The hundred miles of road that we followed from Norwich to Peterborough
has hardly the suggestion of a hill, though some of it is not up to the
usual English standard. We paused midway at Dereham, whose remarkable
old church is the only one we saw in England that had the bell-tower
built separate from the main structure, though this same plan is
followed in Chichester Cathedral. In Dereham Church is the grave of
Cowper, who spent his last years in the town. The entire end of the nave
is occupied by an elaborate memorial window of stained glass, depicting
scenes and incidents of the poet's life and works. To the rear of the
church is the open tomb of one of the Saxon princesses, and near it is a
tablet reciting how this grave had been desecrated by the monks of Ely,
who stole the relics and conveyed them to Ely Cathedral. Numerous
miracles were claimed to have been wrought by the relics of the
princess, who was famed for her piety. The supposed value of these
relics was the cause of the night raid on the tomb--a practice not
uncommon in the days of monkish supremacy. The bones of saint or martyr
had to be guarded with pious care or they were likely to be stolen by
the enterprising churchmen of some rival establishment. Shortly
afterwards, it would transpire that miracles were being successfully
performed by the relics in the hands of the new possessors.
Leaving the main road a detour of a few miles enabled us to visit
Crowland Abbey shortly before reaching Peterborough. It is a remarkable
ruin, rising out of the flat fen country, as someone has said, "like a
light-house out of the sea." Its oddly shaped tower is visible for
miles, and one wide arch of the nave still stands, so light and airy in
its gracefulness that it seems hardly possible it is built of heavy
blocks of stone. A portion of the church has been restored and is used
for services, but a vast deal of work was necessary to arrest the
settling of the heavy walls on their insecure foundations. The cost of
the restoration must have been very great, and the people of Crowland
must have something of the spirit of the old abbey builders themselves,
to have financed and carried out such a work. Visitors to the church are
given an opportunity to contribute to the fund--a common thing in such
cases. Crowland is a gray, lonely little town in the midst of the wide
fen country. The streets were literally thronged with children of all
ages; no sign of race suicide in this bit of Lincolnshire. Everywhere
is evidence of antiquity--there is much far older than the old abbey in
Crowland. The most notable of all is the queer three-way arched stone
bridge in the center of the village--a remarkable relic of Saxon times.
It seems sturdy and solid despite the thousand or more years that have
passed over it, and is justly counted one of the most curious antiques
in the Kingdom.
It was late when we left Crowland, and before we had replaced a tire
casing that, as usual, collapsed at an inopportune moment, the long
English twilight had come to an end. The road to Peterborough, however,
is level and straight as an arrow. The right of way was clear and all
conditions gave our car opportunity to do its utmost. It was about ten
o'clock when we reached the excellent station hotel in Peterborough.
Before the advent of the railroad, Peterborough, like Wells, was merely
an ecclesiastical town, with little excuse for existence save its
cathedral. In the last fifty years, however, the population has
increased five-fold and it has become quite on important trading and
manufacturing center. It is situated in the midst of the richest farm
country in England and its annual wool and cattle markets are known
throughout the Kingdom. The town dates from the year 870, when the first
cathedral minster was built by the order of one of the British
chieftains. The present magnificent structure was completed in 1237,
and so far as appearance is concerned, now stands almost as it left the
builder's hands. It is without tower or spire of considerable height and
somewhat disappointing when viewed from the exterior. The interior is
most imposing and the great church is rich in historical associations.
Here is buried Catherine of Aragon, the first queen of Henry VIII, and
the body of the unfortunate Queen of Scots was brought here after her
execution at Fotheringhay. King James I, when he came to the throne,
removed his mother's remains to Westminster Abbey, where they now rest.
Strangely enough, the builders of the cathedral did not take into
consideration the yielding nature of the soil on which they reared the
vast structure, and as a consequence, a few years ago the central tower
of the building began to give way and cracks appeared in the vaulting
and walls. Something had to be done at once, and at the cost of more
than half a million dollars the tower was taken down from top to
foundation, every stone being carefully marked to indicate its exact
place in the walls. The foundations were carried eleven feet deeper,
until they rested upon solid rock, and then each stone was replaced in
its original position. Restoration is so perfect that the ordinary
beholder would never know the tower had been touched. This incident
gives an idea of how the cathedrals are now cared for and at what cost
they are restored after ages of neglect and destruction.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL BYWAY.]
Peterborough was stripped of most of its images and carvings by
Cromwell's soldiers and its windows are modern and inferior. Our
attention was attracted to three or four windows that looked much like
the crazy-quilt work that used to be in fashion. We were informed that
these were made of fragments of glass that had been discovered and
patched together without any effort at design, merely to preserve them
and to show the rich tones and colorings of the original windows. The
most individual feature of Peterborough is the three great arches on the
west, or entrance, front. These rise nearly two-thirds the height of the
frontage and it is almost a hundred feet from the ground to the top of
the pointed arches. The market square of Peterborough was one of the
largest we had seen--another evidence of the agricultural importance of
the town. Aside from the cathedral there is not much of interest, but if
one could linger there is much worth seeing in the surrounding country.
The village of Fotheringhay is only nine miles to the west. The
melancholy connection of this little hamlet with the Queen of Scots
brings many visitors to it every year, although there are few relics of
Mary and her lengthy imprisonment now remaining. Here we came the next
morning after a short time on winding and rather hilly byways. It is an
unimportant looking place, this sleepy little village where three
hundred years ago Mary fell a victim to the machinations of her rival,
Elizabeth. The most notable building now standing is the quaint inn
where the judges of the unfortunate queen made their headquarters during
her farcial trial. Of the gloomy castle, where the fair prisoner
languished for nineteen long years, nothing remains except a shapeless
mass of grass covered stone and traces of the old-time moat. Much of the
stone was built into cottages of the surrounding country and in some of
the mansions of the neighborhood may be found portions of the windows
and a few of the ancient mantel pieces. The great oak staircase which
Mary descended on the day of her execution, is built into an old inn at
Oundle, not far away. Thus the great fortress was scattered to the four
winds, but there is something more enduring than stone and mortar,--its
memories linger and will remain so long as the story of English history
is told. King James, by the destruction of the castle, endeavored to
show fitting respect to the memory of his mother and no doubt hoped to
wipe out the recollection of his friendly relations with Queen Elizabeth
after she had caused the death of Mary.
The school children of Fotheringhay seemed quite familiar with its
history and on the lookout for strangers who came to the place. Two or
three of them quickly volunteered to conduct us to the site of the
castle. There was nothing to see after we got there, but our small
guides were thankful for the fee, which they no doubt had in mind from
the first. Mournful and desolate indeed seemed the straggling little
village where three centuries ago "a thousand witcheries lay felled at
one stroke," one of the cruelest and most pitiful of the numberless
tragedies which disfigure the history of England.
From Fotheringhay we returned to the York road and followed it northward
for about twenty miles. We passed through Woolsthorpe, an unattractive
little town whose distinction is that it was the birthplace of Sir Isaac
Newton. The thatched roof farmhouse where he was born is still standing
on the outskirts of the village. At Grantham, a little farther on, we
stopped for lunch at the "Royal and Angel" Hotel, one of the most
charming of the old-time inns. Like nearly all of these old hostelries,
it has its tradition of a royal guest, having offered shelter to King
Charles I when on his endless wanderings during the Parliamentary wars.
It is a delightful old building, overgrown with ivy, and its
diamond-paned lattice windows, set in walls of time-worn stone, give
evidence to its claims to antiquity.
We had paused in Grantham on our way to Belvoir Castle, about six miles
away, the seat of the Duke of Rutland. This is one of the finest as well
as most strikingly situated of the great baronial residences in England.
Standing on a gently rising hill, its many towers and battlements
looking over the forests surrounding it, this vast pile more nearly
fulfilled our ideas of feudal magnificence than any other we saw. It is
famous for its picture gallery, which contains many priceless originals
by Gainsborough, Reynolds and others. It has always been open to
visitors every week-day, but it chanced at the time that the old duke
was dangerously ill--so ill, in fact, that his death occurred a little
later on--and visitors were not admitted. We were able to take the car
through the great park, which affords a splendid view of the exterior of
the castle.
Near by is the village of Bottisford, whose remarkable church has been
the burial place of the Manners family for five hundred years and
contains some of the most complete monumental effigies in England. These
escaped the wrath of the Cromwellians, for the Earl of Manners was an
adherent of the Protector. In the market square at Bottisford stand the
old whipping-post and stocks, curious relics of the days when these
instruments were a common means of satisfying justice--or what was then
considered justice. They were made of solid oak timbers and had
withstood the sun and rain of two or three hundred years without
showing much sign of decay. Although the whipping-post and stocks used
to be common things in English towns, we saw them preserved only at
Bottisford.
On leaving Bottisford, our car dashed through the clear waters of a
little river which runs through the town and which no doubt gave it the
name. We found several instances where no attempt had been made to
bridge the streams, which were still forded as in primitive times. In a
short time we reached Newark, where we planned to stop for the
night--but it turned out otherwise. We paused at the hotel which the
guide-book honored with the distinction of being the best in the town
and a courteous policeman of whom we inquired confirmed the statement.
We were offered our choice of several dingy rooms, but a glance at the
time-worn furnishings and unattractive beds convinced us that if this
were Newark's best hotel we did not care to spend the night in Newark.
To the profound disgust of the landlady--nearly all hotels in England
are managed by women--we took our car from the garage and sought more
congenial quarters, leaving, I fear, anything but a pleasant impression
behind us. We paused a few minutes at the castle, which is the principal
object of antiquity in Newark. It often figured in early history; King
John died here--the best thing he ever did--and it sustained many
sieges until it was finally destroyed by the Parliamentarians--pretty
effectively destroyed, for there is little remaining except the walls
fronting immediately on the river.
Though it was quite late, we decided to go on to Nottingham, about
twenty miles farther, where we could be sure of good accommodation. It
seemed easy to reach the city before dark, but one can hardly travel on
schedule with a motor car--at least so long as pneumatic tires are used.
An obstinate case of tire trouble just as we got outside of Newark meant
a delay of an hour or more, and it was after sunset before we were again
started on our journey. There is a cathedral at Southwell, and as we
permitted no cathedral to escape us, we paused there for a short time.
It is a great country church of very unusual architecture, elevated to
the head of a diocese in 1888. The town of Southwell is a retired place
of evident antiquity and will be remembered as having been the home of
Lord Byron and his mother for some time during his youth. The route
which we followed to Nottingham was well off the main highway--a
succession of sharp turns and steep little hills that made us take
rather long chances in our flight around some of the corners. But,
luckily, the way was clear and we came into Nottingham without mishap,
though it became so dark that we were forced to light our lamps--a
thing that was necessary only two or three times during our summer's
tour.
Our route south from Nottingham was over a splendid and nearly level
road that passes through Leicester, one of the most up-to-date business
towns in the Kingdom. I do not remember any place outside of London
where streets were more congested with all kinds of traffic. The town is
of great antiquity, but its landmarks have been largely wiped out by the
modern progress it has made. We did not pause here, but directed our way
to Lutterworth, a few miles farther, where the great reformer, John
Wyclif, made his home, the famous theologian who translated the bible
into English and printed it two hundred years before the time of Martin
Luther. This act, together with his fearless preaching, brought him into
great disfavor with the church, but owing to the protection of Edward
III, who was especially friendly to him, he was able to complete his
work in spite of fierce opposition. Strangely enough, considering the
spirit of his time, Wyclif withstood the efforts of his enemies, lived
to a good old age, and died a natural death. Twenty years afterward the
Roman Church again came into power and the remains of the reformer were
exhumed and burned in the public square of Lutterworth. To still further
cover his memory with obloquy, the ashes were thrown into the clear,
still, little river that we crossed on leaving the town. But his
enemies found it too late to overthrow the work he had begun. His
church, a large, massive building with a great, square-topped tower,
stands today much as it did when he used to occupy the pulpit, which is
the identical one from which he preached. A bas-relief in white marble
by the American sculptor, Story, commemorating the work of Wyclif, has
been placed in the church at a cost of more than ten thousand dollars,
and just outside a tall granite obelisk has been erected in his honor.
In cleaning the walls recently, it was discovered that under several
coats of paint there were some remarkable frescoes which, being slowly
uncovered, were found to represent scenes in the life of the great
preacher himself.
Leaving Lutterworth, we planned to reach Cambridge for the night. On the
way we passed through Northampton, a city of one hundred thousand and a
manufacturing place of importance. It is known in history as having been
the seat of Parliament in the earlier days. A detour of a few miles from
the main road leaving Northampton brought us to Olney, which for twenty
years was the home of William Cowper. His house is still standing and
has been turned into a museum of relics of the poet, such as rare
editions of his books and original manuscripts. The town is a quiet,
sleepy-looking place, situated among the Buckinghamshire hills. It is
still known as a literary center and a number of more or less noted
English authors live there at the present time.
[Illustration: JOHN WYCLIF'S CHURCH, LUTTERWORTH.]
Bedford, only a few miles farther on the Cambridge road, was one of the
best-appearing English towns of the size we had seen anywhere--with
handsome residences and fine business buildings. It is more on the plan
of American towns, for its buildings are not ranged along a single
street as is the rule in England. It is best known from its connection
with the immortal dreamer, John Bunyan, whose memory it now delights to
honor. Far different was it in his lifetime, for he was confined for
many years in Bedford Jail and it was during this imprisonment that he
wrote his "Pilgrim's Progress." At Elstow, a mile from Bedford, we saw
his cottage, a mean-looking little hut with only two rooms. The tenants
were glad to admit visitors as probable customers for postcards and
photographs. The bare monotony of the place was relieved not a little by
the flowers which crowded closely around it.
Cambridge is about twenty miles from Bedford, and we did not reach it
until after dark. It was Week-End holiday, and we found the main street
packed with pedestrians, through whom we had to carefully thread our way
for a considerable distance before we came to the University Arms. We
found this hotel one of the most comfortable and best kept of those
whose hospitality we enjoyed during our tour.
Cambridge is distinctly a university town. One who has visited Oxford
and gone the rounds will hardly care to make a like tour of Cambridge
unless he is especially interested in English college affairs. It does
not equal Oxford, either in importance of colleges or number of
students. It is a beautiful place, lying on a river with long stretches
of still water where the students practice rowing and where the famous
boat races are held.
Cambridge is rich in traditions, as any university might be that
numbered Oliver Cromwell among its students. Its present atmosphere and
influences, as well as those of Oxford, are vastly different from those
of the average American school of similar rank; nor do I think that the
practical results attained are comparable to those of our own colleges.
The Rhodes scholarship, so eagerly sought after in America, is not, in
my estimation, of the value that many are inclined to put upon it. Aside
from the fact that caste relegates the winners almost to the level of
charity students--and they told us in Oxford that this is literally
true--it seems to me that the most serious result may be that the
student is likely to get out of touch with American institutions and
American ways of doing things.