Chapter II: Part 2

Some curious vicissitudes are said to have happened to the heart of the great Montrose. It came into the possession of Lady Napier, his nephew's wife, who had it embalmed and enclosed in a steel case of the size of an egg, which opened with a spring, made from the blade of his sword, and the relic was given by her to the then Marchioness of Montrose. Soon afterwards it was lost, but eventually traced to a collection of curios in Holland, and returned into the possession of the fifth Lord Napier, who gave it to his daughter. When she married she went to reside in Madeira, where the little casket was stolen by a native, under the belief that it was a magic charm, and sold to an Indian chief, from whom it was at length recovered; but the possessor in returning to Europe in 1792, having to spend some time in France during that revolutionary period, thought it advisable to leave the little treasure in possession of a lady friend at Boulogne; but as luck would have it, this lady died unexpectedly, and no clue was forthcoming as to where she had hidden the relic.

But a still more curious story is told of the heart of Louis XIV. An ancestor of Sir William Harcourt, at the time of the French Revolution had given to him by a canon of St. Denis the great monarch's heart, which he had annexed from a casket at the time the royal tombs were demolished by the mob. It resembled a small piece of shrivelled leather, an inch or so long. Many years afterwards the late Dr. Buckland, Dean of Westminster, during a visit to the Harcourts was shown the curiosity. We will quote the rest in Mr Labouchere's words, for he it was who related the story in _Truth_. "He (Dr. Buckland) was then very old. He had some reputation as a man of science, and the scientific spirit moved him to wet his finger, rub it on the heart, and put the finger to his mouth. After that, before he could be stopped, he put the heart in his mouth and swallowed it, whether by accident or design will never be known. Very shortly afterwards he died and was buried in Westminster Abbey. It is impossible that he could ever have digested the thing. It must have been a pretty tough organ to start with, and age had almost petrified it. Consequently the heart of Louis XIV. must now be reposing in Westminster Abbey enclosed in the body of an English dean."

FOOTNOTES:

[7] The old Hall was pulled down in 1771.

[8] _Evelyn's Diary_, Sept. 18, 1683.

[9] Descendants of Proger, or Progers, are still living in Bury St. Edmunds.

[10] _The Antiquary_, vol. xxxviii.

NOOKS IN NORFOLK

Wells-next-the-Sea, on the north coast of Norfolk, sounds attractive, and looks attractive on the map; but that is about all that can be said in its favour, for a more depressing place would be difficult to find. Even Holkham, with all its art treasures, leaves a pervading impression of chill and gloom. The architects of the middle of the eighteenth century had no partiality for nooks and corners in the mansions they designed. Vastness and discomfort seems to have been their principal aim. Well might the noble earl for whom it was built have observed, "It is a melancholy thing to stand alone in one's own country." The advent of the motor car must indeed be welcome, to bring the place in touch with life.

We were attracted to the village of Stiffkey, to the east of Wells, mainly by a magazine article fresh in our memory, of some of its peculiarities, conspicuous among which was its weird red-headed inhabitants. The race of people, however, must have died out, for what few villagers we encountered were very ordinary ones: far from ill-favoured. Possibly they still invoke the aid of the local "wise woman," as they do in many other parts of Norfolk, so therein they are no further behind the times than their neighbours.

We heard of an instance farther south, for example, where the head of an establishment, as was his wont, having disposed of his crop of potatoes, disappeared for a week with the proceeds; and returning at length in a very merry condition, his good wife, in the hopes of frightening him, unknown to him removed his watch from his pocket. Next morning in sober earnest he went with his sole remaining sixpence to consult the wise woman of the village, who promptly told him the thief was in his own house. Consequently the watch was produced, and the lady who had purloined it, instead of teaching a lesson, was soundly belaboured with a broom-handle!

Stiffkey Hall is a curious Elizabethan gabled building with a massive flint tower, built, it is said, by Sir Nathaniel Bacon, the brother of the philosopher, but it never was completed. Far more picturesque and interesting are the remains of East Barsham manor-house, some seven miles to the south of Wells. Although it contained some of the finest ornamental Tudor brickwork in England when we were there, and possibly still, the old place could have been had for a song. It had the reputation of being haunted, and was held in awe. The gatehouse, bearing the arms and ensigns of Henry VIII., reminds one of a bit of Hampton Court, and the chimneys upon the buildings on the northern side of the Court are as fine as those at Compton Wyniates. The wonder is that in these days of appreciation of beautiful architecture nobody has restored it back into a habitable mansion. That such ruins as this or Kirby Hall or Burford Priory should remain to drop to pieces, seems a positive sin. A couple of miles to the west of Barsham is Great Snoring, whose turreted parsonage is also rich in early-Tudor moulded brickwork, as is also the case at Thorpland Hall to the south.

One grieves to think that the old Hall of the Townshends on the other side of Fakenham has been shorn of its ancestral portraits. What a splendid collection, indeed, was this, and how far more dignified did the full-length Elizabethan warriors by Janssen look here than upon the walls at Christie's a year or so ago. The famous haunted chambers have a far less awe-inspiring appearance than some other of the bedrooms with their hearse-like beds and nodding plumes. We do not know when the "Brown Lady" last made her appearance, but there are rumours that she was visible before the decease of the late Marquis Townshend. Until then the stately lady in her rich brown brocade had absented herself for half a century. She had last introduced herself unbecoming a modest ghost, to two gentlemen visitors of a house party who were sitting up late at night. One of these gentlemen, a Colonel Loftus, afterwards made a sketch of her from memory which possibly is still in existence.

Walsingham, midway between Fakenham and Wells, is a quaint old town; its timber houses and its combined Gothic well, lock-up, and cross in the market-place giving it quite a mediaeval aspect. Before the image of Our Lady of Walsingham was consigned to the flames by Wolsey's confidential servant Cromwell, the pilgrimages to the Priory were in every respect as great as those to Canterbury, and the "way" through Brandon and Newmarket may be traced like that in Kent. Notwithstanding the fact that Henry VIII. himself had been a barefoot pilgrim, and had bestowed a costly necklace on the image, his gift as well as a host of other riches from the shrine came in very handy at the Dissolution. A relic of Our Lady's milk enclosed in crystal, says Erasmus, was occasionally like chalk mixed with the white of eggs. It had been brought from Constantinople in the tenth century; but this and a huge bone of St Peter's finger, of course, did not survive. The site of the chapel, containing the altar where the pilgrims knelt, stood somewhere to the north-west of the ruins of the Priory. These are approached from the street through a fine old early fifteenth-century gateway. The picturesque remains of the refectory date from the previous century, the western window being a good example of the purest Gothic. The old pilgrims' entrance was in "Knight Street," which derives its name from the miracle of a horseman who had sought sanctuary passing through the extraordinarily narrow limits of the wicket. Henry III. is said to have set the fashion for walking to Walsingham, and we strongly recommend the tourists of to-day, who may find themselves stranded at Wells-next-the-Sea, to do likewise.

The little seaside resort Mundesley is an improvement on Wells; but dull as it is now, what must it have been in Cowper's time: surely a place ill-calculated to improve the poor poet's melancholia! There is little of interest beyond the ruined church on the cliffs and the Rookery Farm incorporated in the remains of the old monastery. A priest's hole is, or was not long since, to be seen in one of the gabled roofs. The churches of Trunch and Knapton to the south-west both are worth a visit for their fine timber roofs. The font at Trunch is enclosed by a remarkable canopy of oak supported by graceful wooden pillars from the floor. It is probably of early-Elizabethan date, and is certainly one of the most remarkable baptistries in the country. Here and in other parts of Norfolk when there are several babies to be christened the ceremony is usually performed on the girls last, as otherwise when they grew up they would develop beards!

Ten miles to the south-west as the crow flies is historic Blickling, one of the reputed birthplaces of the ill-fated Anne Boleyn. By some accounts Luton Hoo in Bedfordshire claims her nativity as well as Rochford Hall in Essex and Hever Castle in Kent; but, though Hever is the only building that will go back to that date, she probably was born in the older Hall of Blickling, the present mansion dating only from the reign of James I.

Upon the occasion of our visit the house was closed, so we can only speak of the exterior, and of the very extensive gardens, where in vain we sought the steward, who was said to be somewhere on the premises.

The rampant bulls, bearing shields, perched on the solid piers that guard the drawbridge across the moat, duly impress one with the ancestral importance of the Hobarts, whose arms and quarterings, surmounted by the helmet and ancient crest, adorn the principal entrance. Like Hatfield and Bramshill, the mellowed red-brick gives it a charm of colour which only the lapse of centuries will give; and though not so old as Knole or Hatfield, the main entrance is quite as picturesque. The gardens, however, immediately surrounding the Hall look somewhat flat in comparison.

Although Henry VIII. did the principal part of his courting at Hever, it was at Blickling that he claimed his bride, and by some accounts was married to her there and not at Calais. The old earl, the unfortunate queen's father, survived her only two years; and after his death the estate was purchased by Sir Henry Hobart,[11] who built the present noble house. Among the relics preserved at Blickling of the unhappy queen are her morning-gown and a set of night-caps, and her toilet case containing mirrors, combs, etc. Sir John the third baronet entertained Charles II. and his queen here in 1671, upon which occasion the host's son and heir, then aged thirteen, was knighted. The royal visit is duly recorded in the parish register as follows: "King Charles the Second, with Queene Katherine, and James, Duke of Yorke, accompanied with the Dukes of Monmouth, Richmond, and Buckingham, and with divers Lords, arrived and dined at Sir John Hubart's, at Blicklinge Hall, the King, Queene, Duke of Yorke, and Duchesse of Richmond, of Buckingham etc., in the great dining-roomes, the others in the great parloure beneath it, upon Michmasday 1671. From whence they went, the Queene to Norwich, the King to Oxneads and lodged there, and came through Blicklinge the next day about one of the clock, going to Rainham to the Lord Townsends."[12]

Queen Catherine slept that night and the following in the Duke's Palace at Norwich, but joined her royal spouse at lunch at Oxnead, which fine Elizabethan house has, alas! been pulled down, and the statues and fountain from there are now at Blickling. "Next morne (being Saterday)," writes a local scribe in 1671, "her Maty parted so early from Norwich as to meet ye King againe at Oxnead ere noone; Sr Robt Paston haveing got a vast dinner so early ready, in regard that his Maty was to goe that same afternoone (as he did) twenty myles to supper to the Ld Townshend's, wher he stayd all yesterday, and as I suppose, is this evening already return'd to Newmarket, extremely well satisfied with our Lord Lieuts reception.... Her Maty haveinge but seven myles back to Norwich that night from Sr Robt Pastons was pleased for about two houres after dinner to divert herselfe at cards with the Court ladies and my Lady Paston, who had treated her so well and yet returned early to Norwich that eveninge to the same quarters as formerly; and on Sunday morne (after her devotions perform'd and a plentifull breakfast) shee tooke coach, extreamely satisfied with the dutifull observances of all this countie and city, and was conducted by the Ld Howard and his sonnes as far as Attleburough where fresh coaches atended to carry her back to the Rt Hoble the Ld Arlington's at Euston."[13]

Sidelights of this royal progress are obtained from the diarist Evelyn and Lord Dartmouth. Among the attractions provided for the king's amusement at Euston was the future Duchess of Portsmouth. The Duchess of Richmond (La belle Stuart), in the queen's train, must have been reminded how difficult had been her position before she eloped with her husband four years previously. For the duke's sake let us hope he was as overcome as his Majesty when the latter let his tongue wag with more than usual freedom during the feast at Raynham. "After her marriage," says Dartmouth, speaking of the duchess, "she had more complaisance than before, as King Charles could not forbear telling the Duke of Richmond, when he was drunk at Lord Townshend's in Norfolk." Evelyn did not think much of the queen's lodgings at Norwich, which he describes as "an old wretched building," partly rebuilt in brick, standing in the market-place, which in his opinion would have been better had it been demolished and erected somewhere else.

Not far from Blickling to the north-east is Mannington Hall, a mansion built in the reign of Henry VI., which possesses one of the best authenticated ghost stories of modern times. The story is the more interesting as it is recorded by that learned and delightful chronicler Dr. Jessop, chaplain to His Majesty the King. The strange experiences of his visit in October 1879 are duly recorded in the _Athenaeeum_ of the following January. The rest of the household had retired to rest, and Dr. Jessop was sitting up making extracts from some rare books in an apartment adjoining the library. Absorbed in his study, time had slipped away and it was after one o'clock. "I was just beginning to think that my work was drawing to a close," says the doctor, "when, as I was actually writing, I saw a large white hand within a foot of my elbow. Turning my head, there sat a figure of a somewhat large man, with his back to the fire, bending slightly over the table, and apparently examining the pile of books that I had been at work upon. The man's face was turned away from me, but I saw his closely-cut, reddish brown hair, his ear and shaved cheek, the eyebrow, the corner of his right eye, the side of the forehead, and the large high cheekbone. He was dressed in what I can only describe as a kind of ecclesiastical habit of thick corded silk, or some such material, close up to the throat, and a narrow rim or edging of about an inch broad of satin or velvet serving as a stand-up collar and fitting close to the chin. The right hand, which had first attracted my attention, was clasping, without any great pressure, the left hand; both hands were in perfect repose, and the large blue veins of the right hand were conspicuous. I remember thinking that the hand was like the hand of Velasquez's magnificent 'Dead Knight' in the National Gallery. I looked at my visitor for some seconds, and was perfectly sure that he was a reality. A thousand thoughts came crowding upon me, but not the least feeling of alarm or even of uneasiness. Curiosity and a strong interest were uppermost. For an instant I felt eager to make a sketch of my friend, and I looked at a tray on my right for a pencil: then thought, 'Upstairs I have a sketch-book; shall I fetch it?' There he sat and I was fascinated, afraid not of his staying, but lest he should go. Stopping in my writing, I lifted my left hand from the paper, stretched it out to a pile of books and moved the top one. I cannot explain why I did this. My arm passed in front of the figure, and it vanished. Much astonished, I went on with my writing perhaps for another five minutes, and had actually got to the last few words of the extract when the figure appeared again, exactly in the same place and attitude as before. I saw the hand close to my own; I turned my head again to examine him more closely, and I was framing a sentence to address to him when I discovered that I did not dare to speak. I was afraid of the sound of my own voice! There he sat, and there sat I. I turned my head again to my work, and finished the two or three words still remaining to be written. The paper and my notes are at this moment before me, and exhibit not the slightest tremor or nervousness. I could point out the words I was writing when the phantom came, and when he disappeared. Having finished my task I shut the book and threw it on the table: it made a slight noise as it fell--the figure vanished." Not until now did the doctor feel nervous, but it was only for a second. He replaced the books in the adjoining room, blew out the candles on the table, and retired to his rooms marvelling at his calmness under such strange circumstances.

The old-fashioned town Wymondham, to the south-west of Norwich, contains an interesting church and market-cross, and one or two fine Gothic houses, all in good preservation. But stay, the quaint octagonal Jacobean timber structure in the market-place was holding forth a petition for contributions, as it was feeling somewhat decrepit. This was six or seven years ago, so probably by now it has entered upon a new lease of life. How much more picturesque are these old timbered structures than the jubilee clock-towers which have sprung up in many old-fashioned towns, putting everything out of harmony. But few towns are proud of their old buildings. They must be up to date with flaring red-brick, and electric tramways, and down comes everything with any claim to antiquity, without a thought of its past associations or picturesque value. But let us hope that Wymondham may be exempt from these terrible tramways for many years to come, as its population is, or was, decreasing.

The abbey and the church appear to have got rather mixed up; but having come to a satisfactory arrangement, present a most pleasing group, and, in the twilight, with two lofty towers and a ruined archway, it looks far more like a castle on the Rhine than a church in Norfolk. The effect doubtless would be heightened if we could see the rebel Kett dangling in chains from the tower as he did in the reign of Bloody Mary. The timber roof is exceptionally fine, with its long array of carved oak bosses and projecting angels.

Near Wymondham is the moated Hall of Stanfield, picturesque with its numerous pinnacles. Here the heroine of the delightful romance _Kenilworth_ was born in 1532; but poor Amy's marriage, far from being secret, was celebrated with great pomp at Sheen in Surrey in 1550, and is recorded in the _Diary of Edward VI._ now in the British Museum. "Lydcote," the old house in North Devon where she lived for some years, was pulled down not many years ago. Her bedstead from there we believe is still preserved at Great Torrington Rectory.

Somewhat similar to Stanfield, though now only a farmhouse, is the very pretty old Tudor house Hautboys Hall. It stands a few miles to the south-east of Oxnead.

Of all the moated mansions in Norfolk, Oxburgh Hall, near Stoke Ferry, is the most interesting, and is a splendid example of the fortified manor-house of the end of the fifteenth century, and it is one of the few houses in England that have always been occupied by one family. Sir Edmund Bedingfield built it in the reign of Richard III., and Sir Richard Bedingfield resides there at the present time. The octagonal towers which flank the entrance gate rise from the broad moat to a considerable height. There is a quaint projecting turret on the eastern side which adds considerably to the picturesque outline of stepped gables and quaint battlements. High above the ponderous oak gates the machicolation behind the arch that joins the towers shows ample provision for a liberal supply of molten lead, and in an old guard-room may be seen the ancient armour and weapons to which the retainers of the Hall were wont to have recourse in case of siege. The room recalls somehow the defence of the tower of Tillietudlem in _Old Mortality_, and one can picture the little household guard running the old culverins and sakers into position on the battlements.

The great mullioned window beneath the Tudor arch and over the entrance gate belongs to the "King's room," a fine old tapestried chamber containing the bed, with green and gold hangings, where Henry VII. slept; and it is no difficult matter to repeople it in the imagination with the inhabitants of that time in their picturesque costumes. There is a richness in the colouring of the faded tapestry and hangings in contrast with the red-brick Tudor fireplace far more striking than if the restorer had been allowed a liberal hand. It is like a bit of Haddon, and such rooms are as rarely met with nowadays as unrestored churches. The remarkable hiding-place at Oxburgh we have described in detail elsewhere.[14] It is situated in the little projecting turret of the eastern tower, and is so cleverly constructed beneath the solid brick floor, that no one would believe until they saw the solid masonry move upwards that there was sufficient space beneath to conceal a man. The Bedingfields are an old Roman Catholic family, and it is usually in the mansions of those of that faith that these ingenious contrivances are to be seen.

A priest's hole was discovered quite recently in Snowre Hall, a curious Tudor house some ten miles to the west of Oxburgh. It is entered through a shaft from the roof, and measures five feet by six feet and four feet high, and beneath it is an inner and smaller hiding-place. Mr. Pratt (in whose family the house has been for two centuries) when he made the discovery had to remove four barrow-loads of jackdaws' nests. The discovery of this secret room is an interesting sequel to the fact that on April 29, 1646, Charles I. slept at Snowre Hall. It will be remembered that before he delivered himself up to the Scots army, he spent some days wandering about the eastern counties in disguise, like his son did in the western counties five years later. The owner of the house in those days was a Mr. Ralph Skipwith, who, to put the spies that were lurking about the vicinity off the track, provided the king with his own grey riding-jacket in place of the clergyman's black coat he was wearing, for that disguise had been widely advertised by his enemies. Dr. Hudson, who was acting as scout, joined Charles and his companion, Mr. Ashburnham, at Downham Market, where the "King's Walk" by the town side, where they met, may still be seen. It is recorded by Dr. Stukeley that Charles scratched some motto or secret instructions to his friends on a pane of glass in the Swan Inn, where he put up awaiting Hudson's return from Southwell. The fugitives proceeded thence to the Cherry Inn at Mundford, some fourteen miles from Downham, and back to Crimplesham, where they halted at an inn to effect the disguise above referred to. The regicide Miles Corbet, who was on the track with Valentine Walton, gave information as follows:

"Since our coming to Lyn we have done what service we were able. We have taken some examinations, and it doth appeare to us that Mr. Hudson, the parson that came from Oxford with the king, was at Downham in Norfolk with two other gentlemen upon Thursday the last of April. We cannot yet learn where they were Friday night; but Saturday morning, the 2 of May they came to a blind alehouse at Crimplesham, about 8 miles from Lyn. From thence Mr. Hudson did ride on Saturday to Downham again, and there two soldiers met with him, and had private speech with him. Hudson was then in a scarlet coat. Ther he met with Mr. Ralf Skipwith of his former acquaintance, and with him he did exchange his horse; and Skipwith and the said Hudson did ride to Southrie ferrie a privat way to go towards Ely; and went by the way to Crimplesham, and ther were the other two--one in a parsons habit, which by all description was the king. Hudson procured the said Skipwith to get a gray coat for the Dr. (as he called the king), which he did. And ther the king put off his black coat and long cassock, and put on Mr. Skipwith his gray coat. The king bought a new hat at Downham, and on Saturday went into the Isle of Ely. Wherever they came they were very private and always writing. Hudson tore some papers when they came out of the house. Hudson did enquire for a ship to go to the north or Newcastel, but could get none. We hear at the same time there were 6 soldiers and officers as is thought at Oxborough at another blind alehouse."[15]

It is worthy of remark that Miles Corbet, whom Pepys saw on the morning of April 19, 1662, looking "very cheerful" upon his way to Tyburn, was a native of Norfolk, and his monument may be seen in Sprowston Church near Norwich.

The "Swan" at Downham still exists, but it was modernised some fifteen years ago. It would be interesting to know what became of the historical pane of glass.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] The Miss Hobart who figures in de Gramont's _Memoirs_ was Sir John's sister, one of the first baronet's sixteen children.

[12] There is an illustration of the room that Monmouth slept in at Raynham upon this occasion in _King Monmouth_.

[13] _A Narrative of the Visit of His Majesty King Charles the Second to Norwich, 1671_ (1846).

[14] See _Secret Chambers and Hiding-Places_.

[15] See _Memoirs of the Martyr King_.

NOOKS IN WARWICKSHIRE AND BORDERLAND

The outline of Warwickshire is something in the form of a turnip, and the stem of it, which, like an isthmus, projects into Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire, contains many old-world places.

Long Compton, the most southern village of all, is grey and straggling and picturesque, with orchards on all sides, and a fine old church, amid a group of thatched cottages, whose interior was restored or mangled at a period when these things were not done with much antiquarian taste. We have pleasant recollections of a sojourn at the "Old Red Lion," where mine host in 1880, a typical Warwickshire farmer, was the most hospitable and cheery to be found in this or any other county: an innkeeper of the old school that it did one's heart good to see.

But this welcome house of call is by no means the only Lion of the neighbourhood, for on the ridge of the high land which forms the boundary of Oxfordshire are the "Whispering Knights," the "King's Stone," and a weird Druidical circle. These are the famous Rollright Stones, about which there is a story that a Danish prince came over to invade England, and when at Dover he consulted the oracle as to the chances of success. He was told that

"When Long Compton you shall see,
You shall King of England be."

Naturally he and his soldiers made a bee-line for Long Compton, and, arriving at the spot where the circle is now marked by huge boulders, he was so elated that he stepped in advance of his followers, who stood round him, saying, "It is not meet that I should remain among my subjects, I will go before." But for his conceit some unkind spirit turned the whole party into stone, which doesn't seem quite fair. "King's Stone" stands conspicuous from the rest on the other side of the road, and, being very erect, looks as if the prince still prided himself upon his folly. The diameter of the circle is over a hundred feet. In an adjoining field is a cluster of five great stones. These are the "Whispering Knights"; and the secret among themselves is that they will not consent to budge an inch, and woe to the farmer who attempts to remove them. The story goes that one of the five was once carted off to make a bridge; but the offender had such a warm time of it that he speedily repented his folly and reinstated it.

There is a delightful walk across the fields from Long Compton to Little Compton, with a glorious prospect of the Gloucestershire and Warwickshire hills. This village used to be in the former county, but now belongs to Warwickshire. Close to the quaint saddle-back towered church stands the gabled Elizabethan manor-house, with the Juxon arms carved over the entrance. Its exterior has been but little altered since the prelate lived here in retirement after the execution of Charles I. A gruesome relic was kept in one of the rooms, the block upon which the poor monarch's head was severed. This and King Charles' chair and some of the archbishop's treasured books disappeared from the manor-house after the death of his descendant Lady Fane. Internally the house has been much altered, but there are many nooks and corners to carry the memory back to the hunting bishop, for his pack of hounds was one of the best managed in the country. Upon one occasion a complaint was made to the Lord Protector that Juxon's hounds had followed the scent through Chipping Norton churchyard at the time of a puritanical assembly there. But Oliver would hear none of it, and only replied, "Let the bishop enjoy his hunting unmolested."

When Little Compton church had an Independent minister to hold forth to the congregation, the prelate held divine service every Sunday at Chastleton, the grand old home of the loyalist family of Jones. This stately Jacobean mansion is close to Little Compton, but is really in Oxfordshire. It has an old-world charm about it entirely its own; and few ancestral homes can take us back to the days of Cavalier and Roundhead with such realism, for the old furniture and pictures and relics have never been disturbed since the house was built by Walter Jones between the years 1603 and 1630. He purchased the estate from Robert Catesby, the projector of the Gunpowder Plot, who sold the manor to provide funds for carrying on that notorious conspiracy.

The great hall is a noble apartment, with raised dais and carved screen; and the Royalist Joneses looking down upon you on all sides, conspicuous among whom is Thomas Jones and valiant Captain Arthur Jones, whose sword beside him shows the good service he did at Worcester fight. When the day was lost, and Charles was journeying towards Boscobel, the captain managed to ride his tired horse back to Chastleton. But a party of Cromwellian soldiers were at his heels, and his wife had only just time to hurry him into an ingeniously contrived hiding-place when the enemy confronted her, and refused to budge from the very bedroom behind whose panelled walls the fugitive was secreted. But Mrs. Arthur Jones had her share of tact, and in preparing her unwelcome guests some refreshment, she added a narcotic to the wine, which in time had effect. Her husband was then released, and with a fresh horse he was soon beyond danger. The little oak wainscoted chamber and the adjoining bedroom may still be seen where this exciting episode took place. The drawing-room is very rich in oak carvings, and the lofty marble chimney-piece bears in the centre the Jones' arms. The ceiling with its massive pendants is a fine example of the period.[16] The bedrooms are all hung with the original tapestry and arras that was made for them. One of them contains the State bed from old Woodstock Palace; and there are everywhere antique dressing-tables, mirrors, and quaint embroidered coverlets, and old chests and cabinets innumerable containing queer old dresses and coats of the Georgian period, and, what is more remarkable, the identical Jacobean ruffs and frills which are depicted in the old portraits in the hall. Then there are cupboards full of delightful old china, and decanters and wine glasses which were often produced to drink a health to the "King over the water." But of more direct historic interest is Charles I.'s Bible, which was given by the widow of the last baronet of the Juxon family--a grand-nephew of the archbishop--to the then proprietor of Chastleton, John Jones. It is bound in gold stamped leather, and bears the Royal arms with the initials C. R. It is dated 1629, and is full of queer old maps and illustrations, and upon the fly-leaf is written--"Juxon, Compton, Gloucestershire."

Some of the ancient cabinets at Chastleton are full of secret drawers, and in one of them some years ago a very curious miniature of the martyr king was discovered. It is painted on copper, and represents Charles I. with the Order of St. George, and a set of designs drawn on talc, illustrating the life of the ill-fated monarch from his coronation to his execution. They are thus described by one of the past owners of Chastleton: "They consist of a face and bust in one miniature, in a case accompanied with a set of eight or nine pictures drawn on talc, being different scenes or dresses, which are to be laid on the miniature so that the face of the miniature appears through a hole left for that purpose: and thus the one miniature does duty in every one of the talc pictures. These were accidentally discovered some twenty years ago.[17] The miniature was well known, and was supposed to be complete in itself; but one day whilst being handled by one of the family, then quite a child, it fell to the ground, and being in that way forced open at the back, those talc pictures were brought to light. The careful manner in which they had been concealed, and the miniature thereby made to appear no more than an ordinary portrait, seems to warrant the suggestion that they were in the first instance the property of some affectionate adherent of Charles, whose prudence persuaded him to conceal what his loyalty no doubt taught him to value very highly. There is no direct evidence to show that they belonged to Bishop Juxon; nor is there any tradition that I ever heard connected with them. The two concluding pictures of the series represent the decapitated head in the hand of the executioner, and a hand placing the martyr's crown upon the brows."

There are two huge oak staircases running up to the top of the house, where is the old gallery or ballroom, with a coved ceiling of ornamented plaster-work, and above the mullioned windows grotesque monster heads devised in the pargeting.

The grounds and gardens are quite in character: not made to harmonise, as are so many gardens nowadays, but the original quaint cut box hedges and trim walks. The grand old house in the centre with its rusty roof of lichen, and hard by the little church nestling by its side with the picturesque entrance gateway and dovecot, form together a delightful group. Chastleton church contains some good brasses. The tower is oddly placed over the south porch.

A couple of miles to the north, and the same distance beyond, are two other interesting manor-houses, Barton-on-the-Heath and Little Woolford. The former, a gabled Jacobean house, was once the seat of the unfortunate Sir Thomas Overbury, who was done to death in the Tower by the machinations of that evil couple, Carr, Earl of Somerset, and his countess. Overbury, it will be remembered, had written the Court favourite's love letters and poems, and knew too much of that guilty courtship.

There are some good monuments to the Overburys in the church: a Norman one with saddle-back tower. Near here is the Four-Shire Stone, described by Leland as "a large bigge stone; a Three-Mile-Stone from Rollerich Stones, which is a very mark or line of Gloucestershire, Whichester (Worcestershire), Warwickshire, and Oxfordshire."

Little Woolford manor-house, the old seat of the Ingrams, is now, or was some years ago, used as a school. It is very picturesque, and its gables of half-timber, facing the little courtyard, remind one of the quadrangle of Ightham Mote. Opposite the Tudor entrance-gate is the hall, with its open timber roof, minstrels' gallery, panelled walls, and tall windows, still containing their ancient painted glass. Barton, which properly should have its ghost, presumably is not so favoured; but here there are two at least,--a certain "White Lady," who, fortunately for the juvenile scholars, does not appear until midnight; and the last of the Ingrams, who has a restless way of tearing about on horseback in the adjacent fields. This gentleman could not die decently in his bed, but must needs, upon the point of dying, rush into the stable, mount his favourite steed, and plunge into the raging tempest to meet his adversary Death. What a pity there are not more educational establishments like this. They might possibly make the pupils less matter-of-fact and more imaginative. But we had almost forgotten a moral lesson that is to be learned from a rude projection in the masonry on the left-hand side of the entrance gateway. This is the oven, which opens at the back of a wide hearth; and here some seventeenth-century I O U's are said to have been found for money lost at play; while some Cavaliers were concealed there in the time of the Civil Wars. But the punishment for gambling was providentially arranged. Some Cromwellian soldiers dropping in at the manor-house, lighted a tremendous fire, and gave the unfortunate fugitives a roasting which they did not readily forget. This is roughly as the story goes; indeed it goes further, for by local report King Charles himself was one of the victims.

Brailes, a few miles to the north-east, is famous for its church, the cathedral of southern Warwickshire; but it is principally interesting exteriorly, the old benches having been long since cleared away and many nineteenth-century "improvements" made. Still there are parts of the fourteenth-century roof and a fine font, some ancient monuments, particularly melodious old bells; and the lofty embattled fifteenth-century tower is exceptionally graceful.

Buried in a hollow, and hidden from view by encircling trees and hills, is that wonderful old mansion Compton Wyniates. The name (derived from the ancient family of Compton and Wyniates, a corruption of vineyard, for at an early period the vine was here cultivated) is suggestive of something quaint, and indeed a more curious old house could not be found. Its innumerable gables and twisted chimneys seem to be heaped up in the most delightful confusion, in abandoned opposition to any architectural regularity. The eye wanders from tower and turret until it becomes bewildered by so many twists and angles. Look at the square box of a house like Moor Park, for example, and wonder how it is that having arrived at such picturesque perfection, taste should so degenerate. But half the fascination of Compton Wyniates is its colour; its time-worn dark-red brick and the grey-green lichens of ancient roofs. Upon one side the curious gables and countless chimney clusters are reflected in the moat, part of which now does service as a sunken garden.

Passing through the bullet-battered door of the main entrance, over which are the Royal arms of England supported by a griffin and a dog, we enter a quadrangular court and thence pass into the great hall, with its open timber roof black with the smoke of centuries. The screen beneath the music gallery is elaborately carved with leaf tracery, grotesque figures of mounted knights, and the escutcheon of the Compton arms. Above the gallery we notice the huge oak beams which form the half-timber portion of one of the principal gables, and cannot help comparing these tremendous oak trunks with the modern laths plastered in front of houses: a futile attempt to imitate this popular style, without aiming at its _object_--strength.

The screen of the chapel, like that of the hall, is ornamented with grotesque carvings, including a battle royal between some monks and his Satanic Majesty, who by the way has one of the ninety rooms all to himself, and reached by a special spiral staircase. Near the "Devil's chamber" is another small room whose ghostly occupant is evidently a member of the fresh-air league, for he will persist in having the window open, and no matter how often it is closed it is always found to be open. What a pity this sanitary ghost does not take up his abode where oxygen is scarcer. But these are by no means the only mysterious rooms at Compton Wyniates, for not a few have secret entrances and exits, and one dark corridor is provided with a movable floor, which when removed, drawbridge fashion, makes an excellent provision for safety so long as you are on the right side of the chasm. Such ingenious arrangements were as necessary in a private residence, miles from anywhere, as the bathroom is in a suburban villa. There are secret "barracks" in the roof, with storage for a regiment of soldiers, if necessary. The popish chapel, too, has ample provision for the security of its priest. There are four staircases leading up to it, and a regular rabbit-warren between the beams of the roof and the wainscoting, where if needs be he could run in case of danger.

"Henry VIII.'s room," and "Charles I.'s room," are both pointed out. The latter slept a night here prior to the battle of Edgehill, and the bluff king honoured the builder of the mansion, Sir William Compton, with a visit in memory of old days, when his host as a boy had been his page. Dugdale tells us that Sir William got his building material from the ruinous castle of Fulbrooke, so his bricks were mellowed with time when the house was first erected. The knight's grandson became Baron Compton in Elizabeth's reign, and his son William, Earl of Northampton in 1618. A romantic episode in the life of this nobleman was his elopement with Elizabeth Spencer of Canonbury Tower, Islington. The lady was a very desirable match, being the only daughter of Sir John Spencer, the richest heiress of her time. Notwithstanding her strict seclusion at Canonbury, Lord William Compton, of whom she was enamoured, succeeded in the absence of her father in gaining admission to the house in the disguise of a baker, and carried her off in his basket. To perform so muscular a feat was proof enough of his devotion, so at the end of a year all was forgotten and forgiven. Their son, the valiant second earl, Spencer Compton, won his spurs and lost his life fighting for the king at Hopton Heath. His portrait by Janssen may be seen at Castle Ashby.

His son James, the third earl, also fought for Charles, and attended his son at the Restoration; but his younger brother Henry, Bishop of London, aided the Revolution, and crowned Dutch William and his queen.

Only within the last half-century has the mansion been occupied as a residence. For nearly a century before it was neglected and deserted. The rooms were bare of furniture, for, alas! its contents, including Henry VIII.'s State bed, had been removed or sold. That delightful writer William Howitt in 1840 said the house had not been inhabited for ninety years, with the exception of a portion of the east front, which was used by the bailiff. The rooms were empty and the walls were naked. His concluding wish fortunately long since has been realised--namely, that its noble owner would yet cause the restoration and refitting of Compton Wyniates to all its ancient state.

Warwickshire is rich in ancestral houses and mediaeval castles. Take, for example, the fortresses of Kenilworth, Warwick, Maxstoke, and Tamworth, or the fine old houses Coombe Abbey, Charlecote, and Baddesley Clinton. The last named perhaps is least known of these, but by no means the least interesting. This old moated Hall of the Ferrers family is buried in the thickly wooded country on the high tableland which occupies the very heart of England. As to the actual centre, there are two places which claim this distinction; but oddly enough they are quite twelve miles apart. The one between Leamington and Warwick, the other to the west of Coventry. The latter spot is marked by the village cross of Meriden, and the former by an old oak tree by the main road. Baddesley Clinton is nearly equidistant from both, south of Meriden and north-west of Leamington and Warwick.

Few houses so thoroughly retain their ancient appearance as Baddesley. It dates from the latter part of the fifteenth century, and is a singularly well-preserved specimen of a moated and fortified manor-house of that period. Like Compton Wyniates, its situation is very secluded in its densely wooded park, and formerly there was a double moat for extra defence; but for all its retiredness and security, the old house has a kindly greeting for those who are interested in such monuments of the past. A stone bridge across the moat leads to a projecting embattled tower with a wide depressed archway, showing provision for a portcullis with a large mullioned window over it. In general appearance the front resembles the moated house of Ightham, with which it is coeval, and the half-timbered gables of the courtyard are somewhat similar. Unlike Charlecote, the interior is as untouched as the exterior. Everywhere there are quaint old "linen" panelled rooms and richly carved chimney-pieces--windows of ancient heraldic glass, and old furniture, tapestry, and paintings. The hall is not like some, that never look cosy unless there is a blazing log fire in the hearth. There is something particularly inviting in this old room, with its deep-recessed mullioned window by the great freestone Jacobean fireplace. What pictures could not the imagination conjure up in this cosy corner in the twilight of an autumn day! On the first floor over the entrance archway is the "banqueting-room," with high coved ceiling and tapestry-lined walls. Beyond this is "Lord Charles' room," haunted, it is said, by a handsome youth with raven hair. Many years ago this spectre was seen by two of the late Mr. Marmion Ferrers' aunts when they were children, and they long remembered his face and steadfast gaze. A mysterious lady dressed in rich black brocade is occasionally encountered in the corridors in broad daylight, like the famous "Brown Lady" of Raynham Hall.

The ancient chapel was set up by Sir Edward Ferrers when the little parish church was taken from the family at the Reformation. In the thickness of the wall close at hand there is a secret passage which leads down to a little water-gate by the moat beneath which a narrow passage runs, so that there were two ready means of escape in troublous times; and in the roof on the east side of the house there is a priest's hole provided with a fixed bench. Marmion Ferrers above alluded to, who died in 1884, was the eighth in descent from father to son from Henry Ferrers of Elizabeth's time. Both were learned antiquarians. Marmion Ferrers was a typical squire of the old school, and we well remember with what pride he showed us round his ancestral home. But his pride ended there, as is shown by the following anecdote. One day he encountered an old woman in the park who had been gathering sticks without permission. She dropped her heavy bundle and was about to offer apologies for trespassing, when the good old squire, seeing that her load was too much for her strength, without a word slung the burden on his shoulder and carried it to the woman's humble dwelling.

This calls to mind a story of a contemporary squire who lived some fifty miles away in the adjoining county, an antiquary who was also known for his acts of kindness and hospitality. In the vicinity of his ancient Hall a tramp had found a job, and the baronet was anxious to test his butler's honesty. He therefore offered to lend the man a hand and help him carry some bundles of faggots into an adjacent yard, if he would share profits. This was agreed upon, and when the work was done the tramp went off to the Hall to ask for his money, promising to join his assistant in a lane at the back of the house. Meanwhile the squire hurried to his study, and when the butler made his appearance handed him five shillings. Then donning his shabby coat and hat he hastened back. Presently the tramp came up with beaming countenance and held out half a crown, saying they were both well rewarded with one and threepence each. But the assistant grumbled, and said it was miserable pay, and at length persuaded the man to return and ask to see the squire and explain the amount of work that had been done. Again he returned to his sanctum, and hearing the bell ring told the butler to admit the man, and he would hear what he had to say. Having enjoyed the fun--the tramp's surprise and the butler's discomfort, he dismissed them both--one with half a guinea, the other from his service.

Baddesley Clinton church, shut in by tall trees a bow-shot from the Hall, is famous for its eastern window of heraldic glass, which shows the various noble families with whom the Ferrers intermarried. By the union of Marmion Ferrers' father with the Lady Harriet Anne, daughter of the second Marquis Townshend, the Chartley and Tamworth lines of the family were united with that of Baddesley. The altar tomb of Sir Edward Ferrers, Knight, the founder of the family at Baddesley, his wife Dame Constance, and son who predeceased him, has above shields of the alliances with the Bromes, Hampdens, etc. He was the son of Sir Henry Ferrers, Knight, of Tamworth Castle, and grandson of William, Lord Ferrers of Groby. Marmion was the thirteenth in descent from this Sir Edward, not many links between the fifteenth and end of the nineteenth century. The day of the good old squire's burial on August 25, 1884, fell upon the three hundred and forty-ninth anniversary of the death of the first Ferrers of Baddesley.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] There is an engraving of this room in Nash's _Mansions_.

[17] The description was written more than twenty years ago.

SOME NOOKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE AND GLOUCESTERSHIRE

Not far from Powick Bridge, where after two hours' hard fighting the Royalists were defeated by General Fleetwood, stands a quaint old house of timber and plaster, with nine gables facing three sides of the compass, and a high three-gabled oaken porch in front. It is called Priors Court, or the White House of Pixham, and since "the battle of Powick Bridge" it has been occupied by the same family, though the name by inter-marriage has changed from time to time. A branch of the Lanes of Bentley were the representatives in the seventeenth century, and according to tradition the famous Jane Lane lived here for a time. Though the house belongs to the Tudor period, many alterations were made early in the eighteenth century, but the little interior quadrangle remains much in its original condition. One expects to find within, the usual comfortable chimney corners and cosy panelled rooms, and perhaps some ancient furniture; but it comes as a surprise to find a museum of relics and heirlooms taking us back to the days of the Tudors and Stuarts.