A Month in Yorkshire Part 13

"Coward, a coward, of Barney Castel, Dare not come out to fight a battel,"

is said to have its origin in the refusal of the knight who held the castle, to quit the shelter of its walls and try the effect of a combat with the rebels. And so the game went on, the Crown resuming possession at pleasure, until the whole property fell by purchase, in 1629, to an ancestor of the present owner--the Duke of Cleveland.

"Whoy! 'tis but a little town to ha' such a muckle castle," exclaimed one of three men who had just arrived with a numerous party by excursion train from Newcastle, and ventured to the top of the tower. "Eh! the castle wur bigger nor the town."

Whatever may have been, the thick-voiced Northumbrian was wrong in his first conclusion, for the town has more than four thousand inhabitants.

But, looking down, we can see that the castle with its outworks and inner buildings must have been a fortress of no ordinary dimensions.

Nearly seven acres are comprehended within its area, now chiefly laid out in gardens, where, sheltered by the old gray stones, the trees bear generous fruit. If you can persuade the hermit to ascend, he will point out Brackenbury's Tower, a dilapidated relic, with dungeons in its base, now used as stables; and near it a cow-stall, which occupies the site of the chapel. Examine the place when you descend, and you will discover, amid much disfigurement, traces of graceful architecture.

The hermit himself--a man of middle age--is a subject for curiosity. So far as I could make him out, he appeared to be half misanthropist, half misogynist. He quarrelled with the world about eighteen years ago, and, without asking leave, took possession of a vault and a wall-cavity at the foot of the great round tower, and has lived there ever since, supporting himself by the donations of visitors, and the sale of rustic furniture which he makes with his own hands. His room in the wall is fitted with specimens of his skill, and it serves as a trap, for you have to pa.s.s through it to ascend the tower. He showed me his workshop, and pointed out a spot under the trees at the hill-foot where flows the clear cold spring from which he draws water. The Duke, he said, sometimes came to look at the ruin, and gave him a hint to quit; but he did not mean to leave until absolutely compelled. I heard later in the day that he had been crossed in love; and that, notwithstanding his love of solitude, he would go out at times and find a friend, and make a night of it. But this may be scandal.

I went down and took a drink at the spring which, embowered by trees and bushes, sparkles forth from the rocky brink of the river; and rambled away to Rokeby. There are paths on both sides of the stream, along the edge of the meadows, and under the trees past the mill, past cottages and gardens, leading farther and farther into scenes of increasing beauty. Then we come to the Abbey Bridge, whence you get a pleasing view of a long straight reach of the river, terminated by a glimpse of Rokeby Hall, a charming avenue, so to speak, of tall woods, which, with ferns, shrubs, and mazy plants, crowd the rocky slopes to the very edge of the water. From ledge to ledge rushes the stream, making falls innumerable, decked with living fringes of foam, and as the noisy current hurries onward it engirdles the boulders with foamy rings, or hangs upon them a long white train that flutters and glistens as sunbeams drop down through the wind-shaken leaves. Strong contrasts of colour enrich the effect:

"Here Tees, full many a fathom low, Wears with his rage no common foe; For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here, Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way, O'er solid sheets of marble gray."

On the Yorkshire side, a few yards above the bridge, the remains of Egliston or Athelstan Abbey crown a pleasant knoll surrounded by wood.

They are of small extent, and, on the whole, deficient in the picturesque; but as an artist said who sketched while his wife sat sewing by his side, "There are a few little bits worth carrying away."

The east window, in which the plain mullions still remain, is of unusual width, the chancel exhibits carvings of different styles; two or three slabs lying on the gra.s.s preserve the memory of an abbot, and of a Rokeby, who figures in the still legible inscription as #b.a.s.t.a.r.d;# and the outbuildings are now occupied as a farm. Some years hence, when the ivy, which has begun to embrace the eastern window, shall have spread its evergreen mantle wider and higher, the ruins will be endowed with a charm wherein their present scanty nakedness may be concealed. Yet apart from this the place has natural attractions, a village green, n.o.ble trees, Thorsgill within sight; and just beyond the green a mill of cheerful clatter.

The artist and his wife were enjoying a happy holiday. They had come down into Yorkshire with a fortnight's excursion ticket, and a scheme for visiting as many of the abbeys and as much picturesque scenery as possible within the allotted time. Sometimes they walked eight or ten miles, or travelled a stage in a country car, content to rough it, so that their wishes should be gratified. They had walked across from Stainmoor the day before, and told me that in pa.s.sing through Bowes they had seen the original of Dotheboys Hall, now doorless, windowless, and dilapidated. Nicholas Nickleby's exposure was too much for it, and it ceased to be a den of hopeless childhood--a place to which heartless fathers and mothers condemned their children because it was cheap.

What a contrast! Wackford Squeers and the Thracian cohort. Bowes, under the name of Lavatrae, was once a station on the great Roman road from Lincoln to Carlisle. Ere long it will be a station on the railway that is to connect Stockton with Liverpool.

Now, returning to the bridge, we plunge into the woods, and follow the river's course by devious paths. Gladsome voices and merry laughter resound, for a numerous detachment of the excursionists from Newcastle are on their way to view the grounds of Rokeby. Delightful are the s.n.a.t.c.hes of river scenery that we get here and there, where the jutting rock affords an outlook, and the more so as we enjoy them under a cool green shade. Leaving the Northumbrians at the lodge to accomplish their wishes, I kept on to Greta Bridge, and lost myself in the romantic glen through which the river flows. It will surprise you by its manifold combinations of rock, wood, and water, fascinating the eye at every step amid a solitude profound. This was the route taken by Bertram and Wilfrid when the ruthless soldier went to take possession of Mortham.

You cannot fail to recognize how truly Scott describes the scenery; the "beetling brow" is there, and the "ivied banners" still hang from the crags as when the minstrel saw them. We can follow the two to that

"----gra.s.sy slope which sees The Greta flow to meet the Tees:"

and farther, where

"South of the gate, an arrow flight, Two mighty elms their limbs unite, As if a canopy to spread O'er the lone dwelling of the dead; For their huge boughs in arches bent Above a ma.s.sive monument, Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise, With many a scutcheon and device."

You will long to lengthen your hours into days for wanderings in this lovely neighbourhood. You will be unwilling to turn from the view at Mortham Tower--one of the old border peels, or fortresses on a small scale--or that which charms you from the Dairy Bridge. Then if the risk of losing your way does not deter, you may ramble to "Brignall Banks"

and Scargill, having the river for companion most part of the way. And should you be minded to pursue the road through Richmondshire to Richmond, the village and ruins of Ravensworth will remind you of

"The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side.

The mere for his net and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; Yet the fish of the lake, and the door of the vale, Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale!"

Or, if inspired by a deeper sentiment, you prefer a pilgrimage to a spot of hallowed memory to every Englishman, choose the river-side path to Wycliffe, and see how ever new beauties enchant the way, and say on arrival if ever you saw a prettier village church or a more charming environment. Shut in by woods and hills here, as some writers show, is the birthplace of John Wycliffe, to whom freedom of conscience is perhaps more indebted than to Luther. One may believe that Nature herself desires to preserve from desecration the cradle of him who opened men's hearts and eyes to see and understand the truth in its purity; cleansed from the adulterations of priestcraft; stripped of all the blinding cheats of papistry; who died faithful to the truth for which he had dared to live; who bequeathed that truth to us, and with G.o.d's blessing we will keep it alive and unblemished, using it manfully as a testimony against all lies and shams whatsoever and wheresoever they may be found.

The church was restored, as one may judge, in a loving spirit in 1850.

It contains a few interesting antiquities, and is fraught with memories of the Wycliffes. One of the bra.s.ses records the death of the last of the family. Sir Antonio a-More's portrait of the great Reformer still hangs in the rectory, where it has been treasured for many generations.

You may return from this pilgrimage by the way you went, or walk on through Ovington to Winston, and there take the train to Barnard Castle.

I preferred the banks of Tees, for their attractions are not soon exhausted. One of the houses at Greta, which was a famous hostelry in the days of stage-coaches, is now a not happy-looking farm-house. It has seen sore changes. Once noise and activity, and unscrupulous profits, when the compact vehicles with the four panting horses rattled up to the door at all hours of the day or night, conveying pa.s.sengers from London to Edinburgh. Now, a silence seldom disturbed save by the river's voice, and time for reflection, and leisure to look across to its neighbour, wherein the wayfarer or angler may still find rest and entertainment.

From Greta Bridge to Boroughbridge was considered the best bit of road in all the county. Now it is encroached on by gra.s.s, and the inns which are not shut up look altogether dejected, especially that one where the dining-room has been converted into a stable.

If you have read the ballad of _The Felon Sow_, we will remember it while repa.s.sing the park:

"She was mare than other three, The grisliest beast that e'er might be, Her head was great and gray: She was bred in Rokeby wood, There were few that thither goed, That came on live away.

"Her walk was endlong Greta side, There was no bren that durst her bide, That was froe heaven to h.e.l.l; Nor ever man that had that might, That ever durst come in her sight, Her force it was so fell.

"If ye will any more of this, In the Fryers of Richmond 'tis In parchment good and fine; And how Fryar Middleton that was so kend, At Greta Bridge conjured a feind In likeness of a swine."

I got back to Barnard Castle in time for the omnibus, which starts at half-past five for Middleton-in-Teesdale, nine miles distant on the road to the hills. I was the only pa.s.senger, and taking my seat by the side of the driver, found him very willing to talk. The road ascends immediately after crossing the bridge to a finely-wooded district, hill and dale, rich in oak, ash, and beech. Deepdale beck yawns on the left, and every mile opens fresh enjoyment to the eye, and revives a.s.sociations. Lartington is a pretty village, which hears night and morn and all day long the tremulous voice of innumerable leaves. "Them's all Roman Catholics there," said the driver, as we left it behind; and by-and-by, when we came to Cotherstone--Cuthbert's Town--"Here 'tis nothin' but cheese and Quakers." There is, however, something else, for here it was

"----the Northmen came, Fix'd on each vale a Runic name, Rear'd high their altar's rugged stone, And gave their G.o.ds the land they won.

Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine, And one sweet brooklet's silver line, And Woden's Croft did t.i.tle gain From the stern Father of the Slain; But to the Monarch of the Mace, That held in fight the foremost place, To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse, Near Stratforth high they paid their vows, Remembered Thor's victorious fame, And gave the dell the Thunderer's name."

A delightful day might be spent hereabouts in exploring the glen of the Balder, and the romantic scenery where it flows into Tees; the Hagg crowned by fragments of a stronghold of the Fitzhughs; and the grand rock on the river's brink known as Pendragon Castle. The whole region for miles around was once thickly covered by forest.

The pace is sober, for some of the hills are steep. We come to Romaldkirk, and the folk, as everywhere else along the road, step from their houses to inquire for parcels or replies to messages, and the driver has a civil word for all, and discharges his commissions promptly. He is an important man in the dale, the roving link between the villagers and the town--"Barn'd Cas'l'," as they say, slurring it into two syllables. It does one good to see with how much good-nature the service can be performed.

Hill after hill succeeds, the woods are left behind, the country opens bare and wild, rolling away to the dark fells that look stern in the distance. Big stones bestrew the slopes; here and there a cottage seems little better than a pile of such stones covered with slabs of slate or coa.r.s.e thatch. "Poorish wheat hereabouts," says the driver, as he points to the pale green fields. The farms vary in size from seventy to one hundred and fifty acres; and he thinks it better to grow gra.s.s than grain. Then we come in sight of Middleton, and presently he pulls up, while a boy and girl get inside, and he tells me they are his children, who have come out half a mile to meet him.

Middleton, with its eighteen hundred inhabitants, has the appearance of a little metropolis. There are inns and shops which betoken an active trade, maintained probably by the lead mines in the neighbourhood. I did not tarry, for we had spent two hours on the journey, and I wished to sleep at the _High Force Inn_, nearly five miles farther. We are still on the Durham side of the Tees, with the river now in sight, winding along its shallow, stony bed. The road is an almost continuous ascent, whereby the landscape appears to widen, and every minute the shadows grow broader and darker across the vale. At last the sun drops behind the hill-top, and the lights playing on the summits of the fells deepen into purple, umber, and black, darkest where the slopes and ridges intersect. Cliffs topped with wood break through the acclivities on the left, and here and there plantations of spruce and larch impart a sense of shelter. Every step makes us feel that we are approaching a region where Nature partakes more of the stern than the gentle.

There is room for improvement. I interrupted three boys in their pastime of pelting swallows, to examine them in reading; but they only went "whiles to skule," and only one could read, and that very badly, in the "Testyment."

I left Winch Bridge and the cascade which it bestrides about three miles from Middleton, unvisited, for I was tired with much rambling. The clean white front of _High Force Inn_ gleaming at last through the twilight was a welcome sight; and not less so the excellent tea, which was quickly set before me. Cleanliness prevails, and unaffected civility; and the larder, though in a lone spot a thousand feet above the sea, contributes without stint to the hungry appet.i.te.

It happened that I was the only guest: hence nothing disturbed the tranquil hour. Ere long I was looking from my chamber window on the dim outlines of the hills, and the thick wood below that intercepts the view of the valley beneath. Then I became aware of a solemn roar--the voice of High Force in its ceaseless plunge. Fitfully it came at times, now fuller, now weaker, as the night breeze rose and fell, and the tree-tops whispered in harmony therewith.

I listened awhile, sensible of a charm in the sound of falling water; then pushing the sash to its full height, the sound still reached me on the pillow. Strange fancies came with it: now the river seemed to utter sonorous words; anon the hills talked dreamily one with another, and the distant sea sent up a reply; and then all became vague--and I slept the sleep of the weary.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Early Morn--High Force--Rock and Water--A Talk with the Waitress--Hills and Cottages--Cronkley Scar--The Weel--Caldron Snout--Soothing Sound--Sc.r.a.p from an Alb.u.m--View into Birkdale--A Quest for Dinner--A Westmoreland Farm--Household Matters--High Cope Nick--Mickle Fell--The Boys' Talk--The Hill-top--Glorious Prospect--A Descent--Solitude and Silence--A Moss--Stainmore--Brough--The Castle Ruin--Reminiscences.

The next day dawned, and a happy awaking was mine, greeted by the same rushing voice, no longer solemn and mysterious, but chanting, as one might imagine, a morning song of praise. I looked out, and saw with pleasurable surprise the fall full in view from the window: a long white sheet of foam, glistening in the early sunbeams.

All the slope between the inn and the fall is covered by a thick plantation of firs, ash, hazel, and a teeming undergrowth, and through this by paths winding hither and thither you have to descend. Now the path skirts precipitous rocks, hung with ivy, now drops gently among ferns to an embowered seat, until at a sudden turn the noise of the fall bursts grandly upon you. A little farther, and the trees no longer screening, you see the deep stony chasm, and the peat-stained water making three perpendicular leaps down a precipice seventy feet in height. It is a striking scene, what with the grim crags, the wild slopes, and the huge ma.s.ses lying at the bottom and in the bed of the stream; and the impressive volume of sound.

We can scramble down to the very foot of the limestone bluff that projects in the middle, leaving a channel on each side, down one of which a mere thread of water trickles; but in time of flood both are filled, and then the fall is seen and heard in perfection. Now we can examine the smooth water-worn cliff, and see where something like crystallization has been produced by a highly-heated intrusive rock.

And here and there your eye will rest with pleasure on patches of moss and fern growing luxuriantly in dripping nooks and crannies.

You see how the water, rebounding from its second plunge, shoots in a broken ma.s.s of foam into the brown pool below, and therein swirls and swashes for a while, and then escapes by an outlet that you might leap across, talking to thousands of stones as it spreads itself out in the shallow bed. Standing with your back to the fall, and looking down the stream, the view, shut in by the trees on one side, by a rough gra.s.sy acclivity on the other, is one that lures you to explore it, striding along the rugged margin, or from one lump of rock to another.

Then returning to the diverging point in the path, we mount to the top of the fall. Here the scene is, if possible, wilder than below. The rock, as far as you can see, is split into a thousand crevices, and through these the river rushes to its leap. Such a river-bed you never saw before. The solid uprising portions are of all dimensions, and you step from one to the other without first feeling if they are steady.

Here and there you climb, and coming to the top of the bluff you can look over and watch the water in its headlong plunge. The brown tinge contrasts beautifully with the white foam; and lying stretched on the sun-warmed rock, your eye becomes fascinated by the swift motion and the dancing spray. Then sit awhile on the topmost point and look up stream, and enjoy the sight of the rapids, and the mult.i.tudinous cascades.

Though the rocks now lift their heads above water you will notice that all are smoothly worn by the floods of ages. The view is bounded there by a mighty high-backed fell; and in the other direction brown moorlands meet the horizon, all looking glad in the glorious sunshine.