IX
OLD WHITBY
It is a gray, lowering evening when we climb the sharply rising slope to the Royal Hotel to take up our domicile for a short sojourn in Old Whitby. The aspect of the town on a dull wet evening when viewed from behind a broad window-pane is not without its charm, though I may not be competent to reflect that charm in my printed page. It is a study in somber hues, relieved only by the mass of glistening red tiles clustered on the opposite hillside and by an occasional lighted window. The skeleton of the abbey and dark solid bulk of St. Mary’s Church are outlined against the light gray of the skies, which, on the ocean side, bend down to a restless sea, itself so gray that you could scarce mark the dividing line were it not for the leaden-colored waves breaking into tumbling masses of white foam. Looking up the narrow estuary into which the Esk discharges its waters, one gets a dim view of the mist-shrouded hills on either side and of numerous small boats and sailing vessels riding at anchor on the choppy waves.
It is a wild evening, but we are tempted to undertake a ramble about the town, braving the gusty blasts that sweep through the narrow lanes and the showers of spray that envelop the bridge by which one crosses to the opposite side of the inlet. There is little stirring on the streets and the alleylike lanes are quite deserted. Most of the shops are closed and only the lights streaming from windows of the houses on the hillside give relief to the deepening shadows. The gathering darkness and the increasing violence of the wind deter us from our purpose of climbing the long flight of steps to the summit of the cliff on which the abbey stands and we slowly wend our way back to the hotel.
The following morning a marked change has taken place. The mists of the previous evening have been swept away and the intensely blue sky is mottled with white vapory clouds which scurry along before a stiff sea-breeze. The deep indigo blue of the ocean is flecked with masses of white foam rolling landward on the crests of the waves, which break into spray on the rocks and piers. The sea-swell enters the estuary, tossing the numerous fishing smacks which ride at anchor and lending a touch of animation to the scene. The abbey ruin and church, always the dominating feature of East Cliff, stand out clearly against the silvery horizon and present a totally different aspect from that which impressed us last evening. In the searching light of day, the broken arches and tottering walls tell plainly the story of the ages of neglect and plunder that they have undergone and speak unmistakably of a vanished order of things. Last night, shrouded as they were in mysterious shadows, the traces of wreck and ruin were half concealed and it did not require an extraordinarily vivid imagination to picture the great structures as they were in their prime and to re-people them with their ancient habitants, the gray monks and nuns. To-day the red and white flag of St. George is flying from the low square tower of St. Mary’s and crowds of Sunday worshipers are ascending the broad flight of stairs. Services have been held continuously in the plain old edifice for seven centuries—its remote situation and lack of anything to attract the looter or enrage the iconoclast kept it safe during the period which desecrated or destroyed so many churches.
The history of a town like Whitby is not of much moment to the casual sojourner, who is apt to find himself more attracted by its romance than by sober facts. Still, we are glad to know that the place is very ancient, dating back to Saxon times. It figured in the wars with the Danes and in the ninth century was so devastated as to be almost obliterated for two hundred years. It was not until the reign of Elizabeth that it took rank as a seaport. The chief industry up to the last century was whale-fishing, and a hardy race of sea-faring men was bred in the town, among them Captain Cook, the famous explorer. While fishing was ostensibly the chief means of livelihood of the inhabitants of Whitby, it could hardly have been wholly responsible for the wealth that was enough to attract Robin Hood and his retainers to the town and they did not go away empty-handed by any means. The Abbot of Whitby protected his own coffers by showing the outlaw every courtesy, but Robin was not so considerate of the purses of the townspeople. Probably he felt little compunction at easing the reputed fishermen of their wealth, for he doubtless knew that it was gained by smuggling and it was, after all, only a case of one outlaw fleecing another. The position of the town behind some leagues of sterile moor, traversed by indifferent and even dangerous roads, was especially favorable for such an irregular occupation; and it moreover precluded Whitby from figuring in the great events of the Kingdom, being so far removed from the theatre of action. With the decline of the whale-fisheries, the mining and manufacture of jet began to assume considerable proportion and is to-day one of the industries of the place. This is a bituminous substance—in the finished product, smooth, lustrous and intensely black. It is fashioned into personal ornaments of many kinds and was given a great vogue by Queen Victoria. It is found only in the vicinity of Whitby and is sold the world over, though it has to compete with cheap imitations, usually made of glass.
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.