York City and Minster.—Journey to Lincoln.—Travellers imposed upon.—Innkeepers.—Ferry over the Trent.—Lincoln.—Great Tom.—Newark.—Alconbury Hill.
From Borough-Bridge, which is a little town full of good inns, we took chaise in the morning for York. The road was a straight line over a dead flat; the houses which we passed of red brick, roofed with red tiles, uglier than common cottages, and not promising more comfort within. York is one of the few English cities with the name of which foreigners are familiar. I was disappointed that its appearance in the distance was not finer,—we saw its huge cathedral rising over the level,—but that was all; and I found that the second city in England was as little imposing as the metropolis upon a first view. We drove under an old gateway and up a narrow street, ordered dinner at the inn, and set out to see the cathedral, here called the minster.
Though I had seen the cathedral churches of Exeter, Salisbury, Westminster, and Worcester, my expectations were exceeded here; for though on the outside something, I know not what, is wanting, the interior surpasses any thing to be seen elsewhere. It is in magnitude that York minster is unrivalled; it is of the best age of Gothic, and in admirable repair:—this praise must be given to the English heretics, that they preserve these monuments of magnificent piety with a proper care, and do not suffer them to be disfigured by the barbarism of modern times. Here indeed we felt the full effect of this wonderful architecture, in which all the parts are highly ornamented, yet the multiplicity of ornaments contributes to one great impression. We ascended the tower by such a wearying round of steps that I was compelled to judge more respectfully of its height, than we had done when beholding it from below. The day was hazy; we saw however sufficiently far into a flat country; and the city, and the body of the immense building below us, with its towers and turrets, its buttresses and battlements, were objects far more impressive than any distant view.
Having satisfied our curiosity here, we strolled in search of other objects, saw the castle, which is converted into a prison, and found our way to a public walk beside the river Ouse, a sluggish and muddy stream, which, however, as it is navigable, the people of York would be loth to exchange for one of the wild Cumberland rivers, which we could not but remember with regret. There is a bridge over it of remarkable architecture, whose irregular arches, with the old houses adjoining, form a highly picturesque pile. While we were looking at it, we heard some one from the ships sing out, "There he goes!" and this was repeated from vessel to vessel, and from shore to shore, chiefly by boys and children, in a regular tone, and at regular intervals, almost like minute guns. It was some time, before we paid any attention to this; but at last it was repeated so often that it forced itself upon our notice, and we enquired of a woman, whose little girl was joining in the cry, what it meant. She told us it was a man, then crossing at the ferry, whom the children always called after in this way:—she could give no further account, and did not know that he had done any thing to provoke it. He was a man in years, and of decent appearance. It is possible that he may have committed some offence which drew upon him the public notice,—but it is equally possible that this was begun in sport; and if so, as the woman indeed understood it to be, it is one of the strangest instances of popular persecution I ever witnessed. Age and deformity, I may here remark, are always objects of ridicule in England; it is disgraceful to the nation to see how the rabble boys are permitted to torment a poor idiot, if they find one in the streets.
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At five in the morning we left York, I could not but admire the punctuality of the old coachman. He was on his box, we on the roof,—every thing ready to start. One church clock struck,—another followed,—house clocks all around us,—"All but the minster," said the old man,—for the minster was his signal. Presently that began with its finer tone,—and before the first quarter had ended, crack went his whip and we were off. It was a cloudy morning,—we passed through Tadcaster, and a few smaller places not worth naming, because not worth remembering, till we reached Ferry-bridge to breakfast. The bridge is new and handsome, yet our bridges are in a better taste than those of the English:—the river, a slow stream, as dull and uninteresting as a canal. On to Doncaster, one of the handsomest towns I have ever seen:—the country around is as insipid as the plains of Old Castille, though perhaps the Doncastrians are of a different opinion, as their race-ground is one of the best in England. The scenery improved when we entered the province of Nottinghamshire, and the sun came out and brightened every thing; here we saw a few hop-gardens. Our places were taken to an inn called Markham Moor, from whence we expected to reach Lincoln time enough to see it easily that evening. It was nineteen miles from the inn: they told us they had no chaise at home, and must send for one from Tuxford, therefore we had better go on to Tuxford, which was two miles further, and then we should be one mile nearer Lincoln. To this we readily agreed,—but our coach dined at this Markham Moor,—here would be an hour lost, ill to be spared when we were prest for time: another stage passed us while we were deliberating, and by the landlord's especial advice we mounted this and advanced. Lincoln cathedral was distinctly in sight at this distance.
At Tuxford we ordered chaise for Lincoln, which we had been told was eighteen miles distant,—the waiter said it was twenty, the landlady that it was twenty-one. "Why have they no Corregidores in England?" said I to my companion, who wished as heartily, but as vainly, as myself for summary redress. The woman knew that we knew we were imposed on, and expressed it in her countenance and manner. There was no remedy but the never-failing panacea of patience. Mark the complication of roguery.—Instead of taking a cross road, which would have cut off two miles, we were driven back to Markham Moor, by which excellent manoeuvre we had to pay for twenty-one, instead of nineteen, and an additional turnpike into the bargain. We called at this inn, and asked for the landlord, meaning to tell him our opinion of his conduct; but he did not choose to appear. No class of people in England require the superintendance of law more than the inn-keepers. They fix their own prices, without any other restriction than their own conscience, and uniformly charge the fraction of a mile as a whole one, so that the traveller pays for a mile, in almost every stage, more than he travels. False weights and measures are punishable here, why should this kind of measure be exempted?
When we had proceeded about half a league further, the driver dismounted to open a gate. Just on the other side was a little bridge over a ditch of clear and slowly-flowing water: the wall of this bridge was continued far enough, as might have been supposed, for security, and then sloped aside from the road, and ended. By the side of the road was a steep bank, not higher than with a bound one might spring up; at the bottom of this was a young hedge fenced with rails on both sides, at right angles with the ditch-stream. Our horses went on before the driver could remount, and they chose to bend this way; the chaise was soon in such a situation that it was prudent for us with all speed to alight; he held the horses and out we got; but to get them into the road was not so easy. Both were spirited beasts, indeed we had been admiring them;—both were startlish, and the mare vicious;—she had lately run with a chaise into the river at Newark, and drowned the post-boy. They began to plunge,—the weight of the chaise, which was on the declivity, pressed upon them, the horse leapt at the rails and broke them down, the mare fell in the bottom, and had the bank been in the slightest degree steeper the chaise must have rolled upon her. As it was, we expected to see her killed, or her bones broken at least. D. called to the driver to cut the traces instantly and let the horse loose, or he would frighten the mare still more, and make bad worse:—he hesitated to do this till after more plunging the mare got into the ditch:—however, the traces were loosed, and the beasts got into the road with little other hurt than the violent agitation they were in. We now exerted all our strength to drag up the chaise, but to no purpose. D. went one way for help, the driver another, while I sate upon the wall of the bridge and looked at the stream. D. brought with him a man and two boys, and the driver a carthorse, who soon did the business,—and we proceeded not without some apprehensions of another accident, from the fear of the horses, but, thanks be to God, all went on well.
We came presently to Dunham Ferry,—the interruption and expence of crossing here were well compensated by the beauty of the scene. The Trent at this place is the largest fresh-water river which I have seen in England,—indeed I believe it rolls a greater body of fresh water to the sea than any other. Two of its huge arms, which embraced a long island, met just above the ferry, like two large rivers. The opposite bank was high and broken. The island terminated in a sharp point, to which the stream had worn it, and just at this point were about a score or five-and-twenty remarkably large willow-trees, as tall as elms. Some men of taste must have planted them two centuries ago; the rest of the island, as far as we could see, was fine meadow land,—and a colony of rooks had established their commonwealth in the trees. The country up the river was a dead flat, with a handsome church in the distance, and another on the shore which we were leaving; many little islands, with a bush or two upon them, in the stream below,—the price at the ferry was half-a-crown, which we thought exorbitantly dear. The road now ran between plantations of birch, oak, beech, and hazel, with ditches of clear weedy water on each side, which sometimes spread into little pools in which the overhanging boughs and bank weeds were reflected,—a complete contrast to the mountain streams, and yet beautiful. It opened upon a marsh, and we once more beheld the cathedral upon its height, now two leagues distant. This magnificent building stands at the end of a long and high hill, above the city. To the north there are nine windmills in a row. It has three towers, the two smaller ones topped with the smallest spires I have ever seen;—they were beautiful in the distance—yet we doubted whether they ought to have been there, and in fact they are of modern addition, and not of stone, so that on a near view they disgrace and disfigure the edifice. Imagine this seen over a wide plain, this the only object,—than which the power of man could produce no finer. The nearer we approached the more dreary was the country—it was one wide fen,—but the more beautiful the city, and the more majestic the cathedral: Never was an edifice more happily placed; it overtops a city built on the acclivity of a steep hill,—its houses intermingled with gardens and orchards. To see it in full perfection, it should be in the red sunshine of an autumnal evening, when the red roofs, and red brick houses would harmonize with the sky and the fading foliage.
Our disasters had delayed us till it was too late to see the church. So we sate down to a late dinner upon some of the wild fowl of the fens.
The exterior of Lincoln cathedral is far more beautiful than that of York, the inside is far inferior. They have been obliged in some places to lay a beam from one column to another, to strengthen them; they have covered it with Gothic work, and it appears at first like a continuation of the passages above. It is to be wished that in their other modern works there had been the same approximation to the taste of better times. A fine Roman pavement was discovered not many years ago in the centre of the cloister; they have built a little brick building over it to preserve it with commendable care; but so vile a one as to look like one of those houses of necessity which are attached to every cottage in this country—and which it is to be hoped will one day become as general in our own. A library forms one side of the cloister-quadrangle, which is also modern and mean. Another vile work of modern time is a picture of the Annunciation over the altar.
Most of the old windows were demolished in the days of fanaticism; their place has not been supplied with painted glass,—and from the few which remain, the effect of the coloured light crowning the little crockets and pinnacles, and playing upon the columns with red and purple and saffron shades of light, made us the more regret that all were not in the same state of beauty. We ascended the highest tower, crossing a labyrinth of narrow passages; it was a long and wearying way,—the jackdaws who inhabit these steeples have greatly the advantage of us in getting to the top of them. How very much must these birds be obliged to man for building cathedrals for their use! It is something higher than York, and the labour of climbing it was compensated by a bird's eye view all around us.
We ascended one of the other towers afterwards to see Great Tom, the largest bell in England. At first it disappointed me, but the disappointment wore off, and we became satisfied that it was as great a thing as it was said to be. A tall man might stand in it, upright; the mouth measures one and twenty English feet in circumference, and it would be a large tree of which the girth equalled the size of its middle. The hours are struck upon it with a hammer. I should tell you that the method of sounding bells in England is not by striking, but by swinging them: no bell, however, which approaches nearly to the size of this is ever moved, except this; it is swung on Whitsunday, and when the judges arrive to try the prisoners,—another fit occasion would be at executions, to which it would give great solemnity, for the sound is heard far and wide over the fens. On other occasions it was disused, because it shook the tower, but the stones have now been secured with iron cramps.—Tom, which is the familiar abbreviation of Thomas, seems to be the only name which they give to a bell in this country.
Only one coach passes through Lincoln on the way to London, and that early in the morning, we were therefore obliged to return again into the great north road, which we did by taking chaise to Newark; the road is a straight line, along an old Roman way. A bridge over the Trent and the ruins of a castle, which long held out for the king in the great civil war, are the only remarkable objects in this town,—except indeed that I saw the name Ordoyno over a shop. The day ended in rain; we got into a stage in the evening, which took us through the towns of Grantham, Stamford, and Stilton, and dropt us in the middle of the night at a single inn called Alconbury-Hill,—where after a few minutes we succeeded in obtaining admittance and went to bed.
