Chapter XXI: Ludlow Town 379 (2)

Although we had visited Coventry before--and, as it chanced, re-visited it many times later--we did not find our interest in the charming old city lessen, and it occurs to us more than ever as the best center for Warwickshire. Kenilworth is only five miles, Warwick twice as far, and Stratford eight miles farther. At Coventry one may be thoroughly comfortable, which can hardly be said of the inns at Warwick or Stratford. Americans always seek the Red Horse at the latter place because of its associations with Irving; but there is little more than the room our gentle traveler occupied, the chair he sat in and the "scepter" wherewith he was wont to stir up a cheerful fire in his grate, to induce one to return. But in Coventry, at the ancient though much re-modeled King's Head, one strikes the happy medium of English hotels. It has the homelikeness and freedom of the smaller country inns without their discomforts, and it does not force upon one the painful formalities of the resort hotels, with their terrible English table d'hote dinners. So when we were established at the King's Head, in spacious rooms, with plenty of tables and chairs--articles uncommon enough to merit special mention--there was always a temptation to linger.

Of the many thousands of Americans who throng to Stratford every year, perhaps only a small number are aware that the ancestral homes of the Washingtons are only a few miles away. Still smaller is the number who make a pilgrimage to Sulgrave or to Brington, ten miles farther, though the memories and traditions of these places are so closely connected with the ancestors of the Father of His Country. True, his stately home by the Potomac is not neglected by his countrymen, but every American should be deeply interested in the English forefathers of the man who more than any other freed them from the "rule of kings."

Laurence, the ancestor of George Washington, is buried in this church. From Original Painting by Daniel Sherrin.]

We thought it a favorable omen to see the gray sky which had drenched Coventry since dawn break into fleecy clouds as we started over the Banbury road for Sulgrave. The hedges and trees skirting the road were washed clean of their coating of dust and the whole countryside gleamed like an emerald in the yellow flood of the afternoon sunshine. Our car seemed to catch the spirit of delight that pervaded everything and sprang away airily and noiselessly over the fine highway. Fifteen miles to the south we turned into a narrow byway leading to Wormleighton, in whose ancient church there are records chronicling the marriage of Robert Washington in 1565 and the birth of his son George in 1608, antedating his famous namesake in America by more than a century. It would even now be hard to follow on the map this maze of byroads which we threaded, winding between the hawthorne hedges or gliding beneath the over-arching branches of ancient elms; passing snug farmhouses and cottages brilliant with rose vines and creepers and fairly embowered in old-fashioned flowers; and leading through villages the very embodiment of quiet and repose. And Sulgrave, the cradle of the Washingtons, seemed the sleepiest and loneliest of them all--a gray, straggling hamlet with only here and there a dash of color from flower-beds or ivied walls, looking much as it must have looked when the last Washington was Lord of the Manor, more than three hundred years ago. It rather lacks the neat, trim appearance of the average Midland village. Its streets are grass-grown and strewn with stones. Many of the cottages are surrounded by tumble-down stone walls, and the small church with huge embattled tower, the product of a recent restoration, crowns the hill in a wide, uncared-for graveyard.

A little to one side of the village they pointed out the "Washington House," and we followed a stony path leading into the farmyard, where the good man was just stabling his horses. A typical country woman--of the tenant class--warmly welcomed us at Sulgrave Manor. Clearly they are glad to see Americans here; visitors are not the tolerated intruders that they are in so many historic places. We learned that we should even be welcome to a clean, neatly furnished room had we desired to pass the night beneath the roof. We were shown every nook and corner of the curious old house--not an extensive or imposing one, but three hundred years ago domestic accommodations were not elaborate even in the homes of the nobility, and while the Washingtons ranked high among the gentry, they did not possess a title. The house has not been greatly altered, in outward appearance, at least, and is kept in scant repair by the owner, a Devonshire gentleman; fortunately, the thick stone wall and heavy oaken beams yield but slowly to time's ravages. The most imposing feature is the solid black-oak staircase with its curiously twisted banisters. The interior has been altered from the original plan--just how much it is difficult to ascertain. Nothing, however, impresses the American visitor so much as the Washington coat-of-arms, executed in plaster on one of the gables by the ancient owner. This had suffered much from the weather, but has lately been protected by a glass covering. The outer walls were originally covered with plaster, but this has fallen away in many places, showing the rough stone underneath; and elsewhere masses of ivy half hide the small, square-paned windows. Very faithful in detail and sentiment is Mr. Sherrin's picture, painted at my request--the artist gaining his inspiration by a week under the old roof while employed in his task. The picture shows the old house much as we saw it, standing against a rich sunset sky, its harsh outlines softened by a little distance. The picture of the village and church was done by the artist at the same time, though for effect the church is shown rather as it appeared before it was restored. We followed the rough cobblestone walk to the church door, but could not gain admittance until the caretaker was found, for Sulgrave Church has been kept strictly under lock and key ever since one of the Washington brasses was stolen--by an American, of course--a few years ago. It is a small, rough, lichen-covered building, much restored, even to the stolen brass tablet to the memory of the first Laurence Washington. The engraving of this, on another page, shows how certainly the Washington coat-of-arms must have suggested the motif for the American flag and the great seal of the United States. The church is very ancient and there is in the choir a small "Lepers' Door," unique as one of three or four in England. Here in olden time the lepers might approach for alms or to hear the sermon, but dared not enter the church.

It is not the purpose of this book of random wanderings to deal much with sober history, but the story of Sulgrave's connection with the Washingtons is not common and a short sketch may not be amiss. In the reign of Henry VIII., Laurence Washington was Mayor of Northampton and a gentleman of consequence. Sulgrave was among the confiscated church lands that the King was offering at bargain prices, and Washington purchased it for three hundred pounds. A tradition that these alienated church lands would bring evil fortune to the owner does not seem to have deterred him, though when his grandson, another Laurence Washington, was forced by adverse circumstances to sell the estate, the old superstition might seem to have been verified. This grandson, with a large family, removed about 1606--the exact date is doubtful--to Little Brington, some ten miles to the northeast of Sulgrave, where he was given a house, it is thought, by the Earl of Spencer, to which noble family the Washingtons were related by marriage. The Laurence Washington who is buried in Great Brington Church was the great-great-grandfather of the "first American."

Later in our wanderings we visited the Bringtons, which lie only a short distance from Northampton and may be reached by excellent roads running through some of the most beautiful Midland country. We paused in the midst of a heavy shower near the village cross under the gigantic elm that stands in front of Great Brington Church, to which we gained admission with but little delay. The Brington villages are on the estate of the Spencers, one of the wealthiest and most ancient families of the English nobility, and the church is an imposing one, kept in perfect repair. The chief Washington memorials are the brasses--the inscription and coat-of-arms--over the grave of Laurence Washington of Sulgrave and Brington, and these have been sunk deep in the stone slab and are guarded by lock and key. In the chapel are some of the most elaborate memorials we saw--altar tombs bearing the sculptured effigies and ancient arms and armor of the Spencers; and yet how all this splendid state, all the wealth of carving, arms and effigies, shrink into insignificance beside the august name on the plain slab in the aisle, and how all the trappings of heraldry and the chronicles of all the line of Spencers fade into nothingness over against that tiny sunken tablet with its stars and bars!

Half a mile from Great Brington is Little Brington, where we saw the Washington house referred to previously, with only a few touches, mullioned windows and carvings, to distinguish it from the cottages of the village tenantry. There is a world of pathos in the inscription cut in the stone tablet above the doorway, "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord," which may refer to the loss of Sulgrave and the death of a young son shortly after the Washingtons reached Brington. Inside, the house, transformed into a laborer's cottage, has been altered out of all semblance to its former self.

But the rain was still coming down in torrents from the leaden skies and hiding the beauties of the Bringtons. It took another visit on a perfect August day to fix the impression which we still retain of the romantic beauty of the little towns, and it is only by such a comparison that one can judge how much we lost on account of the many days of dark, foggy weather that prevail during the summer in Britain. Under the more pleasant conditions we could but feel that, aside from the memories of the Washingtons which hover over the Bringtons, these delightful Midland villages might well engage the admiration of the wayfarer. One may well pause in his flight through the hawthorne-bordered byways to view the prospect that greets the eye from Great Brington churchyard. The church occupies slightly rising ground, from which in almost every direction one may behold stretches of some of the most charming rural country in England; and the church itself, with the old village cross beneath the monster elm tree, is not the least picturesque feature of the landscape. The village which fronts it, clean, cozy and comfortable-looking, its gray walls dashed with ivy and relieved by the rich color of rose vines and old-time flowers, is as lovely and peaceful a hamlet as one will find, even in England. Not less pleasing is the surrounding country--"pastoral" describes it--with its long reaches of meadowland, broken by hedgerows and lordly trees. To the right is Althorpe House, the stately home of the Spencers, with its vast, well-kept park, where the huge old oaks shimmer in the hazy midsummer afternoon. Amidst all this quiet and beauty one forgets the dark problems that threaten England and thinks only of her ineffable charm. Little Brington is not less attractive than its neighbor--the thatched structure above the well in the village green and the two hoary firs overshadowing it forming a picture as quaint as pleasing. We leave the lovely villages regretfully, and winding out of the maze of byroads, take the highway that leads toward the ancient city of Northampton, whose chief distinction should be that a Washington was once its Lord Mayor.

IV

MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER

Despite our numerous visits to Coventry, each one had some new delight in store; some bit of curious antiquity that had previously escaped us was sure to turn up, and once in the heart of the old-world town, one easily forgets the modern manufacturing city that has grown up around it. In the immediate vicinity of the famous three spires there clusters much to detain one and which may well make Coventry the shrine of a far greater number of pilgrims than it now is. If we enter the grand old church of St. Michael's, whose slender spire rises three hundred feet into the blue heavens--for the heavens are blue and cloudless after the rain of yesterday--we shall be confronted by the noblest interior of any parish church in England. Its unhampered expanse and lightness of design intensify its splendid proportions. The fine lancet windows gleam like clustered jewels, for modern glass of unusually good taste is intermingled with much dating from Tudor times, which, fortunately, escaped the wrath of the fanatics. The old caretaker tells us that the church is "soon to be a cathedral," and if so, it will wear its distinction fitly indeed.

Near by the church is the guildhall, deservedly known as one of the finest bits of medieval England now extant. One may not undertake to catalog its glories, but its contents, as well as its architecture, will interest even the layman. In its muniment room is a collection of eleven thousand books and manuscripts of great value, and many rare old paintings grace the walls of the banqueting hall, which has an unrivaled open-timber roof. In the oriel window at the head of the stairs, in the softened light of the antique glass, stands Coventry's patron saint, Lady Godiva, her shrinking figure beautifully wrought in white marble. Old arms and armor are scattered about the halls and the whole atmosphere of the place is that of three hundred years ago.

To be sure, Elizabeth visited the guildhall. That rare royal traveler did not neglect the opportunity for entertainment and display offered her by her loyal subjects of Coventry. Nor is the tradition of a certain exchange of compliment between the men of the old town and their royal mistress without a touch of realism in its portrayal of the sharp sting of Elizabeth's wit, not infrequently felt by those who, knowing her vanity, undertook to flatter her too grossly. For it is recorded that the citizens of Coventry greeted her majesty in an address done into doggerel in this wise:

"Wee men of Coventree
Are very glad to see
Yr gracious majestie!
Good Lord, how fair ye bee!"

To which she instantly responded:

"Our gracious majesty
Is very glad to see
Ye men of Coventree.
Good Lord, what fools ye bee!"

But we may not linger in Coventry, and after a hasty glance at the almshouses--whose brick-and-timber front, with richly carved black-oak beams, rivals Leicester's Hospital at Warwick--we are again on the King's highway. And it is a highway fit for a king, this broad sweeping road that leads from Coventry through Kenilworth and Warwick to Stratford-upon-Avon. There are few more picturesque runs in Britain and few that take one past so many spots of literary and historic interest. Only the fact that we have been over this route several times before offers excuse for covering the twenty miles in less than an hour. As we flit along we catch glimpses of the fragments of Kenilworth, of Guy's Cliff, of the old mill; and cautiously thread our way through the cramped streets of Warwick, which we leave, not without admiring glances at the Castle, the splendid tower of St. Mary's Church, and the fine facade of Leicester's Hospital. Passing the confines of the ancient gate, we soon come into the open road, smooth and gently undulating, and a few minutes lands us in Shakespeare's Stratford.

It would be hard to follow in sequence our wanderings from Stratford to Cheltenham, mainly through country lanes often hidden between tall hedges and leading over steep, rough hills, as we sought quaint and historic bits of Worcestershire and Gloucestershire. Just beyond Shipston-on-Stour we paused before a Jacobean manor house, a slight opening in the high hedge permitting a glimpse of the gray gables and mullioned windows from the road. A farmer's wife, who saw us stop, called to us and offered to conduct us through the quaint sixteenth century building, Little Woolford Manor, as it is known. The hall, with open-timber roof, paneled walls and minstrel gallery, lighted by tall windows still rich with ancient glass, is an apartment to delight any lover of the old-time domicile. This has been adapted to a schoolroom and the remainder of the house divided into farm tenements. It is full of odd corners and weird passageways and very appropriately has its ghost, a certain "White Ladye," who walks the scene of her earthly misfortunes at midnight. None of the occupants had ever seen her or knew anything of the tradition, but no one could dispute the good taste of a ghost who should choose Little Woolford Manor as a residence. Nor could such a fine old house properly be without its legend of Charles the Wanderer, and our guide showed us a small secret chamber behind an oven where with a few retainers it is said the king hid and was nearly roasted by a rousing fire built in the grate by the pursuing Cromwellians.

There are other traditions and relics of the royal fugitive in the vicinity, for we passed Little Compton Manor, plainly visible from the road, which was once the home of Bishop Juxon, the bosom friend of King Charles. Here for many years was preserved the block upon which the King's head was severed, and also his favorite chair; but these disappeared shortly after the Bishop's death.

A few miles farther, just off the upland road from Little Compton to Moreton-in-the-Marsh, one may see the Rollright Stones, a druidical circle; and tradition declares that these stones were once Danish invaders who were thus metamorphosed for some presumptuous act.

Descending a long and dangerously steep hill sloping from the upland, we came into Chipping Campden, and, possibly excepting Broadway, it has hardly an equal in a section famous for picturesque towns and villages. A wide street between a long array of gray gables with many time-worn carvings, odd signs and frequent sun-dials, leads from one end of the town, marked by a huge oak, to the other, where a giant chestnut stands sentinel. Here again the almshouses attract attention. They are built of soft-toned brown stone and the walls are surmounted by pointed gables and clustered chimneys. Near by rises the graceful church tower, overshadowing a building whose vast proportions seem to ill accord with the decayed little town about it. But we learn that it was built when Chipping Campden was the greatest wool market in the country, and a brass tablet of 1401 commemorates one of the ancient benefactors of the church as the "flower of all wool merchants in England." We found inside some of the most perfect brasses that we had seen, but a general restoration had quite robbed the church of its greatest charm. The large pillared cross in the wool market and the massive proportions of the courthouse, with its heavily buttressed walls, testify mutely of the time when Chipping Campden was a place of much greater importance than it is today.

Broadway is already famous. Its "discovery" is attributed to Americans, and several American artists of note--among them Mr. F. D. Millet, who occupies the ancient manor house of the Abbot of Pershore--have been included in the foreign contingent. Its name is derived from the broad London and Worcester road which passes in a long sweeping curve between rows of fine Tudor and Jacobean houses with many fanciful gables and massive stone chimneys. In the coaching days Broadway was of great importance and then were built the fine inns and business houses. A period of decadence followed, during which it gradually sank into a neglected country village, from which oblivion the old-world charm of its very decay finally rescued it. It shows quite markedly the influx of outsiders and the trail of the tourist; in this regard it is inferior to the as yet undiscovered and unspoiled town of Chipping Campden. But while there is a touch of newness in the outskirts and while the antique buildings show traces of returning prosperity, there is still much in Broadway to please the eye and delight the artistic sense. Few indeed of the old-time inns have the charm of the Lygon Arms, where we paused for our afternoon tea. (Afternoon tea--so far have the customs of the land of our sojourn corrupted us!) It is a many-gabled building of soft sandstone, rich with browns verging into reds and dashed here and there with masses of ivy which half hide the deep-set stone-mullioned windows. To the rear its glass-roofed garage with cement floor and modern accessories tells plainly of one source of returning prosperity. Everywhere about the inn is cleanliness, and the charm of the antique is combined with modern comfort. The interior is quite as unspoiled as the outside, and nothing could be more redolent of old-time England than the immense fireplace in the ingle nook of the hall. Here, too, linger legends of King Charles, and there is one great paneled room with huge fireplace and Tudor furniture that claims the honor of association with the sterner name of Cromwell. Perhaps the least pleasing feature of our pilgrimage was the necessity that often forced us to hasten by places like the Lygon Arms--but one could scarce exhaust Britain's attractions in a lifetime should he pause as long and as often as he might wish.

Evesham we passed in the rain and gathering twilight. We reached Tewkesbury at nightfall, but its inns did not strike our fancy, and we hastened to Cheltenham, leaving the fine old towns for a later visit. At the Victoria in Cheltenham we found things much more to our liking.

We followed a main road almost due south from Cheltenham through Painswick, Stroud and Nailsworth, gray old towns lying deep in the hills. At Painswick is a fine Perpendicular church, so much restored as to present a rather new appearance. The churchyard has a wonderful array of carefully clipped yew trees, perhaps a hundred in all, though no one, says local tradition, can count them twice the same--a peculiarity also ascribed to the monoliths at Stonehenge. Close to the church walls are the ancient stocks, in this case forged from heavy iron bars and presenting an air of staunch security that must have struck terror to the hearts of old-time culprits; and the rough stone slab upon which the offenders were seated still remains in place.

Stroud is a larger and better-appearing town, whose ten thousand inhabitants depend mainly upon the manufacture of English broadcloths. The whole section, in fact, was once the center of cloth manufacture, but the advent of the steam engine and more modern methods superseded the watermills. All about are half-ruined factory buildings, some of them once of vast extent, with shattered windows and sagging roofs. Here and there one has survived in a small way or has been adapted to some other industry. In the neighborhood are many country houses, once the residences of wealthy cloth-makers, but now either deserted or turned into farm tenements.

The country is hilly and wooded, and we had few points of vantage that afforded views more picturesque and far-reaching than from some of the upland roads overlooking these Gloucestershire landscapes. The road sweeps around the hills, rising at times far above the valleys, affording a panorama of the Avon gleaming through the dense green foliage that half conceals it. The vale presents the most charming characteristics of rural England. One sees the irregular patchwork of the little fields, the great parks with their sunny meadowlands and groups of ancient trees, the villages lying in the valleys or clinging to the hillsides, and the gray church towers that lend a touch of majesty and solemn sentiment to almost every glimpse of Britain.

We missed the main road from Bath to Wells, wandering through a maze of unmarked byroads, and were able to proceed only by frequent inquiry. We did not regain the highway until just entering the town and had been a comparatively long time in going a short distance. After a few minutes' pause to admire the marvelous west front of the cathedral, with its endless array of crumbling prophets, saints and kings, weatherworn to a soft-gray blur, we were away on the highroad leading across the wold to Cheddar, famed for its stupendous cliffs, its caverns--and its cheese. The caverns and cliffs are there, but little cheese now comes from Cheddar, even though it bears the name. As we ascended the exceedingly steep and winding road we were astonished--overwhelmed. We had not expected to find natural scenery upon such an amazing scale in the heart of England--gray pinnacled cliffs rising, almost sheer, five hundred feet into the sky. Not often may British scenery be styled imposing, but the towering cliffs of Cheddar surely merit such description. In the midst of the gorge between the great cliffs there are two prehistoric caverns extending far into the earth. We entered one of them, now a mere passageway, now a spacious cavern whose domelike roof glistens with translucent stalactites. Here we pass a still, mirrorlike pool, and there a deep fissure from which comes the gurgle of a subterranean river. Altogether, there is much that is interesting and impressive. Perhaps it all seems a little gaudy and unnatural because of the advertising methods and specious claims of the owner and alleged discoverer, but none the less a visit is worth while. The museum of relics found in the cavern contains a remarkable prehistoric skull, with low, thick frontal bone and heavy square jaw, but its queerest feature is little spurlike projections of the temporal bone just above the ear. It is estimated by archaeologists that the possessor of this curious skull had lived at least forty thousand years ago and mayhap had made his dwelling-place in the Cheddar Caves. We were assured that an offer from the British Museum of five thousand pounds for the relic had been refused.

The sun was low when we left Cheddar, and Taunton seemed the nearest place where we might be sure of good accommodations. We soon reached Axbridge, a gray little market town, so ancient that a hunting-lodge built by King John still stands on the market square. Near Bridgewater, a few miles farther, is the Isle of Athelney--once an island in a marsh, perhaps--where King Alfred made his last desperate stand against the Danish invaders, defeating them and finally expelling them from Britain. Not less in interest, though perhaps less important in its issues, was the Battle of Sedgemoor, fought here in 1685, when the Duke of Monmouth was disastrously defeated by the Royal Army--the last battle worthy of the name to be waged on English soil.

But we were to learn more of Monmouth at Taunton and to have again impressed upon us how easy it is in Britain for one to hasten through places of the deepest historic interest quite unaware of their tragic story. We had passed through Taunton before, seeing little but a staid old country town with a church tower of unmatched gracefulness and dignified proportions; but Taunton's tragic part in the parliamentary wars and her fatal connection with "King Monmouth" never occurred to us, if, indeed, we knew of it at all. Taunton was strongly for the Parliament, but it was a storm center and was taken and retaken until the iron hand of Fairfax crushed the Royalists before its walls. Its record stood against it when the King "came into his own again." Its walls were leveled to the ground, its charter taken away and many of its citizens thrown into prison. Discontent and hatred of the Stuarts were so rampant that any movement against their rule was welcomed by the Taunton Whigs, though it is hard to see any consistency in the unreasoning support they gave to the Duke of Monmouth--the son of Charles II. and one of his many mistresses--in his pretensions to the throne occupied by James II. Monmouth entered Taunton amidst the wildest acclamations, and it was from the market square of the rebellious town that he issued his proclamation assuming the title of King. He was followed by an ill-organized and poorly equipped army of seven thousand men, who were defeated by four thousand Royal Troops. Then followed a reign of terror in Taunton. The commander of the King's forces hanged, without pretense of trial, many of his prisoners, using the sign of the old White Hart Inn as a gallows. Then came the Bloody Assizes, held by Jeffreys of infamous memory, in the great hall of the castle. After trials no more than travesties of brutal jests and savage cruelty, more than three hundred Somersetshire men were sentenced, according to the terrible customs of the time, to be "hanged, drawn and quartered," and a thousand were doomed to transportation. Here the active history of Taunton may be said to have ended.

But Taunton has little to remind us of these dark and bloody times as we glide through her fine old streets and draw up in front of the London Hotel, where the host himself in evening dress welcomes us at the door. Every attention is given us and The London certainly deserves its official appointment by the Royal Automobile Club as well as the double distinction accorded it by the infallible Baedeker. It is one of the charming old-fashioned inns, such as perhaps inspired the poet Shenstone with the sentiment expressed in his well-known quatrain:

"Whoe'er has traveled life's dull round,
Whate'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think that he has found
His warmest welcome at an inn."

Modern Taunton is a city of some twenty thousand people, and being the county town, with some manufactories, it enjoys a quiet prosperity. Of its ancient landmarks, the castle, dating from the eleventh century, is the most notable and has appropriately been turned into a museum. Here one may enter the hall where Jeffreys held his court. Though two centuries or more have elapsed, the "horror of blood" seems still to linger in the gloomy apartment. The market-place retains its old-time characteristics, and though the house occupied by Jeffreys has disappeared, the White Hart Inn still stands. But the glory of Taunton is St. Mary's Church, one of the most graceful examples of the Perpendicular period in England. The splendid tower seems almost frail in its airy lightness--and perhaps it is, for it is a recent restoration, or rather replacement, of the older one, which had become insecure.

Sherborne Abbey we had missed in our former wanderings, though once very near it, and we felt that we must make amends though it cost us a detour of sixty miles. And yet, what hardship is it to go out of one's way in Britain? Indeed, can one ever go out of his way in rural England? Scarcely, from the point of view of such nomads as ourselves.

The great tower of Curry Rivell Church dominates in such a lordly manner the village straggling up the hill toward it that we were tempted to look inside, and a mild curiosity was aroused, from which we have never yet been able to rid ourselves. For, chained to one of the iron railings of a sixteenth century tomb, is a queer little iron-bound oaken cabinet. It is scarcely more than a foot in length, the wood is worm-eaten and the massive lock and heavy hinges are red with rust. What mystery does it contain and why did it escape the church-looters of Puritan times? The church is rich in antique carvings, among them a delicately wrought screen and fine fifteenth century bench ends. The tomb to which the coffer is chained is a very unusual one. It bears on its altar the effigies of two mail-clad warriors, while at either side kneel figures of their wives over two tiny cribs with several gnomelike children tucked in each. Overhead, borne by four pillars, is a domed canopy upon which are painted four sprawling cherubs. All very quaint and strange and illustrative of the queer mortuary ideas of the medieval period.

We followed the winding, hilly and often indifferent road that leads through Somerton, Ilchester and Yeovil to Sherborne, and while our lunch was preparing at the slow-moving Antelope--there is little in a name, in this instance--we wandered down old-world streets to the abbey, the goal of all pilgrims to Sherborne. It seemed odd to find the old town crowded with rural visitors all agape at a fantastic circus parade that was winding along the crooked streets, but Sherborne is fond of parades and pageants, for we were assured that the historical pageant now the rage in the older towns of England was originated in Sherborne. The town itself is a charming place--I borrow the words of an enthusiastic admirer whose picture may be better than I can paint:

"It is a bright town, prim and old-fashioned, and unsullied by the aggressive villas and red brick terraces of the modern suburb. Although a small place, it is yet of much dignity. Here are timber-faced dwellings, where the upper story overhangs the lower, and where the roof breaks out into irrelevant gables; houses with the stone-mullioned casements of Tudor days or the round bow window of the Georgian period; houses with gateways under them leading into courtyards; humble buildings fashioned out of stone filched from a church; cottages with the arched doorways of a convent or with buttresses worthy of a chapel; pieces of old wall and other miscellaneous fragments which the town with its love for the past has never had the heart to cast aside. Over the grey roofs can be seen the trees upon the hilltop, while over many a crumbling wall comes the fragrance of garden or orchard."

But as we rounded a corner and came upon a full view of the abbey church, we felt that it had rightly been styled the "glory of Sherborne." Perhaps its low tower gives an impression of incompleteness and lack of proportion--but it seemed to accentuate the mighty proportions of the church itself and it was with a feeling almost verging upon awe that we entered the majestic portals. And we learned it as we know only few historic churches in England, for the gem of all vergers is at Sherborne. To him his work is a labor of love, not the usual perfunctory performance in hope of a fee. He had made discoveries of importance himself in whiling away his time in the abbey and had located and uncovered an ancient effigy that had been inconsiderately built into the walls in earlier days. He told us of the checkered history of the abbey, of the wars of the monks and citizens, as a result of which the church suffered from a great fire, the marks of which still remain in the red stains on the soft yellow stone, of the Dissolution and the cavalier manner in which Henry the Wrecker bestowed the abbey on one of his friends, who in turn sold it to the parish for two hundred and fifty pounds--all of which would be too long to record in detail in this crowded chronicle. But the interior of Sherborne Abbey--where is there another like it? Not in all England; probably not in the world. It lacks the "dim religious light" that pervades, like a soft-toned mist, most of the great church buildings; the windows flood the yellow stone with many-colored beams and lighten the splendors of the golden fan vault with its rich bosses and heraldic devices until every detail comes out clearly to the beholder below.

But we are lingering too long at the abbey; we were to return to the Antelope in half an hour, and thrice that period has elapsed. We hie back to our inn and do not complain of our cold repast. "It is ten minutes' walk to the castle," said our host. Then why take the car? A ten minutes' walk will give us a little of the exercise we need. We start under the sweltering sun--it is a hot day, even as we reckon it--and follow the crooked streets. Here is a high wall--it must be the castle. No, the castle is farther on; and we repeat the wearisome experience until half an hour has elapsed and we are only at the entrance gate of the park. We are almost exhausted, for our long tramp on the "abbey stones" did not especially invigorate us, but we will go on after having come so far.

It was hardly worth while--Cromwell had left very little of Sherborne Castle. It seemed melancholy, indeed, that the riddled gateway and the straggling pieces of wall should be all that remains of such a lordly building. We were interested to know that it had been granted to Sir Walter Raleigh "forever" in 1597--but only six years later the knightly founder of Virginia was indicted for treason and fell a victim to the cowardly malice of King James, and Sherborne Castle reverted to the crown. It was less than half a century later that Fairfax received its surrender in the name of the Parliament, and when the gunpowder mines were fired the active days of the fortress were at an end.

We retrace our steps to the Antelope, thinking mournfully of the car, which would have made such short and easy work of our weary trip, and we heave a sigh of relief when once more, having donned our "seven-league boots," we hear the soft purr of the motor and enjoy the rush of the cool, sweet air--after our "ten minutes' walk."

It grows late and Exeter is far away, but we are sure of comfort at the Rougemont and we give the car rein. How she sweeps over the sunset hills and glides along the cool valleys, pausing cautiously to pass some rose-embowered village, now gathering speed again for another rush over the fine road! She is ahead of schedule at Honiton, and one of our party remembers that the Honiton lace is famous. It is an expensive bit of recollection, but all things go in a motor tour. After a half-hour's pause, we are away again, and before long catch sight of the huge bulk of Exeter Cathedral looming above the old city against the twilight sky.

V

RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY

"Through the heart of Dartmoor forest" may bring up many fascinating, even weird associations, but on our map we regarded the thin red line of our road rather dubiously. It runs almost straight from Exeter to Prince Town--the prison town of the moor--and on either side for many miles lies a waste country, apparently quite devoid of villages and even of roads. The road as shown on the map is thickly studded with arrow heads, denoting dangerous hills, and the description in the road-book is far from alluring. But we were not to be deterred from exploring Dartmoor, as we had been on a previous occasion, though indeed we found the first few miles between Exeter and Moreton Hampstead trying and almost terrifying in places. The hills offered little impediment to our motor, but for all that one has a rather eery feeling when clinging to a precipitous incline. If something should let loose! But nothing did.

Moreton Hampstead is a bleak, lonely little town set well into the western edge of the moor and surrounded by rugged tors on every hand. It is not without a bit of antiquity, for it has a sixteenth century building, called the Arcade, whose Moorish touches are decidedly picturesque. It is like a bit of Spain in the hills of Dartmoor and seems strangely out of place. Only three miles from Moreton Hampstead, lying in a secluded valley, is Chagford, famous for its quaint old inn and wild surroundings.

Once out of Moreton Hampstead and away on the yellow highway that bisects the moor, we found ourselves in a country as barren as any we had seen in England. The road, though winding and steep, is generally visible for some distance ahead, and we found little hindrance to a swift, steady flight that carried us over the long hills far more quickly than we anticipated. The day, which had begun in mist and rain, became lighter and a rapidly clearing sky gave us the opportunity of seeing the wild beauty of the moor at its best. Despite its loneliness and cheerlessness, there was a wonderful play of color: the reds and browns of the broken granite, the purple blaze of the heather, the vivid yellow of the gorse and the metallic green of the whortle, all intensified by golden sunshine, have marvelously transformed the somber tone of the moorland of scarce an hour before. But where is the "forest"? Only stunted trees appear here and there, or a fringe of woods along the clear streams; we learn that "forest" once meant a waste, uncultivated tract of land, and in later days has been applied to woodlands alone. We run for miles with no human habitation in sight save an occasional cottage in a small, barren field surrounded by stone walls. We come upon a large, attractive-looking inn unexpectedly--though it ought not to be unexpected to find an inn anywhere in England--the Two Bridges, situated near the head waters of the Dart, here no more than a brawling streamlet. We leave the car by the roadside and enter the homelike hall, where an array of fishing-tackle makes clear the excuse for this pleasant hotel in the moor. The day has been chilly and, strange to say, a fire flickers in the grate. We are just in time for luncheon and a goodly number of guests respond to the vigorous beating of the gong--that almost universal abomination of the provincial English hotel. It appears that the quiet and seclusion of Dartmoor is not without its attractions to many people. We ourselves leave the pleasant inn with regret; we should have liked a day's rest in the cozy ingle-nook.

A view of the old town of Totnes from the upland road. Original Painting by George Bowman, 1908 Royal Academy.]

The walls and battlements of Prince Town Prison soon loom in sight. This was established in 1800 as a military prison for French soldiers, and a few Americans were confined here in 1812. It then fell into disuse until 1850, but for the half-century since it has served its present purpose as a penal institution and has been greatly added to from time to time.

An English writer says: "Dartmoor is so huge that one must be born and spend a lifetime near it to really know it, and the visitor can merely endeavour to see typical examples of its granite tors, its peaty streams, its great stretches of boulder-strewn heather, and its isolated villages." Evidently he must mean that it is huge in its mysteries and its moods, for it is really only fourteen by twenty-two miles--perhaps half as large as the average county in the United States.

At Tavistock we are well beyond the confines of the moor and follow a fine road to Launceston, where we glance at the huge circular keep of the castle and look longingly at the White Hart, which recalls only pleasant memories. But we are bound for an enchanted land and, like many a gallant knight of yore, we would hasten past "many-towered Camelot" to the castle of the blameless king. The declining sun, toward which we rapidly course, seems to flash across the Cornish hills the roselight of the old Arthurian romance, and the stately measures of the "Idyls of the King" come unbidden to our minds. But we soon have something less romantic to think of, for in attempting a short cut to Tintagel without going to Camelford, we run into a series of the crookedest, roughest lanes we found in all England. These appear to have been quite abandoned; in places mere ravines with myriads of sharp loose stones and many long steep hills. But we push on and almost ere we are aware, find ourselves in Tintagel village, which with its long rows of boarding-houses hardly accords with one's preconceived romantic notions. Then we catch a glimpse of the ocean out beyond the headland, upon which is perched a huge, square-towered building--King Arthur's Castle Hotel, they tell us--and thither we hasten. This hotel, only recently completed, is built on a most liberal scale, though it can hardly accommodate many guests at a time. The public rooms are most elaborately furnished and of enormous size. The great round table in the reading room is a replica of the original at Shrewsbury, at which, declares tradition, King Arthur sat with his fifty knights. The guest rooms are on an equally generous scale and so arranged that every one fronts on the sea. The rates are not low by any means, yet it is hard to conceive how such a hotel can be a paying investment.

After we reached the hotel, the long twilight still gave time to contemplate the weird beauty of the surroundings and to explore the ruins of the castle so famed in song and story. We scrambled down the high headland, upon which the hotel stands, to the level of the blue inlet of the sea, depicted in such a masterly manner in the painting by Mr. Moran, the towering cliffs crowned by the fragmentary ruins looming far above us. A path cut in the edge of the cliff leads to a precarious-looking foot-bridge across the chasm and a still narrower and steeper path hugs the face of the precipice on the opposite side until a heavy oaken door is reached. This door, to which the old caretaker in the cottage below had given me the key, opens into the supposed site of King Arthur's castle. Only a few scattered bits of masonry remain and these are probably of a later time than that of the early Briton.

From Original Painting by Thos. Moran, N. A.]

The spot is lonely and quite barren save a few patches of greensward upon which were peacefully grazing a flock of sheep--one finds them everywhere in Britain. I was quite alone--there were no other visitors at that late hour and my companions had given up the dizzy ascent before it was fairly begun--and I strove to reconstruct in imagination the castle as it stood in the days of the blameless king. How the wild old stories crowded upon me in that lonely twilight hour! Here, legend declares--and I care not if it be dim indeed and questioned by the wiseacres--was once the court of the wise and faultless Arthur, who gathered to himself the flower of knighthood of Christendom and was invincible to all attacks from without, but whose dominion crumbled away before the faithlessness and dishonor of his own followers. Here, perchance, the faithless Guinevere pined and sighed for her forsworn lover and gazed on the sea, calm and radiant as it is even now, or saw it lash itself into unspeakable fury upon the frowning bastions of the coast. But, alas! how dim and uncertain is all that is left, and how the tales vary save that they all center in the king! Little remains in local tradition of all the vanished splendors of those ancient days save that the king did not die; that in the form of a chough he haunts the scenes of his glory and his downfall, and that he will come again--

But I am quite forgetting the flight of time, and with a lingering look at the storied spot, I slowly descend. Then I climb to the more extensive ruin on the landward side, much shattered but grim and massive in decay. There must have been a connection between the castles on either side of the great ravine, though it is hardly apparent how this could have been. Perhaps the gap has widened much in the long course of time. It is dusk when we return to the hotel and sit long on the open terrace fronting the sea, contemplating the beauty of the scene.

Never have I beheld a more glorious sunset than that which lightened the wild Cornish coast and ocean on that particular evening. A dark band of cloud lay low along the western horizon, with a clear, opalescent sky above, and below a thin strip of lucent gold with silvery clouds floating in it like fairy ships. Suddenly the sun dropped from behind the cloud, which had obscured his full splendor, into the resplendent zone beneath, flooding the sea, into which he slowly sank, with a marvelous though evanescent glory. Then followed all the indescribable color changes and combinations, which varied momentarily until they faded into the dusky hues of a moonlit night. It marked the close of a perfect day--clear and cool, with sky of untainted blue and ocean as still and glassy as a quiet inland lake.

Not less inspiring was the scene that greeted us through our open lattices in the morning--a sea steely blue in the distance, rippling into bars of frosted silver near the shore, while the stern outlines of the headlands were softened by a clinging blue haze. We lingered on the legend-haunted ground until nearly noon and it was with keen regret that we glided away from the pleasant hostelry back to the village and past the old church on the headland, whose bells tolled without mortal hands on the far-off day when the body of King Arthur was borne away to sepulture in Glastonbury Abbey.

A fine upland road led us nearly due north from Camelford through long stretches of moorland--or country almost as sterile as the moors--diversified with great patches of gorse and scattered groups of stunted trees. We encountered scarcely a village for a distance of twenty-five miles, for we did not turn aside for Bude or for Stratton, just opposite on each side of the road. The latter is said to be one of the most unspoiled and genuinely ancient of the smaller Cornish villages. At times we were within a mile or two of the ocean and caught fugitive glimpses of blue expanses of quiet sea. Then the road sweeps farther inland and the country improves in appearance, though it is still Cornwall and Devon and far different from the sleek, prosperous beauty of the Midlands.

From Original Painting by A. J. Warne-Browne.]

"The most exquisite town in England," writes an enthusiast of Clovelly, but Clovelly's very quaintness has made it so widely known that it hardly has a place in a chronicle that seeks rather the untrodden ways. It is not possible for a motor or any other vehicle to descend the steep, stone-paved streets, and about a quarter of a mile above the town we left the car in an exceedingly prosperous-looking stable-yard filled to overflowing with motors, carriages and chars-a-bancs.

Clovelly well deserves its reputation for the picturesque qualities that have transformed it from an unpretentious fishing village, lost among the clifflike hills, into a thronged tourist resort. Fortunately, as yet there has been no attempt to modernize; no stucco-and-timber hotel detracts from the antique flavor; the people who come to Clovelly do not as a rule stay long. Large excursion steamers, usually crowded, ply from Ilfracombe, and coaches and chars-a-bancs from Hartland and Barnstaple bring troops of visitors. Coaching parties come from Tintagel (round trip eighty miles) and one is sure to find Clovelly crowded in season, especially if the day is fine. And so we found it, literally thronged, a huge excursion steamer lying at anchor in the harbor. There was a little disarray and confusion at the pleasant New Inn--new in name only--evidently due to more patronage than could easily be taken care of. As we waited for luncheon we looked about at the collection of antique brass, copper, china and pottery that almost covered the walls and crowded the mantelpieces and odd corners about the inn. We were told that the landlady is a famous collector and that many of the pieces are rare and valuable. A more amusing if not less interesting feature of the house is the sentiment expressed in halting doggerel, emblazoned in large red letters on the walls and ceiling of the dining-room. It is good only from the standpoint of exceeding badness, and its general tenor is to flatter Americans, who no doubt constitute a large proportion of the guests.