Nooks and Corners of Old England
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Title: Nooks and Corners of Old England
Author: Allan Fea
Release date: May 13, 2012 [eBook #39685]
Most recently updated: September 11, 2012
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39685
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOOKS AND CORNERS OF OLD ENGLAND ***
Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Google
Print archive.
[Illustration: Book Cover]
NOOKS AND CORNERS
OF OLD ENGLAND
[Illustration: Queen Eleanor's Cross
at Geddington]
NOOKS AND CORNERS
OF OLD ENGLAND
BY
ALLAN FEA
AUTHOR OF
"SECRET CHAMBERS AND HIDING PLACES" "PICTURESQUE OLD HOUSES"
"FLIGHT OF THE KING" ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
BY THE AUTHOR
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1908
TO
MY OLD FRIEND
SEYMOUR LUCAS, R.A., F.S.A.
THIS BOOK
IS AFFECTIONATELY
INSCRIBED
A recent glance over some old Ordnance Maps, the companions of many a
ramble in the corners of Old England, has suggested the idea of jotting
down a few fragmentary notes, which we trust may be of interest.
Upon a former occasion we wandered with pencil and camera haphazard off
the beaten track mainly in the counties surrounding the great
Metropolis; and though there are several tempting "Nooks" still near at
hand, we have now extended our range of exploration.
We only trust the reader will derive a little of the pleasure we have
found in compiling this little volume.
A. F.
CONTENTS
PAGE
NOOKS IN HUNTINGDONSHIRE AND NORTH NORTHANTS 1
SOME SUFFOLK NOOKS 22
NOOKS IN NORFOLK 40
NOOKS IN WARWICKSHIRE AND BORDERLAND 59
SOME NOOKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE AND GLOUCESTERSHIRE 78
NOOKS IN NORTHERN WILTSHIRE 102
EASTERN AND SOUTHERN SOMERSET 123
IN WESTERN SOMERSET 147
IN DEVON AND DORSET 162
HERE AND THERE IN SALOP AND STAFFORDSHIRE 181
IN NORTHERN DERBYSHIRE 200
NOOKS IN YORKSHIRE 225
INDEX 269
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
QUEEN ELEANOR'S CROSS AT GEDDINGTON _Frontispiece_
THE BELL, STILTON _Facing page_ 8
KIRBY HALL 18
WOTHORPE MANOR-HOUSE 18
DOORWAY, KIRBY HALL 20
GATEWAY, KIRBY HALL 20
ERWARTON HALL 36
WALSINGHAM 42
WALSINGHAM 42
EAST BARSHAM MANOR 44
FONT CANOPY, TRUNCH 44
WYMONDHAM 52
HAUTBOYS HALL 52
CHASTLETON 64
PIRTON COURT 80
THE WHITE HOUSE, PIXHAM 80
SEVERN END 82
SEVERN END 82
RIPPLE 86
STANTON 86
STANWAY HOUSE 90
STANWAY HOUSE 90
POSTLIP HALL 98
STOCKS, PAINSWICK 98
NAILSWORTH 100
BEVERSTONE CASTLE 100
GATE-HOUSE, SPYE PARK 104
LACOCK 104
LACOCK 106
BEWLEY COURT 106
LACOCK 108
LACOCK ABBY 108
CORSHAM ALMSHOUSE 112
CORSHAM ALMSHOUSE 112
CORSHAM ALMSHOUSE 114
CASTLE COMBE 114
YATTON KEYNELL MANOR 116
BULLICH MANOR-HOUSE 116
SHELDON MANOR 118
SHELDON MANOR 118
SOUTH WRAXALL MANOR-HOUSE 120
SOUTH WRAXALL MANOR-HOUSE 120
THE GEORGE, NORTON ST. PHILIP 124
THE GEORGE, NORTON ST. PHILIP 124
CHARTERHOUSE HINTON 128
WELLOW MANOR-HOUSE 128
OLD HOUSE NEAR CROSCOMBE 130
BECKINGTON CASTLE 130
CROSCOMBE CHURCH 132
CROSCOMBE 132
LYTES CARY MANOR-HOUSE 134
LYTES CARY MANOR-HOUSE 134
ANCIENT SCREEN, CURRY RIVEL CHURCH 136
FIREPLACE, LYTES CARY 136
BARRINGTON COURT 138
HINTON ST. GEORGE 140
SANDFORD ORCAS MANOR-HOUSE 140
MONTACUTE HOUSE 144
MONTACUTE PRIORY 144
CROWCOMBE 148
OLD HOUSE, CROWCOMBE 148
COMBE SYDENHAM 152
COMBE SYDENHAM 152
CROWCOMBE CHURCH 156
DUNSTER 156
BINDON 168
BINDON 168
WYLDE COURT 170
THE GOLDEN LION, BARNSTAPLE 170
MAPPERTON MANOR-HOUSE 172
MELPLASH COURT 172
WATERSTONE 174
ATHELHAMPTON 174
ATHELHAMPTON 176
ATHELHAMPTON 176
MONMOUTH'S TREE 178
SERVANTS' HALL, CHIRK CASTLE 182
SERVANTS' HALL, CHIRK CASTLE 184
MARKET DRAYTON 190
MARKET DRAYTON 190
BLACKLADIES 198
GREAT HALL, HADDON 202
GREAT HALL, HADDON 202
COURTYARD, HADDON 204
DRAWING-ROOM, HADDON 204
WITHDRAWING-ROOM, HADDON 206
WITHDRAWING-ROOM, HADDON 206
DOORWAY, HADDON 208
INTERIOR COURTYARD, HADDON 208
GREAT HALL, HADDON 212
HARDWICK HALL 212
GARLANDS, ASHFORD CHURCH 220
GATEWAY, KNOWSTHORPE HALL 240
TOMB, DARFIELD CHURCH 240
LEATHLEY STOCKS 244
STOCKS AT WESTON 244
MIDDLEHAM CASTLE 252
SWINSTY HALL 252
QUEEN'S GAP, LEYBURN "SHAWL" 254
BELLERBY OLD HALL 256
BOLTON CASTLE 256
ASKRIGG 260
NAPPA HALL 260
RICHMOND 266
EASBY ABBEY 266
NOOKS IN HUNTINGDONSHIRE
AND NORTH NORTHANTS
At Huntingdon we are on familiar ground with Samuel Pepys. When he
journeyed northwards to visit his parental house or to pay his respects
to Lord Sandwich's family at Hinchinbrooke, he usually found suitable
accommodation at "Goody Gorums" and "Mother" somebody else who lived
over against the "Crown." Neither the famous posting-house the "George"
nor the "Falcon" are mentioned in the _Diary_, but he speaks of the
"Chequers"; however, the change of names of ancient hostelries is
common, so in picturing the susceptible Clerk of the Admiralty chucking
a pretty chambermaid under the chin in the old galleried yard of the
"George," we may not be far out of our reckoning.
But altogether the old George Inn is somewhat disappointing. Its
balustraded galleries are there sure enough, with the queer old
staircase leading up to them in one of the corners; but it has the same
burnished-up appearance of the courtyard of the Leicester Hospital at
Warwick. How much more pleasing both would strike the eye were there
less paint and varnish. The Inn has been refronted, and from the street
has quite a modern appearance.
Huntingdon recalls the sterner name of Cromwell. Strange that this
county, so proud of the Lord Protector (for has it not recently set up a
gorgeous statue at St. Ives to his memory?), should still harbour
red-hot Jacobites! According to _The Legitimist Calendar_, mysterious
but harmless meetings are still held hereabouts on Oak Apple Day: a day
elsewhere all but forgotten. Huntingdon was the headquarters of the
Royalist army certainly upon many occasions, and when evil days fell
upon the "Martyr King," some of his staunchest friends were here
secretly working for his welfare.[1] When Charles passed through the
town in 1644, the mayor, loyal to the back-bone, had prepared a speech
to outrival the flowery welcome of his fellow-magistrates: "Although
Rome's Hens," he said, "should daily hatch of its preposterous eggs,
chrocodilicall chickens, yet under the Shield of Faith, by you our most
Royal Sovereigne defended and by the King of Heavens as I stand and your
most medicable councell, would we not be fearful to withstand them."[2]
Though the sentence is somewhat involved, the worthy magnate doubtless
meant well.
It was the custom, by the way, so Evelyn tells us, when a monarch passed
through Huntingdon, to meet him with a hundred ploughs as a symbol of
the fruitful soil: the county indeed at one time was rich in vines and
hops, and has been described by old writers as the garden of England.
Still here as elsewhere the farmers' outlook is a poor one to-day,
although there are, of course, exceptions.
At historic Hinchinbrooke (on June 4, 1647), King Charles slept the
first night after he was removed from Holdenby House by Cornet Joyce:
the first stage of his _progress_ to the scaffold. In the grounds of the
old mansion, the monarch, when Prince of Wales, and little Oliver played
together, for the owner in those days of the ancient seat of the
Montagues and Cromwells was the future Protector's uncle and godfather.
Upon one occasion the boys had a stand-up fight, and the commoner, the
senior by only one year, made his royal adversary's nose bleed,--an
augury for fatal events to follow. The story is told how little Oliver
fell into the Ouse and was fished out by a Royalist piscatorial parson.
Years afterwards, when the Protector revisited the scenes of his youth
in the midst of his triumphant army, he encountered his rescuer, and
asked him whether he remembered the occurrence.
"Truly do I," was the prompt reply; "and the Lord forgive me, but I wish
I'd let thee drown."
The Montagues became possessed of the estate in 1627. Pepys speaks of
"the brave rooms and good pictures," which pleased him better than those
at Audley End. The Diarist's parental house remains at Brampton, a
little to the west of Huntingdon. In characteristic style he records a
visit there in October 1667: "So away for Huntingdon mightily pleased
all along the road to remember old stories, and come to Brampton at
about noon, and there found my father and sister and brother all well:
and here laid up our things, and up and down to see the gardens with my
father, and the house; and do altogether find it very pretty, especially
the little parlour and the summer-houses in the garden, only the wall do
want greens up it, and the house is too low roofed; but that is only
because of my coming from a house with higher ceilings."
Before turning our steps northwards, let us glance at the mediaeval
bridge that spans the river Ouse, to Godmanchester, which is referred to
by the thirteenth-century historian _Henry of Huntingdon_ as "a noble
city." But its nobility has long since departed, and some modern
monstrosities in architecture make the old Tudor buildings which
remain, blush for such brazen-faced obtrusion. Its ancient water-mill
externally looks so dilapidated, that one would think the next
"well-formed depression" from America would blow it to atoms. Not a bit
of it. Its huge timber beams within, smile at such fears. It is a
veritable fortress of timber. But although this solid wooden structure
defies the worst of gales, there are rumours of coming electric
tramways, and then, alas! the old mill will bow a dignified departure,
and the curfew, which yet survives, will then also perhaps think it is
time to be gone.
At Little Stukeley, on the Great North Road some three miles above
Huntingdon, is a queer old inn, the "Swan and Salmon," bearing upon its
sign the date 1676. It is a good example of the brickwork of the latter
half of the seventeenth century. Like many another ancient hostelry on
the road to York, it is associated with Dick Turpin's exploits; and to
give colour to the tradition, mine host can point at a little masked
hiding-place situated somewhere at the back of the sign up in its gable
end. It certainly looks the sort of place that could relate stories of
highwaymen; a roomy old building, which no doubt in its day had
trap-doors and exits innumerable for the convenience of the gentlemen of
the road.
A little off the ancient "Ermine Street," to the north-west of Stukeley,
is the insignificant village of Coppingford, historically interesting
from the fact that when Charles I. fled from Oxford in disguise in 1646,
he stopped the night there at a little obscure cottage or alehouse, on
his way to seek protection of the Scots at Southwell. "This day one
hundred years ago," writes Dr. Stukeley in his _Memoirs_ on May 3, 1746,
"King Charles, Mr. John Ashburnham, and Dr. Hudson came from Coppingford
in Huntingdonshire and lay at Mr. Alderman Wolph's house, now mine, on
Barn Hill; all the day obscure." Hudson, from whom Sir Walter drew his
character of Dr. Rochecliffe in _Woodstock_, records the fact in the
following words: "We lay at Copingforde in Huntingdonshire one Sunday, 3
May; wente not to church, but I read prayers to the King; and at six at
night he went to Stamforde. I writte from Copingforde to Mr. Skipwith
for a horse, and he sente me one, which was brought to me at Stamforde.
---- at Copingforde the King and me, with my hoste and hostis and two
children, were by the fire in the hall. There was noe other chimney in
the house."[3] The village of Little Gidding, still farther to the
north-west, had often before been visited by Charles in connection with
a religious establishment that had been founded there by the Ferrar
family. A curious old silk coffer, which was given by Charles to the
nieces of the founder, Nicholas Ferrar, upon one of these occasions,
some years ago came into the possession of our late queen, and is still
preserved at Windsor.
A few miles to the north-east is Glatton, another remote village where
old May-day customs yet linger. There are some quaint superstitions in
the rural districts hereabouts. A favourite remedy for infectious
disease is to open the window of the sickroom not so much to let in the
fresh air as to admit the gnats, which are believed to fly away with the
malady and die. The beneficial result is never attributed to oxygen!
The Roman road (if, indeed, it is the same, for some authorities incline
to the opinion that it ran parallel at some little distance away) is
unpicturesque and dreary. Towering double telegraph poles recur at set
intervals with mathematical regularity, and the breeze playing upon the
wires aloft brings forth that long-drawn melancholy wail only to make
the monotony more depressing. Half a mile from the main road, almost due
east of Glatton, stands Connington Hall, where linger sad memories of
the fate of Mary Queen of Scots. When the castle of Fotheringay was
demolished in 1625, Sir Robert Cotton had the great Hall in which she
was beheaded removed here. The curious carved oak chair which was used
by the poor Queen at Fotheringay until the day of her death may now be
seen in Connington Church, where also is the Tomb of Sir Robert, the
founder of the famous Cottonian Library.
[Illustration: THE BELL, STILTON]
A couple of miles or so to the north is Stilton, which bears an air of
decayed importance. A time-mellowed red-brick Queen Anne house, whose
huge wooden supports, like cripples' crutches, keep it from toppling
over, comes first in sight. In striking contrast, with its formal style
of architecture, is the picturesque outline of the ancient inn beyond. A
complicated flourish of ornamental ironwork, that would exasperate the
most expert freehand draughtsman, supports the weather-beaten sign of
solid copper. Upon the right-hand gable stands the date 1642, bringing
with it visions of the coming struggle between King and Parliament. But
the date is misleading, as may be seen from the stone groining upon the
adjoining masonry. The main building was certainly erected quite a
century earlier. Here and there modern windows have been inserted in
place of the Tudor mullioned ones, as also have later doorways, for part
of the building is now occupied as tenements. The archway leading into
the courtyard has also been somewhat modernised, as may be judged from
the corresponding internal arch, with its original curved dripstone
above.
We came upon this inn, tramping northwards in a bitter day in March.
It looked homely and inviting, the waning sunlight tinting the stonework
and lighting up the window casements. Enthusiastic with pleasing
imaginings of panelled chambers and ghostly echoing corridors, we
entered only to have our dreams speedily dispersed. In vain we sought
for such a "best room" as greeted Mr. Chester at the "Maypole." There
were no rich rustling hangings here, nor oaken screens enriched with
grotesque carvings. Alas! not even a cheery fire of fagots. Nor, indeed,
was there a bed to rest our weary bones upon. Spring cleaning was
rampant, and the merciless east wind sweeping along the bare passages
made one shudder more than usual at the thought of that terrible annual
necessity (but the glory of energetic house-wives). But surely mine
hostess of the good old days would have scrupled to thrust the traveller
from her door: moreover to a house of refreshment, or rather
eating-house, a stone's-throw off, uncomfortably near that rickety
propped-up red-brick residence.
With visions of the smoking bowl and lavender-scented sheets dashed to
the ground, we turned away. But, lo! and behold a good _angel_ had come
to the rescue. So absorbed had we been with the possibilities of the
"Bell" that the "Angel" opposite had quite been overlooked. This rival
inn of Georgian date furnished us with cosy quarters. From our
flower-bedecked window the whole front of the old "Bell" could be
leisurely studied in all its varying stages of light and shade--an inn
with a past; an object-lesson for the philosopher to ruminate upon. Yes,
in its day one can picture scenes of lavish, shall we say Ainsworthian
hospitality. There is a smack of huge venison pasties, fatted capons,
and of roasted peacocks about this hoary hostel. And its stables; one
has but to stroll up an adjacent lane to get some idea of the once vast
extent of its outbuildings. The ground they covered must have occupied
nearly half the village. Here was stabling for over eighty horses, and
before the birth of trains, thirty-six coaches pulled up daily at the
portal for hungry passengers to refresh or rest.
The famous cheese, by the way, was first sold at this inn; but why it
was dubbed Stilton instead of Dalby in Leicestershire, where it was
first manufactured, is a mystery. Like its _vis-a-vis_, the "Angel" is
far different from what it was in its flourishing days. The main
building is now occupied for other purposes, and its dignity has long
since departed. To-day Stilton looks on its last legs. The goggled
motor-fiend sweeps by to Huntingdon or Peterborough while Stilton rubs
its sleepy eyes. But who can tell but that its fortunes may yet revive.
Was not Broadway dying a natural death when Jonathan, who invariably
tells us what treasures we possess, stepped in and made it popular? Some
enterprising landlord might do worse than take the old "Bell" in hand
and ring it to a profitable tune. But judging by appearances, visitors
to-day, at least in March, are few and far between.
Half the charm of Stilton lies in the fact that there is no hurry. It is
quite refreshing in these days of rush. For instance, you want to catch
a train at Peterborough,--at least we did, for that was the handiest way
of reaching Oundle, some seven miles to the west of Stilton as the crow
flies. Sitting on thorns, we awaited the convenience of the horse as to
whether his accustomed jog-trot would enable us to catch our train. We
_did_ catch it truly, but the anxiety was a terrible experience.
Oundle is full of old inns. The "Turk's Head," facing the church, is a
fine and compact specimen of Jacobean architecture. It was a brilliant
morning when we stood in the churchyard looking up at the
ball-surmounted gables standing out in bold relief against the clear
blue sky, while the caw of a colony of rooks sailing overhead seemed
quite in harmony with the old-world surroundings.
More important and flourishing is the "Talbot," which looks
self-conscious of the fact that in its walls are incorporated some of
the remains of no less historic a building than Fotheringay Castle,
whose moat and fragmentary walls are to be seen some three and a half
miles to the north of the town. The fortress, with its sad and tragic
memories of Mary Queen of Scots, was demolished after James came to the
throne, and its fine oak staircase, by repute the same by which she
descended to the scaffold, was re-erected in the "Talbot." The courtyard
is picturesque. The old windows which light the staircase, which also
are said to have come from Fotheringay, are angular at the base, and
have an odd and pleasing appearance.
Two ancient almshouses, with imposing entrance gates, are well worth
inspection. There is a graceful little pinnacle surmounting one of the
gable ends, at which we were curiously gazing when one of the aged
inmates came out in alarm to see if the chimney was on fire.
Fotheringay church, with its lantern tower and flying buttresses, is
picturesquely situated close to the river Nene, and with the bridge
makes a charming picture. The older bridge of Queen Mary's time was
angular, with square arches, as may be seen from a print of the early
part of the eighteenth century. In this is shown the same scanty remains
of the historic Castle: a wall with a couple of Gothic doorways, all
that survived of the formidable fortress that was the unfortunate
queen's last prison-house. As at Cumnor, where poor Amy Robsart was
done to death in a manner which certainly Elizabeth hinted at regarding
her troublesome cousin, there is little beyond the foundations from
which to form an idea of the building. It was divided by a double moat,
which is still to be seen, as well as the natural earthwork upon which
the keep stood. The queen's apartments, that towards the end were
stripped of all emblems of royalty, were situated above and to the south
of the great hall, into which she had to descend by a staircase to the
scaffold. Some ancient thorn trees now flourish upon the spot. The
historian Fuller, who visited the castle prior to its demolition, found
the following lines from an old ballad scratched with a diamond upon a
window-pane of Mary's prison-chamber:
"From the top of all my trust
Mishap hath laid me in the dust."
Though Mary's mock trial took place at Fotheringay in the "Presence
Chamber," she was actually condemned in the Star Chamber at Westminster;
and it may here be stated that that fine old room may yet be seen not
very many miles away, at Wormleighton, near the Northamptonshire border
of south-east Warwickshire. A farmhouse near Fotheringay is still
pointed out where the executioner lodged the night before the deed; and
some claim this distinction for the ancient inn in which are
incorporated some remains of the castle.
As is known, the Queen of Scots' body was buried first in Peterborough
Cathedral, whence it was removed to Westminster Abbey. There is a
superstition in Northamptonshire that if a body after interment be
removed, it bodes misfortune to the surviving members of the family.
This was pointed out at the time to James I.; but superstitious as he
was, he did not alter his plans, and the death of Prince Henry shortly
afterwards seemed to confirm this belief.[4]
But there are other memories of famous names in history, for the head of
the White Rose family, Richard of York, was buried in the church, and
his duchess, Cecilia Neville, as well as Edward of York, whose death at
Agincourt is immortalised by Shakespeare. When the older church was
dismantled and the bodies removed to their present destination, a silver
ribbon was discovered round the Duchess Cecilia's neck upon which a
pardon from Rome was clearly written. The windows of the church once
were rich in painted glass; and at the fine fifteenth-century font it is
conjectured Richard III. was baptized, for he was born at the Castle.
Crookback's badge, the boar, may still be seen in the church, and the
Yorkist falcon and fetterlock are displayed on the summit of the vane
upon the tower. Also some carved stalls, which came from here, in the
churches of Tansor and Hemington to the south of Fotheringay, bear the
regal badges and crest. The falcon and the fetterlock also occur in the
monuments to the Dukes of York, which were rebuilt by Queen Elizabeth
when the older tombs had fallen to decay. The allegiance to the
fascinating Queen of Scots is far from dead, for in February 1902, and
doubtless more recently, a gentleman journeyed specially from Edinburgh
to Fotheringay to place a tribute to her martyrdom in the form of a
large cross of immortelles bearing the Scots crown and Mary's monogram,
and a black bordered white silk sash attached.
A few miles to the west of this historic spot are the fine Tudor houses
Deene and Kirby: the former still a palatial residence; the latter,
alas! a ruin fast falling to decay. Deene, with its battlemented towers
and turrets and buttressed walls, is a noble-looking structure, with
numerous shields of arms and heraldic devices carved upon the masonry.
These are of the great families, Brudenel, Montagu, Bruce, Bulstrode,
etc., whose intermarriages are emblazoned in painted glass in the top of
the mullioned windows of the hall. Sir Thomas Brudenel, the first Earl
of Cardigan, who died three years after the Restoration, was a typical
old cavalier after the style of Sir Henry Lee in _Woodstock_; and in
the manor are preserved many of his manuscripts written during his
twenty years' confinement in the Tower. In the great hall there is a
blocked-up entrance to a subterranean passage running towards Kirby, and
through this secret despatches are said to have been carried in the time
of the Civil War; and at the back of a fireplace in the same apartment
is a hiding-place sufficiently large to contain a score of people
standing up. One of the rooms is called Henry VII.'s room, as that
monarch when Earl of Richmond is said to have ridden from Bosworth Field
to seek refuge at Deene, then a monastery.
[Illustration: WOTHORPE MANOR-HOUSE.]
Among the numerous portraits are the Earl of Shrewsbury, who was slain
by the second Duke of Buckingham in the notorious duel, and his wife
Lady Anne Brudenel, who was daughter of the second Earl of Cardigan.
Some time before the poor plain little duchess suspected that she had a
formidable rival in the beautiful countess, she was returning from a
visit to Deene to her house near Stamford, where her reckless husband
just then found it convenient to hide himself, as a warrant for high
treason was out against him, when she noticed a suspicious little
cavalcade travelling in the same direction. Ordering the horses to be
whipped up, she arrived in time to give the alarm. The duke had just set
out for Burleigh House with some ladies in his company, and, says
Clarendon, the sergeant "made so good haste that he was in view of the
coach, and saw the duke alight out of the coach and lead a lady into the
house, upon which the door of the court was shut before he could get to
it. He knocked loudly at that and other doors that were all shut, so
that he could not get into the house though it were some hours before
sunset in the month of May."[5] Pepys was strolling in the park and met
Sergeant Bearcroft "who was sent for the Duke of Buckingham, to have
brought his prisoner to the Tower. He come to towne this day and brings
word that being overtaken and outrid by the Duchesse of Buckingham
within a few miles of the duke's house of Westhorp, he believes she got
thither about a quarter of an hour before him, and so had time to
consider; so that when he came, the doors were kept shut against him.
The next day, coming with officers of the neighbour market-town
[Stamford] to force open the doors, they were open for him, but the duke
gone, so he took horse presently and heard upon the road that the Duke
of Buckingham was gone before him for London. So that he believes he is
this day also come to towne before him; but no newes is yet heard of
him."[6] Many blunders have been made in reference to the duke's house
of "Westhorp." Some have called it "Owthorp" and others "Westhorpe" in
Suffolk, the demolished mansion of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. The
place referred to is really Wothorpe manor-house, the remains of which
stand some two miles to the south of Stamford and ten to the north of
Deene. The existing portion consists of four towers, the lower part of
which is square and the upper octagonal, presumably having been at one
time surmounted by cupolas. The windows are long and narrow, having only
one mullion running parallel across. Beneath the moulding of the summit
of each tower are circular loopholes. It is evidently of Elizabethan
date, but much of the ornamental detail is lost in the heavy mantle of
ivy and the trees which encircle it.
[Illustration: KIRBY HALL.]
That that stately Elizabethan mansion, Kirby Hall (which is close to
Deene), should ever have been allowed to fall to ruin is most
regrettable and deplorable. It was one of John Thorpe's masterpieces,
the architect of palatial Burleigh, of Holland House and Audley End, and
other famous historic houses. He laid the foundation-stone in 1570, and
that other great master Inigo Jones made additions in the reign of
Charles I. The founder of Kirby was Sir Christopher Hatton, who is said
to have first danced into the virgin queen's favour at a masque at
Court. The Earl of Leicester probably first was famous in this way, if
we may judge from the quaint painting at Penshurst, where he is bounding
her several feet into the air; but was not so accomplished as Sir
Christopher, who in his official robes of Lord Chancellor danced in the
Hall of the Inner Temple with the seals and mace of his office before
him, an undignified proceeding, reminding one of the scene in one of the
Gilbert and Sullivan operas.
[Illustration: DOORWAY, KIRBY HALL.]
[Illustration: GATEWAY, KIRBY HALL.]
Kirby must have been magnificent in its day; and when we consider that
it was in occupation by the Chancellor's descendant, the Earl of
Winchelsea, in 1830 or even later, one may judge by seeing it how
rapidly a neglected building can fall into decay. Even in our own memory
a matter of twenty years has played considerable havoc, and cleared off
half the roof. Standing in the deserted weed-grown courtyard, one cannot
but grieve to see the widespread destruction of such beautiful
workmanship. The graceful fluted Ionic pilasters that intersect the
lofty mullioned windows are falling to pieces bit by bit, and the
fantastic stone pinnacles above and on the carved gable ends are
disappearing one by one. But much of the glass is still in the windows,
and some of the rooms are not all yet open to the weather, and the great
hall and music gallery and the "Library" with fine bay window are both
in a fair state of preservation. Is it yet too much to hope that pity
may be taken upon what is undoubtedly one of the finest Elizabethan
houses in England? The north part of the Inner Court is represented in
S. E. Waller's pathetic picture "The Day of Reckoning," which has been
engraved.
Some three miles to the south of Kirby is the village of Corby, famous
for its surrounding woods, and a curious custom called the "Poll Fair,"
which takes place every twenty years. Should a stranger happen to be
passing through the village when the date falls due, he is liable to be
captured and carried on a pole to the stocks, which ancient instrument
of punishment is there, and put to use on these occasions. He may
purchase his liberty by handing over any coin he happens to have. It
certainly is a rather eccentric way of commemorating the charter granted
by Elizabeth and confirmed by Charles II. by which the residents (all of
whom are subjected to similar treatment) are exempt from market tolls
and jury service.
A pair of stocks stood formerly at the foot of the steps of the graceful
Eleanor Cross at Geddington to the south of Corby. Of the three
remaining memorials said to have been erected by Edward I. at every
place where the coffin of his queen rested on its way from Hardeby in
Lincolnshire to Westminster Abbey, Geddington Cross is by far the most
graceful and in the best condition. The other two are at Waltham and
Northampton. Originally there were fifteen Eleanor crosses, including
Hardeby, Lincoln, Stony Stratford, Woburn, Dunstable, St. Albans,
Cheapside, and Charing Cross. The last two, the most elaborate of all,
as is known, were destroyed by order of Lord Mayor Pennington in 1643
and 1647, accompanied by the blast of trumpets.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _See Memoirs of the Martyr King._
[2] _Evelyn's Diary_, vol. iv. p. 134, 1870 ed.
[3] See _Memoirs of the Martyr King_, p. 73.
[4] See _Turner's History of Remarkable Providences_, 1677.
[5] _Continuation of the Life of Lord Clarendon._
[6] _Diary_, 3 March 1666-67.
SOME SUFFOLK NOOKS
The idea of calling pretty little Mildenhall in north-west Suffolk a
town, seems out of place. It is snug and sleepy and prosperous-looking,
an inviting nook to forget the noise and bustle of a town in the
ordinary sense of the word. May it long continue so, and may the day be
long distant when that terrible invention, the electric tram, is
introduced to spoil the peace and harmony. Mildenhall is one of those
old-world places where one may be pretty sure in entering the snug old
courtyard of its ancient inn, that one will be treated rather as a
friend than a traveller. Facing the "Bell" is the church, remarkable for
the unique tracery of its early-English eastern window, and for its
exceptionally fine open hammer-beam carved oak roof, with bold carved
spandrels and large figures of angels with extended wings, and the
badges of Henry V., the swan and antelope, displayed in the south aisle.
In a corner of the little market-square is a curious hexagonal timber
market-cross of this monarch's time, roofed with slabs of lead set
diagonally, and adding to the picturesque effect. The centre part runs
through the roof to a considerable height, and is surmounted by a
weather-cock. Standing beneath the low-pitched roof, one may get a good
idea of the massiveness of construction of these old Gothic structures;
an object-lesson to the jerry builder of to-day. The oaken supports are
relieved with graceful mouldings.
Within bow-shot of the market-cross is the gabled Jacobean manor-house
of the Bunburys, a weather-worn wing of which abuts upon the street. The
family name recalls associations with the beautiful sisters whom
Goldsmith dubbed "Little Comedy" and the "Jessamy Bride." The original
"Sir Joshua" of these ladies may be seen at Barton Hall, another seat of
the Bunburys a few miles away, where they played good-natured practical
jokes upon their friend the poet. In a room of the Mildenhall mansion
hangs a portrait of a less beautiful woman, but sufficiently attractive
to meet with the approval of a critical connoisseur. When the Merry
Monarch took unto himself a wife, this portrait of the little Portuguese
woman was sent for him to see; and presumably it was flattering, for
when Catherine arrived in person, his Majesty was uncivil enough to
inquire whether they had sent him a bat instead of a woman.
A delightful walk by shady lanes and cornfields, and along the banks of
the river Lark, leads to another fine old house, Wamil Hall, a portion
only of the original structure; but it would be difficult to find a more
pleasing picture than is formed by the remaining wing. It is a typical
manor-house, with ball-surmounted gables, massive mullioned windows, and
a fine Elizabethan gateway in the lofty garden wall, partly ivy-grown,
and with the delicate greys and greens of lichens upon the old stone
masonry.
In a south-easterly direction from Mildenhall there is charming open
heathy country nearly all the way to West Stow Hall, some seven or eight
miles away. The remains of this curious old structure consist
principally of the gatehouse, octagonal red-brick towers surmounted by
ornamental cupolas with a pinnacled step-gable in the centre and the
arms of Mary of France beneath it, and ornamental Tudor brickwork above
the entrance. The passage leading from this entrance to the main
structure consists of an open arcade, and the upper portion and
adjoining wing are of half-timber construction. This until recently has
been cased over in plaster; but the towers having become unsafe, some
restorations have been absolutely necessary, the result of which is that
the plaster is being stripped off, revealing the worn red-brick and
carved oak beams beneath. Moreover, the moat, long since filled up, is
to be reinstated, and, thanks to the noble owner, Lord Cadogan, all its
original features will be most carefully brought to light. In a room
above are some black outline fresco paintings of figures in Elizabethan
costume, suggestive of four of the seven ages of man. Most conspicuous
is the lover paying very marked attentions to a damsel who may or may
not represent Henry VIII.'s sister at the time of her courtship by the
valiant Brandon, Duke of Suffolk; anyway the house was built by Sir John
Crofts, who belonged to the queen-dowager's household, and he may have
wished to immortalise that romantic attachment. A gentleman with a
parrot-like hawk upon his wrist says by an inscription, "Thus do I all
the day"; while the lover observes, "Thus do I while I may." A third
person, presumably getting on in years, says with a sigh, "Thus did I
while I might"; and he of the "slippered pantaloon" age groans, "Good
Lord, will this world last for ever!" In a room adjoining, we were told,
Queen Elizabeth slept during one of her progresses through the country,
or maybe it was Mary Tudor who came to see Sir John; but the "White
Lady" who issues from one of the rooms in the main building at 12
o'clock p.m. so far has not been identified.
In his lordship's stables close by we had the privilege of seeing "a
racer" who had won sixteen or more "seconds," as well as a budding Derby
winner of the future. Culford is a stately house in a very trim and
well-cared-for park. It looks quite modern, but the older mansion has
been incorporated with it. In Charles II.'s day his Majesty paid
occasional visits to Culford _en route_ from Euston Hall to Newmarket,
and Pepys records an incident there which was little to his host's
(Lord Cornwallis') credit. The rector's daughter, a pretty girl, was
introduced to the king, whose unwelcome attentions caused her to make a
precipitate escape, and, leaping from some height, she killed herself,
"which, if true," says Pepys, "is very sad." Certainly Charles does not
show to advantage in Suffolk. The Diarist himself saw him at Little
Saxham Hall[7] (to the south-west of Culford), the seat of Lord Crofts,
going to bed, after a heavy drinking bout with his boon companions
Sedley, Buckhurst, and Bab May.
The church is in the main modern, but there is a fine tomb of Lady
Bacon, who is represented life-size nursing her youngest child, while on
either side in formal array stand her other five children. Her husband
is reclining full length at her feet.
Hengrave Hall, one of the finest Tudor mansions in England, is close to
Culford. Shorn of its ancient furniture and pictures (for, alas! a few
years ago there was a great sale here), the house is still of
considerable interest; but the absence of colour--its staring whiteness
and bare appearance--on the whole is disappointing, and compared with
less architecturally fine houses, such as Kentwell or Rushbrooke, it is
inferior from a picturesque point of view. Still the outline of gables
and turreted chimneys is exceptionally fine and stately. It was built
between the years 1525 and 1538. The gatehouse has remarkable
mitre-headed turrets, and a triple bay-window bearing the royal arms of
France and England quarterly, supported by a lion and a dragon. The
entrance is flanked on either side by an ornamental pillar similar in
character to the turrets. The house was formerly moated and had a
drawbridge, as at Helmingham in this county. These were done away with
towards the end of the eighteenth century, when a great part of the
original building was demolished and the interior entirely
reconstructed. The rooms included the "Queen's Chamber," where Elizabeth
slept when she was entertained here after the lavish style at Kenilworth
in 1578, by Sir Thomas Kytson. From the Kitsons, Hengrave came to the
Darcys and Gages.
In the vicinity of Bury there are many fine old houses, but for
historical interest none so interesting as Rushbrooke Hall, which stands
about the same distance from the town as Hengrave in the opposite
direction, namely, to the south-west. It is an Elizabethan house, with
corner octagonal turrets to which many alterations were made in the next
century: the windows, porch, etc., being of Jacobean architecture. It is
moated, with an array of old stone piers in front, upon which the
silvery green lichen stands out in harmonious contrast with the rich
purple red of the Tudor brickwork. The old mansion is full of Stuart
memories. Here lived the old cavalier Henry Jermyn, Earl of St. Albans,
who owed his advancement to Queen Henrietta Maria, to whom he acted as
secretary during the Civil War, and to whom he was privately married
when she became a widow and lived in Paris. He was a handsome man, as
may be judged from his full-length portrait here by Vandyck, though he
is said to have been somewhat ungainly. In the "State drawing-room,"
where the maiden queen held Court when she visited the earl's ancestor
Sir Robert Jermyn in 1578, may be seen two fine inlaid cabinets of wood
set with silver, bearing the monogram of Henrietta Maria. Jermyn
survived his royal wife the dowager-queen over fourteen years. Evelyn
saw him a few months before he died. "Met My Lord St. Albans," he says,
"now grown so blind that he could not see to take his meat. He has lived
a most easy life, in plenty even abroad, whilst His Majesty was a
sufferer; he has lost immense sums at play, which yet, at about eighty
years old, he continues, having one that sits by him to name the spots
on the cards. He eat and drank with extraordinary appetite. He is a
prudent old courtier, and much enriched since His Majesty's return."[8]
Charles I.'s leather-covered travelling trunk is also preserved at
Rushbrooke as well as his night-cap and night-shirt, and the silk
brocade costume of his great-grandson, Prince Charles Edward. An emblem
of loyalty to the Stuarts also may be seen in the great hall, a
bas-relief in plaster representing Charles II. concealed in the Boscobel
oak. Many of the bedrooms remain such as they were two hundred years
ago, with their fine old tapestries, faded window curtains, and tall
canopied beds. One is known as "Heaven" and another as "Hell," from the
rich paintings upon the walls and ceilings. The royal bedchamber,
Elizabeth's room, contains the old bed in which she slept, with its
velvet curtains and elaborately worked counter-pane. The house is rich
in portraits, and the walls of the staircase are lined from floor to
ceiling with well-known characters of the seventeenth century, from
James I. to Charles II.'s confidant, Edward Progers, who died in 1714,
at the age of ninety-six, of the anguish of cutting four new teeth.[9]
Here also is Agnes de Rushbrooke, who haunts the Hall. There is a grim
story told of her body being cast into the moat; moreover, there is a
certain bloodstain pointed out to verify the tale.
Then there is the old ballroom, and the Roman Catholic chapel, now a
billiard-room, and the library, rich in ancient manuscripts and
elaborate carvings by Grinling Gibbons. The old gardens also are quite
in character with the house, with its avenues of hornbeams known as
Lovers' Walk, and the site of the old labyrinth or maze.
Leaving Rushbrooke with its Stuart memories, our way lies to the
south-east; but to the south-west there are also many places of
interest, such as Hardwick, Hawstead, Plumpton, etc. At the last-named
place, in an old house with high Mansard roofs resembling a French
chateau, lived an eccentric character of whom many anecdotes are told,
old Alderman Harmer, one of which is that in damp weather he used to sit
in a kind of pulpit in one of the topmost rooms, with wooden boots on!
For the remains of Hawstead Place, once visited in State by Queen
Elizabeth, who dropped her fan in the moat to test the gallantry of her
host, we searched in vain. A very old woman in mob-cap in pointing out
the farm so named observed, "T'were nowt of much account nowadays, tho'
wonderful things went on there years gone by." This was somewhat vague.
We went up to the house and asked if an old gateway of which we had
heard still existed. The servant girl looked aghast. Had we asked the
road to Birmingham she could scarcely have been more dumbfounded. "No,
there was no old gateway there," she said. We asked another villager,
but he shook his head. "There was a lady in the church who died from a
box on the ear!" This was scarcely to the point, and since we have
discovered that the ancient Jacobean gateway is at Hawstead Place after
all, we cannot place the Suffolk rustic intelligence above the average.
It is in the kitchen garden, and in the alcoves of the pillars are
moulded bricks with initials and hearts commemorating the union of Sir
Thomas Cullum with the daughter of Sir Henry North. The moat is still to
be seen, but the bridge spanning it has given way. The principal ruins
of the old mansion were removed about a century ago.
Gedding Hall, midway between Bury and Needham Market, is moated and
picturesque, and before it was restored must have been a perfect
picture, for as it is now it just misses being what it might have been
under very careful treatment. A glaring red-brick tower has been added,
which looks painfully new and out of keeping; and beneath two quaint old
gables, a front door has been placed which would look very well in
Fitz-John's Avenue or Bedford Park, but certainly not here. When old
houses are nowadays so carefully restored so that occasionally it is
really difficult to see where the old work ends and the new begins, one
regrets that the care that is being bestowed upon West Stow could not
have been lavished here.
We come across another instance of bad restoration at Bildeston. There
is a good old timber house at the top of the village street which,
carefully treated, would have been a delight to the eye; but the carved
oak corner-post has been enveloped in hideous yellow brickwork in such a
fashion that one would rather have wished the place had been pulled
down. But at the farther end of the village there is another old timber
house, Newbury Farm, with carved beams and very lofty porch, which
affords a fine specimen of village architecture of the fifteenth
century. Within, there is a fine black oak ceiling of massive moulded
beams, a good example of the lavish way in which oak was used in these
old buildings.
Hadleigh is rich in seventeenth-century houses with ornamental plaster
fronts and carved oak beams and corbels. One with wide projecting eaves
and many windows bears the date 1676, formed out of the lead setting of
the little panes of glass. Some bear fantastical designs upon the
pargeting, half obliterated by continual coats of white or yellow wash,
with varying dates from James I. to Dutch William.
A lofty battlemented tower in the churchyard, belonging to the rectory,
was built towards the end of the fifteenth century by Archdeacon
Pykenham. Some mural paintings in one of its rooms depict the adjacent
hills and river and the interior of the church, and a turret-chamber has
a kind of hiding-place or strong-room, with a stout door for defence.
Not far from this rectory gatehouse is a half-timber building almost
contemporary, with narrow Gothic doors, made up-to-date with an artistic
shade of green. The exterior of the church is fine, but the interior is
disappointing in many ways. It was restored at that period of the
Victorian era when art in the way of church improvement had reached its
lowest ebb. But the church had suffered previously, for a puritanical
person named Dowsing smashed the majority of the painted windows as
"superstitious pictures." Fortunately some fine linen panelling in the
vestry has been preserved. The old Court Farm, about half a mile to the
north of the town, has also suffered considerably; for but little
remains beyond the entrance gate of Tudor date. By local report,
Cromwell is here responsible; but the place was a monastery once, and
Thomas Cromwell dismantled it. It would be interesting to know if the
Lord Protector ever wrote to the editor of the _Weekly Post_, to refute
any connection with his namesake of the previous century. Though the
"White Lion" Inn has nothing architecturally attractive, there is an
old-fashioned comfort about it. The courtyard is festooned round with
clematis of over a century's growth, and in the summer you step out of
your sleeping quarters into a delightful green arcade. The ostler, too,
is a typical one of the good old coaching days, and doubtless has a
healthy distaste for locomotion by the means of petrol.
The corner of the county to the south-east of Hadleigh, and bounded by
the rivers Stour and Orwell, could have no better recommendation for
picturesqueness than the works of the famous painter Constable. He was
never happier than at work near his native village, Flatford, where
to-day the old mill affords a delightful rural studio to some painters
of repute. The old timber bridge and the willow-bordered Stour, winding
in and out the valley, afford charming subjects for the brush; and
Dedham on the Essex border is delightful. Gainsborough also was very
partial to the scenery on the banks of the Orwell.
In the churchyard of East Bergholt, near Flatford, is a curious,
deep-roofed wooden structure, a cage containing the bells, which are
hung upside down. Local report says that his Satanic Majesty had the
same objection to the completion of the sacred edifices that he had for
Cologne Cathedral, consequently the tower still remains conspicuous by
its absence. The "Hare and Hounds" Inn has a finely moulded plaster
ceiling. It is worthy of note that the Folkards, an old Suffolk family,
have owned the inn for upwards of six generations.
Little and Great Wenham both possess interesting manor-houses: the
former particularly so, as it is one of the earliest specimens of
domestic architecture in the kingdom, or at least the first house where
Flemish bricks were used in construction. For this reason, no doubt,
trippers from Ipswich are desirous of leaving the measurements of their
boots deep-cut into the leads of the roof with their initials duly
recorded. Naturally the owner desires that some discrimination be now
shown as to whom may be admitted. The building is compact, with but few
rooms; but the hall on the first floor and the chapel are in a
wonderfully good state of repair,--indeed the house would make a much
more desirable residence than many twentieth-century dwellings of equal
dimensions. Great Wenham manor-house is of Tudor date, with pretty
little pinnacles at the corners of gable ends which peep over a high
red-brick wall skirting the highroad.
From here to Erwarton, which is miles from anywhere near the tongue of
land dividing the two rivers, some charming pastoral scenery recalls
peeps we have of it from the brush of Constable. At one particularly
pretty spot near Harkstead some holiday folks had assembled to enjoy
themselves, and looked sadly bored at a company of Salvationists who had
come to destroy the peace of the scene.
[Illustration: ERWARTON HALL.]
Erwarton Hall is a ghostly looking old place, with an odd-shaped
early-Jacobean gateway, with nine great pinnacles rising above its roof.
It faces a wide and desolate stretch of road, with ancient trees and
curious twisted roots, in front, and a pond: picturesque but melancholy
looking. The house is Elizabethan, of dark red-brick, and the old
mullioned windows peer over the boundary-wall as if they would like to
see something of the world, even in this remote spot. In the mansion,
which this succeeded, lived Anne Boleyn's aunt, Amata, Lady Calthorpe,
and here the unfortunate queen is said to have spent some of the
happiest days of girlhood,--a peaceful spot, indeed, compared with her
subsequent surroundings. Local tradition long back has handed down the
story that it was the queen's wish her heart should be buried at
Erwarton; and it had well-nigh been forgotten, when some sixty-five
years ago a little casket was discovered during some alterations to one
of the walls of the church. It was heart-shaped, and contained but dust,
and was eventually placed in a vault of the Cornwallis family. Sir W.
Hastings D'Oyly, Bart., in writing an interesting article upon this
subject a few years back,[10] pointed out that it has never been
decided where Anne Boleyn's remains actually are interred, though they
were buried, of course, in the first instance by her brother, Viscount
Rochford, in the Tower. There are erroneous traditions, both at Salle in
Norfolk and Horndon-on-the-Hill in Essex, that Anne Boleyn was buried
there. There are some fine old monuments in the Erwarton church, a
cross-legged crusader, and a noseless knight and lady, with elaborate
canopy, members of the Davilliers family. During the Civil War five of
the bells were removed from the tower and broken up for shot for the
defence of the old Hall against the Parliamentarians. At least so goes
the story. An octagonal Tudor font is in a good state of preservation,
and a few old rusty helmets would look better hung up on the walls than
placed upon the capital of a column.
The story of Anne Boleyn's heart recalls that of Sir Nicholas Crispe,
whose remains were recently reinterred when the old London church of St.
Mildred's in Bread Street was pulled down. The heart of the cavalier,
who gave large sums of money to Charles I. in his difficulties, is
buried in Hammersmith Old Church, and by the instructions of his will
the vessel which held it was to be opened every year and a glass of wine
poured upon it.
Some curious vicissitudes are said to have happened to the heart of the
great Montrose. It came into the possession of Lady Napier, his nephew's
wife, who had it embalmed and enclosed in a steel case of the size of an
egg, which opened with a spring, made from the blade of his sword, and
the relic was given by her to the then Marchioness of Montrose. Soon
afterwards it was lost, but eventually traced to a collection of curios
in Holland, and returned into the possession of the fifth Lord Napier,
who gave it to his daughter. When she married she went to reside in
Madeira, where the little casket was stolen by a native, under the
belief that it was a magic charm, and sold to an Indian chief, from whom
it was at length recovered; but the possessor in returning to Europe in
1792, having to spend some time in France during that revolutionary
period, thought it advisable to leave the little treasure in possession
of a lady friend at Boulogne; but as luck would have it, this lady died
unexpectedly, and no clue was forthcoming as to where she had hidden the
relic.
But a still more curious story is told of the heart of Louis XIV. An
ancestor of Sir William Harcourt, at the time of the French Revolution
had given to him by a canon of St. Denis the great monarch's heart,
which he had annexed from a casket at the time the royal tombs were
demolished by the mob. It resembled a small piece of shrivelled leather,
an inch or so long. Many years afterwards the late Dr. Buckland, Dean of
Westminster, during a visit to the Harcourts was shown the curiosity. We
will quote the rest in Mr Labouchere's words, for he it was who related
the story in _Truth_. "He (Dr. Buckland) was then very old. He had some
reputation as a man of science, and the scientific spirit moved him to
wet his finger, rub it on the heart, and put the finger to his mouth.
After that, before he could be stopped, he put the heart in his mouth
and swallowed it, whether by accident or design will never be known.
Very shortly afterwards he died and was buried in Westminster Abbey. It
is impossible that he could ever have digested the thing. It must have
been a pretty tough organ to start with, and age had almost petrified
it. Consequently the heart of Louis XIV. must now be reposing in
Westminster Abbey enclosed in the body of an English dean."
FOOTNOTES:
[7] The old Hall was pulled down in 1771.
[8] _Evelyn's Diary_, Sept. 18, 1683.
[9] Descendants of Proger, or Progers, are still living in Bury St.
Edmunds.
[10] _The Antiquary_, vol. xxxviii.
NOOKS IN NORFOLK
Wells-next-the-Sea, on the north coast of Norfolk, sounds attractive,
and looks attractive on the map; but that is about all that can be said
in its favour, for a more depressing place would be difficult to find.
Even Holkham, with all its art treasures, leaves a pervading impression
of chill and gloom. The architects of the middle of the eighteenth
century had no partiality for nooks and corners in the mansions they
designed. Vastness and discomfort seems to have been their principal
aim. Well might the noble earl for whom it was built have observed, "It
is a melancholy thing to stand alone in one's own country." The advent
of the motor car must indeed be welcome, to bring the place in touch
with life.
We were attracted to the village of Stiffkey, to the east of Wells,
mainly by a magazine article fresh in our memory, of some of its
peculiarities, conspicuous among which was its weird red-headed
inhabitants. The race of people, however, must have died out, for what
few villagers we encountered were very ordinary ones: far from
ill-favoured. Possibly they still invoke the aid of the local "wise
woman," as they do in many other parts of Norfolk, so therein they are
no further behind the times than their neighbours.
We heard of an instance farther south, for example, where the head of an
establishment, as was his wont, having disposed of his crop of potatoes,
disappeared for a week with the proceeds; and returning at length in a
very merry condition, his good wife, in the hopes of frightening him,
unknown to him removed his watch from his pocket. Next morning in sober
earnest he went with his sole remaining sixpence to consult the wise
woman of the village, who promptly told him the thief was in his own
house. Consequently the watch was produced, and the lady who had
purloined it, instead of teaching a lesson, was soundly belaboured with
a broom-handle!
[Illustration: EAST BARSHAM MANOR.]
Stiffkey Hall is a curious Elizabethan gabled building with a massive
flint tower, built, it is said, by Sir Nathaniel Bacon, the brother of
the philosopher, but it never was completed. Far more picturesque and
interesting are the remains of East Barsham manor-house, some seven
miles to the south of Wells. Although it contained some of the finest
ornamental Tudor brickwork in England when we were there, and possibly
still, the old place could have been had for a song. It had the
reputation of being haunted, and was held in awe. The gatehouse, bearing
the arms and ensigns of Henry VIII., reminds one of a bit of Hampton
Court, and the chimneys upon the buildings on the northern side of the
Court are as fine as those at Compton Wyniates. The wonder is that in
these days of appreciation of beautiful architecture nobody has restored
it back into a habitable mansion. That such ruins as this or Kirby Hall
or Burford Priory should remain to drop to pieces, seems a positive sin.
A couple of miles to the west of Barsham is Great Snoring, whose
turreted parsonage is also rich in early-Tudor moulded brickwork, as is
also the case at Thorpland Hall to the south.
One grieves to think that the old Hall of the Townshends on the other
side of Fakenham has been shorn of its ancestral portraits. What a
splendid collection, indeed, was this, and how far more dignified did
the full-length Elizabethan warriors by Janssen look here than upon the
walls at Christie's a year or so ago. The famous haunted chambers have a
far less awe-inspiring appearance than some other of the bedrooms with
their hearse-like beds and nodding plumes. We do not know when the
"Brown Lady" last made her appearance, but there are rumours that she
was visible before the decease of the late Marquis Townshend. Until then
the stately lady in her rich brown brocade had absented herself for half
a century. She had last introduced herself unbecoming a modest ghost, to
two gentlemen visitors of a house party who were sitting up late at
night. One of these gentlemen, a Colonel Loftus, afterwards made a
sketch of her from memory which possibly is still in existence.
[Illustration: WALSINGHAM.]
[Illustration: WALSINGHAM.]
Walsingham, midway between Fakenham and Wells, is a quaint old town; its
timber houses and its combined Gothic well, lock-up, and cross in the
market-place giving it quite a mediaeval aspect. Before the image of Our
Lady of Walsingham was consigned to the flames by Wolsey's confidential
servant Cromwell, the pilgrimages to the Priory were in every respect as
great as those to Canterbury, and the "way" through Brandon and
Newmarket may be traced like that in Kent. Notwithstanding the fact that
Henry VIII. himself had been a barefoot pilgrim, and had bestowed a
costly necklace on the image, his gift as well as a host of other riches
from the shrine came in very handy at the Dissolution. A relic of Our
Lady's milk enclosed in crystal, says Erasmus, was occasionally like
chalk mixed with the white of eggs. It had been brought from
Constantinople in the tenth century; but this and a huge bone of St
Peter's finger, of course, did not survive. The site of the chapel,
containing the altar where the pilgrims knelt, stood somewhere to the
north-west of the ruins of the Priory. These are approached from the
street through a fine old early fifteenth-century gateway. The
picturesque remains of the refectory date from the previous century, the
western window being a good example of the purest Gothic. The old
pilgrims' entrance was in "Knight Street," which derives its name from
the miracle of a horseman who had sought sanctuary passing through the
extraordinarily narrow limits of the wicket. Henry III. is said to have
set the fashion for walking to Walsingham, and we strongly recommend
the tourists of to-day, who may find themselves stranded at
Wells-next-the-Sea, to do likewise.
[Illustration: FONT CANOPY, TRUNCH.]
The little seaside resort Mundesley is an improvement on Wells; but dull
as it is now, what must it have been in Cowper's time: surely a place
ill-calculated to improve the poor poet's melancholia! There is little
of interest beyond the ruined church on the cliffs and the Rookery Farm
incorporated in the remains of the old monastery. A priest's hole is, or
was not long since, to be seen in one of the gabled roofs. The churches
of Trunch and Knapton to the south-west both are worth a visit for their
fine timber roofs. The font at Trunch is enclosed by a remarkable canopy
of oak supported by graceful wooden pillars from the floor. It is
probably of early-Elizabethan date, and is certainly one of the most
remarkable baptistries in the country. Here and in other parts of
Norfolk when there are several babies to be christened the ceremony is
usually performed on the girls last, as otherwise when they grew up they
would develop beards!
Ten miles to the south-west as the crow flies is historic Blickling, one
of the reputed birthplaces of the ill-fated Anne Boleyn. By some
accounts Luton Hoo in Bedfordshire claims her nativity as well as
Rochford Hall in Essex and Hever Castle in Kent; but, though Hever is
the only building that will go back to that date, she probably was born
in the older Hall of Blickling, the present mansion dating only from the
reign of James I.
Upon the occasion of our visit the house was closed, so we can only
speak of the exterior, and of the very extensive gardens, where in vain
we sought the steward, who was said to be somewhere on the premises.
The rampant bulls, bearing shields, perched on the solid piers that
guard the drawbridge across the moat, duly impress one with the
ancestral importance of the Hobarts, whose arms and quarterings,
surmounted by the helmet and ancient crest, adorn the principal
entrance. Like Hatfield and Bramshill, the mellowed red-brick gives it a
charm of colour which only the lapse of centuries will give; and though
not so old as Knole or Hatfield, the main entrance is quite as
picturesque. The gardens, however, immediately surrounding the Hall look
somewhat flat in comparison.
Although Henry VIII. did the principal part of his courting at Hever, it
was at Blickling that he claimed his bride, and by some accounts was
married to her there and not at Calais. The old earl, the unfortunate
queen's father, survived her only two years; and after his death the
estate was purchased by Sir Henry Hobart,[11] who built the present
noble house. Among the relics preserved at Blickling of the unhappy
queen are her morning-gown and a set of night-caps, and her toilet case
containing mirrors, combs, etc. Sir John the third baronet entertained
Charles II. and his queen here in 1671, upon which occasion the host's
son and heir, then aged thirteen, was knighted. The royal visit is duly
recorded in the parish register as follows: "King Charles the Second,
with Queene Katherine, and James, Duke of Yorke, accompanied with the
Dukes of Monmouth, Richmond, and Buckingham, and with divers Lords,
arrived and dined at Sir John Hubart's, at Blicklinge Hall, the King,
Queene, Duke of Yorke, and Duchesse of Richmond, of Buckingham etc., in
the great dining-roomes, the others in the great parloure beneath it,
upon Michmasday 1671. From whence they went, the Queene to Norwich, the
King to Oxneads and lodged there, and came through Blicklinge the next
day about one of the clock, going to Rainham to the Lord Townsends."[12]
Queen Catherine slept that night and the following in the Duke's Palace
at Norwich, but joined her royal spouse at lunch at Oxnead, which fine
Elizabethan house has, alas! been pulled down, and the statues and
fountain from there are now at Blickling. "Next morne (being Saterday),"
writes a local scribe in 1671, "her Maty parted so early from Norwich
as to meet ye King againe at Oxnead ere noone; Sr Robt Paston haveing
got a vast dinner so early ready, in regard that his Maty was to goe
that same afternoone (as he did) twenty myles to supper to the Ld
Townshend's, wher he stayd all yesterday, and as I suppose, is this
evening already return'd to Newmarket, extremely well satisfied with our
Lord Lieuts reception.... Her Maty haveinge but seven myles back to
Norwich that night from Sr Robt Pastons was pleased for about two
houres after dinner to divert herselfe at cards with the Court ladies
and my Lady Paston, who had treated her so well and yet returned early
to Norwich that eveninge to the same quarters as formerly; and on Sunday
morne (after her devotions perform'd and a plentifull breakfast) shee
tooke coach, extreamely satisfied with the dutifull observances of all
this countie and city, and was conducted by the Ld Howard and his
sonnes as far as Attleburough where fresh coaches atended to carry her
back to the Rt Hoble the Ld Arlington's at Euston."[13]
Sidelights of this royal progress are obtained from the diarist Evelyn
and Lord Dartmouth. Among the attractions provided for the king's
amusement at Euston was the future Duchess of Portsmouth. The Duchess of
Richmond (La belle Stuart), in the queen's train, must have been
reminded how difficult had been her position before she eloped with her
husband four years previously. For the duke's sake let us hope he was as
overcome as his Majesty when the latter let his tongue wag with more
than usual freedom during the feast at Raynham. "After her marriage,"
says Dartmouth, speaking of the duchess, "she had more complaisance than
before, as King Charles could not forbear telling the Duke of Richmond,
when he was drunk at Lord Townshend's in Norfolk." Evelyn did not think
much of the queen's lodgings at Norwich, which he describes as "an old
wretched building," partly rebuilt in brick, standing in the
market-place, which in his opinion would have been better had it been
demolished and erected somewhere else.
Not far from Blickling to the north-east is Mannington Hall, a mansion
built in the reign of Henry VI., which possesses one of the best
authenticated ghost stories of modern times. The story is the more
interesting as it is recorded by that learned and delightful chronicler
Dr. Jessop, chaplain to His Majesty the King. The strange experiences of
his visit in October 1879 are duly recorded in the _Athenaeeum_ of the
following January. The rest of the household had retired to rest, and
Dr. Jessop was sitting up making extracts from some rare books in an
apartment adjoining the library. Absorbed in his study, time had slipped
away and it was after one o'clock. "I was just beginning to think that
my work was drawing to a close," says the doctor, "when, as I was
actually writing, I saw a large white hand within a foot of my elbow.
Turning my head, there sat a figure of a somewhat large man, with his
back to the fire, bending slightly over the table, and apparently
examining the pile of books that I had been at work upon. The man's face
was turned away from me, but I saw his closely-cut, reddish brown hair,
his ear and shaved cheek, the eyebrow, the corner of his right eye, the
side of the forehead, and the large high cheekbone. He was dressed in
what I can only describe as a kind of ecclesiastical habit of thick
corded silk, or some such material, close up to the throat, and a narrow
rim or edging of about an inch broad of satin or velvet serving as a
stand-up collar and fitting close to the chin. The right hand, which had
first attracted my attention, was clasping, without any great pressure,
the left hand; both hands were in perfect repose, and the large blue
veins of the right hand were conspicuous. I remember thinking that the
hand was like the hand of Velasquez's magnificent 'Dead Knight' in the
National Gallery. I looked at my visitor for some seconds, and was
perfectly sure that he was a reality. A thousand thoughts came crowding
upon me, but not the least feeling of alarm or even of uneasiness.
Curiosity and a strong interest were uppermost. For an instant I felt
eager to make a sketch of my friend, and I looked at a tray on my right
for a pencil: then thought, 'Upstairs I have a sketch-book; shall I
fetch it?' There he sat and I was fascinated, afraid not of his staying,
but lest he should go. Stopping in my writing, I lifted my left hand
from the paper, stretched it out to a pile of books and moved the top
one. I cannot explain why I did this. My arm passed in front of the
figure, and it vanished. Much astonished, I went on with my writing
perhaps for another five minutes, and had actually got to the last few
words of the extract when the figure appeared again, exactly in the same
place and attitude as before. I saw the hand close to my own; I turned
my head again to examine him more closely, and I was framing a sentence
to address to him when I discovered that I did not dare to speak. I was
afraid of the sound of my own voice! There he sat, and there sat I. I
turned my head again to my work, and finished the two or three words
still remaining to be written. The paper and my notes are at this moment
before me, and exhibit not the slightest tremor or nervousness. I could
point out the words I was writing when the phantom came, and when he
disappeared. Having finished my task I shut the book and threw it on the
table: it made a slight noise as it fell--the figure vanished." Not
until now did the doctor feel nervous, but it was only for a second. He
replaced the books in the adjoining room, blew out the candles on the
table, and retired to his rooms marvelling at his calmness under such
strange circumstances.
[Illustration: WYMONDHAM.]
The old-fashioned town Wymondham, to the south-west of Norwich, contains
an interesting church and market-cross, and one or two fine Gothic
houses, all in good preservation. But stay, the quaint octagonal
Jacobean timber structure in the market-place was holding forth a
petition for contributions, as it was feeling somewhat decrepit. This
was six or seven years ago, so probably by now it has entered upon a new
lease of life. How much more picturesque are these old timbered
structures than the jubilee clock-towers which have sprung up in many
old-fashioned towns, putting everything out of harmony. But few towns
are proud of their old buildings. They must be up to date with flaring
red-brick, and electric tramways, and down comes everything with any
claim to antiquity, without a thought of its past associations or
picturesque value. But let us hope that Wymondham may be exempt from
these terrible tramways for many years to come, as its population is, or
was, decreasing.
The abbey and the church appear to have got rather mixed up; but having
come to a satisfactory arrangement, present a most pleasing group, and,
in the twilight, with two lofty towers and a ruined archway, it looks
far more like a castle on the Rhine than a church in Norfolk. The effect
doubtless would be heightened if we could see the rebel Kett dangling in
chains from the tower as he did in the reign of Bloody Mary. The timber
roof is exceptionally fine, with its long array of carved oak bosses and
projecting angels.
Near Wymondham is the moated Hall of Stanfield, picturesque with its
numerous pinnacles. Here the heroine of the delightful romance
_Kenilworth_ was born in 1532; but poor Amy's marriage, far from being
secret, was celebrated with great pomp at Sheen in Surrey in 1550, and
is recorded in the _Diary of Edward VI._ now in the British Museum.
"Lydcote," the old house in North Devon where she lived for some
years, was pulled down not many years ago. Her bedstead from there we
believe is still preserved at Great Torrington Rectory.
[Illustration: HAUTBOYS HALL.
(_Photo by W. B. Redfern, Esq._)]
Somewhat similar to Stanfield, though now only a farmhouse, is the very
pretty old Tudor house Hautboys Hall. It stands a few miles to the
south-east of Oxnead.
Of all the moated mansions in Norfolk, Oxburgh Hall, near Stoke Ferry,
is the most interesting, and is a splendid example of the fortified
manor-house of the end of the fifteenth century, and it is one of the
few houses in England that have always been occupied by one family. Sir
Edmund Bedingfield built it in the reign of Richard III., and Sir
Richard Bedingfield resides there at the present time. The octagonal
towers which flank the entrance gate rise from the broad moat to a
considerable height. There is a quaint projecting turret on the eastern
side which adds considerably to the picturesque outline of stepped
gables and quaint battlements. High above the ponderous oak gates the
machicolation behind the arch that joins the towers shows ample
provision for a liberal supply of molten lead, and in an old guard-room
may be seen the ancient armour and weapons to which the retainers of the
Hall were wont to have recourse in case of siege. The room recalls
somehow the defence of the tower of Tillietudlem in _Old Mortality_, and
one can picture the little household guard running the old culverins
and sakers into position on the battlements.
The great mullioned window beneath the Tudor arch and over the entrance
gate belongs to the "King's room," a fine old tapestried chamber
containing the bed, with green and gold hangings, where Henry VII.
slept; and it is no difficult matter to repeople it in the imagination
with the inhabitants of that time in their picturesque costumes. There
is a richness in the colouring of the faded tapestry and hangings in
contrast with the red-brick Tudor fireplace far more striking than if
the restorer had been allowed a liberal hand. It is like a bit of
Haddon, and such rooms are as rarely met with nowadays as unrestored
churches. The remarkable hiding-place at Oxburgh we have described in
detail elsewhere.[14] It is situated in the little projecting turret of
the eastern tower, and is so cleverly constructed beneath the solid
brick floor, that no one would believe until they saw the solid masonry
move upwards that there was sufficient space beneath to conceal a man.
The Bedingfields are an old Roman Catholic family, and it is usually in
the mansions of those of that faith that these ingenious contrivances
are to be seen.
A priest's hole was discovered quite recently in Snowre Hall, a curious
Tudor house some ten miles to the west of Oxburgh. It is entered through
a shaft from the roof, and measures five feet by six feet and four feet
high, and beneath it is an inner and smaller hiding-place. Mr. Pratt (in
whose family the house has been for two centuries) when he made the
discovery had to remove four barrow-loads of jackdaws' nests. The
discovery of this secret room is an interesting sequel to the fact that
on April 29, 1646, Charles I. slept at Snowre Hall. It will be
remembered that before he delivered himself up to the Scots army, he
spent some days wandering about the eastern counties in disguise, like
his son did in the western counties five years later. The owner of the
house in those days was a Mr. Ralph Skipwith, who, to put the spies that
were lurking about the vicinity off the track, provided the king with
his own grey riding-jacket in place of the clergyman's black coat he was
wearing, for that disguise had been widely advertised by his enemies.
Dr. Hudson, who was acting as scout, joined Charles and his companion,
Mr. Ashburnham, at Downham Market, where the "King's Walk" by the town
side, where they met, may still be seen. It is recorded by Dr. Stukeley
that Charles scratched some motto or secret instructions to his friends
on a pane of glass in the Swan Inn, where he put up awaiting Hudson's
return from Southwell. The fugitives proceeded thence to the Cherry Inn
at Mundford, some fourteen miles from Downham, and back to Crimplesham,
where they halted at an inn to effect the disguise above referred to.
The regicide Miles Corbet, who was on the track with Valentine Walton,
gave information as follows:
"Since our coming to Lyn we have done what service we were able. We have
taken some examinations, and it doth appeare to us that Mr. Hudson, the
parson that came from Oxford with the king, was at Downham in Norfolk
with two other gentlemen upon Thursday the last of April. We cannot yet
learn where they were Friday night; but Saturday morning, the 2 of May
they came to a blind alehouse at Crimplesham, about 8 miles from Lyn.
From thence Mr. Hudson did ride on Saturday to Downham again, and there
two soldiers met with him, and had private speech with him. Hudson was
then in a scarlet coat. Ther he met with Mr. Ralf Skipwith of his former
acquaintance, and with him he did exchange his horse; and Skipwith and
the said Hudson did ride to Southrie ferrie a privat way to go towards
Ely; and went by the way to Crimplesham, and ther were the other
two--one in a parsons habit, which by all description was the king.
Hudson procured the said Skipwith to get a gray coat for the Dr. (as he
called the king), which he did. And ther the king put off his black coat
and long cassock, and put on Mr. Skipwith his gray coat. The king bought
a new hat at Downham, and on Saturday went into the Isle of Ely.
Wherever they came they were very private and always writing. Hudson
tore some papers when they came out of the house. Hudson did enquire for
a ship to go to the north or Newcastel, but could get none. We hear at
the same time there were 6 soldiers and officers as is thought at
Oxborough at another blind alehouse."[15]
It is worthy of remark that Miles Corbet, whom Pepys saw on the morning
of April 19, 1662, looking "very cheerful" upon his way to Tyburn, was a
native of Norfolk, and his monument may be seen in Sprowston Church near
Norwich.
The "Swan" at Downham still exists, but it was modernised some fifteen
years ago. It would be interesting to know what became of the historical
pane of glass.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] The Miss Hobart who figures in de Gramont's _Memoirs_ was Sir
John's sister, one of the first baronet's sixteen children.
[12] There is an illustration of the room that Monmouth slept in at
Raynham upon this occasion in _King Monmouth_.
[13] _A Narrative of the Visit of His Majesty King Charles the Second to
Norwich, 1671_ (1846).
[14] See _Secret Chambers and Hiding-Places_.
[15] See _Memoirs of the Martyr King_.
NOOKS IN WARWICKSHIRE AND
BORDERLAND
The outline of Warwickshire is something in the form of a turnip, and
the stem of it, which, like an isthmus, projects into Gloucestershire
and Oxfordshire, contains many old-world places.
Long Compton, the most southern village of all, is grey and straggling
and picturesque, with orchards on all sides, and a fine old church, amid
a group of thatched cottages, whose interior was restored or mangled at
a period when these things were not done with much antiquarian taste. We
have pleasant recollections of a sojourn at the "Old Red Lion," where
mine host in 1880, a typical Warwickshire farmer, was the most
hospitable and cheery to be found in this or any other county: an
innkeeper of the old school that it did one's heart good to see.
But this welcome house of call is by no means the only Lion of the
neighbourhood, for on the ridge of the high land which forms the
boundary of Oxfordshire are the "Whispering Knights," the "King's
Stone," and a weird Druidical circle. These are the famous Rollright
Stones, about which there is a story that a Danish prince came over to
invade England, and when at Dover he consulted the oracle as to the
chances of success. He was told that
"When Long Compton you shall see,
You shall King of England be."
Naturally he and his soldiers made a bee-line for Long Compton, and,
arriving at the spot where the circle is now marked by huge boulders, he
was so elated that he stepped in advance of his followers, who stood
round him, saying, "It is not meet that I should remain among my
subjects, I will go before." But for his conceit some unkind spirit
turned the whole party into stone, which doesn't seem quite fair.
"King's Stone" stands conspicuous from the rest on the other side of the
road, and, being very erect, looks as if the prince still prided himself
upon his folly. The diameter of the circle is over a hundred feet. In an
adjoining field is a cluster of five great stones. These are the
"Whispering Knights"; and the secret among themselves is that they will
not consent to budge an inch, and woe to the farmer who attempts to
remove them. The story goes that one of the five was once carted off to
make a bridge; but the offender had such a warm time of it that he
speedily repented his folly and reinstated it.
There is a delightful walk across the fields from Long Compton to Little
Compton, with a glorious prospect of the Gloucestershire and
Warwickshire hills. This village used to be in the former county, but
now belongs to Warwickshire. Close to the quaint saddle-back towered
church stands the gabled Elizabethan manor-house, with the Juxon arms
carved over the entrance. Its exterior has been but little altered since
the prelate lived here in retirement after the execution of Charles I. A
gruesome relic was kept in one of the rooms, the block upon which the
poor monarch's head was severed. This and King Charles' chair and some
of the archbishop's treasured books disappeared from the manor-house
after the death of his descendant Lady Fane. Internally the house has
been much altered, but there are many nooks and corners to carry the
memory back to the hunting bishop, for his pack of hounds was one of the
best managed in the country. Upon one occasion a complaint was made to
the Lord Protector that Juxon's hounds had followed the scent through
Chipping Norton churchyard at the time of a puritanical assembly there.
But Oliver would hear none of it, and only replied, "Let the bishop
enjoy his hunting unmolested."
[Illustration: CHASTLETON.]
When Little Compton church had an Independent minister to hold forth to
the congregation, the prelate held divine service every Sunday at
Chastleton, the grand old home of the loyalist family of Jones. This
stately Jacobean mansion is close to Little Compton, but is really in
Oxfordshire. It has an old-world charm about it entirely its own; and
few ancestral homes can take us back to the days of Cavalier and
Roundhead with such realism, for the old furniture and pictures and
relics have never been disturbed since the house was built by Walter
Jones between the years 1603 and 1630. He purchased the estate from
Robert Catesby, the projector of the Gunpowder Plot, who sold the manor
to provide funds for carrying on that notorious conspiracy.
The great hall is a noble apartment, with raised dais and carved screen;
and the Royalist Joneses looking down upon you on all sides, conspicuous
among whom is Thomas Jones and valiant Captain Arthur Jones, whose sword
beside him shows the good service he did at Worcester fight. When the
day was lost, and Charles was journeying towards Boscobel, the captain
managed to ride his tired horse back to Chastleton. But a party of
Cromwellian soldiers were at his heels, and his wife had only just time
to hurry him into an ingeniously contrived hiding-place when the enemy
confronted her, and refused to budge from the very bedroom behind whose
panelled walls the fugitive was secreted. But Mrs. Arthur Jones had her
share of tact, and in preparing her unwelcome guests some refreshment,
she added a narcotic to the wine, which in time had effect. Her husband
was then released, and with a fresh horse he was soon beyond danger. The
little oak wainscoted chamber and the adjoining bedroom may still be
seen where this exciting episode took place. The drawing-room is very
rich in oak carvings, and the lofty marble chimney-piece bears in the
centre the Jones' arms. The ceiling with its massive pendants is a fine
example of the period.[16] The bedrooms are all hung with the original
tapestry and arras that was made for them. One of them contains the
State bed from old Woodstock Palace; and there are everywhere antique
dressing-tables, mirrors, and quaint embroidered coverlets, and old
chests and cabinets innumerable containing queer old dresses and coats
of the Georgian period, and, what is more remarkable, the identical
Jacobean ruffs and frills which are depicted in the old portraits in the
hall. Then there are cupboards full of delightful old china, and
decanters and wine glasses which were often produced to drink a health
to the "King over the water." But of more direct historic interest is
Charles I.'s Bible, which was given by the widow of the last baronet of
the Juxon family--a grand-nephew of the archbishop--to the then
proprietor of Chastleton, John Jones. It is bound in gold stamped
leather, and bears the Royal arms with the initials C. R. It is dated
1629, and is full of queer old maps and illustrations, and upon the
fly-leaf is written--"Juxon, Compton, Gloucestershire."
Some of the ancient cabinets at Chastleton are full of secret drawers,
and in one of them some years ago a very curious miniature of the martyr
king was discovered. It is painted on copper, and represents Charles I.
with the Order of St. George, and a set of designs drawn on talc,
illustrating the life of the ill-fated monarch from his coronation to
his execution. They are thus described by one of the past owners of
Chastleton: "They consist of a face and bust in one miniature, in a case
accompanied with a set of eight or nine pictures drawn on talc, being
different scenes or dresses, which are to be laid on the miniature so
that the face of the miniature appears through a hole left for that
purpose: and thus the one miniature does duty in every one of the talc
pictures. These were accidentally discovered some twenty years ago.[17]
The miniature was well known, and was supposed to be complete in itself;
but one day whilst being handled by one of the family, then quite a
child, it fell to the ground, and being in that way forced open at the
back, those talc pictures were brought to light. The careful manner in
which they had been concealed, and the miniature thereby made to appear
no more than an ordinary portrait, seems to warrant the suggestion that
they were in the first instance the property of some affectionate
adherent of Charles, whose prudence persuaded him to conceal what his
loyalty no doubt taught him to value very highly. There is no direct
evidence to show that they belonged to Bishop Juxon; nor is there any
tradition that I ever heard connected with them. The two concluding
pictures of the series represent the decapitated head in the hand of the
executioner, and a hand placing the martyr's crown upon the brows."
There are two huge oak staircases running up to the top of the house,
where is the old gallery or ballroom, with a coved ceiling of ornamented
plaster-work, and above the mullioned windows grotesque monster heads
devised in the pargeting.
The grounds and gardens are quite in character: not made to harmonise,
as are so many gardens nowadays, but the original quaint cut box hedges
and trim walks. The grand old house in the centre with its rusty roof of
lichen, and hard by the little church nestling by its side with the
picturesque entrance gateway and dovecot, form together a delightful
group. Chastleton church contains some good brasses. The tower is oddly
placed over the south porch.
A couple of miles to the north, and the same distance beyond, are two
other interesting manor-houses, Barton-on-the-Heath and Little Woolford.
The former, a gabled Jacobean house, was once the seat of the
unfortunate Sir Thomas Overbury, who was done to death in the Tower by
the machinations of that evil couple, Carr, Earl of Somerset, and his
countess. Overbury, it will be remembered, had written the Court
favourite's love letters and poems, and knew too much of that guilty
courtship.
There are some good monuments to the Overburys in the church: a Norman
one with saddle-back tower. Near here is the Four-Shire Stone, described
by Leland as "a large bigge stone; a Three-Mile-Stone from Rollerich
Stones, which is a very mark or line of Gloucestershire, Whichester
(Worcestershire), Warwickshire, and Oxfordshire."
Little Woolford manor-house, the old seat of the Ingrams, is now, or was
some years ago, used as a school. It is very picturesque, and its gables
of half-timber, facing the little courtyard, remind one of the
quadrangle of Ightham Mote. Opposite the Tudor entrance-gate is the
hall, with its open timber roof, minstrels' gallery, panelled walls, and
tall windows, still containing their ancient painted glass. Barton,
which properly should have its ghost, presumably is not so favoured; but
here there are two at least,--a certain "White Lady," who, fortunately
for the juvenile scholars, does not appear until midnight; and the last
of the Ingrams, who has a restless way of tearing about on horseback in
the adjacent fields. This gentleman could not die decently in his bed,
but must needs, upon the point of dying, rush into the stable, mount his
favourite steed, and plunge into the raging tempest to meet his
adversary Death. What a pity there are not more educational
establishments like this. They might possibly make the pupils less
matter-of-fact and more imaginative. But we had almost forgotten a
moral lesson that is to be learned from a rude projection in the masonry
on the left-hand side of the entrance gateway. This is the oven, which
opens at the back of a wide hearth; and here some seventeenth-century
I O U's are said to have been found for money lost at play; while some
Cavaliers were concealed there in the time of the Civil Wars. But the
punishment for gambling was providentially arranged. Some Cromwellian
soldiers dropping in at the manor-house, lighted a tremendous fire, and
gave the unfortunate fugitives a roasting which they did not readily
forget. This is roughly as the story goes; indeed it goes further, for
by local report King Charles himself was one of the victims.
Brailes, a few miles to the north-east, is famous for its church, the
cathedral of southern Warwickshire; but it is principally interesting
exteriorly, the old benches having been long since cleared away and many
nineteenth-century "improvements" made. Still there are parts of the
fourteenth-century roof and a fine font, some ancient monuments,
particularly melodious old bells; and the lofty embattled
fifteenth-century tower is exceptionally graceful.
Buried in a hollow, and hidden from view by encircling trees and hills,
is that wonderful old mansion Compton Wyniates. The name (derived from
the ancient family of Compton and Wyniates, a corruption of vineyard,
for at an early period the vine was here cultivated) is suggestive of
something quaint, and indeed a more curious old house could not be
found. Its innumerable gables and twisted chimneys seem to be heaped up
in the most delightful confusion, in abandoned opposition to any
architectural regularity. The eye wanders from tower and turret until it
becomes bewildered by so many twists and angles. Look at the square box
of a house like Moor Park, for example, and wonder how it is that having
arrived at such picturesque perfection, taste should so degenerate. But
half the fascination of Compton Wyniates is its colour; its time-worn
dark-red brick and the grey-green lichens of ancient roofs. Upon one
side the curious gables and countless chimney clusters are reflected in
the moat, part of which now does service as a sunken garden.
Passing through the bullet-battered door of the main entrance, over
which are the Royal arms of England supported by a griffin and a dog, we
enter a quadrangular court and thence pass into the great hall, with its
open timber roof black with the smoke of centuries. The screen beneath
the music gallery is elaborately carved with leaf tracery, grotesque
figures of mounted knights, and the escutcheon of the Compton arms.
Above the gallery we notice the huge oak beams which form the
half-timber portion of one of the principal gables, and cannot help
comparing these tremendous oak trunks with the modern laths plastered in
front of houses: a futile attempt to imitate this popular style, without
aiming at its _object_--strength.
The screen of the chapel, like that of the hall, is ornamented with
grotesque carvings, including a battle royal between some monks and his
Satanic Majesty, who by the way has one of the ninety rooms all to
himself, and reached by a special spiral staircase. Near the "Devil's
chamber" is another small room whose ghostly occupant is evidently a
member of the fresh-air league, for he will persist in having the window
open, and no matter how often it is closed it is always found to be
open. What a pity this sanitary ghost does not take up his abode where
oxygen is scarcer. But these are by no means the only mysterious rooms
at Compton Wyniates, for not a few have secret entrances and exits, and
one dark corridor is provided with a movable floor, which when removed,
drawbridge fashion, makes an excellent provision for safety so long as
you are on the right side of the chasm. Such ingenious arrangements were
as necessary in a private residence, miles from anywhere, as the
bathroom is in a suburban villa. There are secret "barracks" in the
roof, with storage for a regiment of soldiers, if necessary. The popish
chapel, too, has ample provision for the security of its priest. There
are four staircases leading up to it, and a regular rabbit-warren
between the beams of the roof and the wainscoting, where if needs be he
could run in case of danger.
"Henry VIII.'s room," and "Charles I.'s room," are both pointed out.
The latter slept a night here prior to the battle of Edgehill, and the
bluff king honoured the builder of the mansion, Sir William Compton,
with a visit in memory of old days, when his host as a boy had been his
page. Dugdale tells us that Sir William got his building material from
the ruinous castle of Fulbrooke, so his bricks were mellowed with time
when the house was first erected. The knight's grandson became Baron
Compton in Elizabeth's reign, and his son William, Earl of Northampton
in 1618. A romantic episode in the life of this nobleman was his
elopement with Elizabeth Spencer of Canonbury Tower, Islington. The lady
was a very desirable match, being the only daughter of Sir John Spencer,
the richest heiress of her time. Notwithstanding her strict seclusion at
Canonbury, Lord William Compton, of whom she was enamoured, succeeded in
the absence of her father in gaining admission to the house in the
disguise of a baker, and carried her off in his basket. To perform so
muscular a feat was proof enough of his devotion, so at the end of a
year all was forgotten and forgiven. Their son, the valiant second earl,
Spencer Compton, won his spurs and lost his life fighting for the king
at Hopton Heath. His portrait by Janssen may be seen at Castle Ashby.
His son James, the third earl, also fought for Charles, and attended his
son at the Restoration; but his younger brother Henry, Bishop of London,
aided the Revolution, and crowned Dutch William and his queen.
Only within the last half-century has the mansion been occupied as a
residence. For nearly a century before it was neglected and deserted.
The rooms were bare of furniture, for, alas! its contents, including
Henry VIII.'s State bed, had been removed or sold. That delightful
writer William Howitt in 1840 said the house had not been inhabited for
ninety years, with the exception of a portion of the east front, which
was used by the bailiff. The rooms were empty and the walls were naked.
His concluding wish fortunately long since has been realised--namely,
that its noble owner would yet cause the restoration and refitting of
Compton Wyniates to all its ancient state.
Warwickshire is rich in ancestral houses and mediaeval castles. Take, for
example, the fortresses of Kenilworth, Warwick, Maxstoke, and Tamworth,
or the fine old houses Coombe Abbey, Charlecote, and Baddesley Clinton.
The last named perhaps is least known of these, but by no means the
least interesting. This old moated Hall of the Ferrers family is buried
in the thickly wooded country on the high tableland which occupies the
very heart of England. As to the actual centre, there are two places
which claim this distinction; but oddly enough they are quite twelve
miles apart. The one between Leamington and Warwick, the other to the
west of Coventry. The latter spot is marked by the village cross of
Meriden, and the former by an old oak tree by the main road. Baddesley
Clinton is nearly equidistant from both, south of Meriden and north-west
of Leamington and Warwick.
Few houses so thoroughly retain their ancient appearance as Baddesley.
It dates from the latter part of the fifteenth century, and is a
singularly well-preserved specimen of a moated and fortified manor-house
of that period. Like Compton Wyniates, its situation is very secluded in
its densely wooded park, and formerly there was a double moat for extra
defence; but for all its retiredness and security, the old house has a
kindly greeting for those who are interested in such monuments of the
past. A stone bridge across the moat leads to a projecting embattled
tower with a wide depressed archway, showing provision for a portcullis
with a large mullioned window over it. In general appearance the front
resembles the moated house of Ightham, with which it is coeval, and the
half-timbered gables of the courtyard are somewhat similar. Unlike
Charlecote, the interior is as untouched as the exterior. Everywhere
there are quaint old "linen" panelled rooms and richly carved
chimney-pieces--windows of ancient heraldic glass, and old furniture,
tapestry, and paintings. The hall is not like some, that never look cosy
unless there is a blazing log fire in the hearth. There is something
particularly inviting in this old room, with its deep-recessed mullioned
window by the great freestone Jacobean fireplace. What pictures could
not the imagination conjure up in this cosy corner in the twilight of an
autumn day! On the first floor over the entrance archway is the
"banqueting-room," with high coved ceiling and tapestry-lined walls.
Beyond this is "Lord Charles' room," haunted, it is said, by a handsome
youth with raven hair. Many years ago this spectre was seen by two of
the late Mr. Marmion Ferrers' aunts when they were children, and they
long remembered his face and steadfast gaze. A mysterious lady dressed
in rich black brocade is occasionally encountered in the corridors in
broad daylight, like the famous "Brown Lady" of Raynham Hall.
The ancient chapel was set up by Sir Edward Ferrers when the little
parish church was taken from the family at the Reformation. In the
thickness of the wall close at hand there is a secret passage which
leads down to a little water-gate by the moat beneath which a narrow
passage runs, so that there were two ready means of escape in troublous
times; and in the roof on the east side of the house there is a priest's
hole provided with a fixed bench. Marmion Ferrers above alluded to, who
died in 1884, was the eighth in descent from father to son from Henry
Ferrers of Elizabeth's time. Both were learned antiquarians. Marmion
Ferrers was a typical squire of the old school, and we well remember
with what pride he showed us round his ancestral home. But his pride
ended there, as is shown by the following anecdote. One day he
encountered an old woman in the park who had been gathering sticks
without permission. She dropped her heavy bundle and was about to offer
apologies for trespassing, when the good old squire, seeing that her
load was too much for her strength, without a word slung the burden on
his shoulder and carried it to the woman's humble dwelling.
This calls to mind a story of a contemporary squire who lived some fifty
miles away in the adjoining county, an antiquary who was also known for
his acts of kindness and hospitality. In the vicinity of his ancient
Hall a tramp had found a job, and the baronet was anxious to test his
butler's honesty. He therefore offered to lend the man a hand and help
him carry some bundles of faggots into an adjacent yard, if he would
share profits. This was agreed upon, and when the work was done the
tramp went off to the Hall to ask for his money, promising to join his
assistant in a lane at the back of the house. Meanwhile the squire
hurried to his study, and when the butler made his appearance handed him
five shillings. Then donning his shabby coat and hat he hastened back.
Presently the tramp came up with beaming countenance and held out half a
crown, saying they were both well rewarded with one and threepence each.
But the assistant grumbled, and said it was miserable pay, and at length
persuaded the man to return and ask to see the squire and explain the
amount of work that had been done. Again he returned to his sanctum, and
hearing the bell ring told the butler to admit the man, and he would
hear what he had to say. Having enjoyed the fun--the tramp's surprise
and the butler's discomfort, he dismissed them both--one with half a
guinea, the other from his service.
Baddesley Clinton church, shut in by tall trees a bow-shot from the
Hall, is famous for its eastern window of heraldic glass, which shows
the various noble families with whom the Ferrers intermarried. By the
union of Marmion Ferrers' father with the Lady Harriet Anne, daughter of
the second Marquis Townshend, the Chartley and Tamworth lines of the
family were united with that of Baddesley. The altar tomb of Sir Edward
Ferrers, Knight, the founder of the family at Baddesley, his wife Dame
Constance, and son who predeceased him, has above shields of the
alliances with the Bromes, Hampdens, etc. He was the son of Sir Henry
Ferrers, Knight, of Tamworth Castle, and grandson of William, Lord
Ferrers of Groby. Marmion was the thirteenth in descent from this Sir
Edward, not many links between the fifteenth and end of the nineteenth
century. The day of the good old squire's burial on August 25, 1884,
fell upon the three hundred and forty-ninth anniversary of the death of
the first Ferrers of Baddesley.
FOOTNOTES:
[16] There is an engraving of this room in Nash's _Mansions_.
[17] The description was written more than twenty years ago.
SOME NOOKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE
AND GLOUCESTERSHIRE
[Illustration: THE WHITE HOUSE, PIXHAM.]
Not far from Powick Bridge, where after two hours' hard fighting the
Royalists were defeated by General Fleetwood, stands a quaint old house
of timber and plaster, with nine gables facing three sides of the
compass, and a high three-gabled oaken porch in front. It is called
Priors Court, or the White House of Pixham, and since "the battle of
Powick Bridge" it has been occupied by the same family, though the name
by inter-marriage has changed from time to time. A branch of the Lanes
of Bentley were the representatives in the seventeenth century, and
according to tradition the famous Jane Lane lived here for a time.
Though the house belongs to the Tudor period, many alterations were made
early in the eighteenth century, but the little interior quadrangle
remains much in its original condition. One expects to find within, the
usual comfortable chimney corners and cosy panelled rooms, and perhaps
some ancient furniture; but it comes as a surprise to find a museum of
relics and heirlooms taking us back to the days of the Tudors and
Stuarts.
From the hall, we pass up the great oak staircase to bedrooms and
corridors containing chests and cabinets full of ancient deeds and
manuscripts, not the least remarkable of which is a parchment roll upon
which is painted a series of mysterious astrological and other pictures,
supposed once upon a time to have been the property of the necromancer
Dr. John Dee, who lived for some time in the neighbouring town of
Upton-on-Severn. If this is really a document of Dr. Dee's, one would
like to see it preserved with the famous crystal in the British Museum.
The old presses and cupboards are full of the richly embroidered
bed-hangings and homespun sheets wrought by the ladies of the house in
the days when their energies were devoted to domestic purposes, and the
idea of hockey or ladies' clubs would have made their hair to stand
erect. There are piles of arras carefully packed away when wall-paper
came in fashion. There are chairs and tables dating back three centuries
or more, and mirrors which have reflected fair faces patched, with
head-gear piled up mountain high.
In a corner stands a spinning-wheel, distaff, and reel complete, as if
some dainty damsel at work had fled at the approach of footsteps; and
there beyond is a dusty pillion which conjures up a picture of Mistress
Lane seated behind "Will Jackson" upon their way to Bristol. The ancient
glass and china, too, would whet the appetite of the most exacting
connoisseur. But we must not linger longer, or we shall envy these
choice possessions.
[Illustration: PIRTON COURT.]
[Illustration: SEVERN END.]
[Illustration: SEVERN END.]
Pirton Court, not far away, has not been plastered over like many houses
with elaborate wooden "magpie" work beneath, and the ornamental timber
in circular design is unimpaired. But the quaintest timber gables were
those at Severn End, the ancient seat of the Lechmeres, some five miles
to the south-west. Alas! that this ancient mansion should have been
destroyed by fire,--a loss as great as that of Clevedon or Ingestre,
greater, perhaps, as its architecture was so quaint: a delightful
mixture of the Tudor and Stuart periods to which it was no easy matter
to fix a date, for the timber portions looked much older than the
seventeenth century, when they were built by Sir Nicholas Lechmere, a
nephew of Sir Thomas Overbury, a worthy and learned judge whose
manuscripts give a very realistic peep into the domestic life of the
times and the orderly way in which his establishment was conducted. Both
front and back of the house were strikingly picturesque, but the front
was the most curious, half black and white angular gables and half
curved and rounded red-brick Jacobean gables. On either side of the
entrance porch were two great chimney-stacks, and in the corners where
the wings abutted, small square towers, one of which was sharpened to a
point like a lead pencil. At the back, facing smooth lawns (where the
judge used to sit and study), attached to the main building was what
looked like a distinct structure, the sort of overhanging half-timbered
house with carved barge-boards, pendants, and hip-knobs that are
familiar objects at Shrewsbury or Tewkesbury. The lower part of this was
of red-brick, and beside it on the right was a smaller abutting
half-timber gable. The great oak staircases had fantastic newels and
balusters, and around the panelled hall was a fixed oak settle, and
armour on the walls: carved oak cabinets and chairs, and tables. The
room in which Charles I. slept was pointed out, and that of
Major-General Massey, for Severn End was that great soldier's
headquarters before the battle of Worcester.
A few miles to the south-west, within the boundary of the once wild
district, Malvern Chase, is another remarkable old house, Birtsmorton
Court, a moated and fortified manor-house in a singularly good state of
preservation. Though quiet and peaceful enough, its embattled gateway
has a formidable look, showing the teeth of its portcullis, like a
bull-dog on the alert for intruders. The drawbridge is also there, and
walls of immense thickness, both speaking of the insecurity of the days
when it was built. The "parlour," with windows looking out upon the
moat, is richly panelled with the various quarterings of the ancient
lords, the Nanfans, executed in colours around the cornice. The arms and
crest also occur upon the elaborately carved oak fireplace. On the
left-hand side of this fireplace there was formerly the entrance to a
hiding-place concealed in the wainscoting, but there is nothing now but
a very visible cupboard which leads nowhere. Tradition asserts that
Henry V.'s old associate, Sir John Oldcastle, sought refuge here before
he was captured and burned as a Lollard. But as that happened in 1417,
the date does not tally with the period to which the room belongs,
namely, a century later. But the original apartments have been divided
(some are dilapidated chambers, now used as a storeroom for Gloucester
cheeses), so that it is difficult to trace how they were placed. There
is also a story of a passage running beneath the moat into the adjacent
woods; but whether Sir John got so far, or whether after his escape from
the Tower he even got farther than his own castle of Cowling in Kent,
when he was hunted down by orders of his former boon companions, we
cannot say. By local report Edward IV. and Margaret of Anjou as well as
the little Lancastrian Prince of Wales sought shelter at Birtsmorton.
But for Margaret another house nearer Tewkesbury claims the honour of
offering a refuge from the battlefield. This is an old timber-framed
building with carved barge-boards, near the village of Bushley, called
Payne's Place, or Yew Tree Farm, which once belonged to Thomas Payne and
Ursula his wife, whose brasses may be seen in the church. In the eastern
wing of this old house Queen Margaret's bedroom is pointed out. The hall
with open timber roof is still intact but divided, and upon the oak
beams a century after the battle of Tewkesbury the following lines were
painted on a frieze:
"To lyve as wee shoulde alwayes dye it were a goodly trade,
To change lowe Death for Lyfe so hye, no better change is made;
For all our worldly thynges are vayne, in them is there no truste,
Wee see all states awhyle remayne, and then they turn to duste."
Had the lines existed then, would the poor queen have derived comfort
when the news reached her of her son's death on the battlefield?
Birtsmorton is associated with the early career of Cardinal Wolsey, for
here he acted as chaplain during the retirement of Sir Richard Nanfan
from service to the State. Through Sir Richard's Court influence Wolsey
was promoted to the service of Henry VIII.
The "Bloody Meadow" near Birtsmorton must not be confused with that near
Tewkesbury, the scene of the last battle between the Houses of York and
Lancaster. This one was the scene of a single combat between a Nanfan
and his sister's lover, in which the latter was slain. The heart-broken
lady left a sum of money that a sermon should be annually preached at
Berrow church (the burial-place of the Nanfans) against duelling; and
this we believe is done to this day. The cruciform church has been
painfully restored, but contains a fine altar-tomb to Sir John, Sir
Richard Nanfan's grandfather, Squire of the Body to King Henry VI.; but
beyond a leper's window and a queer old alms-box there is nothing else
remarkable.
[Illustration: RIPPLE.]
Two of the prettiest villages hereabouts are Ripple and Strensham, the
former on the Severn, the latter on the Avon. At Ripple, in a cosy
corner backed by creeper-grown timber cottages, is the lofty stone shaft
of the cross, and by the steps at the base the stocks and whipping-post.
Strensham is famous as the birthplace of the witty author of _Hudibras_.
It is a peaceful little place, with a few thatched cottages, a fine old
church near the winding river, embosomed in trees. The church is
remarkable for its fine rood-loft with painted panels of saints, which
at some time has been made into a gallery at the west end, and we hope
may be replaced one of these days.
Following the river Avon to Evesham and Stratford-on-Avon, there are
many charming old-world villages rich in timber and thatched cottages.
Such a village is Offenham above Evesham. The village street leads
nowhere, and at the end of it stands a tapering Maypole, as much as to
say, "Go on with your modern improvement elsewhere if you like, but here
I intend to stay"; and we believe it is duly decorated and danced around
in the proper fashion, though the inhabitants by the "new style" of the
calendar can scarcely dispense with overcoats. We will not follow the
course of the river so far as "drunken Bidford" (where the immortal bard
and some convivial friends are said to have been overcome by the effects
of the strong ale at the "Falcon"), but turn our steps southwards to
Broadway, which of recent years has had an invasion from America. But
the great broad street of substantial Tudor and Jacobean houses deserves
all the praise that has been lavished upon it. We were there before it
had particularly attracted Jonathan's eye, and after a fortnight's fare
of bread and cheese and eggs and bacon (the usual fare of a walking
tour), we alighted upon a princely pigeon pie at the "Lygon Arms." Under
such circumstances one naturally grows enthusiastic; but even if the
fine old hostelry had offered as cold a reception as that at Stilton, we
could not but help feeling kindly disposed towards so stately a roadside
inn. Like the "Bell" at Stilton, it is stone-built, with mullioned
windows and pointed gables; but here there is a fine carved doorway,
which gives it an air of grandeur. There are roomy corridors within,
leading by stout oak doors to roomier apartments, some oak panelled, and
others with moulded ceilings and carved stone fireplaces. One of these
is known as "Cromwell's room," and one ought to be called "Charles'
room" also, for during the Civil Wars the martyr king slept there on
more than one occasion. The wide oak staircase with its deep set window
on the first landing, reminds one of the staircase leading out of the
great hall of Haddon. There is a little wicket gate to keep the dogs
below. Farther up the village street stands Tudor House, which with its
ball-surmounted gable ends and bay-window with heraldic shields above,
bears a cloak-and-rapier look about it; but it was built, according to
the date upon it, when the old Cavalier was poor and soured, and had
sheathed his sword, but nevertheless was counting the months when the
king should come to his own again. The house was empty, and presumably
had been shut up for years. Referring to some notes, we find the
following memoranda by the friend who was with us upon the occasion of
our visit. "We could obtain no information as to the ownership, or still
more important, the holder of the keys. One old man, who might have
remembered it being built but was slightly hazy on the subject, said no
one ever went inside. Other inquiries in the village led only to intense
astonishment at our desire. And the whole concluded in a large
contingent of the inhabitants standing speechless, marvelling before the
house itself; in which position we left them and it."
The old church of Edward IV.'s time is now, or was, deserted in favour
of an early-Victorian one much out of keeping with the village, or
rather town that it once was.
Another decayed town, once of more importance still, is Chipping
Campden, four miles to the north-east of Broadway, in a corner of
Gloucestershire. Here again we have the great wide street with a
profusion of grey stone gables on either side, and projecting inn signs,
and sundials in profusion. At one extremity a noble elm tree and at the
other a huge chestnut, stand like sentinels over the ancient buildings
that they may not share the fate of the neighbouring manor-house, which
was burned down by its loyal owner, the third Viscount Campden, during
the Civil War, to save it from the ignoble fate of being seized and
garrisoned for the Parliamentarians. From the imposing entrance gate and
two remaining curious pavilions at either end of a long terrace, one may
judge it must have been a fine early-Jacobean mansion. Strange that
Campden House, their ancient town residence, should have perished in the
flames also, but over two centuries afterwards. Near the entrance gate
are the almshouses, a very picturesque line of pointed gables and lofty
chimneys. Above them rises the graceful early-Perpendicular church
tower, which in design and proportions is worthy of a cathedral. But the
quaint Jacobean pillared market-house, the Court-house with its handsome
panelled buttresses, and a house of the time of Richard III. with
two-storied bay-window, and an ancient hall, are among the most
interesting buildings in the town. One of the many sign-boards displays
a poetic effusion by a Campden chimney-sweep, a modernised version of
the original which ran as follows:
"John Hunter Campden doe live here,
Sweeps chimbleys clean and not too deare.
And if your chimbley be a-fire,
He'll put it out if you desire."
The "Red Lion" is a typical hostelry of the Stuart days, and a
contemporary house opposite, bearing the date 1656, is well worth
notice: the "Green Dragon" also, dated 1690.
The interior of the church is disappointing; its new benches, windows,
roof, and chancel giving it a modern look; but there are some fine old
monuments to the ancient lords of the manor, especially that of the
first Viscount Campden and his countess, and there are some fine
fifteenth-century brasses in the chancel.
[Illustration: STANTON.]
Norton House, to the north of the town, near Dover Hill (famous for the
Cotswold games in "the good old days"), is a picturesque, many-gabled
house; and at Mickleton, to the north-east, there are some curious old
buildings. Farther north are the remains of Long Marston manor-house,
still containing the roasting-jack which Charles II. as pseudo
scullery-man omitted to wind up, and brought the wrath of the cook upon
his head, much as King Arthur did when he burnt the cakes. But our way
lies southwards through Broadway to Buckland, Stanton, and a place that
should be sylvan according to its name--Stanway-in-the-Woods. Buckland
church and rectory are both of interest. The former has a fine
Perpendicular tower with some grotesque gargoyle demons at the corners.
The benches are good, and a window dated 1585 retains some ancient
painted glass, as the roof does its old colouring, in which the Yorkist
rose is conspicuous. The hall of the rectory has a fine open-timber roof
with central arch richly carved, and upon a window is depicted a rebus
representing one William Grafton, rector of Buckland from 1450 to 1506.
The manor-house also once possessed a hall with lofty timber-framed roof
and huge fireplace of the fourteenth century; but, sad to relate, it was
destroyed when the house was modernised some years ago, but there still
remains a pretty old staircase of a later date.
Farther south the country becomes more wooded and hilly. The high ground
rises on the left above Stanton, and at the foot of the hill near the
village nestle the pretty old church and gabled manor-house, with its
complement of old farm buildings adjacent. The village street, like
Broadway, consists of rows of grey stone gables, at the end of which
stands the sundial-surmounted cross. The interior of the church has not
been spoiled; the carved oak canopied pulpit towering above the ancient
pews is quite in keeping with the old-world village. The Stanways are
about two miles to the south, but there are so few houses that one
wonders where the children come from to attend the village school. Wood
Stanway is not disappointing like many places possessing picturesque
names that we could quote, for it is enveloped in trees, and so is
Church Stanway for that matter.
[Illustration: STANWAY HOUSE.]
[Illustration: STANWAY HOUSE.]
Turning a corner of the road one comes suddenly upon a wonderful old
gateway with fantastic gables and a noble Jacobean doorway. On one side
of it is a high garden wall with great circular holes in it, and over
the wall peep the gables and ornamental perforated parapet of a fine
mansion of Charles I.'s time. This is always a most fascinating picture;
but to see it at its best is when the roses are in bloom, for above the
old wall and through the rounded apertures, the queen of flowers
flourishes in gay festoons as if rejoicing at its surroundings. But if
one is so fortunate as to obtain admission to the gardens then may he or
she rejoice also, for upon the other side of that grey old wall are the
prettiest of gardens and the grandest trees, one of which, an ancient
yew, is no less than twenty-two feet in girth. There are terraces, stone
summer-houses, and nooks and corners such as one only sees in the
grounds of our ancestral homes. Within, the mansion has been much
restored and somewhat modernised, but the great hall and other rooms
take one back to the time of Inigo Jones, who designed the entrance
gateway. In the churchyard close by is buried the most popular local man
of his time, Robert Dover. If he lived in our day he surely would be the
president of the "Anti-Puritanical League," for he it was who made a
successful crusade against the spirit of religious austerity, the
tendency of which was to put down holidays of sport and merry-making. As
a result of his efforts, the hills above Chipping Camden were annually
at Whitsuntide the scene of a revival of the mediaeval days of festivity
and manly exercise. Upon these occasions the originator acted as master
of the ceremonies, and was duly respected, for he always wore a suit of
King James' own clothes. Dover died at the beginning of the Civil War,
so, fortunately for him, he did not live through the rigid rule of
Cromwell. The Cotswold games, however, were revived at the Restoration.
To this public benefactor (the shadow of whose cloak has surely fallen
on the shoulders of Lord Avebury) Drayton wrote in eulogy:
"We'll have thy statue in some rock cut out
With brave inscriptions garnished about,
And under written, 'Lo! this is the man
Dover, that first these noble sports began.'
Lads of the hills and lasses of the vale
In many a song and many a merry tale
Shall mention thee; and having leave to play,
Unto thy name shall make a holiday."
Yet nobody did set up his statue, as should have been done on "Dover
Hill" by Chipping Camden.
Some odd cures for certain ailments are prescribed in remote parts of
the Cotswolds. Garden snails, for instance, which in Wiltshire are sold
for ordinary consumption, namely, food, as "wall fruit," are used here
externally as a remedy for ague: and roasted mouse is a specific for the
whooping-cough. But for the latter complaint as efficacious a result may
be obtained by the pleasanter mode of riding on a donkey's back nine
times round a finger-post. This remedy, however, properly belongs to
Worcestershire.
If we continue in a south-westerly direction we shall pass historic
Sudeley, near Winchcombe, Postlip Hall, and Southam House. Sudeley
Castle must have been magnificent before it was dismantled in the Civil
War. Bravely it stood two sieges, but at length capitulated; and being
left a ruin by Cromwell's soldiers, the magnificent fifteenth-century
mansion was left for close upon two centuries to act as a quarry for the
neighbourhood. Under such disadvantages was its restoration commenced,
and it is wonderful what has been done; yet there has been a certain
admixture of Edwardian and Elizabethan portions which is somewhat
confusing. The banqueting room, with its noble oriel windows (originally
glazed with beryl), the keep with its dungeons, and the kitchen with its
huge fireplace four yards across, speak of days of lordly greatness, and
the names of many weighty nobles as well as kings and queens are closely
associated with the castle. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was once
possessed of it; the youngest son of Owen Tudor and Henry V.'s widow
lived there; so did Sir Thomas Seymour, Edward VI.'s uncle, who married
and buried there Henry VIII.'s last queen, at which ceremony Lady Jane
Grey was chief mourner. Elizabeth was here upon one of her progresses,
and Charles I. was the last sovereign who slept there. The restored
rooms are full of historical furniture, pictures, and relics. Here may
be seen Amy Robsart's bed, or one of them, from Cumnor Hall: and the bed
upon which the martyr king slept, not here but at Kineton, before
Edgehill. There are numerous relics of the queen, who had the tact to
outlive her august spouse, and the foolishness to marry a fourth
husband. Catherine Parr's various books and literary compositions may
here be studied, including the letter in which she accepted Seymour's
offer of marriage. He was by no means the best of husbands, but a vast
improvement on the royal tyrant who had coldly planned the queen's
destruction; but owing to her ready wit his wrath was turned upon
Wriothesley, who was to have arrested her; for when he came to perform
that office, Henry called him an "an errant knave and a beast." There
are lockets containing locks of her auburn hair, and portions of the
dress she wore. But the main interest is centred in the chapel where the
queen was buried. This building was dismantled with the rest in 1649,
and the fine Chandos monuments destroyed. Catherine's tomb, which was
within the altar rails, probably shared the fate of the rest, and its
position was soon forgotten. However, after the lapse of nearly a
century and a half, a plain slab of alabaster in the north wall,
doubtless part of the original monument, led to the discovery of a
leaden case in the shape of a human form lying immediately below, only a
foot or so beneath the surface of the ground. Upon the breast was the
following inscription:
K. P.
Here lyethe QUENE
KATERYN wife to KYNG
HENRY THE VIII., and
Last the wife of Thomas
Lord of Sudeley, highe
Admiyrall of England
And vncle to Kyng
Edward the VI.
dyed
5 September
MCCCCC
XLVIII.
The cerecloth, hard with wax and gums, was removed from a portion of the
arm, which was discovered after close upon three centuries to be still
white and soft. According to another account, when the covering of the
face was removed, not only the features, but the eyes were in perfect
preservation. The body was reinterred, but treated with no decent
respect, for the spot was occupied as an enclosure for rabbits; and upon
one occasion it was dug up by some drunken men, who by local tradition,
as a reward for their desecration, all came to an untimely end. The
alabaster block may still be seen in the north wall of the chapel, but
the body now lies beneath a recumbent figure in white marble which has
been placed to the queen's memory.
[Illustration: POSTLIP HALL.]
Postlip Hall stands high in a picturesque spot not far from the main
road to Cheltenham. It is a many-gabled Elizabethan house, preserving
its original character, but spoiled by the insertion of plate-glass
windows. Within there is one particularly fine room of elaborate oak
carvings (and the arms of the Broadways who built the house) of
sufficient importance to form the subject of one of the plates in Nash's
_Mansions_. The house has or had the reputation of being haunted; but
that was long ago in the days when it stood neglected and uninhabited.
Southam House, or Southam-de-la-Bere, to the south-west (also depicted
in Nash), is a curious early-Tudor building of timber and stone, and has
the advantage over Sudeley, as it was not of sufficient military
importance to be roughly handled by the Parliamentarian soldiers. The
ancient painted glass in the windows and an elaborate chimney-piece
bearing shields of arms came from Hayles Abbey. The ceilings are oak
panelled, and the arms of Henry VII. occur in numerous places. The
situation of the house is fine, and the view over the vast stretch of
country towards Worcestershire and Herefordshire magnificent. The
builder of the mansion was Sir John Huddleston, whose wife was the queen
Jane Seymour's aunt. The de-la-Beres, to whom the estate passed by
marriage, were closely allied with the Plantagenet kings, two sisters
marrying Thomas Plantagenet, Edward III.'s son, and Henry Plantagenet,
Duke of Lancaster.
Avoiding Cheltenham, we will pick up the road to Stroud at Birdlip, a
favourite meeting-place of the hounds on account of the surrounding
woods. Coming from the south there is a gradual climb through those
delightful woods until you burst upon a gorgeous view, with the ancient
"Ermine Street" running, like a white wand lying upon the level pattern
work of meadowland, to Gloucester, and the hills of Malvern away in the
distance. Whether it was the great dark mass of hill in the foreground
contrasted against the level stretch of country, or whether it was the
stormy sky when we visited Birdlip on a late autumnal day, that gave the
scene such a wild, romantic look, it would be difficult to say, but we
remember no view with such breadth of contrast of light and shade, or
one so fitted to lead the imagination into the mystic realms of
fairyland.
Up in these heights, and in so secluded a spot, it came as a surprise to
find a museum. This we believe long since has been dispersed by the
hammer, but we remember some really interesting things. The lady
curator, the proprietress of the "Black Horse," had been given many of
the exhibits by the neighbouring gentry, and was not a little proud of
her collection. Valuable coins, flint weapons, fossils, pictures, and
the usual medley. There was one little oil painting on a panel, the head
of a beautiful girl with high powdered hair of the Georgian period,
which had all the vigour of a Romney, and undoubtedly was by a master
craftsman. Two curiosities we remember in particular: a pair of leggings
said to have been worn by the great Duke of Marlborough, and the wooden
finger-stocks from a village dame-school. It would be interesting to
know where these curiosities are now. The only other finger-stocks we
know of are in Ashby-de-la-Zouch church, Leicestershire.
[Illustration: STOCKS, PAINSWICK.]
Painswick, to the south-west, is a sleepy old town with a fine
Perpendicular church much restored internally, but containing some
handsome monuments. The churchyard is noted for its formal array of
clipped yew trees, probably unique. They have the same peculiarity as
Stonehenge, for it is said nobody can count them twice the same. As,
however, we did not visit the adjacent inn, we managed to accomplish the
task. Close to the church wall are the stocks--iron ones.
[Illustration: NAILSWORTH.]
Upon the way to Stroud many weird old buildings are passed which once
were, and some are still, cloth mills; but some are deserted and
dilapidated, and have a sad look, as if remembering more prosperous
days; and when the leaves are fast falling in the famous golden valley
they look indeed forlorn. One would think there can be little poetry
about an old cloth mill, but ere one gives an opinion one must visit the
golden valley in the autumn. Around Nailsworth, Rodborough, and
Woodchester there are many ancient houses which have degenerated into
poor tenements. Such a one at Nailsworth has the brief address "No. 5
Egypt," which by all appearance was an important house in its day. A
gentleman who resided in a more squalid part related how he had
discovered a cavalier's rapier up in the roof of a mansion, but in a
weak moment had parted with it for half a crown. "Southfield" at
Woodchester is perhaps the most picturesque of these stately houses, a
house which near London would fetch a formidable rent, but here a
ridiculously low one. Some six miles out of Stroud a really decent
house, garden, and orchard may be had for next to a song. A light
railway may have now sent prices up, by striking northwards, but not
many years back we saw one very excellent little place "to let," the
rent of which was only sixpence a week, and the tenant had given notice
because the landlord had been so grasping as to raise it to sixpence
halfpenny!
[Illustration: BEVERSTONE CASTLE.]
Between Nailsworth and Tetbury are Beverstone Castle and the secluded
manor-house Chavenage within a mile of it. The castle stands near the
road, an ivy-covered ruin of the time of Edward III., but with portions
dating from the Conquest. Incorporated are some Tudor remains and some
old farm buildings, forming together a pleasing picture.
To Major-General Massey, Beverstone, like Sudeley, is indebted for its
battered appearance. It held out for the king, but Massey with three
hundred and eighty men came and took it by storm. The general having
done as much damage as possible in Gloucestershire during the Civil War,
at length made some repairs by fighting on the other side at Worcester;
and perhaps it was as well, for had he been on the victorious side he
might have treated "the faithful city" with as little respect as
Beverstone. In the peaceful days of the Restoration, which Massey
lived to see, as there were no more castles to blow up he dabbled
in the pyrotechnic art, suggestive of the pathetic passage in
_Patience_--Yearning for whirlwinds, and having to do the best you can
with the bellows.
The regicide squire of Chavenage must also have been skilled in the
noble art, for by common report at his death a few months after that of
the martyr king, he vanished in flames of fire! But there was a
ceremonious preliminary before this simple and effective mode of
cremation. A sable coach driven by a headless coachman with a star upon
his breast arrived at the dead man's door, and the shrouded form of the
regicide was seen to glide into it. But bad as Nathaniel Stephens may
have been, it is scarcely just that all future lords of Chavenage must
make their exit in this manner.
The old house is unpretentious in appearance. Built in the form of the
letter E, it has tall latticed windows lighting a great hall (famous
once for its collection of armour), and a plain wing on either side,
with narrow Elizabethan Gothic-headed windows. There is a ghostly look
about it. It stands back from the road, but sufficiently near that one
may see the entrance porch (bearing the date 1579) and the ruts of the
carriage wheels upon the trim carriage drive. Arguments as strong as any
in _Ingoldsby_ to prove the mystic story must be true.
NOOKS IN NORTHERN
WILTSHIRE
After a sojourn in north-west Wilts it is refreshing to dip into the
wooded lanes of the Home Counties and see again the red-brick cottages
and homesteads which have such a snug and homely look after the cold
grey stone and glaring chalk roads. For old-world villages and
manor-houses, however, one could not choose a better exploring ground,
but not, please note, for the craze of picking up bits of old oak,
judging by what we overheard the very first day we stopped in one of the
most out-of-the-way places of all.
"Anything old inside?" asked somebody at the doorway, having led gently
and gracefully up to it so as not to arouse suspicion. "Nothing," was
the reply. "May I look round inside?" was asked. "No." Then after a
pause. "Any other of the cottagers got any old chairs, or china?" "One
or two of them _had_ some, but they sold what they had to Mrs. ---- of
----." "_Of_ course," was the disgusted reply; "she's _always_ first, and
gets everything!"
The conversation gives but an idea of the systematic way that a crusade
for the antique is carried on. If the hunter makes a "find," and the
owner will not part, that unfortunate cottager is persecuted until he or
she does part, sooner or later to regret the folly. And, alas! churches
are not even sacred from these sharks. How often have we not seen some
curious piece of furniture mentioned as being in the church, and, lo! it
has vanished--where? And do not the empty brackets over many an ancient
tomb tell a tale? What have become of the helmets of the ancient lords
of the manors? We can quote an instance offhand. In the fine old church
of Bromham, three of the helmets of the manorial lords, the Bayntons,
are still there, two of them perhaps only funereal helmets, and not the
actual casques of warfare; but there are three if not four vacant
brackets which perchance once supported the envied headpieces with
pointed visor of the fifteenth century. Aloft also are some rusty
gauntlets, and one of the helmets still bears the crest of the eagle's
head. The manor descended from the Beauchamps to the Bayntons, the last
of whom was the nineteenth in descent from Sir Henry Baynton, Knight
Marshal of the household to Henry the Second. His mother was the eldest
daughter and co-heiress of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, and Miss
Malet the runaway heiress. A recumbent effigy of Sir Roger Touchet in
alabaster (resembling in a remarkable degree the late Sir Henry Irving
as Richard III.) is covered with the carved initials of vandal visitors,
not, we may add, only of our own and fathers' and grandfathers' time,
but dating back from the reign of Elizabeth; so it is comforting to see
that our ancestors were as prone to disfigure monuments in this way as
is the modern 'Arry. One of the initials, I. W., perhaps may be that of
the witty and wicked Earl of Rochester, who by repute made Spye an
occasional residence, although the Bayntons certainly held the estate
some years after the Lady Anne, his daughter's death in 1703. The
ceiling of the Baynton chapel is richly carved, and the bosses and
brackets show their original faded colouring of blue and gold. There are
also coloured niches for saints; and on a canopied tomb of Elizabeth
Touchet, a brass of a kneeling figure, and a tablet of the coat of arms
is enamelled in colours. There also is a fine brass of John Baynton in
Gothic armour.
[Illustration: GATE-HOUSE, SPYE PARK.]
All that remains of the old Jacobean house of Spye is a subterranean
passage beneath the terrace; but the Tudor entrance gate to the
picturesque park stands on the left-hand side of the road to Lacock just
before the road begins its winding precipitous descent. Evelyn saw the
house soon after it was built, and likened it to a long barn. The view
is superb, but, strangely enough, not a single window looked out upon
the prospect! After dining and a game of bowls with Sir Edward Baynton,
the Diarist took coach; but, says Evelyn, "in the meantime our coachmen
were made so exceeding drunk, that in returning home we escaped great
dangers. This, it seems, was by order of the knight, that all
gentlemen's servants be so treated; but the custom is barbarous and much
unbecoming a knight, still less a Christian."
A mile or so to the east of the entrance gate of Spye is Sandy Lane, a
tiny hamlet with trim thatched cottages and a sturdy seventeenth-century
hostelry, the "George," looking down the street; and farther along in
the direction of Devizes stands the "Bell," another ancient roadside
inn, which, judging from its mullioned windows, knobbed gables, and
rustic porch, must date back to the days of the first Charles.
In Bromham village also there are some pretty half-timber buildings, not
forgetting the "lock-up" by the churchyard. The exterior of the church
is richly sculptured; a fine example of the purest Gothic.
[Illustration: LACOCK.]
[Illustration: LACOCK.]
Sleepy old Lacock, with its numerous overhanging gables, is a typical
unspoiled village. It was once upon a time a town, but by all
appearances it never can have been a flourishing one; and let us hope it
will remain in its dormant state now that there is nothing out of
harmony, for the Lacock of to-day must look very much as it did two
hundred years or more ago. It consists mainly of two wide streets, with
a fine old church at the end of one and a lofty seventeenth-century inn
at the other. Opposite the latter is a monastic barn with blocked-up
arched doorway, and facing it a fine row of timbered houses. Wherever
you go the pervading tone is grey, and one misses the little front
gardens with bright flowers and creepers. By the school stands the
village cross. Farther along a great wide porch projects into the
street, and over it a charming traceried wooden window. Nearer the
church the road narrows, and a group of timber cottages make a pleasing
picture, one of them with a wide entrance of carved oak spandrels above
an earlier stone doorway. The church, a noble edifice, has a very
graceful spire and some good tombs, including two wooden mural monuments
to Edward Baynard who lived in Elizabeth's reign, and to Lady Ursula
Baynard in the reign of Charles I.
The monument of Sir John Talbot of Lacock describes him as born of the
most noble family of the Duke of Shrewsbury, which is somewhat
confusing. Sir John was descended from John, second Earl of Shrewsbury,
who died in 1460, and his monument was erected when the twelfth earl and
first duke was living. Sir John died in 1713, and his son and heir
predeceased him, as mentioned on the monument.
[Illustration: LACOCK.]
[Illustration: LACOCK ABBEY.]
But the principal object of interest at Lacock, of course, is its famous
abbey, the early fifteenth-century cloisters being, it is said, the most
perfect example in England. It has been a residence since the
Dissolution, when the estate was granted by Henry VIII. to Sir William
Sherrington, the daughter of whose brother Sir Henry married a Talbot of
Salwarpe, the ancestor of the present owner, C. H. Talbot, Esq., a
learned antiquary, by whose care and skill so many points of interest
have been brought to light. The cloisters, refectory, chapter-house,
sacristy, etc., are in an excellent state of preservation, and there
are some fine hooded fireplaces, and among the curiosities, a great
stone tank in which fish were kept; and the nuns' cauldron, something
after the style of Guy of Warwick's porridge-pot. The groined roof of
the cloister is remarkable, the bosses showing their original colouring,
nearly two hundred or more all being of different design. The sides
facing the road are flanked by an octagonal tower of singular beauty,
ornamented with balustrades, and a staircase turret crowned with a
cupola. This contains the muniment-room, in which is preserved Henry
III.'s Magna Charta, which belonged to the foundress, Ela, Countess of
Shrewsbury, the widow of William Longespee, the son of Henry II. and
Fair Rosamond. Dugdale tells us that the site "Snaile's Mede" was
pointed out to this good lady in a vision. An epitaph to the abbess Ela
may still be seen within the cloisters.
Sir John Talbot of Lacock was a staunch Royalist, and the first person
who received the Merry Monarch in his arms at Dover upon his landing in
1660. Both Sir John and his son Sharington Talbot figure as duellists in
the diaries of Pepys and Evelyn. The former was one of the six
combatants in that famous encounter at Barn Elms, where Buckingham
mortally wounded Francis Talbot, the eleventh Earl of Shrewsbury. Sir
John proved a better swordsman than his antagonist Captain William
Jenkins, for the latter was left dead upon the field. The Royal pardon
from Charles II. is still preserved in Lacock Abbey. The duel between
the younger Talbot and Captain Love at Glastonbury, in July 1685, is
mentioned by Evelyn. Both commanded a company of militia against
Monmouth at Sedgemoor, and after the battle an argument arose as to
which fought the best. The discussion grew heated, swords were drawn,
and Talbot was killed. He was the eldest and only surviving son of the
knight, and had he left issue, upon the death of the eleventh Earl of
Shrewsbury's son, the first and only duke, the Lacock Talbots would by
priority have become Earls of Shrewsbury.
[Illustration: BEWLEY COURT.]
Beyond the village, just before the road winds upwards towards Spye
Park, is Bewley Court, an interesting old farm, with trefoil windows and
Gothic entrance door of fine proportions. Its hall is intact, having its
wide open fireplace and open timber roof with carved beams. A reed-grown
canal, with one of those queer hand drawbridges, serves as the moat of
yore. Bewley by some is corrupted into "Brewery," for close by there is
such an establishment, and the ancient name has become submerged. There
are said to have been four Courts originally belonging to Lacock Abbey,
but this is the only remaining one.
Each approach to Lacock is picturesque, but the most pleasing is from
the lane which runs up to Gastard and Corsham. This joins the Melksham
road by a charming old gabled and timbered cottage, not architecturally
remarkable, but pleasing in outline and colour. From the lane above,
this roadside cottage stands out against a background of wooded hill,
and when the sun is low it presents a picture which must have tempted
many an artist. On the way to Gastard and thence to Neston there are
many tumble-down old places which seem to be entirely out of touch with
the twentieth century. But at the highest point there is a startling
notice which might alarm a motorist should he lose his way up in these
narrow lanes. "Beware of the trams" is posted up in big letters! You
look around in astonishment, for silence reigns supreme; but by and bye
you come upon a stone quarry near the dilapidated entrance to what was
once probably a manor house, and a light falls upon the meaning of the
"trams." An artistic projecting signboard not far off bears the
inscription:
"Arise, get up the Season now
Drive up Brave Boys
God speed the Plough."
Up a narrow lane is a tiny chapel with a stone mullioned window cut down
into a semicircle at the top. A little stone sundial over the entrance
door, and the smallest burial-ground we have ever seen, are worth
notice for their quaintness. Farther to the west is Wormwood Farm, whose
ivy-clad gables give the house a more homely look than most hereabouts.
Higher up in a very bleak position is Chapel Plaster Hermitage, an older
building, whose little belfry surely cannot summon many worshippers. It
was a halting-place of pilgrims to Glastonbury, and in Georgian days of
lonely travellers, who were eased of their purses by a gentleman of the
road named Baxter, who afterwards was hung up as a warning on Claverton
Down. Near the wood, the resort of this highwayman, is Hazelbury House,
a sixteenth-century mansion, much reduced in size, whose formidable
battlemented garden walls are worthy of a fortress. It was once a seat
of the Strodes, whose arms are displayed on the lofty piers of the
entrance gate. On the other side of the Great Bath road is Cheney Court,
another gabled mansion which has been of importance in its day, and
within half a mile, Coles Farm, a smaller building, alas! fast falling
to decay. Its windows are broken and its panelled rooms are open to the
weather. We ploughed our way through garden, or what was once a garden,
waist-high with weeds, to a Tudor doorway whose door presumably was more
accustomed to be opened than closed. At the foot of the staircase was a
little wicket gate leading to the capacious cellars. Somebody had
scrawled above an ancient fireplace close by, a plea against wanton
mischief; but that was the only sign that anybody was interested in the
place. But we learned something from an intelligent farmer who was
picking apples in one of the surrounding orchards. It was very sad, he
said, but so it had remained for years. The owner was abroad, and though
various people had tried to buy it, there were legal difficulties which
prevented it. "But why not find a tenant?" we asked. "That would surely
be better than allowing it to fall to pieces!" He shook his head. "'Tis
too far gone," he said, "and there's no money to put it in repair." So
Coles Farm, situated in the midst of lovely hills and orchards, gives
the cold shoulder to many a willing tenant.
It is a precipitous climb from here to Colerne, which across the valley
looks old and inviting from the Bath road. But the place is sadly
disappointing, and Hunters' Hall, which once upon a time was used as an
inn and possessed some remarkably fine oak carvings, is now a shell, and
scarcely worth notice.
[Illustration: CORSHAM ALMSHOUSE.]
[Illustration: CORSHAM ALMSHOUSE.]
[Illustration: CORSHAM ALMSHOUSE.]
The village of Corsham, approached either from the north or south, is
equally picturesque. By the former there is a long row of sturdy Tudor
cottages with mullioned windows and deep-set doorways; by the latter,
the grey gables of the ancient Hungerford Hospital, and beyond the huge
piers of the entrance to Corsham Court. An inscription over the
almshouse porch and beneath the elaborate sculptured arms of the
Hungerfords, says that it was founded by Lady Margaret Hungerford,
daughter of William Halliday, alderman of London, and Susan, daughter of
Sir Henry Row, Knight, Lord Mayor of London. The chapel is on the
right-hand side, and contains the original Jacobean pulpit, seats, and
gallery. The pulpit is a two-decker, and the seat beneath a comfortable
armchair of large proportions with an ingenious folding footstool. The
screen is a fine piece of Jacobean carving, with pilasters and
semicircular arches of graceful design, with the Hungerford arms upon
two shields. There is a good oak staircase and a quaint exterior
corridor leading to the several dwellings, with trim little square
gardens allotted to each. Corsham Court has a stately and dignified
appearance. The second entrance gate has colossal piers, which quite
dwarf the others previously mentioned. Beyond are the stables, a
picturesque row of Elizabethan gables and pinnacles. The south front of
the house preserves its original character in the form of the letter E
with the arms and the crest of the builder, William Halliday, on
pinnacles over the gables, and seven bay-windows. The interior of the
mansion has been much modernised, but the picture collection contains
some of the choicest old masters. Some of Lord Methuen's ancestors by
Reynolds and Gainsborough are wonderfully vigorous. Here is Vandyck's
Charles I. on horseback, with which one is so familiar. How many
replicas must there be of this famous picture! Charles II. hangs
opposite his favourite son in one of the corridors--a fine portrait of
the handsome Monmouth. One of the most curious pictures is a group by
Sir Peter Lely, representing himself in mediaeval costume playing the
violoncello to his own family in light and airy dress. One would have
thought that he would have clad his wife and daughters more fully than
some of his famous beauties: on the contrary. The church, whose tower is
detached, has been restored from time to time, and looks by no means
lacking in funds. The carved parclose of stone and two altar-tombs to
the Hanhams are the chief points of interest. There is a simple
recumbent effigy of one of the Methuens, a little girl, which in its
natural sleeping pose is strangely pathetic, even to those who know
nothing of the story of her early death.
[Illustration: CASTLE COMBE.]
Biddestone, above Corsham, has many good old houses round its village
green. The little bell turret to the church is singular, but the eye is
detracted by an ugly stove-pipe which sticks out of the roof close by.
There is some Roman work within, but the high box pews look out of
keeping. About three miles to the north-west is Castle Combe, one of
the sweetest villages in Wiltshire or in any other county. It is
surrounded by hills and hanging woods, and lies deep down and hidden
from view. As you descend, the banks on either side show glimpses, here
and there; a grey gable peeping out of the dense foliage or grey
cottages perched up high. Still downward, the road winds in the shade of
lofty trees, then suddenly you find yourself looking down upon the
quaint old market-cross, with the grey church tower peering over some
ancient roofs. This presumably is the market-place,--not a busy one by
any means, for beyond an aged inhabitant resting on the solid stone
base, or perhaps a child or two climbing up and down the steps (for it
is a splendid playground)--all is still. The village pump alongside the
cross, truly, supplies occasional buckets of water for the various
gabled stone cottages around, indeed (as is invariably the case when
one's camera is in position) people seemed to spring up from nowhere,
and the pump handle was exceptionally busy. The cross is richly
sculptured with shields and roses at the base, and the shaft rises high
above the picturesque old roof, which is supported by four moulded stone
supports. Undoubtedly it is one of the most perfect fifteenth-century
crosses in England. The road still winds downwards to a rushing stream
crossed by a little bridge, and here there is a group of pretty cottages
with prettier gardens abutting on the road. We have seen these under
very different aspects, in March with snow upon the creepers, and in
October when the creepers were brilliant scarlet, and scarcely know
which made the prettier picture. The sound of rushing water adds romance
to this sweet village.
The ancient family of Scrope has been seated here for over five
centuries and a half. The "Castle Inn" by the market-cross remains
primitive in its arrangements, although the "tripping" season makes
great demands upon its supplies. Though ordinarily quiet enough,
occasionally there is a swarm, and a sudden demand of a hundred or so
"teas" is enough to try the resources of any hostess. But it was too
much for the poor lady here; her health was bad, and she would have to
flee before another season came round. Strange to say, it is the
slackness of business that usually sends folks away. The graceful
fifteenth-century pinnacled and embattled tower of the church gives the
ancient building a grand appearance. The church is rich in stained
glass, containing the arms of the various lords of the manor.
[Illustration: YATTON KEYNELL MANOR.]
Yatton Keynell, a couple of miles eastwards, possesses a fine Jacobean
manor-house, with a curious porch and very uncommon mullioned window.
The wing to the right was demolished not many years ago, so that now a
front of three gables is all that remains; and though it looks fairly
capacious, there are but few rooms, the space being taken up with
staircase (a fine one) and attics. The exterior of the church is good,
but the interior is "as new as ninepence," saving a fine
fifteenth-century stone rood-screen. The spiral staircase up to the
summit has been cut through, which is a pity, as otherwise the organ
would have been less conspicuous. The steps of the village cross now
serve as a basement for the village inn.
[Illustration: BULLICH MANOR-HOUSE.]
The churches of Stanton St. Quinton and Kingston St. Michael have
suffered internally as much as that of Yatton Keynell, and, alas! the
fourteenth-century manor-house of the St. Quintons is now no more. An
aged person working in the churchyard, though very proud that he had
helped to pull it down, insisted on pointing out the "ould dov-cart"
This may be pure "Wilshire," but until we saw the dovecot we did not
grasp the meaning. Nearer Chippenham is Bullich House, which fortunately
has been left in peace. Beside the entrance gate two queer little
"gazebos" were covered with Virginia creeper in its bright autumn tints.
The remains of the clear moat washed the garden wall, over which peeped
the gables of the house with the waning red sunlight reflected in the
casements--this was a picture to linger in one's memory; and there is
no telling how far one's fancy might not have been led by speculating
upon the meaning of two grim heads which form pinnacles above the porch,
had the stillness not been broken by the harsh sounds of the gramophone
issuing from a neighbouring cottage! If Bullich possesses a ghost, as it
ought to, judging by appearances, surely an up-to-date music-hall ditty
should "lay" him in the moat in desperation.
[Illustration: SHELDON MANOR.]
[Illustration: SHELDON MANOR.]
About a mile away on the western side of the main road from Chippenham
to Yatton Keynell is Sheldon Manor, a charming old residence with a
great Gothic porch like a church, and a Gothic window over it belonging
to what is called the "Priest's chamber." Upon the gable end, over it,
is one of those queer little box sundials one occasionally sees in
Wiltshire. As you enter the porch the massive staircase faces you, with
its picturesque newels and pendants, and the little carved oak gate,
which was there to keep the dogs downstairs. In the wall to the right,
just beyond the entrance door, is a curious stone trough of fair
capacity. It is screened by a door, and exteriorly looks like a
cupboard; but what was the use of this trough we are at a loss to
conjecture, unless in old days the horses were admitted.
[Illustration: SOUTH WRAXALL MANOR-HOUSE.]
[Illustration: SOUTH WRAXALL.]
But two of the finest old houses in the county are certainly South
Wraxall and Great Chaldfield, situated within a couple of miles from one
another to the west of Melksham. The former has recently been converted
from a farmhouse again into a mansion, and the latter is now undergoing
careful restoration. Though the exterior of Great Chaldfield is
unimpaired, and as perfect a specimen of an early fifteenth-century
house as one could wish to see, sad havoc has been played inside. The
great hall many years ago was so divided up that it was difficult to
guess at its original proportions. The finest Gothic windows with
groined roofs, ornamental bosses, and fireplaces, and carved oak beams,
have long since been blocked up and their places filled with mean ones
of the Georgian period or later. To fully comprehend the wholesale
obliteration of the original work, one has only to see the thousand bits
of sculptured masonry laid out upon the lawn of the back garden. To
place the pieces of the puzzle correctly together must be a task to try
the knowledge and patience of the most expert in such matters, but piece
by piece each is going into its proper place. The huge stone heads with
scooped-out eyes, through which the ancient lord of the manor could
watch what was going on below in the hall without being observed, once
again will be reinstated. There are three of them, and the hollowed eyes
have sharp edges, as if they were cut out only yesterday. Then there is
an ungainly grinning figure of the fifteenth century, locally known as
"Blue Beard," who within living memory has sat on the lawn in front of
the mansion; but his proper place is up aloft on top of one of the gable
ends, and there, of course, he will go, and, like Sister Ann, be able to
survey the road to Broughton Gifford to see whether anybody is coming.
Among the rooms now under course of repair is "Blue Beard's chamber,"
and naturally enough the neighbouring children of the past generation
(we do not speak of the present, for doubtless up-to-date education has
made them far too knowing to treat such things seriously--the more's the
pity) used to hold the house in holy dread. But there certainly is a
creepy look about it, especially towards dusk, when the light of the
western sky shines through the shell of a beautiful oriel window, and
makes the monsters on the gable ends stand out while the front courtyard
is wrapt in shade. The reed-grown moat gives the house a neglected and
sombre look. The group of buildings, with curious little church with its
crocketed bell turret on one side and a great barn on the other, is
altogether remarkable. How it got the name of "Blue Beard's Castle" we
could not learn. Recently a "priest's hole" has been discovered up
against the ceiling in a corner of his chamber; but whether he concealed
himself here or some of his wives we cannot say.
At the back of the manor there used to be a tumble-down old mill, which
unfortunately is now no more. The little church contains a good stone
screen (which has been removed from its original position), and some
stained glass in the windows. The pulpit, a canopied two-decker, and the
capacious high-backed pews (half a dozen at the most) have the
appearance of a pocket place of worship. But Great Chaldfield is a
parish by itself without a village; the congregation also is a pocket
one.
As before stated, South Wraxall manor-house is restored to all its
ancient dignity; but somehow or other, though much care and money have
been bestowed upon it, it seems to have lost half of its poetry, for the
walls and gardens are now so trim and orderly, that it is almost
difficult to recognise it as the same when the gardens were weed-grown
and the walls toned with lichen and moss. Moreover, the road has been
diverted, so that now the fine old gatehouse stands not against the
highway, but well within the boundary walls. Inside are some remarkably
fine old rooms with linen panelling. The drawing-room has a superb stone
sculptured mantelpiece, upon which are represented Prudentia,
Arithmetica, Geometrica, and Justicia, and Pan occupies the middle
pedestal supporting the frieze, while four larger figures support the
mantel. The ceiling is coved, and ornamented with enormous pendants, and
the cornice above the great bay mullioned-window is enriched with a
curious design. A remarkable feature of the room is a three-sided
projection of the wall, the upper part of which is panelled, having
scooped-out niches for five seats, one in the middle and two on either
side. The banqueting-room also is a typical room of Queen Elizabeth's
time, and the "Guest chamber" is one of the many rooms in England which
claim the honour of inhaling the first fumes from a tobacco-pipe in
England. But Raleigh's pipe here is said to have been of solid silver;
moreover, tradition does not state that it was so rudely extinguished as
elsewhere, with a bucket of water: so, at any rate, here the story is
more dignified. To settle definitely where Sir Walter smoked his first
pipe would be as difficult a problem as to decide which was the mansion
where the bride hid herself in the oak chest, or which was King John's
favourite hunting lodge.
EASTERN AND SOUTHERN
SOMERSET
[Illustration: THE GEORGE, NORTON ST. PHILIP.]
[Illustration: THE GEORGE, NORTON ST. PHILIP.]
Somersetshire abounds in old-world villages, more particularly the
eastern division, or rather the eastern side--to the east, say, of a
line drawn from Bristol to Crewkerne. This line would intersect such
famous historic places as Wells and Glastonbury, but in our limited
space we must confine our attention more particularly to more remote
spots. One of these, for example, is the village of Norton St. Philip,
midway between Bath and Frome, which possesses one of the oldest and
most picturesque inns in England. This wonderful timber building of
projecting storeys dates mainly from the fifteenth century, although it
has been a licensed house since 1397, and upon its solid basement of
stone the "George" looks good for many centuries to come. It was
formerly known as the "Old House," not that the other buildings at
Norton St. Philip are by any means new. It is merely, comparatively
speaking, a matter of a couple of hundred years or so.
Many are the local stories and traditions of "Philips Norton Fight," for
here it was that the Duke of Monmouth's followers had the first real
experience of warfare; and the encounter with the Royalist soldiers was
a sharp one while it lasted. Monmouth's intention of attacking Bristol
had been abandoned, and during a halt at Norton on June 27, 1685, his
little army was overtaken by the king's forces under the young Duke of
Grafton, Monmouth's half-brother. The lane where fighting was briskest
used to be remembered as "Monmouth Street," possibly the same steep and
narrow lane now called Bloody Lane, which winds round to the back of the
Manor Farm (some remains of which go back quite a century before
Monmouth's time), through the courtyard of which the duke marched his
regiment to attack the enemy in flank. The other end of the lane was
barricaded, so Grafton was caught in a trap, and had difficulty in
fighting his way through.
Both armies sought protection of the high hedges, which, take it all
round, got the worst of it; but Grafton lost considerably more men than
Monmouth, although a cannonade of six hours on both sides only had one
victim. An old resident living fifty years ago, whose great-grandfather
fought for "King Monmouth," used to relate how the duke's field pieces
were planted by the "Old House," his grace's headquarters; and the
tradition yet lingers in the inn that Colonel Holmes, on Monmouth's
side, finished the amputation of his own arm, which was shattered with a
shot, with a carving knife. Some of the ancient farmhouses between Bath
and Frome preserve some story or another in connection with "Norton
Fight," and George Roberts relates in his excellent Life of Monmouth
that early in the nineteenth century the song was still sung:
"The Duke of Monmouth is at Norton Town
All a fighting for the Crown
Ho-boys-ho."
There are some curious old rooms in the "George"; and it is astonishing
the amount of space that is occupied by the attics, the timbers of which
are enormous. Up in these dimly lighted wastes, report says that a cloth
fair was held three times a year; and one may see the shaft or well up
which the cloth was hauled from a side entrance in the street. The fair
survives in a very modified form on one of the dates, May 1st. Upon
the first floor, approached by a spiral stone staircase, is "Monmouth's
room," the windows of which look up the road to Trowbridge. The open
Tudor fireplace, the oaken beams and uneven floor, carries the mind back
to the illustrious visitor who already was well aware that he was
playing a losing game, and knew what he might expect from the
unforgiving James. At the back of the old inn is the galleried yard, a
very primitive one, now almost ruinous, with rooms, leading from the
open corridors, tumbling to pieces, and floors unsafe to walk upon.
Through the gaps may be seen the cellars below, containing three huge
beer barrels, each of a thousand gallons' capacity. A fine stone
fireplace in one will make a plunge below ere very long.
But Somersetshire owns another remarkable fifteenth-century hostelry,
the "George" at Glastonbury, in character entirely different from that
at Norton St. Philip. The panelled and traceried Gothic stonework of the
front, with its graceful bay-window rising to the roof, is perhaps more
beautiful but not so quaint, nor has it that rugged vastness of the
other which somehow impresses us with the rough-and-tumble hospitality
of the Middle Ages. "Ye old Pilgrimme Inn," as the "George" at
Glastonbury once was called, was built in Edward IV.'s reign, whose arms
are displayed over the entrance gateway. Here is, or was, preserved the
bedstead said to have been used by Henry VIII. when he paid a visit to
the famous abbey.
A mile or so before one gets to Norton, travelling up the main road from
Frome, there is one of those exasperating signposts which are
occasionally planted about the country. The road divides, and the sign
points directly in the middle at a house between. It says "To Bath," and
that is all; and people have to ask the way to that fashionable place at
the aforesaid house. The inmate wearily came to the door. How many times
had he been asked the same question! He was driven to desperation, and
was going to invest in some black paint and a brush for his own as well
as travellers' comfort. But how much worse when there is no habitation
where to make inquiries! You are often led carefully up to a desolate
spot, and then abandoned in the most heartless fashion. The road forks,
and either there is no signpost, or the place you are nearing is not
mentioned at all. Unless your intuitive perception is beyond the
ordinary, you must either toss up for it, or sit down and wait
peacefully until some one may chance to pass by.
[Illustration: CHARTERHOUSE HINTON.]
[Illustration: WELLOW MANOR-HOUSE.]
The church and manor-house of the pretty village of Wellow, above Norton
to the north-west, are rich in oak carvings. The latter was one of the
seats of the Hungerfords, and was built in the reign of Charles I. In
the rubbish of the stable-yard, for it is now a farm, a friend of ours
picked up a spur of seventeenth-century date, which probably had lain
there since the Royalist soldiers were quartered upon their way to meet
the Monmouth rebels. Another seat of the Hungerfords was Charterhouse
Hinton Manor, to the east of Wellow, a delightful old ivy-clad dwelling,
incorporated with the remains of a thirteenth-century priory. Corsham
and Heytesbury also belonged to this important family; but their
residence for over three centuries was the now ruinous castle of
Farleigh, midway between Hinton and Norton to the east. These formidable
walls and round towers, embowered in trees and surrounded by orchards,
are romantically placed above a ravine whose beauty is somewhat marred
by a factory down by the river. The entrance gatehouse is fairly
perfect, but the clinging ivy obliterates its architectural details and
the carved escutcheon over the doorway. But were it not for this natural
protection the gatehouse would probably share the fate of one of the
round towers of the northern court, whose ivy being removed some sixty
years ago brought it down with a run. The castle chapel is full of
interest, with frescoed walls and flooring of black and white marble.
The magnificent monuments of the Hungerfords duly impress one with their
importance. The recumbent effigies of the knights and dames, with the
numerous shields of arms and their various quarterings, are quite
suggestive of a corner in Westminster Abbey, though not so dark and
dismal. Here lie the bodies of Sir Thomas, Sir Walter, and Sir Edward
Hungerford, the first of whom fought at Crecy and the last on the
Parliamentary side, when his fortress was held for the king, and
surrendered in September 1645. His successor and namesake did his best
to squander away his fortune of thirty thousand pounds a year. His
numerous mansions were sold, including the castle, and his town house
pulled down and converted into the market at Charing Cross, where his
bewigged bust was set up in 1682. His son Edward, who predeceased him
before he came to man's estate (or what was left of his father's),
married the Lady Althea Compton, who was well endowed. In the letters
preserved at Belvoir we learn that the union was without her sire's
consent. "She went out with Mis Grey," writes Lady Chaworth in one of
her letters to Lord Roos, "as to a play, but went to Sir Edward
Hungerford's, where a minister, a ring, and the confidents were wayting
for them, and so young Hungerford maried her; after she writ to the
Bishop of London to acquaint and excuse her to her father, upon which he
sent a thundering command for her to come home that night which she did
obey." A week later she made her escape. But the runaway couple were
soon to be parted. Eight months passed, and she was dead; and the
youthful widower survived only three years. Old Sir Edward lived
sufficiently long to repent his extravagant habits, for he is said to
have died in poverty at five score and fifteen!
[Illustration: OLD HOUSE NEAR CROSCOMBE.]
[Illustration: BECKINGTON CASTLE.]
Beckington, about four miles to the south of Farleigh, has another
castle, but more a castle in name than anything else. It is a fine
many-gabled house, by all appearances not older than the reign of James
I. or perhaps Elizabeth. It is close against the road, and practically
in the village, where are other lofty houses similar in character. There
is an erroneous tradition that James II. slept here the night before the
battle of Sedgemoor, regardless of the fact that his sacred Majesty was
snug in London. The house was long neglected and deserted, and owing to
stories of ghostly visitors and subterranean passages could not find a
purchaser at L100! But this was many years ago, as will be seen from an
advertisement quoted in an old number of _Notes and Queries_. Things are
different now, for ghosts and subterranean passages have a marketable
value.
Somersetshire abounds in superstitions as well as in old-world villages.
From the southern part of the county come tales of people being
bewitched, and it is a good thing for many an aged crone that their
supposed offences are thought lightly of nowadays.
Some five years ago a notorious "wise man" of Somerset, known as Dr.
Stacey, fell down stairs and broke his neck. The doctor's clients
doubtless had expected a more dignified ending to his career, for,
judging from his powers of keeping evil or misfortune at arm's-length,
it was a regular thing for people who had been "overlooked" to seek a
consultation so as to get the upper hand of the evil influence. His
patients were usually received at midnight, when incantations were held
and mysterious powders burned. In most instances this was done where
there had been continual losses in stock, or on farms where the cattle
had fallen sick.
A remarkable instance of credulity only the other day came from the East
End of London, which, happening in the twentieth century, is too
astonishing not to be recorded here. A young Jewess sought the aid of a
Russian "wise woman" to bring the husband back who had deserted her. The
process was a little complicated. Eighteen pennyworth of candles stuck
all round with pins were burned. Pins also had to be sewn into the
lady's garments, and some "clippings" from a black cat had to be burned
in the fire. The cost of these mysterious charms altogether amounted to
nearly six pounds, which was expensive considering the truant husband
did not return. During some recent alterations to an old house near
Kilrush, Ireland, beneath the flooring was discovered a doll dressed
to personify a woman against whom a former occupant owed a deadly
grudge. It was stabbed through the breast with a dagger-shaped hairpin,
which presumably it was hoped would bring about a more speedy death than
the slower process of melting a diminutive waxen effigy.
Cases of ague in Somerset are said to succumb if a spider is captured
and starved to death! Consumptives also are said to be cured by carrying
them through a flock of sheep in the morning when the animals are first
let out of the fold. It is said to bode good luck if, when drinking, a
fly should drop into one's cup or glass. When this happens, we have
somewhere heard, that a person's nationality may be discovered; but beer
must be the liquid. A Spaniard leaves his drink and is mute. A Frenchman
leaves it also untouched, but uses strong language. An Englishman pours
the beer away and orders another glass. A German extracts the fly with
his finger and finishes his beer. A Russian drinks the beer, fly and
all. And a Chinaman fishes out the fly, swallows it, and throws away the
beer.
But enough of these peculiarities.
[Illustration: CROSCOMBE CHURCH.]
[Illustration: CROSCOMBE.]
In the wooded vale between Shepton Mallet and Wells is a pretty
straggling village of whitewashed houses with Tudor mullioned windows
and, some of them, Tudor fireplaces within. This is Croscombe, which,
like Crowcombe in western Somerset, has its village cross, but a
mutilated one, and a church rich in Jacobean woodwork. The canopied
pulpit, dated 1616, and the chancel screen, reaching almost to the roof,
bearing the Royal arms, are perhaps the finest examples of the period to
be found anywhere. An inn, once a priory, near the cross has panelled
ceilings and other features of the fifteenth century. Some old cloth
mills, with their emerald green mill-ponds, are one of the peculiarities
of Croscombe. Shepton Mallet is depressing, perhaps because crape is
manufactured there. A lonely old hostelry to the south of the town known
as "Cannard's Grave," not a cheery sign under the most favourable
circumstances, but with padlocked doors and windows boarded up as we saw
it, had a forbidding look, and seemed to warrant the mysterious stories
that are told about it. The cross in the market-place was erected in
1500, but it has been too scraped and restored to classify it with those
at Cheddar or Malmesbury. The church contains a fine oak roof and some
ancient tombs, mainly to the Strodes, an important Somersetshire family
with Republican tendencies, one of whom harboured the Duke of Monmouth
in his house the night after his defeat at Sedgemoor. The remains of
this house, "Downside," stand about a mile from Shepton Mallet, but it
has been altered and restored from time to time, so that now it has
lost much of its ancient appearance. The pistols which the duke left
here remained in the possession of descendants until about eight years
ago, when they were lost. Monmouth's host, Edward Strode, also owned
what is now called "Monmouth House," from the fact that the duke slept
there on June 23rd and 30th, 1685, upon his march from Bridgwater
towards Bristol and back again. Monmouth's room may yet be seen, and not
many years ago possessed its original furniture.[18]
[Illustration: LYTES CARY MANOR-HOUSE.]
[Illustration: LYTES CARY MANOR-HOUSE.]
[Illustration: FIREPLACE, LYTES CARY.]
At Cannard's Grave we strike into the old Foss way, and if we follow it
through West Lydford towards Ilchester we shall find on the left-hand
side, a quarter of a mile or so from the road, Lytes Cary, one of the
most compact little manor-houses in western England. But the fine old
rooms are bare and almost ruinous. The arms of the Lytes occur in some
shields of arms in the "decorated" chapel (which is now a cider cellar),
and upon a projecting bay-window near a fine embattled and pierced
parapet. The hall is entered from the entrance porch (over which is a
graceful oriel), and has its timber roof and rich cornice intact. On the
first floor is a spacious panelled room with Tudor bay-window (dated
1533) and open fireplace, which if carefully restored would make a
delightful dwelling room; and it seems a thousand pities that this and
other apartments dating from the fourteenth century should be in their
present neglected state. The front of the manor-house reminds one of
Great Chaldfield in Wiltshire, but on a smaller scale and exteriorly
less elaborate in architectural detail.
The eastern corner of the western division of Somerset is especially
rich in picturesque old villages and mansions--that is to say, the
country enclosed within or just beyond the four towns Langport,
Somerton, Chard, and Yeovil. Within this area, or a mile or so beyond,
we have the grand seats of Montacute, Brympton D'Eversy, Hinton St
George, and Barrington Court; the smaller but equally interesting
manor-houses of Sandford Orcas, South Petherton, and Tintinhull, and the
quaint old villages and churches of Trent, Martock, Curry Rivel, etc.
[Illustration: ANCIENT SCREEN. CURRY RIVEL CHURCH.]
The ancient county town of Somerton having been left severely alone by
the railway, remains in a very dormant state, and, of course, is
picturesque in proportion, as will be seen by its octagonal canopied
market-cross and the group of buildings adjacent Langport lies low, and
is uninviting, with marshy pools around, with to the north-west
Bridgwater way the villages of Chedzoy, Middlezoy, and Weston Zoyland,
full of memories of the fight at Sedgemoor. The church of Curry Rivel,
to the west of Langport, has many ancient carvings, and retains its
beautiful oak screen and bench-ends of the fifteenth century. Within its
ancient ornamented ironwork railing is a curious Jacobean tomb,
representing the recumbent effigies of two troopers, Marmaduke and
Robert Jennings. It seems selfish that they should thus lie in state
while their wives are kneeling below by two little cribs containing
their children tucked up in orderly rows like mummified bambinoes. On
the summit of a circular arch above, five painted cherubs are reclining
at their ease, and chained to one of the iron railings is a little
coffer which gives a touch of mystery to the whole. What does this
little sealed coffer contain?--for it must have been in its present
position since the monument was erected. Are the warriors' hearts
therein, or the bones of the five bambinoes? There is another Jacobean
tomb, just like a cumbrous cabinet of the period. It is hideous enough
for anything, and obscures one of three interesting fourteenth-century
mural monuments.
In the old farmhouse of Burrow, near Curry Rivel, some swords and
jack-boots of the time of Charles II. were preserved. They are now in
the museum at Taunton, where we regret to say the buckle worn by the
Duke of Monmouth, and Lord Feversham's dish are now no longer[19] with
the other interesting relics of the fight at Sedgemoor.
[Illustration: BARRINGTON COURT.]
At Barrington Court and White Lackington manor-house, both near
Ilminster, Monmouth was entertained in princely state during his
progress through the western counties to win popularity. The latter is a
plain gabled house (a portion only of the original) which has suffered
by the insertion of sash windows. It seems to bear out its name, for it
is very white and staring. But Barrington is one of the most perfect
Elizabethan houses in Somersetshire, that is to say exteriorly, for the
inside has long since been stripped and modernised. The myriad of
pinnacles upon its gable ends, and its general appearance, recall the
stately Sussex mansion Wakehurst: the situation, however, is vastly
different, for it stands bare of trees on a wide extensive flat. The
Spekes of White Lackington and the Strodes of Barrington, it goes
without saying, were notorious Whigs; and though the duke's hosts
favoured his cause, they both managed to save their necks when the
terrible Jeffreys came down upon his memorable Progress. But the name of
Speke was enough for the judge, and the youngest son of White
Lackington, whose sins did not extend beyond shaking hands with his
father's illustrious guest, was swung up on a tree at Ilminster. In
the lovely fields around the manor-house it is difficult to imagine a
throng of twenty thousand who accompanied the popular duke. The giant
Spanish chestnut tree beneath which Monmouth dined in public, and which
had braved the tempests of many centuries, fell, alas! a victim to the
storm of March, 2, 1897, and with the destruction of "Monmouth's tree" a
link with 1680 has departed never to return. Barrington, we understand,
has recently been taken under the protecting wing of the Society for the
Preservation of Ancient Buildings, for which all those interested in
domestic architecture as well as buildings of historic association must
feel grateful.
[Illustration: HINTON ST. GEORGE.]
The little town of South Petherton, midway between Ilminster and
Ilchester, is full of old nooks and corners, from its ancient cruciform
church to the old hostelry in the High Street. From a very early date it
was a place of great importance; but since the days of the Saxon monarch
who resided there, the Daubeneys have stamped their identity upon King
Ina's palace, of which there are picturesque Tudor remains incorporated
in a modern dwelling, which to our mind has robbed it of the poetry it
possessed when in a ruinous condition. The villages of Martock above and
Hinton St George below are also full of interest; and both possess
their ancient market-crosses, but now curtailed and converted into
sundials with stone-step massive bases. But the glory of Martock is its
grand old church (where Fairfax and Cromwell offered up a prayer for the
capture of Bridgwater in 1645), whose carved black oak roof is one of
the finest in the west of England.[20] The ancient seat of the Pouletts
is an extensive but by no means beautiful house. It has a squat
appearance, being only two storeys high, with battlemented towers at the
angles and Georgian and Victorian Gothic sash-windows; but on the
southern side, a pierced parapet and classic windows give it a less
barrack-like appearance. Sir Amias Poulett (or Paulet, as it was
formerly spelled), the grandson of the builder of the house, who won his
spurs at the battle of Newark-on-Trent, is principally famous from the
fact that he put Wolsey in the stocks when that great person held the
living of Lymington, and upon one occasion took more than was good for
him. But the cardinal afterwards had his revenge, and put fine upon Sir
Amias to build the gate of the Middle Temple, which formerly bore the
prelate's arms elaborately carved, as a peace-offering from Sir Amias.
Lymington in Hampshire is often associated with the stocks' episode, but
Lymington near Ilchester, and some ten miles from Hinton, was the place.
Sir Amias had the custody of Mary Queen of Scots during the latter part
of her long imprisonment, and to him the "Good Queen" (?) more than
hinted that it would be a kindness to hasten her victim's end by private
assassination. Paulet, however, had a conscience, so Elizabeth had to
take upon herself the responsibility of Mary's execution.
The historic stocks of Lymington are now no more, but beneath a big elm
tree on the village green at Tintinhull, close by, they still are
flourishing. Tintinhull, like Trent and other neighbouring villages, is
full of picturesque old houses, sturdy stone Jacobean and Tudor
cottages, with garden borderings of slabs of stone set up edgeways, and
slabs of stone running along the footway in a delightfully primitive
fashion. Tintinhull Court is a stately old pile dating from the reign of
Henry VIII. Its oldest side faces the garden, but the main front is a
good type of the seventeenth century. We will not repeat here the
particulars of Charles II.'s concealment at the old seat of the Wyndhams
after the battle of Worcester;[21] but on the spot, and though the
greater part of the house has been rebuilt, one may realise the
incidents in that romantic episode, for the village of Trent to-day is
much the same as the village of 1651.
[Illustration: SANDFORD ORCAS MANOR-HOUSE.]
The manor-house of Sandford Orcas, to the north-east of Trent (which by
the way now belongs to Dorset), is quite a gem of early-Elizabethan
architecture, with crests upon the gable ends, and the Tudor and Knoyle
arms and graceful panels upon the warm-coloured walls of Ham Hill stone.
Though a small house, it has its great hall with carved oak screen; and
most of the rooms are panelled, and have their original fireplaces. The
wide arched Tudor gateway spanning the road bears the arms of the
Knoyles, a monument to whom may be seen in the south aisle of the church
close by, the tower of which rises picturesquely above the gabled roof
of the manor-house. The village, the little there is of it, is buried in
orchards, between which the mill-stream winds, the haunt of a colony of
quacking ducks whose noisy gossip makes up for the paucity of
inhabitants.
Some eight miles away, on the other side of Yeovil, there is a
manor-house, which for picturesqueness must take the palm of even
Sandford Orcas. This is Brympton D'Eversy, a remarkable mixture of the
domestic architecture of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth
centuries. One would think that the various styles would not harmonise,
but they do in a remarkable degree. Add to these the styles of the
thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, which are conspicuous in portions
of the adjacent church, and there is indeed a field from which to study.
The northern front of the mansion, with its embattled Gothic bays and
rows of latticed windows, is flanked by the quaint little turreted
church, and together they form a most striking group not only in
outline, but attractive in colour, for grey-green lichens and the
peculiar rusty tint of stone blend in perfect sympathy. Picture this
house and church in crude white stone, unmellowed and toned by time, and
half its charm would be gone. Does not this open up a question worth
consideration? A modern house is built with conscientious exactitude in
imitation of some beautiful existing example of Gothic or Renaissance
architecture. Every detail is perfect, but the result is harsh and new.
One must wait almost a lifetime before it makes a picture really
pleasing to the eye. Therefore why not take some measures to tone down
the staring stone or obtrusive red-brick before the masonry is
constructed? True, there are a few exceptions where additions have been
made to ancient houses, which cannot be detected; but in the case of an
entirely new house, does it often occur to the builder how much more
pleasing would be the result if the exterior of his house were more in
harmony with the old oak fittings and ancient furniture with which it is
his ambition to fill it? Would that all such houses were built of Ham
Hill stone, for it has the peculiarity of imparting age much more
rapidly than any other.
[Illustration: MONTACUTE HOUSE.]
It is this that gives so venerable an appearance to Montacute House;
for, compared with many mansions coeval with it, the ancestral seat of
the Phelips family looks quite double the age. The imposing height of
Montacute as compared, for instance, with Hinton St. George, gives it
stateliness and grandeur, while the other has none. Like Hardwick, the
front of the house is one mass of windows; but it has not that formal
spare appearance, for here there are rounded gables to break the
outline. In niches between the windows and over the central gable stand
the stone representations of such varied celebrities as Charlemagne,
King Arthur, Pompey, Caesar, Alexander the Great, Moses, Joshua, Godfrey
de Bouillon, and Judas Maccabeus. They look down upon a trim old garden
walled in by a balustraded and pinnacled enclosure, with Moorish-like
pavilions or music-rooms at the corners. As a specimen of elaborate
Elizabethan architecture within and without, Montacute is unique. In
Nash's _Mansions_ there is a drawing of the western front, which is
still more elaborate in detail, and is earlier in date than the rest of
the house; and this may be accounted for as it was added when Clifton
Maybank (another house of the Phelips') was dismantled many years ago.
But of this old house there are yet some interesting remains.[22] Inside
there is a similarity also to Hardwick with its wide stone staircase and
its ornamental Elizabethan doorways and fireplaces. The hospitality in
the good old days was in keeping with the lordly appearance of the
mansion. Over the entrance may still be read the cheery greeting:
"Through this wide opening gate,
None come too early, none return too late."
But in these degenerate days the odds are that advantage would be taken
of such hospitality; and one marvels at the open-handed generosity such
as existed at old Bramall Hall in Cheshire, where the common road led
right through the squire's great hall,[23] where there was always kept a
plentiful supply of strong ale to cheer the traveller on his way. There
can have been but few tramps in those days, or they must have been far
more modest than they are to-day.
[Illustration: MONTACUTE PRIORY.]
Montacute Priory, near the village, has a fine Perpendicular tower and
other picturesque remains. To see it at its best, one should visit the
village late in autumn, when the Virginia creeper, which covers the
ancient walls, has turned to brilliant red. Other buildings under
similar conditions may look as lovely, but we can recollect nothing to
equal this old farmstead in its clinging robes of gold and scarlet.
There are many interesting old inns in this part of Somersetshire,
notably in the town of Yeovil, where the "George" and "Angel" are
_vis-a-vis_, and can compare notes as to whose recollections go back the
farthest. The wide open fireplaces and mullioned windows of the former
are of the time of Elizabeth or earlier, but the stone Gothic arched
doorway and traceried windows of the latter can go a century better. But
important as they both have been in their day, neither has had the luck
or energy to keep pace with the times sufficiently to hold younger
generations of inns subservient. The old "Green Dragon" at Combe St.
Nicholas, near Ilminster, possessed a remarkable carved oak settle in
its bar-parlour. It was elaborately carved, the back being lined with
the graceful linen-fold panels. At the arm or corner were two figures,
one suspended over the other, the upper one representing a bishop in the
act of preaching. They were known as "the parson and clerk"; but when we
saw the settle the "parson" was missing, having mysteriously disappeared
some time before. The "clerk" was so worn out, havi
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