About Gimmer Hogs--Gearstones--Source of the Ribble--
Weathercote Cave--An Underground Waterfall--A Gem of a Cave--
Jingle Pot--The Silly Ducks--Hurtle Pool--The Boggart--A
Reminiscence of the Doctor--Chapel-le-Dale--Remarkable Scenery
--Ingleborough--Ingleton--Craven--Young Daniel Dove, and Long
Miles--Clapham--Ingleborough Cave--Stalactite and Stalagmite--
Marvellous Spectacle--Pillar Hall--Weird Music--Treacherous
Pools--The Abyss--How Stalactite forms--The Jockey Cap--Cross
Arches--The Long Gallery--The Giant's Hall--Mysterious
Waterfall--A Trouty Beck--The Bar-Parlour--A Bradford Spinner.
On the way hither, I had noticed what was to me a novel mode of
bill-sticking; that is, on the sharp spines of tall thistles by the
wayside. The bills advertised _Gimmer Hogs_ for sale, a species of
animal that I had never before heard of, and I puzzled myself not a
little in guessing what they could be. For although _Gimmer_ is good
honest Danish, signifying a ewe that has not yet lambed, the connexion
between sheep and swine is not obvious to the uninitiated. However, it
happened that I sat down to breakfast with a Scottish grazier who had
arrived soon after daybreak, and he told me that sheep not more than one
year old are called Gimmer Hogs; but why the word hogs should be used to
describe ewes he could not tell.
The morning was dull and drizzly, and by the time I had crossed to
Ingleton Fell, from the North to the West Riding, a swift, horizontal
rain came on, laborious to walk against, and drove me for shelter into
the _Gearstones Inn_. Of the two or three houses hereabouts, one is a
school; and in this wild spot a Wednesday market is held. Ingleborough
is in sight; the hills around form pleasing groups, and had we time to
explore them, we should find many a rocky glen, and curious cave,
Catknot Hole, Alum Pot, Long Churn, and Dicken Pot; and many a sounding
ghyll, as the folk here call it--that is, a waterfall. Not far from the
inn is Gale beck, the source of the Ribble; and as we proceed down the
now continuous descent, so do the features of the landscape grow more
romantic.
For more than an hour did the rain-storm sweep across the hills, holding
me prisoner. At length faint gleams of sunshine broke through; I started
afresh, and three miles farther was treading on classic
ground--Chapel-le-Dale. Turn in at the second gate on the right beyond
the public-house, and you will soon have speech with Mr. Metcalfe, who
keeps the key of Weathercote cave. Standing on a sheltered valley slope,
with a flower-garden in front and trees around, his house presents a
favourable specimen of a yeoman's residence. No lack of comfort here, I
thought, on seeing the plenteous store of oaten bread on the racks in
the kitchen. Nor is there any lack of attention to the visitor's wishes
on the part of Mr. Metcalfe. He unlocks a door, and leads the way down a
steep, rude flight of steps into a rocky chasm, from which ascends the
noise of falling water. A singularly striking scene awaits you. The
rocks are thickly covered in places with ferns and mosses, and are
broken up by crevices into a diversity of forms, rugged as chaos. A few
feet down, and you see a beautiful crystalline spring in a cleft on the
right, and the water turning the moss to stone as it trickles down. A
few feet lower and you pass under a natural bridge formed by huge fallen
blocks. The stair gets rougher, twisting among the big, damp lumps of
limestone, when suddenly your guide points to the fall at the farther
extremity of the chasm. The rocks are black, the place is gloomy,
imparting thereby a surprising effect to the white rushing column of
water. A beck running down the hill finds its way into a crevice in the
cliffs, from which it leaps in one great fall of more than eighty feet,
roaring loudly. Look up! the chasm is so narrow that the trees and
bushes overhang and meet overhead; and what with the subdued light, and
mixture of crags and verdure, and the impressive aspect of the place
altogether, you will be lost in admiration.
To descend lower seems scarcely possible, but you do get down,
scrambling over the big stones to the very bottom, into the swirling
shower of spray. Here a deep recess, or chamber at one side, about eight
feet in height, affords good standing ground, whence you may see that
the water is swallowed up at once, and disappears in the heap of pebbles
on which it falls. Conversation is difficult, for the roar is
overpowering. After I had stood some minutes in contemplation, Mr.
Metcalfe told me that it was possible to get behind the fall and look
through it, taking care to run quickly across the strong blast that
meets you on starting from the recess. I buttoned my overcoat to my
chin, and rushed into the cavity, and looked upwards. I was in a pit 120
feet deep, covered by a tumultuous curtain of water, but had to make a
speedy retreat, so furiously was I enveloped by blinding spray. To make
observations from that spot one should wear a suit of waterproof.
Through the absence of sunshine I lost the sight of the rainbow which is
seen for about two hours in the middle of the day from the front of the
fall. It is a horizontal bow with the convex side towards the water,
shifting its position higher or lower as you mount or descend.
Although it might now be properly described as a pit, the chasm gives
you the impression of a cave of which the roof has fallen in. If this be
so, the fall was once entirely underground, roaring day and night in
grim darkness. It may still be regarded as an underground fall, for the
throat from which it leaps is more than thirty feet below the surface.
In the cleft above this throat a thick heavy slab is fixed in a singular
position, just caught, as it seems, by two of its corners, so that you
fancy it ready to tumble at any moment with the current that shoots so
swiftly beneath it. As you pause often on returning to look back at the
roaring stream, and up to the impending crags, you will heartily confirm
Professor Sedgwick--who by the way is a Yorkshireman--in his opinion,
that if Weathercote Cave be small, it is a very gem. Nor will you grudge
the shilling fee for admission.
The extreme length of the pit is about 180 feet. In rainy weather it
becomes a sink-hole into which the streams pour from all the slopes
around, at times filling it to the brim and running over. Mr. Metcalfe
shewed me the stem of a tree entangled in the crevices near the top,
which had been floated there by the floods of the previous winter. While
coming slowly up, I could not fail to notice the change of temperature,
from the chill damp that made me shiver, to a pleasant warmth, and then
to the heavy heat of a dull day in July.
A little way below the house, going down the narrow dale, you come to
another mossy crevice in the rocks among the trees to which the country
folk have given the name of Gingle, or Jingle Pot, because of a certain
jingling sound produced by stones when thrown therein. To my ear there
was no ring in the sound. It is quite dry, with a bottom sloping steeply
and making a sudden turn to a depth of eighty feet. Mr. Metcalfe had let
himself down into the Pot by a rope, two days before my arrival, to look
for a young cow that had fallen in while on the gad, and disappeared in
the lowest hole. He saw the animal dead, and so tightly wedged in under
the rock, that there he left it. This was his second descent. The first
was made in winter some years ago to rescue his ducks, which, perhaps
deceived by the dark crevice, that looked like a deep narrow pond when
all the ground was white with snow, took all together a sudden flight to
settle on it, and of course went to the bottom. Mr. Metcalfe was driving
them home at the time; he looked over the edge of the Pot, and invited
the silly birds to fly out. But no, they would not be persuaded to use
their wings, and remained crowded together on the highest part of the
slope, stretching their necks upwards. So there was nothing for it but
to fetch them out. Their owner let himself down; yet after all his
trouble the ungrateful creatures refused as long as possible to be put
into the bag.
Farther down again, and you come to Hurtle Pot, a gloomy cavity overhung
by trees, and mantled with ivy, ferns, and coarse weeds. At the bottom
rests a darksome pool, said to be twenty-seven feet deep, which contains
small trout, and swallows up rocks and stones, or whatever may be thrown
into it, without any perceptible diminution of the depth. You can get
down to the edge of the water by an inconvenient path, and feel the
gloom, and find excuses for the rustics who believe in the existence of
the Hurtle Pot Boggart. In olden time his deeds were terrible; but of
late years he only frightens people with noises. Both this and Jingle
Pot are choked with water from subterranean channels in flood time, and
then there is heard here such an intermittent throbbing, gurgling noise,
accompanied by what seem dismal gaspings, that a timorous listener might
easily believe the Boggart was drowning his victims. One evening a
loving couple, walking behind the trees above the Pot, heard most
unearthly noises arise from the murky chasm; never had the like been
heard before. Surely, thought the turtle-doves, the Boggart is coming
forth with some new trick, and they fled in terror. A friend of Mr.
Metcalfe's was playing his flute down on the edge of the pool.
Again farther, and there is the little chapel from which the dale takes
its name. As I have said, we are here on classic ground. That is the
edifice, and this is the place described by Southey. Here dwelt that
worthy yeoman, Daniel Dove's father, and his fathers before him, handing
down their six-and-twenty acres, and better yet, an honest name, from
one to the other through many generations--yea, from time immemorial.
One of those good old families which had ancestors before the Conquest.
Give me leave, good-natured reader, to complete my sketch by the
description as it appears, with masterly touches, in _The Doctor_.
"The little church called Chapel-le-Dale, stands about a bowshot from
the family house. There they had all been carried to the font; there
they had each led his bride to the altar; and thither they had, each in
his turn, been borne upon the shoulders of their friends and neighbours.
Earth to earth they had been consigned there for so many generations,
that half of the soil of the churchyard consisted of their remains. A
hermit who might wish his grave to be as quiet as his cell, could
imagine no fitter resting-place. On three sides there was an irregular
low stone wall, rather to mark the limits of the sacred ground, than to
enclose it; on the fourth it was bounded by the brook, whose waters
proceed by a subterraneous channel from Weathercote Cave. Two or three
alders and rowan-trees hung over the brook, and shed their leaves and
seeds into the stream. Some bushy hazels grew at intervals along the
lines of the wall; and a few ash-trees as the winds had sown them. To
the east and west some fields adjoined it, in that state of half
cultivation which gives a human character to solitude: to the south, on
the other side the brook, the common with its limestone rocks peering
everywhere above ground, extended to the foot of Ingleborough. A craggy
hill, feathered with birch, sheltered it from the north.
"The turf was as soft and fine as that of the adjoining hills; it was
seldom broken, so scanty was the population to which it was
appropriated; scarcely a thistle or a nettle deformed it, and the few
tombstones which had been placed there, were now themselves half buried.
The sheep came over the wall when they listed, and sometimes took
shelter in the porch from the storm. Their voices and the cry of the
kite wheeling above, were the only sounds which were heard there, except
when the single bell which hung in its niche over the entrance tinkled
for service on the Sabbath day, or with a slower tongue gave notice that
one of the children of the soil was returning to the earth from which he
sprung."
Is not that charming?--a word-picture, worthy of a master's pen. One
error, however, has slipped in. There is no porch, nor any sign that one
has ever been. The chapel will hold eighty persons, and is, as Mr.
Metcalfe, informed me, "never too small."
A week or more might be spent in explorations in this neighbourhood.
Five miles down towards Kirkby Lonsdale, there is Thornton Force. Near
it is Yordas Cave--once the haunt of a giant; Gatekirk Cave is distant
about half an hour's walk; Douk Hole is in the neighbourhood of
Ingleton; and in all the region, and over the Westmoreland border, there
is a highly picturesque succession of caves, ravines, glens, and
torrents dashing through rocky chasms, and of all the magnificent
phenomena only to be seen amid the limestone. Many a tourist hurries
past on his way to the Lakes all unmindful of scenery which, in its
kind, surpasses any that he will see between Windermere and
Bassenthwaite.
I went up to the public-house and dined with the haymakers, and enjoyed
the sight of sunburnt rustics eating smoking mutton-pie without stint,
as much as I did my own repast. The host's daughter brought me a book,
which had only recently been provided to receive the names of visitors.
Among them was the autograph of a Russian gentleman who had called
within the week, and who, as I heard, did nothing but grumble at English
customs, yet could not help praising the scenery. He was on foot, and
with knapsack on shoulder. I crossed his track, and heard of him sundry
times afterwards, and hoped to meet him, that I might ask leave to
enlighten him on a few points concerning which he appeared to be
distressingly ignorant.
I had planned to ascend and cross Ingleborough, and drop down upon
Clapham from its southern side; but when a hill is half buried in mist,
and furious scuds fly across its brow, it is best to be content with the
valley. So I took up my route on the main road, and continued down the
dale, where the limestone crags breaking out on each side form a series
of irregular terraces, intermingled green and gray, pleasing to the eye.
In the bottom, on the right, the subterranean river bursts forth which
Goldsmith mentions in his _Natural History_.
The height of Ingleborough is 2361 feet. Its name is supposed to be
derived from _Ingle-burg_--a word which embodies the idea of fire and
fortress. It is a table-mountain, with a top so flat and spacious that
an encampment of more than fifteen acres, of which the traces are still
visible, was established thereon, probably by the Brigantes, if not by
an earlier race. It is a landmark for vessels on the coast of
Lancashire. St. George's Channel is visible from the summit; and one who
has looked on the eastern sea from Flamborough Head may find it
convenient to remember that Yorkshire, on its westernmost extremity, is
but ten miles from the western sea.
In a short hour from Weathercote you come to the end of the fells, an
abrupt descent, all rough with crags and boulders, where the view opens
at once over the district of Craven, and the little town of Ingleton is
seen comfortably nestled under the hill. Craven lies outspread in
beauty--woods, hills, fields, and pastures charming the eye of one who
comes from the untilled moors, and suggestive of delightful rambles in
store. The Ribble flows through it, watering many a romantic cliff and
wooded slope. And for the geologist, Craven possesses especial interest,
for it is intersected by what he calls a 'fault,' on the southern side
of which the limestone strata are thrown down a thousand feet.
I left Ingleton on the right, and turned off at the cross-roads for
Clapham, distant four miles. Here, as in other parts of my travel, the
miles seemed long--quite as long as they were found to be years ago. We
are told that when young Daniel Dove walked dutifully every day to
school, "the distance was in those days called two miles; but miles of
such long measure that they were for him a good hour's walk at a
cheerful pace." On the way from Mickle Fell to Brough I met with a more
unkindly experience; and that was an hour's walking for a single mile.
The road undulating along the hill-side commands pleasing views, and for
one on foot is to be preferred to the new road, which winds among the
fields below. And with a brightening evening we come to Clapham--a
cheerful, pretty village, adorned with flowers, and climbers, and
smooth grass plots, embowered by trees, and watered by a merry brook,
lying open to the sun on the roots of Ingleborough. Looking about for an
inn, I saw the _Bull and Cave_, and secured quarters there by leaving my
knapsack, and set out to seek for the guide, whom I found chatting with
a group of loungers on the bridge. Bull and Cave seemed to me such an
odd coupling, that I fancied cave must be a Yorkshire way of spelling
calf; but it really means that which it purports, and the two words are
yoked together in order that visitors, who are numerous, may be easily
attracted.
Here in Clapdale--a dale which penetrates the slopes of Ingleborough--is
the famous Ingleborough Cave, the deepest and most remarkable of all the
caves hitherto discovered in the honeycombed flanks of that remarkable
hill. Intending to see this, I left unvisited the other caves which have
been mentioned as lying to the right and left of the road as you come
down from _Gearstones_.
The fee for a single person to see the cave is half-a-crown; for a party
of eight or ten a shilling each. The guide, who is an old soldier, and a
good specimen of the class, civil and intelligent, called at his house
as we passed to get candles, and presently we were clear of the village,
and walking up-hill along a narrow lane. Below us on the right lay
cultivated grounds and well-kept plantations, through which, as the old
man told me, visitors were once allowed to walk on their way to the
cave--a pleasing and much less toilsome way than the lane; but the
remains of picnics left on the grass, broken bottles, orange-peels,
greasy paper and wisps of hay, became such a serious abuse of the
privilege, that Mr. Farrer, the proprietor, withdrew his permission.
"It's a wonder to me," said the guide, "that people shouldn't know how
to behave themselves."
In about half an hour we came to a hollow between two grassy
acclivities, out of which runs a rapid beck, and here on the left, in a
limestone cliff prettily screened by trees, is the entrance to the cave,
a low, wide arch that narrows as it recedes into the gloom. We walked in
a few yards; the guide lit two candles, placed one in my hand and
unlocked the iron gate, which, very properly, keeps out the perpetrators
of wanton mischief. A few paces take us beyond the last gleam of
daylight, and we are in a narrow passage, of which the sides and roof
are covered with a brown incrustation resembling gigantic clusters of
petrified moss. Curious mushroom-like growths hang from the roof, and
throwing his light on these, the guide says we are passing through the
Inverted Forest. So it continues, the roof still low, for eighty yards,
comprising the Old Cave, which has been known for ages; and we come to a
narrow passage hewn through a thick screen of stalagmite. It was opened
twenty years ago by Mr. Farrer's gardener, who laboured at the barrier
until it was breached, and a new cavern of marvellous formation was
discovered beyond. An involuntary exclamation broke from me as I entered
and beheld what might have been taken for a glittering fairy palace. On
each side, sloping gently upwards till they met the roof, great bulging
masses of stalagmite of snowy whiteness lay outspread, mound after mound
glittering as with millions of diamonds. For the convenience of
explorers, the passage between them has been widened and levelled as far
as possible, wherein the beck that we saw outside finds a channel after
unusual rains. You walk along this passage now on sand, now on pebbles,
now bare rock. All the great white masses are damp; their surfaces are
rough with countless crystallized convolutions and minute ripples,
between which trickle here and there tiny threads of water. It is to the
moisture that the unsullied whiteness is due, and the glistening effect;
for wherever stalactite or stalagmite becomes dry, the colour changes to
brown, as we saw in the Old Cave. A strange illusion came over me as I
paced slowly past the undulating ranges, and for a moment they seemed to
represent the great rounded snow-fields that whiten the sides of the
Alps.
The cavern widens: we are in the Pillar Hall; stalactites of all
dimensions hang from the roof, singly and in groups. Thousands are mere
nipples, or an inch or two in length; many are two or three feet; and
the whole place resounds with the drip and tinkle of water. Stalagmites
dot the floor, and while some have grown upwards the stalactites have
grown downwards, until the ends meet, and the ceaseless trickle of water
fashions an unbroken crystal pillar. Some stalactites assume a spiral
twist; and where a long thin fissure occurs in the roof they take the
form of draperies, curtains, and wings--wings shaped like those of
angels. The guide strikes one of the wings with a small mallet, and it
gives out a rich musical note; another has the deep sonorous boom of a
cathedral bell, another rings sharp and shrill, and a row of stalactitic
sheets answers when touched with a gamut of notes. Your imagination
grows restless while you listen to such strange music deep in the heart
of a mountain.
And there are pools on the floor, and in raised basins at the
side--pools of water so limpid as to be treacherous, for in the
uncertain light all appears to be solid rock. I stepped knee deep into
one, mistaking it for an even floor. Well for me it was not the Abyss
which yawns at the end of Pillar Hall. The guide, to show the effect of
light reflected on the water, crawls up to the end of one of the basins
with the two candles in his hand, while you standing in the gloom at the
other end, observe the smooth brilliant surface, and the brightness that
flashes from every prominence of roof or wall.
Although geologists explain the process of formation, there is yet much
food for wonder in remembering that all these various objects were
formed by running water. The water, finding its way through fissures in
the mighty bed of limestone overhead, hangs in drops, one drop pushes
another off, but not idly; for while the current of air blowing through
carries off their carbonic acid, they give up the salt of lime gathered
during percolation, and form small stony tubes. And these tubes, the
same cause continuing to operate, grow in course of ages to magnificent
stalactites; and where thin, broad streams have appeared, there the
draperies and wings and the great snow-fields have been fashioned. The
incrustation spreads even over some of the pools: the film of water
flowing in deposits its solid contents on the margin, and these,
crystallizing and accumulating, advance upon the surface, as ice forms
from the edge towards the centre of a pond, and in time bridge it over
with a translucent sheet.
Among the stalagmites are a few of beehive shape; but there is one named
the Jockey Cap, an extraordinary specimen for bigness. Its base has a
circumference of ten feet, its height is two feet, all produced by a
succession of drops from one single point. Advantage has been taken of
this circumstance to measure the rate of its growth. Mr. Farrer
collected a pint of drops, and ascertained the fall to be one hundred
pints a day, each pint containing one grain of calcareous matter; and
from this daily supply of a hundred grains the Jockey Cap was built up
to its present dimensions in two hundred and fifty-nine years. In six
years, from 1845 to 1851, the diameter increased by two, and the height
by three inches. Probably owing to the morning's rain, the drops fell
rapidly while I stood looking at the cap--splash--splash--splash--into a
small saucer-like depression in the middle of the crown, from which with
ceaseless overflow the water bathes the entire mass. Around it is the
most drippy part of the cave.
In places there are sudden breaks in the roof at right angles to the
passage--cracks produced by the cooling of this great limestone bubble
in the primeval days--which look as if Nature had begun to form a series
of cross aisles, and then held her hand. Some of these are nests of
stalactites; one exhibits architectural forms adorned with beads and
mouldings as if sculptured in purest marble. The farther you penetrate
the loftier do they become; impressing you with the idea that they are
but the ante-chambers of some majestic temple farther within. The Abyss
appears to be a similar arch reversed in the floor.
Then we came to a bend where the roof rushing down appears to bar all
further advance, but the guide puts a thing into your hand which you
might take to be a scrubbing-brush, and telling you to stoop, creeps
into a low opening between the rising floor and descending roof, and you
discover that the scrubbing-brush is a paddle to enable you to walk on
three legs while crouching down. It keeps your right hand from the
slippery rock; and your left has always enough to do in holding the
candle. The creeping continues but for a few yards, and you emerge into
one of the cross vaults, and again sand and pebbles form the floor. Then
comes the Cellar Gallery, a long tunnel-like passage, the sides
perpendicular, the roof arched, which, like all the rest, has been
shaped by currents of water, aided in this case by the grinding action
of sand and pebbles. Continuing through thousands of years, the result
is as we behold it. The tunnel appears the more gloomy from the absence
of ornament: no stalactites, no wings, reflect the dim candle-flame; for
which reason, as well as to avoid the creeping, many visitors refuse to
advance beyond the entrance of the Long Gallery. But the tunnel leads
you into the Giant's Hall, where stalactites and draperies again meet
your eye, and where your light is all too feeble to illumine the lofty
roof. And here is the end, 2106 feet from the entrance--nearly half a
mile. From the time that the gardener broke through the barrier in the
Old Cave, two years were spent in gradual advances till the Giant's Hall
was reached. The adventurous explorers endeavoured to get farther, for
two small holes were discovered leading downwards from one side of the
Hall to a lower cave, through which arose the sound of falling water.
They braved the danger, and let themselves down to a level, where they
were stopped by a deep pool--the receiver of the fall. It must have
looked fearfully dismal. Yet might there not be caverns still more
wonderful beyond? Fixing a candle to his cap and with a rope round his
body, Mr. James Farrer swam across the murky lake, and found it closed
in by what appeared to be an impassable wall of limestone--the heart of
Ingleborough. It was a courageous adventure.
I stretched out my candle and peered down the two holes. One is dry and
sandy, the other slimy with a constant drip. I heard the noise of the
fall, the voice of the water plunging for ever, night and day, in deep
darkness. It seemed awful. A current of air blows forth continually,
whereby the cave is ventilated throughout its entire length, and the
visitor, safe from stagnant damps and stifling vapours, breathes freely
in a pure atmosphere.
I walked once more from end to end of the Hall; and we retraced our
steps. In the first cross aisle the guide made me aware of an echo which
came back to the ear as a hollow moan. We crept through into Pillar
Hall, and I could not help lingering once more to admire the brilliant
and delicate incrustations, and to scramble between or over the great
stalagmitic barriers to see what was in the rear. Here and there I saw a
mass resembling a font, filled with water of exquisite purity, or raised
oval or oblong basins representing alabaster baths, wherein none but
vestal virgins might enter.
Except that the path has been levelled and widened, and openings
enlarged, and planks laid in one place to facilitate access to a change
of level, the cave remains as when first discovered. Mr. Farrer's
precautions against mischief have prevented that pillage of the interior
so much to be deplored in other caves of this region, where the
first-comers made prize of all the ornaments within reach, and left
little but bare walls for those who follow. Yet even here some of the
smaller stalactites, the size of a finger, have been missed after a
party has gone through; and once a man struck a group of stalactites and
broke more than a foot off the longest, in sheer wantonness, as it
seemed, for the fragment was too heavy to carry away. And there the
mutilation remains, a lasting reproach to a fool.
My candle burnt out, and the other flickered near its end, but the old
man had two halves which he lit, and these more than sufficed for our
return. The red light of sunset was streaming into the entrance when we
came forth after a sojourn of nearly two hours in the bowels of the
mountain. The guide had been very indulgent with me; for most visitors
stay but an hour. Those who merely wish to walk through, content with a
hasty glance, will find little to impede their movements. There is
nothing, indeed, which need deter a woman, only she must leave her hoop
at home, wear thick boots, and make provision for looping-up her skirts.
Many an English maiden would then enjoy a visit to Ingleborough Cave.
The beck flows out from under the cliff a few yards above the entrance
through a broad low vault. I crept in for some distance, and it seemed
to me that access to the cave might be gained by wading up the stream.
Then as we went down the hill, the old soldier thought that as there
were but two of us, we might venture to walk through the grounds, where
we saw the lake, the bridge, and the cascade, on our way to the village.
Delicious trout from the neighbouring brook, and most excellent beer,
awaited me for supper, and made me well content with the _Bull and
Cave_. Afterwards I joined the party in the little bar-parlour, where
among a variety of topics, the mountain was talked about. The landlord,
a hale old fellow of sixty, said that he had never once been on the
summit, though he had lived all his life at the base. A rustic, though a
two years' resident in Clapham, had not been up, and for a reason: "You
see," he said, "if a man gets on a high place, he isn't satisfied then;
he wants to get higher. So I thinks best to content myself down here."
Then spoke another of the party, a man well dressed, in praise of rural
quiet, and the enjoyment of fresh air, contrasting the tranquillity of
Clapham at that hour with the noise and confusion at Bradford, where the
streets would be thronged till after midnight. He was an 'operative'
from Bradford, come as was his wont, to spend Sunday in the country. He
grew eloquent on the subject of masters and men, averring that masters,
as a body, would never do anything for the benefit of workmen unless
compelled thereto by act of Parliament. Well might he say so. Would the
mills be ventilated; would dangerous machinery be boxed off; would
schools have been interposed between children and slavery, had
Parliament not interfered? The number of Yorkshire factory children at
school on the last day of October, 1857, was 18,000, from eight to
thirteen years of age. On this latter particular our spinner could not
say enough in praise of the House of Commons: there was a chance for the
bairns now that the law punished the masters who did not allow time for
school as well as for work. "It's one of the grandest things," he said,
"Parliament ever did for the factory hands."
He had too much reason to speak as he did; but we must not suppose that
the great millowners are worse than other masters. Owing to the large
numbers they employ, the evils complained of appear in a violent and
concentrated form; but we have only to look at the way in which
apprentices and domestic servants are treated everywhere, especially in
large towns (with comparatively few exceptions,) to become aware that a
want of fair-play is by far too prevalent. No wonder that Dr.
Livingstone finds reason to say we are not model Christians.