YORKSHIRE COAST AND MOORLAND SCENES

Painted and Described

By

GORDON HOME

_Second Edition_

1907

_First Edition published April 26, 1904Second Edition published April, 1907_

PREFACE

It may seem almost superfluous to explain that this book does not dealwith the whole of Yorkshire, for it would obviously be impossible to geteven a passing glimpse of such a great tract of country in a book ofthis nature. But I have endeavoured to give my own impressions of muchof the beautiful coast-line, and also some idea of the character of themoors and dales of the north-east portion of the county. 

I have described the Dale Country in a companion volume to this, entitled 'Yorkshire Dales and Fells. '

GORDON HOME. 

EPSOM, 1907. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I ACROSS THE MOORS FROM PICKERING TO WHITBY

CHAPTER II ALONG THE ESK VALLEY

CHAPTER III THE COAST FROM WHITBY TO REDCAR

CHAPTER IV THE COAST FROM WHITBY TO SCARBOROUGH

CHAPTER V SCARBOROUGH

CHAPTER VI WHITBY

CHAPTER VII THE CLEVELAND HILLS

CHAPTER VIII GUISBOROUGH AND THE SKELTON VALLEY

CHAPTER IX FROM PICKERING TO RIEVAULX ABBEY

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 1. On Barnby Moor 2. Goathland Moor 3. An Autumn Scene on the Esk 4. Sleights Moor from Swart Houc Cross 5. A Stormy Afternoon 6. East Row, Sandsend 7. In Mulgrave Woods 8. Runswick Bay 9. A Sunny Afternoon at Runswick 10. Sunrise from Staithes Beck 11. Three Generations at Staithes 12. Boulby Cliffs from Staithes Scaur 13. The Coast at Saltburn 14. Whitby Abbey from the Cliffs 15. Robin Hood's Bay 16. A Street in Robin Hood's Bay 17. Scarborough Harbour and Castle 18. Sunlight and Shadows in Whitby Harbour 19. The Red Roofs of Whitby 20. Evening at Whitby 21. The Cleveland Hills from above Kildale 22. Hutton Woods, near Guisborough 23. A Wide Expanse of Heather seen from Great Ayton Moor 24. A Golden Afternoon, Danby 25. A Sunset from Danby Beacon 26. An Autumn Day at Guisborough 27. A Yorkshire Postman 28. The Skelton Valley 29. In Pickering Church 30. The Market-place, Helmsley 31. Rievaulx Abbey from 'The Terrace'

_Map at end of volume_

CHAPTER I

ACROSS THE MOORS FROM PICKERING TO WHITBY

The ancient stone-built town of Pickering is to a great extent thegateway to the moors of Northeastern Yorkshire, for it stands at thefoot of that formerly inaccessible gorge known as Newton Dale, and isthe meeting-place of the four great roads running north, south, east, and west, as well as of railways going in the same directions. And thisview of the little town is by no means original, for the strategicimportance of the position was recognised at least as long ago as thedays of the early Edwards, when the castle was built to command theapproach to Newton Dale and to be a menace to the whole of the Vale ofPickering. 

The old-time traveller from York to Whitby saw practically nothing ofNewton Dale, for the great coach-road bore him towards the east, andthen, on climbing the steep hill up to Lockton Low Moor, he went almostdue north as far as Sleights. But to-day everyone passes right throughthe gloomy canyon, for the railway now follows the windings of PickeringBeck, and nursemaids and children on their way to the seaside may gazeat the frowning cliffs which seventy years ago were only known totravellers and a few shepherds. But although this great change has beenbrought about by railway enterprise, the gorge is still uninhabited, andhas lost little of its grandeur; for when the puny train, with itsaccompanying white cloud, has disappeared round one of the great bluffs, there is nothing left but the two pairs of shining rails, laid for longdistances almost on the floor of the ravine. But though there are steepgradients to be climbed, and the engine labours heavily, there isscarcely sufficient time to get any idea of the astonishing scenery fromthe windows of the train, and you can see nothing of the huge expansesof moorland stretching away from the precipices on either side. So thatwe, who would learn something of this region, must make the journey onfoot; for a bicycle would be an encumbrance when crossing the heather, and there are many places where a horse would be a source of danger. Thesides of the valley are closely wooded for the first seven or eightmiles north of Pickering, but the surrounding country gradually losesits cultivation, at first gorse and bracken, and then heather, takingthe place of the green pastures. 

At the village of Newton, perched on high ground far above the dale, wecome to the limit of civilization. The sun is nearly setting. Thecottages are scattered along the wide roadway and the strip of grass, broken by two large ponds, which just now reflect the pale evening sky. Straight in front, across the green, some ancient barns are thrown upagainst the golden sunset, and the long perspective of white road, thegeese, and some whitewashed gables, stand out from the deepening tonesof the grass and trees. A footpath by the inn leads through some dewymeadows to the woods, above Levisham Station in the valley below. Atfirst there are glimpses of the lofty moors on the opposite side of thedale, where the sides of the bluffs are still glowing in the sunsetlight; but soon the pathway plunges steeply into a close wood, where thefoxes are barking, and where the intense darkness is only emphasized bythe momentary illumination given by lightning, which now and thenflickers in the direction of Lockton Moor. At last the friendly littleoil-lamps on the platform at Levisham Station appear just below, andsoon the railway is crossed and we are mounting the steep road on theopposite side of the valley. What is left of the waning light shows therough track over the heather to High Horcum. The huge shoulders of themoors are now majestically indistinct, and towards the west the browns, purples, and greens are all merged in one unfathomable blackness. Thetremendous silence and the desolation become almost oppressive, butoverhead the familiar arrangement of the constellations gives a sense ofcompanionship not to be slighted. In something less than an hour a lightglows in the distance, and, although the darkness is now complete, thereis no further need to trouble ourselves with the thought of spending thenight on the heather. The point of light develops into a lighted window, and we are soon stamping our feet on the hard, smooth road in front ofthe Saltersgate Inn. The door opens straight into a large stone-flaggedroom. Everything is redolent of coaching days, for the cheery glow ofthe fire shows a spotlessly clean floor, old high-backed settles, a gunhooked to one of the beams overhead, quaint chairs and oak stools, and afox's mask and brush. A gamekeeper is warming himself at the fire, forthe evening is chilly, and the firelight falls on his box-cloth gaitersand heavy boots, as we begin to talk of the loneliness and the dangersof the moors, and of the snowstorms in winter, that almost bury the lowcottages and blot out all but the boldest landmarks. Soon we arediscussing the superstitions which still survive among the simplecountry-folk, and the dark and lonely wilds we have just left make thisa subject of great fascination. 

Although we have heard it before, we hear over again with intenseinterest the story of the witch who brought constant ill-luck to afamily in these parts. Their pigs were never free from some form ofillness, their cows died, their horses lamed themselves, and even themilk was so far under the spell that on churning-days the butter refusedto come unless helped by a crooked sixpence. One day, when as usual theyhad been churning in vain, instead of resorting to the sixpence, thefarmer secreted himself in an outbuilding, and, gun in hand, watched thegarden from a small opening. As it was growing dusk he saw a hare comingcautiously through the hedge. He fired instantly, the hare rolled over, dead, and almost as quickly the butter came. That same night they heardthat the old woman, whom they had long suspected of bewitching them, hadsuddenly died at the same time as the hare, and henceforward the farmerand his family prospered. 

In the light of morning the isolation of the inn is more apparent thanat night. A compact group of stable buildings and barns stands on theopposite side of the road, and there are two or three lonely-lookingcottages, but everywhere else the world is purple and brown with lingand heather. The morning sun has just climbed high enough to send aflood of light down the steep hill at the back of the barns, and we canhear the hum of the bees in the heather. In the direction of Levisham isGallows Dyke, the great purple bluff we passed in the darkness, and afew yards off the road makes a sharp double bend to get up SaltersgateBrow, the hill that overlooks the enormous circular bowl of Horcum Hole, where Levisham Beck rises. The farmer whose buildings can be seen downbelow contrives to paint the bottom of the bowl a bright green, but theling comes hungrily down on all sides, with evident longings to absorbthe scanty cultivation. The Dwarf Cornel, a little mountain-plant whichflowers in July, is found in this 'hole. ' A few patches have beendiscovered in the locality, but elsewhere it is not known south ofthe Cheviots. 

Away to the north the road crosses the desolate country like apale-green ribbon. It passes over Lockton High Moor, climbs to 700 feetat Tom Cross Rigg, and then disappears into the valley of Eller Beck, onGoathland Moor, coming into view again as it climbs steadily up toSleights Moor, nearly 1, 000 feet above the sea. An enormous stretch ofmoorland spreads itself out towards the west. Near at hand is theprecipitous gorge of Upper Newton Dale, backed by Pickering Moor, andbeyond are the heights of Northdale Rigg and Rosedale Common, with theblue outlines of Ralph Cross and Danby Head right on the horizon. 

The smooth, well-built road, with short grass filling the crevicesbetween the stones, urges us to follow its straight course northwards;but the sternest and most remarkable portion of Upper Newton Dale liesto the left, across the deep heather, and we are tempted aside to reachthe lip of the sinuous gorge nearly a mile away to the west, where therailway runs along the marshy and boulder-strewn bottom of a naturalcutting 500 feet deep. The cliffs drop down quite perpendicularly for200 feet, and the remaining distance to the bed of the stream is a roughslope, quite bare in places, and in others densely grown over withtrees; but on every side the fortress-like scarps are as stern and bareas any that face the ocean. Looking north or south the gorge seemscompletely shut in. There is much the same effect when steaming throughthe Kyles of Bute, for there the ship seems to be going full speed forthe shore of an entirely enclosed sea, and here, saving for thetell-tale railway, there seems no way out of the abyss without scalingthe perpendicular walls. The rocks are at their finest at KillingnobleScar, where they take the form of a semicircle on the west side of therailway. The scar was for a very long period famous for the breed ofhawks, which were specially watched by the Goathland men for the use ofJames I. , and the hawks were not displaced from their eyrie even by theincursion of the railway into the glen, and only recentlybecame extinct. 

Newton Dale Well, at the foot of the scar, used to attract the countrypeople for miles round, to the fair held there on Midsummer Day, whenstrange ceremonies were performed in order to insure the beneficentinfluence of the waters. The custom survived until the beginning of lastcentury, but now it is not easy to even find the position of the well. Very few people living in Whitby or Pickering had any idea of thegrandeur of the scenery of Newton Dale when the first official journeywas made by railway between the two towns. This was in 1836, but thecoaches were drawn by horses on the levels and up the inclines, for itwas before the days of the steam-locomotive. 

However, the opening of the line caused great enthusiasm and localexcitement, necessitating the services of numbers of policemen to keepthe people off the rails. When the separate coaches had been hauled tothe highest part of the dale, the horses were detached, and the vehicleswere joined up with connecting bars. Then the train was allowed to rushthrough the pass at what was considered the dangerous speed of twentymiles an hour. For the benefit of those who enjoyed the great pace, thedriver allowed the train to go at thirty miles an hour, and then, toshow his complete control over the carriages, he applied the brakes andcame to a standstill on the steep gradient. But for the existence of thelong, narrow ravine right through the heart of these lofty moors, we mayreasonably doubt whether Whitby would ever have been joined with Yorkother than by way of the coast-line to Scarborough. 

We can cross the line near Eller Beck, and, going over Goathland Moor, explore the wooded sides of Wheeldale Beck and its waterfalls. Mallyan'sSpout is the most imposing, having a drop of about 76 feet. The villageof Goathland has thrown out skirmishers towards the heather in the formof an ancient-looking but quite modern church, with a low central tower, and a little hotel, stone-built and fitting well into its surroundings. The rest of the village is scattered round a large triangular green, andextends down to the railway, where there is a station named afterthe village. 

The rolling masses of Sleights Moor rise up steeply towards the east, and from the coach-road to Whitby that we deserted at the SaltersgateInn there is an enormous panorama over Eskdale, Whitby, and the sea. 

CHAPTER II

ALONG THE ESK VALLEY

To see the valley of the Esk in its richest garb, one must wait for aspell of fine autumn weather, when a prolonged ramble can be made alongthe riverside and up on the moorland heights above. For the densewoodlands, which are often merely pretty in midsummer, becomeastonishingly lovely as the foliage draping the steep hillsides takes onits gorgeous colours, and the gills and becks on the moors send down aplentiful supply of water to fill the dales with the music ofrushing streams. 

Climbing up the road towards Larpool, we take a last look at quaint oldWhitby, spread out before us almost like those wonderful old prints ofEnglish towns they loved to publish in the eighteenth century. Butalthough every feature is plainly visible--the church, the abbey, thetwo piers, the harbour, the old town and the new--the detail is all lostin that soft mellowness of a sunny autumn day. We find an enthusiasticphotographer expending plates on this familiar view, which is sold allover the town; but we do not dare to suggest that the prints, howeversuccessful, will be painfully hackneyed, and we go on rejoicing that thequestions of stops and exposures need not trouble us, for the world isablaze with colour. 

Beyond the great red viaduct, whose central piers are washed by theriver far below, the road plunges into the golden shade of the woodsnear Cock Mill, and then comes out by the river's bank down below, withthe little village of Ruswarp on the opposite shore. The railway goesover the Esk just below the dam, and does its very best to spoil everyview of the great mill built in 1752 by Mr. Nathaniel Cholmley. However, from the road towards Sleights the huge building looks picturesqueenough, with the river flowing smoothly over the broad dam fringed bythe delicate faded greens and browns of the trees. The mill, with itsmassive roof and projecting eaves, suggests in a most remarkable fashionone of the huge gate-houses of the Chinese Imperial Palace at Peking. 

The road follows close beside the winding river, and all the way toSleights there are lovely glimpses of the shimmering waters, reflectingthe overhanging masses of foliage. The golden yellow of a bush growingat the water's edge will be backed by masses of brown woods that hereand there have retained suggestions of green, contrasted with the deeppurple tones of their shadowy recesses. These lovely phases of Eskdalescenery are denied to the summer visitor, but there are few who wouldwish to have the riverside solitudes rudely broken into by the passingof boatloads of holiday-makers. Just before reaching Sleights Bridge weleave the tree-embowered road, and, going through a gate, find astone-flagged pathway that climbs up the side of the valley with greatdeliberation, so that we are soon at a great height, with a magnificentsweep of landscape towards the south-west, and the keen air blowingfreshly from the great table-land of Egton High Moor. 

A little higher, and we are on the road in Aislaby village. The steepclimb from the river and railway has kept off those modern influenceswhich have made Sleights and Grosmont architecturally depressing, andthus we find a simple village on the edge of the heather, withpicturesque stone cottages and pretty gardens, free from companionshipwith the painfully ugly modern stone house, with its thin slate roof. The big house of the village stands on the very edge of the descent, surrounded by high trees now swept bare of leaves. 

The first time I visited Aislaby I reached the little hamlet when it wasnearly dark. Sufficient light, however, remained in the west to show upthe large house standing in the midst of the swaying branches. One dimlight appeared in the blue-gray mass, and the dead leaves were blownfiercely by the strong gusts of wind. On the other side of the roadstood an old gray house, whose appearance that gloomy evening wellsupported the statement that it was haunted. The classic front appearedbehind an imposing gateway approached by a curious flat bridge across acircular pond which had a solid stone edging. The low parapets of thebridge were cut into a strange serpentine form. I gazed at the front ofthe house, backed by the dim outline of the moor beyond; but, though theplace was silent enough, I could hear no strange sounds, and the windowsremained black and impassive. 

I left the village in the gathering gloom and was soon out on theheather. Away on the left, but scarcely discernible, was Swart HoueCross, on Egton Low Moor, and straight in front lay the Skelder Inn. Alight gleamed from one of the lower windows, and by it I guided mysteps, being determined to partake of tea before turning my stepshomeward. I stepped into the little parlour, with its sanded floor, anddemanded 'fat rascals' and tea. The girl was not surprised at myrequest, for the hot turf cakes supplied at the inn are known to all theneighbourhood by this unusual name, although they are not particularlyfat, and are so extremely palatable that one would gladly call them by afriendlier name. 

But though the gloom of an autumn evening emphasizes the loneliness ofthe inn, it blots out the beautiful views which extend in everydirection over dales and woodland, as well as the sea and moors. Whitbyshows itself beyond the windmill as a big town dominated by a greatrectangular building looking as much like a castle as an hotel, theabbey being less conspicuous from here than from most points of view. Northwards are the dense woods at Mulgrave, the coast as far asKettleness, and the wide, almost limitless moors in the direction ofGuisborough. The road to that ancient town goes straight up the hillpast Swart Houe Cross, which forms the horizon in the picture reproducedas the frontispiece of this volume. Up on that high ground you can seeright across the valley of the Esk in both directions. The course of theriver itself is hidden by the shoulders of Egton Low Moor beneath us, but faint sounds of the shunting of trucks are carried up to theheights. Even when the deep valleys are warmest, and when theiratmosphere is most suggestive of a hot-house, these moorland heightsrejoice in a keen, dry air, which seems to drive away the slightestsense of fatigue, so easily felt on the lower levels, and to give in itsplace a vigour that laughs at distance. Up here, too, the whole worldseems left to Nature, the levels of cultivation being almost out ofsight, and anything under 800 feet seems low. Towards the end of Augustthe heights are capped with purple, although the distant moors, howeverbrilliant they may appear when close at hand, generally assume moredelicate shades, fading into grays and blues on the horizon. 

But however much the moors may attract us, we started out with theintention of seeing something of Eskdale. We will therefore take aturning out of the Guisborough road, and go down the hill to Egtonvillage, where there is a church with some Norman pillars and archespreserved from the rebuilding craze that despoiled Yorkshire of half itsecclesiastical antiquities. Making our way along the riverside toGrosmont, we come to the enormous heaps above the pits of the nowdisused iron-mines. This was the birthplace of the Cleveland Ironworks, and Grosmont was at one time more famous than Middlesbrough. The firstcargo of ironstone was sent from here in 1836, when the Pickering andWhitby Railway was opened. However interesting Grosmont may sound inbooks, it is a dull place; for the knowledge that the name wasoriginally Grandimont, from the small priory founded about 1200, andnamed after the abbey in Normandy to which it was attached, does notexcite much interest when there is nothing to see but a farmhouse on thesite, and the modern place consists of a railway-junction, some desertedmines, and many examples of the modern Yorkshire house. 

Everything that Nature can do to make amends for this uninteresting spotis lavishly squandered upon the valley, for wherever man has left thingsalone there are heavy canopies of foliage, and mossy boulders among therushing streams; and if you will but take the trouble to climb up to theheather, even the mines are dwarfed into insignificance. We will go upthe steep road to the top of Sleights Moor. It is a long stiff climb ofnearly 900 feet, but the view is one of the very finest in this country, where wide expanses soon become commonplace. We are sufficiently high tolook right across Fylingdales Moor to the sea beyond, a soft haze ofpearly blue over the hard, rugged outline of the ling. Away towards thenorth, too, the landscape for many miles is limited only by the samehorizon of sea, so that we seem to be looking at a section of a verylarge scale contour map of England. Below us on the western side runsthe Mirk Esk, draining the heights upon which we stand as well as EgtonHigh Moor and Wheeldale Moor. The confluence with the Esk at Grosmont islost in a haze of smoke and a confusion of roofs and railway-lines; andthe course of the larger river in the direction of Glaisdale is alsohidden behind the steep slopes of Egton High Moor. Towards the south wegaze over a vast desolation, crossed by the coach-road to York as itrises and falls over the swells of the heather. The queer isolated coneof Blakey Topping and the summit of Gallows Dyke, close to Saltersgate, appear above the distant ridges. 

The route of the great Roman road from the South to Dunsley Bay can alsobe seen from these heights. It passes straight through Cawthorn Camp, onthe ridge to the west of the village of Newton, and then runs alongwithin a few yards of the by-road from Picketing to Egton. It crossesWheeldale Beck, and skirts the ancient dyke round July or Julian Park, at one time a hunting-seat of the great De Mauley family. The road isabout 12 feet wide, and is now deep in heather; but it is slightlyraised above the general level of the ground, and can therefore befollowed fairly easily where it has not been taken up to build walls forenclosures. Of greater antiquity, but much more easily discovered, arethe bride stones close at hand on Sleights Moor. Several of the stoneshave fallen, but three of them are still standing erect, the tallestbeing 7 feet high. It is not easy to discover any particular form fromthe standing and recumbent stones, for they neither make a circle nor dothey seem to be directed to any particular point of the compass; but itis quite possible that these monoliths were put up by Early Man as ameans of recording the seasons, in somewhat the same manner asStonehenge is an example of the orientated temple of Neolithic times. 

If we go down into the valley beneath us by a road bearing south-west, we shall find ourselves at Beck Hole, where there is a pretty group ofstone cottages, backed by some tall firs. The Eller Beck is crossed by astone bridge close to its confluence with the Mirk Esk. Above thebridge, a footpath among the huge boulders winds its way by the side ofthe rushing beck to Thomasin Foss, where the little river falls in twoor three broad silver bands into a considerable pool. Great masses ofoverhanging rock, shaded by a leafy roof, shut in the brimming waters. 

It is not difficult to find the way from Beck Hole to the Roman camp onthe hillside towards Egton Bridge. The Roman road from Cawthorn goesright through it, but beyond this it is not easy to trace, althoughfragments have been discovered as far as Aislaby, all pointing toDunsley or Sandsend Bay. Round the shoulder of the hill we come downagain to the deeply-wooded valley of the Esk. No river can be seen, butwhen we enter the shade of the trees the sound of many waters fills theair. What was once a thick green roof is now thin and yellow, and underour feet is a yielding carpet of soft brown and orange leaves. Rare andluxuriant mosses grow at the foot of the trees, on dead wood, and on thedamp stones, and everywhere the rich woodland scent of decay meets thenostrils. In the midst of all these evidences of rampant naturalconditions we come to Glaisdale End, where a graceful stone bridge of asingle arch stands over the rushing stream. The initials of the builderand the date appear on the eastern side of what is now known as theBeggar's Bridge. It was formerly called Firris Bridge, after thebuilder, but the popular interest in the story of its origin seems tohave killed the old name. If you ask anyone in Whitby to mention some ofthe sights of the neighbourhood, he will probably head his list with theBeggar's Bridge, but why this is so I cannot imagine. The woods are verybeautiful, but this is a country full of the loveliest dales, and thepresence of this single-arched bridge does not seem sufficient to haveattracted so much popularity. I can only attribute it to the loveinterest associated with the beggar. He was, we may imagine, theAlderman Thomas Firris who, as a penniless youth, came to bid farewellto his betrothed, who lived somewhere on the opposite side of the river. Finding the stream impassable, he is said to have determined that if hecame back from his travels as a rich man he would put up a bridge on thespot he had been prevented from crossing. It is not a very remarkablestory, even if it be true, but it has given the bridge a fame scarcelyproportionate to its merits. 

CHAPTER III

THE COAST FROM WHITBY TO REDCAR

Along the three miles of sand running northwards from Whitby at the footof low alluvial cliffs, I have seen some of the finest sea-pictures onthis part of the coast. But although I have seen beautiful effects atall times of the day, those that I remember more than any others are theearly mornings, when the sun was still low in the heavens, when, standing on that fine stretch of yellow sand, one seemed to breathe anatmosphere so pure, and to gaze at a sky so transparent, that some ofthose undefined longings for surroundings that have never been realizedwere instinctively uppermost in the mind. It is, I imagine, that vaguerecognition of perfection which has its effect on even superficial mindswhen impressed with beautiful scenery, for to what other cause can beattributed the remark one hears, that such scenes 'make one feel good'?

Heavy waves, overlapping one another in their fruitless bombardment ofthe smooth shelving sand, are filling the air with a ceaseless thunder. The sun, shining from a sky of burnished gold, throws into silhouettethe twin lighthouses at the entrance to Whitby Harbour, and turns thefoaming wave-tops into a dazzling white, accentuated by the long shadowsof early day. Away to the north-west is Sandsend Ness, a bold headlandfull of purple and blue shadows, and straight out to sea, across thewhite-capped waves, are two tramp steamers, making, no doubt, for SouthShields or some port where a cargo of coal can be picked up. They areplunging heavily, and every moment their bows seem to go down too farto recover. 

On mornings when the sea is quieter there are few who can resist thedesire to plunge into the blue waters, for at seven o'clock the shore isso entirely deserted that one seems to be bathing from some primevalshore where no other forms of life may be expected than some giantcrustaceans. This thought, perhaps, prompted the painful sensations Iallowed to prey upon me one night when I was walking along thisparticular piece of shore from Whitby. I had decided to save time overthe road to Sandsend by getting on to the beach at Upgang, where thelifeboat-house stands, by the entrance to a small beck. So dark was thenight that I could scarcely be sure that I had not lost my way, until Ihad carefully felt the walls of the boat-house. Then I steppedcautiously on to the sand, which I discovered as soon as my feet begansinking at every step. 

The harbour lights of Whitby were bright enough, but in the otherdirection I could be sure of nothing. At first I seemed to have made amistake as to the state of the tide, for there appeared to be awhiteness nearly up to the base of the cliffs; but this proved to be thesuffused glow from the lighthouses. Rain had been falling heavily forthe last few days, and had produced so many wide streams across the sandthat my knowledge of the usual ones merely hampered me. At first I beganstepping carefully over large black hollows in the sand, and then agreat black mark would show itself, which, offering no resistance to mystick as I drew it across its surface, I could only imagine to be causedby a flood of ink poured upon the beach by some horrible squid. Mymusings on whether sea-monsters did ever disport themselves on the shoreunder the cover of sufficiently dark nights would be broken into bydiscovering that I had plunged into a stream of undiscoverabledimensions, whose existence only revealed itself by the splash of myboots. Retreating cautiously, I would take a run, and then a terrificleap into the darkness, sometimes finding myself on firm dry sand, andas frequently in the water. 

I had decided that I should probably not reach Sandsend until daylight, when a red lamp near the railway-bridge shone out as a beacon, and Irealized that I would soon be safe from the tentacles of sea-monsters. 

When I awoke next morning, I dashed out on to the beach, and commencedto walk rapidly in the direction of Whitby, in the hope that the tidehad left some of those black stains still showing. I wanted, also, toexamine some of the queer ridges I had so often stepped over, and someof the rivers I had leapt. The rivers were there wide enough in places, but nothing in the way of a ridge or any signs of those inky patchescould I discern. Careful examination showed, however, that here andthere the smooth shore was covered with sand of a rather reddish hue, quite unworthy of remark in daylight. The foolishness of myapprehensions seems apparent, but nevertheless I urge everyone to choosea moonlit night and a companion of some sort for traversing these threemiles after sunset. 

The two little becks finding their outlet at East Row and Sandsend arelovely to-day; but their beauty must have been much more apparent beforethe North-Eastern Railway put their black lattice girder bridges acrossthe mouth of each valley. But now that familiarity with these bridges, which are of the same pattern across every wooded ravine up thecoast-line to Redcar, has blunted my impressions, I can think of thepicturesqueness of East Row without remembering the railway. It was inthis glen, where Lord Normanby's lovely woods make a background for thepretty tiled cottages, the mill, and the old stone bridge, which make upEast Row, that the Saxons chose a home for their god Thor. [Since thiswas written one or two new houses have been allowed to mar thesimplicity of the valley. --G. H. ] Here they built some rude form oftemple, afterwards, it seems, converted into a hermitage. This was howthe spot obtained the name Thordisa, a name it retained down to 1620, when the requirements of workmen from the newly-started alum-works atSandsend led to building operations by the side of the stream. Thecottages which arose became known afterwards as East Row. 

A very little way inland is the village of Dunsley, which may have beenin existence in Roman times, for Ptolemy mentions Dunus Sinus as a bayfrequently used by the Romans as a landing-place. The foundations ofsome ancient building can easily be traced in the rough grass at thevillage cross-roads, now overlooked by a new stone house. But whateversurprises Dunsley may have in store for those who choose to dig in thelikely places, the hamlet need not keep one long, for on either handthere is a choice of breezy moorland or the astonishing beauties ofMulgrave Woods. Before I knew this part of Yorkshire, and had merelyread of the woods as a sight to be visited from Whitby, I was preparedfor something at least as hackneyed as Hayburn Wyke. I was prepared fordirection-boards and artificial helps to the charms of certain aspectsof the streams. I certainly never anticipated that I should one day sighfor a direction-board in this forest. 

It was on my second visit to the woods that I determined to find aparticularly dramatic portion of one of the streams. My first ramble hadbeen in summer. I had been with one who knew the paths well, but now itwas late autumn and I was alone. I explored the paths for hours, andtraversed long glades ablaze with red and gold. I peered down throughthe yellow leaves to the rushing streams below, where I could see thegreat moss-grown boulders choking the narrow channels. But thisparticular spot had gone. I was almost in despair, when two labourers bygreat luck happened to come along one of the tracks. With their help Ifound the place I was searching for, and the result of the time spentthere is given in one of the illustrations to this chapter. Go where youwill in Yorkshire, you will find no more fascinating woodland scenerythan this. From the broken walls and towers of the old Norman castle theviews over the ravines on either hand--for the castle stands on a loftypromontory in a sea of foliage--are entrancing; and after seeing theastoundingly brilliant colours with which autumn paints these trees, there is a tendency to find the ordinary woodland commonplace. Thenarrowest and deepest gorge is hundreds of feet deep in the shale. EastRow Beck drops into this canyon in the form of a waterfall at the upperend, and then almost disappears among the enormous rocks strewn alongits circumscribed course. The humid, hothouse atmosphere down hereencourages the growth of many of the rarer mosses, which entirely coverall but the newly-fallen rocks. 

We can leave the woods by a path leading near Lord Normanby's moderncastle, and come out on to the road close to Lythe Church, where a greatview of sea and land is spread out towards the south. The long curvingline of white marks the limits of the tide as far as the entrance toWhitby Harbour. The abbey stands out in its loneliness as of yore, andbeyond it are the black-looking, precipitous cliffs ending at SaltwickNab. Lythe Church, standing in its wind-swept graveyard full ofblackened tombstones, need not keep us, for, although itsmuch-modernized exterior is simple and ancient-looking, the interior isdevoid of any interest. It is the same tale at nearly every village inthis district, and to those who are able to grow enthusiastic inantiquarian matters some parts of the county are disappointing. In EastAnglia and the southern counties even the smallest hamlets have often agood church, with a conspicuous tower or spire; but in how many villagesin this riding do you find no church at all, as in the case of Staithesand Runswick? Many of the old churches of Yorkshire were in a state ofgreat dilapidation at the beginning of last century, and a great efforthaving been initiated by the then Archbishop, a fund was instituted tohelp the various parishes to restore their buildings. It was a periodwhen architecture was at a low ebb, and the desire to sweep awayantiquity was certainly strong, for those churches not rebuilt from theground were so hacked and renovated that their interest andpicturesqueness has vanished. The churches at Pickering, Middleton, Lastingham, and Kirkdale must, however, be pointed out as pricelessexceptions. 

The road drops down a tremendous hill into Sandsend, where they talk ofgoing 'up t' bonk' to Lythe Church. A little chapel of ease in thevillage accommodates the old and delicate folk, but the youth and thegenerally able-bodied of Sandsend must climb the hill every Sunday. Thebeck forms an island in the village, and the old stone cottages, brightwith new paint and neatly-trained creepers, stand in their gardens oneither side of the valley in the most picturesque fashion. 

The walk along the rocky shore to Kettleness is dangerous unless thetide is carefully watched, and the road inland through Lythe village isnot particularly interesting, so that one is tempted to use the railway, which cuts right through the intervening high ground by means of twotunnels. The first one is a mile long, and somewhere near the centre hasa passage out to the cliffs, so that even if both ends of the tunnelcollapsed there would be a way of escape. But this is small comfort whentravelling from Kettleness, for the down gradient towards Sandsend isvery steep, and in the darkness of the tunnel the train gets up atremendous speed, bursting into the open just where a precipitous dropinto the sea could be most easily accomplished. 

The station at Kettleness is on the top of the huge cliffs, and to reachthe shore one must climb down a zigzag path. It is a broad and solidpathway until halfway down, where it assumes the character of agoat-track, being a mere treading down of the loose shale of which theenormous cliff is formed. The sliding down of the crumbling rockconstantly carries away the path, but a little spade-work soon makes thetrack firm again. This portion of the cliff has something of a history, for one night in 1829 the inhabitants of many of the cottages originallyforming the village of Kettleness were warned of impending danger bysubterranean noises. Fearing a subsidence of the cliff, they betookthemselves to a small schooner lying in the bay. This wise move had notlong been accomplished, when a huge section of the ground occupied bythe cottages slid down the great cliff and the next morning there waslittle to be seen but a sloping mound of lias shale at the foot of theprecipice. The villagers recovered some of their property by digging, and some pieces of broken crockery from one of the cottages are still tobe seen on the shore near the ferryman's hut, where the path joinsthe shore. 

This sandy beach, lapped by the blue waves of Runswick Bay, is one ofthe finest spots on the rocky coast-line of Yorkshire. A tricklingwaterfall drops perpendicularly down the blackish rocks from aconsiderable height, while above it are the towering cliffs of shale, perfectly bare in one direction, and clothed with grass and bracken inanother. At the foot of the rocks a layer of jet appears a few inchesabove the sand. 

You look northwards across the sunlit sea to the rocky heights hidingPort Mulgrave and Staithes, and on the further side of the bay you seetiny Runswick's red roofs, one above the other, on the face of thecliff. Here it is always cool and pleasant in the hottest weather, andfrom the broad shadows cast by the precipices above one can revel in thesunny land and sea-scapes without that fishy odour so unavoidable in thevillages. When the sun is beginning to climb down the sky in thedirection of Hinderwell, and everything is bathed in a glorious goldenlight, the ferryman will row you across the bay to Runswick, but ascramble over the rocks on the beach will be repaid by a closer view ofthe now half-filled-up Hob Hole. The fisher-folk believed this cave tobe the home of a kindly-disposed fairy or hob, who seems to have beenone of the slow-dying inhabitants of the world of mythology implicitlybelieved in by the Saxons. And these beliefs died so hard in theselonely Yorkshire villages that until recent times a mother would carryher child suffering from whooping-cough along the beach to the mouth ofthe cave. There she would call in a loud voice, 'Hob-hole Hob! mybairn's gotten t'kink cough. Tak't off, tak't off. ' One can see thechild's parents gazing fearfully into the black depths of the cavern, penetrating the cliff for 70 feet, and finally turning back to thevillage in the full belief that the hob would stay the disease. 

The steep paths and flights of roughly-built steps that wind above andbelow the cottages are the only means of getting about in Runswick. Thebutcher's cart every Saturday penetrates into the centre of the villageby the rough track which is all that is left of the good firm road fromHinderwell after it has climbed down the cliff. To this centralposition, close to the post-box, the householders come to buy theirsupply of meat for Sunday, having their purchases weighed on scalesplaced on the flap at the back of the cart. While the butcher is doinghis thriving trade the postman arrives to collect letters from thepillar-box, Placing a small horn to his lips, he blows a blast to warnthe villagers that the post is going, and, having waited for the lastletter, climbs slowly up the steep pathway to Hinderwell. 

Halfway up to the top he pauses and looks over the fruit-trees and thetiles and chimney-pots below him, to the bright blue waters of the bay, with Kettleness beyond, now all pink and red in the golden light of lateafternoon. This scene is more suggestive of the Mediterranean thanYorkshire, for the blueness of the sea seems almost unnatural, and thegolden greens of the pretty little gardens among the houses seem perhapsa trifle theatrical; but the fisher-folk play their parts too well, andthere is nothing make-believe about the delicious bread-and-butter andthe newly-baked cakes which accompany the tea awaiting us in aspotlessly clean cottage close by. 

The same form of disaster which destroyed Kettleness village caused thecomplete ruin of Runswick in 1666, for one night, when some of thefisher-folk were holding a wake over a corpse, they had unmistakablewarnings of an approaching landslip. The alarm was given, and thevillagers, hurriedly leaving their cottages, saw the whole place slidedownwards and become a mass of ruins. No lives were lost, but, as onlyone house remained standing, the poor fishermen were only saved fromdestitution by the sums of money collected for their relief. 

Architecturally speaking, Hinderwell is a depressing village, and thereis little to remember about the place except an extraordinary block oftwo or three shops, suitable only for a business street in a big city, but dumped right into the middle of this village of low cottages. Thechurch is modern enough to be uninteresting, but in the graveyard St. Hilda's Well, from which the name Hinderwell is a corruption, maystill be seen. 

In 1603 there was a sudden and terrible outbreak of plague in thevillage. It only lasted from September 1 to November 10, but in thatshort time forty-nine people died. It seems that the infection wasbrought by some men from a 'Turkey ship' that had been stranded on thecoast, but, strangely enough, the disease does not appear to have beencarried into the other villages in the neighbourhood. 

Scarcely two miles from Hinderwell is the fishing-hamlet of Staithes, wedged into the side of a deep and exceedingly picturesque beck. Here--and it is the same at Runswick--one is obliged to walk warilyduring the painter's season, for fear of either obstructing the view ofthe man behind the easel you have just passed, or out of regard for thefeelings of some girls just in front. There are often no more chances ofstanding still in Staithes than may be enjoyed on a popular golf-linkson a fine Saturday afternoon. These folk at Staithes do not disturb onewith cries of 'Fore!' but with that blank Chinaman's stare which comesto anyone who paints in public. 

The average artist is a being who is quite unable to recognisearchitectural merit. He sees everything to please him if the backgroundof his group be sufficiently tumble-down and derelict. If this beincorrect, how could such swarms of artistic folk paint and actuallylodge in Staithes? The steep road leading past the station drops downinto the village, giving a glimpse of the beck crossed by its ramshacklewooden foot-bridge--the view one has been prepared for by guide-booksand picture postcards. Lower down you enter the village street. Here thesmell of fish comes out to greet you, and one would forgive the placethis overflowing welcome if one were not so shocked at the dismal aspectof the houses on either side of the way. Many are of comparativelyrecent origin, others are quite new, and a few--a very few--are old; butnone have any architectural pretensions or any claims topicturesqueness, and only a few have the neat and respectable look oneis accustomed to expect after seeing Robin Hood's Bay. 

Staithes had filled me with so much pleasant expectancy that my firstwalk down this street of dirty, ugly houses had brought me into aquerulous frame of mind, and I wondered irritably why the women shouldall wear lilac-coloured bonnets, when a choice of colour is notdifficult as far as calico is concerned. Those women who were inmourning had dyed theirs black, and these assorted well with the colourof the stone of many of the houses. 

I hurried down on to the little fish-wharf--a wooden structure facingthe sea--hoping to find something more cheering in the view of thelittle bay, with its bold cliffs, and the busy scene where the cobleswere drawn up on the shingle. Here my spirits revived, and I began tofind excuses for the painters. The little wharf, in a bad state ofrepair, like most things in the place, was occupied by groups ofstalwart fisher-folk, men and women. 

The men were for the most part watching their women-folk at work. Theywere also to an astonishing extent mere spectators in the arduous workof hauling the cobles one by one on to the steep bank of shingle. Atackle hooked to one of the baulks of timber forming the staith wasbeing hauled at by five women and two men! Two others were in a listlessfashion leaning their shoulders against the boat itself. With the last'Heave-ho!' at the shortened tackle the women laid hold of the nets, andwith casual male assistance laid them out on the shingle, removed anyfragments of fish, and generally prepared them for stowing in theboat again. 

It is evidently an accepted state of things at Staithes that the work ofputting out to sea and the actual catching of the fish is sufficient forthe men-folk, for the feminine population do their arduous tasks with amethodical matter-of-factness which surprises only the stranger. I wasparticularly struck on one occasion with the sight of a good-looking andvery neatly dressed young fishwife who was engaged in that verynecessary but exceedingly unpleasant task of cutting open fish andremoving the perishable portions. With unerring precision the sharpknife was plunged into each cod or haddock, and the fish was in itsmarketable condition in shorter time than one can write. A little boyplunged them into a pail of ruddy-looking water, and from thence intothe regulation fish box or basket that finds its way to the Metropolis. 

A change has come over the inhabitants of Staithes since 1846, when Mr. Ord describes the fishermen as 'exceedingly civil and courteous tostrangers, and altogether free from that low, grasping knavery peculiarto the larger class of fishing-towns. ' Without wishing to beunreasonably hard on Staithes, I am inclined to believe that thischaracter is infinitely better than these folk deserve, and even whenMr. Ord wrote of the place I have reason to doubt the civility shown bythem to strangers. It is, according to some who have known Staithes fora long while, less than fifty years ago that the fisher-folk werehostile to a stranger on very small provocation, and only the entirelyinoffensive could expect to sojourn in the village without being atarget for stones. The incursion of the artistic hordes has been a greatfactor in the demoralization of the village, for who would not bemercenary when besought at all hours of the day to stand before a canvasor a camera? Thus, the harmless stranger who strays on to the staithwith a camera is obliged to pay for 'an afternoon's 'baccy' if he wantan opportunity to obtain more than a snapshot of a picturesque group. Hemay try to capture a lonely old fisherman by asking if he would mindstanding still for 'just one second, ' but the old fellow will move awayinstantly unless his demand for payment be readily complied with. 

No doubt many of the superstitions of Staithes people have languished ordied out in recent years, and among these may be included a particularlyprimitive custom when the catches of fish had been unusually small. Badluck of this sort could only be the work of some evil influence, and tobreak the spell a sheep's heart had to be procured, into which many pinswere stuck. The heart was then burnt in a bonfire on the beach, in thepresence of the fishermen, who danced round the flames. 

In happy contrast to these heathenish practices was the resolutionentered into and signed by the fishermen of Staithes, in August, 1835, binding themselves 'on no account whatever' to follow their calling onSundays, 'nor to go out with our boats or cobbles to sea, either on theSaturday or Sunday evenings. ' They also agreed to forfeit ten shillingsfor every offence against the resolution, and the fund accumulated inthis way, and by other means, was administered for the benefit of agedcouples and widows and orphans. 

The men of Staithes are known up and down the east coast of GreatBritain as some of the very finest types of fishermen. Their cobles, which vary in size and colour, are uniform in design and the brillianceof their paint. Brick red, emerald green, pungent blue and white, arethe most favoured colours, but orange, pink, yellow, and many others, are to be seen. 

Not only are fish of the present age in evidence at Staithes, butnowhere along this coast can one find better examples of those of theJurassic period. When the tide has exposed the scaur which runs out fromColburn Nab, at the mouth of the beck, a one can examine masses ofrecently fallen rocks, the new faces of which are almost invariablycovered with ammonites or clusters of fossil bivalves. The onlyhindrance to a close examination of these new falls from the cliffs isthe serious danger of another fall occurring at the same spot. Thefisher-folk are very kind in pointing out this peril to ardentgeologists and those of a less scientific outlook, who merely enjoy theexercise of scrambling over great masses of rock. After having beenwarned that most of the face of the cliff above is 'qualified' to comedown at any moment, there is a strong inclination to betake one's selfto a safe distance, where, unfortunately, the wear and tear of the waveshave in most cases so battered the traces of early marine life thatthere is little to attack with the hammer to compare with what can beseen in the new falls. The scaur also presents an interesting feature inits round ironstone nodules, half embedded in the smooth rocky floor. 

Looking northwards there is a grand piece of coast scenery. The massesof Boulby Cliffs, rising 660 feet from the sea, are the highest on theYorkshire coast. The waves break all round the rocky scaur, and fill theair with their thunder, while the strong wind blows the spray intobeards which stream backwards from the incoming crests. 

The upper course of Staithes Beck consists of two streams, flowingthrough deep, richly-wooded ravines. They follow parallel courses veryclose to one another for three or four miles, but their sources extendfrom Lealholm Moor to Wapley Moor. Kilton Beck runs through anotherlovely valley densely clothed in trees, and full of the richest woodlandscenery. It becomes more open in the neighbourhood of Loftus, and fromthence to the sea at Skinningrove the valley is green and open to theheavens. Loftus is on the borders of the Cleveland mining district, andit is for this reason that the town has grown to a considerable size. But although the miners' new cottages are unpicturesque, and the churchonly dates from 1811, the situation is pretty, owing to the profusion oftrees among the houses. Skinningrove has railway-sidings andbranch-lines running down to it, and on the hill above the cottagesstands a cluster of blast-furnaces. In daylight they are merely ugly, but at night, with tongues of flame, they speak of the potency oflabour. I can still see that strange silhouette of steel cylinders andconnecting girders against a blue-black sky, with silent masses of flameleaping into the heavens. 

It was long before iron-ore was smelted here, before even the oldalum-works had been started, that Skinningrove attained to some sort offame through a wonderful visit, as strange as any of those recounted byMr. Wells. It was in the year 1535--for the event is most carefullyrecorded in a manuscript of the period--that some fishermen ofSkinningrove caught a Sea Man. This was such an astounding fact torecord that the writer of the old manuscript explains that 'old men thatwould be loath to have their credyt crackt by a tale of a stale date, report confidently that . . . A _sea-man_ was taken by the fishers. ' Theytook him up to an old disused house, and kept him there for many weeks, feeding him on raw fish, because he persistently refused the other sortsof food offered him. To the people who flocked from far and near tovisit him he was very courteous, and he seems to have been particularlypleased with any 'fayre maydes' who visited him, for he would gaze atthem with a very earnest countenance, 'as if his phlegmaticke breastehad been touched with a sparke of love. ' The Sea Man was so well behavedthat the fisher-folk began to feel sufficiently sure of his desire tolive with them to cease to keep watch on his movements. 'One day, ' weare told, 'he prively stoale out of Doores, and ere he coulde beovertaken recovered the sea, whereinto he plunged himself; yet as onethat woulde not unmanerly depart without taking of his leave, from themydle upwardes he raysed his shoulders often above the waves, andmakinge signes of acknowledgeing his good enterteinment to such asbeheld him on the shore, as they interpreted yt;--after a pretty whilehe dived downe and appeared no more. '

This strangely detailed account says that instead of a voice the Sea Man'skreaked, ' but this is of small interest compared to whether he had atail or any fish-like attributes. The fact that he escaped would suggestthe presence of legs, but the historian is silent on thisall-important matter. 

The lofty coast-line we have followed all the way from Sandsendterminates abruptly at Huntcliff Nab, the great promontory which isfamiliar to visitors to Saltburn. Low alluvial cliffs take the place ofthe rocky precipices, and the coast becomes flatter and flatter as youapproach Redcar and the marshy country at the mouth of the Tees. Theoriginal Saltburn, consisting of a row of quaint fishermen's cottages, still stands entirely alone, facing the sea on the Huntcliff side of thebeck, and from the wide, smooth sands there is little of modern Saltburnto be seen besides the pier. For the rectangular streets and blocks ofhouses have been wisely placed some distance from the edge of the grassycliffs, leaving the sea-front quite unspoiled. It would, perhaps, bewell to own that I have never seen Saltburn during the summer season, and for this reason I may think better of the resort than if my visithad been in midsummer. It was during October. The sun was shiningbrightly, and a strong wind was blowing off the land. The wide, new-looking streets were spotlessly clean, and in most of them there wasno sign of life at all. It was the same on the broad sweep of sands, forwhen I commenced a drawing on the cliffs the only living creatures Icould see were two small dogs. About noon a girls' school was let looseupon the sands, and for half an hour a furious game of hockey wasfought. Then I was left alone again, with the great expanse of sea, theyellow margin of sand, and the reddish-brown cliffs, all beneath thewind-swept sky. 

The elaborately-laid-out gardens on the steep banks of Skelton Beck arethe pride and joy of Saltburn, for they offer a pleasant contrast to thebare slopes on the Huntcliff side and the flat country towardsKirkleatham. But in this seemingly harmless retreat there used to beheard horrible groanings, and I have no evidence to satisfy me that theyhave altogether ceased. For in this matter-of-fact age such a storywould not be listened to, and thus those who hear the sounds may beafraid to speak of them. The groanings were heard, they say, 'when allwyndes are whiste and the sea restes unmoved as a standing poole. ' Attimes they were so loud as to be heard at least six miles inland, andthe fishermen feared to put out to sea, believing that the ocean was 'asa greedy Beaste raginge for Hunger, desyers to be satisfyed with men'scarcases. ' There were also at that time certain rocks towards HuntcliffNab, left bare at low-tide, where 'Seales in greate Heardes like Swine'were to be seen basking in the sun. 'For their better scuritye, ' saysthe old writer, 'they put in use a kind of military discipline, warilypreparing against a soddaine surprize, for on the outermost Rocke onegreat Seale or more keepes sentinell, which upon the first inklinge ofany danger, giveth the Alarme to the rest by throweing of Stones, ormaking a noise in the water, when he tumbles down from the Rocke, therest immediately doe the like, insomuch that yt is very hard to overtakethem by cunning. '

In 1842 Redcar was a mere village, though more apparent on the map thanSaltburn; but, like its neighbour, it has grown into a greatwatering-place, having developed two piers, a long esplanade otherfeatures, which I am glad to leave to those for whom they were made, andbetake myself to the more romantic spots so plentiful in thisbroad county. 

CHAPTER IV

THE COAST FROM WHITBY TO SCARBOROUGH

Although it is only six miles as the crow flies from Whitby to RobinHood's Bay, the exertion required to walk there along the top of thecliffs is equal to quite double that distance, for there are so manygullies to be climbed into and crawled out of that the measured distanceis considerably increased. It is well to remember this, for otherwisethe scenery of the last mile or two may not seem as fine as thefirst stages. 

As soon as the abbey and the jet-sellers are left behind, you pass afarm, and come out on a great expanse of close-growing smooth turf, where the whole world seems to be made up of grass and sky. The footpathgoes close to the edge of the cliff; in some places it has gone tooclose, and has disappeared altogether. But these diversions can beavoided without spoiling the magnificent glimpses of the rock-strewnbeach nearly 200 feet below. From above Saltwick Bay there is a grandview across the level grass to Whitby Abbey, standing out alone on thegreen horizon. Down below, Saltwick Nab runs out a bare black arm intothe sea, which even in the calmest weather angrily foams along thewindward side. Beyond the sturdy lighthouse that shows itself a dazzlingwhite against the hot blue of the heavens commence the innumerablegullies. Each one has its trickling stream, and bushes and low treesgrow to the limits of the shelter afforded by the ravines; but in theopen there is nothing higher than the waving corn or the stone wallsdividing the pastures--a silent testimony to the power of the north-eastwind. The village of Hawsker, with its massive though modern church, canbe seen across the fields towards the west, but it does not offersufficient attractions to divert you from the cliffs, unless you have adesire to see in one or two of the fields, gateways and rubbing-postsformed of whales' jaws, suggestive of the days when Whitby carried on athriving trade with the great cetaceans. To enjoy this magnificent coastscenery, there must be plenty of time to linger in those places where itseems impossible not to fling yourself on the long brown grass andlisten to the droning of insects and the sound of the waves down below. At certain times of the day the most striking colours are seen among thesunlit rocks, and the boldness of the outlines of overhanging strata andgreat projecting shoulders are a continual surprise. 

After rounding the North Cheek, the whole of Robin Hood's Bay issuddenly laid before you. I well remember my first view of the widesweep of sea, which lay like a blue carpet edged with white, and thehigh escarpments of rock that were in deep purple shade, except wherethe afternoon sun turned them into the brightest greens and umbers. Three miles away, but seemingly very much closer, was the bold headlandof the Peak, and more inland was Stoupe Brow, with Robin Hood's Butts onthe hill-top. The fable connected with the outlaw is scarcely worthrepeating, but on the site of these butts urns have been dug up, and arenow to be found in Scarborough Museum. The Bay Town is hidden away in amost astonishing fashion, for, until you have almost reached the twobastions which guard the way up from the beach, there is nothing to beseen of the charming old place. If you approach by the road past therailway-station it is the same, for only garishly new hotels and villasare to be seen on the high ground, and not a vestige of the fishing-towncan be discovered. But the road to the bay at last begins to drop downvery steeply, and the first old roofs appear. The path at the side ofthe road develops into a very long series of steps, and in a few minutesthe narrow street, flanked by very tall houses, has swallowed you up. 

Everything is very clean and orderly, and, although most of the housesare very old, they are generally in a good state of repair, exhibitingin every case the seaman's love of fresh paint. Thus, the dark and wornstone walls have bright eyes in their newly-painted doors and windows. Over their doorsteps the fishermen's wives are quite fastidious, and youseldom see a mark on the ochre-coloured hearthstone with which the womenlove to brighten the worn stones. Even the scrapers are sleek withblacklead, and it is not easy to find a window without spotlessly cleancurtains. The little coastguard station by the opening on to the shorehas difficulty in showing itself superior to the rest in these essentialmatters of smartness. However, the coastguards glory in a little stonepathway protected by a low wall in front of their building. On thisnarrow quarter-deck the men love to walk to and fro, just as though theywere afloat and were limited to this space for exercise. At high-tidethe sea comes halfway up the steep opening between the coastguards'quarters and the inn which is built on another bastion, and in roughweather the waves break hungrily on to the strong stone walls, for thebay is entirely open to the full force of gales from the east ornorth-east. All the way from Scarborough to Whitby the coast offers noshelter of any sort in heavy weather, and many vessels have been lost onthe rocks. On one occasion a small sailing-ship was driven right intothis bay at high-tide, and the bowsprit smashed into a window of thelittle hotel that occupied the place of the present one. 

With angry seas periodically demolishing the outermost houses, it seemsalmost unaccountable that the little town should have persisted inclinging so tenaciously to the high-water mark; but there were probablytwo paramount reasons for this. The deep gully was to a great extentprotected from the force of the winds, and, as it was soon quite brimfulof houses, every inch of space was valuable; then, smuggling was freelypractised along the coast, and the more the houses were wedged together, the more opportunities for secret hiding-places would be afforded. Thewhole town has a consciously guilty look in its evident desire toconceal itself; and the steep narrow streets, the curious passages whereit is scarcely possible for two people to pass, and the little courtswhich look like culs-de-sac but have a hidden flight of steps leadingdown to another passage, seem to be purposely intricate and confusing. For I can imagine a revenue cutter chasing a boat into Robin Hood's Bay, and I can see the smugglers hastily landing on the beach and making forthe town, followed by the Excise officers, who are as unable to tracethe men as though they had been chasing rabbits in a warren. The streamthat made this retreat for the fishing-town is now scarcely more than adrain when it reaches the houses, for, after passing along the foot of agreat perpendicular mass of shale, it rushes into a tunnel, and onlyappears again on the shore. 

It is strange that there should be so little information as to theassociations of Robin Hood with this fishing-village. The stories of hisshooting an arrow to determine where he should make his headquarterssound improbable, although his keeping one or two small ships in the bayready for making his escape if suddenly attacked seems a rationalprecaution, and if only there were a little more evidence outside thelocal traditions to go upon, it would be pleasant to let the imaginationplay upon the wild life led by the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon in thisthen inaccessible coast region. 

The railway southwards takes a curve inland, and, after winding in andout to make the best of the contour of the hills, the train finallysteams very heavily and slowly into Ravenscar Station, right over thePeak and 630 feet above the sea. On the way you get glimpses of themoors inland, and grand views over the curving bay. There is a stationnamed Fyling Hall, after Sir Hugh Cholmley's old house, halfway toRavenscar. It was about the year 1625 that Sir Hugh to a great extentrebuilt Fyling Hall, which is still standing; but he came in with hisfamily before the plaster on the walls was thoroughly dry, and thehousehold seems to have suffered in health on this account. Shortlyafterwards Sir Hugh lost his eldest son Richard, who was only five yearsold, and this great trouble decided him to move to Whitby; for in 1629he sold Fyling Hall to Sir John Hotham, and took up his residence in theAbbey House at Whitby. 

Raven Hall, the large house conspicuously perched on the heights abovethe Peak, is now converted into an hotel. There is a wonderful view fromthe castellated terraces, which in the distance suggest the remains ofsome ruined fortress. At the present time there is nothing to be seenolder than the house whose foundations were dug in 1774. While thebuilding operations were in progress, however, a Roman stone, now inWhitby Museum, was unearthed. The inscription has been translated:'Justinian, governor of the province, and Vindician, general of theforces of Upper Britain, for the second time, with the youngerprovincial soldiers built this fort, the manager of public works givinghis assistance. ' There is therefore ample evidence for believing thatthis commanding height was used by the Romans as a military post, although subsequently there were no further attempts to fortify theplace, Scarborough, so much more easily defensible, being choseninstead. A rather pathetic attempt to foster the establishment of awatering-place has, however, been lately put on foot, but beyond someelaborately prepared roads and two or three isolated blocks of houses, there is fortunately little response to this artificial cultivation of asummer resort on the bare hill-top. 

Following this lofty coast southwards, you reach Hayburn Wyke, where astream drops perpendicularly over some square masses of rock. After veryheavy rains the waterfall attains quite a respectable size, but evenunder such favourable conditions the popularity of the place to a greatextent spoils what might otherwise be a pleasant surprise to therambler. The woodland paths leading down to the cove from the hotel bythe station are exceedingly pretty, and in the summer it is not easy tofind your way, despite the direction-boards nailed to trees here andthere. But there are many wooded and mossy-pathed ravines equallypretty, where no charge is made for admittance, and where you can beaway from your fellow-mortals and the silver paper they throw away fromthe chocolate they eat. 

There is a small stone circle not far from Hayburn Wyke Station, to befound without much trouble, and those who are interested in Early Manwill scarcely find a neighbourhood in this country more thicklyhoneycombed with tumuli and ancient earthworks. There is no particularlyplain pathway through the fields to the valley where this stone circlecan be seen, but it can easily be found after a careful study of thelarge scale Ordnance map which they will show you at the hotel; and ifthere be any difficulty in locating the exact position of the stones, the people at the neighbouring farm are exceedingly kind in givingdirections. There are about fifteen monoliths making up the circle, andthey are all lying flat on the ground, so that in the summer they arevery much overgrown with rank grass and low bushes. This was probablythe burial-place of some prehistoric chief, but no mound remains. 

CHAPTER V

SCARBOROUGH

Dazzling sunshine, a furious wind, flapping and screaming gulls, crowdsof fishing-boats, and innumerable people jostling one another on theseafront, made up the chief features of my first view of Scarborough. Bydegrees I discovered that behind the gulls and the brown sails were oldhouses, their roofs dimly red through the transparent haze, and abovethem appeared a great green cliff, with its uneven outline defined bythe curtain walls and towers of the castle which had made Scarborough aplace of importance in the Civil War and in earlier times. 

The wide-curving bay was filled with huge breaking waves which lookedcapable of destroying everything within their reach, but they seemedharmless enough when I looked a little further out, where eight or tengray warships were riding at their anchors, apparently motionless. 

From the outer arm of the harbour, where the seas were angrilyattempting to dislodge the top row of stones, I could make out the greatmass of gray buildings stretching right to the extremity of the bay. 

I tried to pick out individual buildings from this city-likewatering-place, but, beyond discovering the position of the Spa and oneor two of the mightier hotels, I could see very little, and instead fellto wondering how many landladies and how many foreign waiters the longlines of gray roofs represented. This raised so many unpleasantrecollections of the various types I had encountered that I determinedto go no nearer to modern Scarborough than the pier-head upon which Istood. A specially big wave, however, soon drove me from this positionto a drier if more crowded spot, and, reconsidering my objections, Idetermined to see something of the innumerable gray streets which makeup the fashionable watering-place. The terraced gardens on the steepcliffs along the sea-front were most elaborately well kept, but a morestriking feature of Scarborough is the magnificence of so many of theshops. They suggest a city rather than a seaside town, and give you anidea of the magnitude of the permanent population of the place as wellas the flood of summer and winter visitors. The origin of Scarborough'spopularity was undoubtedly due to the chalybeate waters of the Spa, discovered in 1620, almost at the same time as those of Tunbridge Wellsand Epsom. 

The unmistakable signs of antiquity in the narrow streets adjoining theharbour irresistibly remind one of the days when sea-bathing had stillto be popularized, when the efficacy of Scarborough's medicinal springhad not been discovered, of the days when the place bore as littleresemblance to its present size or appearance as the fishing-town atRobin Hood's Bay. 

We do not know that Piers Gaveston, Sir Hugh Cholmley, and othernotabilities who have left their mark on the pages of Scarborough'shistory, might not, were they with us to-day, welcome the pierrot, theswitchback, the restaurant, and other means by which pleasure-lovingvisitors wile away their hardly-earned holidays; but for my part thestory of Scarborough's Mayor who was tossed in a blanket is far moreentertaining than the songs of nigger minstrels or any of the commercialattempts to amuse. 

This strangely improper procedure with one who held the highest officein the municipality took place in the reign of James II. , and the King'sleanings towards Popery were the cause of all the trouble. 

On April 27, 1688, a declaration for liberty of conscience waspublished, and by royal command the said declaration was to be read inevery Protestant church in the land. Mr. Thomas Aislabie, the Mayor ofScarborough, duly received a copy of the document, and, having handed itto the clergyman, Mr. Noel Boteler, ordered him to read it in church onthe following Sunday morning. There seems little doubt that the worthyMr. Boteler at once recognised a wily move on the part of the King, whounder the cover of general tolerance would foster the growth of theRoman religion until such time as the Catholics had attained sufficientpower to suppress Protestantism. Mr. Mayor was therefore informed thatthe declaration would not be read. On Sunday morning (August 11) whenthe omission had been made, the Mayor left his pew, and, stick in hand, walked up the aisle, seized the minister, and caned him as he stood athis reading-desk. Scenes of such a nature did not occur every day evenin 1688, and the storm of indignation and excitement among the membersof the congregation did not subside so quickly as it had risen. 

The cause of the poor minister was championed in particular by a certainCaptain Ouseley, and the discussion of the matter on the bowling-greenon the following day led to the suggestion that the Mayor should be sentfor to explain his conduct. As he took no notice of a courteous messagerequesting his attendance, the Captain repeated the summons accompaniedby a file of musketeers. In the meantime many suggestions for dealingwith Mr. Aislabie in a fitting manner were doubtless made by theCaptain's brother officers, and, further, some settled course of actionseems to have been agreed upon, for we do not hear of any hesitation onthe part of the Captain on the arrival of the Mayor, whose rage must bythis time have been bordering upon apoplexy. A strong blanket was ready, and Captains Carvil, Fitzherbert, Hanmer, and Rodney, led by CaptainOuseley and assisted by as many others as could find room, seizing thesides, in a very few moments Mr. Mayor was revolving and bumping, risingand falling, as though he were no weight at all. 

This public degradation was too much to be borne without substantialredress. He therefore set out at once for London to obtain satisfactionfrom his Sovereign. But Ouseley was wise enough to look after his owninterests in that quarter himself, and in two letters we see the upshotof the matter. 

 'LONDON, 'September 22, 1688. 

 '. . . . Captain Ouseley is said to be come to town to give reasons for tossing the mayor of Scarborough in a blanket. As part of his plea he has brought with him a collection of articles against the said mayor, and the attestations of many gentlemen of note. '

 'LONDON, 'September 29, 1688. 

 'The mayor of Scarborough and Captain Ouseley, who tossed the other in a blanket, were heard last night before the council: the Captain pleaded his majesty's gracious pardon (which is in the press) and so both were dismissed. '

Aislabie was the last of the only five Mayors the town had then known, and the fact that the office had only been instituted in 1684 seems toshow that what reverence had gathered round the person of the chiefmagistrate was not sufficient to stand in the face of such outrageousconduct as the public caning of the minister. The townsfolk decided thatthey had had enough of Mayors, for on November 16 in the same autumnScarborough was once more placed under the control of two Bailiffs, ashad been the case previous to 1684. 

If the castle does not show many interesting buildings beyond the keepand the long line of walls and drum-towers, there is so much concerningit that is of great human interest that I should scarcely feel able togrumble if there were still fewer remains. Behind the ancient houses inQuay Street rises the steep, grassy cliff, up which one must climb byvarious rough pathways to the fortified summit. On the side facing themainland, a hollow, known as the Dyke, is bridged by a tall and narrowarchway, in place of the drawbridge of the seventeenth century andearlier times. On the same side is a massive gateway, looking across anopen space to St. Mary's Church, which suffered so severely during thesieges of the castle. The maimed church--for the chancel has never beenrebuilt--looks across the Dyke to the shattered keep, and so apparentare the results of the cannonading between them that no one requires tobe told that the Parliamentary forces mounted their ordnance in thechancel and tower of the church, and it is equally apparent that theRoyalists returned the fire hotly. 

The great siege lasted for nearly a year, and although his garrison wassmall, and there was practically no hope of relief, Sir Hugh Cholmleyseems to have kept a stout heart up to the end. With him throughout thislong period of privation and suffering was his beautiful and courageouswife, whose comparatively early death, at the age of fifty-four, must tosome extent be attributed to the strain and fatigue borne during thesemonths of warfare. Sir Hugh seems to have almost worshipped his wife, for in his memoirs he is never weary of describing her perfections. 

'She was of the middle stature of women, ' he writes, 'and well shaped, yet in that not so singular as in the beauty of her face, which was butof a little model, and yet proportionable to her body; her eyes blackand full of loveliness and sweetness, her eyebrows small and even, as ifdrawn with a pencil, a very little, pretty, well-shaped mouth, whichsometimes (especially when in a muse or study) she would draw up into anincredible little compass; her hair a sad chestnut; her complexionbrown, but clear, with a fresh colour in her cheeks, a loveliness in herlooks inexpressible; and by her whole composure was so beautiful a sweetcreature at her marriage as not many did parallel, few exceed her in thenation; yet the inward endowments and perfections of her mind did exceedthose outward of her body, being a most pious virtuous person, of greatintegrity and discerning judgment in most things. '

Her husband speaks of her 'sweet good-nature, ' and of how she was alwaysready to be touched with other people's wants before her own. That suchnobleness of character should shine out brilliantly during the siege wasinevitable, and Sir Hugh tells us that, though she was of a timorousnature, she bore herself during great danger with 'a courage above hersex. ' On one occasion Sir John Meldrum, the Parliamentary commander, sent proposals to Sir Hugh Cholmley, which he accompanied with savagethreats, that if his terms were not immediately accepted he would make ageneral assault on the castle that night, and in the event of one dropof his men's blood being shed he would give orders for a generalmassacre of the garrison, sparing neither man nor woman. 

To a man whose devotion to his beautiful wife was so great, a threat ofthis nature must have been a severe shock to his determination to holdout. But from his own writings we are able to picture for ourselves SirHugh's anxious and troubled face lighting up on the approach of thecause of his chief concern. Lady Cholmley, without any sign of theinward misgivings or dejection which, with her gentle and shrinkingnature, must have been a great struggle, came to her husband, andimplored him to on no account let her peril influence his decision tothe detriment of his own honour or the King's affairs. 

Sir John Meldrum's proposals having been rejected, the garrison prepareditself for the furious attack commenced on May 11. 

The assault was well planned, for while the Governor's attention wasturned towards the gateway leading to the castle entrance, anotherattack was made at the southern end of the wall towards the sea, whereuntil the year 1730 Charles's Tower stood. The bloodshed at this pointwas greater than at the gateway. At the head of a chosen division oftroops, Sir John Meldrum climbed the almost precipitous ascent withwonderful courage, only to meet with such spirited resistance on thepart of the besieged that, when the attack was abandoned, it wasdiscovered that Meldrum had received a dangerous wound penetrating tohis thigh, and that several of his officers and men had been killed. Meanwhile, at the gateway, the first success of the assailants had beenchecked at the foot of the Grand Tower or Keep, for at that point therush of drab-coated and helmeted men was received by such a shower ofstones and missiles that many stumbled and were crushed on the steeppathway. Not even Cromwell's men could continue to face such areception, and before very long the Governor could embrace his wife inthe knowledge that the great attack had failed. 

In between such scenes as these, when the air was filled with the shoutsand yells of attackers and besieged, when the crack of the muskets andthe intermittent reports of the cannon almost deafened her, LadyCholmley was assiduously attending to the wounded and the many cases ofscurvy, which was rampant among the garrison. One of her maids whoshared these labours crept out of the castle one night with a view toreaching the town and escaping further drudgery and privations; but aRoundhead sentry discovered her and sent her back to the castle, thinking that she was a spy. When the great keep was partiallydestroyed, Lady Cholmley was forced 'to lie in a little cabbin on theground several months together, when she took a defluction of rhume uponone of her eyes, which troubled her ever after, and got also a touch ofthe scurvy then rife in the castle, and of which it is thought she wasnot well after. ' Who can wonder that Sir Hugh appreciated the courage ofthis noble lady, and I marvel still more at her fortitude when I read ofthe frailties her husband mentions so gently, fearing, no doubt, thatwithout a few shadows no one would accept his picture as genuine. 'Ifshe had taken impression of anything, it was hard to remove it withreason or argument, till she had considered of it herself; neither couldshe well endure adversity or crosses, though it pleased the Lord toexercise her with them, by my many troubles and the calamity of thetimes. She would be much troubled at evils which could neither beprevented nor remedied, and sometimes discontented without any greatcause, especially in her disposition of health; for, being of a tenderconstitution, and spun of a fine thread, every disaster took impressionon her body and mind, and would make her both sick and often inclinableto be melancholy, especially in my absence. '

At last, on July 22, 1645--his forty-fifth birthday--Sir Hugh was forcedto come to an agreement with the enemy, by which he honourablysurrendered the castle three days later. It was a sad procession thatwound its way down the steep pathway, littered with the debris of brokenmasonry: for many of Sir Hugh's officers and soldiers were in such aweak condition that they had to be carried out in sheets or helped alongbetween two men, and the Parliamentary officer adds, rather tersely, that 'the rest were not very fit to march. ' The scurvy had depleted theranks of the defenders to such an extent that the women in the castle, despite the presence of Lady Cholmley, threatened to stone the Governorunless he capitulated. 

The reduction of Scarborough Castle was considered a profound success tothe side of the Parliament, 'The Moderate Intelligencer' of July 23, 1645, announcing the fact with great satisfaction, 'we heare likewisethat _Scarborough_ is also yeelded into our hands, Sir Hugh hath noneother conditions for himself, but with his wife and children passebeyond seas. This is excellent good newes, and is a very terrible blowto the enemy. '

Three years later the castle was again besieged by the Parliamentaryforces, for Colonel Matthew Boynton, the Governor, had declared for theKing. The garrison held out from August to December, when terms weremade with Colonel Hugh Bethell, by which the Governor, officers, gentlemen, and soldiers, marched out with 'their colours flying, drumsbeating, musquets loaden, bandeleers filled, matches lighted, and bulletin mouth, to a close called Scarborough Common, ' where they laid downtheir arms. 

Before I leave Scarborough I must go back to early times, in order thatthe antiquity of the place may not be slighted owing to the omission ofany reference to the town in the Domesday Book. Tosti, Count ofNorthumberland, who, as everyone knows, was brother of the Harold whofought at Senlac Hill, had brought about an insurrection of theNorthumbrians, and having been dispossessed by his brother, he revengedhimself by inviting the help of Haralld Hadrada, King of Norway. TheNorseman promptly accepted the offer, and, taking with him his familyand an army of warriors, sailed for the Shetlands, where Tosti joinedhim. The united forces then came down the east coast of Britain untilthey reached Scardaburgum, where they landed and prepared to fight theinhabitants. The town was then built entirely of timber, and there was, apparently, no castle of any description on the great hill, for theNorsemen, finding their opponents inclined to offer a stout resistance, tried other tactics. They gained possession of the hill, constructed ahuge fire, and when the wood was burning fiercely, flung the blazingbrands down on to the wooden houses below. The fire spread from one hutto another with sufficient speed to drive out the defenders, who in theconfusion which followed were slaughtered by the enemy. 

This occurred in the momentous year 1066, when Harold, having defeatedthe Norsemen and slain Haralld Hadrada at Stamford Bridge, had to hurrysouthwards to meet William the Norman at Hastings. It is not surprising, therefore, that the compilers of the Conqueror's survey should havefailed to record the existence of the blackened embers of what had oncebeen a town. But such a site as the castle hill could not long remainidle in the stormy days of the Norman Kings, and William le Gros, Earlof Albemarle and Lord of Holderness, recognising the naturaldefensibility of the rock, built the massive walls which have withstoodso many assaults, and even now form the most prominent feature ofScarborough. 

CHAPTER VI

WHITBY

 'Behold the glorious summer sea As night's dark wings unfold, And o'er the waters, 'neath the stars, The harbour lights behold. '

E. Teschemacher. 

Despite a huge influx of summer visitors, and despite the modern townwhich has grown up to receive them, Whitby is still one of the moststrikingly picturesque towns in England. But at the same time, if oneexcepts the abbey, the church, and the market-house, there are scarcelyany architectural attractions in the town. The charm of the place doesnot lie so much in detail as in broad effects. The narrow streets haveno surprises in the way of carved-oak brackets or curious panelleddoorways, although narrow passages and steep flights of stone stepsabound. On the other hand, the old parts of the town, when seen from adistance, are always presenting themselves in new apparel. 

In the early morning the East Cliff generally appears merely as a palegray silhouette with a square projection representing the church, and afretted one the abbey. But as the sun climbs upwards, colour anddefinition grow out of the haze of smoke and shadows, and the roofsassume their ruddy tones. At mid-day, when the sunlight pours down uponthe medley of houses clustered along the face of the cliff, the scene isbrilliantly coloured. The predominant note is the red of the chimneysand roofs and stray patches of brickwork, but the walls that go down tothe water's edge are green below and full of rich browns above, and inmany places the sides of the cottages are coloured with an ochre wash, while above them all the top of the cliff appears covered with grass. Ona clear day, when detached clouds are passing across the sun, the housesare sometimes lit up in the strangest fashion, their quaint outlinesbeing suddenly thrown out from the cliff by a broad patch of shadow uponthe grass and rocks behind. But there is scarcely a chimney in this oldpart of Whitby that does not contribute to the mist of blue-gray smokethat slowly drifts up the face of the cliff, and thus, when there is nobright sunshine, colour and detail are subdued in the haze. 

In many towns whose antiquity and picturesqueness are more popular thanthe attractions of Whitby, the railway deposits one in somedistressingly ugly modern excrescence, from which it may even benecessary for a stranger to ask his way to the old-world features he hascome to see. But at Whitby the railway, without doing any harm to theappearance of the town, at once gives a visitor as typical a scene offishing-life as he will ever find. When the tide is up and the wharvesare crowded with boats, this upper portion of Whitby Harbour is at itsbest, and to step from the railway compartment entered at King's Crossinto this busy scene is an experience to be remembered. 

In the deepening twilight of a clear evening the harbour gathers toitself the additional charm of mysterious indefiniteness, and among thelong-drawn-out reflections appear sinuous lines of yellow light beneaththe lamps by the bridge. Looking towards the ocean from the outerharbour, one sees the massive arms which Whitby has thrust into thewaves, holding aloft the steady lights that

 'Safely guide the mighty ships Into the harbour bay. '

If we keep to the waterside, modern Whitby has no terrors for us. It isout of sight, and might therefore have never existed. But when we havecrossed the bridge, and passed along the narrow thoroughfare known asChurch Street to the steps leading up the face of the cliff, we mustprepare ourselves for a new aspect of the town. There, upon the top ofthe West Cliff, stand rows of sad-looking and dun-colouredlodging-houses, relieved by the aggressive bulk of a huge hotel, withcorner turrets, that frowns savagely at the unfinished crescent, wherethere are many apartments with 'rooms facing the sea. ' The onlyredeeming feature of this modern side of Whitby is the circumscribedarea it occupies, so that the view from the top of the 199 steps we haveclimbed is not altogether vitiated. A distinctive feature of the westside of the river has been lost in the sails of the Union Mill, whichwere taken down some years ago, and the solid brick building where manyof the Whitby people, by the excellent method of cooperation, obtainedtheir flour at reduced prices is now the headquarters of somevolunteers. 

The town seems to have no idea of re-erecting the sails of the windmill, and as I have so far heard of no scheme for demolishing theunpleasant-looking houses on the West Cliff, we will shut our eyes tothese shortcomings, and admit that the task is not difficult in thepresence of such a superb view over Whitby's glorious surroundings. Welook over the chimney-stacks of the topmost houses, and see the silverEsk winding placidly in the deep channel it has carved for itself; andfurther away we see the far-off moorland heights, brown and blue, wherethe sources of the broad river down below are fed by the united effortsof innumerable tiny streams deep in the heather. Behind us stands themassive-looking parish church, with its Norman tower, so sturdily builtthat its height seems scarcely greater than its breadth. There is surelyno other church with such a ponderous exterior that is so completelydeceptive as to its internal aspect, for St. Mary's contains the mostremarkable series of beehive-like galleries that were ever crammed intoa parish church. They are not merely very wide and ill-arranged, butthey are superposed one above the other. The free use of white paint allover the sloping tiers of pews has prevented the interior from being asdark as it would have otherwise been, but the result of all this painteddeal has been to give the building the most eccentric and indecorousappearance. Still, there are few who will fail to thank the good folksof Whitby for preserving an ecclesiastical curiosity of such an unusualnature. The box-pews on the floor of the church are separated by verynarrow gangways--we cannot call them aisles--and the gallery across thechancel arch is particularly noticeable for the twisted wooden columnssupporting it. Various pews in the transepts and elsewhere have beenreserved for many generations for the use of people from outlyingvillages, such as Aislaby, Ugglebarnby, and Hawskercum-Stainsacre, andit was this necessity for accommodating a very large congregation thattaxed the ingenuity of the churchwardens, and resulted in the strangeinterior existing to-day. 

The early history of Whitby from the time of the landing of Romansoldiers in Dunsley Bay seems to be very closely associated with theabbey founded by Hilda about two years after the battle of Winwidfield, fought on November 15, A. D. 654; but I will not venture to state anopinion here as to whether there was any town at Streoneshalh before thebuilding of the abbey, or whether the place that has since become knownas Whitby grew on account of the presence of the abbey. Such matters asthese have been fought out by an expert in the archaeology ofCleveland--the late Canon Atkinson, who seemed to take infinite pleasurein demolishing the elaborately constructed theories of those painstakinghistorians of the eighteenth century, Dr. Young and Mr. Lionel Charlton. 

Many facts, however, which throw light on the early days of the abbeyare now unassailable. We see that Hilda must have been a most remarkablewoman for her times, instilling into those around her a passion forlearning as well as right-living, for despite the fact that they workedand prayed in rude wooden buildings, with walls formed, most probably, of split tree-trunks, after the fashion of the church at Greenstead inEssex, we find the institution producing, among others, such men as Bosaand John, both Bishops of York, and such a poet as Caadmon. The legendof his inspiration, however, may be placed beside the story of how thesaintly Abbess turned the snakes into the fossil ammonites with whichthe liassic shores of Whitby are strewn. Hilda, who probably died in theyear 680, was succeeded by Aelfleda, the daughter of King Oswin ofNorthumbria, whom she had trained in the abbey, and there seems littledoubt that her pupil carried on successfully the beneficent work of thefoundress. 

Aelfleda had the support of her mother's presence as well as the wisecounsels of Bishop Trumwine, who had taken refuge at Streoneshalh, afterhaving been driven from his own sphere of work by the depredations ofthe Picts and Scots. We then learn that Aelfleda died at the age offifty-nine, but from that year--probably 713--a complete silence fallsupon the work of the abbey; for if any records were made during the nextcentury and a half, they have been totally lost. About the year 867 theDanes reached this part of Yorkshire, and we know that they laid wastethe abbey, and most probably the town also; but the invaders graduallystarted new settlements, or 'bys, ' and Whitby must certainly have growninto a place of some size by the time of Edward the Confessor, for justprevious to the Norman invasion it was assessed for Danegeld to theextent of a sum equivalent to £3, 500 at the present time. 

After the Conquest a monk named Reinfrid succeeded in reviving amonastery on the site of the old one, having probably gained thepermission of William de Percy, the lord of the district. The newestablishment, however, was for monks only, and was for some timemerely a priory. 

The form of the successive buildings from the time of Hilda until thebuilding of the stately abbey church, whose ruins are now to be seen, isa subject of great interest, but, unfortunately, there are few facts togo upon. The very first church was, as I have already suggested, abuilding of rude construction, scarcely better than the humble dwellingsof the monks and nuns. The timber walls were most probably thatched, andthe windows would be of small lattice or boards pierced with smallholes. Gradually the improvements brought about would have led to theuse of stone for the walls, and the buildings destroyed by the Danesprobably resembled such examples of Anglo-Saxon work as may still beseen in the churches of Bradford-on-Avon and Monkwearmouth. 

The buildings erected by Reinfrid under the Norman influence thenprevailing in England must have been a slight advance upon the destroyedfabric, and we know that during the time of his successor, Serlo dePercy, there was a certain Godfrey in charge of the building operations, and there is every reason to believe that he completed the church duringthe fifty years of prosperity the monastery passed through at that time. But this was not the structure which survived, for towards the end ofStephen's reign, or during that of Henry II. , the unfortunate conventwas devastated by the King of Norway, who entered the harbour, and, inthe words of the chronicle, 'laid waste everything, both within doorsand without. ' The abbey slowly recovered from this disaster, and if anychurch were built on the ruins between 1160 and the reconstructioncommenced in 1220, there is no part of it surviving to-day in thebeautiful ruin that still makes a conspicuous landmark from the sea. 

It was after the Dissolution that the abbey buildings came into thehands of Sir Richard Cholmley, who paid over to Henry VIII. The sum of£333 8s. 4d. The manors of Eskdaleside and Ugglebarnby, with all 'theirrights, members and appurtenances as they formerly had belonged to theabbey of Whitby, ' henceforward belonged to Sir Richard and hissuccessors. Sir Hugh Cholmley, whose defence of Scarborough Castle hasmade him a name in history, was born on July 22, 1600, at Roxby, nearPickering. He has been justly called 'the father of Whitby, ' and it isto him we owe a fascinating account of his life at Whitby in Stuart andJacobean times. He describes how he lived for some time in thegate-house of the abbey buildings, 'till my house was repaired andhabitable, which then was very ruinous and all unhandsome, the wallbeing only of timber and plaster, and ill-contrived within: and besidesthe repairs, or rather re-edifying the house, I built the stable andbarn, I heightened the outwalls of the court double to what they were, and made all the wall round about the paddock; so that the place hathbeen improved very much, both for beauty and profit, by me more than allmy ancestors, for there was not a tree about the house but was set in mytime, and almost by my own hand. The Court levels, which laid upon ahanging ground, unhandsomely, very ill-watered, having only the lowwell, which is in the Almsers-close, which I covered; and alsodiscovered, and erected, the other adjoining conduit, and the well inthe courtyard from whence I conveyed by leaden pipes water into thehouse, brewhouse, and washhouse. '

In the spring of 1636 the reconstruction of the abbey house wasfinished, and Sir Hugh moved in with his family. 'My dear wife, ' hesays, '(who was excellent at dressing and making all handsome withindoors) had put it into a fine posture, and furnished with many goodthings, so that, I believe, there were few gentlemen in the country, ofmy rank, exceeded it. . . . I was at this time made Deputy-lieutenant andColonel over the Train-bands within the hundred of Whitby Strand, Ryedale, Pickering, Lythe and Scarborough town; for that, my fatherbeing dead, the country looked upon me as the chief of my family. '

Sir Hugh had been somewhat addicted to gambling in his younger days, andhad made a few debts of his own before he undertook to deal with hisfather's heavy liabilities, and in the early years of his married lifehe had been very much taken up with the difficult and arduous work ofpaying off the amounts due to the clamorous creditors. During thisprocess he had been forced to live very quietly, and had incidentallysifted out his real friends from among his relations and acquaintances. Thus, it is with pardonable pride that he says: 'Having mastered mydebts, I did not only appear at all public meetings in a verygentlemanly equipage, but lived in as handsome and plentiful fashion athome as any gentleman in all the country, of my rank. I had betweenthirty and forty in my ordinary family, a chaplain who said prayersevery morning at six, and again before dinner and supper, a porter whomerely attended the gates, which were ever shut up before dinner, whenthe bell rung to prayers, and not opened till one o'clock, except forsome strangers who came to dinner, which was ever fit to receive threeor four besides my family, without any trouble; and whatever their farewas, they were sure to have a hearty welcome. Twice a week, a certainnumber of old people, widows and indigent persons, were served at mygates with bread and good pottage made of beef, which I mention thatthose which succeed may follow the example. ' Not content with merelybenefiting the aged folk of his town, Sir Hugh took great pains toextend the piers, and in 1632 went to London to petition the'Council-table' to allow a general contribution for this purposethroughout the country. As a result of his efforts, 'all that part ofthe pier to the west end of the harbour' was erected, and yet hecomplains that, though it was the means of preserving a large section ofthe town from the sea, the townsfolk would not interest themselves inthe repairs necessitated by force of the waves. 'I wish, with all myheart, ' he exclaims, 'the next generation may have more public spirit. '

Sir Hugh Cholmley also built a market-house for the town, and removedthe bridge to its present position. Owing to rebuilding, neither ofthese actual works remains with us to-day, but their influence on theprogress of Whitby must have been considerable. 

On a June morning in the year after Sir Hugh had settled down sohandsomely in his refurbished house, two Dutch men-of-war chased intothe harbour 'a small pickroon belonging to the King of Spain. ' TheHollanders had 400 men in one ship and 200 in the other, but theSpaniard had only thirty men and two small guns. The Holland shipsproceeded to anchor outside the harbour, and, lowering their longboats, sent ashore forty men, all armed with pistols. But the Spaniards hadbeen on the alert, and having warped their vessel to a safer positionabove the bridge, they placed their two guns on the deck, and every manprepared himself to defend the ship. 

'I, having notice of this, ' writes Sir Hugh, 'fearing they might do herethe like affront as they did at Scarborough, where they landed onehundred men, and took a ship belonging to the King of Spain out of theharbour, sent for the Holland Captains, and ordered them not to offerany act of hostility; for that the Spaniard was the King's friend, andto have protection in his ports. After some expostulations, theypromised not to meddle with the Dunkirker [Spaniard] if he offered noinjury to them; which I gave him strict charge against, and to trust tothe King's protection. These Holland Captains leaving me, and going intothe town, sent for the Dunkirk Captain to dine with them, and soon aftertook occasion to quarrel with him, at the same time ordered their men tofall on the Dunkirk ship, which they soon surprised, the Captain andmost of the men being absent. I being in my courtyard, and hearing somepistols discharged, and being told the Dunkirker and Hollanders were atodds, made haste unto the town, having only a cane in my hand, and onethat followed me without any weapon, thinking my presence would pacifyall differences. When I came to the river-side, on the sand between thecoal-yard and the bridge, I found the Holland Captain with a pistol inhis hand, calling to his men, then in the Dunkirk ship, to send a boatfor him. I gave him good words, and held him in treaty until I got nearhim, and then, giving a leap on him, caught hold of his pistol, which Ibecame master of; yet not without some hazard from the ship, for onefrom thence levelled a musket at me; but I espying it, turned theCaptain between me and him, which prevented his shooting. '

When Sir Hugh had secured the Captain, he sent a boatload of men toretake the ship, and as soon as the Hollanders saw it approaching, theyfled to their own vessels outside the harbour. In the afternoon Sir Hughintercepted a letter to his prisoner, telling him to be of good cheer, for at midnight they would land 200 men and bring him away. This was aserious matter, and Sir Hugh sent to Sir John Hotham, the High Sheriffof the county, who at once came from Fyling, and summoned all theadjacent train-bands. There were about 200 men on guard all through thenight, and evidently the Hollanders had observed the activity on shore, for they made no attack. The ships continued to hover outside theharbour for two or three days, until Sir Hugh sent the Captain to York. He was afterwards taken to London, where he remained a prisoner, afterthe fashion of those times, for nearly two years. 

It was after the troublous times of the Civil War that Sir Hughre-established himself at Whitby, and opened a new era of prosperity forhimself and the townsfolk in the alum-works at Saltwick Nab. 

CHAPTER VII

THE CLEVELAND HILLS

On their their northern and western flanks the Cleveland Hills have amost imposing and mountainous aspect, although their greatest altitudesdo not aspire more than about 1, 500 feet. But they rise so suddenly totheir full height out of the flat sea of green country that they oftenappear as a coast defended by a bold range of mountains. RoseberryTopping stands out in grim isolation, on its masses of alum rock, like ahuge seaworn crag, considerably over 1, 000 feet high. But this strangelymenacing peak raises its defiant head over nothing but broad meadows, arable land, and woodlands, and his only warfare is with the lowerstrata of storm-clouds, which is a convenient thing for the people wholive in these parts; for long ago they used the peak as a sign ofapproaching storms, having reduced the warning to the easily-rememberedcouplet:

 'When Roseberry Topping wears a cap, Let Cleveland then beware of a clap. '

In a similar manner the Scarborough folk used Oliver's Mount, theisolated hill at the back of the town, as a ready-made barometer, forthey knew that

 'When Oliver's Mount puts on his hat, Scarborough town will pay for that. '

It is difficult to decide on the correct spelling of Roseberry Topping, as it is often spelt in the same way as the earldom, and as frequentlyin old writings it appears as 'Rosebury. ' Camden, who wrote in Tudortimes, called it Ounsberry Topping, which certainly does nothelp matters. 

From the fact that you can see this remarkable peak from almost everypoint of the compass except south-westwards, it must follow that fromthe top of the hill there are views in all those directions. But to seeso much of the country at once comes as a surprise to everyone. Stretching inland towards the backbone of England, there is spread out ahuge tract of smiling country, covered with a most complex network ofhedges, which gradually melt away into the indefinite blue edge of theworld where the hills of Wensleydale rise from the plain. Looking acrossthe little town of Guisborough, lying near the shelter of the hills, tothe broad sweep of the North Sea, this piece of Yorkshire seems so smallthat one almost expects to see the Cheviots away in the north. But, beyond the winding Tees and the drifting smoke of the greatmanufacturing towns on its banks, one must be content with the county ofDurham, a huge section of which is plainly visible. Turning towards thebrown moorlands, the cultivation is exchanged for ridge beyond ridge oftotal desolation--a huge tract of land in this crowded England where thepopulation for many square miles at a time consists of the inmates of alonely farm or two in the circumscribed cultivated areas of the dales. 

Eight or nine hundred years ago these valleys were choked up withforests. The Early British inhabitants were more inclined to thehill-tops than the hollows, if the innumerable indications of theirsettlements be any guide, and there is every reason for believing thatmany of the hollows in the folds of the heathery moorlands were rarelyvisited by man. Thus, the suggestion has been made that a few of thelast representatives of now extinct monsters may have survived in thesewild retreats, for how otherwise do we find persistent stories in theseparts of Yorkshire, handed down we cannot tell how many centuries, ofstrange creatures described as 'worms'? At Loftus they show you the spotwhere a 'grisly worm' had its lair, and in many places there aretraditions of strange long-bodied dragons who were slain by variousvaliant men. 

When we remember that the last wolf was killed in Scotland in theseventeenth century, that Africa is still adding to the list of livinganimals, and that the caves at Kirkdale, near Kirby Moorside, revealedthe bones of elephants, tigers, hyenas, and rhinoceroses, in anexcellent state of preservation, though they were all broken, we areinclined to believe that these strange stories may have had somebasis of fact. 

On Easby Moor, a few miles to the south of Roseberry Topping, the tallcolumn to the memory of Captain Cook stands like a lighthouse on thisinland coast-line. The lofty position it occupies among these brown andpurply-green heights makes the monument visible over a great tract ofthe sailor's native Cleveland. The people who live in Marton, thevillage of his birthplace, can see the memorial of their hero's fame, and the country lads of to-day are constantly reminded of the successwhich attended the industry and perseverance of a humble Marton boy. 

The cottage where James Cook was born in 1728 has gone, but the field inwhich it stood is called Cook's Garth. The shop at Staithes, generallyspoken of as a 'huckster's, ' where Cook was apprenticed as a boy, hasalso disappeared; but, unfortunately, that unpleasant story of hishaving taken a shilling from his master's till, when the attractions ofthe sea proved too much for him to resist, persistently clings to allaccounts of his early life. There seems no evidence to convict him ofthis theft, but there are equally no facts by which to clear him. But ifwe put into the balance his subsequent term of employment at Whitby, theexcellent character he gained when he went to sea, and Professor J. K. Laughton's statement that he left Staithes 'after some disagreement withhis master, ' there seems every reason to believe that the story isuntrue. If it were otherwise, the towering monument on Easby Moor wouldbe a questionable inspiration to posterity. 

I have seldom seen a more uninhabited and inhospitable-looking countrythan the broad extent of purple hills that stretch away to thesouth-west from Great Ayton and Kildale Moors. Walking from Guisboroughto Kildale on a wild and stormy afternoon in October, I was totallyalone for the whole distance when I had left behind me the baker's boywho was on his way to Hutton with a heavy basket of bread and cakes. Hutton, which is somewhat of a model village for the retainers attachedto Hutton Hall, stands in a lovely hollow at the edge of the moors. Thesteep hills are richly clothed with sombre woods, and the peace andseclusion reigning there is in marked contrast to the bleak wastesabove. When I climbed the steep road on that autumn afternoon, and, passing the zone of tall, withered bracken, reached the open moorland, Iseemed to have come out merely to be the plaything of the elements; forthe south-westerly gale, when it chose to do so, blew so fiercely thatit was difficult to make any progress at all. Overhead was a dark roofcomposed of heavy masses of cloud, forming long parallel lines of grayright to the horizon. On each side of the rough, water-worn road theheather made a low wall, two or three feet high, and stretched rightaway to the horizon in every direction. In the lulls, between the fierceblasts, I could hear the trickle of the water in the rivulets deep downin the springy cushion of heather. A few nimble sheep would stare at mefrom a distance, and then disappear, or some grouse might hover over apiece of rising ground; but otherwise there were no signs of livingcreatures. Nearing Kildale, the road suddenly plunged downwards to astream flowing through a green, cultivated valley, with a lonely farm onthe further slope. There was a fir-wood above this, and as I passed overthe hill, among the tall, bare stems, the clouds parted a little in thewest, and let a flood of golden light into the wood. Instantly the gloomseemed to disappear, and beyond the dark shoulder of moorland, where theCook monument appeared against the glory of the sunset, there seemed toreign an all-pervading peace, the wood being quite silent, for the windhad dropped. 

The rough track through the trees descended hurriedly, and soon gave awide view over Kildale. The valley was full of colour from the glowingwest, and the steep hillsides opposite appeared lighter than the indigoclouds above, now slightly tinged with purple. The little village ofKildale nestled down below, its church half buried in yellow foliage. 

The railway comes through Eskdale from Whitby to Stockton-on-Tees, andthus gives the formerly remote valley easy communication with theoutside world. It is dangerous, however, not to allow an ample marginfor catching the trains, for there are only two or three in eachdirection in the autumn and winter, and a gap of about four hoursgenerally separates the trains. I had been a long ramble over the moorson the north side of Eskdale, and had allowed the sun to set while I wasstill drawing on the top of Danby Beacon. But, having a good map withme, I was quite confident of finding the road to Lealholm withoutdifficulty, as the distance was only a very few miles. 

The crimson globe in the west disappeared behind the dark horizon overthe two Fryup valleys, and left the world in twilight. But it would notbe dark for an hour, and except for mistaking the sheep for boulders andboulders for sheep, and being consequently surprised when what I hadimagined was a mass of gray stone suddenly disappeared on my approach, nothing unusual happened. I had no fear of losing my way, but what mymap had led me to believe would be a plain road was a mere track in theheather, and at times it became too indistinct to follow easily. Lealholm Station lay in the valley on my right, but I could find no roadleading there, and I wasted precious time in frequent consultations withthe map. Coming to a farm, I inquired the way, and was directed over anumber of muddy fields, which gradually brought me down into the valley. It was now sufficiently dark for all the landmarks I had noticed to bescarcely visible, but, on inquiring at a cottage, I was told that itwould take only ten minutes to walk to the station. I had a clearquarter of an hour, and, hurrying forward, soon found myself on arailway-bridge over a deep cutting. There was just enough light to seethat no station was in sight, and it was impossible to find in whichdirection the station lay. There was no time to go back to the cottage, and there were no others to be seen. Looking at the map again, I couldnot discover the position of this bridge, for it was on no road, as itseemed merely to connect the pastures on either side. However, I feltfairly certain that I had rather overstepped the station, and thereforeclimbed down the bank into the cutting, and commenced walking towardsthe west. Coming out into the open, I thought I saw the lamps on theplatforms about half a mile further on; but on pressing forward thelights became suddenly bigger, and in a minute my train passed me with athundering rush. Evidently Lealholm was to the east, and not the west ofthat cutting. It was then 5. 40, and the next train left for Whitby atabout a quarter to ten. When the tail-lights of the train haddisappeared into the cutting, I felt very much alone, and the silence ofthe countryside became oppressive. It seemed to me that this part ofYorkshire was just as lonely as when Canon Atkinson first commenced hiswork in Danby parish, and I was reminded of his friend's remark onhearing that he was going there: 'Why, Danby was not found out when theysent Bonaparte to St. Helena, or else they never would have taken thetrouble to send him all the way there!'

The ruined Danby Castle can still be seen on the slope above the Esk, but the ancient Bow Bridge at Castleton, which was built at the end ofthe twelfth century, was barbarously and needlessly destroyed in 1873. Apicture of the bridge has, fortunately, been preserved in CanonAtkinson's 'Forty Years in a Moorland Parish. ' That book has been sowidely read that it seems scarcely necessary to refer to it here, butwithout the help of the Vicar, who knew every inch of his wild parish, the Danby district must seem much less interesting. 

CHAPTER VIII

GUISBOROUGH AND THE SKELTON VALLEY

Although a mere fragment of the Augustinian Priory of Guisborough isstanding to-day, it is sufficiently imposing to convey a powerfulimpression of the former size and magnificence of the monastic church. This fragment is the gracefully buttressed east end of the choir, whichrises from the level meadow-land to the east of the town. The stoneworkis now of a greenish-gray tone, but in the shadows there is generally alook of blue. Beyond the ruin and through the opening of the great eastwindow, now bare of tracery, you see the purple moors, with theever-formidable Roseberry Topping holding its head above the green woodsand pastures. 

The destruction of the priory took place most probably during the reignof Henry VIII. , but there are no recorded facts to give the date of thespoiling of the stately buildings. The materials were probably sold tothe highest bidder, for in the town of Guisborough there are scatteredmany fragments of richly-carved stone, and Ord, one of the historians ofCleveland, says: 'I have beheld with sorrow, and shame, and indignation, the richly ornamented columns and carved architraves of God's templesupporting the thatch of a pig-house. '

The Norman priory church, founded in 1119, by the wealthy Robert de Brusof Skelton, was, unfortunately, burnt down on May 16, 1289. Walter ofHemingburgh, a canon of Guisborough, has written a quaintly detailedaccount of the origin of the fire. Translated from the monkish Latin, hesays: 'On the first day of rogation-week, a devouring flame consumed ourchurch of Gysburn, with many theological books and nine costly chalices, as well as vestments and sumptuous images; and because past events areserviceable as a guide to future inquiries, I have thought it desirable, in the present little treatise, to give an account of the catastrophe, that accidents of a similar nature may be avoided through this calamityallotted to us. On the day above mentioned, which was very destructiveto us, a vile plumber, with his two workmen, burnt our church whilstsoldering up two holes in the old lead with fresh pewter. For some dayshe had already, with a wicked disposition, commenced, and placed hisiron crucibles, along with charcoal and fire, on rubbish, or steps of agreat height, upon dry wood with some turf and other combustibles. Aboutnoon (in the cross, in the body of the church, where he remained at hiswork until after Mass) he descended before the procession of theconvent, thinking that the fire had been put out by his workmen. They, however, came down quickly after him, without having completelyextinguished the fire; and the fire among the charcoal revived, andpartly from the heat of the iron, and partly from the sparks of thecharcoal, the fire spread itself to the wood and other combustiblesbeneath. After the fire was thus commenced, the lead melted, and thejoists upon the beams ignited; and then the fire increased prodigiously, and consumed everything. ' Hemingburgh concludes by saying that all thatthey could get from the culprits was the exclamation, 'Quid potui ego?'Shortly after this disaster the Prior and convent wrote to Edward II. , excusing themselves from granting a corrody owing to their great lossesthrough the burning of the monastery, as well as the destruction oftheir property by the Scots. But Guisborough, next to Fountains, wasalmost the richest establishment in Yorkshire, and thus in a few years'time there arose from the Norman foundations a stately church andconvent built in the Early Decorated style. 

Glimpses of the inner life of the priory are given in the Archbishop'sregisters at York, which show how close and searching were thevisitations by the Archbishop in person or his commissioners, and one ofthe documents throws light on the sad necessity for these inspections. It deals with Archbishop Wickwaine's visit in 1280, and we find that thecanons are censured for many short-comings. They were not to go outsidethe cloister after compline (the last service of the day) on the pretextof visiting guests. They were not to keep expensive schools for rich orpoor, unless with special sanction. They were to turn out of theinfirmary and punish the persons lying there who were only pretending tobe ill, and the really sick were to be more kindly treated. There hadevidently been discrimination in the quality of food served out tocertain persons in the frater; but this was to be stopped, and food ofone kind was to be divided equally. A more strict silence was to be keptin the cloister, and no one was to refrain from joining in the praisesof God whilst in the choir. There seems to have been much improperconversation among the canons, for they are specially adjured in Christto abstain from repeating immoral stories. Some of the canons who hadmade themselves notorious for quarrelling and caballing were to bedebarred from promotion, and were commended to the Prior and Subpriorfor punishment. 

In 1309 Simon Constable, a refractory canon of Bridlington, was sent toGuisborough to undergo a course of penance, change of residence beingalways considered to give an excellent opportunity for thorough reform. However, in this case no good seems to have resulted, for about fiveyears later he was sent back to Bridlington with a worse character thanbefore, and, besides much prayer and humiliation, he was to receive a_disciplina_ every Friday at the hands of the Prior. This made noimprovement in his conduct, for in 1321 his behaviour brought himanother penance and still greater severity. A few years after this theArchbishop seems to have reproached the community for the conduct ofthis unruly brother, which was scarcely fair. The last vision of SimonConstable shows him to be as impenitent as ever, and the Archbishopmakes the awful threat that, if he does not reform at once, he will beput in a more confined place than he has ever been in before! Can thissuggest that the wicked canon was to be bricked up alive?

These internal troubles were not, however, generally known to theoutside world, but the unfaltering searchlight of the records falls uponsuch great folk as Peter de Mauley, fifth Baron Mulgrave, whose castleat Mulgrave, near Whitby, is mentioned elsewhere; Lucy de Thweng, wifeof Sir William le Latimer; Sir Nicholas de Meynyl; and Katherine, wifeof Sir John Dentorp, whose conduct merely reflected the morals ofmedieval times. It was, indeed, no uncommon event for the congregationto hear some high-born culprit confessing his sins as he walked barefootand scantily clothed in the procession in York Minster. An exceedinglybeautiful crucifix of copper, richly gilded, was discovered during theearly part of last century, when some men were digging amongst thefoundations of an old building in Commondale. There seems little doubtthat this was a cell or chapel belonging to the monastery, for thecrucifix bears the date 1119, the year of the founding of GuisboroughPriory. Another metal crucifix, probably belonging to the thirteenthcentury, was discovered at Ingleby Arncliffe. It was beautifully inlaidwith brilliant white, green, red, and blue enamels, and the figure ofChrist was discovered to be hollow, and to contain two ancientparchments, written in monkish Latin and scarcely legible. One of themwas a charm, addressed to 'ye elves, and demons and all kind ofapparition, ' who were called upon in the name of the Trinity, the VirginMary, the Apostles, Martyrs, Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John, and theelect generally, to 'hurt not this servant of God, Adam Osanna, by nightnor by day, but that, through the very great mercy of God Jesus Christ, by the help of Saint Mary, the mother of our Lord Jesus Christ, he mayrest in peace from all the aforesaid and other evils. '

Another intensely interesting relic of the great priory is thealtar-tomb, believed to be that of Robert de Brus of Annandale. Thestone slabs are now built into the walls on each side of the porch ofGuisborough Church. They may have been removed there from the abbey forsafety at the time of the dissolution. Hemingburgh, in his chronicle forthe year 1294, says: 'Robert de Brus the fourth died on the eve of GoodFriday; who disputed with John de Balliol, before the King of England, about the succession to the kingdom of Scotland. And, as he ordered whenalive, he was buried in the priory of Gysburn with great honour, besidehis own father. ' A great number of other famous people were buried herein accordance with their wills. Guisborough has even been claimed as theresting-place of Robert Bruce, the champion of Scottish freedom, butthere is ample evidence for believing that his heart was buried atMelrose Abbey and his body in the church of Dunfermline. 

The memory of Mr. George Venables--that most excellent man who devotedmany years to gathering funds for a charity school in the town--ispreserved on a monument in the church. He had retired from business, but, in order to find the means to start the school, he resumed hislabours in London, and devoted the whole of the profits to thisuseful object. 

The central portion of the town of Guisborough, by the market-cross andthe two chief inns, is quaint and fairly picturesque, but the longstreet as it goes westward deteriorates into rows of new cottages, inevitable in a mining country. 

Mining operations have been carried on around Guisborough since the timeof Queen Elizabeth, for the discovery of alum dates from that period, and when that industry gradually declined, it was replaced by theiron-mines of to-day. Mr. Thomas Chaloner of Guisborough, in his travelson the Continent about the end of the sixteenth century, saw the Pope'salum-works near Rome, and was determined to start the industry in hisnative parish of Guisborough, feeling certain that alum could be workedwith profit in his own county. As it was essential to have one or twomen who were thoroughly versed in the processes of the manufacture, Mr. Chaloner induced some of the Pope's workmen by heavy bribes to come toEngland. The risks attending this overt act were terrible, for thealum-works brought in a large revenue to His Holiness, and the discoveryof such a design would have meant capital punishment to the offender. The workmen were therefore induced to get into large casks, which weresecretly conveyed on board a ship that was shortly sailing for England. 

When the Pope received the intelligence some time afterwards, hethundered forth against Mr. Chaloner and the workmen the most awful andcomprehensive curse. They were to be cursed most wholly and thoroughlyin every part of their bodies, every saint was to curse them, and fromthe thresholds of the holy church of God Almighty they were to besequestered, that they might 'be tormented, disposed of, and deliveredover with Dathan and Abiram, and with those who say unto the Lord God, "Depart from us; we desire not to know Thy ways. "'

Despite the fearful nature of the curse, the venture prospered so muchthat the Darcy family, about the year 1600, set up another works in theneighbourhood of Guisborough; and as this also brought considerablewealth to the owners, a third was started at Sandsend in 1615. Manyothers followed, and in 1649 Sir Hugh Cholmley started the works closeto Saltwick Nab, within a short distance of his house at Whitby. Butalthough there must have been more than twenty of these works inoperation in the eighteenth century, owing to cheaper methods ofproducing alum the industry is now quite extinct in Cleveland. 

The broad valley stretching from Guisborough to the sea contains thebeautifully wooded park of Skelton Castle. The trees in great massescover the gentle slopes on either side of the Skelton Beck, and almosthide the modern mansion. The buildings include part of the ancientcastle of the Bruces, who were Lords of Skelton for many years. It isrecorded that Peter de Brus, one of the barons who helped to coerce Johninto signing the Great Charter at Runnymede, made a curious stipulationwhen he granted some lands at Leconfield to Henry Percy, his sister'shusband. The property was to be held on condition that every ChristmasDay he and his heirs should come to Skelton Castle and lead the lady bythe arm from her chamber to the chapel. 

The old church of Upleatham, standing by the road to Saltburn, is aquaint fragment of a Norman building. The tower, bearing the inscription'William Crow, Chvrchwarden Bvlded Stepel--1664, ' is an addition to whatis probably only part of the nave of the little Norman building. It isnow used merely as a cemetery chapel, but it is picturesquely situated, and on the north wall the carved Norman corbels may still be seen. 

CHAPTER IX

FROM PICKERING TO RIEVAULX ABBEY

The broad Vale of Pickering, watered by the Derwent, the Rye, and theirmany tributaries, is a wonderful contrast to the country we have beenexploring. The level pastures, where cattle graze and cornfields abound, seem to suggest that we are separated from the heather by many leagues;but we have only to look beyond the hedgerows to see that the horizon tothe north is formed by lofty moors only a few miles distant. 

Just where the low meadows are beginning to rise steadily from the valestands the town of Pickering, dominated by the lofty stone spire of itsparish church and by the broken towers of the castle. There is a widestreet, bordered by dark stone buildings, that leads steeply from theriver to the church. The houses are as a rule quite featureless, but wehave learnt to expect this in a county where stone is abundant, for onlythe extremely old and the palpably new buildings stand Christ. Thencomes Herod's feast, with the King labelled _Herodi_. The guests areshown with their arms on the table in the most curious positions, andall the royal folk are wearing ermine. The coronation of the Virgin, themartyrdom of St. Thomas a Becket, and the martyrdom of St. Edmund, whois perforated with arrows, complete the series on the north side. Alongthe south wall the paintings show the story of St. Catherine ofAlexandria and the seven Corporal Acts of Mercy. Further on come scenesfrom the life of our Lord. There seems little doubt that all thepaintings, including a number of others in the transepts and elsewherethat are now destroyed, were whitewashed over at the time of theReformation, and it was during some restoration work carried out in 1851that indications of the paintings were accidentally laid bare. When thewhole of the walls had been cleaned, careful coloured drawings weremade, then colour wash was applied again, and the priceless paintingsdisappeared for a generation. The objections to what had been consideredimproper wall decoration for a parish church in the nineteenth centuryhaving been reasoned away, the pictures once more appeared, but in avery different condition to their first resurrection. However, thedrawings were in existence, so that a careful restoration was possible, and as we see them to-day the subdued tones closely follow theoriginal colours. 

The simple Norman arcade on the north side of the nave has plain roundcolumns and semicircular arches, but the south side belongs to laterNorman times, and has ornate columns and capitals. At least one memberof the great Bruce family, who had a house at Pickering called Bruce'sHall, and whose ascendency at Guisborough has already been mentioned, was buried here, for the figure of a knight in chain-mail by the lecternprobably represents Sir William Bruce. In the chapel there is asumptuous monument bearing the effigies of Sir David and Dame MargeryRoucliffe. The knight wears the collar of S. S. , and his arms are onhis surcoat. 

When John Leland, the 'Royal Antiquary' employed by Henry VIII. , came toPickering, he described the castle, which was in a more perfect statethan it is to-day. He says: 'In the first Court of it be a 4 Toures, ofthe which one is Caullid Rosamunde's Toure. ' Also of the inner court hewrites of '4 Toures, wherof the Kepe is one. ' This keep and Rosamund'sTower, as well as the ruins of some of the others, are still to be seenon the outer walls, so that from some points of view the ruins aredignified and picturesque. The area enclosed was large, and in earlytimes the castle must have been almost impregnable. But during the CivilWar it was much damaged by the soldiers quartered there, and Sir HughCholmley took lead, wood, and iron from it for the defence ofScarborough. The wide view from the castle walls shows better than anydescription the importance of the position it occupied, and we feel, aswe gaze over the vale or northwards to the moors, that this was thedominant power over the whole countryside. 

Although Lastingham is not on the road to Helmsley, the few additionalmiles will scarcely be counted when we are on our way to a church which, besides being architecturally one of the most interesting in the county, is perhaps unique in having at one time had a curate whose wife kept apublic house adjoining the church. Although this will scarcely bebelieved, we have a detailed account of the matter in a little bookpublished in 1806. 

The clergyman, whose name was Carter, had to subsist on the slendersalary of £20 a year and a few surplice fees. This would not haveallowed any margin for luxuries in the case of a bachelor; but this poorman was married, and he had thirteen children. He was a keen fisherman, and his angling in the moorland streams produced a plentiful supply offish--in fact, more than his family could consume. But this, even thoughhe often exchanged part of his catches with neighbours, was notsufficient to keep the wolf from the door, and drastic measures had tobe taken. The parish was large, and, as many of the people were obligedto come 'from ten to fifteen miles' to church, it seemed possible thatsome profit might be made by serving refreshments to the parishioners. Mrs. Carter superintended this department, and it seems that the mealsbetween the services soon became popular. But the story of 'aparson-publican' was soon conveyed to the Archdeacon of the diocese, whoat the next visitation endeavoured to find out the truth of the matter. Mr. Carter explained the circumstances, and showed that, far from beinga source of disorder, his wife's public-house was an influence for good. 'I take down my violin, ' he continued, 'and play them a few tunes, whichgives me an opportunity of seeing that they get no more liquor thannecessary for refreshment; and if the young people propose a dance, Iseldom answer in the negative; nevertheless, when I announce time forreturn, they are ever ready to obey my commands. ' The Archdeacon appearsto have been a broad-minded man, for he did not reprimand Mr. Carter atall; and as there seems to have been no mention of an increased stipend, the parson-publican must have continued this strange anomaly. 

It is difficult to say whether the public-house was conducted in thecrypt beneath the church or not. I am inclined to think that Mrs. Carter's inn was the present 'Blacksmith's Arms, ' but there is distinctevidence for stating that cock-fighting used to take place secretly inthe crypt. The writings of the Venerable Bede give a special interest toLastingham, for he tells us how King Oidilward requested Bishop Cedd tobuild a monastery there. The Saxon buildings that appeared at that timehave gone, so that the present church cannot be associated with theseventh century. No doubt the destruction was the work of the Danes, whoplundered the whole of this part of Yorkshire. The church that existsto-day is of Transitional Norman date, and the beautiful little crypt, which has an apse, nave and aisles, is coeval with the superstructure. 

The situation of Lastingham in a deep and picturesque valley surroundedby moors and overhung by woods is extremely rich. 

Further to the west there are a series of beautiful dales, watered bybecks whose sources are among the Cleveland Hills. On our way toRyedale, the loveliest of these, we pass through Kirby Moorside, alittle town which has gained a place in history as the scene of thedeath of the notorious George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham, onApril 17, 1687. The house in which he died is on the south side of theKing's Head, and in one of the parish registers there is the entry underthe date of April 19th, 'Gorges viluas, Lord dooke of Bookingam, etc. 'Further down the street stands an inn with a curious porch, supported byturned wooden pillars, bearing the inscription:

 'Anno: Dom 1632 October xi William Wood'

Kirkdale, with its world-renowned cave, to which we have alreadyreferred, lies about two miles to the west. The quaint little Saxonchurch there is one of the few bearing evidences of its own date, ascertained by the discovery in 1771 of a Saxon sundial, which hadsurvived under a layer of plaster, and was also protected by the porch. A translation of the inscription reads: 'Orm, the son of Gamal, boughtSt. Gregory's Minster when it was all broken and fallen, and he causedit to be made anew from the ground, for Christ and St. Gregory, in thedays of King Edward and in the days of Earl Tosti, and Hawarth wroughtme and Brand the prior (priest or priests). ' By this we are plainly toldthat a church was built there in the reign of Edward the Confessor. 

A pleasant road leads through Nawton to the beautiful little town ofHelmsley. A bend of the broad, swift-flowing Rye forms one boundary ofthe place, and is fed by a gushing brook that finds its way fromRievaulx Moor, and forms a pretty feature of the main street. Thecottages in many cases have preserved their thatched roofs, and haveseldom more than one story; but they invariably appear well preservedand carefully painted, although these stone-built houses, with leadedcasements, give little scope for ornament. But the Helmsley folk haverealized the importance of white paint, and the window-frames, and eventhe strips of lead that hold the glass together, are picked out in thischeerful fashion. In the broad market-square the houses are large, buttheir gray respectability is broken by creepers and some pleasant spotsof colour. The corner nearest to the church is particularly noticeableon account of a most picturesque gabled house, with a timber-framedupper floor--a style of construction exceedingly rare in these parts ofYorkshire. The old stone cross, raised above its worn steps, stands inthe open space close to the modern market hall, and humbly allows thecentral position to be occupied by a Gothic cross recently erected tothe memory of the late Lord Feversham, of Duncombe Park. 

A narrow turning by the market-house shows the torn and dishevelledfragment of the keep of Helmsley Castle towering above the thatchedroofs in the foreground. The ruin is surrounded by tall elms, and fromthis point of view, when backed by a cloudy sunset, makes a wonderfulpicture. Like Scarborough, this stronghold was held for the King duringthe Civil War. After the Battle of Marston Moor and the fall of York, Fairfax came to Helmsley and invested the castle. He received a wound inthe shoulder during the siege; but the garrison having surrendered onhonourable terms, the Parliament ordered that the castle should bedismantled, and the thoroughness with which the instructions werecarried out remind one of Knaresborough, for one side of the keep wasblown to pieces by a terrific explosion and nearly everything else wasdestroyed. 

All the beauty and charm of this lovely district is accentuated inRyedale, and when we have accomplished the three long uphill miles toRievaulx, and come out upon the broad grassy terrace above the abbey, we seem to have entered a Land of Beulah. We see a peaceful valleyoverlooked on all sides by lofty hills, whose steep sides are clothedwith luxuriant woods; we see the Rye flowing past broad green meadows;and beneath the tree-covered precipice below our feet appear thesolemn, roofless remains of one of the first Cistercian monasteriesestablished in this country. There is nothing to disturb the peace thatbroods here, for the village consists of a mere handful of old andpicturesque cottages, and we might stay on the terrace for hours, and, beyond the distant shouts of a few children at play and the crowing ofsome cocks, hear nothing but the hum of insects and the singing ofbirds. We take a steep path through the wood which leads us down to theabbey ruins. 

The magnificent Early English choir and the Norman transepts standastonishingly complete in their splendid decay, and the lower portionsof the nave, which, until 1922, lay buried beneath masses ofgrass-grown débris, are now exposed to view. The richly-drapedhill-sides appear as a succession of beautiful pictures framed by thecolumns and arches on each side of the choir. As they stand exposed tothe weather, the perfectly proportioned mouldings, the clusteredpillars in a wonderfully good state of preservation, and the almostuninjured celestory are more impressive than in an elaborately-restoredcathedral.