Our first trip into the country was made on the Sunday after our
arrival. Although we started out at random, our route proved a fortunate
one, and gave us every reason to believe that our tour of the Kingdom
would be all we had anticipated. During the summer we had occasion to
travel three times over this same route, and we are still of the opinion
that there are few more delightful bits of road in England. We left
London by the main highway, running for several miles through Epping
Forest, which is really a great suburban park. It was a good day for
cyclists, for the main road to the town of Epping was crowded with
thousands of them. So great was the number and so completely did they
occupy the highway, that it was necessary to drive slowly and with
the greatest care. Even then, we narrowly avoided a serious accident.
One of the cyclists, evidently to show his dexterity, undertook to cut
around us by running across the tramway tracks. These were wet and
slippery, and the wheel shot from under the rider, pitching him headlong
to the ground not two feet in front of our car, which was then going at
a pretty good rate. If the cyclist did not exhibit skill in managing his
wheel, he certainly gave a wonderful display of agility in getting out
of our way. He did not seem to touch the ground at all, and by turning
two or three handsprings, he avoided being run over by the narrowest
margin. His wheel was considerably damaged and his impedimenta scattered
over the road. It was with rather a crestfallen air that he gathered up
his belongings, and we went on, shuddering to think how close we had
come to a serious accident at the very beginning of our pilgrimage. A
policeman witnessed the accident, but he clearly placed the blame on the
careless wheelman.
Passing through the forest, we came to Epping, and from there into a
stretch of open country that gave little suggestion of proximity to the
world's metropolis. Several miles through a narrow but beautifully kept
byway brought us to the village of Chipping-Ongar, a place of
considerable antiquity, and judging from the extensive site of its
ancient castle, at one time of some military importance.
At Ongar we began our return trip to London over the road which we
agreed was the most beautiful leading out of the city, for the suburbs
do not extend far in this direction and one is comparatively soon in the
country. The perfectly surfaced road, with only gentle slopes and
curves, runs through the parklike fields, here over a picturesque stone
bridge spanning a clear stream, there between rows of magnificent trees,
occasionally dropping into quiet villages, of which Chigwell was easily
the most delightful.
Chigwell became known to fame through the writings of Charles Dickens,
who was greatly enamored of the place and who made it the scene of much
of his story of "Barnaby Rudge." But Dickens, with his eye for the
beautiful and with his marvelous intuition for interesting situations,
was drawn to the village by its unusual charm. Few other places can
boast of such endorsement as he gave in a letter to his friend, Forster,
when he wrote: "Chigwell, my dear fellow, is the greatest place in the
world. Name your day for going. Such a delicious old inn facing the
church; such a lovely ride; such glorious scenery; such an
out-of-the-way rural place; such a sexton! I say again, name your day."
After such a recommendation, one will surely desire to visit the place,
and it is pleasant to know that the "delicious old inn" is still
standing and that the village is as rural and pretty as when Dickens
wrote over sixty years since.
The inn referred to, the King's Head, was the prototype of the Maypole
in "Barnaby Rudge," and here we were delighted to stop for our belated
luncheon. The inn fronts directly on the street and, like all English
hostelries, its main rooms are given over to the bar, which at this time
was crowded with Sunday loafers, the atmosphere reeking with tobacco
smoke and the odor of liquors. The garden at the rear was bright with a
profusion of spring flowers and sheltered with ornamental trees and
vines. The garden side of the old house was covered with a mantle of
ivy, and, altogether, the surroundings were such as to make ample amends
for the rather unprepossessing conditions within. One will not fully
appreciate Chigwell and its inn unless he has read Dickens' story. You
may still see the panelled room upstairs where Mr. Chester met Geoffry
Haredale. This room has a splendid mantel-piece, great carved open beams
and beautiful leaded windows. The bar-room, no doubt, is still much the
same as on the stormy night which Dickens chose for the opening of his
story. Just across the road from the inn is the church which also
figures in the tale, and a dark avenue of ancient yew trees leads from
the gateway to the door. One can easily imagine the situation which
Dickens describes when the old sexton crossed the street and rang the
church bells on the night of the murder at Haredale Hall.
Aside from Dickens' connection with Chigwell, the village has a place of
peculiar interest to Americans in the old grammar school where William
Penn received his early education. The building still stands, with but
little alteration, much as it was in the day when the great Quaker sat
at the rude desks and conned the lessons of the old-time English
schoolboy.
When we invited friends whom we met in London to accompany us on a
Sunday afternoon trip, we could think of no road more likely to please
them than the one I have just been trying to describe. We reversed our
journey this time, going out of London on the way to Chigwell.
Returning, we left the Epping road shortly after passing through that
town, and followed a narrow, forest-bordered byway with a few steep
hills until we came to Waltham Abbey, a small Essex market town with an
important history. The stately abbey church, a portion of which is still
standing and now used for services, was founded by the Saxon king,
Harold, in 1060. Six years later he was defeated and slain at Hastings
by William the Conqueror, and tradition has it that his mother buried
his body a short distance to the east of Waltham Church. The abbey gate
still stands as a massive archway at one end of the river bridge. Near
the town is one of the many crosses erected by Edward I in memory of his
wife, Eleanor of Castile, wherever her body rested on the way from
Lincoln to Westminster. A little to the left of this cross, now a
gateway to Theobald Park, stands Temple Bar, stone for stone intact as
it was in the days when traitors' heads were raised above it in Fleet
Street, although the original wooden gates are missing. Waltham Abbey is
situated on the River Lea, near the point where King Alfred defeated the
Danes in one of his battles. They had penetrated far up the river when
King Alfred diverted the waters from beneath their vessels and left them
stranded in a wilderness of marsh and forest.
Another pleasant afternoon trip was to Monken Hadley, twenty-five miles
out on the Great North Road. Hadley Church is intimately associated with
a number of distinguished literary men, among them Thackeray, whose
grandfather preached there and is buried in the churchyard. The sexton
was soon found and he was delighted to point out the interesting objects
in the church and vicinity.
The church stands at the entrance of a royal park, which is leased to
private parties and is one of the quaintest and most picturesque of the
country churches we had seen. Over the doors, some old-fashioned
figures which we had to have translated indicated that the building had
been erected in 1494. It has a huge ivy-covered tower and its interior
gives every evidence of the age-lasting solidity of the English
churches.
Hadley Church has a duplicate in the United States, one having been
built in some New York town precisely like the older structure. We
noticed that one of the stained-glass windows had been replaced by a
modern one, and were informed that the original had been presented to
the newer church in America--a courtesy that an American congregation
would hardly think of, and be still less likely to carry out. An odd
silver communion service which had been in use from three to five
hundred years was carefully taken out of a fire-proof safe and shown us.
Hadley Church is a delight from every point of view, and it is a pity
that such lines of architecture are not oftener followed in America. Our
churches as a rule are shoddy and inharmonious affairs compared with
those in England. It is not always the matter of cost that makes them
so, since more artistic structures along the pleasing and substantial
lines of architecture followed in Britain would in many cases cost no
more than we pay for such churches as we now have.
[Illustration: HADLEY CHURCH, MONKEN HADLEY.]
Our friend the sexton garrulously assured us that Thackeray had spent
much of his time as a youth at the vicarage and insisted that a great
part of "Vanity Fair" was written there. He even pointed out the room in
which he alleged the famous book was produced, and assured us that the
great author had found the originals of many of his characters, such as
Becky Sharp and Col. Newcome, among the villagers of Hadley. All of
which we took for what it was worth. Thackeray himself told his friend,
Jas. T. Fields, that "Vanity Fair" was written in his London house;
still, he may have been a visitor at the Hadley vicarage and might have
found pleasure in writing in the snug little room whose windows open on
the flower garden, rich with dashes of color that contrasted effectively
with the dark green foliage of the hedges and trees. The house still
does duty as a vicarage; the small casement windows peep out of the ivy
that nearly envelops it, and an air of coziness and quiet seems to
surround it. Near at hand is the home where Anthony Trollope, the
novelist, lived for many years, and his sister is buried in the
churchyard.
A short distance from Hadley is the village of Edgeware, with
Whitchurch, famous for its association with the musician Handel. He was
organist here for several years, and on the small pipe-organ, still in
the church though not in use, composed his oratorio, "Esther," and a
less important work, "The Harmonious Blacksmith." The idea of the latter
came from an odd character, the village blacksmith, who lived in
Edgeware in Handel's day and who acquired some fame as a musician. His
tombstone in the churchyard consists of an anvil and hammer, wrought in
stone. Afterwards Handel became more widely known, and was called from
Whitchurch for larger fields of work. He is buried in Westminster Abbey.
The road from Edgeware to the city is a good one, and being Saturday
afternoon, it was nearly deserted. Saturday in London is quite as much
of a holiday as Sunday, little business being transacted, especially in
the afternoon. This custom prevails to a large extent all over the
Kingdom, and rarely is any attempt made to do business on Saturday. The
Week-End holiday, as it is called, is greatly prized, and is recognized
by the railroads in granting excursions at greatly reduced rates. There
is always a heavy exodus of people from the city to the surrounding
resorts during the summer and autumn months on Saturday afternoon and
Sunday.
Owing to the extreme difficulty of getting about the city, we made but
few short excursions from London such as I have described. If one
desires to visit such places in sequence, without going farther into the
country, it would be best to stop for the night at the hotels in the
better suburban towns, without attempting to return to London each day.
The garage accomodations in London I found very good and the charges
generally lower than in the United States. There is a decided tendency
at grafting on the part of the employes, and if it is ascertained that a
patron is a tourist--especially an American--he is quoted a higher rate
at some establishments and various exactions are attempted. At the first
garage where I applied, a quotation made was withdrawn when it was
learned that I was an American. The man said he would have to discuss
the matter with his partner before making a final rate. I let him carry
on his discussion indefinitely, for I went on my way and found another
place where I secured accommodations at a very reasonable rate without
giving information of any kind.
With the miserable business methods in vogue at some of the garages, it
seemed strange to me if any of the money paid to employes ever went to
the business office at all. There was no system and little check on
sales of supplies, and I heard a foreman of a large establishment
declare that he had lost two guineas which a patron had paid him. "I
can't afford to lose it," he said, "and it will have to come back
indirectly if I can't get it directly." In no case should a motorist pay
a bill at a London garage without a proper receipt.