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.