A wonderful collection of tombs--A tombstone inscription
by Shakespeare--A leper's door--Relics--Manufacturing the
antique--Curiosity shops--The Golden Chapel--"The Great Bell of
Tong"--White Ladies Nunnery--The grave of Dame Joan--Boscobel and its
story--A tradition about the "Royal Oak."
Externally Tong church strikes the rare and happy note of
individuality; however beautiful our country churches may be, those in
the same county of the same period are but too apt to repeat familiar
forms; there is no freshness about them to attract. Now Tong church
is an original conception, original without being strange, and it
possesses the excellent and pleasing merit of good proportion. Its
central tower is octagonal, rising from a square base, with the four
corners of its base tapering off to the octagonal above; the tower is
crowned by a graceful steeple with spire lights, which spire lights
"are perhaps nearly unique." The roof of the church has manifestly
been purposely kept low, the better to reveal its embattled parapets
and pinnacles. Thought is apparent everywhere in its design. It is a
cathedral in miniature, and a beautiful miniature too. At the west end
of the building stand the crumbling arches of its former college, and
in the churchyard is a cross that marks the plot of ground set apart
for the burial of unbaptized children, to me a fresh feature of a
churchyard.
The interior of the church, with its many truly magnificent
altar-tombs, proved vastly more noteworthy and interesting than I
expected; the clerk, too, was both interesting and well-informed, and
evidently took a pride in the building. He did not go round conveying
information in a parrot-like and irritating fashion as some clerks do,
as though repeating guidebook-gathered information learnt by heart,
and glad to get it done. The tombs are all exceedingly beautiful and
well-preserved; they have happily survived the Puritan's rage and the
church-wardens' era undamaged. The effigies on them of the noble lords
and brave knights of old provide an object-lesson as to the wearing
and to the details of ancient armour; those of their ladies reveal the
elaborate dresses worn in days of yore, and the changing fashions of
head-gear, all so faithfully rendered one could almost reconstruct the
armour and renew the dresses from the sculptured stone. The oldest tomb
(for they were all pointed out to me in due chronological order) is
that of Sir Fulke de Pembruge (who is represented in chain armour of
the period of the Crusades), with Dame Elizabeth his wife by his side;
though the clerk said "some antiquaries who have examined the tomb have
thrown a doubt as to whether the effigy of the lady is really that of
the knight's wife, from the fact that the base of the tomb below her
effigy has undergone alteration and is not quite in keeping with the
other part. It has even been suggested that possibly the effigy may
have been removed from elsewhere and placed there for convenience, in
careless past days." In truth, to do such a monstrous thing would have
needed very careless days indeed. Still, in times past stranger things
were done in the name and under the cloak of church restoration. I
learnt that Sir Fulke predeceased his wife some years, and I formed
a theory, satisfactory at any rate to myself, that quite possibly
this Sir Fulke de Pembruge had first been buried beneath a single
altar-tomb, and that some years later his wife might have been laid
by his side, and this would account for the slight difference in the
details of this under portion of the tomb, which has manifestly been
added at a little later period. Quite a plausible explanation it seems
to me; then wherefore seek for a more improbable one?
There were several other stately tombs to various members of the Vernon
family, who owned not only the Castle of Tong, but also Haddon Hall in
Derbyshire, hallowed now by the story of Dorothy Vernon. Each mail-clad
image of the noble house,
With sword and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stained window shed.
Sir Henry Vernon, who died in 1515, the founder of the Golden Chapel
and the donor of the Great Bell of Tong, has a very elaborate tomb
adjoining the chapel; both his effigy and that of his wife are
coloured. But the most magnificent monument of all is that of Sir
Thomas Stanley, who, by the long inscription on it, we learn, "married
Margaret Vernon one of the daughters and cohairs of Sir George Vernon
of Haddon in the Covntie of Derbie, knighte." His wife's effigy lies
beside his. This tomb is of considerable interest because a verse
attached to it, the clerk informed me, is said to have been written by
Shakespeare. Sir William Dugdale, the antiquary (born 1605, deceased
1686)--I note how long lived antiquaries often are--declares positively
that it was written by Shakespeare and by no one else. Now Sir William
Dugdale is no mean authority. This is the verse:
Not monumentall stone preserves our fame,
Nor sky aspyring piramids our name.
The memory of him for whom this stands
Shall outlive marble and defacers' hands.
When all to Tyme's consumption shall be geaven,
Stanley, for whom this stands, shall stand in Heaven.
In spite of Sir William Dugdale's assertion, most people are of opinion
that this verse is not of sufficient merit to warrant Shakespeare's
authorship; still, to me at least, it appears equal to the well-known
and much-quoted epitaph that the poet composed for himself, which is
inscribed over his grave in Stratford-on-Avon church. Truly there is
the difficulty of dates to be considered. Now when Sir Thomas Stanley
died Shakespeare was but twelve years old; however, as frequently was
the case, the monument might not have been erected until some few years
after Sir Thomas Stanley's death, and again the verse may not have
been written then. It may be that the verse, which is apart from the
inscription, was an after-thought, placed there at a little later time.
Therefore, as far as dates are concerned, there is nothing impossible
in Shakespeare having composed the verse when a young man. Here is a
promising matter for antiquaries to dispute about!
[Illustration: FIGURE OF SIR ARTHUR VERNON, TONG CHURCH.]
[Illustration: BOSCOBEL.]
Next the clerk called my attention to the fine old fifteenth-century
stained glass of the west window, found some years back under the floor
of the church, presumably placed there for safety from the Puritan
fanatics. Also he pointed out the boldly carved royal coat-of-arms
set up against the north wall of the church "to celebrate the capture
of Napoleon Bounaparte." Then he showed me the old Collegiate Choir
stalls, on one of the panels of which is a very curious and cunningly
conceived carving representing the Annunciation; at the base of the
panel is shown a vase with lilies growing from it, and these are so
contrived to subtly suggest the Crucifixion where the flowers expand.
A quaint and poetic conception cleverly carried out. "A carving quite
unique," the clerk told me; certainly I had seen nothing like it
before. I wonder how the medieval carver got his inspiration?
Next we inspected the Golden, or the Vernon Chapel, built in 1510, a
copy on a smaller scale of the Henry VII. Chapel in Westminster Abbey.
The fan-vaulted roofing of this is very fine, and both the roof and
walls still plainly show traces of gilt and colouring. In a niche in
the west wall and under a richly carved canopy is the figure of Sir
Arthur Vernon represented as preaching, this Sir Arthur Vernon being "a
priest of the College." During the restoration of the church his brass
was discovered beneath the floor of the chapel, though why it should
have been floored over I cannot imagine; now it has been recovered and
exposed for all men to read who know the Latin tongue. The original
altar stone (of rough sandstone with five crosses on it) has also been
recovered from the floor, and has been returned to its former rightful
position, suitably elevated, at the east end of the chapel, and above
it is a faded fresco of the Crucifixion. On the south wall is also a
quaint brass to Ralph Elcock--Cellarer of the College.
Next we went to the vestry, and I noticed that the door entering to
it had three large round holes in the top. According to the clerk
this door was originally an outer one and known as the lepers' door,
the holes being for the use of lepers to observe the service from the
churchyard. I have come upon lepers' or low-side windows galore, but
never upon a so-called lepers' door before. As, for reasons already
given, I do not believe in lepers' windows, it naturally follows I
could not agree with the clerk that this was ever a lepers' door. More
probably, I thought that the holes were merely made in the door to
afford an outlook from the vestry into the church, but that explanation
was too simple to satisfy the clerk, it robbed the door of its romance.
In the vestry is preserved a library of rare old tomes, also a richly
embroidered ecclesiastical vestment said to have been worked by the
nuns of White Ladies. Amongst the treasures of the church is a tall
and richly chased silver-gilt and crystal cup, given by Lady Eleanor
Harries in 1625, but the cup itself is of very much older date and is
probably of foreign craftsmanship. What was the original purpose of
this I cannot say; possibly it was a monstrance--it could hardly have
been intended for a Communion cup.
Since I was at Tong I have heard that an American collector had offered
a large sum for this cup, £800 I think I was told. I am glad to say
that the church authorities forbade its sale. "England," as Nathaniel
Hawthorne once said, "is one vast museum," but even the vastest museum,
if continually deprived of its treasures, must become depleted in time.
As I travel on I am continually hearing of art treasures, of ancient
furniture, of fine oak panelling, ruthlessly removed from old houses,
of old family pictures and portraits, old pewter, old fireplaces,
old everything, having been purchased by Americans, millionaire or
otherwise, and conveyed across the Atlantic; how far true I cannot say,
but I have also heard that there are sundry manufactories abroad and
at home of sham antiques, of old masters, old pottery, "Toby Jugs" in
particular, and furniture, kept busily employed for the benefit chiefly
of Americans. Of late I was informed that Shakespearian relics are
booming, and those of Charles I. run a close second, and the trade is
a profitable one, for the prices of these "rare" articles are high,
or they would not be considered genuine. Perhaps this explains where
all the old furniture comes from, and the store of ancient things one
finds, now that motorists scour the land, displayed conveniently to
catch the eye of the passer-by in countless village curiosity shops;
also the growth of these shops, and why their stores never grow less.
A short time ago it came to my knowledge that a lady consulted an
authority on old china as to the genuineness of a dessert service she
had purchased on the understanding that it had "been in one family for
over two centuries," whereupon the lady made the unwelcome discovery
that the factory in which it was produced only opened in 1850!
Old worm-eaten oak from old houses pulled down and from old churches
being restored is utilised in making careful copies of ancient
Elizabethan and Jacobean furniture, so the wood of these is old enough
and genuinely worm-eaten. I recently visited a village, through
which motorists frequently pass, where there is a large curiosity
shop literally crammed with "genuine" ancient furniture mostly made
yesterday, but the copies I saw were so good and had such a look of
ancientness as to deceive many an innocent purchaser. Two "monks'
tables" were on sale there, suits and bits of rusty and knightly
armour, made I fancy, in spite of the easily obtained rust, not more
than a dozen years or so ago in Germany, where they do the thing
very well, old sun-dials, old dressers, Elizabethan chairs, early
water-clocks and bracket clocks of the Cromwell era, and I know not
what else; all most cleverly reproduced even to the signs of wear--done
by a wire brush, I believe--and the cutting of initials and dates of
centuries past on tables and chairs. A gentleman who had been to Japan
told me that he discovered a craftsman there who was most clever in
reproducing old brass Cromwell clocks, works and all, even to the
English makers' names and ancient dates upon them; these were sent
over to England, and he showed me one that he had purchased, and so
skilfully was the original imitated, even to the presumed wear of the
works, that I was astounded at the cleverness of the fraud.
But to return to the vestry of Tong church, said the clerk to me, "Have
you heard of the Great Bell of Tong?" I had not till he mentioned
it. I waited for him to tell its story that I knew was coming. I
have forgotten how much he declared it weighed, but I believe it was
considerably over two tons. "It takes three men to start it," he went
on, "but when once started one man can keep it going. It was presented
to the church in 1518 by Sir Henry Vernon. It is only rung on Christmas
Day, Easter Day, Whit-Sunday, and St. Bartholomew's Day, on the birth
of a child to the Sovereign and an heir to the Prince of Wales, or when
the head of the Vernon family visits Tong."
Dickens confessed that it was to Tong church that he brought Little
Nell with the schoolmaster in the _Old Curiosity Shop_, and this is
how he describes it: "It was a very aged, ghostly place; the church
had been built many hundred years ago, and once had a convent or a
monastery attached," referring doubtless to the decayed College, "for
arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows, and fragments of blackened
walls, were yet standing; while other portions of the old buildings,
which had crumbled away and fallen down, were mingled with the
churchyard earth and overgrown with grass, as though they too claimed a
burial-place, and sought to mix their ashes with the dust of men."
Leaving Tong I got amongst narrow winding lanes in my search after
White Ladies, and a rare difficulty I had in discovering that remote
spot. "It's not a good country for strangers to find their way about
in," exclaimed one old body of whom I asked direction, and I quite
agreed with her, it was not. I kept on asking for White Ladies of any
one I saw, but the lanes were very deserted and I met few people on
them, and their answers to my queries were none too clear. Indeed they
reminded me in indirectness of a reply that a Shropshire gentleman
assured me he once received from a villager. He was asking the villager
how long her father had been dead, and she said quite calmly, "If he
had lived till to-morrow he would have been dead a week." Country
folk, for some inexplicable reason, never seem capable of giving a
plain answer to the simplest question. They appear to love to go round
it, perhaps because they like to talk. After all I really think I
should have missed White Ladies, for it is hidden from the road and
only reached by an ill-defined footpath through a wood and then over
a field, had I not been bold enough to call at a farmhouse where I
received clear instructions how to find the ruins. Fortunately they
were not very far off, "only about a mile farther on," so I could not
well go astray, for I had only to follow the lane till I came to "a
little wicket at the corner of the wood." I was glad of it, for I felt
weary of wandering without arriving anywhere.
What is left of White Ladies Nunnery consists almost wholly of its
despoiled Norman church, if church be not too dignified a term for so
small a building, roofed now only by the sky and paved with rough and
tangled grasses, the foot of its walls being fringed with flourishing
weeds. There are few architectural features of note about the building
except its ornamented north doorway and its rounded Norman windows, the
carving of this doorway being little the worse for the weathering of
centuries. The ruins stand silent and solitary in a large meadow, and
around the meadow stretch deep woods for far away, and beyond the woods
are distant hills, that day faintly outlined in palest blue against the
sky; these woods are the relics of the once famous forest of Brewood.
It is a lonely spot to-day, and must always have been a lonely one;
its only approach is by a lane, and then over the quiet fields. There
solitude dwells. Close to the ruins once stood the old half-timber
hall of the Giffards (an old print I have seen represents this as it
was in 1660--a low, rambling, and most picturesque building surrounded
by walls, and with a quaint gabled gate-house in front), of which now
not a vestige remains. Thither came Charles II., fleeing in hot haste
from the fatal battle of Worcester--fatal to the Royal cause at least,
for Cromwell called it his "crowning mercy." It is always so, to the
victor the battle is a triumph, the God of Hosts is with him. Is it not
recorded that Cromwell once exclaimed to his troopers whilst crossing
a river, "Trust in God," followed quickly by "but keep your powder dry"?
Within the ruined walls of the convent church are many ancient
tombstones, for it was long a burial-place of Roman Catholic families.
The oldest of these doubtless dates from pre-Reformation days, possibly
being those of some important ecclesiastic, for it is adorned with
foliated crosses beautifully carved, though without inscription as far
as I could discover. But, to me, the most interesting tombstone of all
bore no ornamentation but was briefly inscribed:
Here lieth the bodie of a
Friend the King did call
Dame Joane but now shee
Is deceased and gone.
Interred Anno Do. 1669.
There Dame Penderel lies.
Boscobel was not far away; I simply followed the lane trustingly, and
soon I beheld the great chimney and roof-trees of that ancient and
historic house peeping through the trees. I came upon it suddenly and
unawares. I was prepared to be disappointed with Boscobel; I always
am prepared to be disappointed with historic places, for one gets so
worked up with enthusiastic descriptions of them that but too often the
reality leaves one cold and disenchanted, for who can romance to order?
Where historic events have happened, I demand, perhaps unreasonably, a
fitting background. The romantic incident of the stay and concealment
of Charles II. at Boscobel calls for a picturesque setting, and there
I found it. Boscobel is still, as of old, remote amongst the woods,
and suits the story to perfection. Though externally the house has lost
somewhat of the patina of age by renovation, yet it impressed me. Had I
come upon it unknowingly the very aspect of it with its old-fashioned
garden and quaint summer-house would have caused me to stop, for it had
that indefinable thing--a look of romance. Never yet have I come upon a
house with that special look that has not earned it. A man writes his
character on his face; so does an old house.
I did not know whether this storied home would be shown to strangers,
but there I found a soft-spoken dame of dignified manner, who not only
showed me over it, but told me its tale again so well and so freshly
that in its old-world and pleasant panelled chambers the present seemed
almost a dream and the past a reality. So strong was the influence
of the place upon me that I almost expected to see the faithful Dame
Joan appear approaching along one of the dusky passages, or even the
hunted king himself. If ever a house were haunted by past presences,
that house is Boscobel. I even thought it remotely possible that the
grey-haired dame who showed me the place might be a descendant of
the Penderels. I confess I had a longing to ask her if she were not
of the good old stock, and should have done this but from fear of
being disillusioned; but whether she were or no, for the sentiment
of the thing, so I pleased to fancy her. Indeed I thought I traced a
resemblance in her features to those of faithful Dame Joan Penderel,
whose painted portrait I saw hanging on the wall of the ancient
oratory, possibly because I looked for it, and you often see what you
look for. There can be no mistake about this portrait, for on it the
artist has inscribed, as was the custom of the time, both her name
and a date, thus: "Dame Penderel--Anno Dom. 1662," though her age at
the time he has not recorded as was usual. Full of quiet character
and motherly kindness is the face, a pleasure to look upon. Great is
the contrast of this portrait with those of Charles II. and Cromwell
(apparently excellent likenesses) hanging in the dining-room, for the
king's features reveal a weak and pleasure-loving nature, whilst those
of Cromwell are determined and austere.
It was a happy time I spent at Boscobel, and I was fortunate to see
it alone. I learnt from my guide that the house was built in 1540, so
that it was over a century old when the king sought refuge there, and
I further learnt that the name Boscobel originated from a suggestion
made to John Giffard, its builder, by his friend Sir Basil Brooke, of
Madeley Court, who had recently returned from Italy; and his suggestion
was that the house, being seated in the heart of a forest, should be
called Boscobel, from the Italian words _bosco bello_, meaning fair
woods; so it was named. Passing through the hall I was shown first the
fine oak-panelled dining-room, where is still preserved the very table
that was used by the king. Much as it was then is the room to-day. On
its walls hangs a copy of the Proclamation issued by the Parliament
at the very time Charles II. was hiding there, offering a reward of
£1000 for the discovery of the king, also declaring that it was death
without mercy for concealing him. It speaks well for the Penderel
brothers, all poor men "of honest parentage but of mean degree" to whom
a thousand pounds would have been a fortune, that even when closely
questioned by the troopers when searching the house and woods around,
each one in turn pleaded ignorance of the king's whereabouts, rejecting
the proffered reward and risking death rather than betray their
sovereign.
Opening out of one of the panelled sleeping chambers in the upper part
of the house is a small closet; a cunningly concealed trap-door in
the floor of this gives access to a small hiding-hole, and from this
hiding-hole is a secret stairway (or rather was, for it is closed up
now) contrived in part of the big chimney-stack; this stairway led
down to a concealed door at the foot of the chimney and so out into
the garden, forming a way of escape from the hiding-hole should it
be discovered. It was down this stairway that Charles II. made his
escape into the woods when one of the brothers Penderel (four of whom
were keeping constant and tireless watch on the roads around) gave the
alarm that soldiers were approaching, and it was deemed safer for the
king to hide in the woods than to remain in the house. So selecting a
thick-leaved oak, some distance off, with a tall straight trunk that
no one could imagine that a man could climb, Charles II. mounted into
its upper branches by means of a ladder carried there by the faithful
Richard Penderel, who hurriedly carried it back to an outhouse before
the soldiers arrived. In connection with the familiar story of the
king's hiding in this oak my guide related to me an incident that I
had not heard before. It appears that the king took with him into the
tree two pigeons in a bag, as had been arranged he should, and that
when the soldiers rode past below, he released these pigeons as though
the soldiers had disturbed them, this to show that no one could be
concealed there. The story of the pigeons is told in a quaint carving
on the top of an old oak box that is kept in one of the rooms of the
house, and is so far confirmed. The carving gives a bold representation
of the Royal Oak in full leaf with the two pigeons flying from it, and
the soldiers in search below.
Whilst the soldiers were searching the woods Dame Joan went out
ostensibly to gather sticks for the fire; she engaged the soldiers in
conversation, and so diverted their attention from the neighbourhood of
the special oak where the king was. You may always trust a woman whose
heart is in her task to fool any man.
Alone in a field not far from the house and surrounded by an iron
railing stands a flourishing and fair-sized old oak, known as the
Royal Oak. Though this is doubtless on, or close to, the spot where
the historic tree grew, it can hardly be the one in which the king
hid; some authorities, however, blinking hard facts, boldly avow their
belief in it. Now for these hard facts, though romance suffers thereby,
and you may not hint such things at Boscobel, Dr. Stukeley, the
antiquary, writing in 1713, declares that then the old tree was "almost
all cut away by travellers whose curiosity leads them to see it,"
and John Evelyn in his day writes that when he saw it "relic-hunters
had reduced the original tree to a mere stump." Moreover, the king in
his own account of his hiding said that he got into a tree that had
been polled and was very bushy at the top. Now the present oak has
never been polled, which is surely sufficient proof that it is not
the original one. If I may judge from the various chests and other
articles I have seen, and which are said to be made out of the wood of
the original Royal Oak, it must have been the largest tree that ever
grew; but the wise traveller does not take all such relics seriously.
An ancient writer indeed declares that at one time in European churches
there were shown to pious pilgrims portions of the true Cross which
if collected together would be sufficient to load a big ship. Even
the clerk of Tong told me that he owned a large oak chest made out
of wood from the Royal Oak, and he is but one of many who own chests
that have this reputation, to say nothing of chairs, tables, stools,
and countless snuff-boxes, all made, and carved, from the wood of that
wonderful tree--the tree
Wherein the younger Charles abode
Till all the paths were dim,
And far below the Roundhead rode,
And humm'd a surly hymn.
Upstairs in the house, beneath what was formerly a cheese attic, is
another hiding-place, a dark small hole at the top of the stair and
entered by a trap-door in the floor, and here it was that Charles II.
spent one uncomfortable night, cheeses being rolled over the trap-door
for the better concealment of it. So my guide told me. Now the puzzling
thing about this is, why, especially at night when the house was
carefully locked and guarded, should it have been thought needful for
the king to secrete himself in this cramped place? Surely he might have
slept comfortably in bed, for there ought to have been ample time,
when the soldiers knocked at the door and the alarm was given, and
whilst the door was being slowly opened, for the king to have secreted
himself; as it was he spent a most uncomfortable night to no purpose.
Now when Charles II. was afterwards sheltered in Moseley Hall and was
resting on a couch in a chamber (it chanced to be one afternoon), some
soldiers made a surprise visit there, but on the servants rushing
upstairs crying "The soldiers are coming," the king found ample time
to reach his hiding-place, where he lay concealed in safety till the
soldiers departed baffled. It speaks much for the cleverness of the
contrivers of the hiding-holes both at Boscobel and Moseley that none
of these holes, though carefully searched for, were ever discovered.
Still it must have been a very unpleasant experience for the king,
hidden away in a dark and dismal hole all the while the soldiers were
busily searching the house, not knowing but that he might at any moment
be discovered. Indeed, when his host had seen the soldiers safely away
and came to release the king, the king exclaimed to him "he thought the
time very long"--and little wonder; so might any one in so unfortunate
a position. It is said that Charles II. was the last person to be
secreted in the hiding-holes at Boscobel. Possibly Boscobel was not so
diligently searched as other houses were, owing to its being solely in
the care of servants at the time, so less suspicion fell on it.
Boscobel in its woods calls to my mind a saying of that quaint old
worthy Thomas Fuller: "It is pleasant as well as profitable to see a
house cased with trees. The worst is, where a place is bald of wood no
art can make it a periwig."