From Wellington, a short spin by train brings us to Donnington station.
Here we alight, and, running the gauntlet of some grimy ironworks, we
strike into a cross-country road and make for Lilleshall Abbey. Anon we
espy the graceful ruins, overtopped by a wooded hill, with the stately
grey façade of Lilleshall House shewing up well amidst a setting of
luxuriant foliage.
[Illustration: Lilleshall Abbey. Shropshire.]
Turning across the meadows, we now make the best of our way to the old
ruined Abbey. The most striking feature still remaining is the rich,
late-Norman portal of the west front, which, with a fragment of one
slender, ivy-clad tower, figures prominently in our sketch. A beautiful
Norman doorway, with bold chevron ornamentation upon pillars and arch,
gives access to the choir, the oldest portion of the edifice. Eastwards
extends the church devoted to the monks; westwards, the people's church,
built at a later date.
To the south, around a square cloister court, rise the ruins of the
monastic buildings, the chapter-house, the parlour, the refectory; and
beyond these again lay the large fishponds, the dovecot, etc.
All is now far gone into a state of ruin and decay, over which Nature
has spread her mantle of luxuriant ivy; while wind and weather have
combined to add their softening touches. Set in the midst of a green,
tranquil landscape, 'the world forgetting, by the world forgot,' this
venerable pile seems redolent of memories from dim, mediæval days, when
life went forward in quite another fashion from these hard-driven,
high-pressure times.
From an excellent local handbook by the late C. C. Walker, Esq., we
glean the following particulars anent the history of Lilleshall Abbey.
'The Convent of the Monastery of the Blessed Virgin Mary at Lilleshull'
was founded, about the middle of the twelfth century, for monks of the
Order of St. Augustine; Philip de Belmeis, Lord of Tong, being the first
Patron of the monastery.
The establishment received charters from more than one of our Kings,
besides gifts and benefactions from many pious donors. Yet, in spite of
all these riches, the worthy Abbots had much ado to make both ends meet,
so great was the host of needy pilgrims that daily came clamouring at
their gates, as they journeyed to and fro along Watling Street.
By-and-by came the Dissolution; when the monastery was abolished, the
Abbey lands leased to Sir William Cavendish, and the reversion of the
whole demesne sold by Henry VIII. to James Leveson, of Wolverhampton,
ancestor of the Dukes of Sutherland, in whose family the estate has
continued ever since.
About a mile west of the Abbey ruins, at the foot of an abrupt, rocky
hill, whence the place takes its name, stands Lilleshall village, with
its ancient parish church. Lilleshall church, as we now see it, dates
from the early part of the thirteenth century; having in all probability
supplanted an earlier structure, whereof the font, a very old stone
vessel carved in a primitive manner, is perhaps the only survival.
In the grounds of the old Hall, a stuccoed, gabled house at the entrance
to the village, is a large pool, or lakelet, whose waters formerly
served to turn the wheel of the Abbey Mill mentioned in Domesday Record.
Lille's-hill, the Hill of Lilla, the Saxon, stands but a bowshot off
from the church. Rising amidst a flattish country, it commands an
extensive panorama in the direction of the west; though itself of so
modest a height that the bulky obelisk, to some defunct Duke of
Sutherland, with which it is crowned, seems quite to dwarf the
monticle.
[Illustration: Shiffnal. Shropshire.]
Due south, as the crow flies, from Lilleshall Abbey lies Shiffnal, a
little old market town, whither we now betake ourselves. Emerging from
the mirky Shropshire coalfield, the train runs near the ruins of Malins
Lee chapel, a diminutive edifice of early Norman date; and then, passing
over a tall viaduct, gives us a bird's-eye view of red-tiled roofs and a
ruddy sandstone church, as it enters Shiffnal station. Whether or no
owing to the warm, mellow tints of these antique buildings, there is a
kind of homely air about this quiet townlet; and its principal inn, the
Jerningham Arms, is a model of what a country inn should be; though,
like some members of the fair sex, it conceals its real age, being much
older than the date 1705, inscribed upon the front, would lead one to
suppose.
There are several ancient houses dotted about the town, of which a good
coup d'oeil is obtained by taking one's stand beneath the big railway
arch that spans the High Street, whence our sketch was taken.
Notice the substantial-looking house upon the left, a very old building
with an early eighteenth-century brick front, and quaint, glazed turret
atop. Beyond it is seen a group of half-timbered gables, with carved
bargeboards, brackets and moulded beams; while a smaller house of
similar character keeps them in countenance across the way.
[Illustration: Shiffnal Church.]
St. Andrew's church, a fine, cruciform structure, begun about 1180 A.D.,
rises beside the Bridgnorth road, on the western flank of the town.
From its southern side projects a wide stone porch, with a curious
chamber, called a parvise, above it. Enshrouded by dark yews, and with
the old, weatherworn tower soaring overhead, this porch makes an
excellent study for the artist's pencil.
Within, the church wears a somewhat sombre air, owing to the rich,
subdued colour of its ancient masonry. The nave is covered by a handsome
hammer-beam roof; while four lofty, elegant arches span the crossing
beneath the central tower. Eastward of the crossing we get a glimpse of
the original Norman chancel arch, with a bit of carved work above it;
and the tracery of the east window, though simple, strikes us as good in
style.
Beneath an arched recess in the north wall of the chancel lies the
figure of a tonsured priest, cut in stone, with the following
inscription: HERE . LIETH . THE . BODY . OF . THOMAS . FORSTER . SOME .
TIME . PRIOR . OF . WOMBRIDGE . WARDEN . OF . TONGUE . & . VICAR . OF .
IDSALL . 1526: Idsall, it may be observed, is the olden form of
Shiffnal, and Tongue is the modern Tong.
A couple of instances of longevity in connection with this place are too
good to be missed. Born at Shiffnal in 1590, William Wakley was buried
at Adbaston in 1714, aged 124. Mary Yates, another veteran, lived to the
ripe old age of 127 years. She is said to have walked from Shiffnal to
London when only seventeen, just after the Great Fire of London, in
1666.
Southward from Shiffnal the infant Worf ripples along through a quiet,
agricultural country; with a number of old paper mills strung along its
course like beads upon a string, and villages and country seats dotted
about on the neighbouring uplands.
Overlooking this pleasant vale rises Brimstree Hill, an admirable
view-point within easy strolling distance from Shiffnal. 'Mornin',
sirs,' says a carter, giving us the sele of the day, as he stops to
breathe his team on the brow of the hill. 'Come to look about yer, like?
There's many a one I've seen a-standin' here, same as you be, to look at
the country yander. It's bin plaguey whot a-comin' up the bank, but we
shanna be long now afore we gets to th' Horseshoe.' So, accepting this
pretty broad hint, we drop a coin into friend carter's ready fist, and,
turning over an adjacent stile, proceed to spy out the land.
And well worth coming to see it proves, for, though our present
elevation is but slight, it gives us an outlook over a lordly landscape.
As George Borrow very aptly remarks, 'What a beautiful country is
England! People run abroad to see beautiful countries, and leave their
own behind unknown, unnoticed, their own, the most beautiful!'
Returning to Shiffnal, we proceed thence towards Tong: traversing a
broken, undulating country chequered with woodlands, sandy warrens and
cornfields, where the young wheat is shot with the scarlet gleam of the
poppies. In yonder meadow haymaking is in full swing, the women's aprons
fluttering to the breeze, the high-piled waggon half smothered beneath
its big, sweet-scented load, and some labouring men resting under the
hedgerow. Rooks are swaying hither and thither in the wind, and
clustering about the tops of the tall elms in the foreground--altogether
one of those breezy, rural scenes, that David Cox and John Linnel knew
so well how to portray.
[Illustration: Tong Castle.]
Presently we traverse a secluded dingle, with regiments of foxgloves
standing sentinel along the laneside, and ferns and wildflowers galore
draping the glades beyond. Then, approaching our destination, the
country opens out, revealing a richly timbered vale where silvery meres
meander in long, still, reed-fringed reaches, and swans sail to and fro
amidst the water-lilies. Hence we get a charming peep of Tong Castle, a
large stone mansion of curiously bizarre architecture, with an old
tree-begirt pigeon-house mirrored in the placid waters of the mere.
The original castle had a venerable history, if we are to credit the
following tradition. Once upon a time Hengist, the Saxon, having aided
King Vortigern in his wars, was offered by that monarch as much land as
an ox-hide would enclose. Thereupon the wily Teuton hit upon the device
of cutting an ox-hide into narrow strips, wherewith he enclosed a goodly
cantle of land, and upon it built Tong Castle.
[Illustration: Tong Church.]
Now Tong Church is seen ahead, crowning the brow of a gentle rise, with
the ivy-clad ruins of the ancient 'College and Almose House,' stretching
down towards the mere below; a place which, as John Leland tells us, was
'an Auncient Foundation of the Vernons of Haddon in the Peke.'
In 'The Old Curiosity Shop,' Charles Dickens has given us this
fascinating glimpse of Tong Church. "See--here's the church!" cried the
delighted schoolmaster in a low voice; "and that old building close
beside it is the school-house, I'll be sworn." It was a very aged,
ghostly place; the church had been built many hundreds of years ago, and
had once had a convent or monastery attached; for arches in ruins,
remains of oriel windows, and fragments of blackened walls, were yet
standing; while other portions of the old building, which had crumbled
away and fallen down, were mingled with the churchyard earth, and
overgrown with grass.'
'They admired everything--the old grey porch, the mullioned windows, the
venerable gravestones dotting the green churchyard, the ancient tower,
the very weathercock: the brown thatched roofs of cottage, barn and
homestead, peeping from among the trees; the stream that rippled by the
distant water-mill; the blue Welsh mountains far away.'
Though perhaps the old church is not now in quite so picturesque a state
of decay, this description holds good in the main to-day; and our sketch
may convey some idea of its outward appearance.
[Illustration: At Tong Church.]
Upon stepping within we discern, by the 'dim, religious light' that
filters through traceried windows, a venerable interior crowded with
sculptured tombs, old gothic screens and curiously carved stall work;
all so richly wrought in alabaster, wood and stone, as to repay the
closest examination. The Vernon and Pembrugge tombs, indeed, are
considered the finest of their kind in Shropshire, and a detailed
description of them would fill a good-sized volume.
A 'leper's' door gives access to the vestry, which contains a library of
rare old tomes, stoutly bound in faded parchment; and a wonderful piece
of ecclesiastical needlework, wrought by the nuns of Whiteladies, Heaven
knows how many years ago.
[Illustration: A Treasure from Tong.]
Then there is the beautiful Cup, or Chalice, which figures upon this
page.
This Cup, which is probably of foreign workmanship, is of silver-gilt,
richly chased with delicate, scrolly patterns, and a small leaf
ornamentation around the middle part, which has crystal in lieu of
glass, and lions' heads upon the three upright supporters. The top is
formed as a removable lid, and is surmounted by a small knop; and the
base is relieved by scrolls, and boldly emphasized mouldings.
Authorities differ as to the use which this interesting and unique Cup
was originally intended to serve; but it has been suggested that it was
either a 'ciborium,' to contain the reserved sacrament, or a
'monstrance,' for displaying the sacred wafer. It was presented to Tong
church by Lady Eleanor Harries, about 1625, but is supposed to have
previously belonged to the old College established here by the Vernons
in the fifteenth century.
[Illustration: Sir Arthur Vernon.]
The Vernon Chantry, or 'Golden Chapel,' as it is called, forms a small
but richly ornamented annexe on the south side of the church. It was
'ffounded,' as an inscription attests, by Sir Henry Vernon, in 1515,
and contains, in a niche upon its western wall, a curious half-length
stone effigy of Sir Arthur Vernon, sometime Warden of Tong College, to
whom there is a brass upon the floor. At the opposite end of the chapel
is the ancient altar stone, with the five consecrational crosses incised
upon it.
Having paid a visit to the Great Bell, one of the 'lions' of Tong, and
glanced at the quaint bellringers' 'Laws' set up in the tower, we now
bid farewell to Tong church, and, traversing the tranquil village, pause
at the lodge-gate of Tong castle to examine the fantastic devices carved
upon its stonework.
Then, with the sunshine lying broad on copse and meadow, we set forth
anew into the country lanes; and soon espy an old sandstone quarry
choked up with nettles and bramble bushes, whence, as one may suppose,
the masons drew their stones for the building of Tong church.
By-and-by a secluded lane receives us, a lane so grass-grown and
untrodden, that haymakers are busy making hay upon its long green track.
[Illustration: Hubbal Grange, or Penderel's Cot.]
Thence without meeting a soul en route we come presently to Hubbal
Grange, or Penderel's Cot, as it is sometimes called; a lonely cottage,
with some signs of age about it. Indeed, by all accounts, the place
seems to have been little altered since King Charles II., in the guise
of Will Jones, the woodman, journeyed hither on his wanderings; and was
befriended by Dame Joan Penderel, the mistress of the house, and by
'Trusty Dick,' her son.
From Hubbal Grange we get a direction for Whiteladies. 'It isn't a very
gain road for a stranger to find,' says the mistress of the cottage,
'but there's huntin' wickets all the way. Keep along by th'urdles, and
follow the rack under th'ood, and you'll find a glatt in the hedge as'll
lead you down to the brook, just by a bit of a plank-way.'
So off we set across country, coming after awhile to an ivy-clad ruin,
standing in a secluded spot under the lee of a wood. Giving this the
go-by for the present, we now traverse the wood and hasten on to
Boscobel; leaving upon our left the tree crowned monticle, where
Cromwell's troopers entrenched themselves to overawe the neighbourhood.
[Illustration: Boscobel House.]
Anon the old Manor-house, or Hunting-lodge, of Boscobel comes in view,
with the royal oak in the foreground, and a belt of dark woodlands
beyond; a scene ever memorable in English history as the refuge of the
unhappy Charles II., after his flight from Worcester field.
Everyone is familiar with the incidents of that romantic drama; how King
Charles took to flight, with Cromwell's riders hard upon his heels; how,
disguised as Will Jones, a simple peasant man, he wandered through
Brewood Forest, with the trusty Penderels to guide the way; how the
royal fugitive took up his lodging in the hidie-holes of Boscobel House,
until, the hue-and-cry waxing ever more close and keen, the King was at
last forced to seek a precarious refuge amidst the branches of the now
famous oak, while the faithful Dame Joan 'gathered sticks, and diverted
the horsemen from the oak his majesty was in.'
This oak tree, or rather a scion of the same stock, rises in a meadow
a few hundred yards south from the house, the observed of all observers
when tourists come a-sight-seeing to Boscobel. The pros-and-cons of its
pedigree have proved a fruitful topic of debate among the learned in
forest-lore, and the question is likely to remain sub judice for many a
day to come. So having made our salaam to 'King Charles's Oak,' we now
repair without more ado to the ancient Manor-house itself.
[Illustration: Boscobel.]
Opening a green door in the boundary wall, we find ourselves in a
quaint, oldfashioned garden, with formal parterres and neatly paved
pathways, where, traced in white pebbles, we decipher the
half-obliterated legend ... QUINQUE . FRATRUM . DE . STIRPE . PENDEREL .
or some such words as those, and the date 1651. Atop of a raised bank
in the corner yonder stands 'the pretty arbour in Boscobel Garden, which
grew upon a mount, where his Majesty spent some time of the Lord's day
in reading, and commended the place for its retiredness.'
Very picturesque and sequestered the old Manor-house looks as we draw
near, with its barns and outbuildings, and goodly array of haystacks in
the barton. What tales could the old place unfold, were it but endowed
with the gift of speech to describe the stirring scenes it has witnessed
in days of yore. Deep within that huge chimney-stack was concealed a
secret stair, whence, in times of stress, a fugitive could escape from
the house through a door disguised beneath the ivy; while the windows
above are not windows at all, but mere painted imitations.
But let us look within. We first enter the 'parlour or music room,' a
large apartment with wainscoted walls, and moulded oak beams in the
ceiling, and a rather curious black marble chimney-piece. Though
considerably modernized, it is a handsome room enough; and upon its
walls hang oil portraits of Charles II. and Oliver Cromwell.
Dame Penderel Anno Dom 1662.
Thence we pass on into a small panelled chamber, used by the King as a
study, or private oratory. It is draped with faded tapestry, and
contains a copy of a remarkable portrait of Dame Penderel, whereby
'hangs a tale.' An old canvas, which for many years had been used as a
'drawer' for a kitchen fireplace, proved, upon being cleaned, to be a
portrait of Joan Penderel, mother of the young men who assisted King
Charles in his escape. It was probably the work of some local artist,
and bears the inscription DAME . PENDERIL . ANNO . DOM . 1662. A glance
at the portrait will shew a countenance full of quiet dignity and
character, surmounted by a queer, peaked, gipsy hat, a white coif
falling around the face, and the red rose held between thumb and finger.
Upon the floor of this chamber stands an ancient coffer, carved with a
very quaint representation of the Royal Oak, and the words C . R .
BOSCOBEL . 1651. This coffer is depicted at the end of the present
chapter.
Upstairs we are shewn the secret closet that opens into the great
outside chimney already referred to. Then, clambering to the garret, a
trap-door is lifted at the head of the stairs, revealing the dark,
narrow hole, into which the unfortunate monarch had to squeeze himself
whenever his enemies drew nigh. A short ladder leads down into it; and,
when Charles was in hiding here, cheeses were rolled over the spot, so
that His Majesty might lurk in security, if not exactly in comfort.
Hence a rude stairway, fashioned in the thickness of the wall,
communicates with the lower hidie-hole, enabling the refugee to escape
outside the house by means of the chimney stair before mentioned.
Bidding farewell to Boscobel, we now retrace our steps to the old ruin
beside the wood. Here in the depths of Brewood Forest was founded, in
Richard Plantagenet's reign, a Cistercian nunnery, which, on account of
the white habit of the nuns, was called Whiteladies; in
contradistinction to the Black Ladies of the Benedictine monastery, just
across the Staffordshire border.
The establishment appears to have continued, with more or less
prosperity, until the date of the Dissolution of the Monasteries; but
then John Leland's note of 'Byrwoode, a Priory of White Nunnes, lately
suppressid, in the very Marche of Shropshire into Darbyshire,' tells its
own tale of surrender and spoliation.
Of the conventual buildings little now remains save the north wall of a
chapel of Norman date, with several circular-headed windows, a good
Norman doorway with a cusp-like ornamentation around the head, and a
large arch opening into a transept, now gone. Such slight fragments of
carved work as remain, upon capital or string-course, are refined in
character.
[Illustration: At Whiteladies.]
Dotted about the greensward are seen a number of ancient headstones,
only one of which has any interest for us here. Thus runs the faded
epitaph: HERE . LIETH . THE . BODIE . OF . A . FRIENDE . THE . KING .
DID . CALL . DAME . JOAN : BUT . NOW . SHE . IS . DECEAST . AND . GONE :
ANNO . DOM . 1669: This is that worthy Dame Joan Penderel who, with her
stalwart sons, rendered such yeoman service to Charles II. in time of
need; and whose portrait we have lately seen at Boscobel House. A large,
rambling, half-timbered mansion, which originally formed part of the
monastic building, has long since disappeared, leaving not one stone
upon another. It is illustrated in Blount's 'Boscobel.'
With sun and wind in our faces we now set out for Albrighton, a
fieldpath helping every now and again to cut off a corner of the road,
and lending variety to the route.
This summer breeze, sweet from the clover-scented meadows, comes very
welcome to way-worn, travel-stained tramps. Nature's green carpet
underfoot is damasked with buttercups, great white ox-eye daisies, and
many another wildflower; while the hemlock weaves its fairylike fringe
along the skirts of the hedgerow. The soaring lark pours down her melody
as she climbs the sky, and every copse and spinny resounds with the
'charm' of feathered songsters.
But heaven's artillery now mutters in the distance; the birds soon hush
their voices in the woods; vast cumulus clouds arise, and blot out the
jolly sunshine; the breeze dies quite away, and the sultry air seems big
with coming storm.
Suddenly down plumps the rain, in splashes first, as large as
sixpenny-pieces; but anon with a steady downpour that drives one into
waterproof gear. The brunt of the battle, however, is not for us; the
cloud-wrack and tempest rolling away over the country in confused,
towering masses, like an army in full retreat; while shafts of sunlight
skirmish athwart the landscape in pursuit of the flying foe.
The rain ceasing as suddenly as it began, we push on along the lonely
road; with a little, dry, dusty Sahara under each tree overhanging the
pathway, and blue puddles in every wheel-rut, like bits of the sky
tumbled out of their places. The woodlands re-echo once more to the pipe
of thrush, piefinch and blackbird; and the parched foliage renews its
youth in the genial, life-giving moisture.
Meanwhile, as the hedgerows, all a-sparkle with raindrops, go twinkling
by, we fall to 'blowing the cool tobacco cloud, and watching the white
wreaths pass;' and vowing that, let tarry-at-home folk say what they
will, there's no such thing as bad weather!
So we jog merrily onward; now meeting a waggoner loading timber at a
farmyard gate, anon passing the time of day with an old country woman
tending her cow by the laneside. Nothing much worthy of note is seen
until, drawing nigh our destination, we come to a place called
Humphreston, where the lane takes a sudden turn.
Here we find a large old timbered farmhouse, with huge oak beams in the
ceiling of its roomy kitchen, and carved panelling around some of the
better rooms; and doors upstairs that still retain their original
wrought iron hinges and wooden thumb-latches. The place must formerly
have been surrounded by a moat, for a part of it yet remains, besides a
good stone doorway in the adjacent boundary wall--altogether a notable
old house, which looks as if it might have had a history. Who knows but
what it is named after that Humphrey Penderel, Miller of Whiteladies
Mill, whose horse had the honour of carrying, as he declared, 'the price
of three kingdoms on his back'?
Thence it is but a mile to The Crown at Albrighton, a fine, upstanding
old inn, shewing a ruddy, genial-looking gabled front towards the
village street, and boasting withal one of the best bowling-greens in
the county. So calling in to test the quality of mine host's ale,
half-an-hour slips away in no time as we take our ease in the bar
parlour, before starting forth to investigate our new neighbourhood.
[Illustration: Albrighton.]
Guided by the sound of bells, we soon find our way to Albrighton church,
which, overlooking a placid mere, rises beside the highway at the
farther end of the village.
Though considerably restored, the church is not devoid of interest, a
good rose window in the gable of the north aisle being a noticeable
feature, as also are the curious circular openings on either side the
belfry windows.
In the chancel, carved in marble, John Talbot of Grafton lies in state
beside his lady wife; while Master Leonard Smallpage of Pepperhill has
to content himself with a bald stone slab, outside in the chilly
churchyard. But he had a goodly dwelling in his time, as we shall
presently see.
A bowshot away towards the north, beyond the lake-like mere, stands a
rival church, St. Cuthbert's, the parish church of Donington. On the way
thither we turn aside to take a look at St. Cuthbert's well, a perennial
spring of water much resorted to in bygone days as a cure for sore eyes.
Donington church, like its neighbour across the water, has been largely
renovated in recent times. Its thirteenth-century chancel has some
interesting features; a good oak roof, supported upon carved brackets,
overarches the nave, and some massive oak pews with enriched panels are
to be found in the north aisle.
We now retrace our steps as far as The Crown at Albrighton, and,
following a by-lane, come presently to Boningale, one of those quiet,
out-of-the-way hamlets on the road to nowhere, whither the echoes of
this eager nineteenth century seem scarce to penetrate, and where one's
footfall in the silent street brings the villagers agape to their open
doors.
[Illustration: Old Well-Cover at Pepperhill. Albrighton.]
A handful of antiquated cottages and small farmhouses, and a little
green churchyard with headstones bowered in roses, are soon left behind.
Anon, after passing The Horns, a wayside posting house, we strike into a
lane leading to the south, and hark away through some broken country to
Pepperhill, a curious old dwelling-house standing all by itself, close
upon the Staffordshire border.
Built upon an outcrop of the sandstone rock, the house occupies a
commanding position, having probably superseded a structure of
considerably greater antiquity. The present edifice, partly constructed
of brick, partly of stone, has a mighty chimney stack projecting from
its southern end; and now affords a home for several cottagers.
The main building has been tastefully fitted up as a rural residence by
Colonel Thorneycroft, of Wolverhampton. A kind of observatory has been
formed upon the roof, whence a wide and beautiful prospect is obtained
towards the west and south.
In the garden hard by rises the curious stone structure shewn in the
sketch on p. 169. For want of a better term, it has been called a
Fountain, though amongst the country folk it goes by the name of the
'Pepperbox.' It is hexagonal in plan; of Italian, or classic, design;
much worn and weathered by time, as well as damaged by careless hands;
and appears to be of early seventeenth-century date. Broken, weedgrown
and neglected, this old Fountain is so nicely proportioned and finely
wrought, that it looks picturesque in its decay. The well to which it
originally served as a cover has long since ceased to exist.
Pepperhill, we understand, was formerly an appanage of the Earls of
Shrewsbury and Talbot; and was afterwards the home of Leonard Smallpage,
whose name we have already seen in Albrighton churchyard. Some scanty
remains of ecclesiastical buildings are traceable at Lower Pepperhill,
but of their history very little is known.
[Illustration: The Royal Oak.]
[Illustration: Bridgnorth.]