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.