In Unfamiliar England
by Thos. D. Murphy · English · Gutenberg #42990 · 562,188 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: In Unfamiliar England
Author: Thos. D. Murphy
Release date: June 20, 2013 [eBook #42990]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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Transcriber's Note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible, including inconsistent hyphenation. Some changes have been
made. They are listed at the end of the text.
Illustrations and maps have been moved.
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND
_By the Same Author_
British Highways and Byways
From a Motor Car
WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS
Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Thirty-Two Duogravures
_Second Edition_
320 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth, Gilt Top
Price (Boxed), $3.00
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
BOSTON, MASS.
[Illustration: SULGRAVE MANOR, THE CRADLE OF THE WASHINGTONS.
Painted especially for the author by Daniel Sherrin.]
[Illustration]
IN UNFAMILIAR
ENGLAND
A Record of a Seven Thousand Mile Tour by Motor of the
Unfrequented Nooks and Corners, and the Shrines of
Especial Interest, in England; With Incursions
into Scotland and Ireland.
By THOS. D. MURPHY
AUTHOR OF "BRITISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS FROM A MOTOR CAR."
WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR, REPRODUCED FROM ORIGINAL
PAINTINGS BY EMINENT BRITISH ARTISTS, AND FORTY-EIGHT
DUOGRAVURES FROM ENGLISH PHOTOGRAPHS; ALSO
INDEXED MAPS COVERING ROUTES.
BOSTON
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
MDCCCCX
_Copyright, 1910_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, January, 1910
TO MY WIFE
THE CONSTANT
COMPANION OF
MY WANDERINGS
PREFACE
It may seem that there is little excuse for a new book on English
travel, since works covering the beaten path in the British Isles
fairly teem from the press. But as a record of pilgrimages to the
unfamiliar shrines and to the odd corners all over the United Kingdom
this book may have its value. My reference to the tourist-frequented
spots has been only incidental, and I think I can claim to have found
much of interest not elsewhere described. And this I put forth as my
chief excuse for adding one more to the already long list of British
travel books.
But in my illustrations I have another, and perhaps to many a better,
excuse for my venture on such well-trodden ground. I believe that few
books of travel have come from the press that can justly claim a higher
rank in this particular. The sixteen color plates reproduce the work of
some of the most noted contemporary artists, and the duogravures are
the most perfect English photographs--no country on earth surpasses
England in photography--perfectly reproduced.
I trust that these features may give a real value to the book and make
it acceptable to the large and increasing number of those readers and
travelers abroad who are interested in the Motherland.
T. D. M.
CONTENTS
Page
I SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON 1
II WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 14
III SOME MIDLAND NOOKS AND THE WASHINGTON COUNTRY 32
IV MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 48
V RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 68
VI ODD CORNERS OF THE WELSH BORDER 85
VII A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 102
VIII SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 127
IX THE BYRON COUNTRY 143
X FROM YORKSHIRE COAST TO BARNARD CASTLE 160
XI LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 176
XII SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES 199
XIII ACROSS THE TWEED 212
XIV MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS 238
XV ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 257
XVI DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 277
XVII SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 298
XVIII FROM DUBLIN TO CORK 325
XIX THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 338
XX SOME ODDS AND ENDS 362
XXI LUDLOW TOWN 379
INDEX 391
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
COLOR PLATES
Page
SULGRAVE MANOR, THE CRADLE OF THE WASHINGTONS Frontispiece
WARWICK CASTLE FROM THE AVON 1
SULGRAVE CHURCH AND VILLAGE 40
IN SUNNY DEVON 70
KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE, OFF TINTAGEL HEAD, CORNWALL 74
OFF THE COAST OF DEVON 76
EVENING ON THE CORNISH COAST 82
A WORCESTERSHIRE COMMON 136
HADDON HALL FROM THE RIVER 146
IN OLD WHITBY 168
A SUSSEX HARVEST FIELD 306
THE HOSPITAL, RYE 312
ON THE DOWNS 322
A GLIMPSE OF THE LOUGH, IRELAND 346
ON THE RIVER LLEDR, WALES 368
LUDLOW CASTLE FROM THE RIVER TEME 386
DUOGRAVURES
OLD MANOR HOUSE, BRENT ELEIGH 20
A STREET CORNER, EARLS COLNE, ESSEX 28
MARNEY TOWERS, ESSEX 30
CROSS ROADS NEAR OUNDLE 34
KIRBY HALL 38
WASHINGTON BRASS, SULGRAVE CHURCH 42
THE WASHINGTON CHURCH, GREAT BRINGTON 46
LYGON ARMS, BROADWAY 54
TAWSTOCK CHURCH, DEVONSHIRE 78
BERKELEY CASTLE 86
BISHOP'S PALACE, HEREFORD 92
TONG VILLAGE, SHROPSHIRE 94
BOSCOBEL HOUSE, SHROPSHIRE 96
CAERPHILLY CASTLE, SOUTH WALES 108
CARDIFF CASTLE 110
NEATH ABBEY, SOUTH WALES 114
ST. DAVID'S CATHEDRAL 120
TOWN CROSS, STOCKS AND WHIPPING POST, RIPPLE 132
RUINS OF CHARTLEY CASTLE, DERBYSHIRE 140
CHESTERFIELD CHURCH 144
NEWSTEAD ABBEY 154
WHITBY ABBEY AND CROSS 166
RABY CASTLE 172
HAWORTH CHURCH 196
CASTLE HOWARD 200
REMAINS OF GREAT ROMAN WALL NEAR HEXHAM 208
NAWORTH CASTLE 210
TANTALLON CASTLE AND BASS ROCK 228
CASTLE BOLTON, WENSLEYDALE, YORKSHIRE 240
MIDDLEHAM CASTLE, WENSLEYDALE 244
RUINS OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE 250
LACOCK ABBEY 262
BROMHAM CHURCH, BURIAL PLACE OF THOMAS MOORE 266
CASTLE COMBE VILLAGE, WILTSHIRE 268
CORFE VILLAGE AND CASTLE 280
AN ISLE OF WIGHT ROAD 288
THE TENNYSON HOME, FRESHWATER, ISLE OF WIGHT 294
COTTAGE, FRESHWATER, ISLE OF WIGHT 296
ABBEY CHURCH, ROMSEY 300
COWDRAY CASTLE, NEAR MIDHURST 304
THE "BLUE IDOL," PENN'S MEETING HOUSE, SUSSEX 308
KILKENNY CASTLE 328
CASHEL CATHEDRAL, TIPPERARY 332
HOLY CROSS ABBEY, TIPPERARY 334
ANCIENT ORATORY, KILLALOE 356
WHITTINGTON CASTLE, SHROPSHIRE 370
LUDLOW CASTLE; THE WALK BENEATH THE WALL 380
DOOR TO ROUND CHAPEL, LUDLOW CASTLE 384
MAPS
MAP OF ENGLAND AND WALES 390
MAP OF SCOTLAND AND IRELAND 402
[Illustration: WARWICK CASTLE FROM THE AVON.
Original Painting by Daniel Sherrin.]
In Unfamiliar England
I
SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON
When Washington Irving made his first journey to England, he declared
the three or four weeks on the ocean to be the best possible
preparation for a visit to the mother country. The voyage, said he,
was as a blank page in one's existence, and the mind, by its utter
severance from the busy world, was best fitted to receive impressions
of a new and strange environment. And it was no doubt so in the slow
ocean voyages of olden time; but today it is more as if one stayed
within his palatial hotel for a few days, at no time losing touch
with the civilized world. Every day of our passage the engines of our
ocean greyhound reeled off distances--five or six hundred nautical
miles--that Irving's vessel would have required nearly a week to
cover, and daily the condensed news of the world was flashed to us
through the "viewless air." Of all our modern miracles, certainly none
would have been more difficult to predict than this--how like a sheer
impossibility it would have seemed! Indeed, to such an extent has
modern science thrown its safeguards around the voyager that "those
in peril on the sea" are rather less so than those on land, and the
ocean liners make trips month after month and year after year without
the loss of a single life. And with the disappearance of its mystery
and terror, the sea has lost much of its romance. No longer does the
bold buccaneer lie in wait for the treasure-laden galleons of Spain and
the Netherlands; no longer may the picturesque pirate sail the seas
unhindered in his quest for ill-gotten gold. Indeed, when one thinks
of the capital and equipment a modern pirate on the high seas would
require, there is no wonder that the good old trade is obsolete.
But the sea is still as beautiful in its thousand moods of clouds and
sunshine, of storm and calm, as it ever was ere its distances were
annihilated and its romance dispelled. Our voyage was nearly perfect;
the water was smooth and the days mild and clear. From sunrise to
sunset the great ship plowed her way through a sea of pale emerald
flecked with frosted silver, and at night she swept along beneath a
starlit sky. So favorable was her progress that early on the sixth day
she paused in Plymouth harbor.
If in Washington Irving's day the long sea voyage was the best
preparation for enjoying the beauties of England, it is hardly so now.
Be that as it may, there is possibly nothing that could make one more
keenly appreciate the joys of motoring than the run from Plymouth to
London by the Great Western's "train de luxe." The grime and smoke
that envelop everything about the train, the crash and shriek of the
wheels, the trembling and groaning of the frail carriages hurled onward
at a terrific speed, to say nothing of the never-to-be-forgotten
service--does it deserve such a term--of the dining-car, will all seem
like a nightmare when one glides along beneath the silvery English
skies, through the untainted country air, and pauses for an excellent,
cleanly served luncheon at some well-ordered wayside inn.
London itself is so vast, and so crowded are its environs with places
that may well engage the attention of the tourist, that it would be
hard to guess how much time one might devote with pleasure and profit
to the teeming circle within twenty-five miles of Charing Cross.
Many of the most charming spots about the metropolis have had scant
mention in the literature of travel, and even now many of the ancient
and picturesque villages are in process of metamorphosis. The steady
encroachments of the great city have already transformed more than one
retired hamlet into a suburban residence town, and historic landmarks
have suffered not a little. The advent of the railroad, always hailed
with joy from a mere material standpoint, is often death to the
atmosphere that attracts the painter and the poet. A run to Chorley
Wood to visit the studio of a well-known English artist, one of whose
pictures graces this book, brought to our minds with peculiar force the
condition of things just outlined.
Chorley Wood but recently was one of the quaintest and most unspoiled
of the Hertfordshire villages. Here stands the old King farmhouse where
in 1672 William Penn married Gulilema Springett, whose graces and
perfections have been so dwelt upon by the chroniclers. And there are
other old and interesting structures, but crowding them closely and
elbowing them out of existence are the more modern villas of Londoners
whom the railroad has brought within easy reach of this pleasant spot.
Not all of the newer houses were constructed with the consummate taste
of that of our artist friend, whose studio-residence seemed entirely
at home among the quaint old houses of the town. As usual with English
houses, the garden side was most attractive, and a wide veranda--not a
common thing in England--fronted on the well-kept lawn. From this there
was a splendid view of the distant Hertfordshire landscape, which on
this particular June day was glorious with such variations of green
as can be seen only in England, broken here and there by the intense
yellow of the gorse and fading away into a blue haze that half hid the
forest-covered hills in the distance. I could not help suggesting that
this view itself would make a delightful picture, but the artist, who
is noted for his fondness for low tones, demurred--the gorse was too
harsh and jarring. So, after all, Dame Nature isn't much of a colorist!
She mingles the intensest greens and blues and dashes them with the
fiercest of yellows!
It is not strange that Hertfordshire is favored by the artists,
especially those whose success has been such as to enable them to
maintain country homes. I had the pleasure of calling on another
successful young painter in the adjacent village of Harpenden and on
inquiring for his studio we were given the unique direction to "follow
the road along the common until you come to a new house that looks like
an old one." And the description was apt, indeed, for we did not see
elsewhere the half-timber frame-work with herring-bone masonry, the
studded oak doors with monstrous, straggling wrought-iron hinges, the
open beams, wide carved mantels, the mullioned windows with diamond
panes set in iron casements--all reproduced with the perfect spirit of
the Elizabethan builder.
Near by is Rickmansworth, an ancient and yet unspoiled town where Penn
lived for five years after his marriage with "Guli," as she was called.
These years were largely occupied in writing theological works and
in public religious disputations. In fact, no name is more identified
with Hertfordshire than Penn's, its only rival being that of Francis
Bacon. In later years Penn removed to Sussex, where he had inherited an
estate, but his final resting-place is at Jordans, Hertfordshire.
We left Chorley Wood through meandering byways, and threading our way
among the Burnham beeches, soon came into the main Oxford road. It
would be difficult, indeed, to describe the sylvan loveliness of the
country through which we passed. The great trees overarched the narrow
winding lanes, which were bordered with tall ferns in places, and often
a clear rivulet ran alongside. The somber yew, the stately oak and the
graceful birches were interspersed here with a bit of lawn and there
with a tangle of flowering shrubs. Out of this we came into the main
road, broad and white, and teeming with vehicles--the first hint that
London with its ceaseless turmoil is only twenty miles away.
Farther on the road toward the city we came to Uxbridge, another town
where the new is crowding the old. Fortunately, the famous Treaty Inn
has escaped. Here the emissaries of Charles I. met the representatives
of Parliament in a vain effort to compromise the dispute that had
plunged the nation into civil war. The room where the commissioners
met, with its paneling reaching to the ceiling and its wealth of
antique carving, is little changed, though it has been divided by a
partition into a writing- and a dining-room. The excellent luncheon
served was one of the surprises often met in these dilapidated and
often unprepossessing old hostelries. In the time of the Parliamentary
unpleasantness, this hotel was known as the "Crown," and among its
relics is an immense crown of solid oak weighing two or three hundred
pounds, which was engaging the attention of an English party, one of
whom ironically asked if this were the identical crown worn by Charles
at the council. "Indeed it was," replied another humorist in the party,
"and thus originated the expression, 'Uneasy lies the head which wears
a crown.'"
Near Uxbridge, but lying a quarter of a mile off the main road, is the
village of Denham. Here we came one fine Sunday afternoon, following
the recommendation of an English friend. The village has no historic
attraction and no famous man's name has ever been associated with
it. Neither has it mention in the books. Yet Denham is a delight--a
sequestered little place nestling under a group of towering trees just
far enough from the highroad to miss the dust and noise. The ancient
half-timbered houses which border the street are redolent with the
spirit of old-time England. The fine unrestored old church stands at
the head of the street and the churchyard about it shows evidence of
painstaking care. What a delight, it seemed to us, it would be to live
in Denham--at least in English June time. One would have rural quiet,
even somnolence, and might lie for hours on the turf under the great
trees, meditating and looking at the sky; and if he should weary of so
secluded and eventless a life, London, with all its mystery and charm,
is less than an hour away--London, the most fascinating city in the
world, despite its preponderance of bad weather and its world-famed
fogs.
Charles Lamb delighted in Hertfordshire and spent much of his time at
the Four Swans Inn at Waltham, a quaint old building just opposite
Waltham Cross. We made several pilgrimages here; nor did the abbey
grow less interesting upon repeated visits. From here it is only a
little distance to St. Albans, a city proud of its great cathedral,
whose hoary tower dominates the town. Quite different from the ordinary
caretaker was the young clergyman, whose refined, classic face bespoke
his intelligence and who showed us every detail of the great church,
dwelling upon its many ancient and often unique features. Nor did he
omit to call our attention to an epitaph of a very frank citizen of St.
Albans, who, after sleeping three hundred years under the marble slab
in the nave, still complains of his unhappy fate:
"Great was my grief--I could not rest;
God called me hence--He thought it best.
Unhappy marriage was my fate--
I did repent when 'twas too late."
St. Albans is rich in antiquities. Indeed, you can still trace
fragments of the Roman wall which surrounded the place when Albanus
met his fate, and down near the river at the foot of cathedral hill
is another "oldest house" in England. It is a quaint round structure,
built, they say, more than a thousand years ago as a fishing-lodge
for the monks, for it stands hard by a lakelike dam in the river. But
today it has degenerated into a public house, and the broad-shouldered,
black-bearded Irishman who kept the bar was well posted on St. Albans'
antiquities. He showed us the little house and garden and pointed out
the Roman earthworks. Nor did he seem in the least disappointed that
our patronage was limited to a few post card pictures, and, strange
to say, he declined a gratuity. We returned to the George Inn, which
enjoyed great prosperity in the coaching days, being on the main road
to Holyhead. For four hundred years it had cheered the passing guest
and its excellent dinner belied its generally dilapidated appearance.
Its proprietors were just removing to the new and pretentious Red
Lion over the way, but we did not learn whether this meant the final
abandonment of the George.
It was with some difficulty that we located Rye House, which we
supposed to be within Broxborne, but which really lies on a byroad
two or three miles away. Though in a more or less secluded location,
it is apparently the goal of innumerable pilgrims on gala days in the
summer, especially Sundays. On the day of our arrival, the grounds were
quite deserted and an appropriate quietude hovered over the old manor.
Alas, though, we found it shorn of much of its picturesqueness, for
it had fallen into the clutches of a large brewer, who was using it
as an adjunct to dispose of his product--in fact, the mansion and its
beautiful grounds have become little else than a summer beer garden.
Rye House figures in history as the seat of a plot, which
contemporaries describe as "horrid," to kill King Charles II. as he
returned from a race meeting in Newmarket in 1683. Unfortunately,
perhaps, the plot failed, owing to the king's return a week earlier
than expected, and there was no telephone to advise the Rye House
assassins of the change of plan. A penny guide-book gives what
purports to be the history of the crime, though I fear most of the
romantic features are mythical. It relates how Ruth, the daughter
of Rumsey, who devised the plot, listened at the door and learned
the plan of the conspirators. Between her father and the king this
devoted maiden never hesitated a minute, but hustled her lover away
to Newmarket to warn Charles of his impending danger. After great
difficulty the youth gained an audience with the king, and it is
recorded that Charles only laughed at his story. Here, at least, is a
touch of probability--Charles laughed at everything. Finding himself
discredited, the lover became desperate; in his loyal zeal "he secretly
set fire to the house in which the king resided in two or three
places." Our chronicler, having thus unceremoniously ousted his royal
majesty from his comfortable quarters, has him proceed "in disguise"
to London, stopping at Rye House, where he confronted and confounded
his enemies and bestowed "substantial marks of his favor" upon Ruth
Rumsey and her lover. What these substantial marks were our chronicler
declareth not--better left to the imagination, anyway, for it would
be far more in keeping with the character of Charles to say that he
promised substantial marks of his favor and forgot all about it.
So much for Rye House legend. The facts are that the conspirators
were apprehended and executed, and quite in accordance with his usual
practices, the king made the circumstance an excuse for the removal of
numerous of his enemies among the nobility who had nothing whatever to
do with the plot. However, Rye House is quiet enough today and its only
plots are the innocuous ones hatched over pots of beer in the minds of
the trippers who throng it on Sundays and holidays.
The conspirators did not meet at the inn itself, but in the castellated
manor house just across the byroad. Of this only a fragment remains,
but fortunately this fragment contains the "conspirators' room,"
as might be expected. The enterprising brewer has put this in good
repair and has placed on view a number of relics of greater or less
degree of merit. Among these is a pair of stupendous jack-boots,
which our voluble guide assured us were the "hidentical boots what
Holiver Cromwell wore" during a battle in which, as usual, he worsted
the Royalists; but the placard above the relics was more modest in
its claims, for it only stated that the boots were found on the
battlefield. However, if the redoubtable "Holiver" wore these boots
or anything like unto them when he met the enemy, one phase of his
career may be accounted for--why he never ran away. Among the other
curiosities with a real interest is the "Great Bed of Ware," so famous
in its day that Shakespeare immortalized it in his "Twelfth Night."
It is certainly a marvelous creation, some sixteen feet square, with
enormous carved posts supporting an imposing canopy. Our guide asserted
that in its early days no fewer than twenty-four men had slept in it at
one time, and recited, in painful detail, the history of the bed. We
inconsiderately interrupted him in the midst of his declamation and he
had to start all over again, to his manifest annoyance. Even then he
failed to finish, for the shadows were lengthening, and terminating his
flow of eloquence with a shilling or two, we were soon speeding swiftly
over the beautiful Chigwell road to London.
II
WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA
Despite the fascination that London always has and the fact that one
could scarcely exhaust her attractions in years, it was with impatience
that we endured the delay imposed by business matters and preparations
for a period of two months or more on the road. We were impatient,
surely, or we should hardly have left our hotel at six o'clock in the
evening, in the face of a driving rain. Ordinarily, two or three hours
would have brought us to Cambridge, only fifty miles away; but we could
not depend on this with the caution necessary on the slippery streets
in getting out of London.
Once clear of the city there was little to hamper us on the fine
Cambridge road and we counted on easily reaching the university town
before lamplighting. The rain had nearly ceased, but the downpour had
been tremendous, and in three successive valleys we forded floods, each
one deeper than the preceding. Almost before we knew it--for in the
gas lamps' glare the rain-soaked road looked little different from the
yellow water--we were axle-deep in a fourth torrent and were deluged
with a dirty spray from the engine fly-wheel. Manifestly we were not
to reach Cambridge that night and we reluctantly turned about to seek
shelter somewhere else.
It was only a little way to the village of Buntingford, where we
found clean though very unpretentious and not altogether comfortable
accommodations at the George, a rambling old relic of coaching days.
Our late dinner was fair and our rooms good-sized and neat, though
dimly lit with tallow candles; but the ancient feather beds, our
greatest terror in the smaller and a few of the larger towns, caused
a well-nigh sleepless night. Morning revealed a little straggling
gray-stone and slate village, unchanged to all appearances from the
days of the coach-and-four. Our inn was a weather-beaten structure,
and its facilities for dispensing liquor appeared by odds greater than
its accommodation for non-bibulous travelers. Still, it was clean
and homelike, in spots at least, and our hostess, who personally
looked after our needs, was all kindness and sympathetic attention.
Altogether, we had little complaint to lodge against the George,
though greatly different from the really admirable University Arms
at Cambridge, where we had planned to stop. We were early on the
road, from which nearly all trace of the floods of the previous
evening had vanished, and before long we were threading the familiar
streets of Cambridge, where everything appeared to be in a bustle of
preparation--at least so far as such a state of affairs could be in
a staid English town--for the closing of the University year on the
following week.
There is no finer road in England than that leading from Cambridge to
Newmarket. It is nearly level, and having been newly surfaced with
yellow gravel, it stretches before us like a long golden ribbon in
the sunshine. It leads through wide meadow-lands and at times runs
straight away as an arrow's flight--truly a tempting highway for the
light-footed motor car.
Beyond Newmarket the road to Bury St. Edmunds is quite as fine, and
no doubt this splendid highway is largely responsible for the intense
antipathy to the motor car in the former town. However, one would
hardly expect Newmarket to be wildly enthusiastic over the horseless
carriage, for this ancient burg contests with Epsom for the position
of chief horse-racing town in England--a proud distinction it had
held for some centuries before the motor snorted through its streets.
Another cause for the grief of the townsmen was the complaint of owners
of high-bred horses that the motors jarred upon the nerves of the
spirited animals to their great detriment, and naturally enough the
citizens sympathized with their patron saint, the horse, against his
petrol-driven rival. And thus it was that when we entered Newmarket
we were met by the Motor Union scout, who cautioned us to observe
rigidly the ten-mile limit or we would more than likely share the fate
of a half dozen of our brethren the day before--a journey to police
headquarters. Two months afterwards, when we again passed through the
town, the war was still on, and it was some months later that I read in
the daily papers that after great bitterness on both sides a truce had
finally been reached.
Despite its unfriendliness toward our ilk, we must admit that Newmarket
is quite a modern-looking town, clean and attractive, with many
fine buildings and excellent hotels. It lies in the midst of wide
meadow-lands, much used for horseback sports such as polo and racing.
Royal visits, so dear to the average Britisher, are a frequent event,
and here it is that the King, usually in some new style of hat or cut
of trousers, appears, to set the world of fashion agog.
Well clear of Newmarket and its birds of prey, the most glorious
of roads brought us quickly into the fine old town of Bury St.
Edmunds--and none other in East Anglia has been celebrated by greater
pens; for Charles Dickens and Thomas Carlyle sojourned at Bury and left
us vigorous records of their impressions. The former set them down
in the story of the trials and wanderings of Mr. Pickwick, and that
honest old gentleman's comment on the town and its famous Angel Inn was
altogether commendatory. It was later--in 1878--when Carlyle visited
Bury, and the description he gave it then is quite applicable today.
He saw "a prosperous, brisk town looking out right pleasantly from
the hill-slope toward the rising sun, and on the eastern edge still
runs, long, black and massive, a maze of monastic ruins." The "Angel"
we found still deserving of the encomiums bestowed by Mr. Pickwick, a
delightfully clean and quiet old inn fronting directly on the abbey
gardens and presided over by a suave and very accommodating landlord.
We were given spacious and well-lighted quarters--we may dwell on
"well-lighted," since we could hardly apply this description, so far
as artificial light is concerned, to more than two or three of the
hundreds of hotels we visited.
The most impressive feature of the abbey ruin is the massive square
tower of the gateway, which stands intact, its ancient state almost
undiminished. The abbey has a long history, for Edmund, King of East
Anglia, was slain near at hand by the Danes in 870--legend says
because he refused to abjure Christianity, and it was this that won
his canonization as St. Edmund. To the time of the Dissolution the
abbey was by far the greatest in East Anglia, and its ruins, though
fragmentary, are quite sufficient to indicate its once vast extent.
Near by stand the churches of St. James and St. Mary's, both rather
ill-proportioned for lack of towers--a deficiency due, it is said,
to the old-time abbots' fear that if these churches should be thus
ornamented they would overshadow the abbey church, now entirely
vanished. Good authorities state that St. Mary's has the finest open
roof in England. It is supported on slender columns and covers a
well-proportioned nave. In the church is the tomb of Mary Tudor, sister
of Henry VIII. and wife first of Louis XII. of France and afterwards of
Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.
There is not much of historic interest in Bury aside from its abbey and
churches. One may occupy a pleasant hour or two in walking about the
town, which, despite its antiquity, has a prosperous and up-to-date
appearance. Twice in the course of our rambles we visited it and
on both occasions our route led to Ipswich, though over different
roads--first due south through Lavenham and Hadleigh and later by the
way of Stowmarket. The former route is mainly through the retired
Suffolk byways, not in the best condition, but bordered by charming
country. Nowhere did we see a more delightful brick-and-timber house
than the old manor at Brent Eleigh, though it has degenerated into a
mere farm tenement rather better cared for than usual. What a world
of quaint and ancient beauty there is in its many red-tiled gables
surmounted by great clustered chimneys, its double mullioned windows
and its black-oak and red-brick walls, splashed here and there with
clinging masses of ivy. Our illustration only half tells the story,
for it does not give the color or the most picturesque view of the
house. We also came across Bildeston, a little out-of-the-way hamlet
lost in the hills, which has many old houses not as yet fallen into
the clutches of the restorer. This is also true of Hadleigh, a little
farther on the road, which is rich in seventeenth century houses with
fronts of ornamental plaster and carved oaken beams. Among the very
oddest of these is the guildhall, standing quite apart in a graveyard
thickly set with weather-worn headstones.
[Illustration: OLD MANOR HOUSE, BRENT ELEIGH.]
We reached Ipswich after a half day of slow progress, for signboards
were often missing and the winding lanes bordered by high hedges made
cautious driving imperative. Later we followed the road by Stowmarket,
a much easier though less interesting route. Stowmarket, aside from
its old-world streets and its huge church with an odd wooden spire,
had nothing to detain us, for one would hardly care to linger at the
gun-cotton factory, which is the most distinctive feature of the
village.
Little provision was made by the burghers who centuries ago platted
the streets of Ipswich, for the coming of the motor or electric
tram, and it was with difficulty that our car was able to thread its
way through the narrow, crowded main street. It goes without saying
that the objective of the pilgrim on entering the city will be the
Great White Horse, the scene of some of Mr. Pickwick's most noted
adventures, nor are we deterred by any recollection of his decidedly
unpleasant experiences with the inn people. Like many of the incidents
in his writings, it was the personal experience of Dickens that called
forth the rather uncomplimentary remarks set down against the ancient
hostelry; but the very fact that Charles Dickens had stopped there
and written--no matter what--of the Great White Horse--is that not
enough? And we could not forget if we wished that an exact replica of
the Great White Horse was exhibited at the Chicago Fair as typical of
the old-time English inn, for the fact is blazoned forth by a large
placard in the hall. We were offered the spacious room, with its
imposing, tall-posted beds, traditionally occupied by Mr. Pickwick. The
Great White Horse, like many other institutions that felt the scourge
of the caustic pen of Dickens, has changed; no better ordered, more
comfortable and attentive hostelry did we find elsewhere, and we felt
that it had outlived the bad reputation the great author gave it, even
as America lived down the bitter scourging of the "American Notes,"
beneath which our fellow-countrymen writhed at the time. And perhaps
we still think of the "Notes" and "Martin Chuzzlewit" with a twinge
of bitterness, forgetting that the ridicule which Dickens indulged in
concerning America was hardly comparable to the sharp castigations he
administered to his own countrymen. His work was productive of good
in both countries, and most of the evils he so scathingly rebuked no
longer exist.
Ipswich, though a city of some seventy thousand people and of
considerable activity, is by no means shorn of its old-time interest
and picturesqueness. There are many crooked old-world streets where
the soft, time-mellowed tones of the gray walls and antique gables are
diversified by carved beams, plaster fronts and diamond-paned windows,
each of which has its box of brightly colored flowers. The most
notable of the old houses and one of the noblest specimens of Tudor
architecture in the Kingdom is "Ye Ancient House," with its odd dormer
windows and richly decorated plaster front, situated near the Butter
Market. The interior, now occupied by a bookshop and public library,
is as unique and pleasing as the outside. There are paneled rooms, odd
passages and corners, and a very quaint though rude chapel directly
beneath the heavy arched timber roof. Of course such a striking old
house must have its legend of royalty, and tradition has it that
Charles II. was hidden in the chapel when seeking passage to France
after the battle of Worcester.
But the charm of Ipswich may serve no longer as an excuse to linger. We
bid regretful farewell to the Great White Horse and are soon following
the King's highway to the northward. It was a lowering day, with
frequent dashes of rain and glints of sun breaking from a sky as blue
as one may see in our own prairie states in June time. The road is
winding and hilly for East Anglia, which is so generally level, but it
passes through a fine country with many retired, old-world villages.
Lowestoft we find another of the numerous seaside resorts that dot the
southeastern coast. It has figured little in history and doubtless the
most notable event in its career was its prompt surrender to Colonel
Cromwell in 1642.
It was gray and chilly when we entered Great Yarmouth, where we found
a leaden-colored ocean thundering on the finest beach in the Kingdom.
Yarmouth is popular as a resort town, though more widely known for its
fisheries. Its characteristic feature is its "rows," a series of very
narrow alleys, mostly bordered with shops and opening into the main
street, forming, as Dickens puts it, "one vast gridiron of which the
bars are represented by the rows." And one will notice that Dickens is
much in evidence in East Anglia. Who can ever forget the freshness
of the description of Yarmouth in "David Copperfield"? The hotels, as
might be expected, are many, and some of them excellent; nowhere did we
have better service than at the Victoria, though cheapness is not one
of its attractions.
Historic ruins, as a rule, are now carefully maintained in England
and often made a feature of parks and pleasure grounds. But there
are exceptions, where the onslaughts of decay are not withstood and
where, unhindered, green ruin creeps steadily on. Such we found Caister
Castle, four miles to the north of Yarmouth. We were attracted by
its imposing appearance at some distance from the main road, and the
byway into which we turned led into an ill-kept farmyard. Here stands
the impressive ruin, with the stagnant waters of its old-time moat
still surrounding the towering keep and shattered walls. It was quite
deserted, apparently serving the neighboring farmer as a hen-roost.
We learned little of its history, but the mystery, due to our very
ignorance, together with the sad abandon of Caister Castle, makes it
appeal to our imagination more strongly than many a well-cared-for ruin
whose story has become commonplace.
A broad, level road leads to Norwich and we ran through the flat fen
country, dotted here and there with the Norfolk Broads. These pretty
inland lakes lay dull and motionless under a leaden sky, but we could
imagine them very picturesque on bright days, rippling in the sun and
gleaming with white sails. The hour was late, but our flight was a
rapid one, soon bringing us to the East Anglian metropolis, where we
forthwith sought the Maid's Head Hotel.
On the following morning we set out to explore the northern coast of
Norfolk and our route led us through many byways and over much bad
road. The day was clear and cool and the fine level country was in the
full glory of June verdure. Everything seemed to indicate that the
East Anglian farmer is contented and prosperous in the small way that
prosperity comes to the common people of England. The countryside had
a well-groomed appearance and the houses were better than the average.
We proceeded almost due north to Mundesley, a mean, bleak little coast
town with a single crooked street, its straggling cottages contrasting
sharply with the palatial hotel in the midst of lawns and gardens on
the hill overlooking the sea.
Eastward from Mundesley we ran directly along the ocean, which
is visible most of the time; the road is stony and steep in
places--altogether the worst we had yet traversed. The coast country
is decidedly different from the fertile and pleasant fields of the
interior. It is bleak and drab-colored; there are vast stretches of
sand dunes bordered with stony hills whose dull colorings are relieved
by patches of yellow gorse and groups of stunted trees. The villages
are in keeping with the country. The houses are of gray stone and
broken flints and roofed with slate or dull-red tiles; the lines
are square and harsh and there are no touches of ornament. Even the
numerous churches partake of these characteristics; they are huge in
bulk, with little or no attempt at artistic effect, often crowning some
hilltop and looking as if they had defied the wild sea winds for ages.
One we especially noted, standing quite apart on a hill overlooking the
ocean--a vast weather-worn church with a square-topped tower in front
and a queer little minaret to the rear--altogether an imposing and
unusual structure. It completely dominates the poverty-stricken country
and the mean little villages, the nearest of which is a half-mile away.
The principal resource of the towns of the north Norfolk coast is
resort hotels and boarding-houses. We saw them without number at
Mundesley, Hunstanton, Cromer, Well-Next-the-Sea, and at solitary
points along the road. The fine beach in many places, the rough but
picturesque country and the unusual quiet of the surroundings no doubt
prove attractive to many seeking rest. At Wells-Next-the-Sea we were
glad indeed to forsake the wretched coast road for the broad white
highway that leads by the way of Fakenham to Norwich.
A few miles out of Norwich on the Newmarket road is Wymondham,
noted for its odd timber cross and its ancient priory church with
octagonal towers, which give it, from a distance, a rather unchurchlike
appearance. The extent of the ruins still remaining is sufficient
evidence that at one time Wymondham Priory was of no little importance.
Most remarkable is the open roof, the oaken timbers of which were
removed at the Dissolution, and after being stored away for ages, were
again put in place at the recent restoration. The caretaker showed us
about with the pride so common to his calling; but he heaved a sigh as
he pointed out many costly features of restoration, such as the great
screen, the massive bronze chandeliers and many elaborate carvings and
furnishings.
"Ah, sir," he said, "these were all donated by the late vicar; he
carried out and paid for a large part of the restoration--but he's gone
now!"
"Dead?" we sympathetically asked.
"No, indeed! It was all the fault of his landlady, who became
displeased with him somehow and gave him notice."
"Trouble about the rent?" we suggested.
"Not a bit of it," was the indignant reply. "The rent was nothing to
him. He is the youngest brother of the Duke of W----, and is very
wealthy, with a large following. There is only one house to let in the
parish that could accommodate him at all; and so he had to leave; yes,
he had to leave, for one day he says to me, 'Did you ever hear of a
minister getting the sack?' And he told me how badly his landlady had
treated him and that he had to go. It was a sad day for Wymondham, sir.
He had spent ten times his salary on the church and there were many
other things he was about to do."
"How much is the salary?" we asked.
"Six hundred pounds. It is a large parish, covering thirty-five square
miles."
We gave the old man his expected fee and thought it strange to learn
of a minister who had restored a great church from his private fortune
and then had to give up his charge because there was only one available
house to accommodate him and he couldn't have that. Surely the captious
landlady must be execrated by the good members of the Priory Church of
Wymondham.
[Illustration: A STREET CORNER, EARLS COLNE, ESSEX.]
It may seem a far cry from Wymondham, with its ecclesiastical
traditions, to Thetford, the birthplace of that arch-heretic, Thomas
Paine; yet it is only a few miles over the finest of roads. The village
still preserves its old-world atmosphere and the house where Paine was
born still stands, and is frequented, we learned, by many pilgrims.
The old Bell Inn, the oddest of hostelries, looked cozy and restful,
though we did not seek its hospitality. We hastened onward, leaving
the Newmarket highway for Mildenhall, a quiet, unprogressive little
village with an interesting manor house. This we did not see after all,
for it chanced that it was closed during preparations for an open-air
Shakespearean play in the park that afternoon. We paused in the market
square and were accosted by a friendly disposed native who thought us
at a loss for the road. We thanked him and asked him what there might
be of interest in Mildenhall. He scratched his head reflectively and
finally said:
"Nothin, sir! Hi 'ave lived in Mildenhall for forty years and never saw
anything of hinterest."
Discouraging, indeed! but we dissented, for there is much in the little
town to please one in whom familiarity has not bred contempt. The huge,
rambling Bell Inn seemed wonderfully attractive, though quite out of
proportion to the village at present. Facing the inn is the church,
remarkable for its Early English windows and fine open hammer-beam,
carved-oak roof, supported from corbels of angel figures with extended
wings. Quite as unusual is the hexagonal market cross, built of heavy
oak timbers, gracefully carved, which support the leaden roof. Besides
these ancient landmarks, there is much else pleasing in Mildenhall. The
thatched cottages, brilliant flower gardens and narrow streets, all
combine to make it a snug, charming place where one might quite forget
the workaday world without.
Later in our wanderings we made another incursion into East Anglia,
and retraced our route over many of its fine highways. We paused at
Colchester and sought out some of the odd corners we missed before. On
leaving the old city we wandered from the London road into quiet byways
in search of Layer Marney, of whose stupendous ruined towers we had
read years ago. After no end of inquiry, we came in sight of these,
only to learn that the ruin had been incorporated into a modern mansion
by a London gentleman and was no longer accessible to visitors. Still,
we were able to come quite close and found work still in progress--a
number of men laying out formal gardens about the house. The interest
centers in the gate towers built four hundred years ago by Lord Marney,
who planned to erect a mansion to correspond with his exalted station.
But his unfinished work stands as a monument to his blighted hopes, for
he died before his task was well begun and his only son followed him a
year later. The structure is strikingly original in style; the entrance
flanked by great octagonal towers eight stories high, with two immense
windows--a network of stone mullions--just above the gateway. It was
one of the earliest buildings since Roman times to be constructed
of brick, and most unusual are the terra cotta moldings, which have
a classic touch, due to Italian workmen brought to England by Lord
Marney.
[Illustration: MARNEY TOWERS, ESSEX.]
The little church near by, of earlier date than the towers, is also
built of brick and has so far escaped the ravages of the restorer.
It has three black marble tombs of old-time Marneys and one of these
must be older than the church, for it bears the mail-clad effigy of
a crusader who died in 1414. The interior has scarcely been altered
in the four hundred years of its existence; and we hardly saw another
to match it in genuine spirit of the olden time. The roof of the nave
had been repaired out of sheer necessity, but the dark, sagging beams
of the chapel had never been molested. Over the door a black letter
inscription, with initial and decorations in still brilliant red, is
devoted to a scathing denunciation of "ye riche," so fierce as to seem
almost modern. Perhaps the Marneys viewed it with the more complacency
from the fact that their worldly possessions hardly accorded with their
high station. One of the oddest features of the interior is the carved
oaken effigies of four little monkeys perched on tall posts at either
end of the family pews, and an ape is shown on the Marney arms. All
because, tradition declares, a pet monkey snatched a prehistoric Marney
while an infant from a burning mansion and lost its life to save the
child.
III
SOME MIDLAND NOOKS AND THE WASHINGTON COUNTRY
It was not easy to get rooms at the University Arms, even though we had
applied the week before. It was the close of the university year, for
which event, the manageress assured us, many people had engaged rooms a
full year in advance. We were late applicants, to be sure. However, we
had the advantage of a previous acquaintance--a thing that counts for
much in the English hotel--and, since nowhere else would do, we were
soon comfortably established at the University Arms.
A stop of a day or two gives us the opportunity of seeing much of the
gala life of the town, including the hotly contested boat races on the
Cam. There are many events not directly connected with the university,
among them the cart-horse parade, which includes hundreds of gaily
decked work-horses, splendid fellows, and it is doubtful if any
American town of twice the size of Cambridge could make anything like
such a showing, all points of equine excellence considered. One sees
very few poor-looking horses in England, anyway--outside of London.
But what have we to do with horses? We are again on the road at the
earliest opportunity, following the splendid highway to Huntingdon.
The countryside through which we pass is crowded with memories of the
Great Protector, but we shall give it no place in this chronicle of
unfamiliar England.
The old Bell Inn at Stilton, on the Great North Road fourteen miles
above Huntingdon, will arrest the attention of any one who has learned
to discriminate. It is a relic of the time when this road was one of
the busiest in all England--the coaching traffic between London, York
and Edinburgh plying over it. The inn fronts directly on the street--a
long, rambling building, with many gables, stone-mullioned windows and
huge, square, clustered chimneys. It is built of sandstone, weatherworn
to a soft, yellowish brown, and once rich in mouldings and carvings
which are now barely discernible. Now only about half of the house is
occupied and the stables have fallen in ruin. The village of Stilton is
one of the sleepiest and most rural type. What a contrast the good old
days must have presented when six and thirty coaches-and-four pulled up
daily at the Bell and its hostlers led nearly one hundred horses to its
capacious stables!
We saw much of rural England in threading our way from Stilton through
a maze of narrow byroads to Oundle, which caught our eye as one of
the quaintest of the old-world inland villages. Many are the pleasant
vistas down its streets, each with its array of buildings in soft-gray
and red tones, the sagging roofs surmounted by odd gables and huge
chimneys. But most interesting are the old inns, the Turk's Head and
the Talbot. The first is an imposing Jacobean structure with many
gables and deep-set stone-mullioned windows. The Talbot is quite
as fine in exterior, and though we could not remain as guests, the
landlord apparently took pleasure in showing us about, manifesting a
genuine pride in his establishment, which was further evidenced by its
well-kept appearance. Even the court was flower-bordered and there was
a flourishing greenhouse. Inside there are rooms with much antique
paneling and solid oaken beams which support the ceilings. But most
notable are the relics of Fotheringhay Castle incorporated into the
Talbot. The winding black-oak staircase is the one which Mary descended
on the mournful morning of her execution, and among the mullioned
casement windows are doubtless some through which the fair captive
often gazed during the long, weary days of her imprisonment.
[Illustration: CROSS ROADS NEAR OUNDLE.]
There are few places in the average village where the tourist can
gain local information so easily as at a picture postcard shop. The
keeper is sure to call your attention to everything of interest
and is equally sure to be well posted on the history and traditions
of the locality. Such a shop we found at Oundle, and the pictures of
Deane House and Church and Kirby Hall soon engaged our attention. "Do
not miss them," said the genial shopkeeper, and he gave us accurate
directions as to the roads--not easy to follow from the confusing
streets of Oundle into another tangle of byways.
Deane House, the fine Tudor residence of the Earls of Cardigan, is
a few miles to the northwest. It is not shown to visitors, but its
battlemented towers, odd turrets and heavily buttressed walls are
plainly visible from the road. Near it stands Deane Church, whose
fine open-timbered roof is supported by slender oaken columns--quite
unusual, indeed. There is a beautiful sixteenth century tomb, its
details almost perfect, with the effigies of the first earl and his
two wives placed impartially on either side. But nowhere else did we
see an altar-tomb so chaste and artistic as that erected to the late
earl, who died in 1868. It is wrought in purest alabaster, and beside
the figure of the earl, represented as a tall, handsome man in full
military dress, is the effigy of his widow, not interred with her
husband as yet, but living at the age of eighty-four. Evidently the
lady desires that future ages shall remember her at her best, for the
effigy represents a transcendently beautiful young woman of about
twenty, lying calmly in sleep, her head resting on a gracefully rounded
arm and her face turned toward her mate. Every detail is delicately and
correctly done and the whole work is redolent of beauty and sentiment.
Will it ever see such cataclysms as swept over its companion tomb?
May no iconoclastic vandal ever shatter those slenderly wrought hands
or carve his churlish name on the stately figure of the earl--and yet
how often such desecrations have occurred in England in the not very
distant past!
"There are absolutely no restrictions on visitors at Kirby Hall," we
were informed at Oundle, and it might have been added that no effort is
made to direct one thither. We passed unwittingly and were compelled
to turn about to find the common-looking farm gate that opened through
the hedgerow into the rough, stone-strewn bit of road leading to the
dismantled palace. So uninviting was the neglected lane that two or
three English motorists who arrived about the same time left their
cars and walked the mile or so to the Hall. It was not our wont to be
so cautious, and we drove directly to the stately though crumbling
gateway. As we rounded a group of trees and caught a full view of the
splendid facade of Kirby Hall, we could not repress an exclamation of
surprise. Beautiful and imposing, indeed, despite long years of neglect
and decay, is this magnificent Tudor mansion! It is built of white
stone, its long walls pierced by a multitude of graceful windows and
surmounted by great grouped chimneys and richly carved and pinnacled
gables. Passing the imposing entrance, we found ourselves in a wide,
grass-grown court, which the mansion surrounds in quadrangular form.
The architecture of the court is graceful in the extreme--fluted and
carved marble pilasters running the full height between the windows,
which have a distinctly classic touch on the entrance side. On the
three remaining sides there are great clustered windows, no less than
twenty in one of the groups, separated by slender stone mullions. Most
of the glass has disappeared or clings to the casements in shattered
fragments, though in a small, still-inhabited corner the windows are
entire. We wander at will through the once splendid apartments, now in
pitiable decay and ruin. In the banqueting hall--a vast apartment with
high open-beamed roof and minstrel gallery--a washerwoman is heating
her water-pots, and piles of wool are stored in the Hall of State.
But from the far greater number of the rooms the roof has wholly or
partially disappeared and the rooks scold each other in the chimneys
or caw hungrily among the sagging rafters. The room once used for
the library is less ruinous and its two immense circular bay windows
overlook a beautiful stretch of country. But, altogether, the house is
more of a ruin than we anticipated at first glance. Restoration would
be expensive and difficult. The walls in many places lean far from the
vertical and are intersected by cracks and rents. Columns and pilasters
are broken and sprung and in many windows the mullions are gone or
twisted awry. The staircases are gone and the halls and passageways
piled deep with debris. Yet such is the charm of the place that only
recently an American negotiated with its owner, the Earl of Winchelsea,
with a view to purchase and restoration, but through inability to
clear the title, the deal was never consummated. Kirby Hall has been
in the possession of the Winchelsea family ever since it was built by
Elizabeth's favorite, Sir Christopher Hatton, after plans by the master
architects, John Thorpe and Inigo Jones. Reverses compelled its gradual
abandonment, though it was inhabited by the owner as late as 1830. But
we did not inquire closely into the history of Kirby Hall, nor do we
care to do so. We prefer to think of it as more or less a mystery--an
enchanted palace whose weird beauty is not destroyed but only rendered
pathetic by the decay and desolation that has fallen upon it as it
stands alone in the wide stretches of forest-dotted meadowland.
It was near the end of a strenuous day when we cast a regretful glance
at the great chimneys and graceful pinnacles silhouetted against
the evening sky--but there are no accommodations for travelers at
Kirby Hall. No place near at hand appealed to us. Coventry and its
comfortable King's Head Hotel was not out of reach and attracted us as
it did more than once in our journeyings. The fifty miles we covered
easily before lamplighting time.
[Illustration: KIRBY HALL.]
Although we had visited Coventry before--and, as it chanced, re-visited
it many times later--we did not find our interest in the charming old
city lessen, and it occurs to us more than ever as the best center for
Warwickshire. Kenilworth is only five miles, Warwick twice as far,
and Stratford eight miles farther. At Coventry one may be thoroughly
comfortable, which can hardly be said of the inns at Warwick or
Stratford. Americans always seek the Red Horse at the latter place
because of its associations with Irving; but there is little more
than the room our gentle traveler occupied, the chair he sat in and
the "scepter" wherewith he was wont to stir up a cheerful fire in his
grate, to induce one to return. But in Coventry, at the ancient though
much re-modeled King's Head, one strikes the happy medium of English
hotels. It has the homelikeness and freedom of the smaller country inns
without their discomforts, and it does not force upon one the painful
formalities of the resort hotels, with their terrible English table
d'hote dinners. So when we were established at the King's Head, in
spacious rooms, with plenty of tables and chairs--articles uncommon
enough to merit special mention--there was always a temptation to
linger.
Of the many thousands of Americans who throng to Stratford every year,
perhaps only a small number are aware that the ancestral homes of the
Washingtons are only a few miles away. Still smaller is the number who
make a pilgrimage to Sulgrave or to Brington, ten miles farther, though
the memories and traditions of these places are so closely connected
with the ancestors of the Father of His Country. True, his stately home
by the Potomac is not neglected by his countrymen, but every American
should be deeply interested in the English forefathers of the man who
more than any other freed them from the "rule of kings."
[Illustration: SULGRAVE CHURCH AND VILLAGE.
Laurence, the ancestor of George Washington, is buried in this church.
From Original Painting by Daniel Sherrin.]
We thought it a favorable omen to see the gray sky which had drenched
Coventry since dawn break into fleecy clouds as we started over the
Banbury road for Sulgrave. The hedges and trees skirting the road were
washed clean of their coating of dust and the whole countryside gleamed
like an emerald in the yellow flood of the afternoon sunshine. Our car
seemed to catch the spirit of delight that pervaded everything and
sprang away airily and noiselessly over the fine highway. Fifteen miles
to the south we turned into a narrow byway leading to Wormleighton,
in whose ancient church there are records chronicling the marriage of
Robert Washington in 1565 and the birth of his son George in 1608,
antedating his famous namesake in America by more than a century. It
would even now be hard to follow on the map this maze of byroads which
we threaded, winding between the hawthorne hedges or gliding beneath
the over-arching branches of ancient elms; passing snug farmhouses and
cottages brilliant with rose vines and creepers and fairly embowered in
old-fashioned flowers; and leading through villages the very embodiment
of quiet and repose. And Sulgrave, the cradle of the Washingtons,
seemed the sleepiest and loneliest of them all--a gray, straggling
hamlet with only here and there a dash of color from flower-beds
or ivied walls, looking much as it must have looked when the last
Washington was Lord of the Manor, more than three hundred years ago.
It rather lacks the neat, trim appearance of the average Midland
village. Its streets are grass-grown and strewn with stones. Many of
the cottages are surrounded by tumble-down stone walls, and the small
church with huge embattled tower, the product of a recent restoration,
crowns the hill in a wide, uncared-for graveyard.
A little to one side of the village they pointed out the "Washington
House," and we followed a stony path leading into the farmyard, where
the good man was just stabling his horses. A typical country woman--of
the tenant class--warmly welcomed us at Sulgrave Manor. Clearly
they are glad to see Americans here; visitors are not the tolerated
intruders that they are in so many historic places. We learned that we
should even be welcome to a clean, neatly furnished room had we desired
to pass the night beneath the roof. We were shown every nook and corner
of the curious old house--not an extensive or imposing one, but three
hundred years ago domestic accommodations were not elaborate even
in the homes of the nobility, and while the Washingtons ranked high
among the gentry, they did not possess a title. The house has not been
greatly altered, in outward appearance, at least, and is kept in scant
repair by the owner, a Devonshire gentleman; fortunately, the thick
stone wall and heavy oaken beams yield but slowly to time's ravages.
The most imposing feature is the solid black-oak staircase with its
curiously twisted banisters. The interior has been altered from the
original plan--just how much it is difficult to ascertain. Nothing,
however, impresses the American visitor so much as the Washington
coat-of-arms, executed in plaster on one of the gables by the ancient
owner. This had suffered much from the weather, but has lately been
protected by a glass covering. The outer walls were originally covered
with plaster, but this has fallen away in many places, showing the
rough stone underneath; and elsewhere masses of ivy half hide the
small, square-paned windows. Very faithful in detail and sentiment is
Mr. Sherrin's picture, painted at my request--the artist gaining his
inspiration by a week under the old roof while employed in his task.
The picture shows the old house much as we saw it, standing against
a rich sunset sky, its harsh outlines softened by a little distance.
The picture of the village and church was done by the artist at the
same time, though for effect the church is shown rather as it appeared
before it was restored. We followed the rough cobblestone walk to the
church door, but could not gain admittance until the caretaker was
found, for Sulgrave Church has been kept strictly under lock and key
ever since one of the Washington brasses was stolen--by an American, of
course--a few years ago. It is a small, rough, lichen-covered building,
much restored, even to the stolen brass tablet to the memory of the
first Laurence Washington. The engraving of this, on another page,
shows how certainly the Washington coat-of-arms must have suggested the
motif for the American flag and the great seal of the United States.
The church is very ancient and there is in the choir a small "Lepers'
Door," unique as one of three or four in England. Here in olden time
the lepers might approach for alms or to hear the sermon, but dared
not enter the church.
[Illustration: WASHINGTON BRASS, SULGRAVE CHURCH.]
It is not the purpose of this book of random wanderings to deal much
with sober history, but the story of Sulgrave's connection with the
Washingtons is not common and a short sketch may not be amiss. In the
reign of Henry VIII., Laurence Washington was Mayor of Northampton and
a gentleman of consequence. Sulgrave was among the confiscated church
lands that the King was offering at bargain prices, and Washington
purchased it for three hundred pounds. A tradition that these alienated
church lands would bring evil fortune to the owner does not seem
to have deterred him, though when his grandson, another Laurence
Washington, was forced by adverse circumstances to sell the estate,
the old superstition might seem to have been verified. This grandson,
with a large family, removed about 1606--the exact date is doubtful--to
Little Brington, some ten miles to the northeast of Sulgrave, where
he was given a house, it is thought, by the Earl of Spencer, to
which noble family the Washingtons were related by marriage. The
Laurence Washington who is buried in Great Brington Church was the
great-great-grandfather of the "first American."
Later in our wanderings we visited the Bringtons, which lie only a
short distance from Northampton and may be reached by excellent
roads running through some of the most beautiful Midland country. We
paused in the midst of a heavy shower near the village cross under the
gigantic elm that stands in front of Great Brington Church, to which
we gained admission with but little delay. The Brington villages are
on the estate of the Spencers, one of the wealthiest and most ancient
families of the English nobility, and the church is an imposing
one, kept in perfect repair. The chief Washington memorials are the
brasses--the inscription and coat-of-arms--over the grave of Laurence
Washington of Sulgrave and Brington, and these have been sunk deep
in the stone slab and are guarded by lock and key. In the chapel are
some of the most elaborate memorials we saw--altar tombs bearing the
sculptured effigies and ancient arms and armor of the Spencers; and
yet how all this splendid state, all the wealth of carving, arms and
effigies, shrink into insignificance beside the august name on the
plain slab in the aisle, and how all the trappings of heraldry and
the chronicles of all the line of Spencers fade into nothingness over
against that tiny sunken tablet with its stars and bars!
Half a mile from Great Brington is Little Brington, where we saw the
Washington house referred to previously, with only a few touches,
mullioned windows and carvings, to distinguish it from the cottages
of the village tenantry. There is a world of pathos in the inscription
cut in the stone tablet above the doorway, "The Lord giveth, the Lord
taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord," which may refer to
the loss of Sulgrave and the death of a young son shortly after the
Washingtons reached Brington. Inside, the house, transformed into a
laborer's cottage, has been altered out of all semblance to its former
self.
But the rain was still coming down in torrents from the leaden skies
and hiding the beauties of the Bringtons. It took another visit on
a perfect August day to fix the impression which we still retain
of the romantic beauty of the little towns, and it is only by such
a comparison that one can judge how much we lost on account of the
many days of dark, foggy weather that prevail during the summer in
Britain. Under the more pleasant conditions we could but feel that,
aside from the memories of the Washingtons which hover over the
Bringtons, these delightful Midland villages might well engage the
admiration of the wayfarer. One may well pause in his flight through
the hawthorne-bordered byways to view the prospect that greets the eye
from Great Brington churchyard. The church occupies slightly rising
ground, from which in almost every direction one may behold stretches
of some of the most charming rural country in England; and the church
itself, with the old village cross beneath the monster elm tree, is
not the least picturesque feature of the landscape. The village which
fronts it, clean, cozy and comfortable-looking, its gray walls dashed
with ivy and relieved by the rich color of rose vines and old-time
flowers, is as lovely and peaceful a hamlet as one will find, even
in England. Not less pleasing is the surrounding country--"pastoral"
describes it--with its long reaches of meadowland, broken by hedgerows
and lordly trees. To the right is Althorpe House, the stately home of
the Spencers, with its vast, well-kept park, where the huge old oaks
shimmer in the hazy midsummer afternoon. Amidst all this quiet and
beauty one forgets the dark problems that threaten England and thinks
only of her ineffable charm. Little Brington is not less attractive
than its neighbor--the thatched structure above the well in the village
green and the two hoary firs overshadowing it forming a picture as
quaint as pleasing. We leave the lovely villages regretfully, and
winding out of the maze of byroads, take the highway that leads toward
the ancient city of Northampton, whose chief distinction should be that
a Washington was once its Lord Mayor.
[Illustration: THE WASHINGTON CHURCH, TOWN CROSS AND ELM, GREAT
BRINGTON.]
IV
MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER
Despite our numerous visits to Coventry, each one had some new delight
in store; some bit of curious antiquity that had previously escaped us
was sure to turn up, and once in the heart of the old-world town, one
easily forgets the modern manufacturing city that has grown up around
it. In the immediate vicinity of the famous three spires there clusters
much to detain one and which may well make Coventry the shrine of a far
greater number of pilgrims than it now is. If we enter the grand old
church of St. Michael's, whose slender spire rises three hundred feet
into the blue heavens--for the heavens are blue and cloudless after
the rain of yesterday--we shall be confronted by the noblest interior
of any parish church in England. Its unhampered expanse and lightness
of design intensify its splendid proportions. The fine lancet windows
gleam like clustered jewels, for modern glass of unusually good taste
is intermingled with much dating from Tudor times, which, fortunately,
escaped the wrath of the fanatics. The old caretaker tells us that
the church is "soon to be a cathedral," and if so, it will wear its
distinction fitly indeed.
Near by the church is the guildhall, deservedly known as one of the
finest bits of medieval England now extant. One may not undertake to
catalog its glories, but its contents, as well as its architecture,
will interest even the layman. In its muniment room is a collection
of eleven thousand books and manuscripts of great value, and many
rare old paintings grace the walls of the banqueting hall, which has
an unrivaled open-timber roof. In the oriel window at the head of the
stairs, in the softened light of the antique glass, stands Coventry's
patron saint, Lady Godiva, her shrinking figure beautifully wrought in
white marble. Old arms and armor are scattered about the halls and the
whole atmosphere of the place is that of three hundred years ago.
To be sure, Elizabeth visited the guildhall. That rare royal traveler
did not neglect the opportunity for entertainment and display offered
her by her loyal subjects of Coventry. Nor is the tradition of a
certain exchange of compliment between the men of the old town and
their royal mistress without a touch of realism in its portrayal of
the sharp sting of Elizabeth's wit, not infrequently felt by those
who, knowing her vanity, undertook to flatter her too grossly. For it
is recorded that the citizens of Coventry greeted her majesty in an
address done into doggerel in this wise:
"Wee men of Coventree
Are very glad to see
Yr gracious majestie!
Good Lord, how fair ye bee!"
To which she instantly responded:
"Our gracious majesty
Is very glad to see
Ye men of Coventree.
Good Lord, what fools ye bee!"
But we may not linger in Coventry, and after a hasty glance at the
almshouses--whose brick-and-timber front, with richly carved black-oak
beams, rivals Leicester's Hospital at Warwick--we are again on the
King's highway. And it is a highway fit for a king, this broad sweeping
road that leads from Coventry through Kenilworth and Warwick to
Stratford-upon-Avon. There are few more picturesque runs in Britain and
few that take one past so many spots of literary and historic interest.
Only the fact that we have been over this route several times before
offers excuse for covering the twenty miles in less than an hour. As
we flit along we catch glimpses of the fragments of Kenilworth, of
Guy's Cliff, of the old mill; and cautiously thread our way through
the cramped streets of Warwick, which we leave, not without admiring
glances at the Castle, the splendid tower of St. Mary's Church, and
the fine facade of Leicester's Hospital. Passing the confines of
the ancient gate, we soon come into the open road, smooth and gently
undulating, and a few minutes lands us in Shakespeare's Stratford.
It would be hard to follow in sequence our wanderings from Stratford
to Cheltenham, mainly through country lanes often hidden between
tall hedges and leading over steep, rough hills, as we sought quaint
and historic bits of Worcestershire and Gloucestershire. Just beyond
Shipston-on-Stour we paused before a Jacobean manor house, a slight
opening in the high hedge permitting a glimpse of the gray gables and
mullioned windows from the road. A farmer's wife, who saw us stop,
called to us and offered to conduct us through the quaint sixteenth
century building, Little Woolford Manor, as it is known. The hall, with
open-timber roof, paneled walls and minstrel gallery, lighted by tall
windows still rich with ancient glass, is an apartment to delight any
lover of the old-time domicile. This has been adapted to a schoolroom
and the remainder of the house divided into farm tenements. It is full
of odd corners and weird passageways and very appropriately has its
ghost, a certain "White Ladye," who walks the scene of her earthly
misfortunes at midnight. None of the occupants had ever seen her or
knew anything of the tradition, but no one could dispute the good taste
of a ghost who should choose Little Woolford Manor as a residence. Nor
could such a fine old house properly be without its legend of Charles
the Wanderer, and our guide showed us a small secret chamber behind
an oven where with a few retainers it is said the king hid and was
nearly roasted by a rousing fire built in the grate by the pursuing
Cromwellians.
There are other traditions and relics of the royal fugitive in the
vicinity, for we passed Little Compton Manor, plainly visible from the
road, which was once the home of Bishop Juxon, the bosom friend of
King Charles. Here for many years was preserved the block upon which
the King's head was severed, and also his favorite chair; but these
disappeared shortly after the Bishop's death.
A few miles farther, just off the upland road from Little Compton to
Moreton-in-the-Marsh, one may see the Rollright Stones, a druidical
circle; and tradition declares that these stones were once Danish
invaders who were thus metamorphosed for some presumptuous act.
Descending a long and dangerously steep hill sloping from the upland,
we came into Chipping Campden, and, possibly excepting Broadway, it has
hardly an equal in a section famous for picturesque towns and villages.
A wide street between a long array of gray gables with many time-worn
carvings, odd signs and frequent sun-dials, leads from one end of the
town, marked by a huge oak, to the other, where a giant chestnut
stands sentinel. Here again the almshouses attract attention. They are
built of soft-toned brown stone and the walls are surmounted by pointed
gables and clustered chimneys. Near by rises the graceful church tower,
overshadowing a building whose vast proportions seem to ill accord
with the decayed little town about it. But we learn that it was built
when Chipping Campden was the greatest wool market in the country, and
a brass tablet of 1401 commemorates one of the ancient benefactors of
the church as the "flower of all wool merchants in England." We found
inside some of the most perfect brasses that we had seen, but a general
restoration had quite robbed the church of its greatest charm. The
large pillared cross in the wool market and the massive proportions of
the courthouse, with its heavily buttressed walls, testify mutely of
the time when Chipping Campden was a place of much greater importance
than it is today.
Broadway is already famous. Its "discovery" is attributed to Americans,
and several American artists of note--among them Mr. F. D. Millet, who
occupies the ancient manor house of the Abbot of Pershore--have been
included in the foreign contingent. Its name is derived from the broad
London and Worcester road which passes in a long sweeping curve between
rows of fine Tudor and Jacobean houses with many fanciful gables and
massive stone chimneys. In the coaching days Broadway was of great
importance and then were built the fine inns and business houses. A
period of decadence followed, during which it gradually sank into a
neglected country village, from which oblivion the old-world charm
of its very decay finally rescued it. It shows quite markedly the
influx of outsiders and the trail of the tourist; in this regard it
is inferior to the as yet undiscovered and unspoiled town of Chipping
Campden. But while there is a touch of newness in the outskirts and
while the antique buildings show traces of returning prosperity, there
is still much in Broadway to please the eye and delight the artistic
sense. Few indeed of the old-time inns have the charm of the Lygon
Arms, where we paused for our afternoon tea. (Afternoon tea--so far
have the customs of the land of our sojourn corrupted us!) It is a
many-gabled building of soft sandstone, rich with browns verging into
reds and dashed here and there with masses of ivy which half hide the
deep-set stone-mullioned windows. To the rear its glass-roofed garage
with cement floor and modern accessories tells plainly of one source of
returning prosperity. Everywhere about the inn is cleanliness, and the
charm of the antique is combined with modern comfort. The interior is
quite as unspoiled as the outside, and nothing could be more redolent
of old-time England than the immense fireplace in the ingle nook of
the hall. Here, too, linger legends of King Charles, and there is one
great paneled room with huge fireplace and Tudor furniture that claims
the honor of association with the sterner name of Cromwell. Perhaps the
least pleasing feature of our pilgrimage was the necessity that often
forced us to hasten by places like the Lygon Arms--but one could scarce
exhaust Britain's attractions in a lifetime should he pause as long and
as often as he might wish.
[Illustration: LYGON ARMS, BROADWAY.]
Evesham we passed in the rain and gathering twilight. We reached
Tewkesbury at nightfall, but its inns did not strike our fancy, and we
hastened to Cheltenham, leaving the fine old towns for a later visit.
At the Victoria in Cheltenham we found things much more to our liking.
We followed a main road almost due south from Cheltenham through
Painswick, Stroud and Nailsworth, gray old towns lying deep in the
hills. At Painswick is a fine Perpendicular church, so much restored
as to present a rather new appearance. The churchyard has a wonderful
array of carefully clipped yew trees, perhaps a hundred in all,
though no one, says local tradition, can count them twice the same--a
peculiarity also ascribed to the monoliths at Stonehenge. Close to the
church walls are the ancient stocks, in this case forged from heavy
iron bars and presenting an air of staunch security that must have
struck terror to the hearts of old-time culprits; and the rough stone
slab upon which the offenders were seated still remains in place.
Stroud is a larger and better-appearing town, whose ten thousand
inhabitants depend mainly upon the manufacture of English broadcloths.
The whole section, in fact, was once the center of cloth manufacture,
but the advent of the steam engine and more modern methods superseded
the watermills. All about are half-ruined factory buildings, some of
them once of vast extent, with shattered windows and sagging roofs.
Here and there one has survived in a small way or has been adapted to
some other industry. In the neighborhood are many country houses, once
the residences of wealthy cloth-makers, but now either deserted or
turned into farm tenements.
The country is hilly and wooded, and we had few points of vantage
that afforded views more picturesque and far-reaching than from some
of the upland roads overlooking these Gloucestershire landscapes. The
road sweeps around the hills, rising at times far above the valleys,
affording a panorama of the Avon gleaming through the dense green
foliage that half conceals it. The vale presents the most charming
characteristics of rural England. One sees the irregular patchwork of
the little fields, the great parks with their sunny meadowlands and
groups of ancient trees, the villages lying in the valleys or clinging
to the hillsides, and the gray church towers that lend a touch of
majesty and solemn sentiment to almost every glimpse of Britain.
We missed the main road from Bath to Wells, wandering through a maze of
unmarked byroads, and were able to proceed only by frequent inquiry. We
did not regain the highway until just entering the town and had been a
comparatively long time in going a short distance. After a few minutes'
pause to admire the marvelous west front of the cathedral, with its
endless array of crumbling prophets, saints and kings, weatherworn
to a soft-gray blur, we were away on the highroad leading across the
wold to Cheddar, famed for its stupendous cliffs, its caverns--and
its cheese. The caverns and cliffs are there, but little cheese now
comes from Cheddar, even though it bears the name. As we ascended the
exceedingly steep and winding road we were astonished--overwhelmed.
We had not expected to find natural scenery upon such an amazing
scale in the heart of England--gray pinnacled cliffs rising, almost
sheer, five hundred feet into the sky. Not often may British scenery
be styled imposing, but the towering cliffs of Cheddar surely merit
such description. In the midst of the gorge between the great cliffs
there are two prehistoric caverns extending far into the earth. We
entered one of them, now a mere passageway, now a spacious cavern
whose domelike roof glistens with translucent stalactites. Here we pass
a still, mirrorlike pool, and there a deep fissure from which comes
the gurgle of a subterranean river. Altogether, there is much that is
interesting and impressive. Perhaps it all seems a little gaudy and
unnatural because of the advertising methods and specious claims of
the owner and alleged discoverer, but none the less a visit is worth
while. The museum of relics found in the cavern contains a remarkable
prehistoric skull, with low, thick frontal bone and heavy square jaw,
but its queerest feature is little spurlike projections of the temporal
bone just above the ear. It is estimated by archaeologists that the
possessor of this curious skull had lived at least forty thousand years
ago and mayhap had made his dwelling-place in the Cheddar Caves. We
were assured that an offer from the British Museum of five thousand
pounds for the relic had been refused.
The sun was low when we left Cheddar, and Taunton seemed the nearest
place where we might be sure of good accommodations. We soon reached
Axbridge, a gray little market town, so ancient that a hunting-lodge
built by King John still stands on the market square. Near Bridgewater,
a few miles farther, is the Isle of Athelney--once an island in a
marsh, perhaps--where King Alfred made his last desperate stand
against the Danish invaders, defeating them and finally expelling them
from Britain. Not less in interest, though perhaps less important in
its issues, was the Battle of Sedgemoor, fought here in 1685, when the
Duke of Monmouth was disastrously defeated by the Royal Army--the last
battle worthy of the name to be waged on English soil.
But we were to learn more of Monmouth at Taunton and to have again
impressed upon us how easy it is in Britain for one to hasten through
places of the deepest historic interest quite unaware of their tragic
story. We had passed through Taunton before, seeing little but a staid
old country town with a church tower of unmatched gracefulness and
dignified proportions; but Taunton's tragic part in the parliamentary
wars and her fatal connection with "King Monmouth" never occurred to
us, if, indeed, we knew of it at all. Taunton was strongly for the
Parliament, but it was a storm center and was taken and retaken until
the iron hand of Fairfax crushed the Royalists before its walls. Its
record stood against it when the King "came into his own again." Its
walls were leveled to the ground, its charter taken away and many of
its citizens thrown into prison. Discontent and hatred of the Stuarts
were so rampant that any movement against their rule was welcomed
by the Taunton Whigs, though it is hard to see any consistency in
the unreasoning support they gave to the Duke of Monmouth--the son
of Charles II. and one of his many mistresses--in his pretensions
to the throne occupied by James II. Monmouth entered Taunton amidst
the wildest acclamations, and it was from the market square of the
rebellious town that he issued his proclamation assuming the title of
King. He was followed by an ill-organized and poorly equipped army of
seven thousand men, who were defeated by four thousand Royal Troops.
Then followed a reign of terror in Taunton. The commander of the King's
forces hanged, without pretense of trial, many of his prisoners, using
the sign of the old White Hart Inn as a gallows. Then came the Bloody
Assizes, held by Jeffreys of infamous memory, in the great hall of the
castle. After trials no more than travesties of brutal jests and savage
cruelty, more than three hundred Somersetshire men were sentenced,
according to the terrible customs of the time, to be "hanged, drawn
and quartered," and a thousand were doomed to transportation. Here the
active history of Taunton may be said to have ended.
But Taunton has little to remind us of these dark and bloody times
as we glide through her fine old streets and draw up in front of the
London Hotel, where the host himself in evening dress welcomes us at
the door. Every attention is given us and The London certainly deserves
its official appointment by the Royal Automobile Club as well as the
double distinction accorded it by the infallible Baedeker. It is one
of the charming old-fashioned inns, such as perhaps inspired the poet
Shenstone with the sentiment expressed in his well-known quatrain:
"Whoe'er has traveled life's dull round,
Whate'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think that he has found
His warmest welcome at an inn."
Modern Taunton is a city of some twenty thousand people, and being the
county town, with some manufactories, it enjoys a quiet prosperity. Of
its ancient landmarks, the castle, dating from the eleventh century,
is the most notable and has appropriately been turned into a museum.
Here one may enter the hall where Jeffreys held his court. Though two
centuries or more have elapsed, the "horror of blood" seems still
to linger in the gloomy apartment. The market-place retains its
old-time characteristics, and though the house occupied by Jeffreys
has disappeared, the White Hart Inn still stands. But the glory of
Taunton is St. Mary's Church, one of the most graceful examples of
the Perpendicular period in England. The splendid tower seems almost
frail in its airy lightness--and perhaps it is, for it is a recent
restoration, or rather replacement, of the older one, which had become
insecure.
Sherborne Abbey we had missed in our former wanderings, though once
very near it, and we felt that we must make amends though it cost us
a detour of sixty miles. And yet, what hardship is it to go out of
one's way in Britain? Indeed, can one ever go out of his way in rural
England? Scarcely, from the point of view of such nomads as ourselves.
The great tower of Curry Rivell Church dominates in such a lordly
manner the village straggling up the hill toward it that we were
tempted to look inside, and a mild curiosity was aroused, from which we
have never yet been able to rid ourselves. For, chained to one of the
iron railings of a sixteenth century tomb, is a queer little iron-bound
oaken cabinet. It is scarcely more than a foot in length, the wood is
worm-eaten and the massive lock and heavy hinges are red with rust.
What mystery does it contain and why did it escape the church-looters
of Puritan times? The church is rich in antique carvings, among them a
delicately wrought screen and fine fifteenth century bench ends. The
tomb to which the coffer is chained is a very unusual one. It bears
on its altar the effigies of two mail-clad warriors, while at either
side kneel figures of their wives over two tiny cribs with several
gnomelike children tucked in each. Overhead, borne by four pillars, is
a domed canopy upon which are painted four sprawling cherubs. All very
quaint and strange and illustrative of the queer mortuary ideas of the
medieval period.
We followed the winding, hilly and often indifferent road that leads
through Somerton, Ilchester and Yeovil to Sherborne, and while our
lunch was preparing at the slow-moving Antelope--there is little in
a name, in this instance--we wandered down old-world streets to the
abbey, the goal of all pilgrims to Sherborne. It seemed odd to find the
old town crowded with rural visitors all agape at a fantastic circus
parade that was winding along the crooked streets, but Sherborne is
fond of parades and pageants, for we were assured that the historical
pageant now the rage in the older towns of England was originated in
Sherborne. The town itself is a charming place--I borrow the words of
an enthusiastic admirer whose picture may be better than I can paint:
"It is a bright town, prim and old-fashioned, and unsullied by the
aggressive villas and red brick terraces of the modern suburb. Although
a small place, it is yet of much dignity. Here are timber-faced
dwellings, where the upper story overhangs the lower, and where the
roof breaks out into irrelevant gables; houses with the stone-mullioned
casements of Tudor days or the round bow window of the Georgian
period; houses with gateways under them leading into courtyards; humble
buildings fashioned out of stone filched from a church; cottages with
the arched doorways of a convent or with buttresses worthy of a chapel;
pieces of old wall and other miscellaneous fragments which the town
with its love for the past has never had the heart to cast aside. Over
the grey roofs can be seen the trees upon the hilltop, while over many
a crumbling wall comes the fragrance of garden or orchard."
But as we rounded a corner and came upon a full view of the abbey
church, we felt that it had rightly been styled the "glory of
Sherborne." Perhaps its low tower gives an impression of incompleteness
and lack of proportion--but it seemed to accentuate the mighty
proportions of the church itself and it was with a feeling almost
verging upon awe that we entered the majestic portals. And we learned
it as we know only few historic churches in England, for the gem of all
vergers is at Sherborne. To him his work is a labor of love, not the
usual perfunctory performance in hope of a fee. He had made discoveries
of importance himself in whiling away his time in the abbey and had
located and uncovered an ancient effigy that had been inconsiderately
built into the walls in earlier days. He told us of the checkered
history of the abbey, of the wars of the monks and citizens, as a
result of which the church suffered from a great fire, the marks of
which still remain in the red stains on the soft yellow stone, of the
Dissolution and the cavalier manner in which Henry the Wrecker bestowed
the abbey on one of his friends, who in turn sold it to the parish for
two hundred and fifty pounds--all of which would be too long to record
in detail in this crowded chronicle. But the interior of Sherborne
Abbey--where is there another like it? Not in all England; probably not
in the world. It lacks the "dim religious light" that pervades, like a
soft-toned mist, most of the great church buildings; the windows flood
the yellow stone with many-colored beams and lighten the splendors of
the golden fan vault with its rich bosses and heraldic devices until
every detail comes out clearly to the beholder below.
But we are lingering too long at the abbey; we were to return to the
Antelope in half an hour, and thrice that period has elapsed. We hie
back to our inn and do not complain of our cold repast. "It is ten
minutes' walk to the castle," said our host. Then why take the car? A
ten minutes' walk will give us a little of the exercise we need. We
start under the sweltering sun--it is a hot day, even as we reckon
it--and follow the crooked streets. Here is a high wall--it must be
the castle. No, the castle is farther on; and we repeat the wearisome
experience until half an hour has elapsed and we are only at the
entrance gate of the park. We are almost exhausted, for our long tramp
on the "abbey stones" did not especially invigorate us, but we will go
on after having come so far.
It was hardly worth while--Cromwell had left very little of Sherborne
Castle. It seemed melancholy, indeed, that the riddled gateway and the
straggling pieces of wall should be all that remains of such a lordly
building. We were interested to know that it had been granted to Sir
Walter Raleigh "forever" in 1597--but only six years later the knightly
founder of Virginia was indicted for treason and fell a victim to the
cowardly malice of King James, and Sherborne Castle reverted to the
crown. It was less than half a century later that Fairfax received its
surrender in the name of the Parliament, and when the gunpowder mines
were fired the active days of the fortress were at an end.
We retrace our steps to the Antelope, thinking mournfully of the
car, which would have made such short and easy work of our weary
trip, and we heave a sigh of relief when once more, having donned our
"seven-league boots," we hear the soft purr of the motor and enjoy the
rush of the cool, sweet air--after our "ten minutes' walk."
It grows late and Exeter is far away, but we are sure of comfort at
the Rougemont and we give the car rein. How she sweeps over the sunset
hills and glides along the cool valleys, pausing cautiously to pass
some rose-embowered village, now gathering speed again for another rush
over the fine road! She is ahead of schedule at Honiton, and one of our
party remembers that the Honiton lace is famous. It is an expensive bit
of recollection, but all things go in a motor tour. After a half-hour's
pause, we are away again, and before long catch sight of the huge bulk
of Exeter Cathedral looming above the old city against the twilight
sky.
V
RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY
"Through the heart of Dartmoor forest" may bring up many fascinating,
even weird associations, but on our map we regarded the thin red line
of our road rather dubiously. It runs almost straight from Exeter
to Prince Town--the prison town of the moor--and on either side for
many miles lies a waste country, apparently quite devoid of villages
and even of roads. The road as shown on the map is thickly studded
with arrow heads, denoting dangerous hills, and the description in
the road-book is far from alluring. But we were not to be deterred
from exploring Dartmoor, as we had been on a previous occasion,
though indeed we found the first few miles between Exeter and Moreton
Hampstead trying and almost terrifying in places. The hills offered
little impediment to our motor, but for all that one has a rather eery
feeling when clinging to a precipitous incline. If something should let
loose! But nothing did.
Moreton Hampstead is a bleak, lonely little town set well into the
western edge of the moor and surrounded by rugged tors on every hand.
It is not without a bit of antiquity, for it has a sixteenth century
building, called the Arcade, whose Moorish touches are decidedly
picturesque. It is like a bit of Spain in the hills of Dartmoor and
seems strangely out of place. Only three miles from Moreton Hampstead,
lying in a secluded valley, is Chagford, famous for its quaint old inn
and wild surroundings.
Once out of Moreton Hampstead and away on the yellow highway that
bisects the moor, we found ourselves in a country as barren as
any we had seen in England. The road, though winding and steep,
is generally visible for some distance ahead, and we found little
hindrance to a swift, steady flight that carried us over the long
hills far more quickly than we anticipated. The day, which had begun
in mist and rain, became lighter and a rapidly clearing sky gave us
the opportunity of seeing the wild beauty of the moor at its best.
Despite its loneliness and cheerlessness, there was a wonderful play
of color: the reds and browns of the broken granite, the purple blaze
of the heather, the vivid yellow of the gorse and the metallic green
of the whortle, all intensified by golden sunshine, have marvelously
transformed the somber tone of the moorland of scarce an hour before.
But where is the "forest"? Only stunted trees appear here and there,
or a fringe of woods along the clear streams; we learn that "forest"
once meant a waste, uncultivated tract of land, and in later days
has been applied to woodlands alone. We run for miles with no human
habitation in sight save an occasional cottage in a small, barren field
surrounded by stone walls. We come upon a large, attractive-looking
inn unexpectedly--though it ought not to be unexpected to find an inn
anywhere in England--the Two Bridges, situated near the head waters
of the Dart, here no more than a brawling streamlet. We leave the
car by the roadside and enter the homelike hall, where an array of
fishing-tackle makes clear the excuse for this pleasant hotel in the
moor. The day has been chilly and, strange to say, a fire flickers
in the grate. We are just in time for luncheon and a goodly number
of guests respond to the vigorous beating of the gong--that almost
universal abomination of the provincial English hotel. It appears that
the quiet and seclusion of Dartmoor is not without its attractions to
many people. We ourselves leave the pleasant inn with regret; we should
have liked a day's rest in the cozy ingle-nook.
[Illustration: IN SUNNY DEVON.
A view of the old town of Totnes from the upland road. Original
Painting by George Bowman, 1908 Royal Academy.]
The walls and battlements of Prince Town Prison soon loom in sight.
This was established in 1800 as a military prison for French soldiers,
and a few Americans were confined here in 1812. It then fell into
disuse until 1850, but for the half-century since it has served its
present purpose as a penal institution and has been greatly added to
from time to time.
An English writer says: "Dartmoor is so huge that one must be born
and spend a lifetime near it to really know it, and the visitor can
merely endeavour to see typical examples of its granite tors, its
peaty streams, its great stretches of boulder-strewn heather, and its
isolated villages." Evidently he must mean that it is huge in its
mysteries and its moods, for it is really only fourteen by twenty-two
miles--perhaps half as large as the average county in the United States.
At Tavistock we are well beyond the confines of the moor and follow a
fine road to Launceston, where we glance at the huge circular keep of
the castle and look longingly at the White Hart, which recalls only
pleasant memories. But we are bound for an enchanted land and, like
many a gallant knight of yore, we would hasten past "many-towered
Camelot" to the castle of the blameless king. The declining sun, toward
which we rapidly course, seems to flash across the Cornish hills the
roselight of the old Arthurian romance, and the stately measures of
the "Idyls of the King" come unbidden to our minds. But we soon have
something less romantic to think of, for in attempting a short cut
to Tintagel without going to Camelford, we run into a series of the
crookedest, roughest lanes we found in all England. These appear to
have been quite abandoned; in places mere ravines with myriads of sharp
loose stones and many long steep hills. But we push on and almost ere
we are aware, find ourselves in Tintagel village, which with its long
rows of boarding-houses hardly accords with one's preconceived romantic
notions. Then we catch a glimpse of the ocean out beyond the headland,
upon which is perched a huge, square-towered building--King Arthur's
Castle Hotel, they tell us--and thither we hasten. This hotel, only
recently completed, is built on a most liberal scale, though it can
hardly accommodate many guests at a time. The public rooms are most
elaborately furnished and of enormous size. The great round table in
the reading room is a replica of the original at Shrewsbury, at which,
declares tradition, King Arthur sat with his fifty knights. The guest
rooms are on an equally generous scale and so arranged that every one
fronts on the sea. The rates are not low by any means, yet it is hard
to conceive how such a hotel can be a paying investment.
After we reached the hotel, the long twilight still gave time to
contemplate the weird beauty of the surroundings and to explore the
ruins of the castle so famed in song and story. We scrambled down the
high headland, upon which the hotel stands, to the level of the blue
inlet of the sea, depicted in such a masterly manner in the painting
by Mr. Moran, the towering cliffs crowned by the fragmentary ruins
looming far above us. A path cut in the edge of the cliff leads to a
precarious-looking foot-bridge across the chasm and a still narrower
and steeper path hugs the face of the precipice on the opposite side
until a heavy oaken door is reached. This door, to which the old
caretaker in the cottage below had given me the key, opens into the
supposed site of King Arthur's castle. Only a few scattered bits of
masonry remain and these are probably of a later time than that of the
early Briton.
[Illustration: KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE, OFF TINTAGEL HEAD, CORNWALL.
From Original Painting by Thos. Moran, N. A.]
The spot is lonely and quite barren save a few patches of greensward
upon which were peacefully grazing a flock of sheep--one finds them
everywhere in Britain. I was quite alone--there were no other visitors
at that late hour and my companions had given up the dizzy ascent
before it was fairly begun--and I strove to reconstruct in imagination
the castle as it stood in the days of the blameless king. How the wild
old stories crowded upon me in that lonely twilight hour! Here, legend
declares--and I care not if it be dim indeed and questioned by the
wiseacres--was once the court of the wise and faultless Arthur, who
gathered to himself the flower of knighthood of Christendom and was
invincible to all attacks from without, but whose dominion crumbled
away before the faithlessness and dishonor of his own followers. Here,
perchance, the faithless Guinevere pined and sighed for her forsworn
lover and gazed on the sea, calm and radiant as it is even now, or saw
it lash itself into unspeakable fury upon the frowning bastions of the
coast. But, alas! how dim and uncertain is all that is left, and how
the tales vary save that they all center in the king! Little remains
in local tradition of all the vanished splendors of those ancient days
save that the king did not die; that in the form of a chough he haunts
the scenes of his glory and his downfall, and that he will come again--
But I am quite forgetting the flight of time, and with a lingering
look at the storied spot, I slowly descend. Then I climb to the more
extensive ruin on the landward side, much shattered but grim and
massive in decay. There must have been a connection between the castles
on either side of the great ravine, though it is hardly apparent how
this could have been. Perhaps the gap has widened much in the long
course of time. It is dusk when we return to the hotel and sit long
on the open terrace fronting the sea, contemplating the beauty of the
scene.
Never have I beheld a more glorious sunset than that which lightened
the wild Cornish coast and ocean on that particular evening. A dark
band of cloud lay low along the western horizon, with a clear,
opalescent sky above, and below a thin strip of lucent gold with
silvery clouds floating in it like fairy ships. Suddenly the sun
dropped from behind the cloud, which had obscured his full splendor,
into the resplendent zone beneath, flooding the sea, into which he
slowly sank, with a marvelous though evanescent glory. Then followed
all the indescribable color changes and combinations, which varied
momentarily until they faded into the dusky hues of a moonlit night.
It marked the close of a perfect day--clear and cool, with sky of
untainted blue and ocean as still and glassy as a quiet inland lake.
Not less inspiring was the scene that greeted us through our open
lattices in the morning--a sea steely blue in the distance, rippling
into bars of frosted silver near the shore, while the stern outlines
of the headlands were softened by a clinging blue haze. We lingered on
the legend-haunted ground until nearly noon and it was with keen regret
that we glided away from the pleasant hostelry back to the village and
past the old church on the headland, whose bells tolled without mortal
hands on the far-off day when the body of King Arthur was borne away to
sepulture in Glastonbury Abbey.
A fine upland road led us nearly due north from Camelford through
long stretches of moorland--or country almost as sterile as the
moors--diversified with great patches of gorse and scattered groups of
stunted trees. We encountered scarcely a village for a distance of
twenty-five miles, for we did not turn aside for Bude or for Stratton,
just opposite on each side of the road. The latter is said to be one
of the most unspoiled and genuinely ancient of the smaller Cornish
villages. At times we were within a mile or two of the ocean and caught
fugitive glimpses of blue expanses of quiet sea. Then the road sweeps
farther inland and the country improves in appearance, though it is
still Cornwall and Devon and far different from the sleek, prosperous
beauty of the Midlands.
[Illustration: OFF THE COAST OF DEVON.
From Original Painting by A. J. Warne-Browne.]
"The most exquisite town in England," writes an enthusiast of Clovelly,
but Clovelly's very quaintness has made it so widely known that it
hardly has a place in a chronicle that seeks rather the untrodden ways.
It is not possible for a motor or any other vehicle to descend the
steep, stone-paved streets, and about a quarter of a mile above the
town we left the car in an exceedingly prosperous-looking stable-yard
filled to overflowing with motors, carriages and chars-a-bancs.
Clovelly well deserves its reputation for the picturesque qualities
that have transformed it from an unpretentious fishing village, lost
among the clifflike hills, into a thronged tourist resort. Fortunately,
as yet there has been no attempt to modernize; no stucco-and-timber
hotel detracts from the antique flavor; the people who come to Clovelly
do not as a rule stay long. Large excursion steamers, usually
crowded, ply from Ilfracombe, and coaches and chars-a-bancs from
Hartland and Barnstaple bring troops of visitors. Coaching parties
come from Tintagel (round trip eighty miles) and one is sure to find
Clovelly crowded in season, especially if the day is fine. And so
we found it, literally thronged, a huge excursion steamer lying at
anchor in the harbor. There was a little disarray and confusion at the
pleasant New Inn--new in name only--evidently due to more patronage
than could easily be taken care of. As we waited for luncheon we looked
about at the collection of antique brass, copper, china and pottery
that almost covered the walls and crowded the mantelpieces and odd
corners about the inn. We were told that the landlady is a famous
collector and that many of the pieces are rare and valuable. A more
amusing if not less interesting feature of the house is the sentiment
expressed in halting doggerel, emblazoned in large red letters on
the walls and ceiling of the dining-room. It is good only from the
standpoint of exceeding badness, and its general tenor is to flatter
Americans, who no doubt constitute a large proportion of the guests.
The old, time-worn churches of England are past numbering and they came
to have an almost weird fascination for us. The tombs, ranging from the
artistic to the ghastly or grotesque, the old stones with their often
queer or even ridiculous epitaphs, the sculptures, the bosses, the
frescoes, the stained windows, the gargoyles and the oftentimes strange
history or still stranger legends connected with nearly every one--but
why prolong the list of curious attractions of these ancient fanes,
often quite peculiar in each case? Just before we entered Barnstaple we
turned into a byroad, and dropping down a hill of appalling steepness
and length, came to Tawstock Church, famed as the finest country church
in Devon--the "Westminster of the West Country," some enthusiast has
styled it. Though hardly deserving such a dignified characterization as
this, Tawstock Church is well worth a visit. Besides some remarkable
tombs and fine Elizabethan pews, it has a peculiar gallery curiously
wrought in vine and leaf pattern from black oak, and now used by the
bell-ringers to reach the tower. Tawstock Mansion, near by, appears
rather modern--a large building shining in a fresh coat of yellow
paint that gave it much the appearance of a summer hotel. The house
and church are located in a deep wooded valley and the towers of the
ancient gateway lend a touch of much-needed antiquity to the scene.
[Illustration: TAWSTOCK CHURCH, DEVONSHIRE.]
Barnstaple, like Bideford, while a very old town, has few old-time
relics now left. It has become a manufacturing town, its chief product
being Barum ware, an inexpensive grade of pottery. The Golden Lion
Inn, once a residence of the Earl of Bath, is famed as a place of
solid comfort, and still retains much of the gorgeous decorations done
by its former occupant. The poet Shelley had an odd association with
Barnstaple. When living at Lynton, after his marriage with Harriet
Westbrook, he came to Barnstaple and spent some time in bringing out a
pamphlet scurrilously attacking the chief justice who had sentenced to
prison the publisher of the works of Thomas Paine. One of the poet's
associates, who distributed the pamphlets, was sentenced to six months
in jail, and Shelley narrowly escaped by hastily leaving the town.
The road from Bideford through Barnstaple and Ilfracombe is rather
uninteresting, save the last few miles, which pass through wooded hills
and along deep verdant valleys. Ilfracombe is a resort town, pure and
simple, and we found few hotels on a grander scale than the Ilfracombe,
standing in beautiful grounds facing the sea, which murmured almost
directly beneath our open windows. It was a beautiful evening; the tide
was just receding from the jutting rocks scattered along the coast,
whereon the sea, even in its mildest moods, chafes into foam; and one
can easily imagine a most awe-inspiring scene when the angry ocean,
driven by a westerly wind, assails these bold, angular rocks. After
having visited every resort town of note in England, our recollection
is that of all, Ilfracombe is the most strikingly situated; nor do any
of them command views of a coast line more rugged and picturesque.
The rain was falling heavily when we came to Dunster on the following
day and the abbey church was gloomy indeed. And what can be gloomier
than an old church on a gray day, when the rain pours from the low-hung
clouds and sweeps in fitful gusts against the mossy gravestones
and crumbling, ivy-clad walls? A scene that renders one solemn and
thoughtful on almost any occasion becomes positively depressing under
such conditions. And though we recall Dunster Church with associations
not unpleasing in perspective, the surroundings were not altogether
pleasing at the time. We found the caretaker, a bent old woman, in the
church, but she informed us that there were really two churches and
that she had jurisdiction over only one of them. However, she conducted
us about the dimly lighted building, gloomy indeed from the lowering
skies without, and our recollection of her story of the quarrel that
resulted in the partition of the church has faded quite away. But we
do remember the rood screen which has fourteen separate openings, no
two wrought in the same pattern and altogether as marvelous a piece of
black-oak carving as we saw in England.
Aside from the abbey church, there are other things of interest in
Dunster, especially the market cross and the castle. The latter
overlooks the town from a neighboring hill and is one of the lordliest
fortresses in the West Country. The town lies in one of the loveliest
vales in Somersetshire and is famed for its beautiful surroundings.
This section of Somerset and Devon is rich in literary associations; at
Nether Stowey we pass the square, uncomfortable-looking house, close
to the roadside, where Coleridge lived for three years, beginning
in 1797. Indeed, it was in the autumn of that year that he made the
excursion with Wordsworth and Dorothy, during which the plan of the
"Ancient Mariner" was conceived. A few months before, while in a
lonely farmhouse between Porlock and Lynton, he had the dream which he
started to record in "Kubla Khan." This poem he had composed in his
dream, but while writing it down on awakening, a "person from Porlock"
interrupted, and when the poet essayed to write, not only the words but
the images of the vision had faded away, and the fragment of "Kubla
Khan" remains like a shattered gem. Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy
came a little later to Alfoxden House, standing in a pleasant park
in the parish of Halford, and here the literary association between
Coleridge and Wordsworth became intimate and the little volume of
"Lyrical Ballads" was published jointly by them in 1798. Southey,
while storm-stayed by "an unwelcome summer rain" at the Ship Inn in
Porlock, wrote a sonnet in praise of the hills and glens. Hazlitt
and Charles Lamb at times joined their friends here for pedestrian
excursions among the hills. Nor can we forget Blackmore, whose "Lorna
Doone" turned the eyes of the English-speaking world toward the Exmoor
wastes. Shelley's escapade at Barnstaple we have already mentioned
and the cottage he occupied at Lynton still stands. No doubt much of
the weird beauty that pervades his work entered his soul amidst the
glorious surroundings--the sea, the hills and the vales--of the West
Country.
[Illustration: EVENING ON THE CORNISH COAST.
From Original Painting by A. J. Warne-Browne.]
A pause at Cleeve Abbey near at hand gave us perhaps a better idea of
the life of monastic days than any other we visited--and we saw all the
greater abbeys of Britain. In the majority of cases the abbey proper
had been destroyed, but the church escaped, often through purchase
by the citizens. At Cleeve the reverse has happened; the church has
totally disappeared, but the abbey buildings are nearly intact. As a
well-informed writer puts it:
"The whole life of the society can be lived over again with but little
demands on the imagination. We can see the dormitories in which they
slept, the refectory where they fed, the abbot's particular parlour and
the room for accounts, the kitchen, and even the archway through
which their bodies went out to the grave. The church suffered from
despoilers more than any other part of the abbey, and great is the
loss to architecture. Otherwise we get a community of the Middle Ages
preserved in all its essential surroundings, the refectory being in
particular a grand fifteenth-century hall." The ceiling of this great
apartment is of the hammer-beam pattern, the beams richly carved, and,
springing from oaken corbels, figures of angels with expanded wings.
It brings one near indeed to the spirit of monastic days--this gray
old ruin, through which sweep the wind and rain and where under foot
the grass grows lush and green as it grows only in England--the spirit
which the Latin legend over the gatehouse so vividly expresses,
quaintly rendered thus:
"Gate Open be
To honest folk as free."
And the gray-whiskered custodian, so rheumatic and feeble that his
daughter, a husky peasant woman, guides visitors about the abbey,
warmed up to us as we were about to leave and opened his heart about
the ruin in which he dwelt and which he seemed to love. He told us its
story in the broad West Country dialect and pointed out to us many
things of curious interest that we otherwise should have overlooked.
The sky is clearing; the low sun flashes along the hill-crests and
floods the Somerset landscape with ethereal beauty, which we drink in
as we skim swiftly along the smooth, wet road. We catch a final gleam
of the ocean at Weston-super-Mare and pass a long row of imposing
hotels. Then we are away for Bristol, the Queen City of the West
Country.
VI
ODD CORNERS OF THE WELSH BORDER
There are few English castles where the spirit of medievalism lingers
as at Berkeley and few that have darker deeds recorded in their long
annals of crime. It has had a strange fascination for me ever since I
read its story in my boyhood days, and the verse of the poet Gray had
given the castle a weird association in my mind:
"Mark the year and mark the night
When Severn shall echo with affright;
When shrieks of death through Berkeley's roofs shall ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king."
It was therefore a keen disappointment to learn on arriving in the
quiet Gloucestershire town that it was not a day when the castle was
open to visitors. However, we do not regret this so much in retrospect.
The castle, grim, many-towered, ivy-clad, the very embodiment of the
days of chivalry, still lingers in memory, with nothing to disenchant
its mystery and romance. The old keeper at the imposing entrance was
evidently sincere in his regret that the rule might not be suspended
for our benefit--for indeed we had found such regulations not as the
laws of the Medes and Persians, but there was no such good fortune
here. "But do not fail," said he, "to view the castle from the meadows,
for no finer sight will you find in England."
If there be finer views of other English castles--a mere matter of
opinion, after all--there can hardly be a better viewpoint than the
Berkeley Meadows. It is a wide expanse of lawnlike meadowland lying
alongside the castle, which stretches out its battlemented and turreted
length against a background of majestic trees; from these rises the
square church-tower in stern outline against the bluest of English
June skies. The scene indeed savors more of enchantment than reality,
and the environment seems fitting to the historic pile where a king
was done to death and which Shakespeare mentions more than once. The
present owner is the twenty-seventh in direct descent from Robert
Fitzhardinge, to whom the manor was originally granted and who built a
large part of the present castle in the tenth century.
The view from the castle keep is described by one who has written much
of its legends and history: "Northwards and southwards the broad Vale
of Berkeley, rich with verdure of pasture and woodland, runs on into
the far distance. To the east and southeast are the Cotswolds, rising
abruptly here and there into bold, bare masses whose sides are
clothed with beech woods, and anon retiring into lovely valleys which
seem to invite the eye to range their recesses. On the west flows the
broad estuary of the Severn, studded with many a white sail; beyond it
are the dark wooded hills of the Forest of Dean, veiled by the smoke
of its iron-works and collieries. Under the walls of the castle, on
the north and west sides, the little town seems to nestle, as though
seeking shelter and protection from the grim old fortress, which was
probably its origin and has been its stay and support through so many
generations."
[Illustration: BERKELEY CASTLE.]
Berkeley has another claim to distinction aside from its castle, for
here is the cottage where lived Jenner, whose discovery of vaccination
placed under control the scourge that devastated Europe until quite
recent times. The famous physician is buried in the churchyard. The
church is of imposing dimensions, with stained glass better than the
average and elaborate tombs of the Lords of Berkeley Castle. The bell
tower is detached, standing some distance from the main structure.
The highway from Bristol to Gloucester is one of the finest in the
Kingdom, and we soon resumed our flight over it after the short
detour to Berkeley. At the Bell Hotel in Gloucester we found mild
excitement prevailing among the guests and servants, some of the
latter standing about in brilliant liveries and powdered wigs. The
manageress explained that the high sheriff and county judge were about
to leave the hotel and that the gaudy attire we beheld disguised only
the porter and head waiter, who had been fitted out in this manner to
give due state to the occasion. During the delay in the departure of
the distinguished guests we had the services of one of the gorgeous
gentlemen at our luncheon. Finally the dignitaries descended the stair,
the bedecked servants bowed them solemnly into a carriage, and the
porter in all his glory rode away beside the driver. I dwell on this
incident, trifling in itself, to illustrate the different status of
such officials in England as compared with our own country. In America
a dozen county judges and sheriffs might be at a hotel in a city the
size of Gloucester without attracting much attention. In some respects
the English way is preferable, since it invests the representatives
of the law with a dignity quite lacking in the States. And in this
connection we might notice that county judges in England receive
salaries from three to five times as great as are paid to corresponding
officials on our side, thus commanding a high average of legal talent
for the bench.
The half-dozen miles between Gloucester and Tewkesbury are quickly done
and we halt in front of a wide green, studded with gigantic trees,
amidst which rises the huge bulk of a church almost as imposing as
the cathedral that has barely faded from our view. But it lacks the
gracefulness and perfect proportion of the Gloucester church and
perhaps its most striking exterior feature is the arch over the western
windows, so high and majestic as to remind one of Peterborough. The
interior is mainly ponderous Norman--rows of heavy pillars flanking
the long nave and supporting massive rounded arches. The windows,
however, are the lighter and more graceful creations of the Decorated
Period, though the glass is mostly modern. Among the tombs is that of
Prince Edward, son of Henry VI., who was cruelly slain in the battle
of Tewkesbury, so fatal to the Lancastrian cause. Here, too, lies the
"false, fleeting, perjured Clarence," of Shakespeare; and Somerset,
executed by his captors after the battle. The abbey was marked for
destruction by Henry VIII., who was deterred from his purpose by a
public subscription. Tewkesbury is rather decadent, and has many houses
in brick and timber as yet quite unspoiled by modern improvement. It is
pleasantly situated on the banks of the classic Avon near its junction
with the Severn, and the many-arched stone bridge over the former river
is unusually picturesque. Half a mile farther a second bridge crosses
the Severn, which lies in broad, still reaches dotted with small craft
of every description.
Over these bridges we hastened away toward Hereford, following a level
though sinuous road. The old-world quaintness of Ledbury attracted
our attention. Its rectangular timber market cross, supported on a
colonnade of wooden pillars, is unusual indeed. And nowhere else did we
find finer specimens of Elizabethan half-timbered houses, though some
of them were rather tawdry in recent applications of black and white
paint. Such houses have become quite the rage and some owners have
gone so far as to paint black stripes on common brick to represent the
timbers. However, no such travesty as this is necessary in Ledbury--the
town is overflowing with the genuine article--genuine though disfigured
in some cases by the bad taste of the man with the paint pot. Church
Lane, leading from the main street up a gentle slope to the church, is
bordered with splendid examples of Elizabethan houses, quite unaltered
since they left the builders' hands. At the end of the lane one sees a
graceful spire standing apart from the church, which is quite unique
in design. It has four sharply pitched roofs running parallel, with
odd little minarets between them. The interior has the newness of
recent restoration and shows traces of different styles, from Norman
to Perpendicular. Ledbury has an institute which commemorates its
association with Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who passed her girlhood
near the town.
At Hereford we sought the cathedral, having missed the interior during
a former visit. A small, bare-headed boy in a red sweater saw us pause
before the close and marked us as his legitimate prey. "I'll take you
into the Bishop's Palace," he said in such a matter-of-fact way that it
disarmed our suspicions and we followed the youngster meekly enough,
for with all our doing of cathedrals we had caught only glimpses of
bishops' palaces, usually embowered in gardens and apparently quite
inaccessible. We had no opportunity to question our small guide as he
rapidly led us through the palace grounds, but when he unhesitatingly
rang at the door, we insisted on an explanation and learned that the
bishop and his family were in London. During their absence the palace
was thrown open to the public and our small friend was doubtless
improving the opportunity to put cathedral visitors under obligations
to himself.
We were admitted and wandered about at will. It is a rambling old
house and indicates that a bishop occupies about the same plane in
his domestic appointments as a prosperous member of the nobility,
among whom, in fact, he takes a high rank. The house was sumptuously
furnished and had several great rooms with high decorated ceilings and
windows that looked out on the pleasant grounds, bright with flowers
and shrubbery. The study pleased us most, with its high bookshelves
about the walls and tall mullioned bow windows which open almost
directly on the Wye. It was easy to see why the English bishops nearly
all complain that their salaries, though apparently large, are hardly
adequate to the state they are expected to maintain; and why, as in the
case of an American ambassador, a private fortune is often necessary
to enable the recipient of such an honor to pay the legitimate
expenses. Our picture will show, perhaps better than any description,
the beauty of the river front of the palace, with the fine trees and
cathedral tower in the background. We had only a moment to look about
the cathedral, since the closing hour was nearly at hand. However, we
missed little, for Hereford Cathedral has few historic associations and
recent restoration gives it an almost new appearance. It is built of
red sandstone, which gives the interior a rather warm tone, accentuated
by highly-colored modern windows.
[Illustration: BISHOP'S PALACE, HEREFORD.]
A pause for the night at Ludlow, where we arrived after a run of an
hour or two through the rich pasture lands along the Welsh Border, gave
us an opportunity of renewing our pleasant associations with that fine
old town. But as we were to visit Ludlow thrice before the close of our
pilgrimage, I shall leave our impressions and discoveries for later
consideration.
The road from Ludlow to Bridgnorth is--or rather was--not a first-class
one. Road conditions in Britain change so rapidly since the advent of
the motor that one can scarcely speak of them in the present tense.
As we found it, poorly surfaced, narrow and winding, it was not to
be compared with the highway along the border. Bridgnorth is an
ancient market town, famous for its cattle fair, which has been held
yearly since 1226. The service at the Crown Inn, where we stopped for
luncheon, was excellent, and the moderate charge proved Bridgnorth off
the beaten tourist track, a special rate not yet being established for
the infrequent motorists. It was market day and the town was crowded
with country people. The ample market square was filled with booths,
and goods of every description were offered for sale. A socialist
orator--a common nuisance in England--was haranguing the people, who
crowded the streets so closely that we could get through only with
difficulty. That motors are not so common in Bridgnorth was apparent,
and a crowd collected about the car in the hotel stableyard. The
general expression was hostile, and many instances were related where
"one of the things" had worked disaster with skittish horses.
We made our escape without entering into the discussion and dropped
down the almost precipitous hill to the Severn bridge. The road is
a charming one, with wooded hills rising sharply on one hand and the
broad Severn lying far beneath on the other. At Shifnal a policeman,
in response to our inquiry, directed us to the byway leading to the
village of Tong, some three miles distant. Here, according to one
well qualified to judge, is the "most interesting example of early
Perpendicular architecture in Shropshire--a section famous for
interesting churches." But it is better known through its association
with Little Nell in "Old Curiosity Shop," and Dickens' description
shows that the appearance of the church before its restoration was
quite different from today:
"The church was old and grey, with ivy clinging to the walls and round
the porch. It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save
for the cawing of the rooks, who had built their nests among the
branches of some tall trees. It was a very aged, ghostly place. The
church had been built many hundreds of years ago and once had a convent
or monastery attached; for arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows,
and fragments of blackened walls were yet standing." It is still old
and gray, but no longer ghostly and ruinous. It was far from lonely,
for a crowd of trippers was being shown about by the caretaker when we
arrived.
The tombs of Tong Church, with their effigies and brasses, are
remarkably perfect, and one of them must be very ancient, for it bears
the figure of a crusader in chain mail. The images escaped destruction,
it is said, because of the friendship of Cromwell for the Stanleys,
who were adherents of the Parliament. In the church are buried several
of the Vernons, whom the madcap Dorothy gave to eternal fame, for they
had little else to rescue them from the oblivion that overwhelmed
such a host of unremembered squires and knights. Dorothy's sister,
Margaret, is buried with her husband, Sir Edward Stanley, who came
into possession of Tong Castle through his wife. The church also has a
remarkable library of black-letter books, some of them almost as old as
the church itself, and a stupendous bell, weighing two tons, hangs in
its tower.
[Illustration: TONG VILLAGE, SHROPSHIRE.]
The village well accords with the church--a quiet place half hidden
by trees and shrubbery, while the ivy and blooming vines give a touch
of color to the gray walls. The tiny gardens are brilliant with
old-fashioned flowers and the air is laden with their sweetness. Amidst
such surroundings are scattered the pleasant old timbered cottages,
with thatched roofs and diamond-paned lattice windows. The original
castle has disappeared and has been replaced by a large Georgian
house--a Moorish-looking mansion with domed roofs and pinnacles,
yet rather picturesque, despite the fact that it outrages good
architectural taste. It is in ill accord with the unspoiled little
village; for altogether, Tong, with its church and associations, is one
of the most delightful nooks and thoroughly typical of rural England at
its best.
There are other associations in the neighborhood of Tong that may
attract anyone especially interested in curious bits of English
history, for near at hand is Boscobel House and its Royal Oak. In
my youthful days, I read in one of the old-fashioned Sunday school
books--many of which were then imported from England and were written
by orthodox royalists--the story of the miraculous escape of His
Gracious Majesty Charles II. from the wicked rebels who sought to lay
violent hands on the "Lord's Anointed." I looked on the honest country
people of Boscobel as direct instruments of Providence in preserving
the sacred life of the king, and fairly held my breath with fear and
excitement when I read that the Puritan troopers rode beneath the very
tree in which the monarch was concealed. Even when sadly disenchanted
by the knowledge that if ever rascal escaped his due it was when
Charles Stuart dodged his pursuers, the romance of the old story
lingered and I always had a desire to see Boscobel House and the Royal
Oak.
[Illustration: BOSCOBEL HOUSE, SHROPSHIRE.]
After leaving Tong we were only a few minutes in the shady lanes until
we drew up in front of the ancient manor and found it a shrine for
the English tripper, though the name of no American had been registered
in its visitors' book. The house is quite unaltered and of itself
would be worth a visit as an unusually good specimen of early English
domestic architecture, for it dates from 1540. The walls are stuccoed
between heavy oaken posts at the corners and beams at the line of the
floors. The huge chimney, mullioned windows and other touches indicate
that it was a gentleman's residence. Inside there are several fine
rooms, with much oak carving and paneling, though in the dining-room,
rather the best of all, the oak has been painted. There are a good
many portraits and relics of the king, more or less authentic, which
are shown with a proper degree of reverence. In the attic floor is the
entrance to a small secret chamber reputed as one of the hiding-places
of the king, though no doubt originally planned for a "priest hole," as
the Puritans called such places of concealment.
The farm-wife who cared for the house, and who was glad to see
visitors, had come to reverence the king as the saint that the old
chronicles picture him and had a full stock of the traditions of the
place. She pointed out the identical tree which sheltered his Sacred
Majesty, though the prosaic and unimpressionable Baedeker declares that
it vanished long ago--which we ventured to hint, only to be met with
proper scorn. To impress us with the goodness and generosity of the
king, she related that the pension he settled on his preservers and
their heirs forever is still paid to the descendants of the Penderels
by an assessment on the parish--characteristic indeed of Charles, who
always rewarded services if he could do so at the expense of some one
else. We purchased a quaint book at the house--a facsimile reprint of
an account of the events at Boscobel, published after the Restoration
and dedicated to the king. As a curious example of the depraved
lickspittle attitude of his flatterers toward the person of the
monarch--a spirit not altogether extinct today, for that matter--I give
a few sentences from the author's dedication:
"I humbly beg your Majesties pardon, being conscious to myself of my
utter incapacity to express, either your unparallel'd valour in the day
of contending, or (which is a vertue far less usual for Kings) your
strong and even mind in the time of your sufferings. From which sublime
endowments of Your Most Heroick Majesty I derive these comforts to my
self, That whoever undertakes to reach at your perfections, must fall
short as well as I, though not so much. And now, on my bended knees,
let me joyfully congratulate his restored Majesty, and humbly offer him
this short and hearty wish, O KING, LIVE FOR EVER."
Bidding Boscobel Manor farewell, we pause for a hasty glance at the
scant ruin of White Ladies, an old-time nunnery standing quite apart
in a field near by; then we retrace our way to the main road leading
through Tong to Newmarket and Market Drayton. The latter town should
be of considerable interest to an Englishman, since here was the home
of Robert Clive, who, according to a well-known historian, "will ever
be remembered as the man who laid deeply the foundations of our Indian
Empire and who at a time of national despondency restored the tarnished
honor of British arms." Aside from this, there is little to interest
the wayfarer save several fine Elizabethan houses and a mighty church
that quite overshadows the town and country.
We are soon away for Shrewsbury, the ever charming county town of
Shropshire, fleeting over as fine a road as ever tempted the winged
wheels of a motor car. It is nearly deserted, straight, broad and
level, and it is quite too late to fear the minions of the law--but
this is not a record of miles per hour. Suffice it to say that very
shortly we stop at the sign of the Raven in Old Salop.
One could never grow weary of the old town, and we saw another phase
in its life and activity on a Saturday evening. The whole population
seemed to have turned loose, and the brilliantly lighted main street
was quite metropolitan. The quaint old fronts had a rather odd and
out-of-place look in the glare of the electric light; the narrow, dimly
lit side streets were more in accord with the spirit of the place. The
shops were crowded and on the whole seemed surprisingly up to date and
well stocked for a town of thirty thousand.
The Sunday following was as quiet as the evening before had been
animated, and was as perfect as an English June day can be. In the
afternoon we were off for a run, with scarcely any definite point in
view, though a jaunt of an hour or two brought us in front of Lichfield
Cathedral just as the afternoon service was beginning. We joined the
rather diminutive body of worshippers who occupied but a small part of
the great church. We were perhaps quite as intent on the interior--a
very epic in warm red sandstone--as upon the dreary chant of the
litany. A thorough restoration has been made recently and an air of
newness prevails, but no one interested in cathedral architecture
will miss Lichfield--in some respects the most harmonious and best
proportioned of them all. We have seen the town before, but not the
large square house before which we pause, for a moment, and which bears
a bronze tablet to the memory of its one-time occupant, Erasmus Darwin,
grandfather of Charles Darwin.
Our route to Shrewsbury was over one of the Roman Watling streets,
straight as an arrow's flight much of the way and often bordered by
giant trees. Never did the English countryside appear more charming
in all our wanderings through it. There was a continual succession
of green fields, vast parks, clear streams and wooded hills, with an
occasional retired village--for on our return we avoided Wolverhampton
with its rough streets and trams--to lend variety to the rural
beauty through which we passed until we again skirted the Severn and
re-entered the town.
VII
A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES
We leave Shrewsbury by the Welsh bridge for a week among the rugged
hills and valleys of Southern Wales, a country rich in relics of
antiquity and romantic associations. We sweep along the fine highway to
Welshpool and from thence, a little farther, to Montgomery, a decayed,
out-of-the-way town in the hills. A fragment of its castle is perched
high on the precipitous hill commanding the town and looking far over
the vale of the serpentine Severn. The Severn, like the Wye, is the
most sinuous of rivers, and there are few more inspiring prospects than
its long shining folds winding through the verdant valley as seen from
the castle walls. Montgomery, quiet and unheroic as it is today, has
a stirring past. It took its name from Roger de Montgomerie, "Second
in command in the army of his kinsman, William of Normandy," though
the grim, almost inaccessible castle antedated his possession of the
town. Fierce indeed was the strife between the Normans and the wild
Welsh tribes, and the fair vale of the Severn was the scene of many a
bloody conflict. The castle, though with varying owners and fortunes,
continued a stronghold to the day of its surrender to the soldiers
of the Commonwealth; after which nothing remained but blackened
walls--another added to the long list of feudal fortresses "destroyed
by Cromwell."
The road southward from Newtown leads through as wild a tract of
country as we saw in Britain. Not the Scotch Highlands or the hills
at the headwaters of the Welsh Wye equal it in loneliness and seeming
remoteness. But it is more picturesque than the localities just named,
for the hills are mostly wooded, and the shallow, sparkling river which
we followed--though usually far above it--runs through a narrow valley
diversified in spots with trees and bits of meadow land. For eight
miles out of Newtown we encountered a continually rising grade, which
brought us to a narrow upland road running along the hillsides, which
drop in almost precipitous slopes to the river far below. The road
twists along the edge of the hills, at times in almost circular curves,
and too close to the sharp declivity at its side for one's ease of
mind. At Llandrindod Wells we had passed the wildest part of the road
and we noted with surprise the handsome houses and palatial hotels of
a town we had scarcely heard of before, but which has recently become
the queen of Welsh inland resorts. The declining sun shot his rays
along the purple hilltops that encircle the place and the shadows were
already long in the pine-clad valleys. It was growing late, but after
a hurried consultation we decided against the pretentious hotels of
Llandrindod Wells.
We dashed across the arched stone bridge over the Wye at Builth Wells
and brought sharply up in front of the Lion Hotel, which, standing
squarely across the way, seemed to bar farther progress, and we had
little choice but to stop for the night. The Lion's accommodations are
not elaborate by any means, but it was quite too late to go farther.
Though Builth has mineral wells and a "pump house," a mile from the
town, there is nothing of the resort hotel about the Lion; on the
contrary, it is the plainest of old-country inns, apparently a haven
for fishermen rather than health seekers. Its walls were covered with
the antique hand-colored prints so characteristic of English inns; its
mantels were loaded with queer pieces of bric-a-brac; tallow candles
lighted the bedrooms. The electric push-button had not superseded the
tasseled rope by the bedside, with which one jangles a bell hung on
a coiled spring in the hallway. But it is spacious and has an air of
old-world comfort about it--little modern except its motor garage.
After all, we were fortunate in our pause at Builth, for we beheld the
most glorious of sunsets on the long reaches of the Wye as it enters
the town from the west. The river dances down the valley in a series
of broad, shallow rapids, resting itself here and there in a quiet
lakelike pool. The sunset hues were subdued rather than brilliant; pink
and salmon tints were reflected in the stream as we stood on the bridge
and looked up the quiet valley, and these faded into hazy amethyst as
the twilight advanced. It was a scene of quiet, pastoral beauty amidst
surroundings that do not lack for legend and antiquity, and altogether
left a pleasing recollection of an unattractive Welsh town which in
itself has little of the picturesque.
We were away early in the morning following the Wye Valley road, with
its vistas of hill and river, as far as Llyswen, where we crossed the
hills to Brecon. Our stop here was short, as our route was to bring us
again to this interesting old town in a few days. We did not often find
a more delightful road than that down the Usk Valley to Crickhowell,
Abergavenny and Caerleon. Its excellent surface and long sweeping
grades might be a temptation to speed, but it is quite neutralized by
the constant beauty of the scenery and interest of the country. On
either hand are the low Welsh mountains, wooded to the very crest,
and at times far below we caught the gleam of the river--though so
shrunken as to scarcely deserve the name--leaping and flashing over its
stone-strewn bed. Here and there a quiet village nestled unobtrusively
by the roadside; at Crickhowell we found a larger but somnolent
town whose huge church is crowded with memorials of the old Welsh
warriors. Even larger and more impressive is the great Priory Church at
Abergavenny, whose square battlemented tower one might think had been
built to withstand the sieges of the devil, even as the Welsh castles
were made almost impregnable against the attack of man. No quainter
town did we pass than Usk; it must have been much the same when the
Conqueror sent his legions to overawe the Welsh tribes, save that its
castle, then no doubt a lordly fortress, is now a decayed ivy-mantled
ruin. Its greater importance in years gone by is attested by its
mighty priory church, ill in keeping with the hamlet that clusters
about it today. According to tradition, two kings of England were born
in Usk--Richard III. and Edward IV.--and Roman remains indicate an
important station on the spot almost at the dawn of the Christian Era.
But what shall one say of Caerleon, farther down the valley, now
practically a suburb of Newport, where dim legends still linger to the
effect that it was once King Arthur's capital and that here was the
castle
"From whose high towers they say
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset,
And white sails flying o'er a yellow sea."
A prosaic historian, however, declares that in all likelihood the King
Arthur legend sprang from Roman ruins which some hundreds of years
ago existed in Caerleon in great magnificence. At any rate, modern
Caerleon has no trace of the regal capital of the early king--a bald,
unattractive town close upon the Usk, now broadened into a considerable
stream, dull with the taint from the manufactories on its banks.
At Newport we are entering a different order of things, brought about
by the great industrial development in South Wales due to the coal
and iron mines and large shipping interests. In the last century the
population of the town has grown from one to seventy thousand. The old
order is indeed dead here. There is no effort to attract the tourist,
and the castle, almost the sole relic of antiquity, is crumbling
into unhindered ruin as it sits far above the drear expanse of mud
left by the receding tide. We hasten through the town--we may see a
hundred such at home--and seek from a friendly policeman the road to
Caerphilly, a village off in the hills which we know has no new-world
counterpart.
For ten miles from Newport we wend our way over a dusty, ill-kept
byroad with sharp turns and steep grades, and before we come to the
village we see from some distance the broken towers and battlements
of Caerphilly Castle. We pass through the gateway in the straggling
walls and the scene of desolation and massive ruin that lies before us
is hardly paralleled in impressiveness among British castles, unless
it be by Corfe in Dorset. A great round tower, perhaps fifty feet in
diameter, with walls ten feet thick, split as by a thunder stroke,
greets our eyes. Half of it is still standing, though leaning many
feet from the vertical, and the other half lies in mighty fragments of
masonry at its base. There had been four such towers, but only one is
comparatively entire. The walls, though much shattered in places, still
serve to give an idea of the vast extent of the ancient castle. The
huge banqueting hall has been roofed and recalls in a rather pathetic
way the rude magnificence of its feudal state.
[Illustration: CAERPHILLY CASTLE, SOUTH WALES.]
But words quite fail to describe Caerphilly--such a maze of grim walls
and towers, such a network of ruinous apartments, piled deep with
debris, overawe and confuse one. Only the antiquarian may painfully
decipher the plan of the castle and in imagination reconstruct it as
it was when it stood a bulwark between warring nations. But to the
ordinary beholder it will remain a mystery set in the midst of the
barren hills, and he will hardly care to resolve the impressive pile
into its original parts. It will seem an entity to him--it is hard
to think it otherwise than it appears today. Its romance is deepened
by the obscurity of its history--for the story of Caerphilly has many
blanks and breaks. There is no record of when it was first begun and
there is doubt as to when it was finally destroyed. Some say the ruin
is the work of Cromwell, and it surely seems worthy of that master of
the art of wrecking castles; others declare that it was abandoned at
the time of the Commonwealth, having been destroyed by Shakespeare's
"Wild irregular Glendower," in his endless conflicts with the English.
But after all, does it not savor even more of romance that mystery
enshrouds the past of the stupendous structure whose scanty remnants
encircle us? Why call upon prosaic history to dispel the charm that
emanates from the gray ruin, half hidden by its mantle of ivy and
dashed here and there with the purple valerian and yellow wall-flower?
Such would be folly indeed as we sit on the soft green turf of the
court and contemplate the fantastic outlines in the glow of the sunset;
when all is silence save for the angry brawls of the rooks, which have
entered into full possession--reincarnations, perhaps, of the erstwhile
contentious owners.
But the spell of Caerphilly dissolves and a different world surrounds
us as we enter the broad modern streets of Cardiff and pause before
the American-looking Park Hotel. Cardiff as a village antedates the
Conquest, but as a metropolis of two hundred thousand, it is quite
recent. One hundred years ago it had a population of a thousand;
in 1837, of ten thousand; and it is easy to see that the traces of
antiquity in such a city must be few. Its future was assured when the
first Marquis of Bute hazarded his entire fortune in the construction
of the extensive docks from which shipments of coal and iron are now
made. It was a lucky throw of the die for the nobleman, for today his
grandson owns the greater part of Cardiff and is one of the wealthiest
men in the Kingdom.
Cardiff Castle--forever associated with the dark fate of Prince
Robert--has been replaced by a Moorish palace--or rather, an
incongruous mixture in which the Moorish predominates. It is easy to
gain admittance to this imposing palace, where art has been entirely
unhampered by cost, and if garishness and incongruity sometimes
prevail, interest is nevertheless continual. There is a fragment of
the keep of the old castle in the grounds and Duke Robert's dungeon is
incorporated into the new structure--a dark, vaultlike cavity in the
walls where for thirty years the unfortunate prince, the direct heir to
the throne of the Conqueror, was kept a close prisoner by his brother
Henry. Legend has it that his eyes were put out because of an
attempt to escape and that he died in the dungeon at the age of eighty
years.
[Illustration: CARDIFF CASTLE.]
Cardiff's municipal buildings are a delight; white stone palaces
standing in ample grounds with wide pleasant approaches--altogether
models of what civic structures ought to be. Immense and busy as it is,
there is little in Cardiff to detain one on such a pilgrimage as ours,
and we were away before noon on the Swansea road.
Llandaff is but three miles from Cardiff, and we reached it by a
short detour. Its cathedral, recently restored, is probably the most
interesting of Welsh churches excepting St. David's. The site has
been occupied by a church ever since the year 600, though the present
structure dates from early Norman times. It fell into complete ruin
after the time of the Commonwealth. One chronicler declares that
"Cromwell's men turned the nave into an ale house, penned calves in
the choir and fed pigs at the font," though they must have been rather
unorthodox Puritans to countenance the ale house. No attempt was made
to preserve the fine church from decay until about two hundred years
later, and so deplorable was its condition that the task of restoration
seemed a well-nigh impossible one. Still, after much difficulty, the
work was happily carried out, and the twin towers--one a slender spire
and its companion square-topped with Gothic finials--present a very
unusual though not unpleasant effect. Inside there is a mixture of
Norman and early English styles, and some beautiful Decorated work.
There are three paintings by Dante Gabriel Rossetti that arrest
attention at once--done in that artist's best style long ere he was
known to fame. The windows, though modern, are of unusual excellence,
having been designed by Burne-Jones and other notable artists. Near by
are the ruins of the bishop's palace, whose fortresslike walls tell
of a time when the churchman and the warrior went hand in hand. Its
destruction some six hundred years ago is attributed to Owen Glendwr,
whose record for castle-smashing in Wales is second only to that of
Cromwell. The village of Llandaff is still rural and pretty; it is
quite clear of the skirts of Cardiff, being separated from the city by
the River Taff. The old stone cross still stands in front of the palace
and there is now little to remind one of the big modern city near at
hand, which may one day absorb its ancient but diminutive neighbor.
The Swansea road looks well enough on the map, but our recollections
of it are far from pleasing. Dusty and rough, and crowded with traffic
and tram lines in many places, it wends through a cheerless and often
uninteresting country. It passes frequent mining towns straggling along
for considerable distances and there were many drunken men reeling
on the streets. It was market day at Cowbridge and the village was
filled with countrymen, many of whom treated our right to the road with
supreme indifference. One fellow in a broad-brimmed slouch hat that
made him look like an American cowboy, and who was carrying a black
bottle that might hold a gallon, saluted us with owl-like gravity and
brought the car to a sharp stop by standing directly in our way.
While getting rid of our would-be acquaintance, we cast about to find a
place for luncheon and soon lighted on the sign of the Bear, the sole
inn, according to Baedeker. It was some distance to the next town and
we decided to patronize the Bear, though its outer appearance filled us
with misgivings. But if its outward aspect inspired doubt, words fail
in speaking of the inside. The handbook of the Royal Automobile Club in
setting forth the delights of a tour in America pays its compliments to
our rural Bonifaces in this wise: "The hotel accommodation in country
districts is often very poor and dirty," all of which may be painfully
true. But in competition for distinction in these particulars, the
Bear would certainly not be distanced by any American rival. Perhaps
the confusion and disarray was partly due to the market-day rush, but
the grime and dirt that prevailed everywhere seemed as ancient as the
ramshackle old house itself. The dining-room was a large apartment with
many long tables of boards laid on trestles--an arrangement, no doubt,
to accommodate the patronage of market day--and the remnants of the
dinner were still heaped upon them in dire confusion. A glance at the
meal placed before us and at the dirty hands of the waiting-girl was
enough--we left the provender untouched and summarily departed from the
table. With difficulty we got the attention of the barmaid, who also
acted as cashier, settled our score, and sallied forth dinnerless upon
the King's highway.
Threading our way carefully through the streets of Neath, several
miles farther on, with little thought save to get away from the bad
road and unpleasant surroundings, we caught a glimpse, down a side
street, of an ivy-clad ruin of great extent. We followed the rough
rubbish-covered lane that leads directly to the entrance gate of Neath
Abbey, as it proved to be. There was no caretaker in charge, but two
or three workmen were engaged in cleaning away the debris, which was
several feet deep in many of the roofless apartments. Everything
indicated that once the abbey had stood in the pleasantest of valleys
on the bank of a clear, placid little river; but the coaling industry,
which flings its pall over everything in Southern Wales, had played
sad havoc with the sylvan retreat of the old Cistercian monks. Heaps
of rubbish dotted the uncared-for green about the place. Coal trains
rattled on the railroad near at hand. The spot where the abbey now
stands so forlornly is the heart of the suburban slums of Neath, and
so isolated and forgotten is it that few pilgrims come to view its
melancholy beauty. For it is beautiful--does not our picture tell
the story?--the mouldering walls hung with masses of ivy, the fine
doorways, the great groups of mullioned windows and the high chimneys,
green to the very tops, all combine to charm the beholder despite the
unlovely surroundings. The workmen told us that the abbey belonged to
Lord Somebody--we have quite forgotten--and that he was going to clean
up the premises and make necessary repairs. The craze now so prevalent
in Britain for preserving every ancient ruin had extended even to Neath
Abbey and perchance its titled owner will beautify the surroundings and
the fine ruin may yet become a shrine for pilgrims--that the motor-car
will bring.
[Illustration: NEATH ABBEY, SOUTH WALES.]
Swansea--Swansy, they call it--had always brought to my mind, I hardly
know why, the idea of a seaside resort town; but never was preconceived
notion more erroneous. If there is a blacker, uglier, more odoriferous
town of the size in the Kingdom, I do not recollect where it is. Here
are the greatest copper smelting works in the world and from these
come the pungent, stifling odors that so unpleasantly pervade the
city. Here, too, is the great steel plant of the Siemens Company and
many allied industries. And yet there was a time when Swansea had at
least the promise of a resort town before it, when the poet Landor
declared that "Italy has a fine climate but that of Swansea is better;
that it is the only spot in Britain where one may have warmth without
wet." Then it had six hundred people, but now its population exceeds
one hundred thousand. We had no desire to linger and rapidly climbed
the long steep hill that leads to the highland road to Carmarthen.
We soon left behind us the smoke and grime of the collieries and
smelting-works, and the road over which we rapidly coursed took us
through a rather pretty rural section, though the hills are numerous
and steep.
It was late when we came into Carmarthen, a bare, drab-colored town,
but withal rather more prosperous-looking than the average small
town of South Wales. The thirty-two miles to Haverfordwest swept by
too rapidly to permit us to see the country other than as a fleeting
panorama. Just as the twilight faded into dark we came sharply into
Haverfordwest and with grave misgivings halted at the Castle Hotel.
Here we must stop, willy nilly, for there was nothing that promised
better in many miles. But to apply the cautious Yorkshireman's
expression to the Castle Hotel, "It might be worse," and we were
willing to let the uncomfortable feather-beds and the dingy candle-lit
rooms overlooking the stable yard, be atoned for by the excellent
dinner that our landlady prepared at so late an hour.
We did not linger at Haverfordwest on the following morning, though
perhaps the castle and the priory church might well have detained us.
The castle, which crowns the terribly steep hill to which the town
seems to cling somewhat precariously, has been reduced to a county
jail--or gaol, as the English have it--and thus robbed of much of
its romance. Still, it is an impressive old fortress, dominating the
town with its huge bulk, and it has figured much in the annals of
Pembrokeshire.
Haverfordwest has a history antedating the Conquest. It was undoubtedly
a stopping-place for the troops of pilgrims who in early days journeyed
to the sacred shrine of St. David's, the Ultima Thule of Southern
Wales, sixteen miles to the west, following a tortuous road over many
steep and barren hills. The railroad ends at Haverfordwest and no doubt
the facilities for reaching St. David's a thousand years ago were quite
as good as today, the daily mail cart and coach twice a week in season
being the only regular means of transportation. No wonder in days when
strenuous journeys to distant shrines were believed to be especially
meritorious, two trips to St. David's were allowed to confer the
spiritual benefit of a single pilgrimage to Rome itself.
And we ourselves are pilgrims to St. David's shrine--not by the slow
horseback cavalcade of old days, or the more modern coach, but by
motor car. Our forty-horse engine makes quick work of the precipitous
hill out of Haverfordwest and carries us without lagging over the
dozen long steep hills on the road to the ancient town. Shortly before
reaching St. David's the road drops down to the ocean side, but the
sea is hidden by a long ridge of stones and pebbles piled high by the
inrushing waters. The tide was far out and we saw no finer beach on the
Welsh coast than the one that lay before us as we stood on the stony
drift. A great expanse of yellow--almost literally golden--sand ran
down to a pale green sea, which lapped it in silvery sunlit ripples,
so quiet and peaceful was the day. But one could not but think of the
scope afforded for the wild play of the ocean on stormy days--how the
scene must be beyond all description
"When the great winds shoreward blow,
And the salt tides seaward flow;
Where the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray."
We left the car near the ancient stone cross in the deserted market
place of St. David's and sought the cathedral, which is strangely
situated in a deep dell, the top of the Norman tower being only a
little above the level of the market place. The cathedral has been
recently restored, more perhaps on account of its historic past than
any present need for it, but the bishop's palace, once one of the most
elaborate and extensive in the Kingdom, stands in picturesque decay,
beyond any hope of rehabilitation. As to the old-time importance of
St. David's as contrasted with its present isolation, the words of an
enthusiastic English writer may perhaps serve better than my own:
"Centuries ago St. David's bishop had seven palaces for his pleasure;
now he does not dwell in his own city. Of old the offerings at St.
David's shrine were divided every Saturday among the priests by the
dishful, to save time in counting the coins; now a few pounds weekly is
accounted a good collection total. Ancient kings came hither in state
to confess their sins; in this travelling age only the enterprising
tourist comes to the city at all. Eight or nine roads converged upon
the little place on its headland of about three miles square, but the
majority are now no better than humble weather-worn lanes. The Atlantic
winds sweep across the depression by the Alan brook in which St.
David's Cathedral, the extensive ruins of the bishop's palace, and the
many other fragments of St. David's glorious prime nestle among trees,
with the humble cottages of the city itself surrounding them as if they
loved them. Even the dilapidation here is so graceful that one would
hardly wish it altered into the trim and rather smug completeness of
many an English cathedral with its close."
The cathedral is extremely interesting and made doubly so by an
intelligent verger whom we located with considerable difficulty.
Pilgrims to St. David's were apparently too infrequent to justify the
good man's remaining constantly on duty as in larger places, and a
placard forbidding fees, may have dampened his zeal in looking for
visitors. But we found him at last in his garden, and he did his part
well; nothing curious or important in the history of the cathedral was
forgotten by him. The leaning Norman pillars, the open roof of Irish
oak, the gorgeous ceiling with its blood-red and gold decorations, and
many relics discovered during the restoration, were pointed out and
properly descanted upon. But one might write volumes of a shrine which
kings once underwent many hardships to visit, among them Harold the
Saxon and his conqueror, William of Normandy. Nothing but a visit can
do it justice, and with the advent of the motor car, old St. David's
will again be the shrine of an increasing number of pilgrims, though
their mission and personel be widely different from the wayfarers of
early days.
[Illustration: ST. DAVID'S CATHEDRAL.]
There is only one road out of the lonely little town besides that which
brought us thither and we were soon upon the stony and uncomfortable
highway to Cardigan. Here we found roadmaking in primitive stages; the
broken stone had been loosely scattered along the way waiting for the
heavy-wheeled carts of the farmers to serve the purpose of the steam
roller. The country is pitifully barren and the little hovels--always
gleaming with whitewash--were later called to mind by those in Ireland.
There are no great parks with fine mansions to relieve the monotony of
the scene. Only fugitive glimpses of the ocean from the upland road
occasionally lend a touch of variety. At Fishguard, a mean little town
with a future before it--for it is now the Welsh terminus of the Great
Western Railway's route to Ireland--we paused in the crowded market
square and a courteous policeman approached us, divining that we needed
directions.
"The road to Cardigan? Straight ahead down the hill."
"It looks pretty steep," we suggested.
"Yes, but nothing to the one you must go up out of the town. Just like
the roofs of those houses there, and the road rough and crooked. Yes,
this is all there is of Fishguard; pretty quiet place except on market
days."
We thanked the officer and cautiously descended the hill before us.
We then climbed much the steepest and most dangerous hill we found in
all the twelve thousand or more miles covered by our wanderings. To
our dismay, a grocer's cart across the narrow road compelled us to
stop midway on the precipitous ascent, but the motor proved equal to
the task and we soon looked back down the frightful declivity with a
sigh of relief. We were told later of a traveling showman who had been
over all the main roads of the Island with a traction engine and who
declared this the worst hill he knew of.
Newport--quite different from the Eastern Welsh Newport--and Cardigan
are quaint, old-world villages, though now decayed and shrunken. I will
not write of them, though the history of each is lost in the mists of
antiquity and the former possesses an imposing though ruinous castle.
The road between them is hilly, but the hills are well wooded and the
prospects often magnificent and far-reaching. We found it much the
same after leaving Cardigan, though the country is distinctly better
and more pleasing than the extreme south. The farm houses appear more
prosperous, and well-cared-for gardens surround them. Nowhere did
we find the people kinder or more courteous. An instance occurred
at Carmarthen, where we stopped to consult our maps. The owner of a
near-by jewelry shop came out and accosted us. Did we want information
about the roads? He had lived in Carmarthen many years and was familiar
with all the roads about the town. To Llandovery? We had come too far;
the road north of the river is the best and one of the prettiest in
Wales. It would be worth our while to go back a mile and take this road.
Thanking him, we retraced our way through the long main street of the
town and were soon away over one of the most perfect and beautiful of
Welsh highways. It runs in straight broad stretches between rows of
fine trees, past comfortable-looking farm houses, and through cozy
little hamlets nestling amid trees and shrubbery, and seems constantly
to increase in charm until it takes one into Llandovery, twenty-five
miles from Carmarthen and the center of one of the most picturesque
sections of Wales.
Lying among wooded hills in a valley where two clear little rivers join
their waters, Llandovery--the church among the waters--is a village of
surpassing loveliness. The touch of antiquity so necessary to complete
the charm is in the merest fragment of its castle, a mouldering bit
of wall on a mound overlooking the rivers--dismantled "by Cromwell's
orders." Delightful as the town is, its surroundings are even more
romantic. The highest peaks of South Wales, the Beacon and the Black
Mountains, overlook it and in the recesses of these rugged hills are
many resorts for the fisherman and summer excursionist. From the
summits are vast panoramas of wooded hills and verdant valleys. The
view is so far-reaching that on a clear day one may see the ocean to
the south; or, far distant in the opposite direction, the snow-crowned
mountains of Northern Wales.
The road from Llandovery to Brecon is as fine as that to Carmarthen,
though it is more sinuous and hilly. But it is perfectly surfaced and
climbs the hills in such long sweeping curves and easy uniform grades
that the steepest scarcely checks the flight of our car as it hastens
at a thirty-five mile gait to Brecon. It is growing late--we might
well wish for more time to admire the views from the hillside road.
The valleys are shrouded in the purple haze of twilight and the sky
is rich with sunset coloring. It has been a strenuous day for us--one
of our longest runs over much bad road. We note with satisfaction the
promise of a first-class hotel at Brecon, though we find it crowded
almost to our exclusion. But we are so weary that we vigorously
protest and a little shifting--with some complaint from the shifted
parties--makes room for us. We are told in awe-stricken whispers that
the congestion is partly due to the fact that Her Grace the Duchess of
B---- (wife of one of the richest peers in England) has arrived at the
hotel with her retinue, traveling in two motor cars. She was pointed
out to us in the morning as she walked along the promenade in very
short skirts, accompanied by her poodle. We heard of this duke often
in our journeyings, one old caretaker in a place owned by the nobleman
assuring us that his income was no less than a guinea a minute! The
duke owns many blocks of buildings in some of the busiest sections of
London. The land occupied by them came into possession of the family
through the marriage of the great-grandfather of the present holder of
the title with the daughter of a dairy farmer who owned much of the
quarter where London real estate is now of fabulous value--thus showing
that some of the English aristocracy rose to wealth by means quite as
plebeian as some of those across the water. Nowadays the penniless
duke would have crossed the Atlantic to recoup his fortune, instead of
turning to a rich dairyman's daughter in his own country.
But in indulging in this more or less interesting gossip, I am
forgetting Brecon and the Castle Hotel, rightly named in this instance,
for the hotel owns the old castle; it stands in the private grounds
which lie between the hotel and the river and are beautified with
flowers and shrubbery. Brecon boasts of great antiquity and it was
here that Sir John Price made overtures to Henry VIII. which resulted
in the union of England and Wales. The priory church is one of the
largest and most important in Wales and is interesting in architecture
as well as historical association. We saw the plain old house where
the ever-charming Mrs. Siddons was born--a distinction of which Brecon
is justly proud. And Brecon is not without its legend of Charles the
Wanderer, who passed a day or two at the priory during one of his
hurried marches in Wales, and the letter he wrote here is the first
record we have of his despair of the success of the royal cause.
My chapter is already too long--but what else might be expected of an
effort to crowd into a few pages the record of sights and impressions
that might well fill a volume?
VIII
SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS
Early next day we were in Hereford, for it is but forty miles from
Brecon by the Wye Valley road. It had been just one week since we had
passed through the town preparatory to our tour of South Wales--a
rather wearisome journey of well upon a thousand miles over some of
the worst of Welsh roads. It was not strange, then, that we gladly
seized the opportunity for a short rest in Hereford. There is something
fascinating about the fine old cathedral town. It appeals to one as
a place of repose and quiet, though this may be apparent rather than
real, for we found the Green Dragon filled to the point of turning away
would-be guests. The town stands sedately in the midst of the broad,
level meadows which surround it on every side, and through its very
center meanders the Wye, the queenliest of British rivers, as though
loath to leave the confines of such a pleasant place. It is a modern
city, despite its ancient history, for its old-time landmarks have
largely disappeared and its crowded lanes have been superseded by broad
streets. Even the cathedral has a distressingly new appearance, due
to the recent restoration, and a public park occupies the site of the
vanished castle. But for all that, one likes Hereford. Its newness is
not the cheap veneer so frequently evident in the resort towns; it is
solid and genuine throughout and there are enough antique corners to
redeem it from monotony. To sum up our impressions, Hereford is a place
one would gladly visit again--and again.
Jotted down on our map adjacent to the Tewkesbury road were blue
crosses, indicating several seldom-visited nooks and corners we had
learned of in our reading and which we determined to explore. No
recollection of our wanderings comes back to us rosier with romance
or more freighted with the spirit of rural England than that of our
meanderings through the leafy byways of Worcestershire in search of
Birtsmorton, Ripple, Stanton and Strensham. One will look long at the
map before he finds them and a deal of inquiry was necessary before we
reached Birtsmorton and its strange moated manor, Moreton Court. No
better idea could be given of the somnolence and utter retirement of
the little hamlet than the words of a local writer:
"Birtsmorton is remarkable for the almost total absence of the usual
signs of trade and industry; even agriculture is prosecuted within such
limits as consist with leaving an ample portion of its surface in the
good feudal condition of extended sheep walks and open downs. Such
Birtsmorton has ever been, such it still is--but, thanks to projected
railroads, such we trust it will not always be."
The projected railroad has not yet arrived and the lover of quietude
and of the truly rural will hope that it will still be long delayed. No
quainter old place did we find in our long quest for the quaint than
Moreton Court. Fancy a huge, rambling house, a mixture of brick and
half-timber, with a great gateway over which the ancient port-cullis
still shows its teeth, surrounded closely on all sides by the waters of
a very broad moat and connected with the outer world by a drawbridge.
Once inside the court, for you gain admission easily, you pause to
look at the strange assortment of gables, huge chimneys and mullioned
windows, all indicative of ancient state. Not less interesting is
the interior; one finds a staircase of solid black oak with a queer,
twisted newelpost, dark corridors leading to massive oaken doors,
chambers with ceilings intersected by heavy beams, and a state
apartment of surpassing beauty. This is a spacious room, paneled to
the ceiling with finely wrought dark oak, its mullioned oriel windows
overhanging the moat, which on this side widens to a lake. A marvelous
chimney-piece with the arms of the ancient owners attracts attention
and the scutcheons of a dozen forgotten noblemen are ranged as a frieze
around the walls.
We will not seek to learn the history of the old house, but some of
its legends have a strange fascination. It is surely appropriate that
Moreton Court should have its ghost--the "lily maid" who on winter
nights kneels over the grave of her murdered lover in the adjoining
churchyard. Her stern father had driven her from his home because of
her constancy to her yeoman lover, whom he caused to be hung on the
false charge of stealing a cow. The next morning the cruel sire found
his daughter dead at his door, covered with the winter snow. But
there is another grim old legend far better authenticated, which had
its origin in a sad incident occurring at Moreton Court two or three
centuries ago, and a sermon is still annually preached in the church
against dueling. A pair of lovers were plighting their troth in the
manor gardens when an unsuccessful rival of the happy youth chanced
upon them and a quarrel ensued which led to a duel fatal to both of
the combatants. The heart-broken maiden ended her days in sorrow at
Moreton Court and left by will a fund to provide for this annual
sermon. Another weird story they tell of the great Wolsey, in his youth
chaplain to the lords of Moreton Court. A recalcitrant priest from
Little Malvern Priory was condemned to crawl on all fours from his
cell to the summit of Ragged-Stone Hill and in his rage cursed all upon
whom the shadow of the hill should afterwards fall. Wolsey was one day
reading in the manor grounds when to his horror he found that the fatal
shadow of the hill-crest enveloped him.
But today, for all its history and legend, Moreton Court has
degenerated into an ill-kept tenement farmhouse and the banquet hall
with its richly moulded plaster roof is used as a storehouse for
cheese. The stagnant waters of the moat and the uncleanly dairy yard
directly in front of the house accord ill with its old-time state and
with our modern notions of sanitation. The church near at hand is older
and quite as unique as the manor; little restoration has interfered
with its antique charm. Its bench ends still show the Tudor Rose and
are undoubtedly those originally placed in the church. A "sanctuary
ring" in the door and an odd circular alms-chest are very unusual and
the altar tombs and screens are worthy of notice. In the church are
buried the ancient lords of Moreton Court, who sleep their long sleep
while church and manor degenerate into plebeian hands and gradually
fall into ruin.
We found it practically impossible at the close of the day to trace on
the map the maze of byways we threaded before reaching Worcester, and
now our wanderings come back only as a general impression. We crossed
the Severn at Tewkesbury but did not enter the town. A departure
from the Worcester road into a narrow lane led us in a mile or two
into Ripple, one of the quaintest and coziest of hamlets. Only a few
thatched cottages clustered about the stone market cross of immemorial
days--cottages overshadowed by no less immemorial elms, mantled with
ivy and dashed with the color of rose vines. Near the cross, relics of
days when there were rogues in Ripple--surely there are none now--are
the oaken stocks and weather-beaten whipping-post. What a quiet,
dreamy, secluded place it seems. It is hard indeed to imagine that
within a circle of fifty miles is a country teeming with cities. If the
village has any history we did not learn it--no great man is connected
with Ripple as Tennyson with Somersby, though Ripple is not unlike
Somersby. Ripple is worth a day's journey just for itself. Only one
lane leads to the village, but we left it over a wide common, passing
many gates to regain the main road.
[Illustration: TOWN CROSS, STOCKS AND WHIPPING POST, RIPPLE.]
We left this again in a few miles for Strensham, a village not unlike
Ripple, though larger. Its church, our "object of interest," is
situated in the fields a mile from the town. No open road leads to
it, only a rough stone-strewn path through the fields. They told us,
though, that we might take the car to the church, and we passed
through several gates before we paused in the green meadow in front of
the old structure. There was no one in charge; the doors were locked
and it looked as if our pains in coming were all for nothing. A man
who was trimming the hedge pointed out the rectory and a little effort
brought forth the rector himself, who seemed much pleased that pilgrims
should be interested enough to come to his church.
Surely Strensham Church is one of the quaintest of the smaller English
churches. The restorer's hand has not as yet marred its oddity--though
sorely needed, the rector said, to arrest too evident decay. The floor
is of uneven flagstones, interspersed here and there with remnants of
the original tiling. The high-backed oaken pews have been in place for
centuries, but, alas, have been covered by a coat of yellow "grained"
paint.
"I had a man come from London to give me the cost of removing the
paint," said the rector, "but he said it would be sixty pounds--quite
out of the question when money is so much needed to prevent actual
decay."
The rood loft, bearing a dozen painted panels of saints--as old,
perhaps, as the church, yet with colors rich and strong, is very
remarkable. Each face has a characteristic expression, in most cases
rather quaintly distorted, and each saint has some distinguishing
mark, as St. Anthony with his pig. There are several unusually fine
brasses, but the best of these had been torn from its original grave
before the altar a hundred years ago by an ambitious squire who desired
to occupy this place of honor himself.
"But like the man in the scriptures who sought the head of the table
only to be humiliated, the usurper is likely to be removed," said the
rector, "and the fourteenth century brass replaced over the grave."
The little church seems lonely and poverty-stricken, but the rectory
near at hand is a large, comfortable house surrounded by well-kept
gardens. Strensham village has a decided advantage over its lowly
neighbor, Ripple, for it is known to fame as the birthplace of Samuel
Butler, the author of "Hudibras."
A charming road leads through Upton-on-Severn to Malvern Wells and
Great Malvern, but we had no leisure to contemplate its beauties; a
car was bent on passing us--to which we were much averse, for the
road was very dusty. We had only a glimpse of the Malverns, with
their endless array of hotels, lodging-houses and other resort-town
characteristics. The two towns are practically continuous and lie
beneath the Malvern Hills, whose slopes, diversified with stone-walled
fields, groves and farm villages, stretch away to the blue haze that
nearly always envelops the summits. Yet Malvern is not without a touch
of antiquity--no doubt the Romans had a station here and the splendid
priory church rivals some of the cathedrals in size and dignity. Only
scanty ruins remain of the domestic portions of the abbey, which,
with the great beautifully carved Gothic gateway, constitute all that
is left of the old order besides the church. A delightful feature of
the towns is the Common--when we saw it, fine stretches of greensward
with many noble trees. The Common was at one time a royal domain,
and Charles I. in his stresses for money undertook to sell the land
to raise funds, but such rioting ensued in Malvern that a compromise
was effected by surrendering two-thirds of the Chase, as the Common
was then called, to the people. Though the forests have been greatly
thinned by the ax, there still remains enough of sylvan beauty to give
to Malvern Common an indescribable charm, and so intersected is it
with sinuous roads that it was with difficulty we started aright for
Worcester.
On our way to the cathedral city we passed the battlefield where the
momentous encounter took place between the forces of Cromwell and the
Royalists under Prince Charles--or, as his followers claimed, King
Charles II. through his Scotch coronation--which resulted in such
disaster to the royal arms. Cromwell called it his "crowning mercy,"
and indeed it ended all organized efforts against the Commonwealth
while the Protector lived. Charles fled to Boscobel, as already
related, and after many adventures reached France to remain until
peacefully recalled after Oliver's death.
Worcester is one of the fine old towns that tempt one to linger, no
matter how often he may come. Modern improvements have swept away many
of the relics of extreme antiquity; yet the Romans were certainly here,
and before them the early Britons had a fortified town on the site.
The streets are now lined with attractive shops and here is extensive
manufacturing--few indeed are the wayfarers who escape paying tribute
to "Royal Worcester" before they leave. Not a little of the charm
of the town is due to the Severn, lying broad, bright and still in
its very heart. We pause for tea--again the mild dissipation of the
Englishman attracts us--at the Star Hotel, and as we depart from the
city look lingeringly at the majestic yet graceful outlines of the
cathedral towers against the evening sky.
[Illustration: A WORCESTERSHIRE COMMON
From the Original Painting by B. W. Leader, R. A.]
Coventry is but forty miles away. The King's Head comes to our minds,
though ever so faintly, as something like home, and we may reach it by
the grace of the long twilight. And what a flight it is--through the
most delightful section of rural England, tinged with the golden
glows and purple shades of a perfect summer evening. We sweep over the
broad road to Droitwich, and as soon as we can solve the mystery of
its tortuous streets, we enter the excellent though rather narrow and
winding highway that leads through Alcester to Shakespeare's Stratford.
It had evidently been a gala day in the old town, for the streets
were thronged with people, mostly from the surrounding country,
though no doubt there was a goodly number of our fellow-countrymen
in the crowd, since it was now the height of the Stratford season.
Under the circumstances, the "eight-mile" limit notice posted on the
roads entering the town was quite superfluous; we could scarcely
have violated it--so it seemed, at least--had it been only a mile
an hour. Once away on the surpassing road to Coventry, the fifteen
miles occupied scarce half an hour, despite the checks at Warwick and
Kenilworth. Coventry was thronged with the happy "Week-End" holiday
crowd, through which we slowly made our way to the King's Head, where
we were now well known and received as warm a welcome as one may find
at an inn.
Sunday, by odds the best day for getting about London or the larger
cities, is not so satisfactory for touring in the rural sections.
The roads are thronged with pedestrians, including many women and
children. Not a few of the women pushed perambulators and often showed
a strange perversity in crossing to the farther side of the road in
front of the car. Besides, a number of the places one may desire to
visit are closed on Sundays, though the tendency is constantly towards
more liberality in this particular. Yet there was nothing agreeable
in lounging about a hotel, and Sunday--afternoons, at least--usually
found us on the road. It was very quiet in Nuneaton, the rather ugly
town which George Eliot made famous as "Milby." The farmhouse where the
authoress was born and the old manor, her home for many years, were not
accessible. The throngs of Sunday wayfarers made progress slow, but we
reached Tamworth for late luncheon at the excellent Castle Hotel and
learned that the castle--the tower of Scott's "Marmion," would be open
during the afternoon.
Tamworth Castle is now the property of the town corporation and the
grounds have been converted into a public park, which, judging from the
crowds that filled it on the fine afternoon, must be well appreciated.
The castle is situated on a high, apparently artificial mound. It has
been put in tolerable repair and is used as a museum. So well preserved
is it that one may gain a good idea of the domestic life of a feudal
nobleman of the fourteenth century--a life comfortless and rude,
judged by our present standards. There is much paneling and elaborate
wood-carving on the walls and mantels of many of the rooms, and one
may be quite lost in the devious passageways that lead to odd nooks
and quaint, irregular apartments. The view from the keep tower, with
its massive over-hanging battlements, was indeed a lovely one. The day
was perfectly clear, permitting a far-reaching outlook over the valley
of the Tame, a fertile country of meadow lands and yellowing harvest
fields, while westward in the distance the spires of Lichfield pierced
the silvery sky.
There is, perchance, something a little incongruous in a restored and
well-cared-for old-time castle such as Tamworth. It can never appeal
to the imagination as does the shattered, neglected ruin crumbling
away beneath its mantle of ivy and flaunting its banners of purple and
yellow wall-flowers. But after all, the Tamworth idea is the right one
and insures the preservation of many historic buildings which otherwise
might gradually fall into complete decay. And yet one almost shudders
to think of Ludlow or Raglan under such conditions.
We hastened over the broad road to Lichfield, and passing through its
irregular streets, with which we are now fairly familiar, followed the
river to Colwich, where we paused to admire the splendid Decorated
church which overshadows the quiet village. But few prettier and more
truly rural byroads did we find anywhere than the one running northward
from Colwich to Uttoxeter. On either side were flower-spangled
hedge-rows, or in places long ranks of over-arching trees. Though the
road was excellent, the trim neatness so characteristic of England was
quite wanting. The tangle of wild flowers, vines and shrubbery was
faintly suggestive of country roadsides in some of our Western states.
Midway we came into full view of a lonely ruined castle standing on
the crest of a gently rising hill, and surrounded by a lawnlike meadow
running down to the road. The ragged towers and crumbling walls stood
gray and forbidding against a background of giant trees, and these were
sharply outlined against the bluest of English skies. We learn later
that it is Chartley Castle, which stands in a tract of ancient forest
and heath land, upon which roams a herd of wild white cattle similar
to those of Chillingham. Over Chartley broods the somber memory of its
one-time owner, the Earl of Ferrars, who in a fit of anger murdered a
steward and was hanged two centuries ago for the crime at Tyburn. It
was his whim to be dressed in his wedding garments and hanged with a
silken cord. He was stoic to the last and would say no more than he
expressed in the misanthropic lines:
"In doubt I lived, in doubt I die,
Yet stand prepared the vast abyss to try,
And undismayed expect eternity."
A grim old tale that fits well with the lonely fortress, standing in
unguarded ruin in the mysterious forest about it.
[Illustration: RUINS OF CHARTLEY CASTLE, DERBYSHIRE.]
But the day was waning and we hastened on to Uttoxeter, a town to
which Nathaniel Hawthorne made a pilgrimage nearly half a century ago,
attracted by the fact that it is the birthplace of Dr. Samuel Johnson.
He regretted that there was no memorial of the great author in his
native town, but this has since been supplied. An ugly fountain has
been erected on the traditional spot where Johnson did penance, as he
described in a letter to Miss Seward on his return from Uttoxeter:
"Fifty years ago, madam, on the day, I committed a breach of filial
piety which has ever since lain heavy on my mind, and has not till
this day been expiated. My father ... had long been in the habit of
attending Uttoxeter market and opening a stall of his books during
that day. Confined to his bed by indisposition, he requested me, this
time fifty years, to visit the market in his place. But, madam, my
pride prevented me from doing my duty and I gave my father a refusal.
To do away the sin of disobedience, this day I went in a post-chaise
to Uttoxeter, and going into the market at the time of high business,
uncovered my head and stood with it bare an hour before the stall which
my father formerly used, exposed to the sneers of the standers-by and
the inclemency of the weather."
The open road to Derby is broad, straight, smooth and level--what
a combination of excellences for the motorist!--and the car skims
joyously along. There are many fine estates on either hand with wide
forest-dotted parks and imposing gateways. Derby is a large, rather
unattractive town and we do not care to linger. Mansfield appeals more
strongly to us, for Mansfield is the center of the Byron country.
The road is not a pleasing one, passing through towns crowded with
workingmen's cottages and climbing steep, stony hills. At dusk we come
into Mansfield and find it a larger town than we had fancied--a rather
modern city built around an ancient center, in the very heart of which
stands the old many-gabled Swan Inn.
IX
THE BYRON COUNTRY
The exterior of the Swan Inn, its weather-beaten gables crowded
between rather shabby-looking buildings on either side, is not wholly
prepossessing. We hesitate to enter the courtyard, though it is quite
late, until a policeman assures us there is nothing better in the
town--or in the country about, for that matter. Had we needed further
assurance, we might have glanced at our trusty Baedeker to find the
Swan honored with special mention as "an excellent, long-established
house with winding oak stairs three hundred years old." Once inside
our misgivings vanish instantly amidst the air of cleanliness, solid
comfort and pleasant antiquity that prevails. We have a large room,
almost oppressive i
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