WINTER. IPSWICH TO NORWICH VIA WOODBRIDGE, BECCLES, LOWESTOFT, AND YARMOUTH
A walk in Ipswich--Sparrowe's House--With Pickwick and
the Wellers--Start at noon--The glittering car--Another
passenger--Infantine pilotage--A loose
clutch--Mechanic's chagrin--A stitch in time--Nuts
screwed home--Need to watch
mechanics--Woodbridge--Edward Fitzgerald--Wickham
Market and Saxmundham--Abyssinian luncheon--Detour to
Aldeburgh--Aldeburgh described--The dilatory
Alde--Birthplace of George Crabbe--His views of
Aldeburgh--Saxmundham to Yoxford--Peasenhall
adjacent--Yoxford to Blythburgh--A motorist's
church--Detour to Southwold--Southwold
described--Battle of Sole Bay--Did Isaac Newton hear
guns at Cambridge?--Lord Ossory's ride from
Euston--Blythburgh to Beccles--First view
disappointing--Better next time--Unforeseen value of
Connemara cloak--Beccles to Lowestoft--_Norfolk and
Norwich Notes and Queries_--Their value--Origin of
Lowestoft harbour--"Norwich a port"--Cubitt and
Telford--Sir Samuel Peto--Meaning of
"Lowestoft"--Lowestoft to Yarmouth--Direct route to
Norwich--Darkness and frozen haze--Straining
eyes--Norwich at last--The "Royal" formerly "Angel"--An
ancient hostelry--Colossal window tax--Norfolk election
memories--Corn Law riot--"Coke of Norfolk"
sheltered--Always a Whig house--Stroll in
Norwich--Multitude of churches--The walls and "murage"
tax--A learned society's day--Fraction of Norwich only
seen--Wat Tyler's Rebellion--Geoffrey Lister and Sir
Robert Salle--St. Peter's Permountergate--Memories of
Nelson--Fascination of Norwich--Its great men and
women--George Borrow--"Old Crome"--The Norwich school.
Truth to tell, Ipswich on the Gipping, which becomes the Orwell and an
estuary lower down, seemed to me then an ancient city showing, except in a
few picturesque houses and the gateway of Wolsey's College, few signs of
antiquity. If it cannot be called happy in having had no history, for it
was plundered by the Danes in 991, it has had little cause for unhappiness
of that kind since the Conquest; it has produced no really famous man
except Wolsey, though Gainsborough lived in it for some years; and its
churches, although not quite devoid of interest, are not striking enough
to delay a motorist. Note, in passing, not the least advantage of an
exploring tour by motor. You need neither spend time in examining that
which is barely worth the process on the ground that there is nothing else
to be done, nor hurry away from that which is interesting, in order to
catch a train; but, staying so long as seems pleasant and no longer, you
may be transported when you please, rapidly and pleasantly, to scenes you
have reason to believe to be worthy of your regard.
In these circumstances, after an admiring glance at the famous Sparrowe's
House in the Butter Market, close to the hotel, I frankly betook myself to
an effort to follow the Wellers, father and son, Mr. Pickwick and his
followers, through an eventful day. This stable-yard round the corner to
the left, where the Panhard was now being furbished up, was the same on
which Mr. Weller, senior, looked when, "in a small room in the vicinity,"
he discussed a pot of ale and the "gammoning" of Sam, and drank to the
toast, "May you soon vipe off the disgrace as you've inflicted on the
family name." The office in the courtyard was doubtless that at which he
got his "vaybill." Walking about these very streets Sam wormed himself into
the confidence of the lachrymose Job Trotter. In this inn parlour Mr. Peter
Magnus, _alias_ Jingle, splendidly attired, made a hollow pretence of
breakfasting with Mr. Pickwick; here the latter gave his simple hints on
courtship and proposal, and here were seen "the joyous face of Mr. Tupman,
the serene countenance of Mr. Winkle, and the intellectual lineaments of
Mr. Snodgrass." In this room was enacted that memorable scene when Mr.
Magnus presented Miss Witherfield to Mr. Pickwick and Miss Witherfield
screamed, but neither she nor Mr. Pickwick was indelicate enough to mention
the cause--his unwitting invasion of her chamber overnight. Rushing out of
this room the lady, after bolting herself into her bedroom, went forth in
search of Mr. Nupkins and apprised him of the forthcoming duel, which there
was not really much reason to anticipate. Where exactly Miss Witherfield
saw Mr. Nupkins I am unhappily not able to say, nor yet, and for the same
reason, whither Grummer, with his myrmidon Dubbley and his "division," each
with a short truncheon and a brass crown, conducted Mr. Pickwick and Mr.
Tupman in the old sedan-chair; but for all that it is easy to picture the
whole of the never-to-be-forgotten scene, all the more memorable in that it
never was enacted. In fact, it is no mean regret to me that, on that cold
January morning, I was not able to find "the house with the green gate,"
with the "house-door guarded on either side by an American aloe in a tub."
It has eluded me since also. Perhaps it is gone, like a good deal of old
Ipswich; possibly some miscreant has had his gate painted white instead of
green; perhaps I looked in the wrong place, in the vicinity of St.
Clement's Church. It is even within the bounds of possibility that the
house with the green gate never had any more real and substantial existence
than Mr. Pickwick himself. All I know is that I could not find it.
At noon or thereabouts--time does not worry one in a motor-car, unless one
is seeking records--we boarded the Panhard, now "bright as a Birmingham
button," and started off up a long and trying hill, in cold, dry, and
windless weather, for a circuitous drive, its sinuosities determined by the
desires of my friend. A new member was added to the party in the person of
a resident at Norwich, desirous of reaching that ancient city in due
course, who was supposed to know, and probably did know, every considerable
turning of every high road in the two counties of Norfolk and Suffolk. He
had not, however, enjoyed much experience as the pilot of an automobile,
and he found, as I had in years gone by when I was new to the pastime, that
eye and memory were not equal to moving together at a speed proportioned to
that of the car. "Which road?" the charioteer would cry--the new passenger
was riding astern--when we were from fifty to seventy yards from a fork or
a turn, and hesitation would often be visible in the reply, so that it was
necessary to slow down and sometimes, having invaded the wrong road, to
back out again. This is not criticism, it is rather matter of observation
and experience. Only recently have the minds of driving and driven men been
called upon to exercise their judgment, to choose a line, as a fox-hunter
might say, while they are being carried through space much more rapidly
than of yore, and the pace puzzles them at first. You are past a familiar
turning in a car in less time than is consumed over approaching it in a
dog-cart or on horseback, and the aspect of the turning itself has
something strange about it; but you grow accustomed to the new conditions
with experience. In fact, motor-cars sharpen the perceptions and spur the
intelligence. To venture an audacious travesty, and some even more hardy
doggerel:--
_... Urgendi didicisse fideliter artem
Exacuit mentem, nee sinit esse pigram._
He who has learned a car to drive
Sharpens his wits and looks alive.
Personally, I sat alongside the driver, a place of honour, if cold, and the
mechanic sat at my feet. Pity is wasted on a mechanic so placed at any
time, for he likes the position, and it is not so comfortless as it looks
by a long way, _experto crede_. In any case our ex-soldier was a proud man
that morning, for his car was a joy to the eye. The day before owner and
mechanic were hustings-worn, the car looked battered and dissipated as well
as fog-dimmed. Now the brass shone with a glow that would have satisfied
the proud commander of a man-of-war, who is the most exacting person
living. If that mechanic had read the Greek tragedians he would have known
that Nemesis must needs come soon. Brass glittered, varnish shone, all four
cylinders worked nobly, but the engine would race from time to time. It
became all too clear to him who had the control of the machine, or desired
to have it, that he had it not in entirety, since the clutch kept slipping.
Hence came power wasted, miles per hour lost, and a definite feeling of
discontent in the owner. So, after a hill or two had been climbed without
satisfaction, a halt was called on the level. The mechanic did not like it
a bit, and he had our sympathy. He had worked hard; he had turned out the
car with a creditable appearance; it was crushing to be found out in a
single fault. I knew his feelings from experience. To be blamed when you
thoroughly deserve it is tolerable; to be blamed for no fault at all is to
find consolation in private reflection upon the folly of him, or her, who
administers reproof; to discover that one essential point has been
forgotten when you have tried hard to remember everything is to be
compelled to recognize that, after every willing effort, you only look a
fool after all. The mechanic had our sympathy on another ground too. He
vowed, of course, that the clutch could not be made tighter; he declared
that, if it were, the consequences would be disastrous; for you shall note
that your mechanic dearly loves "a bit o' play" in fittings, and abhors a
nut screwed quite home. All these things were clear to us, but we were none
the less inexorable. As, in starting on a heavy job in carpenter's work,
minutes spent in putting a keen edge on to plane and chisel are hours saved
in the end, so it is sheer idiocy to muddle on with a motor-car if, at the
beginning of the journey, you are aware of something wrong that is capable
of being set right on the road. It is, indeed, in detecting the first
premonitory evidence of trouble, and in meeting difficulties more than
half-way, that the genius of an inspired driver is shown. This little
weakness of mechanics for a "bit o' play" is also worth remembering.
So we were sorry for the mechanic, but the thing had got to be done whether
he liked or no, and for half an hour he lay on his back under the car,
straining, grunting, otherwise eloquently silent, while black and viscous
oil made a little pool on the road alongside of his honest head, and while
we, pacing up and down the frozen road, forbore even to remind him that, if
the road had been muddy, his fate would have been worse. In cases where an
angel would lose his temper under the gentlest persiflage it is only decent
to leave a willing but disappointed man to himself. The half-hour ended;
the job was done; overdone a little, as the mechanic well knew, yet not so
much overdone but that a driver of rare skill could disappoint him by
ignoring the inconvenience; and we took our seats again. The car sprang
forward like a living creature, moving fast and smoothly. There was all the
difference in the world between the motion as it was and the motion as it
had been, and the chagrin of the mechanic yielded to time and to the proud
feeling that all was right with "his car" through his handiwork.
Sooth to say, the scenery was not interesting on a frosty and somewhat
misty day. The route was, to start with, via Woodbridge, Wickham Market,
and Stratford St. Andrew to Saxmundham; that is to say, the road runs
along the brow, the very much wrinkled brow, of the upland, which is high
by comparison with the lowland, extending a long way in from the coast,
running from Felixstowe to Aldeburgh and beyond. Of that lowland we could
see nothing. Woodbridge, appearing to consist of one street, long,
straggling, and narrow, was the first village of any consideration through
which we passed. Its chief claim to fame is that Edward Fitzgerald wrote
letters at it, remarking in one, dated 1855, that Woodbridge had not
reached 1842 yet. But we shall see Woodbridge again. Next came Wickham
Market, narrow, straggling, and long. It is quite commonplace. From Wickham
Market we went on to Saxmundham, and there committed a grave error. "Hot
dinner," it was stated, was due in three-quarters of an hour, but it could
be hurried forward if we wished. We wished accordingly, and wished
afterwards that we had not, for the meat, some forgotten joint half-boiled,
was in a state in which, according to the traveller Bruce, the Abyssinians
eat their meat from choice; and the accompanying parsnips, quite hard, may
have been fit to place before sheep. As we were neither Abyssinians nor
sheep, but English travellers, the error was felt the more acutely because
we had ourselves only to blame. Given the same conditions another time, I
should urge a detour to Aldeburgh, a detour of some six miles to be begun
about two miles short of Saxmundham, for Aldeburgh is worth seeing and man
can feed there.
[Illustration: WOODBRIDGE-STREET]
Of Aldeburgh an observation or two may be made on the basis of a sojourn a
few years since. It is certainly one of the most bracing places in this
world. It has a tolerable hotel, good golf-links, and a fine view of the
sea; and the ancient moot-house is picturesque. The abiding impression left
by Aldeburgh is simply that it is the oddest place ever seen. The little
River Alde, starting somewhere near Saxmundham, follows a more or less
southerly course for a couple of miles; then an even smaller river joins
it, and, flowing eastward for a mile or so, the combined streams seem to be
heading for the sea, distant about six miles; but it takes them fifteen
miles, even with the help of another so-called river, purposeless as
themselves, to reach the sea; for first they are lost in a mecranking mere
of sluggish water, which actually approaches within a hundred yards of the
sea at Aldeburgh, where it is stopped by a stony bank. The mere continues,
and the rivers are merged in it, parallel to high-water mark, divided from
it sometimes by a hundred yards or so, sometimes by half a mile, for nine
miles from the point of turning, and soon the water is dubbed River Ore in
the map. By this time it is meandering, mainly under the influence of the
tide most likely, behind and to the west of Orford Ness, and it is not
until somewhere about the middle of Hollesley Bay that this utter absurdity
of a river, this monstrous estuary for three trifling streams, finds its
way into the sea.
A year or two ago the good folks of Aldeburgh celebrated their native poet,
George Crabbe, though why they chose the date, seeing that Crabbe was born
in 1754 and died in 1832, it is not quite easy to see. The celebration,
indeed, was, like the use made of Pickwick by the hotel at Ipswich, an
example of the truth that a community or an individual having a mind for
advertisement will not be stopped by petty considerations of pride. George
Crabbe was born at Aldeburgh, through no fault of his own. He left it in
1768, to be apprenticed to a surgeon at Bury St. Edmunds. He came back to
it to practise as a surgeon, and failed miserably as a medical man,
because his mind was on the making of verses all the time. Then he tried
his fortune in London and beat despairingly on the doors of fame until
Burke introduced him to Dodsley, who brought out _The Library_ with some
success in 1781. At about the same time Dr. Johnson expressed a high
opinion of his verse. Next he was ordained and took up his residence as
curate at Aldeburgh, but he left it soon to become domestic chaplain to the
Duke of Rutland; and he does not seem to have had much, if anything, to do
with his native place during his subsequent career as prosperous poet and
comfortable clergyman. He was a distinctly sound poet, with a queer vein of
humour, although his admirer, Edward Fitzgerald, whom we meet to-day,
valued him perhaps too highly, and Byron, probably for his own purposes,
overpraised him in the words:--
Nature's sternest painter, but her best.
Crabbe hated Aldeburgh, or Aldeburgh scenery at any rate; or, if he did not
hate them, he took the stern view of them.
Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er,
Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor;
From thence a length of burning sand appears,
Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears;
Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye.
Thus does he describe the vicinity and thus the so-called river and its
marge:--
Here samphire banks and saltworth bind the flood,
And stakes and seaweed withering in the mud;
And higher up a ridge of all things base,
Which some strong tide has rolled upon the place.
No, assuredly Crabbe had no liking for Aldeburgh, and to be perfectly
candid, I agree with him that, save for golfers, it is a dreary and
eye-afflicting place. In this view I confess to have believed myself to be
singular and, for expressing it, have incurred scorn more than once. So
Crabbe is quoted in confirmation, yet with the hope that those who visit
Aldeburgh may agree with the general view and not with that of a minority
of two, one of them something better than a minor poet. Be it added, in
justice to Aldeburgh, that you can look for amber among the pebbles on the
beach. So you can anywhere and find as much as I did.
From Saxmundham we laid a course due north for Yoxford--Peasenhall of
murderous fame lies some three miles to the west--and passed by way of
Darsham to Blythburgh. Here, in a village named in _Domesday_, is a really
striking fifteenth-century church, in good Perpendicular and with splendid
clerestory, plainly visible from the road; and we are not far from
Southwold, now known of many as a summer resort, whereas in days not long
past it was visited by few persons save those who knew of the existence of
St. Edmund's Church with its really majestic tower and rare rood-loft.
Here, by the way, is buried Agnes Strickland, the historian. The very
slight inward curve of the coastline here is dignified with the name of a
bay, and as Sole Bay, which is simply Southwold Bay spoken short, it has a
considerable place in history. On 28 May, 1672, "the combined fleets lay at
Sole Bay in a very negligent posture." They were the fleets of England,
under the command of the Duke of York, with Lord Sandwich under him, and of
France; and here De Ruyter, the greatest sea-captain of his age, took his
royal adversary quite by surprise. This was due not so much to the dashing
merit of De Ruyter as to the crass carelessness of the Duke, for "Sandwich,
being an experienced officer, had given the Duke warning of the danger; but
received, they said, such an answer as intimated that there was more of
caution than of courage in his apprehensions." What hasty words, I wonder,
of the rude and haughty admiral were represented by this sonorous
periphrasis? De Ruyter came, with ninety-one ships of war and forty-four
fireships, sailing "in quest of the English," and Sandwich, after giving
the warning in vain, saved the day by a display of gallantry to be ranked
as extraordinary even in the annals of the English navy. Sailing out to
meet the Dutchman, he engaged him at once and gave time to the Duke and the
French admiral. "He killed Van Ghent, a Dutch admiral, and beat off his
ship; he sunk another ship, which ventured to lay him aboard; he sunk three
fireships, which endeavoured to grapple with him; and, though his vessel
was torn to pieces with shot, and of a thousand men she contained near six
hundred were laid dead upon the deck, he continued still to thunder with
all his artillery in the midst of the enemy. But another fireship, more
fortunate than the preceding, having laid hold of his vessel, her
destruction was now inevitable. Warned by Sir Edward Haddock, his captain,
he refused to make his escape, and bravely embraced death as a shelter from
that ignominy which a rash expression of the Duke's, he thought, had thrown
upon him." Admiral and flag-captain, in fact, perished when the fire
reached the magazine, and this time at any rate the "price of Admiralty"
was paid in full.
[Illustration: SOUTHWOLD HARBOUR]
The English claimed a victory and embalmed it in a ballad, although the
truth was that the Duke's fleet was too much shattered for pursuit and the
French fleet, under secret orders, perhaps, from Louis XIV, did next to
nothing; the Dutch, probably, claimed one also, although the battle ended
the hopes with which De Ruyter's expedition started. All that matters
nothing now. The moment that heartens a man is that at which he stands on
this low-lying shore, as spectators stood all the long day in May, 1672,
and remembers the gallant fight and the glorious death of Sandwich. "Sir
Isaac Newton is also said to have heard it [the firing] at Cambridge." So
writes the accomplished author of Murray's Guide in 1875, and there is
nothing incredible in the suggestion. The distance is but seventy miles,
roughly; the cannon of old time with their black powder made a terrible
sound; acoustics are full of mystery, and the noise of the big guns at
Portsmouth is often heard in the heart of the Berkshire Downs. From Euston
to the centre of Sole Bay is about half the distance over which sound is
said to have reached Newton, and it is on record that Lord Ossory, then a
guest of the Duke of Grafton, heard the guns and rode half-way across East
Anglia to witness the battle. Surely it was a majestic and awe-inspiring
spectacle for those on the shore, and surely it is worth while to
reconstruct it now in imagination.
From Blythburgh we went along a road of poor surface, and of no scenic
attraction in winter save that the trees were fine, to Beccles, one of the
three principal towns of Suffolk, possessed, I was content to believe, of a
grand church, and boasting a view over the marshes of the Waveney, once
navigable. But we saw little of Beccles, the name of which reminded Edward
Fitzgerald of "hooks and eyes"; we were indeed quite glad to leave it after
penetrating a quarter suggestive of a new and prosperous Midland town, for
election fever was running high, and car and its occupants were cheered or
hooted by eager crowds; cheered most, perhaps, for the crowds were mostly
"Red," and the Connemara cloak seemed to express a sympathy which, in
truth, was not felt. We had all had enough electioneering and to spare and
were glad to turn our faces for Lowestoft. As will be seen later, Beccles
made a far more pleasant impression on a subsequent visit. At Lowestoft
too--it is a short and easy run--election fever was running high, and the
political excitement of a seething mob does not make for an individual
appreciation of the picturesque. But old Lowestoft is picturesque, hanging,
as it were, over the sea, and South Lowestoft has a peculiar origin worth
knowing.
Among the pleasant enterprises incident to the writing of this book has
been the making of notes from _Norfolk and Norwich Notes and Queries_,
reprinted from the _Norfolk Chronicle_, to which I have added in my
note-book _O si sic omnes!_ Would indeed that all county papers laid
themselves out, as this one does, to collect notes from those interested in
the antiquities of their county. Here as to Lowestoft are found two notes,
one entertaining and suggestive, the other distinctly taking. It appears
that in 1558 one Thomas North published a fantastic explanation of the
origin of herring curing, in which Lowestoft has always rivalled Yarmouth.
Without giving it in detail, it may be stated that in essential spirit, if
on a different topic, it exactly anticipates Charles Lamb's divine theory
of roast pig; but Thomas North has none of that grace of expression which
compels quotation when one encounters Lamb, and one only regrets that Lamb
did not think of describing the origin of herring curing as well as of
roast pork.
The second Lowestoft note deserves a paragraph to itself, for it is full of
moral lessons, and a curious illustration of the way in which the
overweening ambition of one community and the churlishness of a second has
ended in loss to the first and in the profit of a third community to the
prejudice of the second. In the records of St. Peter's Church, at Norwich
(St. Peter's, Permountergate, if memory serves accurately, which is St.
Peter's, Parmentersgate, or Tailors' Street), is an entry of 27 March,
1814: "Ringing the Bells for Norwich a Port. 10/6." Early in the last
century, it appears, Norwich was a very important centre of the wool trade.
Now Norwich thrives on mustard and boots, but let that pass; at the time in
question wool was the staple trade, and it was exported by way of Yarmouth.
In 1812 or thereabouts, like Manchester later, Norwich determined, if
possible, to have direct communication with the sea. Enterprising men
consulted William Cubitt, afterwards Sir William Cubitt, and a very
distinguished engineer in matters relating to canals and docks. They
probably consulted him mainly because he was a Norfolk man, for he was not
yet thirty years old, and his fame, which was to be considerable, was yet
to come. They sought the advice also of that consummate Scottish engineer,
Thomas Telford, then well advanced in middle age and almost at the pinnacle
of his fame. Alternative routes for the proposed canal were suggested, one
by way of Yarmouth, the other by way of Lowestoft. Yarmouth, its safe trade
threatened, opposed from the beginning, and eventually the Lowestoft route
was adopted; the mouth of Lowestoft Harbour was cleared from the sands that
blocked it, a cut was made connecting it with the Waveney through Oulton
Broad, another cut from Haddiscoe to Reedham, and in 1814 the bells rang
gaily to celebrate "Norwich a port." For Norwich it was a short-lived
triumph, since the scheme did not pay its way, and in 1844 it was
practically, possibly indeed formally, bankrupt. At any rate, the Lowestoft
part of the works was bought outright by Sir Samuel Peto, who in that
year--but whether before he acquired the harbour or not I cannot
say--bought Somerleyton hard by, some time the seat of the Fitz-Osberts and
the Jernigans, from Lord Sidney Godolphin Osborne. _Sic vos, non vobis._
The Norwich folk lost their money, or some of it; Sir Samuel Peto took
Lowestoft in hand, "developed" it, as the saying goes, so that South
Lowestoft became a flourishing seaside place; and finally Lowestoft as a
port became a serious rival to Yarmouth. As a seaside place Lowestoft is
pleasing to some tastes now, even as it was in the days when Edward
Fitzgerald would betake himself thither from Woodbridge to spend his days
in sailing and in writing letters which are a treasure to posterity; and
his evenings in reading Shakespeare or _Don Quixote_ with his close
friends, Cowell and Aldis Wright, who often lodged at Lowestoft for a short
time in summer. It would have been good to have their opinion upon the
derivation of Lowestoft, appearing in _Domesday_ as Lothu-wis-toft, which
is said to be "the enclosure by the water of Loth," who in his turn is said
to have been a Norse invader; but nothing is to be discovered of Loth, or
Loo, save that Lake Lothing, now the inner harbour, is named after him, as
was the hundred of Lothingland or Ludingaland; and Edward Fitzgerald is
really much more interesting than a nebulous Norse pirate.
[Illustration: FISHING BOATS AT LOWESTOFT]
Election fever and its ravings, a short glance at picturesque features, and
the inestimable blessings of tea and warmth are the principal memories left
by this particular visit to Lowestoft. Thence we ran along the easy coast
road in the darkness to Great Yarmouth, which, on this occasion, left no
vivid impression on the memory. No such language, however, can be employed
with regard to the remainder of that evening's drive. Doubts had arisen
whether it would be wiser to make for Norwich by the more circuitous route
which fetches a compass round Caister Castle, or by the "new road" running
in a direct line for Acle first, across a salt marsh, and from Acle fairly
straight for Norwich. The new road was much the shorter and, being across a
salt marsh, a dead-level, but our local pilot was doubtful as to the state
of its surface. However, it was decided to make inquiry at the toll-gate, a
mile or so out of Yarmouth, and to abide by the answer, which was
satisfactory. So was the road, so far as its surface went. It ran first for
five miles straight as an arrow; the straightness was apparent at the time,
but the five miles seemed like twenty. A fine mist was frozen over the
watery land, nothing was visible on one side except, at stated intervals, a
towering telegraph pole, and on both sides, at shorter intervals, were puny
and poor trees which may have been poplars or willows. It became my duty,
seated beside the man at the wheel, to peer into the darkness, trying to
distinguish any possible obstacle or turn, to make out the character of any
light that might be seen, and to watch for the bend, which, after another
straight run of some three miles, would take us to Acle. As a rule I could
just see the outline of one telegraph post as we passed its predecessor;
there was, in all probability, a deep dyke on either side, and it was an
ideal night for running into a country vehicle travelling without a tail
light; but happily we encountered none. Indeed, although motorists complain
much, late years have seen a great improvement in this respect. Of lights
on approaching vehicles we saw one or two, appearing at first to be distant
and stationary as a planet on a clear night, and then to be close to us in
an instant. It was, in short, a trying experience to the nerves and to the
eyes, and we resolved to avoid night journeys as much as might be in the
future. The resolution was renewed when we looked at our strained and
bloodshot eyes the next morning, and broken perforce the next evening; but
night travelling by motor-car in winter is not to be recommended unless the
moon is strong. It is a process to be resolved upon when circumstances
suit, not to be planned in advance.
From Acle to Norwich was ten miles more or less of up-and-down travelling,
the hills not serious enough to try a good motor high, and it was an
unfeigned relief to reach the shelter and food of the Royal Hotel. Here,
practically, ends the account of the second day of this excursion, for the
Royal Hotel is comfortable, not expensive as English hotels go, and new;
but mere comfort is fortunately commonplace, its novelty is rather more of
an outrage than usual in this case, and the novelty of the hotel's name is
an offence not to be pardoned. Here, where the modern "Royal" stands, in
the very centre of the city, stood the famous "Angel" from the fifteenth
century at least to the middle of the nineteenth. Local antiquaries, many
and eager, rejoice in tracing the history of this celebrated hostelry,
finding frequent allusions to it in the records of the Master of the
Revels, for here mountebanks performed, and theatrical performances were
given, and strange monsters were shown. It had the glory of paying L115 tax
for thirty windows in the eighteenth century--this makes one understand the
blocked windows in old houses more sympathetically than a bare mention of
window tax does--and it was the great Whig House in the days when Norfolk
elections were, as Mr. Walter Rye tells us, half of the history of Norfolk,
the other half being concerned with trade. It is true that Mr. Walter Rye,
speaking of the election of 1675, says that Sir Nevill Cattyn's party
"used the 'Royal,' (then the 'King's Head,') and the other side, using a
stratagem--singularly enough repeated at the same house last election, two
or three years ago--ordered a great dinner there on the pretence that they
might 'friendly meet and dine' with the other party, and ultimately secured
the whole house as their election quarters; Cattyn, who was brought into
town by four thousand horsemen, having to put up with the 'White Swan' 'at
the back side of the butchers' shambles'" (_A History of Norfolk_, by
Walter Rye. Elliot Stock, 1885). I prefer to pin my faith to _Norfolk and
Norwich Notes and Queries_, not only because its elaborate article on the
topic is evidently based on careful research, but also because its
statements are not contradicted in subsequent issues, and these bear
eloquent testimony to the fact that the local antiquaries of East Anglia
have at least one trait in common with the antiquaries of the wider
world--they contradict with freedom and dispute with endless pertinacity.
Here there is no contradiction (and Mr. Rye's accuracy is by no means equal
to his industry or to his love of antiquity), so it may be taken as
reasonably certain that the "Royal" is on the site of the "Angel," and that
the "Angel" first appeared by that name in 1578, when it was leased to one
Peterson; but the property has been traced back to Mistress Katharine Dysse
in the rolls of the Mayoralty Court of Norwich, and she lived early in the
fifteenth century. Here, in October, 1677, Joseph Argent had "fourteen days
allowed to him to make show of such tricks as are mentioned in his patent
at the 'Angel.'" In 1683 "Robert Austine at ye Angel hath leave given him
for a week from ys Daie to make show of the storie of Edward the 4th and
Iane Shore, and noe longer." In several later years Peter Dolman clearly
made a great success with Punchinello or Puntionella--both forms are used.
There are a score of similar entries, also of displays at the "Angel," of
freaks and monstrosities, waxworks and the like. Hither fled Mr. Thomas
Coke, of Holkham, father of the agriculture of Norfolk, during a Corn Law
riot of 1815, escaping through the back of the house with the then Earl of
Albemarle; in the "Angel" in 1794 the Duke of York stayed when on his way
to Yarmouth to meet the exiled family of the Prince of Orange, and here the
Duke of Wellington changed horses on his way to Gunton in 1820, receiving a
hearty welcome from the citizens. From the "Angel" the Whigs sallied forth
during the election of 1832, and enjoyed a glorious fight in quite the old
style with the Tories in the market-place. An inn-name of such antiquity
and so many associations should not have been changed. Apparently, however,
the house has not changed its political colour, for it is a curious
coincidence that, on the evening of 24 January, Lord Kimberley was a guest
at the "Royal," and next day his son, Lord Wodehouse, won the Mid-Norfolk
election. Now the Wodehouses have been Whigs ever since Whigs were, and it
need not be doubted that Sir Philip Wodehouse, M.P. for Castle Rising, who
died in 1623, was of much the same political temper as those of the name
who came after him.
Next morning I walked about Norwich, and I have done the like many times,
but, short of writing a book on the subject, which is certainly not
necessary, it is by no means easy to decide how to treat it. Norfolk has
more parishes and churches in proportion to its area than any other county
(730 to 2024 square miles, whereas Yorkshire to 5836 square miles has but
613, according to Mr. Rye), and of these, besides a remarkably striking
cathedral, there are no less than thirty-five in Norwich alone. Norwich
has a castle, its history and nature far from free of doubt; some relics of
walls built by the citizens for their own safety in the time of Edward I,
when they were empowered to levy a "murage" tax; an ancient Guildhall of
smooth, black flint (which interested me, although it is said to have "no
regularity or beauty of architecture to recommend it"); St. Andrew's Hall;
the nave of an ancient Dominican church; a school partially domiciled in
what is left of a Dominican convent; a fine museum containing some rare
treasures of antiquity; the curious part known as Tombland; and great store
of ancient houses, each one of them possessed of a history. Also, in the
"Maid's Head," to be described later, it has the most alluring old inn
known to me anywhere. True it is that a mayor of Norwich, conducting a
royal personage on a tour of inspection, is reported to have said "this was
an ancient city, Your Royal Highness, before several of the old houses were
pulled down," but, while there can never be too many old houses left to be
an endless delight to the antiquary, there are far too many to be noticed
in a work of this kind. One learns without surprise, but not without
satisfaction, that a society of persons interested in antiquities meets
periodically for "Walks in Norwich," and it is pleasant to follow their
wanderings. Now they are studying the stately cathedral, with its three
magnificent gateways, and its beautiful fourteenth-century spire, and
listening to its story from the lips, it may be, of Dr. Jessopp. (All I
need say at this moment is that I have never known the grand simplicity of
the prevailing Norman style to strike the imagination so quickly and so
completely as when I first entered it at a time, as it happened, when the
exceptionally perfect organ was being played in the empty church.) At
another time they are investigating the Butter Hills, and learning that
they take their name from John le Boteler, who gave them to Carrow Abbey;
at another finding traces in a malt-house of the house of that stout Sir
Robert de Salle who opposed Wat Tyler's rebellion in these parts, and was
celebrated by Froissart. Here the temptation to quote a little is
overpowering. The insurgents, it should be said, were led by Sir Roger
Bacon and Geoffrey Lister, a dyer.
"The reason that they stopped near Norwich was that the Governor of the
town was a knight called Sir Robert Salle: he was not a gentleman by birth,
but having acquired great renown for his ability and courage King Edward
had created him a knight: he was the handsomest and strongest man in
England. Lister and his companions took it into their heads they would make
this knight their commander and carry him with them in order to be the more
feared. They sent orders to him to come out into the fields to speak with
them, or they would attack and burn the city. The knight, considering that
it was much better for him to go to them than that they should commit such
outrages, mounted his horse and went out of the town alone to hear what
they had to say. When they perceived him coming they showed him every mark
of respect, and courteously entreated him to dismount and talk with them.
He did dismount, and committed a great folly, for when he had so done,
having surrounded him, they conversed at first in a friendly way, saying,
'Robert, you are a knight, and a man of great weight in this country,
renowned for your valour; yet notwithstanding all this we know who you are;
you are not a gentleman, but the son of a poor mason, just such as
ourselves. Do you come with us as our commander, and we will make so great
a lord of you that one-quarter of England shall be under your command.' The
knight, on hearing them thus speak, was exceedingly angry; he would never
have consented to such a proposal; and, eyeing them with inflamed looks,
answered, 'Begone, wicked scoundrels and false traitors as you are; would
you have me desert my natural lord for such blackguards as you are? I had
rather you were all hanged, for that must be your end.' On saying this he
attempted to mount his horse, but, his foot slipping from the stirrup, his
horse took fright. They then shouted out and cried, 'Put him to death.'
When he heard this he let his horse go, and drawing a handsome Bordeaux
sword, he began to skirmish, and soon cleared the crowd from about him,
that it was a pleasure to see. Some attempted to close with him; but with
each stroke he gave he cut off heads, arms, feet or legs. There were none
so bold but they were afraid, and Sir Robert performed that day marvellous
feats of arms. These wretches were upwards of forty thousand; they shot and
flung at him such things that, had he been clothed in steel instead of
being unarmed, he must have been overpowered; however, he killed twelve of
them, besides many whom he wounded. At last he was overthrown, when they
cut off his legs and arms, and rent his body in piecemeal. Thus ended Sir
Robert Salle, which was a great pity, and when the knights and squires in
England heard of it they were much enraged."
On the very same day the party of explorers--I find they were not the
Norwich Society, but the Yarmouth branch of the Norfolk Archaeological
Society on a pilgrimage--had visited the old Foundry Bridge, heard the
story of the loss of a Yarmouth packet hard by in 1817, learned that a
neighbouring yard, once known as Spring Gardens, was a resort of fashion in
the eighteenth century, seen the remains of the Austin Friars' Watergate,
visited the Devil's Tower, heard the history of the city walls and St.
Peter's, Southgate. Dr. Bensly had read a paper at Robert de Salle's house
aforesaid. Then St. Etheldreda's Church was visited, the plate was
examined, and Dr. Bensly read another paper in the crypt of the House of
Isaac the Jew, a Norman domestic cellar, clearly to be traced from the days
of William Rufus, to a house subsequently occupied by Sir John Paston and
Lord Chief Justice Coke. Next at St. Peter's, Permountergate, attention was
called to all manner of details--personal, historical, and architectural;
St. Andrew's and Blackfriar's halls were visited and explained; a paper was
read on sundry discoveries made in excavating under the Guildhall; King
Edward VI's Middle School (the one in the ancient convent) was seen; a
paper was read on St. Andrew's Church; and, after dinner at the "Maid's
Head," the vicar of St. Peter's, Permountergate, read a paper on the parish
records. Just a few of the entries it is impossible to resist, for they are
of imperishable interest.
"1798. October 19th. Form of Prayer on the victory obtained by Admiral Sir
Horatio Nelson over the French fleet off the Nile, 1st August /6."
"Nov. 12th. Form of prayer for general thanksgiving on 29 November 1/".
"1805. December 5th. Paid for a form of Prayer and Proclamation on account
of the late glorious victory over the combined fleets of France and Spain
by Lord Viscount Nelson off Cape Trafalgar on 21st October, 1/".
No bells were rung in Norfolk that day, for the calamity of Nelson's heroic
death saddened the heart of every man in his native county. But they were
rung at St. Peter's, Permountergate, merrily enough, no doubt, in 1814,
when there was the entry: "April 12. Putting flag upon the steeple on
Buonaparte's overthrow; beer ditto 7/6."
Does this multiplicity of topics take away the breath, as is intended? Not
without set purpose has this very full day in the life of an archaeological
association been set forth with some little of particularity. It is an
illustration, deliberately chosen, of the truth that a learned party, or a
party desirous of becoming learned, can spend a day comfortably in a single
quarter of Norwich under expert guidance and without wasting any time, and
yet leave a vast number of the most interesting places and remains
altogether unvisited. We have no mention here of the city walls, of
Tombland, the meaning of which is still in doubt, of the castle, of the
Guildhall and its treasures, of the Strangers' Hall and a score of matters
besides. This is not criticism, but a preliminary to an excuse in the
nature of confession and avoidance. The Yarmouth archaeologists were wise in
their generation in contenting themselves with a single section of the city
on a single day. They had come, perhaps, before; they could come, no doubt,
again. What they saw and heard in a single day is an explanation, combined
with cursory mention of some of the things not seen, at once of the
extraordinary fascination Norwich must exercise over a man or woman of
intelligence, of the immense variety of its attractions, and of the sheer
absurdity of attempting to deal with them in a part of a book with any
completeness. It is better, surely, to give something of detail, if not a
tenth of what is due, to a part, than to attempt the vain task of
stretching the complex whole in outline. To him or her who has time I would
say, "Spend a great deal of it in Norwich, and you will find no hour hang
heavily."
Also it is as well to know a little of Norwich as an historical city and of
its associations, of which indeed the latter are so much the more
interesting that the history may almost be cast on one side. First of all
the idea that Norwich was Venta Icenorum may be dismissed, with Mr.
Haverfield's authority, as untenable for lack of evidence. No considerable
Roman remains of clear authenticity have been found to warrant the theory.
The castle is a complete puzzle. The city was ravaged by the Danes, of
course, under Sweyn in 1003, and it became a diocesan centre in 1094, and
has remained such ever since. It was walled, as has been stated, by the
citizens; it flourished in the wool trade early. "Worsted" owes its name to
an adjacent village, and Sir John Paston wrote: "I would have my doublet
all worsted for worship of Norfolk." It suffered grievously in the time of
the Black Death. It had its share, as we have seen, of trouble from Wat
Tyler's rebellion and from Kett's rebellion in the sixteenth century,
Mousehold Heath being the place of encampment on both occasions. Elizabeth,
also visited it in state in 1578, and it contributed its quota towards the
repulse of the Armada. From the troubles of the Civil War it escaped almost
scot free, mainly because East Anglia, the home of the Eastern Counties
Association, was exclusively Parliamentarian, except in the case of Lynn,
whereof more later. After that it is true to write of Norwich, as Mr.
Walter Rye has written of Norfolk, that the history of the last three
centuries is really one of elections and of trade, neither of them very
alluring from our present point of view.
[Illustration: NORWICH MARKET PLACE]
All these things, however, are but history in the primitive sense. There is
far more pleasure, and perhaps as much profit, in remembering that the
editor of the _Paston Letters_, a mine of information and of interest, was
Sir John Fenn, a man of Norwich; that Dean Hook, Mrs. Opie, Hooker the
botanist, and Harriet Martineau were born in Norwich. These names, except
perhaps that of Fenn, do not stir the imagination much in these days. We
are spared from study of Miss Martineau's _Political Economy_, or of her
history; and Sir John Fenn was really, as his comments in the _Paston
Letters_ and his omissions from them prove, a dull dog; but what man or
woman of literary taste can see, as I did the first day I was in Norwich,
the name Rackham on a solicitor's brass plate without remembering that the
wayward genius, George Borrow, was clerk to Messrs. Simpson and Rackham,
solicitors, or perhaps they were attorneys then, of Norwich, or will omit a
pilgrimage to the house, still unchanged, in which he lived in Willow Lane?
Then, chiefest jewel of all in the crown of Norwich is the Norwich school
of painting that rose in her midst, whereof "old Crome"--his portrait is in
the Guildhall--was the father and the founder. His pictures you may study
in the National Gallery, but only in Norwich, where he was born and
apprenticed to a coach and sign-painter, can you realize his gradual
progress, see him in imagination producing signs for the "Lamb" and the
"Maid's Head," teaching the Gurney children at Earlham, having George
Vincent and James Stark as apprentices, founding, with Ladbroke, R. Dixon,
C. Hodgson, and John Thirtle, the first provincial art society, holding in
1805, and subsequent years, considerable exhibitions, joined in 1807 by
John Tell Cotman. Only here can one realize the depth and justice of the
pride taken by Norwich and Norwich men in their most honourable school of
painting, and the eagerness with which the merchant princes of Norwich
collect the examples of the school. But there are some in the Guildhall,
too, as is but right.