The road from London to Southampton is one of the oldest in the Kingdom
and passes many places of historic interest. In early days this highway,
leading from one of the main seaports through the ancient Saxon capital,
was of great importance. Over this road we began the trip suggested by
the Touring Secretary of the Motor Union. As usual, we were late in
getting started and it was well after noon when we were clear of the
city. At Kingston-on-Thames, practically a suburb, filled with villas of
wealthy Londoners, we stopped for lunch at the Griffin Hotel, a fine old
inn whose antiquity was not considered sufficient to atone for bad
service, which was sometimes the case. Kingston has a history as ancient
as that of the capital itself. Its name is peculiar in that it was not
derived from King's Town, but from King's Stone; and at the town
crossing is the identical stone, so says tradition, upon which the Saxon
kings were crowned. It would seem to one that this historic bit of rock
would form a more fitting pedestal for the English coronation chair than
the old Scottish stone from Dunstafnage Castle.
After a short run from Kingston, we passed down High Street, Guildford,
which, a well qualified authority declares, is "one of the most
picturesque streets in England." Guildford might well detain for a day
or more anyone whose time will permit him to travel more leisurely than
ours did. William Cobbett, the author and philosopher, who was born and
lived many years near by, declared it "the happiest looking town he ever
knew"--just why, I do not know. The street with the huge town clock
projecting half way across on one side, the Seventeenth Century Town
Hall with its massive Greek portico on the other, and a queerly assorted
row of many-gabled buildings following its winding way, looked odd
enough, but as to Guildford's happiness, a closer acquaintance would be
necessary.
Shortly after leaving the town, the ascent of a two-mile hill brought us
to a stretch of upland road which ran for several miles along a
tableland lying between pleasantly diversified valleys sloping on either
side. From this a long, gradual descent led directly into Farnham, the
native town of William Cobbett. The house where he was born and lived as
a boy is still standing as "The Jolly Farmers' Inn." One may see the
little house which was the birthplace of the Rev. Augustus Toplady,
whose hymn, "Rock of Ages," has gained world-wide fame. On the hill
overlooking the town is the ancient castle, rebuilt in the Sixteenth
Century and from that time one of the palaces of the bishops of
Winchester. Here, too, lingers one of the ubiquitous traditions of King
Charles I, who stopped at Vernon House in West Street while a prisoner
in the hands of the Parliamentarians on their way to London. A silk cap
which the king presented to his host is proudly shown by one of the
latter's descendants, who is now owner of the house.
One must be well posted on his route when touring Britain or he will
pass many things of note in sublime ignorance of their existence. Even
the road-book is not an infallible guide, for we first knew that we were
passing through Chawton when the postoffice sign, on the main street of
a straggling village, arrested our attention. We were thus reminded that
in this quiet little place the inimitable Jane Austin had lived and
produced her most notable novels, which are far more appreciated now
than in the lifetime of the authoress. An old woman of whom we inquired
pointed out the house--a large square building with tiled roof, now used
as the home of a workingmen's club. Less than two miles from Chawton,
though not on the Winchester road, is Selborne, the home of Gilbert
White, the naturalist, and famed as one of the quaintest and most
retired villages in Hampshire.
But one would linger long on the way if he paused at every landmark on
the Southampton road. We had already loitered in the short distance
which we had traveled until it was growing late, and with open throttle
our car rapidly covered the last twenty miles of the fine road leading
into Winchester.
From an historical point of view, no town in the Kingdom surpasses the
proud old city of Winchester. The Saxon capital still remembers her
ancient splendor and it was with a manifest touch of pride that the old
verger who guided us through the cathedral dwelt on the long line of
kings who had reigned at Winchester before the Norman conquest. To him,
London at best was only an upstart and an usurper. Why,
"When Oxford was shambles
And Westminster was brambles,
Winchester was in her glory."
And her glory has never departed from her and never will so long as her
great cathedral stands intact, guarding its age-long line of proud
traditions. The exterior is not altogether pleasing--the length
exceeding that of any cathedral in Europe, together with the abbreviated
tower, impresses one with a painful sense of lack of completeness and a
failure of proper proportion. It has not the splendid site of Durham or
Lincoln, the majesty of the massive tower of Canterbury, or the grace of
the great spire of Salisbury. But its interior makes full amends. No
cathedral in all England can approach it in elaborate carvings and
furnishings or in interesting relics and memorials. Here lie the bones
of the Saxon King Ethelwulf, father of Alfred the Great; of Canute,
whose sturdy common sense silenced his flatterers; and of many others. A
scion of the usurping Norman sleeps here too, in the tomb where William
Rufus was buried, "with many looking on and few grieving." In the north
aisle a memorial stone covers the grave of Jane Austen and a great
window to her memory sends its many-colored shafts of light from above.
In the south transept rests Ike Walton, prince of fishermen, who, it
would seem to us, must have slept more peacefully by some rippling
brook. During the Parliamentary wars Winchester was a storm center and
the cathedral suffered severely at the hands of the Parliamentarians.
Yet fortunately, many of its ancient monuments and furnishings escaped
the wrath of the Roundhead iconoclasts. The cathedral is one of the
oldest in England, having been mainly built in the Ninth Century.
Recently it has been discovered that the foundations are giving away to
an extent that makes extensive restoration necessary, but it will be
only restored and not altered in any way.
But we may not pause long to tell the story of even Winchester Cathedral
in this hasty record of a motor flight through Britain. And, speaking
of the motor car, ardent devotee as I am, I could not help feeling a
painful sense of the inappropriateness of its presence in Winchester; of
its rush through the streets at all hours of the night; of its clatter
as it climbed the steep hills in the town; of the blast of its unmusical
horn; and of its glaring lights, falling weirdly on the old buildings.
It seemed an intruder in the capital of King Alfred.
There is much else in Winchester, though the cathedral and its
associations may overshadow everything. The college, one of the earliest
educational institutions in the Kingdom, was founded about 1300, and
many of the original buildings stand almost unchanged. The abbey has
vanished, though the grounds still serve as a public garden; and of
Wolvesley Palace, a castle built in 1138, only the keep still stands.
How usual this saying, "Only the keep still stands," becomes of English
castles,--thanks to the old builders who made the keep strong and high
to withstand time, and so difficult to tear down that it escaped the
looters of the ages.
A day might well be given to the vicinity of Winchester, which teems
with points of literary and historic interest. In any event, one should
visit Twyford, only three miles away, often known as the "queen of the
Hampshire villages" and famous for the finest yew tree in England. It is
of especial interest to Americans, since Benjamin Franklin wrote his
autobiography here while a guest of Dr. Shipley, Vicar of St. Asaph,
whose house, a fine Elizabethan mansion, still stands.
To Salisbury by way of Romsey is a fine drive of about thirty miles over
good roads and through a very pleasing country. Long before we reached
the town there rose into view its great cathedral spire, the loftiest
and most graceful in Britain, a striking landmark from the country for
miles around. Following the winding road and passing through the narrow
gateway entering High Street, we came directly upon this magnificent
church, certainly the most harmonious in design of any in the Kingdom.
The situation, too, is unique, the cathedral standing entirely separate
from any other building, its gray walls and buttresses rising sheer up
from velvety turf such as is seen in England alone. It was planned and
completed within the space of fifty years, which accounts for its
uniformity of style; while the construction of most of the cathedrals
ran through the centuries with various architecture in vogue at
different periods. The interior, however, lacks interest, and the
absence of stained glass gives an air of coldness. It seems almost
unbelievable that the original stained windows were deliberately
destroyed at the end of the Eighteenth Century by a so-called architect,
James Wyatt, who had the restoration of the cathedral in charge. To his
everlasting infamy, "Wyatt swept away screens, chapels and porches,
desecrated and destroyed the tombs of warriors and prelates, obliterated
ancient paintings; flung stained glass by cart loads into the city
ditch; and razed to the ground the beautiful old campanile which stood
opposite the north porch." That such desecration should be permitted in
a civilized country only a century ago indeed seems incredible.
[Illustration: A COTTAGE IN HOLDENHURST, HAMPSHIRE.