Part 10

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:

"In the early morning the East Cliff generally appears merely as a pale gray silhouette with a square projection representing the church, and a fretted one the abbey. But as the sun climbs upwards, colour and definition grow out of the haze of smoke and shadows, and the roofs assume their ruddy tones. At midday, when the sunlight pours down upon the medley of houses clustered along the face of the cliff, the scene is brilliantly colored. The predominant note is the red of the chimneys and roofs and stray patches of brickwork, but the walls that go down to the water's edge are green below and full of rich browns above, and in many places the sides of the cottages are coloured with an ochre wash, while above them all the top of the cliff appears covered with grass. On a clear day, when detached clouds are passing across the sun, the houses are sometimes lit up in the strangest fashion, their quaint outlines being suddenly thrown out from the cliff by a broad patch of shadow upon the grass and rocks behind. But there is scarcely a chimney in this old part of Whitby that does not contribute to the mist of blue-gray smoke that slowly drifts up the face of the cliff, and thus, when there is no bright sunshine, colour and detail are subdued in the haze."

In St. Mary's churchyard there is another cross besides the stately memorial dedicated to Caedmon that will be pointed out to you--a small, graceful Celtic cross with the inscription:

"Here lies the body of Mary Linskill. Born December 13, 1840. Died April 9, 1891. After life's fitful fever she sleeps well Between the Heather and the Northern Sea."

If Caedmon was Whitby's first literary idol, Mary Linskill is the last and best loved, for hundreds of Whitby people living to-day knew the gentle authoress personally. She was a native of the town and being early dependent on her own resources, she served an apprenticeship in a milliner's shop and later acted as an amanuensis to a literary gentleman. It was in this position, probably, that she discovered her own capacity for writing and her ability to tell a homely story in a simple, pleasing way. Her first efforts in the way of short stories appeared in "Good Words." Her first novel, "Cleveden," was published in 1876 and many others followed at various intervals. Perhaps the best known are distinctly Whitby stories--"The Haven Under the Hill," and "Between the Heather and the Northern Sea." Her novels in simplicity of plot and quiet sentiment may be compared with those of Jane Austen, though her rank as a writer is far below that of the Hampshire authoress. Her stories show a wealth of imagination and a true artistic temperament, but they are often too greatly dominated by melancholy to be widely popular. Most of them dwell on the infinite capacity of women for self-sacrifice and sometimes the pathetic scenes may be rather overdrawn. There are many beautiful descriptive passages and I quote one from "The Haven Under the Hill," because it sets forth in such a delightful manner the charm of Old Whitby itself:

"Everywhere there was the presence of the sea. On the calmest day you heard the low, ceaseless roll of its music as it plashed and swept about the foot of the stern, darkly towering cliffs on either side of the harbour-bar. Everywhere the place was blown through and through with the salt breeze that was 'half an air and half a water,' scented with sea-wrack and laden not rarely with drifting flakes of heavy yeastlike foam.

"The rapid growth of the town had been owing entirely to its nearness to the sea. When the making of alum was begun at various points and bays along the coast, vessels were needed for carrying it to London, 'whither,' as an old chronicler tells us, 'nobody belonging to Hild's Haven had ever gone without making their wills.' This was the beginning of the shipbuilding trade, which grew and flourished so vigorously, lending such an interest to the sights and sounds of the place, and finally becoming its very life. What would the old haven have been without the clatter of its carpenters' hammers, the whir of its ropery wheels, the smell of its boiling tar-kettles, the busy stir and hum of its docks and wharves and mast-yards? And where, in the midst of so much labour, could there have been found any time to laugh or to dance, but for the frequent day of pride and rejoicing when the finished ship with her flying flags came slipping slowly from the stocks to the waiting waters, bending and gliding with a grace that gave you as much emotion as if you had watched some conscious thing?... It is a little sad to know that one has watched the launching of the last wooden ship that shall go out with stately masts and rounding sails from the Haven Under the Hill.

"Those of the men of the place who were not actually sailors were yet, for the most part, in some way dependent upon the great, changeful, bounteous sea.

"It was a beautiful place to have been born in, beautiful with history and poetry and legend--with all manner of memorable and soul-stirring things."

The house where Mary Linskill was born, a plain stone structure in the old town, still stands and is the goal of occasional pilgrims who delight in the humbler shrines of letters.

It seems indeed appropriate that the old sea town, famous two centuries ago for its shipbuilding trade and hardy mariners, should have given to the world one of its great sea-captains and explorers. A mere lad, James Cook came to Whitby as the apprentice of a shipbuilder. His master's house, where he lived during his apprenticeship, still stands in Grape Lane and bears an antique tablet with the date 1688. Cook's career as an explorer began when he entered the Royal Navy in 1768. He was then forty years of age and had already established a reputation as a daring and efficient captain in the merchant service. He made three famous voyages to the south seas, and as a result of these, Australia and New Zealand are now a part of the British Empire, an achievement which will forever keep his name foremost among the world's great explorers. He lost his life in a fight with the natives of the Sandwich Islands in 1777, a year after the American Declaration of Independence. His mangled remains were buried in the sea whose mysteries he had done so much to subdue.

I am sensible that in these random notes I have signally failed to set forth the varied charms of the ancient fisher-town on the Northern Sea, but I have the consolation that all the descriptions and encomiums I have read have the same failing to a greater or less degree. I know that we feel, as we speed across the moorland on the wild windy morning of our departure, that two sojourns in Whitby are not enough; and are already solacing ourselves with the hope that we shall some time make a third visit to the "Haven Under the Hill."

X

SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS

So rough and broken is the Northumberland country that we are scarcely aware when we enter the Cheviot Hills, which mark the dividing line between England and Scotland. The road is now much improved; having been recently resurfaced with reddish stone, it presents a peculiar aspect as it winds through the green hills ahead of us, often visible for a considerable distance. It is comparatively unfrequented; there are no villages for many miles and even solitary cottages are rare; one need not worry about speed limits here. Jedburgh is the first town after crossing the border and there are few more majestic ruins in all Scotland than the ancient abbey which looms high over the town. It recalls the pleasantest recollections of our former visit and the wonder is that it does not attract a greater number of pilgrims.

We are again in an enchanted land, where every name reminds us of the domain of the Wizard of the North! Here all roads lead to Melrose and Abbotsford, and we remember the George as a comfortable, well-ordered inn, a fit haven for the end of a strenuous day. There are several good hotels in Melrose, made possible by the ceaseless stream of tourists bound to Abbotsford in summertime. We reach the George after the dinner hour, but an excellent supper is prepared for us, served by a canny Scotch waiter clad in a cleaner dress-suit than many of his brethren in British country inns are wont to wear. We have no fault to find with the George except that its beds were not so restful as one might wish after a day on rough roads and its stable-yard garage lacked conveniences. These shortcomings may now be remedied, for the spirit of improvement is strong among the inns of tourist centers in Scotland.

The abbey is but a stone's throw from the hotel and one will never weary of it though he come to Melrose for the hundredth time. In delicate artistic touches, in beauty of design and state of preservation as a whole, it is quite unrivalled in Scotland. But for all that Melrose would be as unfrequented as Dundrennan or Arbroath were it not for the mystic spell which the Wizard cast over it in his immortal "Lay," and were it not under the shadow of Abbotsford.

Abbotsford! What a lure there is in the very name! In the early morning we are coursing down the shady lane that leads to the stately mansion and reach it just after the opening hour. We are indeed fortunate in avoiding a crowd like that which thronged it on our former visit; we are quite alone and the purchase of a few souvenirs puts us on a friendly footing with the gray-haired custodian. His daily task has become to him a labor of love and he speaks the words, "Sir Walter," with a fervor and reverence such as a religious devotee might utter the name of his patron saint. He shows us many odd corners and relics which we missed before and tells us the story of the house, with every detail of which he is familiar. And, indeed, it is interesting to learn how Scott as a youth admired the situation and as he gained wealth bought the land and began the house. Its construction extended over several years and he had scarcely pronounced it complete and prepared to spend his old age in the home which he almost adored, when the blow fell. Everything was swept away and Scott, the well-to-do country laird, was a pauper. He did not see much of Abbotsford in the few years he had yet to live, though through the consideration of his creditors he remained nominally in possession. His days were devoted to the task of paying a gigantic debt which he conceived himself honor-bound to assume, though he might easily have evaded it by taking advantage of the law. Reflecting--after the lapse of nearly a century--who shall say that the world is not vastly the richer for its heritage of the sublime self-sacrifice, the heroism and flawless integrity of Walter Scott?

The Abbotsford we see to-day has been considerably altered and added to since Scott's time, though the rooms shown to visitors remain precisely as he left them. The estate, considerably diminished, is still in possession of the family, the Hon. Mrs. Maxwell-Scott, the great-granddaughter of the author, being the present owner. She is herself of a literary turn and has written "The Making of Abbotsford," an interesting history of the place. The family is not wealthy and it was announced a few years ago that the sale of the estate had become necessary, though, happily, this was avoided.

Our guide tells us that the home is usually leased during the "season" each year for three hundred pounds and Americans are oftenest the takers. Both the house and grounds are well-cared-for and we have many glimpses of smooth green lawns and flower gardens from the windows and open doors. The river, too, is near at hand and lends much to the air of enchantment that envelops Abbotsford, for we know how Scott himself loved the "silver stream" so often referred to in his writings. Indeed, as we leave we cannot but feel that our second visit has been even more delightful than our first--despite the novelty of first impressions.

On our return, the picturesque old Peel tower at Darnick village catches our eye. It stands in well-kept grounds, the smooth lawn studded with trees and shrubs, and the gray stone walls and towers are shrouded by masses of ivy. It is the most perfect of the few remaining Peel towers in Scotland--little fortress-homes of the less important gentry four or five hundred years ago. These towers were usually built in groups of three, arranged in triangular form, to afford better opportunity for mutual defense against an enemy. Scott in his "Border Antiquities" tells something of these miniature castles:

"The smaller gentlemen, whether heads of branches or clans, or of distinct families, inhabited dwellings upon a smaller scale, called Peels or Bastile-houses. They were surrounded by an enclosure, or barmkin, the walls whereof, according to statute, were a yard thick, surrounding a space of at least sixty feet square. Within this outer work the laird built his tower, with its projecting battlements, and usually secured the entrance by two doors, the outer of grated iron, the innermost of oak clenched with nails. The apartments were placed directly over each other, accessible only by a narrow turn-pike stair, easily blocked up or defended."

Darnick, as I have intimated, is the best preserved of the towers now in existence, being almost in its original state, and it has very appropriately been adapted as a museum of relics, chiefly of Scottish history, though there is some antique furniture and many curious weapons from abroad.

As we follow our guide about the cramped little rooms and up the narrow, twisting stairways, we cannot but think that the place is much more like a jail or prison than a gentleman's home--showing how the disturbed conditions of the country affected domestic life. The caretaker is an unusually communicative Scotchman, well-posted on everything connected with Darnick Tower and its contents, and proves to be not without a touch of sentiment. Taking from the glass case a rare old silver-mounted pistol, he places it in the hands of the small boy of our party. "Now, my lad, ye can always say that ye have held in your ain hands a pistol that was ance carried by bonnie Prince Charlie himsel'." And we all agree that it is no small thing for a boy to be able to say that; it will furnish him with material for many flights of fancy--even if Prince Charlie never saw the pistol. There are also some of Mary Stuart's endless embroideries--we have seen enough of them to stock a good-sized shop, but they may have all been genuine, since the poor queen had nothing else to do for years and years. These are typical of Darnick's treasures, which, with the rare old tower itself, may well claim an hour of the Abbotsford tourist's time. And he may recall that Sir Walter himself was greatly enamored of the old Peel and sought many times to annex it to his estate, but the owner would never sell.