though it is more sinuous and hilly. But it is perfectly surfaced and
climbs the hills in such long sweeping curves and easy uniform grades
that the steepest scarcely checks the flight of our car as it hastens
at a thirty-five mile gait to Brecon. It is growing late--we might
well wish for more time to admire the views from the hillside road.
The valleys are shrouded in the purple haze of twilight and the sky
is rich with sunset coloring. It has been a strenuous day for us--one
of our longest runs over much bad road. We note with satisfaction the
promise of a first-class hotel at Brecon, though we find it crowded
almost to our exclusion. But we are so weary that we vigorously
protest and a little shifting--with some complaint from the shifted
parties--makes room for us. We are told in awe-stricken whispers that
the congestion is partly due to the fact that Her Grace the Duchess of
B---- (wife of one of the richest peers in England) has arrived at the
hotel with her retinue, traveling in two motor cars. She was pointed
out to us in the morning as she walked along the promenade in very
short skirts, accompanied by her poodle. We heard of this duke often
in our journeyings, one old caretaker in a place owned by the nobleman
assuring us that his income was no less than a guinea a minute! The
duke owns many blocks of buildings in some of the busiest sections of
London. The land occupied by them came into possession of the family
through the marriage of the great-grandfather of the present holder of
the title with the daughter of a dairy farmer who owned much of the
quarter where London real estate is now of fabulous value--thus showing
that some of the English aristocracy rose to wealth by means quite as
plebeian as some of those across the water. Nowadays the penniless
duke would have crossed the Atlantic to recoup his fortune, instead of
turning to a rich dairyman's daughter in his own country.
But in indulging in this more or less interesting gossip, I am
forgetting Brecon and the Castle Hotel, rightly named in this instance,
for the hotel owns the old castle; it stands in the private grounds
which lie between the hotel and the river and are beautified with
flowers and shrubbery. Brecon boasts of great antiquity and it was
here that Sir John Price made overtures to Henry VIII. which resulted
in the union of England and Wales. The priory church is one of the
largest and most important in Wales and is interesting in architecture
as well as historical association. We saw the plain old house where
the ever-charming Mrs. Siddons was born--a distinction of which Brecon
is justly proud. And Brecon is not without its legend of Charles the
Wanderer, who passed a day or two at the priory during one of his
hurried marches in Wales, and the letter he wrote here is the first
record we have of his despair of the success of the royal cause.
My chapter is already too long--but what else might be expected of an
effort to crowd into a few pages the record of sights and impressions
that might well fill a volume?
VIII
SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS
Early next day we were in Hereford, for it is but forty miles from
Brecon by the Wye Valley road. It had been just one week since we had
passed through the town preparatory to our tour of South Wales--a
rather wearisome journey of well upon a thousand miles over some of
the worst of Welsh roads. It was not strange, then, that we gladly
seized the opportunity for a short rest in Hereford. There is something
fascinating about the fine old cathedral town. It appeals to one as
a place of repose and quiet, though this may be apparent rather than
real, for we found the Green Dragon filled to the point of turning away
would-be guests. The town stands sedately in the midst of the broad,
level meadows which surround it on every side, and through its very
center meanders the Wye, the queenliest of British rivers, as though
loath to leave the confines of such a pleasant place. It is a modern
city, despite its ancient history, for its old-time landmarks have
largely disappeared and its crowded lanes have been superseded by broad
streets. Even the cathedral has a distressingly new appearance, due
to the recent restoration, and a public park occupies the site of the
vanished castle. But for all that, one likes Hereford. Its newness is
not the cheap veneer so frequently evident in the resort towns; it is
solid and genuine throughout and there are enough antique corners to
redeem it from monotony. To sum up our impressions, Hereford is a place
one would gladly visit again--and again.
Jotted down on our map adjacent to the Tewkesbury road were blue
crosses, indicating several seldom-visited nooks and corners we had
learned of in our reading and which we determined to explore. No
recollection of our wanderings comes back to us rosier with romance
or more freighted with the spirit of rural England than that of our
meanderings through the leafy byways of Worcestershire in search of
Birtsmorton, Ripple, Stanton and Strensham. One will look long at the
map before he finds them and a deal of inquiry was necessary before we
reached Birtsmorton and its strange moated manor, Moreton Court. No
better idea could be given of the somnolence and utter retirement of
the little hamlet than the words of a local writer:
"Birtsmorton is remarkable for the almost total absence of the usual
signs of trade and industry; even agriculture is prosecuted within such
limits as consist with leaving an ample portion of its surface in the
good feudal condition of extended sheep walks and open downs. Such
Birtsmorton has ever been, such it still is--but, thanks to projected
railroads, such we trust it will not always be."
The projected railroad has not yet arrived and the lover of quietude
and of the truly rural will hope that it will still be long delayed. No
quainter old place did we find in our long quest for the quaint than
Moreton Court. Fancy a huge, rambling house, a mixture of brick and
half-timber, with a great gateway over which the ancient port-cullis
still shows its teeth, surrounded closely on all sides by the waters of
a very broad moat and connected with the outer world by a drawbridge.
Once inside the court, for you gain admission easily, you pause to
look at the strange assortment of gables, huge chimneys and mullioned
windows, all indicative of ancient state. Not less interesting is
the interior; one finds a staircase of solid black oak with a queer,
twisted newelpost, dark corridors leading to massive oaken doors,
chambers with ceilings intersected by heavy beams, and a state
apartment of surpassing beauty. This is a spacious room, paneled to
the ceiling with finely wrought dark oak, its mullioned oriel windows
overhanging the moat, which on this side widens to a lake. A marvelous
chimney-piece with the arms of the ancient owners attracts attention
and the scutcheons of a dozen forgotten noblemen are ranged as a frieze
around the walls.
We will not seek to learn the history of the old house, but some of
its legends have a strange fascination. It is surely appropriate that
Moreton Court should have its ghost--the "lily maid" who on winter
nights kneels over the grave of her murdered lover in the adjoining
churchyard. Her stern father had driven her from his home because of
her constancy to her yeoman lover, whom he caused to be hung on the
false charge of stealing a cow. The next morning the cruel sire found
his daughter dead at his door, covered with the winter snow. But
there is another grim old legend far better authenticated, which had
its origin in a sad incident occurring at Moreton Court two or three
centuries ago, and a sermon is still annually preached in the church
against dueling. A pair of lovers were plighting their troth in the
manor gardens when an unsuccessful rival of the happy youth chanced
upon them and a quarrel ensued which led to a duel fatal to both of
the combatants. The heart-broken maiden ended her days in sorrow at
Moreton Court and left by will a fund to provide for this annual
sermon. Another weird story they tell of the great Wolsey, in his youth
chaplain to the lords of Moreton Court. A recalcitrant priest from
Little Malvern Priory was condemned to crawl on all fours from his
cell to the summit of Ragged-Stone Hill and in his rage cursed all upon
whom the shadow of the hill should afterwards fall. Wolsey was one day
reading in the manor grounds when to his horror he found that the fatal
shadow of the hill-crest enveloped him.
But today, for all its history and legend, Moreton Court has
degenerated into an ill-kept tenement farmhouse and the banquet hall
with its richly moulded plaster roof is used as a storehouse for
cheese. The stagnant waters of the moat and the uncleanly dairy yard
directly in front of the house accord ill with its old-time state and
with our modern notions of sanitation. The church near at hand is older
and quite as unique as the manor; little restoration has interfered
with its antique charm. Its bench ends still show the Tudor Rose and
are undoubtedly those originally placed in the church. A "sanctuary
ring" in the door and an odd circular alms-chest are very unusual and
the altar tombs and screens are worthy of notice. In the church are
buried the ancient lords of Moreton Court, who sleep their long sleep
while church and manor degenerate into plebeian hands and gradually
fall into ruin.
We found it practically impossible at the close of the day to trace on
the map the maze of byways we threaded before reaching Worcester, and
now our wanderings come back only as a general impression. We crossed
the Severn at Tewkesbury but did not enter the town. A departure
from the Worcester road into a narrow lane led us in a mile or two
into Ripple, one of the quaintest and coziest of hamlets. Only a few
thatched cottages clustered about the stone market cross of immemorial
days--cottages overshadowed by no less immemorial elms, mantled with
ivy and dashed with the color of rose vines. Near the cross, relics of
days when there were rogues in Ripple--surely there are none now--are
the oaken stocks and weather-beaten whipping-post. What a quiet,
dreamy, secluded place it seems. It is hard indeed to imagine that
within a circle of fifty miles is a country teeming with cities. If the
village has any history we did not learn it--no great man is connected
with Ripple as Tennyson with Somersby, though Ripple is not unlike
Somersby. Ripple is worth a day's journey just for itself. Only one
lane leads to the village, but we left it over a wide common, passing
many gates to regain the main road.
[Illustration: TOWN CROSS, STOCKS AND WHIPPING POST, RIPPLE.]
We left this again in a few miles for Strensham, a village not unlike
Ripple, though larger. Its church, our "object of interest," is
situated in the fields a mile from the town. No open road leads to
it, only a rough stone-strewn path through the fields. They told us,
though, that we might take the car to the church, and we passed
through several gates before we paused in the green meadow in front of
the old structure. There was no one in charge; the doors were locked
and it looked as if our pains in coming were all for nothing. A man
who was trimming the hedge pointed out the rectory and a little effort
brought forth the rector himself, who seemed much pleased that pilgrims
should be interested enough to come to his church.
Surely Strensham Church is one of the quaintest of the smaller English
churches. The restorer's hand has not as yet marred its oddity--though
sorely needed, the rector said, to arrest too evident decay. The floor
is of uneven flagstones, interspersed here and there with remnants of
the original tiling. The high-backed oaken pews have been in place for
centuries, but, alas, have been covered by a coat of yellow "grained"
paint.
"I had a man come from London to give me the cost of removing the
paint," said the rector, "but he said it would be sixty pounds--quite
out of the question when money is so much needed to prevent actual
decay."
The rood loft, bearing a dozen painted panels of saints--as old,
perhaps, as the church, yet with colors rich and strong, is very
remarkable. Each face has a characteristic expression, in most cases
rather quaintly distorted, and each saint has some distinguishing
mark, as St. Anthony with his pig. There are several unusually fine
brasses, but the best of these had been torn from its original grave
before the altar a hundred years ago by an ambitious squire who desired
to occupy this place of honor himself.
"But like the man in the scriptures who sought the head of the table
only to be humiliated, the usurper is likely to be removed," said the
rector, "and the fourteenth century brass replaced over the grave."
The little church seems lonely and poverty-stricken, but the rectory
near at hand is a large, comfortable house surrounded by well-kept
gardens. Strensham village has a decided advantage over its lowly
neighbor, Ripple, for it is known to fame as the birthplace of Samuel
Butler, the author of "Hudibras."
A charming road leads through Upton-on-Severn to Malvern Wells and
Great Malvern, but we had no leisure to contemplate its beauties; a
car was bent on passing us--to which we were much averse, for the
road was very dusty. We had only a glimpse of the Malverns, with
their endless array of hotels, lodging-houses and other resort-town
characteristics. The two towns are practically continuous and lie
beneath the Malvern Hills, whose slopes, diversified with stone-walled
fields, groves and farm villages, stretch away to the blue haze that
nearly always envelops the summits. Yet Malvern is not without a touch
of antiquity--no doubt the Romans had a station here and the splendid
priory church rivals some of the cathedrals in size and dignity. Only
scanty ruins remain of the domestic portions of the abbey, which,
with the great beautifully carved Gothic gateway, constitute all that
is left of the old order besides the church. A delightful feature of
the towns is the Common--when we saw it, fine stretches of greensward
with many noble trees. The Common was at one time a royal domain,
and Charles I. in his stresses for money undertook to sell the land
to raise funds, but such rioting ensued in Malvern that a compromise
was effected by surrendering two-thirds of the Chase, as the Common
was then called, to the people. Though the forests have been greatly
thinned by the ax, there still remains enough of sylvan beauty to give
to Malvern Common an indescribable charm, and so intersected is it
with sinuous roads that it was with difficulty we started aright for
Worcester.
On our way to the cathedral city we passed the battlefield where the
momentous encounter took place between the forces of Cromwell and the
Royalists under Prince Charles--or, as his followers claimed, King
Charles II. through his Scotch coronation--which resulted in such
disaster to the royal arms. Cromwell called it his "crowning mercy,"
and indeed it ended all organized efforts against the Commonwealth
while the Protector lived. Charles fled to Boscobel, as already
related, and after many adventures reached France to remain until
peacefully recalled after Oliver's death.
Worcester is one of the fine old towns that tempt one to linger, no
matter how often he may come. Modern improvements have swept away many
of the relics of extreme antiquity; yet the Romans were certainly here,
and before them the early Britons had a fortified town on the site.
The streets are now lined with attractive shops and here is extensive
manufacturing--few indeed are the wayfarers who escape paying tribute
to "Royal Worcester" before they leave. Not a little of the charm
of the town is due to the Severn, lying broad, bright and still in
its very heart. We pause for tea--again the mild dissipation of the
Englishman attracts us--at the Star Hotel, and as we depart from the
city look lingeringly at the majestic yet graceful outlines of the
cathedral towers against the evening sky.
[Illustration: A WORCESTERSHIRE COMMON
From the Original Painting by B. W. Leader, R. A.]
Coventry is but forty miles away. The King's Head comes to our minds,
though ever so faintly, as something like home, and we may reach it by
the grace of the long twilight. And what a flight it is--through the
most delightful section of rural England, tinged with the golden
glows and purple shades of a perfect summer evening. We sweep over the
broad road to Droitwich, and as soon as we can solve the mystery of
its tortuous streets, we enter the excellent though rather narrow and
winding highway that leads through Alcester to Shakespeare's Stratford.
It had evidently been a gala day in the old town, for the streets
were thronged with people, mostly from the surrounding country,
though no doubt there was a goodly number of our fellow-countrymen
in the crowd, since it was now the height of the Stratford season.
Under the circumstances, the "eight-mile" limit notice posted on the
roads entering the town was quite superfluous; we could scarcely
have violated it--so it seemed, at least--had it been only a mile
an hour. Once away on the surpassing road to Coventry, the fifteen
miles occupied scarce half an hour, despite the checks at Warwick and
Kenilworth. Coventry was thronged with the happy "Week-End" holiday
crowd, through which we slowly made our way to the King's Head, where
we were now well known and received as warm a welcome as one may find
at an inn.
Sunday, by odds the best day for getting about London or the larger
cities, is not so satisfactory for touring in the rural sections.
The roads are thronged with pedestrians, including many women and
children. Not a few of the women pushed perambulators and often showed
a strange perversity in crossing to the farther side of the road in
front of the car. Besides, a number of the places one may desire to
visit are closed on Sundays, though the tendency is constantly towards
more liberality in this particular. Yet there was nothing agreeable
in lounging about a hotel, and Sunday--afternoons, at least--usually
found us on the road. It was very quiet in Nuneaton, the rather ugly
town which George Eliot made famous as "Milby." The farmhouse where the
authoress was born and the old manor, her home for many years, were not
accessible. The throngs of Sunday wayfarers made progress slow, but we
reached Tamworth for late luncheon at the excellent Castle Hotel and
learned that the castle--the tower of Scott's "Marmion," would be open
during the afternoon.
Tamworth Castle is now the property of the town corporation and the
grounds have been converted into a public park, which, judging from the
crowds that filled it on the fine afternoon, must be well appreciated.
The castle is situated on a high, apparently artificial mound. It has
been put in tolerable repair and is used as a museum. So well preserved
is it that one may gain a good idea of the domestic life of a feudal
nobleman of the fourteenth century--a life comfortless and rude,
judged by our present standards. There is much paneling and elaborate
wood-carving on the walls and mantels of many of the rooms, and one
may be quite lost in the devious passageways that lead to odd nooks
and quaint, irregular apartments. The view from the keep tower, with
its massive over-hanging battlements, was indeed a lovely one. The day
was perfectly clear, permitting a far-reaching outlook over the valley
of the Tame, a fertile country of meadow lands and yellowing harvest
fields, while westward in the distance the spires of Lichfield pierced
the silvery sky.
There is, perchance, something a little incongruous in a restored and
well-cared-for old-time castle such as Tamworth. It can never appeal
to the imagination as does the shattered, neglected ruin crumbling
away beneath its mantle of ivy and flaunting its banners of purple and
yellow wall-flowers. But after all, the Tamworth idea is the right one
and insures the preservation of many historic buildings which otherwise
might gradually fall into complete decay. And yet one almost shudders
to think of Ludlow or Raglan under such conditions.
We hastened over the broad road to Lichfield, and passing through its
irregular streets, with which we are now fairly familiar, followed the
river to Colwich, where we paused to admire the splendid Decorated
church which overshadows the quiet village. But few prettier and more
truly rural byroads did we find anywhere than the one running northward
from Colwich to Uttoxeter. On either side were flower-spangled
hedge-rows, or in places long ranks of over-arching trees. Though the
road was excellent, the trim neatness so characteristic of England was
quite wanting. The tangle of wild flowers, vines and shrubbery was
faintly suggestive of country roadsides in some of our Western states.
Midway we came into full view of a lonely ruined castle standing on
the crest of a gently rising hill, and surrounded by a lawnlike meadow
running down to the road. The ragged towers and crumbling walls stood
gray and forbidding against a background of giant trees, and these were
sharply outlined against the bluest of English skies. We learn later
that it is Chartley Castle, which stands in a tract of ancient forest
and heath land, upon which roams a herd of wild white cattle similar
to those of Chillingham. Over Chartley broods the somber memory of its
one-time owner, the Earl of Ferrars, who in a fit of anger murdered a
steward and was hanged two centuries ago for the crime at Tyburn. It
was his whim to be dressed in his wedding garments and hanged with a
silken cord. He was stoic to the last and would say no more than he
expressed in the misanthropic lines:
"In doubt I lived, in doubt I die,
Yet stand prepared the vast abyss to try,
And undismayed expect eternity."
A grim old tale that fits well with the lonely fortress, standing in
unguarded ruin in the mysterious forest about it.
[Illustration: RUINS OF CHARTLEY CASTLE, DERBYSHIRE.]
But the day was waning and we hastened on to Uttoxeter, a town to
which Nathaniel Hawthorne made a pilgrimage nearly half a century ago,
attracted by the fact that it is the birthplace of Dr. Samuel Johnson.
He regretted that there was no memorial of the great author in his
native town, but this has since been supplied. An ugly fountain has
been erected on the traditional spot where Johnson did penance, as he
described in a letter to Miss Seward on his return from Uttoxeter:
"Fifty years ago, madam, on the day, I committed a breach of filial
piety which has ever since lain heavy on my mind, and has not till
this day been expiated. My father ... had long been in the habit of
attending Uttoxeter market and opening a stall of his books during
that day. Confined to his bed by indisposition, he requested me, this
time fifty years, to visit the market in his place. But, madam, my
pride prevented me from doing my duty and I gave my father a refusal.
To do away the sin of disobedience, this day I went in a post-chaise
to Uttoxeter, and going into the market at the time of high business,
uncovered my head and stood with it bare an hour before the stall which
my father formerly used, exposed to the sneers of the standers-by and
the inclemency of the weather."
The open road to Derby is broad, straight, smooth and level--what
a combination of excellences for the motorist!--and the car skims
joyously along. There are many fine estates on either hand with wide
forest-dotted parks and imposing gateways. Derby is a large, rather
unattractive town and we do not care to linger. Mansfield appeals more
strongly to us, for Mansfield is the center of the Byron country.
The road is not a pleasing one, passing through towns crowded with
workingmen's cottages and climbing steep, stony hills. At dusk we come
into Mansfield and find it a larger town than we had fancied--a rather
modern city built around an ancient center, in the very heart of which
stands the old many-gabled Swan Inn.
IX
THE BYRON COUNTRY