Elmet Tour II

"A Thousand Miles In Wharfedale" by Edmund Bogg 1892

CHAPTER 1.

THE WHARFE.

THE River Wharfe rises some two miles and a half above Cutershaw, under Cam Fell, amidst rich scenes of solitude and moorland grandeur,
1,273 feet above the level of the sea. From its source to its junction with the Skirfere, a distance of some 12 miles, its fall is upwards of
600 feet, hence the reason of the rapid rise of this river in stormy weather.
The first twenty miles of its course is through mighty hills of rock, imparting to it a character savage and wild. After passing beautiful Burnsall the river sweeps its winding way past the Tower and woods of Barden and thence flows through and combines to form scenes sweet, beautiful, and grand, unrivalled in river scenery, onwards in sweeping curves, passing the old Abbey and its graveyard, where lieth all that is left of the warrior, priest, and crusader of centuries past. Further onward the river passes the fairy towh of Ilkley, with its many mansions and rich associations, ever onwards the beautiful Wharfe now glides through broad and fertile meadows, past ancient Otley and Harewood to Wetherby. After passing through the limestone cliffs and woods which shade the stream near Boston, the river now flows more gently through fertile fields, meadow, and copse, blooming in spring and summer time with sweet-scented wild flowers. Near its brink, nestling in the bosom of large trees, is the dear and sacred ivy-mantled church of Kyme. Beyond Tadcaster, the Cabana of the Romans, the river is tidal, and consequently more sluggish, rolling its way slowly onward through deep sedgy banks which, when nearing the junction with the Ouse, are covered with over hanging willows. In the wet season this part of the river is perhaps uninteresting, but still there are many quiet nooks where the lover of the picturesque may wish to linger, and many a spot which the antiquarian and student of history are loth to leave.

Sweet glen of beauty, famed in song and story,        Fair Obley, like a slumbering child, still lies
For all that poets love and painters dream       Safe in the embrace of its eternal hills;
Still are thy bills crowned with a lasting glory,              Whilst Wharfe low murmurs lover-like replies

Still fall thy shadows where bright waters gleam.        To the glad music of a thousand rills.
On Chevin’s side the slanting sunbeams rest,           Oft through the mist of sorrow-laden years
Danfield is violet-scented as of old                    Thy beauty rises to my mental eye,    
In Farnley’s woods the ringdove builds its nest,               Fair, fresh, and sweet, as though earth knew no
And Detiton’s slopes are bathed in sunset’s gold.    And man himself had not been born to die.

To thousands yet unborn this glorious stream,
These flower-gem’d valleys new delight shall hung,
Haunting the memory like a heavenly dream
Of Eden glory, in its first glad spring.

Mrs. C. M. ROSE.

The Wharfe joins the Oüse about half-a-mile above Cawood. On the south bank stands, shaded on one side by fine trees, a house, which formerly was an inn, but now fast falling into ruins. Musing here, we can scarcely believe this to be the same river that, away in the mountain and moorland, dashes through narrow glens and rocky gorges, instinct with sparkling beauty, increasing in volume as it hurries onward, past mountain heath and verdant mead, ever useful, until at length, tired with its long race from the hills of its birth, it slowly enters the Ouse and swells into importance that river, along whose bosom vessels glide, carrying produce to other shores.
Whilst thus musing, like a flash, round the bend shoots out a thing of life, a small steamer, and in an instant the monotony of the scene is awakened. Mount the bank and look around and you find historic ground. Ten minutes’ walk brings us to Cawood; one mile north, on the opposite bank of the Ouse, is Stillingfleet, with its large spreading green of nearly 20 acres, through the centre of which flows a small stream; near its margin the cottagers’ cattle graze, flocks of geese gabble, and the village children romp and play at pleasure. Around the skirts of the green red tiled and rustic thatched cots nestle in orchards and garden. The grey church tower, peeping from amongst fine trees, puts the last touch to this charming scene, in our opinion, a model English village.
Stillingfleet derived its name, we are told by an elderly native, from a Danish fleet, in the 9th century, staying in the Ouse opposite, hence the name of Stilling fleet, or the staying of the fleet, the Danes then devastating the country round with fire and sword.

The interior and exterior of the sacred edifice abound with interest, but the grand old oaken door, on which, we were told by a villager, “mony an houde Dene “skin ‘ad been nailed,” is perhaps tho most interesting. how many generations have passed throngh this doorway it would be diflicult to tell, but we should think it must date from the 10th century. On it are several crude symbols, in ironwork, representing Adam and Eve, the Ark, the Trinity, and others which are rusting away from sheer age.

In the Moreby Chapel is the effigy of Sir William Acclom, knight crusader, who fought, like many a gallant hero of olden time, for the recovery of Jerusalem from the infidel. In the same chapel is a marble monument to the memory of two sons and two daughters of a 16th century Sir William Acclom, a lineal descendant of Sir William the Crusader.
On the south side is the remaining parts of the leper’s window, through which
the priest gave spiritual advice, the leper not being allowed to enter the precincts
of the church.

CAWOOD

THIS village stands on banks of the Ouse, some few hundred yards below
the mouth of the Wharfe, yet much of the parish lies in the basin of
the latter river.
Cawood, renowned in history as once sheltering in adversity that great and ambitious churchman, Wolsey, also as being the place where the
celebrated feast was given by Archbishop George Neville, the brother of Warwick, the king maker. It was also a Roman station of some note. The old Roman ford crossed the river opposite the church, and many relics of those people have been found.
About the year 935 after the celebrated victory obtained by Athelstone over the combined armies of Northumbrians, Danes, and Scots, known as the Battle of Brunanburgh, Cawood Castle was given by the warrior king to Wulstan, as a home for the Archbishop of York. A very fine specimen of ancient gateway and tower of the castle still remains, also portions of mullioned windows, which are still to be seen in the old farm buildings. The meadow in front is still called the Bishop’s Close. Around the meadow, distinctly to be seen, are the remains of the moat which joined the river near the present bridge, erected in 1872.
What a series of historic scenes arises before our mental gaze as we think over the past history of this castle. In imagination we see the country around one vast forest, full of fens and marshy wastes, the rude dwellings of our remote ancestors stood on the higher ground adjoining the river, around which some rude and strong enclosure would be built, to protect them from the wild beasts of the forest, which at that distant time were numerous. To this region came Cassibellanus, the British king, who, after having first routed Caesar's army, was finally conquered by the legions of Rome. Seven years after the conquest of Britain this prince died, and was buried at York.
As time rolled on, our fancy sees the war galleys of Imperial Rome passing
this spot. That richly gilt vessel probably contains Constantine, the Emperor of the World, passing along the bosom of the old Ouse to York, the beautiful city
of conquering Rome, and the home of her emperors 1,800 years ago.
Cawood was the Roman station, midway between Castleford and Eboracum,
and the military road passing between, crossed the river near the present church.
The making of those great military roads, which opened communication throughout Britain, to some extent broke up the forest. Great tracts of land that had only been waste and dreary places were reclaimed, and were seen smiling with waving corn. Merchants from the East sailed up the Ouse in their vessels, bringing merchandise from all parts of the earth. As generations passed, the Romans gradually but surely lost their power, and finally disappeared from Britain. From the opposite shores now came several piratical tribes of Gothic origin, being invited in the first instance to stem and drive back to their native wilds hordes of barbarous tribes who were scouring this country in quest of plunder. Quickly the Picts and Scots were driven back to their mountain homes, but the fair country the strangers had delivered was in future to become their home. From friends they became invaders. Vessels filled with Pagans continually arrived from old Saxony, men fierce in the battlefield and strangers to the arts of civilization.
For a century the country was torn asunder by the miseries of war. This town, standing on the bank of the river, shared in the general ruin. The noble old city of York, with its palaces, temples, and splendid baths, fell into their hands and again became the home of kings and princes. Gradually the S embraced Christianity, and light and civiisation spread around; but after a season of light, when the fame of Anglo-Britain reached its zenith, under the guidance of such men as Bede, Wilfred, Egbert, and Alcium, there swept across this country a fearful wave of invasion. For generations hordes of pirates from Denmark and Sweden had come up the river, in their war galleys, leaving ruin and devastation in their track. Then might be seen the wreck of monasteries on the river side, and the plundering of churches, and the glare of burning town and city.
Cawood, standing by the river and in the track of the Danes, received its full share of storm and oppression, but from the time of the first Wuistan the castle and town gradually rose to great importance. The last invasion of the Sea Kings was in 1066. Entering the Humber and thence passing on the bosom of the Ouse, they landed at Ricall, near Cawood, from which place they swept the country around, leaving such havoc and ruin that a century was needed to repair, and to this day the old people of this district can. tell us many a legend about their ancestors fighting the savage Dene.
From the 12th to the 15th century this castle was the home or sheltered many of the noblest in church and camp.

The 3rd Henry and his Queen rested here awhile when journeying to Scotland to visit their daughter Margaret, wife of Alexander the III. Here dwelt Marguerite of France, second wife of the 1st Edward. During the time this old warrior was fighting the Scotch, and when the storm and noise of war was hushed, we can fancy the old monarch hastening to Cawood, to the society of his beautiful young bride. It was from this time that the Castle rose to its greatest height of feudal grandeur. Here gathered around the gallant king were the crusading knights of many an ancient house, who had with stood the shock of arms when fighting the Saracens on the plains of Palestine, and shared in all the dangers of the last groat crusade, and who afterwards followed the banner of Edward into the wilds of Scotland.
The old tower now looks desolate in company with farm buildings, but let the curtain of five centuries roll aside, and the Windsor of the north stands forth in all it majesty; the walls are thick, and, in time of war, strongly guarded, and he who comes, in peace or war, passes over a strong drawbridge and thence through the watch tower to the castle; men-at-arms guard the massive gate day and night, the deep moat, full of dark water, its traces still to be seen, embraced three sides of the castle or palace, the other side the brown waters of the Ouse formed a natural protection; within this area is ample space for the accommodation of king, archbishop, knight and squire, men-at-arms, retainers, cooks, scullions, and every attendant necessary to uphold the dignity of a castle in the days of feudalism. Here would be held many a brilliant tournament, when earl and baron, knight and squire assembled from all parts to join in the honours of the tilting ring. At other times the baying of hounds and the trampling of horses can be heard, for the king is chasing the deer in Bishopwood (the wood of the bishops’), at that time a forest of great extent, in which roamed herds of wild deer and other animals. The evening of the chase, when the banquet room is lighted with large torches and the chosen guests of the king are assembled, jesters, clad in fantastic garments, and minstrels make the hail resound with song and story.
Edward the II. and his Queen made Cawood their home on several occasions. After the Scottish victory over the English at Bannockburn the victors burst over Yorkshire with the fury of a whirlwind, carrying war and retribution to the very gates of York.
In 1319 Queen Isabella was again the guest of the Archbishop at Cawood, when two renowned Scottish knights, Douglas and Randolph, with a chosen body of troops, all lightly armed, and mounted on small but active horses, by a swift march burst through Yorkshire, with the hopes of making the Queen their prisoner,

but by a fortunate accident a Scot fell into the hands of the English, and from him they received warning of the attack on Cawood. Hurriedly collecting all the force York could furnish, by a swift march the Queen was apprised of her great danger and brought to York and thence sent to Nottingham for greater security, to the great disappointment o the Black Douglas and Randolph.
“ Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye,
Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye,
The Black Douglas shall not get ye.”
In 1464, George Neville, brother of the great Earl of Warwick, last of the barons and king maker, was elevated to the See of York, and it being customary for every incoming prelate to give a feast, Neville gave at Cawood the most sumptuous feast ever recorded in history. In the preparation of this great feast nearly 2,000 people were employed. The contents of the bill of fare were as follows :— “104 oxen, 1,000 sheep, over 500 stags, bucks, and does, 400 swans, 2,000 geese, 1,000 capons,
200 pheasants, 500 partridges, 400 woodcocks, 100 curlews, 400 plovers, 2,000 chickens, 4,000 mallards and teals, 4,000 pigeons, 1,500 hot pasties of venison, 4,000 cold ditto; 2,000 hot custards, 3,000 cold ditto, besides some hundreds of tuns of ale and wine, with spices and delicacies.”
Some years afterwards Neville was stripped of all his estates, arrested, and
cast into prison.
It was at this castle that Wolsey, that most famous of churchmen and prince of cardinals, found a home in his adversity. The story of his rise to the highest honours and dignities in the state and his downfall is a most instructive lesson in English history. Having incurred the displeasure of the king, he was constrained to deliver up the great seal of his office, and was ordered to his arciiiepiscopal residence at Cawooct, where he arrived in the autumn of 1530, and was received by the people most enthusiastically. By his courtesy and kindness he soon became a great favourite in the neighbourhood. After the work of putting the palace into repair he began to make arrangements for his enthronement in the cathedral at York, a ceremony which had never been performed, from the fact of his previous living and ambitious projects about the court. From the summit of his palace he could see the shrine where he hoped to be enthroned, rising in stately splendour above the old city, when only three days previous to his installation he was suddenly arrested on a charge of high treason by the Earl of Northumberland, and was forced to set out for London. So great a favourite had he become that the servants and country people would willingly have defend.ed him, but resistance was useless, his end was nigh. He was taken from Cawood, which he had learned to love, and, falling sick by the way, his spirit took its flight amid the sacred cloisters of Leicester Abbey. A few hours before his death he addressed those ever memorable words to Sir William Kingston, “ If I had served God as diligently as I have done “the King, He would not have given me over in my grey hairs; however, this is “the just reward that I must receive for my worldly diligence and pains; that I “may have to do him service only to satisfy his vain pleasure, not regarding my “godly duty.”
In 1628, George Montaign, the son of a farmer at Cawood, had the greatest
honours of the Church conferred upon him, being made Archbishop of York, and
dwelling in the castle of his native town.
During the Civil War, the town and castle and surrounding parts were the scene of many skirmishes. In 1644, the castle was captured by Lord Fairfax. In 1646, the House of Commons decreed that the Castle of Cawood should be made untenable, and no garrison in future maintained there. After gradually falling to decay, much of its timber and stones were used in the building of the Palace of Bishopthorpe, now the residence of the Archbishop of York. With the exception of the gateway tower, and the remnants of mallioned windows in the farm buildings, nothing now remains of the stately palace, the home of the Primate of the North in the days of feudalism. In this place, where have dwelt many kings and queens, the lowly cattle are now fed and stabled, and where in former times were held sumptuous feasts, amid rich scenes of magnificence, is now a place in which corn is garnered and threshed. Yet though the old baronial days may be rich in story and tradition, let us hope that the future of Cawood will be brighter than the past.

Where have ye gone, ye statesmen great
That have left your home so desolate?
Where have ye vanished, king and peer,
And left what ye liv’d for lying here
Sin can follow where gold may not,
Pictures and books the damp may rot
And creepers may hang frail lines of flowers,
Down the crevices of ancient towers;
But what bath passed from the soul of mortal, Be it thought or word of pride,
Hath gone with him through the dim low portal,
And waiteth by his side. F. W. FABER.

In 1872 a fine iron bridge was built across the Ouse, which has been a great boon to the inhabitants of this district. Previous to the erection of this bridge the following incident occurred: One night the carrier’s wagon from York to Cawood was crossing the river by the ferry at the latter place, the usual mode up to that time. The night being wild and stormy, and the wind blowing with great force on the cover of the wagon, caused the ferry boat to become unmanageable, forcing it down the river, when coming in contact with a barge, the wagon full of people was thrown into the river; fortunately only one life was lost, viz., the carrier, who by giving up his only chance of life saved his wife’s. A boatman came to the rescue of two people struggling in the river near to each other, who proved to be the driver and his wife, Bessie. Leaning over the side of his boat he got hold of both of them, and being unable to save the two, and finding his strength giving way, he said,” Ah can only save yan, which ‘es it to be? ““ Save Bessie,” was the noble answer from the drowning carrier, as he fell from the grasp of the boatman into the dark waters of the river; which, if I mistake not, never gave back his body. Over 20 years have passed since this sad accident happened, and Bessie is still alive.
The village of Cawood, with its brick dwellings, red tiled roofs, old doorways, and panelled oak rooms, ancient hostelries with their sanded floors and quaint furniture; the crude hasps and hinges on some of these old doors harmonize well with the age of the village. In Wistowgate stands the Old. Grange, a 15th century building, with a curious porch and two panelled oak rooms; opposite ,in the meadows, is the remnants of Keysbury Hall, which belongs to the lady of the manor.
Here a Court Leet is held every three years, to collect the fines from all who hold copyhold property. The land on the south bank of the Wharfe, near Cawood, is suited for nearly every kind of vegetable produce, in the planting and gathering of which employment is given to the female working community. The bridge is the rendezvous for all able-bodied men in want of employment, who, with hands deep in trousers pocket, perambulate that quarter; now and again scanning the old river as if expecting some Danish war galley, or the stately barge of the Prelates of old, to sweep round the curve of the river; or perhaps hoping for some rich prize to fall to their lot without delving for it.
In conversation with one of these strollers on the bridge, an old native, he with a deep drawn sigh, which went far down the aisles of the past, said, “Ai, they “had monny rum doin’s doon at you castle. They allus made their feeasts last ‘em “for monny a day, and I’ve heerd it tell’t that ya dinner yance lasted out’ year. “Ai, bud them wor rare times, ye could ea and drink as much as ivver ye liked “for nowt. They mnun hae been rich folks, for when I wur a lad ‘ave heerd cad “men say, that heaps o’ gold and silver is buried on this river, and ‘a can tak ye “to a spot where a hide chuck full o’ gold is buries, if onnybody ‘nh tak ‘t “trouble to dig for’t.”
The church, with its grey tower, stands as a sentinel of the past by the side
of the Ouse. In the olden days the ford over the river was near this place, and here

stood the old tithe barn, pulled down some half-a-century ago. Some portions of the church no doubt date back to the 11th century ; the arch of the east porch is Early Norman; and some of the pillars and arches in the interior, which are very curious, belong to the 12th century. The chancel has been added at a much later date.
This church has lately been restored, and many an old stone memorial of our ancestors was then demolished. In an old archway, walled up at the restoration of the church, is to be seen many portions of tombstones, hoary with age; the dead they once sheltered have long since crumbled to dust. In a large chest behind the organ lies the dismembered effigy of Archbishop George Montaign, one of the most remarkable men of Cawood. Leaving his native place a young man, he entered the church, in which he rose to the highest honour, and returned to his native town as the Archbishop of York, being elected June, 1628. His death took place on the 6th of November of the same year, being, as one writer says ‘ Scarcely warm in his church, ore he was cold in his coffin.” Let us hope ere long his monument will be placed in its original position, as very dear are the old mutilated effigies to all who love the church; as we gaze upon them with feelings of veneration, and ponder on the time when they who sleep beneath trod those very aisles, or knelt in prayer at the altar. These old broken tombs and effigies are links that inseparably bind the past to the present.
Some 70 years ago, Cawood and the villages around were infested with hordes of gipsies, who owned for their king one Largee Young, a man of immense strength, who was a terror to the neighbourhood; and whose profession was poaching and thieving. So afraid were the inhabitants of offending him, that for several years he defied the laws with impunity. Being a practised horse thief, he was one night seen by a farmer leading a horse from his stable; the farmer followed and overtook him in the fields near Hebden farm. On the farmer demanding his horse, the gipsy with fearful oaths swore he would murder him, A terrible fight took place, which would probably have ended in the death of the farmer, but fortunately the noise of the strife brought farmer Hebden to the rescue, with a large hatchet. The two men proved more than a match for the gipsy king. oung was tried at the Castle, tribes of gipsies from far and near attended the trial ; every possible means were adopted by the wanderers to induce the farmers to withdraw from the prosecution, but in vain. Amongst other things offered, as a native quaintly told the writer, was, “a quairt pot chuck up wi’ gold.” The gipsy king was transported beyond the seas. The farmer who captured him was for his courage presented with a silver tankard, which was lately kept at an inn in those parts; and from which thirsty ones often drank, while the innkeeper related the story of the capture of the gipsy.

A few years ago an incident occurred just outside this village, proving the devotion and attachment dumb animals have for each other. The doctor of the place owned a favourite pony, which carried him on journeys when visiting patients away from the village. Two dogs, a retriever and a greyhound, also owned by the medical man, were the especial friends of the pony. The three were inseparable companions, either on duty or when resting in the stable. One afternoon, as the doctor was returning from his visits, and not far from the village, without any warning the pony dropped dead. It was dragged into an adjoining field, but nothing could induce the dogs to quit the dead pony through the long cold night, for, if I mistake not, it was late autumn, and they kept faithful watch by its side. The following day the body was buried deep in the earth. Still, strange to say, the faithful animals refused to leave the spot, scratching a bed in the soil, and for two days and nights kept watch and ward over the grave. Mr. Warrington, who saw the dogs early on the second mornings told the writer that the devoted animals were shaking from intense cold.
At the Commercial, ye olde inn, the traveller will find good Yorkshire fare at reasonable rates, and old-fashioned corridors and bedrooms, where he can easily forget the present and dream of the past. Among other relics the worthy host has in his possession are the skull and horns of an Irish elk, found near the mouth of the Wharfe.
Leaving Cawood, with thoughts of its past history still in our minds, we can take the road to RYTHER, through the fiat lands, which will appear to some rather monotonous, yet there are to be seen a few nice views of a lowland river, winding in sweeping curves under overhanging willows. In the middle distance some red brick or whitewashed farm stands out to relieve the miles of flatness. In the far distance Church Fenton aiid other villages, with tower or spire, and tapering poplars, complete the scene.

CHAPTER II.
NUN-APPLETON AND RYTHER.
Our first visit to Nun-Appleton was by river from Cawood. Entering the mouth of the Wharfe and rowing up the river some distance, making our boat fast to the willows, we passed through the woods near the mansion. The spring was in her first flush of freshness. Cowslip,
primrose, and bluebell nestled under grass and broken branch; old and gaunt frees spread out their great arms across the path, the branches of one large elm reaching upwards of 18 yards among the forest trees; hundreds of rabbits, old and young, scudded away to their burrows at the sound of our footsteps; nailed to the trees, as a warning to their comrades, are scores of animals and birds of the flesh-eating race. Through the trees glimpses of the old Wharfe were to be seen, rolling slowly onward, as if weary with its long journey from the hills and mountains of its birth, Across the meadows, nestling among the trees, is to be seen the modest tower of Ryther’s ancient church, iii whose aisles rest in peace mailed knight, crusader, and nun, their embellished tombs telling of warfare in the battlefield, or the more saintly fight of the just.
From a bend of the river, with rushes and willows in the foreground, the
finest view of Nun-Appleton is obtained.
Passing in front of the hall, which comprises a mixture of three centuries, the old east end being the most interesting, we admire the beautiful gardens and terrace, where the air is perfumed with delicious fragrance of choicest flowers, and where many noble specimens of grand trees abound,—the aged yew, the slender poplar, the spreading cedar, the dark fir, the modest elm, and the graceful birch. In the midst is the silent little lake, like some gem, its waters reflecting in the sunlight the glorious tints which here abound. Around its shores still stand old arches and. muhions, statues and columns, and many other relics, around which clings the ivy in close embrace, telling us that on this spot the nuns, in the early Norman days, spent their time in holy communion and prayer. In imagination the home of the nuns stands before us, as of old; through the interlaced windows we catch uncertain glimpses of the nuns, and hear for certain, or is it a dream, the most delicious melody, as the various notes rise and swell into one universal chorus. Fancy, the fairy, flies; the music we hear is that of the woodland birds, rejoicing in,this their paradise.
how vastly the place hath changed since the sisters of the church trod its precincts. The monastery, with its dark cloisters, has passed away. Resting awhile, with the remnants of this venerable sanctuary around us, we can almost imagine the sweet music we hear to be the voices of the nuns chanting their morning prayer, but as the rich sounds rise louder the dream is dispelled.
The late master of this mansion loved the wild birds and protected them by every possible means, until the birds have chosen it for their home, and now make the spot resound with songs of thankfulness.

Apart from the associations of the monastery, Nun-Appleton is interesting from having been the home of that great man Thomas Fairfax, the brave soldier and parliamentary general, commonly called by the peasantry “Black Tom.” At Nun- Appleton the happiest part of his life was spent. To this spot came his charming bride, a daughter of the house of Vero de Vere.
Here, unconscious of the great future before him, the brave general, the gallant knight, a soul of chivalry, spent his time attending to the estates, beautifying park and garden. Being a profound scholar, much time would be spent in study; this was no doubt the happiest portion of his life, and we can easily fancy in after years, when the storm of war and sorrow had to some extent obscured the light, his mind would revert to the happy days spent at Appleton, in the society of his wife and dear daughter Moll.

In 1639 war was proclaimed by Charles against the Scotch, on the refusal of that nation to renounce the Covenant. Bishop Burnett, in the history of his own time, quaintly adds, “The Scots marched with a very sorry equipage, every soldier “carried a week’s provision of oatmeal, and they had a drove of cattel with them “for food. They had also an invention of guns of white iron, and done about with leather, and chorded so that they would serve for two or three discharges.
“They were light and carried on horses, and when they came to Newbury, the
• “ English army that defended the ford were surprised with a discharge of artillery. “Some thought it magic, and all were put in such disorder that the whole army
“did run with so great precipitation that Sir Thomas Fairfax, who had a command
in it, did not stick to own that till he had crossed the Tees, his legs trembled
“under him.”
Old Fairfax of Denton, in a letter to young Tom while in the north, says,

“Avoid private quarrels as much as you can, and show your valour. The first will “but show your pride and bring you hatred The second will give you honour and
“reputation” Sound advice, and no doubt put into practice by the future general For the part he took in this inglorious campaign, the honour of knighthood was
bestowed upon him, he returning to Nun Appleton as Sir Thomas Fairfax
In May, 1642, the ominous clouds of civil war, which had long appeared oi the horizon, began to deepen. The king in his headstrong folly still continued to act in violation of the law, and gradually drew around him the net the meshes of which were only severed by the axe of the headsman.
On June 3rd, a great meeting was held on Heyworth Moor, York, by the order of the king. In the middle of the day Charles, attended by a large body of carabiniers, two regiments of horse, and 800 foot, delivered a speech, which few could hear, amid the confused and discontented murmurs of the crowd. It was on this day that Sir Thomas Fairfax presented the petition which had been drawn up by his party, who were anxious that the king should reconsider his actions and reconcile himself to the people The Cavaliers, who divined his intentions, for a long time kept him at a distance, but Fairfax was not to be beaten, and by a great
effort at last managed to reach the king, and placed the petition so that he was obliged to receive it It is said Charles rudely pressed his horse forward and Fairfax narrowly escaped being thrown down
In the autumn of 1642 Sir Thomas Fairfax was chosen Commander of the Yorkshire forces. Knowing every inch of the country, and being quick to take advantage of every opportunity, many times he surprised the enemy when they thought him far away. His great courage and kindness to his troops, his generosity to friend and foe alike, well fitted him to be the leader in the great struggle for the preserving of the liberties of the land. From the Ainsty and the banks of the Wharfe the fighting men flocked to his standard, and from Craven and the large manufacturing centres came large numbers to join the cause of freedom and justice.
After some reverses in the first campaign, which only made him more resolute and confident, he rose superior to all obstacles and went on from victory to victory until the Royalists were utterly prostrated.
In 1650 Fairfax, having resigned his commission as commander-in-chief, again dwelt at Nun-Appleton. Here, surrounded by relations and friends, the victorious general, the hero of many a fight, spent most of his remaining years, like unto Horatius in the brave days of old.
Many a story can be recounted of his unbounded fame and of his great generosity and hospitality.

What an array of great men, in different spheres of life, visited Nun-Appleton at tflis time. Grizzly warriors, who had fought by his side at Marston Moor, and saved his life when, unhorsed and wounded, he was in the greatest danger. Some there would be who were with him when the famous charge was made through the streets of Selby, which scattered the Cavaliers like chaff. Some who had heard that great shout which was raised by the chivalry of England at the great fight of Naseby, when the legions of the king and Prince Rupert were scattered and broken before the Commonwealth of England. Others there would be who fought on the fatal field of Chalgrove, when the great patriot Hampden received his mortal wound. Comrades who perhaps were with him when the king so ungraciously received his petition at York; but five years after how changed was the scene, when the victorious general rode side by side with the king, a prisoner, into the old town of Nottingham.
We can easily imagine them recounting many a gallant fight, amongst others, that in which the peerless knight, Sir William Farefax, at Montgomery Castle, after his troops were several times beaten back, spurred his charger into the middle of the enemy, his sword flashing like magic amidst a sea of foes, and how, when the men of Wharfedale saw the danger of their gallant leader, with one great shout of rescue they threw themselves on the enemy, with a determination which
meant victory or death.
“Such ranks as those the knight of Steeton led,
And with them fought, and with them bled,
On many a desperate field. “—RICHARD ABBAY, MA.
The fight was won, but the hero, the bravest soldier on the battlefield, fell, covered
with glory.
ANDREW MARVELL, who in after years was proof against the bribery of the
king’s ministers when Member of Parliament for his native town of Hull, spent
two years at Nun-Appleton, being engaged as tutor to the general’s daughter.
In 1657 another visitor appeared at the general’s hospitable mansion in the
person of George Villiers, the handsome and accomplished courtier and gay cavalier.
Connected with Nun-Appleton, during the early days of bluff King Hal, is a most romantic story of love and marriage. The hero and heroine of this romance were Sir William Farefax, of Steeton, and beautiful Isabel Thwaites, orphan daughter of Thomas Thwaites, of Denton. On the death of her father she was placed under the care of the Abbess of Nun-Appleton, whose sole ambition was to make her a sister of the nuns, and by so doing add riches to their institution. At first she was allowed the freedom of riding out and visiting her friends in the vicinity. In one of these excursions she met Sir William, who was struck with her remarkable beauty. Steeton being only some 3 miles away, the pair were often in each other’s society, and love became mutual. The story of their attachment soon reached the ears of the abbess, and she was very angry, confining the sweet girl within the nunnery, and her lover was forbidden evermore to approach the walls of

the place. But Sir William came of a race of men famous, even at that distant date, for their prowess in love and war, and was not to be so easily daunted. By persistent efforts he at last obtained an order for her release, but the abbess still clung to. the fair novice, disregarding the order, until Farefax, becoming desperate, entered the nunnery by force, and released the fair Isabel.

Amidst great rejoicing they were united, at the church of Bolton Percy,in 1518. This was a most happy marriage, and fortunate was it for the orphan heiress that she met the gallant knight, who was worthy of her love. With her marriage came great wealth into the Fairfax family, the estates of Askwith and Denton and much property in the old city of York.
The country people have several legends as well as a prophecy with regard to
this marriage. With all seriousness they will tell you that— Fairfax shall regain
The glory that has fled,
When Steeton once again
Nun-Appleton shall wed.
It was a remarkable retribution that the nunnery where the fair Isabel had been so ill-used by the abbess should, at the Reformation, have been granted to the Fairfaxes, but so it came to pass that on a cold December day, 350 years ago, with a bitterness of spirit which we can easily imagine, did the same old abbess, with the weeping nuns about her, deliver up the keys of the nunnery to two sons, Thomas and Guy, of the same Isabel she once used so unfeelingly.
From the wreck of the nunneries they built the old hall, the predecessor of the
one built by Sir Thomas in the 17th century.
Built in the bridge which spans the stream near the hall is to be seen an old
stone, with the name of Guido Fairfax (son of Sir William and Isabel) carved
upon it.
What is the meaning of that brilliant assemblage, gathered together in the halls of Nun-Appleton on that lovely autumn morn. The sun shines brightly, the branches of the old yews wave gently before the western wind, and the song birds carol and rejoice. In the distance can be heard the joyous notes of the ring dove; wafted on the bosom of the breeze is the sound of a merry peal of bells. That polished and stately courtier is the handsome George Villiers, the gay cavalier, who had been long an exile in foreign lands, but returning has for some time been a guest at Nun-Appleton, and has wooed and won the general’s only daughter.
Glancing back down the vista of time, we can see the bridal procession passing down the avenue of noble trees to the stately church of Bolton Percy. it is the time of harvest, and in the adjacent fields the reapers are busy cutting and binding the golden grain; intermingled with the greens of the wayside are sweet wild flowers. Mary Fairfax is to be seen smiling in gladness, for she loves the gay and dashing cavalier at her side with all the depth of a first love. Merrily peal the bells, and sweet is the welcome of voices chanting the marriage song as the bridal party passes the portal of the sacred edifice, but aged men shake their heads with ominous forebodings of the future. Happy indeed would have been her life if the gay duke had been as true a knight as the good Sir William, who led the fair Isabel to the same altar a century-and-a-half before. Sad indeed would be the reflection of Fairfax, as Buckingham, in after years, threw himself into every kind of sin, wickedness, and debauchery, a boon companion of the Merry Monarch. Indulgence in every kind of vice was their chief study, even to the dishonour of their country.
Pope says :—“ This lord is more famous for his vices than his misfortunes. “Having been possessed of about £50,000 a year, and passed through many of the “highest posts in the kingdom, died in the year 1687, in a remote inn in Yorkshire, “reduced to the utmost misery.” The above remarks are no doubt a little over drawn. He died in the house of one of his tenants, and the best that Kirbymoorside could boast of at that time.
Mary, his neglected wife, lived many years after his death, faithful to the end.
Her body reposes in the tomb of the Villiers, in Henry VII.’s Chapel, Westminster.
It was from Nun-Appleton, in the depth of the winter of 1659, that Bryan Farefax undertook that perilous and adventurous ride into Scotland, to acquaint General Monk of Lord Farefax’s readiness to co-operate with him for the country’s welfare, which ended in the restoration of Charles II. to the throne of his father.
Lord Farefax died 12th November, 1671. Great was the sorrow and bitter the grief for old “Black Tom,” as he was lovingly called by the tenantry. He had always been a good landlord and kind master, and as the funeral cortege passed on to Bilbrough, with its long line of mourners, many of whom, who in early man hood, had fought like heroes beneath his standard, were now to be seen weeping, as silently they followed the corpse of the chivalrous warrior to its last resting place.
He sleeps by the side of his wife, beneath a marble tomb, on the south side of
Bilbrough church, near the chancel.
Some 200 yards across the opposite bank of the Wharfe is the ancient church of RYTHER, its unpretentious tower peeping modestly out from the surrounding trees. The interior, with its effigies and tombs, and the fields around, with the few remaining vestiges of a stronghold which once stood here, tell us of history a thousand years past. To the antiquarian this must be a very interesting spot. Some of the work in this church cannot be later than the 11th century. The ohancel arch is circular and of immense thickness. Along the entire length of the south aisle are the tombs and effigies of warriors and ladies, and although their history is entirely forgotten, they still rest on from century to century.

How hushed and solemn is the place as we look on the monuments of the dead. The first tomb is of pure alabaster marble, on which reposes the effigy of a knight in full armour, of the 14th century, supposed to be a member of the Ryther family, who fought on the side of the Yorkists, and was probably slain at Towton Field, near by.
The collar round the neck represents the sun in splendour; the work of this collar and indeed the whole tomb is a rich specimen of Italian or Venetian art. On the sides and ends are several figures, which have been very rudely handled by the spoilers, who have had no veneration for the past in doing this sacrilegious deed. The

second tomb, of Portland marble, is beautifully decorated with tracery, representing bunches of grapes, the beautiful workmanship being full of detail and finish. Resting under an Ogee arch in the church wall is the figure of a lady in the costume of the latter part of the 13th century, her hands, resting on her breast, clasp a heart, which she seems to be in the act of presenting to the Church.
At the extreme end of the aisle is the time-worn effigy of a crusader, his chain
armour and other accoutrements tell us that much of his time was spent on the battlefield, probably fighting with the lion king on the plains of Palestine, and may have stood in the ranks of those proud barons when they won the Magna Charta in the meadows of Runnimeade. By the side of the warrior rests his lady, with hands clasped in the attitude of prayer. History is silent respecting these tombs, but the last two probably represent a Sir W. Ryther and his wife, living during the latter part of the 12th century. An old stone near the altar reads :—“ Here lies the body “of Idonea de Gainsbro’, a prioress of Nun-Appleton. She died 1334.” In the fields near Bolton Percy a similar tombstone of another prioress was some time since found, which at the time of its discovery was doing duty as a cover for the head of a drain it has since been removed to Bolton Percy church. On the floor in the south aisle are several stones and brasses, adorned with armorial bearings, to the memory of John Robinson of Ilyther and several of his descendants.
Although the castle has long since disappeared, the remains of a deep moat are still to be seen, and the mounds in the cultivated fields fully attest that the castle of the old Saxon family which gave their name to the village stood here. The field west of the church is called to this day “Hall Garth.”
This old family must have been of some importance, even as far back as 800 years ago, for when the nunnery across the the river at Appleton was founded, in the early years of Stephen, a Ryther, of Ryther Castle, signed the deeds. Sir William de Aldburgh, of Harewood, dying without issue, the castle and lands came into possession of his two sisters. Elizabeth married one Sir Richard Redman, knight of Westmoreland; Sybill married Sir William Ryther, of Ryther Castle, and it is rather singular that these two families and their descendants inhabited the old castle of Harewood jointly for several generations, the last to inhabit the castle was a Sir Robert Ryther, towards the close of the 15th century, and he was interred in Ryther church. A Sir William Ryther, born 1405, married Isabella, daughter of Sir William Gascoyne of Gawthorpe, son of the renowned judge. Apart from its past history and the associations which are gathered round the church, there is nothing to make us linger in the village.
Midway between Ryther and Church Fenton in former times stood a house of some importance, encircled by a deep moat; part of the moat still remains, and when cleared out several years ago a great quantity of horns of the wild deer were found.
Crossing the river by the ferry we hasten on to BOLTON PERCY. This is a delightful walk ; the road-way for the first mile is bordered with pine trees. To our right lie the woods, and further on we pass into a wide avenue of large oaks. In a recess to the left will be noticed an aged tree of vast proportions, which had its birth before Saxon, Dane, or Northman trod these shores. Soon the stately towers and the red tiled roofs of Bolton Percy burst on our view. This is a pretty village, and still retains a few thatched and other primitive dwellings. A little stream which flows from the higher land of Ainsty ripples ifs way through orchards and gardens to the bosom of the mother Wharfe. On spring days, when the orchards are in blossom, this village has a most delightful appearance. Gentle swells and hollows, green lanes and fertile meadows, and old paths wind by quaint home-steads, garths, and enclosures, and
across a rustic bridge. The massive church tower, seen through the branches of stately trees, added to which is the picturesque rectory and the old time-worn tythe barn, make up a series of interesting pic tures. The church is a magni ficent structure, style Perpendicular, with massive tower and pinnacled battlements. The exterior of this edifice is rich in architecture, and will be found most interesting. The interior consists of nave and side aisles, and the large chancel is full of interest. The stalls, which are of oak and much marked, said to have been caused by Cromwell’s soldiers sharpening their swords. On the south
side of the chancel is a most perfect specimen of a “sedilia,” near to which is the piseina. The brasses from the sediia and the other parts of the church were removed by the rough hands of despoilers; tradition says during the Civil War. The windows, of stained glass representing bishops and saints, are much famed for their beauty. Inside the altar rails is the tomb of Henry Farefax, who was rector of this parish during the stormy times of the Cromwellian period. On the tomb is the following

HERE LYETH THE BODYES OF HENRY FARFAX, LATE
RECTOR OF THIS CHURCH, AND OF MARY, HIS WIFE.
HEE DYED APRIL YE 9. 1665, AGED 77; SHEE DYED DECEMBER YE 24, 1649, AGED 56.

Facing the Brockett’s choir is a tablet to the memory of Sir William Farefax, 1694, also in the east end of the south aisle is another monument of great interest to the Farefax family, boing the resting place of Ferdinando, Lord Farefax, the father of the General. On the north side of the west end is a very ancient door known as the “devil’s door.” Opposite is the early Norman font, with carved oaken
cover. It was supposed that the devil always tpok his flight through this door when a child was baptized and admitted into the Church of God, hence the name of the “devil’s door.” The church still retains its old dark oaken pews, which were added in the 16th century. Built in the wall of the south aisle is the holy water basin, a receptacle for the holy or hallowed water, a usage of the Bomish Church.
“The mass priest shall hallow salt and water every Sunday before he masses, and “sprinkle it all over the church and over the people, and keep that water if he would “have it holy until he hallows more on another Sunday.” The holy water basin was not placed at the entrance to the church in early Saxon days, but dates from the period when Rome gained complete ascendancy over the Anglo-British church. Many

were the miracles supposed to be performed by the use of holy water, such as the curing of desperate diseases, the driving away of demons, and the changing of human beings into animals, etc. One Sabbath morning found the writer seated near this vessel of the ancient church, listening to the preaching of the Ven. Archdeacon Crosthwaite. The stranger who knows the history of this place cannot but be impressed by the hallowed associations of this venerable sanctuary. Here in the distant past worshipped knights and their retainers, from the noble house of the Percies, who gave their name to this village.
The Brocketts choir in the north aisle near the chancel still retains in its name the memory of a family who for generations were members of this church; although the castle at Appleton where they resided has long since disappeared. Members of the famed Vavasour race have also worshipped at this shrine and rest within its portals. Facing the Mimer pew is a monumental tomb to the memory of Ferdinando, 2nd Lord Farefax, a member of that famous house, many of whose sons and daughters were baptise and married in this church, knelt in prayer at the altar, and rest within or near its walls.
On the edge of the church yard still stands a relic of the past, the old tythe barn, where a tenth of the produce of the land was stored for the benefit of the church. Even in the early days of the church, according to Saxon history, objections were raised as to the paying of tythes. The laws of Ina, king of the West Saxons, are the earliest known, which were made for the assessment upon lands and houses for a provision of the church. Money being scarce, the payments were generally in grain
or seed, sometimes in cattle or poultry, hence the use of tythe barns. Defaulters were fined 40 shillings, and were made to pay the tythes twelve, fold.

Two miles north-west of Bolton Percy is the scattered village of Appleton Roebuck. Here are several quaint cottages, built on strong timber frames, which, to the lovers of the old picturesque, will be found most interesting. This village presents some startling contrasts in architecture ; as the 15th century cottage stands by the smart new brick dwelling of to-day. Thatched dwellings, hoary with age, where generations of men have dwelt and passed away; opposite is the new church, its newness jarring on the harmony of its surroundings. Facing the green is ye olde village inn, with its staunch old veteran of a landlord.
Just on the outskirts of Appleton, by the side of the lane leading to Acaster, is a meadow, called by the village children “The Daffy Field.” On asking one of the lads why it was so called, he replied :—“ Sike lots a’ ‘daffies’ grow here.” This meadow, seen from a distance, has the appearance of the high banks of some lowland river, but it is generally understood that on this spot once stood a stronghold of the Percies.

Here are to be seen the remains of a very extensive moat, some places even yet being fully 15 feet deep and several yards across. For depth and breadth, these are the most perfect remains of a moat to be found in the basin of the Wharfe; by some it is considered to be the work of the Romans.
A stronghold of the Percy family formerly stood here, and it afterwards came
into the possession of the Brocketts, and was known as Brockett’s Hall. The
history of this place is entirely forgotten.
A small stream, called the Fleet, which takes its rise in the lands between

Copmanthorpe and Bishopthorpe, drains the eastern lands of Ainsty, lazily mean dering its way through Appleton village, and after running parallel with the Ouse for several miles, empties into the Wharfe at Nun-Appleton.
Starting again from Bolton Percy we follow the path which leads to the ferry at Ulleskelf, near to which is the mansion known by the name of Bolton Lodge, once the home of that genial and well-known figure of the hunt, Captain Oliver, who, along with his servant, was renowned for his singular characteristics in the hunting field ; many droll stories might be told concerning them.

FROM THE HISTORY OF THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
The following is a tale of early British times, in which a lord refuses to pay tythe :—-“When Augustine, the Romish missionary, was preaching in Oxfordshire, a village priest addressed him “thus :—‘ Father, the lord of this place refuses to pay tythes, and my threats of excommunication only “ ‘ make him more obstinate.’ Augustine then tried his powers of persuasion; but the lord said ‘ Did “‘not I plough and sow, the tenth part belongs to him who owns the remaining nine.’ It was the time “for mass ; Augustine turning to the altar said ‘I command every excommunicated person to leave the “‘church.’ Immediately a pallid corpse arose from beneath the door way, stalked amoss the church “yard, and stood motionless beyond its boundary. The congregation gazing with horror and fright, “called Augustine’s attention to the spectre. Having first concluded the service, he said ‘Be not “‘alarmed, with cross and holy water in hand we shall know the meaning of this.’ Stepping forward “ ‘he thus addressed the ghastly stranger—’ I enjoin thee, in the name of God, tell me whom thou art I’ “The ghost replied, ‘in British times I was lord of this place but no warnings of the priest could ever “ ‘induce me to pay my tythes. At length he excommunicated me and my disembodied soul was thrust into hell. When you ordered the excommunicated to depart, your attendant angels drove me from ‘my grave.’ The excommunicating priest was now raised from his grave. As the two spectres stood “before him Augustine said ‘know you this person’ The ghostly priest replied ‘full well, and to “ ‘my sorrow.’ The priest was then reminded of God’s great mercy, and of the departed lord’s long
“torture in hell. A scourge was put into the hand of the priest, the excommunicated party knelt “before him, received absolution and quietly returned to the grave. The clergyman soon followed to his “resting place, although Augustine would fain have prayed for a renewed lease of life.” The wily and subtle Roman knew that a demonstration of the super.natural would be the most effective way of working on the feelings of the people in those dark ages, and we can imagine that there would be n further difficulty in the gathering in of tythes in that district.

ULLESKELF
THE village of Ulleskelf does not present any particular attraction to the visitor. The old Hall, formerly the home of the Shillito family, who owned much land in this neighbourhood, has of late years been often tenantless, consequently an air of desertion hangs around it.
The village possesses two inns, where the fishermen who resort here from Leeds and other towns, can find refreshment. Instead of taking the road to Grimston, which is very inviting, with its leafy avenue and the undulating lands in front, well wooded with many varieties of fine trees, from which peep, now and again, mansion, church and tower; the other path might be taken, which leads across the fields, by the side of the river. From these meadows, in the eventide, Ulleskelf makes a charming picture. The village is seen through the intervening orchards, with the smoke rising, as it were, from amongst the trees ; seen thus all the jarring contrasts of colour are softened and subdued into rest and harmony. Passing two meadows, the path runs under the rail way bridge which spans the Wharfe.

After a mile’s walk by the side of the river, Grimston Church will be noticed amongst the surrounding trees; as seen from the bank it is indeed a most pleasant picture for the eye to rest upon. Standing on this spot when the sun had drooped below the western sky, and just before night spread her mantle over the light, the beauty of the scene was beyond description; sonic two miles away in the distance the ancient town of Tadcaster appeared like some fairy city, in the luminous light shed across the sky, by the after-glow of the sun, the waters of the Wharfe seem dreary as they
near the end of their journey, flowing on in solitude, dark and silent; but on this night even the old river, shone resplendent from the rich glow of the evening sky. Turning from the river, we look across the meadows, where no sound is to be heard save that of sleek cattle cropping the dewy grass. We see the old church tower, with the small but pretty village of Kirby in front, behind, on the gentle undulating lands, is the noble park of Grimston, where gigantic trees fling their shade over many a grassy deJi. Above the park on this night spread a rift of purple cloud, along whose edge, and westward, trailed a rippling fleece of vapour, the beautiful harmony of whose colour required the brush of a “Turner” to delineate. Against this background, church tower, graceful poplar, and the more spreading tree, stood out clear and distinct, every leaf, twig, and branch shewing out their wondrous grace and beauty of form.
The church stands within the boundary of the park, shielded on the north-west by a bit of variegated woodland; on the opposite side the small, pretty village of Kirby; in front is the park; behind, meadow land and river. The interior has of late years undergone complete restoration. The chancel window is very fine: also the altar and cover, and the Squire’s pew adjoining contains some very beautiful and choice work. Tinder the tower are several tablets to the memory of the Londes borough and other great families. The church possesses two fonts—the early Norman and one of recent date. Apart from the old font, the most interesting re mains are fragments of two very curious crosses found under the floor of the church, on which are carved the crude representations of our first parents. Art was only in its infancy, or otherwise just awakening from its long slumber, when these stones were fashioned; it also points to the fact that a church has stood on this spot since British times. The country around was at that date one vast forest. In the meadows near enormous trees have been laid bare several feet below the surface when draining. The only open spaces would be where the village stood within its enclosure, and a few glades where the cattle were pastured. Wild animals roamed the forests, and the river at that time being stocked with an abundance of fish, hunting and fishing were the chief occupations of the natives.
Leaving the church, we follow the drive, which passes Grimston House—which is situated on the rising ground in the midst of a beautiful park—where many specimens of gigantic trees abound: formerly one of the seats of Lord Londes borough, now the home of J. Fielden, Esq. Half a mile from the mansion brings us to the gates of the park, into the London highway. A few hundred yards away in the vale below, the little river-cock winds its way through willow garths and is lost in the larger stream.
* The vale of the Wharfe possesses many relics of Saxon work in the shape of sculptured stones and crosses, etc.

CHAPTER III

“ I saw a little streamlet flow
Along a peaceful vale,
A thread of silver, soft and slow,
It wandered down the dale
Just to do good, it seemed to move,
Directed by the hand of love.”
THIS first important tributary rises in the lands of Providence Farm, Whin Moor, and in its various turnings has a course of some 12 miles, joining the Wharfe opposite the Grange at Grimston. Near its margin was fought, in the year 655 and 1461, two of the most
fierce and bloody battles on record.
The great fight of Winwoed or Whinwood took place in 655, on Whinmoor high table land, about a mile above the village of Seacroft and near the source of the little river. The combatants were Oswell, king of Northumbria, and that grim old pagan, Penda, king of Mercia. Long before the conquest of Britain by the English, the old Celtic race had received Christianity; and a native church had risen through the length and breadth of the land The invaders being heathen, according to the custom of their country, worshipped images of wood and stone, and for a century after their first appearance Christianity slumbered, as slowly but surely the old Celtic race were conquered or driven step by step to the hills and vales of the north and west. The first prince of the Saxon race in the north to embrace the Christian religion was Edwine or Eadwina. His power was greater than any English prince who had preceded him. It was during the early years of his reign that the British kingdom of Elmete was crushed. The mound on the outskirts of Barwick is the place where stood the castle and home of the British king. Some few miles north east, yet to be distinctly traced, ran a line of earth works raised in the first instance by the Celts to stem the tide of Saxon advance.
Three centuries later the same earth works were used by the English, when repelling the furious invasion of the sea kings. On the west the boundary of this ancient kingdom was probably the river Aire at Leeds, and afterwards narrowed down to the small stream flowing into the river from the high lands at Roundhay.
.

On the east it reached to the banks of the Wharfe and the Ouse. Within this boundary was a vast forest, and other natural means of protection against invasion. From this small kingdom the Britons turned aside the fierce wave of conquest, for upwards of a century, and it was only when Edwin became supreme in Northumbria and Central Briton, that the power and resistance of Elmete was finally crushed.
Tradition says that this Edwine who conquered Elmete extended his dominions to the Firth of Forth, and built a city which received the name of its founder, Eadwinsbnrgh. This king took for his wife a Kentish princess who was a Christian, and with her to the court of Northumbria came Paulinus, a missionary of Rome. It appears that Edwin not only promised that his bride should be protected in the free exercise of her religion, but would himself embrace the same, if after careful enquiries it was found to be better than the gods they hitherto had worshipped. Many were the pleadings of his queen and the missionary before the heathen prejudices and customs of the king gave way. Paulinus being ever on the watch for favourable omens, proved more than a match for the semi-barbaric king. By some means he had become acquainted with a story of a vision which had appeared unto Edwin when an outlaw and a wanderer. To this vision he pledged himself that should he ever regain the throne of his fathers he would lead a better life.
“Remember your pledge,” were the words spoken by the vision as it disappeared. In after years, when he had regained his kingdom and returned triumphant from the conquest of Wessex, and the just punishment of its king, soon after that time, in conversation with Paulinus, was startled to hear the very words used by the vision “ Remember your pledge.” Edwin trembled with emotion. The Italian said “you remember a promise made years ago to the vision. All your hopes have been “ crowned with success, ncxw is the time to ‘ redeem your pledge,’ and the God who “has led you through so many dangers to secure an earthly throne, will remain “steadfast until you reach the glories of His own eternal Kingdom.” After this appeal the king was powerless to resist, and felt anxious to redeem his promise.

“Bede tells us that the wise men of Northumbria, with their king, met to deliberate on the new “religion. Paulinus having pleaded in favour of Christianity, Coifi, a Druidic high priest, thus addressed “the assembly and the king: ‘It seems to me, 0 king, that our paternal gods are worthless, for no “man’s worship of them has been more devout than mine; yet my lot has been far less prosperous than
‘that of many others not half so pious!’ A chieftain then spoke: ‘The life of man, 0 king, reminds me “‘of a winter feast around your blazing fire, while the storm howls or the snow drives abroad. A “‘distressed sparrow darts within the doorway: for a moment it is cheered by warmth and shelter from “‘the blast; then, shooting through the other entrance, it is lost again. Such is man. lie comes we “‘know not whence, hastily snatches a scanty share of wordly pleasure, then goes we know not “‘whither. If this new doctrine, therefore, will give us any clearer insight into things of so much ‘‘‘interest, my feeling is to follow it.’

Before such arguments, resembling strikingly those of Indian warriors in America, Northumbrian paganism fell. Coifi was foremost in making war upon the superstition which had so severely baulked his hopes. His priestly character obliged him to ride a mare, and forbade him to have a weapon. The people, therefore, thought him mad when he appeared upon Edwin’s charger, and with lance in hand rode furiously to the famous temple at Godmundham, pierced the idol through and through, shattering it to pieces, and ordered the temple to be burnt. Soon afterwards, Paulinus kept a most impressive Easter by holding a public baptism at York, in which Edwin, his principal men, and multitudes of inferior people, were solemnly admitted into the Christian Church. In 633 A.D., Penda, the fierce king of Mercia, joining his army with Cadwallon, king of the Welsh, met the Northumbrian army at Heathfield, and in the fearful fight the army of Edwin was defeated, and he was slain in the battle. Nine years later, Oswald, king of Northumbria, whose great fame on the battlefield was only eclipsed by his piety, was the next champion of the Cross who fell on the field of battle. Oswald’s great ambition was the conversion of all Britian, but like his predecessor he was slain by the heathen, Penda, at Maserfeld. After this great victory, Penda, the champion of heathenism, reigned supreme, ravaging the kingdom of Northumbria until the new faith seemed doomed to be swept aside by the advancing wave of paganism.
Out of this confusion and anarchy there stood forth another champion of the Cross in the person of Oswin, brother of the brave Oswald. For half a century the now hoary-headed old heathen had been continually harassiiig the dominion of the Christian, carrying war and desolation through the beautiful vales of York. And generations after youths and maidens shuddered when sat around the blazing fire listening to their grandfathers recounting those dire scenes of misery and war, yet with all his fierce desire to annihilate the Christian, Bede tells us that “Penda utterhy despised those who did not act up to the faith they professed.” In the year 655, he gathered around his banners a mighty army, consisting of thirty legions of tried soldiers, commanded by generals who had led them to victory on many a battlefield. Once again he felt a desire to shatter the growing power of Northumbria and utterly destroy the Christian faith, which the pagan priests represented to him as tending to overthrow the sacred altars in the groves where he loved to worship along with his kingdom. Marching in a north-easterly direction towards the old kingdom of Elmet, crossing the river Aire near Leeds, and taking up his position on Winwoed field, now Whinmoor, awaited the coming of his foes. In vain Oswin tried by every means in his power to conciliate the Mercian king by the offer of gold and silver ornaments, and other costly gifts.

Oswin at length, growing impatient, cried “If the pagans will not accept our gifts let us offer them to one who will,” vowing at the same time that if successful he would dedicate his daughter to God and endow twelve monasteries in his realm. The Northumbrian army was only small compared with the hosts of the Mercians, but putting their trust in God, they boldly marched to battle. The dreadful fight took place on the 15th November, 655. In vain the Mercians tried to penetrate the ranks of Oswin’s army.
The power of heathendom was lost for ever when he, who for fifty years had been the cause of so much misery and bloodshed, lay with his generals and thousands of his army a ghastly and confused heap of slain, their blood changing the waters of the little rivulet to crimson. The wreck of the Mercian army fled south ward, and in their frantic rush from the field of battle many fell into the river Cock and were trampled underfoot until their bodies formed a bridge for their flying comrades, who in their turn were swept away and drowned when attempting to cross the swollen waters of the river Aire.
“in Winwoed field was amply avenged the blood of Anna, the blood of the kings Egric, Oswald, and Edwin.” Soon after his great victory Oswin sent his little daughter Ethelfieda to the monastery over which presided the sainted Hulda, whilst the lands and other, goods he gave were the means by which the noble abbey was built on the summit of the cliff overlooking Whitby.
Near to Whinmoor is a place known to this day as “Hell Garth.” Tradition
says that on this spot thousands of the slain were buried.
At the entrance to the village of Seaoroft, stands a fine old Elizabethan flail, built in the 16th century, now the residence of Dr. Poxon. Adjoining is the green, around which are scattered the homes of the toilers, and high above all tapers the spire of the village church. Kiddie Hall, anciently Kidd Hall, stands on the land rising to Whinmoor, close besides the Leeds and Tadcaster road, some six miles from the latter place and two from Barwick. It was built in the 12th century, and for many generations was the home of the Ellis family. Formerly it was more extensive, having a beautiful front towards Barwick. The interior yet possesses some fine oak work of the i6th century period.
During the civil war a skirmish took place on Whinmoor between the Cavaliers and the Roundheads, which ended in the complete rout of the latter. Fairfax was gradually retreating across Bramhain Moor, before a much superior force of Royalists. After crossing Potterton Beck and reaching the next high land, they were suddenly confronted by another body of Boyalists who had reached the moor from the north side of Bramham,
* Seacroft, the field of blood.

The enemy attacking both in front and rear, the soldi€rs of the Parliament
threw down their arms and fled; many were slain or taken prisoners, whilst Fairfax
and the cavalry escaped with difficulty into Leeds.
During alterations a secret room was discovered, in which was found a coat of arms and other relies, supposed to have been hid during the Civil War. Tradition says the place is haunted by one, John Ellis, killed by the Parliamentarians previous to the skirmish on the moor, March, 1643; the Roundheads ransacking all the houses

in the vicinity for food and drink, possibly met with opposition from the Ellises, they being staunch Royalists. To this day people tell us the troubled spirit of the slain Ellis hovers around the old house. The peculiarly shaped bay-window, added in the 15th century, is full of interest, and on which is the following inscription
“ Orate pro ai-bus Thom Elys at Anna uxoris sue qui ostei fenestra Anno Dni M.C.C.C."
Above is a battlemented parapet, with pinnacles adorned with a trailing pattern of vine leaves and grapes, under which are many symbolic ornaments and devices.

BARWICK.

ON the high ground, just above the little vale, is the mound where stood the stronghold and homes of the Kings of Elmet, encircled by two
trenches and earthworks, remains of which are yet to be seen. Although there are many indications in this village suggestive of bygone
generations, yet our imagination fails to conjure up the scene which it
would present in its days of stately dignity: standing on the verge of a vast
forest, which included in its length and breadth all the high range of lands between
the two rivers. A few memorials of that great forest still remain huge skeletons, the storms of centuries having riven off their giant limbs, which ages ago sheltered from the cold blast the children of the forest. Such was the kingdom of Elmet, rulming like a wedge between the land of the North Angles and Northumbria—a tiny kingdom, surrounded by foes; for a century and a half the Britons held
their ground against Saxon conquest.

From the high lands the Celts would eagerly scan the invaders pushing along the vale of the Ouse, and slowly, but surely, win the waterway of the Wharfe and the Aire; but the dense forest, as well as its brave defenders, held the Saxon at bay; and not until the days of brave Edwin was the conquest of Elmet complete. The village of Barwick still retains many old English customs. In the centre of the village stands the market cross and Maypole, the latter being lowered, and amidst great rejoicing replaced every third year. The church is large, with a massive tower built of two kinds of stone, the light chalk, coming from Jackdaw’s Cragg, given by one of the Vavasours, 15th century. A figure in the tower represents him in the act of presenting the stone. Although many traditions linger around the spot, yet the interior of this church contains but one memorial of Saxon days, which is an old stone, rudely carved, built in the wall of the south aisle, possibly a relic of the ancient church which stood here.* The chancel dates from the 11th century, possessing a very fine arch and ancient window, and walls of immense thickness.
Some two miles inward is the clean and well-built town of Aberford; across the centre flows the little rivulet, now spanned by a bridge, formerly a ford, from which the village received its name. The two miles’ walk from Barwick is very beautiful. After crossing the road the stream is joined by the Potterton Beck in many turnings, passing through a rich and fertile vale; on the farther side is the park and woods of Beckhey Grange, whilst the road passes through a most beautiful avenue of fine trees, whose umbrageous branches cast lovely shadows, affording pleasant relief on a warm summer day.

* History says Christianity was first introduced into West Britain by Zyrm the Blessed, father of Caractacus. He embraced the new faith during his seven years exile in Rome, along with his son; and to the hills and the kingdom of Elmet fled all believers from the invasion of the Pagans.

The church
has of late years been rebuilt, and stands pleasantly on the high ground overlooking the village street. Just within the south wall rest the remains of Sammy Hick, the famous preacher. The churchyard of Barwick also contains the ashes of another well-known revivalist, Billy Dawson. In the churchyard a stone coffin, and part of another, were found under the foundations at the restoration, previous to which the church shewed many signs of’ great antiquity. In bygone years a good market was held here, also fairs, but both have grown less each succeeding year, and are now a thing of the past. This place is unique in appearance, possessing a character entirely different from any other village in the basin of the Wharfe. One striking feature is its cleanliness; another its well-built houses; a third its position on the rising ground on either side of the vale, added to which is its park-like surroundings and its pretty little river.
“Thou ever joyous rivulet,
Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet
And sporting with the sands that pave The windings of thy silver wave, And dancing to thy own wild chime,
Thou laughest at the lapse of time.”

Some two miles down the vale is the little church of Lead, or Lede, erected in the 13th century as a private chapel to Lead Hall, in bygone days a place of some importance, and now deserted and falling to ruins. In its palmy days this must indeed have been a lovely spot. In the midst of the fertile meadow land stands the church; the ground on either side, rising more boldly, encloses the picturesque vale. The eye that loves to rest on quiet scenes finds much to admire. The interior of this chapel is very roughly furnished. On the floor are four tomb stones, the brasses from which have been removed. The arms on the tombs are a fess with three mallets; also the names of Margeria, Baldwinius, and Franconis— members of the ancient Teyes family. Margaret was the daughter of Roger le Teyes, and niece and heiress to Walter le Teyes, Baron of Steingrieve, who also owned lands in Yorks., Bedfordshire, Essex, and Bucks. He was summoned as Baron, 6th February, 1298 and fought in the Scotch campaign. He and Henry le Tyes were the two barons who affixed their seals to the letter addressed to the Pope, from the Parliament held at Lincoln in 1301, protesting against the Pope’s interference with the claims of Edward I. to the Crown of Scotland. A Franco Tyays, of the county of York, was summoned to come, with horse and arms, to Parliament, at Berwick. Walter le Teyes died in the 18th year of the second Edward; Margaret, his niece and heiress, being about twenty-six years of age. A representative of this old and important family remains in the person of the Rev. James Tyas, the present Vicar of Padiham.
Chiefly by the efforts of the Vicar of Saxton, Lede Chapel has lately been put into a state of repair.
Rather more than a mile from Lede, the stream, which has hitherto run in an easterly direction, takes a sweeping curve northward, leaving village and hamlet, winding through a deep, silent vale, lonely, yet romantic. Here can be seen the solitary heron and other wild fowl. A thousand sights in animal and vegetable life arrest our attention. In the hedge row bloom the bramble and sweet wild rose, from which now anc again flits the sportive butterfly. The only sound is the gentle murmur of the rivulet passing over some obstruction, and the song of the lark as he rises higher and higher, and the soft cooing of the ring dove. What a contrast is this quiet spot to the noisy hum of our large towns? Here a deep and silent vale, through which the ever restless streamlet laves its course, the scene enclosed by woods and hills, above the glorious sky and fleecy clouds, and the bright sun smiling down on the peaceful vale beneath. Yet near this quiet spot a tragedy affecting a nation was enacted, the hills and dales resounding with the awful clang of arms, and strife of men in deadly combat. Just over the brow of yonder hill a fearful battle was fought between Englishmen, which, for the dreadful struggle and numbers engaged. mark it as one of the greatest fights ever witnessed on English soil.
“For then the rival roses, worn by rival houses,
The poor distracted nation into rage and frenzy drove;
.    *    *    *    *     *    *
When the Percys, Veres, and Nevilles, left their castle-halls and revels, To rush like raging devils into the deadly fight.”—R.

BATTLE OF TOWTON FIELD.

This battle took place on the morning of Palm Sunday, 1461, on the high land between Towton and Saxton. From Towton the land rises and falls gently until it droops towards the village of Saxton. The Lancastrians occupied the ridge nearest Towton, whilst the ground above the village of Saxton was chosen by the Yorkists.
The Sabbath had only just broken, which found the two armies, composed of the best and bravest of England’s sons, breathlessly awaiting the coming strife. Suddenly the heavens became overcast, and a blinding snowstorm fell full in the face of the Laneastrians. The Yorkists quickly taking advantage of the storm, sent many furious showers of arrows from their strong bows, full into the ranks of the enemy, causing fearful havoc; the arrows were shot from the rising ground, after which the archers retired a few paces into the next hollow. The snowstorm blowing in the faces of the Lancastrians prevented them from seeing this manoeuvre; in turn their arrows, flying fast and thick against a foe they could not see, fell harmless at the feet of their enemy, and several times Edward’s archers advanced, and each time speeding their arrows full into the ranks of the enemy, caused great confusion. The Lancastrians, perceiving their disadvantage, charged the Yorkists on their own ground.
And so, during the whole of that Sabbath morn, the battle raged. With axe, pike, and sword, they fought like demons, a mass of struggling humanity. Many times during this fatal day did the fortune of war hang in balance, sometimes the White Rose trembling, then again the Red. At one critical moment for the house of York, when their side were losing ground the king-maker sprang from his charger, burying his sword to the hilt in its side, in a voice of thunder swore to win or die.
Again the battle surges, in the thickest fight is the grand form of Warwick,
a host in himself, his bloody sword proving fatal to many.
The tide of battle at last set against the house of Lancaster by the arrival of five thousand fresh troops. No quarter had been given at the battle of Wakefield, where the black-faced Clifford, in cold blood, slew the innocent Rutland; and now at Towton, Edward commanded that no quarter should be given, and only too well were his orders carried out, for at eventide 38,000 of the bravest and noblest of England’s sons lay dead and dying on the ghastly field.
The wreck of the vanquished army fled northwards; across their path ran the little river Cock, into whose waters many fell, never to rise again. Dire was the confusion at this place, until the ghastly bridge was formed by a mass of struggling humanity, over which fled the remnant of the Lancastrians. From the field of battle ran the blood of the slain, once again changing the waters of the rivulet to crimson; even the brown waters of the Ouse, it is said, were also tinged.

“Let Towton’s field but cease the dismal tale,
For much its horrors would the Muse appal,
in softer strains suffice it to bewail
The patriot castle or the hero’s fall.

“The silver Wharfe, whose crystal sparkling urn
Eteflects the brilliance of his bleoming shore,
Still melancholy-musing seems to mourn;
On rolls confused the crimson wave no more.”

A stranger passing over this ground would see nothing to indicate that on this spot was fought the most fierce and deadly battle of ancient or modern times. A few mounds and depressions probably mark the place where many of the bravest of our land lay in their last sleep. It is said the titled slain are interred in the churchyards of the surrounding district, but with, I believe, three exceptions, Lord Dacre, Earl Percy, and Neville, history is silent, where, although no monument marks the site of battle, yet there is one beautiful memorial on this spot, which the villagers tell us cannot be erased,—above where the warrior sleeps, white and red roses bloom, emblems of the fatal feud; how they came thus is not known, but they refuse to grow on other soil than that on which was poured out old England’s noblest blood.

“Oh, the red and white rose, upon Towbon Moor it grows,
And red and white it blows upon that swarthe for evermore, In memorial of the slaughter when the red blood ran like water, And the victors gave no quarter in the flight from Towton Moor.
“When the banners gay were beaming, and the steel cuirasses gleaming, And the martial music streaming o’er the wide and lonely heath;
And many a heart was beating that dreamed not of retreating, Which, ere the sun was setting, lay still and cold in death.
“When the snow that fell at morning lay as a type and warning,
All stained and streaked with crimson, like the roses white and red, And filled each thirsty furrow with its token of the sorrow
That wailed for many a morrow through the mansions of the dead.
“Now for twice two hundred years, when the month of March appears,
All unchecked by plough or shears spring the roses red and white;
Nor can the hand of mortal close the subterranean portal
That gives to life immortal theso emblems of the fight.
“And as if they were enchanted, not a flower may be transplanted From those fatal precincts, haunted by the spirits of the slain;
For howe’er the root you cherish, it shall fade away and perish, When removed beyond the marish of Towton’s gory plain.”

Nearly a mile south-west of the battlefield is the village of Saxton (anciently Saxalt). The old historic church, with its massive tower, stands on a gentle eminence at the entrance of the village ; though somewhat clouded in obscurity, its erection probably dates from the latter end of the 11th century. The chancel arch is early Norman; there are also two ancient windows. In the chancel are many memorials to the Hungate family; the last one reads
INTERRED THE BODY OF SIR CHARLES HUNGATE,
OF HUDLESTON HALL, Be,,
-    THE LAST MALE HEIR
OF THAT ANTIENT FAMILY, Nov. 6TH, 1749, AGED 63.
Some fifteen years ago the church was restored, when many memorials were lost. Under the pulpit are the tombs of the Hammonds and Widdringtons, date 1671. Teresa Sempson, who died some thirty years ago, at a great age, was the last female who did penance in this church; with a white sheet thrown over her shoulders, she silently walked the aisle during part of the service, as a punishment for her misdeeds. N ear to the porch is a stone with the following quaint
inscription :-  HERE LYETH THE BODY OF RICHARD
FLETCHER, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE
YE 8TH OF APRIL, 1739, AGED 63 YRS.,
WHO LEFT THE USE OF TEN POUd TO YE WIDOWS OF SAXTON.
On the north side is a tomb to the memory of Lord Dacre, who fell on the adjoining battle field.* Along the whole length of the north side, some few feet below the surface, are immense quantities of bones, supposed to be part of the slain from the battlefield. The aged sexton told the writer that he had seen them when digging some years ago, several feet in thickness. It is now understood that this part of the burial ground remains undisturbed.
In the meadows east of the church are distinct traces of a Roman encampment, near to which, in the midst of a fine park, stood the mansion of the Hungates, surrounded by many noble

EDMUND BOGG.    Lord Dacres Tomb.
* Local tradition says that Lord Dacre and his charger were interred in one grave, which may account for the skull of a horse being found when the tomb was restored a few years ago.

trees. Their crest is still to be seen over the front of the manor house. In the adjoining field, west of this house, and near to the village street, is an eminence, enclosed by a double trench; whether raised by Celt, Saxon, or Dane we know not; but we should imagine, from the many signs left on the surface of the earth, that a great struggle took place on this spot centuries before the fatal fight on Towton Heath. Saxton, apart from its association with the great battlefield, around which memory mournfully lingers, is a pleasant and rural village, where many signs of Old England yet remain.
Situated on the London Road, some two and a half miles from Tadcaster, is the village of Towton, ever to be remembered from that famous battle which bears its name. Yet, strange to say, unlike its sister village, it contains little history in connection with the fight. Although a chapel was formerly raised here in honour

of the slain, it has totally disappeared, not a trace remaining. Instead of following the high road to Tadcaster, which the tourist will find a very pleasant walk, let the reader follow us across the opposite vale, to the home of the famed Vavasours, formerly Vavasor or Valvasor, deriving this name from the fact of their once being the king’s Valvasor, an office of great honour in olden time. Since the days of the Conquest this ancient and noble family have held the lands of Haslewood; except for a short time in the reign of Henry III when it was in pawn to Aaron, a Jew at York, for the sum of £350, who made a conveyance of his security to Queen Eleanor, in discharge of a debt due to her, from whom John de Vavasor received it again on payment of the money. Sir Mayner de Vavasor, the ancestor of the family, won honour and renown on the battlefield of Hastings, and is mentioned in the Domesday survey as holding lands and manors in Stutton Eselwood and Saxall, nnder the great Percy family. The hall stands about midway between Stutton and Aberford, on the high ground, facing a môst beautiful park. From the castle is a fine panoramic view of hill and dale east, and north- east the eye roams with pleasure across the rich vales of Mowbray and York, through which can be seen glimpses of the shining Ouse, passing village, church, hamlet, and the stately towers of York. Far away over this fertile vale eastward loom the outlines of the Wold hills ; northward the heather-clad moors blend their outlines sweetly with the clouds. Standing in front of this castellated mansion, the spectator cannot but be impressed by this imposing palace of ancient England. The whole place breathes of mediaeval times, and yet not in the same way as tbe hoary ruin or the dismantled fortress ; for the place is as perfect as when the brave Vavasour knights, clad in chain armour, led forth their retainers to the battlefield, or when the loud blast of the horn peopled the park with a grand array of barons and their ladies, going forth to hunt over the wild moor, or to chase the fleet deer through the wide forest. In imagination we hear the trampling of horse and jingle of armour; round the bend in the park appear in sight the soul of English chivalry, accoutred in all their vestments of war; above them floats the symbol of the Crusade, under which, through a sea of foes, they fought and won the Holy City from the Infidel. Such are the visions which sweep across our minds as we look on this stately structure.
The scene changes! It is night: unbounded hospitality prevails. Through the latticed windows we can see a numerous throng; the banquet ball is brilliant with the glare of torches, and here and there can be seen servitors and retainers carrying huge savoury dishes. On the walls are a vast number of banners and other trophies of war; huge goblets of wine are quaffed to the health of the noble host and hostess. The scene grows brighter as some hero recites his adventures in the deathful career of storm and battle, and the harper sings those inspiring and romantic ballads of love and war, which had been handed down through generations of time.
Haslewood seems deserted now; the mansion is still there, and the park—as
of old—beautiful, and the spacious courtyard and surrounding buildings are perfect,
yet, how lonely and silent the place seems.
Built up against the walls of the mansion, and under its fostering care, is a Gothic chapel, with classic altar, dedicated to St. Leonard, and built by Sir William de Vavasour in the 13th century. For 600 years services have been held without intermission in this sanctuary, and it was the only place of Roman Catholic faith not closed during the reign of Elizabeth ; so great, it is said, was her esteem for that renowned family. This venerable Gothic chapel contains many memorials of its patrons. Along the east wall are a group of statues representing a Vavasour family of the 16th century, all in a good state of preservation. In the same wall are two mural recesses, containing recumbent effigies, one of them probably representing Sir William, the founder of the church. Both have the appearance of 13th century work; their martial figures repose in complete armour, and tell us of siege and war. The north end is a rich work of Corinthian architecture. Besides other

tombs, &c., the chapel contains two painted windows and a beautiful painted altar piece. How quiet the pretty little graveyard seems, with its many tombstones, crumbling from time and exposure, all telling us to pray for the souls of those who sleep beneath.
Many incidents in song and story are related of this ancient family, all redounding to the esteem and honour in which they were held in bygone days. The aged labourer tells us with pride how this hospitable family gave refreshment equally to the poor as well as to the rich.

Passing along the road which leads to Tadcaster, in many places covered with a leafy avenue, magnificent views of the vale country are seen to our right. A two miles’ walk brings us to the village of Stutton, its rambling orchards and willow garths spreading along the banks of the brook. Where the lane crosses the stream stands the old water mill ; its rumbling music hath sounded across two centuries

of time. During the last twenty years many of the old houses have disappeared. Over the doorway of the old farmhouse, where for generations dwelt the ileptonstalls, is the date :—

After enjoying our repast at ye olde inne, we cross the stream at the mill, where water hens glide along its surface, the road then skirts the margin of the wood. A few minutes’ walk brings us into the London Road, and a mile further we reach Tadcaster, the capital of the district.
* The bridge which spans the River Cock immediately above where that stream joins the Wliarfe, is a relic of Roman work.

Chapter IV

TADCASTER

TADCASTRE, the very sound of whose name conjures back the legions of
Imperial Rome, and whose historical associations carry us backward across the gulf of eighteen centuries, to the time when York, the Eboracum of the
Romans, was made her civil and military head quarters, and the home of
her emperors in Britain. Here two of her emperors died, and their ashes repose in magnificent tombs beneath the walls of the old city. Here, tradition tells, was born Constantine the Great, Rome’s brightest star, the glory of whose reign shed a brilliant lustre over the Roman world, before the lengthening shadows of coming night.
Tadcaster, the Calcaria of the Romans, was a principal station, and the key, as it were, of the Imperial City. In all probability their stronghold stood near to the site of the present church, and opposite the old ford, which crossed the river some two hundred yards above the bridge. Many coins of the emperors, and other relics of Roman ware, have been found here, also the remains of a beautiful villa, whose circular floor of coloured tiles,
are exquisite samples of workmanship. The great Roman road, or street, from the west, passed this station.

Streethouses received its name from the Roman street, a road paved with stone; along this military way passed, and repassed, with stately tramp, the invincible legions of proud Rome. From Calcaria, rattling cars, laden with stone, lime, and timber, for which this station was noted, passed along this street to the old city. Along this military road to Eboracum, where the proud Caesars held their court, with all the splendour and dignity of Imperial Rome, passed all classes of society, from the wealthy noble to the Romanized Celt.
The handsome bridge which spans the Wharfe was built in the early part of the 18th century, out of the remains of the castle, which formerly stood near, and replaced the old one, which had probably done duty for centuries. The old fabric received much damage during the civil wars, 1642, in the fight known as the battle of Tadcaster. The Roundbeads, under Fairfax, occupied an entrenched position at the foot of the bridge. The Royalists, led by Newcastle, held the rising ground to the east of the river, and for six hours, the old bridge, and. nine hundred of its gallant defenders, withstood the storm of shot and shell, sent from an army nine times more numerous. Many attempts were made by the regiments of foot to storm the position of the Fairfaxes, but the men of the west and their brave commander were not to be beaten. Reserving their fire until the last moment, it was then sent with such deadly effect, that the enemy each time were thrown back with confusion. Darkness found them in undisputed possession of the bridge, the Royalists’ army having retreated some two miles away. To the Fairfaxes this was both a victory and a defeat; their store of ammunition being finished, it was impossible for them to hold the bridge, so during the night the gallant men with drew to Selby, to watch and wait, gather strength, and finally triumph over the oppressors. The following day the Royalists took possession of Tadcaster, which they held until the siege of York.*
Dr. Eades, who passed through this town in the summer and autumn of 1610, seems to have seen it under striking contrasts. In the account of his journeying he says :—
-    “The Muse in Tadcaster can find no theme,
But a most noble bridge, without a stream.”
On his return in the wet season, he added :— “The verse before on Tadcaster, was just,
But now great floods we see, and dirt for dust.”
* “In the above fight, fell one Captain Lister, of Thornton-in-Craven one of Lord Fairfax’s most gallant officers; he was shot in the head, by a bullet ball. In Thoresby’s Ducatus Leod., there is a remarkable instance of filial affection, relating to that gentleman—His son, passing through Tadcaster, many years after, had the curiosity to inquire where his father was buried; and finding the sexton digging in the choir, he showed him a skull, just dug up, which he averred to be his father’s. The skull, upon handling, was found to have a bullet in it; which testimony of the truth of the sexton’s words, so struck the son, that he sickened at the sight, and died soon after.”

The above quaint description, we have no doubt was quite correct, as the writer well remembers, in the summer of 1870, the bed of the river being nearly empty, whilst in the month of October of the same year, the river overflowing its high banks, the ings and willow garths betwixt the river and Stutton was one vast lake; and the small tributary of the Cock arose into a mighty river. Hundreds of rabbits and other animals were washed out of their burrows, and were seen swimming for dear life. Even sly Messieurs Reynard were trapped by the flood, but, wiser than the small game, took to the branches of friendly trees, where they sat mournfully awaiting the lowering of the waters.
Tadcaster possesses a fine classical church, which of late years has undergone complete restoration. Renovations have swept away those large old boxed pews, where, as youths, some twenty-four years ago, we loved to hide; the individual of whom we stood most in awe was the old verger with his long wand. The old customs and memorials, along with many a relic, have been swept away, and death, the great leveller, has also taken away many a familiar figure from this place. In the church there are thirty memorial tablets, bearing the ages of the deceased, the united total of whose years amount to 2,037, or an average of 67 years and 10 months. In 1578, the register, which dates back to about the Reformation, mentions :— “Madam Vavasour, late wife of Sir William Vavasour, was buried ye 6th daye of Februarie,
1578, by the Vicar of Tadeaster. At her burial, Mr. Wetherell, Vicar of Bramham, did take upon him to be colet—(that is acolyte, an attendant)—and was commanded by Sir W. Vavasour to put off his surpless, and he gave the Vicar of Tadcaster LX.”
No reason is stated why Sir William dispensed with the services of the acolyte of the Romish Church; and the proceeding seems strange, the Vavasours always hav ing clung to the doctrines of Rome. The Vicar of Tadcaster seems to have been well pleased with the preference, and has entered the circumstance specially.
The following are from the register
“Thomas Nicholson and Alice Grange were married the 27th day of Januarie, 1591. It is
promised by Nicholson, before the marriage, that Alice, his wife, shall have half his farm during her
widowhood.
Between the feast of St. Michael the Archangel, in the year of our Lord God 1603, and the
feast of St. John the Baptist, in the year above-written, there died of the plague at Tadcaster, of men,
women, and children, the number of six score.”
Inscription under the church tower : — HERE LYETH THE BODY OF ARTHUR BYRTON,
LAIT OF TADCASTER, BVCHAR, WHO
DEPARTED OVT THIS LYFE TO THE MARCIE
OF GOD, THE THIRD DAY OF NOVEMBER, IN
THE FYFT YERE OF THE REIGNE OF OUR GRACIOUS SOVEREIGNE
KING JAMES, ANNO DOll, 1608.

The following may also prove interesting :— ‘‘Elizabeth Marshall, of this town, died March 9th, l788, aged 83 years. She could boast
excellence of parts ; when young she was beautiful, When young, did I say? She was so till she
was seventy-nine, and she was highly good.”
The population of Tadcaster has greatly increased during the last twenty years, chiefly from the extension of its celebrated breweries and large corn mills. Five hundred years ago this town was renowned for its brown ales. In the 19th century, this trade has grown into colossal proportions: Tadcaster ales being celebrated far and wide. The Wharfe is navigable to Tadcaster, and also tidal; plenty of coarse fish

abound from the mouth to the above place, and is much frequented by the bottom fishers from Leeds and neighbourhood. The salmon fishing below Tadcaster belongs to the Fieldings of Grimstone; the catches of late years have been very poor, the chief cause, the old fishermen tell us, being the pollution of the Ouse by the murky waters of the Aire. Most astounding captures of this fish were made some thirty years ago, according to the accounts of a native, who has been a fisher for upwards of fifty years; from some cause, the large shoals of salmon which formerly visited this river, have now dwindled to a few solitary fish. In the vicinity of Acaster and Cawood are still found the remains of the salmon garths which formerly belonged to the Archbishops these old garths are often the cause of much trouble to the fisherman’s net.
Before proceeding further along the banks of the river, we must cross the bridge into the Ainsty of York, the land lying between the old city and Tadeaster; its boundaries being the rivers Ouse, Wharfe, and Nidd. The centre of the bridge is the western limits of the ainsty, the greatest part of which lands are in the water bed of the Wharfe. Two small streams, which rise respectively on the high lands between Bilbrough, Healaugh, Wighill, and Walton, after a course of some three miles join into one stream called Catterton Beck, and flowing southwards for several miles, empties into the Wharfe at Bolton Percy. Situated some three miles east of Tadcaster, and a half-mile from the York road, is Steeton Hall, now doing duty as a farm house. The embattled residence was built by Sir Guy Fairfax, during the Wars of the Roses. He married one of the Rythers of Ryther Castle, and was grandfather of Sir William, of romantic marriage fame. The old chapel, which stood in front of the house, and was consecrated by Archbishop Rotheram, 1473, is entirely swept away; the ground it occupied is now a garden. The old house has been much altered, some parts being taken down. Just inside the hall is a stone table which belonged to the earlier Fairfaxes. Portions of the moat and walls still remain, and, I believe, the original gateway to the chapel. The writer was told that many skeletons have been found near the house: probably the chapel had a graveyard attached, or otherwise the place must have been the scene of some skirmish. The house was enlarged in 1595, and their coat of arms, carved in stone, was placed over the doorway. When the family removed to Newton Kyme, this stone was brought also, and built into the wall above the hall door; and I think the same stone has been removed to Bilbrough, and is now to be seen in front of the mansion—the residence of Guy Fairfax, Esq. Near to Steeton is Calton, whilst a mile away on the opposite side of the York and Tadcaster road is the village of Bilbrough; situated on the lughest land ins the Ainsty, and on the last elevation of the great mountain range, whose mighty summits uprear in grandeur— where the river fills her urn,—gradually losing their giant forms until the range is lost in the plains of York.
The village of Bilbrough stands about 150 feet above sea level, and is a land mark to the surrounding country. From the opposite sides of the village street can be seen the whole breadth of the lower vales of the Wharfe and Nidd, and the valley of the Ouse to the Humber: a rich and fertile vale. What a magnificent prospect the eye wanders over! Dotted with city and town, village and hamlet, and the silvery streaks of the ever-winding river flowing seawards. The village has a remarkably clean appearance. On the south side of the street nearest York road stands an ancient house, with mullioned windows, once the residence of Admiral Robert Fairfax. Carved on the stone over the doorway are the initials “R. F.”
Although the exterior of the little church at Biibrough may not impress the visitor

with the beauty of its architecture, yet under its sacred portals is the tomb which con tains the ashes of one of England’s noblest sons. The church of late years has under gone complete restoration, which makes it a more worthy resting-place of the great warrior. The only interesting portion is Norton’s chapel, or choir, in the south wall near the chancel, which bears the stamp of age. “It was built in 1492, by “John Norton, Lord of the Manor, and also marks his resting-place. He left “six marks towards the maintenance of Sir William Draper’s Charity, and his “successors for ever: that he and they should sing and occupy the service of “God for the souls of the said John Norton and his family. This sum is still paid to the rector.” Fairfax’s tomb is covered by a black marble slab, seven feet six inches long, and six inches thick, which bears the following inscription :—

HERE LYE THE BODIES OF THE RIGHT HONBLE.
THOMAS, LOUD FAIRFAX, OF DENTON
BARON OF CAMERON,
WHO DYED NOVEMBER YE XII, 1671,
IN THE 60TH YEARE OF HIS AGE,
AND OF ANNE HIS WIFE, DAUGHTER AND CO-HEIR OF
HORATIO, LORD VERE,
BARON OF TILBURY.
THEY HAD ISSUE
MARY, DUCHESS OF BUCKINGHAM,
AND ELIZABETH.
THE MEMORY OF THE JUST IS BLESSED.

At the west end is the coat of arms, with the motto “FARE FAC.” On the
sides, which are of lighter stone, are shields and military trophies, &c.
_____ Before leaving the church we might say there is a tradition amongst the tenantry in this district that the church does not contain the remains of Fighting Tom, as they still lovingly call him.
Speaking to one of the farmers about my visit to the warrior’s tomb, he remarked: “Bless ye,  Black Tom’ “isn’t buried there.” “Then,” said I, “where is he buried?” The reply was: “That’s what we all want to “know, but no one can tell us.” From my conversation with the farmer I learnt that, during the restoration of the church, the tomb was opened, but no remains were found.
Another story is that the night following the interment his body was removed to Walton and secretly buried. There might have been some suspicion lurking in the minds of his friends that the hero’s resting place would not be held sacred, when we consider the devilish work of vengeance, carried beyond the bounds of all
decency, when the graves of the most distinguished statesmen and patriots, including Blake, the world’s greatest admiral, and even the graves of virtuous women, were desecrated. A more vile and despicable vengeance the world never saw, and it reflects the vilest odium on the most disgraceful court England ever knew. The rage of vengeance having passed when Fairfax died, the story of the removal of the body probably rests on mere tradition.

In a chat one day with a native of the district, he remarked :—“ It was a sad “day for the family when ‘Black Tom’ was born” When asked the reason why, he said: “For fighting against his king and country.” I explained, in a few words, that instead of fighting against he fought for his country, arid was, with Hampden and others, one of her greatest patriots. It would have been well for England’s welfare had she possessed more noblemen of his calibre. His reply was “Ah niver knew ‘Black Tom’ was a man ah that sort afore,”
Just on the edge of the churchyard is a dissenting place of worship, which certainly gives the idea of tolerance on religions matters.
A bow shot from the church stands Bilbrough Hall, the residence of Guy Fare fax, Esq., which contains many relics of this famous family, amongst others, the old chair, which was so constructed that the sitter could move about the room at his convenience, during the last years of his life, and when suffering from disease, the result of exposure on the battlefield, most of his time was spent in this chair. After his death it was removed from Nun-Appleton to Seeton, thence to Farnley, after wards to Newton Kyme, and is now to be seen in the dining room at Bilbrough.
The library contains a magnificent family bible and two prayer books, the covers being richly embossed with the royal arms. The entry on the first leaf is in the handwriting of Fordinando, to whom it was presented by Sir Thomas of Denton, in 1612, the occasion being the christening of his grandson, the future general, who was born at Denton, January 17th, and was christened in the family chapel adjoining, on the 25th.
Besides his war boots and much armour, the hall contains several fine portraits and many relics of the Cromwellian period.
A mile nearer Tadcaster is the village of Catterton, from which place, half-an- hour’s walk in the direction of Marston brings us to Helaugh (Helagh).
There is an old world sound in the name of this village, which stands pleasantly at the foot of the rising ground which divides the watershed of the Nidd and the Wharfe. The neat and well-built cottages, with their garden plots and orchards adjoining the village street, present a peaceful scene, and speak of the repose of rural life.
Just on the boundary of the village street, on the small eminence, is the village church, screened in front by many nobly timbered trees, whose grand forms and mighty arms have withstood many a storm and winter’s blast, and still add beauty to the scene. There is an undoubted antiquity around this spot; the mounds and earthworks on the north and east side of the church carry the mind backward to Saxon days. The De Bruses, ancestors of the Kings of Scotland, and that ancient Percy family, princes of the north, had a castle on this spot, which is mentioned by Leland as standing in -the time of Henry VIII.
Badges of the Percies and other symbols have been found here. In the grave-. yard was unearthed, some forty years ago, a stone with Runic characters inscribed on, one of which was the name of the Celtic priest, which strongly points to the fact that on this eminence stood an ancient British church, at the time when the standard of proud Rome floated from the ramparts ef Eboracum; and when the priestly Druids still offered up their human sacrifices on their rude altars, and worshipped in the mystic circle. The evidence of a British church existing here, previous to the 4th century, is the discovery of the fragment of a tombstone, when digging on the north side of the sacred edifice. It seems evidently to have been a memorial to a priest, with the rough outlines of the chalice and patens, and a few words in Runic characters, giving the word “Modug” (Celtic), on one side of the
cross HEV or HEIU, and also providing the name Helagh, the ancient dedication
of one church by St. Helen.
Provost Brown says: “After the synod of Whitby, the Celtic priests were
“deprived of their See, in 664,” so that the memorial has evidently been raised
before this date.

This stone, which has been examined by two or three celebrated antiquarians, has mysteriously disappeared; no one seems to know where it went. It is said, in mediaeval times it was considered a meritorious act to steal relics modern antiquarians are not too scrupulous in this respect. A hole in the church door is said to have been caused by a bullet fired by one of Cromwell’s troopers. The
porch at the west end probably dates to the 11th century, and is very curious the chancel door way, south-east end, to the 13th century; the chancel is large and comprises a small church in-size. Reposing on a fine tomb of marble under the chancel arch, are the effigies of Lord Wharton and his two wives. Part of the inscription reads “His family “gave him his name, but my “victorious right arm gave me “my honours.” The chancel also contains many tombstones inscribed to the memory of the Mortimer family. This church contains a beautiful lectern, the work of the vicar, the Rev. Cook. The church of Bolton Percy also contains another fine specimen of this gentle man’s art work in brass. In the burial ground, amongst many others, is a tablet to the memory of the following

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN FOSTER, OF THIS VILLAGE,
CARPENTER, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE 8TH DAY OF JUNE, 1796,
AGED 50 YEARS. HE HAD ISSUE BY MARTHA, HIS WIFE,
FOURTEEN SONS. __________ — IN REMEMBRANCE OF WILLIAM, THE 7TH SON OF JOHN AND
MARTHA FOSTER, WHO DIED 26TH AUGUST, 1786. AGED 13 WEKS.
HENRY, THEIR 9TH SON, DIED 15TH JULY, 1790, AGED 7 WEKS.
MARK, THEIR 10TH SON, DIED 22ND FEBRUARY, 1795, AGED 2
YEARS AND 15 WEEKS, ALSO THEIR 11TH, 12TH, AND 13TH SONS, WHO DIED IN THEIR INFANCY.
- ERE SEN COULD BLAST OR FLOWER FADE, DEATH CAME WITH FRIENDLY CARE;
THE OPENING BUDS TO HEAVEN CONVEYED,
AND BADE THEM BLOSSOM THERE.

In front of the hall, near the church gate, is still to be seen the remains of the market cross; this was in olden days the village green where the fairs and markets were held.
Helaugh Priory, now doing duty as a farm house, stands midway between Helaugh and Tadcaster, by the side of the road. In 1203, Batram Hajet granted land to found a priory of the Order of St. Austin, and a church was built in honour of St. John the Evangelist.
In 1218, a convent of regular black canons was sent over from France, and established by Jordan de St. Maria. The arms of the De Pendens, benefactors of this priory in the 13th century, are to be seen in Helaugh Church, on the Whartons’ tomb. A coat of arms of this family, quartered with those of the Whartons, was lately found at Steeton, the old seat of the Fairfaxes; and probably points to the Whartons assuming the arms, on coming into the possession of the manor, hortly after the suppression of the monasteries. In 1425, the dean and chapter made declaration, that the vicar shall receive his victuals, clothing, &c., and this the vicar shall receive of the prior, £5 per annum at Pentecost and Matins, and shall have for habitation the house in Helagh, and half the garden on east side of the town; and that the priory and convent shall build their own house with six posts for kitchen and stables, and a well and way to it, and the vicar shall be content there with ; and not receive fruits, plants, or other emoluments appertaining to the church. The priory chapel is now entirely destroyed. Fragments, in form of early English cups and basis, are to be seen in the building of the west farm of the priory, built on some forty years ago. Some six years ago, as the vicar of Helaugh was looking over the remains of the priory, he discovered inside a cattle shed, a portion of the west wall of the south aisle, of the early English church of 1218; the remains of the kitchen and bakery departments are to be seen in the building used as a barn. The south farm was only built some fifty years ago; its appearance gives the idea of far greater age, caused by the use of the old materials from the priory. The door stone of this house was once a body stone in the floor of the priory chapel, and on it may still be seen the name of one of the De Pendens.
“OVATE PRO ANI’ME.”
ROBERT PENDEN.
One mile and a quarter north-west of the priory, is the ancient village of Wighill.

WIGHILL.

THE hill just outside the village, a stronghold or place of defence in the early Saxon days, and the scene of an engagement between Angle and
Celt. On this commanding site stands the church of Wighill, a venerable structure, historic with the reminiscences of the Stapletons.

From the graveyard lovely views of the surrounding country are obtained. Vessels can be seen ascending the Ouse away beyond Selby town, whilst the undulating vale country spreads before us like a dream to the eastern wolds. Living near the close of the 19th century, we may with truth call this a church of olden time, with
its beautiful Norman porch and arches of the same period. The interior, with its uneven floor, rough and ancient oaken pews, mark it as the most primitive church along the vale of the Wharfe. Here prayers have been offered, and the gospel preached, since the days of the Angle kings. The north side of the tower end contains an effigy of a knight of the Stapleton family, 15th century period. In front of the menument is a Turk’s head, a badge of the Stapletons, assumed by them through some heroic action on the battlefield,
perhaps a remote ancestor of the family may have slain in single combat some mighty warrior of the infidel
hosts during the crusading wars.
Amongst many legends connecting this badge with the Stapletons, and the lands of
Wighill, is the following one quaintly told by the aged sexton :—