilliant and immortal name--Robert Bruce." We hear
of a Robert de Brus, second of the name, trying to dissuade David of
Scotland from awaiting the attack of the English army near
Northallerton: but the king chose to fight, and lost, as we have already
read, the Battle of the Standard. And the sixth baron, Peter de Brus,
was one of the resolute band who made his mark at Runnymede, and helped
to wrest the right of Liberty from a royal craven.
Then taking a stride to later years, we find the author of _Crazy
Tales_, John Hall Stephenson, the occupant of Skelton Castle, an esquire
hospitable and eccentric, the Eugenius of Sterne, who was his willing
guest:
"In this retreat, whilom so sweet,
Once Tristram and his cousin dwelt."
There it was that Sterne bribed a boy to tie the weathercock with its
point to the west, hoping thereby to lure the host from his chamber; for
Eugenius would never leave his bed while the wind blew from the east,
even though good company longed for his presence.
In one of his poems the "crazy" author describes the hill country such
as we see it stretching away beyond Cook's monument:
"Where the beholder stands confounded
At such a scene of mountains bleak;
Where nothing goes
Except some solitary pewit,
And carrion crows,
That seem sincerely to rue it:
Where nothing grows,
So keen it blows,
Save here and there a graceless fir,
From Scotland with its kindred fled,
That moves its arms and makes a stir,
And tosses its fantastic head."
On Eston Nab, that bold hill between us and the Tees, is an ancient
camp, and graves supposed to be two thousand years old. Kildale, in the
opposite direction, had once a diabolical notoriety; for there the devil
played many a prank, and drank the church-well dry, so that the priest
could get no holy water. Ingleby Manor, an antique Tudor house, belonged
to the Foulis family, who gave a noteworthy captain to the army of the
Parliament. And other historic names--the D'Arcys, Eures, Percys, and
Baliols--all had estates overlooked by Rosebury. Wilton Castle, not far
from the foot of Eston Nab, was built by Sir John Lowther, about fifty
years ago, on the site of a fortress once held by the Bulmers.
Now to return for a moment to the hill itself: the topmost rocks are of
the same formation as those we saw stretching into the sea at Redcar,
uptilted more than a thousand feet in a distance of ten miles. And lower
down, as if to exemplify the geology of the North Riding in one spot, a
thick stratum of alum-rock is found, with ironstone, limestone, jet and
coal, and numerous fossil shells. And it illustrates meteorological
phenomena, for, from time immemorial, weatherwise folk have said,
"When Rosebury Topping wears a cap,
Let Cleveland then beware a clap."
More than an hour slipped away while I lounged and loitered, making the
round of the summit again and again, till it seemed that the landscape
had become familiar to me. Then the solitude was broken by the arrival
of strangers, who came scrambling up the hill, encouraging one another,
with cheerful voices. They gained the rocks at last, panting; two
families from Middlesborough, husbands, wives, boys and girls, and a
baby, with plenty to eat and drink in their baskets, come from the murky
town to pass the Sunday on the breezy hill-top. How they enjoyed the
pure air and the wide prospect; and how they wondered to find room for a
camp-meeting on a summit which, from their homes, looked as if it were
only a blunt point! They told me that a trip to Rosebury Topping was an
especial recreation for the people of Middlesborough--a town which, by
the way, is built on a swampy site, where the only redeeming feature is
ready access to a navigable river. I remember what it was before the
houses were built. A drearier spot could not be imagined: one of those
places which, as _Punch_ says, "you want never to hear of, and hope
never to see."
"'Tis frightful to see how fast the graves do grow up in the new
cemetery," said one of the women, whose glad surprise at the contrast
between her home and her holiday could hardly express itself in words.
"It can't be a healthy place to bring up a family in. That's where we
live, is it--down there, under all that smoke? Ah! if we could only come
up here every day!"
Middlesborough, as we can see from far off, is now a large town,
numbering nearly 8000 inhabitants in 1851, and owes its sudden growth to
coal and iron. There the smelting furnaces, roaring night and day,
convert hundreds of tons of the Cleveland hills every week into tons of
marketable iron. The quantity produced in 1856 in the Cleveland district
was 180,000 tons. And there is the terminus of the "Quakers' Railway;" a
dock, of nine acres, where vessels can load at all times of the tide; an
ingenious system of drops for the coal; branch railways running in all
directions; and a great level of fifteen acres, on which three thousand
wagons can stand at once.
I stayed two hours on the hill-top, then taking a direct line down the
steepest side, now sliding, now rolling, very few minutes brought me to
the village of Newton at the foot. With so sudden a change, the heat
below seemed at first overpowering. In the public-house, which scrupled
not to open its door to a traveller, I found half a dozen miners, who
had walked over from a neighbouring village to drink their pint without
molestation. Each recommended a different route whereby the ten miles to
Stockton might be shortened. One insisted on a cut across the fields to
Nunth_ar_p.
My ear caught at the sharp twang of the _ar_--a Yorkshire man would have
said Nunthurp--and turning to the speaker I said, "Surely that's
Berkshire?"
"Ees, 'tis. I comes not fur from Read'n'."
True enough. Tempted by high wages in the north, he had wandered from
the neighbourhood of _Our Village_ up to the iron-diggings of Cleveland.
I took it for granted that, as he earned more than twice as much as he
did at home, he saved in proportion. But no; he didn't know how 'twas;
the money went somehow. Any way he didn't save a fardin' more than he
did in Berkshire. I ventured to reply that there was little good in
earning more if one did not save more, when a tall brawny fellow broke
in with, "Look here, lad. I'd ruther 'arn fifty shillin's a week and
fling 'em right off into that pond there, than 'arn fifteen to keep."
Just the retort that was to be expected under the circumstances. It
embodies a touch of proud sentiment in which we can all participate.
I found the short cut to Nunthorp, struck there the high road, and came
in another hour to Marton--the birthplace of Cook. It is a small
village with a modernised church, and a few noble limes overshadowing
the graves. The house where the circumnavigator was born was little
better than a clay hovel of two rooms. It has long since disappeared;
but the field on which it stood is still called "Cook's Garth." The
parish register contains an entry under the date November 3rd, 1728:
"James, ye son of James Cook, day-labourer, baptized." The name of Mary
Walker, aged 89, appears on one of the stones in the churchyard; she it
was who taught the day-labourer's son to read while he was in her
service, and who has been mistakenly described as Dame Walker the
schoolmistress.
I caught the evening train at Stockton, which travelling up the Durham
side of the Tees--past Yarm, where Havelock's mother was born--past the
"hell kettles" and Dinsdale Spa, where drinking the water turns all the
silver yellow in your pockets--and so to Darlington, where I stayed for
the night.