Southern Shropshire whose nooks and corners we are about to explore is a
pleasant, fertile country, where breezy heather-clad hills alternate
with cornfields, orchards and pastures, and rich umbrageous woodlands.
Goodly rivers such as the Severn and the Teme, besides brooks, rivulets
and trout-streams, enrich the meadows in the sunny vales, or wake the
silence of the lonely hills where the curlew and the lapwing make their
homes.
Situated upon the confines of England and Wales, this border district
forms part of the March-lands which in olden times sundered the realm of
England from the Principality, and hence one may enjoy within its
comparatively moderate compass the diversified scenery peculiar to
either country. As regards its physical features, therefore, Southern
Shropshire presents in some sort an epitome or microcosm of England
itself.
A glance at the map will show that the whole south-western corner of
Shropshire is occupied by the wild hill-country known as Clun Forest;
whence a succession of lofty ridges, such as the Stiperstones, the
Longmynd, the Caradoc Hills and Wenlock Edge, ramificate towards the
north, in shape not unlike the fingers of a hand, whereof the Clee
Hills, lying a little apart to the eastward, may be taken as
representing the thumb.
This hilly region is classic ground to the geologist. The extreme
diversity of its rock structure early attracted the attention of
students; and has been so thoroughly elucidated by Murchison, Ramsay,
Salter, Lapworth, and other eminent scientists, that nowadays as the
saying goes 'he who runs may read.'
The Severn is _the_ river par excellence of Shropshire. With its
important affluent the Teme, this noble river, in its course of more
than fifty miles through the county, receives the waters of the entire
district. After parting company with the rugged hills of Wales, the
Severn emerges upon the plains of Shropshire, and sweeps in a bold curve
around the town of Shrewsbury. Thenceforth the ever-widening river
glides onward in placid reaches past the time-honoured ruins of Roman
Uriconium, and lingers beside lush green water meadows, where the ruddy
kine stand knee-deep in the rippling shallows, and the salmon fisher
drifts by in his coracle as he spreads his nets athwart stream.
Anon the Severn, changing its character, plunges along in eddying rapids
beneath the limestone escarpments of Benthall and Wenlock Edge; then,
taking a southerly trend, it skirts the groves and terraces of Apley
Park, washes the walls of picturesque old Bridgnorth, and finally the
big river takes leave of our county amidst the rough holts and heaths of
that ancient woodland which goes by the name of Wyre Forest.
Owing to the lie of the land, the more important streams of Southern
Shropshire flow, not into the Severn itself, but into its tributary the
Teme. The northern Rea, the Cound and the Worf, it is true, find their
way direct to the former river; but the waters of the Clun, the Onny,
the Ledwych and the southern Rea, go to swell the tide of the Teme.
Dividing the county of Salop from its neighbour Herefordshire, the river
Teme pursues a devious course through some of the most delightful
scenery in all these broad March-lands. From its lonely source amidst
the hills, away beyond the Welsh border, the infant Teme comes tumbling
and prattling along beneath the rolling heights of Clun Forest, and,
passing onwards to Ludlow, meanders beside the castle walls, and flows
in a graceful arc around the rocky slopes of Whitcliff. Near Tenbury the
Teme travels into Worcestershire, which it does not quit again until it
merges its waters in those of the Severn.
With all these varied attractions, its picturesque rural landscapes, its
old-world towns and villages fraught with memories of the past, and the
thousand-and-one sights, scents and sounds, that go to make up the
indefinable charm of an English countryside, the visitor to Shropshire
may find ample opportunity to gratify his particular taste, or pursue
his favourite hobby, be it that of an artist, a sportsman, a botanist,
or a votary of the 'gentle art'; while for the cyclist, and in a still
greater measure for him who fares afoot, there lurks many a secluded
nook in the unfrequented byways, or amidst the hollows of the silent
hills; nooks where he may enjoy to heart's content the harvest of the
quiet eye.
From the antiquarian point of view, Shropshire is exceptionally
interesting. Britons, Romans, Danes, Saxons and Normans, have all played
their parts in moulding its early history, and have graven upon the
natural features of the country indelible traces of their former
domination.
That Shropshire shared to the full in the drum and trumpet history of
mediæval days, is attested by the ruined castles and strongholds to be
met with on every hand. These we shall have occasion to refer to in the
course of our rambles; so turn we now to the famous old town which forms
the centre and focus of Salopian life.
* * * * *
Just about the middle of the county, islanded almost by a bold southward
sweep of the Severn, stands Shrewsbury, the Pengwern of the old Welsh
days, the Saxon Scrobbesbyrig; an ancient borough town and the capital
of the district. Shrewsbury is a clean, cheerful, yet withal
picturesque-looking city, where the tide of modern progress rolls to and
fro along the steep old streets beside its ancient castle, past
venerable parish churches and the quaint, half-timbered mansions of the
ancienne noblesse.
Hotels and lodging-houses are not far to seek, while highroads and lines
of railway ramificate from Shrewsbury throughout the county; so the
traveller who intends to explore the nooks and corners of the
surrounding district cannot do better than take up his quarters for a
time in the proud old city upon Severn side.
The topography of Shrewsbury is tolerably simple. Encompassed on all
sides save the north by the noble river Severn, the town spreads away up
a gentle hill to the walls of its guardian castle. 'The Towne of
Shrewesbury,' says John Leland, 'standeth on a Rocky Hill of Stone of a
sad redde Earth, and Severne soe girdeth in all the Towne that, saving a
little Peice, it were an Isle.'
Right through the centre of the city, from south-east towards the west,
runs the ancient highroad, or 'reddie way,' from London to North Wales;
entering by way of the English Bridge, passing through the town under
the names of Wyle Cop, High Street and Mardol, and emerging by the Welsh
Bridge. At right angles to this thoroughfare lies Castle Street, leading
up to the gates of the old Norman stronghold, and nowadays familiar to
travellers as the road to the railway-station. Castle Street leads on to
Pride Hill, one of the busiest arteries of the city, which in its turn
is prolonged down St. John's Hill to the Quarry, a public park shaded by
avenues of lofty lime trees, affording a pleasant stroll by Severn side.
Here, some three centuries ago, Churchyard the Shropshire poet beheld:
'A space belowe to bait both Bull and Beare:
For players, too, great roume, and place at will,
And in the same a Cockpit, wondrous fayre,
Besides, where men may wrestle in their fill.'
[Illustration: SHREWSBURY SCHOOL.]
Across the river rises Shrewsbury School, the handsome modern prototype
of the older foundation in the town, encompassed by spacious demesnes
and cricket fields, the scene in bygone times of the far-famed
'Shrewsbury Show.' Abbey Foregate, with its venerable monastic church,
occupies what may be called the English side of the city; while the
ancient suburb of Frankwell climbs the hill in a westerly direction,
away beyond the Welsh Bridge.
* * * * *
We now set forth on a peregrination of the town, keeping an eye lifting
for such relics of the past as may lie upon our road, and remarking the
quaint nomenclature of some of the older streets. Immediately as we step
outside the railway-station, the old city gives us a taste of its
quality; for yonder rise the ruddy sandstone walls and round-towers of
Shrewsbury Castle, 'built in such a brave Plott,' as an old writer
observes, 'that it could have espyed a Byrd flying in every Streete.'
Originally erected by the all-powerful Roger de Montgomery, all that now
remains of the feudal castle is a Norman gateway, two massive
drum-towers of the Edwardian keep, and some remnants of the inner ward
or bailey. So long ago as Henry the Eighth's time, John Leland found the
fortress 'nowe much in mine,' and although its ancient walls were
furbished up, and a garrison put in charge to hold the place for King
Charles, it was delivered by treachery into the hands of the
Parliamentarian forces, and so escaped demolition.
Turning up-hill into Castle Gates, we espy a flight of steps leading to
a sort of raised passage, called the Dana, whence the visitor, if so
minded, may survey a large portion of Shropshire. Returning now to
Castle Gates, we bend our steps towards a dignified-looking pile of grey
stone buildings, standing a little back from the roadway.
This is the Free Library and Museum, a building that for some three
centuries did duty as the Grammar School of Shrewsbury; a school founded
by King Edward the Sixth, enlarged by Queen Elizabeth, and numbering
among its masters men like Dr. Samuel Butler and Kennedy of Cambridge,
and made famous by such scholars as Philip Sidney, Fulk Greville and
Darwin, not to mention in the same breath the execrable name of Judge
Jeffreys.
Before the entrance gateway, which is adorned with the effigies of two
scholars in quaint Jacobean costume, stands the recently erected bronze
statue of Charles Darwin, the world-renowned scientist, an alumnus, and
a native of Shrewsbury.
The interior of the building proves quite in keeping with what the
outside would lead one to expect, for the low-ceiled rooms, with their
dark oaken panelling and doors carved with the names of long-forgotten
schoolboys, seem redolent of scholarly ways; and these studious
traditions are in some sense maintained by the purposes which these
quiet chambers now serve.
Once more we steer a diagonal course athwart steep, crowded Castle
Street, and, rounding the end of a modern chapel, find ourselves
immediately vis-à-vis the object of our search. An ancient archway,
surmounted by a pair of timbered gablets, admits us to a small paved
courtyard, around three sides of which extends a group of buildings,
which in bygone days formed the Council House, and occasional abode of
no less a personage than the Lord President of the Council of the
Marches of Wales. Many a stately ceremony has doubtless graced these
venerable precincts, which still impress the visitor with their look of
faded dignity, though fallen in these latter days from their honourable
estate, and converted to the purposes of private dwelling-houses.
[Illustration: OLD COUNCIL-HOUSE SHREWSBURY.]
The picturesque Gate House, however, which figures in our sketch may
very well have witnessed that memorable incident in Shrewsbury's
corporate history, when the sturdy burgesses refused Charles the First's
offer (while staying at the Council House in 1642) to create their town
a city, an occasion that earned for them ever after the title of 'Proud
Salopians.' This fine old Gate House has been but little altered, and
bears upon its ancient timbers the date A.D. 1620. An old hall to the
rear still retains its original oak panelling and chimney-piece, charged
with fantastic devices, and dated 1634; while an upper chamber contains
a massive oak tester-bedstead, whose richly carved top is supported by
moulded pillars.
Pushing onward past Plimmer's, formerly Palin's, home of the famous
cake-compounder whose praises have been sung by Thomas Ingoldsby Esq.,
we come to the trim façade of the Raven Hotel, a commodious hostelry
whose fame goes back far into the old coaching days. Then, espying a
lofty steeple peering over the nearer housetops, we cross the head of
the lane by which Cromwell's men made their way into the town, and enter
the little green close where stands St. Mary's Church.
Built of mellow-hued, weatherworn sandstone, St. Mary's proves to be a
noble cruciform edifice, with an early south porch and parvise, and one
of the finest spires in all England. The interior, too, presents a
charming diversity, from the variety of architectural styles employed,
and is spanned by a panelled oaken ceiling richly and beautifully
wrought; while the spacious 'Jesse' window in the chancel, brought from
old Grey Friars monastery, affords a combination of sweetness and light
truly pleasant to behold. Indeed, the ancient glass in St. Mary's Church
forms quite a feature of the building; and amidst its quaint imagery St.
Bernard may be detected in the act of sweeping the excommunicated flies
out of church, and a representation of the Last Judgment with Satan
figuring as a blue boar!
Amongst other interesting monuments of greater or less antiquity, we
notice a memorial to that skilled and daring seaman Admiral Benbow, a
renowned Salopian hero, and 'true patterne of English courage,' who died
at Jamaica from honourable wounds in 1702.
Beneath the shadow of St. Mary's Church nestles a group of lowly
almshouses, a charity established some time prior to 1648. Yonder
ancient half-timbered gable, overlooking the churchyard, is the
erstwhile Hall of the Drapers' Guild, where, upon passing within, we
find ourselves in a spacious, low-ceiled chamber, entirely wainscoted
with oak, and having massive oak tables, benches and lockers, coeval
with the room. Upon the wall hangs a dark old panel-picture, commonly
supposed to be the portrait of Degory Watur, the founder, and his lady
wife, who, it is recorded, used to attend with the ministers 'dailye in
Our Ladye's Churche, and kneele with them in a long Pewe, in the guise
made for them and himselfe.' And the old bedesman who does the honours
also displays one or two ancient charters connected with the foundation,
which are jealously preserved here under lock and key.
Passing on to Pride Hill--so named from a local family of that ilk who
lived in a mansion hard by--we presently descry a narrow thoroughfare,
looking for all the world like a bit of some mediæval city. This is
Butcher Row, a quaint, old-time byway, whose ancient timbered houses
lean this way or that, in sociable good-fellowship, above the little
shops that flank the lane. A sketch of Butcher Row forms the
frontispiece to this volume.
'There they stand, crowding together, with overhanging gables, queer
dormer windows, and panelled fronts; a curious chequer-work, wherein the
broad black lines are displayed upright, horizontal and diagonal, with
varied artifice. And here and there a bracket catches the eye, or a
pent-house roof and railed recesses, and breadths of ornament on fascia
and cornice. The ground-floors recede, and shops are gloomy, and
ceilings low; and upstairs you find the same want of height and breadth
of window, by which the olden time contrived to favour at once the
picturesque, and the plague.'
Far aloft soars the graceful spire of St. Alkmond's Church,
('Stalkmun's,' in the vernacular), the nave whereof was pulled down in a
panic a century ago, after its neighbour St. Chad's had fallen, and
rebuilt in the contemptible 'style' of that period.
'In the yere 1533,' as an old chronicler tells, 'uppon Twelffe daye, in
Shrowsburie, the Dyvyll appearyd in Saint Alkmond's churche there, when
the preest was at High Masse, with great tempeste and Darknesse, soe
that as he passyd through, he mountyd upp the Steeple in the sayd
churche, tering the wyers of the clocke, and put the prynt of his Clawes
uppon the 4th Bell, and tooke one of the pynnacles awaye with hym, and
for the Tyme stayde all the Bells in the churches within the sayde
Towne, that they could neyther toll nor ringe.'
The corner building at the farther end of Butcher Row is an excellent
example of a mediæval town-house; and the beautiful though sadly defaced
carvings about its door-jambs, windows and gables, are as good as they
are rare of their kind. There is reason to suppose the Abbots of
Lilleshall made this their city abode, and that the chantry priests of
the Holy Cross found shelter in its ancient chambers.
Be that as it may, we now direct our steps towards a mere slit of a
passage, aptly designated Grope Lane; getting a passing peep of Fish
Street, and its quaint inn-sign the Three Fishes, the cognizance of the
Abbots of Lilleshall, with St. Julian's Church-tower beyond. A queer
nook indeed is this Grope Lane, just such an one as might have inspired
the author of 'A Legend of the Dark Entry'; so narrow that one may
easily touch both sides at once, and so closely overhung by the rafters
of the adjacent premises that but a strip of sky is seen.
Having weathered the intricacies of Grope Lane we enter High Street, and
turn right-about to look at the quaint old half-timbered buildings by
which it is flanked--small but very characteristic specimens of old
Salopian house-fronts, with their quatrefoil panels, twisted pilasters,
and grotesquely carved heads. Close at hand is High Street Church, a
chapel originally erected in the days of the Act of Uniformity, and
noteworthy from the fact that for a brief space of time Samuel
Coleridge, the celebrated author of the 'Ancient Mariner,' ministered
therein.
Strolling along High Street, we soon pass the entrance to The Square,
giving a passing glance at the old Market House that rises so
picturesquely there--whereof more anon,--and pausing beneath Clive's
statue to scan the determined features and stalwart bearing of that
renowned Salopian. Then we turn our attention to a group of Fine old
black-and-white gables that rise upon the opposite side of the street,
the doorway of one handsome façade bearing the inscription, ERECTED BY
RICHARD OWEN THE ELDER, GENTELMAN, ANO. DM. 1592.
Few towns in the kingdom can boast such stately survivals as these; yet
a few yards away appears a still more striking specimen of the mediæval
builder's art. Originally the town-house of the Irelands, this noble old
fabric is still known by their name, and bears upon its ancient front
the family cognizance. Four storeys high it rears its chequered walls,
topped by tall, beetling gables, and broken into play of light and shade
by ranges of oriel windows. Bits of quaint carving are seen here and
there upon bargeboard, lintel and bracket, for the old place has happily
suffered but little from modern innovations. The nicely restored
black-and-white front of Lloyd's Bank hard by keeps its venerable
neighbour well in countenance.
[Illustration: Remains of Bennett's Hall]
Finding ourselves once more on Pride Hill, we step across that busy
thoroughfare, and, passing to the rear of Mother Noblett's Toffee Shop,
with its huge, comical signboard, we see before us the pretty Gothic
doorway that figures in our sketch. Though much the worse for neglect,
and fallen sadly into disrepair, this ancient sandstone structure is
clearly the work of at least two periods. The shaft and capital on the
left, with the broken archway above it, are of the style known as Early
English; while the graceful pointed arch, with its floreated cusps and
traces of ball-flower ornamentation, are evidently a later insertion,
and probably date from the latter part of the thirteenth century. A wide
stone arch, part of which may be noticed above the passage-way, supports
the floor of the room within; and a small arched recess, near the head
of the steps, appears to have been used as a holy-water stoup.
From these indications it is considered probable the little building
before us was at one time the private chapel of Bennett's Hall, the city
residence of the Abbot of Haughmond, who, according to the custom of
those days, had a town-house in the capital of the county.
Portions of ancient domestic buildings may be traced at the back of the
chapel, including the stonework of a good-sized hall, and some
indications of a large window. There is a tradition that these buildings
were at one time used as a mint; and the fact that a kind of oven, or
hearth, formerly existed here gives colour to the story.
[Illustration: A Byeway in Old Shrewsbury.]
Laying a course towards the tall clock-tower of the new Market Hall, we
now descend Pride Hill and turn to the right into Mardol, a steep,
oldfashioned street, boasting several half-timbered house-fronts dating
as far back as the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. About half-way
down we strike into a byway called Hill's Lane, at the corner whereof
rises an ancient frontage whose oaken beams display the date 1440. This
narrow lane, zig-zagging through one of the oldest quarters of the town,
is frequented on market-days by country folk, when the mother-tongue of
old Salopia may be heard in all its pristine purity.
After passing one or two oldfashioned inns of the humbler sort, we
stumble unexpectedly upon a lordly dwelling, standing somewhat aloof
from its dingy neighbours, and presenting an air of dilapidated
gentility, like an out-at-elbows aristocrat making shift to maintain his
dignity amidst a crowd of tatterdemalions.
Built of dark-red brick, with stone mullions, quoins and copings, this
fine old Tudor mansion is believed to have been erected by one William
Rowley, draper, and sometime alderman of Shrewsbury, about the beginning
of the seventeenth century, and is still called Rowley's Mansion. Sad it
is to see the woful plight into which the stately old fabric has fallen,
the beautiful porch that once adorned its entrance torn away and
destroyed, its mullioned windows yawning wide to wind and rain, and each
delicately-traceried ceiling thrown down, or utterly defaced. By
strolling into the yard of the old Ship Inn, we get another glimpse of
Rowley's mansion; its soaring gables and chimney stacks grouping
picturesquely, from this point, with the meaner outhouses and dwellings
by which it is surrounded.
[Illustration: Old Market House Shrewsbury.]
We next thread our way through several rather intricate lanes, until,
crossing Mardol Head, we soon find ourselves once more in The Square,
the very heart of this ancient city. Here the old Market House at once
claims our attention; a venerable sandstone structure supported, as our
sketch will show, upon a series of semicircular arches, and buttressed
at the angles. Overhead its time-stained walls are pierced with
mullioned windows, and relieved against the skyline by quaint, fantastic
battlements. That clock aloft in the gable is _said_ to occupy the place
of the one Falstaff referred to when declaring that, against tremendous
odds, he had 'fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock.' Be that as it
may, we are on surer ground when considering the figure in the canopied
niche below; for an inscribed panel alongside announces that 'This
statue was removed by order of the Mayor from the tower on the Welsh
Bridge in the year 1791.' The effigy, that of a knight in full armour,
has a stiff, archaic appearance, and is usually supposed to represent
Edward IV., father of Richard, Duke of York. Below this figure, in
antiquated characters, are the words: THE XV DAY OF IUNE WAS THIS
BUYLDING BEGONN, WM JONES AND THOS. CHARLTON GENT. THEN BAYLIFFES, AND
WAS ERECTED AND COVERED IN THEIR TIME. The opposite gable has a similar
niche, with the figure of an angel bearing a shield charged with the
Arms of England and France, and a half-obliterated sundial. A richly
carved canopy upon the western front encloses the arms of Queen
Elizabeth, and the date of the erection of the building, 1596.
Over against the old Market House, on the eastern side of The Square,
rises an ancient timbered dwelling which goes by the name of Lloyd's
House. Its rugged beams are curiously carved; grotesque faces leer upon
the passer-by from finial and bracket; and the builder's initials are
ingeniously interwoven amidst the ornamentation of the weatherworn
bargeboard. Glancing backwards from the adjacent lane, we notice how the
nodding gables and chimneys of Lloyd's mansion, one end of the old
Market House, and a good eighteenth-century building beyond, combine to
form a characteristic street scene. Then we push onwards again in search
of other quarry.
Traversing a disused cemetery, we come to the Lady Chapel, and only
relic, of old St. Chad's, a venerable church which collapsed suddenly in
1788, after surviving the changes and chances of time, it is said, for
over a thousand years.
An odd little alley now beguiles our footsteps, where an oldfashioned
inn, its prominent signboard overtopped by St. Julian's church-tower,
appears as set in a frame beneath an ancient archway. Thence we turn to
the right, and pass a handsome new building on the site of Shearmen's
Hall, an ancient foundation that in its time had played many parts, as a
theatre, a chapel, a warehouse and a shop!
Thus we enter Wyle Cop,--how runs the verse?
'They hew, and they hack, and they chop;
And, to finish the whole, they stick up a pole,
In the place that's still called the Wylde Coppe,
And they pop
Your grim, gory head on the top!'
Several attractive-looking old structures confront us as we descend the
steep pavement, prominent amongst them the ancient abode that figures
upon page 15. This picturesque façade, with its blackened timbers and
pretty traceried window adorned by coats of arms, has an added interest
from the fact that it is 'Ye auncient house in which King Henry the VII
loged, when he went to Bosworth Field, Augst 1485.' So at least the
panel beneath the window has it, though Henry, of course, was but Harry
of Richmond until that fateful battle had won for him the crown.
[Illustration: Old Houses in Wyle Cop. Shrewsbury.]
While exploring the vicinity of Wyle Cop, many another bit of old
Shrewsbury is brought to light, notably the nicely restored frontage of
the Unicorn Hotel; and, hidden away amidst some poor cottages by Severn
side, a few scanty relics of Grey Friars' monastery, in its time one of
the stateliest religious houses in Shrewsbury. Thenceforward we hug the
river brink until, coming to the English Bridge, we traverse it, and
find ourselves in the broad thoroughfare called Abbey Foregate--
'A long greate streate, well buildid, large and faire,
In as good Ayre as may be wisht with wit;
Where Abbey stands, and is such ringe of Belles,
As is not found from London unto Welles.'
These lines by Churchyard, the old Shropshire poet, still hold good in
the main, though railway encroachments have much to answer for. But the
pièce de résistance is happily still there, and the ruddy, timeworn
tower of the Abbey Church now rises before us, while its mellow-toned
bells speak for themselves, pealing out a quaint, merry chime upon the
springlike air as we draw near.
Originally amongst the noblest and wealthiest Abbeys of the Benedictine
order in England, this venerable edifice remains to this day one of the
few ancient religious houses in everyday use as a parish church. It was
founded by no less a personage than Roger de Montgomery, William the
Conqueror's kinsman and vicegerent in the Welsh March-lands; who, life's
fitful fever ended, lies buried here in his own Abbey Church of St.
Peter and St. Paul.
Earl Roger's foundation was probably cruciform in shape, and the central
portion of the church is part of the original fabric, displaying the
thick, massive pillars and rounded arches, characteristic of the Norman
period. In pleasant contrast with their rude simplicity rises a group of
gracefully proportioned, pointed arches of a later date; while the tall,
slender traceries of the Perpendicular windows, lend a certain air of
lightness to the whole. A flat oaken ceiling spans the lofty interior,
which cannot fail to impress every beholder by its air of spacious and
reposeful dignity.
In the south aisle we notice a recumbent and much defaced stone effigy,
which, according to a brass plate upon the adjacent wall, represents
'Sir Roger de Montgomery, Second in command of the army of his kinsman,
William the Conqueror, at the Battle of Hastings, the First of the
Family of Montgomery in England. He was advanced to high honour as the
Over-lord of many counties, and created Earl of Shrewsbury. He founded
this church and abbey, wherein he, as a Brother of the Benedictine
Order, died the 1st of August, MXCV.' The monuments in the Abbey Church
will reward a close examination.
[Illustration: Ancient Pulpit in Shrewsbury.]
In the course of a walk around the outside of the church, we remark the
noble proportions of the great west window, surmounted by a canopied
niche, with its mailed figure reputed to represent King Edward III., a
picturesque two-storied north porch, and the lofty walls of Mr.
Pearson's new chancel. Thence we pass across the street, where, a
pathetic object amidst such grimy environments, stands the ancient
stone pulpit shown in our sketch, in the midst of a railway coal-yard!
This graceful structure dates from the early part of the fourteenth
century, and its cusped and richly moulded arches are charming examples
of Decorated work. The panels below are adorned with delicately
sculptured figures representing St. Peter, St. Paul, and other saints;
while the groined ceiling inside the arches is crowned by a large carved
boss, or keystone, emblematical of the Crucifixion.
Very picturesque looks this gem of Gothic art, its grey old stones
scored and wrinkled by the tooth of Time, whose ravages are but
partially concealed by a mantle of fresh green ivy. At one time the
Abbey precincts appear to have extended far and wide in this direction,
but the exigencies of modern travel and traffic have played sad havoc
with the old, monkish habitation.
This beautiful pulpit is the last remnant of the old monastic buildings,
that once nestled beneath the adjacent Abbey Church. It was attached to
the refectory, and was doubtless intended for the use of the monk whose
duty it was to read to the brethren at meal-times. Its other side gave
upon the courtyard of the monastery, and we may suppose that open-air
sermons were occasionally delivered from it.
Our sketch completed, we now turn aside from Abbey 'Forrit,' to visit
the large red sandstone mansion, paradoxically dubbed 'Whitehall.' It is
recorded that Richard Prince, its builder, commenced the erection of his
house in the year of grace 1578, but that it was not completed until
1582, 'soe was it iiij yeares in buyldinge, to hys greate chardge, with
fame to hym and hys posteritie for ever.' Prince's 'fame' in the matter
is somewhat discounted, however, by the fact that he built his dwelling
with stones torn from the fabric of the ancient Abbey, then but lately
disestablished; and, in order to disguise them, caused the walls to be
whitewashed, which gave rise to its name of Whitehall.
The building is a very fine specimen of an Elizabethan mansion, with
mullioned windows, high-peaked gables, and the tall, detached
chimney-stacks one knows so well. The gatehouse and dovecot are
interesting features, and the lawn at the rear of the mansion is
overshadowed by a magnificent walnut tree, as old, we should suppose, as
Whitehall itself.
We now push on to St. Giles's Church, turning aside to climb to the
summit of Lord Hill's Column, and enjoy the wide and varied prospect
over hill and dale, town and river, that its balcony affords.
St. Giles's is considered to be one of the oldest churches in
Shrewsbury; yet, owing to repeated restoration--'a name that,' as has
been well said, 'covers more sins than charity itself,'--a casual
observer might easily mistake it for a brand-new edifice. The church
owes its foundation, we believe, to King Henry I., who established here
a hospital or asylum for lepers, of whom St. Giles was regarded as the
special patron. A Norman doorway admits us to the interior, which,
though rigorously swept and garnished, still retains one or two of its
original windows filled with scraps of ancient stained glass, and a
richly moulded archway of rather later date.
Out in the churchyard stands a curious octagonal stone, with a
good-sized square recess, several inches deep, in its upper side. It is
known as the Pest Basin, and dates from the days when the plague was
raging in Shrewsbury, during the seventeenth century. The custom was for
the townsfolk to cast their money into the water in this basin, whence
it was taken out by the country people in payment for the 'loaves and
fishes' they supplied, thus avoiding in some sort the risk of actual
contagion.
One of the tombstones here is inscribed with the following laconic
legend:
'Here Charles Rathbon hee doth lie
And by misfortun hee did dye
On the 17th of July--1751.'
Through the quiet of the gloaming we now wend our way townwards again,
the roofs and steeples of old Shrewsbury showing darkly silhouetted
against the golden west as we cross the English Bridge. Thereafter, over
a pipe in the chimney-nook of our hostelry, we fall to 'babbling o'
green fields' and poring over Ordnance maps, intending on the morrow's
morn to quit these scenes of our 'daily walks and ancient
neighbourhood,' and fare forth into the open country.
[Illustration: Old Windmill at Lyth Hill.]