“She was
In heart a Lydia; and in tongue a Hanna.
In Zeale a Ruth: In Wedlock a Susanna.
Prudently simple, prouidently Wary;
To th’ World, a Martha: and to heauen, a Mary.
Who put on } {Pilgrimage 69 March 15.
} in the yeare of her {
Immortality} {Redeemer 1641.”
O rare and most estimable dame, paragon and phœnix, and very Gorgon
of all the virtues, how little are your qualities hid in this, your
epitaph!
She looks all those things and more, in her marble bust, that with
thin, sharp-pointed nose, and with drawn-down mouth, gives her a very
vinegary expression. There can be little doubt of it, the old lady was
that terrible creature, the Superior Person.
There is, opposite this worthy lady’s monument, the stone effigy of a
very much earlier inhabitant of the Mote—Sir Thomas Cawne, who died in
1374. He is represented in armour, his calm face peering out of his
hauberk and chain mail. The window to his memory, over his tomb in the
north chancel wall, made according to the directions in his will, still
remains.
There will, doubtless, be those who, resting content with Ightham Mote,
will decline to follow these wheelmarks farther, for such a place is
worth lingering over. For the insatiable sight-seer who will proceed,
the way lies as straight ahead as the winding lane will permit to
Shipborne, where we turn to the left, passing through the village, and
then, in little over a mile, to the right, at the cross-roads, going,
with Frith Woods on the left and Dene Park on the right, for two miles
farther, turning left where a sign-post points to Hadlow. Many hollows
are descended into on the way, where tiny streams run across the wooded
roads, and there are correspondingly sharp rises.
Mereworth village, on the borders of the wide-spreading Mereworth
Woods, lies up a turning to the right, on the fine broad road
leading to Maidstone. Mereworth is remarkable for its hideous
church, resembling some of Wren’s City of London churches; with a
classical colonnaded porch, windows like those of a factory, and great
overhanging eaves, very like those of that “great barn,” St. Paul’s,
Covent Garden. A tall steeple, with classic peristyle, completes the
outward composition. Now turn to the interior; an even more pagan sight
than the exterior prepares the stranger for. It is like a huge room,
and is divided into nave and aisles by plaster pillars, painted and
grained to resemble marble, with all the fittings in a correspondingly
classic style. This objectionable building owed its origin in 1748 to
the eighth Earl of Westmoreland, whose seat, Mereworth House, near
by, is built somewhat in the same style. The only relic of the old
church is the grand monument of his ancestor, the first earl. In the
churchyard is the tomb of Evelyn Boscawen, Viscount Falmouth, who
married (the epitaph tells us) Baroness Le Despenser.
Here we are come into the Vale of Medway, and two miles of a beautiful
road bring us to Wateringbury, where little rills, trickling down to
join the greater stream, nourish all these leafy hillsides into such
dense growth. There is a curious relic in Wateringbury Church—an old
wooden club or mace three feet and a half in length, known as the “Dumb
Borsholder,” belonging to the hamlet of Pizein Well, in the Manor of
Chart. This was the central figure in the court-leet of the manor, and
on those occasions was carried into the court by the head tything-man,
or borsholder, as a symbol of authority, much in the same way as the
Lord Mayor of London takes the Mace with him on state occasions. But
the “Dumb Borsholder” seems to have been regarded both as a symbol and
as a person; and, carried into court with a handkerchief passed through
a ring at one end, had naturally to be answered for when called upon
to put in an appearance. The other end of this club is provided with
an iron spike, like a bayonet, with which to break open the doors of
refractory tenants. Retired from active service so long ago as 1748,
this formidable weapon is now chained up in the vestry.
[Illustration: THE DUMB BORSHOLDER.]
From here to Teston the way is bordered by hop gardens. Teston
Bridge, crossing the Medway in seven Gothic arches, is a beautiful
old structure, but Teston Church, although its shingled spire on the
hillside looks picturesque, does not improve on closer acquaintance,
having been classically re-cast, something in the manner of Mereworth.
[Illustration: THE QUINTAIN, OFFHAM.]
Here we turn left, with a three-miles’ run to St. Leonard’s Street and
West Malling, off to the right, where the ruins of Malling Abbey are
to be seen. Straight ahead is Offham, where one must look out for the
quintain on the green, a modern replica of the old English village
jousting instrument, consisting of an upright post with a pivoted arm.
One end of the arm is thick, and from the other was suspended a bag of
flour, or some heavy object. The players in this old sport tilted on
horseback at the thickened end. If their lance or staff struck it, and
they were not nimble enough, the other end, swinging round, would hit
them on the side of the head, unhorsing them. When the hop-pickers are
let loose upon the country, with every recurrent autumn, the quintain
is taken in until they have gone home again.
A mile or so beyond this point our way crosses the Sevenoaks to
Maidstone road, and goes in very hilly fashion to Wrotham, called
“Rootam” by the natives. Notice a stone built into the wall by an
inn, recounting how a Lieutenant-Colonel Shadwell was shot dead by a
deserter, over a hundred years ago. From Wrotham it is a mile distant
to Borough Green and Wrotham Station, whence train to Sevenoaks and
London.