lawn, to mention the fact that a little stream flows musically by, to
add that the towers and lines of the building itself are wonderfully
graceful, is attempting to describe things as they exist, but wholly
inadequate in the impression which it gives to the reader. There is an
indescribable fascination about Salisbury Cathedral, which a person
must see to understand. Any one who is at all responsive to the charm
of great architecture, can sit for hours under the old trees on the
little common, and drink in the whole scene,--the beautiful building
with its delicate shapes outlined in shadows upon the green grass.
"No doubt it is a generally accepted fact that Lincoln is the finest
of the English cathedrals," Mrs. Pitt explained after a time. "Perhaps
Durham comes next in line, and Canterbury has great historical
interest. I only assert that to me Salisbury is the most beautiful.
You know, Betty, that the construction of most cathedrals was extended
over many years,--even many generations, usually. Salisbury was an
exception to that rule, for it was begun and finished within forty
years (1220 to 1260), and therefore has rare harmony and uniformity of
style."
There are many quaint streets and buildings in the town of Salisbury,
but these become familiar though always delightful sights to the
visitor who gives a good share of his time to old England. Having
noted the old-fashioned King's Arms Inn, which was a secret
meeting-place of the Royalists after the battle of Worcester, the
party had an early lunch, and then set out to drive the ten miles to
Stonehenge.
The road which they took begins to ascend gradually, and after about a
mile and a half brought them to the high mound which was once "the
largest entrenched camp in the kingdom," according to Betty's
leather-covered Baedeker. This was the site of Old Sarum, a fort
during the Roman occupation, and afterwards a Saxon town. Numerous
interesting remains of the camp are here, and the high elevation
affords an excellent view of Salisbury and the surrounding country.
The rest of the drive was not particularly enjoyable. A sharp wind
blew over the high Salisbury Plains, which are bare and not very
picturesque to see. In the center of this great stretch of plain
stands that strange relic of the past known as Stonehenge. Being on an
elevation, the stones stand out weirdly against the sky as the visitor
approaches, and give him a foretaste of the peculiar mystery which
pervades the place.
The section is surrounded by a wire fence, and a man collects a fee of
a shilling before admitting any one into the company of these gigantic
rocks, which are standing or lying about in various positions. It
seems as though there were originally two great circles, one inside
the other, formed by huge oblong stones, set up on end as a child
might arrange his blocks. On the tops of these, others are in some
places still poised, though many have fallen. One great stone lies
broken across the altar.
After the young people had climbed about and thoroughly explored the
ruins, they gathered around Mrs. Pitt to hear her explanation of the
place.
"Well," she began, "it is generally believed that we see here the
remains of an ancient temple of the Druids. They were half-mythical
creatures who are thought to have inhabited England in prehistoric
times. They worshiped Nature,--particularly the Sun, and lived
out-of-doors entirely. Most people consider them to have been the
originators of this strange work, though it has also been attributed
to the Saxons, the Danes, and, I believe, even the Phoenicians. But
no matter what people were the real builders, there still remains the
question of how these tremendous stones were brought here in days when
there was no machinery, and in a district near which no stone-quarries
could possibly have been. That has puzzled men in all ages."
The laughter and chatter of the members of a large "Personally
Conducted" party, who were having their late lunch in the field just
outside the picket-fence, grated upon Mrs. Pitt's nerves. Even more
than in a cathedral with solid walls and a roof, here in this
open-air, ruined temple, dating from unknown ages, one is filled with
deepest reverence. It almost seems possible to see the ancient Druids
who worshiped there, dressed in robes of purest white.
In spite of the blue sky, the bright sunshine of early afternoon, and
the nearness of very noisy, human tourists, Betty so felt the strange
atmosphere which envelopes these huge sentinels of the past, that she
suddenly exclaimed:
"Oh, please, Mrs. Pitt, let's go back to Salisbury! I can't bear this
any longer."
[Illustration: "THERE STILL REMAINS THE QUESTION OF HOW THESE
TREMENDOUS STONES WERE BROUGHT HERE." _Page 236._]
So they drove slowly away over the fields, and as Mrs. Pitt turned for
a last glance behind, she saw the stones looming up in lonely majesty,
and thought to herself, "They have a secret which no one will ever
know."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CLOVELLY
A big, high, lumbering coach with four horses was slowly carrying Mrs.
Pitt and her young charges toward Clovelly,--that most famous of all
English fishing-villages. Betty, having discovered a photograph of it
some weeks before, had not ceased talking to the others of her great
desire to see the place; and finally Mrs. Pitt postponed her plans for
visiting other and more instructive towns, packed up the young people,
and started for lovely Devonshire. "Well," the kind lady had thought
to herself, "perhaps it will be just as well for them to have a short
holiday, and go to a pretty spot where they can simply amuse
themselves, and not have to learn too much history. Bless their little
hearts! They surely deserve it, for their brains have been kept quite
busy all the spring,--and I believe I shall enjoy Clovelly once again,
myself!"
Now that they were actually there, the realization was proving even
more delightful than the anticipation. The weather was perfect, and to
drive along the cliffs and moors, with a fresh, cool breeze blowing up
from the blue water below, was wonderfully exhilarating. Their route
led through a country where innumerable bright red poppies grow in the
fields of grain, and where there are genuine "Devonshire lanes," shut
in by tall hedges and wild flowers. Sometimes they clattered through
the narrow streets of a tiny village, while the coachman snapped his
whip, and the postilion in his scarlet coat and brass buttons, sounded
his bugle loudly. As they rolled by farmhouses, heads would appear
curiously at the windows, while children ran out to watch that
important event,--the passing of the daily coach. One rosy-cheeked
girl in a blue pinafore tossed a bunch of yellow cowslips up into Mrs.
Pitt's lap, calling out, "Cowslips, lady; thank ye!" When a sixpence
was thrown down to her, she smiled, courtesied primly, and then
disappeared into the nearest cottage,--one of plaster and thatch,
overgrown with roses.
However, the crowning joy of the day, even in the opinion of John,
who was difficult to please, was the first glimpse of quaint little
Clovelly itself. The coach set them down in the middle of a field; a
few seafaring men stood about, there was a booth or two where old
women sold fruit, a steep path was before them, but no town was
anywhere in sight.
"Don't let's go down there," John grumbled. "What's the use? I'd much
rather stay up on that front seat with the driver."
Mrs. Pitt smiled knowingly, and still led the way on down the walk.
The hedges on either side were so high and thick that they could not
see beyond them, and the children were really speechless when the path
suddenly came to an end, and the whole queer little street of Clovelly
lay before them. For a second no word was spoken, then all burst out
at once.
"Well, what do you think of that?" chuckled John. "Just look at the
donkeys!"
"And the pink and white doll's houses!" exclaimed Barbara.
"And the funny cobble-stone street!" cried Philip.
[Illustration: ONE OF PLASTER AND THATCH, OVERGROWN WITH ROSES.--_Page
239._]
"And the blue, blue water at its feet!" rhymed Betty, all
unconsciously. "I just know the Mediterranean isn't any bluer!"
"Isn't it the dearest, oddest little place!" put in Mrs. Pitt, summing
up all the children's remarks in one. "I do think it's----." But here
Betty interrupted her.
"Look at that little girl!" she fairly screamed. "Don't let her run
down that steep street like that! She mustn't do it!"
Mrs. Pitt, after one look at the child, merely laughed and replied,
"Don't worry, Betty; she's used to it. She's probably done it all her
life, and she'll never fall. Now, I turn you all loose for two hours.
Explore the place to your heart's content, for it will be long before
you see such another. Come to the New Inn (that's it, where the sign
is!) at one-thirty for luncheon."
Enthusiastically the four started off. At first they all picked their
way carefully and slowly down over the smooth, slippery stones, but
gradually they became more expert in keeping their balance, and could
go faster. The two boys made straight for the foot of the town to see
the harbor and fishing-boats; Barbara and Betty were bent on
investigating all the nooks, corners, and tiny shops of the little
place; and Mrs. Pitt contentedly settled herself on the miniature
piazza of the New Inn, and looked with never-failing interest and
delight at the scene before her.
To explain more in detail, Clovelly is built in what was once a
torrent-bed, and the village tumbles down from the top of the cliff to
the very edge of Hartland Bay. The droll, Italian-like cottages cling
to the hillside, or seem to grow directly out of the gray rock. At
first, the street descends rather gradually and straight, but after a
short distance, it zigzags first to left and then to right, twists and
turns, takes one under parts of houses, into private yards, out to
look-off points, and then pitches very, very abruptly down to the Red
Lion Inn, which guards the little harbor with its long, curving
sea-wall and tiny lighthouse.
From where Mrs. Pitt sat she had a splendid view up and down the
street, which was then crowded, it being the busiest time of the
season. Just below her, up against the piazza, sat an artist, bent
eagerly forward toward his easel, and absolutely oblivious of the
throngs of people who were noisily passing close by. There were
tourists in gay attire, children romping about in their queer shoes
with nails on the bottom to prevent slipping, big stalwart men sliding
luggage down on sledges, and patient little mules, which struggled up
with big trunks fastened to shelf-like saddles over their backs. To
this busy scene the bright little dwellings which line the way, add
the finishing touch. The roof of one house is on a level with the
second-story window of that above it; the vines are luxuriant,
climbing sometimes up over the very chimneys, and flower-beds and
flower-boxes are everywhere. A holiday, festive air seems universal.
"Where can one see such a scene?" mused Mrs. Pitt. "Not in Italy
surely, for there the 'picturesque dirt,' as they call it, is so much
in evidence. For my part, I prefer the exquisite neatness and
cleanliness of Clovelly."
Lunch at the New Inn tasted very good,--especially as here the young
people first made the acquaintance of the much-praised "Devonshire
cream." Served with wild strawberries, or any other fruit, this thick
cream is truly delicious, and unlike anything else. The meal itself
was partaken of in the Annex, a larger, newer house across the way,
but having finished, the party returned to the original hostelry. It
is the tiniest house imaginable, and the little rooms are so crowded
with furniture, the landlord's collection of fine old china, and
knick-knacks of all sorts, that John endangered many valued treasures
by his awkward movements. Once, in passing some people in the hall,
his elbow struck a small cabinet of blue china, and there would have
been a terrible catastrophe had not Mrs. Pitt arrived upon the scene
at the opportune moment.
"Oh, bother!" exclaimed John, very much irritated, and more ashamed of
his clumsiness than he cared to show. "How can a fellow have room to
breathe in a bandbox like this! Come along, Philip; I'm going down to
talk some more with those sailors."
The old fishermen who can no longer follow their loved trade sit
sunning themselves comfortably on the doorsteps of their Clovelly
homes, gazing dreamily out to sea. When Mrs. Pitt, Barbara, and Betty
went to find the boys toward tea-time, they discovered them sitting by
a group of these old cronies, who were ensconced upon a bench
affording a beautiful view of the lower part of the town, the bay, and
the cliffs of the rugged coast. The tide had filled the little
harbor, and numerous small boats with copper-colored sails bobbed
about on the opal waters; near the Red Lion Inn stood a row of
sleepy-looking mules waiting for the start up the street.
The men had been exchanging fishermen's yarns, much to the pleasure of
their audience, but when the ladies appeared, they commenced telling
ghost-stories or curious bits of folk-lore. One tale especially amused
the girls, although John thought he preferred the wild adventures of
the sea.
After looking long out over the bay, the particular old salt who was
then entertaining them, removed the pipe from between his teeth, and
began the following. Mrs. Pitt took pains to remember it, and this is
how it reads to this very day in her journal:
"The father of a certain fair young girl had been carried off by
smugglers, and kept for 'a year and a day,'--until a large sum of
money was finally paid for his release. He only lived a short time
after his return home, however, and his daughter died soon after, worn
out by anxiety about her father. This young lady's ghost continually
haunts a certain little village in Devon, where some of the fisherfolk
were said to have taken part in the kidnaping of her father. Instead
of doing anything more violent, the ghost simply appears on Sunday
mornings, just as the dinners are being cooked, and touches the meat
with her white, bony hand, thereby rendering it unfit to eat."
Mrs. Pitt's famous journal, which is often referred to, contains also
this story heard that day at Clovelly:
"In front of a certain farm-house was a large, flat stone, which
tradition said was as old as the Flood. Here, at midnight, there
always appeared a female figure, clad in a gray cloak and an
old-fashioned black bonnet. The apparition would remain there until
dawn, always knocking, knocking upon the stone. The inhabitants of the
house nearby became so used to 'Nelly the Knocker,' as she was called,
that they paid no attention whatever to her, did not fear her in the
least, and would even stop to examine her queer garments. Finally,
however, two young men of the family decided to solve the mystery, so
they blasted the rock one day. To their great surprise, underneath
were lying two large urns, packed with gold, which treasure enriched
them for the rest of their days. But 'Nelly the Knocker' came no
more."
In place of repairing to the somewhat stuffy dining-room at the inn,
they had their tea just outside one of the most sightly cottages, and
were served by a pretty young girl. The china was coarse and the thick
slices, cut with a big knife from huge loaves of bread, were by no
means daintily served, but it could not have tasted better, and John
ate a truly alarming amount of bread and jam.
At Clovelly, the summer twilights are very long and lovely, and down
on the breakwater our friends enjoyed this one to the full. One might
look over the blue expanse of bay and see the faint outlines of the
coast of Wales, and then turn and gaze at the picturesque harbor and
the quaint, hanging village, in the houses of which, lights were
slowly beginning to twinkle, one after another. They stayed until it
was quite dark, and were even then loath to wend their way up the
steep street, and to waste so many hours by going to bed in the
"Doll's House," as John persisted in calling the New Inn.
"Well," said Betty comfortingly, "it will be fun after all,--sleeping
in that funny wee inn, where there are only four bedrooms in the whole
house. I choose the one with the pink rose peeping in the window! I
saw it this morning. Come on."
The next day dawned as fair as one could wish, and at Mrs. Pitt's
suggestion a walk along the "Hobby Drive" was first taken. This
charming road was built by a Mr. Hamlin, the owner of the town of
Clovelly, who lives at Clovelly Court. The drive starts just at the
top of the village, and extends for three miles along the edge of the
cliffs. The views are startlingly beautiful! Through the fresh green
of the trees and vines, glimpses of the deep blue sea are to be had,
and to add to the vivid coloring, there is the peculiar red rock which
belongs to that part of the coast.
As they were retracing their steps, Mrs. Pitt said with slight
hesitation:
"I promise not to give you very much history while you are here, but I
must tell you just a bit about the relation which all this country
bears to Charles Kingsley's great book, 'Westward Ho!' Have you never
read it, John? Fancy! I'll get it for you at once! Well, Bideford is
the nearest town to Clovelly, and it was from there that Amyas Leigh,
Salvation Yeo, and all the rest set out with Sir Francis Drake. By the
by, that very sailor, Salvation Yeo, was born in the old Red Lion Inn,
at the foot of the Clovelly street. Oh, you'd like him, John, and all
his brave adventures! At Clovelly Court, in the days of the story,
lived Will Cary, another of the well-known characters in 'Westward
Ho!,' and in the little parish church very near there, Charles
Kingsley's father was rector. Kingsley himself was at Clovelly a great
deal, and probably gained here his knowledge of the seas and those who
sail them. One of those old fishermen last night (he who claimed to be
ninety-eight) told me that he used to know Charles Kingsley well, and
I suppose it is possible."
That afternoon toward tea-time, after another fascinating roam about
the town,--into its back-yards and blind alleys, and along its pebbly
beach,--as well as numerous exciting rides on the backs of the mules,
the party gathered on the tiny veranda of the New Inn, crowding it to
its utmost capacity. The purpose of this formal meeting was to decide
where they should go the following morning, as they were then leaving
Clovelly. Mrs. Pitt had promised them a week more of play in
Devonshire before their trip to Canterbury, and she advised visits to
Bideford, Minehead, Porlock, Lynton, Lynmouth, and finally Torquay. As
the young people had no ideas of their own upon the subject and as
they had vast confidence in anything Mrs. Pitt proposed, this plan was
at once adopted.
"These places are all by the sea," Mrs. Pitt continued, "and I'm quite
sure you'll like them. Torquay is just a watering-place, with big
hotels, terraces, and gardens, but oh! it is so lovely, and nearby is
the duckiest little village of Cockington! You'll never leave the
thatched cottages there, Betty! Lynmouth is very fine, with its
combination of mountain and seaside views, and its moors. Close by is
the Doone Valley, which figures so prominently in the story of 'Lorna
Doone,' and we'll visit that. It will all be beautiful--beautiful as
only England and Devonshire can be--but you'll find nothing at all
like this strange little Clovelly, so enjoy it while you may!"
[Illustration: "YOU'LL FIND NOTHING AT ALL LIKE THIS STRANGE LITTLE
CLOVELLY."--_Page 250._]
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ROCHESTER AND CANTERBURY
As soon as the familiar chugging of the motor was heard at the front
door in Cavendish Square, John hurried out. Just as he was examining
all the chauffeur's arrangements for the trip, and looking with
approval over the entire automobile, the whir of the engine suddenly
gasped, struggled to catch its breath, and then ceased altogether. The
chauffeur, perfectly unconcerned, swung himself off from his seat and
sauntered around to "crank her up," but his expression of assurance
soon changed, for the motor refused to start.
John's face was pitiful to see. "Oh, bother!" he cried, running to
where the chauffeur stood, in front of the hood. "Why has it got to go
and spoil it all like that! It's mean, I say! Can't you fix her?
What's wrong?"
Off came the chauffeur's nicely-brushed coat, his clean hands handled
oily tools, and a big streak of grease soon appeared upon his
trousers. Great was his humiliation! After about fifteen minutes of
disagreeable work, all was well, however,--the engine started, and the
sound was again smooth and steady. John's expression was radiant, and
he came to help the ladies in, while the forlorn chauffeur retired to
make himself presentable.
"Now, we're off for Canterbury!" John announced triumphantly, as they
at last glided around a corner into Piccadilly.
Slowly and carefully they wended their way down to London Bridge,
crossed, and stopped for a moment before the site of the old Tabard
Inn.
"I'm going to take you to Canterbury by the very road which Chaucer's
pilgrims in all probability traveled, and I thought that to make the
illusion as perfect as possible, we really should halt here in
Southwark. This is where the pilgrims met, you know, and from here
they set out in the lovely month of April: the 'verray perfight,
gentil knight,' his son, the gay young squire, the stout Wife of Bath,
the dainty prioress, the pale clerk (or scholar), the merchant with
his fine beaver hat, the parson, the plowman, the pardonner, the
summoner, the cook, and all the rest! They traveled on horseback, you
remember, and to beguile the tedious hours when they advanced slowly
along the dusty road, they took turns in telling the stories which
Chaucer gives us in the wonderful 'Canterbury Tales.'"
"I never did know just why they went," Betty ventured, in some
confusion lest they should laugh at her.
"Neither did I!" John promptly seconded. "Please tell us, Mrs. Pitt."
"Dear me, yes! I certainly will, for you must surely understand that!"
After pausing a moment in order to think how best to make her meaning
clear, Mrs. Pitt went on in her pleasant voice. "You see, pilgrimages
were always made to some especial shrine! We'll take Becket's for an
example. After his terrible murder, Becket was immediately canonized
(that is, made a saint), and for many years a very celebrated shrine
to him existed at Canterbury Cathedral. In those days, sumptuous
velvets and abundant jewels adorned the shrines, and if a person
journeyed to one, it meant that his sins were all atoned for. It was a
very easy thing, you see. If a man had committed a wrong, all he had
to do was to go to some shrine, say certain prayers there, and he
thought himself forgiven. Such trips cost men practically nothing, for
pilgrims might usually be freely cared for at the monasteries along
the route; a man was quite sure of good company; and altogether, it
was very pleasant to see the world in this way. The numerous terrible
dangers to be met with only added the spice of excitement to many. In
short, such numbers of poor men started off on these religious
pilgrimages, leaving their families uncared for, that the clergy
finally were forced to interfere. Laws were then made which compelled
a man to procure a license for the privilege of going to a shrine, and
these permits were not granted to all. You understand then, that
toward noted shrines such as St. Thomas a Becket's, pilgrims singly
and in companies were always flocking, and among these was the little
group which Chaucer has made so familiar and real to us all."
"Here's Deptford," announced John by and by, seeing the name upon some
sign. "What went on here?"
"What makes you think anything 'went on here'!" Mrs. Pitt exclaimed.
"Fancy! What a curious boy!"
"Oh!" John burst out. "That's easy enough! I haven't seen more than
about two or three places in all this country where some fellow didn't
do something, or some important thing go on."