CHAPTER XVI.
Leave Redcar—A Cricket-Match—Coatham—Kirkleatham—The Old Hospital—The Library—Sir William Turner’s Tomb—Cook, Omai, and Banks—The Hero of Dettingen—Yearby Bank—Upleatham—Guisborough—Past and Present—Tomb of Robert Bruce—Priory Ruins—Hemingford, Pursglove, and Sir Thomas Chaloner—Pretty Scenery—The Spa—More Money, Less Morals—What George Fox’s Proselytes did—John Wesley’s Preaching—Hutton Lowcross—Rustics of Taste—Rosebury Topping—Lazy Enjoyment—The Prospect: from Black-a-moor to Northumberland—Cook’s Monument—Canny Yatton—The Quakers’ School—A Legend—Skelton—Sterne and Eugenius—Visitors from Middlesbro’—A Fatal Town—Newton—Digger’s Talk—Marton, Cook’s Birthplace—Stockton—Darlington.
However, we will be of good cheer, for Nature forsakes not the trustful heart. Hill and dale, breezy moorland, craggy mountains, and lovely valleys stretch away before us well-nigh to the western tides; and there we shall find perennial woods, where rustling leaves, and rushing waterfalls will compensate us for the loss of the voice of the sea.
I started for Guisborough, taking a short cut across the fields to Kirkleatham. In the first field, on the edge of the town, I saw what accounted to me for the lifelessness of Redcar—a cricket-match. As well might one hope to be merry at a funeral as at a game of cricket, improved into its present condition; when the ball is no longer bowled, but pelted, and the pelter’s movements resemble those of a jack-pudding; when gauntlets must be worn on the hands and greaves on the shins; and other inventions are brought into use to deprive pastime of anything like enjoyment. That twenty-two men should ever consent to come together for such a mockery of pleasure, is to me a mystery. Wouldn’t Dr. Livingstone’s Makalolo laugh at them! The only saving point attending it is, that it involves some amount of exercise in the open air. No wonder that the French duchess, who was invited to see a game, sent one of her suite, after sitting two hours, to enquire, “vhen the creekay vas going to begin.” The Guisborough band was doing its best to enliven the field; but I saw no exhilaration. Read Miss Mitford’s description of a cricket-match on the village green; watch a schoolboys’ game, consider the mirth and merriment that they get out of it, and sympathise with modern cricket if you can.
The fields are pleasant and rural; haymakers are at work; we cross a tramway, one of those laid to facilitate the transport of Cleveland ironstone; we get glimpses of Coatham, and come nearer to the woods, and at length emerge into the road at Kirkleatham. Here let us turn aside to look at the curious old hospital, built in 1676 by Sir William Turner, citizen and woollen-draper of London, and lord mayor, moreover, three years after the Great Fire. There it stands, a centre and two wings, including a chapel, a library and museum, and a comfortable lodging for ten old men, as many old women, and the same number of boys and girls. The endowment provides for a good education for the children, and a benefaction on their apprenticeship; and the services of a chaplain. Among the curiosities shown to visitors are a waxen effigy of Sir William, wearing the wig and band that he himself once wore; the likeness of his son and heir in the stained glass of one of the windows; St. George and the Dragon, singularly well cut out of one piece of boxwood; the fragment of the tree from Newby Park, presented by Lord Falconberg, on which appears, carved:—
This Tre long time witnese beare
Of toww lovrs that did walk heare.
It was no random hand that selected the library; some of the books are rare. One who loves old authors, will scan the shelves with pleasure. “I could easily have forgotten my dinner in this enchanting room,” says William Hutton. Interesting in another way is the ledger of the worthy citizen and woollen-draper here preserved: it shows how well he kept his accounts, and that he was not vain-glorious. On one of the pages, where the sum of his wealth appears as 50,000l., he has written, “Blessed be the Almighty God, who has blest me with this estate.”
The church, not far from the hospital, is worth a visit. Conspicuous in the chancel are the monuments of the Turners, adorned with sculptures and long inscriptions. Of Sir William, we read that he lies buried “amongst the poor of his hospital—the witnesses of his piety, liberality, and humility.” There is the mausoleum erected by Cholmley Turner, in 1740, to the memory of his son, who died at Lyon, of which Schumacher was the sculptor, and near it the tomb of Sir Charles Turner, the last of the family. Cook, accompanied by Omai and Sir Joseph Banks, paid him a visit in 1775. Some of the church plate was presented by Sir William; but that used for the communion was thrown up by the sea about a century ago, within the privilege of the lord of the manor.
This quiet little village of Kirkleatham was the birthplace of Tom Browne the famous dragoon, who at the battle of Dettingen cut his way single-handed into the enemy’s line, recovered the standard of the troop to which he belonged, and fought his way back in triumph; by which exploit he made his name ring from one end of England to the other, and won a place for his likeness on many a sign-board. You may see his portrait here if you will, and his straight basket-hilted sword.
After a glance at the hall, a handsome building, we return to the road, and ascend Yearby bank—a bank which out of Yorkshire would be called a hill. Look back when near the top, and you will have a pleasing prospect: Kirkleatham nestled among the trees, the green fields refreshing to the eye; Eston Nab and the brown estuary beyond. Here we are on the verge of the Earl of Zetland’s richly wooded estate—