Chapter XX: The English and Their Institutions 355 (4)

Trembling, Friedrich obeyed and looked wildly about, expecting the visible form of the Fiend, but he saw nothing. Yet he felt the horrid presence and knew that his awful visitant was near at hand.

From out of the darkness a heavy iron-clasped book fell at his feet and the voice continued: "Open a vein and sign thy name in the book with blood."

Friedrich with changeless determination obeyed and the book disappeared.

"Take this gold," said his dreadful monitor, and a heavy bag fell at the artist's feet with a crash, "and I will give thee graces to win the fair one's heart. Repeat the incantation that I may depart."

For the first time since it had disappeared Friedrich thought of the fatal parchment and in an agony of horror remembered that it was gone. He would have rushed from the castle but the power of the presence held him immovable.

"Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? Thou knowest; tell me, in God's name!"

"Fool, tenfold fool, dost thou call on my archenemy to adjure me? The parchment is naught to me; it was thy business to guard it. I can wait till day-break when I must depart, and with me thou must go."

"Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? I adjure thee"--but the voice was silent and the mighty power still chained its victim to the spot. It were useless to follow the blasphemous ravings of the unfortunate youth, who cursed God and humankind as well as the enemy until the first ray of the rising sun darted through the crumbling arches, when the inexorable power smote him dead and doubtless carried his spirit to the region of the damned.

Herwehe Castle--and, indeed, the whole town and countryside--was in a wild uproar on the following morning. The young nobleman had been found murdered, sword in hand, and all knew from the wailing mother the mission on which he had set out the evening before. Friedrich was missing and was instantly accused as the murderer. Companies of furious retainers and villagers scoured the countryside until at last a party searching the old ruin found the object of their wrath. He lay dead upon the floor of the ancient hall of state with only an extinguished lamp near him and, to their amazement, a bag of gold.

Various theories were advanced concerning him and his death. The commonly accepted one was that he had stolen the gold and murdered the young nobleman and, being struck with remorse, had ended his life with some subtle poison. But none ever knew the real fate of the poor artist save his old father, who guessed it from reading the manuscript of Gottfried Winstedt, which he found unconsumed in the grate of his son's studio.

VII

A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH

Twenty miles from Luxemburg we come to the French border, where we must pay another fee to the German official who occupies a little house by the roadside and who takes over the number-plates which we received on entering Germany. The French officer, a little farther on, questions us perfunctorily as to whether we have anything dutiable; we have purchased only a few souvenirs and trinkets in Germany and feel free to declare that we have nothing. We suppose our troubles with the customs ended and the Captain, who purchased several bottles of perfume in Cologne--the French are strongly prejudiced against German perfumes--rests easier. But in Longwy, a small town four or five miles from the border, another official professing to represent the customs stops us and is much more insistent than the former, though after opening a hand-bag or two and prying about the car awhile, he reluctantly permits us to proceed. And this is not all, for at the next town a blue-uniformed dignitary holds us up and declares he must go through our baggage in search of contraband articles. A lengthy war of words ensues between this new interloper and the Captain, who finally turns to us and says:

"This fellow insists that if we do not give him a list of our purchases in Germany and pay duty, our baggage will be examined in the next town and if we are smuggling anything we'll have to go to jail."

This is cheerful news, but our temper is roused by this time and we flatly refuse to give any information to our questioner or to permit him to examine our baggage. He leaves us--with no very complimentary remarks, the Captain says--and we make as quick a "get-away" as possible. We keep a sharp look-out in the next two or three villages, but are not again troubled by the minions of the law. We begin to suspect that the officers were simply local policemen who were trying to frighten us into paying a fee, and we are still of this opinion.

After crossing the border we follow a splendid road leading through a rather uninteresting country and a succession of miserable villages, a description of which would be no very pleasant reading. Suffice it to say that their characteristics are the same as those of similar villages we have already written about--if anything, they are dirtier and uglier. They are all small and unimportant, Montmedy, the largest, having only two thousand inhabitants and a considerable garrison. This section was the scene of some of the great events of the war of 1870-71. About noon we come to Sedan, which gave its name to the memorable battle if, indeed, such a one-sided conflict can be called a battle. The Germans simply corralled the French army here with about as much ease as if it were a flock of sheep--but the Captain insists they would have no such "walk-away" to-day. The ancient inn--bearing the pretentious name of Hotel de la Croix d'Or--where we have lunch, endeavors to charge one franc "exchange" on an English sovereign, thereby arousing the Captain's ire, not so much on account of the extortion as for the presumption in questioning an English gold-piece, which ought to pass current wherever the sun shines. He indignantly seeks a bank and tells down French coin to the landlord, along with his compliments delivered in no very conciliatory tone. Sedan is an old and untidy town of about twenty thousand people and aside from its connection with the famous battle has little to interest the tourist.

Our route along the river Meuse between Sedan and Mezieres takes us over much of the battlefield, but there is little to-day to remind one of the struggle. Out of Sedan the road is better--a wide, straight, level highway which enables us to make the longest day's run of our entire tour. The country improves in appearance and becomes more like the France of Orleans and Touraine. The day, which began dull and hazy, has cleared away beautifully and the flood of June sunshine shows Summer France at its best. From the upland roads there are far-reaching views, through ranks of stately trees, of green landscapes, flaming here and there with poppy-fields or glowing with patches of yellow gorse. The country is trim and apparently well-tilled; the villages are better and cleaner and the road a very dream for the motorist. At Guise there is a ruined castle of vast extent, its ancient walls still encircling much of the town. Guise was burned by the English under John of Hanehault in 1339, but the redoubtable John could not force the surrender of the castle, which was defended by his own daughter, the wife of a French nobleman then absent.

So swift is our progress over the fine straight road that we find ourselves in the streets of St. Quentin while the sun is yet high, but a glance at our odometer tells us we have gone far enough and we turn in at the Hotel de France et d'Angleterre. It is evidently an old house and every nook and corner is cumbered with tawdry bric-a-brac--china, statuettes, candlesticks and a thousand and one articles of the sort. Our apartments are spacious, with much antique furniture, and the high-posted beds prove more comfortable than they look. Mirrors with massive gilt frames stare at us from the walls and heavy chandeliers hang from the ceilings. The price for all this magnificence is quite low, for St. Quentin is in no sense a tourist town and hotel rates have not yet been adjusted for the infrequent motorist. The hotel is well-patronized, apparently by commercial men, who make it a rather lively place. The meals are good and the servants prompt and attentive--superior in this respect to many of the pretentious tourist-thronged hotels.

There is nothing to keep us in St. Quentin; in the morning we start out to drive about the town, but the narrow, crooked streets and miserable cobble pavements soon change our determination and we inquire the route to Amiens. It chances that the direct road, running straight as an arrow between the towns, is undergoing repairs and we are advised to take another route. I cannot now trace it on the map, but I am sure the Captain for once became badly mixed and we have a good many miles of the roughest going we found in Europe.

We strike a stretch of the cobblestone "pave" which is still encountered in France and ten miles per hour is about the limit. These roads are probably more than a hundred years old. They are practically abandoned except by occasional peasants' carts and their roughness is simply indescribable. As it chances, we have a dozen miles of this "pave" before we reach the main road and we are too occupied with our troubles to look at the country or note the name of the one wretched village we pass.

Once in the broad main highway, however, we are delighted with the beauty and color of the country. We pass through wide, unfenced fields of grain, interspersed with the ever-present poppies and blue cornflowers and from the hills we catch glimpses of the distant river. Long before we come to Amiens--shall I say before we come in sight of the city?--we descry the vast bulk of the cathedral rising from the plain below. The surrounding city seems but a soft gray blur, but the noble structure towers above and dominates everything else until we quite forget that there is anything in Amiens but the cathedral. We soon enter an ancient-looking city of some ninety thousand people and make the mistake of choosing the Great Hotel d'la Univers, for, despite its pretentious name, it is dingy and ill-arranged and the service is decidedly slack.

Amiens Cathedral is one of the greatest churches of Europe, though the low and inharmonious towers of the facade detract much from the dignity of the exterior. Nor does the high and extremely slender central spire accord well with the general style of the building. The body of the cathedral, divested of spire and towers, would make a fit match for Cologne, which it resembles in plan and dimensions, but it has a more ancient appearance, having undergone little change in six centuries. The delicate sculptures and carvings are stained and weather-worn, but they present that delightful color toning that age alone can give. Inside, a recent writer declares, it is "one vast blaze of light and color coming not only from the clerestory but from the glazed triforium also, the magnificent blue glass typifying the splendor of the heavens"--a pleasing effect, on the whole, though the flood of softly toned light brings out to disadvantage the gaudy ornaments and trinkets of the private chapels so common in French cathedrals. Ruskin advises the visitor, no matter how short his time may be, to devote it, not to the contemplation of arches and piers and colored glass, but to the woodwork of the chancel, which he considers the most beautiful carpenter work of the so-called Flamboyant period. There is also a multitude of sculptured images, some meritorious wall frescoes, and several stained-glass windows dating from the thirteenth century. At the rear is a statue of Peter the Hermit, for the monk who started the great crusading movement of the middle ages was a native of Amiens.

All of these things we note in a cursory manner; we recognize that the student might spend hours, if not days, in studying the details of such a mighty structure. But such is not our mood; the truth is, we are a little tired of cathedrals and are not sorry that Amiens is the last for the present. What an array we have seen in our month's tour: Rouen, Orleans, Tours, Dijon, Nevers, Ulm, Mayence, Cologne, Amiens--not to mention a host of lesser lights. We have had a surfeit and we shall doubtless be able to better appreciate what we have seen after a period of reflection, which will also bring a better understanding to our aid should we resume our pilgrimage to these ecclesiastical monuments.

There is little besides the cathedral to detain the tourist in Amiens, unless, indeed, he should be fortunate enough to be able to go as leisurely as he likes. Then he would see the Musee, which has a really good collection of pictures and relics, or the library, which is one of the best in French provincial towns. There are some quaint old houses along the river and many odd corners to delight the artistic eye. John Ruskin found enough to keep him in Amiens many days and to fill several pages in his writings. But it would take more than all this to delay us now when we are so near the English shores. If we leave Amiens early enough we may catch the noon Channel boat--we ought to cover the ninety miles to Boulogne in three or four hours. But we find the main road to Abbeville closed and lose our way twice, which, with two deflated tires, puts our plan out of question. Much of the road is distressingly rough and there are many "canivaux" to slacken our speed. We soon decide to take matters easily and cross the Channel on the late afternoon boat.

The picturesque old town of Abbeville was one of John Ruskin's favorite sketching grounds. We pass the market-place, which is surrounded by ancient houses with high-pitched gables colored in varied tints of gray, dull-blue and pale-green. The church is cited by Ruskin as one of the best examples of Flamboyant style in France, though the different parts are rather inharmonious and of unequal merit. Abbeville was held by the English for two hundred years and the last possession, except Calais, to be surrendered to France. Here in 1514 Louis of Brittany married Mary Tudor--the beautiful sister of Henry VIII.--only to leave her a widow a few months later. She returned to England and afterwards became the wife of the Duke of Suffolk.

It is market-day in Montreuil and the streets are crowded with country people. We stop in the thronged market-place, where a lively scene is being enacted. All kinds of garden produce and fruits are offered for sale and we are importuned to purchase by the enterprising market-women. We find the fruit excellent and inexpensive, and this, with a number of other object lessons in the course of our travels, impressed us with the advantages of the European market plan, which brings fresh produce direct to the consumer at a moderate price.

We have most of the afternoon about Boulogne. In starting on our tour a month before we hardly glanced at our landing port, so anxious were we for the country roads; but as we drive about the city now, we are delighted with its antiquity and quaintness. It is still enclosed by walls--much restored, it is true, and so, perhaps, are the unique gateways. The streets are mostly paved with cobbles, which make unpleasant driving and after a short round we deliver the car at the quay. At the Hotel Angleterre we order some strawberries as an "extra" with our luncheon--these being just in season--and we are cheerfully presented with a bill for six francs for a quantity that can be bought in the market-place for ten cents--this in addition to an unusually high charge for the meal. Evidently Boulogne Bonifaces are not in business solely for their health. The town is a frequented summer resort, with a good beach and numerous hotels and lodging-places. It is said to be the most Anglicized town in France--almost everyone we meet seems familiar with English. The Captain suggests that we may be interested in seeing the Casino, one of the licensed gambling-houses allowed in a few French towns. The government gets a good share of the profits, which are very large. We do not care to try our luck on the big wheel, but the Captain has no scruples--winning freely at first, but quitting the loser by a goodly number of francs--a common experience, I suppose. The small boy is not allowed to enter the gambling room, from which minors are rigidly excluded.

We have a glorious evening for crossing to Folkestone--the dreaded Channel is on its best behavior. A magnificent sunset gilds the vast expanse of rippling water to the westward and flashes on the white chalk cliffs of the English shore. As we come nearer and nearer we have an increasing sense of getting back home--and England has for us an attractiveness that we did not find in France and Germany.

And yet our impressions of these countries were, on the whole, very favorable. France, so far as we saw it, was a beautiful, prosperous country, though there was not for us the romance that so delighted us in England. We missed the ivied ruins and graceful church-towers that lend such a charm to the British landscapes. The highways generally were magnificent, though already showing deterioration in many places. The roads of France require dustless surfacing--oil or asphaltum, similar to the methods extensively used in England. Since the time of our tour steps have been taken in this direction and in time France will have by far the best road-system in the world. Her highways are already broad and perfectly engineered and need only surfacing. About Paris much of the wretched old pave is still in existence, but this will surely be replaced before long. The roads are remarkably direct, radiating from the main towns like the spokes of a wheel, usually taking the shortest cut between two important points.

The squalor and filth of the country villages in many sections is an unpleasant revelation to the tourist who has seen only the cities, which are clean and well-improved. But for all this thrift is evident everywhere; nothing is allowed to go to waste; there are no ragged, untilled corners in the fields. Every possible force is utilized. Horses, dogs, oxen, cows, goats and donkeys are all harnessed to loads; indeed, the Captain says there is a proverb in France to the effect that "the pig is the only gentleman," for he alone does not work. The women seem to have more than their share of heavy disagreeable tasks, and this is no doubt another factor in French prosperity.

Despite the notion to the contrary, France is evidently a very religious country--in her way. Crucifixes, crosses, shrines, etc. are common along the country roadsides, and churches are the best and most important buildings in the towns and cities. Priests are seen everywhere and apparently have a strong hold on their parishioners. In view of such strong entrenchment, it seems a wonder that the government was able to completely disestablish the church and to require taxation of much of its property.

The country policeman, so omnipresent in England, is rarely seen in France, and police traps in rural districts are unknown. Even in towns arrests are seldom made--the rule being to interfere only with motorists who drive "to the danger of the public." One misses the handy fund of information which an English policeman can so readily supply; the few French officials we questioned were apparently neither so intelligent nor accommodating.

We were astonished to see so few motor cars in France, and many which we did see were those of touring foreigners. France, for all her lead in the automobile industry, does not have many cars herself. She prefers to sell them to the other fellow and keep the money. The number of cars in France is below the average for each of the states of the Union, and the majority are in Paris and vicinity. French cars almost dominate the English market and many of the taxicabs in London are of French make. We saw a large shipment of these on the wharves at Boulogne. If it were not for our tariff, we may be sure that France would be a serious competitor in the motor-car trade of the United States. There is absolutely no prejudice against the motorist in France and foreigners are warmly welcomed to spend their money. The Frenchman does not travel much--France is good enough for him and he looks on the Americans and Englishmen who throng his country as a financial asset and makes it as easy for them to come as he possibly can. In fact, under present conditions it is easier to tour from one European country to another than it is among our own states--one can arrange with the Royal Automobile Club for all customs formalities and nothing is required except signing a few papers at each frontier.

In some respects we noted a strong similarity between France and Germany. The cities of both countries are clean and up-to-date, with museums, galleries, splendid churches and fine public buildings. In both--so far as we saw--the small villages are primitive and filthy in the extreme and in rural districts the heaviest burdens appear to fall on the women. In both countries farming is thoroughly done and every available bit of land is utilized. Each gives intelligent attention to forestry--there are many forests now in their prime, young trees are being grown, and the roadsides are planted with trees.

The roads of Germany are far behind those of France; nor does any great interest seem to be taken in highway improvement. Of course the roads are fairly well maintained, but there is apparently no effort to create a system of boulevards such as France possesses. Germany has even fewer motor cars than her neighbor, a much smaller number of automobile tourists enter her borders, and there is more hostility towards them on part of the country people. There are no speed traps, but one is liable to be arrested for fast driving in many towns and cities.

The German business-man strikes one more favorably than the Frenchman; he is sturdy, good-looking and alert, and even in a small establishment shows the characteristics that are so rapidly pushing his country to the front in a commercial way.

But the greatest difference in favor of Germany--at least so far as outward appearance goes--is to be seen in her soldiery. Soldiers are everywhere--always neat and clean, with faultless uniform and shining accoutrements, marching with a firm, steady, irresistible swing. To the casual observer it would seem that if an army of these soldiers should enter France they could march directly on Paris without serious resistance. But some authorities say that German militarism is a hollow show and that there is more real manhood in the Frenchman. Let us hope the question will not have to be settled again on the field of battle.

Perhaps these random impressions which I have been recording are somewhat superficial, but I shall let them stand for what they are worth. On our long summer jaunt through these two great countries we have had many experiences--not all of them pleasant. But we have seen many things and learned much that would have been quite inaccessible to us in the old grooves of travel--thanks to our trusty companion of the wind-shod wheels. And perhaps the best possible proof that we really enjoyed our pilgrimage is a constantly increasing desire to repeat it--with variations--should our circumstances again permit.

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Odd Corners of Britain

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VIII

THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE

Back to England--back to England! Next to setting foot in the homeland itself, nothing could have been more welcome to us after our month's exile on the Continent. And I am not saying that we did not enjoy our Continental rambles; that we did the pages of this book amply testify. It seemed to us, however, that for motor touring, England surpasses any other country in many respects. First of all, the roads average vastly better--we remembered with surprise the stories we had heard of the greatly superior roads of France--a delusion entertained by many Englishmen, for that matter. We had also found by personal experience that the better English inns outclass those on the Continent in service and cleanliness and never attempt the overcharges and exactions not uncommon in France and Germany. The second-rate French inn, we are informed on good authority, is more tolerable than the second-rate inn of England. An experienced English motorist told us that since expense was a consideration to him, he generally spent his vacations in France. He declared that there he could put up comfortably and cheaply at the less pretentious inns while he would never think of stopping at English hotels of the same class. I fancy, however, that if one follows Baedeker--our usual guide in such matters--and selects number one among the list, he will find every advantage with the English hotels.

And we are sure that the English landscapes are the most beautiful in the world. Everywhere one sees trim, parklike neatness--vistas of well-tilled fields interspersed with great country seats, storied ruins and the ubiquitous church-tower so characteristic of Britain. It is a distinctive church-tower, rising from green masses of foliage such as one seldom sees elsewhere. And where else in a civilized country will one find such trees--splendid, beautifully proportioned trees, standing in solitary majesty in the fields, stretching in impressive ranks along the roadside or clustering in towering groups about some country mansion or village church?

And who could be impervious to the charm of the English village? Cleanly, pleasantly situated and often embowered in flowers, it appeals to the artistic sense and affords the sharpest possible contrast to the filthy and malodorous little hamlets of France and Germany. The cities and larger towns of these countries do not suffer any such disadvantage in comparison with places of the same size in England--but we care less for the cities, often avoiding them. In England, we found ourselves among people speaking a common language and far more kindly and considerate towards the stranger within their gates than is common on the Continent. We can dispense with our courier, too, for though he was an agreeable fellow, we enjoy it best alone. So, then, we are glad to be back in Britain and are eager to explore her highways and byways once more.

We plan a pilgrimage to John O'Groat's house and of course the Royal Automobile Club is consulted.

"We have just worked out a new route to Edinburgh," said Mr. Maroney, "which avoids the cities and a large proportion of police traps as well. You leave the Great North Road at Doncaster and proceed northward by Boroughbridge, Wilton-le-Wear, Corbridge, Jedburgh and Melrose. You will also see some new country, as you are already familiar with the York-Newcastle route."

And so we find ourselves at the Red Lion at Hatfield, about twenty miles out of London on the beginning of our northern journey. It is a cleanly, comfortable-looking old house, and though it is well after noon, an excellent luncheon is promptly served--the roadside inns are adapting themselves to the irregular hours of the motorist.

Hatfield House--the Salisbury estate--is near the inn, but though we have passed it several times, we have never hit on one of the "open" days, and besides, we have lost a good deal of our ambition for doing palaces; half-forgotten and out-of-the-way places appeal more strongly now. We are soon away on the splendid highway which glistens from a heavy summer shower that fell while we were at luncheon. We proceed soberly, for we have had repeated warnings of police traps along the road. The country is glorious after the dashing rainfall; fields of German clover are in bloom, dashes of dark red amidst the prevailing green; long rows of sweet-scented carmine-flowered beans load the air with a heavy perfume. A little later, when we pass out of the zone of the shower we find hay-making in progress and everything is redolent of the new-mown grasses. Every little while we pass a village and at Stilton--I have written elsewhere of its famous old inn--a dirty urchin runs alongside the car howling, "Police traps! Look out for police traps!" until he receives a copper to reward his solicitude for our welfare.

Toward evening we come in sight of Grantham's magnificent spire and we have the pleasantest recollections of the Angel Inn, where we stopped some years previously--we will close the day's journey here. One would never get from the Angel's modest, ivy-clad front any idea of the rambling structure behind it; indeed, I have often wondered how all the labyrinth of floors, apartments and hallways could be crowded behind such a modest facade as that of the Red Lion of Banbury, the Swan of Mansfield or the Angel of Grantham, for example. Such inns are no doubt a heritage of the days when it was necessary to utilize every available inch of space within the city walls. In most cases they are conducted with characteristic English thoroughness and are cleanly and restful, despite their antiquity and the fact that they are closely hedged in by other buildings. As a rule part or all of the old inner court which formerly served as a stable-yard has been adapted as a motor garage.

The Angel is said to have been in existence as a hostelry as early as 1208, but the arched gateway opening on the street may be of still earlier date, having probably formed a part of some monastic building. Tradition connects Charles I. with the inn--an English inn of such antiquity would be poor indeed without a legend of the Wanderer--but the claims of the Angel to royal associations go back much farther, for King John is declared to have held his court here in 1213. Richard III. is also alleged to have stopped here and to have signed the death warrant of the Duke of Buckingham at the time. There is record of princely visitors of later dates and it is easy to see that the Angel has had rare distinction--from the English point of view. We remember it, however, not so much for its traditions as for the fact that we are given a private sitting-room in connection with our bed-rooms with no apparent increase in the bill. Our good luck in this particular may have been due to the slack business at the time of our arrival and we could hardly expect to have our accommodations duplicated should we visit the Angel and Royal again.

Grantham is a town of nearly twenty thousand people, though it does not so impress the stranger who rambles about its streets. Two or three large factories are responsible for its size, but these have little altered its old-time heart. The center of this is marked by St. Wulfram's Church, one of the noblest parish churches in the Kingdom. Its spire, a shapely Gothic needle of solid stone, rises nearly three hundred feet into the heavens, springing from a massive square tower perhaps half the total height. The building shows nearly all Gothic styles, though the Decorated and Early English predominate. It dates from the thirteenth century and has many interesting monuments and tombstones. Its gargoyles, we agreed, were as curious as any we saw in England; uncanny monsters and queer demons leer upon one from almost any viewpoint. Inside there is a marvelously carved baptismal font and a chained library of the sixteenth century similar to the one in Wimborne Minster. Altogether, St. Wulfram's is one of the notable English country churches, though perhaps among the lesser known. Grantham also possesses an ancient almshouse of striking architecture and a grammar school which once included among its pupils Sir Isaac Newton, who was born at Woolsthorpe Manor, near the town.

Old Whitby appeals to our recollection as worth a second visit and we depart from our prearranged route at Doncaster, reaching York in the late afternoon. It has been a cold, rainy day and we cannot bring ourselves to pass the Station Hotel, though Whitby is but fifty miles farther and might be reached before nightfall.

We have previously visited York many times, but have given our time mainly to the show-places and we devote the following forenoon to the shops. There are many interesting book-stalls and no end of antique-stores with many costly curios, such as a Scotch claymore, accompanied by documents to prove that it once belonged to Prince Charlie. The shops, it seemed to us, were hardly up to standard for a city of nearly one hundred thousand. But York, while of first rank as an ecclesiastical seat and famous for its quaint corners and antiquity, is not of great commercial or manufacturing importance. It is a busy railroad center, with hundreds of trains daily, and next to Chester probably attracts a greater number of tourists than any other English provincial town. Leeds, Bradford, Sheffield, Hull, Middlesbrough, Halifax and Huddersfield are all Yorkshire cities with larger population and greater commercial activities. Of English churches we should be inclined to give York Cathedral first place, though viewpoints on such matters are so widely different that this may be disputed by good authorities. In size, striking architecture and beautiful windows, it is certainly not surpassed, though it has not the historical associations of many of its rivals.

Whitby is but fifty miles from York. An excellent road runs through a green, prosperous country as far as Pickering--about a score of miles--but beyond this we plunge into the forbidding hills of the bleakest, blackest of English moors. It is too early for the heather-bloom, which will brighten the dreary landscape a few weeks later, and a drizzling rain is falling from lowering clouds. The stony road, with steep grades and sharp turns, requires closest attention and, altogether, it is a run that is pleasant only in retrospect when reviewed from a cozy arm-chair by the evening fire.

I am going to write a chapter giving our impressions of Old Whitby which, I hope, will reflect a little of its charm and romance, so we may pass it here. We resume our journey after a pleasant pause in the old town and proceed by Guisborough, Stockton and Darlington to Bishop Auckland, where we again take up our northern route.

Bishop Auckland gets its ecclesiastical prefix from the fact that since the time of Edward I. it has been the site of one the palaces of the Bishops of Durham. The present building covers a space of no less than five acres and is surrounded by a park more than a square mile in extent. The palace is splendid and spacious, though very irregular, the result of additions made from time to time in varying architectural styles. It is easy to see how the maintenance of such an establishment--and others besides--keeps the good bishop poor, though his salary is about the same as that of the President of the United States. The town is pleasantly situated on an eminence near the confluence of the river Wear and a smaller stream. About a mile distant, at Escomb, is a church believed to date from the seventh century. It is quite small but very solidly built, the walls tapering upward from the ground, and some of the bricks incorporated in it are clearly of Roman origin, one of them bearing an old Latin inscription.

Bishop Auckland marks the western termination of Durham's green fields and fine parks; we descend a steep, rough hill and soon find ourselves on a very bad road leading through a bleak mining country. Tow-Law is the first of several bald, angular villages with scarce a tree or shrub to relieve their nakedness; the streets are thronged with dirty, ragged urchins and slatternly women sit on the doorsteps along the road. The country is disfigured with unsightly buildings and piles of waste from the coal-mines; and the air is loaded with sooty vapors. It is a relief to pass into the picturesque hills of Northumberland, where, even though the road does not improve, there are many charming panoramas of wooded vales with here and there a church-tower, a ruin or a village. Towns on the road are few; we cross the Tyne at Corbridge, where a fine old bridge flings its high stone arches across the wide river. It is the oldest on the Tyne, having braved the floods for nearly two centuries and a half. In 1771 a great flood swept away every other bridge on the river, but this sturdy structure survived to see the era of the motor car. A bridge has existed at this point almost continuously since Roman times, and the Roman piers might have been seen until very recently. The vicinity is noted for Roman remains--sections of the Great Wall and the site of a fortified camp being near at hand. Many relics have been discovered near by and researches are still going on. The village by the bridge is small and unimportant, though it has an ancient church which shows traces of Roman building materials. Most remarkable is the Peel tower in the churchyard, where the parson is supposed to have taken refuge during the frequent Scotch incursions of the border wars.

Leaving the bridge we follow the Roman Watling Street, which proceeds in almost a straight line through the hills. It leads through a country famous in song and story; every hill and valley is reminiscent of traditions of the endless border wars in which Northumberland figured so largely and for so many years. Its people, too, were generally adherents of the Stuarts and it was near the village of Woodburn, through which we pass, that the Jacobites attacked the forces of George I., only to meet with crushing defeat, resulting in the ruin of many of the noblest families of the county. A little farther, in the vale of Otterburn, was the scene of the encounter of the retainers of Douglas and Percy, celebrated in many a quaint ballad. In the next few miles are Byrness and Catcleugh, two fine country-seats quite near the roadside, and there is a diminutive but very old church close to the former house. Byrness is the seat of a famous foxhunting squire who keeps a large pack of hounds and pursues the sport with great zeal. The wild, broken country and sparse population are especially favorable to hunting in the saddle. There is no lack of genuine sport, since the wild fox is a menace to lambs and must be relentlessly pursued to the death. Just opposite Catcleugh House a fine lake winds up the valley for nearly two miles. It seems prosaic when we learn that it is an artificial reservoir, affording a water supply for Newcastle-on-Tyne, but it is none the less a charming accessory to the scenery. Beyond this the road runs through almost unbroken solitude until it crosses the crest of the Cheviots and enters the hills of Scotland.

IX

OLD WHITBY

It is a gray, lowering evening when we climb the sharply rising slope to the Royal Hotel to take up our domicile for a short sojourn in Old Whitby. The aspect of the town on a dull wet evening when viewed from behind a broad window-pane is not without its charm, though I may not be competent to reflect that charm in my printed page. It is a study in somber hues, relieved only by the mass of glistening red tiles clustered on the opposite hillside and by an occasional lighted window. The skeleton of the abbey and dark solid bulk of St. Mary's Church are outlined against the light gray of the skies, which, on the ocean side, bend down to a restless sea, itself so gray that you could scarce mark the dividing line were it not for the leaden-colored waves breaking into tumbling masses of white foam. Looking up the narrow estuary into which the Esk discharges its waters, one gets a dim view of the mist-shrouded hills on either side and of numerous small boats and sailing vessels riding at anchor on the choppy waves.

It is a wild evening, but we are tempted to undertake a ramble about the town, braving the gusty blasts that sweep through the narrow lanes and the showers of spray that envelop the bridge by which one crosses to the opposite side of the inlet. There is little stirring on the streets and the alleylike lanes are quite deserted. Most of the shops are closed and only the lights streaming from windows of the houses on the hillside give relief to the deepening shadows. The gathering darkness and the increasing violence of the wind deter us from our purpose of climbing the long flight of steps to the summit of the cliff on which the abbey stands and we slowly wend our way back to the hotel.

The following morning a marked change has taken place. The mists of the previous evening have been swept away and the intensely blue sky is mottled with white vapory clouds which scurry along before a stiff sea-breeze. The deep indigo blue of the ocean is flecked with masses of white foam rolling landward on the crests of the waves, which break into spray on the rocks and piers. The sea-swell enters the estuary, tossing the numerous fishing smacks which ride at anchor and lending a touch of animation to the scene. The abbey ruin and church, always the dominating feature of East Cliff, stand out clearly against the silvery horizon and present a totally different aspect from that which impressed us last evening. In the searching light of day, the broken arches and tottering walls tell plainly the story of the ages of neglect and plunder that they have undergone and speak unmistakably of a vanished order of things. Last night, shrouded as they were in mysterious shadows, the traces of wreck and ruin were half concealed and it did not require an extraordinarily vivid imagination to picture the great structures as they were in their prime and to re-people them with their ancient habitants, the gray monks and nuns. To-day the red and white flag of St. George is flying from the low square tower of St. Mary's and crowds of Sunday worshipers are ascending the broad flight of stairs. Services have been held continuously in the plain old edifice for seven centuries--its remote situation and lack of anything to attract the looter or enrage the iconoclast kept it safe during the period which desecrated or destroyed so many churches.

The history of a town like Whitby is not of much moment to the casual sojourner, who is apt to find himself more attracted by its romance than by sober facts. Still, we are glad to know that the place is very ancient, dating back to Saxon times. It figured in the wars with the Danes and in the ninth century was so devastated as to be almost obliterated for two hundred years. It was not until the reign of Elizabeth that it took rank as a seaport. The chief industry up to the last century was whale-fishing, and a hardy race of sea-faring men was bred in the town, among them Captain Cook, the famous explorer. While fishing was ostensibly the chief means of livelihood of the inhabitants of Whitby, it could hardly have been wholly responsible for the wealth that was enough to attract Robin Hood and his retainers to the town and they did not go away empty-handed by any means. The Abbot of Whitby protected his own coffers by showing the outlaw every courtesy, but Robin was not so considerate of the purses of the townspeople. Probably he felt little compunction at easing the reputed fishermen of their wealth, for he doubtless knew that it was gained by smuggling and it was, after all, only a case of one outlaw fleecing another. The position of the town behind some leagues of sterile moor, traversed by indifferent and even dangerous roads, was especially favorable for such an irregular occupation; and it moreover precluded Whitby from figuring in the great events of the Kingdom, being so far removed from the theatre of action. With the decline of the whale-fisheries, the mining and manufacture of jet began to assume considerable proportion and is to-day one of the industries of the place. This is a bituminous substance--in the finished product, smooth, lustrous and intensely black. It is fashioned into personal ornaments of many kinds and was given a great vogue by Queen Victoria. It is found only in the vicinity of Whitby and is sold the world over, though it has to compete with cheap imitations, usually made of glass.

St. Hilda's Abbey is the chief monument of antiquity in Whitby and aside from actual history it has the added interest of being interwoven with the romantic lines of Scott's "Marmion." Situated on the summit of East Cliff, it has been for several centuries the last object to bid farewell to the departing mariner and the first to gladden his eyes on his return. Seldom indeed did the old monks select such a site; they were wont to seek some more sheltered spot on the shore of lake or river--as at Rievaulx, Fountains or Easby. But this abbey was founded under peculiar conditions, for the original was built as far back as 658 in fulfillment of a vow made by King Oswy of Northumbria. In accordance with the spirit of his time, the king made an oath on the verge of a battle with one of his petty neighbors that if God granted him the victory he would found an abbey and that his own daughter, the Lady Hilda, should be first abbess. All traces of this early structure have disappeared, but it was doubtless quite insignificant compared with its successor, for the Saxons never progressed very far in the art of architecture. The fame of Hilda's piety and intelligence attracted many scholars to the abbey, among them Caedmon, "the father of English poetry," who, as the inscription on the stately memorial in St. Mary's churchyard reads, "fell asleep hard by A. D. 680." The death of the good abbess also occurred in the same year. Her successor, Elfleda, governed for a third of a century, after which little record remains. The original abbey was probably destroyed in the Danish wars. It was revived after the Conquest in 1078 by monks of the Benedictine order and gradually a vast pile of buildings was erected on the headland, but of these only the ruined church remains. The great size and splendid design of the church would seem to indicate that in its zenith of power and prosperity Whitby Abbey must have been of first rank. Its active history ended with its dissolution by Henry VIII. Scott in "Marmion" represents the abbey as being under the sway of an abbess in 1513, the date of Flodden, but this is an anachronism, since an abbot ruled it in its last days and the nuns had long before vanished from its cloisters.

He was a pretty poor saint in the "days of faith" who did not have several miracles or marvels to his credit and St. Hilda was no exception to the rule. One legend runs that the early inhabitants were pestered by snakes and that the saint prayed that the reptiles be transmuted into stone; and for ages the ammonite shells which abound on the coast and faintly resemble a coiled snake were pointed out as evidence of the efficacy of Hilda's petition. It was also said of the sea-birds that flew over Whitby's towers that

"Sinking down on pinions faint,
They do their homage to the saint."

And an English writer humorously suggests that perhaps "the birds had a certain curiosity to see what was going on in this mixed brotherhood of monks and nuns." The most persistent marvel, however, which was credited by the more superstitious less than a century ago, was that from West Cliff under certain conditions the saint herself, shrouded in white, might be seen standing in one of the windows of the ruin; though it is now clear that the apparition was the result of a peculiar reflection of the sun's rays.

The salt sea winds, the driving rain of summer and the wild winter storms have wrought much havoc in the eight hundred years that "High Whitby's cloistered pile" has braved the elements. A little more than fifty years ago the central tower crashed to earth, carrying many of the surrounding arches with it, and the mighty fragments still lie as they fell. The remaining walls and arches are now guarded with the loving care which is being lavished to-day upon the historic ruins of England and one can only regret that the spirit which inspires it was not aroused at least a hundred years ago.

St. Mary's, a stone's throw from the abbey, is one of the crudest and least ornate of any of the larger churches which we saw in England. Its lack of architectural graces may be due to the fact that it was originally built--about 1110, by de Percy, Abbot of Whitby--for "the use of the common people of the town," the elaborate abbey church being reserved for the monks. Perhaps the worthy abbot little dreamed that the plain, massive structure which he thought good enough for the laity would be standing, sturdy and strong and still in daily use centuries after his beautiful abbey fane, with its graceful arches, its gorgeous windows and splendid towers had fallen into hopeless ruin. All around the church are blackened old gravestones in the midst of which rises the tall Caedmon Cross, erected but a few years ago. To reach St. Mary's one must ascend the hundred and ninety-nine broad stone steps that lead up the cliff--a task which would test the zeal of many church-goers in these degenerate days.

We enjoyed our excursions about the town, for among the network of narrow lanes we came upon many odd nooks and corners and delightful old shops. The fish-market, where the modest catch of local fishermen is sold each day, is on the west side. The scene here is liveliest during the months of August and September, when the great harvest of the sea is brought in at Whitby. It was on the west side, too, that we found Pier Lane after a dint of inquiry--for the little Royal Academy picture which graces these pages had made us anxious to see the original. Many of the natives shook their heads dubiously when we asked for directions, but a friendly policeman finally piloted us to the entrance of the lane. It proved a mere brick-paved passageway near the fish-market, about five or six feet in width, and from the top we caught the faint glimpse of the abbey which the artist has introduced into the picture. It is one of the many byways that intersect the main streets of the town--though these streets themselves are often so narrow and devious as to scarce deserve the adjective I have applied to them. Whitby has no surprises in overhanging gables, carved oak beams, curiously paneled doorways or other bits of artistic architecture such as delight one in Ludlow, Canterbury or Shrewsbury. Everything savors of utility; the oldtime Yorkshire fisherman had no time and little inclination to carve oak and stone for his dwelling. I am speaking of the old Whitby, crowded along the waterside--the new town, with its ostentatious hotels and lodging-houses, extends along the summit of West Cliff and while very necessary, no doubt, it adds nothing to the charm of the place. As an English artist justly observes, "While Whitby is one of the most strikingly picturesque towns in England, it has scarcely any architectural attractions. Its charm does not lie so much in detail as in broad effects"--the effects of the ruin, the red roofs, the fisher-boats, the sea and the old houses, which vary widely under the moods of sun and shade that flit over the place. The words of a writer who notes this variation throughout a typical day are so true to life that I am going to repeat them here: