VV 
 
 'i>v 
 
 
 
 «> -••' -** 
 
 
 
 
 
 
J. -** 
 
 
 
 
 r. ^ .* •!, 
 
 "5^ v. % 
 
 ^ ^ ;£m3f. *±S 
 
 
 
 t*^ 
 
 
 • ^ & 
 
 
 
 
 -0 **!nL'<v V 6 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE HEART 
 
 OF 
 
 Merrie England. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 Rev. JAMES S. STONE, D. D. 
 
 "This dear English land! 
 This happy England, loud with brooks and birds, 
 Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees 
 And bloomed from hill to dell 1" 
 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 PORTER & COATES. 
 
 \ 
 
 i 
 
Copyright, 1887, 
 BY PORTER & COATES. 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 |OF CONGRESS 
 
 WASHINGTON 
 
Jo jil 
 
 WHOSE COMPANIONSHIP OF SYMPATHY AND AFFECTION 
 HAS MADE LIFE MORE THAN HAPPY. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 In the following pages are brought together sketches 
 and reminiscences of the old land which can scarcely 
 fail to interest those who love its history, its antiquities 
 and its rural life. 
 
 The book is intended rather as a suggestion of than 
 as a guide to England. The writer has sought to foster 
 tender memories and to strengthen loving ties. He has 
 wandered from places well known to neighborhoods re- 
 mote and secluded — from the cathedral of Canterbury to 
 the cromlechs of Chipping Norton. The villages de- 
 scribed are not richer in interest than other villages : they 
 only illustrate how much pleasure the stranger from afar 
 may find in the country districts of England. 
 
 The book will serve, if for no other purpose, to while 
 away an idle hour. Nevertheless, it has a value beyond 
 that of amusement. Every line is written in truth — not 
 merely intentional, but actual, truth. The places spoken 
 of are familiar to the author. The greatest care has been 
 taken to attain accuracy, and every temptation to exag- 
 gerate in any sense has been studiously avoided. It is 
 
4 PREFACE. 
 
 well to state this, as the ground gone over in this vol- 
 ume is almost entirely new. With the exception of 
 London, Oxford, Stratford and Canterbury, no other 
 writer has dealt with the subject-matter of the book — 
 most certainly, not in the way the reader will find it 
 dealt with here. 
 
 A few historical items in the second and third chap- 
 ters were gathered from a parish magazine published 
 some years since at Shipston. The fourth chapter, it is 
 hoped, will be acceptable from the world-wide interest in 
 the subject, and the fourteenth illustrates the customs 
 and the superstitions which are not yet extinct in the re- 
 gions touched upon in the volume. They who are fa- 
 miliar with English folk-lore and country-life will detect 
 in almost every sentence of the " Merry Legend " some 
 allusion to old-time manners and ideas. The outline of 
 the story is true, the life suggested by it such as still ex- 
 ists ; and if the workmanship of the writer please not, 
 let its purpose be considered — its endeavor to weave 
 into the ground-work sayings and practices, homely pic- 
 tures and rude scenes, which shall illustrate the days of 
 yore and the country far away. In no part of the book 
 is a character given that is not sketched from life — 
 sometimes so faintly disguised that not a few into whose 
 hands this volume may come will easily recognize the 
 author's model and purpose. 
 
 A residence of fourteen years on the western side of 
 
PREFACE 5 
 
 the Atlantic and a readiness to appreciate and enter into 
 the American life have in a measure, no doubt, unfitted 
 the writer to speak of England from a purely English 
 standpoint. He has done his best to show that love for 
 his native land which none know better how to honor 
 than the American people. They know full well that he 
 who readily casts off old ties will as readily sever him- 
 self from the new. But without becoming more and 
 more imbued with its spirit no one can live in a land 
 which one has learned to love. It must give its influence 
 to his thought. He is as the man who in the home of 
 his bride looks back to the home of his mother : perfect 
 loyalty to both is consonant with perfect love for both. 
 But he is not, and cannot be, the same in the one as in 
 the other. He has left the mother for ever, not with 
 regret — far from that — but to fulfil the destiny and the 
 duty ordained for him by God. They, therefore, in the 
 old land who may chance to read these pages must not 
 expect too much. The son going home is not as the son 
 who has never left home. 
 
 Perhaps than at this time the two nations were never 
 closer knit together. Old feelings have died out, and 
 both peoples are content to let bygones be bygones. 
 May they learn to love each other more and more as 
 the ages roll on 1 
 
 Philadelphia, June 21, 1887. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introductory * 9 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 The Village on the Stour 2 5 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 The Region Roundabout 5 2 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Love in ye Olden Time • 82 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 At Oxford n 3 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 An Evening Walk l2 7 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 A Town in the Chilterns * 54 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Thame *78 
 
 1 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Pilgrimage to Canterbury 216 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 In the Cathedral 237 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 At Stratford-on-Avon 255 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 To Edgehill 281 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Over the Country 301 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 A Merry Legend 329 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 Last Glimpses 382 
 
The Heart of Merrie England. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Inmftuctorj). 
 
 " This little world, 
 This precious stone set in the silver sea!" 
 
 There are two countries which we as Christians and 
 men of Anglo-Saxon race must ever think of with affec- 
 tion — viz., Palestine, the birthplace of our Christianity, 
 and England, the cradle of our civilization and our 
 Church. Both of these lands have, apart from these 
 considerations, had an important share in the world's 
 history ; both lie on the western border of their respec- 
 tive continents, and both are small in extent and irregu- 
 lar in physical formation ; furthermore, both were peo- 
 pled by a race foreign to the soil : the Israelites came 
 from beyond the Euphrates, and the English from be- 
 yond the German Ocean. These races, though belong- 
 ing to distinct families, had in common a religious spirit, 
 a love of freedom, commercial rather than warlike in- 
 stincts, an undying affection for home and an exalted 
 ideal of womanhood. We admire alike the heroes of 
 both peoples — men such as Barak and Gideon, who 
 
IO THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 fought and won on the plain of Esdraelon ; men such 
 as Harold Godwin, who fought and lost on the field of 
 Senlac. Both have had their kings and prophets and 
 poets of great excellence, and with equal pleasure the 
 mind recalls the names of David the shepherd-king 
 and Alfred the fugitive prince; Moses the lawgiver 
 and Anselm the saint; the rapturous Isaiah and the 
 holy Herbert. Nor do we remember save with the same 
 delight the snow-crowned Lebanon, and the steep, rug- 
 ged Cumbrians ; the blue waters of Tiberias, and the 
 quiet beauty of Windermere; the Jordan rushing 
 through a ravine deserted, and the Thames meander- 
 ing through vales and plains of rich fertility ; the city 
 crowned with the cross of a grand cathedral, and the 
 city crowned with the pinnacles of a glorious temple ; 
 the shore washed with the murmuring waves of a sunny 
 Mediterranean, and the coast where wildly break the bil- 
 lows of an untamed Atlantic. Some associations would 
 urge us to compare England and Greece, and others, 
 again, England and Italy ; but the most precious inherit- 
 ance of religion, which made both Canaan and Britain 
 holy, God-fearing lands, suggests the linking together of 
 the land of roses and the land which floweth with milk 
 and honey. 
 
 England in the olden time — say about the age in 
 which Augustine and his monks sang the Alleluia of 
 the gospel and uplifted the cross of Christ before the 
 gates of a heathen Canterbury — was a very different 
 country from the England of the nineteenth century. 
 Thirteen hundred years have wrought changes vast and 
 almost inconceivable. Then the British Isles lay on, if 
 not outside, the confines of civilization. Beyond them 
 
INTR OD UCTOR Y. 1 1 
 
 was nothing but the unexplored Atlantic — the ocean 
 which skirted the empty and illimitable space. A bold 
 voyager was he who had seen the western coast of Ire- 
 land — a still bolder one who had tempted the gods by 
 venturing into the waters beyond the horizon and had 
 ridden in his frail craft upon the green-crested billows 
 of the blue-black sea. No keel then ploughed the Mer- 
 sey; rarely indeed did a vessel enter the Tyne, the 
 Humber or the Thames. The country still lay in its 
 primitive wildness. Dark and impenetrable forests 
 spread over vast tracts of land ; deep fens and sluggish 
 marshes covered miles of plain. The climate was wet, 
 dreary and inhospitable. The sparse population, whether 
 British or English, was fierce and cruel. Communication 
 was difficult and mostly by water, while the few towns 
 and villages which existed were rude and rough. To 
 compare England then and now is something like com- 
 paring a storm-wrought sky in March with the star- 
 strewn heavens of July. The wilderness has been con- 
 verted into a garden ; cities have arisen where once the 
 wild boar had his lair and the bittern her nest ; the best 
 roads in the world overspread the island ; mansions nes- 
 tle in picturesque beauty where once mud cottages shel- 
 tered rugged chieftains from the inclement weather; 
 woods have been cleared and fens drained ; the end of 
 the earth has become the heart of the world; and on 
 every sea and in every breeze, from castle-tower, fortress, 
 mast and spire, there waves the bright red cross of good 
 Saint George. The change is vast in every way. Not 
 only is the physical aspect of the country different, but 
 the political, social, numerical and religious conditions 
 of the people are also different. Instead of a score — or 
 
12 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 it may have been a hundred — petty tribes warring one 
 against another, we see a strong united kingdom, the 
 centre of an empire and the mother of nations. Instead 
 of wending our way slowly and tediously up forest- 
 shaded rivers or cutting a path through a trackless wild, 
 we can walk along pleasant highways or travel in swift 
 haste over the iron road. The reeking torch or the 
 flickering candle which served to guide our forefathers to 
 their bed of straw or of rushes has given place to brilliant 
 illuminations. Even the lightning, which in its furious 
 might split the gnarled oak, rent the black clouds and 
 struck brave Viking hearts with fear, has been taught to 
 turn our night into day and bear our tidings round the 
 world. The whole earth has changed, but no part more 
 than England ; and, while Palestine has become a deso- 
 lation and Jerusalem a heap of stones, that other holy 
 land has become a paradise and her cities habitations 
 of beauty. 
 
 The land, small in territory, is confessedly great in 
 deeds. Her race seems to retain the vitality and vigor 
 of perennial youth. It was young when Greek ships 
 sailed the midland waters and Roman hands built the 
 Colosseum and made captives lay the roads which should 
 lead from the ends of the earth to the Imperial City; it 
 was young a thousand years ago, when Charlemagne 
 reunited the divided empire and Egbert made the Saxon 
 principalities one kingdom ; it was young when the Nor- 
 man duke fought on the seaside battlefield and was 
 crowned with the crown of the island-realm in the min- 
 ster in the marsh; it was young when in its sturdy 
 strength and growing ambition it wrested from John the 
 Magna Carta of freedom and strove with kings till its 
 
INTR OB UCTOR Y. 1 3 
 
 voice was allowed and its rights were secured ; it was still 
 young three hundred years ago, when the Reformation 
 gave it the liberty of the gospel of Christ and it began 
 its work of subduing the untrodden wilds of lands be- 
 yond the seas ; and so through the struggles of the 
 Commonwealth, the wars in which a Marlborough, a 
 Nelson and a Wellington won renown for themselves 
 and glory for their land, and the political changes of the 
 present century, its youth seems to be like that of the 
 sun, renewed every morning, or like that of the giant 
 oaks, slow in growth and continually reproducing them- 
 selves in the seeds planted in the soil fertilized by their 
 cast-off leaves. A thousand and half a thousand years 
 ago the ships of that race went forth to conquer and to 
 colonize from the rivers and harbors of the wild North- 
 ern sea ; a thousand and half a thousand years later the 
 ships of that race spread their sails before every breeze 
 that stirs earth's waters and bear from land to land and 
 from shore to shore the riches of earth's treasures. When 
 the morning sun begins to cast its roseate beams on sky 
 and sea, the banner of England is unfurled in the glory- 
 stream and its blood-red tints fall on gentle wavelet and 
 long-sweeping billow ; and when it sinks to rest within 
 the Occidental clouds, it leaves peace with the many mul- 
 titudes who speak the tongue of Alfred and of Spenser 
 and name the name of Him whom Canaan rejected, but 
 whom Britain loves. And to-day, while the ocean owns 
 her as its mistress and one-seventh of the solid earth calls 
 her queen, her men of high degree and her men of low 
 degree, her lords who sit in purple and ermine in royal 
 halls and her laborers who till the soil and wear rough 
 clothing, they who abide within the old land itself and 
 
14 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 they who dwell in distant parts, — all with one heart be- 
 lieve and with one voice proclaim that the glory of the 
 past shall shine through the ages of the future, and that 
 the cross of three ancient kingdoms shall be for ever 
 the symbol and the proof of freedom, of righteousness 
 and of law. 
 
 Where is the Heart of this Merrie England ? Some 
 have said " London ;" perhaps the people of England 
 themselves say " London," and not without reason. We 
 think, however, that the rural districts have more right 
 to that title, and especially that part of the island which 
 is geographically the centre. There are twenty border 
 counties and twenty inland counties, and in none of 
 them is old Merry England better seen than in the fair 
 counties of Warwick, Worcester and Oxford. Hither 
 shall we lead our readers, only once going beyond them — 
 into distant Kent that we may look upon the glories of 
 England's mother-church. Untrodden ground we shall 
 go over, with that one, and possibly a second, exception ; 
 and when we shall finish our story, we trust we shall 
 have vindicated our title — at least to the extent of sug- 
 gesting how much there is to be seen and known in the 
 region of which we write. Alas ! we can give only the 
 fragments, only the outlines : the reader must himself 
 allow imagination to piece together, color and picture 
 the beautiful whole. 
 
 Nevertheless, before we begin that work, let us look 
 somewhat at the great city itself. Everybody goes to 
 London : a book on England without some mention of 
 London would be like the play of Hamlet with the prince 
 left out. As to the provincial people of the land, their 
 ambition is to visit the metropolis — once in their life, at 
 
INTR OD UCTOR Y. 1 5 
 
 least. That immediately raises a man to a pinnacle of 
 fame far higher than he would reach by a voyage across 
 the Atlantic, or even to the ends of the earth. He is an 
 authority upon extraordinary matters for ever after, seeing 
 that London is a tangible thing, and America, Australia 
 and China are, after all, as mysterious and questionable 
 as the mountains of the moon or the rings of Saturn. 
 
 And a wonderful place the capital is, with its five mil- 
 lions of people, its thronging streets, its fine buildings, its 
 restless life, its noble river and its long, thrilling history. 
 It would take fifteen or sixteen of the largest towns in 
 England to equal that vast population. There human 
 life swarms ; there all that is noble and all that is base in 
 man are developed and manifested. 
 
 One singular thing about London is that the stranger 
 feels at home within the first hour of his entering its 
 streets. This arises partly from the widespread informa- 
 tion concerning the place and everything belonging to it, 
 partly from its admirable accommodations both for trav- 
 elling about and for lodging and eating, and partly from 
 the fact that here one is left absolutely alone. Nobody 
 looks at you ; nobody gives you a thought. Each fol- 
 lows out the thread of his own life and cares nothing for 
 any one else's. No man, however ambitious or ostenta- 
 tious he may be, can make an impression in London ; he 
 may live like a prince or dress like a beggar and nobody 
 will take the least notice of him. He is a drop in the 
 ocean of humanity — that, and nothing more. 
 
 The Abbey is the first place to be seen. Enter as the 
 bells are chiming for morning prayer and listen to the 
 rendering of the service in a perfect way. The voices 
 are correct ; the customs are simple. The General Con- 
 
1 6 THE HEART OF MERKIE ENGLAND. 
 
 fession is said after, and not with, the minister; the 
 Psalms are not announced ; the reader, when he leaves 
 his stall for the lectern, is preceded by a verger carrying 
 a long wand. During the lesson this official holds the 
 clergyman's cap and at the close accompanies him back 
 again. Owing to draughts some of the clergy wear 
 skull-caps. Before the prayers are ended the devout 
 worshipper will wonder if heaven itself is more impress- 
 ive and beautiful than this marvellous building, with its 
 lofty height and hallowed associations. When this duty- 
 is over, the guides are ready to take visitors around the 
 building. 
 
 Guides are useful if they know anything. Generally 
 speaking, they have deep sepulchral voices and depress- 
 ingly melancholy manners. They go over the same 
 story so often that their interest in it is very small. 
 Fortunately, the means of description are not confined 
 to them, and the intelligent visitor can, if he will, know 
 beforehand more than they can tell him. He will look 
 with reverence upon the tomb of Edward the Confessor 
 and walk with awe near the grave of the good Queen 
 Maud. This is the most sacred part of the building, 
 and the dark arched recesses in the shrine remind one 
 of the days when men knelt therein, pressed their fore- 
 heads against the cold stone and prayed for healing or 
 for pardon. The dust of kings and of queens is beneath 
 almost every part of this hallowed chapel. There lie the 
 remains of Henry III., Edward I. and the beloved Queen 
 Eleanor, Edward III. and Henry V., and close by is the 
 ancient coronation-chair with the veritable stone upon 
 which Jacob slept at Bethel and on which the kings of 
 Scotland and of England have been crowned for many 
 
INTR OD UCTOR Y. \J 
 
 centuries. The chapel of Henry VII. is one of the most 
 lovely Gothic buildings in the world. There is the tomb 
 of that king, and over the grave of Edward VI. a mod- 
 ern communion-table of rich materials has been placed. 
 Objects of interest await one at every turn — in the main 
 structure and in the chapels. Earth's great ones lie on 
 every side — poets, statesmen and warriors, as well as 
 they who have borne the sceptre and worn the crown. 
 The extent and massiveness of the building, as well as 
 its rare beauty and splendor, are marvellous and grow 
 upon one. Nor should the Chapter-House or the Dean's 
 Yard be overlooked. A day within the sacred precincts 
 is better than a thousand elsewhere. 
 
 The effect of St. Paul's upon the mind is different. 
 Its vastness overpowers, but the pagan architecture can- 
 not impress one in the same way as the Gothic. Nor 
 has the place the history of the Abbey. The monu- 
 ments are severe in tone ; the pulpit is of costly material. 
 In the dome is the Whispering Gallery, and from the 
 Stone Gallery outside a splendid view of the city may be 
 had on a fine day. From the ground to this point are 
 five hundred and sixty steps. Lord Nelson and the duke 
 of Wellington lie in the crypt — the former in the sar- 
 cophagus which Wolsey intended for himself; but he 
 fell from favor, and it was kept unused. 
 
 Few places are more interesting than is the Tower. We 
 were more impressed with the buildings themselves than 
 with the crown jewels, resplendent and of untold wealth 
 though they are. The past came back again, only the 
 Beefeaters, with their nice clean collars and well-blacked 
 boots, seemed somewhat out of place. The " Traitors' 
 Gate " tells its own story. In the armories are the an- 
 
18 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 cient equipments of war — battle-axes, swords, lances, 
 etc. How the soldiers moved in such heavy encase- 
 ments or wielded such long pikes is a question. Instru- 
 ments of torture are also to be seen — the thumbscrews, 
 a model of the rack and the block and axe with which 
 some great ones were executed. Between the White 
 Tower and the Beauchamp Tower is the spot where the 
 prisoners condemned to die were beheaded, and in the 
 Beauchamp Tower itself is the room where the state 
 offenders of high rank were kept. They seem to have 
 spent some of their time in cutting out their names or 
 devices in the wall. There is the name of "Jane" — 
 the poor lady remembered by all as one of the sweetest 
 and most unfortunate of women. In St. Peter's Chapel, 
 close by, are the monuments of many of those who suf- 
 fered in the Tower. Two of Henry VIII. 's wives lie 
 side by side near the altar ; Lady Jane Grey is also there, 
 with many another. The Beefeater told us of the honor 
 of being put to death within the Tower : outside, a rude 
 and thoughtless mob annoyed and maltreated the con- 
 demned prisoner, but here he died in peace. This is 
 grim glory, and one is thankful that times have changed. 
 The Tower brings history home quicker than any 
 other place in London. Its stories of woe, its legends 
 and traditions, weird, sad, mysterious, are written in liv- 
 ing lines. Its very ground was once trodden by mighty 
 ones ; we see the same great walls they saw, thread our 
 way through the same dark, narrow passages and sit in 
 the rooms where many of them spent their last hours. 
 It is a past full of shadows — the young princes smother- 
 ing in the dead of the night, Anne Boleyn suffering the 
 cruelty of a selfish king, and many another character 
 
INTR OD UCTOR V. 1 9 
 
 famous in history passing through trial for charges, 
 sometimes, of suspicion or jealousy only. Will that 
 gloomy fortress ever reveal the secrets in its keeping ? 
 
 Up the Thames, near to the Abbey, are the Parliament 
 Buildings, stately and large. The Victoria Tower is a 
 work of art ; under it we enter, and pass through the 
 Queen's Robing-Room, the Royal Galleries and the 
 Princes' Chamber into the House of Lords. The paint- 
 ings, statuary, decorations and architecture are elaborate; 
 the throne and woolsack, of interest. On the way to 
 the House of Commons are some remarkable pictures, 
 but in the chamber where the faithful representatives of 
 the boroughs and shires meet splendor has given place 
 to severe simplicity. From St. Stephen's Hall is reached 
 the famous Westminster Hall ; here the carved and wide 
 roof attracts attention. The remembrance of the his- 
 torical scenes which have taken place there subdues the 
 mind. Within these walls were tried Charles I. and the 
 seven bishops ; within these walls the unfortunate Rich- 
 ard II. was deposed and Oliver Cromwell was installed 
 as Lord Protector. It is a place for thinking mighty 
 thoughts. 
 
 Of the Guildhall, with its picture-gallery, museum, 
 library and great chamber, the Royal Exchange, the 
 Bank of England, Paternoster Row and the Monument 
 it is unnecessary to say anything. The British Museum 
 contains some of the greatest wonders in the world. 
 The buildings are so large and have so many curiosities 
 that one can get only a vague bird's-eye view of the whole. 
 There are old manuscripts and illuminated books beau- 
 tifully and wonderfully executed by the men of bygone 
 days. Printing can scarcely equal some of the monkish 
 
20 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 work : the colors are bright and fresh as ever, the pen- 
 manship — oftentimes exceedingly small — is accurate and 
 the binding is strong and lasting. Next to Bibles, mis- 
 sals, psalters and Hours of the Virgin, the most popular 
 manuscript books were the Romaunt de la Rose and 
 Froissart. Some of these volumes — or, at least, the like 
 — were handled by men and women whose ashes lie in 
 the Abbey or at the Tower. In the Museum, however, 
 one is taken back to ages which were ancient when Eng- 
 land was young. In one of the Egyptian rooms are 
 mummies two or three thousand years old. Some of 
 the coffins are very elaborately painted in bright colors, 
 with figures of gods and many devices. The face of the 
 deceased is delineated on the coffin, and such designs 
 differ enough from one another to make one pretty sure 
 that they are correct, and not conventional representa- 
 tions. The wood of the coffin is very thick — in some 
 instances, eight inches — and some bodies have two cof- 
 fins. The hands of the deceased are frequently repre- 
 sented as crossed on the breast. There is a coffin con- 
 taining the mummy of a Graeco- Egyptian child — prob- 
 ably a girl, and about six years old — dating, according 
 to the printed label from Thebes, about a. d. ioo. On 
 the painted cover she is represented as having a wreath 
 upon her head and a flower in her left hand — somebody's 
 darling sent into the dark realm from amid the sorrow- 
 ings of loved ones left behind. There are also the mum- 
 mies of many of the great Egyptian princes and states- 
 men ; also of cats, snakes, ibis, geese and gazelles. 
 " Tabby" is there, unmistakably. Figures of the deity 
 are common ; so are Egyptian hairpins with the image 
 of Aphrodite on the top, and lamps curiously ornamented 
 
INTR OD UCTOR Y. 2 1 
 
 with devices of Dionysos and Ariadne, Venus, and other 
 favorite personages. There is one lamp with a cast of a 
 locust on an ear of corn. That children have always 
 been children the ancient toys testify. 
 
 In the Assyrian and other departments the objects of 
 interest are as great. The wealth of collection is enor- 
 mous. One is bewildered — perhaps provoked — with the 
 consciousness of brief time ; there is the material for 
 years of study. The place is worthy of England; to 
 see the Reading-Room is itself deserving of a trip to 
 London. 
 
 It is the correct thing to visit and admire the wax- 
 works of Madame Tussaud in Marylebone. We did the 
 one ; the other was not so easy. At the best the charac- 
 ters presented are only imitations ; there is nothing real. 
 The " Chamber of Horrors " contains a ghastly array of 
 celebrated murderers ; morbid taste which makes it the 
 favorite corner of the building ! In the grand salon are 
 wax figures of old men and women sitting or standing 
 here and there, turning their heads and looking so like 
 life that many visitors find themselves for the moment 
 deceived. 
 
 They who love pictures will visit the Royal Academy 
 and the National Gallery. Kew Gardens will satisfy the 
 disciples of botany with its lovely grounds, noble vistas 
 and extensive collection of flowers, trees and plants. 
 The Cleopatra obelisk looks unspeakably lonely on the 
 Thames Embankment. A day at the Zoological Gar- 
 dens will not exhaust its treasures. 
 
 But we may not thus travel over London. Volumes 
 would be needed to tell the story of its wonderful places. 
 The people themselves are curious. 
 
22 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 Is there a busier thoroughfare in the world than Fleet 
 street and the Strand? A river of humanity flowing 
 hither and thither ceaselessly ! Strange in an instant to 
 turn aside into the calm of the Temple ! That is the 
 peculiarity of London — its quiet nooks and corners 
 close to its noisy centres. And there are streets of rare 
 splendor where wealth displays itself in unequalled mag- 
 nificence, and there are streets of rare poverty such as 
 the world knows nothing of elsewhere. It is not very 
 far from Rotten Row to the slums of vice and infamy, 
 but the contrast is beyond measuring. The want and 
 misery, the brazen-faced sin, of these back streets and 
 lanes, are terrible. The Church is striving to grapple 
 with the evil, but the work is appalling. Where and 
 how do the millions live ? Yet there is no confusion, 
 no bustle ; everything is orderly : the great city has too 
 much to do to be in a hurry. 
 
 London has some great preachers. Their names are 
 on every one's lips — Liddon, Spurgeon and Parker. 
 They are not to be compared together; each is a 
 master in his own way. When they preach, thou- 
 sands of people go to hear them. They are the 
 world's favorites, and each of them addresses an audi- 
 ence gathered from all parts of the earth. After them 
 come others at a respectful distance — some about as far 
 as the west is from the east. There is no doubt that 
 the English and American ideals of preaching differ, but 
 the standard is higher on the western side of the Atlan- 
 tic, the preacher is better able to attract his hearers and 
 the people are quicker in appreciation. England, how- 
 ever, more than holds its own in singing. The masses 
 have voices and the choirs a perfection of which we can 
 
INTR OD UCTOR V. 2$ 
 
 only dream. On one church door I saw a notice that 
 on the following Sunday would be held the annual bap- 
 tismal service. Whether this meant that baptism was 
 administered only once a year I do not know, but un- 
 derneath the notice was, " Baptism is a sign that God 
 loves us all, even little children." 
 
 English is spoken in London, but among the ordinary 
 people the aspirate suffers. One day the conductor on 
 an omnibus cried out, " 'Yde Park !" and a gentleman 
 said to him, " You have dropped something." — " What ?" 
 he asked, in alarm, looking around. — " An H," the gen- 
 tleman replied. — " That's nothing," was the answer from 
 the much-relieved official ; " I shall pick it up in Hisl- 
 ington." 
 
 The well-paved and orderly streets attract as much at- 
 tention as does the dim, smoky atmosphere. The effect 
 of the latter on one's linen is soon discerned ; the former 
 are as clean as a new pin. A yellow fog is the most 
 distressing calamity, but in the summer such rarely or 
 never occurs. Nowhere do the people seem more happy. 
 The bootblack and the apple-woman have the sunshine 
 of felicity upon them. " Misery " appears to be a rela- 
 tive term. The poor are not so miserable as their bet- 
 ters suppose them to be ; indeed, they manage to squeeze 
 as much pleasure out of life as they who live in palaces 
 of cedar. Nor have the poor complained : their griev- 
 ances have been made known by those in higher cir- 
 cumstances. Some of them love their poverty. Alas 
 that it should be so ! for poverty means degradation 
 and dependence — in many instances, vice unnamable. 
 
 We hurry out of the smoke and bustle and seek the 
 railway- station. Here we read of the " Daily Service 
 
24 THE HEART OE MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 of Trains ;" the meaning is obvious, though the use is 
 startling. 
 
 The railway-coaches appear tiny and quaint to one 
 accustomed to the huge, pew-like cars of America. 
 Some do not like the compartments, though a little 
 use shows that they have advantages, and are, at any 
 rate, snug and comfortable. If you wish for amuse- 
 ment, see how the open, honest-looking, apple-round 
 faces of the railway servants expand under the genial 
 influence of a tip. The chances for trying this experi- 
 ment on others besides railway servants are of frequent 
 occurrence in England, and, though the effect may be 
 otherwise with the giver, there is no doubt of its pleas- 
 ing efficacy with the receiver. Away rushes the train 
 into the heart of merry and lovely England. The hay- 
 makers are busy in the fields ; the trees and hedgerows 
 display their sweet, fresh green ; peace and beauty rest 
 and play in the sunshine, on the soft and velvety lawns 
 and in the shaded lanes. Cottages and mansions spring 
 into view, and flower-gardens rich with a profusion of 
 roses such as can grow only in this rich land. The vil- 
 lages through which we pass seem to sleep in the indo- 
 lence of rural glory and the quietude of honored age. 
 One has the sign on its solitary tavern of " The Old 
 House at Home " — a happy suggestion. 
 
 When our journey ends, it is in one of the districts 
 of England as delightful in its quiet beauty as it is 
 precious to us for its associations of bygone days. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 Ei)t tillage on tfje gtoux. 
 
 " And the voice of man is a voice of change, 
 Mirthful and passionate, loving and strange ; 
 But, be the day cloudy or brief or long, 
 The river will sing you the same old song." 
 
 In a secluded and detached part of Worcestershire, 
 ten miles to the south of Stratford-on-Avon, and sur- 
 rounded by the counties of Warwick, Oxford and Glou- 
 cester, is the forgotten town of Shipston-on-Stour. The 
 town is pre-Norman in origin and was once famous for 
 its sheep-markets. It fell asleep some two centuries 
 since, and so far the tumult and turmoil of the present 
 age have failed to awaken it. A single telegraph-wire, a 
 mail-cart passing through early in the morning and late 
 at night and two carriers' vans connect it with the out- 
 side world, and weekly papers from Banbury, Evesham 
 and Stratford keep the inhabitants informed on the 
 changes of the moon and the alternations of govern- 
 ment. The people lament their isolation. Thirty years 
 ago they decided that a railway was necessary for their 
 welfare and progress ; they have affirmed that decision 
 several times since, but the railway has not come. Two 
 or three times they have started a newspaper of their 
 own, but the enterprise speedily came to grief. Its 
 
 25 
 
26 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 drapers and milliners furnish the latest styles in gowns 
 and bonnets, cloths and collars — that is to say, the latest 
 styles of which they know anything, though in London 
 they are spoken of as " late " in another sense. The 
 streets are old ; the houses are old ; the men and women, 
 the boys and girls, are old; everything is musty with 
 age and quaint with peculiarity. There are fences and 
 barns, tumble-down, patched-up, worn-out, as they were 
 twenty or thirty years since. Some of the thatch has 
 not been touched for half a century. The wooden pump 
 in the middle of New street was old when the paint on 
 the rectory fence was new — apparently in the days of 
 William IV. Inns and their signs, cottages and their 
 windows, the lamp-posts and the trees, look as if they 
 had never known anything but age and rest. It is hard 
 to realize that the streets have been mended since the 
 day when troopers rattled over them on their way to 
 Edgehill. In 1780, Nash, the historian of Worcester- 
 shire, wrote : " Here was a considerable manufacture of 
 shaggs, carried on by one Mr. Hart, but, that declining, 
 the town was left in great poverty. Many of the houses 
 are still thatched, but, as the unemployed manufacturers 
 die, migrate to other places or take to other businesses, 
 the town is not so burthened with poor, and subsequently 
 improves much in appearance." Seventy years later an- 
 other visitor wrote : The place " leads one's thoughts 
 irresistibly to the past, and to the conclusion that this is 
 by no means a 'go-ahead' town." In 185 1 the popula- 
 tion numbered 1757 persons; in 1 881, 1600. 
 
 And in this lies its charm : its very dulness attracts 
 and pleases. It is something to go back to times when 
 the world was different from the present. Here one can 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 2*] 
 
 without effort picture village life as it was centuries ago, 
 and see for one's self how and where past generations 
 lived. The restfulness is refreshing and delightful. De- 
 cay may be in all one sees ; change is not. 
 
 To describe the topography of Shipston is somewhat 
 difficult. The town is on the highway from Birming- 
 ham to Oxford— about halfway between those places, 
 and between Stratford and Chapel House. The " Half- 
 way House," a secluded cottage, is by the side of the 
 road, between Tredington and the Honington tollgate. 
 The highway enters the place at its northern end, and, 
 bending a little to the left, goes for some distance past 
 the church, when it divides, one branch turning to the 
 east for Banbury, and the other, the main road, after a 
 twist to the right and then to the left, passing through 
 New street to Chipping Norton. This highway may be 
 called the base of the town ; it is irregularly built up, 
 and, as the river runs along the gardens of the houses 
 on the eastern side, there are no streets in that direction. 
 Its principal feature is the church, of which more pres- 
 ently. On the western side there are other thorough- 
 fares coming in. The first, Horn lane, is a narrow way 
 running the full breadth of the place ; a little farther is 
 a short street called the Shambles, branching off like the 
 arms of the letter Y, one of which branches runs parallel 
 with Horn lane into a continuation known as Sheep street, 
 and the other into the centre of the town. This centre 
 is a sort of crooked square, a queer-looking triangle 
 with a narrow base and the apex cut off— an approach 
 to a parallelogram. Euclid has no diagram that comes 
 near that "centre;" and if he had tried to describe it 
 mathematically, he would never have made A B equal 
 
28 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 to C D, nor A C equal to B D, nor any other combina- 
 tions or comparisons coequal. This " centre," with 
 Sheep street at one end, and the twist of the London 
 highway at the other, contains the principal shops, banks 
 and one of the leading hotels of the place. At its south- 
 ern end another lane joins the London road, forming the 
 third and last street across the town. In this lane was 
 till lately an old tavern known as the " Swan," hence its 
 name. Between the " Swan " and the High street — that 
 is the name of the indescribable centre — is the Back 
 road, which runs in the same direction as New street, 
 and finally joins it. The Swan lane changes into the 
 road to Moreton-in-the-Marsh, and at right angles with 
 its western end is the road passing by Sheep street and 
 Horn lane to Darlingscote. There are {qw really old 
 houses in Shipston, but one at the top of Sheep street 
 dates from 1678, another in the same street from 17 14, 
 and the Crown Inn, in the Shambles, also from this 
 later year. 
 
 In Sheep street is the building formerly used by the 
 national school. It is a small old cottage with one room, 
 in which the poor boys and girls of the town received 
 their " education." It is now empty and deserted, the 
 one window broken, the roof falling in and the little tin 
 kettle of a bell rusty and bent. Possibly the house was 
 built in the early part of the last century. A relic of 
 departed grandeur, but nearly all the old folks in the 
 place who can read their Bible and write their name ob- 
 tained the rudiments there. If they did not learn deci- 
 mal fractions, they were drilled in the Catechism ; and, 
 as all men know, it is better to understand how to live 
 than how to get a living. Now the youth are sent to 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 29 
 
 the new and commodious buildings in the Stratford road. 
 The board school has possession of the town, and the 
 board school is struggling to brighten the juvenile in- 
 telligence. It has its hands full. The boys, girls and 
 infants are separated ; teachers and monitors are set 
 in each department ; excellent text-books are used, and 
 everything is done to give a fair secular education. Re- 
 ligion is not taught : the English people are religious by 
 instinct, and do not need to learn anything of that kind. 
 In days gone by, when the State appreciated the educa- 
 tion and health of the spiritual faculties, it insisted upon 
 every one attending church, and fined and punished 
 those who stayed away; a great outcry was made in 
 later years, and even now some are not tired of flinging 
 abuse of every kind at our forefathers because of this, as 
 its opponents called it, tyranny and bigotry ; but in this age 
 the State, in its desire to educate and enliven the mental 
 faculties, insists upon every boy and every girl going to 
 school, and, if the child does not, fines and punishes the 
 parents. Nay, the people are obliged to pay in taxes for 
 the maintenance of a school system in which many of 
 them do not believe. Still, we must remember that arith- 
 metic is of more consequence than are Scripture les- 
 sons, and that it is vastly more important that a boy's 
 mind should be filled with the scraps of erudition which 
 are chipped off the school-board curriculum than that 
 his soul should be possessed with a sense of his duty 
 toward God and his neighbor. Times have changed. 
 The State, which neither endowed nor established the 
 Church, but, on the other hand, robbed her of half her 
 wealth at the Reformation, and is now contemplating 
 taking away the other half, has given largely to the 
 
3<D THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 school and supports it with all the force of its authority. 
 There is in England no such thing as an established 
 Church, but there is an established school. Valiantly is 
 the school board fighting its way. But the material! 
 Is there anything in the lands beyond the setting sun 
 approaching the pure blockheadedness of the English 
 peasant-boy ? He is dull, heavy, stupid, and, compared 
 with the youth on the western shores of the Atlantic, is 
 as the blunt edge of a rusty knife beside the fine keen 
 edge of a good razor. The transformation of a thick- 
 limbed dray-horse into a light, fleet racer or a nimble cir- 
 cus-performer presents no greater difficulty than does the 
 uplifting and bettering of the sons and daughters of poor 
 Hodge. In the palace of the Caesars at Rome there is 
 a rude sketch on the wall, done many centuries ago, of 
 a schoolmaster wearing an ass's head and turning the 
 handle of a conical stone mill, into which he is putting 
 boys to grind. The point of the satire is that the boys 
 are coming out at the bottom exactly as they went in. 
 I do not imply that this is the case with the material of 
 the school board ; I only tell a pleasant story. But, as 
 caste is very strongly marked, as soon as the middle class 
 is reached a higher grade of intellectual power is mani- 
 fest. For the boys of the better-to-do people in Shipston 
 there is a large and good school under private auspices 
 and dignified with the name of " the Academy." It is 
 not so styled after the Academie Franchise, but it can 
 give a lad a start toward the higher life. Some of its 
 scholars have gone creditably through the university, 
 and it is said that its earnest and accomplished master 
 once succeeded in carrying a heavy son of a heavy far- 
 mer as far as the eleventh page of Hopkins's ortho- 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 3 1 
 
 graphical exercises and up to the verb " To have " in 
 Lindley Murray. Of this latter feat I cannot speak with 
 certainty, but at seven o'clock every summer morning 
 the whole school was marshalled in the courtyard for an 
 hour's drill. There was an opinion that this was neces- 
 sary in order to vindicate the right of the institution to 
 be called an " academy." 
 
 The present parish church was built on the site of an 
 older one about the year 1853. The old church had 
 reached a state when removal was absolutely necessary. 
 It was remarkable not only for its slovenly and mongrel 
 appearance, but also for the egotism and petty vanity 
 displayed on its walls. About 1826 the building was 
 whitewashed, and the churchwardens under whose di- 
 rections this important work was done had their names 
 inscribed in large letters at the western end. " So, like- 
 wise," said one who knew the old edifice well, " on the 
 table of charities, whoever had presented a pulpit-cloth 
 or furniture for the communion-table, or repaired the 
 front of the gallery, or some other little matter, was 
 posted up for the admiring eyes of after-generations." 
 One of these benefactors repaired the pavement in the 
 churchyard, it has been said, by abstracting the grave- 
 stones of his neighbors. The only thing which saved 
 the place from the lowest kind of obituary desecration 
 was that it had no tablet like unto one which is to be 
 found in the porch of another Worcestershire church. 
 It is to the memory of a man who died in 1772, and the 
 inscription is as follows : 
 
 " A man for polite knowledge and true taste in useful literature 
 justly esteemed ; nor in the social virtues as a sincere friend, a 
 good neighbour, and an honest man, less regarded. At his own 
 
32 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 particular desire he was buried beneath this stone, that his friends 
 the poor, as they pass over his grave, might lay their hands upon 
 their hearts, and say, ' It was his modesty, not his pride, that 
 directed this request.' " 
 
 The following epitaphs were preserved at Shipston ; 
 the first is still at the west end of the church, but the 
 others were in the yard, and are now undecipherable : 
 
 TO GULIELMUS HYCKES (1652). 
 " Here lies entomb' d more men than Greece admired, 
 More than Pythagoras transient soule inspir'd, 
 Many in one, a man accumulate, 
 Gentleman, Artist, Scholar, Church, World, State : 
 Soe wise, soe just, that spot him noe man could. 
 Pitty that I, with my weake prayses should. 
 Goe then, greate spirit, obey thy suddaine call — 
 Wild fruits hang long — the purer tymely fall." 
 
 " Beneath this stone three tender buds are laid, 
 No sooner blossom'd but alas they fade ; 
 In silence lie, in hopes again to bloom 
 After the final day of mortal doom. 
 Oh then these buds which did so early blast, 
 Shall flourish whilst eternal ages last." 
 
 " Death lopt me of, and laide me here to sleepe ; 
 My viol's tun'd to th' sound of them that weep. 
 Yett God, I trust, will grant my soul's desire, 
 To sing a part in His most heavenly quire." 
 
 Of the old church, only the tower remains. The new 
 building has a nave and two aisles and is singularly 
 void of ornamentation. A few texts over the arches 
 and a colored eastern window are the only attempts at 
 aesthetic display. The architectural proportions are 
 good, but the pews are narrow and not made for kneel- 
 ing-purposes, and the pulpit is of a shape and character 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 33 
 
 to suggest its having once been a chimney-pot on an 
 old-time mansion. A dreary building, drearier still in 
 its reproachful emptiness. Formerly the edifice was 
 crowded at both Sunday services ; now a bare handful 
 of worshippers in the morning and a scarcely larger 
 company in the evening indicate either inefficiency of 
 ministration or the dying out of church-interest. Matins 
 and evensong are said every day ; the rector is there, 
 the pillars and pews are there, but even the bell-ringer 
 runs off to attend to her household duties as soon as 
 the service begins. The parish priest is conscientious in 
 his performance of this daily office ; the people are as 
 conscientious in staying away. Were half a dozen 
 worshippers present, the surprise and excitement would 
 endanger the health of the rector for some time. In 
 view of the apparent change in his parishioners and the 
 approaching end of the world, he would apply himself 
 with renewed vigor to the house-to-house visitation of 
 the people. The nonconformist places of worship, how- 
 ever, are filled to overflowing and street-preachers are 
 common. The glory has departed ! This, which should 
 be the centre of Church power and influence throughout 
 the district, neither recognizes the dignity and extent of 
 its capabilities nor puts forth a sign of interest or vitality. 
 Perhaps the most painful thought connected with this 
 decay of a once-prosperous parish is its suggestion of 
 the powerlessness of the ecclesiastical organization. The 
 diocesan authorities may see the church go to ruin, but 
 they cannot interfere. The parishioners may watch the 
 wasting away of their spiritual heritage, but they can do 
 nothing. Even the bishop has no coercive jurisdiction. 
 We manage these things better in America. There the 
 
34 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 whole force and authority of the Church would be 
 brought to bear upon such a state of affairs as that 
 which here exists, and either the parish would have to 
 live and work or it would be put away to rest for ever. 
 The rectorial income, derived from endowment, is up- 
 ward of eight hundred pounds a year ; the church in- 
 come, derived from the pew-rents and offertory, is not 
 sufficient to pay the small expenses of the building. 
 The best pews contain five sittings and rent for twenty- 
 nine shillings a year ; in America the same pews would 
 rent for upward of fifteen pounds, and in large Church 
 centres for even twenty-five pounds. The well-to-do 
 folk of Shipston can make two guineas cover their indi- 
 vidual church expenses ; the same class of people in the 
 United States would not find the limit under fifty times 
 that amount. A parish of sixteen hundred souls, with- 
 out debt to satisfy, endowment to secure or clergyman 
 to support, which is obliged to send its churchwardens 
 around the town to collect a deficit of seventeen pounds 
 — which personal canvass resulted an Easter or so since 
 in gathering but ten pounds — can neither live with credit 
 nor die with dignity. The hopelessness of its condition 
 appears in the lack of hospitality : the stranger will find 
 no welcome either by a visit from the rector or an offer 
 of a seat in the church from the parishioners. 
 
 The edifice is dedicated to St. Edmund of Canterbury. 
 He was born at Abingdon about the year 1 190, and was 
 remarkable for his scholarship, his ascetic and pure life 
 and his bold efforts to better the times in which he lived. 
 He inherited his mother's severe religious convictions : 
 " She fasted much and slept little, wore a hair chemise and 
 iron stays, and made her household so uncomfortable by 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 35 
 
 her arrangements that her husband, with her consent, 
 retired to a monastery at Eynesham, as likely to be a 
 more enjoyable home." At Oxford, while a mere gram- 
 mar student, he determined never to wed an earthly 
 bride : " Standing alone one day in church, he plighted 
 his troth to the Blessed Virgin, and in token thereof 
 placed a gold ring on the finger of her image. He 
 placed another ring, similarly inscribed with the words 
 of the angelic salutation, on his own finger, where he 
 wore it constantly until the day of his death." After a 
 career of honor and usefulness he was made archbishop 
 of Canterbury in 1234, and it has well been said that 
 " in the long succession of primates it is not easy to find 
 one who surpasses him in the perfections of the Chris- 
 tian character or in the attributes of a Christian bishop." 
 His patriotism, resistance to Rome and efforts to reform 
 the Church give him a lasting place in the pages of 
 English history. There was much evil in the age, but he 
 was as a clear and shining light in the darkness. When, 
 owing to repeated defeat, he resigned the see of Canter- 
 bury, he retired to the Continent, and in 1240, at the 
 priory of Soissy, he died. His remains were interred at 
 Pontigny, and soon his fame rivalled that of his prede- 
 cessor, St. Thomas. He was canonized, and miracles 
 were performed at his shrine. 
 
 The parish was down to the year 1720 subject to and 
 part of the jurisdiction of Tredington. An almost com- 
 plete list of the rectors of the parish from the year 1282 
 is extant. From 1427 to 1873 there were twenty-two 
 rectors, of whom Peter Vannes, archdeacon of Wor- 
 cester, was remarkable both for his incumbency being 
 the longest of any — fifty years — and also for his guid- 
 
36 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 ing the parish through the trying Reformation era, from 
 1 541 to 1 591. The continuity of the Church of Eng- 
 land is thus exemplified. Other long rectorships were 
 those of Walter Fitzwarin (1282-1310), Felix de Mas- 
 saveria (1503-1541) and William Evans (1827-1873). 
 The first of these was probably of Norman descent ; 
 the second was an Italian, and the third a Welshman. 
 In Henry Sampson, who died in 1482 and has a brass 
 to his memory in the mother-church at Tredington, we 
 are reminded of one of Carlyle's characters ; but whether 
 he were like unto the hero of Past and Present we know 
 not. A complete list of the curates of Shipston from 
 1596 is also in existence. 
 
 In the old registers are items of interest to the curi- 
 ously inclined. It was in the twenty-ninth year of the 
 reign of Henry VIII. (1538) the injunction was issued 
 directing that registers on vellum should be kept in 
 every parish in the realm. The oldest registers of this 
 neighborhood are those of Tredington, which begin in 
 1 541 ; after them come those of Halford, beginning in 
 1545, and Shipston, in 1572. They are written partly 
 in Latin and partly in English, some in a good hand 
 and some frightful to behold. During the troublous 
 times of the Commonwealth the registers as well as 
 the churches were in great danger of desecration. 
 The rector of Barcheston, a village half a mile from 
 Shipston, in 1647 wrote in his register, dating from 1559, 
 11 Digne hoc antiquum perdet quicunq registrum, filius 
 appellatus perditionis sit " (" Whosoever destroys this 
 ancient register will rightly be called the son of per- 
 dition "). Mixed up with the ordinary entries occur 
 notices of parochial events of more or less importance. 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 37 
 
 At Shipston, under date of October 12, 161 2, we find 
 the record, " Peter Churchporch, fond in ye church- 
 porch at Todnam, was baptized at Shipston, and had 
 the name then given him, Peter Todnam, alias Church- 
 porch." The following entry is also suggestive : " Eliza- 
 beth Thornet, widow, was buried in 1695, at ye upper 
 end of the highway leading from ye Custard Lane, 
 through ye piece of ground commonly called ye Horse 
 Fair, for hanging herself ye day before ; she was blind 
 and 86 years of age." The old law directed the suicide 
 to be buried in a cross-road with a stake driven through 
 his body, and a finger-post to be erected to mark his 
 grave for public scorn ; this poor blind wretch, weary 
 of life, perhaps abused and maltreated, insane, and very 
 likely regarded as a witch, suffered the legal penalty of 
 her crime. In 1678 the statute was passed enforcing the 
 burial of the dead in woollen shrouds for the encourage- 
 ment of the manufacturers, and, though affidavits had to 
 be made that the law had been complied with, the regis- 
 ters show that it was easy enough to evade it by paying 
 a fine. Even now the people always lay out their dead 
 in a white shroud pure as the robe they shall wear in 
 the kingdom of their Lord, with the face upward, in 
 token of hope, and the feet to the east, symbolical of 
 the resurrection ; and though they bury them in a cof- 
 fin, while in olden time they were commonly put simply 
 in the grave, they have not yet learned the horrible and 
 ghastly word " casket." Mention is frequently made of 
 the " briefs," the circular letters spoken of in the rubric 
 after the Nicene Creed. These briefs were issued by 
 the bishop or government, generally in alleviation of 
 losses by fire or flood or disease of cattle, for building 
 
38 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 of churches, the redemption of slaves, and other chari- 
 table purposes. The sympathy for the Protestants of 
 Switzerland and France in the Reformation times, and 
 for the latter after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, 
 was great in this neighborhood. An entry of April 6, 
 1688, states that in the town of Shipston there was 
 gathered toward the relief of the French Protestants 
 the sum of eighteen shillings and tenpence. Tidming- 
 ton, united with Shipston under the one rector, though 
 a separate parish a mile and a half distant, in 1692 gath- 
 ered for the same purpose one pound seven shillings, and 
 in 1699, "for the poor Protestant Vaudois, £0. 3s. od.," 
 and for the redemption of captives three pounds ten 
 shillings and nine pence. In 1723 the same register 
 records the giving of sixpence to " three slaves which 
 was abused by the Turks." For their souls' health 
 certain evil people were " cited " to appear before the 
 vicar-general and do penance ; offenders at Shipston had 
 to go to the rector of Tredington. The relief of beg- 
 gars fell largely upon the churchwardens. We read of 
 alms given " to a poor sailor," " to a lame seaman," " to 
 a man that was drownded out," " to a man who was 
 burnt out," " to a poor man that was robbed," " to two 
 men and their wives and six children that were robbed 
 agoing to New England," and " to sum seamen that ye 
 ship was destroyed by a tempest at sea last December, 
 of thunder and lightning." The registers also speak of 
 the visitations and record the expenses connected there- 
 with; thus, in 1708, at Tredington, "our dinners" cost 
 two shillings and " extraordinaries " two shillings and 
 fourpence. What these " extraordinaries " were can 
 easily be surmised. In the register at Solihull are 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 39 
 
 these curious items, under date of 1658: "Paid for 
 making a cucking stoole, and for beere at the draw- 
 ing it up to the Crosse, 10s. 4d. ;" " A penniworth of 
 paper for ye parishners ;" " To W. Stretch to stop his 
 mouth, 2s.;" " To Widow Bird pitifully complayning, 
 is.;" "To a woman which sat in the churchyard a 
 great while, is.;" and "To agoing before justice St. 
 Nicholas with the young people which would not go 
 to service, is. 2d." 
 
 In the Shipston books there is an inventory, made in 
 1638, of the church goods and furniture. The books 
 enumerated are one great Bible, two Common Prayers, 
 Jewell's Works, Erasmus's Paraphrase, The Book of 
 Homilies, The Constitutions, Mustullus's Works, the 
 register books, two paper books to write account of 
 officers, and Edward Pittway's gift-books. The Pittways 
 were an ancient and honorable family in the town ; the 
 first burial recorded is that of " Edward- Pitway," and in 
 1706 John Pittway, ironmonger, bequeathed lands and 
 tenements out of which four pounds a year was to be 
 paid to the minister to teach six poor boys to " write a 
 legible hand and say the Church Catechism, with the 
 exposition thereof, without book, and to learn two or 
 three rules in arithmetic." Besides the books, the church 
 owned a surplice, a poor-box, a linen tablecloth, a ladder 
 and two pewter flagons. There are entries of expenses 
 for making the tablecloth and washing the surplice ; also, 
 in 1592, for repairing one of the bells. It would appear 
 that the clapper of this bell had broken ; the clapper had 
 therefore to be sent to Wotton and the bell to be taken 
 down. Items are given " for drink when the bell was 
 taken down " and " for drink at the hanging up of the 
 
40 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 bell." " Old Herst " was paid " for going to Brayles for 
 Tooley," and Tooley was paid " for the hanging up of 
 the bell." Then " grease for the bells " was bought, and 
 in the course of the work or the ensuing festivities " a 
 jug of the goo^wife Wooley was lost," which had to be 
 paid for. In October, 1695, we read, "Memorandum, 
 that the 5 old bells were new cast by Mr. Koon, of 
 Woodstock. The waight was 34 cwt. 3 qrs. 10 lbs., and 
 to have ^18 for casting them, some of this money col- 
 lected by subscription, and other by levy." The old 
 bells were made up into six, and the six still ring in the 
 same ancient tower. A curious custom has held its own 
 both here and at Barcheston — viz., the tolling of a bell 
 at the end of the Sunday-morning service. No satisfac- 
 tory reason has been given for either the origin or the 
 continuance of the custom. There is also a bell rung at 
 Shipston every morning at five o'clock and every even- 
 ing at eight, and at the end of the toll the day of the 
 month is numbered. The common opinion is that many 
 years ago a gentleman who had chanced to lose his way 
 in the neighborhood left money for the ringing of the 
 bell. In 1739 the item is given, " Rump of beef for 
 ringers at Christmas, 4s. ;" the great Yuletide is still 
 rung in as in the days of yore. In 173 1 " it was agreed 
 upon that the churchwardens, overseers of the poor and 
 the constable shall hold a vestry the first Sunday in 
 every month after evening prayer and bring their ac- 
 counts to be examined." The first year after death is 
 still called the " dead year," and in the parish records it 
 is termed " the dead's year, according to the custom of 
 the manor." Thus a bequest is made to a person for his 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 4 1 
 
 natural life and for the dead's year — that is, to his estate 
 for a year after his death. 
 
 The holding of a vestry on Sunday seems to indicate 
 that Puritan ideas concerning the Sabbath did not pre- 
 vail at Shipston. The tendency has rather been to a 
 more liberal observance of the day. The Puritans imi- 
 tated the Jews in this respect, as in others. The rabbis 
 were excessive in their reverence for the day. If a house 
 were burning, one could save one's clothes only by wear- 
 ing them : they could not be carried out except by suc- 
 cessively putting them on. If a hen laid an egg on the 
 Sabbath-day, it might not be eaten, because she had no 
 right to break the commandment. Women were forbid- 
 den to look into the glass on the Sabbath, because they 
 might discover a white hair and attempt to pull it out, 
 which would be a grievous sin. One was not allowed 
 to wear false teeth on the Sabbath, because they might 
 fall out and their owner be tempted to pick them up and 
 put them back or carry them. So the Puritan, partaking 
 of the same spirit, held that to do any work on that day 
 was as great a sin as murder or adultery. He was not 
 allowed to smile or to kiss his wife on the Sabbath. To 
 shave or to cut finger-nails was extreme profligacy and 
 a sure sign of reprobation. The water which was drawn 
 from the well on Saturday night had to last till Monday 
 morning. Such fine distinctions are sometimes awkward, 
 as an old story tells us. In 1260 a Jew of Tewkesbury 
 fell into a sink on the Sabbath-day, and because of his 
 reverence for that day he would not suffer himself to be 
 drawn out ; on Sunday the earl's reverence would not 
 allow him to be delivered ; and so between the two he 
 died. There is no evidence that Shipston ever favored 
 
42 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 such extreme views, or that the people objected to the 
 Book of Sports. They were dull, but they were not 
 narrow. 
 
 The first mention of Shipston occurs more than a 
 thousand years ago. It was probably so called on ac- 
 count of its famous and extensive sheep-markets, noted 
 as ancient by Camden and still among the largest in the 
 kingdom. At the present day the local pronunciation 
 of the singular of the word " sheep " is " ship," and 
 " ton " is the common Saxon termination for the home- 
 stead of the yeoman, simply defended by a quickset 
 hedge, or " tun." We may picture the settlement on the 
 Stour amid the great wilds as consisting of a few huts 
 in which the shepherds lived guarded from the wolves 
 of the forest and the inroads of hostile men — the Wealas, 
 or even other tribes of their own race — by thick mounds 
 of trees and high hedges of thorn. They fed their sheep 
 in the rich grass-yielding " opens," sheared and washed 
 them at the river, sent the wool and the mutton away — 
 perhaps to Chipping Camden or Chipping Norton, or 
 other near marts where people resorted to " ceapian," 
 till the place grew large enough to attract traders to 
 itself — and lived a life of primitive simplicity. Then the 
 night-silence was broken by the howling of wild beasts 
 in the neighboring woods and of dogs within the " tun," 
 and from the distant marshes came the booming of the 
 bittern and the screeching of the white owl. Day fol- 
 lowed day with its monotonous variations incident to 
 such pursuits as sheep-farming and to a life in such sur- 
 roundings. Rudely clad, roughly housed and having 
 little intercourse with the outside world, the shepherds 
 were scarcely less wild than was the country around them. 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 43 
 
 In their cabins the one room served for all the purposes 
 of the family. Around the fire in the middle of the 
 earthen floor father, mother and children slept at night, 
 the ground their couch and sheepskins their covering. 
 They neither washed nor undressed, and nearly their 
 only approach to intellectual life was in the time between 
 the dying of the sunlight in the west and the dying of 
 the embers on the hearth, when they sang rude melodies, 
 sipped home-made mead and propounded such riddles 
 as " What does a goose do when standing on one leg ?" 
 When the answer came, " Holds the other up," they no 
 doubt laughed that full, hearty laugh which seems ever 
 to have been characteristic of the English. They ate 
 four meals a day and with their heads covered. Time 
 was measured, the day by the sun and the month by the 
 moon. Their scavengers were kites. In the Wolf-month, 
 when the thick fogs and the chill rain-winds swept over 
 the land and the frost hardened the ground and the river, 
 they kept much at home ; but in the bright Weyd-month 
 the children plucked the flowers, the women repaired the 
 house and the men were off to their summer toil. They 
 were heathen then ; later they were taught to carve the 
 cross out of the oak from which they had shaped the 
 spear. When Offa, " Rex Anglorum sive Merciorum 
 potentissimus," reigned {ante '802), the manor of Shipston 
 was granted by Ulhredus, duke of the Wiccians, to the 
 priors of Worcester. The connection has never been 
 broken ; at the Reformation the rights of the priors were 
 taken up by the dean and chapter. 
 
 The prior held his manorial court at a village some 
 two miles off, called Blackwell, from a well whose water 
 is darkened by some mineral admixture. It was once a 
 
44 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 considerable place, having, besides other buildings, a 
 chapel dedicated to St. Nicholas ; but at one period, his- 
 tory informs us, its entire population consisted of six 
 men and one maid. From the few facts recorded we 
 gather that the rule of the priors was very arbitrary and, 
 owing to the many fines exacted from the unfortunate 
 townsmen, not much enjoyed. The latter were obliged 
 to have their corn ground at a high rate at the prior's 
 mill, to pay a fine to every new prior, and a penny — 
 called " hedsilver " — for every inhabitant above the age 
 of twelve years, every year when the prior held his 
 court at Blackwell. About the year 1268, Henry III. 
 granted the town a charter for the holding of markets 
 and fairs for the sale of cattle, and about 1405 the 
 townsmen, exasperated beyond all endurance by the 
 fines imposed on them by the priors, broke out into 
 open revolt and rioting. They more particularly ob- 
 jected to the payment of heriots, a fine taken out of a 
 dead man's estate, corresponding somewhat with our 
 modern legacy-duty. Several of the leading inhabitants 
 went to Worcester to intercede with the prior, and after 
 much delay it was decided that on the death of a tenant 
 his best animal should go to the prior and his second 
 best to the rector of the parish. The tenants were also 
 required to spend twenty days in each year in ploughing 
 and sowing the prior's land ; also to mow four days, to 
 winnow four days and to carry the corn from the manor 
 to Wethington. For every beast they sold they paid a 
 penny — a sum equal to half a crown of present money. 
 Beyond the fact that in the reign of King John some 
 dispute arose between the townspeople and the rector 
 of Tredington which was settled only by an appeal to 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 45 
 
 Innocent III., nothing of much interest is recorded, save 
 the perennial quarrels with the prior of Worcester, till 
 after the Reformation. 
 
 During the eighteenth century the town was several 
 times and severely visited with small-pox. In 1731 it 
 affected 523 persons, of whom 45 died; and in 1744, 
 406 persons, of whom 48 died. Under date of 1767 an 
 eminent physician in London writes concerning Ships- 
 ton: "A poor vagabond was seen in the streets with 
 the small-pox upon him ; the people, frightened, took care 
 to have him carried to a little house situated upon a hill 
 at some distance from the town, providing him with 
 necessaries. In a few days the man died ; they ordered 
 him to be buried deep in the ground, and the house 
 with his clothes to be burnt. The wind, being pretty 
 high, blew the smoke upon the houses on one side of 
 the town, and a few days after eight persons were slain 
 with the small-pox." In 1772 a subscription was col- 
 lected to pay for the inoculation of every poor parish- 
 ioner, and for one hundred and fifty-seven persons the 
 apothecary was paid six shillings a head. When the 
 dread of this dire disease passed away under the benign 
 influence of Dr. Jenner, a new fear took its place : the 
 French became a greater terror than the variola. Eng- 
 land looked on aghast at the great Revolution and the 
 victories of Bonaparte, but, though the alarm was great, 
 the country remained loyal and hopeful. The patriotic 
 spirit reached Shipston, and, in spite of the heavy and 
 burdensome taxation, in 1798, when Nelson destroyed 
 the French fleet at the Nile, the townsmen made a vol- 
 untary collection of over sixty-one pounds to assist the 
 government. Some gave five guineas, and some gave 
 
46 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 twopence. Then they formed a volunteer corps, but 
 what became of it or what it did no one knows. In 
 1803 another company was formed, consisting of four 
 officers and about one hundred and forty men. They 
 agreed to pay certain fines for misconduct — e. g. y six- 
 pence for inattention, a shilling for drunkenness and 
 half a crown for fighting ; from which we infer that the 
 Shipston men of that day were above all anxious to 
 suppress their weakness for pugilistic enterprises. Their 
 colors are still preserved, and are occasionally hoisted 
 on the church-tower. What duty this corps did history 
 has not recorded, but the memory of the noble men 
 who volunteered for service in the hour of their coun- 
 try's need is still fragrant in the minds of some. 
 
 One of the events in the year is the October fair. 
 The picture of the old life is worthy of study. Early in 
 the morning the streets are thronged with people from 
 the neighboring villages, with farm and domestic ser- 
 vants and itinerant showmen. Everything assumes a 
 holiday appearance : shopkeepers have their windows 
 arrayed with the most tempting attractions ; fruit-stands 
 and toy-stalls are set about the streets ; the inns are 
 busier than usually ; hawkers cry their wares ; bands 
 play, and everybody is awake to the importance of the 
 occasion. Down in the Shambles, in front of a black- 
 smith's shop and the Crown Inn, a huge fireplace is 
 built, before which an ox is roasted whole. Possibly 
 this was originally a gift from the lords of the manor, 
 the priors of Worcester, but it is now subscribed for by 
 the people. Everybody tastes the ox, the slices of 
 which are sold at a shilling apiece. In the High street 
 — that undefinable place already mentioned — are the 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 47 
 
 shows, the ubiquitous and ever-genuine Tom Thumb, 
 the original fat woman and the real red man from the 
 wilds of America. Here are the shooting-galleries, where 
 the. possibility of a shilling prize is offered at the low 
 price of one penny ; also the travelling portrait-taker, 
 who will perpetuate any physiognomy for a mere trifle ; 
 also the Cheap John, ever stout and sturdy, whose dis- 
 interestedness for the good of the purchasing public is 
 proverbial ; also the dog-fancier, with his best specimens 
 of thoroughbreds. For twopence you can get your 
 fortune told by the old woman sitting on yonder door- 
 step, and, considering the outlay, you will be satisfied. 
 This broad-faced, round-shouldered youth will live with 
 you as ploughman, shepherd, groom, or anything else 
 you wish, at fair wages and plenty to eat and drink. 
 You can take your choice ; the street is full of such, all 
 wearing whipcord in their hats and all well recom- 
 mended. This hiring feature of the fair gives it the 
 name of the " mop " — or, as it was called a century and 
 a half since, the " mapp " — and till the middle of the 
 afternoon farmers and laborers, mistresses and maids, 
 are making, sometimes driving, bargains. The mop was 
 a great attraction in bygone days ; an old advertisement 
 of 1743 invites the public to come to the hiring of ser- 
 vants, " where all gentlemen, dealers and chapmen may 
 depend upon good entertainment and encouragement." 
 By sunset everybody is merry, and not a few are drunk. 
 The taverns do a good business all day, and there are 
 dinners at the " George," the " Bell," the " White Horse " 
 and the smaller hostelries. Here are lads and lasses arm 
 in arm, light and gay; here, boys on the lookout for 
 mischief; there, men trying to walk steadily and to sing 
 
48 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 or whistle, but the goodly potions have disabled them 
 from doing either. Yonder is the police-sergeant wheel- 
 ing home one of his constables in a'barrow, and followed 
 by an admiring throng of rag-tag and bob-tail. Across 
 the way are two young men indulging in the supreme 
 pleasure of a prize-fight and surrounded by a cheering 
 crowd. And the showmen shout, and the drums and 
 gongs rattle, and the blazing paraffin-lights hiss and 
 splutter, and children blow their penny trumpets, tin 
 whistles and horns, and the people laugh and talk, till 
 one forgets that this is sleepy and old-fashioned Ships- 
 ton. In old times rougher sports prevailed. The fol- 
 lowing advertisement referring to this October " roast " 
 explains itself: 
 
 « SHIPSTON-ON-STOWER. 
 
 "On Tuesday the 17th of October, 1783, will be played for at Back- 
 swords, a purse of Five Guineas, by seven or nine of a side. If no sides 
 appear by nine o'clock in the Forenoon, Eight Shillings will be given to 
 each man who breaks a head ; Two Shillings and Sixpence to each man 
 that has his head broken; to begin playing exactly at nine o'clock." 
 
 On this occasion the Shipston men suffered severely 
 at the hands of combatants from Wiltshire, whom they 
 nicknamed "Sawnees." Down to within the memory 
 of some now living bull-baiting and pigeon-shooting 
 took place at these fairs, and cock-fighting was com- 
 mon at all times. 
 
 Other festivals were kept besides this one. The Fifth 
 of November was not forgot. Christmas was ushered 
 in with the merry pealing of bells, the waits and carol- 
 singers ; everybody had plum-pudding, if nothing else. 
 Some there were who thought that the cattle went down 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 49 
 
 on their knees and the ghosts remained in their tombs 
 at the midnight of the Nativity. Strange life! The 
 narrow, irregular streets do not belong to the common, 
 every-day world. That house in Church street with the 
 little bow-windows was once the post-office. Up this 
 alley is a small dissenting chapel where the remnant 
 of Israel comfort themselves with invectives against 
 their neighbors. This dull, odd-looking building is 
 the Quakers' meeting-house; only a few Friends re- 
 main, but they wear drab and broad brims and are 
 still very good folks. That spruce youth with the 
 white hat strutting down toward the mill is a visitor 
 — perhaps from Birmingham. He is well dressed and 
 walks swinging his cane with an air of superiority 
 and contempt. He looks down upon place, people and 
 everything. The cobble sidewalks, of which the natives 
 are justly proud — so proud, indeed, that for fear of wear- 
 ing them out they walk in the middle of the street — he 
 regards as unworthy of scorn. He is — and he knows 
 it — a stranger to this strange world, and in days when 
 sawmills abound laughs heartily at the sight of the old- 
 fashioned sawyer standing on a log over a pit. But let 
 him go, and look at the people themselves. Here is 
 your wagoner in his smock-frock, and here your artisan 
 in his corduroy breeches and rough-spun jacket, and 
 here a gentleman dressed some years behind the times. 
 The parson with his white necktie and black frock-coat 
 is an incongruity in a place where everything suggests 
 the cassocked priest or the cowled monk. The carpen- 
 ter, across the way, with the flag basket of tools on 
 his back, moving along as though life had no end, was 
 once the parish clerk and the parson's right-hand man. 
 
50 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 The blacksmith, standing by that old broken-down 
 wagon, is the great man in the Baptist chapel, and he 
 will tell you with some pride that his chapel is " gen- 
 eral " and not "particular" — a distinction of great con- 
 sequence. The most important people of the place are 
 the shopkeepers — a highly-respectable and intelligent 
 class whose dignity appears to best advantage in a gig, 
 and whose obsequiousness exceeds that of the ordinary 
 shopkeeper elsewhere as the humility of a grasshopper 
 exceeds in loveliness the pride of a gnat. Society is 
 rather select and commendably exclusive, but good 
 manners and courtesy are not so general as one might 
 judge from the pretensions. Two things most people do 
 on Sunday : they go to church or chapel, and they take 
 their dinner to the bakehouse. You may see a man on 
 a Sabbath morning, just before the bells begin to ring 
 for service, carrying a shallow tin pan with a bit of meat 
 in the middle surrounded with batter-pudding or peeled 
 potatoes. This he leaves at the baker's, and then, taking 
 a turn around and looking as innocent and unconscious 
 as if he had done a thing no one else did or saw him do, 
 he starts off for church, and, though he makes little and 
 gets still less out of the sermon, he sings his hymns and 
 says his prayers with a devotion to duty highly com- 
 mendable. Coming out, he slips off for his dinner, and 
 carries it home smoking hot. And then — the only time 
 in the week — one of his boys says grace, and all set to 
 with a relish. Probably half the people in the place go 
 through this programme every Sunday. I believe it is 
 not considered the right thing to ask a blessing except 
 at this meal ; the others are such that it is not worth 
 while to say anything about them. Ruddy cheeks, stal- 
 
THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 51 
 
 wart limbs and stout forms abound, and testify to the 
 healthfulness of the place. The death-rate is low — about 
 fourteen per thousand. For a picture of rugged beauty- 
 see these four girls, evidently sisters. They appear as 
 fresh as the field-daisies in the early morning and as 
 gay as the crickets that chirp in the kitchen. Doubt- 
 less they can both thump the piano and churn butter, 
 play croquet and knit stockings ; and, though they may 
 at night stick a pin through the wick of the candle to 
 judge by its remaining in or falling out if their lover 
 will keep true, they look like sensible and quick-witted 
 maidens. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 ©i)e JcUgton UoxinXi &tout 
 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
 
 The decent church that topt the neighboring hill, 
 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade 
 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made." 
 
 The country around Shipston-on-Stour is beautifully- 
 undulating, its fertile hills and dales producing rich 
 grain-harvests and affording abundant pasture for nu- 
 merous flocks and herds. The little river on the western 
 bank of which the town is built is as pretty and dainty 
 a stream as could be found anywhere. Its name is not 
 unique : there is a " Stour " in Dorset, Suffolk, Cam- 
 bridge and Kent as well as in Warwickshire. The 
 word is derived from the Saxon styrian y to " stir " or 
 " move," and probably alludes to its rapid course — 
 " the swift river." It rises in Oxfordshire, and from 
 the Traitor's Ford, where it enters the county of War- 
 wick, to Milcote, below Stratford, where it joins the 
 Avon, is, owing to its winding course, about thirty 
 miles long, though the distance as the crow flies is not 
 more than fifteen. Busily it turns the millwheel at Bur- 
 mington, flows deeply and quietly past Tidmington and 
 Willington, turns the wheel again at Barcheston, gathers 
 its strength for the mill at Shipston, and then runs 
 
 52 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 53 
 
 laughingly off in its childish glee till it broadens itself 
 as it flows by Honington, and afterward, as though 
 half ashamed of its attempt at stateliness, modestly 
 narrows for its duty again at Tredington and Harford. 
 Bright green meadows and banks where wild flowers 
 grow in rich profusion border it on either side ; willows 
 cast their shadows upon its sparkling waters ; here and 
 there in a deep bend are tall flags and nodding rushes 
 and broad-leafed lilies, and many are the quiet nooks 
 where the pike and the perch have their haunt. In this 
 brook the angler finds his patience and skill rewarded, 
 the oarsman discovers water deep and steady enough 
 for his skiff, and the schoolboy enjoys his swim and 
 catches his minnows unmolested — a merry, light-hearted 
 stream in summer, but when swollen by the floods of 
 autumn and spring angry and turbulent. Then the 
 yellow, foaming waters rush fiercely through the val- 
 ley, sweeping across the fields with impetuous haste 
 and passionate violence, carrying away gates, hurdles, 
 fences, bridges, and whatever else may stand in the 
 way, and exciting astonishment in every breast. The 
 roads near the brook are impassable at such times, and 
 the villagers have perforce to stay at home. Traditions 
 of hairbreath escapes and of extraordinary floods, as 
 well as of damages and deaths from that cause, are as 
 common as are stories of immense beasts fattened in the 
 meadow and of heavy fish caught in the brook. The 
 dimensions of eels which have been found in Fletcher's 
 Pool and the weight of cows which have been fed at 
 Wolford are proofs of the fertility of both country and 
 river and of the salubrity of air and water. 
 
 There are fishermen hereabouts — few in number, but 
 
54 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 expert in their art. Most villages near the river have 
 their Izaak Walton — an individual, as a rule, more qual- 
 ified to quaff ale or cider than to write the Lives of 
 divines or such a book as the Compleat Angler. He is 
 frequently a decayed tradesman whose love for sport has 
 injured his business. Here is such a one on his way 
 over the mill-bridge. He is accompanied by a boy who 
 carries his can of bait and looks as if he had reached the 
 acme of honor. Their path lies across the meadows. 
 Let us follow them. The birds and butterflies flit hither 
 and thither; the trees and flowers and green sod are 
 fresh and bright. Now and then they surprise a squirrel 
 or a rabbit in the long wayside grass, but quicker than 
 the boy can run it disappears in the blackberry- or hazel- 
 bushes or in the deep burrows. The contented murmur 
 of the heavily-laden bee as she speeds her way home 
 from the honey-sweetened blossoms of the pimpernel, 
 the agrimony or the wood-betony ; the quiet, and yet 
 striking, whistle of the chiff-chaff; the cries of the shep- 
 herds and the anxious bleating of the sheep borne on 
 the gentle breeze from far up the river, where the annual 
 washing and shearing is being performed ; the singing 
 and prattle of village children rambling in the fields or 
 by the hedgerows in search of flowers or fledglings, — 
 these are among the many sounds which fall upon their 
 ears. An hour's walk, and they are on the banks of the 
 brook. The high trees cast their shadows almost to the 
 other side of the bright, translucent waters, and in the 
 quiet deep corner the fisherman prepares to cast his line. 
 In silence he makes ready his fishing-tackle, fastening a 
 well-scoured worm on the hook, and in a few minutes 
 the white-and-green-striped float is bobbing on the tiny 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 55 
 
 wavelets. The boy pulls up what he calls butter reeds 
 and eats the soft end. There is no bite ; only once in 
 the first quarter of an hour is there the sign of one, and 
 then it is only a gudgeon nibbling, and as he turns away 
 he passes down the capacious gullet of a monstrous luce 
 at that moment looking around for his supper. " Never 
 waste a good bait on a poor fish," the angler remarks ; 
 and a volume could scarcely impart more wisdom. The 
 line is drawn out, fresh tackle is prepared, a frog is put 
 on the hook even as though he loved him, and the baited 
 barb is dropped silently into the stream. How still is 
 everything in that riverside corner ! Even the sobbing 
 brook is quiet and the sighing wind is hushed. Beneath 
 the thick overhanging boughs of the willows are clouds 
 of swarming gnats and flies ; once in a while a brilliant- 
 ly-colored dragon-fly whizzes past ; now a rat starts to 
 swim across the brook, but disappears in midstream, no 
 doubt seized and swallowed by some monster of the 
 deep; yonder a bright-hued kingfisher skims the sur- 
 face of the water ; and the silence is only made more in- 
 tense by the sound of falling water in the distance and 
 the occasional tapping of the woodpecker in the thicket. 
 How intently both man and boy watch at their shadows' 
 length from the brink ! They speak only in whispers. 
 They grow pale and nervous with excitement. At last ! 
 Hush ! There is a bite, a tug, and the line is whirling 
 and rattling over the reel, and across the water the thin, 
 gleaming foam is cast up as the captured fish rushes to 
 its lair. By and by the line is drawn in, and soon on the 
 green sward lies a splendid jack, his sides glittering in 
 the sunshine and his eyes darting angry glances. Pike 
 thirty-two inches in length and weighing eight and nine 
 
56 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 pounds have of late years been pulled out of the Stour. 
 When the man returns to town, he will sell his fish and 
 have a pint or two of extra stout on his luck. 
 
 The scenery around Shipston, though not romantic, is 
 picturesque and pleasing. There are low swelling hills 
 and broad smiling plains where in the spring meadow, 
 field and copse are clothed in vesture of living green, 
 and in the autumn in robes of red and gray and brown. 
 Standing on one of the many rising grounds, the spec- 
 tator beholds the country rolling in waves of quiet, 
 happy beauty. Farms and hamlets nestling among the 
 trees ; roads running hither and thither, now across open 
 fields, and now between high hedges where grow the 
 crab and the may, here through the greenwood, and 
 there winding up the hillside ; church-towers and spires 
 rising from the heart of some rural Eden — perhaps in a 
 valley-depth of charming grace, perhaps on an elevation 
 of commanding loveliness ; quaint, restful, homelike 
 mansions peeping out of sylvan retreats and surrounded 
 by wide parks within whose glades and beneath whose 
 broad-spreading oaks feed the antlered deer and the 
 striped Alderney cattle, — such are among the objects 
 which attract his attention and excite his admiration. 
 The views from Brailes Hill and from Tredington Hill 
 are for gentle, suggestive beauty and exquisite natural 
 charm all that can be desired, while from Edgehill, a 
 little out of sight of Shipston, is a landscape which is 
 unrivalled in England and unexcelled in the world. 
 
 Travel in the olden time was a very different affair 
 from travel in the nineteenth century. Not only was 
 the railway not invented, but the roads were neither 
 good nor safe and the conveyances were unwieldy and 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 57 
 
 uncomfortable. In rainy weather no vehicle could be 
 dragged through the deep mud ; even on horseback the 
 journey was not easy, while on foot it was tiring and 
 difficult. Deep rivers had bridges over them, but shal- 
 low streams were forded except in time of flood, when 
 the passage was impossible. Every manor or parish was 
 obliged to keep its own roads in repair, but no one saw 
 that the work was done, and parsimonious squires and 
 vestries therefore did as little as possible. In the Middle 
 Ages people left money for the repairing and making of 
 highways, and they who did so — even later by the Re- 
 formers themselves — were esteemed to have done much 
 to ensure their salvation. But mud, slush and swollen 
 streams in rainy weather and unimaginable depths of 
 sand and dust in dry weather were not the only incon- 
 veniences. The danger from highwaymen was ever 
 present, and centuries passed before such robbery was 
 suppressed. In one age it was the retainers and servants 
 of the baron through whose estate the road ran that 
 sought to lighten the burden of the stranger : perchance 
 the baron himself helped in the work ; then outlaws and 
 professional bandits did the same thing ; and thus from 
 time immemorial till near our own day the Jack Shep- 
 pards and Dick Turpins levied mail of the passers-by. 
 In this way the men of Sherwood, whom romance has 
 made virtuous, got their wealth and made merry, and, 
 though we are told that the brave Robin spared the poor 
 and lay in wait only for rich abbots and wealthy mer- 
 chants, there is too strong a suspicion of business about 
 this discrimination to suffer one to think much of his 
 great-heartedness. Down in secluded hollows in the 
 forest or the glen or by the stream was done the deed 
 
58 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 which made even strong men dread travelling and made 
 women shiver with fear. Occasionally the robbery was 
 committed in gentler and more legal form. Heavy toll 
 was exacted for crossing a bridge or passing through a 
 town or by a castle, or a still heavier fine for having in- 
 curred the suspicion of being a spy or a foe. As a man 
 cannot help other people's suspicions, and as there was 
 no available appeal from the bench of country justice, 
 the traveller was lucky if he escaped with half his goods 
 and less than a day in the stocks. Dangers such as 
 these made it necessary for travellers to unite in com- 
 panies large enough for self-defence, and every wise man 
 before he left his own roof-tree for a distance paid his 
 debts, bade farewell to his friends and disposed of his 
 family and property with far more care than is displayed 
 in these degenerate days by many who are on the eve of 
 taking their journey to that bourne from whence no trav- 
 eller returns. As an illustration of the perils of the road 
 the following from a newspaper presumably of about the 
 year 1770 is interesting: "On Thursday night about 
 eight o'clock Mr. Thomas Pratt, farmer and corn-dealer, 
 of Shipston, was" stopped between Newbold and Tred- 
 ington, on his return from Stratford, by a footpad, who 
 rushed from the roadside and knocked him off his horse 
 by striking him several times with a hedge-stake or 
 heavy bludgeon. The villain then knelt on Mr. Pratt's 
 breast and took from him a pocket-book containing Strat- 
 ford bank-bills to the amount of ^99. Mr. Pratt was 
 found lying on the ground about a quarter of an hour 
 afterward very much cut and bruised about the head, two 
 of his teeth having been knocked out by the blows. The 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 59 
 
 robber was a stout, lusty man." There is no record of 
 his capture. 
 
 Travel a long way back was done mostly on horseback 
 or on foot, though there were wagons and carts used for 
 the purpose. The first coach seen in England was about 
 the year 1553, and another hundred and twenty years 
 passed before stage-coaches began to run ; they were not 
 received with much favor. In 1673 a treatise was published 
 in London by " A Lover of his Country, and Well-wisher 
 to the Prosperity both of the King and Kingdoms," in 
 which were used many elaborate arguments and violent 
 tirades against them. " These coaches and caravans," 
 said the writer, " are one of the greatest mischiefs that 
 hath happened of late years to the kingdom, mischiev- 
 ous to the publick, destructive to trade, and prejudicial 
 to lands." He laments the decay of good horsemanship 
 which would follow if everybody rode to London in a 
 coach. He calculates that a stage-coach from York, 
 Chester or Exeter would have forty horses on the jour- 
 ney to the capital and carry eighteen passengers a week. 
 In the whole year it would carry about eighteen hundred 
 and seventy-two. Supposing they were returning pas- 
 sengers, there would be nine hundred and thirty-six, and 
 for these forty horses would be sufficient ; but if people 
 travelled in the good old-fashioned way, then at least 
 five hundred horses would be required for this work. 
 The use of so many horses would give employment to 
 many who were by the stage-coach thrown out of work, 
 such as cloth-workers, drapers, tailors, saddlers, tanners, 
 curriers, shoemakers, spurriers, lorimers and fellmakers. 
 The inns also suffer, for the stage-coach stops at only a 
 few; but when gentlemen travelled on horseback, ac- 
 
60 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 companied, as they usually were, by three or four ser- 
 vants, they stopped at any and as often as they liked, 
 and thus encouraged trade. Farmers will be ruined, he 
 says, by the stage-coach; for how can they dispose of 
 their hay, straw and horse-corn ? Moreover, the influ- 
 ence on health would be bad : men called out of their 
 beds before daylight, hurried from place to place till far 
 on into the night, in the summer stifled with heat and 
 choked with dust, in the winter starving and freezing 
 with cold or choked with filthy fog, obliged to ride all 
 day with strangers and with sick, ancient and diseased 
 persons and young children crying, poisoned with fetid 
 breaths and crippled by the crowd of boxes and bundles. 
 Besides all these troubles, there were the accidents aris- 
 ing from rotten coaches and foul roads. In short, the 
 writer is fully convinced that if stage-coach travelling 
 becomes popular the country will go to ruin. Had he 
 lived to see the railway, he would have been bereft of 
 his senses. Had he lived to see the day when gallows 
 should not be erected by the highway, nor suicides 
 buried in the cross-roads, nor ghosts haunt the uncanny 
 corners, he would have given up his spirit in despair. 
 
 The roads around Shipston are interesting. The Foss- 
 way, an ancient Roman thoroughfare running in an al- 
 most straight line across the country from Lincoln to 
 Bath, passes the town to the north-west at a distance of 
 two or three miles. It is a well-kept though rather un- 
 frequented road. Once in a while the pedestrian meets 
 a gig or a wagon, but one might go from the cross-roads 
 between Tredington and Newbold to Stretton and see no 
 one. In the hedges dog-roses grow in early summer 
 and large luscious blackberries in the autumn. Birds 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 6 1 
 
 and ploughboys here as elsewhere whistle and sing with 
 varying sweetness and strength ; the " Tally-ho !" of the 
 huntsman, the baying of the hounds and the sharp crack 
 of the whip are sometimes heard, as are also the lowing 
 of cattle, the bleating of flocks and the cries and shouts 
 of laborers; but the impression one has in traversing 
 the Fossway — so far, at least, as man is concerned — is 
 that of loneliness and lifelessness. It was a busy road 
 when Roman legions moved through the country ; now 
 it is the retreat of the health-seeker, the lover and the 
 antiquary. 
 
 There is a characteristic lane running from Tysoe by 
 Tredington, Honington and Barcheston to Willington. 
 Such roads are peculiarly English. In places the grass 
 grows from hedge to hedge. A little beyond Honington 
 it threads its way through a long avenue of tall, stately 
 elms. Near Barcheston it crosses an open field on a 
 rising ground from which a good view of Shipston may 
 be had — the still place with its square church-tower 
 snug down in the hollow. At Barcheston one can turn 
 aside to the village, consisting of an ancient church, the 
 parsonage, a mill, a farmhouse, and possibly two cottages, 
 and take a footpath across the fields to Willington — a 
 walk almost as pleasant as the one from Tredington to 
 Blackwell by the high hedge. 
 
 The turnpike-roads are, of course, somewhat busier, 
 but scarcely less attractive. There are footpaths by the 
 side of the way, hedges and trees for shade and here and 
 there a rustic seat where the tired traveller may sit and 
 rest. The ride from Shipston to Stratford is delightful, 
 and, indeed, one could walk the ten miles without noti- 
 cing the distance, so velvety the turf, so firm the path, so 
 
62 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 charming the country. That to Banbury is almost as 
 pleasant; the one to Moreton-in-the-Marsh, wilder and 
 more secluded ; and that to Chipping Norton, more ro- 
 mantic. This last-named road leads by the new ceme- 
 tery, the ancient Tidmington and the once-famous but 
 now deserted hostelry at Chapel-House, some ten miles 
 from Shipston. 
 
 The district is dotted with villages and hamlets, many 
 of them small and secluded, but all ancient and interest- 
 ing. A few minutes' walk over the mill-bridge and 
 across the meadows brings one to Barcheston — or Bar- 
 son, as it was anciently, and is still locally, pronounced. 
 In Henry IV., Part II., Act V., Scene 3, we read of 
 " Goodman Puff of Barson," which some have thought 
 was a corruption of Barton, the village on the Heath, 
 but which others — perhaps more correctly — have iden- 
 tified with this place. It is of great antiquity, and was 
 once of sufficient importance to give its name to the 
 hundred to which it belonged. In Doomsday the place 
 is called Berricestone. In the reign of Henry VII. a 
 wealthy merchant, William Willington by name, pulled 
 down the few houses which the village then contained 
 and built a spacious mansion, turning over five hundred 
 acres of the land into a park. He died in 1563, and in 
 a small chapel of the parish church he and his wife lie 
 in effigy on an altar-tomb. The monument has been 
 much mutilated. The little church, dedicated to St. 
 Martin, was built in 128 1. It is of Early English style 
 and contains some brasses, an ancient font, an old black- 
 lettered copy of Erasmus's Paraphrases — which was for- 
 merly chained to the bench — and in the tower a priest's 
 chamber. This is said to be a good specimen of the 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 63 
 
 domus inchisi. Towers were once frequently used for 
 residence. What a weird sort of home ! Jackdaws 
 chattering among the bells, ghosts lurking in the dark 
 corners, the loneliness calling up legends and creating 
 fancies of soul-subduing and mind-bewildering power, 
 and the wind, as it swept against the buttressed walls 
 and through the narrow loopholes, now sobbing and 
 sighing like poor souls in agony and now roaring and 
 raging, furious as the storm-waves of the sea or the 
 shrieks of despairing demons ! Dismal, dull, melan- 
 choly ! There are three bells, which are popularly sup- 
 posed to ring this melody as they chime for service : 
 
 " * Long-tailed sow, 
 Where be'st going ?' 
 • To th' bean-mow.' 
 ' May I go wi' thee ?' 
 •No; not now.' " 
 
 The tower leans perceptibly. On the south side of the 
 
 church is a curious spout — two arms extended holding 
 
 a bucket or tub to catch the water. The building has 
 
 accommodation for about a hundred and fifty people, 
 
 and a whisper can be heard in it from one end to the 
 
 other. Here survives the time-honored parish clerk, a 
 
 worthy man who for many years has rung the bells, 
 
 dusted the pews, waited upon the parson and led the 
 
 choir. Some of his honors have been taken away : 
 
 there was once a time when the parish clerk read the 
 
 first lesson and gave out the psalm. 
 
 The greater part of the congregation live at a hamlet 
 
 about a mile across the fields from the church. The 
 
 intervening ground was in the park, long since broken 
 5 
 
64 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 up, and to the place where the villagers were removed 
 William Willington gave his own name. A simple 
 place is that Willington, without either a public-house 
 or a dissenter. A few cottages scattered along the ir- 
 regularly-laid-out lanes, in which shepherds, carters and 
 farm-laborers live, a little shop where a few necessaries, 
 such as needles and thread, sugar and soap, can be 
 bought, a farmhouse, — that is all. The place is health- 
 ful: there is no excitement to injure the inhabitants. The 
 geese eating the grass by the roadside in front of the 
 houses take their time and scarcely notice the passers- 
 by. The pigs and the dogs grow fat and indolent in 
 no time. The old folks take snuff and drink small beer 
 and sit for hours in solemn vacuity of thought. When 
 the annual wake is held, the people dress in their gayest 
 and best, a fiddler from Shipston scrapes music for the 
 dancers and everybody makes merry. At Christmas 
 most of the natives have a bit of roast beef and a 
 bouncing plum-pudding of approved weight and color ; 
 at Easter, a chine of bacon — perhaps a survival of the 
 old custom of eating pork at that season to show con- 
 tempt for the Jews. Long ago the villagers went to the 
 bull-baitings and cock-fights at Shipston, and some of 
 the ancients will justify the former sport on the ground 
 that baiting made the bull's flesh wholesome. An old 
 pastime in this county was the " grinning-match." In a 
 newspaper of 171 1 it is said that the Warwickshire men 
 were as famous for their grins as the Kentish men were 
 for their tails. Grinning is better than crying, and at 
 these matches a substantial prize was given to the best 
 competing grinner. Whistling in unison was also prac- 
 tised, but the tendency to laugh at a row of screwed-up 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 65 
 
 mouths was so great that a good bout was seldom 
 secured. 
 
 A little farther up the river is Tidelmington — or, as it 
 is now called, Tidmington — a church, a mansion, a 
 farmhouse and a few cottages. The last parish clerk 
 here served for thirty-one years — an old-fashioned type 
 
 " Who thought no song was like a psalm, 
 No music like a bell." 
 
 Not long since, he was carried to his grave by four of 
 his grandchildren, and his office is now declared obso- 
 lete. This parish borders on that of Todenham. There 
 the ancient custom of " beating the bounds " is still kept 
 up. This in days gone by was generally observed 
 throughout the country, and consisted of an annual 
 procession or ambulation around the bourns or bounda- 
 ries of the parish by the rector, churchwardens, prom- 
 inent parishioners, meresmen and young people. The 
 leading metes and points having been ascertained, they 
 were severally indicated to the village boys and im- 
 pressed upon their memories by such means as throw- 
 ing one of them into the water, giving another a sound 
 thrashing or bumping a third against a wall, tree, post, 
 or any other hard substance near at hand. This was 
 supposed to fasten the fact of the parish limits upon the 
 juvenile intelligence, and took the place of the ordnance 
 map. At Todenham, if a stranger happens to be going 
 along the road while the procession is passing, the peo- 
 ple leave off beating the bounds and cudgel him instead. 
 Beyond Tidmington is Burmington, and beyond that 
 again is Little Wolford, an ancient hamlet lying off the 
 highway and containing an interesting mansion, partly 
 
66 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 of thirteenth-century date, of which the dining-hall, 
 buttery-hatch and minstrels' gallery have been pre- 
 served. Cherrington, Stourton and Sutton are not far 
 distant. In this same direction, seven or eight miles 
 from Shipston, a little off the highway to Chapel-House, 
 is an ancient stone circle similar to that at Stonehenge, 
 known as the Rollendrych, Rowldrich or, more com- 
 monly, Rollright Stones. There are about sixty stones, 
 some buried beneath the turf, others less than and some 
 about four feet above the ground, and one over seven 
 feet high, arranged in a ring thirty-five yards in diam- 
 eter, in the middle of which is a clump of firs. Outside 
 of the circle is the King Stone, eight feet high, and in 
 another direction till lately were the Whispering Knights, 
 five stones leaning against one another, the highest of 
 which was nearly eleven feet. Local tradition has for 
 centuries held that the stones are the transformed 
 bodies of an army. A certain king of the neighboring 
 part of the country, the story says, desiring to be ruler 
 of all England, marched with his men across the coun- 
 try, and when on this spot exclaimed, 
 
 " If Long Compton I can see, 
 King of England I shall be." 
 
 Three or four steps farther he would have seen the 
 village he desired, but at that moment a wise woman 
 cried, 
 
 " Move no more ! Stand fast, Stone ! 
 King of England thou shalt be none !" 
 
 and he and his knights and soldiers were instantly 
 turned into stone. Superstition kept the place from 
 being meddled with. A farmer once carried away one 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 67 
 
 of the Whispering Knights to make a stepping-stone 
 over his brook, but his rest was so disturbed by tor- 
 menting spirits that he returned it to its place. Five 
 horses were needed to cart it away ; one sufficed to 
 bring it back again. The nature of the stones proves 
 that they were originally brought from a long distance, 
 thus suggesting anew the mooted question of mechan- 
 ical arts among the ancients. Camden thinks the stones 
 commemorate a Danish victory; Plot, that they mark 
 the place where kings were elected and crowned ; but 
 most authorities regard them as sepulchral. Some have 
 held that the circle is part of the outer boundary of a 
 Celtic barrow and is at least two thousand years old. 
 Two hundred yards east of the King Stone is a bank 
 running north and south, where the exposed soil is of a 
 darker color than the surrounding earth and covers the 
 remains of men and horses. Various relics have been 
 found close by, and everything seems to support the 
 conclusion that here the people long ago buried their 
 dead, and that the stones remaining formed the temple 
 used for ancestor-worship. The Whispering Knights 
 are possibly the remains of an altar, though the upper 
 slab has been removed, and the King Stone may have 
 served either as a pedestal for an idol or as a mark to 
 guide worshippers from the opposite hills and the val- 
 ley beneath to the temple. Within the circle itself no re- 
 mains of bodies have been found, and we may reason- 
 ably conjecture that this was the sanctuary, the place 
 where the worship — whether of the sun or of other 
 forces of nature, or of ancestors — was offered up, around 
 which, as in our modern churchyards, the dead were 
 interred. The weird grandeur and the impressive si- 
 
68 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 lence speak of the mutability of human affairs and the 
 transitoriness of human life. Not a name abides ; priests 
 and people, mourners and mourned, have passed away. 
 The sacrificial fires are unkindled, the hymns to the 
 gods unsung. Nothing remains of the temple so lone 
 and grand in the wilderness, open to the winds and 
 rains of heaven, but the gray and lichen-stained stones 
 and an entrancing and strange mystery. How modern 
 the oldest church in the land seems beside those rude 
 and ancient relics ! 
 
 About five miles from the Long Compton which the 
 traditionary king desired to see is Compton Wingate, 
 also called Compton-in-the-Hole because seated in a 
 deep valley. Close by is Hook Norton, a picturesque 
 village once held by a countess of Salisbury by the ten- 
 ure of " carving before the king, and to have the knife 
 with which she carved." Camden, writing in the reign 
 of James I., says that the inhabitants of this place were 
 formerly such clowns that " to be born at Hook Norton 
 became a proverb to denote rudeness and ill-breeding." 
 In his day, as at the present time, the people of the 
 neighborhood commonly called it " Hog's Norton, where 
 the pigs play upon organs," alluding, it is said, to a na- 
 tive who aspired to be a musician. 
 
 On the opposite side of Shipston, two miles toward 
 Stratford-on-Avon, is Tredington, once the great eccle- 
 siastical centre of the district. No less than ten chapel- 
 ries in the largest and richest parish in the diocese of 
 Worcester owed allegiance to the great church of St. 
 Gregory. The church is of magnificent proportions and 
 noble architecture. Norman pillars supporting pointed 
 arches and the clerestory separate the nave from the 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 69 
 
 aisles ; the rood-screen between the nave and the chan- 
 cel remains ; the seats and the pulpit are of carved Per- 
 pendicular work, and at the west end is a long low gal- 
 lery running the whole breadth of the church. The 
 roof is flat and open, the wall timbers resting on gro- 
 tesque heads, chiefly of animals resembling bears. In 
 the aisle is a trefoliated piscina ; near to it is an old lec- 
 tern, to which is chained a copy of Jewel's Apology, and 
 in the floor, close by, is a large stone on which may be 
 discerned the carved outlines of a chalice and a book. 
 It is probably the monument of a priest, but no inscrip- 
 tion remains. In the north aisle is an aumbry, square, 
 with a wooden shelf. The chancel has among other 
 tablets and slabs two fine brasses of the fifteenth century. 
 The walls were once covered with painted scenes from 
 Scripture and legend, but in 1841 they were scraped 
 away ; nor did the authorities follow the example of the 
 Reformers and place texts from the Bible in their stead. 
 The noble tower contains a good peal of bells, mostly 
 of seventeenth-century make. On some of them are 
 inscriptions, such as " Drawe neareto God " and " Gloria 
 Deo in excelsis ; Jesu be our speed." The view from 
 the parapet is very fine. Thirty years ago the choir was 
 accompanied by a flute, clarionet, fiddle, base-violin and 
 other musical instruments. There was singing in those 
 days — part-singing of an elaborate nature. How the 
 tuning of the instruments just before the chant or the 
 hymn was begun used to echo through the dark nave 
 and aisles ! and when all was ready, how lustily and 
 heartily the sacred minstrelsy poured out its melody and 
 song ! In the churchyard — so full of graves that it is 
 much higher than the floor of the church and the out- 
 
70 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 side roadway — is an elegant cross of fourteenth-century 
 work, nearly thirteen feet high. Among the many 
 quaint inscriptions on the tombstones are the following : 
 
 MARY HALL (1682). 
 " Here lyes that duste which did enthrone 
 A sovle soe piovs soe divine, 
 That not a daye to her was given 
 But shee advanced a step towrds heaven j 
 Whither shee now is fled to bee 
 Partaker of a blest eternity." 
 
 LAWRANDS SMITH (1680). 
 
 " All heads like mine must surely come 
 With natur's pasport to the tomb ; 
 Like vagabonds on earth they must 
 Returne vnto their native duste." 
 
 The equivocal character of this latter one is matched by 
 another, which, referring to the departed, speaks of 
 
 " His spirit sinking to its rest." 
 
 The district was once celebrated for its parish clerks. 
 A noble specimen held office here till within some twenty 
 years. He succeeded his father — indeed, I believe the 
 position was in the family for three generations and up- 
 ward of a century. He knew the services by heart and 
 as a psalm-singer was unrivalled. For a crinclepouch — 
 that is to say, for a sixpence — he would show the church 
 to visitors and tell the unked stories of its nooks and 
 corners. What he did not know about ghosts was not 
 worth knowing — not, as he used to say, that he had ever 
 seen one himself or anybody else that ever had, but he 
 had heard people who knew people that had heard of 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. yi 
 
 others who had, and surely that was evidence enough. 
 When in his desk below the rector's, during the service 
 he kept one eye on the book and the other on the con- 
 gregation, as much to look out for strangers and mark 
 new hats and coats as to preserve order and decorum. 
 Prayers ended and sermon begun, he would take out his 
 red silk handkerchief — used only on Sundays and at 
 Christmas and Easter — and throw it over his head (the 
 church had draughts) and compose himself contentedly 
 with a done-my-duty sort of air in a corner of his box- 
 like desk to listen to the discourse. That he did not 
 sleep was evident from the fact that he could tell what 
 the sermon was about ; which was more than most of 
 the congregation could do. He was a good old fellow, 
 faithful, loyal and earnest, and at the annual tithe-dinner 
 — always held at the White Lion — he sang his song, 
 cracked his jokes and drank his ale with a good courage. 
 Both parson and farmers liked him, but then those were 
 wicked old times when people loved their beer and 
 thought they would go to heaven. 
 
 Across the road is the rectory, a new building repla- 
 cing one of great age. On the opposite side of the 
 churchyard are the stocks and the whipping-post, long 
 since disused, but in good preservation. The village 
 consists of small, irregularly-built stone houses, many 
 of them of considerable antiquity. Its life has departed; 
 a highway inn and a wheelwright's shop are the only 
 signs of trade. There are no dissenters, but not many 
 years since the churchwardens were asked to weigh a 
 woman against the Bible to prove to her neighbors that 
 she had not a familiar spirit. In the old register we read 
 of payments being made to parishioners for killing ob- 
 
72 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 noxious animals ; thus, adders were valued at twopence 
 each, urchins at fourpence and foxes at a shilling. Of 
 late years sparrows' heads were paid for by the church- 
 wardens at the rate of three farthings a dozen. In 17 14 
 a man was paid half a crown for " whipping ye dogs out 
 of ye church." Curious customs prevailed here, as else- 
 where in the neighborhood. Two or three evenings 
 every week during Advent the bells were rung to herald 
 in with joyous peals the merry Christmastide. The 
 " passing-bell," formerly tolled at the dying of a par- 
 ishioner to warn his friends and neighbors of their own 
 mortality and to urge them to pray that he might find 
 mercy with God, now rings immediately after the death 
 — two strokes for a woman, twice repeated, and three 
 strokes for a man, thrice repeated, followed by a long 
 toll ; and as the solemn tones are wafted over the village 
 and fields the housewife will stay her hand and the 
 ploughman will lift his hat and utter a prayer that God 
 will keep them in the dark hour. At some places in the 
 diocese a muffled peal was rung on Innocents' Day in 
 token of sorrow for the babes of Bethlehem, and an un- 
 muffled peal as a thanksgiving for the escape of the infant 
 Saviour. Among the payments made the rector were 
 Easter offerings, three or four pence for each communi- 
 cant. Householders also paid the smoke-penny and the 
 garden-penny, and the tribute of " saddle-silver " was 
 made to the prior of Worcester for the privilege of rid- 
 ing on horseback through the ecclesiastical estate. In 
 Saxon times the place belonged to Eanberht, duke of 
 the Wiccians, and at the Conquest it passed into the 
 possession of the bishop of Worcester. In the four- 
 teenth century Robert Walden, of Warwick, founded a 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 73 
 
 chantry in the parish church. Until the Reformation 
 the manor remained mostly in ecclesiastical hands; it 
 was then confiscated and given to the earl of Warwick. 
 Darlingscote and Blackwell, two tiny hamlets, still be- 
 long to the parish; Armscott, formerly Edmundscote, 
 and Newbold were cut off about fifty years since. In 
 the latter village, three miles and a half from Shipston, 
 on the highway to Stratford, is a neat little church dedi- 
 cated to St. David, and containing in the chancel two 
 painted lancets less in size than, but superior in delicacy 
 of coloring and beauty of design to, even the well-exe- 
 cuted eastern window containing the scene of the Last 
 Judgment. On the Foss road, to the east of the high- 
 way between Tredington and Newbold, about a mile 
 from either place, is Halford, noted for the beauty of its 
 bowling-green. Here, in 1608, the rector of Treding- 
 ton, then recently appointed, was " married openlie in 
 the church." Throughout the reign of Elizabeth cleri- 
 cal marriages, though permitted, were discountenanced, 
 and were performed in secret. In the reign of Edward 
 I. part of the manor was made over by Henry de Hal- 
 ford to a man named Bregge on condition of his supply- 
 ing thirty-six people on Christmas Day with a loaf of 
 bread, a herring and a flagon of beer. The place shared 
 with Stratford the honor of a poet. There are poets of 
 various sorts. William Shakespeare, the actor, was of 
 one kind ; George Grainger, the parson of Halford, was 
 of another. He was presented to the living in 1659, and 
 commemorates his predecessor as follows : 
 
 " Here lyes a modell of the Pastour pure, 
 Described by Paul, who undertook the cure 
 
74 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 Of congregation all, and gave example 
 From Timothy and Titus large and ample ; 
 He was no fighter, drunkard, nor yong scholar, 
 Not avaricious nor o'ercome with choller." 
 
 To his own ministry, just beginning, he thus refers : 
 
 " Oh, that this Pastour and this people too 
 In apostolique rules would dwell ; 
 Whatever Sodom and Gomorrah doo, 
 Our little Zoar shall fare well." 
 
 In this church there is a squint in the wall behind the 
 reading-desk, so that formerly the people in the south 
 aisle could see the priest at the altar ; Chipping Norton 
 also has one. In many ancient chancels there is a low 
 side-window commonly called a leper-window, through 
 which lepers or sick persons during the time of plague 
 might witness the mass and receive communion without 
 contaminating the congregation. Some, however, think 
 these windows were lychnoscopes, and that their object 
 was to allow the light of the lamp burning in the sanc- 
 tuary to fall on the graves in the churchyard. There 
 was such a window in Tredington church, but it is now 
 stopped up. 
 
 We may not wander farther through this pleasing 
 neighborhood. Places as interesting as any we have 
 spoken of abound. Ilmington, Ebrington and Blockley 
 have each a story which we may not in this place 
 tell. 
 
 The peculiarities of dialect are many, and, though 
 there is a decided approach to the general English 
 tongue, many of the common people still retain the 
 lingual idiosyncrasies of their fathers. One of the 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 75 
 
 leading features of the dialect is the lengthening of 
 the vowels. This is done so as to give them a double 
 quantity, and frequently to cause them to be repeated 
 as in a diaeresis. For instance, the following are com- 
 mon examples: "don't" is pronounced "doon't;" 
 "won't,'' "woon't;" "like," "Hike;" "time," "tiime." 
 " Come" runs " coom," like the word " coo ;" and 
 "there" becomes "theer," like "thee" with an r. 
 
 Another leading characteristic is the general drawl. 
 The words are long drawn out, fairly enunciated, but 
 uttered very slowly. The pitch of voice is high and 
 the tone loud; both painfully so. The sentence is 
 more or less inflected, at times running into a dis- 
 agreeable sort of rhythm. The aspirate is, of course, 
 utterly neglected. Occasionally it is prefixed to a word 
 to which it does not belong, but not often, for that would 
 need effort ; and the prolonged drawl precludes anything 
 like effort. There appears to be no difficulty in the way 
 of their clearly understanding one another, even in words 
 where the spiritus asper seems to an« educated ear abso- 
 lutely necessary. They neither notice its presence nor 
 miss its absence. The liquids are still clear, making a 
 remarkable contrast to the London speech. On the 
 whole, there is a harshness, a barbarism, which makes 
 the tongue the reverse of attractive. 
 
 The grammatical blunders are many. The nomina- 
 tive and objective cases are freely transposed. " Hur 
 giived hit to I " is the common style. Instead of " are," 
 the use of "be" is general; e. g., "You beean't ah 
 gooin ;" " I bee goood ;" " Him bee ah stunner." The 
 number of verbs is woefully disregarded ; e. g. } " I 
 cooms," "we is" or "us is," and "him up and hit 
 
%6 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 he." This last example we heard given " 'Im hup 
 and 'it 'ee." 
 
 There are not many words peculiar to the dialect. 
 They use " gammy " for " bad," " ship " for the singu- 
 lar of " sheep," " scrimmut " for a piece of anything, 
 and "lissom" for "lithesome" or nimble. A fence is 
 called a " mound ;" a heap or rick of hay, a " mow ;" 
 and a master, a " gaffer." The Transatlantic " ain't " is 
 supplied by the equally unpleasant " ahn't or " han't." 
 Most people use the word " Protestant " as descriptive 
 only of the Church of England ; what they do in par- 
 ishes where the parson repudiates that honored title we 
 do not know. 
 
 The vocabulary in the use of country-people is small, 
 their power to grasp ideas very slight, and hence the 
 difficulty in communicating thought. The clergy, who 
 as a class are by no means apt in the pulpit, have their 
 troubles increased on this account. They cannot come 
 down to the rude and narrow colloquial speech of their 
 rustic parishioners. The dissenting preacher, being taken 
 from a lower class and having an inferior education, can. 
 To imagine an Oxford don placed in charge of a re- 
 mote country parish preaching according to the bar- 
 barous dialect of his people is to imagine that which 
 is absurd and unreasonable. An eagle and a crow or 
 a nightingale and a sparrow could as well hold com- 
 munication. Thus the very scholarship of the English 
 clergy sometimes becomes a hindrance to the Church, 
 though with the spread of education this difficulty will 
 disappear. 
 
 The position and the influence of the country clergy 
 are, on the whole, unique in Christendom. Nowhere 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 77 
 
 are they more respected ; nowhere are they better pro- 
 vided for. If there is a nicer house set in prettier 
 grounds than any other in the village, that is the rec- 
 tor's. The love which his people will have for him will 
 depend largely upon the manner in which he fulfils his 
 sacred functions. If careless, worldly, unsympathetic 
 or indifferent, they will speak against him without qual- 
 ification ; if, on the other hand, he is faithful and loving, 
 they will yield him an obedience and an affection know- 
 ing no restraints. Clergymen differ. We heard one 
 pastor — who probably had had some dispute with his 
 congregation — preach upon the Israelites asking Samuel 
 for a king. It was not wrong, he said, for them to de- 
 sire a king, since a king was a necessity to every well- 
 constituted nation : " Honor the king " was the apostolic 
 injunction. No; the wrong was committed in their 
 wishing to set aside their good old clergyman, Samuel. 
 The pathos passed into vigor when he concluded, " My 
 friends, never oppose your clergyman." The sermon 
 was prosy and soporific, the season was that of making 
 the hay, and, even if his hearers had the presumption 
 to understand, it is probable that the exhortation fell 
 upon hard hearts. People seldom repent when minis- 
 ters scold, and a scolding minister indicates an unsatis- 
 factory parish and shortcomings on both sides. 
 
 It was our good fortune to have come into contact 
 with one clergyman who brought vividly to mind 
 Chaucer's and Cowper's description of a good pastor. 
 His influence upon his parish and neighborhood was as 
 that of the sun in its quiet, steady round of work. The 
 people loved him ; all men admired him. There were 
 in him the gentleness and holiness, the churchliness and 
 
78 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 poetry, of a George Herbert, and the forty years of his 
 ministry in the one parish had made it as a garden of 
 the Lord. One summer evening we drove to his church 
 and attended service — a plain little church, but at this 
 time filled with worshippers. Before the evensong be- 
 gan a woman was churched at the altar-rails ; the office 
 was read distinctly, and the congregation joined in the 
 responses. A choir of girls in white led the people in 
 singing ; and lusty singing it was, such as made one's 
 heart glad. In the fields around the church the red- 
 brown wheat rustling in the evening breeze and softly 
 lightened up by the sinking sun made a picture never to 
 be forgotten. After the third collect a young preacher 
 went up into the pulpit and delivered a sermon upon 
 the first verse of the Nunc Dimittis. Before he had 
 finished, the twilight darkened, so that the unlighted 
 church was filled with gloom. After the sermon, in the 
 night-shadows, the aged rector read the Litany most 
 impressively. The twinkling taper at his stall was the 
 only light in the church. Then the people rose and 
 sang the hymn, " Sun of my soul." They knew it by 
 heart and needed no book, while the ever-deepening 
 shadows added emphasis to the line, " It is not night if 
 thou be near." 
 
 It is the work of such men as this worthy rector 
 which makes the Church dear to the hearts of the 
 people. We heard something of disestablishment, but 
 always as a remote possibility. Some country-people 
 asked us who would support the clergyman in such an 
 event taking place. " We could not," they added, " and 
 the result would be that we should soon become hea- 
 then. v As the Church does not receive one penny from 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 79 
 
 the State from one year's end to the other, and as she 
 was never established by the State, being, indeed, some 
 centuries older, it is difficult to understand what is 
 meant by disestablishment, unless it be confiscation. 
 Such a robbery is possible, but it is only likely when 
 Socialism has so prevailed as to take away all rights of 
 personal property. The tithes and the endowments are 
 not the gifts of the nation at large, but the bequests of the 
 faithful of past ages. They belong to the individual 
 parish, even as buildings and trusts do in America ; if 
 taken away, then schools, colleges, hospitals and all 
 endowed institutions are likewise liable. 
 
 Oftentimes in this district of which we are writing the 
 people have real humor — not the wit of the Irish, but 
 the rarer and higher gift of a merry, lightsome dispo- 
 sition. Here and there a delightful stupidity is shown. 
 The story is told of two men disputing over the pur- 
 chase of pigs. One believed in buying large ones ; the 
 other, in buying small ones. The question turned upon 
 the quantity which the latter would eat. It seemed that 
 the one who opposed their purchase had once bought 
 one, intending to fatten it, but, though it ate a bucketful 
 of meal at a time, it would not grow. One morning the 
 man carried out a bucketful of food, and after the little 
 pig had swallowed it all he picked it up and put it into 
 the same bucket, and the little wretch did not fill it 
 half full ! 
 
 Some years ago a man and his wife belonging to a 
 village close by Shipston resolved to go to America ; but 
 when at Liverpool they saw the great sea, the good fel- 
 low exclaimed, " Let's go back, Betty, till the flood's 
 gone down." This was the contrary of the impression 
 
80 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 which was made upon another man when he took his 
 sweetheart to spend a day at the seaside, and arrived just 
 in time for the ebb tide : " Wy, Ann, danged if they 
 bain't a-lettin t' watter off!" One of the sayings in the 
 country is, " If you only wait, you may carry water in a 
 sieve." — " How long ?" you ask. — " Till it freezes," is the 
 triumphant reply. Some one told us of a woman who 
 had six children, the eldest only seven years old. She 
 was very careful about the Saturday-night scrub, in ac- 
 cordance with the custom of this neighborhood, and we 
 asked if she put them all in a big tub together. " Oh 
 no," was the reply; "she washes them as she can catch 
 them." The picture of a mother running after her little 
 ones in that fashion struck us as highly amusing. 
 
 A talkative old fellow was speaking of his wife in 
 terms of lavish praise. She was the best this and the 
 best that the world had ever known. She had a con- 
 science, was industrious, thrifty and tidy, and, in short, 
 to use his expression, was an uncommonly good woman. 
 Above all, she was ever ready to help her neighbors. 
 As he paused for breath another garrulous individual 
 abruptly injected the observation, possibly to confirm the 
 story of her many virtues, " Yes ; and if there is any 
 sore throat around, she is bound to take it." 
 
 In old time the dry humor of the people was fre- 
 quently expressed in the sculptured faces in the churches. 
 In one porch we saw a figure in which the hands were 
 drawn over the stomach and the face had the woebegone 
 expression which follows a nauseous dose of medicine 
 or indicates an active stage of seasickness. As one 
 looked at the grim-cut and blackened countenance it 
 seemed to say, " That's the sort of stuff you get in this 
 
THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 8 1 
 
 place." At Badsey was a home for the sick monks of 
 the abbey of Evesham; the sculptured heads in the 
 church represent men in the pains of illness — toothache, 
 colic, etc. This sort of humor is now expressed in obit- 
 uary poetry — unconsciously, of course, as in the follow- 
 ing lines taken from a stone in a Birmingham graveyard : 
 
 " O cruel death ! How could you be so unkind 
 As to take him before and leave me behind ? 
 You should have taken both, if either, 
 Which would have been more pleasant to the survivor." 
 
 This at Naunton Beauchamp upon a Captain Wambey 
 is too good to be omitted : 
 
 " Here lies, retired from worldly deeds, 
 An old officer of the Invalids, 
 Who in the army was born and bred, 
 But now lies quarter'd with the dead. 
 Stripp'd of all his warlike show, 
 And laid in box of oak below, 
 Confin'd in earth, in narrow borders, 
 He rises not till further orders /" 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ILobe in ge ©lien Emit. 
 
 " Say that she frown ; I'll say she looks as clear 
 As morning roses newly washed with dew." 
 
 The title will suggest the nature of the chapter, and 
 they who are not interested in either the " sweet story " 
 or how it was told in these remote districts of England 
 in bygone days may omit the next twenty pages without 
 injury to themselves and without interfering with the 
 thread of the book. But you, gentle reader — and I call 
 you " gentle " the more heartily because you are willing 
 to follow me along — will find herein something that will 
 please your heart even if it does not tell you anything 
 new. How can the first story of Eden be told again 
 with freshness ? But who does not like to listen to its 
 undying echoes, and to recall the days, so full of romance 
 and poetry and pretty dreams, when innocence and beau- 
 ty adorned the present with their gentle grace, and over 
 the future happiness and truth and faith hung like soft 
 clouds of the morning dyed with the splendor and the 
 glory of the rising sun ? Then love was trustful, all- 
 absorbing, devoted — pure and passionate, perhaps, as in 
 Juliet ; silent and patient, as in Viola ; thoughtful, inex- 
 perienced and sad, as in Ophelia ; mirthful, witty, spright- 
 ly, as in Rosalind; refined, exquisite, heavenly, as in 
 
 82 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 83 
 
 Miranda. Then life had not subdued the soul nor hard- 
 ened the heart, and the spirit lived as in a fairyland with 
 the pretty elves and happy imps that dance and sing and 
 romp and play in the merry greenwood or amid the 
 woodbine and the roses. 
 
 The rural people of England are in no sense poetical 
 and refined : they are of sterner stuff than Italian or 
 French, more practical and matter of fact; yet as we 
 look back upon the customs which once prevailed 
 largely, and in some places still linger more or less, we 
 see much that is as pleasing as the song of gay trouba- 
 dours or the romance of Southern bards. 
 
 There was then the same anxiety and care displayed 
 in the matter of love as now. All sorts of charms were 
 tried, first to ensnare some unwary one of the opposite 
 sex, and then to prove if he or she were true. Love- 
 sick maidens — i. e. } maidens who were sick, not with 
 love, but with the lack of it — looked for their lovers in 
 the grounds of their teacups, tied strings nine times 
 round the bedpost for their future lord to untie, sowed 
 hempseed in the back yard that he might mow it, and 
 watched the Midsummer-night out in the church porch 
 that they might catch a glimpse of him. As young 
 ladies nowadays place a piece of their newly-married 
 friend's wedding-cake under their pillow that they may 
 dream of their own future, so two hundred years ago 
 young men used to hang their shoes out of the window 
 and hide daisy-roots under their pillow for the same 
 purpose. A charm which one would hope was not very 
 general was first to boil an egg hard and after taking out 
 the contents fill the shell with salt, and then, on going 
 to bed at night, eat shell and salt without either speak- 
 
84 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 ing or drinking after it : a happy vision would reveal the 
 one to be beloved. There was once sold a most effica- 
 cious love-powder that could not fail to produce the 
 most desirable affection in any upon whom it was 
 sprinkled. Whether it had the effect that the juice of 
 Oberon's little Western flower had, of making " the man 
 or woman madly dote upon the next live creature that 
 it sees," I do not know. One thing is certain — that by 
 some means or other many a poor laddie's heart was 
 stolen away and in many a sweet maiden's eyes tears 
 hung like beauteous pearls. Beatrice and Benedick may 
 both resolve never to marry, but some day Beatrice will 
 tame her wild heart to his loving hand, and Benedick 
 will exclaim in all the repentance of love, '■ When I said 
 I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till 
 I were married." Should the lover have any desire to 
 know if his lady were true, he could resort to some of 
 the many charms then in vogue among the curious of 
 both sexes. A favorite plan was to take a leaf of yar- 
 row and tickle the inside of the nostril, at the same time 
 repeating these lines : 
 
 " Green 'arrow, green 'arrow, you bear a white blow : 
 If my love love me, my nose will bleed now ; 
 If my love don't love me, it 'ont bleed a drop ; 
 If my love do love me, 'twill bleed every drop." 
 
 And thus love's sweet flower took root in each heart, 
 and all that could be done was done to make it grow. 
 He wore her favors — her glOve or scarf or kerchief — in 
 his hat or on his breast, wrote verses in her praise, 
 carved her name on tree or post or fence, sang songs to 
 her in the quiet eventide, conned pretty sayings that 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 85 
 
 should please her ear and touch her heart, fought for 
 her against all rivals and detractors, sent her choice 
 presents— ribbons and laces, sugar and cakes, cloves and 
 cinnamon, perhaps his best and bravest hawk or his own 
 true, trusted greyhound; she talked and dreamed of 
 him, waited, watched and wept for him, wore her pret- 
 tiest gown and finest headdress, bathed her face in May- 
 dew and scented herself with lavender and musk, prayed 
 that he might be her Valentine and she his dear May- 
 queen, and when he stood before her blushed with a 
 beauty and a loveliness that shamed the roses of the 
 garden, the ruby-tinted morning sky itself. 
 
 But suppose all the charms and plots failed to touch 
 the angel of the opposite sex ; what then ? Well, then, 
 as Sir Roger de Coverley hath it, " there is a good deal 
 to be said on both sides." Some would pine and sor- 
 row; some, look farther afield. Viola would 
 
 " let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
 Feed on her damask cheek," 
 
 and Ophelia would drown herself in the willow-shaded 
 brook ; but Philarete would most likely meditate upon 
 the inevitable after this fashion: 
 
 " Shall I, wasting in despaire, 
 Dye, because a woman's fair ? 
 Or make pale my cheeks with care 
 'Cause another's Rosie are ? 
 
 Be she fairer than the Day 
 
 Or the flow'ry Meads in May, 
 
 If she thinke not well of me 
 
 What care I how faire she be ? 
 
 " Shall my seely heart be pin'd 
 'Cause I see a woman kind ? 
 
86 THE HEART OE M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 Or a well-disposed Nature 
 Joyned with a lovely feature ? 
 
 Be she Meeker, Kinder than 
 
 Turtle-dove or Pellican, 
 
 If she be not so to me, 
 
 What care I how kind she be ? 
 
 " Great or Good or Kind or Faire, 
 I will ne'er the more despaire : 
 If she love me (this beleeve), 
 I will Die ere she shall grieve. 
 
 If she slight me when I woe, 
 
 I can scorne and let her goe ; 
 
 For if she be not for me, 
 
 What care I for whom she be ?" 
 
 The good old ballad is not far from wrong, though 
 the song says : 
 
 " A poore soule sat sighing under a sicamore tree ; 
 
 O willow, willow, willow ! 
 With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee ; 
 
 O willow, willow, willow ! 
 
 O willow, willow, willow ! 
 Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland." 
 
 A youth so far gone as that would be likely to have 
 neither the garland of a bachelor at his funeral nor 
 sweet-william and rosemary on his grave, for, on the 
 principle that an overdose of poison defeats its pur- 
 pose, he would recover. As Rosalind said, " Men have 
 died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but 
 not for love." Only remember, 
 
 " A man his mynd should never set 
 Upon a thing he cannot get." 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 87 
 
 There is one question always asked concerning lovers : 
 "What did he see in her?" or "What did she see in 
 him?" It is, I presume, a natural inquiry, though 
 slightly touched with a mild spitefulness and envy. 
 But here, if anywhere, there is no accounting for 
 tastes. There is such a wide and happy diversity 
 that, no matter if a world cannot see anything to ad- 
 mire in a youth of either sex, some one individual will 
 be likely to discover a charm that will lead him or her 
 captive. It has been asked, " Who ever loved that loved 
 not at first sight?" and we further ask, " What did Love 
 see at first sight ? What sends the arrow speeding to 
 its mark ?" Perhaps, as far as he is concerned — and I 
 would not venture to say aught of a woman's inclina- 
 tions — it may be a dimple in her cheek, a playful 
 twitching of her lips, a pretty frown upon her fore- 
 head, a sparkling glance in her eye. It may be the 
 color of her eyes — black, brown, blue, green or gray. 
 In Chaucer's time a gray eye was considered the 
 height of perfection, Dante knew no prettier than the 
 green eyes of his Beatrice ; and with the latter Cer- 
 vantes and Cicero both agree. It may be the color of 
 her hair — anything from the white flaxen to the raven 
 black. Spenser was evidently partial to yellow hair. 
 His Florimell, Belphcebe, Alma, Una, Britomart, and 
 others of his creations, have all hair like the Virgin 
 Queen herself, of the bright golden hue. Or it may 
 be her nose — a straight nose or a crooked nose, a wee 
 little thing or a miniature elephantine model, a pug or 
 a turn-up or a sharp point. Possibly it is her eyebrows 
 — arched, full, dark, expressive; or her eyelashes — 
 long, short, even, tear-bedewed or fringe-like. Perhaps 
 
88 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 it is her complexion — white as the pale lily or bright as 
 the red rose ; or her hands — fat and plump, or long and 
 lean; or her general carriage — stately and grand or 
 sprightly and gay. Perhaps your wise young man 
 remembers that 
 
 " The fairest rose in shortest time decays," 
 
 and so he is attracted by accomplishments rather than 
 by charms. Nobody knows what men may fall in love 
 with. It may be something better than any other quali- 
 fication whatsoever, a noble, loving, devoted soul — a soul 
 that reveals itself to none but the one it loves, a soul that 
 remains ever constant and faithful, ever gentle and kind, 
 and gives to the body its sweetest grace, its truest life, 
 its most winning charm. Happy is the man who is won 
 by such an attraction as this. It matters little whether 
 his lady-love be as beautiful as Herrick's Sappho, whose 
 pure paleness the white roses tried to outrival and blushed 
 for very failure, or as plain and homely as the plainest 
 and homeliest damsel you can find : she will be true when 
 all else is false, precious when all else is worthless, lovely 
 when all else has lost its charm, and young when all else 
 is old. 
 
 There is extant an interesting letter written by an 
 Eton boy in the year 1479 to n ^ s brother, describing 
 how he had met at a wedding the younger daughter 
 of a widow, a gentlewoman eighteen or nineteen years 
 old, and how he had fallen desperately in love with 
 her. He wished his brother to go and see her. She 
 would have something when she married, and more at 
 her mother's death ; " and," adds he, " as for hyr bewte, 
 juge you that when ye see hyr, yf so be that ye take 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 89 
 
 the laubore, and specialy beolde hyr handys." Like 
 many another schoolboy's love, so earnest and sincere 
 for the time, William Paston's came to nothing. 
 And this brings us to the famous lines, 
 
 " For aught that ever I could read, 
 Could ever hear by tale or history, 
 The course of true love never did run smooth." 
 
 The proof is to be found in the times when the unmar- 
 ried possessor or inheritor of wealth was a marketable 
 commodity and was sold very much as a horse or a cow 
 was sold. From the days of William Rufus down to 
 the times of the Commonwealth an heir or an heiress 
 was the ward — I should say the property — of the Crown, 
 and could get married only with the consent of the king 
 and by payment of a heavy fee. Frequently the match 
 was made by the sovereign or the council, and the par- 
 ties concerned were forced to accept the arrangement 
 and make the best of it. The same practice ran through 
 all society. If not the king or the feudal lord, then the 
 parents or other relatives, decided the question. Thus in 
 those happy ages a maiden's heart was rarely her own to 
 give. If she ventured to love when she should not or 
 failed to love when she should, it was not unusual to lock 
 her up, beat her, starve her, and ill-treat her generally, 
 until her affections were brought into proper subjection. 
 Of a girl of twenty who refused to marry a disfigured 
 widower of fifty we are told in a letter written in the 
 year 1449 to her brother, " She hath since Easter the 
 most part been beaten once in the week or twice, and 
 sometimes twice in one day, and her head broken in two 
 or three places." This was in high life and under her 
 
90 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 own mother's roof, but the girl was disobedient and 
 plucky, nor did she have the widower. She was an ex- 
 ception to the rule. A dutiful child did not think of fall- 
 ing in love or of selecting a partner in matrimony. The 
 utmost freedom existed between young people of the 
 opposite sexes. Young ladies and young gentlemen 
 kissed each other freely whenever they met, in the streets 
 or in the houses. As Erasmus tells us, " there were 
 kisses when you came, and kisses when you went away 
 — delicate, fragrant kisses that would assuredly tempt a 
 poet from abroad to stay in England all his days." But 
 there was no thought of marriage. That was a thing 
 others would arrange ; and if once in a while the rule 
 were broken and the liberty of loving without permis- 
 sion indulged in, then, most assuredly, the course of true 
 love did not run smoothly. As a rule, however, the 
 young people of the Middle Ages had a most excellent 
 control over their affections. They generally loved when 
 told to do so, and generally kept their hearts whole 
 when their friends thought it desirable. 
 
 We have an interesting illustration of all this in a 
 Norfolkshire family in the reign of Henry IV. John 
 Paston, a younger and needy brother of a man of con- 
 siderable position and wealth in that county, was a free, 
 jovial, good-natured fellow with only one thing wanting 
 to complete his happiness — viz., a rich wife. He did not 
 care much about the woman, so that she had money : 
 she was only a necessary inconvenience attached to an 
 estate. The elder brother did his best for him. On 
 John's behalf he wooed every likely spinster and widow 
 he could find. It was nothing to have two or three 
 strings to his bow at the same time. He tried — or, at 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 9 1 
 
 least, was told by John to try — to get a pretty daughter 
 of a London draper, also a young " thing," as he signifi- 
 cantly and business-like calls her, in the same city, and 
 also " some old thrifty draff-wife " in the same city. All 
 these attempts, and others like them, failed, but at last a 
 suitable damsel was found, sweet Margery Brews, a 
 bright, spry girl, who when once she learned that John's 
 heart was touched and that he was negotiating with her 
 mother gave the latter no rest till the affair was satisfac- 
 torily settled. She was head over heels in love — wildly, 
 madly in love ; but her father was not willing to pay 
 down with her quite so much as John desired, and for a 
 time things looked doubtful. Her mother promised to 
 give the young couple three years' board if they would 
 only marry. " I shall give you," she further says, writ- 
 ing to John, " a greater treasure — that is, a witty gentle- 
 woman, and, if I say it, both good and virtuous ; for if 
 I should take money for her, I would not give her for a 
 thousand pounds." And dear Margery herself wrote to 
 him some of the sweetest love-letters any girl could 
 write, in which she begs him not to give her up for the 
 sake of the money. She had him ; they were married 
 and lived happily. 
 
 Two hundred years later, and we find our old friend 
 Mr. Samuel Pepys doing the same sort of thing. He 
 and Sir John Paston, the elder brother of the John just 
 mentioned, were two of the most energetic and accom- 
 plished of matchmakers. Samuel had a sister, Paulina, 
 who was, he says, proud and idle, not over-friendly to 
 his wife, " so cruel an hypocrite that she can cry when 
 she pleases," and so ill-natured that he could not love 
 her. Moreover, he adds, "she grows old and ugly." 
 
92 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 Everything that he could do to " dispose of her " he did. 
 He got his wife to speak to a clerk on Miss Pepys's be- 
 half, and he received the advice " with mighty acknow- 
 ledgements," but " had no intention to alter his condition." 
 A young parson was tried, but in vain. Time rolled by, 
 and no husband for Paulina. At last " a plain young 
 man, handsome enough for Pall, one of no education nor 
 discourse," was found, and for a comfortable considera- 
 tion he took her ; and so, says Pepys, " that work is, I 
 hope, well over." He was engaged in more serious 
 matchmaking than this, but really it was mean of him 
 after going to church one Christmas day to write, " Saw 
 a wedding in the church, which I have not seen for many 
 a day; and the young people so merry one with an- 
 other ! and strange to see what delight we married peo- 
 ple have to see these poor fools decoyed into our con- 
 dition, every man and woman gazing and smiling at 
 them." 
 
 Not always did such matches turn out well. There 
 was in the year 1294 in a little Norfolk village a widow 
 named Sara Felix. Her husband had left her consid- 
 erable property and three daughters, the eldest of whom 
 was not more than eight or nine years old when her 
 father died. This daughter, whose name was Alice, we 
 may imagine was, from the fact of her mother's wealth, 
 if not for her own beauty, a lovable object in the eyes 
 of young men far and near. At any rate, when she was 
 about fifteen, she was wooed and won by an eligible 
 youth named John of Thyrsford. In all probability, I 
 should say, her mother was wooed and her fortune was 
 won, the girl being thrown in as an unimportant, though 
 necessary, part of the matrimonial bargain. I fancy 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 93 
 
 there was very little of the sunshine and poetry that 
 lovers nowadays contrive to get into their courtship. 
 The marriage was an unhappy one. John had not been 
 married more than a year or two when he began to 
 devise means to regain his freedom. 
 
 Divorces were difficult to obtain in those days, and, 
 except by payment of heavy costs, there was but one 
 way by which it was possible to get one. This one way 
 was both easy and cheap, and that way John tried. 
 Could a man but get a bishop to admit him to orders 
 — the minor orders would do — he became at once, if a 
 serf, free from villeinage ; if a husband, free from matri- 
 mony. Clerics could not be slaves either to a lord or to 
 a wife: they were sons of liberty. So John got or- 
 dained, and thus got divorced from poor little Alice. 
 The worst of it was that the girl could not marry again, 
 and, as she had no child, she was doomed to a lonely 
 life. 
 
 Easy would it be to draw a sketch of the child-wife 
 in her deserted youth. We might picture her sighing 
 and sobbing in the eventide, weeping under the lonely 
 willows, ministering to loving cats and tricksy dogs. 
 We might picture her wearing the weeds of widowhood, 
 singing mournful ditties as she picked apples in the or- 
 chard or turnips in the field, going to church twice a 
 day by way of desperation and attending executions and 
 ordeals by way of amusement. But such pictures would 
 be purely imaginary. We are not told whether the roses 
 faded in her cheeks or the lustre died in her eyes ; in 
 fact, though we may reasonably suppose she had cheeks 
 and eyes, we have no evidence that she had either roses 
 or lustre. We do not know if she lamented her loss to 
 
94 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 her friends, if she learned to hate mankind in general or 
 John of Thyrsford in particular : these are points fancy, 
 and not history, can deal with. Perhaps she was as glad 
 to get rid of him as he was to get rid of her : the wed- 
 ding had turned out badly. Any way, she managed to 
 live on as the lady of the village for nearly fifty years 
 after her divorce. Her husband became vicar of the 
 same village — perhaps the divorce did not mean so 
 much, after all, though the story is provokingly silent 
 on that point — and vicar he remained for some forty 
 years. He died ten years before Alice. When old age 
 came upon her, and the tresses of youth were gray, if 
 not gone, and the dimples of maidenhood had changed 
 into the wrinkles of senility, she gave up her property, 
 went into a nunnery, and there died. 
 
 This is the true and faithful history of Alice the wife 
 of John of Thyrsford and the daughter of Thomas the 
 Lucky of Rougham, and they who wish to verify it can 
 go to the writings of an erudite divine of Norwich, Dr. 
 Jessop by name. 
 
 It is pleasing to know that there were other motives 
 than those we have mentioned — happy exceptions to the 
 rule — which moved parents to give their daughters in 
 marriage. About the year 1559, Sir William Hewet, 
 the lord mayor, lived on London Bridge, and one day, 
 when the nurse was playing with his little daughter 
 Anne at one of the broad lattice-windows overlooking 
 the Thames, the child fell into the water. A young ap- 
 prentice named Osborne, seeing the accident, leaped into 
 the fierce current below the arches and saved the infant. 
 The story is told and an illustration of the leap given in 
 Cassell's Old and New London. "Years after, many 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 95 
 
 great courtiers, including the earl of Shrewsbury, came 
 courting fair Mistress Anne, the rich citizen's heiress. 
 Sir William, her father, said to one and all, * No ; Os- 
 borne saved her, and Osborne shall have her.' And so 
 Osborne did, and became a rich citizen, and lord mayor 
 in 1583." 
 
 Assuming that the friends and^the law were satisfied, 
 and that the affection of the parties most concerned was 
 as warm and true as it should be, the thing had to be 
 made public and an open betrothal to be performed. It 
 was from the friends and acquaintances the awkwardness 
 would chiefly arise. The would-be bridegroom, and the 
 would-be bride scarcely less so, would have to endure 
 many a queer joke, coarse jest and broad laugh — good- 
 natured enough, no doubt, but none the less hard to 
 suffer. They would be watched in church and in the 
 street, mimicked and rhymed, asked all sorts of awk- 
 ward questions and played all sorts of tricks, serenaded, 
 toasted, gossiped over, sneered at, praised, disparaged, 
 encouraged, caricatured, till life would not have been 
 worth living had it not had love to sustain it. But, like 
 all other nine-day wonders, this would die out and the 
 match come to be looked upon as a matter of fact. 
 
 And some evening there would be a grand party at 
 the house of the maiden's father. All the relatives and 
 friends far and near, including his reverence the parson 
 and his scarcely less reverence the clerk, would be in- 
 vited to witness the betrothal or engagement of Corydon 
 and Philida. Fresh green rushes would be strewn over 
 the floor, the tables and settees scrubbed clean and white, 
 the candlesticks, snuffers, flagons, tankards and cups pol- 
 ished to look as bright as new, and the larder filled with 
 7 
 
96 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 good things — perhaps a piece of fresh beef, a rare article 
 in olden time, perhaps a choice turkey, goose or fowl 
 from the barnyard. In the cellar would be a bountiful 
 supply of strong, heady ale and mead — maybe a cask or 
 two of good wine from beyond the seas or home made — 
 and the best minstrel or fiddler in the neighborhood 
 would be engaged for the occasion. What a free, happy, 
 boisterous time ! The old house would ring with the 
 merry song and the loud chorus. A silver — perhaps a 
 gold — coin would be broken in two between the lovers ; 
 they would kiss each other, join hands and exchange 
 rings, and vow to keep the faith now given. And the 
 great silver cup was filled with the frothy, foaming ale 
 and emptied by each guest to the honor and health of 
 the young couple, and the men kissed the pretty, blush- 
 ing girl and the women kissed the awkward, gawkish 
 and supremely happy lad, and the fiddler exercised his 
 art, and up the hall and down the hall the gay, light- 
 hearted folks danced as we can never dance and shouted 
 as we can never shout. Oh, they were merry ! 
 
 Even the aged people forgot themselves. The old 
 grandfather laughed and sang till the tears ran down his 
 withered cheeks, and the ancient dame his wife rested 
 not till she had had her hop and jump — it could scarcely 
 be called a dance, for she used crutches and was nearly 
 double — with the brightest and liveliest of the crowd. 
 Away they go ! 
 
 "If music be the food of love, play on !" 
 
 Hither and thither, in and out, off and back again, till, 
 exhausted, they sit down around the festive board. 
 There are, of course, love-letters — private, confidential, 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 97 
 
 eloquent. Many have survived the wasting of time ; of 
 which, take the following, written by the pretty Margery 
 already mentioned to her lover, John Paston. It is dated 
 February, 1477, and, while illustrating the universal 
 spirit of such effusions, will by reprinting do no possi- 
 ble harm to people who have so long passed away : 
 
 " Unto my ryght welebelovyd Voluntyn, John Paston, 
 Sqnyer, be this bill delyvered, etc. 
 
 " Ryght reverent and wurschypfull, and my ryght 
 welebeloved Voluntyne, I recomande me unto yowe, 
 ffull hertely desyring to here of yowr welefare, whech I 
 beseche Almyghty God long for to preserve un to Hys 
 plesur, and yowr herts desyre. And yf it please yowe 
 to here of my welefar, I am not in good heele of body, 
 nor of herte, nor schall be tyll I her ffrom yowe ; 
 
 For there wottys no creature what peyn that I endure, 
 And for to be deede, I dare it not dyscure. 
 
 And my lady my moder hath labored the mater to my 
 fTader full delygently, but sche can no mor gete then ye 
 knowe of, for the whech God knowyth I am full sory. 
 But yf that ye loffe me, as I tryste verely that ye do, ye 
 will not lerTe me therefor ; for if that ye hade not halfe 
 the lyvelode that ye hafe, for to do the grettest labur 
 that any woman on lyve myght, I wold not forsake 
 yowe. 
 
 And yf ye commande me to kepe me true wherever I go, 
 I wyse I will do all my myght yowe to love and never no mo, 
 And yf my freends say, that I do amys, 
 Thei schal not me let so for to do, 
 
98 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 Myne herte me bydds ever more to love yowe 
 
 Truly over all erthely thing, 
 And yf thei be never so wroth, 
 I tryst it schall be better in tyme commyng. 
 
 " No more to yowe at this tyme, but the Holy Trinitie 
 hafe yowe in kepyng. And I besech yowe that this bill 
 be not seyn of none erthely creatur safe only your selffe, 
 etc. 
 
 "And thys letter was indyte at Topcroft, with full 
 hevy herte, etc., 
 
 " By your own, 
 
 "Margery Brews." 
 
 Poor Margery ! and when her lover's elder brother, 
 Sir John, had " consyderyd hyr persone, hyr yowthe, 
 and the stok that she is comyn ofTe, the love on bothe 
 sydes, the tendre ffavor that she is in with hyr ffader and 
 mooder, the kyndenesse off hyr ffadr and moodr to hyr 
 in departyng with hyr, the ffavor also, and goode con- 
 ceyte that they have in my brother, the worshypfull and 
 vertuous dysposicion off hyr ffadr and moodr, whyche 
 pronostikyth that, of lyklihod, the mayde sholde be ver- 
 tuous and goode," he was agreeable to the match ! 
 
 Here is another, of the seventeenth century, the orig- 
 inal of which is in the British Museum : 
 
 " Deare Hearte, I am heartilie sorry that some occa- 
 sions have hindered me from coming to see you all this 
 while ; I desire you to impute my absence not to want 
 of love, but of leisure ; and I beseech you to bee as- 
 sured that there lives not a more constant, faithfull, 
 and affectionate lover uppon the face of the whole 
 earth than I am, of your most worthie selfe, whose 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 99 
 
 vertue & beavty is such that I haue uerie good cause 
 to belejue there lives not a second to be parallell'd wth 
 you. I haue here sent you a small token, whch I 
 desire you to accept of; I haue allso sent you a copy 
 of uerses made by him who is the admirer & adorer of 
 your divjne beautje; Henrje Oxjnden. Barham : Feb: 
 26: 1641. An^ CEtat : tuce, 17." 
 
 What becomes of these interesting epistles ? That is 
 more than we can say. They are written in abundance 
 — thousands, I suppose, every day — but they are scarce 
 as roses in Greenland. Perhaps they are burnt as soon 
 as read — or, at least, as soon as the affair of which they 
 treat is happily terminated. And yet, when a breach-of- 
 promise case comes before the court, there are the let- 
 ters ! One young lady who collected hers made a pil- 
 low of them. She slept on that sweet bundle till one 
 day, about four months after her wedding, she had a 
 difference with her husband, and the pillow found its 
 way into the fire. Another lady had hers bound in a 
 volume, and every morning after she had read her chap- 
 ter in the Bible she read one of the letters and then said 
 her prayers. She maintained that it was her duty to 
 keep alive the remembrances of the past and to nour- 
 ish the sacred emotion. A third had hers reduced to 
 a pulp and then made up into an antique Japanese cas- 
 ket for jewelry. These, however, are only a few among 
 the myriads ; where do the rest go ? 
 
 Love-letters are sweet and pleasant, but the happy 
 hours the young folks spend together are still sweeter 
 and pleasanter. To see young Colin getting ready to 
 go and court his lassie was a sight that would tickle and 
 please any heart. His mother says he was never so 
 
100 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 clean and tidy and exact before in his life. There must 
 not be a speck of dust or dirt on his clothes ; his shoes 
 must shine like a looking-glass and his handkerchief be 
 redolent with bergamot. His sister Mary brushes him, 
 and pins in his coat the best carnation and rosebud she 
 can find in the garden, and sends him off with a good 
 sisterly kiss and with kindred feelings ; for she expects 
 Tim, old Farmer Berry's son, that very evening. And 
 Colin trudges across the fields and through the shaded 
 lane whistling as happily and loudly as any bird in the 
 world. He begins to think himself somebody : he in- 
 tends to join the militia or the rifle volunteers — or, as 
 they would call it many years since, the train-band; 
 and oh how glad he will be when Lucy is his wife! 
 As he goes by he looks in at the little cottage which 
 his father intends to give him as the first home for his 
 bride, and thoughts of the future fill him with joy. And 
 when he reaches Lucy's house, how pleased she is to 
 see him ! Her eyes sparkle with delight, and no kiss 
 was ever so sweet as that which she shyly and mod- 
 estly gives him. And when she gets her hat and they 
 go off for an hour's ramble down to the meadow or 
 through the woods or by the side of the brook, he 
 thinks never was girl so dear as she, and she thinks 
 him to be the only one worth having among all the 
 swains of the country-side. Happy dreams ! Life is 
 full of flowers and sunshine. The world is nothing to 
 them : they are each other's world ; and without a thought 
 other than that of supremest joy they pluck the vio- 
 lets, the oxslips and the sweet-brier, and sing their 
 merry lays with glad, free hearts and trilling voices, 
 and talk of the days and the blessings that shall be 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 10 1 
 
 theirs in the not-far-distant by and by. When they 
 get home, they find that mother has got the tea ready ; 
 the kettle is singing on the hob, and on the table, cov- 
 ered with a snow-white cloth, are new-made bread, fresh 
 butter, clotted cream and bright-green watercresses. 
 The blackbird in the wicker cage pours forth his 
 best and richest melody ; even the cat purrs and hums 
 as if her heart also were full of love and joy. And the 
 old gentleman comes in and gives Colin a hearty wel- 
 come, for Colin is a good boy and already owns three 
 cows and a dozen sheep, and is about as likely a fellow 
 as Lucy could get. They are all happy now together. 
 Mother pours out the tea, but Lucy puts in the sugar ; 
 and Colin is sure he never drank such tea in his life 
 before. His appetite is not very good, and he blushes 
 scarlet when his future father-in-law slyly asks, " Eh, 
 Colin my lad, has thee no fancy for a bit of Lucy's home- 
 made bread ?" And the poor fellow gulps it down be- 
 cause she made it. There are shrimps and onions, and 
 Colin and Lucy are both fond of them, but neither 
 touches them. " Don't be afraid," says the tormenting 
 father ; " they won't hurt you." — " Help yourselves," 
 says mother ; " if both take some, it will be all the 
 same." And Lucy consents and Colin agrees, and 
 shrimps and onions begin to depart. The conversa- 
 tion runs along, now about the weather, now the crops, 
 now Mary Lemon's lame cow, now about old Crum- 
 leigh's wonderful litter of pigs. " Never heard of such 
 a thing before in my life," says Lucy's father, and Colin 
 says he doesn't think he has, either. Then the talk 
 turns to making butter, rearing ducks, snubbing the 
 parson, the jockey-races, the new steward, the comet, 
 
102 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 the turkey-gobbler, the host putting in the refrain every 
 now and then, " Shrimps and onions are nice, eh, Colin ? 
 Thought you would like them, and what's the difference, 
 as mother says, when you both have them ?" And by 
 and by the old folks leave the lovers alone — the good 
 souls remember the days when they were young — and 
 another sweet hour passes away nobody knows how 
 fast. Colin cannot believe it is time for him to go 
 home, and Lucy wishes he was not obliged to go. 
 The old folks wonder what they have had to talk 
 about for so long, but, dear hearts ! there is no sub- 
 ject so suggestive as love, and lovers could talk and 
 talk till morning and never get tired. But they part at 
 last ; a few warm kisses, a fond embrace, and Colin is 
 on his way home, and Lucy is helping her mother clear 
 up the house or is putting her best gown and scarf away 
 in the lavender-scented clothes-press till next Sunday 
 or to the next time Colin comes. This is a sketch that 
 will apply to any age with but little alteration, from the 
 days long since forgotten to the present year of grace. 
 The happiness is beyond expression ; the innocence, 
 purity and love are as perfect as in the Eden of old 
 or in the Paradise above. 
 
 Not always, however, are things so smooth and pleas- 
 ant as this. Sometimes there are misunderstandings and 
 quarrellings. This to the point : Strephon and Celia 
 were lovers. He was gentle and good ; she was lovely 
 as the morning star set in the dark sky. Nothing had 
 ever arisen to mar the sweetness or to disturb the joy of 
 their love. All who knew them said they were born for 
 each other. If he saw a pout upon her lips, he kissed it 
 away; if she saw a frown upon his brow, she looked 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME, 103 
 
 upon him with her bright, sunny eyes till the cloud faded 
 into a smile. But one day the quarrel came. It was 
 over a trifle not worth speaking of, but the words that 
 followed were sharp as lightning and the looks dark as 
 the thunder-clouds. And bitter thoughts ran through 
 their hearts — thoughts that threatened death to their 
 love and woe to their future. Never would he speak to 
 her again ; nevermore would she look him in the face. 
 They parted for ever. She stood on the sedgy bank of 
 the brook in the dying sunlight. Not a breath of wind 
 ruffled the water or stirred the rushes or the willows. 
 The lilies in the stream were folding up their white 
 flowers for the night, and here and there a lone bird was 
 seeking its nest. He had left her ; why should she live 
 longer ? Perhaps if she drowned herself in that silent 
 river he would shed a tear upon her grave, perhaps plant 
 a flower at her feet. They said that brook ran like a 
 watery way to the sea : perhaps she might make it a 
 path to a better and truer world. Anyway, life was not 
 worth having without Strephon, and better die now 
 than live with a broken heart. Hush, sad thought ! 
 The sun has gone to rest and the night-wind begins its 
 weird moaning among the willows. There is the hoot- 
 ing of the owl, and from afar comes the voice of howl- 
 ing dog. The stream flows on its dismal course, mur- 
 muring as though it sang a death-song. Oh night of 
 gloom! Oh thought of woe! Hush! what a shriek 
 and plunge ! And all is still save the moaning wind and 
 the sobbing water. It was only the cry of the night- 
 hawk and the splash of a great fish. Celia is on her 
 way home, and to-morrow morning she will take from 
 Strephon's hand a bunch of sweet violets and give him 
 
104 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 a kiss far more sweet and fragrant than they. Such are 
 the storms that try love's happy life. 
 
 It is, I suppose, when reviewing all the changes and 
 chances of sweethearting and the fortunes and accidents 
 of matrimony that some men make up their minds never 
 to marry. Whether they deserve praise or pity is a 
 question not easily answered. Probably a bachelor de- 
 sires neither, but the world is ever disposed to be gen- 
 erous in its commendation or its sympathy to those who 
 have been fortunate or unfortunate enough to remain in 
 single life. On the whole, the world, if forced to judge, 
 is rather censorious than otherwise. It thinks that it is 
 not good for man to live alone, but seeing that every 
 man was a bachelor once, and would have remained one 
 had he not married, it is well he should hesitate in ex- 
 pressing an opinion either way. But when legislation 
 utters its voice, it is generally against the bachelor. 
 Perhaps this is so because governing bodies are nearly 
 always composed of married men. None other could 
 sit in the Jewish Sanhedrin or in the Roman Senate or 
 in the councils of Athens and Sparta. The ancients had 
 no mercy on them. During the winter, in Sparta, they 
 were compelled to march round the market-place sing- 
 ing a song composed against themselves and expressing 
 the justice of their punishment. In Rome heavy taxes 
 were laid upon them, and in England they were once 
 obliged to pay a fine for their privilege. Even in the 
 present day every remark made concerning bachelordom 
 is not complimentary. There is a conception in the 
 popular mind that a bachelor is the personification of 
 a great deal that is not desirable. He is supposed to be 
 mean, cross, grumpy, unattractive, ugly in soul if not 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 105 
 
 in body, selfish, affectionless, quarrelsome, irreligious, 
 conceited, irreconcilable, without either wit or humor 
 and with more than his rightful share of human wicked- 
 ness. The marriage service reminds him that matrimony- 
 is honorable among all men, and therefore his state is 
 the reverse. How in the name of all that is lovable he 
 became confirmed in his singularity no one knows. 
 Various answers will be given — some sagacious, some 
 spiteful, some safe, some sympathetic, some sarcastic, 
 some satirical, and none, perhaps, true. His example, 
 at any rate, is bad ; for suppose Adam had declined Eve, 
 what would have happened ? The women look shyly 
 upon one who has so persistently resisted the charms 
 of their sex, and the Benedicts, being themselves in the 
 freedom or the bondage, whichever way you take it, of 
 wedlock, think of him as one who has evaded his duty. 
 And he thinks it is hard a man cannot please himself in 
 a matter of this kind. Who has any business to dictate 
 to him what he shall do ? Who has a right to reproach 
 him for having been luckier than the most of men ? If 
 flies choose to run into spiders' webs, and fish to seize 
 the baited hook, and men to put their heads into a noose, 
 is he obliged to do the same ? And as to women, adds 
 he, it all depends how you look at them. Painters and 
 poets see all the perfections, but the reality and the 
 imagination do not always agree. 
 
 Alack, poor bachelor ! 
 
 One loves to dream of the merry maidens one has 
 known. Beneath the greenwood tree in such a sylvan 
 nook as that in which the mischievous and witty Rosa- 
 lind cured her Orlando of his sickness, or in the quiet 
 of such a moonlight eventide as that in which Lorenzo 
 
106 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 and sweet Jessica told anew their love, or in a rural spot 
 where flowers in all their sweetness and their grace 
 abound, like unto that in which the pretty Perdita and 
 the noble Florizel found their souls knit in one, or be- 
 side a stream like that in which the love-deceived Ophe- 
 lia drowned herself, — these are the scenes of fancy's 
 revels, the scenes where memory and imagination walk 
 hand in hand together. In the early morning, when the 
 dawn with rosy fingers unbars the gates of light; or, 
 better still, in the evening, when Venus blushingly lays 
 herself down upon her bed of glory in the west, so 
 softly white, so sweetly tinted; or in the stilly night, 
 when upon the mountains, with their pinnacles of snowy 
 splendor and depths of sombre gloom, falls the stars' 
 soft light, — comes the happy dream-time when mind 
 and heart are one. Wandering and dreaming through 
 the woodland groves, one can see the milk-white palfrey 
 of fair Florimell breaking through the thick brush, the 
 golden hair of the beautiful maiden flowing in long 
 streams as she seeks to escape from the false Archimago. 
 On she speeds till lost to sight in the winding lanes of 
 the forest, and ere long comes that true knight Prince 
 Arthur to save the maid of his friend Marinell. And 
 fancy follows her to the cottage built of sticks and reeds 
 in a gloomy glen where she hoped to receive shelter and 
 found witchcraft. Fear gave her strength and speed, 
 and soon we see her tossed on ocean-wave, ere long to 
 fall into the deep dungeon of the sea-monster Proteus. 
 Never was grief so terrible as that of Cymoent over the 
 body of Marinell or of Satyrane over the loss of Flori- 
 mell. But in that fairyland strange things are brought 
 about : Marinell is restored to life, Florimell is rescued 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. \0J 
 
 from her watery prison, and in the fair sunshine their 
 faith is rewarded and they are given to each other. As 
 in the dreamy drama this chaste and lovely lady fades 
 into the fleeting moments' mists others no less beautiful 
 and fair appear. There are the twin daughters of Chryso- 
 gone, the brave Belphcebe and the sweet Amoretta, and, 
 like stars of early eve, Britomart, Columbell, Hellenore, 
 Alma and Una. There is Sabrina, who, fleeing from her 
 angry step-dame, Gwendolen, plunged into the Severn 
 flood, where the water-nymphs bore her to the aged 
 Nereus's hall. Here was she made goddess of the river, 
 and now the shepherds sing of her maiden gentleness, 
 tell how she visits the herds in the twilight meadows, 
 and as a votive offering to her throw their garland 
 wreaths of pansies, pinks and gaudy daffodils into the 
 stream. And who can forget Herrick's Julia, with her 
 dainty cherry lips and silken drapery ; or Keats's Mad- 
 eline as in the wintry moonlight, pure and free, she 
 prays for Heaven's grace ; or Coleridge's Christabel as 
 she rescues the high-born Geraldine; or Fielding's 
 Sophia, the spirit of truth in an atmosphere of ill ; or 
 Boccaccio's Griselda, so constant in her love and obedi- 
 ent in her life ; or Scott's Lucy Ashton, the beautiful 
 and ill-fated bride of Lammermoor ? These are among 
 the maids and matrons one has known. They flit like 
 fairies before the mind. They are as real as though they 
 were true flesh and blood. ' And one wonders which of 
 them all one loves the best. We like Jessica, the sweet 
 Christian pagan, better than the intellectual and yellow- 
 haired Portia; we like Juliet, the passionate, whole- 
 souled girl of the South, better than Isabella, Helena or 
 Beatrice, though we prefer Perdita and Miranda to the 
 
108 THE HEART OF ME RE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 romantic bride of Romeo. Viola appears as queen of 
 queens. Florimell is the first of Spenser's creations, but 
 we do not like her half so much as sweet Anne Page or 
 the tender, steadfast Imogen or the pure Marina — per- 
 haps because they have a more distinct personality. As 
 to those of less position, we are not sure whether we 
 like Agnes Wickfield better than Sophia Western, or 
 Lorna Doone better than either. Lydia Languish, 
 Emilia Gauntlet, Lydia Melford, Narcissa Topehall and 
 Fanny Andrews are very well in their way, but their 
 way is a long way from the fair dames who live in 
 Shakespeare's pages. Moliere has nothing for us ; his 
 Lucille, Dorimene, Lucinde, Melicerte and Daphne are 
 not to be thought of with, say, Ben Jonson's Charis, 
 Lodge's Rosalynd or Chaucer's Dorigen. As we cease 
 our dreaming there comes upon the scene an endless 
 procession of merry maidens whom we have known — 
 the fair Emmeline, free Dowsabell, Maid Marion, peer- 
 less Rosamond, Bessee of Bednall-Green, and the Nut- 
 brown Maid, whose praises abide in minstrel's song; 
 but we turn away and ask, " How can a man remain a 
 bachelor in the presence of such beauty?" 
 
 Alack, poor bachelor ! 
 
 And now I haste to the end of the subject — to the day 
 and the ceremony that concluded and crowned the vision 
 of love in the olden time. In spite of the fact that there 
 are old bachelors and old maids, it is said that married 
 life is the mystery into which all who are not in seek to 
 enter and all who are in seek to leave. This, if true, 
 proves not only the desirability and the painfulness of 
 matrimony, but also the weakness of human nature; for 
 neither advice nor experience avails in the matter. St. 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 109 
 
 Jerome mentions a widow that married her twenty-sec- 
 ond husband, who in his turn had been married to twen- 
 ty wives ; a gentleman died at Bordeaux in 1772 who 
 had been married sixteen times ; so that the wise saw, 
 " A burnt child dreads the fire," does not apply to mat- 
 rimony. Nor should it, according to our doctrine and 
 to the consensus of mankind. 
 
 June was the favorite month for weddings, and Sunday 
 the favorite day ; May and Friday were ever thought un- 
 lucky. The old Jews, as a rule, married maidens on a 
 Wednesday and widows on a Thursday. A bright, clear 
 morning was deemed propitious, for happy is the bride 
 that the sun shines on. The church-bells rang their 
 merry peals and the whole village prepared to keep 
 holiday, for such an event occurred only once in a while. 
 Long before the sun arose the preparations were going 
 on. The girls were off to the woods and the meadows 
 at daybreak to gather flowers and rushes to strew in the 
 pathway of the bridal-party, and while the older people 
 were getting the house ready for the feast the young men 
 were preparing for the sports and the pastimes on the 
 village green. The bride was arrayed in her gay gar- 
 ments — generally white, in token of purity — and upon 
 her head was placed a garland of flowers as a sign of 
 her queenly station. Our garland consists of orange- 
 blossoms, but in the olden time it was made of myrtle 
 or roses or wheat-ears. In some lands it was even made 
 of prickles, to signify to the husband that he had tied 
 himself to a thorny pleasure. Everybody had posies of 
 maiden-blushes, primroses, violets, pansies, rosemary or 
 bay. Sometimes festoons and arches of evergreen were 
 made, in which laurel, denoting triumph, was conspicu- 
 
110 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 ous. The bridegroom was taken to the church porch 
 by the bridesmaids, and the bride by the groomsmen. 
 The ceremony did not take place in the church, but at 
 the door, till after the Reformation. There the happy 
 couple stood before the village parson, and there the 
 plighted troth was redeemed and the sentence spoken 
 that made them man and wife — in words that have been 
 used in the Church of England for more than a thousand 
 years. Oh how wildly, cheerily, gladly, the bells pealed 
 out in the church-tower ! And the minstrels played, and 
 the neighbors cheered, and showers of roses or of wheat 
 were poured upon the bridal pair, just as we cast rice, in 
 token of prosperity. All were happy. The bride looked 
 upon her wedding-ring, made of pure gold, to tell her 
 that her lord's love was pure and true and endless as the 
 ring was endless. Friends told her that as the ring wore 
 out so her cares would wear away : I am not sure they 
 told the truth. She gave her favors — gloves, ribbons, 
 scarfs and garters — to the young men and maidens. 
 She cut the wedding-cake — an institution of unknown 
 antiquity — and the maid that was lucky enough to re- 
 ceive the first piece would be the next bride. The bridal 
 ale was drunk, and in the afternoon there were dancing 
 and sporting till evensong. If there were an elder un- 
 married sister, she would have to dance barefooted lest 
 she should die an old maid ; the others all danced and 
 played in green stockings. There were fun and merry- 
 making — perhaps more and of another character than 
 we should approve of, but our forefathers were blunt, 
 plain folk overflowing with good-humor and animal 
 spirits. When the bridegroom blundered and blushed, 
 as bridegrooms sometimes will, they cheered and laughed 
 
LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. \\\ 
 
 with a freedom and a heartiness that to him must have 
 been anything but pleasant. The bride was encouraged 
 in like manner till she was as red as a rose and glad to 
 hide her face under the care-cloth. 
 
 Ah, well ! this was the end of romance, and now be- 
 gan real life. Shall I say that in that life there were 
 charms and graces that the romance knew nothing of? 
 Yes, indeed; for, beautiful as it is to see a lad and a lassie 
 love as only lads and lassies can love, there is a more 
 beautiful picture still — to behold an aged couple who 
 have lived and loved through long years, whose love has 
 withstood the test of time and been purified and made 
 more precious in the fires of life's trials. They see in 
 their own children the return of days long, long gone 
 by ; and when they close their eyes upon this world, it 
 is to enter into the renewed and eternal love and life of 
 a brighter and a better world. 
 
 And here we leave " Love in ye Olden Time," and in 
 doing so I can only say of every newly-wedded pair, 
 
 May life to them be like a summer river 
 
 Where laughing ripples kissed by sunbeams dance, 
 
 And reeds and rushes moved by soft winds quiver, 
 Till Nature falls into a dreamy trance ! 
 
 May life to them be like the clouds of even 
 
 Lighted with all the splendor of the setting sun, 
 
 When o'er the earth there comes the peace of heaven — 
 The blessed rest that crowns a work well done ! 
 
 May life to them be like a song of glory 
 
 Such as the joyous lark sings at heaven's gate, 
 
 Or victors tell in their glad thrilling story 
 Of triumphs won upon the fields of fate ! 
 
 8 
 
112 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 And when that life shall reach the deep sea's flowing, 
 And earth's bright day shall make its shadows long, 
 
 May they rejoice in love's warm, earnest glowing, 
 While murmuring wavelets chant the evensong. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 at ©xfcirtr. 
 
 11 He that hath Oxford seen, for beauty, grace, 
 And healthiness, ne'er saw a better place." 
 
 To Oxford ! 
 
 Train from Moreton-in-the-Marsh at eleven in the 
 forenoon; seven miles from Shipston to the railway- 
 station. 
 
 Shall we walk or drive ? 
 
 Who could resist the temptation of walking in the 
 gentle morning through a country pleasant to the eye, 
 and with one who knew and loved every step of the way 
 and was both lively in conversation and keen in obser- 
 vation ? So, passing up the Swan lane, we began our 
 early journey. A lovely day, the sun veiled now and 
 then with fleecy clouds, birds singing in the hedges and 
 trees by the wayside, the grass by the road fresh and 
 springy to the tread, and everything such as to make 
 the heart beat with delight and the mind dwell upon 
 pleasant reminiscences and mirthful suggestions. 
 
 The road runs about three miles till it crosses the 
 famous Fossway, the great Roman street already spoken 
 of in these pages. The traveller to Moreton turns by 
 the Porto Bello and walks where the imperial legions 
 once rode. A little distance on is an inn, the Golden 
 
 113 
 
114 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 Cross, down in a hollow by the old tramway-track from 
 Moreton to Stratford. Once it was a busy place; now 
 the sign is undecipherable and an ass eats the weeds 
 which grow about the front door. The steep bit of hill 
 leading down by it is somewhat awkward for drivers of 
 heavy wagons ; even lighter vehicles have to be guided 
 carefully. In Egyptian darkness a trap laden with three 
 happy-hearted fellows was once dragging its way up. 
 They were laughing and joking, when suddenly one of 
 them cried out, " Where is the horse ?" Some part of 
 the harness had broken, and the horse was quietly walk- 
 ing out of the shafts ; another step, and the riders would 
 have been thrown out, and perhaps killed. It is a place 
 where necks have been broken. There is, indeed, an 
 uncanny suspicion that some who have died there come 
 back again ; any way, most people who go by, especially 
 in the evening, find it necessary to refresh their spirits at 
 the Golden Cross. Another high hill lies before them, 
 on the right side of which is the village of Stretton. 
 Pluck a handful of wild flowers by the way and watch 
 the honey-bee settling on them utterly regardless of 
 your presence. In the little brook crossing the road 
 have been found trout ; indeed, in days gone by boys 
 used to tickle them there. The operation is simple. 
 Watch a fish lying in the mingling light and shade near 
 the bank or under the bridge ; lie down noiselessly on 
 the earth and slip the bared arm into the water under 
 the fish ; tickle him : he seems to enjoy the operation, 
 and gradually rises to the surface ; then, when near 
 enough, strike the hand hard and fling him out on the 
 bank. Neither Dame Juliana Berners nor Izaak Walton 
 has anything to say upon this pastime ; notwithstanding, 
 
AT OXFORD. II5 
 
 the trout is " a right deyntous fyssh," and tickling is 
 second only to angling. 
 
 But we must move on. 
 
 This is Moreton-in-the-Marsh— a small town consist- 
 ing of one wide street half a mile long and containing a 
 church, a manufactory and a railway-station. We may 
 not tarry; here comes the train. 
 
 Away across the quiet Oxfordshire country ; pleasant, 
 if not romantic. Once we catch a glimpse of Blenheim' 
 the seat of the duke of Marlborough. We have been 
 there. The grounds are exquisite, gardens and park 
 perfect; the house is heavy and ugly. Close by is 
 Woodstock, the town of cheerful memories, where kings 
 dwelt and once Fair Rosamond was concealed in a 
 maze. Here Henry III. was nearly murdered by a false 
 priest ; the wretch was caught, and torn to pieces by 
 wild horses. Here Edward the Black Prince was born 
 and the princess Elizabeth imprisoned by her sister 
 Mary. The Puritans were troubled by the tricks of the 
 " merrie devil," who turned out to have more of earth 
 about him than ghosts generally have. Not one stone 
 of the royal palace now remains ; only the name and 
 the memories abide. Chaucer would not know his old 
 home were he to go back again ; Alfred the Great and 
 Henry II. would be lost. 
 
 The words of Camden concerning Oxford have the 
 same force and truth now as they had when written in 
 the reign of James I. : "A delicate and most beautiful 
 city, whether we respect the neatness of private build- 
 ings, or the stateliness of publick structures, or the 
 healthy and pleasant situation. For the plain on which 
 ',t stands is walled in, as it were, with hills of wood, 
 
1 1 6 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 which, keeping out on one side the pestilential south 
 wfnd, on the other the tempestuous west, admit only 
 the purifying east, and the north, that disperses all un- 
 wholsome vapors." 
 
 The city and the university are of considerable antiq- 
 uity, but both have been shorn of much of their re- 
 puted age. Tradition says that the city was founded 
 about a thousand years before the birth of Christ by 
 Memphric, king of the ancient Britons, and was named 
 Caer-Memphric. Other legends connect it with Brute 
 the Trojan and the Druids, but these stories are utterly 
 without foundation. In like manner the university has 
 been ascribed to Alfred the Great, and some have 
 claimed that the place was a seat of learning in pre- 
 Roman times ; these stories are also inventions. 
 
 It was in or before the ninth century that a religious 
 house was established some few miles from the then an- 
 cient Dorchester, the see-town of the great Mercian dio- 
 cese, near to the shallow channels close by the confluence 
 of the Cherwell and the Isis. The house was dedicated 
 to St. Frideswyde, and around it grew a village. A 
 school for youth also sprang up in connection with the 
 priory. In the latter part of the ninth century it is 
 probable a mint was established there, for coins have 
 been discovered of that date with the legend " Oksna- 
 forda." The earliest undoubted mention of the town is 
 in the English Chronicle, under the year 912. From 
 that time Oxford speedily rises in importance. The 
 kings were frequent visitors; Edward the Elder died 
 there in 924 and Edmund Ironsides in 1017, which 
 gave rise to the idea that it was an ill thing for a king 
 to enter Oxford. The place was besieged and burnt by 
 
AT OXFORD. 
 
 117 
 
 the Danes in 10 10, and in 10 13 submitted to Sweyn. 
 Here, in 1018, the great Canute held a Witanagemot in 
 which the laws of Edgar were adopted, and in 1036 here 
 Harold I. was crowned. During the reign of Edward 
 the Confessor the town continued to flourish, and in 
 1067 made a bold, though unsuccessful, resistance to 
 William the Conquerer. When taken by him, he gave 
 it to Robert d'Oily, who about 107 1 built a castle. In 
 1086 the town contained seven hundred and twenty-one 
 houses, of which four hundred and seventy-eight had 
 been so damaged by the siege nineteen years earlier as 
 to be untaxable, and of the mansions one hundred and 
 ninety-two were habitable and one hundred and six 
 waste. The population was then about seventeen hun- 
 dred. But under the strong government of D'Oily the 
 place recovered itself, and from that time on occupied a 
 high position in the history of England. The seat of 
 the Mercian bishopric had long since been removed to 
 Lincoln, and it was not till the Reformation that the 
 diocese of Oxford was founded. Of the part the city 
 took in the great struggles of the reigns of Stephen and 
 Charles I. it is unnecessary to speak. Loyalty and con- 
 servatism have ever been the distinguishing features of 
 Oxford. 
 
 It is probable that the school connected with St. 
 Frideswyde's house continued and increased. It was, 
 like all monastic schools, simple in its aim and small in 
 its scope. The scholars were largely boys. However, 
 it is not till the reign of Henry I. that we have certain 
 information of the existence and popularity of the 
 schools at Oxford. Why teachers and scholars gathered 
 there we do not know, nor does the community come 
 
Il8 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 into prominence before the reign of John. In 1238 the 
 schools are spoken of as the University of Oxford, 
 though it is not known that there was any charter of 
 incorporation. Up to 1268 the university had no build- 
 ings of its own ; then the colleges began to come into 
 being, and Oxford was recognized as the second uni- 
 versity of Christendom. Indeed, the time came when it 
 outshone its rival of Paris. 
 
 Notwithstanding the comparatively recent origin of 
 the city and the university, one of their first attractions 
 is that of age. There is that subtile charm in the very 
 atmosphere which only a noble history and a delightful 
 romance can give. One becomes conscious that this 
 place is the glory of England, enwoven in all that is 
 great and soul-quickening in her life, the home and 
 source of her intellectual and social power, the shrine 
 of exalted and excellent scholarship, and the abode of 
 that beneficent spirit which, while ever pressing onward 
 into the new, lovingly and gently cherishes and seeks to 
 preserve all that is good and true in the old. 
 
 A pity it is that the visitor enters the city by the rail- 
 way, for, though the Great Western station stands on 
 the site of the ancient abbey of Osney, neither it nor the 
 way into the town has any attraction. On the contrary, 
 an unfavorable impression is apt to be made, and, instead 
 of a quiet, studious-looking place, one is disappointed 
 with the bustle and noise of a modern one. Drive along 
 the Cowley road and over Magdalen bridge, and nothing 
 can exceed the satisfaction which Oxford can give. Stand 
 on the old bridge, quaint with its balusters, and look 
 upon the still, shaded waters of the Cherwell — a narrow 
 stream peaceful beneath the summer sunshine, its smooth 
 
AT OXFORD. II9 
 
 surface gently rippled by a punt or boat occasionally 
 passing up or down, and its onward flow suggesting its 
 course from the hills of Warwickshire to the royal river, 
 by ancient Banbury and the Confessor's birthplace, Islip, 
 into Oxford itself. The building on the right side of 
 the street is Magdalen College, the first of many noble 
 structures, and the most beautiful of them all. It was 
 built by Bishop Waynflete of Winchester about 1480, 
 the society having been formally chartered by him some 
 years earlier, and was dedicated as " Seinte Marie Maug- 
 dalene College to the honor and praise of Christ cruci- 
 fied, the Blessed Virgin his Mother, St. Mary Maugda- 
 lene and the various apostles and martyrs, the chief of 
 whom are patrons of the cathedral of Winchester." 
 Among its scholars have been many bishops and states- 
 men, not the least of whom was the great Wolsey. Its 
 position in the university is supported by its renown and 
 its wealth — an annual income from endowments of over 
 forty-one thousand pounds and the presentation to forty- 
 two benefices. Its most distinguishing architectural fea- 
 ture is the stately tower. Here on the morning of May- 
 day an ancient and pleasing ceremony is performed. On 
 the summit of the tower assemble singers in surplices 
 and members of the university. " As the last stroke of 
 five dies upon the breeze all heads are reverently uncov- 
 ered, and the singers, amid deep silence, pour forth the 
 solemn old Latin hymn in honor of the Holy Trinity, 
 ' Te Deum patrem colimus ;' " after which, the pealing 
 bells welcome in the spring. 
 
 It is not possible in the few pages which can be given 
 to Oxford to mention, much less speak of, its many 
 stately buildings, its halls, colleges and churches and 
 
120 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 their many historical and architectural features. There 
 is not a corner in the older part of the city which is not 
 full of interest. Beyond Magdalen, High street opens 
 in all its dignity and beauty. On the right in rapid suc- 
 cession come St. Edmund's Hall, Queen's College, All 
 Souls' College, St. Mary's church and All Saints' church, 
 while at the back of these, like choice jewels hid away 
 in careful seclusion, are such places as New College, 
 Hartford College, the Radcliffe and Bodleian Libraries, 
 the theatre, Brasenose, Lincoln, Jesus and Exeter Col- 
 leges. The other side of High street has the schools, 
 University College and St. Mary's Hall, with Merton, 
 Corpus Christi and Oriel Colleges beyond. High street 
 is crossed at right angles with Cornmarket and St. Al- 
 date's streets, St. Martin's church standing at the inter- 
 section. Some distance to the north from this cross, 
 known as Carfax, are Baliol, Trinity and St. John's Col- 
 leges, the street widening out into the noble tree-lined 
 thoroughfare of St. Giles. Hereabouts is the " Martyrs' 
 Memorial," a Gothic structure after the fashion of one 
 of the Eleanor crosses, in memory of Latimer, Ridley 
 and Cranmer. The three martyrs are represented by 
 statues placed in the niches. On the north side is the 
 following inscription : 
 
 " To the Glory of God, and in grateful commemoration of His 
 servants, Thomas Cranmer, Nicholas Ridley, Hugh Latimer, Prel- 
 ates of the Church of England, who, near this spot, yielded their 
 bodies to be burned, bearing witness to the Sacred Truths which 
 they had affirmed and maintained against the errors of the Church 
 of Rome, and rejoicing that to them it was given not only to be- 
 lieve on Christ, but also to suffer for his sake, this monument was 
 erected by public subscription, in the year of our Lord God, 
 1841." 
 
AT OXFORD. 121 
 
 Since the memorial was built, while the honesty of Lat- 
 imer and the piety of Ridley have remained undenied, 
 the character of Cranmer has been severely and to his 
 discredit examined, and the cause for which they died 
 widely questioned. There is no little irony in the whole 
 thing when seen in the light of facts. Oxford has not 
 been altogether faithful to the spirit which dictated the 
 inscription and raised the monument. The martyrdom 
 is supposed to have taken place some short distance 
 from the cross, near the corner of Broad street. Lat- 
 imer and Ridley were burnt on October 16, 1555. From 
 the tower of St. Michael's church, close by, Cranmer 
 saw them perish ; he did not hear what the world has 
 never forgotten since — the words of good old Latimer : 
 " Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man. 
 We shall this day light such a candle by God's grace in 
 England as I trust shall never be put out." 
 
 It took three loads of wood-fagots and one of furze 
 to burn these men ; the total cost of the execution was 
 twenty-five shillings. Before the year was out, Dr. 
 Palmer, one of the most zealous of their persecutors, 
 became a Protestant, and in the following July he suf- 
 fered the same penalty. On the 21st of March, 1556, 
 a dull, rainy day, Archbishop Cranmer was burnt on 
 the same spot, the same stake, chain and staple being 
 used, and the cost amounting to twelve shillings. The 
 bailiffs of the city charged the government sixty-three 
 pounds, but the zeal which was vigorous enough to 
 send men to the stake was not so ready to pay the 
 charges thereof. Lord Williams of Thame made him- 
 self conspicuous by drowning the archbishop's words 
 with his shouts of " Make short ! make short !" It was 
 
122 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 not long before the reactionary party discovered their 
 mistake in laying hands upon so 'high a dignitary as 
 Cranmer. They erred fatally : from the time the blood 
 of the primate of England was shed the return of Eng- 
 land to the Roman obedience became impossible. Rome 
 stung many a noble soul in those days, but she lost her 
 sting when she hurried to death the man who, worthy 
 or unworthy, was undoubtedly at the head and front of 
 the English Reformation. 
 
 Times were rude and rough, and we must admit the 
 fact that Protestants persecuted Romanists as readily as 
 their opponents persecuted them : these very men who 
 were burnt on the street at Oxford had helped and sanc- 
 tioned the martyrdom of others. Both sides regarded 
 heresy as the most dangerous of all sins ; stealing meant 
 the loss of property, and murder the loss of life, but 
 false doctrines involved the ruin of the immortal soul. 
 They believed what they professed : what more lauda- 
 ble work, then, could there be than the silencing for 
 ever of men who were leading people to everlasting 
 perdition? We shiver at the recital of the extreme 
 deeds done; we could not believe them in any way 
 excusable did we not know that even in this our day 
 the most amiable feelings and the most friendly inter- 
 course possible do not exist between those who follow 
 Rome and those who follow Geneva. Which hates and 
 dreads the other most it is not easy to say. 
 
 In St. Giles's street is held every September " the holi- 
 day of the season," a large business and pleasure fair — 
 a veritable relic of other times. The good saint was an 
 anchorite in the forest of Languedoc in the seventh cen- 
 tury. There he was supported by a hind which came 
 
AT OXFORD. 123 
 
 daily to give him its milk ; in a similar manner ravens 
 fed Elijah at Cherith, and one of the supporters to the 
 arms of the city of Edinburgh is the figure of St. Giles's 
 hind. He was the patron-saint of cripples and was held 
 in great veneration, many churches being dedicated to 
 his memory. A good citizen of the Scotch capital once 
 bought at a great price an arm-bone of St. Giles. All 
 about the hermit himself has long since been forgotten 
 by the people who frequent this famous fair, if, indeed, 
 they ever knew of him. As of everything else of by- 
 gone days, the cry is, " The fair is not what it was." 
 The glory has not wholly departed, but it is only the 
 old, gray-haired folk who can tell the story of its lost 
 splendor — of the times when from all parts of the 
 country came the carriers' wains laden with men and 
 women, and rustic music livened the place, and stalls 
 and shows were many and well frequented, and the 
 ale ran like water. 
 
 We turn back to Carfax, and, passing down St. Al- 
 date's street, enter the noble quadrangle of Christ 
 Church. This is the largest college in Oxford and was 
 founded by Cardinal Wolsey. Everything about it bears 
 witness to the magnificence of the founder — a man as 
 renowned for his tastes in art and architecture and for 
 his liberality in the founding of schools as for his ability 
 and integrity as a statesman. The massive tower con- 
 tains, on the outside, niches, in one of which is a statue 
 of the cardinal, and inside a remarkable staircase lead- 
 ing up into the glorious dining-hall. This hall is second 
 only to those of Westminster and Hampton Court Pal- 
 ace. Its roof is lofty and open ; upon the walls hang 
 portraits of Christ-Church men — a host such as not 
 
124 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 only a college, but a nation also, may well be proud of. 
 Henry VIII., Queen Elizabeth and Cardinal Wolsey are 
 there; Bishop Fell of rhythmic memory, and old 
 Schoolmaster Busby, who would not take off his hat 
 before the king in the presence of the boys lest they 
 should imagine there was a greater man in the realm 
 than he, and so discipline come to naught ; the three 
 divines who read the Liturgy in the time of its prohi- 
 bition under Cromwell ; and many others famous in the 
 pages of history. 
 
 A few steps from the hall is the cathedral, an old 
 building partly founded upon the site of St. Frideswyde's 
 chapel. In its tower are " the bonny Christ-Church 
 bells." Outside are the noble and exquisite walks, one 
 along the banks of the river, another leading to the 
 water, and another — one of the loveliest avenues in 
 England — called the Broad Walk. Many are the at- 
 tractions of Christ Church ; some will admire " Great 
 Tom," the famous bell, and others will love the quiet, 
 studious air of the place. 
 
 Oxford has a history as strange as it is interesting, 
 but farther into that we may not venture. Even as we 
 walk through its quaint streets, so fragrant with the 
 aroma of olden time, we have to content ourselves with 
 picturing it when in its mediaeval glory — a glory not 
 greater than that it has now, only more romantic. But 
 there is Godstow, two miles away, in the nunnery of 
 which the fair and frail Rosamond spent her last days. 
 There is Cumnor Hall, three miles away, where Amy 
 Robsart died — murdered, some said, by her unworthy 
 husband, the earl of Leicester. And there are other 
 spots, each with its own story inwoven in the greater 
 
AT OXFORD. 125 
 
 thread of England's life. Oxford has had a noble past ; 
 its present is of rarest splendor, and its future, edged 
 with the radiance flowing down the centuries, will have 
 a magnificence unequalled. 
 
 Among the people who in years gone by were known 
 at Oxford was one who, though a plain, simple country 
 shopkeeper, had no small share of ready wit and keen, 
 sharp thought. He lived in a town some twelve or 
 more miles away, and to his shop he added the work of 
 carrier. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, 
 he drove to Oxford and transacted such business as was 
 entrusted to him. In the city he put up at the " Crown," 
 an old hostel with which Shakespeare was somehow or 
 other mixed up. He was a little man, stout, ruddy, 
 with small blue eyes, and wore a broad-brimmed beaver, 
 a velveteen coat and knee-breeches. His humor was 
 great ; such a fact as that which happened in the elec- 
 tions of this summer, in which two Irish members, Mr. 
 O'Hea and Mr. O'Shea, failed to get re-elected, would 
 have furnished him with fun for hours. In the early 
 days of the Oxford movement, he, being a man of ex- 
 traordinary common sense, proclaimed himself in fullest 
 sympathy with the leaders of the party, and many a bat- 
 tle he fought behind his counter, in his wagon and over 
 his ale concerning a celibate clergy, fasts and services 
 on week-days and candles in the sunshine. But he was 
 confounded when his rector refused a white model of a 
 horse such as veterinary surgeons have in their offices, 
 which he in the enthusiasm of his soul gave to the 
 church. Why doves, eagles and lambs should be al- 
 lowed in the church, and not horses, was a puzzle to 
 him — equal in mystery to the fact that ministers in their 
 
126 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 sermons speak of roses, lilies and stars, but never of 
 onions or potatoes. Some of the stories he told jogging 
 along the country road from Oxford are too good to 
 be forgotten. There was the squire whose keeper 
 caught a poacher fishing in his waters. The man had 
 a fish in his possession, and the squire sent him to the 
 lockup for the night and had the fish stuffed and baked 
 for his own breakfast. The same squire's wife grew 
 thin under her husband's economy; her dresses were 
 being continually taken in by the dressmaker, and the 
 dressmaker was being continually taken in by the squire. 
 We remember the old story-teller as he passed along the 
 streets on market-days, touching his hat to a collegian, 
 spying out ancient friends and meditating upon or mak- 
 ing a bargain. He knew the corners of the city. A 
 merry soul, dead and gone now. 
 
 And this is the sad thing about Oxford, perhaps more 
 than elsewhere, the breaking up of old ties and the con- 
 stant change of faces. The streets and the buildings re- 
 main so much the same that one feels the people should 
 remain also ; a short acquaintance, and they change. 
 Some men become fixtures — the heads of the colleges, 
 the hosts of the inns, the carriers from the neighborhood 
 and the shopkeepers. Memories gather around them ; and 
 when they go, they are more missed than one can tell. 
 
 The visitor will find Oxford in every sense satisfying 
 — a noble city, an atmosphere of scholarship, splendid 
 in buildings, 
 
 " Majestic in the moss of time," 
 
 and in every way worthy of the praise which it has 
 received. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 an ©betting fflSlalfc. 
 
 " There are sunset glories to crown the view 
 On the far hill-ranges showered ; 
 There are splendors of nearer warmth and hue 
 On the homestead tree-embowered." 
 
 There is a direct road to Watlington from Oxford, 
 fifteen miles long, pleasant, hilly and traversed twice a 
 week by carriers' vans. It passes by the field of Chal- 
 grove, where John Hampden received his death-wounds, 
 and on which is a monument commemorating that event 
 and stating that he fought in defence of the free mon- 
 arch and ancient liberties of England. There are also 
 the villages of Chiselhampton and Stadhampton, with a 
 long and narrow bridge between them spanning the river 
 Thame. This bridge is remarkable for its stout angular 
 buttresses set against the current and as the scene of a 
 prolonged resistance against Prince Rupert on the morn- 
 ing of Chalgrove battle. The name of the former vil- 
 lage is locally shortened into Chisleton ; in the time of 
 Henry III. it was Chevacheeshull Hampton. Our choice 
 and purpose, however, led us to take the railway to 
 Thame, and from there, in the cool evening, to walk to 
 the town of the Watlings. The distance is about nine 
 miles ; the road, good and running across a fertile and 
 well-wooded country. 
 
 9 127 
 
128 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 It so chanced that the day was that on which the elec- 
 tion of members for South Oxfordshire in the Eleventh 
 Parliament of Her Majesty Queen Victoria was held, 
 and, as we were greatly interested in one of the par- 
 ties — it is immaterial which — we did not fail to take 
 notice of the life and activity which such an occasion 
 everywhere brings forth. The usually quiet road was 
 lively with carts, wagons and carriages laden with voters 
 returning from the polls. Boisterous songs and loud 
 hurrahs disturbed the peace of one of the loveliest of 
 England's lovely summer eventides. The contrast was 
 great between the noisy, half-drunken patriots and the 
 still, golden sunlight which streamed through the high 
 hedges and the tree-tops — so gentle, calm and restful, 
 lighting birds and squirrels home to their nests and bid- 
 ding the deer in the park seek shelter beneath the oaks 
 for the night. It is a fact that in England beer and pa- 
 triotism go together — a fact curious, but not unique : it 
 is said to occur elsewhere. Possibly the vote is more 
 honest when the voter is far enough gone in his cups 
 not to know how to mark his ballot-paper — when he for- 
 gets whether the cross opposite the candidate's name 
 means " For " or " Against." At such a time he is not 
 open to argument or to bribery — though, so far as we 
 could learn, no party was guilty of offering either. He 
 becomes tremendously and unshakably loyal to the Crown 
 and the Constitution ; his voice and his influence go for 
 things as they are, Church and State, queen and royal 
 family, the Union and the House of Lords ; hence the 
 Liberals strive to make him sober, for they have no 
 chance with him when he is drunk, and the Conserva- 
 tives try to make him drunk, for they can do nothing 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 1 29 
 
 with him when he is sober. John Bull may be, in com- 
 mon with most men, an animal, but he is at least a grate- 
 ful one : he never forgets the considerate body who gives 
 him a juicy mutton-chop or an overflowing muggin of 
 stout. 
 
 The Conservative modus operandi is more praiseworthy 
 than at first sight may appear. Autolycus sang, "A 
 quart of ale is a dish for a king ;" and Armorer Horner's 
 neighbor touched that worthy aright when he exclaimed, 
 " Here's a pot of good double beer, neighbor; drink, and 
 fear not your man." Nor is the spirit of malt stayed at sim- 
 ulating royalty or creating valiancy : Camden tells us that 
 the secret of the longevity of the English is their an- 
 cient, peculiar and very wholesome barley- wine, and in 
 a rare tract of the seventeenth century it is said that beer 
 well brewed, of a low, pure amber color, clear and spark- 
 ling, is necessary not only for the poor, who commonly 
 eat such things as afford little or bad nourishment, but 
 is also most powerful to expel poisonous infections. 
 Through mediaeval and into post-Reformation times 
 the wardens — who were oftentimes women — brewed and 
 supplied the ale consumed by the people in the church 
 nave or yard on Sundays and holy days, and down to 
 Queen Anne's reign, and in some places much later, 
 while the parson and the squire had their twice-baked 
 bread and their thirst-slaking potion between the ante- 
 communion and the sermon, nonconformists, both min- 
 isters and deacons, accepted the necessity of similar 
 cereal refreshment before and after their services. Even 
 at funerals it was found efficacious in inducing an appro- 
 priate and becoming sorrow or in staying an inordinate 
 and troublesome grief. There were some — as did they 
 
130 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 who made a certain return to King Edward VI. — who 
 spoke against 4< the wicked weed called hops," but, on 
 the whole, so convinced were our forefathers of the use- 
 fulness of ale that in the year 1577, about which time 
 inns, taverns and alehouses were an acknowledged social 
 nuisance and the population of England did not exceed 
 four millions, there were over sixteen thousand of them 
 in the kingdom. Nay, in a remote antiquity, the fathers 
 of Valhalla taught by example these virtues and mys- 
 teries ; for the Alvismal says of this old British Kwrw, 
 this Spicigenam Bromon of Julian the Apostate, " it is 
 called ale among men, and among the gods beer." Now 
 add to all this the political power of the beverage, and 
 who shall say the Conservatives are at fault ? If beer 
 helps to make men grateful, kinglike, brave, healthy, re- 
 ligious, decorous, hilarious, followers of the gods, and, 
 above all, to deprive them of the skill to plot and to 
 plan against the powers that be, is it not both kind and 
 wise to give them of it plentifully ? It is true, besides 
 these things, it will enable some to see the snakes come 
 out of the bones of those who lie in tombs, for serpents 
 grow of human marrow, according to P. Ovidius Naso ; 
 but Chuang Tzu, a philosopher of the Flowery Land, 
 four hundred years before our era, observed that the 
 mental equilibrium of a drunken man is undisturbed, 
 the ordinary ideas of life, death and fear find no place in 
 his breast, and were he to fall out of a cart, though he 
 might suffer, yet he would not die. Unconscious of rid- 
 ing in the cart, he is equally unconscious of falling out 
 of it. Tell me, which would you rather have on your 
 doorstep or in your cellar, a man with a can of beer or a 
 man with a can of dynamite ? Well, one set of politi- 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 131 
 
 cians uses the one, and another set the other, to carry 
 out their measures for the good of society ; the one, ad- 
 mittedly, is apt to deface the most glorious work of 
 God's hands, but the other is likely to destroy the most 
 glorious works of man's hands, and you into the bar- 
 gain. I imagine that all dabblers in the art of govern- 
 ment are divided into two classes, even as Hamlet di- 
 vided the question of existence, To-be and Not-to-be. 
 Beer helps the one, and dynamite the other — only in the 
 extremes, to be sure, but then it is the extremes who do 
 the work. The one would leave the country very much 
 as they found it ; the other would make it such as no 
 State has ever been either in heaven above or in the 
 earth beneath or in the wa — Stop ! I am not so sure 
 about the third place. Milton and Dante have had 
 something to say concerning those regions, and a good 
 man once told me that Satan was a radical, a disturber 
 and a restless mischief-maker. He may use explosives 
 in his domain ; he certainly does not use malt beverages. 
 Among the To-be's the opposite prevails. They employ 
 strong, wholesome ale which makes one incapable of 
 such gross and violent wickedness. The evidences 
 which we saw that quiet evening in the road from 
 Thame to Watlington showed beyond a doubt that the 
 Conservatives had done their best to save the country. 
 Events proved their wisdom and strength : the Union 
 was preserved and Mr. Gladstone retired to Hawarden. 
 Now, what I mean, if you will allow me to talk about 
 such things as we walk along this still road, so glorious- 
 ly arched and shaded with the noblest of trees, is this : 
 In the English elections beer wins. Speaking algebrai- 
 cally, beer is the x y the unknown quantity and the all- 
 
132 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 prevailing factor ; whichever party uses it the most free- 
 ly will succeed. The Liberals may be well-meaning 
 enough, but they cannot approach the Conservatives 
 in this respect — that is to say, when the Conservatives 
 get desperate. Neither can give the voter anything 
 before the election, but afterward the humor of the 
 thing twinkles in his eye as he looks upon the nine- 
 gallon keg of beer in his cellar. The innkeeper can 
 also in a good-natured, off-hand sort of way refrain 
 from taking payment for his supplies to the free and 
 independent man, and later on present his little bill to 
 the steward of the candidate. Nobody, surely, can ob- 
 ject to a rich man paying his poor neighbor's debts. 
 Moreover, another item comes in. Suppose a wealthy 
 land-owner — and I am speaking exclusively of the 
 country — desires to get his eldest son into Parlia- 
 ment : it is evident that the tenant-farmers will be 
 anxious to please and propitiate their landlord, and 
 the laborers their master, by loyalty at the polls. 
 There is such a thing as raising the rent or refusing 
 improvements, of lowering wages or discharging men, 
 when things do not go as they in superior position 
 would have them go. Not that I would imply that 
 there is a peer or a squire — from Land's End to the 
 house of the judicious Dutchman who in the reign of 
 James IV. settled the question of precedency among 
 his nine sons by having nine doors made to his cot- 
 tage, one for each son, and a round table for them all 
 — who would trouble himself whether his tenants went 
 one way or the other ; but as on board ship the mate is 
 more to the men than is the captain, so on an estate the 
 landlord's great man is greater to the tenants than is 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 1 33 
 
 the landlord himself. And the landlord's great man 
 can make things very comfortable or very uncomfort- 
 able pretty much at his own sweet will, and as surely as 
 two and two make four he looks out for the way the 
 people vote. It is human nature ; perhaps in another 
 world two and two may make five, and then things will 
 be different. 
 
 Nor are the farm-laborers of England the most intel- 
 ligent of mortals. I have said something illustrative of 
 this elsewhere; now I only need add that the legend 
 of " Three Acres and a Cow " of the previous election 
 was not wholly without foundation. It will be remem- 
 bered that some Radical candidate, speaking of the 
 golden age when the principles he was advocating 
 shall have triumphed, illustrated his description of the 
 workingman's plenty by promising him three acres and 
 a cow. I suppose he had figured up how far the land 
 and the cattle would go, and made this out to be each 
 man's share. It was a bit of rhetoric, possibly true 
 enough as such things go, but it was interpreted to 
 mean that each voter should have so munificent a gift 
 provided the candidate got into Parliament. Crafty 
 election agents worked to some advantage on this 
 misinterpretation. At not a few places — for instance, 
 in the Evesham division — a black cow was drawn 
 around in a wagon to show the laborers the prize 
 they would have. Cans of milk reputed to be the 
 produce of such cow were freely distributed. In- 
 quiries were made as to where or when the voters 
 would like their three acres, and every man was led to 
 believe that he would soon have a share in the parson's 
 tithe and the squire's wealth. So the Radical candidate 
 
134 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 got into Parliament, but Ireland remained unsatisfied : 
 the golden age did not appear, and the constituents 
 went without their promised reward. They remem- 
 bered that fact at this time ; and as Israel thought of 
 the fleshpots and the onions of Egypt, so they called to 
 mind the flavor and the potency of old-time Conser- 
 vative ale. As to the principles at stake or the con- 
 sequences involved in the election they knew little and 
 cared less. The Irish were to them naught but dis- 
 turbers of the peace, enemies of the queen, benighted 
 potato-eaters in a rainy and whiskey-loving island. 
 Mr. Gladstone encouraged them in their rebellion ; so 
 the parson said and so the squire said ; and the squire 
 ought to know the facts and the parson to speak the 
 truth. 
 
 Perhaps if the" Invincibles" — whoever they are — would 
 give the English people information of the wrongs and the 
 wishes of the Emerald Isle instead of giving them nitro- 
 glycerine, the aspect of affairs would be materially changed. 
 As it is, the country-folk of the Midlands know no more 
 of Tipperary than of Kwang-tung, nor of Mr. Parnell 
 than of Abdul Hamid II. Not that the Irish are by 
 any means silent elsewhere. Their voices are heard in 
 all lands, and three hundred years ago there was an 
 old opinion among them that the man who in the 
 clamor and outcry which was made at the beginning 
 of a battle did not shout and scream as loudly as the 
 rest was suddenly snatched from the ground and car- 
 ried flying to the lonely valleys of Kerry, there to eat 
 grass and to lap water, with no sense of misery or of 
 happiness, speechless, forsaken, till caught by the hunt- 
 ers and brought back to his own home. For some gen- 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 1 35 
 
 erations there is no record of any Hibernian passing 
 through this penance — certainly not during the present 
 century. They who believe in the Anglo-Israel theory 
 put down the Irish as the Canaanites, but though, ac- 
 cording to William Camden, there was once a great 
 West-Meath chieftain who declared he would not learn 
 English lest it should set his mouth awry, they speak 
 the language with a sweeter brogue and a more charm- 
 ing vivacity than do even the people of the hill-country 
 of the West Riding. It is well to remember that Ireland 
 owes her connection with England largely to the good 
 pope who handed her over to the Angevin king. Was 
 the Holy Father acting ex cathedra that time? Speak not 
 evil of dignities ; undoubtedly the English are the bet- 
 ter papists of the two : they recognize what the supreme 
 pontiff did in the matter. Of all this, however, the agri- 
 cultural folk were, and still are, ignorant ; all they know 
 is that Irish laborers come into English harvest-fields, 
 and that Ireland is a wicked and rebellious land. Hence 
 their solid vote. 
 
 Feelings one way or the other run high everywhere. 
 A story is told — I am not responsible for its truth — of a 
 Wesleyan brother who prayed fervently for his beloved 
 and ideal statesman : " O Lord, grant that in these troub- 
 lous times our talented Mr. Gladstone and his followers 
 may hang together." — "Amen!" said an equally fervid 
 Conservative brother in the congregation ; " amen ! God 
 grant they may hang together." The preacher thought 
 he had made a mistake somehow ; so he went on : " I 
 mean, Lord, that they may hang together in accord and 
 concord ;" to which the other responded, " I don't care 
 what cord it is, but, Lord, let them hang together." 
 
I36 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 Well, the elections did not hang them, merely suspended 
 them. 
 
 Some ask, "Are the farm-laborers fit for the fran- 
 chise ?" I do not think it is so much a question of fit- 
 ness as of power : Can they freely exercise it ? Social 
 conditions are against them, money is against them, and 
 the tyranny of money is worse than was ever the tyr- 
 anny of a feudal lord. He at least had some kind of a 
 conscience, but gold has none — nor commercial corpo- 
 rations, nor political caucuses. I do not believe the 
 country masses have ever been really heard, or that they 
 will be for long years to come. They cannot speak ; 
 would things be better if such as they did speak ? It is 
 a curious fact that the town artisan looks down upon the 
 village hind with even greater contempt and scorn than 
 that with which the noble regards the merchant. The 
 man who nails the shoe on the horse's feet thinks him- 
 self altogether better than the man who follows the horse 
 along the furrow. There are gradations fine and subtile, 
 class upon class, but they are all-powerful. The wheel- 
 wright and the wagoner or the carpenter and the shep- 
 herd will not associate together more than is necessary. 
 Hence the wide gulf between the breaker of stones by 
 the roadside and the dweller within the stone walls of the 
 mansion is bridged over by innumerable sorts and con- 
 ditions of men, each a step higher than the other — per- 
 haps an almost imperceptible step, but making it next to 
 impossible that the one should do without the other or 
 the one should war against the other. 
 
 But it is little short of sin to waste a lovely evening 
 along such a road as we are walking by discussing such 
 dry and threadbare subjects. On our left is Thame 
 
AN EVENING WALK. I 37 
 
 Park, once and for a long time the home of Lady Wen- 
 man. Here was formerly an abbey, founded — or, rather, 
 translated — by Alexander, the magnificent bishop of 
 Lincoln and lord of the manor of Thame, in 1138, to 
 atone for his extravagance in castle-building. As this 
 and other like " works of satisfaction " came out of the 
 revenues of the Church, the merit was not all that it 
 might have been. He took an important part in the 
 troubles of the reign of Stephen, and, though said to be 
 kindly in heart and cheerful in countenance, was as no- 
 torious for his worldliness as for his statesmanship and 
 energy. His rapacity was almost boundless ; his pomp, 
 more secular and military than ecclesiastical, was the 
 marvel of the age. He was present at that momentous 
 visit to the pope in 11 25 when the archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, in order to secure the supremacy of his see, ac- 
 cepted legatine authority and thus placed the Church of 
 England under vassalage to the court of Rome. One 
 of his successors, Henry Lexington, in the reign of 
 Henry III. brought the great road, which before lay on 
 one side of Thame, through the middle of it, and thus 
 gave prosperity to the town. The abbey was colonized 
 from the first Cistercian house in England, at Waverley, 
 in Surrey, being, as the saying then went, one of the 
 four daughters of that establishment and the mother of 
 another house at Bindon, in Dorset. At the time of the 
 dissolution it had a yearly revenue of two hundred and 
 fifty-six pounds. The Cistercians were great farmers, 
 frugal, taciturn and in some ways more austere than 
 other branches of the great Benedictine family. They 
 were of Burgundian origin ; their houses were all of in- 
 dependent and equal rank, dedicated to St. Mary ; and 
 
I38 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 when a new site was to be occupied, an abbot and twelve 
 brethren were sent forth for that purpose. Within the 
 century in which Alexander built this house the order 
 became all-powerful and embraced eight hundred of the 
 richest abbeys of Europe. The white-robed fathers no 
 longer walk the cloisters or the glades as of old, but 
 some vestiges of their buildings remain. Part of the 
 present house was built in the fifteenth century, and the 
 drawing-room by Robert, the last abbot and the first 
 bishop of Oxford. There is a chapel where for a long 
 time the services have been well rendered by a surpliced 
 choir. Lady Wenman was both fond and proud of her 
 singers and paid them well. The congregation consisted 
 of her own people, and a quarter of a century since 
 strangers thought it a privilege and a pleasure to be al- 
 lowed to worship once in a while in a place where art 
 and decorum united to make devotion beautiful and 
 attractive. 
 
 A walk through the park presents many pleasing 
 views, and they who love well-laid-out grounds, wide 
 stretches of sward set with clumps of broad oaks, deep 
 copses where the pheasant roosts and the rabbit burrows, 
 and the many charms which surround the stately homes 
 of England's gentry, will meet with their heart's delight 
 here. The high hedges and the closed gates at the lodge 
 remind one that the place is private, but, as the people 
 hereabouts are able to distinguish fairly well between a 
 poacher and a tourist, it is possible to obtain admittance. 
 A few hundred yards from the lodge gate, farther along 
 the road, a young man met his death. It was on a sum- 
 mer day, about the year 1857. A thunderstorm came 
 on; the rain fell in torrents and the lightning flashed 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 139 
 
 fiercely. He sought shelter under a wayside tree — this 
 opposite to us is likely the very one — and when the 
 next traveller came by, he saw a huge limb rent off the 
 tall oak and on the burnt grass a charred and lifeless 
 corpse. There was great excitement in Thame, where 
 the unfortunate youth belonged, and for a long time, 
 when a thunderstorm occurred, people were more assid- 
 uous than ever in turning their mirrors to the wall and 
 covering their knives and their scissors. Probably few 
 events affected the town more than this since the year 
 of grace 970, when Oskytel, archbishop of York, died 
 there. 
 
 In the ditches there are stinging-nettles and on the 
 high ground there are windmills ; both are supposed to 
 be indicative of fertility and prosperity. The land that 
 can produce the one and needs the other is not a desert. 
 A man in search of a farm would be guided somewhat 
 by them, and certainly hereabouts the country abounds 
 in rich soil and in the time of harvest the fields stand 
 thick with corn. In bygone days country-people made 
 use of the nettle. Its tops they used as a vegetable like 
 spinach, its leaves in sickness to blister the skin and its 
 fibre to make string or rope. Nevertheless, it is a nui- 
 sance, in secluded spots growing six feet high and with 
 jungle-like density. Touch it softly and it wounds; 
 seize it firmly and it is harmless. The sheep carry its 
 seeds in their fleeces; hence it grows luxuriantly in 
 churchyards, where they are often put to graze. It 
 seems to love loneliness, like the windmill. Of all the 
 weird, melancholy solitudes man can find, the dreariest, 
 the most monotonous and brain-bewildering, is the 
 neighborhood of a windmill. The roar and rush of the 
 
140 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 storm, the sob and moan of the breeze, have an unearthly 
 sound, at times like unto the shrieking of demons, at 
 times like the wail of pain, the deep sigh of the saddened, 
 hopeless grief of lost souls. In the dusky twilight the 
 huge thing stands against the sky like a black spectre ; 
 in the busy day, when the wind sweeps briskly along, its 
 great gaunt arms turn over and over with that supreme 
 indifference to all things else, that constant, laborious 
 regularity, which irritates the calmest nerve. No won- 
 der the valorous Don Quixote was stirred to the depths 
 of his chivalrous soul when he saw the outrageous giants 
 in the plain. One asks if the men who live there are 
 not among the strange fellows Nature has framed in her 
 time. 
 
 See the sun-glory on yonder hills ! How the golden 
 light flows across the greenwood and the grassy and 
 furze-spotted clearings ! Here the road runs into the 
 great London highway, and as we enter it we leave be- 
 hind us a small post-village which in its ancient name 
 of Tetsworth suggests a British origin and the Celtic 
 worship of Teutates. A little way on is the hamlet of 
 Postcomb — only a few cottages and a roadside inn which 
 has long since passed its usefulness, and kind Time, it is 
 hoped, will speedily relieve the place of the unsightly 
 encumbrance. A trap stands before the door ; a thin, 
 starved-looking cur is prowling around the open space 
 in front ; the windows are without decent shades, some 
 with a yellow-stained sheet pinned up to hide the naked- 
 ness within, and some with a broken pane or two stuffed 
 with rags ; the doorsteps are displaced, mossy and dirty, 
 and through the open passage comes the gabble of men 
 at their cups. There is no romance about the dingy, 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 141 
 
 tumble-down, frowsty place. It is a relief to get into 
 the footpath across the fields to Lewknor. The air fresh 
 from the waving corn brightens one's soul and makes 
 one rejoice in the goodness of Nature. The wheat is 
 just turning from its fresh green into its rich russet, and 
 the gnats play in swarms near the hedgerows and under 
 the trees. Here the path runs beside one of the water- 
 cress streams for which Lewknor is known, and a little 
 farther it passes through the churchyard into the high- 
 way. 
 
 The church at Lewknor is built of flint with quoins 
 of ashlar and has a Decorated chancel, a brass of the 
 fourteenth century and a Norman font. The place gives 
 its name to the hundred in which it is situate, and the 
 name may have come from the ancient family of Lewke- 
 nors. It differs little from the quiet and secluded vil- 
 lages around, but it has two features which attract atten- 
 tion — viz., a great watercress-bed close by the turnpike, 
 and a lich-gate leading into the graveyard. They who 
 have eaten of the cress and they who have seen the gate 
 will not forget either. Under the latter, as in the days 
 of old and as its name indicates, the bearers set the 
 corpse until the priest meets it, according to the office 
 for burial. A short distance beyond Lewknor is the 
 road leading down to Shirbourne. Had we time, and 
 were not the evening so far gone, we might turn aside 
 to that little village and see therein an ancient moated 
 castle. The present structure dates from 1377, Dut an 
 earlier one was built in the reign of William I. by Robert 
 d'Oily, to whom the Conqueror had granted Shirbourne. 
 After the reign of Edward III. it passed successively 
 into various families — among them, that of the Quarter- 
 
142 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 mains, a noble house having both power and position 
 throughout this district, but becoming extinct in the 
 time of Henry VIII. The last of the Quartermains, 
 dying childless, gave his Shirbourne estate to the child 
 of his steward, who sold it to the Chamberlains, an ancient 
 family which so named themselves from the office their 
 ancestors held to the dukes of Normandy. A lady of 
 this family defended the castle against the Parliamentary 
 forces during the Carolingian troubles. Later on, in the 
 beginning of the last century, it was bought by Thomas 
 Parker, a member of a junior line of a family dating 
 from the reign of Richard II. He was a successful 
 lawyer, a Hanoverian, and was made lord chancellor and 
 earl of Macclesfield by George I. for his loyalty and 
 ability. His leaning to astronomical and mathematical 
 research led him to establish an observatory, which, 
 though it may not have done much for the advancement 
 of science, certainly advanced two poor men to fame and 
 to honor. Phelps the stable-boy and Bartlett the shep- 
 herd are not unknown in the bead-roll of English 
 astronomers. The castle is chiefly Perpendicular in 
 style, crenellated, nearly square, with round towers at 
 the corners, is defended by a drawbridge and portcullis, 
 and differs little from its appearance in the fourteenth 
 century. Upon the wide moat swans swim in all their 
 stateliness. Inside, the building has an armory, two 
 libraries, many valuable books and manuscripts and 
 some very fine portraits. Among the latter are those of 
 Erasmus, Archbishop Laud and Queen Katherine Parr. 
 Under the portrait of the last named is a lock of hair 
 cut from the head of the queen when her coffin was 
 opened at Sudley Castle in the year 1799. In the year 
 
AN EVENING WALK. I43 
 
 1294, Brunetto Latini, the tutor of Dante, slept in the 
 castle of Shirbourne on his way from London to Ox- 
 ford ; at that time, he says, the rough hills were infested 
 with robbers. Six hundred years have made a great 
 change in the social order of England, and yet standing 
 before that old castle it is easy to recall the days when 
 men-at-arms guarded the bridge, and archers manned 
 the battlements, and at the bidding of the baron mailed 
 knights wielded battle-axe and lance. The glory of a 
 Warwick or of a Kenilworth is not here : everything is 
 less magnificent, less entrancing ; but a building such as 
 this, five hundred years old, is not without interest and 
 history. It, indeed, reminds us of days of splendor and 
 romance, when imagination had not been shorn of its 
 wings or stripped of its glories, and men strove for un- 
 sullied honor and pure truth rather in chivalric enter- 
 prise than in the paths of trade and commerce. Force 
 mildly tempered with guile then ; guile mildly tempered 
 with force now. It also reminds us of days when the 
 weak were helpless against the strong, when the villain 
 was the serf of his lord and the slave of his soil, when 
 king and barons struggled for supremacy and men did 
 largely what was right in their own eyes, when the 
 mighty met on thirsty battlefields and the rich left of 
 their wealth for priests to say masses for their stained 
 and suffering souls. In the days, for instance, of 
 Stephen, when Shirbourne had its share in the troubles, 
 the castles were at once the oppressors and the pro- 
 tectors of the people : the hand of their lord was against 
 every man, but he suffered no man to touch his de- 
 pendants. In their mud cottages they clustered around 
 his stronghold, the old folks glad to labor if they might 
 10 
 
144 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 but save for their sustenance a portion of their crops, 
 the young men proud to serve as retainers in the bands 
 of their chief. Life was probably less severe and irk- 
 some than we imagine; there was an interdependence 
 binding all into one. When Wat was among the cross- 
 bowmen, or little Robin helped to clean the armor, or 
 Cis to serve in the lady's bower or to work in the 
 laundry, there was a direct link between the castle 
 and the cabin ; the one depended upon the other. The 
 castle needed men and food ; the cabin, protection. In 
 all likelihood the villagers were as proud and as de- 
 sirous of the success of their lord as subjects are now 
 for the honor of their king. Not that the life within the 
 baronial halls was the purest and the gentlest : purity 
 and gentleness must be sought for in the monastery, and 
 not in the castle; but it was hearty, free and jovial. 
 People were rude and rough, yet they were closer in 
 their interests to one another than we are in our day. 
 They recognized the principle that all men are unequal ; 
 we think them equal, and absolve ourselves and all 
 others from those responsibilities which the high and 
 the lowly observed under the old system. Possibly we 
 shall make a better world of it than our fathers did ; 
 whether a happier is another question. Any way, Shir- 
 bourne Castle is now a quiet, harmless residence ; per- 
 sonal loyalty is no longer asked for nor given ; the earl 
 is liberal to his tenants and kind to his poor : the one 
 pay their rent to his steward, the other buy their rabbits 
 from his gamekeeper. The neighborhood is as rich and 
 diversified in scenery as the castle is stern and imposing 
 in structure. Chaunt a lay of the olden time, recall a 
 scene of Froissart or a page of Chaucer, and you may 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 1 45 
 
 see merry and mediaeval England alike in the swelling, 
 beech-clad hills of Chiltern and in the towers and the 
 turrets of Shirbourne. 
 
 As the twilight darkens, the moon floods the country 
 with her silvery beams. Beyond this long wall is the 
 road leading to Pyrton, a small village with an Eliza- 
 bethan mansion where Hampden's father-in-law lived. 
 Another field and a close, and Watlington begins. 
 Asleep, is it ? It is scarcely more awake when the sun 
 is shining. While we eat our supper and take our ease 
 in the hotel, and to-morrow ramble about the place, I 
 will tell you something of it. The chicken and the ale 
 evidently belong to an uncertain age — a good quality in 
 the latter, even if not in the former — but the cold mutton 
 with Worcestershire sauce is all that a good appetite can 
 desire. Mine host is busy, and the next sun will shine 
 upon some aching heads and empty pockets. Any way, 
 there will be no such wild riot here as that student in 
 good-fellowship hight Philip Foulface of Alefoord de- 
 scribed in his black-letter quarto entituled Bacchus 
 Bountie. Then the thirsty sinners, prepared beforehand 
 with such mouth-seasoning as red herring, broiled bacon 
 and hot-spiced pudding, passed on from merriment to 
 riot, and from riot to wrestling and war, till, exhausted, 
 both wounded and drunken, they lay in heaps on the 
 floor. Nothing of that will happen now. The landlord 
 values his reputation and the constable moves about as 
 nimbly as a dog's tail. There is a house with a yard not 
 far from this — we passed it as we entered the town — 
 which was many years since occupied by a wheelwright. 
 A jovial, happy-go-lucky sort of fellow was he, a work- 
 man of the first rank, well-to-do, employing several men 
 
I46 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 and apprentices and holding some respect and position 
 in the neighborhood. He made most of the wagons and 
 the carts used hereabouts, and once a year, after a season 
 of good work, he gave a supper to his friends and work- 
 men, his best customers also being invited. Instead of 
 the smoking hoop of the wheel, the boys saw the vapor- 
 ous offrisings of the big boiler into which every Monday 
 throughout the year was put the washed linen of the 
 household, but which now contained hams, legs of mut- 
 ton and rounds of beef, carrots, potatoes and cabbage. 
 It also served for brewing-purposes. The huge plum- 
 puddings had been prepared for several days ; and when 
 the table in the great parlor was set, the good and solid 
 things thereon made the round eyes of the guests glisten 
 and their fat faces broaden with delight. What eating 
 and drinking, to be sure ! The stout little gentleman 
 of the hub and the spoke wielded his great carving-knife 
 and fork at the head of the table as dexterously as he 
 was wont to swing the hammer at the anvil or the axe 
 at the block. The beaded moisture of warmth and effort 
 combined with the glowing beams of satisfaction to make 
 his countenance ruddy and radiant. His hospitality was 
 boundless, nor did he reach the acme of his joy till he 
 knew that every one around his board was stuffed to the 
 full, and that even the rubicund and ale-soaked farmers 
 were so far gone as to need somebody to see them safely 
 home. For one or two of his neighbors a wheelbarrow 
 stood in the yard, and about midnight the good-natured 
 apprentices would bowl them off to their domiciles with 
 right hearty glee. Sir Walter Raleigh in a letter to Wil- 
 liam Shakespeare affirms that a kinsman made the new 
 herb from the Chesapeake into tea ; but had he seen this 
 
AN EVENING WALK. \ 47 
 
 worthy wheelwright going through the soothing gri- 
 maces of puffing and drawing at a pipe filled and yet un- 
 lighted, and according to his own solemn affirmation, often 
 reiterated, with satisfaction equal to that of those who 
 applied the glowing coal or the blazing chip, he would 
 have foreseen the ruin of the plantations of the West. 
 There was merriment, you may be sure — an echo of the 
 harvest-home and of the good times when hospitality 
 and kindly feeling prevailed throughout the merry land. 
 Songs were sung — two or three harmless ones before the 
 women left, and then such as " The Bashful Lover " and 
 one in " Praise of Claret," of which it need only be said 
 that after a popularity of several generations the mod- 
 esty and the purity of our age banished them from among 
 men. Stories were also told — stories, for the most part, 
 with more than a point in them, and which may not be 
 repeated in days when no one cares to hear such things. 
 That was the time to see the real side : we have passed 
 by it all ; and no one thought any the worse of the good 
 souls who mingled merriment with religion and sang in 
 the bar-room on Saturday and in the organ-loft on Sun- 
 day. Later on everybody went to bed — that is to say, 
 everybody except the apprentices, whose couch in the 
 attic being occupied by visitors from over Chinnor way 
 obliged them to sleep on the floor with the dogs before 
 the kitchen fire. 
 
 Among the guests there was for some years one who 
 enjoyed the sobriquet of Tippling John. He was a decent, 
 sleek-looking old boy of about forty-five, and did not get 
 his nickname from his turning up his little finger, but 
 from his skill in rendering an old melody upon the charms 
 of drinking. He had travelled a little and read much. 
 
I48 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 He wore corduroy breeches with home-knit blue-worsted 
 stockings and buckled shoes ; his waistcoat was of crim- 
 son plush and his frock of dark-brown velvet. A great 
 turnip-watch and a good-sized snuff-box gave him some 
 influence among his fellows. His ability as a story-teller 
 was good, and he claimed to have known something of 
 the dowager countess of Macclesfield, who maintained 
 the state and the dignity which became a lady of rank 
 in the days of yore in a lodge on a spur of the hills 
 within sight of Shirbourne Castle. It is probable that 
 he was rather confused in his recollections, but as he 
 affirmed that she was a good lady, fond of whist, wine 
 and the diverting story of Pamela, but nevertheless a 
 good lady, none of his stories of the lodge affected her 
 reputation. She had a weakness for mushrooms and 
 poachers — at any rate, she loved the one and hated the 
 other — and kept the gamekeepers busy searching for 
 them. But Tippling John's best story did not concern 
 her in the remotest degree, and fortunately, for everybody 
 had a suspicion that he knew nothing at all about the 
 earl's family. This he only told when fairly on his way 
 to maudlin exhilaration, and it had the effect of sobering 
 him and subduing his exuberant spirits. The story ran 
 something like this (draw up to the fire and take another 
 pipe ; the nights are chilly, though it is July, and, the 
 pipe and story over, then to bed) : 
 
 One dark stormy night many years ago — long before 
 you and I, Joe Wiggins, began to play nine men's mor- 
 ris — Parson Jones was on his way home from an oyster- 
 feast. Clergymen in those days were very partial to oys- 
 ters, and with good reason, for the British oyster was fa- 
 mous in the days of the apostles, and large quantities of 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 149 
 
 the exquisite delicacy were then sent to Rome. Parson 
 Jones did not know this, nor even of the grand oyster- 
 suppers his predecessors indulged in before the Reforma- 
 tion began, and he went jogging along on his old sorrel, 
 thinking only of where he had been and where he was 
 going. It was easier to decide the former than it was 
 the latter ; for when he approached the river which lay 
 between him and his home, he found that the water had 
 risen high up the road and was rushing and roaring over 
 the fields and the bridge at a terrific speed. The mare 
 stood on the brink of the flood, and Parson Jones for- 
 got all about the oysters. Then he determined to ride 
 on, knowing that the bridge had fairly high walls and 
 horses were by instinct good swimmers; so into the 
 water he went, splashing along as fast as the mare 
 would go. But the flood was higher than he thought 
 for, and before he reached the bridge the water rose over 
 the stirrups ; in a few minutes the mare was swimming 
 — where, he could not tell, for the night was pitchy 
 dark, and, to add to his confusion, the rain began to 
 fall in driving torrents. The water surged around him, 
 but he rode smoothly on. 
 
 " Bother the oysters !" he said to himself. " No more 
 oysters for me in this world. Where's the confounded 
 bridge ? — Gently, Betty my girl ; strike bottom. — Is it 
 across the stream, or is it down the stream ?" 
 
 At the thought of this he began to shiver, for you 
 must know he was but a young fellow, and, though he 
 had no wife, he had a very good living. His boots 
 were filled with water and his clothes wringing wet. 
 He tried to mutter a prayer, but could think of nothing 
 except " My godfathers and my godmothers in my bap- 
 
150 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 tism," and that kept coming up again and again — why, 
 he could not tell. He was certain he was drifting down 
 the stream, and that he was lost sure enough. 
 
 " My godfathers and my godmothers in my baptism — " 
 he kept on saying, without thinking. " There! the 
 mare is only floating now. My godfathers and my god- 
 mothers in my baptism — I shall be drowned ; I am 
 getting weaker alt the time. My godfathers and my 
 godmothers in my baptism — Confound oysters and 
 oyster-feasts ! My legs are freezing. There goes my 
 hat! Oh, my godfathers and my godmothers in my 
 baptism — " 
 
 And thus he went on, his heart in his boots, as the 
 saying is, and afraid every moment he would slip off 
 the mare or she would sink and take him down. 
 
 But Providence looks after good men such as he, and 
 it was decreed that Parson Jones should escape. He 
 had drifted on for three-quarters of an hour, when in 
 mid-stream, right before him, he saw a light. It was 
 almost level with the water, and he remembered there 
 was a mill a long way below the bridge. He shouted 
 with all his might, but no answer. He pulled the bridle, 
 and the sorrel began to swim again. Then he saw that 
 the light shone through a window, and in a minute or 
 two he was floating beside it. 
 
 " Let me in I" he cried, rattling the panes ; and some 
 one lifted the sash. 
 
 A leap : he was on the sill, and the mare was gone. 
 It was no easy task lifting himself up through the nar- 
 row space ; a desperate effort landed him safely inside. 
 By the candlelight he saw a young woman standing 
 beside some bags of flour. Her face was white. 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 151 
 
 " Where am I ?" Parson Jones asked. 
 
 " In Redford mill, and I am glad somebody has 
 come, for I am all alone and the water is rising. 
 Father and the man went to Beckett's farm this morn- 
 ing, and now they cannot get back. The water is over 
 the second floor. Who are you ?" 
 
 " I am John Jones, the rector, and I have been car- 
 ried down here from the bridge." 
 
 "Mr. Jones, the minister, that is. Then I am not 
 going to be afraid any more." 
 
 But the water rose fast. It entered the story where 
 they were. 
 
 " Is there anything higher than this ?" asked the 
 parson. 
 
 " Only the garret, and there are rats there." 
 
 " Never mind ; we must try it." 
 
 They went up into the garret ; it was small and stifling. 
 In the candlelight they saw the place covered with rats. 
 They stood on the landing, not venturing among the 
 nibblers, though the poor things were terrified to help- 
 lessness. The candle burnt low ; the river steadily rose. 
 
 " Is there a skylight ?" asked Parson Jones. 
 
 " Just behind you." 
 
 " Then we must get out on the roof; that is our last 
 chance. My godfathers and my — Bother the thing ! 
 Let me help you up, and then I can clamber through." 
 
 So he lifted the girl up, and by dint of great exertion 
 he followed. They sat in the pelting rain by the chim- 
 ney on the roof-ridge. The great flood surged and 
 sobbed on every side — a weird sound. 
 
 " I suppose in Noah's flood people had to do as we 
 are doing," said Madge, after a long silence. 
 
152 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 " Oh, my godfa — Confound that ! Yes, my child, I 
 suppose they had. Only they all got drowned; and 
 when Noah looked out of the ark, he saw them floating 
 like reeds on the water. My godfathers and — " 
 
 " And there was no one to bury them ?" 
 
 " No ; they were not Christians." 
 
 Another silence. 
 
 " Madge !" whispered the parson. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 " Madge !" 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 " Is she dead ?" 
 
 Parson Jones touched her cold, wet face. He felt it 
 would soon be all over with him, but he determined to 
 hold her body as long as he could. Perhaps he might 
 be saved, and poor Madge should have Christian 
 burial. 
 
 But as the hours passed by the parson grew numb, 
 and before he could arouse himself from his stupor the 
 body slipped down the roof into the stream. He re- 
 membered nothing more after that. When he opened 
 his eyes next, he was afraid he was in heaven. Yet that 
 could not be, for the sun was shining brightly, the room 
 was warm, people were moving about, and he was in 
 bed. Weak as he was, he knew that no poet had said 
 anything about beds in paradise. He was, then, alive. 
 A woman's face bent over him, and the sympathetic 
 voice of a woman greeted him : 
 
 " Hush ! Mr. Jones, the Lord's name be praised !" 
 
 " My godfa—" 
 
 " No, no ! You must keep still yet a while." 
 
 When he was stronger, they told him how he was 
 
AN EVENING WALK 
 
 153 
 
 taken off the roof by the miller and by some men in a 
 boat. They had gone for Madge. 
 
 " Poor Madge !" said the parson; '* I remember. She 
 died and slipped into the water." 
 
 " She slipped into the water, but the boat was close 
 by then and picked her up. Here she is ;" and sitting 
 in a great arm-chair by the fire was Madge, very white, 
 but living. 
 
 Parson Jones rubbed his eyes : 
 
 " I thought she was dead." 
 
 "Very nearly. Woefully exhausted, but the doctor 
 brought her round, praise the Lord !" 
 
 No one in that part of the country ever forgot the 
 great flood, the parson and Madge least of all. Many 
 people lost everything, and much damage was done. 
 Some time after, the parson and Madge were married ; 
 for the parson said it was only fitting that they who 
 were spared from dying together should for the rest of 
 their days live together. In his ninetieth year they ate 
 an oyster-supper with their grandchildren, and he told 
 anew the story of that night. Verily, neighbors all, 
 there are strange things in this world ! 
 
 Thus far Tippling John. And now good-night ! 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 a Coton in ilje dljilterns. 
 
 " He plucks the wild rose in the woods 
 And gathers eglantine, 
 And holds the golden buttercups 
 Beneath his sister's chin." 
 
 A quaint and ancient town is this Watlington. Its 
 very name carries one back to British times when the 
 Dobuni fenced their villages with trees cut down and 
 laid across one another. The Saxons called this mode 
 of fortification watclar ; hence the place was " the town 
 of the wattles " or " hurdles." A picture of primitive 
 life: a rude clearing in the great beech-forest, which 
 then extended from Kent to a point far beyond this, a 
 few sheds or huts for a simple people and their cattle, 
 and the strange manners and trying privations which 
 were involved in a crude civilization and an almost com- 
 plete isolation. There are neither Roman nor Saxon 
 remains about the place, so far as I know, but there is a 
 delightful look of old times both in the narrow, winding 
 streets and in some of the houses. In the High street 
 is a tavern styled the " Barley-Mow," whose blackened 
 timbers in the wall indicate considerable age. The town- 
 hall, the delight of artists and the resort of hucksters, 
 was built in 1664 by Thomas Stonor, a member of a 
 family which from the twelfth century has lived in the 
 
 154 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. 1 55 
 
 place near by bearing the same name. Its gray mil- 
 lions, high-pointed gables, dark arches, antique clock, 
 nail-headed door and general appearance furnish a per- 
 fect and pleasing specimen of the architecture of the age 
 when England was rejoicing in the restoration of its 
 king and the passing away of Puritan gloom and rigor. 
 
 From the market-hall southward is a street called 
 Couching — to which I will return by and by — and this 
 ends in the road leading from Henley, the oldest place 
 in the county, to Oxford, the most celebrated. A pleas- 
 ant road it is, too, running in one direction over the hills 
 to Nettlebed, the highest point of the Chilterns, on which 
 a windmill spreads its sails to the breezes and thick 
 furze-bushes dot the unenclosed common. In the other 
 direction the road passes near the parish church. A 
 rivulet, tiny and clear, flows playfully by the side of the 
 way, and on a calm Sunday morning the melody of the 
 church-bells and the music of the brook blend together 
 in sweet, suggestive harmony. There are tall hollyhocks 
 in the gardens and bright faces in the cottage doorways, 
 and as one walks on one would think this was amongst 
 the purest and the brightest spots in all England. So it 
 may be, but a certain bishop of Oxford, Samuel Wilber- 
 force of famous memory, declared the town to be one of 
 the worst and darkest in his whole diocese. We may 
 not dispute His Lordship's judgment, though his oppor- 
 tunities for personal observation were limited to a visit 
 of three or four hours once in every third year, and even 
 in his day the old church used to be well filled and the 
 people sang lustily and with a good courage. 
 
 The place belonged to the abbey of St. Mary's at Os- 
 ney. This great house on the Ey, near the Ousenford, 
 
156 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 was founded in the reign of Henry I. by Robert d'Oily, 
 a nephew of the knight of the same name who came 
 over with the Conqueror, acquired large possessions in 
 this county, became governor of Oxford, and among 
 other things built Shirbourne Castle. His wife, Eadgyth, 
 once a mistress of the king, was much troubled with the 
 constant chattering of magpies in the garden of the cas- 
 tle at Oxford. She referred the subject to her confessor, 
 who, knowing the language of birds, told her that the 
 pies were none other than souls in purgatory beseeching 
 her for prayers to release them from their bitter pains. 
 Thus the abbey was founded and endowed with much 
 land, Watlington being also in the gift, and in time it be- 
 came magnificent for its appointments, " the envy of all 
 other religious houses in England and beyond the seas." 
 The influence in it was rather English than Norman ; at 
 any rate, the second prior and the first abbot had the 
 name, and probably belonged to the family, of Wiggod 
 of Wallingford, an old Saxon noble who contrived to 
 hold his own under William. It had a church contain- 
 ing many chapels and twice as many altars as there were 
 months in the year. Further estates were bestowed upon 
 it, kings and nobles often graced it with their presence, 
 and when dissolved its revenue was between six and 
 seven hundred pounds. The mercy which led to its es- 
 tablishment was not always exhibited within its walls. 
 In the year 1222 there was a singular imposture at Ox- 
 ford. A man proclaimed himself as the Messiah, and 
 exhibited the stigmata in his body as proofs of his asser- 
 tion. Another man aided him, and two women declared 
 themselves to be the Marys. Such a story in our day 
 would be treated with indifference, but the thirteenth 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. 1 57 
 
 century was more serious and severe. The four impos- 
 tors were brought to trial in Osney Abbey; the men 
 were sent, one to crucifixion, the other to fire, and the 
 women were condemned to be built up alive in the walls 
 of the abbey. The sentence of living entombment was 
 carried into effect. We must not judge the people of 
 bygone ages as we would judge ourselves, only it is 
 curious that consideration for the souls in purgatory does 
 not seem to have induced consideration for the souls in 
 heresy, except that material fire is easier to bear than 
 spiritual, and may, indeed, preclude it. 
 
 The good fathers of Osney, however, must not be con- 
 demned upon an event which happened incidentally in 
 the course of their four centuries of history, and which 
 was, indeed, brought about by a tribunal presided over 
 by one of the greatest and best of the primates, Stephen 
 Langton, and composed of members mostly outside of 
 their society. They did much for the upbuilding of the 
 people around them. In common with other monas- 
 teries, the ecclesiastical livings which were appropriated 
 to them, and of which they became rectors, were fairly 
 well cared for by them and served by their vicar. They 
 received the great or rectorial tithes, and the priest who 
 did the duty, but was not responsible for the temporal- 
 ities, was supported out of them, or by what were known 
 as " the small tithes." When the abbey was broken up, 
 instead of restoring the rectory to the clergyman of the 
 parish, it, with the lands of the Church belonging to the 
 religious house, was granted to some courtier whose in- 
 terest it was to blacken the character of the monks be- 
 yond all possible recognition, and whose inheritors still 
 retain, and unrighteously retain, that which does not be- 
 
158 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 long to them. The wrong was wrought throughout the 
 realm, and on the ruins of the monastic houses grew up 
 a society new without nobility and powerful without 
 Tightness. Hence there are lay rectors who fill the place 
 of the old monks, and the spiritual functions of the office 
 are performed by a clergyman who is called, and actually 
 is, the vicar, the substitute and deputy of the rector. 
 Whether lay rectors are better than monastic rectors is 
 not for me to say, nor is it possible until the problem is 
 satisfactorily solved whether man as a squire or man as 
 a monk is the better fitted to be the guardian of the peo- 
 ple's spiritual rights. Any way, the Austin canons of 
 the abbey in the Meadow Island built the church at 
 Watlington, and some of their work remains in the 
 present edifice. 
 
 It is not much of a building. It was not much before 
 its restoration, ten years since ; it is still less now. The 
 high red-tile roof of the restored portion does not cor- 
 respond with the flat lead roof of the part not touched, 
 and there is striking incongruity inside between the new 
 and the old. Formerly the chapel on the south side was 
 secluded and separate. There were tombs in there, and 
 an iron railing divided them from the body of the church. 
 I remember, when the " forty years long " in the Venite 
 was reached, I used to look toward that dark corner and 
 wonder if they who rested there were of the generation 
 that grieved the Almighty. I did not know who were 
 buried within the sacred precincts, but there were hatch- 
 ments, dingy and dusty, hanging high up on the chan- 
 cel-walls, and brasses four hundred years old. There 
 was no chapel or transept on the north side, but the 
 chancel was long and filled with pews arranged in the 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. I 59 
 
 usual choir or college fashion. The pulpit was a mighty 
 structure, standing at the east entrance of the nave, and 
 had the appearance of being halfway down the church. 
 A flight of steps led up into the great square reading- 
 pew, and from that another flight led up into the pulpit, 
 which stood upon one post, was round and had a sound- 
 ing-board and a great red cushion. There was some- 
 thing of the highest dignity in the way the venerable 
 vicar in silken gown and white bands smoothed his ser- 
 mon on this cushion and cleared his throat preparatory 
 to his fifty-minute delivery. The new school of divines 
 cannot approach the old clergy in official gracefulness ; 
 they have lost their dignity in short surplices and thin 
 essays. Opposite the pulpit, immediately across the 
 passage, was the little desk for the parish clerk, a pre- 
 cise, prompt, rotund and ruddy individual, short in stat- 
 ure and a carpenter by trade, who used to strut up and 
 down the chancel before the parson, open the door of 
 the reading-pew or pulpit, shut him in, and when it was 
 time let him out again with a gravity and primness which 
 astonished strangers and delighted the parishioners. He 
 used also to make the responses in a loud tone, the only 
 soul in the church that presumed to do so, and he an- 
 nounced the hymns in a sonorous voice, absolutely 
 inimitable, prefaced with the invariable " Let us sing to 
 the praise and the glory of God." Perhaps the custom 
 of the clerk instead of the parson giving out the hymn 
 arose from the fact that once upon a time he was prob- 
 ably choirmaster, if not choir, and would therefore be best 
 able to judge of what came within the compass of his 
 powers. Sometimes it fell to his duty to trip down the 
 church and up into the loft or gallery at the west end, 
 11 
 
l60 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 where the singers and the poor-school children sat, and 
 rebuke the bad boy who would not observe order during 
 the service. Occasionally he would bring the said bad 
 boy back with him and stand him on the pulpit steps, at 
 once a punishment to the offender and an admonition to 
 the offending. The restoration of the church has swept 
 out that noble and worthy functionary ; he is no more, 
 either in office or in person, and somehow or other, dear 
 as he was in the eyes and the ears of the faithful, things 
 go on without him. 
 
 Time has also removed another individual, a trim, 
 correct bachelor who for years sat in the great square 
 pew under the pulpit. Wet or fine this gentleman was 
 always in his place, and wet or fine he had always a stiff 
 high collar and a big white cravat. He was the ad- 
 mired of all admirers, and every unmarried lady of 
 middle or uncertain age in the church used to wonder 
 when the eventful day of his life would arrive and if 
 she could possibly do up his collars. When the ser- 
 mon became unusually dry, people relieved the monot- 
 ony by watching the flies on the bare round place at 
 the back of his head enjoying themselves in ways con- 
 genial to their nature. He rarely interfered with them ; 
 when he did, he lifted his hand gently, slowly, aimfully, 
 and then at the proper moment brought it down with a 
 smart slap upon the caputial vacancy, only to find that 
 the offending diptera had left the infinitesimal part of a 
 moment before. No matter how serious the sermon, 
 this slightly upset the spectators. They neither said 
 anything nor laughed aloud, but they turned very red 
 and bent over, as if for private prayer. It was rumored 
 that he was in love with a venerable maiden-lady some 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. l6l 
 
 fifteen years his senior, a sweet and gentle creature who, 
 though she was suspected of wearing a wig and of hav- 
 ing lost some teeth in the conflict with time, considered 
 it best to wait a little longer before she threw herself 
 away, even upon a highly-respectable bachelor. She 
 sat some distance from him inside the chancel, and, 
 like him, was always in her place and always devout. 
 Both are now sleeping in the graveyard outside. 
 
 The old tower remains, partly covered with ivy. On 
 its highest ledge, on the north side, a good-sized bush . 
 has been growing for some years; probably the seed 
 was carried up by a bird and dropped into the mortar. 
 At the south-west corner of the tower is a yew tree, the 
 trunk of which four feet from the ground measures ten 
 feet eight inches in circumference. It is most likely 
 three or four centuries old. The ancients planted the 
 yew to protect the church from evil spirits, also to sup- 
 ply wood for their bows. The torches of the Furies 
 were made of yew, and on the Sunday next before 
 Easter its boughs were used instead of palm or olive. 
 It had a symbolism which spoke to all — the dark color 
 of the mortality of man, the seemingly unfailing trunk 
 of immortality, and hence, perhaps, its name, ewig $ 
 " everlasting." Gilbert White thinks the more respect- 
 able parishioners were buried under this tree, and that 
 it was also designed as a shelter to the congregation 
 assembling before the church doors were opened. 
 Some have supposed it further served to shield the 
 sacred edifice from the storm. Its leaves are poison 
 and its wood was used for the instruments of death ; 
 therefore Shakespeare calls it " double-fated." On Sun- 
 days, contrary to the canon against loiterers, the idle 
 
1 62 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 youth used to gather at this tower corner and under 
 this tree, much to the annoyance of passers-by, who 
 were too often the subjects of their witticisms. The 
 carved figures to the waterspouts are as formerly, and 
 besides them are two heads, the one on the west and 
 the other to the east of the south porch. These two 
 figures are interesting. The former is looking down the 
 main pathway to the church, with the left hand holding 
 the robe over the breast and the right hand shading the 
 eyes, anxiously watching for the coming worshippers ; 
 the latter, overlooking the main portion of the grave- 
 yard, has a mingled aspect of sorrow, sympathy and 
 hope, as though it extended these to the weary ones 
 who came to weep at the graves of their dead. The 
 tombstones appear old, but are not really so. The at- 
 mosphere soon darkens them, lichen covers them, and 
 they speedily chip and crumble away. 
 
 I named Couching street; let us return thither and 
 pick up a few reminiscences there. Years ago I used 
 to puzzle over its etymology. Had Osney Abbey be- 
 longed to the Crutched Friars, I should have been 
 tempted to think it was a corruption of their name; 
 and once I came near fancying it might formerly have 
 been Crouch for the Croce of Doomsday. These, how- 
 ever, were no more satisfactory than the suggestion of 
 one who thought it meant Sleepy street because it was 
 so quiet. In Old English there was such a word as 
 couchen or cowchyn, meaning " to place or set together," 
 and possibly, as the houses or cottages which compose 
 this street were built up till they became continuous, 
 the name was thus given. Be this as it may, Couching 
 is a narrow, still street with rough pebbles most of its 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. 1 63 
 
 length for the sidewalk, one or two inns, a few shops, 
 some private residences and a malt-house. At the back 
 of the houses on the south side of the street are gardens 
 opening into a lane, beyond which lie open fields run- 
 ning up to the rolling hills a mile away. At one end of 
 this lane a plank serves as a bridge into the Henley 
 road across the babbling brooklet already mentioned; the 
 other end leads into the highway up to the White Mark. 
 In the street and in the lane Chanticleer and his company 
 scratch for a living, and a pig occasionally seeks for gar- 
 bage. Little occurs in this neighborhood to disturb the 
 restful monotony. When a trap rattles over the hard 
 road or a hen cackles, most of the old ladies run to the 
 windows to satisfy their curiosity ; and when the con- 
 stable succeeds in taking a drunken man to the lock- 
 up, close by, they become so excited as to need some- 
 thing stronger in their tea than either milk, sugar, water 
 or the uninebriating herb itself. At the time the prince 
 of Wales was married, and a brass band from Walling- 
 ford played "All among the Barley" as it passed 
 through the streets, the Union Jack waving in its 
 glory and a goodly company of men and boys follow- 
 ing and shouting with soul-stirring vigor, it is said it 
 took so much hot water, sugar and brandy to calm the 
 nerves of the people and to allay their heart-throbbing 
 loyalty that the town was in danger of being left with- 
 out a drop of distilled liquor in it. Such a crisis has 
 never been reached since. Most of the ancient inhab- 
 itants of the place keep a little on hand against emer- 
 gencies and hysterics, and before this is exhausted the 
 new railway, which seems to have little else to do, 
 replenishes the supply. 
 
164 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 It matters little into which house we enter in this 
 street ; each will furnish us with a picture more or less 
 pleasing of quiet life. Here is one, a comfortable-look- 
 ing two-story brick domicile, a bay-window on each side 
 of the front door, and, opposite, the bonnet-like chimney 
 of the malt-house. The street door has a knocker and 
 a bright brass handle ; it is also panelled and has suf- 
 ficient projection over it in the way of a pent-house to 
 bring the rain-drippings exactly on the middle of one's 
 umbrella when standing underneath. There was design 
 in this last feature: a tramp on a stormy day would 
 avoid getting wet through for the sake of a crust of 
 bread or a crusty refusal. Inside is a short passageway 
 or hall, on the right side of which a door opened into 
 the parlor, and on the left a door into the sitting-room, 
 through which one passed into the kitchen, and hence 
 into one of the sweetest of gardens. At the end of the 
 passage a flight of stairs neatly carpeted led to the three 
 or four upper rooms. Thirty years since, for three 
 hours in the forenoon and three hours in the afternoon, 
 a number of respectable young ladies and gentlemen, 
 sons and daughters of the best of the local society, met 
 in the parlor for instruction in the rudiments of a polite 
 education. The terms were not high — one guinea a 
 quarter, and a crown extra for French, music or good 
 manners. A shoulder-board for the young ladies and a 
 cane for the young gentlemen were the means of disci- 
 plining the juvenile mind and body into the ways of rec- 
 titude and industry. The former went the round of the 
 girls every day, and their time devoted to it was in pro- 
 portion to their numbers. If there were twelve of them, 
 each spent half an hour a day standing up and holding 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. 1 65 
 
 in proper position the instrument for making square 
 shoulders ; if there were six, each had an hour a day. 
 The girls were, therefore, interested in keeping up the 
 numbers and attendance. At the same time the one 
 undergoing the gentle process had to commit to mem- 
 ory a page or so of Mrs. Magnall's questions or one of 
 the psalms of David, the book being placed on a desk 
 before her. Frequently a weaker girl could not com- 
 plete her time, but it was so arranged that during school- 
 hours the board was always in use; a stronger pupil 
 took her place and filled up the spare minutes in addi- 
 tion to her own share. The good lady who managed 
 the establishment had gone through this process her- 
 self in the days when the French Revolution was up- 
 setting things on the Continent, and she knew the value 
 and the benefit of such a training. Only in this way 
 could the backs of young ladies be fitted to the straight- 
 backed chairs of the period. As to the young gentle- 
 men, the discipline of the cane fell to the lot of one, in 
 turn each day. The more boys there were, the longer 
 the interval between the individual's portion. About 
 eleven o'clock in the forenoon, when the potatoes were 
 peeled and the pudding was in the pot ready for dinner, 
 the lady of the school took the victim for the day out 
 into the kitchen. Everybody knew the purpose — the 
 boys by experience, the girls by information. Very lit- 
 tle was said. The youth followed the instructions given, 
 adjusted his clothing and extended himself full length 
 upon a bench. All that followed was without fear or 
 favor. The red eyes of the lad when he returned to the 
 room showed the immediate effects ; time has made 
 manifest the permanent results. Every lad who came 
 
1 66 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 under the tuition and training of this school turned out 
 well, and some have made positions for themselves in 
 the world. 
 
 The school was popular, for the lady at its head had 
 been a governess in the family of a great bishop and 
 wrote a neat Italian hand. She was a maiden of many 
 years' standing, short and stout, with a kindly face and 
 a profusion of curls, dignified and exact, and, withal, 
 humorous and lively. She wore a silk dress and a 
 heavy gold watch-chain, and about her there was a frag- 
 rance of lavender which suggested the wardrobe and 
 the herb-garden. It was commonly reported that once 
 she had suffered shipwreck. This was in the Irish Sea, 
 and was confirmed by one of the boys, who said that 
 the paper of an old geography locked up in her book- 
 case had the blue tinge of the sea and left the taste of 
 salt upon the tongue. Any way, she had travelled both 
 in Ireland and in Wales and was a well-informed and 
 well-read woman. That she was a Tory goes for the 
 saying : her romantic spirit led her to love the days of 
 chivalry and the traditions of the Church. Many a 
 tale she told of valiant knight and holy bishop, of gay 
 tournament and adventurous voyage, while her eyes 
 glistened with enthusiasm and her voice quivered with 
 emotion as she spoke of the battle of Roncesvalle and 
 the dauntless Roland, of Runnymede and the noble 
 Langton, of Drake and of Raleigh, and, above all, of 
 Bonnie Prince Charlie. There was not a boy who 
 heard her that did not wish to become crusader, re- 
 former or navigator, and to perform deeds as marvellous 
 as those of a Robin Hood or a Robinson Crusoe ; there 
 was not a girl who did not wish she had been Mary 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. 1 67 
 
 queen of Scots, or at least the lord mayor's daughter 
 whom the apprentice saved from drowning in the 
 Thames. They forgave her for making them recite the 
 collect and the gospel for the week first thing on Mon- 
 day morning, and as the girls forgot the shoulder-boards 
 in the fairy's wand, and the boys the cane in the knight's 
 lance, so all agreed that for a story of good times and 
 of old times their mistress could not be equalled. 
 
 Occasionally the exercises of the school were varied 
 by an afternoon's outing. Sometimes the destination 
 was that delightful hill known as the Cuckoo Pen. This 
 required an early start, as it was some three miles dis- 
 tant. At one o'clock the school assembled — about 
 twenty, all told — and gravely and demurely walked 
 through the streets two and two, the eldest girls first, 
 after the girls the boys, and in the rear the good old lady 
 carrying a large parasol and reticule. Up Couching 
 street, by the town-hall, round the butcher's shop and 
 up the road to the White Mark. No talking, no laugh- 
 ing, no breaking of the procession till the foot of the 
 hill was reached, but then in the grass-covered road by 
 the chalk-pits, where wicked young men used to play 
 cricket on Sunday afternoons, the most unrestrained 
 mirth. Gayly and lightsomely the school wended its 
 way through that wide shady lane, past Bacon Hill, to 
 the Cuckoo Pen. How merrily the young folks chat- 
 tered and sang, now racing over the thick sward, now 
 plucking wild flowers or blackberries from the hedges, 
 and now jumping leapfrog, skipping or playing ball ! I 
 see them now as I saw them one bright August day a 
 quarter of a century since. There are our three Pyrton 
 boys, gay, lively youngsters, the eldest nearly fourteen ; 
 
1 68 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 there is our pretty Eva, the daintiest and sweetest of all 
 the maidens. There are other boys, but none so noble 
 as Arthur from Pyrton ; there are other girls, but none 
 so queenly as Eva. Through the gate at the foot of the 
 hill they rush ; up the steep sides they clamber. There 
 are steps cut in the steepest places, and the moss and the 
 grass are soft and slippery. On the summit is a fine 
 copse, another a little farther back, and behind that and 
 stretching far away into the valley between the hills a 
 thick greenwood. The view from the top is fine, and on 
 the edge of the first copse there was a double-trunked 
 tree in the deep fork of which one or two of the more 
 venturesome boys used to sit. In front of this tree all 
 assemble, and after a while the cake and the ginger-beer 
 arrive. The soft winds fan the rosy cheeks and cool the 
 tired limbs ; some of the youngsters wander in twos and 
 threes into the wood, some gather moss or catch grass- 
 hoppers, and some roll down the hillside over thistles 
 and through furze. There is Ben almost in the top of 
 that big beech tree, his white trousers soiled with green 
 off the bark, and there is Eva, the little puss, not ten 
 years old, sitting on the ground with a boy by her side 
 and her hand in his. " Will you marry me when you 
 grow up, Eva?." — "Yes, if you will be a doctor like 
 papa." Here comes George with a paper box full of 
 grasshoppers, and Arthur with a fledgling which he has 
 caught. Everybody runs to see the bird. " Poor 
 thing !" — " Feathers scarcely grown !" — " Cruel !" — " Let 
 it go !" and, somehow or other, there is a chilly feeling 
 comes over all when the captive is taken back to the 
 neighborhood of the nest and released. On the way 
 home everybody walks slower and there is less noise. 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. 1 69 
 
 But, though tired, each scholar owns that an afternoon 
 on the Cuckoo Pen is about the best fun that can be in 
 this world, and the next morning even the shoulder- 
 board and the French verb are easy, and the boy whose 
 turn it is to become acquainted with the cane thinks 
 flagellation uncomfortable, to be sure, but nevertheless 
 bearable after a day of such rare delight. 
 
 In the room on the other side, opposite to that in 
 which the school met, might be seen at any time between 
 seven and nine o'clock in the forenoon, and after five till 
 a quarter-past ten in the evening, another old lady, sister 
 to the maiden-mistress in the parlor. She was not the 
 opposite of her sister, but the same sort of person, only 
 on a reduced scale. Her tastes, ideas, sentences, habits 
 and the rest were the same, only less magnificent. She 
 could not teach French, but she could make excellent 
 elderberry wine, and, as every one knows, elderberry 
 wine, warmed and spiced, with biscuit or toast, is better 
 on a wintry night before going to bed than the most cor- 
 rect speech of Paris. Her sister wore silk ; she, having 
 the house to look after, used prints and stuffs. Both had 
 spectacles — the one gold rimmed, the other brass cov- 
 ered with flannel. She was a treasurer of antiquity. 
 The sofa under the window at the far side of the room 
 was made before men ceased to write " 1700" at the top 
 of their letters. Over the mantel was a picture of a Re- 
 bekah at the well, a very English scene as old as the 
 sofa, and above it were three or four bulrush-heads which 
 had not been removed for a generation at least. A curi- 
 ous portrait of an old lady who died actually one hun- 
 dred and three years old — traditionally, one hundred and 
 thirty — placed beside one of a rosy-cheeked boy of five, 
 
170 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 brought into contrast " crabbed age and youth." A desk 
 made in the year 1827 out of a yew tree reputed at the 
 time when cut down to be at least five hundred years old 
 was one of her greatest delights. That tree may have 
 furnished some of the archers of Agincourt with their 
 bows, and it may have been planted from a tree which 
 was young when Harold sat in the throne at Westmin- 
 ster. Her spare time was spent in thinking over the 
 possibilities of that tree, and doubtless many a pleasant 
 vision passed before her. In two things she had received 
 a fuller development than her sister : she had a belief in 
 ghosts, and she was fond of the garden. The former 
 she sought to propitiate by saying as little about them 
 as possible ; to the latter she gave four or five hours of 
 every fine day. She had plum trees, apricots and vines, 
 gooseberry- and raspberry-bushes, strawberries and clus- 
 ters of carnations, roses, gillyflowers, daffodils, daisies, 
 honeysuckle, and even potatoes and cabbages. It was a 
 frequent observation of hers that for beauty lilies in a 
 vase, and for usefulness parsnips in a dish, had no equals. 
 Life flowed on easily with the sisters, and little came in 
 to disturb their peace. Once in a very long while one 
 of them went up to London, but there were no charms 
 in the city for them. Now they lie side by side near the 
 east end of the chapel at the parish church. 
 
 Before we leave this house let me take you to a room 
 up stairs looking out toward the hills. The walls are 
 covered with designs of roses — old-fashioned, indeed, 
 and highly colored, but the trailing vines run up from 
 floor to ceiling, green leaves, mossy buds and brilliant 
 blooms, with a suggestiveness as true as that the highest 
 art could give. Everything is scrupulously clean, the 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. 171 
 
 carpet, of wondrous devices and faded tints, the figured 
 dimity on the bedstead, the rush-bottom chairs, the chest 
 of drawers with the oval looking-glass on top, the can- 
 dlestick and the snuffer-tray, the black-oak coffer, — all 
 as dustless as they are homely. There is but one win- 
 dow in the room, for the house was built when windows 
 were taxed. It opens after the manner of the old lattices 
 and has the small lozenge-shaped panes. Inside, soft- 
 shaded curtains hang on both sides of the recess, in 
 which is a low seat under the casement, cushioned and 
 fastened into the wall ; outside, a grape-vine twines its 
 tendrils and sets its leaves thick all around, hiding the 
 wall and the woodwork, and in the autumn rich purple 
 clusters are within reach of the hand. But it is the view 
 from the window that is the chief delight. Whenever I 
 see it, I am reminded of the Pilgrim at the House Beau- 
 tiful : " When the morning was up, they had him to the 
 top of the house, and bid him look south. So he did, 
 and behold, at a great distance, he saw a most pleasant, 
 mountainous country, beautified with woods, vineyards, 
 fruits of all sorts, flowers also, with springs and foun- 
 tains, very delectable to behold." I do not say that the 
 picture is as lovely as that of the Delectable Mountains, 
 but seen in the glow of the early sunlight it is not alto- 
 gether unworthy of comparison ; indeed, it is probable 
 that from such a scene Bunyan drew his inspiration. 
 There lie the hills — graceful lines against the horizon, 
 the green of the fields and woods making more intense 
 the white of the chalk- pits and roads. At the foot of 
 the Mark are the wheat- and barley-fields ; and when 
 the July winds gently pass over the wide reaches of tall 
 grain, sweeping it into waves like those of some sea- 
 
172 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 waters, they look like rich plush smoothed by a soft 
 hand. What says the old song? 
 
 " Come out ! 'tis now September : 
 
 The hunter's moon's begun, 
 And through the wheaten stubble 
 
 Is heard the frequent gun ; 
 The leaves are paling yellow 
 
 Or kindling into red, 
 And the ripe and golden barley 
 
 Is hanging down his head. 
 
 " All among the barley, 
 
 Who would not be blithe 
 When the free and happy barley 
 Is smiling on the scythe ? 
 
 " The Spring she is a young maid 
 
 That does not know her mind ; 
 The Summer is a tyrant 
 
 Of most unrighteous kind ; 
 The Autumn is an old friend 
 
 That loves one all he can, 
 And that brings the happy barley 
 
 To glad the heart of man. 
 
 " All among the barley, etc. 
 
 " The wheat is like a rich man 
 
 That's sleek and well-to-do ; 
 The oats are like a pack of girls 
 
 Laughing and dancing too ; 
 The rye is like a miser 
 
 That's sulky, lean and small ; 
 But the free and bearded barley 
 
 Is the monarch of them all. 
 
 " All among the barley, etc." 
 
 Sing the good old lines to the accompaniment of the 
 guitar in the open air of the closing summer twilight, 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. 1 73 
 
 with a " pack of girls " and their swains, happy-hearted 
 and sweet-voiced, to join in the chorus, and a strange 
 delight will be yours for the time and a pleasant memory 
 yours for ever. Then you will enjoy with deeper zest 
 and fuller inspiration the picture of the fields of grain. 
 A pleasant sight it is to see the harvest-moon shining 
 on the standing shocks of corn ; pleasanter, to see the 
 poor and needy leasing after the reapers. How strange 
 appears the one tree in the middle of yonder field, thick 
 with leaves and casting a deep shadow in which the 
 sheep rest during the noontide heat, but seemingly lost 
 in its solitude ! There are nuts in the high hedges for 
 squirrels and truant boys, and sloes and crab-apples. 
 In the deserted rooks' nests among the elms far away 
 toward the Nettlebed road the fierce and indolent spar- 
 rowhawk sometimes rears its young, and excites at once 
 the fear of the smaller birds, the desires of the town-lads 
 and the ire of the gamekeeper. How gently the clouds 
 rest in the blue sky ! And the earth seems to sleep in 
 its calm and lovely splendor — no care, no sorrow, 
 quietly doing its work and not suffering the mind to 
 dwell upon the winter of nature nor upon the storms 
 which try the human heart. Standing in the window 
 there, the eye rests upon a landscape full of interest, a 
 scene never to be forgotten, and the soul is refreshed 
 with the vision of beauty. 
 
 But we must away to other parts of this interesting 
 town. Once in a while a Punch-and-Judy show comes 
 and exhibits near the town-hall. There is then much 
 excitement — even greater than that caused by the 
 monthly visit of the " scissor-grinder." The latter fairly 
 rivals the travelling tinker, who does a fair trade for two 
 
174 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 reasons — first, because of his handiness at mending old 
 pots and kettles ; and secondly, being a gypsy, he is sus- 
 pected of a capability of stealing fowl by way of revenge 
 for not having work given him. If he cannot have 
 bread honestly — Well, that is what some think. The 
 children are half afraid of him because gypsies have been 
 known to steal boys and girls and make acrobats, 
 and sometimes aristocrats, out of them. As to the 
 grinder of scissors, he is commonly supposed to live 
 somewhere in the neighborhood, though where nobody 
 knows. He is even suspected of being an itinerant 
 preacher, but the weight of opinion is rather in favor of 
 regarding him as a pretty straightforward sort of man. 
 He is quiet, low in his charges, sober and respectful. 
 For a penny he will sharpen all the cutlery of a small 
 establishment. He also mends umbrellas and sells paper 
 windmills. When he comes wheeling his little machine 
 down the street, boys run after him with their pocket- 
 knives and women with their scissors, and as the sparks 
 fly from the tiny grindstone everybody looks on with 
 profoundest interest. But he shines only in the absence 
 of the sun. The luminary of luminaries is the puppet- 
 show man. Here in this open space in front of the 
 White Hart — one of the best inns, by the way, in the 
 country — he goes through the tragedy of Punchinello. 
 Between the acts he performs on a primitive musical in- 
 strument consisting of a row of small pipes fastened in 
 the front of his coat. This " wind-organ," being level 
 with his mouth so that he can use it at his convenience, 
 and if need be beat a drum at the same time, produces 
 music similar to that which is obtained by blowing over 
 the open end of a key. Occasionally he uses a jewsharp; 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. 1 75 
 
 sometimes, a cornet ; less frequently, a violin. If he has 
 any artistic vanity, it is helped by the lusty cheers of the 
 crowd ; his pocket is filled with their pence. Only let 
 Punch kill the devil, and every man in the company will 
 give the " price of a pint." 
 
 You see in the cottage doorway the housewife trun- 
 dling the mop. It is skilfully done ; so is the way in 
 which she balances herself on her pattens. The cleaner 
 she keeps her stone floor, the higher her respectability. 
 That is one of the aims of her life. She has two others 
 — viz., to bring up her children as she thinks they ought 
 to be brought up, and to grow the finest flowers possi- 
 ble. Compare the little fellow sitting on the upturned 
 bucket by the door-scraper, munching a slice of bread 
 covered with treacle, with the fuchsias and geraniums in 
 the window, and you can judge of her success. Speak 
 to her ; yes, sir, independence is one of the characteris- 
 tics of the English peasantry. She will answer you with 
 respect, but not with servility. You may be richer and 
 know more : that she will admit ; but you are no better 
 than she. Praise the boy or the flowers, and you will 
 see the healthy blush on her cheek deepen with delight. 
 
 The curate is an important person in most country 
 parishes. It is a mistake to suppose that he does all the 
 work — some small portion of it is undertaken by the 
 rector — but he receives most of the popularity. The 
 people always regard him as an ill-used, under-paid and 
 sadly-neglected individual, and not a few things of a 
 severe and spiteful nature are said concerning the eccle- 
 siastical superior who treats him so badly. The young 
 ladies think constantly and kindly of him, especially if 
 he be single. They are not turned aside from their ad- 
 12 
 
176 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 miration for him by anything less than a soldier, and, as 
 a fact, the moment a red coat comes into the parish the 
 black coat is forgotten. However, the curate's day 
 comes round again. He is there all the time, and can 
 play croquet, drink tea, quote authors, shape compli- 
 ments, make sonnets, explain difficulties and do all sorts 
 of odd things, while his appearance on Sundays in a 
 snow-white surplice with the hood of soft rabbit-fur lin- 
 ing is "just too lovely for anything." To say that he 
 flirts is going too far, but he succeeds in making every 
 girl in the parish think her chances are the best. In 
 many places he is the only youth a girl of taste and edu- 
 cation would care for ; and if he cannot marry all the 
 maidens of the neighborhood, it is not his fault. As a 
 rule, when he does take unto himself a wife, she is from 
 another parish, and then his resignation speedily follows. 
 Unfortunately, his chances of promotion are not invariably 
 good. If poor and of lowly origin, he has small hope of 
 being anything else than a curate. Talents except of the 
 very highest and rarest order go for little : influence is every- 
 thing. Many of the ablest workers the Church of England 
 has remain curates all their life, and many of the most in- 
 efficient, useless, parish-killing clergy have rich livings 
 from the outset. As a training when young nothing can 
 be better than a position under an able and sympathetic 
 rector. The lack of responsibility is then helpful, and 
 none can feel that more than the man who, full of zeal and 
 life, has from his ordination been committed to the care 
 and management of a large parish. Young men can then 
 make mistakes without doing any serious damage. Once 
 upon a time a curate was called to solemnize marriage 
 for the first time. He got confused, confounded, and 
 
A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. IJJ 
 
 opened the book at the wrong place. He did not under- 
 stand why the people smiled when he began, " Hath this 
 child been already baptized or no ?" The clerk put him 
 right ; some of the young ladies said he was in love with 
 the bride. It was the more provoking because, accord- 
 ing to his own confession afterward, he had gone through 
 the service the night before with the clerk and the rec- 
 tor's cook — both relics in the seventies — as subjects. — 
 No ; the story is not of this young fellow talking to the 
 butcher at the corner. He looks as though he could as 
 easily take first oar or bowler as perform the most diffi- 
 cult ecclesiastical function. I fancy he would keep cool 
 even if he had to baptize a child, as was once certainly 
 done, by the name of " Anna Miranda Morea Maria 
 McRunnaho Donahue Bridget Dashiell." — But why 
 speak of curates ? Because Watlington needs some- 
 thing to keep it alive, and I know of nothing better than 
 a curate. He could at least teach the people that when 
 in mourning they are not obliged to drink black tea. 
 
 Crooked streets, old houses, shops with tiny windows 
 and with bow-windows, residences hid away behind high 
 walls and seen only through great iron gates, walls built 
 of flint with brick facings and broken glass bottles along 
 the top, cobblestones and pebbles under foot, antique 
 taverns, a gentle, drowsy, restful, self-satisfied life, — 
 that is Watlington. The waves of Time's sea, great 
 and mighty as they roll in this our present, break and 
 exhaust their strength on shores far away. Only a few 
 spatterings of spray driven by the wind reach this 
 place — just enough to let its people know that some- 
 thing great and ancient has been washed away, some 
 mighty change effected. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " And I liked their yew-cut alleys, 
 Framing vistas of the valleys, 
 
 And the church-tower and the lea, 
 And the stately trees whose shadow 
 Fell at eve o'er park and meadow 
 
 Century after century." 
 
 A warm morning. The hills lie quivering in the 
 haze of the almost cloudless horizon, and three hours 
 before noon the cattle in the fields seek the shadow of 
 the beeches and the traveller moves slowly under the 
 overspreading elms by the roadside. In the little town 
 of Watlington the streets are mostly deserted; a few 
 women are marketing at the butchers' stalls or the 
 grocers' shops, and here and there a schoolboy drags 
 his weary way to the place of flies, rods and Latin 
 declensions. By the old market-hall stands a wagon; 
 the busy chickens pick up the crumbs which fall from 
 the horse's feed-bag. Up the road toward the White 
 Mark a team is moving slowly ; the dog paces gently 
 on, too lazy to run after the pigeons, and the driver is 
 lying on his back, half asleep, on the top of the load. 
 Everything indicates a hot, quiet day — one of those 
 days when the wind is warmer than the still air. For- 
 tunately, the roads are not dusty enough to make walk- 
 ing unpleasant. 
 
 178 
 
THAME. 179 
 
 Two of us set out in the road running at the foot of 
 the Chilterns — that is to say, the turnpike-road, for there 
 is another parallel with this, higher up, grass-grown and 
 unfrequented. The lovers of romance and of solitude 
 may find their hearts' delight amid chalk-pits and 
 sheep-walks, on mossy knolls and under gnarled and 
 twisted hawthorn-bushes. Bacon Hill, bare of trees, 
 but bristling with furze, and the Cuckoo Pen, with its 
 noble copses on brow and side, are on the right, Chin- 
 nor and Stokenchurch farther on, and Shirbourne and 
 Lewknor, already mentioned, in the way. At the cross 
 of the Stokenchurch road — one of the great highways 
 to London — is the " Lambert Arms." This was once 
 a busy, well-frequented inn, a hostelry flourishing and 
 famous in the days of yore ; now it is decayed and 
 deserted and has been turned into a " temperance hotel." 
 It is sad to look at the old house with its faded sign and 
 dim-paned windows and recall the times when coaches 
 and postboys gave to it life and wealth. Horses were 
 changed here ; belated travellers found a warm welcome 
 and a hearty hospitality; when the wild wintry winds 
 swept across the country-side and deep snows lay on 
 the ground, the open blazing hearth became a refuge 
 worthy of a king ; and mine host held that nowhere 
 else on the highway could hungry guest find better 
 cheer or thirsty soul purer and stronger ale. Tradi- 
 tions run of poaching hereabouts, and this lone house 
 near to the estates of gamekeeping squires, with easy 
 means of getting rid of stray pheasants and partridges, 
 favors the idea. No doubt Sam, the hostler, knew how 
 to snare a hare, and also knew where to hide it under 
 the straw. 
 
180 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 H Did you ever hear of any highwaymen in these 
 parts ?" I ask of my companion. 
 
 " They were common," he replies, " in years long ago, 
 and some have said that Dick Turpin relieved two or 
 three wealthy men of their purses near to the woods at 
 the foot of the hills yonder ; but I doubt if Dick Tur- 
 pin was ever in this country." 
 
 So do I, but the road is lonely enough now, not a 
 cart, horse nor man to be seen. How exciting when 
 the coach, mud-splashed and creaking, came up to the 
 inn with its story of robbery ! Away ride horsemen to 
 raise the hue and cry and, if possible, to find the thieves. 
 The roads are bad, heavy, full of ruts and holes in which 
 the horses stumble and send the yellow water in all di- 
 rections, and before anything can be done night sets in 
 and the difficulties become insurmountable. Then the 
 searchers come back again for supper and for the moon 
 to rise, the parish constable from Lewknor in the mean 
 time having arrived on the scene to assume official 
 charge of the proceedings. As his qualification for office 
 consists in his being full of years and of rheumatism, 
 he does very little beyond ascertaining the facts of the 
 case and pronouncing judgment thereon. He is looked 
 upon as an oracle by all who know him ; no pagan ever 
 listened more reverently to the augury of his priest than 
 the men and the boys around these parts did to the ut- 
 terances of the crooked and aged Dogberry. Once a 
 rotund and rubicund coachman strange to the road 
 and some distance gone in his cups, and therefore 
 scarcely responsible, declared him to be an old woman ; 
 but some standers-by promptly beat him into grief, and 
 would have beaten him into jelly had he not acknow- 
 
THAME. l8l 
 
 ledged his mistake. No more was said on that occa- 
 sion, and we can imagine no more was done on this ; 
 and both constable and highwaymen remained com- 
 paratively unmolested. 
 
 Farther on is Kingston, an old-fashioned village with 
 quaint straw-thatched cottages. There life peacefully 
 slumbers, and the advent of a stranger in the quiet lane- 
 like streets sets gossip and conjecture agog for a week. 
 The blacksmith was standing, with arms folded, in the 
 doorway of his shop talking to a woman picking cur- 
 rants in a garden across the way. They, a cow tethered 
 by the roadside and some birds flitting from hedge to 
 hedge were the only signs of a busy world ; all else was 
 still. Once a lark sang his rich sky-song in the clear 
 sunlight, but the melody melted away in the heat, and 
 the echoes seemed to fall wearily to the ground. Beside 
 the way were many noble oaks and some remarkably 
 fine clumps of giant beech trees. Wild flowers in abun- 
 dance grew in the thick hedges and meadow-grass ; 
 roses of almost every hue vied with hollyhocks and 
 dahlias to beautify the cottage gardens. At times the 
 fragrance of the bean-blossom was stiflingly sweet and 
 by its all-pervading strength suggested hounds thrown 
 off their scent. 
 
 A pleasant walk of a mile across the fields brought us 
 to Aston. Here we visited the parish church. It is 
 built, as are most of the churches of this neighborhood, 
 of flint with stone ashlar facings, and has lately been re- 
 stored. The exterior is not promising, a sundial dated 
 1772 alone attracting attention. The parish clerk, an 
 old man nearly ninety — so he told us — kindly unlocked 
 the door and showed us around the inside of the build- 
 
1 82 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 ing ; a holy-water stoup at the door indicated its pre- 
 Reformation origin. There is a number of tombs and 
 mural tablets. Set in the wall in the north transept is 
 an interesting monument to the memory of Lady Cicil 
 Hobbee, who died in 1618. It is the figure of a lady, 
 dressed in ruff and black robe, kneeling with clasped 
 hands before a lectern on which lies an open book. On 
 the top of the sculpture-work is an hourglass. In the 
 opposite transept is a mural tablet, in Latin, of about the 
 same date. In the aisles and the nave are vaults covered 
 with inscribed stones to the memory of local celebrities, 
 principally Coles and Thornhills ; they are also of the 
 early part of the seventeenth century. Going up into 
 the chancel, one steps upon an old stone in which a life- 
 sized figure is deeply cut. The lettering around the 
 outer edge is difficult to read, but I believe it is in Nor- 
 man French ; if so, the tomb is of early Plantagenet 
 date. Another stone tomb, partly within a low orna- 
 mented recess on the north side of the chancel, is also 
 interesting. It must be of great age, but some worn 
 carved work on the top alone remains. I could not 
 ascertain anything of its history ; only, a bench for the 
 choir now hides it from the general view. Down in the 
 nave are two small brasses almost obliterated, but still 
 displaying a man and a woman in long robes and with 
 hands clasped in the attitude of prayer. There are sev- 
 eral modern tablets on the walls in the lower part of the 
 church, and under the belfry are plainly-painted tables 
 of the benefactors of the parish and the nature, value and 
 object of their benefactions. The old font remains. The 
 ancient figures in the clerestory are characteristic ; they 
 severally express Age, Youth, Sorrow and Mirth — typ- 
 
THAME. 183 
 
 ical of the worshippers upon whom they look. On the 
 altar are candles and cross. In the yard rank grass 
 hides many of the graves, and thick ivy the headstones 
 An inscription, of 1826, runs: 
 
 " Weep not, my Wife and Children dear, 
 I am not dead, but sleeping here ; 
 My debt is paid, my grave you see : 
 Wait but awhile, and you will follow me. 
 A sincere Friend, a Husband dear, 
 A tender Parent, lieth here." 
 
 Possibly neither wife nor children would feel much 
 cheered by the fact that they would follow him ; at any 
 rate, there is something uncomfortable in the dead man's 
 saying such things. That fourth line is very mean, con- 
 temptible and unworthy of a good-natured ghost. 
 
 Leaving this quiet and sacred spot, we had a delight- 
 ful walk of about two miles across the fields to the 
 " Barley-Mow," near Sydenham. This is the best way 
 of seeing rural England. It is possible to walk from 
 one end of the country to the other by footpaths, and 
 the reward for doing so is very great. The haymakers 
 were busy in the meadows through which we passed ; 
 in some fields sheep were grazing and cows meditatively 
 chewing the cud; birds were singing, hedges blooming, 
 and by the side of the tiny brook the brightly-tinted 
 kingfisher darted from willow to brier and tall reeds and 
 brilliant red poppies swayed gently in the warm wind. 
 It was amusing to watch the stately, ludicrous walk of 
 the rooks across the grass ; as they carefully raise each 
 foot, and give their body a slight and consequential tilt 
 in doing so, they look absurdly grave and make one 
 think of dignified black-robed monks, fat and full, ten- 
 
1 84 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 derly picking their way barefooted through thistles or 
 fallen holly-leaves. Some of the meadows were trav- 
 ersed with trenches, and in the springtime or during 
 drought the whole land is lightly flooded : an abundant 
 hay-crop is the result. At the Barley-Mow the ancient- 
 looking landlady gave us some very poor ginger ale and 
 enlivened us with a few reminiscences of her sleepy road- 
 side inn. The tap-room is quaint, with high, worn set- 
 tles and well- cut deal tables ; an old-fashioned fireplace 
 with mantel-piece near the low, smoke-hued ceiling ; the 
 walls covered with prints of prize pigs and racehorses and 
 some bills of agricultural fairs. The hostess wore a dress 
 which had seen better days — possibly when she was a 
 gay maiden, forty years since ; its color, that of an aged 
 crow, dusky, mingled russet and gray, and its shape 
 such as a novice had devised and constant, if not ju- 
 dicious, patching had perfected. Her whitened tresses 
 were caught in the strings of an old black cap ; a yellow 
 collar with a bit of violet ribbon adorned her neck, and 
 her feet were not like those pretty mice of which a 
 golden ballad sings. In the autumn and winter even- 
 ings a goodly company of villagers tests the warmth of 
 her hearth and the strength of her ale. Then Dick the 
 ratter tells his stories of ferrets and weasels, at which 
 Tim and Jack open their mouths wider and wider as the 
 interest becomes deeper and deeper, and others tap their 
 empty mugs approvingly on the table. A song with a 
 rousing chorus, repeated over again and again, brings 
 under the window the policeman, who devoutly wishes 
 he could join the merry throng and discreetly takes 
 himself off about the time of closing up. At fair-time 
 and on market-days, when people pass more frequently 
 
THAME. 185 
 
 along the highway, many stop here and refresh them- 
 selves with pure home-brewed or genuine Dublin stout 
 from the local maltster. Close by is a large house, un- 
 occupied ; a woman hanged herself there, and her ghost 
 now haunts the place. Our landlady had not seen the 
 apparition herself, but, as she put it, " there be such 
 things, you know, and lots of folks hereabouts have seen 
 her." The horseshoe over the door sufficiently pro- 
 tected her from witches and the like — though, to be 
 sure, she had once been frightened out of her wits by a 
 travelling fellow with an electrical machine, and went 
 to church three or four Sundays running afterward. 
 He showed her little fellows dancing under a glass and 
 several strange, unearthly tricks, and finished by getting 
 her to touch a tiny handle at the end of a wire. If she 
 ever came near seeing stars and spirits, it was then. She 
 jumped and screamed ; then she bundled him out of the 
 front door and knelt down and said the Lord's Prayer 
 three times, had a strong cup of tea, scrubbed out the 
 tap-room, and thought more seriously of higher and bet- 
 ter things. The man had a wife — a neat, trim sort of a 
 woman — and she came afterward to get the carpet-bag 
 which he had left in his hurry. 
 
 " I urged her to leave such a wicked man," said the 
 landlady, " for he was an imp of Satan and would do her 
 no good ; but the blinded thing told me he was an ex- 
 perimenter after somebody's heart and he had never 
 spoken an unkind word to her. Oh, the devil snares 
 some folks ! — Now, do take another glass ; you will need 
 it this hot day. No ? — Well, she told me she was once 
 a servant-girl in some outlandish place where they have 
 fish pies — down Cornwall, I believe — and he was a me- 
 
1 86 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 chanic with an idea, a real, good fellow, poor, and there- 
 fore obliged to travel for a living, but kind as the sun 
 itself and bound to get out his idea. What the idea was 
 I don't know ; it had something to do with telegraph- 
 wires. He went exhibiting his machine in gentlefolks' 
 houses, and turned over many a honest penny. But I 
 was scared, and I thought it best to keep to my tea and 
 say my prayers for some time. Sevenpence, sir. Thank 
 you. That is one, two, three, four, five — one shilling. 
 Call again. Wish you a pleasant walk, but the weather 
 is enough to roast a duck with the feathers on." 
 
 We passed through Sydenham, another quiet, trim 
 village, with a modern church. There is evidently no 
 right of way through the yard, for the gate was locked. 
 Possibly there was nothing to see there, or the people 
 are not to be trusted with free access to* the graves of 
 their dead or the house of their God. Another walk 
 across the fields by shady hedgerows brought us to the 
 road running from Towersey to Thame, and in a little 
 while we reached the old familiar town. There was the 
 railway bridge just as it was built some twenty years 
 ago ; there, the school- buildings in Park street, musty 
 with age, decay, old books and pleasant and unpleasant 
 reminiscences. 
 
 About thirteen miles from Oxford and forty-four from 
 London is this ancient and interesting town. It is near 
 the eastern edge of the county of Oxon, and its northern 
 end begins on the banks of a brook bearing the same 
 name as itself. At this end is Old Thame, and from 
 that the town has grown almost entirely along the main 
 highway ; so that it principally consists of one long 
 built-up street toward the south, with a few smaller ones 
 
THAME. 187 
 
 and some lanes branching off a little way on the eastern 
 side. The two sides of this street are bent outward like 
 a long-bow, gradually widening for about half a mile, 
 and then as gradually narrowing in for another half 
 mile. In the widest place an irregular pile of buildings, 
 consisting of shops and the town- or market-hall, has 
 been erected. Not far to the south of this brick island 
 in the. street is the house where John Hampden died. 
 The extension has been longitudinal ; the growth, slow. 
 The railway-station is at the extreme south, about a mile 
 and a half from the ancient parts near the river, and, 
 though thereabouts the buildings are mostly new and the 
 town has suffered further elongation in its attempts to 
 embrace — or, at least, to touch — the vein of steel which 
 connects it with the world's great arteries of trade and 
 commerce, there is no remarkable increase of material 
 prosperity or of city-like bustle. Life flows on in its 
 calm, peaceful way ; the streets are clean and still ; the 
 houses and the gardens seem to sleep in their quiet, an- 
 tique dignity ; the people move leisurely about, sipping 
 the honey from the flowers of business or of gossip and 
 wisely taking their time, for they can live but once ; and 
 all who go there soon feel that they have been happily 
 left behind by the rush of time's waters, if not, indeed, 
 carried by a reflex tide a long way back into the ages of 
 the past. If happiness is to be found in repose and con- 
 tentment in inactivity, then the three thousand souls who 
 dwell in this place ought to set an example to the world ; 
 and doubtless they would do so in a manner both be- 
 coming and worthy if the world would but open its eyes 
 and see them. But, alas ! like the traditional gems or 
 flowers which pass their days unseen in ocean depths or 
 
1 88 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 bosky dells, the town which is so dear, and so justly 
 dear, to its own inhabitants, is unknown to fame and 
 almost to the maps ; and when some stranger afar off 
 chances to hear of it, and further and more wonderfully 
 chances to look it up in a gazetteer, he passes it over 
 with a sort of contemptuous sigh : " Umph ! An old 
 out-of-the-world, dead-and-alive place." And that, gen- 
 tle reader, may be your sentence, though, if you be gen- 
 tle in the truest sense of that term and will have patience 
 to follow me along, you may end in agreeing with me 
 that there is much that is delightful and lovely in that 
 same old time-stranded town. 
 
 Let us first look at the church. This is a noble and 
 historic edifice, many parts of it of great age, cruciform, 
 with a mighty tower rising minster-style from the inter- 
 stice of the cross. It stands on a slight elevation a few 
 hundred yards from the slowly-flowing Thame, with 
 the vicarage a little nearer the river and the remains of 
 the old prebendal house, now a private residence, a short 
 distance farther along the stream. Around the sacred 
 structure is the graveyard, filled, contrary to the usual 
 custom, with tombs and mounds on every side. As a 
 rule, none who died in the peace of the Church were 
 buried in the northern part of the yard ; that was the 
 region where the sun never shone and the bleak 
 winds of winter swept over unhallowed graves. In the 
 brightsome east and the sunny south lay the dead who 
 slept the peace of paradise, and there in the early spring 
 and through the long summer and into the late autumn 
 loving hands brought offerings of flowers and loving 
 hearts uttered the prayer that God would give even 
 more light to his own who rest in him. And when 
 
THAME. 1 89 
 
 the snow was on the ground and the Christmas joy 
 reigned in the land, then, too, fond ones remembered 
 those who had gone before, and placed a wreath of 
 evergreen holly on their graves, token of perpetual 
 love, and dropped the rich red berries on the white 
 winter ground, spots of blood, as it were, even like 
 unto the stains which fell from Calvary. No doubt 
 here the people did as elsewhere, for in the old time 
 there was an affectionate and ever-present clinging to 
 those who had passed beyond the veil : they were 
 never forgotten ; and there was a right of way through 
 the churchyard, so that at any time the living might 
 enter God's acre and offer up a Paternoster beside the 
 grave of their heart's treasure. But at Thame — possi- 
 bly because of the buildings toward the north — the 
 general rule of not burying in that part does not obtain. 
 The dead fill up the available space, so that a new por- 
 tion has been added to the eastern end. I know other 
 churchyards where the north is used. 
 
 The main approach to the church is from the south 
 side through a lovely avenue of lime trees. Such 
 avenues are common in England, and, though this is 
 not so glorious as some — say that at Stratford-on-Avon 
 — yet it has stood for many generations, and along its 
 noble path processions have moved hither and thither, 
 now of rejoicing and now of sorrow, at one time of high 
 ceremony and at another of humble town-worshippers. 
 The appearance of the church inside is of mingled 
 satisfaction and of various periods. The building has 
 escaped restoration, so the old pews and galleries, the 
 three-decker pulpit with the sounding-board and the 
 tables of the Ten Commandments, the Creed and the 
 
I90 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 Lord's Prayer over the altar, remain. With the un- 
 sightliness of the last century come in bits of late 
 mediaeval belongings. Near the door is the antique 
 alms-box, and a little farther in the old font, both 
 probably of pre-Reformation age. There are no crosses 
 or candles in the building, the tendency of the parish 
 being to an extreme Protestantism, nor is the image of 
 St. Thomas of Canterbury, which once occupied an 
 honored place, to be seen. Ancient rood-screens sep- 
 arate the nave from the chancel and the transepts or 
 chapels. The tombs are many and of extreme interest. 
 In the centre of the chancel is a massive and exquisitely- 
 carved monument to Lord and Lady Williams, dated, I 
 think, 1559. It is cut in marble and alabaster, and he 
 and she lie in full-length effigy, their feet resting against 
 a greyhound and a horse and their bodies wearing the 
 costume of the period. The whole is railed in and 
 covered with a dingy red curtain, which is drawn back 
 for the benefit of visitors. Lord Williams was a vigor- 
 ous and violent medievalist, and had no sympathy with 
 the reforms which had taken place under Henry VIII. 
 and Edward. He took a prominent part in the sup- 
 pression of the new practices and was a leading spirit 
 in the martyrdom of the prelates at Oxford. No doubt, 
 when he saw the ashes of Latimer and of Ridley, he 
 thought the end of their work was also near ; nor may 
 we deem him and others who did as he aught but hon- 
 est and earnest men — more desirous, indeed, in their 
 conversation and love to defend and maintain the an- 
 cient faith and customs than in their zeal wantonly to 
 cause reverend prelates and tender women to suffer the 
 pains of death. But the irony of fate is written across 
 
THAME. 
 
 I 9 I 
 
 the times. Lord Williams rests within the sanctuary 
 where once he heard the mass sung and beheld the 
 glories of the worship he loved, but over his tomb an 
 office is said and words are preached which he de- 
 nounced and resisted. A bitter opponent of Protest- 
 antism rests in a Protestant place of worship ; a Prot- 
 estant place of worship shelters in its most sacred 
 precinct a bitter opponent of Protestantism. The sin- 
 gular thing about the tomb is that the feet are to- 
 ward the west. I can find no reason for this unique 
 position, and conjecture is useless. 
 
 Lord Williams, however, was not wholly occupied in 
 the suppression of Protestantism. His was an active and 
 a public life — partly that of a courtier and partly that of 
 a country gentleman — and seems to have been graced 
 with the virtues of generosity, kindliness of spirit and 
 nobility of mind. In the reign of Henry VIII. he was 
 keeper of the king's jewels, and also one of the com- 
 missioners for the dissolution of the monasteries, pos- 
 sibly visiting the abbeys and the priories of Oxfordshire 
 with John Tregonwell in the autumn of 1536. By his 
 purchase, in 1539, of the ancient seat of the Quarter- 
 mains, at Rycote, his position and authority in the 
 county were increased, and in 1553, when Lady Jane 
 Grey was forced by her ambitious friends to receive the 
 crown, he gathered some seven thousand men and at 
 Thame and elsewhere boldly proclaimed Mary to be the 
 rightful queen. A few days later he and his Oxfordshire 
 men accompanied the daughter of Catherine of Arragon 
 in her triumphal progress into London, and his royal 
 mistress recognized his fidelity by making him a peer 
 of the realm. It was to him that Queen Mary entrusted 
 
 13 
 
I92 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 the princess Elizabeth when she sent her as a prisoner 
 from the Tower to the royal bowers of Woodstock. At 
 that time the life of the future Virgin Queen was dark 
 and doubtful. Only by the barest chance did she escape 
 execution in the Tower; and when the tidings came 
 that she should be separated from her servants and go 
 to Woodstock, she considered herself in great peril and 
 was filled with mournful dread. But Lord Williams, 
 while he fulfilled his trust with honesty to his sov- 
 ereign, showed unusual kindness to Elizabeth. Possibly 
 he remembered the beautiful and witty Anne Boleyn, 
 and was moved to pity by the wrongs and sorrows of 
 the comely daughter of his old king. When asked 
 if treachery were purposed, he sturdily exclaimed, 
 " Marry, God forbid that any such wickedness should 
 be intended ! which rather than it should be wrought, I 
 and my men will die at her feet." When in their prog- 
 ress they reached his house at Rycote, he gave her a 
 princely and hospitable entertainment, treating her, in 
 the presence of a noble company of knights and ladies, 
 with the honor due to her exalted rank. Free was the 
 mirth and loud was the song that night — May 22, 1554. 
 The lord of Rycote had converted the old manor-house 
 into domestic offices, and close by had built a large and 
 glorious mansion — verily, a palace. In hall and in 
 kitchen boundless hospitality was displayed. The 
 drooping spirits of the princess revived; and when 
 some one warned the generous host of the possible con- 
 sequences of his thus acting toward the queen's prison- 
 er, he warmly replied " that, let what would befall, Her 
 Grace might and should be merry in his house." 
 Nothing remains of the noble house at Rycote; the 
 
THAME. 
 
 193 
 
 male line also ceased in the lord lying in the alabaster 
 tomb ; and whether the zealous and loyal man at the last 
 softened toward the professors of the new faith I know 
 not — only, in 1559, when dying, he sent for the godly 
 John Jewel, lately returned from exile, to visit him. 
 
 In the chancel are other tombs — among them, partly 
 let into a recess in the wall, one to Sir John Clerke, 
 dated 1539. There is also a brass to Edward Harriss, 
 1597, and high up, hanging from the wall, is the helmet 
 of one of the Clerkes, with vizor and all complete. 
 Visitors are told it is the one which Sir John Clerke 
 wore in the ancient wars — an indefinite statement, but 
 perhaps referring to the Battle of the Spurs. In the 
 chapels are also tombs of great age and interest. In 
 that on the north side is one, altar-shaped, to Sir 
 John Dormer. On the top is a brass of himself and 
 his two wives, and at their feet are brasses, arranged 
 in three groups — one of which has been stolen — of his 
 twenty-five children. It is of the year 1502. In the 
 south are even greater attractions. In one corner, high 
 up in the wall, is carved a full-length figure of an 
 ecclesiastic. It may possibly represent a bishop, but 
 whether originally built in the wall or removed from 
 some position in the floor I do not know. The robes, 
 the features and the hands clasping a book to the breast 
 are plain, though the stone is much worn and of great 
 age. There is an aumbry underneath it, implying the 
 former existence of an altar close by. Probably the 
 tomb to the Quartermains, dated 1400, stands upon the 
 site of this altar, if, indeed, the tomb may not have been 
 used as the altar itself. The figures on this tomb are in 
 good preservation. On the brass around the edge of the 
 
194 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 marble slab may be read the piteous appeal to the visitor 
 of his charity to say a Paternoster for the repose of the 
 souls of those who lie beneath. Near by is a similar 
 tomb to the Greys, but some vandal long ago stole the 
 best part of the brasses, and the date is therefore un- 
 certain. 
 
 As one looks upon these monuments of men who 
 lived their life centuries since, one realizes more than 
 ever the strangeness of time. They once frequented 
 this sacred building ; they were the great men of the 
 neighborhood — worthy, let us hope, of the distinction — 
 and to their dependants, whose names are forgotten and 
 whose dust has long since mingled with common earth, 
 kind and forbearing. With hawk on their fist and hound 
 at their feet or clad in coat of mail and armed with sword 
 and lance, they came to worship that God who is the 
 Father of us all. List to the lordly walk along the 
 echoing aisle, and think of the life and power, the proud 
 authority and noble dignity, which are manifest in every 
 step ! They once saw these same walls, rejoiced in this 
 same sun and felt these same emotions ; now they lie in 
 mouldering dust, and the immortality in sculptured 
 tomb and charitable bequest which they had fondly 
 hoped would have been theirs is fast passing away. The 
 idle tourist reads their names, the greedy poor receive 
 their doles, but without interest in them, and even the 
 congregation worshipping beside them and in the sanctu- 
 ary which some of them may have helped to build or to 
 beautify forgets them in its prayers, or, if it chance to 
 think of them, regards a petition offered up to God on 
 their behalf as superstitious and vain. Yet once masses 
 were offered up and prayers were said at these altar- 
 
THAME. 
 
 195 
 
 tombs, and, rightly or wrongly, people sought to realize 
 the communion of saints as unbroken by death. 
 
 It is worthy of remark that in old time epitaphs rarely 
 — possibly, never — referred to the moral qualities of the 
 deceased in any but a deprecatory way. Generally 
 speaking, the name and the titles only are given ; some- 
 times the words are added, " miserable sinner." It was 
 left to the last century to indulge in rhapsodies such as 
 the following. This paragon of perfection, by name 
 Robert Crews, died in January, 173 1, at the age of sixty 
 years : 
 
 " He was an Humble, Obsequious Son, 
 A Tender, Affectionate Brother, 
 A Peaceable, Benevolent Neighbour, 
 He kept up the good old Hospitality, 
 His Liberal Table was spread to ye Hungry, 
 His purse open to the Necessitous, 
 Generous without Affectation, 
 Just in His actions and Sincere to His Friend, 
 A Pattern of Patience, Humility, 
 Charity, Good Nature and Peace." 
 
 Look up into the lofty clerestory and observe the well- 
 preserved and admirably-carved figures ; the sculptured 
 stone speaks of many things. In the nave first comes 
 one placed over the pulpit, as if looking to see that the 
 people are giving all attention, and opposite to it is one 
 with hands crossed on the breast, as if accepting the 
 truth and resigning the soul to it. Then come a crowned 
 king on one side and a mitred bishop on the other ; then 
 an angel with clasped hands in prayer, opposite to one 
 with open hands in benediction ; afterward another king 
 and bishop as before, and next to these an angel playing 
 a harp, and on the other side an angel playing with 
 
I96 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 cymbals. In the west-end corners are, on the south 
 side, an angel holding a pen in hand, as though to re- 
 cord the shortcomings of the congregation, and on the 
 north side another angel, pointing to an open book — 
 perhaps the Book in which is written the way of life 
 and forgiveness. In the south aisles are also heads, 
 much worn and some almost gone, but there is one de- 
 noting Mirth and another Sorrow. Doubtless Age and 
 Youth, Wisdom and Folly, were also depicted. Many 
 of these figures look down upon the worshippers, and 
 here as elsewhere it must have been something, in an 
 age of art and faith, for the people to look up from their 
 devotions and behold these faces, so full of meaning and 
 expression. Surely they were unto them as messengers 
 from the King ! By the side of the door, in the old 
 stone porch, are also heads, now barely decipherable, 
 but no doubt once full of the expression of welcome to 
 the incoming worshippers. There are also some at the 
 great windows — angels peeping out of God's blessed 
 sanctuary to watch over the loved ones who sleep in the 
 still yard outside. Nor is the interior alone in this re- 
 spect. On the high northern wall of the nave, looking 
 toward the north-west, is a figure in splendid preserva- 
 tion. It is gazing skyward eagerly and expectantly, 
 with every feature of the face marked with sweet and 
 longing expression. Possibly it may denote the desire 
 for the Divine Presence to abide with the brethren who 
 in past days lived in the religious house in that direc- 
 tion, or, as possibly, the looking for the procession 
 wending its way therefrom to the holy sanctuary. As 
 the warm rays of the July afternoon sun lighted upon it, 
 it seemed in its grace and loveliness to breathe forth 
 
THAME. I97 
 
 a benediction over churchyard, tree-tops and river- 
 meadow, even such as angels breathe when from the 
 battlemented walls of the Golden City they look, down 
 upon the distant plains of earth. There are also huge 
 grotesque faces — evil spirits fleeing from the presence of 
 the Lord, utilized by the old builders for waterspouts, 
 belching out of their gaping mouths the floods of ill, 
 and in two or three instances used by the sparrows in 
 which to build their nests. A sundial has the signif- 
 icant word " Jerusalem " across its face. 
 
 The associations of the place sacred both by time and 
 by purpose must needs be many. It is a privilege to 
 walk where holy feet have trod, and to look upon 
 things which once met the gaze of those who have long 
 since been with God. The church is the centre of a 
 town's history. Here generation after generation met 
 and worshipped. In life they worked together ; in death 
 they lie side by side. From the font to the grave each 
 walked the same path, knew the other's hopes and 
 sorrows, had a common interest in the things around 
 him. The house of God was the home of all, and rich 
 and poor met together because the Lord was their 
 Maker. Before the church porch they gathered as the 
 bells chimed for service and talked over the events of 
 the past week; within, they listened to the words that 
 should make them wise for ever. What a blank in the 
 old life there would have been without the church, itself 
 the symbol, the witness, of unity — the shrine to which 
 the many feet wended their way ! Time seems nothing 
 amid such surroundings ; the past melts into the present, 
 the mists of ages lift, and the eye beholds armored 
 knights, cowled monks, buskined yeomen, foresters, 
 
I98 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 artisans, laborers and men-at-arms as in the bygone 
 days they thronged these consecrated walls. There were 
 old men and women bent and gray with years ; stalwart, 
 hearty folk of middle life ; lovers young and hopeful — 
 my brave Harry and my rosy-cheeked Margery; and 
 boys and girls, thoughtful, mischievous, playful, good 
 and bad — just as we see them now. As I stand before 
 the eastern window and the great bell in the tower ut- 
 ters its slow and heavy toll, heralding some one to the 
 grave prepared beyond the lime trees, I think, though 
 dissimilar in outward things, yet in essentials how alike 
 the ages are ! There are few nobler or more interesting 
 buildings than that old church of Thame. 
 
 Under the southern wall is the tomb of a good and 
 holy man who some years since was vicar of this parish. 
 Ere long the inscription thereon will be obliterated, for 
 in this English atmosphere stones speedily become dark- 
 ened and lichen-covered, and the new appears as the 
 old. As we pass from the church down the narrow lane 
 which leads into the High street of the town we may re- 
 call the kindly clergyman whose memory is dear to 
 many of his former parishioners. This building on the 
 left hand is the grammar-school. It was founded and 
 the house built in the year 1569, and might have been 
 as great as Eton or Harrow had the Fates been in its 
 favor. The endowment is considerable, and a quarter of 
 a century since the school had four or five masters and 
 one scholar. Some of the masters were very good 
 cricketers, and, as the mind of their solitary pupil was 
 like unto a narrow-necked bottle, they could not occupy 
 their time in forcing into him the wine of wisdom or the 
 syrup of knowledge. While all, therefore, received their 
 
THAME. 1 99 
 
 allotted stipends, one did the duty. The ecclesiastical 
 commissioners made a change in this happy state of af- 
 fairs, and now many of the townsmen avail themselves 
 of Lord Williams's foundation. This was the Lord Wil- 
 liams already spoken of, and it is not unworthy the at- 
 tention of those who profit by his beneficence that he by 
 no means approved of the views which for three cen- 
 turies have been taught in his school. His money has 
 gone to make men after the pattern of those whom he 
 helped to burn at Oxford. Peace to his soul, that is his 
 punishment. And the good vicar, the Rev. Mr. Prosser, 
 whose name I write with a tender reverence, was one 
 who through a long and faithful ministry stood up man- 
 fully for the Protestant character of the Church of Eng- 
 land. It would not have daunted him if Lord Williams 
 had come out of his marble tomb with a score of his 
 men-at-arms and haled him to prison ; he was ready to 
 die as Cranmer had done. Not that he was a bitter con- 
 troversialist. He sought to soften men's hearts with the 
 doctrines of Christ rather than to inflame them with the 
 passions of party. It was more by his gentle, loving 
 example, his kind words and peaceful counsels, than by 
 violent denunciations or pessimistic utterances, that he 
 won souls. Yes; were those old timbered houses on 
 the other side of the Atlantic, there would be a sign 
 giving particulars concerning them. He visited his 
 people and discharged his duties with a fidelity akin to 
 that of Chaucer's Poor Parson, and among those in para- 
 dise are doubtless many who throughout eternity shall 
 rise up and call him blessed. I see him now, with his 
 hand on a little curly-head, teaching the boy the words, 
 " God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten 
 
200 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 Son." When the text is learned, the lad will be richer 
 by sixpence and will have a lesson to remember for life. 
 The wants and the cares of his flock were his own. To 
 the troubled he gave sympathy ; to the needy, alms. It 
 was rumored among the Baptists — who were of a kind 
 known as Particular — that he believed in doctrines of 
 grace, and would have preached them only he was afraid 
 of being sent to prison by his bishop. Other dissenters 
 in the town, however, used to say he had too much 
 sense to believe anything of the sort, and the only fault 
 they had with him was that he preached with a manu- 
 script and took tithes. The tithes were as small as the 
 sermons were long, so that his income was not to be 
 compared with his outlay. Dear old man ! in the sim- 
 plicity and goodness of his heart he would have preached 
 the whole of the longest day in the year if thereby he 
 could have saved one poor child out of heresy and 
 schism. He has gone to his rest, and the church is as 
 he left it, and it will be some time yet before Lord Wil- 
 liams will turn over in his tomb to the Introibo of the 
 Mass or to the majesty of the Gregorian tone. 
 
 The High street is very still this warm day, and, in- 
 deed, except when the market is being held, it is seldom 
 otherwise. There are some old houses, but not many 
 of great age. The inns look respectable and clean, and 
 thrive as much upon village visitors as upon the towns- 
 people themselves. The best hostel in the place has the 
 Transatlantic cognomen of the " Spread Eagle," but the 
 sign looks as though it were painted some time before 
 Christopher of famous memory turned his vessel's prow 
 toward the Western strand. They who desire English 
 cheer good and solid, native-grown mutton and deep 
 
THAME. 201 
 
 foaming ale, can have it here. The mahogany under- 
 neath which the traveller will rest his wearied legs is 
 massive and suggestive of club dinners. The guests all 
 sit down to the one table and eat and drink in silence ; 
 John likes to do one thing at a time : " Shall I not take 
 mine ease in mine inn ?" An hour and a half at the 
 Spread Eagle will make a man happy as a king and su- 
 premely indifferent to earthquakes, taxes, gnats, news- 
 papers and policemen. There are some shops — grocers, 
 drapers, haberdashers, stationers, and the like — but the 
 front door rings a bell when it is opened, so as to bring 
 the elsewhere-occupied shopman to the counter. This 
 suggests small custom. The chapels belong to some of 
 the moderately-thriving tradesmen, who attend and con- 
 trol them until they themselves have gained a higher so- 
 cial position, and then they go to the parish church. 
 
 Up an intricate back lane was once the meeting-house 
 of the Baptists — a highly-respectable folk, but, like the 
 conies, feeble and abiding in retired places. It was not 
 necessarily choice which drove dissenters to build their 
 chapels in such out-of-sight holes and corners, but the 
 unfortunate exigences of circumstances. No one would 
 imagine there was any such place up this long, winding 
 alley. Before an adverse force could get to the trem- 
 bling worshippers warning could be given thern, and 
 they could scatter themselves in the neighboring gar- 
 dens and back yards. The house was a square one, 
 strongly built, with its roof shaped like a pyramid. 
 Inside, it had a gallery at one end and at the other a 
 pulpit near the ceiling. High pews, stiff and bare, typi- 
 cal of the stern religious convictions of the congrega- 
 tion, filled the building. There was no musical instru- 
 
202 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 ment, not even a tuning-fork, and the hymns — very long 
 and very tedious — were given out and sung two lines at 
 a time. An old farmer fervent in piety and simple in 
 taste for many years ministered to the flock. He needed 
 no paper and no preparation for his sermons : all he did 
 was to stand the big Bible up on its back and let it fall 
 open at any place by chance ; then the first passage his 
 eye lighted on became his text, and he went on for up- 
 ward of an hour and a quarter. Frequently he spoke to 
 edification ; and when he had exhausted the wiles of the 
 devil and the wickedness of the world, he had always 
 the enormities of the Church of England to fall back 
 upon. It is probable that he thanked God every day of 
 his life that Providence had created the Church for 
 his special benefit. Certainly, had it not existed he 
 would have been without a subject two-thirds of his 
 time — unless, to be sure, Satan had manifested himself 
 in some similar ecclesiastical form. The farmer-preacher 
 was popular with his people. The only time their affec- 
 tion for him was shaken was when an aged sister saw 
 him speaking in the street to that man of evil the parish 
 curate. He seemed to be on good terms with him — a 
 thing bordering dangerously upon the unpardonable sin 
 and not to be endured for a day. But when the anxious 
 flock knew that their pastor was only cross-examining 
 the curate on the idolatrous and profane doctrine of bap- 
 tismal regeneration with a view to exposing and refuting 
 that abominable belief, they were satisfied and compla- 
 cently quoted one to another, " Wise as serpents !" The 
 trouble which seemed to weigh most with the good old 
 man was the apparent oblivion in which the vicar sank 
 him. No matter how much he spoke against the Church, 
 
THAME. 203 
 
 the Church went on as though he were not. This was 
 provoking, of course, for there is little satisfaction in 
 knocking about a man who will not strike back. At 
 last the congregation decided to leave the house where 
 it had met for upward of a century, if not for two cen- 
 turies, and to build a chapel in the light of the sun and 
 the town. It stands farther up the main street, and from 
 the day it was first occupied to this the members have 
 been unhappy. They were better off in the old place. 
 They tried to bury their past; they did, indeed, bury 
 their ancient pastor, and they have grieved over the 
 grave and quarrelled over the will ever since. 
 
 I remember attending a service in the old chapel many 
 years ago. It was in May, when the apple trees in a 
 garden close by, seen from the gallery, were in bloom. 
 The building was filled in every part ; some, indeed, oc- 
 cupied the pulpit with the preacher. A stranger deliv- 
 ered a special sermon, but the occasion I have forgotten. 
 He had a clear, earnest voice, an impassioned delivery, 
 and, though evidently uncultured, was well read in the 
 Scriptures and in the Christian experience. It was late 
 in the afternoon, and the long, low sunlight swept across 
 the still and intensely attracted congregation, a strange, 
 soft weirdness making one realize mysterious things. 
 The text was from Habakkuk : " God came from Teman, 
 and the Holy One from mount Paran. Selah. His 
 glory covered the heavens, and the earth was full of his 
 praise." The Divine Presence was not only described : 
 it was felt. As the preacher went on with graphic force 
 to speak of the glory and the praise the people were 
 wrapped in silence and emotion. There was no stir, no 
 restlessness; no one seemed to breathe. The shadows 
 
204 THE HE ART 0F MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 lengthened, the sunlight died away, gloom stole over the 
 land, but the people listened on and looked upon the 
 streaming glory from Teman and the dazzling radiance 
 from Paran. Then the preacher sat down, but the still- 
 ness was unbroken. In awe and wonder people waited 
 in the gloaming, as if expecting to see the darkness pass 
 away and God appear. The spell was relieved by some 
 one beginning the " Praise God, from whom all blessings 
 flow," and instantly the large assembly rose to its feet 
 and sang aloud. How the old building echoed with the 
 sound of many voices ! And all went away feeling that 
 for once — perhaps only for once in this life — they had 
 seen the glories of the land beyond the silent stars. 
 
 Stand with me for a few minutes in the shade near this 
 pond in the street, and before we take ourselves to the 
 station let me present to you two or three more of the 
 old inhabitants of the town. 
 
 This stout ancient gentleman in the knee-breeches and 
 broad-brimmed hat standing at the corner of East street 
 and High is one of the honored and honorable members 
 of the community. He is a Quaker, and through his 
 long and useful life has been both an ornament to his 
 society and a benefit to his fellow-men. The only weak- 
 ness known to the public of which he has been guilty is 
 writing what he is pleased to call poetry ; but in this he 
 is not singular. A neighbor and tenant of his, a sawyer 
 by trade and a dog-fancier by way of amusement, is fond 
 of writing obituary and satirical lines. Whenever any 
 one of consequence in the neighborhood dies, or when- 
 ever the zeal of the Wesleyans — against whom he has a 
 violent antipathy — breaks out in extraordinarily volcan- 
 ic-like fervor, good John Potter leaves his log which he 
 
THAME. • 205 
 
 is sawing and, accompanied by two or three of his favor- 
 ite dogs, goes to the " Cross Keys," there at the corner, 
 and with mine host Howlett's strong ale soon reaches a 
 stage of spirituous and poetic exhilaration. A few hours 
 later, in his back parlor, redolent with divers aromas — 
 for his wife makes ginger beer and takes in dyeing and 
 is as fond of cats and jackdaws as he is of dogs — the 
 worthy disciple of the Muses may be found driving his 
 quill, scratching his head, swearing at the world in gen- 
 eral and at the partner of his joys in particular, sipping 
 his potion of porter qualified with an unknown quantity 
 of Scotch of unknown strength, and thus evolving slowly 
 and painfully stanzas, rhymes and fantasies which shall 
 be the wonder of the world when the world has nothing 
 else to do but read them. Fortunately, a policeman 
 lodges a few doors away, and the poet's wife and that 
 guardian of the peace take John off to bed before any 
 serious damage is done. The next morning both the au- 
 thor and the poem are ready — the one for the saw-pit and 
 the other for the press ; and when the latter has done its 
 work, a copy is sent with Mr. John Potter's compliments 
 to our good friend the Quaker. It has been said — but 
 neither you nor I can believe it as we look into his calm, 
 honest face as he stands there looking up into the poplar 
 trees to see which way the wind is blowing — that the 
 Quaker snorts and fumes and exhibits emotions of a dan- 
 gerous tendency when he receives and reads his neigh- 
 bor's effusions. He has even been charged with throw- 
 ing the copy behind the fire, and then, being uncertain as 
 to some line but faintly remembered, and his curiosity 
 growing greater as his memory grows less, has sent to 
 ask Mr. Potter to do him the favor of giving him an- 
 
206 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 other copy. The sawyer-poet is flattered and delighted : 
 his rival is doubtless impressed ; he has pleasure too ex- 
 tensive to be set forth in an ordinary foolscap sheet of 
 paper in acceding to his request. A few days later, and 
 within an envelope John finds the copy with emendations 
 and criticisms crushing and severe, and a request that he 
 will pay up the five weeks' arrears of rent without fur- 
 ther delay — even more crushing and severe. But John 
 is not vanquished. The poem is dedicated to some local 
 patron ; and when it is presented, John receives a guinea 
 — perhaps two guineas, for the gentry are careful to 
 encourage incipient genius and do not wish to have the 
 misfortunes of Goldsmith or the tragedy of Chatterton 
 repeated — and armed with that John calls upon his land- 
 lord, gives him a piece of his mind and pays his rent in 
 full. 
 
 Our Quaker, however, is not harsh, though his treat- 
 ment of his brother-genius may seem so. He is kind to 
 his tenants ; and when they bring their rent he gives 
 each of the children an apple or a dose of camphor and 
 nitre. The latter is in cases where he thinks medicine 
 is needed, and it is always taken, because he is a great 
 man and a wise man. He also lends books to the good 
 boys of the neighborhood. He quarrels with no one, 
 and, as he and his wife are the only Quakers in the town, 
 his dining-room does for a place of worship ; and some 
 evilly- and carnally-minded folks have said that the two 
 Friends have sat there in silence the whole of a Sunday 
 afternoon, not uttering a word and only bobbing their 
 heads at each other. Be this as it may, he always pays 
 his tithe and treats the parson with respect. 
 
 The old man is charitably disposed. As he comes 
 
THAME. 207 
 
 down the street toward us he stops to speak to that 
 woman who in sun-bonnet and shabby black dress is 
 going in the opposite direction. She keeps a bakery not 
 far from here, is a Baptist, and looks upon Quakers and 
 people of that stamp as self-righteous Pharisees and not 
 much better than ignorant and worldly churchmen. But 
 she has a son who has brought her trouble — woeful trou- 
 ble not to be spoken about — and were we nearer we 
 should hear the kindly Friend's customary greeting : " Is 
 thee well to-day ?" See ! without waiting for a reply he 
 slips a gold coin into her hand and passes on. She 
 looks at it ; a tear comes into her eye ; a vision of hope 
 passes before her ; and she lifts up her heart to God that 
 he will bring that man into the truth, save him from his 
 legalism and will-worship and make him an heir of 
 glory. 
 
 Farther on, nearly opposite where we are standing, is 
 the barber's shop. Mr. Simon is a tailor by trade and 
 a Methodist by profession. His shaving and haircutting 
 is an extra accomplishment, done because there is no 
 one else at this end of the town competent to reduce 
 stubbly beards or to make a feather-lock on a boy's 
 crown. He is a deliberate man : he walks, eats, talks, 
 snuffs, snips his scissors, sneezes, in a deliberate way. 
 When he is serious, as at prayer-meetings or when shav- 
 ing some unknown stranger, he is very deliberate. He 
 has frequently prayed down two inches of tallow candle, 
 and not a few of the brethren have wished that Brother 
 Simon's piety would run a little faster and his devotions 
 keep within one snuffing of the candle ; but the sisters 
 think him exactly and edifyingly right. When engaged 
 in controversy, as is often the case, he is somewhat of 
 14 
 
208 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 Sir Roger de Coverley's turn of mind, and thinks there 
 is much to be said on both sides of the question. On 
 only two things are he and the principal man in the Bap- 
 tist chapel fully agreed — first, that the Church is a nest- 
 bed of popery and wickedness ; and secondly, that the 
 parson and the Quaker are good men, but not after God's 
 own heart. The Baptist man is a butcher, and they deal 
 with each other, but they have never prayed together 
 for Church, parson or Quaker, because the one is doubt- 
 ful if the other has true saving knowledge, after all. 
 How a man can say he loves God and not take to elec- 
 tion and immersion is the problem on the one side, and 
 how he could love God and take to them is the problem 
 on the other. They have discussed the question over 
 and over again, but without any further result than mak- 
 ing the tailor-barber threaten to buy no beef from the 
 butcher, and the butcher declare that he will neither 
 send his cloth to the tailor-barber nor come himself to 
 have his hair cut. But the breeze passes over, and each 
 generously forgives the other ; only, when the Baptist 
 remarks that he will pray for his erring brother that he 
 may see the light, Brother Simon replies more deliber- 
 ately and freezingly than ever, " I rather think you had 
 better pray for yourself." 
 
 Now, if there was any person in Thame or in the re- 
 gion round about of whom Brother Simon had a com- 
 plete and wholesome dread, it was the district visitor. 
 When she died, he said " Thank God !" with a full and 
 grateful heart. She was an indefatigable lady of middle 
 life, full of zeal and discretion and a loyal and patriotic 
 churchwoman. Within her part of the town she visited 
 every house regularly once a fortnight. She knew noth- 
 
THAME. 209 
 
 ing about dissenters and honestly refused to recognize 
 them. Were they not all English people ? and therefore 
 did they not all belong to the Church of the English 
 people? So she visited Wesleyans, and nursed sick 
 Baptists, and gave presents to Independent boys and 
 girls, and lent money to everybody, irrespective of sect 
 or denomination. Her influence was, therefore, very 
 great, and, though she would no more think of going 
 into the Baptist meeting-house than she would of going 
 into the Red Lion bowling-alley, she was much beloved 
 by every one. Even the Quaker approved of her, and, 
 being somewhat of a genealogist and antiquary, thought 
 of trying to ascertain if she were not a descendant or a 
 relative of a good Quaker family ; but when he intimated 
 this to her and she warmly repudiated the possibility, he 
 gave up the idea. Only Brother Simon could not endure 
 her. When she called, he treated her with scant cour- 
 tesy, and the tract which she left he carefully stuck high 
 up behind the looking-glass, so that no one might see it 
 and she might have it unread when she called again. 
 She had a strong objection to those personal appeals 
 which at one time were characteristic of Wesleyans, and 
 she told our friend that she thought such very rude and 
 vulgar — that, as at a table no polite host would press 
 his guest to take that for which he did not care and had 
 declined, so no minister having self-respect would force 
 upon people that which they did not desire. Religion, 
 she added, was not like medicine, to be given as mothers 
 give children castor-oil — with a spoon and a rod. But 
 as Brother Simon had never in his life dined with a gen- 
 tleman and was in the habit, when he had a guest at his 
 table, of making him eat as much as he would hold, 
 
210 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 after the manner of the plebeian English, he did not see 
 the force of the objection ; and, as for castor-oil, he al- 
 ways gave it to his children with black-currant jam. The 
 district visitor was doubtless without the light. She was 
 lost in the Church ; poor soul ! she was gone. He had 
 heard of two or three young men who had been very 
 near the Lord's vineyard led off by her persuasion to 
 attend the Litany service at the parish church on Sun- 
 day afternoons, and of no less than seven girl-probation- 
 ers who had gone one after another to be bishoped. It 
 was an outrage, and he gave it out as his deliberate and 
 conclusive judgment : " That lady's a proselytizer ; I say 
 it knowingly, and I say it dee-leeburatelee. As sure as 
 her dress has flounces and her hair is done up in curls, 
 her soul has all the phalacteries of Pharisaism and her 
 mind has all the crookedness of the kingdom of Satan." 
 The sun is fast dropping behind the trees, and soon 
 the train for Oxford will be due. This street on the left 
 is the highway to London. The stage-coach rolled 
 along that road less than thirty years since, and there 
 was a something sweeter than the whistle of an engine 
 in the winding notes of the postboy's horn. How 
 cheerily it sounded in the clear, frosty air ! Letters and 
 strangers from great London far away! Well, forty- 
 four miles was a long distance in those days, and the 
 man who had been there was thought something of a 
 traveller. The pound of real gunpowder tea, at fourpence 
 or sixpence an ounce, which he brought back lasted a 
 long time and was considered a luxury proper only for 
 sick folks and for Christmas. Taken with milk, it was 
 good ; with the least drop of brandy, excellent. There 
 are birds' nests in the hedges on that road, and a mile 
 
THAME. 2 1 1 
 
 or so from here a footpath leading down to the river, 
 where perch and pike abound. I know a good soul — 
 even such a one as Izaak himself — who has drawn 
 many a wriggling eel and weighty jack out of that water, 
 a man whose heart at the sight of rod and line leaps as 
 the trout to the fly on a summer day. There are no 
 game laws relating to fish, only the question of trespass- 
 ing on the land ; but it is not every one who has the 
 skill to profit by free access to the river. The fish in 
 these old streams are cunning and wary and up to most 
 devices of the angler. Among the flags and the rushes 
 on the banks are frogs such as the sharks of the fresh 
 water love, and under the willow-bark are grubs and 
 caddis which are as irresistible to a carp or a chub as he 
 is himself to a finny or a human epicure. In the late 
 afternoon you may often see some one with rod and 
 wicker basket turning up this street, bent for that same 
 quiet stream. 
 
 This Park street, through which we pass to the rail- 
 way-station, was a glorious place to the schoolboys 
 when hid within a November fog. Then the vision was 
 limited by the thick yellow mist, and shrill voices cried 
 their " Halloo !" and " Tally-ho !" and nimble feet ran 
 hide-and-seek. English people are tenacious and assert- 
 ive of their rights — even English boys. A funeral of a 
 little fellow was once wending its way down this street 
 to the parish church. Four schoolmates carried the 
 small coffin and the friends walked behind : hearses were 
 unknown in that part of the country. Last of all came 
 a maid and the only brother of the deceased. He was 
 crying bitterly, not only for the loss of one dear to him, 
 but also because the physician concluded that cherry 
 
212 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 turnovers were the cause of the untimely mortality, and 
 he therefore should have no more. He was very fond 
 of his brother ; he was also very fond of cherry turn- 
 overs. However, a short distance down the street, 
 another boy — one who was not invited to the funeral — 
 came up to our weeping lad and wished to walk beside 
 him. This was a privilege to which he had no right, 
 and he was instantly and decisively ordered off. He de- 
 clined to leave ; the nurse remonstrated, but the dignity 
 of the funeral was in question, and grief gave way to 
 threats and feelings of violence. That evening, in a 
 back lane, under some elder trees, two boys had a fight. 
 When the mother of one of them came with her bruised 
 and black-eyed son to the father of the other, his oppo- 
 nent exclaimed, " It was my funeral ; he had no right to 
 follow my brother or to stick himself in." 
 
 That building on the right, behind the row of laurel- 
 bushes, is the Royal British School. It is not of famous 
 reputation, nor do I know that any of its scholars have 
 reached any position of eminence. You might find some 
 of the old boys wheelwrights and policemen — possibly, 
 one a gamekeeper. Nevertheless, it was largely attend- 
 ed in days of yore, and was remarkable for two things — 
 a May-pole and a master. The former stood in the yard, 
 here on the south side. Yes, it is gone, like many an- 
 other good thing, but on the first day of the month of 
 flowers it was adorned with festive and floral glory. 
 The whole town turned out to keep May-day then, and 
 there was a May-queen, sometimes the prettiest girl in 
 the neighborhood, and sometimes, when no girl would 
 act, the prettiest boy : sex made no difference. Old 
 folks came to look on; even the Quaker, though he 
 
THAME. 213 
 
 was not sure such things were right — possibly only ex- 
 pedient, to please the youngsters. And the master ! 
 Now, it is the master of whom I wish to speak, and 
 as we walk on I will tell you about him. He took 
 part in the fun, you may be sure, and everybody 
 thought he was only a boy grown old. His accom- 
 plishments were varied. First of all, he was a Welsh- 
 man and knew how to pronounce a word with eighteen 
 consonants and only three vowels in it. Then he was a 
 musician and could sing a song and scrape a violin. 
 And lastly he was an economic and, as he was very 
 poorly paid, knew how to make a decent living out of 
 poverty. Where thrift is an object, it is well to have it 
 taught by experienced teachers. Besides these gifts, he 
 was a small man, very fond of potatoes and geography 
 — he would hoe the one and talk about the other at the 
 same time — had a wife, dabbled in local zoology, rode a 
 dandy-horse, the precursor of the bicycle, read Sir Wal- 
 ter Scott, knew a little carpentering, kept rabbits and 
 canaries and was looked upon with respect by all who 
 knew him. The masters at the grammar-school did 
 not know him, and therefore could not be expected to 
 think anything of him ; but their pupil did, and, not 
 altogether liking his solitude, used to mingle with 
 these ruder boys, and, all things considered, got a fair 
 amount of pleasure out of life. It was he who advised 
 the rubbing of the master's cane with a lemon. During 
 a mid-day recess it was done, placed in the sun to dry, 
 and in the afternoon when applied to a boy's shoulders 
 it split into fragments. It was he also who knew the 
 intricacies of tit-tat-too and how to win all the fellows' 
 taws. Nobody could make whistles out of willow-sticks 
 
214 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 as well as he, and nobody else could talk Welsh with 
 the master. The latter thought him a clever and prom- 
 ising lad and gave him many a hint concerning kidney 
 potatoes and the use of the Latin subjunctive. It was 
 rumored that they had frequently gone fishing togeth- 
 er, and some one said that their intention was some day 
 to go to New Zealand and buy a farm. That was ab- 
 surd on the face of it, for the master stopped at potatoes 
 and knew no more about fox-hunting — which is an es- 
 sential qualification to good farming — than the man who 
 was sent to the moon for gathering sticks on a Sunday. 
 — Here is the train ! Oxford ? All right. Grand old 
 place, Thame. Full of interest; church worth going 
 many a mile to see. Tired ? Warm day and a long 
 walk. Never mind; draw the blue curtain aside and 
 let the last sunbeams in. — Well, yes, the old school- 
 master is dead. He died years ago — some said studied 
 to death and some said starved to death, but there is no 
 telling. Teachers were not paid much in those days, 
 and the wonder is there were any teachers at all. Com- 
 mon people did not want their children to know more 
 than plain reading and writing and the rule of three. 
 They had been happy on less, and fine schooling was 
 not for the likes of them. Now that is all changed. 
 Education is the order of the day. Ploughboys have 
 a chance to learn Greek, and girls whose mothers 
 washed dishes at twopence an hour can embroider 
 and play the piano. It is enough to disturb even 
 Lord Williams and all the old squires at Aston Row- 
 ant. And what will be the end ? You cannot have wait 
 on you at table a fellow who knows the rudiments of 
 Sanskrit and all about conic sections, nor can you have 
 
THAME. 
 
 5 
 
 to scrub your floor or to starch your collars a womati 
 who can speak Italian and criticise Matthew Arnold. 
 When everybody knows as much as you know, what will 
 become of you ? Electricity, eh ? Nonsense ! Talk 
 about electricity after a day spent in the country and a 
 town whose only idea of a track of lightning is the trail 
 of a snail across a cabbage-leaf! In America we have 
 the negro and the Irish to do our heavy labor and the 
 Chinese to do our washing, but what have you in Eng- 
 land got ? No, the people here are dull ; we have seen 
 more to-day than half the inhabitants hereabouts have 
 seen in a lifetime. But they are going to wake up ; the 
 schools are doing wonders. If the old master were to 
 come back, he would shake his head and say, " Alas ! 
 alas! Teaching the boys political economy and the 
 girls botany ! And where is that obedience which 
 only can make boys men and girls women ?" 
 
 Oxford again. Woodstock, Chipping Norton, More- 
 ton-in-the-Marsh. A few miles' drive in the clear, 
 bright moonlight, and then we sleep amid lavender 
 and shadows. 
 

 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 £lje pilgrimage to fflanterburg. 
 
 " And specially, from every schires ende 
 Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 
 The holy blisful martir for to seeke, 
 That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke." 
 
 No loyal churchman visiting England is likely to 
 forego the pilgrimage to Canterbury. That is among 
 his first duties, and is one of his chief pleasures. There 
 is the cradle of English Christendom ; there, the throne 
 of the primate and patriarch of the Anglican communion. 
 If he seek but to gratify his love for history and art, 
 here he will revel in associations and surroundings of 
 rare and multiform nature, and in the splendor of re- 
 ligious imagination and skill will feel as Mohammed did 
 concerning Damascus : " After Canterbury, only para- 
 dise." 
 
 Our journey thitherward was made in a pleasant sun- 
 ny morning. We could not, indeed, travel in the happy, 
 leisurely way of dear old Chaucer's pilgrims, but the 
 run by rail from Charing Cross through the glorious 
 Kentish land — the country where the roses are redder 
 and the grass is greener than in any other region in the 
 kingdom — is of satisfying charm. The district is rich 
 in fertile fields, thick hedgerows, noble trees, great hop- 
 gardens and pretty towns and villages. There are sev- 
 
 216 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 2\J 
 
 eral tunnels — one two miles and a half long — within 
 the first thirty miles. The road by which mine host of 
 the Tabard led his guests is far to the north of this, and 
 it is only the lack of time which compels one to avoid 
 that long-honored highway to the shrine of the blissful 
 St. Thomas. 
 
 But this, notwithstanding, does not keep the mind 
 from Chaucer. The morning sunlight, soft and roseate, 
 falls upon the open volume of The Canterbury Tales in 
 our hand — open, but, alas ! unread. Away fly the 
 thoughts to the days when the Third Edward sat upon 
 the throne of England, and, though many things, such 
 as printing, railways, telegraphs, and sundry other in- 
 ventions, have changed the appearances and conditions 
 of life, yet one feels that nature and the inner and deeper 
 flow of human existence remain very much the same. 
 Man lives and loves the same, works, rejoices, sorrows 
 and dies the same, through all the ages ; and the mys- 
 terious and monotonous life moves steadily on through 
 the centuries and the millenniums, not so much chang- 
 ing itself as changing all around it. If there be one 
 author more than another who convinces us of this fact, 
 and in bringing us face to face with the men and the 
 women of his day and generation shows us that they 
 are of the same flesh and blood as ourselves, it is 
 Geoffrey Chaucer. There is no more graphic picture of 
 English life in the Middle Ages than that which he has 
 given us. He introduces us, indeed, to a world differing 
 widely from our own — a world in which manners and 
 customs appear strange and the charm and the power 
 of the age of faith and of chivalry are still vigorous 
 and enchanting. Much that goes to make up our mod- 
 
2l8 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 ern civilization was then unknown. Warriors wore their 
 armor and their coat of mail, and fought with bows and 
 arrows, battering-rams and lances; ships spread their 
 white sails to the winds and thought not of the days of 
 steam ; the minstrel strolled through the land from vil- 
 lage to village, from castle to castle, and told the gos- 
 sip of the court and the country, and sang his lays of 
 heroes to admiring villains, retainers, churls and gen- 
 tlemen ; and the English people lived in a great wilder- 
 ness-land with here and there roads running through the 
 mighty primaeval forests, and fens undrained, and ham- 
 lets built of wood and mud, and serfs bound to the soil, 
 and abbeys hid away in woody glens, and quaint, busy 
 towns, scattered along the river-banks or the great high- 
 ways, for ever struggling for. their rights and working 
 out the beginnings of England's urban and commercial 
 splendor. But, in spite of all the differences, Chaucer 
 teaches us that one feature changes not, and that is man. 
 His characters are such as we may see any day of our 
 life, or, to put it another way, were we transplanted to 
 that age we would be the same as they whom he de- 
 scribes. 
 
 Chaucer was born in the city of London about the 
 year 1340. His father was a wine-merchant with suf- 
 ficient wealth and influence to give his son a good edu- 
 cation and introduce him to the society of the court. 
 In his lifetime our author served in the camp, the cus- 
 tom-house and the Parliament; he tried his military 
 prowess on continental battlefields and his diplomatic 
 skill in foreign lands ; he mingled with the great and the 
 learned, the witty and the wise, of his own and of other 
 countries, and thus obtained a personal knowledge of 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 219 
 
 human nature and character. He was a large, corpulent 
 man with a small, fair and intelligent face, downcast, 
 meditative eyes and a shy and weird expression of coun- 
 tenance. Though a diligent student and somewhat her- 
 mit-like in his mode of living, yet he loved good and 
 pleasant society, enjoyed the pleasures of the festive 
 board, entered heartily with his roguish genial humor 
 and quaint fun into mirth and merrymaking, and was 
 beloved by all who knew him. As a poet he does not 
 stand beside the other princes of the art, Homer, Dante 
 and Shakespeare, but he is among the first of those who 
 come after them. Few can describe a scene or a cha- 
 racter better than he, tell a more admirable story or 
 write a truer or more melodious line of verse. " His 
 best tales " — if I may use the words of a master-critic — 
 " run on like one of our inland rivers, sometimes hasten- 
 ing a little and turning upon themselves in eddies that 
 dimple without retarding the current, sometimes loiter- 
 ing smoothly, while here and there a quiet thought, a 
 tender feeling, a pleasant image, a golden-hearted verse, 
 opens quietly as a water-lily, to float on the surface 
 without breaking it into ripple." Chaucer has little or 
 nothing to do with those fields in which Dante and Mil- 
 ton suffered their imagination to roam with such mag- 
 nificent and sublime freedom. They lift the veil that 
 hides the Unseen, and display, now to our delight and 
 now to our horror, the mysteries of the eternal past and 
 of heaven and hell. They lead the soul through dark- 
 some, gruesome avenues and fearful, awe-subduing 
 scenes full of shadows and suggestions that chill the 
 blood and distress the mind. The faithful reader of the 
 Divine Comedy and the Paradise Lost, while delighted 
 
220 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 with the glowing and finished imagery and the vast and 
 splendid creations, will remain suspicious of the truth 
 and half annoyed at the thought that the scenes before 
 him are painted upon clouds, to be driven and scattered 
 by the winds of reality. He will admit the general 
 facts, but will question the verity or the verisimilitude 
 of the poet's coloring. This is in itself a defect of art 
 perhaps inseparable from the kind of subject with which 
 Milton and Dante dealt, though the latter, being the 
 more skilful artist and the greater poet, has it less 
 marked than the former. What I mean by this is, one 
 can go with Dante through the Inferno and Paradiso 
 almost, but not entirely, thinking it to be true and real ; 
 with Milton this power to absorb and to entrance ex- 
 ists in a much less degree. But Chaucer avoids mys- 
 tery, and therefore avoids these difficulties. There is 
 not in his work — unless, possibly, it is in some of his 
 renderings of legendary or foreign stories — a single im- 
 possible character. His creations are of flesh and blood 
 —of such flesh and blood as those of Shakespeare and 
 those of our every- day life. There is no question of 
 truth or of falsehood : that does not arise ; and as an 
 illustration of this it may be noted that to this day it is 
 uncertain whether the prologue to the Canterbury Tales 
 be fact or fiction. Defoe had the faculty of presenting 
 fiction as truth — his History of the Plague and his Rob- 
 inson Crusoe are remarkable instances of this — but I 
 think, admitting the art, no one would maintain the re- 
 ality. Certainly, a company of learned men would not 
 sit down seriously to consider the fact or the invention 
 of the hero of juvenile life. Here and there the robe is 
 thrust aside and the void appears. But you may try 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 221 
 
 your best with Chaucer's prologue, apply to it every 
 canon of criticism that you like, and you will utterly fail 
 to decide that it is not true and literal. 
 
 What a group does the poet present to us in his 
 Canterbury pilgrims ! How vivid and how real they ap- 
 pear ! All sorts and conditions are there — men of war, 
 ecclesiastics, shipmen, merchants, tradesmen, servants, 
 farmers and women of both the world and the Church. 
 Their idiosyncrasies are described and an individuality 
 is imparted with true dramatic power. Once master 
 the description of any one of them, and that one for 
 ever remains distinct in the mind. No one can forget 
 Madam Eglentyne, the prioress, " that of her smiling 
 was full simple and coy," so expert in singing the 
 " service divine, entuned in her nose full seemly," so 
 gracious in her manner and learned in her language, 
 and so tender-hearted that she wept over a mouse 
 caught in a trap and fed her dogs with roasted flesh, 
 milk and bread made of the finest flour. She had a 
 long and well-proportioned nose, green eyes, a small 
 mouth and a remarkable forehead. The goodwife of 
 Bath, with her bold red face, her loud laugh and her 
 remedies for love, was a very different personage. She 
 wore sharp spurs on her feet, and, besides company in 
 her youth, had had five husbands. But what strikes 
 you is the distinctiveness of all the characters ; each 
 has a strong personality. The good parson, the 
 physician whose "study was but little on the Bible," 
 the brown-hued sailor, the merry friar, the fat monk, 
 the gentle pardoner, the choleric reeve and the brave 
 knight stand out in the company as never to be for- 
 gotten, as people whom we seem to have ourselves 
 
222 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 known and spoken to — old friends, indeed, as familiar, 
 every one of them, as Sir John Falstaff, Samuel Pick- 
 wick, Esq., and the meddlesome old gentleman of St. 
 Rowan's Well. 
 
 There is in Chaucer an absence of introspection and 
 subjectivity, so painful in many poets and so popular 
 with many people. It may seem a small thing for a man 
 to look within or without — within, upon his own self, 
 his thoughts, emotions, powers, sins, virtues, and so- 
 forth ; or without, upon the world of men and nature 
 with its multiform life ; but the result is great. Perhaps 
 the most unhealthful tendency of certain religious types 
 is this constant morbid looking within, dissecting and 
 testing feelings, analyzing conceptions of truth and mo- 
 tives of vice and virtue; it is popular, but is neither 
 soul-strengthening nor soul-developing. Its root is sel- 
 fishness. As if self were the all-important thing in the 
 universe, the most wonderful of God's creations and the 
 object of his exclusive care ! Under the plea of being 
 spiritual and having adroitly fastened the epithet " mor- 
 al " — which is supposed to imply awful and intelligent 
 depravity — upon its opponent, it spends its time in tak- 
 ing care of dear self both for time and for eternity. As 
 far as the world is concerned, it is not worth a thought, 
 and may go on to ruin and to death. When you meet 
 with one having this tendency, if you are fortunate 
 enough in having a soul otherwise constituted, you feel 
 that there is a great gulf between you. There is no 
 touch, no affinity. You have no common ground of in- 
 terest. To the one, self is but as a plumed seed drifting 
 hither and thither on the autumn winds. Hence you 
 read many writers, and you lay aside their books as 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 223 
 
 being good, indeed, but not exactly what you want ; you 
 cannot get into them. But Chaucer is not of this kind. 
 You read his lines, and you are at once face to face with 
 things that are to you real and living. 
 
 Take his patriotism. Chaucer lays the framework of 
 his Canterbury Tales in the country of his birth and his 
 love, and in doing so he makes his framework thoroughly 
 English. It is true Boccaccio had done the same with 
 his tales : they are in themselves Italian and set in an 
 Italian background ; but Boccaccio's background is re- 
 pulsive to an English mind. Florence is suffering from 
 a plague of which the author gives a most powerful and 
 ghastly description, and while the plague is devastating 
 the city, filling its homes with bitterest sorrow and its 
 streets with neglected dead, the Florentines are away in 
 a country villa amusing themselves with the recital of 
 tales, of the morality of which the least said the better. 
 Of course Boccaccio's object was artistic, and he has 
 made the contrast decided and terrible ; but I venture 
 to say that no English mind can endure a contrast so 
 great and so awful. It is like dancing on the graves of 
 the dead — like minstrelsy in the house of mourning. 
 There is a heartlessness in the whole work : its teaching 
 is heartless ; the best, perhaps the only redeeming, story 
 in the collection — that of Griselda — is a piece of heart- 
 lessness impossible except, perchance, in an Italian. 
 Boccaccio was true to his natural instincts and to his 
 age ; so was Chaucer, and, thank God ! England is not 
 Italy. Our great poet has no black canvas on which to 
 set his creations, no harrowing contrasts wherewith to 
 produce his effects. Instead of a plague-stricken city, 
 it is a pilgrimage of happy, light-hearted English people 
 15 
 
2?4 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 along a highway in the bright springtime through the 
 sweet Kentish land to the shrine of England's national 
 saint, Thomas a Becket. Twenty-nine men and women 
 met at the Tabard Inn, in Southwark, and agreed to 
 travel together to Canterbury and to beguile the journey 
 with the recital of tales of adventure or legend. It may 
 seem odd to us of the nineteenth century that such mer- 
 rymaking should associate itself with a religious under- 
 taking, but English people had not then heard, and they 
 have not learned yet, that religion is not to enter into 
 everything, and that in everything, even common things 
 such as eating and drinking, there is not a religious ele- 
 ment. They saw no incongruity between a gay journey 
 and devotion to St. Thomas of Canterbury; joy and 
 piety were both gifts of God. And note that devotion 
 to St. Thomas. Of course most of us have been taught 
 that he was a bad man, a proud, arrogant abomination — 
 not one word of which is true — but we must remember 
 that immediately after his death and for three centuries 
 he was England's popular saint. The people thronged 
 to his shrine. The cathedral of Canterbury was en- 
 riched by the oblations of the thousands who bowed 
 the knee there. Churches were dedicated to him, not 
 only in England, but even in Scotland and in distant 
 Iceland. He was the beloved martyr of the Church of 
 England — beloved in his own age and in succeeding 
 ages, till at last there arose a generation that loved the 
 patrimony of St. Thomas better than it loved his mem- 
 ory and desired rather his gold than his blessing. Since 
 then Thomas a Becket has been esteemed the vilest of 
 the vile, and the ten generations of Englishmen that 
 honored him have been considered the foolishest of the 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 225 
 
 foolish and the blindest of the blind. But Chaucer did 
 not foresee these latter days, and his faith in the national 
 saint was strong and his devotion great. He has little 
 sympathy with those who seek for foreign shrines ; the 
 " holy blisful martir " of Canterbury was enough for 
 him — a spice of contempt for everything un-English so 
 characteristic of our forefathers. 
 
 Yonder rises the cathedral high above the city around 
 it, grander than when the pilgrims beheld it five hundred 
 years ago. A feeling of laudable pride moves the soul — a 
 moment in which one thanks God that one is a member 
 of the Church which has its earthly centre in a structure 
 so magnificent and so hallowed. The traveller enters the 
 city through the west gate, built by Archbishop Simon 
 of Sudbury, and the only city gate remaining. Hence 
 he passes through St. Peter's street into High street, on 
 the left-hand side of which he will find the narrow way 
 called Mercery lane, down which the pilgrims went to 
 the cathedral. Here they bought relics and tokens of 
 St. Thomas, and some of the wealthier among them 
 found hospitality at the Chequers Inn, at the corner of 
 High street. In the present heavy, antique building 
 some parts of the ancient hostelry remain, but, alas ! in- 
 stead of silvern and leaden images of the holy martyr, 
 guide-books and baby-linen are now the staple articles 
 of merchandise. There are in this day no sounds of 
 joyous revelry, no busy throng of worshippers from all 
 parts of Christendom, no signs that this was once the 
 liveliest part of Canterbury ; all is quiet, sleepy, dull — 
 pleasantly and attractively so. Walk leisurely through 
 the narrow lane with its old overhanging houses on both 
 sides, and think of the days when thronging multitudes 
 
226 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 frequented the shrine of England's greatest saint. There, 
 at the end, is the gate, erected in the reign of Henry 
 VIII., leading into the precincts. The cathedral appears 
 in all its massive splendor — a glorious pile the vastness 
 of which can best be realized by walking around it be- 
 fore seeing the inside. The more one looks, the greater 
 and more wonderful the building becomes. It grows as 
 the minutes pass by. Gradually the fact possesses the 
 mind that in bygone ages churches were built, not for 
 convenience only, not merely for shelter against wind 
 and rain, but that they might teach great lessons and 
 hand on from generation to generation rich and prof- 
 itable associations. 
 
 Before I speak further of this sacred edifice suffer me 
 to prepare the way by imparting somewhat of the spirit 
 which loves to linger amongst the glories of the past, 
 and to see in architecture and in symbolism lessons of 
 deepest interest and greatest value. 
 
 No one contends that buildings are essential to Chris- 
 tianity. The early Christians had none; their system 
 made no provision for material temples. God was 
 everywhere, and he could be worshipped everywhere 
 — as well on the hillside, in the desert or by the ocean- 
 shore as within the deftly-covered walls and beneath the 
 ceiling of cedar in Jerusalem. They worshipped in 
 secret, in the catacombs, the caves of the earth, the 
 wilds of the forest and the little upper chamber. The 
 missionary who preached the gospel in the open air 
 presented the truth to his hearers as purely and as 
 truly as did they who spoke in the basilicas of Chris- 
 tian Rome. The twining branches of the woodland 
 trees or the blue vaulted sky itself gave him a roof as 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 22J 
 
 grand for the nonce as he could wish whose mind was 
 full of weighty truths and whose soul burned with 
 celestial fire. Upon a mound of earth or on a rough- 
 hewn stone he placed the symbol of salvation, and as 
 he pointed men to that and told them of Him who had 
 died thereon hard hearts were softened and proud knees 
 bent in penitence upon the green sward or on the dusty 
 ground. Many a soul-stirring sermon was preached 
 and many an impressive service held in Nature's own 
 grand sanctuary long before cathedral was seen in the 
 land. Even in our own day an open-air service is not 
 without its charm and power, while in cottage-rooms, 
 on board ships, in factories and plain little chapels, 
 Christianity still retains its converting, ennobling and 
 beautifying strength. You will find the begrimed 
 miner come from the gathering of two or three wor- 
 shippers in a corner of the dark mine a better and a 
 happier man; you will feel the divine afflatus in the 
 little company who by the riverside in the summer 
 evening have sought to speak one to another of the 
 mysteries and the love of God. 
 
 But, for all that, a building in which the graces and 
 the symbolic truths of architecture are displayed can- 
 not fail to produce a beneficial effect upon the soul and 
 to impart a fuller and a sublimer conception of Chris- 
 tianity. It was in the nature of things that with pros- 
 perity and influence changes should come. Art could 
 not leave untouched the most beautiful conception ever 
 given to man. So soon as Christianity drew to itself 
 the culture and the wealth of Greece and of Rome, so 
 soon the bridal-dress was placed upon the Bride of 
 Christ. Intellect, imagination and genius went to the 
 
228 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 enrichment of the religion of Jesus ; art, with the skill 
 of a heavenly enchantress, helped to bring out its beau- 
 ty and to express its thought. One cannot worship 
 within a minster where the devout and loving imagina- 
 tion has wrought its mystic poem and not be moved. 
 There is a something which steals upon the soul and 
 fills it with reverence. The very walls seem to speak ; 
 the many-colored windows and the lines of stately 
 shafts suggest thoughts of hallowed meaning. Fancy 
 fills the mighty solitude with spirits from heaven's 
 bright land, and their songs break upon the silence. 
 The magnificence and the beauty bring one into un- 
 earthly scenes and pour into the heart sweetness and 
 satisfaction akin to that which angels have. Such a 
 building is an expression of God : his glory rests upon 
 it ; his presence dwells within it. 
 
 These religious edifices — the very embodiment of 
 symbolism — are not only marvels in themselves, but 
 also wonders of the age in which they were built. 
 How they were conceived and constructed is a mys- 
 tery. Our forefathers were rough, uncouth and coarse ; 
 they were ignorant and superstitious. Their towns and 
 their villages were the haunts of misery and of distress. 
 In the narrow undrained streets pestilence lurked ; in the 
 wretched cottages discomfort reigned. Yet in that past 
 of poverty and rudeness and in those scenes of filthiness 
 and want arose these beautiful structures, grander than 
 Egyptian, Grecian or Roman temple, more artistic than 
 aught we of the nineteenth century can devise. Noth- 
 ing was left undone, no cost or labor was spared, that 
 was calculated to move the spirit of devotion or to show 
 honor to God. Earth had nothing too valuable for the 
 
THE ^PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 2 29 
 
 purpose. Princes and barons gave of the abundance of 
 their wealth ; yeomen and serfs contributed according to 
 their substance. Nor was it the mere love of display 
 that led to this magnificence; on the contrary, in a 
 rich symbolism they sought to perpetuate and to man- 
 ifest their ideal of religion. Everything had a meaning 
 and a purpose ; everything was sacred and eternal. If 
 on the outside walls of the church hideous figures were 
 carved to denote the evil spirits fleeing from the abode 
 of God's presence, inside the sweetest grace in pillar, 
 arch and tracery suggested the beauty and the majesty 
 of God's love and mercy to man. The ground-plan of 
 the building was that of a cross, reminding man of the 
 mystery of redemption, and oftentimes with a deflec- 
 tion in the lines of the walls at the east end, to denote 
 the drooping head of the Saviour in his last moments. 
 The spire pointing ever to the sky told of the unity of 
 the faith and of the appealing prayer and constancy of 
 the worshippers, while the bird of warning upon its top 
 recalled the Master's solemn charge to his people. The 
 nave by name and by form spoke of the " ark of Christ's 
 Church ;" the aisles, of the wings or the sails of the 
 same. None but men possessed of a high conception 
 of Christianity could have devised such lessons or pro- 
 duced such buildings. They must have realized some- 
 thing of the beauty of holiness, of the majesty of God, 
 of the awfulness of eternity and of the sweetness of par- 
 adise when they sought to express those truths in the 
 rough stone and the plastic clay. 
 
 And the effect of such sanctuaries upon them must 
 have been great. When they knelt within the nave or 
 walked along the aisles, they must have risen to heights 
 
230 THE HEART OF MBRRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 of devotion they could not have reached in their own 
 miserable homes. They must have felt that God was 
 very near them ; that here the angels brought comfort- 
 ing messages from the far-off land to the weary and the 
 heavy laden; that within these consecrated walls the 
 Lord Jesus was present for evermore. The light which 
 streamed through the pictured windows came to them 
 from no earthly sun, but from the throne whereon sat 
 the Everlasting Glory, its tinted hues contrasting the 
 beauty of grace with the coldness of nature. The 
 faces which looked down from lofty clerestory were 
 no figures cut in stones, but the spirits of the holy ones 
 who from the highest heaven look back to the beloved 
 friends of earth ; those upon the windows, of angel- 
 minstrels, of the King's messengers. The imagination, 
 subdued and taught by the earthly temple, read therein 
 the evangelical lessons of Christ. There was cast from 
 the chancel-screen upon the nave the shadow of the cross 
 beneath which all must pass who would enter the holy 
 place. There were the seats around the altar, recalling 
 the vision of the exile of Patmos. The orient rays rest- 
 ing upon the sacred place where in hallowed sacrament 
 lay the body of the Lord spoke of the rainbow-circled 
 throne where he sits crowned above all the kings of the 
 earth. And, while the thoughtful soul was thus exalted 
 to the higher world, there came the recollection that be- 
 neath this magnificence and glory was the silent crypt 
 into which the flesh must enter, but from which the 
 God of power shall bring back his own. These things, 
 wrought so wonderfully by art, could not fail to touch 
 even the man whose brain had devised and whose hand 
 had executed. They educated and made nobler and 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 23 1 
 
 better the mind, and taught the world that " the King's 
 daughter is all-glorious within; her clothing is of 
 wrought gold." 
 
 The devout Christian of the present day will not 
 think that buildings of this sublime character are the 
 webs which superstition weaves around the soul and 
 which time hardens into fetters of iron, but he will see 
 in them signs of mystic meaning, the fosterers of devo- 
 tion, the interpreters of doctrine, the foreshadowings of 
 heaven. They have served to mould his and his fathers' 
 religion. They have aided his imagination and strength- 
 ened his affection. They have taught him that essential 
 virtue of all religion, reverence. They have given him 
 suggestions which have helped him heavenward and led 
 him farther into the mysteries of God. The triumphs 
 of Christian architecture, the grace and the charm which 
 adorn the outer temple, must at least speak to him of 
 that integrity of purpose and that symmetry of charac- 
 ter which should beautify the heart wherein the Holy 
 Ghost is pleased to dwell. 
 
 The same magnificence and symbolism that adorned 
 the buildings extended themselves to the services. 
 Doubtless the people loved ornate display, but there 
 was a far deeper feeling than that. They may have 
 gazed with wonder and with fear upon the mystic sanc- 
 tuary where, amid the clouds of incense, white-robed 
 choir and blaze of candles, the priest, arrayed in gor- 
 geous vestments, consecrated the sacred Host, but they 
 were in hearty sympathy and doubted nothing. They 
 bowed with deepest reverence as the procession of priests 
 and monks and singers, bearing cross and banner, holy 
 relic or mysterious sacrament, passed by, reminding 
 
232 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 them of man's pilgrimage through this world. The 
 organ sent its music echoing through the aisles, now in 
 subdued strains of hushed supplication, now in thunder- 
 ing peals of glad praise, and with hallowed chant and 
 well-sung anthem moved and softened the roughest 
 nature and made the weary heart long to sing its 
 song and mingle its voice with the great multitude 
 above. Nor were these services rare things : they 
 came daily, and many times a day. The churches were 
 ever open, the lamp before the altar was ever burning. 
 At no time, day or night, was silent the voice of prayer 
 for the Church's safety, the nation's welfare, the pres- 
 ervation of travellers, the conversion of the heathen 
 or the everlasting rest of the departed. In the monas- 
 teries the twenty-four hours were one round of devotion. 
 Lauds, prime, tierce, sext, nones and compline were sung 
 in every religious house in the land. At daybreak ma- 
 tins, at sunset evensong, brought rough hind and belted 
 knight, rustic maiden and high-born lady, to their beads 
 and their meditation. Ever and anon there broke upon 
 the air the sweet melody of the murmuring chimes, tell- 
 ing of joy and gladness, or perchance the heavy, sad tone 
 of the passing-bell, speaking of mortality and of the duty 
 to pray for the dying. And even now, in these days of 
 hurry and faithlessness, a sweet restfulness and a gentle 
 awe steal upon us when, with the door closed upon the 
 outer world, we stand within the ancient sanctuary. A 
 holy peace falls upon the soul, the Divine Presence is 
 felt, the knee bends and the heart in joyous emotion 
 pours itself out to Him whom we may have sought in 
 the world in fields and in gardens, but have found only 
 in his temple. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 2$$ 
 
 Perhaps the highest inspiration which an edifice full 
 of beauty and luxuriant in symbolic art can give is to be 
 had in the calm, moonlit eventide. As the pale beams 
 fall upon its walls, shading the outline of tower, pinna- 
 cle, nave and chancel and dimly realizing the tracery of 
 the windows, the carved gargoyles and the arched door- 
 way, the imagination sits upon Fancy's throne and be- 
 gins its happy revellings. There are suggestions that 
 the soul loves to encourage, thoughts that come to one 
 like dreamy music in the gloaming. The silence of the 
 place reminds one of the mysterious stillness into which 
 all things living must enter. Not now, as in earlier hours, 
 does the sound of chanting voices fall upon the ear like 
 the roll of wave-floods on the beach ; no brightness 
 flows in streams of liquid beauty through the antique 
 windows ; no sign is there of the great world, so noisy 
 in its bustle, so troubled in its life. There comes no 
 melody of murmuring chimes, telling of joy and glad- 
 ness, and no sad tone of passing-bell, speaking of mor- 
 tality and of the duty to pray for the dying. The scene 
 is impressively unearthly. In the deep shadows min- 
 gling with the soft light you see the mysteries which are 
 ever and anon thrown across the gospel-page — mysteries 
 which we cannot fathom, and would not if we could. 
 As you turn away you realize the grace and the power 
 of the system which demands such a tribute of beauty, 
 you gain an insight into the spirit of symbolism, and 
 more than ever the fact of religion and the ideal of 
 Christianity impress themselves upon you. 
 
 Nor are the associations of Christian buildings less 
 calculated to deepen and to strengthen the religious 
 spirit. The comparative changelessness of the building 
 
234 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 helps to this end. While things around are passing 
 away, while generation follows generation and the sea- 
 sons run their courses, these sacred walls remind us of 
 the permanence and the stability of religion. Sunday 
 after Sunday, year after year, the eye rests upon the 
 same hallowed surroundings and the beating heart is 
 hushed in the same solemn stillness. Here worshipped 
 others of our race — men and women who have long 
 since passed into the Eternal Presence. Here hymn was 
 sung and prayer offered long, long ago, as to-day. Here, 
 now as then, the echoes of the gospel die amid the 
 sweeping arches and within the dark bosom of the 
 groined roof. It is the same as ever. And in olden 
 time, when the dead were laid to rest, sometimes within 
 the consecrated building, sometimes in the yard around 
 it, and sculptured monuments and jewelled shrines com- 
 memorated departed worth and grandeur, there was that 
 which brought home very closely the fact of mortality 
 and the doctrine of the communion of saints. They who 
 lay in the fast-closed vaults or in the green-clad graves 
 were the links which bound not only the present to the 
 past, but also earth to heaven. The rudest spirit was 
 hushed when in a place hallowed by associations such 
 as these; the most irreverent could not but bow the 
 head when walking along aisles which once had been 
 trodden by those whose ashes were mouldering beneath 
 the lettered pavement. Nor could the thoughtful man 
 think of the time when he would be borne within the 
 temple, or look upon the spot where he would be laid to 
 rest, without tender emotion — emotion which could be 
 stilled only when the eye fell upon some object which 
 taught that Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 235 
 
 It is impossible to wander in such an Eden of pleas- 
 ant delights as I have sought to suggest here in the very 
 shadow of Canterbury without thinking of the times in 
 which lived the men who wrought these structures. It 
 was not the building only, but everything else, that 
 marked the reality of those ages of faith and devotion. 
 Maxims such as these were enjoined upon all Christian 
 men : " Arise early, serve God devoutly and the world 
 busily ; do thy work wisely, give thine alms secretly, 
 and go by the way sadly." Letters of those days are 
 interesting for the deep reverential spirit of their greet- 
 ing — perhaps too often formal, but still a quaint, sweet 
 form. The knight was charged by the dignity of his 
 order to uphold the rights of maidens and of widows, 
 truly to hold his promise to his friend and his foe, to 
 honor his father and his mother, to do no harm to the 
 poor, but to be merciful and to hold with the sacrifice 
 of the great God of heaven. Nor were the clergy ig- 
 norant either of necessary doctrinal truth or of their 
 duty to the people. They taught the people at least the 
 stories and general truths of Scripture, and undoubtedly 
 sought, according to the light they had, the good of the 
 Church and the nation. In a period strongly marked 
 by caste they moved between the court and the cabin, 
 from the mansion of the peer to the mud hut of the 
 peasant, and endeavored to soften the pride of the one 
 and to better the hard lot of the other, and to bind all 
 together in a true Christian brotherhood. The monks, 
 too, were far from deserving that wholesale condemna- 
 tion which later times passed upon them. Early mem- 
 bers of their orders had gone out into the wilderness and 
 the barren places, far away from the haunts of men, 
 
236 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 where they might worship God in peace and live in 
 solitude. The richest and the most beautiful of modern 
 abbey-lands had originally been desolate, uninhabited 
 and worthless. In some deep sequestered glen, the 
 home of the wild boar, the bittern and the crane, or be- 
 side the waters of some almost unknown stream, or by 
 the shore of the great, lonely ocean itself, they built their 
 house and their sanctuary, and lived roughly and rudely 
 by the labors of their hands. Here they gradually gath- 
 ered around them a village of artisans and laborers, who 
 depended upon them for support and protection. The 
 most liberal hospitality was given to all who needed it. 
 The Fathers cared for the poor and the sick, administered 
 justice and kept good order on their estates, and sup- 
 plied the neighboring villages with the ministrations of 
 religion. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 In tlje (Batljeirral. 
 
 " I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze 
 With forms of saints and holy men who died, 
 Here martyred and hereafter glorified." 
 
 We enter the sacred edifice by the south-western door 
 — a porch built by Thomas Chillenden, prior at the be- 
 ginning of the fifteenth century, and covered with niches 
 in which are placed famous characters connected with 
 the history of Canterbury. A scene of splendor bursts 
 upon the vision — a prelude, as it were, to other scenes 
 of greater glory and of more soul-stirring emotion. 
 The view up the nave toward the east is enhanced by 
 the cleanness of pillars, roof and walls. The white stone 
 has not been darkened by smoke or by age, though four 
 centuries have passed since Archbishop Chicheley fin- 
 ished the work. The lofty pillars, massive and exact, 
 appear in their long avenue as giant trees of the forest, 
 supporting arches of noble sweep, the triforium and 
 clerestory of delicate detail and the roof which bewilders 
 with its distance. Some have thought that the steps 
 leading up into the choir detract from the effect ; it is 
 only for a moment. The design of the building as a 
 whole dawns upon the mind, the magnitude of the nave 
 and aisles becomes every moment more impressive ; and 
 if disappointment there were, it speedily passes away in 
 
 237 
 
238 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 wondering surprise at the daring splendor of the art and 
 the completeness of the work. If from the choir beyond 
 the great stone screen the melody of pealing organ or 
 chanting boys steals echoing down the church, emotions 
 are awakened which subdue the soul and suggest ex- 
 alted things. Up the steps we pass, under the central 
 tower — a beautiful structure open to the top and worthy 
 of much attention. In front is the entrance to the choir, 
 to the left the transept in which St. Thomas of Can- 
 terbury was murdered, and to the right the south-west 
 transept, leading out of which is St. Michael's or the 
 Warriors' Chapel. In this chapel, among other tombs, 
 is one, half in and half out of the church, said to con- 
 tain the body of Archbishop Langton. As a proof of 
 the high esteem with which the people regarded the 
 hero of the Magna Carta, when this part of the building 
 was erected and the line of the wall fell exactly upon 
 his grave in the cemetery the architect built over it an 
 arch rather than disturb remains so revered. It is doubt- 
 ful, however, whether the archbishop was buried here at 
 all. A story runs that when young he and a village 
 maiden were lovers, but for some cause or other they 
 were separated ; he became a churchman, she a nun. In 
 time he reached the rank of archbishop, and she that of 
 abbess. Then they met again, and continued in intimate 
 friendship till they died, when they were buried side by 
 side in a country churchyard a few miles away. Whether 
 this be legend or no, certain it is that her tomb has been 
 identified and beside her lies a man. Somehow or other, 
 this story of love draws us closer to the great cardinal 
 than even that which he did at Runnymede. In this 
 same chapel is a monument of marble and alabaster, 
 
IN THE CATHEDRAL. 239 
 
 very fine to look upon, to the memory of Lady Marga- 
 ret Holland and her two husbands. She lies in full- 
 length effigy between her two lords — one, the earl of 
 Somerset, who died 1410; the other, the duke of Clar- 
 ence, who died 1420. She died in 1440. At their feet, 
 as usual, animals are sculptured. These generally in- 
 dicate the characteristic of the deceased ; e. g., an eagle, 
 courage ; a hound, fleetness ; and a dog, fidelity. 
 
 The choir is contained between the pillars dividing it 
 from its aisles on either side ; here, as in the holy place, 
 service is daily held. Another flight of steps leads up 
 into the presbytery ; another, to the altar rails ; and still 
 another, to the jasper pavement on which stands the 
 high altar. Several tombs of archbishops are on both 
 sides of the presbyteiy ; that to Archbishop Chicheley, 
 on the north side, is too remarkable to be passed by. 
 Beneath a rich canopy of carved stone-work, supported 
 by exquisitely sculptured pillars, in the niches of which 
 are small elegant statues of white marble, rests the body 
 of the prelate who built the nave. The monument was 
 erected in his lifetime, and he left a large endowment to 
 All Souls' College at Oxford to keep it in repair. On 
 an upper, altar-shaped slab he lies in effigy, clothed in 
 his splendid pontifical robes, so well done as to seem 
 almost living. Angels support his head, and at his feet 
 are two monks holding open books. Underneath, on an- 
 other slab, lies the effigy of a skeleton partly shrouded, 
 and also so well done as to appear like actual death. 
 The contrast is startling — the archbishop in his glory, 
 and the archbishop in his shame. 
 
 We pass back again to the steps under the tower and 
 turn to the north-west transept — the place of the martyr- 
 
 16 
 
240 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 dom. It has been changed since that dark December 
 evening, seven hundred years ago, when was shed the 
 blood which made it sacred for ever. Against the north 
 walls are the tombs of Archbishops Warham and Peck- 
 ham; the latter, of bog-oak, is in good preservation, 
 though six hundred years old. To the east is the 
 Dean's Chapel, formerly called the Lady Chapel, in 
 which are several monuments to the deans and some 
 books on which the titles have been placed, not on the 
 backs, but on the edges of the opening leaves. These, 
 however, are as nothing beside the interest of the mar- 
 tyrdom itself. The story is too well known to need 
 repeating. Suffice it is to say that the memory of the 
 man who dared to die for rights which he deemed sa- 
 cred was precious in the hearts of Englishmen from the 
 day his blood was poured out on the cold stones till the 
 day when a king coveted the treasures which the ages 
 had heaped upon his shrine. Nor has the spirit of ad- 
 miration and of justice so passed away that none are 
 left to think of him with honor, and even with love. 
 He fell pierced with many wounds. In the darkening 
 twilight the murderers escaped; and when the news 
 spread through the city, the townspeople ran to the 
 cathedral. The glimmering torches showed them the 
 body of the archbishop lying in his gore before the 
 altar. They began to weep, and, while some kissed his 
 hands and his feet, others dipped linen in the blood with 
 which the pavement was covered. Ere long the trem- 
 bling monks buried the body in the crypt. The royal 
 proclamation to the contrary was useless : Becket was 
 a martyr and a saint from that very night. If Henry 
 feared him when living, he had much more cause to 
 
IN THE CATHEDRAL. 2\\ 
 
 fear him when dead. The thunderstorm which burst 
 upon the city as the murderers fled was at once the 
 sign of Heaven's anger and the awakening of an en- 
 thusiasm which lived for centuries. Miracles were 
 wrought at the tomb; pilgrimages became popular. 
 An altar was erected upon the spot of the martyrdom, 
 and here the greatest of the Plantagenet kings married 
 Queen Margaret. Edward IV. gave the great window 
 of the transept, wondrous in workmanship, wherein 
 were seven glorious appearances of the Blessed Vir- 
 gin and St. Thomas himself fully robed and mitred. 
 This was mostly destroyed by a Puritan iconoclast. 
 
 From the martyrdom we proceed along the north 
 aisle of the choir, past the north-east transept and the 
 chapel of St. Andrew, beyond which is the treasury, up 
 the steps by which the pilgrims went, into the chapel of 
 the Holy Trinity. This is immediately beyond the high 
 altar, and here, in the highest and most beautiful part 
 of the cathedral, was the shrine of St. Thomas. The tile 
 pavement against the west screen was given by the Cru- 
 saders ; it remains, but every vestige of the shrine is re- 
 moved. An evidence of the multitudes who visited it 
 is in the worn stones : the bare knees of pilgrims hol- 
 lowed out a semicircle before the saint. Close by is 
 the tomb of the Black Prince, and hanging aloft are the 
 helmet, the coat and the gauntlets which he wore at the 
 battle of Crecy, half a millennium ago, his popularity 
 attested in his being buried near the most sacred spot in 
 England. Henry IV. with his queen, Joan of Navarre, is 
 also buried there. Beyond this chapel is the corona, the 
 most eastern part of the cathedral. Here is the plain 
 tomb of Cardinal Pole, the last English archbishop who 
 
242 THE HEART OF ME RE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 recognized the papal supremacy. In the ancient black 
 marble chair have been enthroned the rulers of Eng- 
 land's primatial see, the patriarchs of English Christen- 
 dom. Thoughts press fast upon one another in such a 
 place, but even as the sunlight outshines the stars the sur- 
 rounding vision blots them out. Look down the mighty 
 and magnificent edifice raised to the glory of almighty 
 God and through long centuries a centre of the nation's 
 life. No description can convey the impression of that 
 vista; no picture or poem can impart the fact of its 
 splendor. The vastness of the structure and the beauty 
 of the conception overawe the mind. Through the 
 windows, marvellous in tracery and rich in colored 
 glass, falls the soft and tinted light, its warmth and love- 
 liness of hue suggesting the contrast between the outer 
 and the inner radiance, between the realm of grace and 
 the region of nature. The long lines of sculptured shafts 
 rise with noble dignity and impressive stateliness to sup- 
 port the lofty and majestic arches. The eye passes down 
 through the Trinity Chapel, where once thousands and 
 tens of thousands knelt before the hallowed shrine of 
 the martyr; on beyond the high altar and the presby- 
 tery into the choir, where holy service is chanted at the 
 rising and the setting of every sun ; and farther on, be- 
 yond the richly-finished screen, into the great and 
 glorious nave — a very forest of noblest architectural 
 splendor, where like tall and mighty trees set in a royal 
 avenue of wide-arching beauty pillar after pillar rises 
 and sends aloft its moulded branches into the groined 
 and distant roof, glory upon glory, strength upon 
 strength, as though the builders, filled with divinest 
 power, sought to outdo the work of Nature, and to 
 
IN THE CATHEDRAL. 243 
 
 show to the Lord of all that human hearts and human 
 hands could do that which the rocks and the forests, the 
 sun and the frost, the shifting winds and the flowing 
 waters, could not do. In the mellowed radiance fading 
 in the misty distance, and in the holy awfulness of the 
 voice of God speaking through man in the lines of the 
 poem wrought in stone, the mysterious sweetness of the 
 Divine Presence makes itself felt. Heaven may have 
 that which is grander, more suggestive, richer in form 
 and color and more truly an expression of all that the 
 mind conceives to be beautiful and sublime, but earth has 
 not. The King's daughter is all-glorious within, and 
 the great Anglican communion wants no grander centre, 
 no nobler mother-church. 
 
 The rich, delicate carving, the simplicity and dignity, 
 the costliness and rareness of material, the most thought- 
 ful, consummate poetic and religious art, show that the 
 best of all has been given to the Lord of glory. But 
 much of what was once here has been taken away. 
 The wealth of gold and of precious stones that once 
 adorned the sanctuary and the shrine was stolen to re- 
 plenish the exchequer of Henry VIII. Even the jewels 
 about the head of the Black Prince were dug out and 
 appropriated. Never were the desires for the purity of 
 the faith and the wealth of the Church more curiously 
 blended than in that age, and no one seems able to say 
 which was greater — the hatred of the men of those 
 times for the clergy or their love for the lands of the 
 Church. Beautiful as Canterbury Cathedral is, there 
 comes upon one the feeling that it has been stripped of 
 its richest glories and is not what it was in the first days 
 of the sixteenth century. 
 
244 THE HEART OF MERKIE ENGLAND. 
 
 There is little difficulty, standing here in Becket's 
 Crown, in repeopling the place with the men of earlier 
 days. The picture of pilgrims walking barefoot or 
 crawling on naked knee up the stone steps in the north 
 aisle to the shrine of St. Thomas soon becomes vivid. 
 They brought their offerings and uttered their prayers to 
 him who they hoped would intercede for them before the 
 throne of God. Sometimes a nobler penitent came — a 
 prince with a rich retinue and with costly gifts. Kings 
 and emperors worshipped there, people from all parts of 
 England, and even from the lands beyond the seas. As 
 an illustration of the popularity of this pilgrimage, we 
 may note that in the fifteen days' jubilee of 1420 no less 
 than a hundred thousand persons knelt before the glori- 
 ous shrine of St. Thomas, and the offerings in money 
 made that year amounted to nearly six hundred pounds 
 — a sum probably equal to about eighteen thousand 
 pounds at this present day. Miracles were wrought 
 there, and revelations made. Some of the windows, 
 dating from the thirteenth century, remain, and are un- 
 rivalled both for delicacy and harmony of color and for 
 accurate execution of design. 
 
 The central thought of Canterbury is undoubtedly 
 the martyr, and yet the building is full of the associa- 
 tions of other men who helped to make England what 
 she is and whose names are enrolled in the annals of her 
 fame. They looked upon these very walls and trod these 
 very stones. Many of the archbishops are buried here, 
 but only one king, and he has a chantry on the north 
 side of the Trinity Chapel. 
 
 We wander down the south steps and look into the 
 chapel of St. Anselm, in the entrance of which is the 
 
IN THE CATHEDRAL. 245 
 
 tomb of Archbishop Mepham, and from which a pleasing 
 glimpse of the choir presents itself. Hence we find our 
 way across the building to the entrance to the crypt, and 
 on descending we first visit the Lady Chapel — St. Mary's 
 of the Undercroft. This is a singularly attractive spot. 
 It is directly under the high altar in the cathedral, and is 
 divided off by stone screens of fine workmanship. It 
 was once rich in jewels and in gold ; gold, Erasmus 
 said, was the meanest thing about the place. Traces of 
 the exquisite decorations remain. Figures, symbols and 
 stars cover the vaulted roof. When lighted with lamps 
 and tapers, the effect must have been great. Here ser- 
 vice never ceased, day nor night. A curious shrine, 
 down in the deep body of the church, symbolical of the 
 affection with which men regarded her whom all gen- 
 erations call blessed. Beyond this chapel is the place 
 where Becket's body lay for the first fifty years after his 
 martyrdom. Here is the spot where Henry did penance 
 and submitted his back to the scourge of the monks. 
 Not far off is the tomb of Archbishop Morton, who re- 
 stored the chapel of Our Lady. In the work about this 
 tomb is an illustration of the rebus-play of the old sculp- 
 tors. There are figures of a hawk and of a tun, the former 
 lighting upon the latter. The arch is also adorned with 
 roses, each surmounted with a crown. Of these the last 
 one is cramped and imperfect, the artist evidently having 
 tired of his work. In St. Gabriel's Chapel are some 
 curious figures of animal-minstrels wrought around the 
 capital of the central column — goats, etc., playing horns 
 and flutes. The mural paintings are not obliterated ; fig- 
 ures of angels and of saints are plainly visible. In the 
 middle, over where the altar formerly stood, is a repre- 
 
246 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 sentation of Christ, singular in the right hand pointing 
 downward. The blue-and-gold illuminations in the 
 vaulting are also visible. This chapel was the work of 
 a genius, and is not excelled by other work of the time, 
 either in the cathedral or elsewhere. Another interest- 
 ing feature of the crypt is the little French church, the 
 home of refugees nestling under the protection of the 
 great cathedral. Queen Elizabeth extended this hospi- 
 tality, and from then to now the organization has held 
 its own. It is not a part of the Anglican Church, but 
 its pastor receives Anglican orders. 
 
 Days could be spent in this wonderful cathedral with- 
 out exhausting its treasures of art and of association. 
 Happy are they whose duty lies within its sacred walls 
 and whose life is spent in its calm, heavenly atmosphere. 
 They who visit have for ever recollections to sweeten 
 and brighten the after-days. As we pass out of the 
 church into the cloisters the white-robed procession 
 winds from the chapel of St. Andrew through the dark 
 aisle into the choir, and ere we look for the last time 
 upon the vision of beauty, the storied windows, the shafts 
 crowned with the circlets of vine and acanthus leafage, 
 the silent tombs, the vast spaces of nave and aisle, there 
 come the voices of singing choristers, and in the mur- 
 muring melody of evensong, sweeping in gentle waves 
 of undulating sweetness, hope rises upon the wings of 
 hallowed imagination and suggests the glories of the 
 worship of the land which is very far off. 
 
 The cloisters are full of architectural and heraldic in- 
 terest. In the groined roof are the armorial bearings 
 of benefactors of the church, and, though sadly muti- 
 lated, some Romanesque arches, trefoil- headed arcades 
 
IN THE CATHEDRAL. 247 
 
 and ribbed vaulting indicate the former splendor of the 
 monks' walk. Here the brethren spent some of their 
 time in meditation, amusement and exercise, the bright 
 green earth being restful to the eye and healthful for 
 both body and soul. On the eastern side is the chap- 
 ter- or sermon-house, a noble structure of several styles, 
 from Early English to Perpendicular. Some traces of 
 the former glory remain — the coloring and the enam- 
 elled work in the canopies of the raised stalls at the 
 east end. Around the hall are the stone seats on which 
 the brethren sat during chapter, the abbot's or prior's 
 throne being conspicuous for its higher elevation and 
 its greater finish. Here the community met to consult 
 about the affairs of the church and the monastery, for 
 Canterbury was a Benedictine foundation. The young- 
 est brother first gave his voice and vote, and so on, ac- 
 cording to age, till the most ancient spoke, and then the 
 prior uttered sentences and censures and penances and 
 scourgings were imposed, the delinquent standing out 
 in the open space to receive punishment, perhaps to 
 turn his back to the whip of the penitentiary. Sermons 
 and lectures were given from the pulpit in the centre ; 
 no one then thought of using the church, so utterly 
 unadapted for the purpose, for preaching. A light 
 burned perpetually in this place, and the chapter met 
 every morning. Sometimes a novice received the cowl 
 or an officer was appointed ; perchance a brother that 
 night deceased was carried in on his blue bed with a 
 chalice on his breast, and then with solemn dirge and 
 requiem taken away to his long home. At the close of 
 the meeting a wooden tablet was struck, and in the dull 
 sounds the brethren were reminded of man's painful life, 
 
248 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 his sad pilgrimage and his sure death. No longer, how- 
 ever, are these things done. Times have changed ; the 
 monks are gone. One of the most interesting events 
 of the year is the " speech-day " of King's School. 
 Then the beautiful building is filled with scholars and 
 their friends, addresses are made and prizes presented, 
 ladies, gowned masters and scarlet-robed doctors look 
 with interest and admiration upon the happy faces be- 
 fore them, and one wonders what the old monks would 
 think were they in slow and silent procession to enter 
 upon the scene. 
 
 Near to the chapter-door is the way, through walls 
 fourteen feet thick, into the slype. Here, when a broth- 
 er lay dying, the hollow sound of the clapper called his 
 fellows to his bedside in the infirmary. They watched 
 beside him, prayed with him and for him ; the children 
 of the almonry — sweet-voiced choristers — sang to him 
 from the psalms of David ; and when he passed away, 
 he was gently and lovingly carried to join the silent 
 brotherhood in the green churchyard. 
 
 We pass out of the dark entry, and find ourselves 
 among buildings and remains of buildings which show 
 the extent of this place in olden times. In the green 
 court, on one side of which is the deanery, we linger to 
 look upon some of the exquisite views of the cathedral. 
 The quiet charm can only be suggested; neither pen 
 nor pencil can do more. A few steps farther, and we 
 are outside the sacred precincts. We wander around 
 the wall — for the cathedral was enclosed and fortified — 
 till we get back again to Mercery Lane ; then through 
 High street we proceed eastward to other historical 
 spots. 
 
IN THE CATHEDRAL. 249 
 
 Canterbury is full of interesting churches and other 
 buildings ; two, however, are pre-eminent — St. Martin's 
 church and St. Augustine's College. The former of 
 these is in the extreme eastern part of the city ; the lat- 
 ter, halfway between it and the cathedral. On the way 
 out the highly-respectable and the highly-dull character 
 of Canterbury becomes more than ever apparent. One 
 of the oldest churches is St. Paul's, founded in the thir- 
 teenth century, lately restored, and containing some in- 
 teresting tablets. In the belfry is one to the memory of 
 Sir Edward Master, once lord mayor of London, and in 
 the inscription emphasis is laid upon the fact that he was 
 the husband of one wife and by her the father of twenty 
 children. Farther on is a long row of low-built houses 
 called a hospital and founded by a John Smith in 1657. 
 Farther still, leaving the great monastery on the left, is 
 the little building which may in truth be called the cradle 
 of all English Christianity. 
 
 A simple, unostentatious structure is this St. Martin's, 
 rich in age and in associations, but void of architectural 
 beauty. There are genuine bits of Roman work in the 
 walls, showing that the more modern Norman work was 
 done only in the way of repairs and restoration. On the 
 whole, it is the very building in which St. Augustine 
 celebrated the services of God thirteen hundred years 
 ago, and it was esteemed old then. There Christians 
 worshipped in the days of the Roman occupancy of 
 Britain, and, though the English pagans fiercely swept 
 out of the land the older civilization and religion, there 
 divine worship was destined to be offered again without 
 interruption, even as at this time. 
 
 The story of St. Augustine is as well known as it is 
 
250 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 ever fresh. When he and his monks passed up the way 
 from Ebbsfleet to win the kingdom of Kent for their 
 Lord, not only were they kindly received by Ethelbert, 
 but in his queen, Bertha, they found a protector and in 
 St. Martin's church a home. This was for a time the 
 headquarters of the mission ; ere long both king and 
 people were converted to the faith, and the land was 
 given upon which was afterward built the abbey of St. 
 Peter and St. Paul. In a once Christian church there 
 the king of Kent worshipped the gods of the heathen ; 
 this he changed into a church again, and St. Augustine 
 consecrated and dedicated it to St. Pancras. When we 
 go back to the city, we will look at the ruins of this first 
 abiding-place of the founders of the Church of England. 
 St. Martin's consists of a nave, a chancel and a tower. 
 The entire length of the building is less than eighty feet, 
 and the chancel is nearly a yard longer than the nave. 
 The walls are about twenty-two inches thick, and are of 
 stone, rubble and Roman bricks. The tower was built 
 in the fourteenth century and is covered with ivy. In 
 the choir floor appears an altar-slab about eight feet long 
 and having the usual stigmata and crosses — one of the 
 few stone altars which escaped utter destruction in the 
 Reformation. It was, however, used as a monument, 
 and is inlaid with memorial brasses. A Norman piscina 
 in the south wall, possibly of Saxon date, wrought by 
 itinerant masons from the Continent, is said to be the old- 
 est in England, and there is an aumbry in the chancel of 
 the fifteenth century. In the chancel is also shown a tomb 
 said to contain the remains of Queen Bertha, but she was 
 buried somewhere in or near the monastery. The font 
 is one of the greatest objects of interest. Its age is un- 
 
IN THE CATHEDRAL. 25 I 
 
 known ; ancient tradition affirms that in it St. Augustine 
 baptized King Ethelbert on Whitsunday, 597. In the 
 western wall, north of the tower, is a squint through 
 which penitents could see the high altar ; there are also 
 near the altar traces of the priest's door and of the 
 lepers' window. 
 
 The contrast between this plain, tiny edifice and the 
 grand and glorious cathedral is very great, even as the 
 brown shrivelled seed to the full-blown splendor of the 
 flower. This is really the mother-church of our race. 
 Through the changes and the chances of thirteen cen- 
 turies we look back to the day when within these walls 
 was gathered the handful of men who were to lay the 
 foundations of a religious community that should spread 
 through all the world and become second to none of 
 the churches of Christendom. Stand in the western 
 porch, in the gateway of the ivy-clad tower, on the 
 ground where once stood St. Augustine, Queen Bertha, 
 and many another Christian of the distant ages, and 
 look upon the exquisite and inspiriting landscape. That 
 view is a type of the spiritual garden of the Lord, as re- 
 freshing as it is picturesque and as full of glory as it is 
 rich in living green and pleasant memories. Under the 
 yew tree close by lie the remains of Dean Alford, a 
 man of varied gifts, at once a theologian and a poet, a 
 musician, a carver and a painter, a preacher and a writer 
 — more than all else, a gentle and holy servant of God. 
 The lich-gate is a fine piece of work. Near to it is a 
 cross on the front of which is carved the name " Hew 
 Whyte ;" on the back, " And Alys his wife." One passes 
 away over sacred ground thankful for the mercy which 
 has suffered one to see so holy a place. 
 
252 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 The abbey of St. Peter and St. Paul was famous as 
 much for the extent and the magnificence of its buildings 
 as for the constant quarrellings of its members with the 
 community at the cathedral. Among other causes of 
 contention was that over the remains of the deceased 
 archbishop. The monks of Christ church wanted him 
 living and dead; the canons of St. Peter claimed his 
 body for their own. Therefore, whenever a prelate died, 
 the dispute arose, till at last the former prevailed. How- 
 ever, within the porch of the great church which in time 
 was erected lies the dust of St. Augustine and his six 
 immediate successors ; but whereabouts the porch was 
 no one living knows. Some parts of the building re- 
 main — the wall of the north aisle and some bases of 
 columns, fragments of fallen arches and mounds. The 
 old builders wrought well : a strong outer casing of good 
 stone, then the interior filled with rubble, and finally 
 molten cement, possibly near boiling, poured in. The 
 result was a solid mass of unwearing masonry. To the 
 east is the only remaining arch of St. Pancras church. 
 Many parts of the monastery buildings are still standing 
 — the tall towers, the beautiful gateway and some por- 
 tions of the dining-hall and the chapel. The wealth and 
 the position of the brotherhood were once great ; they 
 entertained kings and prelates and feasted six thousand 
 guests at a time. Changes came, and in the end of the 
 fifteenth century they had scarcely bread to eat. 
 
 Perhaps this was prophetical of the degradation to 
 which the place itself was destined to fall. Henry VIII. 
 appropriated it, converting the grounds into a deer-park 
 and the buildings into a palace; Queen Elizabeth kept 
 court here in 1573; Charles I. was married here, and 
 
IN THE CATHEDRAL. 2$$ 
 
 Charles II. was here entertained on his passage at the 
 Restoration. The abbey and its precincts of sixteen 
 acres enclosed by a wall passed to various lay pos- 
 sessors ; it was finally neglected, suffered to go to ruin, 
 and the people of the neighborhood freely appropriated 
 its materials for building-purposes. Less than half a 
 century since, this place, sacred for its memories and 
 famous for its work, was woefully desecrated by having 
 within its courts a brewery, a skittle-alley and a public- 
 house. Gamesters, pleasure-seekers, idlers and riff-raff, 
 drunken and irreverent, wandered at will over ground 
 and within walls rich in the memorials of saints and 
 kings and for ages consecrated to religious purposes. 
 In 1844 the premises were bought by an earnest and 
 devout churchman, Sir Beresford Hope, and converted 
 into a college for the training of a missionary clergy ; 
 of the good which the noble institution has accom- 
 plished the hundreds of missionaries scattered through- 
 out the world testify. The men of St. Augustine are to 
 be found in Canada, Australia, Africa, India, and else- 
 where ; wherever found, they display a piety, an earnest- 
 ness and a power unexcelled by any and worthy of their 
 Alma Mater. Parts of the ancient buildings are utilized 
 in the modern college; the same water-springs which 
 supplied the old monks supply their successors. In the 
 modern cloisters are painted on the wall the names of 
 the graduates of the college and the dioceses to which 
 they were sent ; to the names of those who have passed 
 away are added the letters R. I. P. There is a chapel in 
 which these latter names are also reverently inscribed, 
 and an altar where probably commemorative services 
 are held. In the college chapel everything denotes good 
 
254 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 churchmanship ; the altar is suitably furnished and ap- 
 propriate vestments are used. In the hall under the 
 library is the museum, in which is a fair collection of 
 curiosities sent by the missionaries from their several 
 fields of labor. Thus the beauty of holiness and the 
 life of usefulness have come back again to the old mon- 
 astery. There were difficulties in the way. It is said that 
 when St. Augustine converted the heathen temple into 
 the church of St. Pancras the devil was so annoyed at 
 the change that he sought with all his might to overturn 
 the building. He only succeeded in leaving the print 
 of his talons in the walls of the south porch. It may 
 have been the work of the ivy, but that is immaterial ; 
 let the legend stand : the cross won. So in this later 
 regeneration right prevailed over wrong and light over 
 darkness. 
 
 Our visit to Canterbury is at an end. Full of pleas- 
 ant recollections, we take the train for London. In the 
 same railway compartment with us are three or four boys 
 of King's School on their way home for the holidays. 
 What happy, jolly little fellows they are ! How politely 
 they offer us the newspapers they have with them, and 
 with what free, undisguised delight one of them shows 
 us his prize book ! Their bright laugh rings in our ears, 
 and somehow or other we forget the dark sculptured 
 faces in the cathedral and see only the clear faces of 
 these merry schoolboys. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Here his first infant lays sweet Shakespeare sung ; 
 Here his last accents faltered on his tongue." 
 
 It was on a bright, warm August morning that I 
 started in the carrier's stage for Stratford-on-Avon. The 
 road is one of the best and pleasantest in England, pass- 
 ing, as it does, through several villages and a country 
 ■fertile, well wooded and highly cultivated. By this way 
 it is next to certain Shakespeare himself travelled, as 
 people have done for centuries, to London. As in his 
 day, so now, the noble spire of Tredington church is a 
 landmark for many a long mile, and the Stour wanders 
 between the willows and through the fields by the road- 
 side. There was a pleasant look of old-time life in the 
 cottages and inns, at the latter of which the coach stop- 
 ped to receive messages and passengers, and where the 
 trimly-dressed hostess, full of sunshiny smiles and well- 
 satisfied authority, or the wide-awake hostler or boy-of- 
 all-work, gave the " Good-morning !" and sought for cus- 
 tomers. To some of the travellers it was evidently a 
 thirsty day, and, as the temperance movement has not to 
 any great extent affected this part of the world, huge 
 potions of bright, foaming ale were consumed at every 
 stopping-place. The driver was happy and obliging, 
 
 17 255 
 
256 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 ready at all times to have a chat or to give information ; 
 three or four of the passengers were merry, and enliv- 
 ened the journey with odd rhymes, humorous stories 
 and witty repartees. One old fellow, full of fun and 
 beer, puzzled a boy who went riding awkwardly by on a 
 horse by asking him " if he would not be safer riding 
 inside." The lad stopped to scratch his head and to 
 think. In the meadows the haymakers were busily at 
 work; here and there the forge-fire gleamed out of the 
 dark shop, and the anvil ceased to ring as the leathern- 
 aproned smith, holding the hot horseshoe in his pincers, 
 stopped to look at us ; the birds darted out of the hedges 
 at the crack of the whip or the bark of the dog ; car- 
 riages, horsemen and pedestrians passed us looking 
 cheery and bright as the day itself; and, now out in the 
 open road, now under the cool green shade of overhang- 
 ing trees, we rolled over our ten miles, feeling that, after 
 all, there were some pleasures connected with stage-trav- 
 elling which railways cannot give. 
 
 The sun was high toward noon when we entered the 
 remarkably clean and pretty town on the Avon. What 
 a delightful out-of-the-world place it is ! And what 
 strangely-sweet emotions fill one's soul as one remem- 
 bers that this quiet, contented burgh, with its beautiful 
 surroundings, prosperous-looking people and antique 
 spirit brooding over all, was once the home of him whose 
 glory is the glory of humanity and whose thought per- 
 meates the world ! Here he was born ; here he loved 
 and lived ; here he died. Stratford is all Shakespeare, 
 and the town appears calmly conscious of the fact. It 
 may have an older history, running back, as it does, be- 
 yond the days of the so-called Saxon Heptarchy, full of 
 
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 2$? 
 
 interest, and possibly of romance, but all else is forgot- 
 ten in the one mighty thought of Shakespeare. Even 
 as the sun at its rising dims the stars whose brilliancy 
 made the night-sky splendid, so this man, full of most 
 marvellous power, outshines all who lived before him. 
 Doubtless the place always had attractions, but 
 
 " Fairer seems the ancient borough, 
 And its sunshine seems more fair, 
 That he once has trod its pavement, 
 That he once has breathed its air." 
 
 Beyond the town and across the meadows, some 
 twenty minutes' walk, is Shottery, the village-home of 
 Ann Hathaway. There is no difficulty in recognizing 
 the cottage, the pictures of it being very like. It is at 
 the far side of the little village, its end to the lane-like 
 road and its front largely hidden with honeysuckles and 
 roses. It is of the dark timber framing filled up with 
 bricks and plaster commonly looked upon as Eliza- 
 bethan — or I might almost say Shakesperean — with 
 deep gables and roof thatched with straw and dotted 
 with moss and lichen. A gate opens into the garden, 
 and a narrow pathway partly paved with irregular pieces 
 of stone and brick and running up two or three uneven 
 steps leads therefrom to the strange-looking old door. 
 The clumsy wooden latches, lifted with a string, the end 
 of which is put through a hole and hangs outside, are 
 still there. Nor are the oak pegs with which the frame- 
 work of the simple structure was fastened together cut 
 off. The appearance of the place, unchanged as it is 
 for the most part, gives a fair idea of the houses of the 
 well-to-do villagers three centuries since. Odd and un- 
 
258 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 pretentious, it has, nevertheless, an air of homely com- 
 fort about it— a simplicity and a restfulness in which 
 suggestions of happy, uneventful country life come to 
 the mind as tenderly and sweetly as the matin-chimes 
 murmur in the still summer air. 
 
 The old lady who lives there, a descendant of the 
 Hathaways, was very genial and communicative in 
 showing me around. The house inside is pretty much 
 the same as of old — the ample and comfortable kitchen- 
 room, with its chimney-place, in which are the old bacon 
 cupboards, as it was when Willie Shakespeare courted 
 sweet Mistress Ann. Here, possibly in this old chair 
 or on that rude settle, he sat and told her the story of 
 his love. These very walls, this antique panelled wain- 
 scoting, these low darkened beams of the ceiling and 
 these stones of the floor, could they but speak, would 
 repeat the assurances and the vows of the ardent youth. 
 With some such lines as these he wooed : 
 
 »• Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng, 
 With love's sweet notes to grace your song, 
 To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, 
 Listen to mine Ann Hathaway. 
 She hath a way to sing so clear 
 Phoebus might wond'ring stop to hear; 
 To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, 
 And Nature charm, Ann hath a way, 
 
 She hath a will, 
 
 She hath a way, 
 To breathe delight, Ann Hathaway. 
 
 "When Envy's breath and ranc'rous tooth 
 -Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, 
 And merit to distress betray, 
 To soothe the heart, Ann hath a way ; 
 
A T STRA TFORD- ON- A VON 259 
 
 She hath a way to chase despair, 
 
 To heal all grief, to cure all care, 
 
 Turn foulest night to fairest day, 
 
 Thou know'st, fond heart, Ann hath a way. 
 
 She hath a will, 
 
 She hath a way, 
 To make grief bliss, Ann Hathaway." 
 
 Some have held that the married life of these two was 
 not happy, but the most reliable evidence goes the 
 other way. Undoubtedly, Shakespeare found in Ann 
 Hathaway a good and loving wife, and she found in 
 him a true and noble-hearted husband. If in his will 
 he left her only his second-best bed, it was probably be- 
 cause ample provision had been otherwise made for her. 
 At any rate, the tradition runs that she earnestly desired 
 to be laid in the same grave with him. It does not fol- 
 low, however, because he was the poet of the world, 
 that his sweethearting was more romantic, soul-absorb- 
 ing, beautiful, than that of other men. It may have 
 been utterly prosaic and commonplace: such, indeed, 
 is the reaction frequently found in the realities of the 
 life of one of rare imaginative powers; but, somehow 
 or other, as you walk about this old cottage, you feel 
 that it was not that. The full, deep eyes of the man 
 indicate a warmth and depth of soul, a force which 
 would gather the very sweetness of roses into a sweep- 
 ing wind of irresistible passion. And Ann? What 
 was she ? Great geniuses make sad mistakes, but one 
 does not like to think of the master-reader of human 
 character doing so in this respect. Doubtless she was 
 a comely village-maiden — not a sylph such as Miranda 
 or a glowing beauty such as Juliet, but a true, home- 
 
26o THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 like Warwickshire damsel, even such a one as sweet 
 Mistress Page. 
 
 Well, here in the venerable cottage she was wooed 
 and won by Stratford Will. There is no reason to doubt 
 the tradition that this is the very house, though, when 
 one has carefully examined all the evidence in its sup- 
 port, it is not so absolutely convincing as one would like 
 it to be. The feeling, however, is not confined to Ann 
 Hathaway 's cottage : it comes up again in no less a place 
 than the room in which the poet is said to have been 
 born. Such scepticism is wicked, perhaps unreasonable, 
 but it underlies most of the traditional testimony, never- 
 theless. 
 
 In a room up stairs — the best bedroom of the Hath- 
 aways — is an old carved bedstead probably of Eliza- 
 bethan age ; there are also several chests and a stool of 
 the same period. The pleasant old lady already men- 
 tioned showed me a sheet woven and made three hun- 
 dred years ago, when by such work the maids of the 
 family earned their title of " spinster." It is neatly spun 
 and has a line of inserted embroidery up the middle. 
 The flooring, the walls and the beams of the house are 
 unaltered ; the queer little staircase, the diamond-paned 
 dormers, the small low- ceiled rooms, the rude latches to 
 the heavy, worm-eaten doors, the veritable old furniture 
 and the wide fireplace with its cosey corners have an in- 
 terest delightful and absorbing. Judging from the house, 
 the Hathaways were plain and fairly well-to-do people. 
 In front of the cottage is the old well, which tradition 
 says is as it was in Shakespeare's days — when, perhaps, 
 Master Will drew a bucket to save Mistress Ann the 
 labor. From the little garden my agreeable guide gath- 
 
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 26 1 
 
 ered me a small posy of flowers — not, I presume, the 
 lineal descendants of the flowers Ann Hathaway tended, 
 if she tended any, but surely such as she and her Will 
 saw and plucked as they rambled arm in arm through 
 the lanes and the gardens of this sweet village. There 
 are still the flowers and the herbs which were popular in 
 the olden time — rue, thyme, lavender, marigold, rose- 
 mary and celandine — and in the orchard, full of knolls 
 and hollows, are apples, pears, cherries and plums. 
 From the seat near the cottage door much the same 
 scene now presents itself as the lovers beheld long, long 
 ago— the hills of Ilmington to the south in their wood- 
 land glory, the spire of Stratford church peeping up over 
 the elm trees, and here and there ancient cottages with 
 their sun-browned thatched roofs ; a gentle land where 
 life peacefully flows through time undisturbed by the 
 ambitions of mighty cities — like, indeed, unto the silvery 
 Avon as it restfully meanders amid the bright green 
 meadows. The walk across the fields to Stratford is 
 very pleasant. I could get no certain information as to 
 the age of this footpath, but for long after the poet's 
 time the Shottery people continued to attend Stratford 
 church, and there was naturally constant communication 
 between the village and the town. 
 
 On re-entering the town I passed along the chestnut 
 walk and soon found myself at the old grammar-school. 
 This was founded in 1482 and is a plain building of two 
 stories, the lower of which was the guild-hall, where the 
 citizens met in council and where plays were sometimes 
 performed, and the upper the schoolroom. It is easy to 
 picture Shakespeare wending his way to this fount of 
 learning, plodding over his lessons as with slow steps he 
 
262 THE HEART OF ME RE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 approached and ascended its stairs, and then listening, as 
 boys everywhere listen, with more or less attention to 
 the instruction given by the prodigiously-learned school- 
 master; but such a picture depends solely upon imag- 
 ination. It may not be autobiographically — for Shake- 
 speare may have been a ready and an industrious scholar 
 — but the melancholy Jacques speaks of 
 
 " The whining schoolboy, with his satchel, 
 And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
 Unwillingly to school ;" 
 
 and it may have been the recollection of his pedagogue, 
 his Sir Hugh Evans, that led the poet to say of Malvo- 
 lio, " He does smile his face into more lines than are in 
 the new map, with the augmentation of the Indies." I 
 have no doubt the wool-stapler's son went here to school ; 
 I have also no doubt the Stratford people have been gen- 
 erous in their discovery of traditions, and have made 
 leaps at conclusions possible only to intellectual acrobats. 
 These old, overhanging, black-beamed houses, however, 
 have an interest apart from Shakespeare : they speak of 
 that grand old world in which lived he and many of the 
 noblest and the mightiest of England's sons. 
 
 Joining the grammar-school is the chapel of the guild 
 of the Holy Cross, " a right goodly Chapell," as Leland 
 describes it, dating from the time of Henry VII., but 
 looking very worn and much older. The iconoclasts of 
 the Reformation and of the Puritan ages did not leave it 
 untouched ; some of its images were destroyed and its 
 mural paintings were whitewashed over. Among the 
 latter was a remarkably fine picture of the martyrdom 
 of St. Thomas of Canterbury and a series upon the his- 
 
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 263 
 
 tory, and especially the invention and the exaltation, of 
 the holy cross. The antique porch with its quaint gar- 
 goyles attracts attention. On the left-hand outside cor- 
 ner of this doorway is the singularly grotesque head of 
 a man with his fingers in the corners of his mouth, 
 stretching it open as schoolboys sometimes do, so that 
 the water may spout through. A few years, and age 
 and weather will have entirely obliterated this bit of odd 
 humor. The building is in the Decorated style, and in 
 its fine old tower is said to be one of the sweetest bells 
 ever made by man. This bell uttered its " sweete and 
 perfect sownde " not only for divine service, but also to 
 gather the members of the guild. As everybody knows, 
 the guilds were the friendly societies of the Middle 
 Ages, and their usefulness as bonds of social and com- 
 mercial unity and their care for the poor and the needy 
 made them popular among the people. In this place not 
 only the grammar-school, but also a row of ancient alms- 
 houses, testifies to the benefit and the charity of the local 
 guild. However, Henry VIII. confiscated their property 
 throughout the kingdom and appropriated their wealth 
 to distribute among his friends and to his own purposes. 
 A cruder or a more ungodly act of vandalism was never 
 perpetrated in the name of religion. 
 
 Across the street is the " New Place " where Shake- 
 speare lived in his latter days, and where he died. Here 
 we may picture the poet, beloved and laurel-crowned, 
 resting in his quiet home-life amidst congenial surround- 
 ings and visited by cherished friends and acquaintances. 
 The eventide of his life, so uncertain are its details, seems 
 filled with the calm, misty glory which dims and yet 
 makes radiant the objects upon which it falls. The 
 
264 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 house was in Shakespeare's time one of the most import- 
 ant and largest in the town. It had an orchard and a 
 garden stretching down to the Avon. Now a few pieces 
 of the foundation alone remain; the rest was pulled 
 down in the last century by an amiable clergyman, but 
 the true reason therefor is wrapped in mystery. The 
 garden is beautifully kept — the garden in which the poet 
 walked and entertained his friends, and through the trees 
 of which he saw the walls and the tower of the guild 
 chapel. Sit down within the tree-shade on one of these 
 rustic benches — or, better still, on the green-sodded bank 
 itself — and think of him who once trod this very ground 
 and whose flowers once grew in this very soil. Here 
 rare Ben Jonson may have walked arm in arm with him, 
 perchance across such another velvety lawn as that one, 
 and here were told stories and came to life creations 
 which shall for ever hold man spellbound. In the dark- 
 ening twilight, when the sweet chanting of the evensong 
 from the neighboring chapel lingers in the summer air as 
 in days of yore, and the sky is bright with sprinkled 
 splendor, this is the spot to realize the force of Lorenzo's 
 lines : 
 
 " How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
 Here we will sit and let the sounds of music 
 Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 Sit, Jessica ; look how the floor of heaven 
 Is thick-inlaid with patines of bright gold : 
 There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins ; 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." 
 
AT S TEA TFORD- ON- A VON 265 
 
 A great many tourists were here at the same time as 
 myself, looking with great reverence upon these remains 
 of the man all men adore. I only hope that they, and 
 others such as they, will think kindly of the pilgrims 
 who in mediaeval times frequented sacred shrines. This 
 modern age regards the visit to the town of Shakespeare 
 as the right thing, and the reverent pilgrimage to his 
 grave and the gazing upon his relics as highly com- 
 mendable ; it looks back upon the journey to the tomb 
 of Edward the Confessor or to that of Thomas a Becket 
 as rank superstition. 
 
 It is twenty years since I made my first visit to the 
 poet's birthplace, in Henley street, but my interest in 
 that sacred spot has grown with time and is as fresh as 
 ever. What a centre of the world's homage! What 
 multitudes have entered this old cottage ! The eye no 
 longer rests upon the ancient Tudor tenements of the 
 neighborhood with their dark timbers, gables, jutting 
 windows and signboards, nor upon the undrained and 
 badly-paved streets where pigs wallowed in the mire and 
 fowl scratched among the garbage ; but this house re- 
 mains to link us with the past and with this same Shake- 
 speare. I suppose he sat on that seat in the great roomy 
 fireplace, looked out of this oddly-glazed window and 
 played on this floor. Any way, this was the scene of 
 his childhood — a dark old place, but no doubt very 
 comfortable in bygone days. Up stairs is the room in 
 which the poet was born. Does any one doubt its being 
 the very room ? The world believes it implicitly, yet 
 the minor facts of Christianity rest upon a foundation 
 which is as eternal rock compared with the evidence for 
 this tradition. It is, however, highly probable that the 
 
266 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 tradition is correct : who could reasonably question, if 
 it occurred in this house, that the birth would be ar- 
 ranged for in the best bedroom? The walls and the 
 ceiling are covered with autographs — an evidence of the 
 intense interest the world has in this small chamber. 
 There are also some names scratched on the window- 
 panes. This way of immortalizing one's self is now de- 
 nied the public: visitors are required to write their 
 names and their residences in a book prepared for that 
 purpose. There are a few odd pieces of furniture in the 
 room, but there is no proof that they have any connec- 
 tion with Shakespeare. When the bare unsightly walls 
 were covered with arras, the place presented a more 
 comfortable appearance than it now does. Other rooms, 
 heavy beamed, low roofed and dimly lighted, suggest 
 pleasant visions of the simple Stratford family. An old 
 desk, massive and cumbersome, is shown ; it is said to 
 be the one Shakespeare used in the grammar-school. It 
 is interesting for that tradition, and he may have sat at 
 it in common with other scholars ; but it is even more 
 interesting as affording an illustration of the universality 
 of schoolboy nature through all the ages. It is whittled 
 and carved in true style, covered with initials and de- 
 vices even such as would become our youth of to-day. 
 The portrait in the iron safe up stairs is said to be gen- 
 uine. Many others are shown in the museum, each 
 different in some respects from the others, and yet all 
 noticeably agreeing in the high, wide forehead and the 
 full, clear eye. In this same museum — an adjoining cot- 
 tage opening into the kitchen-room of Shakespeare's 
 house — are preserved the early editions of the poet's 
 works, books illustrating them and his life, documents 
 
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 267 
 
 in some way connected with him, and many other relics, 
 some of them very full of interest. The tradition of the 
 Bidford drinking-bout and the crab-tree slumber is 
 carefully preserved by pictures, etc. The very chair from 
 the " Falcon Inn," in that village, in which Shakespeare 
 sat at his revels, is shown. It is old enough to have 
 jerved for that purpose, but, unfortunately, there is little 
 certainty of the truth of the legend. This Bidford was 
 famous in those days for its company of ale-soaked to- 
 pers, and, as drinking-matches were then common, one 
 Whitmonday — so runs the story — some Stratford men, 
 Will Shakespeare among the number, went to that place 
 to test its nut-brown ale and to challenge its boast of the 
 championship of England. The " topers " were away on 
 a match at Evesham at the time, and only the " sippers " 
 remained to defend the renown of their village. The 
 Stratford men soon found that they were no match for 
 their opponents, and, being anxious to get home while 
 they had some strength and skill left, beat a hasty re- 
 treat. When half a mile on the way, they were quite 
 overcome, and were obliged to lie down under a crab 
 tree by the roadside, where they slept till next morning. 
 Some would then have returned to the attack, but the 
 youthful Will had had enough of " drunken Bidford." 
 There may be some allusion to such drinking-matches 
 in the resolve of Slender: "I'll ne'er be drunk whilst I 
 live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this 
 trick ; if I be drunk, I'll be drunk with those that have 
 the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves." The 
 story, though long believed by Stratfordians and not al- 
 together improbable, is, most likely, a fabrication — alas ! 
 in spite of the fact that the crab tree kept its place till 
 
268 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 the winter of 1824. As one wanders about the house 
 so fragrant with associations of deepest interest one feels 
 that the strangest thing of all is that of a man so great 
 as was this man we really know so little. 
 
 From Henley street to the parish church, dedicated to 
 the Holy Trinity and retaining its ancient collegiate priv- 
 ileges, is a walk of ten minutes. A noble lime-tree avenue 
 leads up from the gateway to the principal porch. Some 
 portions of the sacred edifice are Early English and Deco- 
 rated, but the best parts are Perpendicular. The clerestory 
 of the nave is remarkably well lighted with Decorated 
 windows unusually large and close together. In the north 
 aisle was once a chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin ; 
 in the south, one to St. Thomas of Canterbury. Now in 
 the former are several altar-tombs, mostly of the Clop- 
 ton family and having upon them some well-executed 
 recumbent effigies. The chancel was built in the latter 
 part of the fifteenth century by Dr. Thomas Balsall, dean 
 of Stratford, and is a perfect and beautiful specimen of 
 Perpendicular work. There, inside the altar-rails, is the 
 grave of the poet. Not long since it was outside, but 
 the constant press of visitors began to wear away the 
 stone, and so the rails were moved forward to a lower 
 step. What can I say of this sacred spot that others 
 have not said ? Here is something tangible of Shake- 
 speare — something that brings home to you the fact of 
 his existence. In his marvellous work you overlook the 
 fact of his personality : the creator is forgotten for the 
 nonce in the loveliness and the might of the creation ; 
 but as you look upon this plain slab with its oft-re- 
 peated inscription you realize the very truth of him who 
 is primus inter pares — the prince through all the ages, 
 
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 269 
 
 outshining even the pure glory of Homer and Dante. — 
 Sweet Will ! grand as thou art in thine unapproachable 
 splendor, thy majesty greater than that of the kings 
 whom thou hast made to live in thy wondrous lines, 
 how dear thou art to the hearts of all men ! No ; none 
 shall touch thy sacred dust : thou shalt sleep in peace 
 till 
 
 " The dreadful trumpet sound the general doom." 
 
 Is not the fact that Shakespeare is here buried a suffi- 
 cient refutation of the story invented by some one that 
 he died a papist ? Over his open grave was read the 
 office of the Church of England — an act which would 
 not have been done or been allowed by either Anglicans 
 or Latins had he been a member of the Roman obedi- 
 ence. In that age of bitter Protestantism neither his po- 
 sition nor his talents would have overcome the scruples 
 of his townsmen — intensely Puritanical as they were — 
 and led them to honor him as they did. 
 
 In one of the graveyards of Fredericksburg, Va., there 
 is a relic to which we may here direct attention. It is a 
 slab of red sandstone, on which may be deciphered these 
 words : 
 
 Here lies the body of 
 
 Edward Heldon, 
 
 Practitioner in Physics and Chi- 
 
 rurgery. Born in Bedfordshire, 
 
 England, in the year of our Lord 
 
 1542. Was contemporary with, and 
 
 one of the pall bearers of William 
 
 Shakespeare of the Avon. After a 
 
 brief illness his spirit ascended in 
 
 the year of our Lord 1618 — 
 
 aged 76. 
 
270 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 On the one side of the poet's grave lies his wife, once 
 sweet mistress Ann, and on the other side his favorite 
 daughter, Susanna, wife of John Hall. His daughter 
 Judith is also buried there. Other graves and tombs 
 are close by — beside the altar a monument to Shake- 
 speare's friend, John Combe, and on the south side of the 
 sanctuary one, much defaced, to the builder of this part 
 of the church. On the wall over the west end of the 
 latter monument is the famous bust of Shakespeare. 
 This was erected perhaps earlier, but certainly within 
 seven years of his death, and, as it is generally admitted 
 to have been worked from a cast of his features, it is the 
 only known trustworthy representation of him. Here 
 may be seen his fine, full, round face, towering brow, 
 light-hazel, large-orbed eyes, auburn hair and beard, ex- 
 pressive lips and well-set chin. The signs of genius are 
 there, if they have ever been expressed in the counte- 
 nance of man. The scarlet doublet and the black sleeve- 
 less gown in which he is clad bring him before us as he 
 was when on high-days and holidays he walked along 
 the streets of London and of Stratford. 
 
 The timber roof of the chancel is fine 5 at the ends of 
 the beams are well-carved figures holding armorial shields 
 on their breasts. At the corbels on which these beams 
 rest are also sculptured figures in stone which join the 
 smaller figures at the end of the mouldings over the 
 window arches. The three figures in a row, recurring 
 several times, have a singular effect. The great Perpen- 
 dicular window in the east, resplendent with the glory of 
 stained glass, and the American window, in like manner 
 glorious, are very good ; and the doorway on the north 
 side, near the altar-rails, once leading, I believe, to a 
 
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 27 1 
 
 great charnel-house long since pulled down, has at the 
 terminations of its arch-moulding — or, rather, had, for 
 they are nearly obliterated — carvings of St. Christopher 
 and the Annunciation. The niches and the miserere seats 
 are deserving of notice ; also the old carved pews. In 
 the south transept is the font in which Shakespeare was 
 baptized, also an altar-tomb dating about 1593, with an 
 inscription in Hebrew, Greek, Latin and English. It is 
 needless to record the several inscriptions relating to the 
 poet, but the following is a copy of that belonging to 
 this tomb: 
 
 " Heare borne, heare lived, heare died, and buried heare, 
 Lieth Richarde Hil, thrise bailif of this borrow ; 
 Too matrones of good fame he married in Godes feare, 
 And now releast in joi, he reasts from worldie sorrow. 
 
 " Heare lieth entomb'd the corps of Richarde Hil, 
 A woollen draper beeing in his time ; 
 Whose virtues live, whose fame dooth flourish stil, 
 Though hee desolved be to dust and slime. 
 A mirror he, and paterne mai be made 
 For such as shall suckcead him in that trade ; 
 He did not used to sweare, to glose, eather faigne, 
 His brother to defraude in barganinge ; 
 Hee woold not strive to get excessive gaine 
 In any cloath or other kind of thinge ; 
 His servant, S. I. this trueth can testifie, 
 A witness that beheld it with mi eie." 
 
 Dugdale preserved the following copy of verses in- 
 scribed on the tombstone of Susanna Hall, but after- 
 ward obliterated to make room for the record of a 
 certain Richard Watts : 
 
 18 
 
2?2 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 " Heere lyeth y e body of Svsanna wife to Iohn Hall gent : y e daughter 
 of William Shakespeare, gent : Shee deceased y e ijth of iuly A . 1649, 
 aged 66. 
 
 Witty above her sexe, but that's not all, 
 Wise to salvation was good Mistris Hall. 
 Something of Shakespeare was in that, but this 
 Wholy of him with whom she's now in blisse. 
 
 Then, Passenger, hast ne're a teare, 
 
 To weepe with her that wept with all ? 
 
 That wept, yet set her selfe to chere 
 
 Them up with comforts cordiall. 
 
 Her love shall live, her mercy spread, 
 
 When thou ha'st ner'e a teare to shed." 
 
 The external appearance of the church in grace and 
 dignity well becomes the mausoleum of Shakespeare. 
 It is cruciform, the battlemented tower, surmounted by 
 a modern spire, rising from the intersection of the nave 
 and choir and the two transepts. Outside the chancel, 
 at the heads of the buttresses and along the panelled 
 and embattled parapet, are many grotesque figures — 
 toads, dragonflies, fish, etc. Such representations of 
 natural objects on the outside are not uncommon in 
 churches of this and of earlier periods. Sometimes 
 they are grotesque, sometimes fairly accurate repre- 
 sentations — birds, beasts, reptiles and fishes. Possibly 
 the intention of the old artists in putting these figures 
 outside was to indicate that the animal creation was ex- 
 ternal to the realm and object of grace. They are rare- 
 ly — never in a grotesque form or otherwise than as sym- 
 bols of some virtue or personage — placed inside the 
 building, and yet, on the other hand, designs of flow- 
 ers seem to have no restrictions : if anything, they pre- 
 dominate in the interior. Flowers, however, in them- 
 
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 2JI 
 
 selves so beautiful, are the fittest and the sweetest sym- 
 bols of that which is heavenly and divine. They are 
 fragments of glory — cast-off bits of celestial material 
 which ere they fell to earth were touched by the sweep- 
 ing robes of angels, and thus received a beauty and a 
 hue, alas ! such as can only be evanescent in a world 
 such as ours. 
 
 The sweet Avon flows gently by this noble house of 
 God, and the meadows beyond look lovely in their sum- 
 mer dress. In the churchyard are many old tombstones. 
 The orthography of one on the south side of the church 
 struck me as peculiar. The inscription is to the memory 
 of two women who died in the spring of 1699, aged, re- 
 spectively, eighty-seven and thirty-seven years. Where- 
 abouts they are buried I do not know, for the stone has 
 been removed from its original position to serve as a sort 
 of curbstone where it now is. This desecration, so sug- 
 gestive of an unsympathetic spirit and deserving of every 
 condemnation, is not uncommon in the old English 
 churchyards, though it is possibly confined to the util- 
 itarians of some few generations since. My transcrip- 
 tion is carefully exact : with the exception of the k in 
 11 Stroks," which is a capital, it is precisely as it is en- 
 graved on the stone. 
 
 " Death creeps Abought on hard 
 And Steals Abroad on Seen 
 Hur darts are Suding and hur arous Keen 
 Hur Stroks are deadly com 8 they soon or late 
 When being Strock Repentance is to Late 
 Death is A minute ful of Suden Sorrow 
 Then Live to day as thou mayest dy to morow." 
 
 Curious ways of giving dates also attract attention. Of 
 
274 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 a woman it is said she died " in the 40 Second year of 
 her age." Sometimes the old gravestone-cutters chipped 
 out the tens first and then the units ; thus, for 34 we 
 find 304. 
 
 There is a right of way through the churchyard, and 
 the walk by the Avon is exceedingly pleasant. On a 
 stone near that walk is the name " Davidona," unique in 
 my experience and not mentioned by Miss Charlotte 
 Yonge. There is an old stone seat — I fancy it was once 
 a tomb — where visitors may sit in the shade of the trees 
 and look upon the river and the fields beyond. How 
 softly the warm beams fall through the leafy branches 
 and play like bright-robed seraphs amongst the graves 
 and on the cool, tiny wavelets ! There are a few trees 
 farther down to suggest the willow-shaded stream of 
 Ophelia; the fish leap to the fly in the sunshine and 
 merry ripples play around the boats with young men and 
 women rowing hither and thither. Such a restful sum- 
 mer scene as this Shakespeare must have looked upon ; 
 nay, he undoubtedly wandered up and down that gentle 
 river, peering into its banks for the holes of otter and of 
 rat, seeking to catch pike or perch or trout, perhaps going 
 over love's sweet story to his dear Ann of Shottery, and 
 perhaps dreaming out some of those creations which 
 must be the wonder of the world till the end of time. It 
 is all Shakespeare. The green grass, the willow and the 
 lime trees, the sunshine, the glittering water, the noble 
 church, the fields so fresh and living, the birds that flit 
 from bough to pinnacle and from wall to tree, — every- 
 thing speaks of him. If elsewhere nature is the ex- 
 pression, the robe, of Deity, here nature is filled with 
 the spirit of the man to whom God gave a supreme, 
 
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 27$ 
 
 magnificent and unique gift. Who visiting this conse- 
 crated place does not for ever after read Shakespeare 
 with the greatest interest and the fullest appreciation ? 
 
 Apart from the places associated with the poet there 
 is nothing of much interest in the town. A few old 
 houses remain — very few, considering — and one looks 
 with pleasure upon their gabled roofs and the black 
 timbers. The streets are very clean and well kept ; the 
 shops, small and tidy. There is an appearance of pros- 
 perity: Shakespeare is evidently to Stratford what 
 Becket was to Canterbury, or, to put it differently, the 
 one made and the other is making the trade and the life 
 of their respective towns. The constant presence of vis- 
 itors from many lands gives to the people something of a 
 cosmopolitan polish and politeness ; their speech is fairly 
 free from provincialisms, and they have as full and as 
 just an appreciation of the distinction which their town 
 has received by having greatness thrust upon it as they 
 have a bright and attentive disposition toward both busi- 
 ness and pleasure. I made several purchases, and in one 
 shop bought a pair of " Shakespearean " gloves. The 
 pretty twelve-year-old girl who sold them amused me by 
 blushingly and naively saying, " Of course, sir, if they 
 don't fit, we will change them." She did not understand 
 that in a relic the matter of size is of little consequence. 
 
 Four miles from Stratford is Charlecote, once the 
 home of that Sir Thomas Lucy to whom Shakespeare 
 gave an immortality of ridicule as Justice Shallow. The 
 story runs that the poet, having fallen into ill company, 
 made a practice of stealing the knight's deer, for which 
 offence Sir Thomas naturally sought redress in prose- 
 cution. Shakespeare was followed closely and severely, 
 
276 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 and in the spring of 1585 he resolved to leave his busi- 
 ness and family in Stratford and to seek shelter in Lon- 
 don, But before he left Warwickshire he wrote a bitter 
 ballad upon Sir Thomas Lucy and nailed it on one of 
 the posts of the park gate. Only one stanza of this 
 ballad has been preserved, and, to say the least, there is 
 little or none of the Shakespearean ring about it : 
 
 " A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
 At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse ; 
 If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
 Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 
 He thinks himself great, 
 Yet an asse in his state, 
 
 We allowe of his ears but with asses to mate ; 
 If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
 Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it." 
 
 Passages in the Merry Wives of Windsor are said to con- 
 tain allusions to the tradition, and to the unfortunate 
 knight so severely lampooned. Possibly there may be 
 some truth in the legend, though it should be remem- 
 bered that the earliest mention of it is about 1707, that 
 none of Shakespeare's rivals, who were ready enough to 
 pick flaws in him, ever twitted him with it, that the pun- 
 ishment for deer-stealing was not, as the legend affirms, 
 whipping, but imprisonment and fine, and, lastly, that 
 Sir Thomas Lucy had no deer-park and no deer. Nev- 
 ertheless Charlecote — or Ceorlcote, the home of the hus- 
 bandman, according to the Saxon — is indissolubly con- 
 nected with the poet, and they who visit Stratford should 
 also go farther and see the ancient village. Well will 
 they be repaid for so doing. Read these sympathetic 
 lines from the pen of Charles Knight : " There stands, 
 
A T STRA TFORD- ON- A VON 2J J 
 
 with slight alterations — and those in good taste — the old 
 mansion as it was reared in the days of Elizabeth. A 
 broad avenue leads to its great gateway, which opens 
 into the court and the principal entrance. We would 
 desire to people that hall with kindly inmates, to imag- 
 ine the fine old knight — perhaps a little too puritanical, 
 indeed, in his latter days — living there in peace and hap- 
 piness with his family ; merry as he ought to have been 
 with his first wife, Jocosa (whose English name, Joyce, 
 soundeth not quite so pleasant), whose epitaph, by her 
 husband, is honorable alike to the deceased and to the 
 survivor. We can picture him planting the second 
 avenue, which leads obliquely across the park from the 
 great gateway to the porch of the parish church. It is 
 an avenue too narrow for carriages, if carriages had then 
 been common ; and the knight and his lady walked in 
 stately guise along that grassy pathway, as the Sunday 
 bells summon them to meet their humble neighbors in 
 a place where all are equal. Charlecote is full of rich 
 woodland scenery. The lime-tree avenue may, perhaps, 
 be of a later date than the age of Elizabeth, and one elm 
 has evidently succeeded another, century after century. 
 But there are old gnarled oaks and beeches dotted about 
 the park. Its little knolls and valleys are the same as 
 they were two centuries ago. The same Avon flows be- 
 neath the gentle elevation on which the house stands, 
 sparkling in the sunshine as brightly as when that house 
 was first built. There may we still lie 
 
 * Under an oak, where antique roots peep out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this wood,' 
 
 and doubt not that there was the place to which 
 
278 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 1 a poor sequester' d stag, 
 That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt, 
 Did come to languish.' 
 
 " There we may still see 
 
 * a careless herd, 
 Full of the pasture,' 
 
 leaping gayly along or crossing the river at their own 
 will in search of fresh fields and low branches whereon 
 to browse. The village of Charlecote is now one of the 
 prettiest of objects. Whatever is new about it — and 
 most of the cottages are new — looks like a restoration 
 of what was old. The same character prevails in the 
 neighboring village of Hampton Lucy, and it may not 
 be too much to assume that the memory of him who 
 walked in these pleasant places in his younger days, long 
 before the sounds of his greatness had gone forth to the 
 ends of the earth, has led to the desire to preserve here 
 something of the architectural character of the age in 
 which he lived." 
 
 In Charlecote church is the tomb of Sir Thomas and 
 Lady Lucy. The former died in 1 600 — a man high in 
 position and worthily esteemed by his neighbors. On 
 the front of the altar-shaped tomb are the figures of Sir 
 Thomas and the Lady Joyce kneeling in prayer. Upon 
 the top they lie in full-length effigy, dressed in the cos- 
 tume of the period, with folded hands, and in the features 
 of the old knight — well executed and probably accurate 
 — we may discern a nobility of character far greater than 
 a Justice Shallow could possibly have had. The wife's 
 virtues are recorded on a black slab at the back of the 
 tomb in the following touching and beautiful inscription: 
 
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 279 
 
 "Here entombed lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy, wife of Sir 
 Thomas Lucy, of Cherlecote, in the county of Warwick, Knight, 
 Daughter and Heir of Sir Thomas Acton, of Sutton, in the county 
 of Worcester, Esquier, who departed out of this wretched world 
 to her heavenly kingdome the tenth day of February, in the year 
 of our Lord God 1595, of her age LX and three. All the time 
 of her life a true and faithfull servant of her good God, never de- 
 tected of any crime or vice ; in religion most sound ; in love to 
 her husband most faithful and true ; in friendship most constant ; 
 to what was in trust committed to her most secret ; in wisdome 
 excelling ; in governing of her house, and bringing up of youth in 
 the feare of God that did converse with her, most rare and singu- 
 lar. A great maintainer of hospitality; greatly esteemed of her 
 betters; misliked of none unless of the envious. When all is 
 spoken that can be said, a woman so furnished and garnished 
 with virtue, as not to be bettered, and hardly to be equalled by 
 any. As she lived most virtuously, so she dyed most godly. Set 
 down by him that best did know what hath been written to be 
 true. 
 
 Thomas Lucy." 
 
 A husband who could say so much of his wife could not 
 have been deserving of such obloquy as that heaped 
 upon him by an idle story of a youthful poacher. 
 
 And now my day at Stratford began to darken for its 
 close. In the still, warm twilight I set out on my return 
 journey. The drive was full of pleasant thoughts and 
 delightful reminiscences. The stone bridge of fourteen 
 pointed arches over the Avon was built by a Clopton in 
 the reign of Henry VII., and is still good and sound. Just 
 on the other side is an inn named " The Shoulder of Mut- 
 ton ;" the old sign, battered and broken, retains on it a 
 figure with some resemblance to that joint of meat. The 
 tavern was long since of more importance than it now is. 
 As we pass through the villages on the way we notice 
 the great number of children ; at one small place no less 
 
280 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 than eighteen, all dirty from head to foot, gathered in 
 the road to look at us. As the night-gloom thickens 
 the stars peep out one by one, faint streams of light are 
 cast across the road from cottage candles, bats and owls 
 sweep leisurely by, and the eye grows weary of peering 
 into the darkness. Nature has robed herself for rest. 
 
 I ride silently along, half thinking, half dreaming, and, 
 among other things, the old bridge over which we passed 
 reminds me of the story of poor Charlotte Clopton. She 
 was a sweet-looking girl — so the authentic legend runs 
 — with pale-gold hair combed back from her forehead 
 and falling in wavy ringlets on her neck, and with eyes 
 that " looked like violets filled with dew." They who 
 have seen her picture, which is still preserved, say she 
 was full of grace and beauty. When Shakespeare was 
 an infant, a plague broke out in the town and the neigh- 
 borhood of Stratford, and from it this comely and noble- 
 born maiden sickened, and to all appearance died. With 
 fearful haste they laid her in the vaults of the Clopton 
 chapel in the parish church. In a few days another of 
 the family died ; but when they carried him down the 
 gloomy stairs into the vault, by the torchlight they saw 
 Charlotte Clopton, in her grave-clothes, leaning against 
 the wall. They drew nearer ; she was indeed dead, but 
 she had passed away jn the agonies of despair and hun- 
 ger. This fearful event, if it did not suggest, possibly 
 helped the poet to realize, the well-known catastrophe 
 of Romeo* and Juliet. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " While the ploughman, near at hand, 
 Whistles o'er the furrow' d land, 
 And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
 And the mower whets his scythe, 
 And every shepherd tells his tale 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale." 
 
 It was on an October day in the year 1642 that the 
 royalists and the Parliamentarians met on the battlefield 
 of Edgehill. This fact has given an historic interest to 
 one of the most lovely districts in the English Mid- 
 lands, and attracts to the neighborhood many who are 
 interested in the great struggle of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury. There are also villages and hamlets scattered 
 about this quiet region, both pretty and ancient, their 
 names indicating early Saxon origin, and their peaceful 
 life and their gentle beauty, as they nestle half playfully, 
 half shyly, amidst the bright green trees, suggesting the 
 simplicity and the happiness of Eden. Here one may 
 still see England much as it was in the days of yore, and 
 behold in their perfection the power and the charm of a 
 rural life on which Nature has right royally bestowed 
 some of her best gifts, and where the people are for the 
 most part untouched by the realities of modern progress. 
 Next to living in such an Arcadia, the best way to ap- 
 preciate and understand it, to find out its secrets and to 
 
 281 
 
282 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 enjoy its delights, is to pass leisurely and contentedly 
 through it on foot. It is no use to hurry through, 
 riding or driving as if time were of consequence ; 
 neither meadow nor village, neither woodland nor hill- 
 side, will unfold its sweet mysteries to one who impa- 
 tiently or thoughtlessly rushes along. Life is slow and 
 quiet here, and they who cannot for the nonce enter 
 into the same calm, steady spirit had better not visit 
 the valley of the Red Horse nor climb the heights of 
 Edgehill. 
 
 At Shipston the shadows were long and the streets 
 were still when in the bright summer morning I set out 
 on my ramble through this part of the country. It was 
 not for the first time in my life : every step and every 
 scene of the way was familiar and awakened pleasant 
 recollections and associations. I passed over the mill- 
 bridge, beneath which the boys still wade and fish for 
 minnows and sticklebacks, as they have done for gen- 
 erations. The sunbeams flow through the willows on 
 the bank and make the dewdrops sparkle and the tiny 
 ripples on the clear water shimmer. A solitary frog 
 plunges into the stream, the birds are twittering and 
 looking eagerly for the early worm, and the cows in the 
 meadow are busy at the mist-wet herbage. I cross the 
 fields and soon reach Fell Mill lane, so called from a 
 mill once used for felling cloth — an ideal lane, tree- 
 arched, hedge-hemmed and grass-bordered. Here you 
 may hear the full, rich song of the blackbird and the 
 thrush ; and if you will remain motionless for a while, 
 you may see partridges feeding in the wheatfields close 
 by, rabbits skipping in the green sward, and linnets, 
 blackcaps and wrens nest-building or bathing in the 
 
TO EDGEHILL. 283 
 
 road dust. The woodpecker taps away at the withered 
 branch in the elm and the rat comes sniffling up out of 
 the ditch, undisturbed by the bleating of the sheep in 
 the meadow or the barking of the dog at the distant 
 farmyard or the cackling of the geese on their way to 
 pasture or to water. Earlier in the year the cry of 
 " Cuckoo !" falls upon your ear, and in the late twilight 
 the melody of the nightingale flows from the wayside 
 orchard. The moment you stir all is changed : the rats 
 and the rabbits run, the partridges whir away, the birds 
 flyoli: 
 
 As I walk on through the lane I meet two or three 
 haymakers — stolid-looking, stiff-moving, carrying their 
 scythes and rakes, and also their earthen jug of small- 
 beer. I wish them " Good-morning " and turn into the 
 road running across the fields, in which sheep and cattle 
 and horses are grazing, past the farm known as St. Den- 
 nis, to Tysoe. In the still, bright morning the country 
 appeared picturesque and pleasing. One could not tire 
 of looking at the fresh green hedgerows, the tall tree- 
 clumps, the fertile hills and the waving fields of corn. 
 In the ponds which here and there occurred by the road- 
 side ducks and geese were waddling or swimming and 
 cows were cooling themselves and thoughtfully chewing 
 the cud. Only once did I meet any one in the five 
 miles between Fell Mill lane and Tysoe. Nor, indeed, 
 did I wish to have the sweet solitude broken. Alone 
 one can think aloud, hum over snatches of old melodies, 
 recall passages of the poets, drop leisurely into desultory 
 arguments with one's self, build castles as high and as 
 glorious as the towers and the palaces of cloudland, 
 take in the scenery around, and stop at one's own sweet 
 
284 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 will to behold this attraction or to examine that cu- 
 riosity. 
 
 It was still early when I reached the little straggling 
 village of Tysoe. The place is old ; the church is said 
 to have been built two hundred years before the Nor- 
 man Conquest, and some parts of it may indeed be as 
 ancient. Between the nave and the chancel is a small 
 bell- cot or turret apparently as old as the rest of the 
 building, and possibly in days gone by containing the 
 bell which was rung at the consecration and elevation 
 of the Host. In the yard, full of graves, is part of an 
 old stone cross. These crosses are of frequent occur- 
 rence in ancient and mediaeval churchyards. After ser- 
 vice did the people of bygone times adjourn from the 
 church to the space immediately around such crosses as 
 this to hear sermons ? The village is well supplied with 
 arched fountains in the walls by the roadside. One of 
 these fountains is surmounted by a cross and has run- 
 ning along the line of the arch the appropriate words, 
 "Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again, 
 but whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give 
 him shall never thirst." Doubtless many a weary- 
 hearted villager who has come here to draw has realized 
 the strength of these words, to the comfort of his soul. 
 
 From Tysoe I passed along the road skirting the foot 
 of Edgehill till I reached the Stratford and Banbury 
 highway, leading directly up to the summit by the " Sun- 
 Rising." This was formerly, in the days of stage-coach 
 travelling and as far back as 1642, an inn of some celeb- 
 rity, but it is now used as a farmhouse. Some who are 
 now living remember when it was busy and prosperous, 
 when " mine host " welcomed travellers to his friendly 
 
TO EDGE HILL. 285 
 
 portals and hostlers, drivers, farmers and wayfarers made 
 the old kitchen or tap-room a scene of riotous joy. Now 
 the only signs of life visible were an elderly lady in a 
 morning-wrapper and curl-papers writing at a table near 
 an open window, and a pretty and comely damsel stand- 
 ing at another window thoughtfully looking down the 
 hill for some chance being to come and break the matin 
 monotony. Evidently she did not see a stranger every 
 day ; for when I asked her if the bridle-path on the op- 
 posite side of the road led to the " Tower," the rosy hue 
 passed richly and softly over her cream-white cheeks and 
 she answered me with a kindly tremulous voice. I won- 
 der if such graceful maidens gladdened the eyes and the 
 hearts of the Cavaliers in the days when they frequented 
 this neighborhood ? The bridle-path runs along the top 
 of the ridge, now across a pleasant clearing and now 
 through the shady greenwood, while the view of the 
 wide plain beneath is very fine — such, so an old writer 
 says, as Lot beheld in the valley of the Jordan before 
 Sodom fell. I should have enjoyed it much more had 
 it not been for the swarms of flies. If Pharaoh was 
 plagued worse, I pity him. At times I was obliged to 
 keep my handkerchief in constant motion, or I should 
 have been eaten alive. The path is much used, for 
 many initials and names are cut in the trunks of the 
 beech trees on either side. Frequently I heard the prat- 
 tle and the laughter of picnickers and down the hillside 
 caught glimpses of groups of young men and women. 
 Delightful is the charm of a day's outing in the country, 
 and especially in such a place as this, where mossy banks 
 and crystal springs and deep shades and glorious vistas 
 together help to satisfy the mind and to please the senses. 
 
236 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 I throw my blackthorn on the ground, take off my 
 strapped wallet containing luncheon and guide-books, 
 and sit down on a grassy bank within the shadow of the 
 beeches to take in the magnificent panorama and to think 
 upon the past suggested by it. On fine days the view 
 extends — so it is said — into fourteen counties. On one 
 side are the Malverns and on the other is Charnwood 
 Forest. Coventry, Warwick and Stratford, with their 
 spires and towers, are visible, and on the distant horizon 
 rest the gray-black clouds of Birmingham. A well- 
 wooded plain, set with picturesque villages and farms, 
 threaded by the Avon, enriched with fertile fields and 
 noble orchards, traversed by ancient roads and bordered 
 by the glowing haze of a brilliant summer sky ! The eye 
 rarely beholds a more lovely or extensive landscape or 
 one in which Nature has been more prodigal of her rich- 
 est gifts — not, indeed, the romance and the splendor of 
 the mountain and the forest, but the quieter graces of a 
 low, level country in which prosperity contentedly smiles 
 in the sunshine and beauty seems to move under the 
 vision like tinted waves of some wide emerald sea. As 
 I look upon the picture I remember the word of old : 
 " And God saw everything that he had made, and, be- 
 hold, it was very good." Yes, very good ; and yet the 
 ancient rabbis used to say that " God had taken of the 
 dust under the throne of his glory and cast it upon the 
 waters, which thus became earth." What, then, must be 
 the land beyond the clouds ? If this glorious scene is 
 but the shadow of the heavenly splendor, what must be 
 the substance? And yet down in yonder fields, now 
 lying so calm and peaceful, the angry and sinful pas- 
 sions of man have arisen, brother has fought against 
 
TO EDGEHILL. 287 
 
 brother and father against son, and the land has been 
 defiled with blood. 
 
 In the pages of Clarendon may be found the best de- 
 scription of the famous battle. Near where I am now 
 sitting the king viewed the progress of the struggle. In 
 the plain below, the Parliamentarians, under the command 
 of the earl of Essex, were encamped, twelve thousand 
 strong. On the heights, of about equal strength, were 
 the royal troops, one wing near the Sun-Rising, the main 
 body where the Tower now stands, and the other wing 
 commanding the road to Kineton. The key of the po- 
 sition was thus in the hands of the king ; and, had his 
 men remained on the hill and waited for Essex to attack, 
 a decisive victory would in all probability have ended 
 the conflict and changed the course of English history. 
 The Puritans were stirred to vigor and zeal by the ex- 
 hortations of their ministers. The red horse cut in the 
 side of the hill opposite Tysoe became to them " the 
 red horse of the wrath of the Lord," which he caused 
 " to ride furiously to the ruin of the enemy." In the 
 neighborhood the people, largely persuaded by the rebels 
 that the Cavaliers were cruel and wicked and that they 
 robbed and evilly treated the inhabitants wherever they 
 went, hid their goods and sought to protect themselves 
 against the coming of the king. " The very smiths hid 
 themselves, that they might not be compelled to shoe 
 horses." Through the day the two armies watched each 
 other. An October Sunday, possibly the sound of the 
 chiming bells in yonder towers came softly across the 
 plain and some few pious souls on either side prayed 
 that God would defend the right. At three o'clock in 
 the afternoon the battle began, and the sun went down 
 19 
 
288 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 and a thousand and half a thousand men lay dead upon 
 the field. They were buried where they fell ; five hun- 
 dred were thrown into a pit near to an elm-clump. 
 Neither side had the victory, and neither side was de- 
 sirous of renewing the combat. In the cold, frosty night 
 the king's soldiers, shelterless and hungry, straggled into 
 the villages to beg for food, but, as Clarendon puts it, 
 many " were knocked in the head by the common peo- 
 ple." Ere long the armies marched away, the ancient 
 quiet returned, and the red coats of the. king's men and 
 the orange scarfs of his enemies were seen no more. 
 
 It is now an old study, that seventeenth century, and 
 most people have long since ceased to hold exclusively 
 with either side, but it is well to remember that the Puri- 
 tans had no more a monopoly of the virtues of the age 
 than had the Cavaliers of the vices. There were good 
 men and bad men in both parties. The bad we may 
 well pass by, but among the good none can forget such 
 men as George Herbert and John Milton, the two poets 
 of the period, nor Jeremy Taylor or Richard Baxter, 
 two of its most eminent divines. It is true that Milton 
 was a Puritan ; it is also true that Milton describes the 
 saintly Bishop Andrewes entering paradise vested in the 
 robes of his order. Yet to the churchman and the 
 royalist the bare thought of lifting up the hand against 
 the Lord's anointed was abhorrent. Charles was the 
 king ; the crown had been set upon his brow and the 
 consecrated oil had been poured upon his head, remov- 
 ing him from among men, making him on earth the 
 vicegerent of God and rendering his person sacred and 
 his will law. The divine right of kings may be set aside 
 now, but it was held then, and held, too, by many of the 
 
TO EDGEHILL. 289 
 
 purest souls and the most thoughtful minds in England ; 
 they, at least, could not understand how men dared to 
 resist the prince. Others besides them could not un- 
 derstand men who would abolish the ancient Church of 
 the land, with its bishops, ritual and customs, and turn 
 the sanctuaries of God, where beauty dwelt with holi- 
 ness and splendor cast its vestment upon righteousness, 
 from temples of worship into places of meeting. Ser- 
 mons were good, but services were better ; and when 
 the Puritan had the power — when he had poured out 
 the blood of the king and the primate of all England 
 on the scaffold, and thrust the bishops out of their sees 
 and the parsons out of their parishes, and made it crim- 
 inal for any to use the Book of Common Prayer — then 
 were many hearts grieved and many souls oppressed. 
 None can ever tell the full story of the cruelty and the 
 wrong which the Puritan wrought in those days. He 
 did in the seventeenth century what the papist had done 
 in the sixteenth — persecuted the Church, condemned the 
 Liturgy, exiled the clergy. Rome and Geneva have 
 clasped hands against Anglicanism. No ; Walker's 
 Sufferings of the Clergy is quite as dependable as Neal's 
 History of the Puritans, and John Evelyn is worth more 
 than Samuel Pepys. If in the reign of Elizabeth, and 
 again in the reign of Charles II., the Church sought to 
 drive her adversaries from the land, she but did that 
 which she was forced to do for her own preservation. 
 Doubtless there was wrong on both sides, but as of seed 
 cast in the ground the bad perishes and the good re- 
 mains, so that which was of evil among them has passed 
 away and that which was of God abides even in our 
 midst. 
 
29O THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 The country-people here do not know much beyond 
 the facts that there was once a battle and that Oliver 
 Cromwell did wonderful things toward settling the 
 grievances of the poor. Some of them have heard of 
 Julius Caesar, for one asked me the other day which 
 came first in English history, the Roman or the Puri- 
 tan. The man seemed hurt, as though I had detracted 
 from the fame of Oliver, when I told him that the great 
 Commonwealth man lived in the century before the last ; 
 he had heard of him all his life, and therefore thought 
 he was a hero of far-distant times. But exactly what 
 Cromwell did beyond upsetting affairs generally and 
 satisfactorily, or what was actually done at Edgehill, the 
 men who plough yonder fields or tend the sheep in these 
 pastures close by have no idea. They know some 
 ghostly legends, though, and in the dull October even- 
 ings, when the mists hang along the hillside and the 
 gray shadows overspread the plain, they will hurry 
 along these roads and paths, fearing and trembling lest 
 they should see some of the dead ones who haunt the 
 place. " Apparitions and prodigious noyses of war and 
 battels," as an old writer affirms, have been seen and 
 heard here ; and though in a clear, warm August noon- 
 tide it is not so easy to people the plain with " incorpo- 
 real substances " as it might be in the dim wintry twi- 
 light, yet there comes to my mind an old story told me 
 long ago by one whose years began before the last cen- 
 tury ended, and who knew from his boyhood every nook 
 and corner, every legend and tradition, of these parts. 
 
 Among those who fought and fell in this battle — so 
 runs the story — was a knight of noble birth and of brave 
 and loyal soul. When living, he had made the welkin 
 
TO EDGEHILL. 29 1 
 
 ring with his manly voice, and around his hearth clus- 
 tered many a true and kindred spirit. No stint of hos- 
 pitality was there in his day ; no lack of free souls to 
 hail the baron of beef and the tankard of mead. He is 
 said to have been the last gentleman in the neighbor- 
 hood who took his greyhounds and his hawk to church. 
 Such a good man, beloved as he was by all who knew 
 him and having died in the noblest cause for which 
 one can die — that of king and country — ought to have 
 rested contentedly in his grave ; but no : for many years 
 on the anniversary-night of the battle he was seen 
 riding along the heights of Edgehill on a steed of fiery 
 hue. Noiselessly the horse rushed hither and thither, 
 and the rider — at times gesticulating fiercely with his 
 sword, as though urging his troops to the front, and at 
 times spurring his beast and bending forward his body, 
 so as to pass swiftly on, but never uttering or causing 
 sound, though clad in the armor of an "earthly warrior — 
 had a careworn, shrivelled visage which all who saw it 
 said belonged to the nether realm. For weeks, till the 
 winter's rains washed them away, the imprints of the 
 hoofs in the soil glowed brightly in the darkness. Some 
 had seen them ; some, more venturous than others, had 
 tried to touch them, but there was nothing, only they 
 shone clearly and imparted to the fingers a strange 
 trembling light. Nor was it only in this place that the 
 knight of Edgehill appeared : people of reliable reputa- 
 tion declared that they had seen him in the market, both 
 at Stratford and at Shipston, and that he had examined 
 their samples of grain and asked the price. Others said 
 that he had been seen kneeling before the altar in the 
 church in which he was buried, and others, again, that 
 
292 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 he frequented the avenue which wound through his 
 park to his ancestral home. Of course everybody was 
 alarmed. Old people shook their heads and said little, 
 and young folks cared not to wander abroad after dark. 
 Even the rude and unbelieving Commonwealth man 
 ceased his swaggering and said his prayers when he 
 passed by any of the haunts of the warrior-soul. So 
 long as the Puritans ruled nothing could be done — the 
 spirits are not amenable to such as they — but years af- 
 ter, when a prelate sat once more in the chair of St. 
 Oswald at Worcester, a well-remembered and successful 
 attempt was made to " lay the ghost." 
 
 One midnight — so says the legend — the bishop and 
 the neighboring clergy, accompanied by a large con- 
 course of people, proceeded to the church, near the altar 
 of which was the grave of the old knight, covered with 
 an inscribed stone. It was a wild night. The rain fell 
 fast, the daws and owls screeched in the belfry, the light- 
 ning flashed and the thunder rolled as though the day 
 of doom had come, and the wind roared angrily as it 
 shook the building and swayed the tall elms. The 
 people began to imagine that the powers of darkness 
 divined their purpose and were causing the elements 
 to war against them, and a number of them waved yew- 
 branches and rang the bells to drive away the evil ones. 
 But the storm raged as fiercely as ever. When the 
 bishop, standing on the altar-steps, solemnly adjured the 
 knight to appear, there was intense and silent excitement 
 as the echoes died away amid the distant arches, and 
 every one trembled with fear lest the mandate should be 
 obeyed. They who held the flaming torches stood as 
 though ready to run, and even the clergy looked on 
 
TO EDGE HILL. 293 
 
 with pallid faces. The charge was uttered again, and 
 then again, three times, according to the form prescribed. 
 Then came a blinding flash, then a very avalanche of 
 thunder-billows, rattling like quickly-fired artillery, roar- 
 ing like huge, breaking waves upon an ocean-shore ; the 
 wild wind swept through the nave, and, lo ! in an instant 
 all was still, and there in the midst of the terrified throng 
 stood the old knight, his armor red with glowing fire, 
 his head bowed toward the ground. No one moved; 
 no one had strength or courage to run. The very men 
 who over their ale had sworn that they had seen him 
 time and time again were startled and stunned at the ap- 
 parition. They looked with awe akin to horror, and some 
 devoutly hoped that as a result of England's sin the 
 power of controlling demons and spirits was not taken 
 away from the ministers of grace. 
 
 At last the old knight spoke : 
 
 " What would ye with me ? Why have ye disturbed 
 my rest ?" 
 
 " Because," said one standing close by, " thou canst 
 not sleep in peace." 
 
 " Hath England peace ?" asked the knight. 
 
 " It hath," the man replied. " The king's son sits on 
 royal Charles's throne; the Church hath her own again, 
 and loyal men till the land as in the old time." 
 
 "'Tis well," responded the knight. "Then why 
 trouble ye me?" 
 
 " We fear to see thee in the dismal shadows," another 
 said ; " we dread to have one with us who belongs to 
 another world." 
 
 " Thou thinkest I am worse than ye ?" said the old 
 knight, with a scornful laugh which seemed to drive life 
 
294 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 itself out of some hearts. " I go to church as often as 
 any here." 
 
 " That dost thou, sir," the bishop exclaimed, jubilantly, 
 " but thou leavest thy heart at home." 
 
 This rejoinder was unanswerable, for everybody knows 
 that a ghost does not take his heart about with him. The 
 knight was therefore in the power of the bishop, and by 
 the law which obtains in such matters was bound to re- 
 main wherever he was laid. As a rule, spirits thus sub- 
 dued were consigned to the depths of the Red Sea, 
 where Pharaoh and his host abide in everlasting bond- 
 age ; but sometimes the wishes of the ghost were con- 
 sidered, and he was allowed to choose a place for him- 
 self. Frequently the ghost would select his resting-spot 
 among the roots of an apple tree or under a gate-post or 
 a front doorstep, or near a spring of water, or in some 
 other strange and unexpected position ; from which we 
 gather that ghosts were facetious as well as troublesome. 
 The old knight saw his mistake, and bowed in token of 
 submission. 
 
 "Where wilt thou that we lay thee?" asked the 
 bishop. 
 
 " Give me thy blessing, reverend lord, and I will go 
 in peace," the knight replied. 
 
 The blessing was given; the people looked to the 
 spirit, and as they looked it vanished from their 
 sight. From that hour one soul at least remained at 
 rest. Nobody ever saw or heard the knight of Edge- 
 hill again, and doubtless he has long since passed into 
 regions far from this of ours. 
 
 I remember how anxiously the ancient gentleman who 
 told me this story sought to impress me with its truth. 
 
TO EDGE HILL. 2$$ 
 
 Whether it were in the summer afternoon as we sat to- 
 gether on the wooden bench under the box tree in his 
 garden, or in the winter evening around his fire before 
 the candles were lighted, he would always add, by way 
 of finally disposing of any possible doubt, 
 
 " There is Edgehill, and there was a battle ; and what 
 more can any reasonable man need ?" 
 
 But time passes, and I have yet miles to go before my 
 day's jaunt is over. From the spot where I have rested 
 for the last half hour to the Tower is only a few min- 
 utes' walk. This building, erected about the middle of 
 the last century, marks the place where the royal stand- 
 ard stood on the day of battle. It is a sham ruin, and 
 as a sham ought to have no place in either heaven or 
 earth. The view from its walls is splendid, and, as it is 
 a public-house, refreshments as well as relics can be ob- 
 tained there. As I got over the stile from the bridle- 
 path into the road I asked a man who stood leaning 
 against a gate if the place had any other name than that 
 of the " Tower." He looked at me with grave stupidity; 
 I repeated my question. A woman looked out of a cot- 
 tage door close by, and said " Old Israel's deaf, sir." 
 But even she was not able to give me any information. 
 
 I wandered on along the hot and dusty highway, the 
 very road on which the king's army marched in the dusk 
 of that October morning. On the way to Warmington, 
 close by, are the remains of a veritable British camp. 
 Here one may stop and picture the scenes, not of two 
 hundred years since, but of two thousand. In those re- 
 mote ages the land was a wilderness and its inhabitants 
 were fierce, savage and heathen. With bow and sharp 
 stone-headed arrows, and javelin, axe and club, they 
 
296 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 hunted the beasts of the forest or lay in wait for and 
 struggled with their human foes. I fancy I can see them 
 moving stealthily along through the tall grass and watch- 
 ing me with wild, restless eye from yonder bushy hedge, 
 ready to spring upon me as I stand here. This was 
 their village-home — a place of huts or wigwams made 
 of poles and wattled work and thatched with rushes or 
 covered with sods. A hole in the side of the simple 
 structure served both as a chimney for the smoke and as 
 a door for the inmates. Around were rough palisades 
 and high earth-banks. The valle and the fosse of this 
 camp still remain. In this open space the thick-limbed 
 and skin-clad warriors, fearless of death and cruel as the 
 wolves in the jungle-like woodland, listened to the de- 
 cisions of their chief and prepared for battle. Their 
 women, more degraded, worse clothed and dirtier than 
 themselves, stood by to urge them on to deeds of blood. 
 Doubtless the unkempt, brown-skinned boys searched 
 the hillside hereabouts for nests in the spring and nuts 
 in the autumn, and learned, as savages learn, by expo- 
 sure and trial, the skill and the habits of their fathers. 
 The soil, badly tilled, supplied the family with a few 
 roots ; cows and goats, half tamed and thriving poorly 
 in captivity, gave them milk, and the forest furnished 
 them with fuel. The only thing natural to us about the 
 hut or the camp would be the cat. Puss was there, as 
 happy and contented as she was among the Egyptians 
 two thousand years earlier, and as she is amongst us to- 
 day. This ancient camp was admirably chosen for mil- 
 itary purposes, and, situated, as it is, at the extreme 
 point of Edgehill, commands a wide stretch of coun- 
 try. Now, even as the bell-tones gently wafted from 
 
TO EDGEHILL. 297 
 
 some village church near by proclaim that the cross has 
 triumphed over the old heathendom, so the soft green 
 robe which Nature has cast over the place declares that 
 the hidden past has been forgiven and that peace reigns. 
 
 The road down the hill to Kineton is steep, and by a 
 notice on a board at the top bicyclers are informed that 
 it is dangerous. In the way I meet a heavily-laden 
 wagon slowly coming up the hill. What ponderous 
 wheels ! and what mighty horses ! The driver is clad 
 in corduroys and smock-frock, with thick hob-nailed 
 boots on his feet and a great wide-awake on his head. 
 His hair is lank and long and his stubbled beard has 
 not been cut for some time. He walks beside the team, 
 his bending shoulders suggesting hard work rather than 
 age, and the loud smack of his whip, with his " Coom 
 hup, nu !" and his whistle, indicating both vigor and in- 
 terest in his work. The broiling sun pours fiercely 
 down upon him, but no sun could make him browner 
 than he is or cause the perspiration to drop more freely 
 from his face. When I pass him, he stops his wagon, 
 getting a huge stone from the roadside to put under one 
 of the hind wheels, and asks the time of day. It is past 
 one. How far to Kineton? Three miles and a half 
 from the Tower — the best part of three miles from 
 here. 
 
 "Dear me!" I say, "and along that dry, unshaded 
 road ! It's enough to roast one, such a day as this." 
 
 " Us must expect 'ot waythur this tiime o' yaare," he 
 replies, philosophically, and leisurely wiping his face with 
 his large white-spotted red handkerchief. 
 
 "It's a hard pull for your horses up this hill," I 
 remark. 
 
298 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 " Them dunna miind it ; uld Beetty aar ah goood un 
 to goo, and Buuttarcoop ahn't ah bad un. And gooin' 
 hup ahnt as bad as gooin' doon. Gooin' doon 'ill aar 
 alius bad. Ah mon mah breeak 'is neeck gooin' doon 
 'ill, an' theen 'ee's dun fur." 
 
 I move on. Then I hear the " Gee hup, uld gaal," 
 " Pool awah theer, maw luve," and the harness cracks 
 and the wagon creaks, and on the heavy load goes round 
 the turn in the highway and up the hill. It is not only 
 in the moral sense that going down hill is bad — which 
 sense the driver's words naturally suggested — but it is 
 also bad physically. Try it in the blazing sunshine after 
 a walk of ten miles, for the most part across soft mead- 
 ows and through shaded woods. The hands become 
 swollen, the legs get stiff and the feet feel as if they 
 were going through the toes of the shoes. This was the 
 most uncomfortable bit in my day's journey, but then 
 pleasures must be expected to have their correlative 
 pains, and what is a wearisome tramp of a mile or two, 
 even down hill and along a sunburnt road, to compare 
 with the delights of a stroll through the country-side ? 
 Besides, Providence is generally kind under such cir- 
 cumstances : some vehicle drives up with the horse's 
 head in the right direction, and the cheery welcome to a 
 lift makes one forget the heat and the toil. Here is my 
 chance coming — a chaise with an elderly gentleman, fat, 
 and therefore good-natured. Is he going far my way ? 
 I have not time to ask, for he stops his pony and in- 
 quires if I am going to Kineton. The very place, and 
 off we drive together. He is from Banbury. Do I 
 know Banbury? Rather: I ate Banbury cakes at the 
 time I began to ride to Banbury Cross. It is a prosper- 
 
TO EDGE HILL. 299 
 
 ous town, but in old days it was awfully Puritan. The 
 story goes that a man there of that persuasion once 
 hanged his cat on Monday for killing a mouse on Sun- 
 day. The church has no steeple, but the cheese has a 
 reputation centuries old; Camden implies that it was 
 good, but Shakespeare makes Bardolph speak of it as 
 though it were thin and soft. No ; I shall not be able 
 to visit the place this time. I know something of its 
 history : the elderly gentleman is disposed to antiquity 
 as well as to adiposity. There was once a battle fought 
 there in early Saxon times — that of the Wessex men 
 against the Britons — about a. d. 550? Yes. So some 
 have said, but it was in Wiltshire, and not here — at By- 
 ran-byrig, and not at Banes-byrig. I know nothing about 
 that, but I am right in charging the Parliamentarians 
 with pulling down the ancient castle after the royalists 
 had held it under siege for three months, and before 
 they surrendered were reduced to such straits that they 
 ate up all their horses but two. People drive in for 
 miles to the fair, where, among other things, they get 
 some of the best beef and the strongest ale in the 
 country and see the biggest woman in the world and 
 the only original Tom Thumb. The latter individual 
 seems to be ubiquitous and sempiternal. I have seen 
 the " only original " in my day on both sides of the At- 
 lantic ; old folks have told me that they saw him three- 
 quarters of a century earlier than I did ; a ballad of the 
 reign of Charles I. speaks of him as a hero of King Ar- 
 thur's time, when he was swallowed by a cow, tumbled 
 into a pudding, and was finally eaten by a giant ; a village 
 in Rutlandshire claims to be his birthplace and declares 
 that he was served up in a royal pie ; and lastly the folk- 
 
300 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 lorists come in and say that the whole story is a myth 
 of Northern origin. Any way, they had the little fellow 
 at Banbury Fair — had him for years — and the farmers 
 and the gamekeepers, dressed up in their Sunday vel- 
 veteen, and the laborers and the laborers' wives, and 
 young men and young women, also dressed up in their 
 best, used to look upon him with the greatest interest 
 and believe all that the showman said concerning him. 
 
 So, chatting merrily about one thing and another, we 
 jogged along the road to Kineton. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ©ber tfje (ttrmntrg. 
 
 " And the summer day ended, for late or long 
 Every day weareth to evensong." 
 
 We found the little old-fashioned place all astir. It was 
 the day of the annual flower-show, and the streets were 
 gay with flags and noisy with the rattling of traps and 
 wagonettes over the pebbles and the chattering of vis- 
 itors from the neighboring towns and villages. There is 
 not, as a rule, much excitement in such secluded dis- 
 tricts, but the people somehow or other manage to 
 make the most of life and to enjoy themselves. The 
 "Swan" was filled with guests; the stables were crowded 
 with horses and the tap-room was crammed with holi- 
 day-making and beer-drinking swains. Boniface — good- 
 tempered, sleek, shrewd Boniface — was bustling about 
 and making strenuous efforts to supply, and no doubt 
 to suggest, the wants of his customers. On one side of 
 the gateway was a little window or wicket through 
 which the crowd who could not get indoors or who 
 preferred the fresh air obtained a continual stream of 
 brown mugs filled with foaming ale. Sounds of loud 
 merriment, the scraping of a violin and fragments of a 
 rude song came through the open casement with the red 
 curtains and the brass bars. Here is a boy with a pint- 
 
 301 
 
302 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 pot in one hand and in the other a black clay pipe filled 
 with the vilest-smelling tobacco trying to emulate the 
 older ones around him, but the older ones say he ought 
 to be thrashed and sent home to bed ; so that he gets 
 but poor encouragement. There, a half-drunken fellow 
 kicks a poor cur out of his way, and the -wretched beast 
 yelps and the jackdaw in the cage screams. All is bus- 
 tle and confusion, and the signs are that both the devil 
 and Boniface will make a successful day of it; which 
 juxtaposition of the Prince of Darkness and a man 
 duly licensed by law to make his living in this way by 
 no means implies that there is a league between them or 
 that the one is as bad as the other. As I see the people 
 of the inn driving their business I think of that scene in 
 Piers the Ploughman where Glutton, on the way to church, 
 is stopped by the brewster, who upsets his good inten- 
 tions with the allurements of good ale, "hote spices" 
 and the company of such choice spirits as Watte the war- 
 rener, Tymme the tinker and Hikke the hakeneyman. 
 
 I am shown into the parlor, my stout kindly friend 
 having left me to my own devices. The house is old, 
 with the yard, stables and wagonsheds usually belonging 
 to hostelries of the kind. Inside there are narrow pas- 
 sages, winding stairs, dark recesses and rooms with low 
 ceilings and mysterious-looking cupboards and closets. 
 Care is needed lest one stumble over unexpected steps 
 or old lumber partly hid in the prevailing gloom. In 
 the room in which I find myself are a long table, a piano 
 and some pictures on the wall of racehorses and stiff- 
 looking houses. I ask for dinner, and the hostess, stout 
 and mirthful — she seemed to be made of a smile from 
 head to foot, a huge ripple — skilfully navigates me 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 303 
 
 through dark and devious ways to a long room up 
 stairs. Here she explains to me that the day is a bad 
 one for a warm dinner, but she adds, pointing to the 
 table spread down the middle of the room, that I can 
 make a meal out of the cricket-club supper. Possibly. 
 At one end of the table is a massive piece of boiled 
 beef, at the other a gigantic ham, and at respectable in- 
 tervals between poultry, pies, cheese, bread, etc. My 
 dinner will not be missed. Having seated me in a chair, 
 she puts into my hands implements in dimensions some- 
 thing akin to a scythe and a pitchfork and bids me help 
 myself to the beef or the ham. Then I am left alone — 
 in that long room with that mighty dinner. Neither cat 
 nor dog shares my solitude; I can eat and drink in 
 peace. There is a horseshoe over the door ; evidently, 
 the people believe in witches. I proceed with my col- 
 lation and at the same time picture the scene which the 
 room will present in the course of a few hours, when 
 the hungry cricketers come in for their beef and beer. 
 The twofold process refreshes me both in body and in 
 mind. I throw myself back in the great arm-chair and 
 half fancy I should like to be with the merry company. 
 What speeches and what songs ! The din of applause, 
 of thumping the table, clapping hands and stamping the 
 floor, will be deafening. There will be jokes and stories 
 which will bring out the side-splitting laugh and the 
 vigorous " Hear ! hear !" And the fun will go on away 
 into the night, till one and another will have slipped 
 under the table or fallen over asleep or been led or 
 wheeled off home. Then, about midnight — the magis- 
 trates allowing an additional hour after the closing-time 
 usual on ordinary occasions — Boniface will turn into the 
 20 
 
304 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 street those who are left, extinguish the lights and lock 
 the doors. 
 
 I spring up from the chair and the dream, for I have 
 no desire to pass through a metamorphosis of that kind, 
 and after satisfying the host's very moderate charges I 
 start out to see the town. There is some dispute as to 
 the etymology of its name. Some say it was so called 
 from its extensive market of kine ; others hold that it 
 should be " King," and not " Kine," from the fact that 
 here was formerly a royal palace or castle, and others, 
 again, affirm that it was named after St. Keyne, the pat- 
 ron-saint of wells in general, and of one near the site 
 of this palace in particular. These conjectures suggest 
 curious questions of the origin and the history of the 
 town into which one may not safely enter ; only, as I 
 walk slowly through the unpaved street, I fancy I see 
 here an illustration of a " road-town." Many more such 
 come to mind as I think of this one. The hamlets of 
 Britain and of early England, as of all primitive coun- 
 tries, were mostly independent and isolated settlements 
 in the wilderness, perhaps on the banks of a brook, per- 
 haps in the midst of a dense forest. A clearing was 
 made and habitations simple in structure and few in 
 number were built. As time went on and the village 
 grew in size and importance communication with other 
 places beyond what a mere footpath would afford became 
 imperative, and highways were accordingly cut through 
 the intervening region. The town thus preceded the 
 road, but, the road being made, other towns would 
 spring up at desirable points along its course, a string 
 of cottages stretching for some distance on both sides. 
 As these, in turn, increased in numbers and in conse- 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 305 
 
 quence, other ways from neighboring hamlets would be 
 made through the forest directly to them, and then the 
 village would naturally extend itself along the new way. 
 In these instances the road would precede the town. 
 
 The church, yellow and ancient and of mingled Early 
 English and Perpendicular work, with its " acre " of 
 lichen-covered tombstones and grass-grown graves, 
 stands in the midst of the place, and has a low square 
 tower, a fine doorway and the Gfdgy of a priest. There 
 are a few stone houses, some of them of considerable 
 age and with their moulded windows, clustered chim- 
 neys and heavy walls suggesting stories of days and 
 people of whom one would fain know something. Far- 
 ther on the way to Warwick, at the west end of the 
 town, is the grammar-school, a modern and small insti- 
 tution, at the front gate of which, his arms akimbo, was 
 whistling lazily a small boy with red-brown face and 
 trencher-cap. He hoped to go to the flower-show by 
 and by — perhaps as soon as he got over the Pons 
 Asinorum or the Passive Voice of rvnTco. I love boys 
 — that is to say, boys that are boys and not your pre- 
 cocious boy-men — and this little fellow appears to be 
 after my own heart. Play cricket, pull an oar and ram- 
 ble through the woods and by the brookside, my lad, as 
 well as pore over Euclid and ^Esop, and you will make 
 your way in the world. Boys are to be found every- 
 where — good boys and bad boys — but there is no more 
 beautiful sight under God's sun than the face of a pure, 
 upright, soulful lad the blush of whose cheek sin has 
 not touched and whose eye is bright with innocence and 
 with unconscious courage. The boy bobs his head re- 
 spectfully as I pass by, and I turn back to the side street 
 
306 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 leading to the Tysoe road, and soon come to the place 
 of the day's festivities. 
 
 Three thousand miles away and in the depth of a 
 Western winter, the freezing wind sweeping wildly over 
 the fields of stainless snow and through the bare trees, 
 making the dreary, bitterly-cold night more than ever 
 Arctic-like, that scene, among others, presents itself to 
 my mind clearly and pleasantly. In a large field by the 
 side of the road and under great widespreading trees were 
 erected several tents and booths. Beyond, a gentle- 
 man's house, with the rich velvety lawns set with shrub- 
 bery and flower-plots so common in England, appeared 
 in extremely pretty form. The place was gay with flags 
 and with brightly-dressed swains and lasses. Boys and 
 girls were playing here and there ; swings and merry- 
 go-rounds were going; hucksters and toy-men were 
 crying their wares ; from the steps of his wagon-house 
 Cheap John was holding forth upon the merits of a 
 twenty-four-bladed knife of the best Sheffield make, all 
 for a shilling — warranted pure steel, or possibly he may 
 have said pure of steel ; old folks were leaning against 
 the gates or the fences gossiping, and a very good 
 brass band discoursed pleasant music in short and suit- 
 able fragments. The village was too small to attract a 
 wild-beast show or even a miniature circus, and so were 
 absent two of the greatest pleasures an English country 
 crowd can have — viz., that of seeing the lions feed, and 
 that of listening to the stale witticisms of the clown. 
 Even the " Punch-and-Judy " man — the most popular 
 dramatic performer in the British Isles — was not there. 
 
 The people, however, were themselves an interesting 
 study. Here was Long Tim, the sturdy wagoner, with 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 307 
 
 his Sunday shoes, brown trousers, red vest and black 
 coat — the coat much too short in the sleeves and too 
 tight in the back — and with him were his good wife and 
 seven of his boys and girls, the other three being left at 
 home with " Granny." Never-sweat Dave strutted about 
 with a bunch of ribbons tied in his beehive-shaped hat, 
 and with an imitation silver chain with an imitation 
 bunch of seals and keys adorning his once-white vest. 
 He had a cane and kept his eye on Mollie, who in a 
 group of giggling servant-girls was the most remark- 
 able for the length of her nose and for the gay scarf 
 across her shoulders. Several strangers with the grime 
 of " Smoky Brum " inlaid in the lines of hands and 
 face and under their finger-nails were entertaining 
 Hodge and his friends with stories of the town and 
 with jokes without any point. There was a delightful 
 air of rustic simplicity about the whole thing, and 
 one could well say with Thomson, 
 
 " thus they rejoice, nor think 
 That with to-morrow's sun their annual toil 
 Begins again the never-ceasing round." 
 
 The local gentry and the clergy intermingled with con- 
 siderable freedom among the villagers, for, though the 
 miserable democratic spirit of the age has crept like the 
 sin-tempting serpent of old even into such Edens as 
 this, men have not altogether forgotten that it is equal- 
 ly an honor for man to respect his betters and to treat 
 kindly his inferiors. Ruskin says somewhere — I think 
 it is in his Stones of Venice — that the secret of the pres- 
 ent social discontent lies in the workman having been 
 reduced to a sort of machine set to reproduce a given 
 
308 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 copy exactly and without variation — possibly, for in- 
 stance, to do nothing but make heads of pins or to do 
 nothing but sharpen their points — and thus, all invention 
 and consequent manliness having been destroyed, he 
 takes no pleasure in his task, but labors mechanically 
 and frets his soul against all who are not in the like 
 state of slavery. Hence the centres of rebellion against 
 society are to be found in manufacturing towns, in such 
 as Birmingham, where both masters and men work like 
 convicts in the galleys and drag through a monotony of 
 existence fatal to all nobility of soul or health of mind. 
 In the rural districts there is more variety of employ- 
 ment, more personal interest demanded, and therefore 
 more pleasure in the daily toil. That red-faced, thick- 
 set fellow leaning over the mound — as they call a fence 
 in this neighborhood — and listening to a dingy Black- 
 Country man, will take a pride and a delight in shearing 
 the sheep, ploughing the land and clipping the hedges. 
 Possibly agitators have persuaded him that he is an ill- 
 used animal, oppressed and wronged by those who are 
 over him, but there is more change in his life, more op- 
 portunity of ingenuity and invention, more enjoyment 
 of rugged health and Nature's gifts, than fall to the lot 
 of most men in a higher sphere of life. If I wanted to 
 find real happiness, I should not go to the palaces of 
 cedar or the homes of the city-people, but to the stall 
 of the apple-woman or the cottage of the farm-laborer. 
 Here I should not expect to find high intelligence or 
 extensive learning, but I should find a fuller appre- 
 ciation of the joys and the pleasures of this world, few 
 though they might be, and an inspiriting looking forward 
 to those of the world to come. The people walking 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 309 
 
 about these grounds have in their faces that which in- 
 dicates the possession of a happy soul. And doubtless, 
 when the parson comes among them, he will add to their 
 delight by his encouraging nod, his kindly word or his 
 cheerful smile to one and another. 
 
 In the tents are flowers worthy of this land of roses 
 and dahlias, and vegetables vast in size and suggestive 
 of epicurean joys. It is pleasing to see the interest every 
 one in England takes in such things. Flowers grow 
 there in such abundance and reach such perfection as to 
 excite the surprise of the stranger. In the houses even 
 of the lower classes some attempt is made at their culti- 
 vation and display, and many a woman points with pride 
 to a scented geranium or a pot of common musk. The 
 country-side is filled with wild flowers ; the banks, with 
 primroses and violets ; the hedges, with May-bloom and 
 dog-roses ; and the meadows, with cowslips, buttercups 
 and daisies. The peasantry are encouraged in their love 
 for flowers by these local shows ; and, though some may 
 think more of the possible prize than of either Nature 
 or the beautiful, or aught else, yet the greater number 
 have a genuine affection for and a justifiable pride in 
 their gardens and the fruits thereof. See how carefully 
 they watch the pet flower, the table of cut roses and 
 dahlias, the box of mignonette and the vase of carna- 
 tions, lest any profane hand should touch them and mar 
 their loveliness or rob them of their fragrance ! How 
 they watch the countenance of the visitor for some sign 
 of approval, some lighting up of the face which will 
 show his surprise at the perfect object before him ! Its 
 color, form, size, nature, habits and history will be spoken 
 of and told so soon as you venture to express an interest 
 
3IO THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 in it. The good man will tell you from where he got 
 the seed or the slip, what kind of soil he put it in, how 
 many times he nearly lost the fruit of his efforts through 
 the frost, the excessive rain or the ubiquitous and mis- 
 chievous boy, and his confidence that except in London 
 itself nothing finer could be had in the land. Why Lon- 
 don is excepted I do not know, unless it be for its vague- 
 ness and mystery to country-people. His hope is now 
 to get the first prize, and by and by to find a place in 
 the squire's garden for his eldest son, who loves flowers 
 with all his heart and can do a good day's work along- 
 side of any lad of his own age in the village, and with as 
 good a heart too. Few here have heard the legends of 
 Narcissus and Hyacinthus as told by Ovid, or know that 
 once the white rose tried to outrival the pure paleness of 
 Sappho and blushed for every failure, hence the red; but 
 their round faces broaden under the inspiration of the 
 hour, and their affectionate interest creates a rude but 
 genuine eloquence. 
 
 The people are evidently here for more than seeing 
 flowers and vegetables. They move about over the 
 sward and under the trees in a sort of rhythmical meas- 
 ure to the music of the band, or loll upon the grass in 
 companies of twos and threes. Children toot with horns 
 and play with whistles, and everybody is on pleasure 
 bent. Fairs and wakes similar to this gathering have 
 been held here for centuries, and ages back they who 
 now sleep in the old churchyard up in the town took 
 their part in them as gayly and as merrily as do the 
 free-souled folk of to-day. Some of the young fellows 
 will in the course of the afternoon handle a quoit or a 
 bat, and later on the largest of the tents will be cleared for 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 3U 
 
 a dance. Possibly one reason why there is not so much 
 heartiness in the pastimes of this generation as there 
 was in the sports of past ages lies in the rapid increase 
 of population. A crowd up to a certain point is neces- 
 sary ; beyond that it hinders genuine fun. A great mul- 
 titude uncontrollable and made up largely of strangers, 
 as great multitudes are, can be amused only as the spec- 
 tator is amused : it cannot amuse itself in any true and 
 thorough way. In a small place such as this the old- 
 time conditions to some extent prevail, and, as the num- 
 ber of people is not too great to prevent them from 
 knowing one another or to dampen their feelings, each 
 is necessary to the common games and sports, and each 
 enters into them. For some time to come the effects of 
 to-day will be felt in pleasant recollections, and probably, 
 also, in unpleasant stiffnesses, bruises and headaches. 
 But my time is short, and I am able only to take a 
 walk and a look around, to speak to one or two and 
 then hasten on my way. 
 
 I continued my journey along the road toward Oxhill, 
 a tiny village four miles from Kineton. For a good part 
 of the way the road runs across open fields, here and 
 there passing old farmhouses. These houses are built 
 solidly of stone, the gable-end and blind-wall mostly to 
 the road, and with bits of garden in the unused front yard 
 and the court at the back. In the windows are flowers, 
 and over the doorway jasmine and honeysuckle. It was 
 pleasant to hear the cackling of poultry and the cooing 
 of pigeons, nor did the watchdog lying grimly near the 
 well scarcely prick up his ears at the sound of footsteps, 
 though doubtless the first tread off the public path would 
 have brought forth the warning bark. Nailed to one of 
 
312 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 the barns were dead weasels, stoats, rats and owls. At 
 one gate a women with a sun-bonnet in her hand stood 
 watching a boy holding a guinea-pig by a string tied to 
 one of its legs. The little animal was not very lively, 
 and nibbled at a cabbage-leaf as though it were tired of 
 the warm sunshine, its master and everything else. The 
 woman courtesied as I went by — possibly as much for 
 want of knowing what else to do as for respect; the boy 
 and the guinea-pig, not having either curiosity or rever- 
 ence for the clergy, kept on with their several occupa- 
 tions. 
 
 Each of these solitary houses has its own history — 
 possibly only the quiet, uneventful history common to 
 such, yet one would give much to read the past of any 
 habitation where man has dwelt, and to learn the pas- 
 sions, the hopes and the achievements of those who have 
 occupied or been associated with them. Every life is in- 
 teresting, every building instructive. The strong walls, 
 the heavy doors and the narrow mullioned windows tell 
 of more than defence against the weather : in days not 
 so long since a lonely farmhouse needed protection 
 against the tramp and the robber, just as in remoter 
 times it had to be guarded against thieves, who more 
 by force than by subtility took possession of that which 
 they desired. Some of these were built when the recol- 
 lections were still rife of people not only spoiled of 
 their goods, but also turned out of their houses, and fre- 
 quently maltreated and brutally murdered. Now the 
 queen's peace is kept from one end of the land to the 
 other, and men can lie down in confidence and sleep in 
 safety. There are no gallows by the wayside with felons 
 hanging thereon to intimidate the evilly disposed and to 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 313 
 
 frighten the superstitious; nevertheless, the law has a 
 strong arm — stronger than the oak gate or the spiked 
 palisade, and more to be dreaded for its moral than for 
 its physical effects. The bushes and the flowers in the 
 garden, and the pigs and the poultry, the calves and the 
 ducks, in the yard, indicate restfulness and somehow or 
 other suggest happiness. I stand and wonder if the 
 people who live there unannoyed and unperplexed by 
 much that worries — even as a savage dog worries the 
 sheep — the souls of people in busier spheres are really 
 content and joyful. At any rate, they have a better 
 chance of being so; only, such virtues depend more 
 upon the self than upon the surroundings. I walk 
 slowly along and think it over, at the same time re- 
 gretting that the " Elegy " has been quoted ad nauseam 
 and that the season of blackberries is not yet. 
 
 Many young people pass me on their way to the 
 flower-show at Kineton, some walking and some driving. 
 All are dressed in their best and their gayest, the taste 
 for sober colors not having reached this neighborhood. 
 It is a relief to see a man in something else than an un- 
 dertaker's costume, even though he approach more 
 nearly to Nature's tints and hues. The girls, with 
 scarcely an exception, are fresh, rosy, plump and rugged, 
 the pictures of sturdy health, but they are not, as a rule, 
 more than good-looking. The refined, delicate sylph is 
 rare in England ; the women are mostly of the tradi- 
 tional apple-dumpling order. Dark hair seems to be 
 more common nowadays than formerly, but some of 
 these have the blue eyes and the flaxen hair said to indi- 
 cate Saxon lineage, and some have locks worthy of the 
 Virgin Queen herself. 
 
314 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 A mile and a half beyond Oxhill is Whatcote, a drowsy 
 little place with a quaint old church. It is called " Qua- 
 tercote " in Doomsday, and for some time owned as its 
 lord the abbot of Westminster. In the church is a me- 
 morial to a John Davenport who died in 1668, in the one 
 hundred and first year of his age, after having been rec- 
 tor of the parish for seventy years and six months. The 
 shaft of the ancient cross in the churchyard is now sur- 
 mounted with a sundial, which of itself in a twofold sense 
 indicates a change of time. The bells in the tower are 
 said to be ancient and worthy of notice. Most of the 
 villages around are of Saxon — or, to speak more cor- 
 rectly, of Early English — origin. The centuries have 
 not disturbed them ; they slumber even in this age of 
 rush and excitement. Once in a while a cottage is 
 newly thatched and somebody buys a bedstead or a 
 table, but little else occurs from one year's end to the 
 other to disturb the minds of the people. In a very long 
 time a funeral or a wedding happens — possibly an elec- 
 tion or an auction ; and these are epochs from which 
 events are dated — " Six years after Luke Lemons died " 
 or " Four years after the fire," the fire having been the 
 burning of two wheatricks and the roof of a barn. A 
 stranger furnishes material for several hours' wondering 
 gossip — who he is, whence he comes and whither he 
 goes ; if he has high heels to his boots or a string to 
 his hat ; what he is doing in these parts, and if he is 
 likely to be anybody's relation. As he passes along the 
 road the women run to the door or to the garden gate 
 and look wistfully after him ; the old man shelling beans 
 on the porch steps stops, rubs his eyes, lifts his hat and 
 wipes his brow; and the children jump up from their 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 315 
 
 play in the dust, and, while some stand nibbling the cor- 
 ner of an apron or a pinafore, others run away and fetch 
 mother to see the phenomenon. If you speak to any one, 
 there is no sign in his face of the slightest interest in 
 you ; walking on, you may see scarcely man or woman, 
 but look back suddenly, and you catch sight of a dozen 
 heads of all ages eagerly peeping round hedge-corners 
 or out of doors and windows to watch you and, if possible, 
 to solve your mystery. The children are rather shy than 
 rude, and as likely as not are off like a shot the moment 
 you stop to speak to them. Rosy, rough-haired, chubby 
 youngsters, dirty, every one of them, with clean dirt, two 
 of them with the whooping-cough and holding on to each 
 other as they pass through one of its recurrent onsets, 
 some making mud-pies and others with a piece of clothes- 
 line harnessing three or four together as horses, — there 
 they are ; well, the same as you may see anywhere any 
 day. A lad of ten or twelve summers holding a handful 
 of flowers and under his arm a huge cabbage stares at 
 me with his mouth and eyes wide open. I am not sure 
 whether he thinks I am a Dutchman or a goblin, but he 
 looks as I have always understood cheese and beer are 
 supposed to look at the former and wicked people at the 
 latter. I ask him to give me of his roses ; he turns pale 
 either with fright or with pleasure, but he picks out one 
 of the finest and offers it me. I give him a penny ; what 
 have I done ? He blushes, smiles, regards me with fa- 
 vor and my gift with joy. Off run half a dozen boys 
 and girls for flowers, and almost before I have gone as 
 many yards one and another beg me to take them — on 
 the same terms, of course. They do not know the tones 
 and the ways of the London and Liverpool urchins — 
 
316 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 " Please, sir," " No, no, thank you I" — and I can tell by 
 their faces that, whatever they may have thought of me 
 before, they are now well satisfied that I am barbarous 
 and stingy. That will not do ; a few coppers scattered 
 amongst them, and I get three cheers. 
 
 I went into the village inn and enjoyed a glass of gin- 
 ger ale and a chat with the landlady. The house is 
 called the " Royal Oak " — why, I do not know, unless, 
 possibly, after the famous adventure of Charles II., for 
 the great tree in front of the door is certainly an elm. 
 Long, long ago an oak may have grown there, and pos- 
 sibly a hostel has occupied the site for centuries ; at any 
 rate, the building has the appearance of considerable age. 
 The low black ceiling, the deep recesses in the windows 
 and the fireplace, the wooden settles and the clean stone 
 floor, create feelings almost of veneration. In old Eng- 
 lish times, as there were occasionally female sheriffs and 
 female churchwardens, so inns were frequently — perhaps 
 mostly — kept by women, and even now in many such as 
 this a wife or a widow holds the license and acts as host- 
 ess. My hostess has little to say and does not know 
 anything about the sign ; and when I tell her that inn- 
 keepers used to put out of their door a bush to indicate 
 that they had good wine — though " good wine needs no 
 bush " — she looked at me very unbelievingly. Signs 
 are, however, curious things, and I remember one of 
 the " Gate " at Brailes — it may be still there, for aught 
 I know — and on it were the lines, 
 
 " This gate hangs high, And hinders none ; 
 
 Refresh and pay, And travel on." 
 
 Five o'clock ! I finish my ale and proceed. 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 317 
 
 Outside of Whatcote I came up to a man driving a 
 heavy cart laden with barrels and parcels. On my ask- 
 ing him the way to Honington he invited me to ride 
 with him on his wagon. I was glad to accept and to 
 lodge my now wearied body on the head of a beer-cask. 
 He was very talkative and opened up a long, unceasing 
 harangue upon the troubles of the country, which 
 seemed to consist solely of the unwise economy of 
 some rich people who did not buy or rent the unused 
 land of the neighborhood. Certainly there were many 
 fields lying fallow by the way we drove. I suggested the 
 competition of American grain. — " Not a bit of it, sir ! 
 There's money enough to overcome that, and there's no 
 land in all America to beat this for growing wheat." 
 
 There are snake-tracks across the road; here and 
 there is a cast-off shred of skin. We pass a man car- 
 rying wild rabbits strung on a pole across his shoul- 
 der ; and when I tell my garrulous friend of the last- 
 century custom in Edinburgh of a man carrying a leg- 
 of-mutton shank through the street and crying, " Twa 
 dips and a wallop for a bawbee !" at which the gude- 
 wives would bring their pails of boiling water and thus 
 make broth, he laughed and said it was a better plan 
 than that of people taking their dinner to the bake- 
 house. The man would have given his head to have 
 known who was the stranger by his side ; but, instead 
 of that information, when we reached Honington I gave 
 him fourpence. 
 
 Honington is a pretty village near the Stour and a 
 convenient distance from the Stratford and Shipston 
 highway, hiding amongst the noblest of trees and pos- 
 sessing an ancient lineage and a great antiquity. It has 
 
318 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 a church about two hundred years old and a plain brick 
 mansion of the last-century style. It can scarcely be 
 said to have a street, though the cottages are built in 
 rows scattered around a space undefinable, partaking, as 
 it does, of the nature of a square or a triangle and a 
 lane. There are pleasant bits of lawn under the oaks 
 or the elms which grow anywhere about the place and 
 spread their mossy boughs over road, side-path, tiled or 
 thatched house and barn, making a refreshing and snug 
 woodland retreat. I saw no inn or tavern in the place ; 
 perhaps a population of not more than two hundred 
 souls, if as many, does not need any, though a char- 
 ter of the reign of Henry III. allowed it the privilege 
 on payment of an annual fee to the lord of the manor. 
 This same charter, according to an abstract I find in one 
 of the local papers, compelled the. tenants not only to 
 pay rent, but also to perform sundry other duties. 
 Thus on every alternate day between Midsummer and 
 Michaelmas they were obliged to assist the lord on his 
 estate, receiving as their reward one sheep, eight loaves 
 of bread, a cheese and fourpence in money. During the 
 harvest-time they had to bring into the manor-fields all 
 the members of their family except their wives, and, as 
 the place belonged to the monks of Coventry, they had 
 to trudge at stated periods to that city, each tenant tak- 
 ing with him four hens, one cock and five eggs as an 
 offering to the Fathers. There is now no mill in the 
 parish, but in the reign of the Conqueror there were 
 four such conveniences. Dissenters are unknown, nor 
 has the board school invaded the land. 
 
 Farm-laborers are supposed to have risen in influence 
 and in comfort during the past few years. They have 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 319 
 
 the franchise and some of them read the weekly news- 
 paper of the district as well as their Bibles ; indeed, 
 many of them can discuss Mr. Gladstone as intelligently 
 as they can discuss Nebuchadnezzar ; which is not saying 
 much, only they have a lively appreciation of the fact 
 that, as the Babylonish king once placed a good man 
 in the den of lions, so the great Liberal chieftain has a 
 weakness for doing the same thing — metaphorically, of 
 course — with his political opponents. Large numbers of 
 the younger men have gone to the cities and the colo- 
 nies, and throughout the agricultural Midlands there has 
 been on the whole a decrease in the population. But, 
 notwithstanding all that has been said and done, Hodge 
 is badly enough off. He still thinks himself lucky if he 
 gets a piece of bacon once or twice a week, and beef — 
 or "butcher's meat," as he calls it — as many times a 
 month. However, though poor, he is not miserable. 
 
 Turning into Fell Mill lane at Honington — the same 
 way by which I started for my day's jaunt — I walked for 
 some distance with one of his kind who was slowly 
 wending his way home after his toil. A pious, God- 
 fearing man I found him to be after a few minutes' con- 
 versation, a little inclined to grumble, but not more so 
 than the average Englishman. He was turning the 
 meridian of life — a life which had been spent within a 
 radius of a few miles, five at the outside, from where he 
 lived. Once he had been to Stratford, nine miles off, but 
 that was many years ago, when he was a young man 
 and unmarried. He had heard of France, Russia and 
 America : they were somewhere in this world, but where 
 he did not know, for, as he put it, his " schooling " was 
 neglected when he was a boy. As he passed from under 
 21 
 
320 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 the care of the ancient dame who taught the children of 
 the village their letters and figures when he was about 
 nine years old, it was little wonder. At that tender age 
 he was promoted to the duty of minding the geese or 
 the sheep in the meadow-lane, and was occasionally al- 
 lowed to lead the first horse at the plough, so that books 
 were beyond him and the longest thing he had ever 
 learned was the General Confession, which he could re- 
 peat — as he did repeat it twice every Sunday of his life 
 — without mistake, provided the parson had a clear 
 voice. " As to my duty toward my neighbor," he said, 
 a sad smile moving awkwardly over his tanned and 
 thick-skinned face, " I never could manage that. My 
 daughter Pollie can, though ; she's a fine girl and knows 
 more than her father." Nevertheless, he had brought 
 up a family of seven to fear God and honor the queen, 
 and to brighten his declining years he had the satisfac- 
 tion of a prospect of getting his son into the police-force 
 and of receiving for his own ten hours' work the sum 
 of one shilling and eightpence. To help his meagre in- 
 come he was able once in a while to snare a rabbit — per- 
 haps some nobler game, of which he said nothing, being 
 a prudent as well as a good man — and to find some 
 mushrooms in the meadows. His wife made wine out 
 of elderberries and sloes, and in the winter his boys 
 went hedging for sparrows, and frequently got enough 
 to make a decent-sized pie or pudding. On the whole, 
 to quote his own words, he had much to be thankful for 
 and many a man was worse off than he. The farmers, 
 for instance, had a hard time of it, for it was cheaper to 
 import wheat than to grow it. I gave him double his 
 day's wages, and, grasping his hard, rough hand, bade 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 32 1 
 
 him godspeed and "Good-eve." My path lay across 
 the fields, but before I passed through the gate I watched 
 him plodding along the road toward Barcheston. A 
 true child of God, with more peace in his heart than 
 even kings possess ! 
 
 Country-people are not all like this man in this re- 
 spect; possibly there are none who snarl and quarrel 
 with one another as much as they. The women particu- 
 larly give a liberty to their tongues and use language 
 not unworthy of the traditional Billingsgate. One does 
 not wonder that the ducking-stool was freely used. 
 Some seem to have no control over their violent tem- 
 pers, and a termagant running on day after day becomes 
 irritating sooner or later. Poor wretches ! who can tell 
 the miseries of their past ? Now religion and law have 
 bettered them, but the ages bequeathed to them a bur- 
 den almost beyond the possibility of removing. Village 
 life six hundred years ago has been described by mas- 
 ters of social history, and it was a widely-different thing 
 from village life of to-day. Then murders, suicides, rob- 
 beries and crimes of all sorts were rife, and the people 
 who slept at night in the clothes worn in the day and 
 lived in dirt were morally wretched and depraved. There 
 was law : criminals were hanged and torn to pieces by 
 horses. " It is impossible for us," says a writer describ- 
 ing a Norfolk village in 1285, "to realize the hideous 
 ferocity of such a state of society as this. The women 
 were as bad as the men — furious beldames, dangerous as 
 wild beasts, without pity, without shame, without re- 
 morse, and finding life so cheerless, so hopeless, so very, 
 very dark and miserable, that when there was nothing to 
 be gained by killing any one else they killed themselves." 
 
322 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 Thank God all this has changed ! but these same people 
 of whom I speak, who let their passions run away with 
 them, are their descendants, for there has been little mi- 
 gration in the remote country districts. Rough times 
 and rough punishments ! The stocks are still near the 
 church gate at Tredington. Yonder son of the soil, 
 now nearly out of my sight, with many defects and 
 many weaknesses, is a new creation — nature brings lilies 
 out of swamps and dunghills, and grace makes saints 
 out of men — and in the transformation of which he is a 
 type we may see the power of a pure Christianity. The 
 old mediaevalism could not help such as he; only a 
 religion which brought Christ directly to him and gave 
 to his perishing soul the sustaining knowledge of God's 
 love could make him happy and hopeful. There is no 
 cross by the wayside at which he may kneel and repeat 
 an " Ave," but as he turns his face toward the setting 
 sun he will rejoice in the thought of the many mansions 
 where he shall find a home when the tribulation of this 
 life is overpast. 
 
 The rights of footpaths are very jealously guarded. 
 Some of these meadow-ways — such as the one I am 
 now treading — are older than the neighboring roads; 
 probably they are the tracks by which centuries ago 
 the people found their way through the wilderness from 
 settlement to settlement and from farm to farm. For 
 any man, though he were lord of the manor, or even 
 king of the realm, to attempt to close them from the 
 public would be, as the old Greeks would have said, to 
 catch the wind with a net or to write upon the surface 
 of the sea. I have been told of a squire who tried it, 
 and, instead of turning the people out of the paths in 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 323 
 
 which their fathers had walked, by some mysterious 
 operation or other his head was turned halfway round. 
 When he was able to look straight behind him, he saw 
 the evil of which he had been guilty, and, either from 
 increased knowledge or from increased awkwardness, he 
 repented, and the legend says he was immediately as 
 though nothing had happened. The lesson is apparent, 
 but possibly everybody does not know that caring for 
 roads and paths was once regarded as a religious duty. 
 The author of The Sick Man's Salve, a thoroughgoing 
 English reformer, and chaplain to Archbishop Cranmer, 
 enumerates, among the many virtues which justified him 
 in thinking his "sick man" had made a Christian and 
 godly end, that he had given freely to the repairing of 
 highways. In one age people, when ill, vowed if they 
 recovered to give their weight in wax to be consumed 
 in tapers before the shrine of their patron-saint ; in an- 
 other, they promised to give so much stone to the roads 
 and so much wood to the foot-bridges of the parish. 
 Too often in such cases, it is to be feared, the old adage 
 was verified : 
 
 " The devil was sick : 
 
 The devil a monk would be ; 
 The devil was well : 
 The devil a monk was he." 
 
 Anti-climaxes and oddities are frequent and help to 
 brighten the daily round. The other day I saw a really 
 comical situation. A woman was standing in a cottage 
 doorway with a boy sitting on the ground a little dis- 
 tance off; he was playing and she was singing the hymn, 
 " Hark ! hark, my soul ! angelic songs are swelling." 
 
324 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 The boy did something just as she got to the line " An- 
 gels sing on." She did not stop to finish it, but, break- 
 ing off abruptly, she caught him by the hair and gave 
 him a rapid succession of severe cuffs. He cried and 
 screamed at the top of his voice ; she went back to her 
 post and on with her song as though nothing had hap- 
 pened : " Sing us sweet fragments." The boy did indeed 
 sing lustily and with a good courage. 
 
 There is Shipston over the brow of the hill, the set- 
 ting sun just gilding the old church-tower with the rose- 
 ate glory. All is still and restful — a lovely evening. 
 No wonder men in all ages have been moved by Nature's 
 charms, and especially by the splendor of the sunset. 
 The crimson on the clouds and the purple of the shad- 
 ows are inimitable, more wonderful than aught that the 
 painter's brush can produce — more wonderful, because 
 deeper and richer in hue, and, which no artist can ac- 
 complish, moving, fading, brightening, changing and pre- 
 senting shades full of living glory. How the old Greeks 
 delighted in this calm, sweet hour — in fact, in everything 
 of nature ! There was Athena, the queen of the air. 
 She brought to man the sweet, pure winds of heaven 
 and ruled over the gods of the flying clouds and the de- 
 mons of the storm. She was beautiful and lovely, her 
 robe the deep blue of the sky, sometimes set with the 
 brilliant star-gems, sometimes fringed with the saffron of 
 the sunrise, and in a moment such as this she seems to 
 sit enthroned in her palace of magnificence, her crown a 
 wreath of sunbeams, her face bright with the sweetness 
 and the purity of the calm eventide light, and her hand 
 uplifted to still the playful noise of nature, to cheer the 
 tired world and to bless the expectant heart of man. 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 325 
 
 What marvel if out of such scenes and times have 
 emerged myths and legends — myths that have been 
 dear through countless ages, sung in the nursery and 
 unfolded in the college, and legends which seem so 
 true and so real ! We, rude Northern people, as they 
 of the warm meridiana regard us, have our sunset story 
 — not, perhaps, so exquisite and delicate as those of 
 Greek imaginings, for God made only one such people, 
 but, after all, not unworthy of the common Aryan an- 
 cestry. 
 
 Let me sit in the fading sunlight on this stile and re- 
 call the tradition of the noble Guy of Warwick. He, as 
 all men know and have known from childhood, was a 
 brave and renowned warrior, the hero of numberless 
 battles and the darling knight of Christendom. With a 
 fair maiden, Felice by name, the daughter of a great 
 earl, he fell in love. She was, so runs the story, both 
 beautiful and haughty — beautiful like some stately mar- 
 ble shaft of perfect mould, haughty as the great gerfal- 
 con which spurns the earth and towers up into the noon 
 to look the burning sun in the face. When he told his 
 heart's secret, she bade him go to the war-fields and 
 prove there by deeds of prowess his right to be the peer 
 of a high born-lady. . So he went far away and won for 
 himself golden fame, and at last returned to claim as his 
 own the lovely Felice. But ere the wedding-feast had 
 ended, Guy's conscience was smitten with the thought 
 that all his great achievements had been wrought to win 
 a woman's love and not one deed had been done for God. 
 Then he bade farewell to his weeping bride and sped 
 away again to fight and to work for his Lord, and while 
 he was doing doughty deeds in far-off lands she wore 
 
326 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 her widow's robe and wept for her brave knight. Years 
 after he came back again to his own country, but he 
 went not to his wife : he was content to see her as on 
 deeds of mercy she daily passed the hermitage in the 
 cliff where he took up his abode ; only, once, all travel- 
 worn and with his pilgrim's staff in his hand, he went to 
 her house for alms, and she took him in and washed his 
 feet and ministered to him, and asked him if in his dis- 
 tant journeyings he had seen her loving lord. Then 
 many weeks went by, and he, feeling his end was near 
 and he was about to go away for ever, sent his ring to 
 Felice and bade her come to him. She knew the token 
 and hastened to her long-mourned husband, but Guy 
 could not speak ; so they wept in each other's arms, and 
 she kissed him, and he died. And fifteen weary days she 
 lingered sore in grief, and then God's angel came and 
 gently closed her own tired eyes ; and both she and the 
 lover of her youth were laid in the same grave — severed 
 in life, but united in death. 
 
 Perhaps the story has lost its popularity, but others 
 have believed it besides the people of fair Warwickshire, 
 and many still visit the cave in the rocks near the coun- 
 try town where the hero died. Formerly a chantry was 
 there, and in the chapel, where priests said daily solemn 
 masses, was placed a statue of Sir Guy. In Chaucer's 
 time the legend was sung, and some have thought it had 
 its origin in that battle of Byran-byrig mentioned toward 
 the end of my last chapter ; but, for all that, though it 
 may be mingled with facts, associated and colored with 
 historical events and personages, it is a nature-myth. 
 The brave knight Guy is none other than the sun, which 
 rejoiceth as a giant to run its course, which in the early 
 
OVER THE COUNTRY. 327 
 
 morn leaves his young and lovely bride amid the rose- 
 clouds of the Orient, the beauty and hopefulness of 
 youth and new-found happiness, and, rising in the sky, 
 wanders through trackless wilds, doing mighty things, 
 till at last, weary and worn, he draws toward home 
 again and lays him down to rest and die. Then sweet 
 Felice comes — the clouds, rosy, creamy, maiden-blush — 
 and she clasps him in a last embrace ere he passes away, 
 and still hovers over his grave until her beauty also 
 fades into the night. Thus the weary sun dying in the 
 bosom of the tender clouds is a figure of the parting of 
 true husband and wife. 
 
 The twilight is coming on now, and soon the mists 
 will creep up the meadows from the brook and the 
 fairies begin their night revels. Cinderella belongs to 
 hours nearer the morrow: the prince is the sun, the 
 fairy the light, and she the dawn. The dress of ashen- 
 gray is changed by the fairy into a robe of beautiful 
 hues. The prince runs after her, but the beautiful maid- 
 en leaves only one trace behind, the glass slipper — the 
 crystal dewdrops. Even the other nursery legend, be- 
 ginning with " Sing a song o'sixpence," admits of sim- 
 ilar explanation. The four-and-twenty blackbirds are 
 the four-and-twenty hours, and the pie that holds them 
 is the underlying earth covered with the overarching 
 sky. When the pie is opened — that is, when day breaks 
 — the birds begin to sing. The king is the sun, and his 
 counting out his money is the pouring out the golden 
 sunshine ; while the queen is the moon and her trans- 
 parent honey the moonlight. The maid hanging out 
 the clothes is the rosy-fingered dawn, who, rising before 
 the sun, hangs out the clouds across the sky. 
 
328 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 But I hasten into the quiet town, there to rest after 
 my long journeying, and to thank God that he has given 
 me a day of rare delight — one to be remembered grate- 
 fully and fondly for years to come. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " He picked the earliest Strawberries in Woods, 
 The cluster' d Filberds, and the purple Grapes : 
 He taught a prating Stare to speak my Name ; 
 And when he found a Nest of Nightingales, 
 Or callow Linnets, he would show 'em me, 
 And let me take 'em out." 
 
 Suffer a merry and homely legend illustrating some 
 phases of life in these secluded country regions. 
 
 Shadrack Abednego Pruce was an orphan — that is to 
 say, his father and his mother were both dead. They 
 died before Shadrack Abednego became an orphan, — 
 and when they were buried, Shadrack Abednego planted 
 a yew tree and a rose-bush on their grave, and said, " I 
 am an orphan." He sat down on the grave and cried 
 for nearly three minutes, and said, " I am an orphan." 
 He walked up and down the churchyard, reading the 
 inscriptions on the tombstones, peeping into the church, 
 watching the rooks in the elm trees and muttering over 
 and over again, " I am an orphan." He thought that 
 meant something, and the words seemed to comfort his 
 bereaved heart. Then he sat swinging on the gate that 
 led into the meadow at the back of the church, and then 
 he wept and thought, and " I am an orphan " came to 
 his lips, and the rusty hinges creaked back, " Orphan ! 
 orphan!" Then he went home to dinner. 
 
 329 
 
330 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 This was just a week after the funeral of Shadrack's 
 mother, and ten days after that of his father. In the 
 house the pictures and the looking-glasses were still 
 toward the wall, for old Susannah — she was Shadrack's 
 aunt on his mother's side, and now his sole protector — 
 was somewhat superstitious and did not wish to see in 
 the mirror the face of her lately-deceased sister. 
 
 " Not that I believe in such things," she said to the 
 neighbors, " but there's no telling what might happen." 
 
 " That's true, Aunt Susie," was the reply from every- 
 body ; " it's always best to be on the safe side." 
 
 So every picture, portrait and looking-glass in the 
 house had its safe side turned to the public, and even 
 the silver tea-pot on the cupboard had a cloth thrown 
 over it, so that the dead should not be tempted to come 
 again. 
 
 The effect of this was that poor Shadrack Abednego 
 had not been able to comb his hair properly for more 
 than a week, and, as he had very long and very red hair, 
 he did not look quite so neat as he should have done. 
 Once he went out to the well and sought to see himself 
 in its clear waters, but his aunt followed him and ex- 
 pressed her horror at his audacity so vigorously that 
 Shadrack thought it best not to hurt her feelings again. 
 She even cried for nearly an hour at the bare thought 
 that as likely as not before many days dear Shadrack 
 would be lying beside his father and his mother. Then 
 she looked at the sturdy, rugged urchin, and she dried 
 her eyes with the corner of her gingham apron and of- 
 fered to comb Shadrack's hair herself. But Shadrack 
 was now sixteen years old and five feet seven inches 
 high, and he boldly declared no woman — or man, either, 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 33 1 
 
 for that matter — should comb his hair ; upon which de- 
 fiant rejection of her kind offer, Aunt Susannah dropped 
 off into hysterics, and for twenty minutes her next door 
 neighbor, who ran to her assistance when she heard her 
 scream, thought it was doubtful if she would escape 
 with her life. Hysterics, however, do not kill, and after 
 copious doses of brandy and repeated applications of 
 burning feathers to her nose and of cold water to the 
 back of her neck she gradually recovered. Then the 
 kind-hearted neighbor suggested that Shadrack should 
 be severely punished, but Aunt Susannah said, " Poor 
 boy ! he is an orphan ;" and she went back to her task 
 of peeling potatoes for dinner. 
 
 So on the day that Shadrack Abednego planted the 
 bushes on his parents' grave his hair was, as the saying 
 is, all sixes and sevens, his face had tear-tracks down his 
 cheeks, his necktie was upside down, and he looked ex- 
 actly what he called himself and everybody else called 
 him — an orphan. Thus he sat down with Aunt Susan- 
 nah at the table. He was both sad and hungry, and he 
 ate away at the roast goose and boiled potatoes, and af- 
 terward at the apple-dumplings, with all the delight and 
 zest imaginable. As the half-grown girl who did the 
 rough work about the house said, " Live folks must eat, 
 and as long as Master Shadrack wanted a good dinner 
 he should have it." She had ideas of her own about 
 Master Shadrack, but, having once had her ears pinched 
 for observing to Aunt Susannah that he was becoming 
 a fine young man, she kept them to herself. Aunt Su- 
 sannah wanted no nonsense over Shadrack Abednego. 
 Least of all did she want anybody to fall in love with 
 him. That had been the trouble with his mother — a 
 
332 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 girl that was worth her weight in gold till she got mar- 
 ried, and then trouble began. No ; Shadrack should 
 grow up like the great oak on the village green — grand 
 in himself, noble in his solitude. But, for all that, the 
 half-grown girl had her eye on Shadrack, and she 
 longed for nothing so much as to comb out his radi- 
 ant locks and wash his grief- and dirt-stained face and 
 kiss his bright red lips. 
 
 Shadrack ate his dinner ; then he drank half a mug 
 of ale ; then he sat back and looked fondly and con- 
 tentedly into Aunt Susannah's admiring face. 
 
 " A nice goose, Aunt Susie," said he. 
 
 " The best in the yard," she replied ; " the very one 
 your dear father thought so much of." 
 
 Poor Shadrack began to cry, and found it not so easy 
 as it had been before dinner. 
 
 " Don't cry, my orphan nevy — don't cry," said Aunt 
 Susannah, sympathetically; tl people must die, and so 
 must geese, but don't ee cry." 
 
 " No, I won't," muttered Shadrack ; " but just to think 
 how fond father was of this goose, how it would run 
 after him and eat out of his hand, and now we have 
 ate the goose!" 
 
 " There's enough left for another dinner, Shaddy dear. 
 So don't ee cry, but go out and see if the men are all 
 right in the yard, and if the bay mare's colt is in the 
 meadow. These are all your things now." 
 
 " Yes, aunty, I am an orphan ;" and Shadrack Abed- 
 nego went out to see if old Solomon, the unofficial but 
 very officious overseer, was getting on well with the 
 men and the things of the farm. 
 
 Old Solomon was a childless widower. His better 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 333 
 
 half had been dead nearly sixteen years, and never but 
 once in all that time had his heart been moved by emo- 
 tions of love. Unfortunately, it had been so effectually 
 moved that it quivered yet. He had worked on the 
 farm from boyhood. When a stunted lad of thirteen, 
 he had driven the horses at plough and helped hold the 
 sheep at the shearing. He had grown up an able and 
 a trusted laborer, had served as wagoner and as shep- 
 herd, and now at the age of sixty he had without formal 
 appointment dropped into the general management of 
 the whole farm. Good wages and a free cottage, to say 
 nothing of the possession of authority, made him a man 
 of some importance — so much so that, next to the par- 
 son and Shadrack's father, he was regarded as the great 
 man of the parish. And from his exalted position old 
 Solomon looked down upon one of his womanly ac- 
 quaintances — one whom he had known from her cradle, 
 one whom he had admired from her girlhood, and one 
 whom he had loved from the day he laid his wife be- 
 neath the sod. This acquaintance was none other than 
 Miss Susannah, Shadrack's aunt, and now his mistress. 
 Not that he had ever told his love ; it was his heart's 
 delight and his heart's secret. 
 
 " Does she take it very hard ?" asked old Sol when, 
 on the afternoon of which we are speaking, Shadrack 
 stood beside him watching the cows coming up for 
 milking. 
 
 " Who ?" asked Shadrack. 
 
 " Miss Susannah," replied old Sol. 
 
 " Rather," was the laconic reply. 
 
 " Poor soul !" said old Sol ; " poor soul ! And hasn't 
 she turned the looking-glass round yet?" 
 
334 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Nor given the cat skim-milk instead of cream ?" 
 
 " No ; she says the cat's heart needs comforting as 
 much as anybody's." 
 
 " Kind-hearted creature ! Isn't she a beauty ?" The 
 first part of this observation applied to Miss Susannah ; 
 the latter, to a remarkably fat cow passing at that mo- 
 ment 
 
 Shadrack thought both remarks applied to his aunt. 
 
 " I say, Sol," he put in, " none of that !" 
 
 "What?" in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " Oh, you know well enough. I say none of that ; 
 we have trouble enough." 
 
 "I know it," said old Solomon; "but she would 
 fetch a high price any time. I know a man who would 
 give anything for such a beast." 
 
 " Gently," said Shadrack ; " gently, old man. I tell 
 thee I will hear none of that." 
 
 " No, no !" continued Solomon, still thinking of the 
 cow; "no, no! She's too rare a breed to part with. 
 There's not such another brute in this parish, nor the 
 next. So Mr. Philips said t'other day." 
 
 " If you were not an old man, I'd pitch thee into 
 yonder water ;" and Shadrack went off in great anger. 
 
 " Impatient as his father," said the old man to himself 
 as he turned down toward the barn. 
 
 Into the house went Shadrack Abednego, and as soon 
 as he found Aunt Susannah he began : 
 
 " Aunt Susie, old Solomon has called you a beast !" 
 
 "Ugh, the wretch!" and the words hissed through 
 her teeth. 
 
 " Yes, and he says you are a brute." 
 
a merr\ legend. 335 
 
 " The scoundrel ! he shall go ! He shall leave the 
 premises this very night! To think that your own 
 mother's sister should be called a brute and a beast !" 
 Aunt Susannah was too angry to cry. 
 
 "But that isn't all of it," continued Shadrack : "he 
 declares you are too rare a breed to part with, and that 
 skinny Philips said so." 
 
 " The villain ! the tramp ! the outcast ! the disgrace 
 of his sex ! I'll prosecute him ! I'll have him sent to the 
 assizes ! I'll — " and poor Aunt Susannah's rage stopped 
 her words as well as her tears. Her face was white; 
 her hands trembled ; her teeth were tightly set. There 
 was silence ; then she said, " Tell me all about it, Shad- 
 dy dear." 
 
 " That's all," replied Shadrack — " though, to be sure, 
 he did say you were a beauty." 
 
 " Oh !" The tide began to turn, for her gray eyes, 
 red hair, sharp nose and chin, high cheek-bones and 
 angular figure made Aunt Susannah anything but a 
 beauty. 
 
 "And he also called you a kind-hearted creature." 
 
 " Now, are you sure of that ?" very much mollified. 
 
 " Yes, certain." 
 
 " He's not such a bad fellow, after all," said she, 
 musingly, as though speaking to herself. 
 
 " What ! not when he called you a brute and a beast ?" 
 
 "Well, Shaddy, you know that's the way of some 
 men, especially of such as have to do much with cattle. 
 In your dear father's eye a cow was the pink of perfec- 
 tion. He used to call your mother ' Cowey,' and when- 
 ever he saw anything that pleased him he would say, 
 1 As fine as old Bess ;' that was the name of one of the 
 
 22 
 
336 THE HEART OF MEEEIE ENGLAND. 
 
 Durhams. Oh no, there's nothing at all in the words 
 ' brute ' and ' beast,' when you consider where they 
 come from." 
 
 "Well," exclaimed Shadrack, with the slightest pos- 
 sible contempt in his voice — " well, aunty, you are, as he 
 said himself, a poor soul !" 
 
 " Humph ! he's quite tender-hearted," in the softest 
 of tones. " Now go, Shaddy dear, and take a look 
 around. See if you can find some bait for fishing, for 
 you must try for a trout to-morrow." 
 
 Shadrack stood thinking for a moment. He said 
 nothing and went out. But he thought, " What's come 
 over aunty now ? She's getting a better woman every 
 day. To see how quickly she forgave the old scoundrel ! 
 That comes of learning the parson's texts every Sunday. 
 It takes all the spirit out of her, but it makes her good, 
 fit to go to heaven, that's certain." He took his spade 
 and went down to the willow trees by the pond to dig 
 for grubs and worms. 
 
 This was the burden of Aunt Susannah's soliloquy : 
 " He says I am a kind-hearted creature ! Well, well ! 
 That's what I call thoughtful and manly. Oh, I remem- 
 ber when he was a spry young man and used to swing 
 me under the apple tree. That's thirty-five years ago, 
 now, I'll be bound. We have both changed since then. 
 I would like to peep into the looking-glass, but that will 
 never do. Only he's a good strong man yet — stronger 
 than many a younger one. And folks said he was kind to 
 his first wife and cried when he buried her. A faithful 
 servant he's been. I always thought a deal of him. To 
 think of the dear fellow calling me a brute and a beast ! 
 That's just like a boy calling his sweetheart ' ducky ' and 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 337 
 
 ' goosey,' only from a man ' brute ' and ' beast ' mean 
 more. Well, well !" and Aunt Susannah began to won- 
 der if the legend so ran that the mirrors should have 
 their faces turned to the wall after the corpse left the 
 house. " I thought it was fourteen days after the fu- 
 neral," she said to herself, "but I may be mistaken." 
 The more she thought of it, the more certain she was 
 of her mistake. Then she remembered that when Re- 
 becca Short died they put everything to rights the same 
 day that she was buried. But when two died within a 
 few days of each other? That was a problem, and 
 Aunt Susannah began to get bewildered. " He said I 
 was tender-hearted ; no, kind-hearted : that was his 
 word. I don't think two deaths would make any dif- 
 ference, and Shaddy's hair does want combing. I think 
 I'll venture it. I do wish I had somebody to advise me 
 what to do." She looked at the pictures and the mir- 
 rors, so dismally displaced. She thought out every 
 thought she had. She sighed till she suddenly remem- 
 bered that sighs were dangerous, and cut so many hours 
 off one's life, and then she stopped. Up and down the 
 room she walked, out of the window she looked ; then 
 she deliberately took the cover off the silver tea-pot. 
 She seemed startled at her daring, but nothing hap- 
 pened, so she turned first the picture of the old duke 
 around, then that of his late Majesty, then that of a 
 famous prize greyhound, and so on till all the pictures 
 were in their proper position. She dusted each of them 
 off, thinking rather more of old Solomon than of the risk 
 she was running. Once the half-grown girl peeped in 
 and exclaimed, 
 
 " Laws, missis ! be'st thee not afraid ?" 
 
338 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 " Go and scrub out the pantry, you impertinent 
 thing!" and Betsey departed. 
 
 Nothing happened. Twenty minutes passed ; still no 
 vision on any of the glittering surfaces. Then, with an 
 air of desperate firmness, she turned around one of the 
 mirrors. The first thing she saw in it was her own face, 
 and she nearly fainted. She looked again. Her heart 
 began to cease its fluttering. " He said I was pretty — a 
 beauty. The glass shows I am passable. Humph! 
 passable ! So Ezekiel said ; every man has passed me 
 by. Still, many a high-born lady has red hair, so that's 
 nothing ; and gray eyes : they are nothing. After all, 
 it's handsome is that handsome does. To think that old 
 Solomon called me beautiful ! What would Mary that's 
 dead and buried say if she heard it? I'll knit him a 
 pair of blue worsted stockings for winter, the good 
 man !" and she continued admiring her charms, smooth- 
 ing her hair and eyebrows, adjusting her dress and 
 meditating upon the thoughtful and discerning kindness 
 of old Solomon. 
 
 Into the room walked Shadrack Abednego. His 
 aunt was in too great an ecstasy to hear the sound of 
 his footsteps. He watched her for an instant, then he 
 exclaimed, 
 
 " Aunt Susie, what have you done ? What have you 
 done ? Don't you know I am an orphan ?" 
 
 " Oh, Shadrack, how you frightened me !" cried Aunt 
 Susannah, pale with fear and trembling with excitement. 
 " You shouldn't come in so quiet as that. It's terrible 
 to be startled so." 
 
 "But why have you turned things around?" asked 
 Shadrack. 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 339 
 
 " I was thinking of you, Shaddy dear. You do need 
 washing up and combing so badly." 
 
 " Dear, kind aunty !" said Shadrack, with undis- 
 guised admiration. " You are always thinking of 
 me. Just to think of your turning the glass for my 
 sake ! Loving mother-aunt, let me kiss you." 
 
 Aunt Susannah blushed — not at the kiss, but at the 
 abuse of praise. She held her peace. 
 
 Thus in the evening of the day our story begins this 
 was the emotional state of the hearts belonging to the 
 four individuals we have introduced: Shadrack loved 
 his aunt for her devotion ; old Solomon felt tender 
 toward Aunt Susannah because of her recent grief and 
 his own inspiration ; Aunt Susannah admired herself 
 more than ever, thought Shadrack was a good boy, and 
 looked more kindly on old Solomon because he had dis- 
 covered her charms ; Betsey, the half-grown girl, was 
 simply and completely in love with Shadrack. 
 
 When the shades of night overspread the land and 
 crickets on the hearth and owls in the field kept watch, 
 Shadrack and Solomon slept in peace. Aunt Susannah 
 dreamed of the seven fat kine of Egypt and thought she 
 was drowning in the Nile or the Red Sea, she was not 
 sure which, when old Solomon — perhaps it was the 
 Sphinx ; she could not say : therefore it was most likely 
 Solomon — jumped in and saved her; whereupon the 
 king of some place married her and she became a par- 
 agon of loveliness. Poor Betsey tossed about in her 
 trundle-bed for hours. She was happy and troubled. 
 When first she got into the garret, she snuffed out the 
 candle : that was a clear sign of matrimony. Then she 
 lighted it again and stuck a pin through the wick, re- 
 
340 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 peating some mystic lines about piercing Shadrack's 
 heart and his coming to her in spirit. She watched the 
 candle burn below the pin ; it did not drop out, there- 
 fore he would be sure to appear. To be doubly sure, 
 she set her shoes under the bed in the form of a T, and, 
 placing one stocking under the pillow and hanging the 
 other over the foot of the bed, she knelt down to say 
 her prayers. These were short and simple — "just the 
 heads, you know," Betsey used to say ; for, poor girl ! 
 by bedtime she was tired out. However, hours passed 
 this night before she could get to sleep. She lay there 
 thinking and building castles in the air, hoping it might 
 be her lot to be a Cinderella and marry the prince Shad- 
 rack Abednego. When she felt her foot, though, she 
 was pretty sure, if it were a very, very small slipper, 
 she would never get it on ; so she let Cinderella go and 
 thought of herself as a female Dick Whittington, only 
 Shadrack was her London and she had no cat. Any 
 way, she got Shadrack — that is to say, in her fancy — 
 and she was married in fine style and had a half-grown 
 girl to wash the dishes and mind the baby. Then she 
 dropped asleep, but no Shadrack came; not even a 
 dream of Shadrack crossed her mind. She slept till the 
 gray dawn appeared, and then she got up disappointed 
 and less hopeful, but comforting herself with the 
 thought, " Poor fellow ! he's an orphan — he's an orphan. 
 And an orphan is an exception to all rules." 
 
 Now, it came to pass some few days after this that the 
 village parson called upon Aunt Susannah and Shadrack 
 Abednego to condole with them upon their bereave- 
 ment. He had been expected, so Shadrack's hair had 
 been cut; and when the parson arrived, the orphan 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 34 1 
 
 looked a bright and presentable youth. His new mourn- 
 ing-suit fitted him neatly and greatly enhanced his ap- 
 pearance. His aunt was also looking her very best. 
 
 The clergyman was good and kind, as all clergymen 
 are. He brought them his warmest sympathy, which 
 they had looked for ; he brought them something else, 
 which they had not looked for. 
 
 This something else was a young girl of sixteen sum- 
 mers — his own daughter, Myrtle Muriel, a blithe, win- 
 some maiden with long dark hair, brown eyes, rosy 
 cheeks and pearly teeth. She was a fairy such as 
 Shadrack had never seen before. He thought her 
 wonderful, and blushed bright scarlet every time she 
 spoke to him, and glowed with excitement every time 
 she looked at him. His aunt listened attentively to the 
 kind parson, and at the same time watched her nephew 
 and thought of the noble oak on the village green. 
 Myrtle was at one moment running over a list of 
 French adjectives, the next composing a letter in her 
 mind to her dear friend and schoolmate Valentine 
 Louise Teeson, then watching the poultry in the yard, 
 and thus running through things congruous and things 
 incongruous, and thinking no more of Shadrack than 
 she did of the mummy in the Shortstown museum. 
 She asked Shadrack if he thought the brook had as 
 many fish in it as in days gone by, and it was as much 
 as he could do to gulp down his heart in order to tell 
 her that possibly there were less. Her sweet voice 
 seemed to fascinate him. He never felt so happy be- 
 fore in his life. He even thought it was a good thing 
 to be an orphan, so as to bring the parson and his 
 daughter to the house. 
 
342 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 When they left, Shadrack was another being. He 
 watched her pretty figure down the lane till she was 
 out of sight. That night he asked Betsey to tell him 
 the words of a certain incantation to be uttered over a 
 cup of cowslip wine, which she, taking this to be a sign 
 that her love-charms were working upon him and that 
 ere long he would be hers, did with pleasure. The ob- 
 ject, of course, was to enable him by a dream to foresee 
 the joy that awaited him. Carefully did he go through 
 the prescribed formula and drink the enchanted wine ; 
 then he lay down to sleep, and in his sleep the vision 
 of glory came. He thought that he was standing be- 
 fore the altar at the hour of daybreak. The surpliced 
 priest was there ; the red sunlight fell upon the com- 
 pany and made the church strangely beautiful and 
 strangely weird. The great edifice was still and empty ; 
 only here in the chancel were the friends and neighbors 
 of the bridal-pair. By his side was the lovely Myrtle, 
 crowned with the orange-wreath and robed in satin- 
 cream. Her face was more than beautiful, it was more 
 than earthly. He looked into her eyes, and there he 
 saw himself and love. He touched her hand, and af- 
 fection like an electric current ran from heart to heart. 
 The vows were made, the solemn words were spoken, 
 and then he and his bride turned away, and the radiance 
 of the early morn followed them down the nave out into 
 the great world of sunshine. Oh how dazzling ! oh how 
 bewildering ! Shadrack watched himself and Myrtle till 
 it seemed that they had vanished in the later meridian 
 splendor. 
 
 " Oh, it was beautiful," said Shadrack to Betsey in 
 the morning as he met her at the dairy door. 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 343 
 
 Betsey colored and said, 
 
 "Did 'ee see her?" 
 
 " Yes ; she was lovely, a bonny bride — something 
 like Queen Esther, you know, and ten thousand times 
 sweeter than any other maiden I have seen." 
 
 " What did she wear?" asked Betsey. 
 
 " I am not sure — I saw only her eyes — but I think she 
 wore a garland of daisies and a pink-colored dress." 
 
 " What eyes had she ?" inquired Betsey. 
 
 " That, again, I don't remember. They were beauti- 
 ful — full of love ; not dreamy, but bright ; a sort of — 
 But there ! I can't say. But she was splendid, that's 
 certain. To see her in the sunlight you'd have thought 
 her a what-d'ye-call-it come down from heaven. Oh, 
 Betsey, if I could have gone with her ! I thought, 
 when I saw her fade into the sunbeams, that she disap- 
 peared as a lark vanishes in the bright sky. I don't 
 know, but — " 
 
 Just at that moment Aunt Susannah, who kept a strict 
 watch over the half-grown girl and ever associated Shad- 
 rack and the lone, lorn oak together, appeared on the 
 scene. 
 
 " Bet, you good-for-nothing girl," she cried, "back to 
 your work ! and you, Shad, be off! Wasting time like 
 this first thing in the morning ! I'll give the both of 
 you a trouncing !" and into the dairy Betsey went, say-* 
 ing to herself " I'm the bride, that's certain ; I'm the 
 bride." And Shadrack went down to the orchard and 
 exclaimed, " What a bride she was ! Oh what a 
 bride !" 
 
 Time passed by and the autumn came, and one day, 
 
344 TH & HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 when the leaves were falling fast, old Solomon made up 
 his mind that he would tell his love to Aunt Susannah. 
 He fancied that for some months past she had treated 
 him in an unusually civil manner. She had inquired 
 about his health and had given him some roasted Jerusa- 
 lem artichokes — a mark of special favor, for Jerusalem 
 artichokes were her delight. Therefore it was that one 
 afternoon when going his rounds through the neighbor- 
 ing wood he became sentimental. The trees stripped of 
 their foliage, the wind whistling through the bare branches, 
 the soddened ground and swollen streamlets and the 
 dying sunlight, brought into his tender heart that sweet 
 melancholia which inspires and encourages love. He 
 had been in full possession of that sublime emotion for 
 years ; but when he saw the naked boughs, and especially 
 the white trunks, of the birch trees, he felt the emotion 
 was getting too great for him. His heart was too small 
 for it. Something must be done, or the emotion in 
 his breast would burst forth in volcanic earthquakes 
 and eruptions. 
 
 " Oh, Susannah," he exclaimed as he sat down on the 
 stile — " oh, Susannah, I must have thee ! — Lord, thy will 
 be done, but oh, give me Susannah ! She is the best 
 hand I know of to make onion-gruel ; and onion-gruel 
 of a cold winter night is not so bad. I used to take it 
 when I was a boy, thickened with oatmeal and seasoned 
 with sage and thyme chopped up small. The old woman 
 used to say it was good for chills and cramps, and in bad 
 weather I had one or other 'most every night, the gruel 
 was so good. Howsoever, Susannah is tiptop at that. 
 She knows how to work and make a man comfortable, 
 and that's everything. She's got money, too, and that's 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 345 
 
 more than everything. She's not proud, so that marry- 
 ing a poor man would be no come-down to her. Not 
 that I am so poor, after all. I have three hundred pounds 
 in the three per cents., sixty pounds in the bank, two 
 suits of Sunday clothes and a good houseful of furniture. 
 I'll ax her— yes, this very night I'll ax her. She can say 
 only one thing or t'other ; and if I don't ax her she'll 
 say neither. So I'll go home and dress up in my Sun- 
 day best and face Susannah this blessed night. God 
 knows I am a pretty good sort of fellow, and all I want 
 now is Susannah ;" and old Solomon got off the stile 
 and hurried home as fast as he could, so that he might 
 see the object of his affections as soon as possible. Into 
 his Sunday habiliments he carefully deposited himself— 
 that is to say, he dressed himself for the occasion. Then 
 he ate a good supper, for, as experience teaches, sweet- 
 hearting upon an empty stomach is not what it might be. 
 He also drank a quart of real home-brewed — a virtuous 
 proceeding characteristic of our fathers and strongly 
 helpful to sentimentalism. Into his buttonhole he stuck 
 a scarlet geranium-flower, and in his coat-pocket he car- 
 ried a bunch of lavender. The moon was coming up 
 when he started for the farm, about half a mile away. A 
 clear sky seemed a propitious omen, and the recollection 
 that Aunt Susannah had smiled at him a fortnight since 
 was further cause for encouragement. 
 
 Neither Shadrack nor Betsey thought anything of 
 Solomon's asking to see Aunt Susannah alone, for he 
 often consulted her upon matters connected with the 
 farm. Even his Sunday-like appearance did not surprise 
 them, seeing that a fair was then going on in a neighbor- 
 ing town and he might have been there for the afternoon. 
 
346 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 So they went out of the room, leaving Solomon and Su- 
 sannah together. 
 
 " Miss Susannah," he began, " I believe I am an old 
 fool." 
 
 " Lawk a daisy, Solomon ! you are not the only 
 one." 
 
 " Well, I am the biggest one, any way." 
 
 " I don't know that," replied Susannah, after a thought- 
 ful pause ; " I don't know that. There's no man around 
 here knows a horse better than you do, and, as to a 
 manager, you couldn't be better." 
 
 " Perhaps not. But do you know, Susannah — I mean 
 Miss Susannah — I think a sight of you ?" 
 
 " And I'm sure you are not a fool for that," said she, 
 slightly blushing. 
 
 " But I think you are a seraph or a sylph, and that's 
 going a long way." 
 
 " But there's nothing foolish about it," she replied, 
 softly and coyly. " Only, what is a sylph ?" 
 
 " It's a sort of cypher, I believe ; I saw it in the news- 
 paper the other day. You go on adding up and adding 
 up a person's good qualities, and that is called sylpher- 
 ing or cyphering." 
 
 " Oh yes, I see, but I didn't know that my good quali- 
 ties would make up a sum." 
 
 " There's not an angel in heaven to compare with you, 
 and, for that matter, nor in the earth beneath, nor in the 
 water under the earth." 
 
 " You don't mean that ?" and Aunt Susannah thought 
 her heart beat faster than ever before. 
 
 " Don't I ?" exclaimed the enraptured Solomon. 
 14 Don't I ? I tell thee I am a man, and I know what 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 347 
 
 a woman is. There's not another such. Why, you 
 know old Matilda Cumstock ?" 
 
 Susannah nodded assent and turned up her nose 
 slightly. 
 
 "Well, she thinks she is the skim-milk of perfection." 
 
 " The upstart !" muttered Susannah. 
 
 " She can spin." 
 
 " So can I." 
 
 " She can milk a cow." 
 
 " So can I." 
 
 "She can knit."" 
 
 "So can I." 
 
 " She can read the Bible from beginning to end." 
 
 " So can I." 
 
 " There's nothing she can't do." 
 
 " She can't beat me," said Susannah, firmly and de- 
 fiantly. 
 
 " No, and therefore I say you are ahead of her. 
 Lord ! you are ahead of all the Cumstocks in the world. 
 Your Jerusalem artichokes are not to be equalled any- 
 where. If ever woman was born to make a man happy, 
 you are the one." 
 
 " You are the first one that ever told me so," said the 
 delighted Susannah ; and she applied her pocket-hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes and her bottle of smelling-salts to 
 her nose, not being quite sure whether it would be more 
 becoming and grateful to cry or to faint. 
 
 " Ah ! there are few men outside of heaven," contin- 
 ued Solomon, " who know the fine points of female cha- 
 racter and beauty as well as I do. I have not lived for 
 sixty years with my eyes in my head and not learned 
 something." 
 
348 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 " I know it," replied Susannah ; and tear number one 
 hung like a dewdrop upon her left eyelashes and glit- 
 tered in the candlelight. Solomon thought he had never 
 seen anything so lovely. 
 
 There was silence. Shadrack and Betsey were in the 
 kitchen together devising charms and telling ghost- 
 stories. The room was chilly ; Solomon laid a fresh log 
 on the dying embers. Then he returned to his chair 
 and accidentally pushed it a yard nearer to Susannah. 
 Tear number one trickled down her cheek, and tear num- 
 ber two started from her right eye. She had resolved 
 not to faint. 
 
 There was silence for five minutes. Solomon and Su- 
 sannah were both thinking. The candle needed snuffing. 
 Solomon snuffed it, and somehow or other, before he 
 had again taken his seat, his chair got within a foot of 
 that of Susannah. 
 
 " I tell thee, Miss Susannah," he said, with a profound 
 sigh — " I tell thee it is nice in old age to have somebody 
 to lean upon, somebody to comfort you. I am not an 
 old man, nor are you an old woman — " 
 
 " Only forty-nine," put in Susannah. 
 
 " Forty-nine's nothing. You look as fresh as a wench 
 of twenty. Still, it is nice to have one near to you to 
 make you happy and protect your rights. As my old 
 woman used to say to me, ' Solomon, you are the boy to 
 make a wife contented ;' and so I was, and am yet. I 
 never swore at a woman in my life, and couldn't ; nobody 
 else would that called himself a man. As the parson 
 says, ' Swearing lips are a' something — I forget the word 
 — ' to the Lord.' But don't you think, Miss Susannah, 
 it is pretty to see the ivy twined around the oak, the 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 349 
 
 vine climbing on the wall and the sweet peas and kid- 
 ney-beans growing up the poles ?" 
 
 " It's a beautiful symbol of affection, Solomon. It's 
 as beautiful as a rainbow resting on a cloud." 
 
 " That's what I say. Miss Susannah " — his chair was 
 close to her now — " you have learning ; you know what's 
 what. Now, let my shoulder be the cloud and your little 
 head the rainbow ;" and he slipped his arm along the 
 back of Susannah's chair, and in another moment the 
 red tresses were lying in blissful repose against his 
 stalwart side. 
 
 There was silence. The log on the fire hissed and 
 blazed. Solomon looked into the fire ; Susannah looked 
 down the years. 
 
 " Do you know," said Solomon at last, " that I love 
 you — love you with all my heart?" 
 
 " You don't mean it," replied Susannah ; " you men 
 say such things without thinking about it." 
 
 " Did ever any man say that to you before ?" 
 
 " No — at least, not that I remember." 
 
 " You would have remembered if one had ; so you 
 ought not to say I don't tell the truth." This with a 
 slightly-injured accent. 
 
 " I didn't mean it, Solomon." This very penitently. 
 " I only said it to try you. I know you love me ; I 
 knew you loved me from the day you called me a brute 
 and a beast." 
 
 " I never called you that." 
 
 " Shadrack said you did." 
 
 " I'll make him prove it." 
 
 " Never mind ; it was all right. I gave you credit for 
 being a kind-hearted man." 
 
350 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 " Well, I never said it ; I'll swear to that. I couldn't 
 do such a thing." 
 
 " Only figuratively, as the parson says ; and I took it 
 figuratively, and thought more of you ever since." 
 
 " Do you think enough of me to take me for better or 
 for worse ?" 
 
 " Oh, Solomon !" this softly and happily. 
 
 " I have loved you, Susannah, for sixteen years. Will 
 you have me ?" 
 
 " I must think about it." 
 
 ° No, no ! don't think about it. Take me without 
 thinking. Oh, Susannah, if you don't marry me, I shall 
 die!" 
 
 " You'll do that, any way ; you're sixty now, and 
 you'll not live another twenty years." She spoke sym- 
 pathetically and dolefully. 
 
 " I shall not live twenty days if you say * No.' Be 
 kind, Susannah, and don't let me go before my time." 
 
 " I don't want you to die." 
 
 " You are the only one that can save my life." 
 
 " Then I suppose I must save it. It would only be a 
 charity to keep a good man in the world." 
 
 Solomon kissed Susannah, and Susannah kissed Solo- 
 mon. There was silence, there was sweetness, there was 
 sublimity. 
 
 " Solomon dear, you had better go home." 
 
 "Yes, Susannah. Good-night. Shall Christmas be 
 the wedding-day ?" 
 
 " If you are good. Now go, but please don't tell any- 
 body." 
 
 "No, no! Bye-bye!" 
 
 And as Solomon's footsteps died away in the distance 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 35 I 
 
 Aunt Susannah said to herself, " He said I was a beauty, 
 and now I am to be his wife. Dear me ! how my head 
 aches ! I have never been through such a time in my 
 life. He's a good, a dear good, man. Now, I wonder 
 what Shadrack and Betsey are at ? I had forgot all about 
 them. But he's a dear good man ;" and away she went 
 to the kitchen. 
 
 This was what Shadrack and Betsey were doing : first 
 of all, both were trying to discover what time had in 
 store for them ; secondly, both were seeking for fuel to 
 feed the fire burning in each of their hearts ; and thirdly, 
 each was striving to comfort the other. In the first of! 
 these objects Betsey had the advantage, for she knew all 
 the omens and charms then and thereabouts believed in ; 
 in the second Shadrack was the better equipped, for he 
 was poetically inclined and had the ideal of the beautiful 
 Myrtle in his mind ; in the third each had equal powers, 
 for each knew the joys of love and the griefs of unre- 
 quited affection. For one thing, they had never been 
 left alone so long before, and therefore they had a fair 
 chance to procure the best of their desires. Betsey 
 gave Shadrack the remains of a huge apple-pudding, 
 and while he was eating it she told him a story of a 
 haunted house that made his blood run cold and his 
 skin get " goose-fleshed." He ate the pudding and 
 listened. It seemed some beautiful girl broke her heart 
 over a faithless swain and then took to walking in the 
 night-time. Betsey said she was sure she would do the 
 same if any chap were false to her. How any " chap " 
 could be we know not, for, though Betsey was but a 
 half-grown girl and a kitchen-maid to boot, she had all 
 the making of a good-looking — and, indeed, a handsome 
 
 23 
 
352 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 — woman about her. Shadrack thought that next to 
 Myrtle she was perfection, but he further thought that 
 between the two girls was a difference as great as that 
 between the rose and the dandelion. If any man de- 
 serted her, he said he would drown him ; to which 
 Betsey replied rather pointedly that the one she had 
 selected would never break his word. Shadrack nodded 
 assent, and said he was glad to hear it. Then he told 
 her over again, as he had done many a time before, 
 that he loved a sweet girl, but he never gave the name ; 
 so Betsey was sure it was she. 
 
 " I don't know whether she loves me," he said. 
 
 " I am sure she does," exclaimed Betsey. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because she can't help herself." 
 
 Shadrack was tickled at the delicate flattery. Then 
 they got the leaves out of the tea-pot and put them in a 
 saucer of water ; and when Betsey saw the forms they 
 assumed, she was more confident than ever in her own 
 and Shadrack's good fortune. 
 
 "The one you want," she said, "you will have, and 
 the one I want I shall have." 
 
 " Are you sure of it ?" asked Shadrack. 
 
 " Certain ; everything says so." 
 
 " Well," said Shadrack, thoughtfully, " Providence is 
 always kind to orphans. You're an orphan, Betsey ?" 
 
 " Yes," she replied, with some pride. 
 
 " So am I, and therefore we agree on that point." 
 
 To think that they agreed even so far was joy inex- 
 pressible to poor Betsey. She only wished that Shad- 
 rack would see how much farther they could be one, but 
 he, unconscious youth, held his peace. So they sat by 
 
A MERR Y LE GEND. 353 
 
 the fire talking and dreaming, seeing visions in the fan- 
 tastic embers and getting happier as the future seemed 
 to dawn with glory. They were very still when Aunt 
 Susannah came in. Shadrack was leaning over as 
 though in deep study, and Betsey was sitting beside 
 him smoothing his red locks and wondering why he did 
 not speak the mystic words. His thoughts were far 
 away — far away from the simple maiden at his side — 
 with the Myrtle Muriel whom he had seen but once and 
 thought he should now love for ever. 
 
 " That's what you're doing !" said his aunt, recalling 
 him from his reverie and frightening Betsey almost into 
 a fit. " Be off to bed, you bad, good-for-nothing Betty, 
 and you too, Shadrack, and let me never see you do 
 that again." 
 
 " What ?" asked Shadrack. 
 
 " Never mind. Be off; that's all." 
 
 " I wonder if that is all ?" said Betsey to herself as 
 she went up the garret stairs. " I only wish it were. 
 But never mind, old Susannah; I shall have Shadrack 
 one of these days." 
 
 " I shall have Myrtle," said Shadrack as he got into 
 bed ; " darling Myrtle will be mine." 
 
 " The little wretch !" said Aunt Susannah to herself 
 as she went to her room ; " she's after my orphan-boy. 
 I'll pay her up in the morning. I'll keep her on bread 
 and water for a week : that'll cure her. And I am to 
 have Solomon — dear, good soul ! and he said I was a 
 beauty — a beauty !" 
 
 The Christmas-tide had always been celebrated in true 
 English and ancient form in the old farmhouse when 
 
354 THE HEART OF ME RE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 Shadrack's father was alive, and now that he was dead 
 Aunt Susannah decided the custom should be kept up 
 the same as ever. Moreover, Christmas morning was 
 to witness the completion of her own and Solomon's 
 hopes. The day before more than the usual prepara- 
 tions were made. The house was adorned with ever- 
 greens — the holly and the ivy, laurel, bay, box and rose- 
 mary, and a huge bunch of mistletoe in the middle of 
 the kitchen. The mighty Yule-log was drawn in tri- 
 umphantly and left ready to roll on the festive fire; 
 geese, ducks and turkeys were plucked ; plum-puddings 
 and mince-pies were made ; a great haunch of venison 
 and a still greater sirloin of beef were prepared ; a more 
 than necessary quantity of bread was baked, but bread 
 baked on Christmas Eve never gets mouldy ; and Bet- 
 sey saw that there was plenty of spice and crab-apples 
 to put in the ale, and other condiments to make up the 
 wassail-bowl. All the servants on the farm, the rela- 
 tions and friends, and even strangers, were invited, as 
 in the days of yore. The wedding-cake had been made 
 for more than a fortnight and carefully locked up in the 
 parlor cupboard, where every day, and sometimes twice 
 in the day, Aunt Susannah went to see if it were all 
 right — neither stolen by the fairies nor eaten by the 
 mice — and to think for a few minutes of the precious 
 Solomon. Shadrack did all he could to further the al- 
 most endless arrangements. He made up his mind that 
 old Solomon would die before long, so the wedding 
 made but little difference. After all, it was better for 
 Aunt Susannah to marry a man on in years, because, if 
 matrimony disagreed with her, the end would not be so 
 far off. Betsey said it was the very best thing that could 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 355 
 
 happen, and she had foreseen its coming from the very 
 day the cuckoo was first heard last spring and she found 
 in Aunt Susannah's shoe a hair the actual color and 
 shade of old Solomon's. 
 
 Christmas Eve set in cold and clear. The ground 
 was covered with snow and glistened as the star-beams 
 fell upon it from out the frosty sky. From the old 
 church-tower, nearly a mile away, came the sound of 
 the merry peals, now louder, now fainter, as the wind 
 blew. A goodly company were assembled in the large 
 kitchen, and on the hearth blazed brightly the great log. 
 A cheery crowd they were, too; not a heavy-hearted 
 one among them. They laughed and sang, now a 
 carol, then a ballad, then a ringing chorus ; some told 
 strange stories of hobgoblins and ghosts, but they felt 
 safe, for on this night no spirits walk the earth ; then 
 they danced ; then came blind-man's-buff and puss-in- 
 the-corner and hide-and-seek ; and then dancing again. 
 Gayly played the old fiddler, and far more gayly did 
 Solomon and Susannah lead the jig. And every time a 
 pause came in each drank of the foaming ale or of the 
 reeking wassail. Many a kiss was given under the mis- 
 tletoe ; even Betsey got one from Shadrack, and, as she 
 said afterward, it was better than anything else that night. 
 Other girls were made happy in like manner, but she 
 discovered the prognostic of her bliss in the fact that 
 that morning she had put on her left stocking wrong 
 side out. Nor had she changed that stocking when she 
 dressed for the evening, so that the good luck might 
 not go from her, and therefore she wore both a blue 
 stocking and a white one, which somewhat extraordi- 
 nary fact had been noticed and commented upon by 
 
356 THE HEART OE ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 nearly every one in the room. Betsey got the kiss, 
 and she didn't care for anybody. 
 
 Three hours passed away, and a little before midnight 
 and soon after a hearty supper the company began to 
 disperse, some to sleep off the effects of the carousal, 
 some to get ready for the morrow, and Solomon and 
 Susannah to dream and dress for the bridal. As the 
 clock struck twelve Shadrack and two or three of the 
 other young men went out to the sheds to see the cat- 
 tle go down on their knees, as they do at that time, fol- 
 lowing the example of those in the stable at Bethlehem, 
 who thus did homage to the infant Redeemer. They 
 also went to the hives to hear the bees sing their 
 " Gloria in Excelsis." 
 
 Betsey went alone into the garden. She looked up 
 at the bright stars and listened to the pealing bells as 
 they so joyously heralded in the day of days. Then 
 she went to the sage-bush and carefully plucked twelve 
 leaves, but the shadowy form of the one who should 
 make her a bride appeared not. She made a cross in 
 the snow and laid thereon a sprig of holly full of red 
 berries, but he came not. " He's an orphan," she said, 
 in her disappointment, " and, I suppose, is beyond the 
 reach even of Christmas-Eve charms." So she turned 
 back, and ere long sought her little attic-bed. Poor 
 Betsey ! and she loved Shadrack better, far better, she 
 said over and over again, than Susannah loved Solo- 
 mon. But before she laid down she went to the tiny 
 latticed window and looked out into the calm night. 
 The bells still rang on, ringing down the changes 
 rapidly and sweetly. She saw the garden quiet and 
 deserted, the woods with their leafless and snow-laden 
 
A MERR Y LE GEND. 357 
 
 branches, the cottages in the distance with their now- 
 whitened thatch, the church on the hill far away and 
 the light gleaming from the belfry, and now and then 
 an owl sweeping silently across the fields and a brilliant 
 meteor rushing amid the star-streams. And as she stood 
 peering through the diamond panes she fell into musing 
 — this half-grown girl with an uncultured mind, but a 
 loving heart. Would Shadrack Abednego ever be 
 hers ? Would she, poor Cinderella II., ever be a 
 bride ? Ah ! maidens poor as she had been highly 
 blessed, even as was Mary, the virgin mother. The 
 Christmas story came to her — the stable at the inn, 
 the manger-cradle, the kindly Joseph, the Divine Child, 
 the adoring shepherds. She saw it all, and almost 
 thought she saw the heavenly host wheeling in clouds 
 of light overhead : " ' Glory to God in the highest !' 
 That was what the parson said the angels sang this 
 blessed night, and he said the Babe was the good God 
 that loveth even me;" and she thought it passing 
 strange that He who made the shining stars should 
 look upon a poor kitchen-maid. Could he love a girl 
 that scrubbed the floor and did odds and ends about the 
 house ? No wonder the angels sang ! She could sing 
 too. And the tears began to flow, but they were not 
 sorrowful "tears. 
 
 Again Betsey looked down into the garden. There 
 was the cross in the snow close by the old cedar tree. 
 How dark it looked on the white ground ! There were 
 the scattered sage-leaves, and there were foot-tracks. 
 That was all. No ! Betsey's blood began to creep ; she 
 shivered with fear. Out in the shadow of the cedar she 
 saw a misty figure, a white cloud in human shape. The 
 
358 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 enchantment was working at last ! Who could it be ? 
 It must, of course, be Shadrack; who else could be 
 Betsey's groom ? The indistinct form moved out of the 
 dark cedar shade, and against the clear snow became 
 more vague than ever. It stopped at the cross and 
 picked up the holly- sprig and one of the sage- leaves. 
 Then it moved slowly away, till at last it vanished and 
 Betsey saw it no more. She was both frightened and 
 satisfied. She had hoped her charm would succeed, 
 and yet she did not altogether believe it would. Now, 
 beyond a doubt, Shadrack would be the one. The more 
 she pondered the matter over, the more certain it be- 
 came. Had not the figure Shadrack's tall and youth- 
 like form ? Was not the hair Shadrack's hair ? Nobody 
 else could come, for he was the one she loved. So, 
 happy and hopeful, she lay down to sleep — if possible, 
 to dream of the good fortune which awaited her in the 
 bright by and by. 
 
 Before the sun arose that Christmas morn came the 
 waits with their hand-bells, and a little later village 
 children singing carols. As their " God rest you, merry 
 gentlemen !" filled the clear air Shadrack hastened to 
 the kitchen that he might help give each rustic min- 
 strel and songster the customary dole. After breakfast 
 the usual Christmas boxes were given and accepted. 
 Among the many which Shadrack received was a flute 
 from old Solomon, made by himself out of the wood of 
 an elder tree which grew far beyond the sound of cock- 
 crowing — a great help to the melody of a musical in- 
 strument, for everybody knows that the song of the 
 chanticleer dulls and injures the elder- wood. Shadrack 
 looked upon the flute as a token of great affection, and 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 359 
 
 he trusted that Solomon would live for some years yet 
 to hear him play it — an accomplishment he resolved 
 forthwith to acquire. Nine o'clock was the time ap- 
 pointed for the wedding, and Shadrack, in spite of his 
 improved feelings toward the bridegroom, was rather 
 sorry he could not join his boy-friends in the time- 
 honored Christmas sport of hunting owls and squirrels. 
 Solomon came over dressed in a new suit — very fine 
 corduroy knee-breeches, a richly-decorated silk vest, a 
 plush velvet coat, a great beaver hat and red cardinal 
 hose. He was straight in figure and smiling in counte- 
 nance. Everybody remarked upon his youthful appear- 
 ance : Mr. Solomon never looked 50 well before Aunt 
 Susannah had sent off to the churchyard before she be- 
 gan to dress, to make sure that no grave was open — a 
 point of vast importance. Then she arrayed herself in 
 her gay attire, and in good time the whole party set out 
 for the church. 
 
 Brightly shone the sun ; the sacred edifice was gay 
 with festal dress and filled with interested spectators. 
 The ceremony went on and was concluded, as nearly all 
 such ceremonies are, without let or hindrance. Solomon 
 and Susannah were pronounced man and wife; they 
 were happy and Shadrack had an uncle. He even 
 kissed his new relative, who in his delight at getting 
 Susannah kissed first every woman in the company, 
 then every man, and finished with the parson. Then 
 the books were signed and the bells began to ring, and 
 Solomon led his bride to the family pew. Soon the 
 morning service began, and after a short sermon every- 
 body started for home very well satisfied that the sing- 
 ers had never sung better, nor the parson preached 
 
360 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 more eloquently, nor the church appeared to greater 
 advantage, nor a bridal pair looked more interesting. 
 
 Some good-natured neighbors threw several pairs of 
 old shoes after the newly-married couple as they passed 
 by, and on reaching the house broken cake was sprink- 
 led over them. Betsey managed to be the first one to 
 steal a pin from the bride and to rub her shoulder 
 against her, which feats were regarded by all as highly 
 fortunate and promising. All the other pins used by 
 Susannah were as speedily as possible thrown away. 
 Then the happy soul sat down and tried to cry. Woe 
 betide the bride who on her wedding-day does not shed 
 a tear ! But she could do nothing but laugh, she was 
 so pleased and contented. They pinched her and tickled 
 her ; one fat woman stepped upon her corn, but in vain. 
 They brought a piece of beef highly seasoned with 
 mustard, but she ate it and not a mist of moisture ap- 
 peared in her eye. Some one urged Solomon to swear 
 at her, but he declined. The more they tried, the more 
 she laughed. She could not even go into hysterics, 
 though they set seven bottles of smelling-salts in a row 
 on the table before her. At last Betsey brought in a 
 pan of onions and began to peel them under her nose, 
 and in a few minutes the tears came. All was well. 
 Solomon kissed her and the company were satisfied. 
 Doubtless, Susannah would get along all right in her 
 new sphere of life. 
 
 The day drew joyously to its close. Before the sun 
 went down old and young were merry as merry could 
 be. They feasted and drank gayly and heartily. The 
 house rang with the happy revelry. Nobody thought 
 of cares and toil to come. This was a happy Christmas, 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 36 1 
 
 and a wedding-day besides, and who had evil heart 
 enough to be sad ? 
 
 " I say, Shaddy," whispered Betsey to her wished-for 
 lord as they sat for a few minutes in a distant corner of 
 the room to rest after a violent game — " I say, Shaddy, 
 it seems to me love is a sweet thing." 
 
 " Yes, Betsey ; that boy in the gray smock over there 
 says it's like bread and butter with sugar on the top." 
 
 " He doesn't know. It's more like sugar with the 
 bread and butter thrown in. But just to see old Sol- 
 omon and your aunt Susie in the chimney-corner beats 
 all I ever heard of. First he kisses her, then she kisses 
 him. Look at them now ! One moment she asks him 
 if he likes roast turkey better than boiled goose ; the 
 next he asks her if she likes her ale warm with a roasted 
 crab bobbing in it. And he smooths her dress, and see ! 
 that's the fifth time this very night she's tied up his gar- 
 ter. I believe he unties it on purpose. They seem to 
 forget that there's anybody here but themselves." 
 
 " Oh Betsey, love, you know, is always forgetful," ob- 
 served Shadrack, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Do you think so ? I don't." 
 
 " I couldn't say for certain, but that's the saying." 
 
 "Well, the saying is wrong. Do you think, Shad- 
 rack, you would ever forget the girl you loved?" 
 
 " Never ! never !" he replied, with unusual decision 
 and vigor. 
 
 " Have you ever really loved ?" she asked, after a 
 moment's pause. 
 
 " Oh, Betsey, I am in love now. I love a beautiful 
 girl — the one, you know, I saw in my dream. I am dy- 
 ing with love." 
 
362 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 " You won't die ; nobody dies with love. They may 
 die with eating too much, but no man ever died with 
 love." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " They don't love enough ; and if they do love enough, 
 they always succeed before love kills them." 
 
 " I love — Oh, Betsey, I love as no one else ever 
 loved. I do believe — " 
 
 "That you are the first man who knew what love 
 is ?" interrupted Betsey. " But I noticed you ate as 
 much roast beef and as many mince-pies as the rest; 
 and if you were so deeply in love, you couldn't eat like 
 that. The larger the heart gets, the less room there is 
 for the stomach." 
 
 "I have to eat, you know. Uncle Solomon, there, 
 has done little else but eat and drink all day. I believe 
 we shall have to carry him to bed yet." 
 
 " He's an old fool," said Betsey, decidedly. " But 
 have you ever told your girl you loved her?" 
 
 "No; I have had no chance, and I don't believe I 
 could. I don't know what to say." 
 
 " That's another proof you're not in love, Think of 
 a fellow being in love and not knowing what to say! 
 Why, love has a tongue of its own, and a tongue that 
 can speak too, I tell you. All you have to do — at least, 
 all that you, Shaddy, would have to do — is to go straight 
 to your heart's love and say to her, ' Sweetheart, may I 
 love you ?' and she would say, ' Love me ? Ay, till 
 death !' " 
 
 " I never could say that," replied Shadrack ; " I should 
 drop before the words were out of my mouth." 
 
 " Well, don't say anything, then ; actions speak louder 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 363 
 
 than words sometimes. Sit down beside her and look 
 into her face. You could do that ? All right. Then 
 take her by the hand, then put your arm around her 
 neck, then kiss her, and she will understand the rest." 
 
 " But suppose she shouldn't ?" said the doubtful Shad- 
 rack. 
 
 " But she will — oh, I know she will ! Every girl 
 knows what that means. Just try it and see." 
 
 " I will, Betsey. I'll take the first chance, though I've 
 never had one yet." 
 
 " I suppose you keep putting it off and saying, ' Next 
 time! next time!' There's no time like the present." 
 
 " That's true. But see ! Tom Hodges is looking for 
 me. I must run." 
 
 " Tom Hodges is always in the way," said Betsey to 
 herself after Shadrack had left her ; " another minute, 
 and Shaddy would have been mine. Oh dear ! a heart- 
 ful of love is a heavy burden. But the figure was Shad- 
 dy's ; that's as clear as cream. And hasn't my right eye 
 itched all day — a sure sign that I should see my love ? 
 And who could my love be but Shadrack ? If old Sol- 
 omon got the aunt, why shouldn't I get the nephew — 
 more so, seeing he's an orphan ? It's all right ; only I 
 do wish Tom Hodges hadn't come at all. Shadrack 
 nearly got it out — nearly told me I was the one he loved 
 with all his heart. This is a merry Christmas for me ! 
 But now for the dishes ; I suppose I must go and help 
 wash them. Oh, Shaddy, for your sake ! for your sake !" 
 and she left the room. 
 
 Over this day we drop the curtain — drop it amid the 
 flourish of trumpets and the scraping of violins ; and 
 again we move on to a bright day a year and a half far- 
 
364 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 ther down time's stream, when June birds were singing 
 and June flowers were blooming. 
 
 Beyond the fact of everybody and everything being 
 so many months older, there was little change in the 
 home where Solomon and Susannah now held united 
 sway, and Shadrack awaited the time when he would 
 become lord and master. There was peace. Solomon 
 and Susannah were happy ; no disturbance had come 
 near them. Their love flowed on in the same even 
 course. Betsey had not yet heard the words that should 
 rejoice her heart. She wondered, but still believed. In 
 the mean time, she had developed into a comely damsel, 
 and had received many compliments from the young 
 men of the neighborhood, but she kept faithful to Shad- 
 rack. Every charm she tried, whether successful or not, 
 convinced her that he was destined for her. Why he 
 held his peace she could not understand. She had 
 again and again tried to help him, but he did not seem 
 to grasp the idea. So, looking upon his silence as an 
 infirmity of orphanage, she quietly and assuredly waited 
 the time. 
 
 As to Shadrack, never but once had he seen the idol 
 of his heart, Myrtle Muriel. That young lady had been 
 away, and had only just returned to the parish. Ru- 
 mors of her growing beauty had reached Shadrack and 
 helped to strengthen his unswerving loyalty. He sought 
 to see her, but for some time in vain, till one day he 
 met her unexpectedly, and once and for all. 
 
 In an afternoon in June when the sun was shining 
 brightly and the wind scarcely moved the fresh green 
 leaves Shadrack was wandering alone in the woods. As 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 365 
 
 he walked along the little path, now listening to the 
 blackbird's song, now admiring the white May-bloom, 
 now peering into the thicket or the bush where busy 
 songsters were building their nests, and now watching 
 the tiny streamlet as it dashed down the hill, he thought 
 and dreamed. Quite a philosopher had he become 
 since the day when Cupid's arrow rather than Betsey's 
 pin pierced his heart. Imagination had perforce to take 
 the place of reality ; and when imagination is thus 
 obliged to work, it responds heartily and happily. So 
 now Shadrack walked on picturing to himself the 
 glories of Myrtle Muriel. One moment he arrayed her 
 in sylph-like drapery white as the peach-blossom; the 
 next she was as though dipped in liquid gold — a sort of 
 theatrical and bronze-tint appearance ; then she was ra- 
 diant in rainbow hues, and then pure and white again. 
 He rather liked to think of her with her hair hanging 
 in long wavy tresses, her eyes bright and brimful of 
 mischief and her sweet voice prattling merry nonsense. 
 And to-day the old picture came up again, and the old 
 dream went on the same as before, from the day she 
 consented to be his bride till the early morn when the 
 sun-glory fell upon them both. When he reached this 
 stage in his castle-building, he began to whistle and 
 move along more briskly. He felt already a joyous vic- 
 tory and fancied the laurel-wreath rested on his brow. 
 As he continued to walk he suddenly came to a little 
 knoll from the summit of which was to be had a fine 
 view of both plain and woodland. He knew the spot 
 well, but this time his heart began to leap; for there, 
 seated on this knoll, was none other than the dream of 
 his life, the beautiful Myrtle. She was alone, sketching. 
 
366 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 Shadrack stood still, at first scarcely knowing what to 
 do. Yet so much had he thought of her, so often had 
 he gone over imaginary interviews with her, that he felt 
 brave enough for anything that might happen. He 
 paused for a few seconds, and then advanced. She 
 looked up, but evidently recognized him, or, at least, in- 
 stinctively. discerned him to be one from whom she had 
 nothing to fear. She even went so far as to return his 
 not ungraceful bow ; and when he said, " Good-after- 
 noon, miss," she replied, " Good-afternoon, sir." What 
 a wonderful voice ! How sweetly its accents lingered in 
 the summer air 1 
 
 M This is a beautiful country, miss," observed Shad- 
 rack, both proud of his native parish and by this time 
 able to appreciate such things. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, with almost equal enthusiasm ; 
 " I think that road yonder running under the avenue of 
 elms by the old barn is lovely. I am trying to sketch 
 it." 
 
 " May I look at your picture ?" asked Shadrack, with 
 respectful deference. 
 
 " Certainly," said she, " but it is not what it might be. 
 No artist could reproduce that green lane; it is better 
 than anything I saw in Italy, and simply beyond copy- 
 ing. But I have done my best." 
 
 11 And your best," said he, with unfeigned admiration, 
 "is pure perfection. The sketch is prettier than the 
 thing itself. That hedge is well done, and nothing 
 could be better than the cow looking over the gate. I 
 remember one evening when it was almost dark my aunt 
 Susannah — You must know her, Miss Myrtle, for I 
 am Shadrack Abednego Pruce, her nephew." 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 367 
 
 Myrtle nodded assent. 
 
 "Well, she was walking along that very lane when 
 suddenly she saw what she thought was a ghost sitting 
 on that gate. Away she ran as fast as her feet could 
 carry her ; but when I got up to the place — I was be- 
 hind, you know — I saw it was nothing but a cow, just 
 as you have it in your picture. How I laughed at her 
 when I got home ! She would say, ' Any way, it had a 
 long face,' and I would say, ' So has the cow, auntie ;' 
 and she said no more. Now, when she says that a cer- 
 tain unmentionable individual has horns or hoofs or a 
 tail, I always reply ' So has the cow ;' and I do believe 
 she prays every night that I may not be punished for 
 my profanity by having to spend some time with that 
 nameless gentleman. ' Should you,' she observes, ' you 
 would never forget it ;' and I don't suppose I ever 
 should. But you have hit it splendidly. I never saw 
 anything so good." 
 
 " I remember your aunt Susannah," said Myrtle, 
 pleased at Shadrack's praise. " You lost your father 
 and mother, did you not?" 
 
 " Yes ; I am an orphan." 
 
 " I know — of course you must be if your parents are 
 dead — and pretty lonely you must be." 
 
 " Oh no," replied Shadrack ; "lama lone orphan, as 
 Betsey says, but I am not lonely. You see, I have 
 plenty to do and my health is good. I am always well 
 and can always eat, day or night, and never get tired." 
 
 " Ah ! you are a big, strong young man." 
 
 Shadrack felt that he had grown another ten inches at 
 once. 
 
 " I am nearly six feet high and shall soon be eighteen 
 24 
 
368 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 years old," said he, " and there's not a man a surer shot 
 than I am. I have killed a snipe on the wing — a thing 
 few sportsmen can boast of. Oh, but it was fun ! May 
 I sit down on the grass and tell you about it ? Thank 
 you. There isn't much to tell, when I think of it. It 
 was down in the low meadow there ; you can see the 
 very spot from where you are sitting. I and Uncle 
 Solomon were about with our guns looking for any- 
 thing that might turn up. I had learned so much as to 
 shoot a rabbit running, but I had never shot a snipe fly- 
 ing. ' Very few men ever have,' said Uncle Solomon. — 
 ' What if I should ?' asked I. — ' I'll give you my best 
 gun,' he replied. The words were scarcely out of his 
 mouth when up sprang a snipe. In an instant I fired, 
 and the bird fell. He rubbed his eyes and cried, ' My 
 best gun ! my best gun ! But, Shaddy, old fellow, lend 
 it me the rest of my days, and you shall have it when I 
 am gone.' How I teased him! No, I must have it 
 there and then. I saw the tears in his eyes, so I prom- 
 ised to lend him the gun if he would stuff the bird for 
 me. He did so, and it's now in a glass case in our par- 
 lor. I have heard it said that I shall never shoot another 
 snipe like that ; the chance comes only once in a life- 
 time." 
 
 u How*s that ?" asked Myrtle, very much interested in 
 the boyish story. 
 
 " The bird flies so zigzag. Some say it's like a girl : 
 you see her here, and the next moment she's there." 
 
 " That's true," said Myrtle, smiling. 
 
 " No, it isn't true," replied Shadrack, positively ; " I 
 don't believe it. I don't believe half the things they 
 say about girls. Solomon says there's only one first- 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 369 
 
 rate girl in the country, and that's Aunt Susie, but I 
 know there's at least another." 
 
 "That May-bloom over there is beautiful, isn't it?" 
 said Myrtle, pointing to a hedge white with blos- 
 soms. 
 
 " Yes ; but there, again ! the greatest beauty in the 
 world is to be found in a girl's eyes." 
 
 " Don't believe it, Mr. Shadrack. Girls' eyes are de- 
 ceitful, sometimes, at least. They are pretty and 
 changeable as April skies. The man who trusts them 
 makes a mistake." 
 
 " No, no !" interposed Shadrack ; " the eye is the win- 
 dow of the heart, and there is nothing in a good girl's 
 heart but what is of heaven." 
 
 " You are a young admirer of the sex. But then all 
 girls are not good." 
 
 " Perhaps not. I never saw one, though, that wasn't 
 good. My mother was good, so is Aunt Susannah, so 
 is Betsey, so are you, and — " 
 
 " But you don't know me," said Myrtle. 
 
 " Not know you !" said the enthusiastic youth. " Do 
 you think I don't know every tree in this wood ? Well, 
 I know you better than I know them. I have dreamed 
 and thought of you for two full years, and, though I 
 have seen you but once, I have lived as though I saw 
 you all the time." 
 
 Myrtle blushed — rather with delight than with dis- 
 pleasure. She got up and said with a half smile, 
 
 "You read romances, fair sir; young gentlemen all 
 do. But I must go; so good-day. Many thanks for 
 your company. No, thank you; I'll carry the book 
 myself. There, now! Good-bye." 
 
370 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 "But, Miss Myrtle," said Shadrack, desperately — 
 " Miss Myrtle, this is the only chance I may have of 
 seeing you, and — " 
 
 " Were you looking for a silly girl when you found 
 me?" she asked, laughingly. 
 
 " No ; only I have been wanting to see you for so 
 long, and this is the first time. May I not tell you all ? 
 I am only a country youth, but by and by I shall be next 
 man to your father in the parish. I have red hair — I 
 know it — and am too big and gawky, but I have a good 
 heart, and you know — " 
 
 " There, now ! not another word, my noble youth. 
 You are a valiant knight to woo the first maiden you 
 meet in the merry greenwood! Prithee walk a little 
 farther off. So runs the language of the books, but you 
 know them better than I. Nay, hold thy peace. Thou 
 wilt swear by the waving poplar trees that thou dost 
 love me. I see it in thine eye ; I feel it in thy voice. 
 Oh how the little darts fall upon my heart like the sharp 
 hailstones in an August day ! Say not a word, my baron 
 so bluff and bold, but walk on faster, lest the even shades 
 fall upon us ere we reach the open road. Let me laugh, 
 O my good Shadrack, let me laugh ! for, though thy 
 hair be red, yet doubtless it ariseth from the scorching 
 of the furnace. Thy namesake, you remember, went 
 through fire ; you, I suppose, would go through fire and 
 water for your ladylove ?" 
 
 " You have said for me, Miss Myrtle, much that I 
 could not have said," replied the slightly-crestfallen 
 Shadrack. " I never could have told you that I loved 
 you, but 'tis true all the same. I am only a plain yeo- 
 man, or that's all I shall be, but I speak truth when I 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 37 1 
 
 say you tell the truth. It was bold of me to look up 
 to a parson's daughter — to one who is the queenliest of 
 all maidens ; but I have not sinned." 
 
 " There's no harm done, friend Shadrack," she replied, 
 more seriously — " no harm done ; and if I thought the 
 same of you, no doubt we should agree. However, you 
 are kind to think of me as you do — too kind, I fear. 
 Only don't speak of such things again. Now, this is 
 my way," pointing down the road which they had now 
 reached, " and that is yours ; here we part, and there's 
 no harm done." 
 
 " Let me walk with you a little way," said Shad- 
 rack. 
 
 " No, not a step. You have said enough already." 
 
 " I haven't said anything — at least, not all." 
 
 " I know all the rest ; so good-bye ;" and she tripped 
 lightly away. 
 
 Shadrack stood watching her as she went up the road, 
 so pretty, so light-hearted. He sighed and shook his 
 head. " It's strange," said he to himself, " but still I 
 love her. I'll have her yet. She's young and giddy, 
 but never mind. There! she's gone. There's no one 
 else like her;" and he turned round and went home. 
 
 A few nights later was Midsummer Eve, when the 
 country-people light bonfires and maidens watch in the 
 church porch for their lovers. How the latter managed 
 when, say, half a dozen sought the sombre portal for the 
 same purpose, we are not told ; but there is no doubt 
 the believing damsel was oftentimes rewarded, for did 
 not the young men know the custom, and did not they 
 too watch and wait ? 
 
 It would have been unnatural for Betsey to have 
 
372 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 missed so good an opportunity of confirming her hopes 
 and dreams. The fact that Shadrack was an orphan 
 seemed to run counter to all her charms. Nothing 
 worked exactly as it should, and she began to doubt 
 whether it was he whom she saw on Christmas Eve 
 long ago. However, her love was strong as ever, and 
 she still clung to the belief that destiny had decreed in 
 her favor. If he would only speak ! That was the 
 trouble. He was in love, as any novice might see. 
 Everything he did — his absent manner, his dreamy 
 words, his evident desire for sympathy — showed that he 
 was deeply wounded. One might almost fancy one saw 
 the blood trickling from his broken heart, each drop suf- 
 ficient to satisfy the most ardent maidenly longing. But 
 why did he not tell his love ? Why should he seek to 
 hide it? Shadrack was an orphan : that was all. 
 
 So an hour before midnight Betsey started off for the 
 old church. The people of the farm were feasting in 
 the kitchen or around the huge bonfire, and therefore 
 she got away unnoticed. Up the hill she hasted, almost 
 breathless with excitement, anxious to read fate and 
 afraid lest fate should speak. The moon was just rising 
 as she entered the churchyard. There was no sign of 
 living creature, not even an owl or a night-hawk. The 
 graves lay, as graves generally do, silent and suggestive 
 — so suggestive that Betsey's nerves began to give way 
 when she looked at them. But it was near twelve 
 o'clock, and now was the golden opportunity. Into the 
 deep porch she went. It felt chilly and dismal. She 
 shivered with fear, and did not help herself much when 
 she thought that instead of a lover she might catch her 
 death. Still, she was a brave girl, and withal a good 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 373 
 
 girl; so she repeated the Creed and said the Lord's 
 Prayer, and then she knew no evil could possibly be- 
 fall her. 
 
 " Strange, though," said she to herself, " that nearly 
 every time I have failed. Last year I took a clean gar- 
 ment and wetted it and turned it wrong side out and set 
 it on the back of a chair to dry, but no sweetheart came 
 to turn it right again. I lay on my back and stopped 
 my ears with laurel-leaves, but he did not appear. I put 
 beneath my pillow a coal which I found under a plantain- 
 root, but that night I dreamt nothing. I have gathered 
 a rose, walking backward to the bush, and I have kept 
 it in clean paper till Christmas without looking at it, and 
 then I stuck it in my bosom, but no lover came to pluck 
 it out. I don't know what I haven't tried. Are all or- 
 phans like Shadrack ?" and then the great bell in the 
 tower struck the first note of midnight. 
 
 Betsey trembled and muttered the words of incanta- 
 tion. The last note died away, and she saw nothing. 
 Then she heard a footstep on the gravel- walk, and if she 
 could she would have screamed. The footsteps came 
 nearer the porch, but she stood motionless, unable to 
 move hand or foot, unable even to think. Another in- 
 stant, and Shadrack stood before he. 
 
 " Oh, Betsey, Betsey !" cried he. " Quick ! come with 
 me." She neither moved nor spoke. " I saw you come 
 in. Don't be frightened ; it is I myself, in my own flesh 
 and blood. Come, come !" Her face was ashy pale ; 
 the moonlight was beginning to fall upon her. Shad- 
 rack took her by the arm : " Oh, Betsey, do wake up ! 
 A dreadful thing has happened. Myrtle is dead — lying 
 out here in the churchyard dead and stiff. I came up 
 
374 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 
 
 just now, and I saw the white form on the ground. Oh, 
 come and see what can be done." He half dragged her 
 out of the porch. 
 
 " Shaddy," Betsey gasped, " I am bewildered." 
 
 " But she is dead," said Shadrack, still pulling Betsey 
 along. 
 
 " Who ?" asked she. 
 
 " Myrtle. See ! here she lies." He pointed to a figure 
 lying on the green sward. " It is Myrtle," said he, with 
 hushed breath. " I have lifted her hand that lies across 
 her face ; she is dead. What can we do ?" 
 
 " Stay by her, Shaddy, while I run to the vicarage for 
 help." 
 
 Betsey was all right now; the evident anguish of 
 Shadrack brought back her senses. She was off at 
 once. 
 
 "Poor Myrtle!" said Shadrack. "My Myrtle, now 
 thou canst never be mine. Gone for ever !" He stood 
 there in the moonlight looking down upon the lifeless 
 body. This was the end of the dreaming, and the glory 
 was not the early bridal and the meridian splendor, but 
 midnight sorrow and a grave. 
 
 In a few minutes Betsey returned with a number of 
 people — among them, the clergyman. He stooped down 
 and lifted his daughter's hand, and cried, " My Myrtle ! 
 My love !" but she was dead. They took her up and 
 carried her to the house. " It was her heart," one 
 whispered to another ; " her heart troubled her." Shad- 
 rack told them how he had found her. What took her 
 to the churchyard at that time of night ? It could not 
 be that she might keep the village custom ? No one 
 could tell ; no one ever would know. Only, when Shad- 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 375 
 
 rack and Betsey were about to leave for home the cler- 
 gyman took him by the hand and said, 
 
 " She told me all about it, and she laughed, but she 
 wasn't angry. She didn't know you ; but when I told 
 her about you, she said she was sorry. That was all. 
 Good-night;" and he went back to weep by Myrtle's 
 bed. 
 
 Betsey was not so smitten with grief as to forget that 
 Shadrack had appeared to her at the midnight hour. 
 She was sorry that a catastrophe had happened, but she 
 was satisfied that the youth by her side was now her 
 own. Not that she suspected for one moment Shad- 
 rack's feeling toward Myrtle. He had spoken of love in 
 the abstract, and never in the concrete. It was there- 
 fore with honest regret that she said as they were walk- 
 ing home, i 
 
 " It's a sad thing, Shaddy." 
 
 " Yes, it's dreadful," replied he, mournfully. 
 
 " Everybody who loved her will be broken up," she 
 observed, gravely. 
 
 " Broken up completely, Betsey." 
 
 " Such a beautiful girl ! Did you see how her long 
 hair lay upon the grass?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The two walked on for some time without speaking. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Shaddy," said she, at length. 
 
 " You are a kind-hearted body." 
 
 They were home now. 
 
 Ere long Myrtle was laid in the ground, and Shad- 
 rack more than ever realized that his dream was gone. 
 Every Sunday morning while the summer lasted he lay 
 a garland of flowers upon her grave. Betsey helped to 
 
376 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 gather and arrange this weekly offering. But time 
 works both changes and cures. Shadrack did not for- 
 get Myrtle, but he was young and could not grieve for 
 ever. People wondered he was sad so long. Some said 
 the sudden fright had unsettled his mind. Old Sol- 
 omon said he would be all right when the partridge- 
 shooting came in, and Aunt Susannah believed that 
 when the blenheims ripened he would be the same 
 cheery soul as of yore. Betsey had almost lost heart. 
 She had no confidante, and she was obliged to hide her 
 thoughts, but more than ever did she wish something 
 would come true. 
 
 The day came at last. 
 
 " Betsey," said Shadrack one October evening as they 
 were looking for nuts — " Betsey, do you remember the 
 dream I had long ago of the wedding — of my wedding, 
 you know?" 
 
 " I remember it very well." 
 
 " It can never be now, Betsey." 
 
 "No? Why not?" 
 
 " I haven't any one to love." 
 
 " No one to love !" exclaimed Betsey, astonished. 
 " No one to love ! Where am I?" 
 
 " Well, I might love you, but I never thought of you. 
 Forgive me, Betsey, but I never thought of you." 
 
 " I don't wish you to think of me," said she, in a pen- 
 itent tone. 
 
 " No, Betsey, I won't — at least, not unless you wish 
 me to." 
 
 " I don't wish you to, Shaddy : I am not good enough 
 for you." She stood in the golden autumn sunset, her 
 blue eyes deep with shaded emotion, her cheeks brightly 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 377 
 
 red. " I am a nobody — only an orphan ; not one for you 
 to love." 
 
 " I can't help loving you a little," he replied. " You 
 are so kind to me, and you do look beautiful in the sun- 
 light — almost like the maiden in my dream." 
 
 Betsey smiled. 
 
 " You must not look at me, Shadrack," she said, " but 
 seek to find the dream come true in a better girl than I. 
 So think not of me." 
 
 " I won't ; only, the more I look at you, Betsey, the 
 more I see you as the bride of my dream. Your eyes, 
 your figure and your hair are hers. And now the light 
 falls on you — Nay, stand still and let me see you in 
 the glory. Yes, Betsey, you are the very one ; only, it 
 is in the evening and not in the morning light that I be- 
 hold you." 
 
 " You are fancying this ;" and she stooped to pluck a 
 blue flower. " Please don't try to love me. If there's 
 nobody else in the world, don't think of me. I am only 
 Betsey." 
 
 " But you are a queen," said he, enthusiastically. 
 
 '* No ; I am an orphan." 
 
 " So am I. And I say you are a queen. Who can 
 be more beautiful than you at this moment ? Who can 
 stand beside you now ?" 
 
 " Let us go," said Betsey. " Aunt Susannah will won- 
 der that we are not in before this." 
 
 But Shadrack was being driven along in a current that 
 grew swifter every moment. 
 
 " No, Betsey," he said ; " you say I must not think of 
 you, but now I know I cannot help it. You say I must 
 not love you, but for me not to love you is impossible. 
 
378 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 I must love you, I will love you. Do not turn aside. I 
 am Shadrack ; don't you think you could love me ?" 
 
 " I might try, but who would love a youth so tall as 
 you ?" 
 
 " Never mind ; I only want you to love me." 
 
 " I do, Shaddy. I have loved you for long." 
 
 And Shadrack kissed her. 
 
 Betsey's triumph-day had come. The sun went down ; 
 and when she stood before Aunt Susannah in the kitch- 
 en, demure and silent, that worthy asked, 
 
 " What kept you so long in the orchard ? Dreaming, 
 I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, Aunt Susie, dreaming," she replied. 
 
 That night Betsey slept in peace. 
 
 In the visions of the darkness Shadrack saw Myrtle 
 standing beside him, and he heard her say, " Betsey is 
 the bride ;" then, smiling, she vanished from his sight. 
 
 " I knew it," said Aunt Susannah to her loving spouse 
 when the news came out ; " I knew it. That minx was 
 after Shadrack Abednego from the first." 
 
 " She's a likely wench," observed Solomon. 
 
 " I have nothing against her, only that she's going to 
 have Shadrack," said Susannah. 
 
 " Somebody must have had him, and why not Bet- 
 sey ?" 
 
 "That's so," she replied, thoughtfully. 
 
 " That's so," he returned. 
 
 And it was so. 
 
 From the triumph-day to the wedding-day was not 
 long ; and when the bells rang out the bridal peal, the 
 whole parish said Shadrack had the best of girls and 
 Betsey had the best of men. Everybody, for a wonder, 
 
A MERRY LEGEND. 379 
 
 was pleased, if not satisfied. The envy common at 
 such times was softened down, and no word or look 
 reached the happy couple but of congratulation and 
 good wishes. This was as it should be. At the same 
 time, it may be doubted if a groom or a bride is not all 
 the happier for knowing that he or she is looked upon 
 with some little envy. Who wants a husband no other 
 woman would have ? Who wants a wife no other man 
 would seek ? There was not a maiden present who did 
 not wish she was Betsey ; there was not a man who did 
 not wish he was Shadrack. However, it was a good-na- 
 tured feeling, and soon passed away — a sort of soft April 
 mist that disappeared in the sunshine. • 
 
 One scene more, and we must leave our wedded or- 
 phans. In the dull November, when the leaves had all 
 fallen, and bleak winds and chilly rains swept across the 
 fields and made home more attractive than ever, a happy 
 company were assembled in the old farmhouse. Solo- 
 mon and Susannah, Shadrack and Betsey, and a few of 
 the neighbors were sitting around the great open fire- 
 place in the light of the blazing logs. They were 
 laughing and joking as is the manner of free-hearted 
 country-folk. Village gossip formed the staple of con- 
 versation. When it lagged, some one called out to Bet- 
 sey for a ghost-story. Strange how people love such 
 stories, and stranger still that civilization cannot destroy 
 the fascination ! 
 
 " No," said Betsey ; " I cannot tell one to-day. Mine 
 are all old. Perhaps Shaddy will." 
 
 " Now, Shad !" cried the company ; and after a min- 
 ute's thought he began. 
 
 " My story is true ; mine own eyes saw that which I 
 
380 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 shall tell. You remember the parson's daughter, Miss 
 Myrtle Muriel, the one I found in the churchyard on 
 Midsummer Eve? Well, early in the morning of my 
 wedding-day, when I was running over in my mind the 
 days gone by and the days to come, suddenly I saw be- 
 fore me none other than the same Myrtle. She was 
 robed in white and her hair was in long tresses. I was 
 not frightened — scarcely startled — for I was thinking of 
 her at that moment. She spoke to me and said, ' The 
 bridal-day, good sir! I bless you and your bride.' I 
 could not speak ; I simply bowed. ' Love shall crown 
 your life,' she went on — ' love shall crown your life.' 
 Still I looked, and I saw her fade away, and, though it 
 was a spirit, yet was I glad. We stood before the altar 
 — Betsey and I — and as the parson read the words that 
 made us one for ever I saw beyond him on the higher 
 step the figure of poor Myrtle. The sunbeams fell upon 
 her and bathed her in more than earthly glory. She 
 looked upon me with her soft, sweet eyes and seemed 
 to breathe a benediction upon us. Oh, I saw her so 
 plainly ! I fancied once she spoke, but what she said I 
 could not tell. Then, when all was done, I saw a thin 
 white mist before the altar ; the sun shone brighter, and 
 it had gone. That was all, and it is true." 
 
 " What did it mean ?" asked Aunt Susannah. 
 
 "Yes, Shaddy dear," put in Betsey; "what did it 
 mean ?" 
 
 " Nothing more than this that you can understand — a 
 blessing from the dead, a prophecy that love shall in- 
 deed crown our life." 
 
 " And so it shall, dear Shadrack," cried the devoted 
 Betsey. 
 

 A MERRY LEGEND. 38 1 
 
 Shadrack kissed his bride, and the company pledged 
 their health in sparkling ale. 
 
 " No longer an orphan, Shaddy," whispered Betsey. 
 
 " No ; a good wife is a second mother," replied Shad- 
 rack. 
 
 The rain fell fast, the wind blew fierce, the fire blazed 
 brighter than ever; and then, with loved ones beside 
 them, Shadrack and Betsey sat hand in hand looking 
 into the leaping flames and beyond them down the 
 years — the years that should be to them as a vineyard 
 of ripened grapes, as a garden of sweet roses. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ILaat <3*limy*e0. 
 
 " Than orange and myrtle more fragrant to me 
 Is the sweet-brier rose and the hawthorn tree 
 In the land of my nativity." 
 
 They who would see Nature in her prettiest and gen- 
 tlest moods must go to England. There, in a climate in 
 which extremes of heat and cold are practically un- 
 known, she displays her charms and unfolds her graces 
 in a rich and unique manner. Association also increases 
 the beauty of the picture, and history becomes attractive 
 and delightful. You look with pleasure upon wooded 
 hills, red-brown wheat-fields, green meadows, sparkling 
 streamlets, lawns soft and velvety as an Oriental carpet, 
 fruit-laden orchards and innumerable flower-gardens ; 
 you also look with no less pleasure upon churches, 
 cathedrals and abbeys gray and sacred with age, upon 
 castles and towers set in the cloudland of romance and 
 chivalry, and upon old manor-houses with their twisted 
 chimneys and timbered gables and legends of men and 
 women who had their day long, long ago and now dwell 
 amidst the mists and the shadows. 
 
 What more delightful place is there than Hampton 
 Court Palace, the noble foundation of Cardinal Wolsey 
 and the home for many generations of the sovereigns 
 of England ? Not only are the grounds exquisitely and 
 
 382 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 383 
 
 beautifully laid out and furnished and the house grand 
 with long galleries and spacious chambers on the walls 
 of which art displays its highest — and perhaps its lowest 
 — powers, but everything reminds one of the days of 
 yore. In the garden, amid the same yew and holly trees 
 which now grow there, Henry VIII. strolled with Anne 
 Boleyn and other of his lady-loves. Queen Elizabeth 
 traversed the same walks, played upon the same green 
 lawn and listened to the songs of gay singers under the 
 same elms of royal splendor. In the long bower Mary 
 of England held converse with her ladies or with her 
 own sad spirit. It requires no effort, indeed, to see 
 again the men whose memories haunt the place, and 
 dull must he be who cannot catch a glimpse of Wolsey's 
 red robe and of Henry's stout figure as they move 
 along the garden-paths or through the ancient gate- 
 ways. 
 
 Inside, the same wondrous past lives again. There is 
 the chamber of William III. with its paintings in which 
 masses of nudity are set forth in delicate figuring and 
 soft coloring. There are also the beautiful and frail 
 women of the court of Charles II., but not one of them 
 is as attractive as Miss Pitt among the " Hampton Court 
 Beauties." She looks pure, sweet and lovely, reminding 
 one of the old lines : 
 
 " Her cheeks like ripened lilies steeped in wine, 
 Or fair pomegranate-kernels washed in milk, 
 Or snow-white threads in nets of crimson silk, 
 Or gorgeous clouds upon the sun's decline." 
 
 The old state bedsteads, the clocks, weather-glasses and 
 mirrors, the carvings and the pictures are replete with 
 interest, but beyond them think of the regal life, the 
 
 25 
 
384 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 court intrigues and plans, the galaxy of learning, wit 
 and beauty, with which these walls were once familiar — 
 of great banquets in the noble tapestried hall, and of 
 princes, statesmen and bishops who walked hither and 
 thither in the corridors and the rooms. Two centuries 
 of England's history are there, but, alas ! vanity of van- 
 ities, Death casts the trail of his black robe over all. 
 
 A day at Hampton Court will unfold more than any- 
 thing else the delightful and mysterious attractiveness 
 of England; the beauty of nature and the charm of 
 history unite in a picture the memory of which will 
 cling for life. Among the legends is that of the Haunt- 
 ed Gallery. This is now used by the repairers of the 
 arras, but it was not long since said to be frequented 
 by Catherine Howard. That unfortunate queen early one 
 morning escaped from the chamber in which she was 
 confined before being sent to the Tower, and ran along 
 this gallery to seek the king, who had just entered the 
 chapel leading out of it. At the door of the chapel she 
 was seized by the guards and carried back, her ruthless 
 husband, notwithstanding her piercing screams, which 
 were heard almost all over the palace, continuing his de- 
 votions unmoved. The poor woman perished at the 
 Tower, but many times since then, it is said, a female 
 figure draped in white has been seen in this gallery com- 
 ing toward the door of the royal pew, and as she 
 reaches it has been observed to hurry back with dis- 
 ordered garments and a ghastly look of despair, uttering 
 at the same time the most unearthly shrieks till she 
 passes through the door at the end of the gallery. 
 
 The character of Henry VIII. does not improve upon 
 acquaintance. He may have been a great statesman and 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 385 
 
 an ardent lover, but he made a bad husband. Possibly 
 it would have been for his good had he gone through 
 the processes practised in his day to correct unfaithful 
 and cruel spouses. One of these customs still survives 
 in some parts of the country — in Denbighshire, for in- 
 stance. Once a year the villagers meet and bring before 
 them any who have made themselves notorious as 
 drunkards, slanderers or wife-beaters. If the offender is 
 found guilty, his right arm is fastened up to the bough 
 of a tree, and gallons of cold water are poured down 
 his sleeves amidst the jeers and the merriment of the 
 crowd. That, however, would have been too gentle for 
 the heartless lord of Anne Boleyn and Catherine How- 
 ard. Their memory also clings with his to Hampton 
 Court Palace. 
 
 A like unscrupulous monster was Dudley, earl of 
 Leicester. I mention him because the visitor to the 
 Heart of Merrie England will undoubtedly go to Ken- 
 ilworth. The story of poor Amy Robsart is known to 
 all, nor is there any doubt that she fell a victim to am- 
 bition. The tempting bait of Elizabeth's hand was too 
 much for the unprincipled Leicester ; he did not hesitate 
 to consign the gentle wife to the cruelties of foul men. 
 In a secluded house near Oxford, Lady Dudley was se- 
 cretly imprisoned ; there she was ill-treated, neglected 
 and subjected to attempts at poisoning. Gentler means 
 failing, rougher were employed. One night the deed 
 was done : 
 
 " And ere the dawn of day appeared 
 In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, 
 Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
 And many a cry of mortal fear." 
 
386 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 The wicked earl did not become the consort of the 
 queen, but in 1575 he gave to her at Kenilworth an 
 entertainment of rare magnificence and luxury. For 
 seventeen days the feast was kept up; the cost was 
 enormous. Besides the queen and the ladies of her 
 court, there were thirty-one barons and four hundred 
 servants. Ten oxen were slaughtered every morning, 
 and the consumption of wine is said to have been six- 
 teen hogsheads, and of beer forty hogsheads, daily. 
 "The clock-bell rang not a note all the while Her 
 Highness was there ; the clock stood also still withal ; 
 the hands of both the tables stood firm and fast, always 
 pointing at two o'clock " — the hour of banquet ! There 
 were gorgeous spectacles, masks, farces, feats of skill, 
 allegories, mythologies, and all that could amuse or 
 while away the time. The queen was received by a 
 sibyl " comely clad in a pall of white silk," who ad- 
 dressed her in becoming terms. Amid the shouts of 
 the attendants, the royal company having reached the 
 tilt-yard, was heard the rough speech of the porter de- 
 manding the cause of the din and uproar, " but upon 
 seeing the queen, as if he had been instantly stricken, he 
 falls down upon his knees, humbly begs pardon for his 
 ignorance, yields up his club and keys, and proclaims 
 open gates and free passage to all." Elizabeth loved 
 that sort of thing, though she doubtless saw through it 
 and inwardly laughed at the extravagant flattery. One 
 day a savage dressed in moss and ivy discoursed before 
 her with Echo in her praise. Another day, as she was 
 returning from the chase, Triton, rising from the lake, 
 prays her, in the name of Neptune, to deliver the en- 
 chanted lady pursued by ruthless Sir Bruce. " Presently 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 387 
 
 the lady appears, surrounded by nymphs, followed close 
 by Proteus, who is borne by an enormous dolphin. 
 Concealed in the dolphin, a band of musicians, with a 
 chorus of ocean-deities, sing the praise of the powerful, 
 beautiful, chaste queen of England." There were 
 rougher sports. Thirteen bears were set fighting with 
 dogs — a pastime much enjoyed by the queen and de- 
 scribed by an eye-witness as " a matter of goodly re- 
 lief." Wrestlers from Coventry, Italian tumblers and 
 rope-dancers and rural clowns played their part. There 
 was a mock-wedding full of gross humor, in which the 
 homely joys of the simple country-folk were made ri- 
 diculous ; yet the same eye-witness just quoted says, 
 " By my troth, 'twas a lively pastime ! I believe it would 
 have moved a man to a right merry mood though it 
 had been told him that his wife lay dying." Did Lei- 
 cester in the midst of that revelry, when his hopes were 
 so near fruition, give a thought to the gentle wife of his 
 youth ? 
 
 Kenilworth never but then saw such magnificence. 
 As one wanders about the splendid ruins, halls and 
 yards seem to live again, lords and ladies gayly dressed 
 in scarlet satin, sable cloaks, rich laces, costly jewels, 
 rare embroidery, rustling silk and sparkling gold move 
 hither and thither with that free, boundless life of the 
 old times. The heavy tramp of the retainer echoes 
 along the stone corridors; the soft songs of courtiers 
 float on the summer air and suggest the romance and 
 the voluptuous sweetness of an age of poetry and im- 
 agination. It is but for a moment, and as a dream the 
 picture of life and of chivalry, of lordly splendor and 
 of vast ambitions, vanishes away, and the eye rests upon 
 
388 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 
 
 ivy-clad walls, grass-covered courts, crumbling towers, 
 vacant chambers and broken windows — the sad desola- 
 tion of departed grandeur and the painful reminder of 
 the transitoriness of human life. The irony is sharpened 
 when the merry tattle of picnickers breaks in upon the 
 silence ; the incongruity of sandwiches and ginger ale is 
 apparent. Better to see the great pile in the still night 
 when the clear moonbeams fall upon the thick ivy and 
 the dark walls, stealing here and there through loophole 
 or window, and the owls sweep noiselessly around the 
 turrets or over the swampy bed of the old lake. Then 
 the weird mystery of bygone days steals into the heart, 
 legends and traditions come to mind, and throughout 
 life memory retains not only a wondrous and romantic 
 scene, but also the thoughts and the visions created 
 thereby. 
 
 The ruins of Kenilworth are on a high, rocky site 
 commanding a wide view of the country around. From 
 the top of the Strong Tower may be seen one of those 
 extensive landscapes, quiet and lovely, full of picturesque 
 beauty and rural charm, for which England is remark- 
 able. Stand there in an early summer morning when 
 the purple haze lies low on the horizon and the warm 
 light brings out the freshness of woods and fields, the 
 silvery sheen of brook and river, and the spires and 
 towers of village churches, and Nature will give the 
 soul a satisfaction that shall be as full as it is sweet and 
 as real as it is undying. 
 
 Wandering through the country districts with which 
 this book has had to do, one speedily discovers the dar- 
 ling love of the English people — viz., the garden. 
 Everywhere flowers abound — in the windows, around 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 389 
 
 the door, among the orchard trees and in the strips and 
 plots of ground at the back of the house, by the side 
 of the walk leading from the road or the street and 
 along the edges of the vegetable-patch. Here and there 
 are old-fashioned gardens with their winding walks, 
 quaintly-shaped flower-beds and curiously-cut hedges 
 and box trees. There are sure to be roses — roses white 
 and red, roses ruby and cream — in the cottager's garden 
 tended by the housewife, and in the squire's by the la- 
 dies of the family. In the early morn, when the dew- 
 wet buds are scarcely unfolded, delicate hands prune 
 and tend them, pluck off dead leaves, cut some of the 
 choicest flowers to adorn the breakfast-table and tie up 
 straying branches. No wonder the frozen Norwegians 
 on the first sight of roses dared not touch what they 
 conceived were trees budding with fire ; the brilliant 
 splendor of the bush obtains the highest admiration 
 and surprise. The poets of all ages have sung its 
 royal glories, the gem of earth and the diadem of 
 flowers, and have loved to crown it with praise and to 
 liken beautiful maidens to it; the lines of Herrick are 
 peculiarly true of English girls who live much in the 
 open air, breathing the fragrance of the morning and 
 delighting in such pastimes as archery, tennis, hunting 
 and gardening: 
 
 " One asked me where the roses grow ; 
 I bade him not go seek, 
 But forthwith bade my Julia show 
 A bud in either cheek." 
 
 The heavy work naturally falls to the gardener, who is, 
 as a rule, a man of independent and pronounced cha- 
 racter. We may picture him as a sunburnt, bright- 
 
390 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 eyed elderly individual, brimful of opinions on all sorts 
 of subjects, experienced in the management of trees, 
 shrubs, flowers and vegetables, and knowing well the 
 idiosyncrasies of every member of the family. He has 
 grown up on the place since boyhood, and loves every 
 nook and corner, every laurel, bay or holly bush, as 
 though all were his own. Honesty and integrity go to 
 show that his full beard is not the indication of subtilty 
 and guile, as some used to think. The schoolmen said 
 that Adam was created a handsome young man without 
 a beard ; his face was afterward degraded with hair like 
 the beasts' for his disobedience ; Eve, being less guilty, 
 was permitted to retain her smooth face. This was 
 highly complimentary to woman, and shows that at 
 times the monks could say something in her favor ; but 
 our gardener is by no means like an individual under- 
 going punishment. He is talkative, as are most people 
 in the country. What is known as English reserve be- 
 longs more to the upper than to the lower classes. The 
 latter are obstrusively garrulous, and press their opinions 
 and their counsel upon the stranger with temerity, and 
 even with rudeness. Only ask a question, and you 
 open the sluice of a millpond. The gardener will tell 
 you all about his work, and as he speaks his eyes will 
 sparkle with pride and delight. He knows nothing 
 about the busy, stifling city. God first placed man in a 
 garden ; England is the garden of Europe, and the finest 
 garden of all is that over which he has charge. His 
 love for nature is common to all around him. 
 
 If one sought to sum up the leading characteristics 
 of the English country-people, one might find it in the 
 legendary lore of Robin Hood. That mighty hero of 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 39 1 
 
 the merry greenwood has for centuries been their ideal 
 and their favorite. He has been made the expression of 
 their own aspirations and prejudices. The higher classes 
 have made King Arthur, the prince of honor, chivalry 
 and gentleness, their pattern and illustration ; the lower 
 cling to the son of the yeoman. Robin, we are told, 
 robbed only the rich ; the poor he befriended and 
 helped. He was the Socialist of his day, adjusting dif- 
 ferences, equalizing wealth and carrying out that dream 
 of the centuries, that vision of perennial freshness and 
 strength, in which every man is the peer of his brother 
 and all have enough for their needs. The English are 
 not revolutionists, but Robin expressed their thought. 
 Ever and anon they have broken out into sturdy rebel- 
 lion and sought to free themselves from social bondage. 
 Servitude is irksome ; never was it more so than it is 
 to-day. Like true men, they are ready to do their duty 
 in that state of life in which it has pleased God to place 
 them, but also like true men they seek to enter into 
 higher states of life which God has as truly placed before 
 them. They do not understand contentment to mean 
 inaction, subjection or retrogression. Right or wrong, 
 they wait for the arrow-shaft that shall speed through 
 the Sherwood Forest of modern civilization and force 
 the rich to help the poor and make the way easy for 
 every man to rise who will. Even as Robin loved the 
 freedom of the woodlands, so do they love to cast aside 
 the restraints of an artificial life and to revel in the 
 liberty which God has ordained for man. 
 
 Another characteristic comes out in Robin Hood. 
 He is displayed in the ballads as a religious man : he 
 heard three masses every day and was remarkable for 
 
392 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 his devotion to the Blessed Virgin ; but, notwithstanding 
 this manifest piety, he fought vigorously against the cler- 
 gy. He would beat and bind every bishop or abbot that 
 came within his reach. He would allure a church digni- 
 tary into the distant parts of his forest-home, and after 
 robbing him tie him to a tree and make him sing Mass 
 for the good of Robin's own soul. Some friars were 
 made to kneel down and pray for the robbers, and were 
 then bound on their horses, with their heads to the tail, 
 and sent away. This curious intermingling of reverence 
 for religion and of irreverence for the ministers of re- 
 ligion still largely prevails. The people who are most 
 devout in the discharge of their spiritual duties are 
 oftentimes as determined in their opposition to the 
 clergy. There are exceptions, but they arise from the 
 clergyman having qualities which bring him closer to 
 the people than is ordinarily the case — a gentle, sympa- 
 thizing spirit, an earnest zeal or great preaching-gifts. 
 In a word, the English people dread a priesthood. Their 
 race is the only one which has a religion without one, 
 nor is there any hope that the effort of the nineteenth 
 century to provide them with one will succeed. The 
 masses are touched by the hand of a John Wycliffe and 
 a John Wesley, by the preaching of Lollard, Reformer 
 and Puritan. When such as they speak, then the loud 
 response follows, and in the village-folk we see again the 
 bold archer who loved religion and hated those who 
 called themselves its priests. 
 
 In Robin Hood's devotion to woman is expressed an- 
 other English ideal. The days have long since gone by 
 when preachers used to recommend husbands to punish, 
 and even to chastise, their wives that they might be 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 393 
 
 healed of their sins and made obedient. Even the 
 custom of selling a wife at auction has passed away. 
 She was led by a halter to the market-place and set up 
 for the highest bidder. Such sales were considered 
 legal, and were common as late as 1797; indeed, in- 
 stances much later have been cited. Once in a while 
 the newspapers tell of brutes who err against their wives 
 and for whom the whipping-post is not too severe, but 
 the masses realize that Robin was right and that woman 
 was made to be loved and honored. They do not yet 
 understand women receiving honors at the university 
 and managing large enterprises with ability and suc- 
 cess, nor do they like to think of female physicians or 
 of female lawyers ; but when they become accustomed 
 to these things, they will take them as matters of course. 
 Any way, they are struggling on to show in deeds the 
 thought of their heart. 
 
 The people love athletic sports and feats of skill, and 
 in these their popular hero is made to excel. He was a 
 mighty wrestler and an unequalled bowman. The ruder 
 sports of earlier days are not common, but every town 
 of any size has its cricket club and its bowling-green. 
 Every one is interested in them, and the best player at 
 quoits, the fleetest runner and the ablest rider receive 
 an honor like unto that which former ages yielded to 
 the winner in the tournament and to the victor in the 
 fight. The universities encourage boat-racing as well 
 as scholarship, and the Houses of Parliament adjourn 
 over the Derby races. 
 
 One would have to search very closely to find any- 
 thing approaching the spirit which Addison describes 
 as existing between Sir Roger de Coverley and his de- 
 
394 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 pendants. Landlords and tenants are still friendly with 
 each other, but the commercial rather than the moral 
 element binds them together. So with masters and 
 servants, mistresses and maids. The old pictures of 
 social felicity in which the lord of the house had an 
 intimate interest in every member of his family — from 
 the heir himself to the boy who waited on the cook or 
 kept the birds from the strawberry- plot or cherry tree — 
 and received in return a loyalty and an obedience both 
 personal and lifelong, have long since passed away. 
 There are, indeed, some who still believe that man was 
 made to plough and till the land, and that they who can- 
 not do that are appointed by Providence to make wag- 
 ons, ploughs, spades, mattocks, chairs and tables, to dig 
 graves and grow vegetables, to look after foxes, ferrets 
 and pheasants, to rear chickens, canary-birds and chil- 
 dren, and to tend sheep and oxen, pigs and hounds ; 
 but this opinion of the whole duty of man is not gen- 
 eral. The growth of a plebeian plutocracy and the 
 spread of nineteenth-century Socialism, assisted by the 
 press, the railway and the telegraph, have effected great 
 and lasting changes. In the outlying districts there is 
 still a warm loyalty on the part of the villagers to the 
 squire whose family has held the manor from time im- 
 memorial, but his sense of responsibility and of duty 
 toward them is much stronger and more unselfish than 
 is their attachment to him. He will lower his tenants' 
 rents, give liberally to improvements, put himself out of 
 the way to further their interests, without increasing 
 their affection or their devotion. They will scarcely 
 think of the ties that bound their forefathers to his — 
 of the days when his ancestors struggled for theirs on 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 395 
 
 the field of battle or in the social or political arena, and 
 theirs served his by following to the war or tilling the 
 land. Hodge is as good as his master, or is fast be- 
 coming so. He reads more than the Bible and hears 
 speak more men than the parson. Even the maid in 
 the kitchen resents the old maternal interest which her 
 mistress may show in her. She does so much work for 
 so much wages, and beyond the bare contract she asks 
 for and desires no more. The difference between her 
 and her lady is not so much of blood, nor even of beau- 
 ty or scholarship, but of money. For better wages or 
 an easier place she will leave at a month's notice. The 
 gentry and the clergy rebel against this spirit ; but when 
 the humblest child of the soil can without fear or favor 
 leave the village and go to the ends of the earth, there 
 by industry and perseverance to make a new home, per- 
 haps to win a larger estate and a greater fortune than 
 those of rural magnates in the old land, remonstrance 
 goes for naught. Whether the new state of affairs will 
 be better than the old, whether people will be happier 
 when the present age has done its work, or whether in 
 the old semi-feudalism there were not important ele- 
 ments of social economy which we are unwisely los- 
 ing sight of, are questions into which we may not 
 enter. 
 
 The freedom of speech is one of the illustrations of 
 the irresistible progress of the times. Theoretically, 
 speech has been free in England for ages. If a man 
 could find anybody to listen to him, the law allowed 
 him to say what he chose, so long as he abstained from 
 gross blasphemy or from treason. But in the country 
 districts practice differed from the theory; magistrates 
 
396 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 gave a wide interpretation to the terms defining for- 
 bidden subjects. If a man spoke in favor of striking the 
 Athanasian Creed out of the Prayer-Book, it was blas- 
 phemy ; if of repealing an obnoxious law or of revising 
 the constitution, it was treason. In 1866, at the village 
 on the Stour spoken of in these pages, there was in the 
 employ of a butcher a young man who, thinking he had 
 a mission to his townspeople and being filled with Bir- 
 mingham politics, rolled into the High street a barrel 
 and from its upper end sought to express his views to 
 the small company who cared to hear them. What he 
 lacked in continuity of thought he made up in vigor of 
 utterance. Among other things, he was troubled about 
 lay rectors, clerical magistrates, German princes, long 
 hours of work, expensive funerals and the limited fran- 
 chise. These were strange and startling topics in a 
 quiet, sleepy place like Shipston and among a people 
 who religiously applied to everything in Church and 
 State the latter part of the Gloria Patri. They did not 
 know what to make of them, but they listened respect- 
 fully. A week later, when the rural radical again posed 
 upon his barrel-head, he was taken therefrom by the 
 order of the rector, who not only threatened him with 
 severe penalties should he persist in making "seditious" 
 speeches, but also insisted upon his employer forthwith 
 discharging him. The poor fellow soon found every 
 face set against him, his character gone, his future dark- 
 ened, and he was obliged to seek refuge in the great 
 town from whence he obtained his ideas of men and 
 manners. Everywhere he was spoken against. The 
 good folks who measured cloth and sold sugar, the 
 tradespeople and the gentry, avowed him to be an idle, 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 397 
 
 dangerous wretch, and even the old men who weeded 
 garden-walks and swept the streets, and the old women 
 who went out washing and took snuff, shook their heads 
 and said he would bring ruin upon himself. This was 
 twenty years since. In the mean time, the great agri- 
 cultural strike has taken place; Joseph Arch went 
 through this same district and taught the farm-laborer 
 that it was no sin for him to wish his week's wages in- 
 creased from ten shillings to twenty, and to look forward 
 to the day when his class should have a vote and be 
 represented in Parliament. Agitation became the order 
 of the day. Addresses of extreme violence are made 
 and no one thinks them out of order, and what is 
 stranger still is that things are said not only of the 
 government, but also of the queen, which suggest 
 rankest disloyalty and not so long since would have 
 cost a man his head. Speech is now free, and neither 
 clergyman nor magistrate seeks to suppress it. I would 
 not imply that dissatisfaction has increased. The people 
 are firmly attached to the Crown, and not only are the 
 probabilities of the kingdom changing into a republic 
 becoming less, but the world looks upon the anomaly 
 of a nation both democratical and monarchical and in- 
 tensely loyal to both ideals. 
 
 The greatest of all questions in England is that of 
 population. This is more apparent in the towns than in 
 the country. Take Liverpool, for instance. An hour's 
 walk through the streets of that great shipping-port, so 
 massive in its buildings and so cosmopolitan in its appear- 
 ance, will bring to sight more pauperism and vice than 
 will be revealed by years of residence in an American 
 city. The number of barefooted children and of ragged 
 
398 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 
 
 men and women is appalling. How they keep body 
 and soul together is a mystery. Boys sell fairly-printed 
 copies of standard works, such as Pickwick Papers, for a 
 penny each ; girls hawk matches at a farthing a box. 
 Everywhere the eye beholds objects of woe, hungry 
 wretches, dissolute rogues and abandoned beggars. 
 Such poor souls, the refuse and residuum of high civil- 
 ization, are not desirable as emigrants — they take vice 
 with them wherever they go — nor does emigration de- 
 crease population. Nature is a curious dame and coun- 
 teracts with renewed energy the efforts to reduce the 
 numbers. It is a sad thought that these worthless 
 classes grow far more rapidly than do they who make 
 up the brain and the muscle of a nation. What can be 
 done with them ? Whatever vice may be elsewhere, 
 here it is gross, heavy and bold. Drunkenness abounds, 
 depravity is rampant. To disguise the fact is impossible. 
 The only hope seems to be in bringing the power of the 
 gospel to bear upon the masses. That may at least 
 make the people fit to bear the burden of life and to do 
 their duty in distant lands where there is room for them 
 to live and to work. Much is being done in this di- 
 rection; more remains to be done. 
 
 The last paragraph is as a cloud upon the fair, sunny 
 picture of England which we have sought to present, 
 but from Hampton Court Palace to the slums of Lon- 
 don and from Kenilworth to the smoke of Birmingham 
 the distance is not great. That the cloud will pass 
 away none can doubt. It does not even now retain the 
 attention so long as do the brilliant features of English 
 life. There are glories far greater than the shadows. 
 
 I have already spoken of the perennial youth of Eng- 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 399 
 
 land. Some things grow slowly and live long; they 
 are young when their neighbors are old. The primrose 
 and the oak both have their day; generations of the 
 former pass away before the acorn has developed into a 
 sapling. Age is a relative thing, and the fly whose life 
 lasts ten minutes becomes old in the time which it takes 
 the eagle to wing its way from one mountain-top to 
 another or the tortoise to drag itself a few yards along 
 the shore-sand. There are as yet no signs of declining 
 power or of decaying vitality in England. Institutions 
 are created, reformed, abolished, as the times demand. 
 Her old men bear the weight of empire with a vigor 
 and a strength unequalled ; her young men are as hope- 
 ful as though millenniums were yet in store for their 
 country. Nobody thinks of decay in England ; nobody 
 there thinks of the fading of splendor or the weakening 
 of force. The people set to work to deal with legisla- 
 tive questions with all the enthusiasm of a nation just 
 beginning to shape its constitution. They are not try- 
 ing to patch up a weatherbeaten, worn-out thing, stick- 
 ing a bit of straw on the roof to keep the rain out till 
 the old house falls down ; they do not think about 
 houses the work and shelter of a generation : they deal 
 with rocks moss-grown and heavy, the formation of 
 ages, and they quarry, shape and build, mould the mas- 
 sive stone into that which neither wind can overthrow 
 nor rain wash away, set it against ocean's wave and 
 war's artillery, and thus work, not for an age, but for all 
 time. 
 
 The religion of England is another glory. I need 
 not speak of its nature ; all men know the vitality and 
 the purity of the Christianity which has long reigned 
 
 26 
 
400 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 there. It is Protestant, and Protestant it will remain till 
 the end of time. In the great moral and spiritual re- 
 forms of the age the Church is doing her part, wrestling 
 with the ignorance, irreligion and shame of the masses 
 in the great cities, striving to stay the deadly flood of 
 intemperance which at one time threatened to destroy all 
 things and is still mighty for evil, and seeking in every 
 way to better the lot of the people and to guide them to 
 an inheritance beyond the flood of time and of change. 
 Moreover, the best of England's sons are going forth to 
 bear the tidings of a redeeming Lord to the ends of the 
 earth. Nations that have long sat in darkness are be- 
 ginning to see the great light ; the cross is uplifted in 
 the cities of China and in the forest-wilds of Africa; 
 martyr-blood has watered the seed of truth sown ; the 
 same hymns and the same prayers which are offered up 
 to the Almighty amid the ancient glories of a Westmin- 
 ster are sung and said in tens of thousands of humbler 
 temples scattered on distant shores. And though other 
 nations are doing good work for Christ, yet it seems 
 given to men of Anglo-Saxon race to lead the way and 
 to be the first in the army of spiritual conquest and oc- 
 cupation. It was through the people of Canaan that all 
 the nations of the earth were blessed ; it is through us 
 to-day that those blessings are increased. The glory 
 and the life of England's future will be long and great 
 even as she is faithful to her trust and true to her God. 
 Nor must the colonies be forgotten. England has 
 fringed the sea with her settlements and developed na- 
 tions in distant parts of the earth. Take the map of the 
 world and see how the red lines of her realm rest in 
 every quarter of the globe, on every continent and in 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 4OI 
 
 every sea. Venice built a city on the flood ; England 
 has created an empire on the mighty main. Think of 
 vast Australia, and the beautiful islands of New Zealand ; 
 of golden India, and the rich Africa of the South ; of 
 myriad isles which dot the tide-stirred waters ; and of 
 wide, ocean-bounded and vigorous Canada. These 
 communities have all the same language, institutions, 
 beliefs and books. They are peopled by the descendants 
 of the men who ages back ploughed the plains and sub- 
 dued the mountains of Great Britain. The manners 
 and the customs which prevail in England prevail in 
 these other lands. As children of the one mother they 
 are bound by the indissoluble ties of race. What may 
 be their future political connection I cannot say ; only 
 this I know — that there are stronger bonds of union 
 than mere legislative acts. Each may be independent so 
 far as parliaments are concerned, and yet be one in re- 
 ligion, sentiment, literature, tongue, habits, history and 
 aim. These were found to hold the Greek colonies of 
 three thousand years ago loyal to their mother-land; 
 they will be found to be the strength of a nobler em- 
 pire than scholars can devise or statesmen create. A 
 whiff of opinion can sever mere political ties ; no rev- 
 olution, be it ever so violent or wide-reaching, can pos- 
 sibly change the language taught by the fathers. It was 
 once a prevailing idea that the Christian Church could 
 not be held together unless every member of it believed 
 the same doctrines and obeyed the same supreme juris- 
 diction ; we have lived to see that Christianity suffers 
 nothing from having burst asunder the bands of cast- 
 iron organization. This very century, which is by some 
 so severely condemned for its denominationalism, has 
 
402 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 been equalled by no age in its devotion to Christ and to 
 the propagation of the faith. Possibly the like truth 
 may be reached in the social life. At any rate, even in 
 the streets of London or in the meadows of Warwick- 
 shire the thoughts go out to the greater Englands be- 
 yond the seas. There is the vision of this vast continent 
 — its happy homes, its wide farmlands, its vast cities, 
 busy towns and flourishing villages, its comparative free- 
 dom from the pauperism of the Old World, its schools 
 and colleges, its advantages of success to all who are 
 sober, industrious and plodding, — a picture of peace and 
 plenty, of joy and hope. England is as a sacred shrine 
 around which men of her race are building the walls of 
 a noble minster. Nations that shall love her shall be 
 her strength and her glory. Nations that shall speak 
 her tongue shall sing the praises of her past, delight 
 themselves in her history and show in their own life the 
 beauty and the power of inherited virtues and trans- 
 mitted graces. Shakespeare shall live beside the St. 
 Lawrence, the Hudson and the Murray, as well as on 
 the Avon and the Thames ; the same Scriptures shall be 
 read in the valleys of the great mountains of the West 
 as in the glens and on the plains of God-fearing Britain. 
 Transplanting does not injure the Anglo-Saxon. The 
 dahlia is a native of tropical America ; there it rears its 
 yellow disk and its dull scarlet rays to the sun : in our 
 Northern gardens it has developed into a flower of 
 brighter hue and deeper color. Change of clime has 
 done much for it, and even here its cuttings are found to 
 flourish best in a soil different from that in which grows 
 the parent-plant. So the Anglo-Saxon has not suffered 
 by passing from his European home to America or to 
 
LAST GLIMPSES. 
 
 403 
 
 Australia. He has taken with him the spirit, the cour- 
 age and the devotion of his race ; he has developed them 
 till he has given to the land of his adoption a greater 
 lustre and a stronger life than belong to the land of his 
 birth ; he has made ancient virtues grow as lovely and 
 as true as ever, whether in homes beneath the burning 
 suns of the South or on the borders of the eternal ice- 
 bound North. 
 
 I lay down my pen and turn my thoughts away from 
 the social problems, the physical beauties, the delightful 
 associations and the pleasant memories of the old coun- 
 try. The work is done, the story is told ; if the reader 
 is not satisfied, be sure the fault lies in the author, and 
 not in the subject. One picture only remains — not that 
 of the reader casting aside as a thing of little value a 
 book written both to please and to instruct — which he 
 may do or not at his pleasure — but that of a summer 
 eventide beside the flowing Stour. The willows deepen 
 the shadows on the water; the nightingale sings the 
 song of love in the apple trees close by ; from far away 
 comes the murmuring melody of pealing bells, and the 
 setting sun sends the streams of golden light through 
 the elms, over the fields and past the hoary church- 
 tower. There are rowers on the river, and the soft 
 winds bear hither and thither the aroma of gardens and 
 orchards and the chorus of young men and young 
 maidens. Quiet, gentle, joyful peace ! The great world 
 is far away, and as the twilight comes on and the glow 
 of the west fades into night-shadows the strange sweet- 
 ness of rural life makes itself felt, and the soul passes 
 into the mystical borderland between earth and heaven, 
 
404 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 
 
 far away from turmoil and from tumult into the restful- 
 ness of the garden of delights. The days gone by and 
 the days to come mingle with the day that now is: 
 time seems to have died and misery and sin to have 
 gone for ever ; and in the glory of the dying eventide 
 I pluck a folded daisy from the grass and I lay it beside 
 a pure red rose, emblem of homely virtues and lovely 
 graces twined together in eternal oneness, even as Na- 
 ture and History have made one beautiful realm, and a 
 gentle spirit by my side whispers, 
 
 " Truth and love, restfulness and peace — the Heart of 
 Merrie England !" 
 
 THE END. 
 
 H 313 85 
 
^S&X < ** £feX / ; ° ~ * " 
 
 •' 0* ~o. 
 
 
 
 ,^r 
 
 >* 
 
 °^ °** a\" <* « l 
 
 *°* 
 
 
 VV 
 
 M>V 
 
 
 
v^> V---V v^y 
 
 
 
 ♦*0< 
 
 v s ,»i£:./V .4? .ri'i*. "* 
 
 i~ . « • 
 
 **> '•tt..' .*♦• \'-; 
 
 <^ A 
 
 «„ <& 
 
 %£* :> 
 
 % \WMW: *?% '-Hip ' ^ X 
 
 '•:: 
 
 ** 
 
 l«* a? 
 
 J.""**, V 
 
 
 HECKMAN 
 
 BINDERY INC. 
 
 m, JUN 85 
 
 N. MANCHESTER, 
 
 
 
 **\<