Of course, a town of thirteen thousand inhabitants must have its newspapers. The Scarborough Gazette is a curiosity for its long list of visitors, filling sometimes two pages. A cheap paper—the title of which I have lost—was a curiosity to me in another way, for I could not have believed that Yorkshire folk would read anything so stupid as the wordy columns therein passed off for politics.
The shadows were lengthening towards the east when, after satisfying myself with another look at the coast to the north, I took the road for Cloughton, leaving the town by the north esplanade, where Blenheim-terrace shows the sober style of the first improvements. Many visitors, however, prefer the view from those plain bay-windows to that seen from the stately houses to the south.
Cloughton is a small quiet village, with a Red Lion to match, where you may get good rustic fare—cakes, bacon, and eggs—and a simple chamber. The landlord, a patriarch of eighty-five, still hale, and active, who sat warming his knees at the turf fire, opened his budget of reminiscences concerning Scarborough. The change from what it was to what it is, was wonderful. He went there at election times. Had once been to vote at York, years ago, “when there was a hard fight betuxt a Milton and a Lascelles.” Had never been to London, but his niece went up to the Great Exhibition. While we talked, in came a shabby-looking fellow with a six days’ beard, for a pint of beer. He had been trout-fishing all day on the moors—one of his means of living. He stayed but a few minutes, and as he went out the patriarch said, “He’s a roughish one to look at, but he can make powetry.” It was too late to call him back, or I might perhaps have got a specimen.
Then came in the rustics in twos and threes for their evening pint and pipe, most of them preferring hard porter to the ale, which was really good. Not one had a complaint to make of hard times: wages were one and sixpence a day, and meat, and good meat, too—beef and mutton and pies—as much as they could eat. They didn’t want to emigrate; Yorkshire was quite good enough for them. While talking to them and listening to their conversation among themselves, my old conviction strengthened that the rural folk are not the fools they are commonly taken to be. Choose such words as they are familiar with—such as John Bunyan uses—and you can make them understand any ordinary subject and take pleasure in it. And how happy they are when you can suggest an illustration from something common to their daily life! I would have undertaken to give an hour’s lecture on terrestrial magnetism even, to that company; and not one should have wished it shorter. And once having broken through their crust of awkwardness, you find them possessed of a good fund of common sense, quick to discern between the plausible and what they feel to be true. Flattering speeches made at hay-homes and harvest-homes are taken for what they are worth; and the sunburnt throng are everywhere ready to applaud the sentiment conveyed in a reaper’s reply to a complimentary toast:
“Big bees fly high;
Little bees make the honey:
Poor men do the work;
Rich men get the money.”
One of the party, lively enough to have lived when the island was “merry England,” hearing that I intended to walk through Bay Town on the morrow, said, laughingly, “You’ll find nought but Tudds and Pooads down there;” meaning that Todd and Poad were the prevalent names.
CHAPTER XI.
From Cloughton to Haiburn Wyke—The embowered Path—Approach to the Sea—Rock, Water, and Foliage—Heavy Walking—Staintondale Cliffs—The Undercliff—The Peak—Raven Hall—Robin Hood’s Bay—A Trespass—Alum Works—Waterfalls—Bay Town—Manners and Customs of the Natives—Coal Trade—The Churchyard—Epitaphs—Black-a-moor—Hawsker—Vale of Pickering—Robin Hood and Little John’s Archery—Whitby Abbey—Beautiful Ruin—St. Hilda, Wilfrid, and Cœdmon—Legends—A Fallen Tower—St. Mary’s Church—Whitby—The Vale of Esk—Specimens of Popular Hymns.