KIRKSTALL ABBEY, LEEDS
Just outside the city, on a level stretch of grass by the River Aire, stand the ruins of the great Cistercian abbey of Kirkstall. Some of the conventual buildings, including the chapter-house and refectory, have survived in a fairly complete state. Not far off on every side are factories and tall chimney shafts.
railways, and therefore where people get their first impression of Leeds, stands a fine statue of the Black Prince mounted on a noble charger. It seems curiously appropriate that the one member of the royal line of England with such a distinction should have been chosen for a prominent statue in the chief of the black cities of England, especially when we know that Edward III.’s son was, according to tradition, instrumental in introducing the weaving industry from Flanders into Yorkshire, where it has flourished increasingly ever since. Edward III. has been called ‘the father of English industry,’ and if this is a justifiable distinction both he and his son are in a measure responsible for the blackness as well as the riches their foresight has produced.
The ruins of the great Cistercian Abbey of Kirkstall, founded in the twelfth century by Henry de Lacy, still stand in a remarkable state of completeness, about three miles from Leeds. With the exception of Fountains, the remains are more perfect than any in Yorkshire. Nearly the whole of the church is Transitional Norman, and the roofless nave is in a wonderfully fine state of preservation. The chapter-house and refectory, as well as smaller rooms, are fairly complete, and the situation by the Aire on a sunny day is still attractive; yet owing to the smoke-laden atmosphere, and the inevitable indications of the countless visitors from the city, the ruins have lost much of their interest, unless viewed solely from a detached architectural standpoint. We do not feel much inclination to linger in this neighbourhood, and continue our way westwards towards the great rounded hills, where, not far from Keighley, we come to the grey village of Haworth.
More than half a century has gone since Charlotte Brontë passed away in that melancholy house, the ‘parsonage’ of the village. In that period the church she knew has been rebuilt, with the exception of the tower, her home has been enlarged, a branch line from Keighley has given Haworth a railway-station, and factories have multiplied in the valley, destroying its charm. These changes sound far greater than they really are, for in many ways Haworth and its surroundings are just what they were in the days when the members of that ill-fated household were still united under the grey roof of the ‘parsonage,’ as it is invariably called by Mrs. Gaskell.
We climb up the steep road from the station at the bottom of the deep valley, and come to the foot of the village street, which, even though it turns sharply to the north in order to make as gradual an ascent as possible, is astonishingly steep. At the top stands an inn, the ‘Black Bull,’ where the downward path of the unhappy Branwell Brontë began, owing to the frequent occasions when ‘Patrick,’ as he was familiarly called, was sent for by the landlord to talk to his more important patrons.
A not unpicturesque passage just above this inn leads to the church, the schools, and the ‘parsonage.’ Everything that is not a recent accretion is built of stone, and generally roofed with stone slabs also, all, however, of that blackish hue that needs creepers, white window-frames, and bright-coloured shutters and doors, to relieve the gauntness. Such cheerful touches are lacking in Haworth, and no doubt the want of colour in their surroundings accounted for much of the morbid melancholy so marked in the children who grew up in the sombre house.
We cannot see to-day the church the Brontës knew. With the exception of the tower, it has been rebuilt, and even the old pulpit and sounding-board of Mr. Brontë’s time are not to be seen. The verger knows of their existence in a barn, and perhaps one day the Brontë Society will contrive to have them replaced in the church. Many pilgrims to Haworth would find more pleasure in seeing an object which must have been so extremely familiar to Charlotte and her sisters, than in examining the very pathetic and often painful mementoes in the society’s museum in the village. We are not far enough removed from the times of the Brontës to make it seemly to exhibit in glass cases garments, and obviously inexpensive boots, worn by Charlotte.