Twenty miles over a narrow road winding among the hills brought us to
Shottermill, where George Eliot spent much of her time after 1871--a
pleasant little hamlet clinging to a steep hillside. The main street of
the village runs up the hill from a clear little unbridged stream, over
whose pebbly bottom our car dashed unimpeded, throwing a spray of water
to either side. At the hilltop, close to the church, is the
old-fashioned, many-gabled cottage which George Eliot occupied as a
tenant and where she composed her best known story, "Middlemarch." The
cottage is still let from time to time, but the present tenant was away
and the maid who answered us declined to show the cottage in her
mistress' absence--a rather unusual exhibition of fidelity. The village,
the surrounding country, and the charming exterior of the cottage, with
its ivy and climbing roses, were quite enough to repay us for coming
though we were denied a glimpse of the interior.
Haselmere is only a mile distant--a larger and unusually fine-looking
town with a number of good hotels. It is a center for tourists who come
from London to the Hindhead District--altogether one of the most
frequented sections of England. The country is wild and broken, but in
late summer and autumn it is ablaze with yellow gorse and purple heather
and the hills are covered with the graceful Scotch firs. All about are
places of more or less interest and a week could be spent in making
excursions from Haselmere as a center. This country attracted Tennyson,
and here he built his country seat, which he called Aldworth. George
Eliot often visited him at this place. The house is surrounded by a park
and the poet here enjoyed a seclusion that he could not obtain in his
Isle of Wight home. Aldworth belongs to the present Lord Tennyson, son
of the poet, who divides his time between it and Farringford in the Isle
of Wight, and neither of the places are shown to visitors. However, a
really interested party might see the house or even live in it, for we
saw in the window of a real estate man in Haselmere a large photograph
of Aldworth, with a placard announcing that it was to be "let
furnished"--doubtless during the period of the year the owner passes at
Farringford House.
[Illustration: ARUNDEL CASTLE.]
Much as we wished to tarry in this vicinity, our time was so limited
that we were compelled to hasten on. It was nearly dark when we reached
Arundel, whose castle, the residence of the Duke of Norfolk, was the
stateliest private mansion we saw in England. The old castle was
almost dismantled by Cromwell's troops, but nearly a hundred years ago
restoration was begun by the then Duke of Norfolk. It was carried out as
nearly as possible along the lines of the old fortress, but much of the
structure was rebuilt, so that it presents, as a whole, an air of
newness. The great park, one of the finest in England, is open to
visitors, who may walk or drive about at will. The road into the town
leads through this park for many miles. Bordered on both sides by
ancient trees and winding between them in graceful curves, it was one of
the most beautiful that we had seen anywhere.
We had planned to stop at Arundel, but the promise in our guide-books of
a "level and first-class" road to Brighton, and the fact that a full
moon would light us, determined us to proceed. It proved a pleasant
trip; the greater part of the way we ran along the ocean, which sparkled
and shimmered as it presented a continual vista of golden-hued water
stretching away toward the moon. It was now early in August; the English
twilights were becoming shorter, and for the third time it was necessary
to light the gas-lamps. We did not reach the hotel in Brighton until
after ten o'clock.
Brighton is probably the most noted seaside resort in England--a
counterpart of our American Atlantic City. It is fifty miles south of
London, within easy reach of the metropolis, and many London business
men live here, making the trip every day. The town has a modern
appearance, having been built within the past hundred years, and is more
regularly laid out than the average English city. For two or three miles
fronting the beach there is a row of hotels, some of them most palatial.
The Grand, where we stopped, was one of the handsomest we saw in
England. It has an excellent garage in connection and the large number
of cars showed how important this branch of hotel-keeping had become.
There is no motor trip more generally favored by Londoners than the run
to Brighton, as a level and nearly straight road connects the two
cities. There is nothing here to detain a tourist who is chiefly
interested in historic England. About a hundred years ago the fine sunny
beach was "discovered" and the fishing village of Brightholme was
rapidly transformed into one of the best built and most modern of the
resort towns in England. Its present population of over one hundred
thousand places it at the head of the exclusive watering places, so far
as size is concerned.
A little to the north of Brighton is Lewes, the county town of Sussex,
rich in relics of antiquity. Its early history is rather vague, but it
is known to have been an important place under the Saxon kings. William
the Conqueror generously presented it to one of his followers, who
fortified it and built the castle the ruins of which crown the hill
overlooking the town. The keep affords a vantage point for a magnificent
view, extending in every direction. I had seen a good many English
landscapes from similar points of vantage, notably the castles of
Ludlow, Richmond, Raglan, Chepstow and others, and it seemed strange
that in such a small country there should be so many varying and
distinctly dissimilar prospects, yet all of them pleasing and
picturesque.
The country around Lewes is hilly and rather devoid of trees. It is
broken in many places by chalk bluffs, and the chalky nature of the soil
was noticeable in the whiteness of the network of country roads. Many
old houses are still standing in the town and one of these is pointed
out as the residence of Anne of Cleves, one of the numerous wives of
Henry VIII. Near the town and plainly visible from the tower is the
battlefield where in 1624 the Battle of Lewes was fought between Henry
VII and the barons, led by Simon de Montfort. Lewes appears to be an
old, staid and unprogressive town. No doubt all the spirit of progress
in the vicinity has been absorbed by the city of Brighton, less than a
dozen miles away. If there has been any material improvement in Lewes
for the past hundred years, it is hardly apparent to the casual
observer.
We were now in a section of England rich in historic associations. We
were nearing the spot where William the Conqueror landed and where the
battle was fought which overthrew the Saxon dynasty--which an eminent
authority declares to have done more to change the history of the
Anglo-Saxon race than any other single event. From Lewes, over crooked,
narrow and rather rough roads, we proceeded to Pevensey, where the
Normans landed nearly a thousand years ago. It is one of the sleepy,
unpretentious villages that dot the southern coast of England, but it
has a history stretching far back of many of the more important cities
of the Kingdom. It was a port of entry in early times and is known to
have been in existence long before the Romans came to Britain. The
Romans called it Anderida, and their city was situated on the site of
the castle. Like other Sussex towns, Pevensey lost its position as a
seaport owing to a remarkable natural movement of the coast line, which
has been receding for centuries. When the Conqueror landed the sea came
up to the castle walls, but now there is a stretch of four miles of
meadowland between the coast and the town.
The castle, rude and ruinous, shows the work of many centuries, and was
really a great fortress rather than a feudal residence. It has been in a
state of decay for many hundreds of years, but its massive walls, though
ivy-grown and crumbling, still show how strongly it was built. It is
now the property of the Duke of Devonshire, who seeks to check further
decay and opens it to the public without charge.
[Illustration: PEVENSEY CASTLE, WHERE THE NORMANS LANDED.]
Battle, with its abbey, is a few miles from Pevensey. This abbey marks
the site of the conflict between the Normans and the Saxons and was
built by the Conqueror on the spot where Harold, the Saxon king, fell,
slain by a Norman arrow. William had piously vowed that if he gained the
victory he would commemorate it by building an abbey, and this was the
origin of Battle Abbey. William took care, however, to see that it was
filled with Norman monks, who were granted extraordinary privileges and
treasure, mostly at the expense of the conquered Saxons. The abbey is
one of the best preserved of the early monastic buildings in England,
and is used as a private residence by the proprietor. The church is in
ruins, but the great gateway, with its crenelated towers, and the main
part of the monastic building are practically as they were when
completed, shortly after the death of the Conqueror.
Battle Abbey, since the time of our visit, has passed into the
possession of an American, who has taken up his residence there. This
case is typical of not a few that came to our attention during our stay
in England. Many of the historic places that have for generations been
in the possession of members of the nobility have been sold to wealthy
Americans or Englishmen who have made fortunes in business. These
transactions are made possible by a law that permits entailed estates to
be sold when the owner becomes embarrassed to such an extent that he can
no longer maintain them. And some of these places are sold at
astonishingly low figures--a fraction of their cost. It is another of
the signs of the changing social conditions in the British Empire.
A quaint old village is Winchelsea, on the coast about fifteen miles
from Battle. It is a small, straggling place, with nothing but its
imposing though ruinous church and the massive gateways of its ancient
walls remaining to indicate that at one time it was a seaport of some
consequence. But here, as at Pevensey, the sea receded several miles,
destroying Winchelsea's harbor. Its mosts interesting relic is the
parish church, built about 1288. The greater portion of this is now in
ruins, nothing remaining but the nave, which is still used for services.
In the churchyard, under a great tree, still standing, John Wesley
preached his last open-air sermon.
[Illustration: WINCHELSEA CHURCH AND ELM TREE.]
Two miles from Winchelsea is Rye, another of the decayed seaports of the
southeast coast. A few small fishing vessels still frequent its harbor,
but the merchant ships, which used to contribute to its prosperity, are
no longer seen. It is larger than Winchelsea and is built on a hill, its
steep, narrow streets being lined with quaint houses. These two queer
towns seem indeed like an echo from the past. It does not appear that
there have been any changes of consequence in them for the past several
hundred years. People continue to live in such villages because the
average Englishman has a great aversion to leaving his native land. One
would think that there would be emigration from such places to the
splendid lands of Western Canada, but these lands are not being taken by
Englishmen, although the opportunity is being widely advertised by the
Canadian Government and the various transportation companies. And yet
one can hardly wonder at the reluctance of the native Englishman to
leave the "tight little island," with its trim beauty and proud
tradition, for the wild, unsubdued countries of the West. If loyal
Americans, as we can rightly claim to be, are so greatly charmed with
England, dear indeed it must be to those who can call it their native
land.
Winchelsea and Rye are typical of hundreds of decayed towns throughout
the Kingdom, though perhaps they are more interesting from an historic
standpoint than the others. Being so near the French coast, they
suffered terribly in the continual French and English wars and were
burned several times by the French in their descents upon the English
coast. It was nearly dark when we reached Rye; we had planned to stop
there, but the uninviting appearance of the hotel was a strong factor
in determining us to reach Tunbridge Wells, about thirty miles away.
We saw few more beautiful landscapes than those which stretched away
under the soft glow of the English twilight from the upland road leading
out of Rye. We did not have much leisure to contemplate the beauty of
the scene, but such a constant succession of delightful vistas as we
dashed along, together with the exhilaration of the fresh sea breeze,
forms a pleasing recollection that will not be easily effaced. The
twilight was beginning to fade away beneath the brilliancy of the full
moon when we ran into the village of Bodiam, where stands one of the
most perfect of the ancient castellated mansions to be found in the
Kingdom. We paused a few minutes to view it from a distance and found
ourselves directly in front of a neat-looking hotel--the Castle Inn. Its
inviting appearance, our desire to see the castle more closely, and the
fact that Tunbridge Wells was still a good many miles away over winding
roads liberally sprinkled with steep hills, led us to make Bodiam our
stopping place. There are few things that we have more reason for
rejoicing over, for we saw the gray walls and towers of Bodiam Castle
under the enchanting influence of a full, summer moon.
The castle was built in 1385 and appears to have been intended more as
a palatial residence than a feudal fortress. Its position is not a
strong one for defense, being situated on a level plain rather than upon
a commanding eminence, as is usually the case with fortified castles. It
was built after artillery had come into use, and the futility of
erecting a structure that would stand against this new engine of
destruction must have been obvious. The most remarkable feature is the
wide moat which surrounds the castle. In fact, this gives it the
appearance of standing on an island in the middle of a small lake. The
water of the moat was nearly covered by water-lilies.
The walls of the castle are wonderfully complete, every tower and turret
retaining its old-time battlements. It is supposed never to have
sustained an attack by armed forces and its present condition is due to
neglect and decay. From our point of view, it must have been an
insanitary place, standing in the low-lying fens in the midst of a pool
of stagnant water, but such reflection does not detract from its beauty.
I have never seen a more romantic sight than this huge, quadrangular
pile, with its array of battlements and towers rising abruptly out of
the dark waters of the moat. And its whole aspect, as we beheld
it--softened in outline by the mellow moonlight--made a picture that
savored more of enchantment than reality.
Although the hour was late, the custodian admitted us to the ruins and
we passed over a narrow bridge which crossed the moat. The pathway led
through a door in the great gateway, over which still hangs suspended
the iron port-cullis. Inside there was a grassy court, surrounded by the
walls and ruined apartments of the castle. I ascended one of the main
towers by a dilapidated stone stairway and was well repaid for the
effort by the glorious moonlit prospect that stretched out before me.
When we returned to the Castle Inn, we found the landlady all attention
and she spared no effort to contribute to our comfort. The little inn
was cleanlier and better kept than many of the more pretentious ones.
Bodiam is several miles from the railroad and but few tourists visit the
castle. The principal business of the hotel is to cater to parties of
English trippers who make the neighborhood a resort for fishing and
hunting.
An early start from Bodiam brought us to Tunbridge Wells before ten
o'clock in the morning. This city, although of considerable size, is
comparatively modern and has little to detain tourists. Like Harrogate
and Bath, its popularity is largely due to its mineral springs. In its
immediate neighborhood, however, there are many places of interest, and
we determined to make a circular tour among some of these, returning to
Tunbridge Wells for the night.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE FRONT BODIAM CASTLE, SUSSEX.]
A few miles from Tunbridge Wells is Offham, a little, out-of-the-way
village which boasts of a queer mediaeval relic, the only one of the
kind remaining in the Kingdom. This is called a quintain post and stands
in the center of the village green. It consists of a revolving crossbar
on the top of a tall, white post. One end of the bar is flattened and
pierced with small holes, while at the other a billet of wood is
suspended from a chain. The pastime consisted of riding on horseback and
aiming a lance at one of the holes in the broad end of the crossbar. If
the aim were true, the impact would swing the club around with violence,
and unless the rider were agile he was liable to be unhorsed--rough and
dangerous sport, but no doubt calculated to secure dexterity with the
lance on horseback. This odd relic is religiously preserved by the
village and looks suspiciously new, considering the long period since
such a pastime must have been practiced. However, this may be due to the
fact that the tenant of an adjoining cottage is required by the terms of
his lease to keep the post in good repair, a stipulation, no doubt, to
which we owe its existence.
In Westerham, a few miles farther on, we saw the vicarage where Gen.
Wolfe, the hero of Quebec, was born. His parents were tenants of this
house for a short time only, and soon after his birth they moved to the
imposing residence now known as Quebec House, and here Wolfe spent the
first twelve years of his life. It is a fine Tudor mansion and has been
little altered since the boyhood of the great warrior. Visitors are not
now admitted. There are many relics of Wolfe in Westerham, and the spot
where he received his first military commission is marked by a stone
with an appropriate inscription. Wolfe's memory is greatly revered in
England and he is looked upon as the man who saved not only Canada, but
the United States as well, to the Anglo-Saxon race.
Quite as closely connected with American history as Quebec House is the
home of William Pitt, near at hand. Holwood House, as it is called, is a
stately, classic building, situated in a great forest-clad park. It
passed out of the hands of Pitt more than a hundred years ago, and being
in possession of a private owner, is no longer open to visitors.
Passing again into the hedge-bordered byways, we came to Downe, a
retired village four miles from the railway station and known to fame as
having been the home of Charles Darwin. Downe House, where he lived, is
still standing, a beautiful old Eighteenth Century place which was
considerably altered by Darwin himself. The house at present is
evidently in the hands of a prosperous owner, for it was apparent that
watchful care is expended upon it. But it is in no sense a show-place
and the few pilgrims who come to the town must content themselves with
a glimpse from the outside.
To get a view of the place, I surreptitiously stepped through the open
gateway, the house itself being some distance from the road and
partially concealed by the hedges and trees in front of it. It is a
rather irregular, three-story building, with lattice windows surrounded
by ivy and climbing roses. It stands against a background of fir trees,
with a stretch of green lawn and flowers in front, and the whole place
had an air of quiet beauty and repose. On the front of the house was an
ancient sun-dial, and across it, in antique letters, the legend "Time
will show." I do not know whether this was placed there by Darwin or
not, but it is the most appropriate answer which the great scientist
might have made to his hosts of critics. Time has indeed shown, and the
quiet philosopher who lived in this retired village has revolutionized
the thought of the civilized world.