The road closely follows the coast to Scarborough, the queen of Yorkshire watering-places. We caught frequent glimpses of the ocean, which, once out of the shadows of the towering cliffs, stretched away until its deep—almost metallic—blue faded against the silvery horizon. We soon found ourselves on the handsome main street of the new town, which brought us to the waterfront at the foot of castle hill. An old man approached us, seeing our hesitation, and informed us that the new road around the promontory, one of the finest drives in England, was open—not officially open, to be sure, and it would not be until some of the “Nobs” came and the ceremonies of a formal dedication were performed. The road had been cut in the almost sheer side of the cliff, a broad driveway overlooking the varied scenery of coast and ocean—the latter now as mild and softly shimmering as a quiet inland lake. One could only imagine, on such a day, how the sea must rage and thunder against the promontory in wild weather, and we learned that storms interfered much with the building of the road, one of them causing damage estimated at fifty thousand pounds. But Scarborough persevered and the splendid driveway had just been completed. Later we had the satisfaction of learning from the newspapers that the Princess of Wales had visited Scarborough for the express purpose of formally dedicating the road with all the ceremony so dear to the English.
Scarborough is unique in its combination of the old and the modern; but few of its rivals can boast of a castle with a history reaching back to the wars with the Danish invaders. Brighton and Eastbourne, sometimes ranked with Scarborough, are quite recent and lack the distinction that comes of centuries. Scarborough Castle, perched on its mighty rock, still presents a formidable appearance and impresses one with the tremendous strength its situation and heavy walls gave it before gunpowder brought such things to naught. From the keep tower a far-reaching prospect lies beneath us; a panorama of the sea chafing on the broken coast, and to the landward are the barren moors that encircle the town. There is not much of the fortress left, but the fragments are carefully guarded from decay and in places have been somewhat restored. There is a museum near the entrance to the keep, with a miscellaneous collection of relics, more or less gruesome, unearthed about the town and castle.
Few indeed are the places which bring back more delightful memories or a greater longing to return than Whitby—old, straggling, storm-beaten Whitby—climbing up its steep hill crowned by one of the most unique churches and stateliest abbey ruins in all Britain. The road which takes us from Scarborough to its ancient rival is a wild one, wandering around the black, heather-splotched hills with trying grades which make careful driving necessary. To the right the ocean still shimmers in the setting sun and in nooks on the coast we catch glimpses of fishing villages—among them Robin Hood’s Bay, called by some the most picturesque of the smaller fishing-towns in England. Long before we come into Whitby we catch sight of the skeleton of the abbey on the headland, standing almost weirdly against the evening sky. We descend a long, winding hill and find ourselves threading our way through crooked, narrow streets thronged with people who get out of the way only when they have to. Passing between rows of old houses crowding closely on either hand, we cross the bridge over the inlet and ascend the sharp hill where the hotels face the town and abbey on the opposite cliff. Thither we wend our way after dinner, just as the daylight begins to fade, and passing through the devious streets thronged with fisher folk and dirty youngsters, we ascend the ninety-nine broad stone steps by which one reaches the headland.
The ruin is deserted and we find ourselves sole possessors of Whitby Abbey at an hour when the twilight softens the outlines and touches with gray and purple hues the old town at our feet and the rough moorland hills in the background, while the wide expanse of ocean glows mysteriously from the reflection of the dim-lit skies. The ruin rises abruptly from the soft greensward upon which the cows are contentedly grazing, and near at hand, gleaming darkly in the fading light, lies the fish pool, which lends much to the picturesqueness of the surroundings. The great church has fallen into complete ruin; decay is riot everywhere. Only half a century ago the central tower crashed to the earth, carrying many arches and pillars with it, and huge fragments of masonry still lie scattered about as if fallen from some thunder-riven cliff.
Whitby Abbey is rich in legend, and at such an hour we will trouble ourselves little about sober fact—let mystery wrap the ruin even as the mantle of gathering darkness; for us it shall be only the “High Whitby’s cloistered pile” of romance. We pass outside the abbey confines and pause before St. Mary’s Church, a long squat building with low tower, as bald and plain as the abbey is pretentious and ornate. It was built as a rival to the abbey church in a very early day when there were bickerings between the townspeople and the monks of Whitby. In the churchyard, thick with mouldering memorials, has lately been raised a Saxon cross, inscribed to the memory of Caedmon, Father of English Letters, who “fell asleep hard by A. D. 680.”
WHITBY ABBEY AND CROSS.
As we return to our hotel, we are attracted into one of the old-town shops by a display of old brass and silver, and the genial proprietor at once establishes a basis of community, for has he not been in the States and has he not a brother there now? We pick up an antique lantern with dingy horn doors and green with verdigris and try the stale joke, “Made in Birmingham,” which once or twice has brought a storm of indignant protest on our heads. But it does not so excite our Yorkshire friend.
“Yes,” he said, “I had a dozen copies made of a very rare piece that came into my hands. And that accounts for the price—genuine antiques are so rare and so sought for that the original would cost you many times the copy—and after all, you would be no better off when you had it.”