# The English Peasant/A Yorkshire Dale

WALKS AND TALKS WITH ENGLISH PEASANTS.
I.
A Yorkshire Dale.
(Golden Hours, 1872.)
"And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales, Among the rocks and winding scars; Where deep and low the hamlets lie, Beneath their little patch of sky And little lot of stars."—Wordsworth.
In the wild sublimity of its mountain cradle, and the romantic beauty of its falls, the Swale need not fear comparison with its sisters, the Ure and the Greta.
Shut in by two long ranges of opposing cliffs, rising at times to the altitude of nearly 2000 feet, Swaledale has preserved longer than elsewhere the interesting and often valuable customs of the fore-elders. The ancient town of Richmond, at the entrance to the dale, is its only direct communication with the outer world. To go north, or south, or west, the dalesmen must traverse precipitous and lonely roads, across lofty fells, or wild illimitable moors. Thus shut in, they acquire that stay-at-home character, than which nothing so strengthens local idiosyncracy. At the present day there are people in the dale who have never even gone so far from their homes as Richmond.
"They know no other torrent
Than that which waters with its silver current
Their native meadows; and that very earth
Shall give them burial which first gave them birth."
The only public conveyance in the dale is the carrier's cart, ​which jogs to and fro from Richmond to Reeth, a village about half-way up the dale.
The little company with whom I rode to Reeth consisted of an old daleswoman and her daughter, and a woodcutter who sprang up soon after we left Richmond. He was an independent sort of a man, as indeed I found all the dalesmen to be. There is a practical equality among them, arising from similarity of position and education, which shows itself in many ways. Farther up the dale, I was told, the servants sit in the same parlour as their master and mistress, and call them, with the simple familiarity of friends, Tom and Mary.
The woodcutter was very talkative. He was employed in cutting down small, or "spring-wood," as he phrased it, used for the purpose of making supports to the cuttings in the lead mines. He was paid 4d. a dozen, but the dozen was reckoned in a curious way. Twenty-four small sticks, or one pole of ten feet, were alike regarded as equivalent to a dozen. He found employment nearly all the year round, and was evidently not badly off. He thought there were not many poor people in the dale—that is, people in want. On the contrary, many poor-looking men were very rich, and had hundreds of pounds in the bank. Those who live near the moor can feed their stock for nothing, live in the barest manner, and save little by little. In describing the dalesmen, we must reverse the line—
"His vices lean to virtue's side,"
for their frugality and prudence too often degenerate into mere avarice and selfishness. The woodcutter spoke of one man, worth £2000, who hired himself as a day-labourer to his brother, because by so doing it cost him nothing to live. I was told of another man who lived at the rate of about £20 a year, and suffered all the anxieties of the wealthy miser. "No one," he was heard to say, "knew what it was to sleep on seven thousand pounds."
From Richmond to Reeth the Swale comes dashing an< sparkling over the stones which lie scattered everywhere in it shallow bed. Right up from its banks, sometimes almost precipitously, the rocks rise clothed with thick woods, while, high above, their scarred and lofty ridges wind circuitousl up ​the dale. To the left the acclivity is less sudden, and its base is sometimes covered with trees, sometimes spread out into fields; but it rises ere long to an altitude equal to the opposite side, so that the road is shut in by a double range of hills, while in the far-off distance ever appears the hazy outline of some huge round-shouldered fell. Now and then a farmhouse may be seen perched up amongst the trees, but as a rule they lie along the road. Nailed against the wall of one I noticed a number of dry corpses of weasels, squirrels, hawks, and some tails of wildcats—a proof to the master of the energy of his servants.
Peaceful, indeed, would be the lives of these dalesmen, if it were not that their chief industry—lead-mining—is subject to much fluctuation. Reeth, the centre of the mining district, is a bleak and rather dismal place, surrounded by lofty hills. It stands itself at a level of 600 feet above the sea; while Reeth Low Moor, which rises immediately behind the village, is 1000 feet higher. All the houses are of stone, and, like both the men and the horses, may be described as "bony, gaunt, and grim." What a relief a red chimney-pot would be!—but not a particle of colour is allowed to disturb the dull monotony of the grey limestone, of which not only houses, but barns and stables, are built. So plentiful is it that I observed a lane actually paved, •while every field is divided by walls called "dykes," composed of loose boulders, which are piled one on another, and kept together by their great weight.
These dykes intersect the landscape in all directions, adding to the severe aspect of the hills, scarred all along their heights with patches of naked rock. But the dale itself is sweet, though stern. Seen in the transfiguring power of sunlight, all its hardness softens into lines of beauty.
It was hay harvest, but the season was peculiarly wet. Now and then the sun broke out, and then the fields were full of groups of busy men and women. Up and down they went, steadily tossing the new-mown grass, while the children sang joyfully. It was a happy hour—
"From dale to dale, Waking the breeze, arose the blended voice Of happy labour, love, and social glee."
In a walk in the neighbourhood of Reeth I met one—a gentle, intelligent man. His complexion was pale and yellow, but through it shone a genial, shrewd, and far from melancholy expression. He was returning home from the mine. He had to walk two hours to his work, and two hours back—a distance of five or six miles each way. He worked in the mine his own time, and spoke w^ell of the masters. Sometimes the miners descend shafts twenty-four fathoms deep; these shafts are supported by woodwork, and the men have to climb up and down them. In the levels they work by candle-light, and go in by a very narrow tunnel on a tramway. They never have explosions, as in coal-mines, but the air is close, and when they come out they feel dizzy for a bit.
In addition to his earnings at the mine, he farmed three acres, on which he kept a cow—selling the milk for a penny a pint, and sometimes "kearning a bit." He had had eight children, but they were all dead but two; one, a girl of seven, had died in a fortnight from the effects of a burn. The last who died was a young man of eight-and-twenty, who, it seemed, had taken- much to learning. "I schuled him te fourteen, and he went on te mensuration and algebra. Ah, edication's a light harrow, ye may carry it anywhere. I sent him down here te schule at Low Row, and paid sixpence a week. The price was tenpence, but the committee said, 'If ye charge him that much, ​maybe he'll be taken away, sin' his father's but a puir man.' There was Barker's son, he went te college, and was teacher at the free schule up here; he was his schulefellow; the tweeah went to schule together, and now they are both deead."
Consumption killed the son—a disease, I fear, common amongst these miners, since inhaling the noxious vapour and the lead-dust must make havoc with the lungs, and, moreover the occupation is hereditary.
My friend paid £13 a year for his little cottage, and something besides for poors' rates and taxes. He had no vote, and seemed rather to deprecate the privilege than to desire it.
"If I'd a vote they might summon me te York on a jury; besides, I know many a man who has a vote who daren't use it." He hoped they would pass the bill for vote by ballot.
He was a Wesleyan, but he thought "we should never be asked what we'd been." A man one instinctively took to, when the time came for parting it was with mutual regret.
An old tale was told me, setting forth the quaint simplicity of these dalesmen. A miner, going into a little Roman Catholic church in the dale, was present at the Mass. He stared for a long time at each successive action in the ceremonial, until at last he saw the priest raise the chalice, hold it aloft, and drink from it himself without offering it to the other communicants. Then his patience fairly gave way, and he exclaimed, "Eh, lad, I thought thee'd take it all theesel' in the end."
The dialect of these dalesmen is not easy to understand, for they not only use a great many words a stranger has never heard of before, but they use common words in a strange sense. Thus a sick person is said to be "silly." Some old English words are used—to bray, is to bruise. They have their own way of naming some things—thus red currants are "wine berries." In many words, however, it is only the pronunciation, as "lili-uns " for children, that is, little ones; while the youngest is called the "le-le-ist." At the inn at which I stopped this difference of pronunciation led to a curious mistake. I asked for fruit, and they understood me to ask for trout, which they call "troot." Going into the kitchen, and seeing the mistress engaged in making preserves, I put the question to her.
​"May be," she replied; "as it's been so soppy, there'll be some catched to-day."
Their habit of nicknaming each other is carried to such an extent that people are better known by these nicknames than by their real ones.
"Who has joined the church?" asks a woman, at whose house the minister calls.
"Mary Alderson," he replies.
The inquirer looks puzzled, although she has probably known the girl in question from a baby. A little later he goes in again.
"Oh," she says, "I know who 'tis you mean; it's Bessie Billywidow."
People, too, so far accept these nicknames as almost to forget that they possess any other. At Richmond Sessions they called out for a man named John Metcalf. No answer. Some one suggested that they should cry Sandy John Jock, and he showed himself immediately. Frequently the nickname consists of the addition of their father's and grandfather's Christian name, as Simon's Dick, Simon's Dick's Maggie.
When we left Reeth the clouds were dark and gloomy, and soon quite hid the distant fell. Suddenly the rain fell in torrents. At the approach of the second storm we took shelter in a cottage. Instead of the ancient hearthstone and open chimney and turf fire, such as one sees in the south, there was a modern grate, possessing every convenience, such as large ovens and boilers, while the pots and kettles were suspended by hooks of polished steel to a crane of the same material.
A huge pot as big as a bucket hung over the fire, filled with some savoury mess, which a young damsel was stirring. It is said there is little for the young women to do beyond housework and churning, which can be easily done by the mother and one of the daughters. The cheese and butter they make is collected by local men, who take it to Hawes, where it is bought by the dealers.
How miserable these little stone villages look in wet weather; no pretty little gardens, but stuck here and there without symmetry, black, grimy, and ruinous-looking. The whole of the vale, and far away up the sides of the hills, is divided into endless ​fields, each field surrounded by its dyke. In the corner of every field stands the "cow-byre," a little stone building, the upper story being used for hay, the lower to shield the cows in winter.
Wet and dripping I left Muker, but notwithstanding the rain I could perceive at every step the road was becoming grander. Now through the mist I saw the enorm6us fells rising on every hand. I heard the roar of the mountain torrents, swollen with the heavy rains; the brown, foaming waters dashing over slabs of limestone, ' now this side, now that. Soon I passed Thwaite, a little village picturesquely situated on a beck, whose dashing force covers its stony walls with spray. On I went, until I found that I was coming on the moor.
But where was Keld? Keld, my bourn? Keld, to see which I had made this pilgrimage? Why, it turned out to be a little hamlet of stone cots, hid in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by illimitable moors. The moors—cragless, treeless, undulating sweeps of peat—bog and heather and swamp; the moors—
"That seldom hear a voice save that of heaven!  How like a prostrate giant—not in sleep,  But listening to his beating heart—they lie!  With winds and clouds dread harmony they keep."
And yet in this silent, remote spot hearts have been beating, brains working, and life going on as fresh and vigorous as any in the busy haunts of men. Here a noble-hearted Christian minister, who has been called "the Oberlin of the dales," lived and laboured, and this it was which made the spot attractive, and drew me to it.
James Wilkinson was himself a dalesman. The very name of his birthplace, Beckside Farm, Howgill, suggests the scenes amongst which he was cradled. One sees the little stone homestead standing in the gill or gully of some romantic vale, the mountain stream dashing down in sparkling cascades.
Labouring day by day for the good of his people, thinking only how he might promote their mental and spiritual welfare; turning his thoughts into deeds; shut out from all external influences in this remote spot for twenty-eight years, James Wilkinson lived a poem, if he never wrote one. He used his great powers of organisation and untiring energy entirely for the good of others, ​his sole purpose in life being, as he himself puts it, "to be spent in the ways of his great Lord and Master Jesus Christ." In the quarter of a century during which he worked in Keld and its neighbourhood,hundreds—one might say thousands—of Yorkshiremen, with just such talents as his, rose easily to positions of wealth and influence far beyond the dreams of their forefathers. But such considerations never tempted James Wilkinson from his post. Ordained at Keld, he died pastor of Keld, having fairly worn himself out by his manifold labours. To form any idea of the intense earnestness of his spirit, one ought to see Keld, a miserable hamlet of about twenty cottages, containing not more than seventy inhabitants, hidden in an out-of-the-way corner of the moors, nearly ten miles from direct communication with any of the main arteries of life in England.
Some idea may be formed of his energy by a short summary of the outward and material improvements which were effected during his ministry. Having succeeded in getting a new schoolhouse erected, he turned his attention to the best means of arousing the mental energies of his people. Collecting a little company of twelve young men at his house, he formed a Mutual Improvement Society on the principle of self-reliance. In seven years the Society was able to think of building a Literary Institute, which was opened in 1862 at a cost of about;£^119. I visited this Institute in company with the librarian, who is also the postmaster of the village. It had two good rooms, in one of which was a large and well-selected library, comprising not only good books of reference, such as "Rees' Cyclopaedia," but many of the best modern works of science, travel, and fiction. The books have been mainly selected by the members themselves. Whenever they have some money to spend they get a list from Mudie's Library, and each member is allowed to write down the name of the new book he wishes added. The list having been put up for a fortnight, each member votes for those in the list he likes best.
In the winter, evening classes are conducted by the librarian, who is evidently the chief man in the village. He dwells in a cottage built by his great-grandfather, and possesses a large and well-stocked garden and apiary. The interior of the cottage was the pink of neatness and comfort, and contained many curiosities. ​Up against the wall was a row of old china, which would have rejoiced the heart of a collector. He was a musician as well, and possessed both a dulcimer and a harmonium. Just behind his cottage is a fine waterfall called Cataract Force, caused by the Swale forcing its way through the limestone, and pouring down over a number of ledges, some hundred feet in width, in a series of foaming falls.
But to return to the pastor of Keld and its Literary Institute. The example thus set in the most remote corner of the dale spread, and now there is scarcely a village in Swaledale without its literary institute.
We may judge that all this outward fruit could not have ripened if there had not been earnest and constant endeavour in a more private way. Not only were there the regular Sunday ministrations, with six or eight miles to traverse betwixt the two chapels of Keld and Thwaite, but pastoral visits in winter-time, which were still more formidable undertakings. They were generally announced beforehand from the pulpit, and when the day arrived a little company would sally forth with their pastor, clad weather-proof, and, carrying lanterns and sticks, cross the trackless snow of the moor, leaping the frozen becks, to visit some lonely farm lying far away among the hills, and which but for such visits would be cut off from human sympathy for weeks together.
The people here at the head of the dale are mainly shepherd farmers, working themselves, assisted perhaps by a couple of men who live in the house, and eat and drink with them. If these men get married, they live out of the house, and receive about twelve or thirteen shillings a week. But they generally wait until they have saved a little money, and can take a small farm and begin on their own account. This is not difficult to do, as every householder has a right of pasturage for his cattle and sheep on the moors from the 29th of May until winter. During winter the cattle are shut up in the cow-byres and fed upon hay, but the poor sheep have to do the best they can on the moor. This is a hard time for the shepherds, as the roads get snowed up, and the sheep in danger of being lost. However, they collect them in little places of refuge, resembling the Northumbrian "stells." Often the boys have to go out on the moor with great bundles of hay on their heads to feed the sheep.
​During the summer-time, about six o'clock every afternoon, the cow-herds go out with great tin cases slung over their shoulder, uttering a shrill cry to call the cattle of the moors. Rarely have they any trouble, for the cows are so accustomed to the hour that they would return of themselves, even if there were no call.
The cottages are seldom on a level with the road, standing either above or below it. I was invited into one which lay considerably below the road-side, inhabited by a couple who had evidently married late in life. Spotlessly clean was their parlour, chairs, table, and floor, bright as hand polish and soap and water could make them. There was the tall mahogany clock-case, made at the time of the wedding. There, too, was a shorter clock and a barometer. Dazzling was the burnished steel of the great fire range, notwithstanding the good fire which burnt in the grate, though it was only just August. From the ceiling hung suspended long planks of cedar wood, whereon they stowed away their oatmeal cakes and other commodities. Instead of pictures, the walls were ornamented with numerous mourning-cards, framed and glazed. They placed me in a great rocking-chair, and while the farmer sat opposite me in another, the good wife fetched a glass of milk and some oatcake. The farmer thought things wonderfully improved in the dale since his childhood; hardly any land was then enclosed, all was open moor. For even these quiet spots see great changes. The tide of humanity is ever ebbing and flowing. Thus, twelve hundred years ago, the Swale must have had a vast population on its banks if it be true that Paulinus baptized 10,000 converts in its waters. Now human beings are so scarce that a visitor is quite a curiosity. Immediately I entered the village the news was transmitted to the minister that "a stranger in mannerly claes had come to Keld;" and in the evening a number of men and boys, who had assembled close by the house at which I was staying, were evidently discussing my apparition. Every now and then a figure passed by my window, casting a stealthy glance within, so that I thought it best for my own peace of mind and theirs to go out and make a clean breast of it.
After the morning's deluge sunset brought a lovely evening, and I had a glimpse of what the dales might be when all was propitious. To the left, Kisdon, a lofty hill, rose to the height of 1600 feet ​above the sea-level. From one end to the other hung a rainbow. On the other side the sun was setting, softly touching with its golden light Muker Ridge, a great sweep of moorland. From White Beacon Hags to Gil's Head, for so they call the crests which rise at either end of this moorland ridge, lay a bank of soft white cloud. No sound but the roar of waterfalls disturbed the stillness of the Sabbath eve.
The roar of waterfalls!—ay, indeed!—for nigh to Keld are some of the finest to be seen. I have spoken of Cataract Force, which is immediately behind the village. Onward the Swale continues its troubled way, until it passes under a little antique stone bridge. Here West Stonesdate Beck comes rushing into the Swale in a fine series of falls. Then the river winds on through a stony ravine, where the rocks rise like the walls of an old fortress,—
"Condemned to mine a channelled way  Through solid sheets of marble grey."
It pours down here in two magnificent waterfalls, called Kisdon Higher and Lower Force. To see them in their glory it is necessary to descend to the bed of the river. This was no easy task, since one side is precipitous rock, and the other a slippery soil and tangled underwood, but it was a sight fully repaying every exertion. Huge rocks, thirty or forty feet high, had fallen down, and lay strewn about the stream. The ridge of the limestone wall to the right was crowned with foliage; indeed, both sides are well wooded, trees growing wherever they can find earth to root themselves. Ferns of rarest kinds, mosses, and wild flowers, adorn in profusion the boggy declivities, while on the clammy sides of the ravine one may see the mosses gradually petrifying under the perpetual drip. But the fall itself, seen in such weather, is stupendous. Its immense volume comes pouring over the rocks, ploughing the solid bed of the river, and steaming up again in clouds of spray, the froth settling into thick clots on both sides. Up again we have to scramble, now climbing from stone step to stone step, until we reach the Higher Force, where the waters fall in a huge peat-stained cataract.
On my road back I followed the course of the Swale, having ​Kisdon to my right. I passed the ruins of an old smelting-house, standing at the entrance of a narrow gorge. Capped by a round-headed mountain, its wild and solemn grandeur seemed like a dream of the Holy Land.
Boggy enough is Ivelet Moor, over which I had to cross; but the scenery repaid all. From the wooded hillsides ever and anon the little becks came trickling over the rock. All of a sudden I note a heavy fog on the distant moor; a few moments, and it has reached me, and down comes the drenching rain.
But the sun is soon out again, and with every step the dale loses the stern aspect of its moorland cradle, and becomes more and more serenely beautiful. If I cast one more glance behind I see the great moors rising on both sides of the deep flat valley, cut up into numerous fields, and studded here and there by a few fir copses, the distances ever shut in by the cold cloud-like tops of the loftier fells. But when I look forward, the scene is gentle and charming, the blue stream meanders to and fro, leaving broad banks of white stones sparkling in the sunlight. Dotted with many trees is the edge of the stream, while above and below the roadway rise the little stone cottages. What rural bits one may see on this roadway! All is free, free as the air and the water; cattle browse and pigs wander at their own sweet will. Here comes a pedlar with one leg, marching along bravely on crutches, to make a foreground to the picture, while for a distance we have the bold outline of Harkaside Moor, and further on the purply heights of Copperthwaite. Farewell, bright stream—
"Flow on, and bathe each wilding flower  That lives, and dies, and lives again;  Flow on, blessed by the vernal shower,  And morning dew, and summer rain,  A little emblem of that river  Which flows in Paradise for ever!"