Leave Redcar—A Cricket-Match—Coatham—Kirkleatham—The Old Hospital—The Library—Sir William Turner’s Tomb—Cook, Omai, and Banks—The Hero of Dettingen—Yearby Bank—Upleatham—Guisborough—Past and Present—Tomb of Robert Bruce—Priory Ruins—Hemingford, Pursglove, and Sir Thomas Chaloner—Pretty Scenery—The Spa—More Money, Less Morals—What George Fox’s Proselytes did—John Wesley’s Preaching—Hutton Lowcross—Rustics of Taste—Rosebury Topping—Lazy Enjoyment—The Prospect: from Black-a-moor to Northumberland—Cook’s Monument—Canny Yatton—The Quakers’ School—A Legend—Skelton—Sterne and Eugenius—Visitors from Middlesbro’—A Fatal Town—Newton—Digger’s Talk—Marton, Cook’s Birthplace—Stockton—Darlington.

However, we will be of good cheer, for Nature forsakes not the trustful heart. Hill and dale, breezy moorland, craggy mountains, and lovely valleys stretch away before us well-nigh to the western tides; and there we shall find perennial woods, where rustling leaves, and rushing waterfalls will compensate us for the loss of the voice of the sea.

I started for Guisborough, taking a short cut across the fields to Kirkleatham. In the first field, on the edge of the town, I saw what accounted to me for the lifelessness of Redcar—a cricket-match. As well might one hope to be merry at a funeral as at a game of cricket, improved into its present condition; when the ball is no longer bowled, but pelted, and the pelter’s movements resemble those of a jack-pudding; when gauntlets must be worn on the hands and greaves on the shins; and other inventions are brought into use to deprive pastime of anything like enjoyment. That twenty-two men should ever consent to come together for such a mockery of pleasure, is to me a mystery. Wouldn’t Dr. Livingstone’s Makalolo laugh at them! The only saving point attending it is, that it involves some amount of exercise in the open air. No wonder that the French duchess, who was invited to see a game, sent one of her suite, after sitting two hours, to enquire, “vhen the creekay vas going to begin.” The Guisborough band was doing its best to enliven the field; but I saw no exhilaration. Read Miss Mitford’s description of a cricket-match on the village green; watch a schoolboys’ game, consider the mirth and merriment that they get out of it, and sympathise with modern cricket if you can.

The fields are pleasant and rural; haymakers are at work; we cross a tramway, one of those laid to facilitate the transport of Cleveland ironstone; we get glimpses of Coatham, and come nearer to the woods, and at length emerge into the road at Kirkleatham. Here let us turn aside to look at the curious old hospital, built in 1676 by Sir William Turner, citizen and woollen-draper of London, and lord mayor, moreover, three years after the Great Fire. There it stands, a centre and two wings, including a chapel, a library and museum, and a comfortable lodging for ten old men, as many old women, and the same number of boys and girls. The endowment provides for a good education for the children, and a benefaction on their apprenticeship; and the services of a chaplain. Among the curiosities shown to visitors are a waxen effigy of Sir William, wearing the wig and band that he himself once wore; the likeness of his son and heir in the stained glass of one of the windows; St. George and the Dragon, singularly well cut out of one piece of boxwood; the fragment of the tree from Newby Park, presented by Lord Falconberg, on which appears, carved:—

It was no random hand that selected the library; some of the books are rare. One who loves old authors, will scan the shelves with pleasure. “I could easily have forgotten my dinner in this enchanting room,” says William Hutton. Interesting in another way is the ledger of the worthy citizen and woollen-draper here preserved: it shows how well he kept his accounts, and that he was not vain-glorious. On one of the pages, where the sum of his wealth appears as 50,000l., he has written, “Blessed be the Almighty God, who has blest me with this estate.”

The church, not far from the hospital, is worth a visit. Conspicuous in the chancel are the monuments of the Turners, adorned with sculptures and long inscriptions. Of Sir William, we read that he lies buried “amongst the poor of his hospital—the witnesses of his piety, liberality, and humility.” There is the mausoleum erected by Cholmley Turner, in 1740, to the memory of his son, who died at Lyon, of which Schumacher was the sculptor, and near it the tomb of Sir Charles Turner, the last of the family. Cook, accompanied by Omai and Sir Joseph Banks, paid him a visit in 1775. Some of the church plate was presented by Sir William; but that used for the communion was thrown up by the sea about a century ago, within the privilege of the lord of the manor.

This quiet little village of Kirkleatham was the birthplace of Tom Browne the famous dragoon, who at the battle of Dettingen cut his way single-handed into the enemy’s line, recovered the standard of the troop to which he belonged, and fought his way back in triumph; by which exploit he made his name ring from one end of England to the other, and won a place for his likeness on many a sign-board. You may see his portrait here if you will, and his straight basket-hilted sword.

After a glance at the hall, a handsome building, we return to the road, and ascend Yearby bank—a bank which out of Yorkshire would be called a hill. Look back when near the top, and you will have a pleasing prospect: Kirkleatham nestled among the trees, the green fields refreshing to the eye; Eston Nab and the brown estuary beyond. Here we are on the verge of the Earl of Zetland’s richly wooded estate—

and the breeze makes merry among the branches that overhang us on both sides till a grand fragment of a ruin appears in sight—the tall east window of a once magnificent Priory—rising stately in decay from amidst the verdure of a fertile valley, and we enter the small market-town of Guisborough.

Having refreshed myself at The Buck, I took an evening stroll, not a little surprised at the changes which the place had undergone since I once saw it. Then it had the homely aspect of a village, and scarce a sound would you hear after nine at night in its long wide street: now at both ends new houses intrude on the fields and hedgerows, the side lanes have grown into streets lit by gas and watched by policemen. Tippling iron-diggers disturb the night with noisy shouts when sober folk are a-bed, and the old honest look has disappeared for ever. In the olden time it was said, “The inhabitants of this place are observed by travellers to be very civil and well bred, cleanly in dressing their diet, and very decent in their houses.” The old hall is gone, but the gardens remain: you see the ample walnut-trees and the primeval yew behind the wall on your way to the churchyard. Seven centuries have rolled away since that Norman gateway was built, and it looks strong enough to stand another seven. Under the shadow of those trees was a burial-place of the monks: now the shadow falls on mutilated statues and other sculptured relics, and on the tomb of Robert Brus, one of the claimants of the Scottish throne and founder of the abbey, who was buried here in 1294. Even in decay it is an admirable specimen of ancient art.

From the meadow adjoining the churchyard you get a good view of the great east window, or rather of the empty arch which the window once filled; and looking at its noble dimensions, supported by buttresses, flanked by the windows of the aisles, and still adorned with crumbling finials, you will easily believe what is recorded of Guisborough Priory—that it was the richest in Yorkshire. It was dedicated to St. Augustine, and when the sacred edifice stood erect in beauty, the tall spire pointing far upwards, seen miles around, many a weary pilgrim must have invoked a blessing on its munificent founder—a Bruce of whom the Church might well be proud.

Hemingford, whose chronicle of events during the reigns of the first three Edwards contains many curious matters of ecclesiastical history, was a canon of Guisborough; and among the priors we find Bishop Pursglove, him of whom our ancient gossip Izaak makes loving mention. Another name associated with the place is Sir Thomas Chaloner, eminent alike in exercises of the sword, and pen, and statesmanship. It was here in the neighbourhood that he discovered alum, as already mentioned, led thereto by observing that the leaves of the trees about the village were not so dark a green as elsewhere, while the whitish clay soil never froze, and “in a pretty clear night shined and sparkled like glass upon the road-side.”

Skeletons and stone coffins have been dug up from time to time, and reburied in the churchyard. On one occasion the diggers came upon a deposit of silver plate; and from these and other signs the presence of a numerous population on the spot in former days has been inferred. Our quaint friend, who has been more than once quoted, says: “Cleveland hath been wonderfully inhabited more than yt is nowe ... nowe all their lodgings are gone; and the country, as a widow, remayneth mournful.” And among the local traditions, there is the not uncommon one, which hints obscurely at a subterranean passage, leading from the Priory to some place adjacent, within which lay a chest of gold guarded by a raven.

Situate near the foot of a finely-wooded range of hills, the ruin shows effectively with the green heights for a background. More delightful than now must the prospect have been in the early days, and even within the present century, when no great excavations of ironstone left yellow blots in the masses of foliage.

The sun went down while I sauntered about, and when I took my last look at the great east window the ruddy blaze streamed through its lofty space, and as each side grew dark with creeping glooms, filled it with quivering beams whereunto all the glory of glass would be but a mockery.

Guisborough may claim to rank among watering-places, for it has a spa, with appliances for drinking and bathing, down in a romantic nook of Spa Wood, watered by Alumwork beck. The walk thither, and onwards through Waterfall wood to Skelton, is one of the prettiest in the neighbourhood. And on the hill-slopes, Bellman bank—formerly Bellemonde—still claims notice for pleasing scenery. The medicinal properties of the spring were discovered in 1822. The water, which is clear and sparkling, tastes and smells slightly of sulphur and weak alkaline constituents, and is considered beneficial in diseases of the skin and indigestion. And in common with other small towns in Yorkshire, Guisborough has a free grammar-school, which, at least, keeps alive the memory of its founder.

Mine host of The Buck said, as we talked together later in the evening about the changes that had taken place, that although more money came into the town than in years gone by, he did not think that better habits or better morals came in along with it. A similar remark would be made wherever numbers of rude labourers earn high wages. Even in the good old times there was something to complain of. George Fox tells us, concerning his proselytes in Cleveland, that they fell away from their first principles and took to ranting; and at the time of his later visits “they smoked tobacco and drank ale in their meetings, and were grown light and loose.” And John Wesley, on his first visit to Guisborough, in 1761, found what was little better than practical heathenism. He preached from a table standing in the market-place, where “there was,” as he writes, “so vehement a stench of stinking fish as was ready to suffocate me.” The people “roared;” but as the zealous apostle of Methodism went on in his sermon they gradually became overawed, and listened in silence. Did their forefathers ever roar when Paulinus preached to them from a mossy rock, or under the shadow of a spreading oak? Wesley, however, made an impression, and followed it up by visits in four subsequent years.

At any rate, there was no noise to disturb the Sunday quiet when I went forth on the morrow. While passing along the street I noticed many cottagers reading at their doors, and exposing a pair of clean white shirt-sleeves to the morning sun. Turning presently into a road on the left, which rises gently, you get an embowered view of the town, terminated by the soaring arch. Then we come to Hutton Lowcross, a pleasant hamlet, which suggests a thought of the days of old, for it once had an hospital and a Cistercian nunnery. Hutton joined to the name of a village is a characteristic of Cleveland. In one instance—a few miles from this—it helps out an unflattering couplet:

We cross the railway near a station, which, as a cottager told me is “Mr. Pease’s station; built for hisself, and not for everybody;” and take a bridle road leading to the hill. I fell in with a couple of rustics, who were able to enjoy the scenery amid which they had lived for years. They lay under a tree, at a spot open to the prospect down the valley; and as I commended their choice, one replied “I do like to come and set here of a Sunday better than anything else. ’Tis so nice to hear the leaves a-rustlin’ like they do now.” But the view there was nothing to what I should see from the hill-top: there couldn’t be a prettier sight in England than that.

I felt willing to believe them; and a few minutes later strode from the steep, narrow lane, where ferns, foxgloves, wild roses, and elders overhang the way, to the open expanse of Guisborough moors. Here a track runs along the undulating slope to the foot of the hills, which roll away on the left to the wild region of Black-a-moor, with many a pleasant vale and secluded village between, while on the right spreads the cultivated plain, of which, ere long, we shall get a wider view; for now Rosebury Topping comes clear in sight, from gorse-patched base to rocky apex, and your eye begins to select a place for ascent. It is approachable on all sides; no swamp betrays the foot, but the steepness in some places compels you to use hands as well as feet. The morning was already hot, and I was fain to sit down in the belt of bracken above the gorse and breathe awhile, glad to have climbed beyond reach of the flies. From the fern you mount across clean, soft turf to the bare wall of rock which encircles the northern half of the summit, where the breeze of the plain is a brisk wind, cooling and invigorating as it sweeps across. I threw off my knapsack, and choosing a good resting-place, lay down in idle enjoyment of being able to see far enough.

Who that has travelled knows not what an enjoyment it is to recline at length on a hill-top, the head reposing on a cushion of moss, and to have nothing to do but let the eye rove at will over the wide-spread landscape below? Sheltered by the rock, you breathe the coolness of upper air without its rapid chill, and indulge for a while in lazy contemplation. It is the very luxury of out-door existence. Perhaps you are somewhat overcome by the labour of the ascent, and unconsciousness steals gently on you; and a snatch of slumber in such a spot, while the winds whisper of gladness in your ear, and a faint hush floats to and fro among the blades of grass, is a pleasure which can be imagined only by one who beholds at his awaking the blue sky and the broad earth of the great Giver.

At length curiosity prevails. Here we are a thousand and twenty-two feet above the sea—an elevation that sounds small after Switzerland and Tyrol; but a very little experience of travelling convinces one that the highest hills are not those which always command the most pleasing views. Standing on the top of the crag you may scan the whole ring of the horizon, from the sea on the east to the high summits of the west; from the bleak ridges of Black-a-moor to the headlands of Northumberland, seen dimly through the smoky atmosphere of the Durham coal-fields.

Considering, reader, that I may please myself at times, as well as you, I borrow again from our honest friend, whose admiration of the picturesque appears to have equalled his ability to note the useful. “There is,” he says, “a most goodly prospecte from the toppe of thys hyll, though paynefully gayned by reason of the steepnesse of yt.... There you may see a vewe the like whereof I never saw, or thinke that any traveller hath seen any comparable unto yt, albeit I have shewed yt to divers that have paste through a greate part of the worlde, both by sea and land. The vales, rivers, great and small, swelinge hylls and mountaynes, pastures, meadows, woodes, cornefields, parte of the Bishopricke of Durham, with the newe porte of Tease lately found to be safe, and the sea replenyshed with shippes, and a most pleasant flatt coaste subjecte to noe inundation or hazarde make that countrye happy if the people had the grace to make use of theire owne happinesse, which may be amended if it please God to send them trafique and good example of thrifte.” All this is still true; but Tees has now other ports, and Middlesborough, which has grown rapidly as an American town, and the iron furnaces, spread a smoky veil here and there across the landscape, which, when our narrator looked down upon it, lay everywhere clear and bright in the sunshine.

The name of the hill is said to be derived from Ross, a heath or moor; Burg, a fortress; and Toppen, Danish for apex. If you incline to go back to very early days—as the Germans do—try to repeople the rows of basin-like pits which, traceable around the slope of the hill, are, so the students of antiquity tell us, the remains of ancient British dwellings. Were they inhabited when the Brigantes first mustered to repel the Romans? Rebuild the hermitage which, constructed once by a solitary here in the rock, was afterwards known as the smith’s forge or cobbler’s shop; and restore the crevice which, far-famed as Wilfrid’s needle, tempted many a pilgrim to the expiatory task of creeping through the needle’s eye. No traces of them are now left, for the remains which Time respected were destroyed some years ago by quarrymen, and with them the perfect point of the cone.

Rosebury Topping was once talked of as the best site for a monument to the memory of Cook, where it would be seen from his birthplace and for miles around. But another spot was chosen, and looking to the south-east you see the tall, plain column on Easby heights, about three miles distant. It was erected in 1827, at the cost of Mr. Robert Campion, of Whitby. At the foot of the hill, in the same direction, partly concealed by trees, and watered by the river Leven, lies the village of Great Ayton—canny Yatton—where Cook went to school after finishing his course of Mary Walker’s lessons. In the churchyard is a stone, which records the death of Cook’s mother, and of some of his brothers and sisters, supposed to have been wrought by his father, who was a working mason. It is said, however, that the old man was unable to read until the age of seventy-five, when he learned in order that he might have the pleasure of reading the narrative of his son’s voyages of discovery. Of other noteworthy objects in the village are a monument to Commodore Wilson in the church; a Chapel-well of the olden time; and an agricultural school, with seventy-five acres of good land attached, belonging to the Quakers. Farming work and in-doors work are there taught to boys and girls in a thoroughly practical way, carrying out the intentions of the chief promoter, who gave the land and 5000l. to establish the institution.

A few yards below the rocks a spring trickles slowly into a hollow under a stone, but the quantity of water is too small to keep itself free from the weeds and scum which render it unfit for drinking. It can hardly be the fatal spring of the tradition, wherein is preserved the memory of a Northumbrian queen and Prince Oswy, her son. Soothsayers had foretold the boy’s death by drowning on a certain day: the mother, to keep him from harm, brought him to this lofty hill-side early on the threatened day, where, at all events, he would be in no danger from water. Fondly she talked with him for a while and watched his play: but drowsiness stole over her and she fell asleep. By-and-by she woke, and looked hastily round for her darling. He was nowhere to be seen. She flew hither and thither, searching wildly, and at last found him lying dead, with his face in the spring.

Looking to the north-east we see Skelton, backed by the Upleatham woods. Though but a speck in the landscape, it has contributed more to history than places which boast acres of houses. “From this little nook of Cleveland,” says the local historian, “sprang mighty monarchs, queens, high-chancellors, archbishops, earls, barons, ambassadors, and knights, and, above all, one brilliant and immortal name—Robert Bruce.” We hear of a Robert de Brus, second of the name, trying to dissuade David of Scotland from awaiting the attack of the English army near Northallerton: but the king chose to fight, and lost, as we have already read, the Battle of the Standard. And the sixth baron, Peter de Brus, was one of the resolute band who made his mark at Runnymede, and helped to wrest the right of Liberty from a royal craven.

Then taking a stride to later years, we find the author of Crazy Tales, John Hall Stephenson, the occupant of Skelton Castle, an esquire hospitable and eccentric, the Eugenius of Sterne, who was his willing guest:

There it was that Sterne bribed a boy to tie the weathercock with its point to the west, hoping thereby to lure the host from his chamber; for Eugenius would never leave his bed while the wind blew from the east, even though good company longed for his presence.

In one of his poems the “crazy” author describes the hill country such as we see it stretching away beyond Cook’s monument:

On Eston Nab, that bold hill between us and the Tees, is an ancient camp, and graves supposed to be two thousand years old. Kildale, in the opposite direction, had once a diabolical notoriety; for there the devil played many a prank, and drank the church-well dry, so that the priest could get no holy water. Ingleby Manor, an antique Tudor house, belonged to the Foulis family, who gave a noteworthy captain to the army of the Parliament. And other historic names—the D’Arcys, Eures, Percys, and Baliols—all had estates overlooked by Rosebury. Wilton Castle, not far from the foot of Eston Nab, was built by Sir John Lowther, about fifty years ago, on the site of a fortress once held by the Bulmers.

Now to return for a moment to the hill itself: the topmost rocks are of the same formation as those we saw stretching into the sea at Redcar, uptilted more than a thousand feet in a distance of ten miles. And lower down, as if to exemplify the geology of the North Riding in one spot, a thick stratum of alum-rock is found, with ironstone, limestone, jet and coal, and numerous fossil shells. And it illustrates meteorological phenomena, for, from time immemorial, weatherwise folk have said,

More than an hour slipped away while I lounged and loitered, making the round of the summit again and again, till it seemed that the landscape had become familiar to me. Then the solitude was broken by the arrival of strangers, who came scrambling up the hill, encouraging one another, with cheerful voices. They gained the rocks at last, panting; two families from Middlesborough, husbands, wives, boys and girls, and a baby, with plenty to eat and drink in their baskets, come from the murky town to pass the Sunday on the breezy hill-top. How they enjoyed the pure air and the wide prospect; and how they wondered to find room for a camp-meeting on a summit which, from their homes, looked as if it were only a blunt point! They told me that a trip to Rosebury Topping was an especial recreation for the people of Middlesborough—a town which, by the way, is built on a swampy site, where the only redeeming feature is ready access to a navigable river. I remember what it was before the houses were built. A drearier spot could not be imagined: one of those places which, as Punch says, “you want never to hear of, and hope never to see.”

“’Tis frightful to see how fast the graves do grow up in the new cemetery,” said one of the women, whose glad surprise at the contrast between her home and her holiday could hardly express itself in words. “It can’t be a healthy place to bring up a family in. That’s where we live, is it—down there, under all that smoke? Ah! if we could only come up here every day!”

Middlesborough, as we can see from far off, is now a large town, numbering nearly 8000 inhabitants in 1851, and owes its sudden growth to coal and iron. There the smelting furnaces, roaring night and day, convert hundreds of tons of the Cleveland hills every week into tons of marketable iron. The quantity produced in 1856 in the Cleveland district was 180,000 tons. And there is the terminus of the “Quakers’ Railway;” a dock, of nine acres, where vessels can load at all times of the tide; an ingenious system of drops for the coal; branch railways running in all directions; and a great level of fifteen acres, on which three thousand wagons can stand at once.

I stayed two hours on the hill-top, then taking a direct line down the steepest side, now sliding, now rolling, very few minutes brought me to the village of Newton at the foot. With so sudden a change, the heat below seemed at first overpowering. In the public-house, which scrupled not to open its door to a traveller, I found half a dozen miners, who had walked over from a neighbouring village to drink their pint without molestation. Each recommended a different route whereby the ten miles to Stockton might be shortened. One insisted on a cut across the fields to Nuntharp.

My ear caught at the sharp twang of the ar—a Yorkshire man would have said Nunthurp—and turning to the speaker I said, “Surely that’s Berkshire?”

“Ees, ’tis. I comes not fur from Read’n’.”

True enough. Tempted by high wages in the north, he had wandered from the neighbourhood of Our Village up to the iron-diggings of Cleveland. I took it for granted that, as he earned more than twice as much as he did at home, he saved in proportion. But no; he didn’t know how ’twas; the money went somehow. Any way he didn’t save a fardin’ more than he did in Berkshire. I ventured to reply that there was little good in earning more if one did not save more, when a tall brawny fellow broke in with, “Look here, lad. I’d ruther ’arn fifty shillin’s a week and fling ’em right off into that pond there, than ’arn fifteen to keep.”

Just the retort that was to be expected under the circumstances. It embodies a touch of proud sentiment in which we can all participate.

I found the short cut to Nunthorp, struck there the high road, and came in another hour to Marton—the birthplace of Cook. It is a small village with a modernised church, and a few noble limes overshadowing the graves. The house where the circumnavigator was born was little better than a clay hovel of two rooms. It has long since disappeared; but the field on which it stood is still called “Cook’s Garth.” The parish register contains an entry under the date November 3rd, 1728: “James, ye son of James Cook, day-labourer, baptized.” The name of Mary Walker, aged 89, appears on one of the stones in the churchyard; she it was who taught the day-labourer’s son to read while he was in her service, and who has been mistakenly described as Dame Walker the schoolmistress.

I caught the evening train at Stockton, which travelling up the Durham side of the Tees—past Yarm, where Havelock’s mother was born—past the “hell kettles” and Dinsdale Spa, where drinking the water turns all the silver yellow in your pockets—and so to Darlington, where I stayed for the night.