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.