Thos. D. Murphy

Flodden Field lies adjacent to the road which we pursued southward from the Tweed, but there is little now to indicate the location of the historic battlefield. Song and story have done much to immortalize a conflict whose results were not especially important or far-reaching—the world knows of it chiefly through the vivid lines of “Marmion.” It is not worth while to follow our hasty flight to the south; we are again bound for the Yorkshire moors and the distance we must cover ere night will not admit of loitering.

At Chillingham Castle we see the herd of native wild cattle made famous by Landseer’s picture. The keeper led us into the park within a hundred yards of a group of animals, which have become so tame that they took no notice of our presence. The cattle are white, with long curving horns and black muzzles, and the purity of the stock is carefully maintained. The herd is believed to be a direct descendant of the wild ox of Europe, the progenitor of our domestic cattle, and its preservation is quite analogous to the few remaining buffaloes in America. The animals retain many peculiarities of their wild state; one of the most remarkable of these is the habit which the young calves have of dropping suddenly to the ground when surprised. The bulls are often dangerous and it is related that King Edward, when Prince of Wales, killed one of the animals, arresting with a well-aimed shot its savage charge toward him. Evidently the present prince did not care to repeat his father’s experience, for he had been at Chillingham a few days before and declined the opportunity offered him by the Earl of Tankerville of slaying the king of the herd.

“’E said ’e ’adn’t time,” explained the keeper with an air of disgust that showed he looked on the prince’s excuse as a mere subterfuge.

On a former occasion we had failed to gain admittance to Alnwick Castle, owing to a visit of the king the previous day. We were more successful this time and were conducted through the portions usually shown to visitors, chiefly the remaining parts of the old fortress—the “castle good” that in early days “threatened Scotland’s wastes.” The home of the warlike Percys for many generations, few castles in England have figured more in ballad and story and few have been the center of more stirring scenes. But the old castle is almost lost in the palace of today, upon which the late Duke of Northumberland is said to have expended the enormous sum of three hundred and sixty thousand pounds sterling. The walls at present enclose an area of five acres and it would be hard to imagine more pleasing vistas of forest and meadowland than those which greet one from the battlements. The great park is worthy of the castle, and taken altogether there is perhaps no finer feudal estate in England.

From Alnwick to Newcastle and from Newcastle to Darlington the road is familiar; only an occasional town or village interferes with our flight to the southward. Newcastle, with its bad approaches and crowded, slippery streets, causes the greatest loss of time, but we make it up on the broad, level stretch of the Great North Road to Darlington. At Richmond we leave the lowlands and strike directly across the rough moorland road to Leyburn in Wensleydale.

Here in the remote Yorkshire hills is one of the most romantic bits of England and within a comparatively small space is much of historic interest. Shall we go to Bolton Castle, which we see off yonder, grim and almost forbidding in the falling twilight? Its jagged towers and broken battlements are outlined darkly against the distant hills; indeed, in the dim light it seems almost a part of the hills themselves. We follow the rough narrow road that dwindles almost to a footpath as it approaches the village. Our car splashes through a rapid, unbridged little river, climbs the steep bank, creeps through tangled thickets, until it emerges into the main street of Castle Bolton, if a wide grass-grown road with a few lichen-covered cottages on either side may be dignified with the name. At the end of the street, towering over the slate-roofed hovels about it, is the castle, its walls in fairly good repair and three of its four original towers still standing. The fourth crumbled and collapsed from the battering Cromwell gave it—for even this remote fortress in the moors did not escape the vengeance of the Protector.

CASTLE BOLTON, WENSLEYDALE, YORKSHIRE.

Bolton Castle, nevertheless, is better preserved than the majority of those which have been abandoned to ruin; the great entrance hall, some of the stairways, the room of state and many chambers are still intact. One may climb the winding stairs and from the towers look down upon the mass of ruined grandeur—sagging and broken roofs, vacant doorways and windows and towers whose floors have fallen away—the melancholy work of time and weather, for these have chiefly affected the castle since it was dismantled by its captors. One is relieved to turn from such a scene to the narrow green valley through which the river runs and out beyond it to the wide prospect of brown hills with gray villages and solitary cottages.

The history of Bolton Castle is long and varied—too long to tell in detail. It was built in the twelfth century by Richard, the first Lord Scrope, founder of the family, which figured so largely in the fierce struggles of the northern border. From that time to the death of the last representative of the family in 1630, Bolton Castle was almost continually the center of stirring scenes. The Archbishop of York in 1405 was a Scrope, and he preached a fiery sermon denouncing the reigning King Henry as an usurper. The bold churchman lost his head for his temerity, but his execution sowed the seed of the long and terrible wars of the Roses. Nor will the reader of “Marmion” forget Scott’s reference to “Lord Scrope of Bolton, stern and stout,” who with “all Wensleydale did wend” to join the English at Flodden Field. The closing scene came like the closing scene of many an English castle, when Col. Scrope, the last owner, was compelled to surrender to the forces of Parliament and the castle was dismantled. Since then it has stood stern and lonely in the Yorkshire hills, and nearly three centuries of decay have added to the ruin wrought by the captors.

But there is a roselight of romance that enwraps the shattered towers of Bolton, for does not the moorland ruin call up a thousand memories of Mary Stuart, yet in the flower of her youth, ere long years of imprisonment had stolen the color from her face and touched it with the shade of melancholy that seldom left it? Here was her first prison; she came as an unwilling guest after her ill-advised visit to Carlisle in 1568, and remained a charge of Lord Scrope for nearly two years. The room she occupied is large and gloomy, with but one small window looking westward over the hills—the same window, legend declares, by which she escaped from the castle, only to be shortly recaptured by Lord Scrope’s retainers. Her captivity at Bolton, while less rigorous than in later years, was none the less a captivity, and while she was allowed to go hawking, she was always under close surveillance. Very likely she did try to escape, for in such an escapade the unhappy queen never lacked for accomplices, even among her gaolers. But fate was ever unkind to Mary Stuart, and though many times her fortune seemed evenly balanced, some lack of judgment on part of herself or her followers thwarted the plans for regaining her liberty. They tell that in leaving Bolton in this attempt, her friends followed the river road to Leyburn when a dash over the moors to the north might have insured success. It all seems very real to one who stands in the gloomy apartment at twilight and looks from the window down the steep narrow road leading to the valley—no doubt the one Mary followed in her effort to get out of her arch-enemy’s clutches, which ended in such heart-breaking failure.

But it is waxing late and we will descend the same hill and follow the same road to Leyburn. Leyburn is gray and bleak in the falling night, with a wide bare market place paved with rough cobblestones, shorn, alas, a few decades ago, of its fine old market cross and town hall—in a spirit of “improvement!” The prospect for good cheer is far from flattering, but we must stop in Leyburn perforce. The Bolton Arms seems to promise the best, but it is full and the Golden Lion offers the only alternative. It is a typical second-class village inn, not overly clean. It appears more of an alehouse than hotel, for a crowd of villagers and farmers is tippling at the bar.

Directly across the river from Leyburn is Middleham, the old-time capital of Wensleydale and one of the quaintest and least modernized towns it was our good fortune to see. The drab-colored buildings straggle up the hill upon whose crest sits Middleham Castle, grim, vast and wholly ruinous. And after wandering through the maze of shattered walls and tottering towers, it seemed to us that here was the very ideal of ruined castles. We had seen many of them, but none more awe-inspiring, none more suggestive of the power of the cataclysm which left such fortresses, seemingly impregnable as the hills themselves, in shapeless wreck and ruin. Here and there the ivy and wall flower mantled the nakedness of the mouldering stone, and a stout sapling of several years’ growth had fastened its roots in the deep mould high on one of the towers. Truly, Cromwell did his work well at Middleham. Such a stronghold could be dealt with only by gunpowder mines, which were responsible for the cracked and sundered walls and the shapeless masses of stone and mortar which have never been cleared away.

There are memories connected with Middleham Castle as grim as the ruin itself; for with them is intertwined the name of Richard of Gloucester, the hunchback whose crimes, wrought into the imperishable lines of Shakespeare, have horrified the world. When he came here the castle was owned by the Nevilles, and here he married Anne, the daughter of the house, and thus became possessed of the estate. Here his only son, for whom he committed his unspeakable crimes, was born and here his ambitions were blasted by the boy’s early death.

But it is no task of mine to tell the story of Richard III.—only to recall his associations with Middleham. And we noted on one of the two ancient town crosses the rudely carved figure of a boar, the emblem of this ruthless king. Altogether, Middleham is very unique—old-world describes it better than any other term, perhaps. There is scarcely a jarring note of any kind; the only thing approaching mediocrity and seemingly much out of place, is the Victoria Jubilee Fountain. And the customs of the town still have a savor of medievalism—bulls were baited within the memory of living men.

The thought that first occurs, when one learns that Jervaulx Priory is not far from Middleham, is of Prior Aylmer and “Ivanhoe”—showing how the creations of the Wizard of the North often take precedence in one’s mind over actual history—nay, rather have supplanted historical knowledge altogether, for we know nothing of the history of Jervaulx and will not take the pains to learn. It is enough to wander through its grounds, now kept with all possible care and neatness—every moss-grown stone replaced as nearly as possible in its original position and every detail of the abbey marked with exactness on the sward—and to know that the old story of monastic poverty, pomp and downfall has been repeated here. It is near the roadside and though private property, one may easily gain access by application at the keeper’s cottage. The ruins are scanty indeed—little more than mere outlines of the abbey church and monastery and a few isolated columns and fragments of wall is to be seen—but the landscape gardener has come to the rescue and out of the scattered fragments has wrought an harmonious and pleasing effect. The situation is one of surpassing loveliness, just at the foot of the hills on the river Ure, which rushes between almost precipitous banks, over which its tributaries fall in glittering cascades. The soft summer air is murmurous with their music and the song of birds. There is no one but ourselves on the ground; no guide is with us to drone over prosaic history and to point out nave and transept—and this and that. As we wander almost dreamily about, we come very near to the spirit of monastic days. It is easy to imagine the old-time state of the abbey under Prior Aylmer, “when the good fathers of Jervaulx drank sweet wines and lived on the fat of the land.” Even in that halcyon time it is doubtful if the surroundings were half so lovely as today.

But we have mused long enough at Jervaulx—“Jervo,” as the railway company officially declares it; “Jarvey,” as the natives perversely term it. The day is still young and an uninterrupted run over the winding moorland road brings us to Ripon before noon. The low square-topped towers of the cathedral break on our view as we descend the hill to the Ure, upon whose banks Ripon sits.

Ripon Cathedral is well-nigh forgotten by pilgrims who would see the great Yorkshire churches—so far is it surpassed by York Minster and Beverley. But after all, it is an imposing church and of great antiquity, for a monastery was established on the present site in the seventh century and St. Wilfred, the famous Archbishop of York, built the minster. Of this ancient building the crypt still remains, and to see it we followed the verger down a steep, narrow flight of stairs into a series of dungeonlike apartments beneath the forward end of the nave.

Perhaps the most curious relic is St. Wilfred’s Needle, a small window in the thick wall of the crypt, and various merits have been attributed to anyone who could pass through it. In old days this was proof of innocence against any charge of crime; but just now the young woman who can perform the somewhat acrobatic feat will be married within a year—rather a discrimination against the more buxom maidens.

About four hundred years after the founding of the Saxon monastery, the present church was built; but it was not until 1836 that it was elevated to the rank of a cathedral. Like York Minster, Ripon is singularly devoid of tombs of famous men, though there are many fine monuments and brasses to the noble families of the vicinity. The architecture is strangely mixed, owing to the many alterations that have been made from time to time. The exterior must have been far more imposing before the removal of the wooden spires which rose above the towers. Ripon is a quiet, old-world market town, progressive in its way, but having little resource other than the rich agricultural country around it. There are many quaint streets and odd corners that attract the lover of such things. A queer relic of the olden days that arouses the curiosity of the visitor is the blowing of a horn at nine in the evening before the town cross by the constable. The sojourner will not be at a loss for comfortable entertainment, since the Unicorn Hotel fulfills the best traditions of English inns.

To come within hailing distance of York means that we cannot remain away from that charming old city; and the early afternoon finds us passing Bootham Bar. The rest of the day we give to a detailed study of the minster—our fourth visit, nor are we weary of York Minster yet.

Pontefract—the Pomfret of olden time—lies about twenty miles southwest of York. Its very name takes us back to Roman times—Pontem Fractem, the place of the broken bridge. It is a town that figured much in early English history and its grim old castle may hold the mystery of the death of King Richard II. We came here under lowering skies, and passing the partly ruined church, climbed the steep hill where the castle—or rather the scanty remnant of it—still stands. Verily, “ruin greenly dwells” about the old fortress of Pontefract; the walls were laden heavily with ivy, the greensward covered the floor of the keep, and the courtyard has been converted into a public garden. There is so little left that it would require a vivid imagination to reconstruct the strong and lordly fortress, which endured no fewer than three sieges during the civil war. The first resulted disastrously to the Parliamentary forces and the second was successful only after a long period and very heavy losses, and even then the garrison was given the honors of the war; yet after all this strenuous work, the castle was again lost to the Royalists through a trifling bit of strategy.

The commander became so negligent through a false sense of security that a handful of adventurers gained admission to the castle, and driving out the few soldiers who happened to be inside—most of the garrison was quartered in the town—possessed themselves of the fortress. A third siege was thus made necessary and such was the strength of the castle that nearly a year elapsed before it finally fell—holding out for some time after Charles was beheaded. Even then, favorable terms were again granted to the defenders, though Col. Morris, who devised the successful capture, and five others, were specifically excepted from the amnesty. Much to the disgust of the captors, Morris escaped for the time, though a little later he was taken and hanged at York. Thus ended the active history of Pontefract Castle, but it was considered dangerous to the Commonwealth and was almost completely razed, the walls being mined with gunpowder.

Pontefract was undoubtedly the prison to which the Duke of Lancaster consigned King Richard II.,

And yet it is not certain that Richard perished while a prisoner in the castle. A tradition exists that he escaped and lived many years an humble peasant. Pontefract was a very storm center in the wars of the Roses, for almost within sight of its towers was fought the battle of Towton Moor, the bloodiest conflict that ever took place on English soil.

But it would take a volume to record the vicissitudes that have befallen the mouldering ruin at our feet. The rain is falling more heavily; let us on to Wakefield, whose spire we might easily see were it not for the gray veil which hides the landscape. For Wakefield spire is the loftiest in Yorkshire—a slender, pointed shaft rising to a height of two hundred and forty-seven feet over a much altered church that was elevated to the rank of cathedral in 1888. As it now stands, the interior is chiefly Perpendicular, though there are many touches of the Decorated and Early English styles. It is characterized by grace and lightness, giving an altogether pleasing effect. The windows exhibit as fine modern glass as we saw in the Kingdom, and go far to prove that the disrepute into which modern glass has fallen is largely due to lack of artistic taste and a desire for cheapness. Such windows as those at Wakefield are far from a reproach on the art of the stained-glass maker. So much has the church been restored and added to that it gives as a whole an impression of newness that seems strange in an English cathedral—for there has been no cathedral built in England since St. Paul’s, more than two hundred years ago.

When we come to Barnsley, a few miles to the south, the rain, which has gradually increased, is falling in torrents, and we resolve to take respite from the cold and damp for our belated luncheon. We seek out the King’s Head, for an English friend has told us that twenty-five years ago this hotel was famous for the best mutton chop in England. Traditions never die in Britain, and we doubt not the King’s Head still retains its proud distinction. It does not, however, present an especially attractive appearance; it is rather dingy and time-worn, but any place might seem a little dreary on such a day. Yes, the King’s Head still serves the Barnsley chop, and we will have it, though we must wait a half hour for it. And the recollection of the luncheon comes like a gleam of sunshine into a dark, rainy day, and effaces all memory of the first unfavorable impression of the King’s Head.

A Barnsley chop defies all description; its mighty dimensions might be given, its juicy tenderness might be descanted upon; all the language at the epicure’s command might be called into action, and yet, after all, only he who has actually eaten a Barnsley chop would have an adequate idea of its savory excellence. O, yes! They imitate it at other hotels, both in and out of Barnsley, so said the manageress, but after all, the King’s Head alone can prepare the original and only Barnsley chop; it alone has devised the peculiar process whereby the truly wonderful result is obtained. Verily, after eating it we sallied forth into the driving rain feeling something of the spirit of the ancient Roman who declared, “Fate cannot harm me—I have dined today.”

Three or four miles out of Barnsley on a byway off the Doncaster road is the village of Darfield, whose church illustrates the interest one may so often find in out-of-the-way spots in England. Thither we drove through the heavy rain, and as we stopped in front of the church at the end of the village street, a few of the natives who happened to be abroad paused under dripping umbrellas to stare at us. I do not wonder at their astonishment, for from their point of view persons motoring in search of old churches on such a day might well have their sanity questioned.

The ceiling is painted blue, with stars and feathery clouds—clearly a representation of the heavens—and it seemed an age since we had seen them, too. There are many elaborate carvings; the massive Jacobean cover over the baptismal font, the fine black-oak bench-ends of the seventeenth century, and a splendid coffer in the vestry, are all treasures worthy of notice. A Bible with heavy wooden covers is chained to a solid oaken stand—suggestive of the days when a man’s piety might lead him to steal the rare copies of the Scripture. A beautifully wrought though scarred and dilapidated alabaster tomb has recumbent figures of a knight and his lady in costumes of the time of Richard II., and another tomb bears some very quaint devices, among them an owl with a crown upon its head.

It is our third visit to Doncaster, and the giant church tower has become a familiar object. Its very stateliness is exaggerated by the dead level of the town and today it rises dim and vast against the leaden, rain-swept sky, but though it is easily the most conspicuous object in the town, the fine old church does not constitute Doncaster’s chief claim to fame. Here is the horse-racing center of Yorkshire, and on its “Leger Day” it is probably the liveliest town in England. The car shops of the Great Northern Railway keep it quietly busy for the rest of the year. But as the racing center of a horse-loving shire, it would be strange if it had not acquired during the ages a reputation for conviviality. That it had such a reputation a century or more ago is evidenced by the example of its mayor, set forth by a ballad-maker of the period:

We pass on to the southward and pause in the main street of the quiet village of Scrooby, just on the Yorkshire border, where good authorities insist the idea of American colonization was first conceived. Here Elder Brewster, one of the chief founders of the Plymouth Colony, was born in 1567, and here he passed his boyhood days. The manor-house where he lived and where he met Rev. John Robinson and William Bradford is no longer standing; but it is not unreasonable to suppose that the plan of leaving England for the new world may have been consummated here by these earnest men, who held themselves persecuted for righteousness’ sake. After varied fortunes they sailed on the Mayflower in 1620.

We are now leaving old Yorkshire with its waste moorlands, its wide, fertile valleys, its narrow, picturesque dales, its quaint old towns and modern cities, its castles and abbeys, and, more than all, its associations of the past which reach out even to the shores of our native land, and we leave it with the keenest regret. It has fallen to us as it has to few to traverse the highways and byways of every section of the great county, and I can but be sensible as to how feebly my pages reflect the things that charmed us. If an American and a stranger is so impressed, how must the native Englishman feel when wandering among these memorials of the past? I cannot close my chapter more fitly than to quote the words of one who in poetic phrase has written much of Yorkshire and its history:

“But any man will spend a month in wandering round Yorkshire, with ears awake to all the great voices of the past, and eyes open to the beauty which is so peculiarly English, he will find the patriotic passion roused again, real and living; and thenceforth the rivers and the glaciers of other lands will be to him no more than the parks and palaces of other men compared with the white gateway and the low veranda which speaks to him of home.”