Entwistle, the station next beyond Turton, gives access to a bit of water–scenery that would scarcely be expected. Lymm and Hollingworth have prepared us for magnificent reservoirs; “Entwistle Lodge,” the embankment for which was constructed about fifty years ago, is little inferior in beauty. As at Lymm, it has given existence also to a dell beneath, into which, after heavy rain, causing the water to overflow, there descends a cataract of at least a hundred and fifty feet fall. The dell is the only place near Manchester where the lily–of–the–valley appears to grow truly wild. In autumn it abounds with golden–rod, ferns, hawkweeds, and the blue jasione, and upon the slopes, as in Hurst Clough, there are many bushes of the deepest–coloured of the wild English roses, the Rosa villosa. A romantic natural dell called “The Jumbles,” near Edgworth, is also rich in wild–flowers, but a factory having taken possession, it invites one no longer.
The valley through which the railway pursues its course, running on to Darwen, and thence to Blackburn, is one of those which perfectly illustrates the rich character of the Lancashire uplands. An excellent idea of its various wealth is gathered from near the Scout, when on the way to Smithills, and even while travelling it is impossible not to perceive how fruitful is every part in the picturesque, particularly in amphitheatres receding among the hills, which if somewhat naked, still always have a cheerful look. All the way, moreover, there is the noble spectacle of human activity. Langho station, a quarter of an hour beyond Blackburn, opens the way once more to pleasing novelty of scene, not to mention its ancient and beautiful little chapel, the oldest place of Christian worship in Lancashire still used as one, and from which it is no more than a pleasant walk of two or three miles to Whalley itself, the locality of the earliest Christian preaching in our county. Here it was that Paulinus, in 627, made his first efforts to convert the Northumbrians—crosses in the ancient graveyard commemorate the event, memorials of pious labour which belong, in truth, not more to this once lonesome valley than to the nation. The church, immensely venerable, portions of it being Norman, is crowded with interesting antiquities, and would itself well repay the journey, even were there no Whalley Abbey alongside; say rather the few portions of the grand old pile that have been spared by Time, and by that still heavier despoiler, man bent on destruction. The abbey, founded in 1296, belonged to the Cistercians, and, as usual with that fraternity, was dedicated to the Virgin, whence the sacred monogram M still discoverable upon some of the relics. Like all other abbeys, it was for more than two hundred and forty years a place of refuge for every one who needed succour or counsel. Within its consecrated precincts there was always wisdom to guide the inexperienced, and charity to relieve the famishing and distressed. The dissolution of the monasteries in the calamitous year 1539 by a monarch who thirsted less for reformation than for spoil, brought everything to an end; and though the building itself was not demolished till some time afterwards, the delay was less designed than accidental. Eventually the very stones were scattered far and wide; hence there is no identifying the various portions as we do at Furness, and Fountains, and Tintern, and Glastonbury, and Rievaulx. The archæologist conversant with monastic ruins is able to trace them, but for the ordinary visitor, after the abbot’s house, long since modernised, and the two grand old gateways, there are only a few grey and shattered walls, some fragments of arches, and broken corridors. The extent of the abbey grounds, enclosed partly by the river, partly by an artificial trench or moat, exceeds thirty–six acres. The building itself appears to have consisted of three quadrangles, the westernmost holding the cloisters, and being edged upon the north by the wall of the church. There were, in addition, as usual, stables and outer offices. In the presence of so vast an extinction, it is pleasant to mark the abundance of trees now growing within the ancient boundaries; and more particularly to note the taste with which in ancient nooks of aisle and corridor, clumps of green fern have been planted by the owner or resident, Mr. Appleby. At one time these most interesting ruins were opened to the public as freely as the church. Now they are virtually closed, owing to the misconduct of a party of excursionists—not from Manchester—the innocent, as in so many other places that have been abused, suffering for the guilty. When will people privileged to enter a gentleman’s private grounds learn to conduct themselves with the same decorum they would expect others to observe in regard to their own; or if unpossessed of grounds or gardens, with regard to any other private property? That the ignorant and selfish will continue to abuse their privileges to the end of time, is perhaps only too lamentably certain. Contrariwise, what a happy day it will be when curiosity in regard to such places will be synonymous with good manners. When at Whalley, of course we ascend the Nab, that beautiful tree–clad hill which overlooks the abbey, and gives the first taste of the landscape grandeurs to be enjoyed later on from the crest of Pendle.
For those who love to feel their feet pressing the turf, Whalley is the best point of departure also for Stonyhurst, and for the pretty villages of Great and Little Mitton, the former upon the opposite bank of the Ribble, which here separates Lancashire from Yorkshire. The announcement, when half–way over the bridge, comes with most curious unexpectedness. All of a sudden, while delighting in the sweet spectacle of the stream, silver–eddied like the immortal ones in the greatest of epics, an inscription upon the wall says we are in the county of the white rose! How can this be? Our faces are turned westwards! Yorkshire is not in front of us, but behind! Look at the map, and you will discover that Mitton stands upon an odd bit which darts away from all the rest, after traversing which we are in Lancashire again. Little Mitton Hall is accounted one of the finest specimens in England of the style of domestic architecture which prevailed at the commencement of the sixteenth century, or that of the building of Henry the Seventh’s Chapel at Westminster. The basement is stone, the upper portion timber, including the roof of the great hall, which is ceiled with oak in wrought compartments of singular beauty. Great Mitton Church (in Yorkshire) is no less interesting in respect of its antiquities and to the admirer of sculpture in the private chapel, near the altar, once belonging to the Shireburns, the very ancient and honourable family, long since extinct, by which Stonyhurst was founded and originally occupied. The marble monuments bear epitaphs of rare tenderness, though antiquated in phraseology, foremost among them being that which commemorates the last of the race, Richard Francis Shireburn, who died, poor boy, in 1702, at the age of only nine—poisoned, tradition says, by eating yew–berries, though as the time of his death is stated on the monument to have been June, and it is impossible for yew–berries to exist except in October and November, there is something in need of explanation. It is not, by the way, the yew–berry that is poisonous, for that is perfectly innocuous, but the seed.
Stonyhurst needs at least half–a–day purely and entirely to itself. At present, as well known, it is the principal college maintained in this country by the Jesuits, a party of whom obtained possession of it in 1794, when driven from Liege by the terrors of the French Revolution. The site was occupied by a hall in exceedingly remote times, a Shireburn going hence in 1347 to attend Queen Philippa at Calais. The existing edifice was raised in the time of Elizabeth, by whom the head of the family was so highly esteemed, that although a Catholic, she allowed him to retain his private oratory and domestic priest. The lofty and battlemented centre and the noble cupolas give it a character among our Lancashire mansions quite unique. The interior is in perfect harmony with the external design. It is richly stored, moreover, with works of art, and with archæological and historical curiosities, the latter including various treasures brought from the continent at the time of the establishment of the college. The present refectory was the old state reception hall, left unfinished through the death of the builder of this splendid place, magnificent nevertheless in its incompleteness, especially in regard to the ceiling and the friezes. Of late years very considerable additions have been made to the building, so as to adapt it more thoroughly to educational use of the highest character, and these, happily, are all consistent with the original scheme of decoration as well of architectural plan. Visitors are allowed to go through on making previous and proper application.
A more delightful neighbourhood for a great residence it would be difficult to find. Everywhere in the vicinity alike of Stonyhurst and of the two Mittons, the country constantly reminds one of the south. Upon foot it is impossible to go astray, for if in rambling we do not reach the particular point that was contemplated at the outset, meadows, running water, woodlands, and the sweet spectacle of hills, both near and distant, and of all chaste hues, are everywhere our own, and the last hour is no less animating than the first. A very lovely walk in particular is that one from Mitton to Clitheroe, keeping the Lancashire side of the stream. The babble of the broad and shining water, the patient expectancy of many anglers, majestic Pendle upon the right, a thousand green trees, and by turning the head a little, after the manner of
… travellers oft, at evening’s close,
When eastwards slowly moving,
the glimpse still obtainable of lofty Stonyhurst, which ever and anon recalls the inimitable ode, “Ye distant spires, ye antique towers.” Each and every element in turn invites a pause, and linger as one may, Clitheroe is still too near, and reached too soon.
Arrived, there is new pleasure in inspection of the remains of the ancient castle, one of the most interesting feudal relics in the county,—built towards the close of the twelfth century by one of the De Lacy family, whose landed possessions extended from this neighbourhood uninterruptedly to Pontefract. It never was a castle in the thorough sense of the word, merely a stronghold to which the lords of the house came at intervals, to receive tribute and to dispense justice. There never was room for much more than a donjon, the rock upon which the little fortalice was erected, rising out of the flat like an islet, a sort of Beeston rock in miniature. There were buildings no doubt upon the slope, predecessors of the present, the former including a chapel, but these were quite external to the castle ipsissima. The view from the summit is delightfully picturesque, and when this has been enjoyed, there is, as at Smithills, that curious blending of past and present, old and new, which always awakens gratitude to the gardener, for here, in this ancient keep, leaning against stones laid in their places nearly eight centuries ago, is one of the glossy little cotoneasters of northern India, unknown in England before 1825.
From Clitheroe we do well to proceed to Chatburn, by rail, if preferred, but far preferably on foot. Going about half–a–mile along the highway, presently, upon the left, there is a gate into a downward–sloping field, the path through which is continued under a flat railway bridge, then past the first of the celebrated Chatburn quarries, and into the fields again. Or we may go along the foot of mighty Pendle itself, and along a series of narrow and winding green lanes to Downham. The Chatburn quarries are capital hunting–grounds for the student of fossil shells, encrinites, and other remains found in limestone. We are enjoined to “consider the lilies of the field”—not foreign to the Divine behest is it to consider the Crinoidea, the wonderful stone–lilies of the limestone rock, the petrified flower–like heads of which here occur in inexpressible abundance. The great stones set up edgeways in place of stiles between the fields near the quarries, are crowded with fragments, and show the rough condition of a favourite material for chimneypieces. For the sake of ladies who may think of going this way, it may be well to add that the vertical stone barriers in question were plainly erected in defiance of the art of dress.
Chatburn is the point to start from when the top of Pendle is the object, a rather heavy climb of two miles and a half, but if the atmosphere be clear, well rewarded. The view from Whalley Nab was magnificent. Pendle is to the latter just what Cobden Edge is to Marple—a brow upon which the former grandeurs seem diminished to a fifth. The glistening waters of the Irish Sea beyond the broad green plain in front; in the north, dim vistas and dark peaks, or mild blue masses, that declare the mountains of the Lake District,—old Coniston tossing the clouds from his hoary brows; proximately the smiling valley of the Ribble, the whole of the upper portion of which is overlooked; of the Hodder also, in temperament so wild and dashing, and the wandering Calder; and, turning to the east, the land towards the German Ocean as far as the powers of the eye can reach. The highest point of this huge mountain—the most prominent feature in the physical geography of mid–Lancashire—is stated by the Ordnance Survey to be one thousand eight hundred and fifty feet, thus falling very little short of the loftiest part of Kinder Scout, which nowhere claims a full two thousand. Keeping to the level, there is endless recreation, whether we penetrate Ribblesdale, or cross the river at the ferry, a mile below, for the fragments of Sawley, or content ourselves with the peaceful borders. Not what the Ribble is at “proud Preston,” some seven leagues lower down, a broad and majestic river, do we find it here, but rural, chaste, and tranquil, the water shallow and clear, the beau–ideal of a Peneus, the laurels only wanting.