Before leaving the town of Selby, let us look at the commonplace little square called Church Hill. A spirit-level might reveal it to be an eminence of twelve inches or so above the common level of Selby, but to the evidence of eyes or feet it is in no way distinguished from its neighbouring streets. Yet it must have presented the appearance of a hillock when the original founder of the Abbey came here in 1068, voyaging up the Ouse and landing at this first likely place on its then lovely banks. This founder was a certain Benedict, a monk of Auxerre, who, having one of those convenient dreams which came to the pious ones of that time when they wanted to steal something, made off with the Holy Finger of St. Germanus; rather appropriate spoil, by the way, for the light-fingered Benedict. Arriving in England, he met an Englishman who gave him a golden reliquary. With this, he took ship from Lyme Regis and sailed to the Humber and the Ouse; landing, as we have seen, here, and planting a cross on the river bank, where he erected a hut for himself under an oak-tree. A few days later, Hugh, the Norman sheriff of Yorkshire, came up the Ouse, by chance, and not, as might be supposed, to arrest Benedict on a charge of petty larceny. He was impressed by the devoutness of the holy man, and sent workmen to build the original wooden place of worship at Selby, on the spot now known as Church Hill, not a stone’s throw from the existing Abbey.
Centuries passed. The first building was swept away, and even the cemetery which afterwards occupied the site was forgotten and built over, becoming a square of houses, among which was the “Crown” inn. From 1798 until 1876, when it was rebuilt, the old “Crown” kept an odd secret. To understand this, we must go back to 1798, when the neighbourhood of Selby acquired an ill name for highway robberies. Among other outrages, a mailbag was stolen from the York postboy, on the evening of February 22 in that year. The Postmaster of York reported the affair to the Postmaster-General in the following terms:—
“Sir,
“I am sorry to acquaint you that the postboy coming from Selby to this city was robbed of his mail, between six and seven o’clock this evening. About three miles this side Selby he was accosted by a man on foot with a gun in his hand, who asked him if he was the postboy, and at the same time seizing hold of the bridle. Without waiting for any answer, he told the boy he must immediately unstrap the mail and give it to him, pointing the muzzle of the gun at him whilst he did it. When he had given up the mail, the boy begged he would not hurt him, to which the man replied, “He need not be afraid,” and at the same time pulled the bridle from the horse’s head. The horse immediately galloped off with the boy, who had never dismounted. He was a stout man, dressed in a dark jacket, and had the appearance of a heckler. The boy was too much frightened to make any other remark upon his person, and says he was totally unknown to him.
“The mail contained bags for Howden and London, Howden and York, and Selby and York. I have informed the surveyors of the robbery, and have forwarded handbills this night, to be distributed in the country, and will take care to insert it in the first paper published here. Waiting your further instructions,—I remain, with respect, Sir,
“Your Obliged and Obedient Humble Servant,
“Thos. Oldfield.”
A reward of two hundred pounds was offered for the discovery of the highwayman, but without effect, and the matter was forgotten in the dusty archives of the G.P.O., until it was brought to notice again by the singular discovery of one of the stolen bags in the roof of the “Crown” when being demolished in 1876. Stuffed in between the rafters and the tiles, the workmen came upon a worn and rotten coat, a “sou’wester” hat, and a mail-bag marked “Selby.” Thus, nearly eighty years after the affair, and when every one concerned in it must long since have been no more, this incriminating evidence came to light. The Postmaster-General of that time claimed the bag, and it was, after some dispute about the ownership, handed over to him, and is now in the Post Office Museum.
A number of skeletons were discovered in digging foundations for the new inn, and it was darkly conjectured that the old house had had its gruesome secrets, dating from the times when inns were not infrequently the nests of murderers; until local antiquaries pointing out that the name of the place was Church Hill, and that this was an ancient grave-yard, the excitement ceased. This view was borne out by the fact that in many cases the bodies had been enclosed in rude coffins, made of hollowed tree-trunks; and it was rightly said that murderers would not have buried their victims with so much consideration.
XXXVI
To leave Selby for York, one must needs cross the Ouse bridge, one of thee few places where tolls still survive. Foot-passengers and cyclists are on an equality, paying one penny each.
Level-crossings again have their wicked will of the road, and are indeed its principal features, through Barlby and Riccall. We need some modern Rebeccaites for the abolition of these unpaid-for easements granted to the Railway Companies by an indulgent legislature, composed largely of Railway Directors, for the mingled danger and waste of public time caused by level-crossings over public roads constitute a scandal urgently in need of being removed. Yorkshire people might be recommended to see to it, as their forefathers saw to the abolition of turnpikes, collecting in armed and disguised bands and wrecking and burning the obnoxious gates for great distances. In May 1753 they assembled at Selby at the summons of the public crier’s bell, and proceeded at midnight to demolish all the gates in that neighbourhood. The military were called out to quell these Hampdens. They did not succeed in saving the gates, but shot and captured a number of the “rioters,” who were sent for trial to York Castle.
Riccall, near the confluence of the Ouse and the Derwent, looks an unlikely seaport in these times, now that those rivers and the confluent Foss, a mile or so nearer York, flow soberly in their channels and cease from spreading over the land. Eight hundred years ago, however, things were very different—as indeed they well might be in that tremendous space of time. So different, in fact, that when the invasion of the North, under Tostig and Harald Hardrada, took place in 1066, before that greater invasion in the South by William “the Conqueror,” whose success has overshadowed these operations, the invaders’ fleet sailed up the Humber and the Ouse and blockaded the waterways by anchoring at Riccall. From this base they advanced, defeating Earl Morcar at the battle of Fulford, and seized York; retiring on the approach of English Harold to what the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle calls “Staenfordesbryege,” on Derwent, east of the city. In this we find the original spelling of Stamford Bridge, where the great battle which ended in the utter defeat of the invaders was fought and their leaders, Tostig and the gigantic Norwegian king, both slain. A fortnight later, and the Duke of Normandy had landed at Pevensey, the battle of Hastings had been lost and won, and the victor of Stamford Bridge himself lay dead.