Sutton: a pretty Village--The Hambleton Hills--Gormire Lake--
Zigzags--A Table-Land--Boy and Bull Pup--Skawton--Ryedale--
Rievaulx Abbey--Walter L'Espec--A Charming Ruin--The Terrace--
The Pavilion--Helmsley--T' Boos--Kirkby Moorside--Helmsley
Castle--A River swallowed--Howardian Hills--Oswaldkirk--Gilling
--Fairfax Hall--Coxwold--Sterne's Residence--York--The Minster
Tower--Yorke, Yorke, for my monie--The Four Bars--The City
Walls--The Ouse Legend--Yorkshire Philosophical Society--Ruins
and Antiquities--St. Mary's Lodge.
The morning dawns with promise of a glorious day, and of glad enjoyment
for us in our coming walk. Our route will lead us through a rich and
fertile region to the Hambleton Hills--the range which within the past
two weeks has so often terminated our view with its long blue
elevations. We shall see another ruin--Rievaulx Abbey, and another old
castle at Helmsley--and if all go well, shall sleep at night within the
walls of York.
A few miles on the way and we come to Sutton, a pretty village, where
nearly every house has its front garden bright with flowers, with tall
proud lilies here and there, and standard roses. And every lintel and
door-sill is decorated with yellow ochre, and a border of whitewash
enlivens even the humblest window. And the inside of the cottages is as
clean as the outside, and some have the front room papered. It is truly
an English village, for no other country can show the like.
Now the hills stand up grandly before us, showing here and there a scar
above the thick woods that clothe their base. The road rises across the
broken ground: we come to a lane on the left, marked by a limekiln, and
following it upwards between ferny banks and tangled hedges, haunted by
the thrush, we arrive presently at Gormire Lake, a pretty sheet of
water, reposing in a hollow at the foot of Whitstoncliffe. It is best
seen from the bold green bank at the upper end, for there you face the
cliff and the hill which rises behind it, covered with copse and
bracken. The lake is considerably above the base of the hill, and
appears to have been formed by a landslip; it is tenanted by fish, and
has, as I heard subsequently at York, a subterranean outlet somewhere
among the fallen fragments at the foot of the cliff.
Returned to the road, we have now to ascend sharp alpine zigzags, for
the western face of Hambleton is precipitous; and within a short
distance the road makes a rise of eight hundred feet. The increasing
ascent and change of direction opens a series of pleasing views, and as
you look now this way, now that, along the diversified flanks of the
hills, you will wish for more time to wander through such beautiful
scenery. All that comparatively level country below was once covered by
a sea, to which the hills we now stand on opposed a magnificent
shore-line of cliffs; some of their summits more than a thousand feet in
height.
Great is the contrast when you arrive on the brow: greenness and
fertility suddenly give place to a bleak table-land, where the few
patches of cultivation appear but meagre amid acres of brown ling. We
have taken a great step upwards into a shrewish region. That white patch
seen afar is a hunting and training colony, and there go two grooms
riding, followed by a pack of hounds. What a chilly-looking place! A
back settlement in Michigan could hardly be more lonely. The boys may
well betake themselves for amusement to the education of dogs. Was it
here, I wonder, that the Yorkshire boy lived who had a bull pup, in the
training of which he took great delight? One day, seeing his father come
into the yard, the youngster said, "Father, you go down on your hands
and knees and blare like a bull, and see what our pup'll do." The parent
complied; but while he was doing his best to roar like a bull, the dog
flew at him and seized him by the lip. Now the man roared in earnest,
and tried to shake off his tormentor, while the boy, dancing in ecstacy,
cried, "Bear it, father! bear it! It'll be the makin' o' t' pup."
By-and-by comes a descent, and the road drops suddenly into a deep glen,
crowded with luxuriant woods. Many a lovely view do we get here, as the
windings of the road bring us to wider openings and broader slopes of
foliage. We pass the hamlet of Skawton; a brook becomes our companion,
and woods still shut us in when we cross the Rye, a shallow, lively
stream, and get a view from the bridge up Ryedale.
A short distance up the stream brings us to the little village of
Rivas--as the country folk call it--and to Rievaulx Abbey. The civil old
woman who shows the way into the ruin, will tell you that Lord Feversham
does not like to see visitors get over the fence; and then, stay as long
as you will, she leaves you undisturbed. What a pleasure awaits you!--a
charm which Bolton and Fountains failed alike to inspire: perhaps
because of the narrowness of the dale, and the feeling of deep seclusion
imparted by the high thickly wooded hills on each side, the freedom
allowed to vegetation in and around the place, and to your own
movements. The style is Early English, and while surveying the massive
clustered columns that once supported the tower, the double rows of
arches, and the graceful windows now draped with ivy of the nave, you
will restore the light and beautiful architecture in imagination, and
not without a wish that Time would retrace his flight just for one hour,
and show you the abbey in all its primitive beauty, when Ryedale was "a
place of vast solitude and horror," as the old chronicler says.
Walter L'Espec, Lord of the Honour of Helmsley, a baron of high renown
in his day, grieving with his wife, the Lady Adeline, over the death of
their only son by a fall from a horse, built a priory at Kirkham, the
scene of the accident, and in 1131 founded here an abbey for Cistercian
monks. And here after some years, during which he distinguished himself
at the Battle of the Standard, he took the monastic vows, and gave
himself up to devout study and contemplation until his death in 1153.
And then he was buried in the glorious edifice which he had raised to
the service of God, little dreaming that in later days when, fortress
and church would be alike in ruins, other men would come with different
thoughts, though perhaps not purer aims, and muse within the walls where
he had often knelt in prayer, and admire his work, and respect his
memory.
Much remains to delight the eye; flying buttresses, clerestory windows,
corbels, capitals, and mouldings, some half buried in the rank grass and
nettles. And how the clustering masses of ivy heighten the beauty! One
of the stems, that seems to lend strength to the great column against
which it leans, is more than three feet in circumference, and bears
aloft a glorious green drapery. An elder grows within the nave,
contributing its fair white blossoms to the fulness of beauty. The
refectory, too, is half buried with ivy, and there you walk on what was
once the floor of the crypt, and see the remains of the groins that
supported the floor above: and there at one side is the recess where one
of the monks used to read aloud some holy book while the others sat at
dinner. Adjoining the refectory is a paddock enclosed by ash-trees,
which appears to have been the cloister court. Now the leaves rustle
overhead, and birds chirrup in the branches, and swallows flit in and
out, and through the openings once filled by glass that rivalled the
rainbow in colour.
For two hours did I wander and muse; now sitting in the most retired
nook, now retreating to a little distance to find out the best points of
view. And my first impression strengthened; and I still feel that of all
the abbeys Rievaulx is the one I should like to see again. But the day
wore on, and warned me, though reluctant, to depart.
A small fee to the quiet old woman makes her thankful, and prompts her
to go and point out the path by which you mount zigzagging through the
thick wood to the great terrace near the summit of the hill. It will
surprise you to see a natural terrace smooth and green as a lawn, of
considerable width, and half a mile in length; that is, the visible
extent, for it stretches farther round the heights towards Helmsley. At
one end stands a pavilion, decorated in the interior with paintings, at
the other a domed temple, and from all the level between you get a
glorious prospect up Ryedale--up the dale by which we came from Thirsk,
and over leagues of finely-wooded hills, to a rim of swarthy moorland.
And beneath, as in a nest, the ancient ruin and the little village
repose in the sunshine, and the rapid river twinkles with frequent
curves through the meadows.
The gardener who lives in the basement of the pavilion will show you the
paintings and a small pamphlet, in which the subjects are described; and
perhaps tell you that the family used to come over at times from
Duncombe Park and dine in the ornamented chamber. He will request you,
moreover, to be careful to shut the gate by which you leave the terrace
at a break in the shrubbery.
The road is at the edge of the next field, and leads us in about an hour
to Helmsley, a quiet rural town very pleasantly situated beneath broad
slopes of wood. It has a good church, a few quaint old houses, some
still covered with thatch, a brook running along the street, a market
cross, and a relic of the castle built by De Roos, when Yorkshire still
wept the Conquest.
It had surprised me while on the way from Thirsk to find more difficulty
in understanding the rustic dialect than in the remoter parts of the
north and west. The same peculiarities prevail here in the town; and the
landlord's daughter, who waited on me at the house where I dined,
professed a difficulty in understanding me. My question about the
omnibus for Gilling completely puzzled her for a few minutes, until
light dawned on her, and she exclaimed joyfully, "Oh! ye mean t' boos!"
A few miles east of Helmsley is Kirkby Moorside, where the proud Duke of
Buckingham died, though not "in the worst inn's worst room;" and near it
is Kirkdale, with its antiquated church, and the famous cave in which
the discovery of the bones of wild animals some thirty years ago
established a new epoch for geologists. From Kirkby you can look across
to the hilly moors behind Whitby; and if you incline to explore farther,
Castle Howard will repay a visit, and you may go and look into the gorge
through which the Derwent flows, at Malton, keeping in mind what
geologists tell us, that if the gorge should happen to be closed by any
convulsion, the Vale of Pickering would again become a sea.
Of Helmsley Castle the remains are but fragmentary; a portion of the
lofty keep stands on an eminence, around which you may still trace the
hollows once filled by the triple moat. The gateway is comparatively
sound, the barbican is sadly dilapidated; and within other parts of the
old walls which have been repaired, Lord Feversham's tenants assemble
once a year to pay their rents. The ruin is so pleasantly embowered by
trees and ivy, so agreeable for a lounge on a July day, that I regretted
being summoned away too soon by "t' boos" driver's horn. There was no
time for a look at Feversham House, about half a mile distant, nor for a
few miles' walk to Byland Abbey--another Cistercian edifice--founded in
1143 by Roger de Mowbray. I could only glance at the skirts of the park,
where preparations were making for a flower-show, and at the shield on
the front of the lodge, bearing the motto, _Deo, Regi, Patriae_.
The Rye here is a smaller stream than at Rievaulx, owing to the loss of
water by the 'swallows' in Duncombe Park; half a mile lower down it
reappears in full current. But the driver is impatient; we shall be too
late for the train at Gilling, and the steep Howardian Hills are to be
crossed on the way. Fine views open over the woods; then we leave the
trees for a while; a vast prospect appears of the Vale of York, and at
Oswaldkirk--a picturesque village--the road falling rapidly brings us
once more into a wooded region, and in due time we come to Gilling, on
the branch railway to Malton.
There was not time, or I would have run up the hill behind the station
to look at the noble avenue of beeches that forms a worthy approach to
Fairfax Hall--the home of a family venerated by all who love liberty. I
felt an emotion of regret when the station-clerk told me that the
present Fairfax is an aged man and childless; for ere long the name will
disappear, and the estate become a possession of the Cholmleys.
The train arrives; five miles on it stops at Coxwold, where Sterne
passed seven years of his life; then two leagues more, and we have to
wait ninety minutes for a train down from the north, at Pilmoor
junction--a singularly unattractive spot. Luckily I had a book in my
knapsack, and so beguiled the time till the bell rang that summoned us
to York.
In my wanderings I have sometimes had the curiosity to try a _Temperance
Hotel_, and always repented it, because experience showed that
temperance meant poor diet, stingy appliances, and slovenly
accommodations. So it was not without misgivings that I resolved to make
one more experiment, and see what temperance meant in the metropolis of
Yorkshire. The _Hotel_, which did not displease me, looks into
Micklegate, not far from the Bar on which the heads of dukes and nobles
were impaled, as mentioned in the _Lay of Towton Field_.
Considering how many quartos have been filled with the history and
description of York, into how many little books the big books have been
condensed, every traveller is supposed to know as much as he desires
concerning the ancient city, ere he visits it. For one who has but a day
to spare, the best way of proceeding is of course to get on the top of
the minster tower, and stay there until his memory is refreshed by the
sight of what he sees below. At a height of two hundred feet above the
pavement you can overlook the great cluster of clean red roofs, and
single out the twenty-five churches that yet remain of the fifty once
visible from this same elevation. Clifford's Tower, a portion of the old
castle, stands now within the precincts of the gaol; the line of the
city walls can be seen, and the situation of the four Bars; there, by
the river, is the Guildhall where King Charles was purchased from the
Scots; there the small river Foss, that rises in the Howardian Hills,
and once filled the Roman ditches, joins the Ouse. Outside the walls,
Severus Hill marks the spot where the emperor, who died here in 210, was
burnt on his funeral pile with all the honours due to a wearer of the
purple; another hill shows where Scrope was beheaded. To the south lies
Bishopthorpe, the birthplace of Guy Fawkes, and residence of the
bishops. Eastward is Stamford Brig, where the hard Norwegian king,
flushed with victory, lost the battle and his life--where the spoil in
gold ornaments was so great, "that twelve young men could hardly carry
it upon their shoulders"--whence the victor Harold marched to lose in
turn life and crown at Hastings. On the west lies Marston Moor, and
farther to the south-west the field of Towton. And then, from wandering
afar over the broad vale, your eye returns to the minster itself, and
looks down on all its properties, and comfortable residences, snug
gardens, and plots of greenest turf, all covering ground on which the
Romans built their camp, and where they erected a temple for the worship
of heathen deities.
As regards the interior, whatever may have been your emotions of
admiration or wonder in other cathedrals, they become fuller and deeper
in this of York. After two long visits, I still wished for more time to
pace again the lofty aisles, to hear the organ's rolling notes, while
marvelling at the glory of architecture.
In Roger North's time, as he relates, the interior of the cathedral was
the favourite resort of fashionable strollers: in an earlier time, when
archery was practised keenly as rifle-shooting in our day, and the
prophecy as to the pre-eminence of York was not yet forgotten, a ballad
was written in praise of the city: thus
"The Maior of Yorke, with his companie,
Were all in the fieldes, I warrant ye,
To see good rule kept orderly,
As if it had been at London.
Which was a dutifull sight to see
The Maior and Aldermen there to bee
For the setting forth of Archerie,
As well as they doe at London.
"Yorke, Yorke, for my monie,
Of all the citties that ever I see,
For mery pastime & companie,
Except the cittie of London."
From the minster walk as far as may be along the city walls: you will
see the four Bars--Monk, Micklegate, Walmgate, and Bootham; the
first-named still retaining the barbican. In some of the narrow lanes
near the water-side you may discover old mansions, the residences of the
magnates of York two hundred years ago, now tenanted by numbers of
working-people, and grand staircases and panelled rooms, looking dingy
and squalid. Then go forth and take a turn under the trees of the New
Walk on the bank of the Ouse, and see a much-frequented resort of the
citizens, who certainly cannot boast that their environs are romantic.
You would hardly believe that the stream flowing so placidly by embosoms
the rapid rivers we crossed so often while in the mountains. If legends
deceive not, any one who came and threw five white pebbles into a
certain part of the Ouse as the hour of one struck on the first morning
of May, would then see everything he desired to see, past, present, and
to come, on the surface of the water. Once a knight returning from the
wars desired to see how it fared with his lady-love: he threw in the
pebbles, and beheld the home of the maiden, a mansion near Scarborough,
and a youth wearing a mask and cloak descending from her window, and the
hiding of the ladder by the serving-man. Maddened by jealousy, he
mounted and rode with speed; his horse dropped dead in sight of the
house; he saw the same youth ascending the ladder, rushed forward, and
stabbed him to the heart. It was his betrothed. She was not faithless;
still loved her knight, and had only been to a masquerade. For many a
day thereafter did the knight's anguish and remorse appear as the
punishment of unlawful curiosity in the minstrel's lay and gestour's
romance.
Return, and take a walk in that pleasant ground, half park, half garden,
which we saw from the tower, and see how enviable a site has fallen to
the Yorkshire Philosophical Society for their museum. To have such a
scope of smooth green turf, flower-beds, shrubs, and trees in the heart
of a city, as the shelter of remarkable antiquities and scientific
collections, is a rare privilege. At one side stand the remains of St.
Leonard's Hospital--Norman and early English--sheltering, when I saw it,
something far, far more ancient than itself--a huge fossil saurian. The
ruins of St. Mary's Abbey appear on the other side; and between the two
the Doric edifice, containing the museum, library, and offices of the
Society. In another part of the grounds, the Hospitium of the monks,
which in a country village would pass for a mediaeval barn, now contains
the admirable collection of Roman and British antiquities for which York
is celebrated. Seeing the numerous tiles stamped with Latin words and
numerals, the tombs and altars, the household utensils, and personal
ornaments, your idea of the Roman occupation will, perhaps, become more
vivid than before; and again, while you examine the fragment of the wall
and tower, supposed to have been built by Hadrian, strong and solid even
after the lapse of nineteen centuries. And when you look once more at
the Abbey and the Hospital, you will regret the ravages of plunderers.
For years the ruins were worked as a quarry by all who wanted stone for
building purposes, and, as if to accelerate the waste, great heaps were
burnt in a limekiln erected on the spot; and it is said that stone
pillaged from St. Mary's at York was used for the repair of Beverley
minster.
However, the spirit of preservation has prevented further dilapidation,
and old Time himself is constrained to do his wasting imperceptibly. St.
Mary's Lodge, adjoining the abbey, long neglected, and degraded into a
pothouse, was restored some years ago, and occupied as a residence by
Professor Phillips, whose connexion with the Society will not soon be
forgotten. A charming residence it is; and an evening and a morning
spent within it, enable me to affirm that its chambers, though clothed
in a modern dress, witness hospitality as generous as that of the monks
of the olden time.