By Rail to Skipton--A Stony Town--Church and Castle--The
Cliffords--Wharfedale--Bolton Abbey--Picturesque Ruins--A
Foot-Bath--Scraps from Wordsworth--Bolton Park--The Strid--
Barden Tower--The Wharfe--The Shepherd Lord--Reading to
Grandfather--A Cup of Tea--Cheerful Hospitality--Trout Fishing
--Gale Beck--Symon Seat--A Real Entertainer--Burnsall--A Drink
of Porter--Immoralities--Threshfield--Kilnsey--The Crag--
Kettlewell--A Primitive Village--Great Whernside--Starbottom--
Buckden--Last View of Wharfedale--Cray--Bishopdale--A Pleasant
Lane--Bolton Castle--Penhill--Aysgarth--Dead Pastimes--Decrease
of Quakers--Failure of a Mission--Why and Wherefore--Aysgarth
Force--Drunken Barnaby--Inroad of Fashion.
The railway station at Clapham, as well as others along the line, is
built in the old timbered style, and harmonizes well with the landscape.
A railway hotel stands close by, invitingly open to guests who dislike
the walk of a mile to the village; and the landlord, as I was told,
multiplies his profits by renting the Cave.
A short flight by the first train took me to breakfast at Skipton, all
through the pretty country of Craven, of which the town is the capital.
The houses are built of stone taken from the neighbouring hills. The
bells were just beginning their chimes as I passed the church, and,
seeing the door open, I went in and looked at the stained glass and old
monuments, the shields and sculptures which commemorate the
Cliffords--Lords of the Honour of Skipton--the Lady Ellinor, of the
house of Brandon; the Earls of Cumberland, one of whom was Queen
Elizabeth's champion against the Spaniard, as well as in tilt and
tournament.
The castle, which has played a conspicuous part in history, stands
beside the church, and there, over the gateway, you may still see the
shield bearing two griffins, and the motto #Desormais#. Within, you view
the massive, low, round towers from a pleasant garden, where but few
signs of antiquity are to be seen; for modern restorations have masked
the old grim features. Here dwelt the Cliffords, a proud and mighty
family, who made a noise in the world, in their day. Among them was Lord
John, or Black Clifford, who did butcher-work at the battle of
Wakefield, and was repaid the year after at Towton. In the first year of
Edward IV. the estates were forfeited because of high treason, and
Henry, the tenth Lord of the Honour of Skipton, to escape the ill
consequence of his father's disloyalty, was concealed for twenty-five
years among the shepherds of Cumberland. Another of the line was that
imperial-minded Countess, the Lady Anne Clifford, who, when she repaired
her castle of Skipton, made it known by an inscription in the same terms
as that set up on her castle at Brough, and with the same passage of
Scripture. Now it is a private residence; and the ancient tapestries and
pictures, and other curiosities which are still preserved, can only be
seen after due pains taken by the inquiring visitor.
The life of the Shepherd Lord, as he was called, is a touching episode
in the history of the Cliffords; heightened by the marked contrast
between the father and son--the one warlike and revengeful, the other
gentle and forgiving. We shall come again on the traces of the pastoral
chief ere the day be over.
There is a long stretch of the old castle wall on the left as you go up
the road towards Knaresborough. From the top of the hill, looking back
about a mile and a half distant, you get a pleasing view of Skipton,
lying in its cheerful green valley; and presently, in the other
direction, you see the hills of Wharfedale. Everywhere the grass is
waving, or, newly-mown, fills all the air with delightful odour. I
walked slowly, for the day was hot--one of the hottest of that fervid
July--and took till noon to accomplish the seven miles to Bolton Abbey.
The number of vehicles drawn up at the _Devonshire Arms_--a good inn
about two furlongs from the ruin--and the numerous visitors, betokened
something unusually attractive.
Since Landseer painted his picture, Bolton Abbey has become a household
word. It seems familiar to us beforehand. We picture it to our minds;
and your imagination must be extravagant indeed if the picture be not
realized. It is a charming scene that opens as you turn out of the road
and descend the grassy slope: the abbey standing, proud and beautiful
in decay, in a green meadow, where stately trees adorn the gentle
undulations; the Wharfe rippling cheerfully past, coming forth from
wooded hills above, going away between wooded hills below, alike
"With mazy error under pendent shades;"
the bold perpendicular cliff opposite, all purple and gray, crowned and
flanked with hanging wood; the cascade rushing down in a narrow line of
foam; the big mossy stones that line the bank, and the stony islets in
the bed of the stream; and, looking up the dale, the great sweeps of
wood in Bolton Park, terminated by the wild heights of Symon Seat and
Barden Fell. All around you see encircling woods, and combinations of
rock, and wood, and water, that inspire delightful emotions.
But you will turn again and again to the abbey to gaze on its tall
arches, the great empty window, the crumbling walls, over which hang
rich masses of ivy, and walking slowly round you will discover the
points whence the ruins appear most picturesque. And within, where
elder-trees grow, and the carved tombstones of the old abbots lie on the
turf, you may still see where the monks sat in the sanctuary, and where
they poured the holy water. And whether from within or without, you will
survey with reverent admiration. A part of the nave is used as a church
for the neighbourhood, and ere I left, the country folk came from all
the paths around, summoned by the pealing bell. I looked in and saw
richly stained windows and old tombs.
On the rise above the abbey stands a castellated lodge, embodying the
ancient gate-house, an occasional resort of the late Duke of Devonshire,
to whom the estate belonged. Of all his possessions this perhaps offered
him most of beauty and tranquillity.
You may ramble at will; cross the long row of stepping-stones to the
opposite bank, and scramble through the wood to the top of the cliff; or
roam over the meadows up and down the river, or lounge in idle enjoyment
on the seats fixed under some of the trees. After strolling hither and
thither, I concealed myself under the branches overhanging the stream,
and sat there as in a bower, with my feet in the shallow water, the
lively flashing current broad before me, and read,
"From Bolton's old monastic tower
The bells ring loud with gladsome power;
The sun shines bright; the fields are gay
With people in their best array
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,
Along the banks of crystal Wharfe,
Through the Vale retired and lowly,
Trooping to that summons holy.
And, up among the moorlands, see
What sprinklings of blithe company!"
And while I read, the bell was ringing, and the people were gathering
together, and anon the priest
"all tranquilly
Recites the holy liturgy,"
but no White Doe of Rylstone came gliding down to pace timidly among the
tombs, and make her couch on a solitary grave.
And reading there on the scene itself, I found a new charm in the
pages--a vivid life in the old events and old names:
"Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;
And through the chink in the fractured floor
Look down, and see a grisly sight;
A vault where the bodies are buried upright!
There, face by face, and hand by hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand;
And, in his place, among son and sire,
Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire,
A valiant man, and a name of dread
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red;
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury church,
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch!
Look down among them, if you dare;
Oft does the White Doe loiter there."
And here, as at Skipton, we are reminded of the Cliffords, and of the
Shepherd Lord, to whom appeared at times the gracious fairy,
"And taught him signs, and showed him sights,
In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian heights;
When under a cloud of fear he lay,
A shepherd clad in homely gray."
I left my mossy seat and returned to the bank, thoroughly cooled, on
coming to the end of the poem, and started for a travel up the dale. The
road skirts the edge of Bolton Park; but the pleasantest way is through
the park itself, for there you have grand wooded slopes on each side,
and there the river rushing along its limestone bed encounters the
far-famed Strid. A rustic, however, told me that no one was allowed to
cross the park on Sunday; but having come to see a sight, I did not like
to be disappointed, and thought it best to test the question myself. I
kept on, therefore, passing from the open grounds to delightful paths
under the woods, bending hither and thither, and with many a rise and
fall among rocks and trees. Presently, guided by the roar, I struck
through the wood for the stony margin of the river. Here all is rock:
great hummocks, ledges and tables of rock, wherein are deep basins,
gullies, bays, and shallow pools; and the water makes a loud noise as it
struggles past. Here and there a rugged cliff appears, its base buried
in underwood, its front hung with ivy; and there are marks on the trees,
and portentous signs on the drifted boulders, which reveal the swollen
height of floods. There are times when all these Yorkshire rivers become
impetuous torrents, roaring along in resistless might and majesty.
A little farther and the rocks form a dam, leaving but a narrow opening
in the centre, across which a man may stride, for the passage of the
stream--and we behold the Strid. Piling itself up against the barrier,
the water rushes through, deep, swift and ungovernable, and boils and
eddies below with never-ceasing tumult. The rock on each side of the
sluice is worn smooth by the feet of many who have stridden across,
caring nothing for the tales that are told of terrible accidents from a
slip of the foot or from giddiness. Once a young lady, fascinated by the
rapid current, fell in and was drowned in sight of her friends. And
"----mounting high
To days of dim antiquity;
When Lady Aaliza mourned
Her son, and felt in her despair
The pang of unavailing prayer;
Her son in Wharfe's abysses drowned,
The noble Boy of Egremound.
From which affliction--when the grace
Of God had in her heart found place--
A pious structure, fair to see,
Rose up, the stately Priory!"
For about a mile upwards the river-bed is still rocky, and you see many
a pretty effect of rushing water, and perhaps half a dozen strids, but
not one with only a single sluice, as the first. No one stopped or
turned me back; no peremptory shout threatened me from afar; and truly
the river is so shut in by woods, that intruders could only be seen by
an eye somewhere on its brink. Not a soul did I meet, except three
countrymen, who, when I came suddenly upon them on doubling a crag,
seemed ready to take to flight, for instead of coming the beaten way to
view the romantic, they had got over the fence, and scrambled down
through the wood. They soon perceived that I was very harmless.
A little farther and we leave the rocks; the woods recede and give place
to broad grassy slopes; high up on the right stands the keeper's house;
higher on the left the old square block of Barden Tower peeps above the
trees; before us a bridge spans the river, and there we pass into the
road which leads through the village of Barden to Pateley Bridge and
Nidderdale.
The Wharfe has its source in the bleak moorlands which we saw flanking
Cam Fell during our descent from Counterside a few days ago. Rocks and
cliffs of various formations beset all its upper course, imparting a
different character to the dale every few leagues--savage, romantic,
picturesque, and beautiful. No more beautiful scenery is to be found
along the river than for some miles above and below Bolton Abbey. Five
miles farther down, the stream flows past those two delightful inland
watering-places, Ilkley and Ben Rhydding, and onwards between thick
woods and broad meadows to Wetherby, below which it is again narrowed by
cliffs, until leaving Tadcaster, rich in memories of Rome, it enters the
Ouse between Selby and York.
The sight of Barden Tower reminds us once more of the Shepherd Lord, for
there he oft did sojourn, enjoying rural scenes and philosophical
studies, even after his restoration to rank and estate in his
thirty-second year.
"I wish I could have heard thy long-tried lore,
Thou virtuous Lord of Skipton! Thou couldst well
From sage Experience, that best teacher, tell
How far within the Shepherd's humble door
Lives the sure happiness, that on the floor
Of gay Baronial Halls disdains to dwell,
Though decked with many a feast, and many a spell
Of gorgeous rhyme, and echoing with the roar
Of Pleasure, clamorous round the full-crowned bowl!
Thou hadst (and who had doubted thee?) exprest
What empty baubles are the ermined stole,
Proud coronet, rich walls with tapestry drest,
And music lulling the sick frame to rest!
Bliss only haunts the pure contented soul!"
But the blood of his ancestors flowed in his veins, and on the royal
summons to arm and array for Flodden, he, at the age of sixty, led his
retainers to the field:
"From Penigent to Pendle Hill,
From Linton to Long Addingham,
And all that Craven coasts did till,
They with the lusty Clifford came."
I crossed the bridge and went up the hill for a view of the ruin. At the
top, a broken slope, sprinkled with trees, serves as village green to
the few houses which constitute the place known as Barden Tower. Near
one of these houses I saw a pretty sight--a youth sitting on a bench
under a shady tree reading to his old grandfather from one of those
venerable folios written by divines whose head and heart were alike full
of their subject--the ways of God towards man, and man's duty. Wishing
to make an inquiry concerning the road, I apologized for my
interruption, when both graybeard and lad made room for me between them
on the bench, and proffered all they knew of information. But it soon
appeared that the particulars I wanted could only be furnished by
"uncle, who was up-stairs a-cleaning himself;" so to improve the time
until he was ready I passed round the end of the house to the Tower in
the rear. The old gateway remains, and some of the ancient timbers; but
the upper chambers are now used as lofts for firewood, and the
ground-floor is a cow-stall. The external walls are comparatively but
little decayed, and appear in places as strong as when they sheltered
the Cliffords.
Uncle was there when I returned to the front. He knew the country well,
for in his vocation as a butcher he travelled it every week, and enabled
me to decide between Kettlewell and Pateley Bridge for my coming route.
And more, he said he would like to walk a mile or two with me; he would
put on his coat, and soon overtake me. I walked slowly on, and was out
of sight of the house, when he came running after me, and cried, "Hey!
come back. A cup o' tea 'll do neither of us any harm, so come back and
have a cup afore we start."
I went back, for such hospitality as that was not to be slighted; and
while we sipped he talked about the pretty scenery, about the rooms
which he had to let, and the lodgers he had entertained. Sometimes there
came a young couple full of poetry and sentiment, too much so, indeed,
to be merry; sometimes a student, who liked to prowl about the ruin,
explore all its secrets, and wander out to where
"High on a point of rugged ground,
Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell,
Above the loftiest ridge or mound
Where foresters or shepherds dwell,
An edifice of warlike frame
Stands single--Norton tower its name--
It fronts all quarters, and looks round
O'er path and road, and plain and dell,
Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream,
Upon a prospect without bound."
And he talked, too, about the trout in the river, and the anglers who
came to catch them. But the fishing is not unrestricted; leave must be
obtained, and a fee paid. Anyone in search of trout or the picturesque,
who can content himself with rustic quarters, would find in Mr.
Williamson, of Barden Tower, a willing adviser.
Presently we took the road, which, with the river on the right, runs
along the hill-side, sheltered by woods, high above the stream. A few
minutes brought us to a gate, where we got over, and went a little way
down the slope to look at Gale beck, a pretty cascade tumbling into a
little dell, delightfully cool, and green with trees, ferns, and mosses.
My companion showed that he used his eyes while driving about in his
cart, and picked out the choice bits of the scenery; and these he now
pointed out to me with all the pride of one who had a personal interest
in their reputation. Ere long we emerged from the trees, and could
overlook the pleasing features of the dale; fields and meadows on each
side of the stream, bounded by steep hills, and crags peeping out from
the great dark slopes of firs. The rocky summit of Symon Seat appeared
above a brow on the left bank, coming more and more into view as we
advanced, till the great hill itself was unveiled. From those rocks, on
a clear day, you can see Rosebury Topping, and the towers of York and
Ripon.
For four miles did my entertainer accompany me, which, considering the
fierce heat of the evening, I could only regard as an honest
manifestation of friendliness--to me very gratifying. We parted in sight
of Burnsall, a village situate on the fork of the river, where the
Littondale branch joins that of Wharfedale proper.
A man who sat reading at his door near the farther end of the village
looked up as I passed, and asked, "Will ye have a drink o' porter?" Hot
weather justified acceptance; he invited me to sit while he went to the
barrel, and when he came forth with the foaming jug, he, too, must have
a talk. But his talk was not what I expected--the simple words of a
simple-minded rustic; he craved to know something, and more than was
good, concerning a certain class of publications sold in
Holywell-street; things long ago condemned by the moral law, and now
very properly brought under the lash of the legal law by Lord Campbell.
Having no mission to be a scavenger, I advised him not to meddle with
pitch; but he already knew too much, and he mentioned things which help
to explain the great demand for the immoral books out of the metropolis.
One was, that in a small northern, innocent-looking country town, Adam
and Eve balls regularly take place, open to all comers who can pay for
admission.
From Burnsall onwards we have again the grass country, the landscape
loses the softened character of that in our rear; we follow a bad
cross-road for some miles, passing wide apart a solitary farm or
cottage, and come into a high-road a little to the right of Threshfield.
Here and there a group of labourers are lounging on a grassy bank,
smoking, talking quietly, and enjoying the sunset coolness; and I had
more than one invitation to tarry and take a friendly pipe.
Louder sounds the noise of the river as the evening lengthens; the dark
patches of firs on the hill-sides grow darker; the rocks and cliffs look
strange and uncertain; the road approaches a foaming rapid, where
another strid makes the water roar impatiently; and so I completed the
ten miles from Harden Tower, and came in deep twilight to the _Anglers'
Inn_ at Kilnsey as the good folk were preparing for bed.
As its name denotes, the house is frequented by anglers, who, after
paying a fee of half-a-crown a day, find exercise for their skill in the
rippling shallows and silent pools of the river which flows past not
many yards from the road. I am told that the sport is but indifferent.
A short distance beyond the inn there rises sheer from the road a grand
limestone cliff, before which you will be tempted to pause. A low grassy
slope, bordered by a narrow brook, forms a natural plinth; small trees
and ivy grow from the fissures high overhead, and large trees and bush
on the ledges; the colony of swallows that inhabit the holes flit
swiftly about the crest, and what with the contrast of verdure and
rock, and the magnitude of the cliff, your eye is alike impressed and
gratified. By taking a little trouble you may get to the top, and while
looking on the scene beneath, let your thoughts run back to the time
when Wharfedale was a loch, such as Loch Long or Loch Fyne, into which
the tides of the sea flowed twice a day, beating against the base of the
Kilnsey Crag, where now sheep graze, and men pass to and fro on business
or pleasure.
To take my start the next morning from so lofty a headland: to feel new
life thrill through every limb from the early sun; to drink of the
spring which the cliff overshadows where it gushes forth among mossy
stones at the root of an ash; to inhale the glorious breeze that
tempered the heat, was a delightful beginning of a day's walk. Soon we
cross to the left bank of Wharfe, and follow the road between the river
and a cliffy range of rocks to Kettlewell, enjoying pleasing views all
the way. And the village itself seems a picture of an earlier age--a
street of little stone cottages, backed by gardens and orchards; here
and there a queer little shop; the shoemaker sitting with doors and
windows open looking out on his flowers every time he lifts his eyes;
the smith, who has opened all his shutters to admit the breeze,
hammering leisurely, as if half inclined for a holiday with such a
wealth of sunshine pouring down; and _Nancy Hardaker, Grocer and
Draper_, and dealer in everything besides, busying herself behind her
little panes with little preparations for customers. It is a simple
picture: one that makes you believe the honest outward aspect is only
the expression of honesty within.
For one who had time to explore the neighbourhood, Kettlewell would be
good head-quarters. It has two inns, and a shabby tenement inscribed
_Temperance Hotel_. Hence you may penetrate to the wild fells at the
head of the dale; or climb to the top of Great Whernside; or ramble over
the shoulder of the great mountain into Coverdale, discovering many a
rocky nook, and many a little cascade and flashing rill. Great
Whernside, 2263 feet high, commands views into many dales, and affords
you a glimpse of far-off hills which we have already climbed. The Great
one has a brother named Little Whernside, because he is not so high by
nearly three hundred feet. The "limestone pass" between Great Whernside
and Buckden Pike is described as a grand bit of mountain scenery.
From Kettlewell the road still ascends the dale, in sight of the river
which now narrows to the dimensions of a brook. Crags and cliffs still
break out of the hill-slopes, and more than any other that we have
visited, you see that Wharfedale is characterized by scars and cliffs.
The changing aspect of the scenery is manifest; the grass is less
luxuriant than lower down, and but few of the fields are mown.
Starbottom, a little place of rude stone houses, with porches that
resemble an outer stair, reminds us once more of a mountain village; but
it has trim flower-gardens, and fruit-trees, and a fringe of sycamores.
I came to Buckden, the next village, just in time to dine with the
haymakers. Right good fare was provided--roast mutton, salad, and rice
pudding. Who would not be a hay-maker! Beyond the village the road turns
away from the river, and mounts a steep hill, where, from the top of the
bend, we get our last look down Wharfedale, upwards along
Langstrothdale, and across the elevated moorlands which enclose
Penyghent. Everywhere the gray masses of stone encroach on the waving
grass. Still the road mounts, and steeply; on the left, in a field, are
a few small enclosures, all standing, which, perhaps, represent the
British dwellings at the foot of Addleborough. Still up, through the
hamlet of Cray, with rills, rocks, and waterfalls on the right and left,
and then the crown of the pass, and a wide ridgy hollow, flanked by
cliffs, the outliers of Buckden Pike, which rears itself aloft on the
right. Then two or three miles of this breezy expanse, between Stake
Fell on one side and Wasset Fell on the other, and we come to the top of
Kidstone bank, and suddenly Bishopdale opens before us, a lovely sylvan
landscape melting away into Wensleydale. It will tempt you to lie down
for half an hour on the soft turf and enjoy the prospect at leisure.
The descent is alike rough and steep, bringing you rapidly down to the
first farm. A cliff on the right gradually merges into the rounded swell
of a green hill; we come to a plantation where, in the open places by
the beck, grow wild strawberries; then to trees on one side--ash, holly,
beech, and larch, the stems embraced by ivy, and thorns and wild roses
between; then trees on both sides, and the narrow track is beautiful as
a Berkshire lane--and that is saying a great deal--and the brook which
accompanies it makes a cheerful sound as if gladdened by the quivering
sunbeams that fall upon it. Everywhere the haymakers are at work, and
with merry hearts, for the wind blows lustily and makes the whole dale
vocal.
By-and-by the lane sends off branches, all alike pretty, one of which
brings us down into the lowest meadows, and on the descent we get
glimpses of Bolton Castle, and on the right appears Penhill, shouldering
forward like a great promontory. A relic of antiquity may yet be seen on
its slopes--obscure remains of a Preceptory of the Knights Templars. The
watcher on Penhill was one of those who helped to spread the alarm of
invasion in the days of Napoleon the Great, for he mistook a fire on the
eastern hills for the beacon on Rosebury Topping, and so set his own
a-blaze. We come to Thoralby, a village of comfortable signs within, and
pleasant prospects without; and now Wensleydale opens, and another
half-hour brings us to Aysgarth, a large village four miles below
Bainbridge.
A tall maypole stands on the green, the only one I remember to have seen
in Yorkshire. It is a memorial of the sports and pastimes for which
Wensleydale was famous. The annual feasts and fairs would attract
visitors from twenty miles around. Here, at Aysgarth, not the least
popular part of the amusements were the races, run by men stark naked,
as people not more than forty years old can well remember. But times are
changed; and throughout the dale drunkenness and revelry are giving way
to teetotalism, lectures, tea-gatherings, and other moral recreations.
And the change is noticeable in another particular: the Quakers, who
were once numerous in the dale, have disappeared too.
Some two or three years ago a notion prevailed in a certain quarter that
the time was ripe for making proselytes, and establishing a meeting once
more at Aysgarth. The old meeting-house, the school-room, and
dwelling-house, remained; why should they not be restored to their
original uses? Was it not "about Wensleydale" that George Fox saw "a
great people in white raiment by a river-side?" Did he not, while on his
journey up the dale, go into the "steeple-house" and "largely and freely
declare the word of life, and have not much persecution," and afterwards
was locked into a parlour as "a young man that was mad, and had run away
from his relations?" From certain indications it seemed that a
successful effort might be made; an earnest and active member of the
society volunteered to remove with his family from London into Yorkshire
to carry out the experiment; and soon the buildings were repaired, the
garden was cultivated anew, the doors of the meeting-house were opened;
the apostle went about and talked to the people, and gave away tracts
freely. The people listened to him, and read his tracts, and were well
content to have him among them; but the experiment failed--not one
became a Quaker.
At the beginning of the present year (1858) an essay was advertised for,
on the causes of the decline of Quakerism, simultaneously with a great
increase in the population at large. It appears to me that the causes
are not far to seek. One of them I have already mentioned: others
consist in what Friends call a "guarded education," which seeks rather
to ignore vice than to implant abhorrence of it; in training children by
a false standard: "Do this; don't do that;" not because it is right or
wrong, but because such is or is not the practice of Friends, so that
when the children grow old enough to see what a very foolish Mrs. Grundy
they have had set before them as a model, they naturally suspect
imposition, become restive, and kick over the traces. Moreover, to set
up fidgetty crotchets as principles of truth, whereby the sense of the
ludicrous is excited in others, and not reverence, is not the way to
increase and multiply. Many Quakers now living will remember the earnest
controversy that once stirred them as to whether it might be proper to
use umbrellas, and to wear hats with a binding round the edge of the
brim; and the anxious breeches question, of which a ministress said in
her sermon, that it was "matter of concern to see so many of the young
men running down into longs, yet the Lord be thanked, there was a
precious remnant left in shorts." And again, silent worship tends to
diminish numbers, as also the exceeding weakness--with rare
exceptions--of the words that occasionally break the silence; and the
absence of an external motive to fix the attention encourages roving
thoughts. Hence Darlington railway-shares, and the shop-shelves, and
plans for arbours and garden-plots, employ the minds of many who might
have other thoughts did they hear--"Be not deceived, God is not mocked;
for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap."
There is my essay. It is a short one, freely given; for I must confess
to a certain liking for the Quakers, after all. Their charities are
noble and generous; their views on many points eminently liberal and
enlightened; and though themselves enslaved to crotchets, they have
shown bravely and practically that they abhor slavery; and their recent
mission to Finland demonstrates the bounty and tenderness with which
they seek to mitigate the evils of war. There is in Oxfordshire a little
Quaker burial-ground, on the brow of a hill looking far away into the
west country, where I have asked leave to have my grave dug, when the
time comes: that is, if the sedate folk will admit among them even a
dead Philistine.
* * * * *
I saw the Quaker above-mentioned standing at his door: we were total
strangers to each other, but my Bainbridge friend had told him there was
a chance of my visiting Aysgarth, and he held out his hand. Soon tea was
made ready, and after that he called his son, and led me across the
hill-slopes to get the best views, and by short cuts down to Aysgarth
Force, a mile below the village, where the Ure rushes down three great
breaks or steps in the limestone which stretch all across the river. The
water is shallow, and falling as a white curtain over the front of each
step, shoots swiftly over the broad level to the next plunge, and the
next, producing, even in dry weather, a very pleasing effect. But during
a flood the steps disappear, and the whole channel is filled by one
great rapid, almost terrific in its vehemence. The stony margin of the
stream is fretted and worn into many curious forms, and for a mile or
more above and below the bed is stone--nothing but stone--while on each
side the steep banks are patched and clothed with trees and bush. The
broken ground above the Force, interspersed with bush, is a favourite
resort of picnic parties, and had been thronged a few days before by a
multitude of festive teetotallers.
The bridge which crosses the river between the Force and the village,
with its arch of seventy-one feet span springing from two natural piers
of limestone, is a remarkably fine object when viewed from below. Above,
the river flows noisily from ledge to ledge down a winding gorge.
Drunken Barnaby, who, by the way, was a Yorkshireman, named Richard
Braithwaite, came to Wensleydale in one of his itineraries. "Thence,"
says the merry fellow--
"Thence to Wenchly, valley-seated,
For antiquity repeated;
Sheep and sheep-herd, as one brother,
Kindly drink to one another;
Till pot-hardy, light as feather,
Sheep and sheep-herd sleep together.
* * * * *
"Thence to Ayscarthe from a mountaine,
Fruitfull valleys, pleasant fountaine,
Woolly flocks, cliffs steep and snewy,
Fields, fens, sedgy rushes, saw I;
Which high mount is called the Temple,
For all prospects an example."
The church stands in a commanding position, whence there is a good
prospect down the dale. Besides the landscape, there are times when the
daring innovations made by fashion on the old habits may be observed.
Wait in the churchyard on Sunday when service ends, and you will see
many a gay skirt, hung with flounces and outspread by crinoline, come
flaunting forth from the church. And in this remote village, Miss
Metcalfe and Miss Thistlethwaite must do the bidding of coquettish
Parisian milliners, even as their sisters do in May Fair.