ceiling of huge timbers, but it has an air of homelikeness and cosy
comfort, nevertheless. At the windows are flowers which nod to their
cousins out in the garden; some gray knitting usually lies on the
table; and there is the huge fireplace with all its cranes, different
hooks, pots and kettles; and the crowning glory of all, the old oak
settle, upon which every visitor religiously seats himself.
"Isn't there any upstairs?" demanded John, before many minutes.
"Oh, yes! May we go up, please?" Mrs. Pitt asked of the attendant.
"Yes, thank you; I know the way, and I'll be careful."
So they climbed the rickety stairs, and saw a little bedroom under the
eaves, in which stands an old, very forlorn-looking "four-poster."
"I'm so glad that tiresome, truthful person let us come up alone,"
said Mrs. Pitt, panting. "If she had come, too, I could not have
explained that this was Anne's bedroom. She used to sit by this
window and dream about Will, and watch for his coming, too. She----"
"Don't spoil it all, Mother," pleaded Barbara. "Perhaps it really was
her room!"
"And didn't I just say as much?" her mother laughed. "But seriously!
This room never appealed to me as does the one below. Anne couldn't
have been very comfortable up here. If she was tall, she could hardly
have stood up straight because of the slanting roof."
So laughingly, they went downstairs and toward the patch of bright
yellow sun-flowers in the farthest corner of the garden. The young
girl followed them. "Shall I point out the different flowers?" she
timidly inquired.
They were duly shown the "rosemary for remembrance," the "pansies for
thoughts," and a great many others of Shakespeare's loved flowers. The
view of the cottage from the group of tall sun-flowers is most
charming. There is surely nothing in the world more picturesque than a
thatched-roof.
Arrived once again at the Red Horse, they all packed up their
belongings, and Mrs. Pitt went over to the station with a boy, who
wheeled the luggage. When the suit-cases were duly labeled
"Leamington," and the station-master had received his tip of a
shilling, to insure his remembering them, Mrs. Pitt returned to the
hotel, where she found five bicycles lined up. At sight of her, the
rest came running out. "This is great!" cried John, already astride
one of the bicycles, and impatient for the start.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Pitt, much pleased by the enthusiasm. "I thought
this would be rather better than driving out to Charlecote and back,
and then taking the train to Leamington. I know the roads, and am
delighted at riding once more! I had my divided-skirt with me, you
see, in case of this very emergency. You girls will manage somehow;
your skirts are fairly short." This was to Barbara and Betty, and then
they were off.
The ride of about four miles to Charlecote seemed all too short, for,
as Betty expressed it, "the roads are so smooth and level that I can't
stop. My wheel just goes of itself!" They first came in sight of
Charlecote Park, where there are still great numbers of deer. As the
party passed, the graceful creatures rose from the tall grass, making
an extremely pretty picture. They tried in vain to coax them to the
fence.
"Deer in Shakespeare's time must have been tamer, or he couldn't have
stolen one," observed John knowingly.
"Isn't the 'Tumble-down Stile' near here, Mother?" Barbara questioned.
"Yes, it's just beyond this turn in the road. There it is now! So long
as we are believing all we see to-day, I feel quite justified in
telling you that when the youthful Shakespeare was escaping with his
deer on his shoulders, he fled by way of this stile. Touch that top
rail, John, and see what will happen. No, this end of the rail!"
As John put his hand on the place which Mrs. Pitt designated, that end
gave way and hit the three other rails, so that they also bent down to
the ground. John was much amused, and repeated the motion again and
again.
"Did Shakespeare fall over that stile when he was trying to climb it
with the deer, and did they catch him then?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes, that's the story, and, of course, we know it is true! Now, come
this way to the gatehouse. I was able to get permission, through an
influential friend, to take you inside. I am so glad, for not every
one has such good fortune. This woodland," motioning to the fine old
oaks, as they sped along, "is also a part of the ancient Forest of
Arden. That wood was so dense in this county in the thirteenth
century, that the King ordered the Constable of Warwickshire to cut
down six acres in breadth between Warwick and Coventry, to insure the
greater safety of travelers."
They were now getting distant glimpses of the fine Elizabethan
residence itself. It was built in 1558, the year of Elizabeth's
accession to the throne, and was made in the general shape of the
letter E, in honor of that Queen. The color of the ancient bricks has
been softened and beautified by the hand of Time, which has also
caused heavy vines to grow upon, and in certain places, almost to
cover the walls. The different courts, gateways, and gables, are
therefore most picturesque. The present owner, a descendant of the Sir
Thomas Lucy whom Shakespeare knew and ridiculed, permits visitors (the
privileged few) to see the Great Hall and the library.
The former is the most interesting of all the apartments, for here one
stands in the very room where Shakespeare is said to have been
questioned by the pompous Sir Thomas Lucy, after the deer-stealing
episode. This lofty hall has a slight modern atmosphere about it now,
but the dark paneling, bits of really old glass in the windows, and,
above all, the bust of Shakespeare, recall the past very vividly to
mind.
Most historians admit that there is some truth in the story that
Shakespeare came into unpleasant contact with the Lord of Charlecote,
through a more or less serious boyish prank; but not all believe that
there can be any truth in the statement that he was brought into the
Great Hall by the forester who caught up with him at the "Tumble-down
Stile." It may be, however, that Shakespeare was later on friendly
terms with the Lucy family, and so it is possible that he was then
entertained in the hall.
"You know," remarked Mrs. Pitt, "that the disgrace of that affair with
Sir Thomas Lucy is thought to have caused Shakespeare to leave his
native town and go to seek his fortune in far-away London. Therefore
the prank is said by some to have been a most important, though
seemingly trivial event in the Poet's life. Shakespeare's revenge
upon the owner of lovely Charlecote came later, when he very plainly
described Sir Thomas in his plays, under the name of 'Justice
Shallow.'"
Another room at Charlecote is very attractive,--that is, the old
library. There is preserved some wonderful inlaid furniture which
tradition describes as a gift from Queen Elizabeth to Leicester, and
which consequently would once have found a place at Kenilworth Castle.
A very charming view of the lawn sloping gently down to the river is
seen from the library windows.
Within the precincts of Charlecote is a beautiful church which was
erected by Mrs. Henry Spenser Lucy, in 1852, upon the site of an
ancient chapel. Here there are huge tombs in memory of three Lucys,
and also an interesting monument to the wife of Sir Thomas, with its
tribute to her lovely character, supposed to have been written by
Shakespeare's "Justice Shallow" himself, who seems at least to have
been a devoted husband. This last-mentioned monument was originally a
part of the older edifice, of course.
It was now about noon, and they were feeling rather hungry, so at a
short distance from Charlecote they selected an inviting place by the
roadside, and there they unpacked the lunch which Mrs. Pitt had
brought. How good it did taste! They all thoroughly enjoyed the
picnic, and when a scarlet automobile went rushing past them, the
ladies' veils fluttering in the breeze, Betty merely remarked:--"An
auto's lovely, of course, but to-day I'd rather have a bicycle. It
seems more appropriate, somehow."
"Yes," Mrs. Pitt responded. "When you are in such a beautiful county
as this, and want to see it well, a bicycle is best. And then, I think
it is more respectful to Shakespeare to go through his beloved haunts
at a fairly leisurely pace. I imagine that he never would have
understood how any one could care so little for Warwickshire as to go
whirling and jiggling along through it in a motor, at thirty miles an
hour."
Betty had absent-mindedly picked a daisy from the tall grass in which
she was sitting, and was pulling off its petals, reciting the little
verse about:
"Rich man,
Poor man,
Beggar man,
Thief."
"Oh, dear! It's thief!" she cried, making up a wry face. "I'd rather
have any one than that!"
"Try the other verses," suggested Barbara, entering into the fun.
"What others?" asked Betty in much surprise. "I didn't know there were
any more."
"Dear me, yes," Mrs. Pitt broke in. "I used to know several of them
myself,--the one about the house:
'Big house,
Little house,
Pig-stye,
Barn,'
and about the conveyances:
'Coach,
Carriage,
Spring-cart,
Wheelbarrow.'
Wasn't there one more, Barbara? Oh, yes, about the dress materials:
'Silk,
Satin,
Muslin,
Rags.'"
"Well, well!" exclaimed Betty. "I never heard those. They must be just
English."
"Perhaps so. At any rate, when I was a little girl, I used to say
them, and believe in them, too. I lived here in Warwickshire, in my
childhood, you know; my father was rector of a tiny village not far
from Coventry. There are ever so many queer old rhymes, verses, and
customs still common among Warwickshire children."
"Tell Betty about some of them, Mother," Barbara urged. "I'm sure that
she'd like to hear, and we don't need to start on just yet."
Mrs. Pitt leaned thoughtfully against the lowered bars, at the
entrance to a field. "I'll have to think about it," she said; but she
soon added, "There was the 'Wishing Tree.' I remember that."
"What was it?" the two girls eagerly questioned. John and Philip,
privately considering this talk "silly stuff," had retired to the
farther side of a hay-rick, where they were whittling industriously.
"The 'Wishing Tree' was a large elm that stood in the park of a
neighboring nobleman's estate. To all the girls of the village, it was
a favorite spot, and we used to steal through the hedge and very
cautiously approach the tree. If the cross old gardener happened to
see us he'd come limping in our direction as fast as his lame legs
could carry him, calling out angrily that if we did not 'shog off
right away, he'd set his ten commandments in our faces.' That's an odd
expression, isn't it? It's very, very old,--so old that Shakespeare
was familiar with it and used it in one of his plays--'King Henry VI,'
I think. The gardener meant that he would scratch us with his ten
fingers--but he wouldn't have, for he was too kind-hearted in spite of
his threats. He was a queer man, with a brown, wrinkled old face. I
can see him just as though it were yesterday."
"What was that you said?" asked Betty. "'Shog off!' What does it
mean?"
"Simply Warwickshire for 'Go away,'" was Mrs. Pitt's careless answer.
Her thoughts had gone back to her childhood.
"You forgot to tell us what the 'Wishing Tree' was for," Betty timidly
suggested, fearful of interrupting her reminiscences.
"Why, so I did! We would tiptoe all alone up to the tree, and if,
under its wide branches, we made a wish, we thought it was sure to
come true. There was another curious old game of finding out how many
years we were to live, by a ball. We would bounce it upon the hard
ground, and catching it again and again in our hands, would chant all
the while:
'Ball-ee, ball-ee, tell me true,
How many years I've got to go through,
One, two, three, four,--'
If that had proved true, I shouldn't be here to-day to tell of it,
for I was never very skillful with the ball, and could only catch it
ten or fifteen times at the most."
Mrs. Pitt laughed. "There is so much of ancient folk-lore here in
Warwickshire," she went on. "I remember that the old country people
always crossed themselves or said some charm for a protection, when
one lone magpie flew over their heads. That meant bad luck, for the
verses said:
'For one magpie means sorrow,
Two, mirth,
Three, a wedding,
And four, a birth.'
Why, what is it, Barbara?"
Barbara had jumped to her feet, and was wildly waving her arms about
her head. "It's only a bee," she said, rather ashamed. "I don't like
them quite so near."
It was delightful to ride along on this "rare day in June," through
the fair county of Warwickshire,--the "Heart of England." If they were
just a bit uncomfortably warm on the hill-top where the sun beat down
upon the fields and open road, they were soon again in the beautiful
woodland, where the cool air refreshed them, or passing through the
street of some remote village, shaded by giant elms. In each little
hamlet, as well as the row of peaceful thatched cottages, with smoke
curling upwards from their chimneys, there was the ancient
vine-covered church, with perhaps a Norman tower, where the rooks
found a home, and the gray old rectory close at hand.
When Betty asked if it was in a church "like this" that Mrs. Pitt's
father preached, and if her former home resembled the particular
rectory they then chanced to be passing, Mrs. Pitt replied, "Yes, my
home was somewhat like this one. All English country churches and
rectories look very much alike,--that is, almost all are vine-covered,
and very old and quaint--yet, I think each has its own very distinct
individuality, too."
Mrs. Pitt, of course, wanted some tea, so about four o'clock they
stopped at a clean little cottage, near a stretch of woodland. Mrs.
Pitt herself dismounted and stepped up to the door, which stood
hospitably open. A little flaxen-haired child ran out curiously at the
sound of the knock, and then, frightened, scampered away to call her
mother. That good woman, in her neat black dress and stiffly-starched
white apron, at once understood the situation.
"You just seat yourselves there under the trees," she ordered them,
"and I'll bring right out a shive off a loaf of bread, and a tot o'
tea for each of you."
The young people looked puzzled at this speech, but Mrs. Pitt
smilingly led the way to the place their hostess designated. In a
surprisingly short time the woman brought out a table (having scorned
the assistance of the two boys), spread it with an immaculately clean
cloth, and set thereon a very tempting loaf of brown bread and a pot
of steaming tea. There was also jam, of course. While they enjoyed
their meal, she stood by, her hands on her hips, and a radiant smile
upon her face at the praises of her guests. Every few moments the
little girl would peep out from behind the cottage, and once she
almost came up to the group under the trees; but her mother, when she
spied her, sent her hastily back, saying by way of an apology:--"She's
all swatched, but she's only my reckling, you must know." As they rode
away into the woods, the good woman stood in the middle of the road
waving her table-cloth for good-by.
"Wasn't she a dandy!" John burst out. "Couldn't understand what she
said, though! Might just as well have been Greek!"
"She certainly did have some old Warwickshire expressions!" laughed
Mrs. Pitt. "I don't know when I've heard that word 'reckling.' It
simply means her youngest child, who she said was all 'swatched.' That
signifies being untidy, but I am sure I couldn't see the tiniest spot
of dirt anywhere upon the child."
Betty was rather glad when they at last jumped off their bicycles at
the hotel in Leamington.
"I guess I'm not used to quite such long rides as you," she said. "It
has been beautiful, though, and I wouldn't have come by train for
anything. I just love Warwickshire, and everything about it,
especially the language, which I mean to learn while I am here."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WARWICK AND KENILWORTH CASTLES
The bicycles were returned to their owner in Stratford, and Mrs.
Pitt's plan was to drive to Warwick and Kenilworth the following day.
Consequently it was a great disappointment at breakfast-time to see
gray and threatening clouds overhead, from which rain very soon began
to descend. The day was also very cold, and such a chilling wind was
blowing and whistling around the corners of the hotel, that fires were
lighted in all the tiny grates.
"Whoever heard of such cold weather in June!" John protested, not in
the best of spirits at being shut up in the house. "It's horrid, I
say! Ugh! If my fur coat was here, I should put it on, and then get
inside the fireplace, too."
At this very dismal burst of feeling from John, Mrs. Pitt came to the
rescue, suggesting a game of billiards. John brightened very
considerably after this, and the remainder of the day was pleasantly
spent in writing letters, playing games, and reading aloud from
Scott's "Kenilworth," in preparation for the morrow's visit to that
castle.
"Just think of seeing the very spot in the garden where Queen
Elizabeth met Amy Robsart! And perhaps the same room where she slept.
Oh, I can hardly wait till morning!" sighed Betty rapturously.
"Kenilworth" had long been one of her favorite books.
At bedtime Mrs. Pitt, inwardly rather uncertain about the prospects of
the weather, was outwardly most cheerful with her assurance that she
"felt sure it would be fine in the morning."
Mrs. Pitt was "usually right about things," as the children had long
since discovered, and this proved no exception to the rule. The sun
shone brightly on the morrow, and the whole country-side looked as
though it had been washed and cleaned so as to appear at its loveliest
for the visitors.
The drive through Leamington revealed a very pretty watering-place,
with baths, parks, gay streets of shops, and many neat little private
villas, each being dignified by a name.
"How do they ever find names enough to go around?" Betty thought to
herself.
They soon left the town behind, and a short drive along the perfectly
smooth, wide, country road, brought them to the well-known bridge over
the Avon, and revealed the fact that the river had not lost a bit of
its beauty since they left it at the Weir Brake. It is from this
bridge that the famous view of Warwick Castle is to be had, and a more
charming picture cannot well be imagined. Just at a bend of the river,
the great gray front looms up, long and straight, the turrets here and
there giving it a most formidable air of old-time majesty and
strength.
Leaving the carriage at the castle entrance, Mrs. Pitt led the way up
the narrow walk, bounded by high walls of rock, to which the damp moss
clings and over which flowers and trailing vines hang. Finally they
passed under an old gateway with a portcullis, and found themselves in
the inner court-yard of the castle, which is almost round in shape.
Old towers or buildings very nearly surround this court, and in the
center is a wonderfully smooth grass-plot, which is sometimes used as
a tennis-court. Several stately peacocks strutted about displaying
their magnificent feathers. They were very tame, and almost allowed
Betty to come near enough to touch them. She was delighted when the
largest most obligingly dropped a gorgeous feather at her very feet.
"For a souvenir!" she exclaimed, as she picked it up. "How dear of
him! I like peacocks even if they are proud! I would be, if I lived
here! They know how important they are, and that this garden wouldn't
be complete without them."
[Illustration: "THEY KNOW HOW IMPORTANT THEY ARE, AND THAT THIS GARDEN
WOULDN'T BE COMPLETE WITHOUT THEM."--_Page 184._]
"Do you see that high mound?" asked Mrs. Pitt, pointing to the
northern end of the court. "There AEthelflaed, the daughter of Alfred
the Great, is supposed to have built a castle, and thus the history of
Warwick may be said to have commenced in 914. Just fancy! Since that
day, many great families have been in possession here (De Newburghs,
Beauchamps, Nevilles, Plantagenets),--from traditional Guy of Warwick
to 'Warwick the King-maker,' and all along the line to the Greville
family, which has owned it since 1759. 'Warwick the King-maker,' or
Richard Neville, was the famous baron who possessed such wonderful
power in England that he could make and unmake kings at his will. It
was he who captured poor, weak Edward IV, and brought him here as a
prisoner. Of Guy of Warwick, the great warrior and hero, I shall
tell you more when we are at Guy's Cliff, where he lived. He is really
more associated with that place than this. You will see here, however,
what is known as 'Guy's Porridge Pot.' It is an interesting old
vessel, very large and made of metal. Most probably it had nothing
whatever to do with the great Guy; some authorities consider, because
of the existence of this little rhyme, that it belonged to a certain
Sir John Talbot, who died about 1365.
'There is nothing left of Talbot's name,
But Talbot's pot and Talbot's Lane.'
But let's go over to that door by which we enter. There comes a guide
with his party; perhaps we can go in with them."
They found the interior of Warwick Castle very delightful, and in a
perfect state of preservation, for the family of the present Earl
occupy it often. The ever-present Great Hall is here more grand and
lofty than that of Charlecote, though it has not the appearance of as
great antiquity as the one at beautiful Penshurst Place. Its walls are
lined with old suits of armor, but, nevertheless, the room is
furnished with comfortable easy-chairs, as the family, when in
residence, use this as their living-room. Among the collection of
armor is the helmet of Oliver Cromwell, and a whole miniature suit of
mail which was once worn by the little dwarfed son of Robert Dudley,
the famous Earl of Leicester. In a great bay-window, overlooking the
Avon, stands the huge caldron of Guy of Warwick. Strangely enough, an
exquisite Elizabethan saddle of green velvet had found a temporary
resting-place in its great depths.
"I think this Cedar Room is very beautiful," remarked Mrs. Pitt, as
they stepped into that apartment. "Do you see that the walls are
entirely of cedar wood from floor to ceiling? Isn't the effect rich,
and doesn't it smell good? Do you notice the fine carving, and the
pictures,--some of Van Dyck's best works? Oh! I must not call your
attention to so many things all at once!"
In the Green Drawing-room, the Red Drawing-room, the State Bed-room,
and the various other rooms and corridors, are priceless treasures of
art; for besides invaluable paintings by the greatest masters, there
are here beautiful pieces of furniture, made of tortoise-shell and
inlaid with gold or pearl, and ancient marriage-chests, which once
belonged to Italian princesses of bygone days. The armory contains one
of the most valuable collections in England, and in the State Bed-room
are many relics of Queen Anne. One really wearies of so much
costliness which it is utterly impossible to appreciate at one visit.
"Haven't we time to walk in the gardens a little longer?" asked
Barbara, wistfully. To her, Nature was nearer and dearer than all the
wonders of art and history.
After a ramble through the bewitchingly lovely gardens,--going across
ancient drawbridges, spanning long-unused, grass-grown moats; under
little postern-gates; into rustic grottoes--they at last came to the
conservatory, in which is preserved the "Warwick Vase." This is made
of white marble, carved with various devices.
"It has a curious history," answered Mrs. Pitt, in reply to the
children's questions. "In 1770, some workmen found it at the bottom of
a small lake which is about sixteen miles from Rome. Of course, it is
not possible to determine with any certainty how it came to be there,
but as Hadrian's Villa was in A.D. 546 occupied by a king of the
Goths, an enemy who was then laying siege to Rome, it has been thought
that the vase was cast into the lake, to save it from the hands of the
invaders. The second Earl of Warwick was its purchaser."
Slowly and unwillingly they wended their way back through the gardens,
to the central court of the castle, and then out under the old
gateway.