September 5th.--Yesterday we all of us set forth from Rock Ferry at half
past twelve, and reached Shrewsbury between three and four o'clock, and
took up our quarters at the Lion Hotel. We found Shrewsbury situated on
an eminence, around which the Severn winds, making a peninsula of it,
quite densely covered by the town. The streets ascend, and curve about,
and intersect each other with the customary irregularity of these old
English towns, so that it is quite impossible to go directly to any given
point, or for a stranger to find his way to a place which he wishes to
reach, though, by what seems a singular good fortune, the sought-for
place is always offering itself when least expected. On this account I
never knew such pleasant walking as in old streets like those of
Shrewsbury. And there are passages opening under archways, and winding
up between high edifices, very tempting to the explorer, and generally
leading to some court, or some queer old range of buildings or piece of
architecture, which it would be the greatest pity to miss seeing. There
was a delightful want of plan in the laying out of these ancient towns.
In fact, they never were laid out at all, nor were restrained by any plan
whatever, but grew naturally, with streets as eccentric as the pathway of
a young child toddling about the floor.
The first curious thing we particularly noticed, when we strolled out
after dinner, was the old market-house, which stands in the midst of an
oblong square; a gray edifice, elevated on pillars and arches, and with
the statue of an armed knight, Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, in a
central niche, in its front. The statue is older than the market-house,
having been moved thither from one of the demolished towers of the city
wall in 1795. The market-house was erected in 1595. There are other
curious sculptures and carvings and quirks of architecture about this
building; and the houses that stand about the square are, many of them,
very striking specimens of what dwelling-houses used to be in Elizabeth's
time, and earlier. I have seen no such stately houses, in that style, as
we found here in Shrewsbury. There were no such fine ones in Coventry,
Stratford, Warwick, Chester, nor anywhere else where we have been. Their
stately height and spaciousness seem to have been owing to the fact that
Shrewsbury was a sort of metropolis of the country round about, and
therefore the neighboring gentry had their town-houses there, when London
was several days' journey off, instead of a very few hours; and, besides,
it was once much the resort of kings, and the centre-point of great
schemes of war and policy. One such house, formerly belonging to a now
extinct family, that of Ireland, rises to the height of four stories, and
has a front consisting of what look like four projecting towers. There
are ranges of embowered windows, one above another, to the full height of
the house, and these are surmounted by peaked gables. The people of
those times certainly did not deny themselves light; and while
window-glass was an article of no very remote introduction, it was
probably a point of magnificence and wealthy display to have enough of
it. One whole side of the room must often have been formed by the
window. This Ireland mansion, as well as all the rest of the old houses
in Shrewsbury, is a timber house,--that is, a skeleton of oak, filled up
with brick, plaster, or other material, and with the beams of the timber
marked out with black paint; besides which, in houses of any pretension,
there are generally trefoils, and other Gothic-looking ornaments,
likewise painted black. They have an indescribable charm for me,--the
more, I think, because they are wooden; but, indeed, I cannot tell why it
is that I like them so well, and am never tired of looking at them. A
street was a development of human life, in the days when these houses
were built, whereas a modern street is but the cold plan of an architect,
without individuality or character, and without the human emotion which a
man kneads into the walls which he builds on a scheme of his own.
We strolled to a pleasant walk under a range of trees, along the shore of
the Severn. It is called the Quarry Walk. The Severn is a pretty river,
the largest, I think (unless it be such an estuary as the Mersey), that I
have met with in England; that is to say, about a fair stone's-throw
across. It is very gentle in its course, and winds along between grassy
and sedgy banks, with a good growth of weeds in some part of its current.
It has one stately bridge, called the English Bridge, of several arches,
and, as we sauntered along the Quarry Walk, we saw a ferry where the boat
seemed to be navigated across by means of a rope, stretched from bank to
bank of the river. After leaving the Quarry Walk, we passed an old tower
of red freestone, the only one remaining of those formerly standing at
intervals along the whole course of the town wall; and we also went along
what little is now left of the wall itself. And thence, through the
irregular streets, which gave no account of themselves, we found our way,
I know not how, back to our hotel. It is an uncheerful old hotel, which
takes upon itself to be in the best class of English country hotels, and
charges the best price; very dark in the lower apartments, pervaded with
a musty odor, but provided with a white-neckclothed waiter, who spares no
ceremony in serving the joints of mutton.
J----- and I afterwards walked forth again, and went this time to the
castle, which stands exactly above the railway station. A path, from its
breadth quite a street, leads up to the arched gateway; but we found a
board, giving notice that these are private grounds, and no strangers
admitted; so that we only passed through the gate a few steps, and looked
about us, and retired, on perceiving a man approaching us through the
trees and shrubbery. A private individual, it seems, has burrowed in
this old warlike den, and turned the keep, and any other available
apartment, into a modern dwelling, and laid out his pleasure-grounds
within the precincts of the castle wall, which allows verge enough for
the purpose. The ruins have been considerably repaired. This castle was
built at various times, the keep by Edward I., and other portions at an
earlier period, and it stands on the isthmus left by the Severn in its
wandering course about the town. The Duke of Cleveland now owns it. I
do not know who occupies it.
In the course of this walk, we passed St. Mary's Church,--a very old
church indeed, no matter how old, but say, eight hundred or a thousand
years. It has a very tall spire, and the spire is now undergoing
repairs; and, seeing the door open, I went into the porch, but found no
admission further. Then, walking around it, through the churchyard, we
saw that all the venerable Gothic windows--one of them grand in size--
were set with stained glass, representing coats of arms and ancient
armor, and kingly robes, and saints with glories about their heads, and
Scriptural people; but all of these, as far as our actual perception was
concerned, quite colorless, and with only a cold outline, dimly filled
up. Yet, had we been within the church, and had the sunlight been
streaming through, what a warm, rich, gorgeous, roseate, golden life
would these figures have showed!
In the churchyard, close upon the street, so that its dust must be
continually scattered over the spot, I saw a heavy gray tombstone, with a
Latin inscription, purporting that Bishop Butler, the author of the
Analogy, in his lifetime had chosen this as a burial-place for himself
and his family. There is a statue of him within the church. From the
top of the spire a man, above a hundred years ago, attempted to descend,
by means of a rope, to the other side of the Severn; but the rope broke,
and he fell in his midway flight, and was killed. It was an undertaking
worthy of Sam Patch. There is a record of the fact on the outside of the
tower.
I remember nothing more that we saw yesterday; but, before breakfast,
J----- and I sallied forth again, and inspected the gateway and interior
court of the Council House,--a very interesting place, both in itself and
for the circumstances connected with it, it having been the place where
the councillors for the Welsh marches used to reside during their annual
meetings; and Charles the First also lived here for six weeks in 1612.
James II. likewise held his court here in 1687. The house was originally
built in 1501,--that is, the Council House itself,--the gateway, and the
house through which it passes, being of as late date as 1620. This
latter is a fine old house, in the usual style of timber architecture,
with the timber lines marked out, and quaint adornments in black paint;
and the pillars of the gateway which passes beneath the front chamber are
of curiously carved oak, which has probably stood the action of English
atmosphere better than marble would have done. Passing through this
gateway, we entered a court, and saw some old buildings more or less
modernized, but without destroying their aged stateliness, standing round
three sides of it, with arched entrances and bow-windows, and windows in
the roofs, and peaked gables, and all the delightful irregularity and
variety that these houses have, and which make them always so fresh,--and
with so much detail that every minute you see something heretofore
unseen. It must have been no unfit residence for a king and his court,
when those three sides of the square, all composing one great fantastic
house, were in their splendor. The square itself, too, must have been a
busy and cheerful scene, thronged with attendants, guests, horses, etc.
After breakfast, we all walked out, and, crossing the English Bridge,
looked at the Severn over its parapet. The river is here broader than
elsewhere, and very shallow, and has an island covered with bushes, about
midway across. Just over the bridge we saw a church, of red freestone,
and evidently very ancient. This is the Church of the Holy Cross, and is
a portion of the Abbey of St. Peter and St. John, which formerly covered
ten acres of ground. We did not have time to go into the church; but the
windows and other points of architecture, so far as we could discern
them, and knew how to admire them, were exceedingly venerable and
beautiful. On the other side of the street, over a wide space, there are
other remains of the old abbey; and the most interesting was a stone
pulpit, now standing in the open air, seemingly in a garden, but which
originally stood in the refectory of the abbey, and was the station
whence one of the monks read to his brethren at their meals. The pulpit
is much overgrown with ivy. We should have made further researches among
these remains, though they seem now to be in private grounds; but a large
mastiff came nut of his kennel, and, approaching us to the length of his
iron chain, began barking very fiercely. Nor had we time to see half
that we would gladly have seen and studied here and elsewhere about
Shrewsbury. It would have been very interesting to have visited
Hotspur's and Falstaff's battle-field, which is four miles from the town;
too distant, certainly, for Falstaff to have measured the length of the
fight by Shrewsbury clock. There is now a church, built there by Henry
IV., and said to cover the bones of those slain in the battle.
Returning into the town, we penetrated some narrow lanes, where, as the
old story goes, people might almost shake hands across from the top
windows of the opposite houses, impending towards each other. Emerging
into a wider street, at a spot somewhat more elevated than other parts of
the town, we went into a shop to buy some Royal Shrewsbury cakes, which
we had seen advertised at several shop windows. They are a very rich
cake, with plenty of eggs, sugar, and butter, and very little flour.
A small public building of stone, of modern date, was close by; and
asking the shopwoman what it was, she said it was the Butter Cross, or
market for butter, eggs, and poultry. It is a remarkable site, for here,
in ancient times, stood a stone cross, where heralds used to make
proclamation, and where criminals of state used to be executed. David,
the last of the Welsh princes, was here cruelly put to death by Edward
I., and many noblemen were beheaded on this spot, after being taken
prisoners in the battle of Shrewsbury.
I can only notice one other memorable place in Shrewsbury, and that is
the Raven Inn, where Farquhar wrote his comedy of "The Recruiting
Officer" in 1701. The window of the room in which he wrote is said to
look into the inn yard, and I went through the arched entrance to see if
I could distinguish it. The hostlers were currying horses in the yard,
and so stared at me that I gave but the merest glance. The Shrewsbury
inns have not only the customary names of English inns,--as the Lion, the
Stag,--but they have also the carved wooden figures of the object named,
whereas, in all other towns, the name alone remains.
We left Shrewsbury at half past ten, and arrived in London at about four
in the afternoon.