We have spacious quarters at the Station Hotel, our lattice windows opening upon a stone balcony beyond which we can see the fountain, flowers and shrubbery of the gardens, and farther away, against the purple sky, the massive yet graceful towers of the minster. How different the Station Hotel is from the average railway hotel in America can be appreciated only by one who has enjoyed the hospitality of the one and endured the necessity of staying at the other. We feel as nearly at home as one possibly may at a hotel, and the spirit of Shakespeare’s worthy who proposes to take his ease at his inn comes upon us. We look forward with satisfaction to a short pause in the pleasant old northern capital, whose splendid church and importance in ecclesiastical antiquity are rivalled only by Canterbury. The two chief cathedral cities of England have many points of similarity, though in population and importance York easily leads. And yet, neither has ever been thoroughly modernized; the spirit and relics of ancient days confront one every As might be expected, the vicinity of York abounds in magnificent country seats and historic mansions, many of which are open to the public on specified days. Of these, few are statelier than Castle Howard, the seat of the Earls of Carlisle, about fifteen miles to the northwest. It can boast of little historic interest, for it was built less than two hundred years ago, after the turmoil of internal warfare had ceased in England. It is therefore not a castle in the accepted sense, but a stately private residence designed by Vanbrugh, the architect of Blenheim. Though its architectural faults have been enlarged upon by critics, none can gainsay the impressiveness of the building, and Ferguson, in his “History of Modern Architecture,” declares that it CASTLE HOWARD. The surroundings of the palace are in keeping with its vast size and architectural importance. It is situated in a large park and stands on slightly rising grounds overlooking a panorama of lawnlike meadows, diversified with fine trees and shimmering lakes. Near at hand are the somewhat formal gardens, ornamented with monuments and statuary. As a show place it is in much favor with the people of England and few of the great houses are more accessible to everyone. Though we did not arrive at the regular hour for visitors, we had little difficulty in gaining admission and were shown about as though we had been welcome guests rather than the nuisances which I fear ordinary tourists are often regarded in such places. The formality of securing tickets is not required and no admission fee is charged. While the interior of the palace is disappoint From the large low windows an enchanting view presented itself. Stretches of beautiful park, dotted with ancient trees, through which gleamed the placid waters of the lake—now like dull silver, for the sky had become overcast—sloped away from the front, while to the rear lay the gardens with all the bloom of English summer time. Out just beyond these is a many-pillared circular structure, like a classic temple, the burial-place of the Howards for many generations. Verily the surroundings almost savor of enchantment, and form, with the great mansion itself, a background of splendor and romance for the ancient family. And the very freedom with which such places are thrown open to people of all degrees does much to entrench the feudal system in England. But we have lingered long enough at Castle Howard; the sky is lowering and gray sheets of rain are sweeping through the trees. We hasten The direct route across the moor to Thirsk is impassable—the heavy rain has made it a trail of deep mud, and we dare not attempt its precipitous “bank” under such conditions. A detour of many miles by way of Easingwold is necessary, but once on the North Road there is ample opportunity to make up for delay. Country constables will hardly be abroad in the driving rain and the motor purrs quite as contentedly and drives the car quite as swiftly as in the sunniest weather. We splash through the streets of Thirsk with a glance at its church tower, the one redeeming feature of the town. The rain soon ceases, but a gray mist half hides the outlines of the Cleveland Hills on our right and hangs heavily over the fertile valley to our left. It is of little consequence, for there are few stretches of main road in England We come into Newcastle about lamplighting time, weary and somewhat bedraggled from our long flight over the rain-soaked roads. And Newcastle-on-Tyne, at the close of a rainy day, is about the last place to cheer one’s drooping spirits. The lamps glimmer dimly through the fog as we splash along the bumpy streets to the Station Hotel—and few hostelries were more genuinely welcome during all our long wanderings. Nor is Newcastle less dingy and unattractive on the following morning—the rain is still falling and black clouds of sooty smoke hang over the place. London is bad enough under such conditions, but the Tyne city is worse and our first anxiety is to get on the open road again, although Amidst all the evidences of modern industry—the coal-mining and ship-building that have made Newcastle famous—there still linger many relics of the ancient order, memorials of the day when all was rural and quiet along the Tyne. In the very midst of the factories and shipyards at Jarrow, a suburb a few miles down the river, still stands the abbey church where some thirteen hundred years ago the Venerable Bede wrote those chronicles which form the basis of ancient English history. Thither we resolved to go and found the way with no small difficulty to the bald, half-ruined structure on the bank of a small stream whose waters reeked with chemicals from a neighboring factory. Though much restored, the walls and tower of the church are the same that sheltered the monastic brotherhood in the time of Bede, about the seventh century. The present monastic ruins, however, are of Norman origin, the older Saxon foundation having quite disappeared. Several relics of Bede are preserved in the church, among them the rude, uncomfortable chair he is said to have used. Altogether, this shrine of the Father of English History is full of interest and when musing within its precincts one will not fail to recall the story of Bede’s death. For tradition has it that The Tyne valley road to Carlisle on the south side of the river by the way of Hexham looks very well on the map, but the run would be a wearisome one under favorable conditions; in the face of a continual rain it is even more of a task, and no one motoring for pleasure should take this route. It is rough and hilly and runs through a succession of mining and manufacturing towns. The road follows the edge of the moorland hills to the southward, and in many places the hillsides afford wide views over the Tyne valley, but the gray rain obscured the prospect for us and only an occasional lull gave some hint of the broad vale and the purple Northumbrian Hills beyond. Hexham is beautifully situated a mile or two below the juncture of the northern and southern branches of the Tyne, lying in a nook of the wooded hills, while the broad river sweeps past beneath. The low square tower of its abbey church looms up over the town from the commanding hill. It is one of the most important in the North Country, rivaling Here we crossed to the northern side of the river to reach the most stupendous relic of the Roman occupation of Britain—the wall which Hadrian built as a protection against the incursions of the wild northern tribes. This wall was seventy miles in length—from Tynemouth to the Solway—of an average thickness of eight feet and probably not less than eighteen feet in height. It surmounted the chain of hills overlooking the valley between Newcastle and Carlisle and was well supplied with military defenses in the shape of forts and battlemented towers. We closely followed the line of the wall from Chollerford to Greenhead, a distance of about fifteen miles. In places it is still wonderfully perfect, being built of hewn stone, well fitted and carefully laid, as it must have been to stand the storms of eighteen hundred years; but most of the distance the course of the wall is now marked only by an earthen ridge. We had seen many relics of the Roman rule in England at Bath, at York, and also the remarkable remains of Uriconium near Shrewsbury, but nothing so impressed us with the completeness of the Roman occupation as this great wall of Hadrian. And it also testifies mutely to the great difficulty the Roman legions must have experienced in controlling the light-armed bandits from across the border, in REMAINS OF GREAT ROMAN WALL NEAR HEXHAM. The road through the rough Northumbrian hills is as lonely and desolate as any one will find in England. So much has it fallen into disuse that the grass and heather have almost obliterated it in places, and it appeared that little had been done to maintain it for years. The cheerless day accentuated the dreariness of the rough countryside; the rain had Naworth Castle, also an estate of the Earl of Carlisle, the owner of Castle Howard, is just off the road before entering Brampton, eight or nine miles out of Carlisle. It is thrown open with the same freedom that prevails at the great Yorkshire house, but though the greater part of Naworth is far older, it has less to interest the casual visitor. Situated as it is in the very center of the scenes of border turmoil, it has a stirring history dating back to 1300, when it was built by Lord Dacre, ancestor of the Howards. The story of his elopement with the heiress who owned the estate and who was betrothed to a boy of seven, and of the subsequent pardon of the lovers by the King Edward, forms a romantic background for the stern-looking old place; but we will not recount the many legends that gathered about the castle during the long period of border warfare. Escaping almost unscathed during the castle-smashing time of Cromwell, Naworth suffered severely from fire in 1844, but the interior has since been remodeled into a fairly comfortable modern dwelling. Here again the artistic and literary NAWORTH CASTLE. Continuing our way through Naworth Park, we drop down the narrow and fearfully steep lane to the vale of the Irthing and cross over the old high-arched bridge to Lanercost Priory. The rain is still falling and no doubt the custodian has given up hope of visitors on such a day, for he cannot be found; but we discover the gardener, who secures the keys from the neighboring rectory and proves himself a capable guide. The abbey church has been restored by the Carlisles and is used by the parish as a place of worship. All about are the red sandstone ruins of a once great monastery. We wander among the mossy grave-stones and crumbling tombs, “The ‘Miserere’ in the moss, The ‘Mercy Jesu’ in the rain,” calling up thoughts of a forgotten order of things. In the roofless chapel we pause before an altar-tomb, its sandstone bosses water-soaked and crumbling in the rain—it is the oldest in the abbey and covers the grave of Lord Roland de Vaux of Triermaine, an ancestor of the Dacres. The name seems familiar and the lines, “Murmuring over the name again, Lord Roland de Vaux of Triermaine,” come unbidden to my mind. Ah, yes! it is in the weird music of “Christabel” that the name of the long-dead baron is interwoven, and perhaps his “castle good” was the predecessor of Naworth. There are other elaborate tombs of the Dacres and Howards, and there is a world of pathos in Sir Edward Boehm’s terra cotta effigy of little Elizabeth, daughter of the present earl, who died in 1883. It is the figure of an infant child asleep, with one little rounded arm thrown above the head and the other folded gracefully on the breast, while a quiet smile plays over the dimpled face— But come—it is late, and Lanercost Priory would be gloomy enough on such a day without the infant figure. We retrace our way through the ivy-mantled portal and hasten through the park to the Carlisle road, which shortly brings us to the border city, and grateful indeed is the old-fashioned hospitality of the County Hotel, one of the most pleasant among the famous inns of the North Country. |