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[Illustration: ELY AT EVENTIDE]


THROUGH EAST ANGLIA IN A MOTOR CAR

by

J. E. VINCENT

With Sixteen Illustrations in Colour by Frank Southgate, R.B.A.







New York: Mcclure, Phillips & Co.
London: Methuen & Co.
1907




CONTENTS


CHAPTER I
                                                               PAGE
WINTER. [OXFORD] TO CAMBRIDGE, NEWMARKET, AND IPSWICH             1

CHAPTER II
WINTER. IPSWICH TO NORWICH VIA WOODBRIDGE, BECCLES,
    LOWESTOFT, AND YARMOUTH                                      30

CHAPTER III
WINTER. NORWICH TO LONDON BY ROMAN ROAD                          56

CHAPTER IV
SPRING. THROUGH THE HEART OF EAST ANGLIA                         70

CHAPTER V
SPRING. [IN NORWICH] AND TO ELY AND CAMBRIDGE                   106

CHAPTER VI
LONDON, FELIXSTOWE--DUNWICH, FELIXSTOWE                         138

CHAPTER VI--(_continued_)
FELIXSTOWE, BAWDSEY, WOODBRIDGE, IPSWICH, DUNMOW, AND LONDON    167

CHAPTER VII
LATE SUMMER. COLCHESTER AND EASTWARDS                           181

CHAPTER VIII
COLCHESTER AND GAINSBOROUGH'S COUNTRY                           229

CHAPTER IX
FROM COLCHESTER WESTWARDS--COGGESHALL, BRAINTREE,
    WITHAM, INGATESTONE, MARGARETTING, DANBURY HILL,
    MALDON, TIPTREE, MESSING, AND COLCHESTER                    250

CHAPTER IX--(_continued_)
COLCHESTER TO THE EXTRAORDINARY "DENE-HOLES" AT
    GRAYS, ESSEX                                                271

CHAPTER X
IN SPRING. TROUBLES MADE EASY                                   292

CHAPTER XI
GREAT AMBITIONS CHEERFULLY RELINQUISHED. HARLESTON
    TO CROMER VIA BUNGAY, BECCLES, LOWESTOFT, GREAT
    YARMOUTH, CAISTER-BY-YARMOUTH, AND NORWICH                  306

CHAPTER XII
A PRIORY--GREAT HOUSES AND THE FENS                             335

CHAPTER XIII
FROM KING'S LYNN AS CENTRE                                      360




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


ELY AT EVENTIDE                             _Frontispiece_

                                                    PAGE

CAMBRIDGE--KING'S COLLEGE AND THE CAM                  5

WOODBRIDGE STREET                                     36

SOUTHWOLD HARBOUR                                     40

FISHING BOATS AT LOWESTOFT                            44

NORWICH MARKET PLACE                                  54

IPSWICH PORT                                          70

DUNWICH AND DESOLATION                               160

ABBEY GATEWAY--BURY ST. EDMUNDS                      300

BECCLES FROM THE WAVENEY                             314

YARMOUTH FROM BREYDON                                320

CHURCH STREET, CROMER                                327

BLAKENEY, A CHARACTERISTIC LANDSCAPE                 335

WALSINGHAM PRIORY                                    342

HEATH, NEAR SANDRINGHAM                              382

BLICKLING HALL                                       384




PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS


Few practical suggestions are needed by the motorist in East Anglia--a
district not presenting many difficulties. Those which are deemed necessary
are here prefixed to the whole body of the text.

ABBREVIATIONS

     R. signifies that there is a garage capable of doing
     moderate repairs.

     R. A. signifies that the facilities for repair are
     abundant.

     P. signifies that petrol can be purchased, but it has
     not been considered needful to state this where the
     existence of a garage renders a supply of petrol
     certain.


CHAPTER I

CAMBRIDGE, NEWMARKET, BURY, AND IPSWICH

     ROADS Cambridge to Newmarket, mostly flat--not good.
     Newmarket to Bury St. Edmunds, fair. Bury St. Edmunds
     to Ipswich, poor and very sinuous.

     HILLS A sharp rise to Newmarket. Some small ups and
     downs between Newmarket and Bury St. Edmunds. Some
     small ups and downs between Ipswich and Stowmarket.

     DISTANCES Cambridge (R.A.)to Newmarket (R.), 13-1/4.
     Newmarket to Bury St. Edmunds (R.), 14. Bury St.
     Edmunds viâ Stowmarket (R.), to Ipswich (R.A.), 25-1/2.

_N.B._--_Great care is necessary in driving through Ipswich, owing to
narrow streets and fast tramcars._



CHAPTER II

IPSWICH TO NORWICH, VIA BECCLES, LOWESTOFT, AND YARMOUTH

     ROADS Fair to Blythburgh, poor thence to Beccles, fair
     for rest of journey.

     HILL A sharp ascent on leaving Ipswich.

     DISTANCES Ipswich to Woodbridge (R.), 8. Woodbridge to
     Wickham Market (R.), 4-3/4. Wickham Market to
     Saxmundham (R.), 8.

     _Détour_ to Aldeburgh recommended. Turn to right at
     Farnham, 2 short of Saxmundham. To Aldeburgh (R.), 7.
     Rejoin Blythburgh road at Yoxford. Yoxford from
     Aldeburgh, 9. From Saxmundham, 3-1/2. Saxmundham to
     Yoxford, 3-1/2. Yoxford, viâ Darsham to Blythburgh,
     3-3/4.

     _Détour_ to Southwold (R.), 6 advised. Return same
     route of going to Beccles, or by Reydon, Wangford and
     Blyford, and then to Beccles road, thus adding 4-1/4 in
     all.

     Blythburgh to Beccles (R. A.), 9. Beccles to Lowestoft
     (R. A.), 10. Lowestoft to Great Yarmouth (R. A.), 10.
     Great Yarmouth to Norwich (R. A.), direct route 19-1/2.


CHAPTER III

NORWICH TO LONDON BY ROMAN ROAD

     ROADS The surface is reasonably good, and the
     milestones are legible so long as the road is in
     Norfolk. On entering Suffolk the milestones are often
     found illegible, and the surface of the road becomes
     noticeably worse. The main road from Colchester to
     London, viâ the East End of London, is of fairly good
     quality, but traffic is very troublesome during the
     later part.

     HILLS Between Norwich and Ipswich are no hills of at
     all a serious character on this route, except when
     surface is very soft. At Stratford St. Mary, on
     crossing the river towards Colchester, is a fairly
     stiff ascent, and the Colchester vicinity is hilly, but
     not difficult for cars of moderate power.

     _N.B._--Great care should always be observed in leaving
     Norwich, the streets being narrow, crooked and full of
     risk, and the way difficult to find.

     DISTANCES Norwich to London (Marble Arch), 114-3/4.
     Norwich to Long Stratton, 10-1/4. Long Stratton to
     Scole, 9-1/4. Scole to Thornton Parva, 4-3/4. Thornton
     Parva to Thwaite, 2-3/4. Thwaite to Claydon, 11-3/4.
     Claydon to Ipswich (R. A.), 4. Ipswich to Colchester
     (R. A.), 6-3/4. Colchester to Chelmsford (R. A.),
     13-1/4. Chelmsford to Romford (R.), 14-3/4. Romford to
     Stratford, 8. Stratford to Marble Arch, 6-3/4.


CHAPTER IV

THROUGH THE HEART OF EAST ANGLIA

     ROADS Main roads throughout. Good in surface, for the
     most part very straight and free from cross-roads, so
     that high speeds may be enjoyed with safety.

     HILLS None worthy of mention.

     DISTANCES Royston to Newmarket (R.), 24. Newmarket to
     Thetford (R.), 20-1/4. Thetford to Attleborough (R.),
     14. Attleborough to Wymondham (R.), 6. Wymondham to
     Norwich (R. A.), 9.

_Note._--This was merely an afternoon drive in East Anglia, preceded by a
morning spent in reaching it by car; but it is not the less likely to be
suitable to other motorists for that reason.


CHAPTER V

NORWICH TO ELY AND CAMBRIDGE

     ROADS Fair at outset. Worse on approaching Ely.

     HILLS None of any moment, but no monotony of level
     until reaching Fordham.

     DISTANCES Norwich to Watton (P.), 8. Watton to Brandon,
     13. [N.B.--This is a by-way to find which turn sharply
     to left on reaching the Lynn and Thetford road. The
     distance is approximate.] Brandon to Mildenhall (P.),
     9-1/4. Mildenhall to Fordham, 6-1/4. Fordham to Soham
     (R.), 3-1/4. Soham to Ely (R.), 5-1/4. Ely to Cambridge
     (R. A.), 16. Cambridge to Royston (R.), 13-1/2.

_Caution._--Great care should be taken to ascertain the right exit from
Norwich.

_Note._--This is not a full day's drive, and in fact left me 70 miles to
travel, but it is a convenient exit from East Anglia westwards. From
Royston to London is 42-1/4.


CHAPTER VI

LONDON, FELIXSTOWE, AND DUNWICH


     IMPORTANT NOTE. _The route out of London Eastwards
     given below under "Distances" is believed to be
     incomparably the best in that direction. It is
     therefore given with great particularity of
     instruction, the distances having been mechanically
     recorded. Without care it is easily missed on the
     inward journey._

     ROADS Vile, with crumbling surface of gravel, in Epping
     Forest. Good from Chelmsford to Felixstowe. Fair from
     Felixstowe to Saxmundham. Farm tracks were tried beyond
     Saxmundham. They were found soft, rough, but not
     injurious to tires.

     HILLS Worthy of respect in Epping Forest, owing to bad
     surface, round Colchester, on leaving Ipswich, and on
     leaving Dunwich.

     DISTANCES AND SPECIAL DIRECTIONS. Oxford Circus to
     Epping, 22·7. Proceed viâ Regent Street, Langham Place,
     Portland Place, Park Crescent, to Euston Road; turn to
     the right and go straight on past King's Cross Station;
     turn to left into York Road, which follow to tramway
     lines in Camden Road; here turn to the right and follow
     tramway lines across Holloway Road into Seven Sisters
     Road; continue to follow tramway lines to "Manor
     House," and there, taking the right-hand fork of tram
     lines, go on to red brick structure in the centre of
     the road. Here incline to the left and follow tram
     lines through Tottenham High Road to Edmonton (9·9),
     and go straight on to Ponder's End. Here at "The Two
     Brewers" turn to the right, go over a level crossing at
     Ponder's End. Beyond the crossing the road passes
     through fields, but two gates less than 3/4 of a mile
     apart must be watched for. Go straight on to Chingford
     (13·8). Look out for Loughton and Epping sign-post,
     which points to Whitehall Lane, and at the end of
     Whitehall Lane (15·4), turn to the left and proceed to
     Buckhurst Hill. Then bear to the right at the next
     fork, where sign-post directs to Loughton (17·6), and
     Epping.

     _Epping to Felixstowe._--Epping (R.) to Ongar (R.),
     7-1/2. Ongar to Chelmsford (R.), 11-3/4. Chelmsford to
     Colchester (R. A.), 23-1/4. Colchester to Ipswich (R.
     A.), 16-3/4. Ipswich to Felixstowe (R.), 11-1/2.

     _Felixstowe to Dunwich and back._--(Distances
     approximate owing to use of byways and farm tracks.)

     Felixstowe to Woodbridge (R.), 10. Woodbridge to
     Saxmundham (R.), 12-3/4. Saxmundham to Dunwich, 13-1/2.
     Dunwich to Felixstowe, 31.


CHAPTER VI--(_continued_)

FELIXSTOWE, BAWDSEY, WOODBRIDGE, IPSWICH, DUNMOW, AND LONDON

     ROADS High-roads fair throughout. Byways between
     Bawdsey and Woodbridge very bad, rough, and soft.
     [N.B.--Bawdsey Ferry should not be attempted,
     especially at low tide, unless the car may be relied
     upon to climb from a standstill up a short but very
     sharp incline of quite loose gravel. The country beyond
     can hardly be called worth taking risks to see.]

     HILLS Insignificant.

     DISTANCES Felixstowe to Woodbridge (R.), viâ Bawdsey
     Ferry and byways, approximately 15. Woodbridge to
     Ipswich (R. A.), 8. Ipswich to Braintree (R.), 35.
     Braintree to Great Dunmow (R.), 8. Great Dunmow to
     Takeley, 4. Takeley to Hatfield Broad Oak, 3. Hatfield
     Broad Oak to High Ongar, 4 (approximately). High Ongar
     to Epping (R.), 8. Epping to London, distances as
     before, reversing order of places.


CHAPTER VII

COLCHESTER AND EASTWARDS

     ROADS Mostly of second- or third-rate quality,
     especially in wet weather. Frequently sinuous, narrow,
     and overshadowed by trees, and therefore sometimes
     greasy in reasonably dry weather.

     HILLS Between Ardleigh and Manningtree, 1 in 13.
     Between Mistley and Bradfield (_en route_ for Harwich),
     1 in 13. Between Bradfield and Dovercourt, 1 in 15.

     DISTANCES (1) Colchester (R. A.) to Clacton-on-Sea
     (R.), 16. Clacton to Great Holland, 4. Great Holland to
     St. Osyth, 8. St. Osyth to Colchester, 11-3/4.

     (2) Colchester to Ardleigh, 5. Ardleigh to Manningtree
     (R.), 5-1/2.

     _Détour_ suggested to East Bergholt, viâ Dedham, 5;
     back to Manningtree, 5. Manningtree to Harwich (R. A.),
     viâ Mistley, Bradfield, and Dovercourt (R.), 11-1/2.
     Harwich to Colchester, viâ Dovercourt, Little Oakley,
     Great Oakley, Weeley, and Elmstead Market, 24.


CHAPTER VIII

COLCHESTER AND GAINSBOROUGH'S COUNTRY

     ROADS Mostly of second or third class and very sinuous,
     so distances are approximate.

     HILLS Stoke-by-Nayland, stiff, gradient unknown.
     Between Sudbury and Long Melford, 1 in 13.

     DISTANCES Colchester to Lexden, 2. Lexden to
     Stoke-by-Nayland, 10. Stoke-by-Nayland to Sudbury,
     alternative routes (1) viâ Bures St. Mary, Marsh, and
     Great Cornard, 10. (2) viâ Lavenheath, Arrington, and
     Newton, 11. The former recommended as Gainsborough
     painted a picture of part of the Wood at Cornard.
     Sudbury to Long Melford, 3-1/4. Long Melford, viâ
     Cavendish and Clare to Stoke-by-Clare, 8.
     Stoke-by-Clare, viâ Ridgewell, Tilbury-juxta-Clare, to
     Great Yeldham, 4. Great Yeldham to Halstead (P.), viâ
     Castle Hedingham and Little Maplestead, 7. _Détour_ of
     3-1/2 out and 3-1/2 back advised to Little Maplestead.
     Halstead to Colchester, viâ Earl's Colne, Fordham, and
     Lexden, 12-1/2.


CHAPTER IX

COLCHESTER AND WESTWARDS

     ROADS Good to Marks Tey. Fair to Coggeshall, Braintree,
     and Witham. Good from Witham to Ingatestone.
     Second-rate from Margaretting to Tiptree. Bad from
     Tiptree to Heckford Bridge. Thence good into
     Colchester.

     HILLS To Braintree, a steady rise of 100 feet in 2
     miles. From Margaretting to Galleywood Common, a small
     climb. From Sandon up to Danbury Hill, nearly 300 feet
     in 2 miles. From Maldon and Heybridge, 200 feet in 3
     miles.

     DISTANCES Colchester to Marks Tey, 6-1/4. Thence to
     Coggeshall, 4-1/2. Coggeshall to Braintree (R.), 8.
     Braintree to Witham (R.), 8. Witham to Ingatestone,
     14-3/4. Ingatestone to Margaretting, 2. Margaretting to
     Galleywood Common, 2-1/2. Galleywood Common to Danbury
     Hill, 4-1/2. Danbury Hill to Maldon, 5-1/2. Maldon, viâ
     Heybridge, to Tiptree, 7. Tiptree, viâ Messing and
     Heckford Bridge, to Colchester, 9-1/4.

     _Alternative routes_ from Braintree to London,
     suggested for persons occupied in London, but
     preferring country residence--

     (1) Viâ Bishop's Stortford (10-1/4) to Marble Arch
     (43), viâ Sawbridgeworth, Harlow, Epping, Loughton, and
     Woodford Green.

     (2) Viâ Chelmsford, Chipping Ongar, Epping and so to
     London, exactly reversing route given fully at the head
     of Chapter VI.


CHAPTER IX--(_continued_)

COLCHESTER TO GRAYS

     ROADS Good to Chelmsford; not bad to Billericay; very
     bad beyond.

     HILLS Galleywood Common, a stiff rise; about 150 feet
     in 2 miles. Billericay Hill, 1 in 13. Langdon Hill, a
     stiff rise; 300 feet in 2-1/2 miles.

     DISTANCES Colchester to Chelmsford (R.A.), 23-1/4.
     Chelmsford to Great Baddow, 1-3/4. Great Baddow to
     Billericay (P.), 8. Billericay to Horndon, 8. Horndon
     to Chadwell, 4. Chadwell to Little Thurrock and
     Hangman's Wood, 1-3/4.

     _Suggestions._--(1) Return to Colchester by motor-boat
     from East Tilbury to Clacton-on-Sea, about 54 land
     miles. Thence by rail.

     (2) To London, viâ Barking, 12; thence 7-1/4 to
     Whitechapel. The worst entry into London.


CHAPTER X

ROYSTON TO HARLESTON

     ROADS All good high-roads.

     HILLS None worthy of mention.

     DISTANCES Royston (R.) to Newmarket (R.), 24. Newmarket
     to Bury St. Edmunds (R.), 14. Bury St. Edmunds to
     Scole, 21-1/2. Scole to Harleston (R.), 7.


CHAPTER XI

HARLESTON TO NORWICH

     ROADS All fair, some good, especially Yarmouth to
     Norwich and Norwich to Cromer.

     HILLS None of moment.

     DISTANCES Harleston (R.) to Bungay (R.), 7-1/2. Bungay
     to Beccles (R. A.), 6. Beccles to Lowestoft (R. A.),
     10. Lowestoft to Yarmouth (R. A.), 10. Yarmouth viâ
     Caister to Norwich (R. A.), 23. Norwich to Cromer (R.),
     22-1/2.


CHAPTER XII

CROMER, WELLS, FAKENHAM, LYNN, ELY, CAMBRIDGE, AND ROYSTON

     ROADS Fair from Cromer to Wells; good from Wells to
     Lynn and from Lynn to Cambridge.

     HILLS None of moment, but no monotony of level except
     between Lynn and Cambridge.

     DISTANCES Cromer (R.) to Wells-next-Sea (R.), 20-1/2.
     Wells to Fakenham (R.), 9-3/4. Fakenham to Lynn (R.),
     21-3/4. Lynn to Ely (R.), 29. Ely to Cambridge (R. A.),
     16. Cambridge to Royston (R.), 13-1/2.

_N.B._--Royston is 42-1/4 from London, and a good point of exit for the
Midlands.


CHAPTER XIII

EXPEDITIONS FROM KING'S LYNN

     ROADS Mostly high-roads and good.

     HILLS The early part of the projected drive is through
     undulating country not marked by very severe gradients.
     The later part, from Fakenham to Swaffham, is over
     ground higher in average elevation, but of similar
     character.

     DISTANCES Lynn to Castle Rising, 4-1/4. Castle Rising
     to Wolferton, 2. Wolferton to Dersingham, 3. Dersingham
     to Hunstanton (R.), 8. Hunstanton to Brancaster, 8.
     Brancaster to Burnham Thorpe, 4-1/2. Burnham Thorpe to
     Fakenham (R.), 12. Fakenham to Swaffham (R.), 15-1/2.
     Swaffham to Lynn (R. A.), 15-1/2.




INTRODUCTION


This book, the first volume it is hoped of a series, was undertaken because
the existing Guide-books were, through no fault in their writers, by no
means adequate to the needs of the traveller by motor-car. A new method of
travel, in fact, brings in its train the need for a new species of
guide-book, and the truth of this observation becomes clear when we
consider an authoritative definition of the term "Guide-book." It is "a
book of directions for travellers and tourists as to the best routes, etc.,
and giving information about the places to be visited." All which needs to
be added to this definition by way of explanation is that the information
given may justly be of almost any kind so long as it is not tedious.

Substantially, all the existing guide-books, some of them of admirable
quality, were written before the motor-car had entered into our social
system. Except a small number of accounts of tours by horse-drawn
carriages, they were compiled by men who travelled by train from place to
place, obtaining no view of the country often--for deep cuttings destroy
all joy of the eye for the railway passenger--and at best only a partial
view, for the use of men and women condemned to the like method of travel.
In them it is vain to seek for any appreciation of the pleasure of the
road, of the delight of travel itself. The motor-car has changed all that.
The act of going from place to place is at least as essential a part of the
enjoyment of a tour as the sojourn at the new place when it is reached, as
the leisurely survey of its features of beauty or interest, or the inquiry
into its history and its associations. Many matters, too, are of moment to
the motorist which are of none to the traveller by rail. He desires to know
something in advance of the nature of the roads to be traversed, of the
gradients to be climbed, of the facilities for housing his car when his
destination of the day is accomplished, and last, but certainly not least,
where he can submit it to a skilled artificer for repair if occasion should
unhappily arise.

Does the motorist need, or desire, more than has been set forth in the
preceding sentence? The anti-motorist will think not, will remain convinced
that the motorist is a dust-raising, property-destroying, dog-killing,
fowl-slaying, dangerous and ruthless speed maniac. But, of course, the
anti-motorist is quite wrong. The rational motorist, who is in the
overwhelming majority--but black sheep are sadly conspicuous amidst a white
flock--passes through certain regular stages of evolution. At first he
revels without thought, or without conscious thought, in the sheer ecstasy
of motion. The road which seems to flow to meet him, white, tawny or grey
as the case may be, and to open before him as if by magic, the pressure of
the cool air on his face, even the tingling lash of the rain as he dashes
against it, result in a feeling of undefinable, almost lyrical, exaltation.
In the next stage he begins to take in broad impressions of great
stretches of country, impressions similar in some respects to those
obtained from a mountain top, but secured in rapid succession. Soon--for
the faculties of man adapt themselves rapidly to his needs--the man in the
car begins to observe more rapidly and more minutely than in the early
days. The man at the steering-wheel finds that he can watch the road up to
the farthest visible point in advance, manipulate his throttle, use
accelerator or decelerator, and, most important of all, be in vigilant
sympathy with his engine, subconsciously. At the same time he can take an
intelligent interest in the scenes through which he is passing, can carry
on a conversation with her or with him who sits by his side, can tell a
good story or listen to one, can impart information or receive it, without
in the slightest degree neglecting his primary duty of driving and
humouring the car. In this is nothing of novelty. The same state of doing
instructively and without reflection the right thing at the right time is
reached by every proficient in many crafts, by the driver of horses for
example, and by the steersman of a sailing vessel. The motorist, therefore,
even if he be driving, can think of things outside the car, can remain a
rational and intelligent man, can (and in my experience usually does)
desire to know those associations of the country-side which, when known,
appeal to his imagination, or to his memory, and make the day's journey
something better and more interesting than a progress through the air and
over the ground. How much more then, after the first bewilderment of
motoring has worn off, shall the mere passenger be able and desirous to
travel with seeing eye and thinking brain?

There is no need to labour the point. Motorists are well aware, without
argument, that they feel an intelligent interest in every part of "this
amazing England," and that they would take that interest more fully if they
were provided, so to speak, with the proper materials. Such materials ought
to be found in guide-books, written in the motorist's mood, which is wider
and often less microscopical than that of the traveller in railway
carriages, and from the point of view of those to whom county boundaries,
which determine the scope of most guide-books, have no meaning, except that
the roads are better, and the police are more sensible, in some counties
than in others. It is the guide-book writer's business to give first
practical facts and directions, and then to provide the information which,
after sifting a vast mass of history, legend, folk-lore, literature, and
gossip, appears to be most interesting and attractive.

East Anglia has been chosen as the first theme, and in many respects it
lends itself exceptionally well to isolated treatment. The motorist, it is
true, has no regard for county boundaries, but let him once venture in his
car to the east of an imaginary line drawn from the Tower Bridge to the
mouth of the Welland, and he will never come outside East Anglia on wheels,
except to the westward. The Wash, the North Sea, and the Estuary of the
Thames will block him effectually. Let him follow the history of this tract
of land, to which the fens were an effectual bulwark on the north-west, and
he will find that history to be one of isolation also. East Anglia has
always gone on its own way, always worked out its own destinies, always
indulged in self-satisfied but inspiring contempt for "the Sheres"; and
so, perhaps, it has suffered less at troublous periods of the national
history than other parts of the country. Its scenery is rarely, perhaps
never, rugged, but it is marked in various parts by many kinds of peculiar
characteristics not to be found elsewhere, some of them of quite
exceptional charm. It has its ancient cities, its majestic cathedrals,
time-worn edifices of many kinds. It is haunted by the ghosts of many great
artists in colour and in words; and--a small matter this, but one adding
greatly to the interest of a motoring tour--there is no other part of the
country in which the lover of bird-life can see so much of bird-life from
the passing car.

One drawback, and one only, is there to East Anglia as a topic for a
motoring guide-book, and that affects only the maker of the book, not the
motoring potentialities, so to speak, of the country. Taken as a whole it
is not at all a flat district, and it has enough ups and downs and variety
of scenery to suit any taste, but it is practically barren of hills
presenting any real difficulty to a car of moderate power. So, in this
volume, it is not necessary or possible to indicate any very serious
gradients to be encountered on this journey or on that. It remains only,
after a word of thanks to the friends who have lent their company and their
cars, to add that every chapter is a faithful narrative of tours undertaken
or of journeys made, together with an account of the associations and
memories appropriate to the places visited, and that, to save breaking the
flow of the text, an analysis showing the route taken in each chapter, the
distances from place to place, the points at which repairs may be
effected, and the general character of the roads, appears at the very
beginning of the volume. It must be understood, however, that these roads
are judged by an East Anglian standard, for, even in Norfolk, where the
road surface is far better as a rule than in any other East Anglian county,
the roads cannot honestly be said to be of the highest order of merit. In
the case of all hotels the presence of garage accommodation may be assumed,
and all have been tried.




THROUGH EAST ANGLIA IN A MOTOR-CAR




CHAPTER I

WINTER. [OXFORD] TO CAMBRIDGE, NEWMARKET, AND IPSWICH

     Elections delay start--Rail to Oxford--A treasure
     gained--Rail to Cambridge--Bull Hotel--English hotels
     criticized--Motorists squeezed--Morning at
     Cambridge--King's Chapel--Trinity Library--The Panhard
     arrives--Battered at elections--A start--Load and
     equipment--Undergraduates as pilots--A street
     blocked--Dull road to Newmarket--Bottisham Church
     excepted--Delusions about Swaffham Prior and
     Bulbeck--The Devil's Dyke--Prosperous Newmarket--The
     Icenhilde Way--A delusion in East Anglia--Kentford to
     Bury St. Edmunds--A switchback run--Fine trees--Arthur
     Young quoted--Bury St. Edmunds--Leland, Dickens, Arthur
     Young--Legends of St. Edmund--Past greatness of
     Bury--Parliaments held at--The Abbey ruins--Study with
     Shakespeare--Pickwick at the "Angel"--At the boarding
     school--Bury viâ Bayton, Woolpit, and Stowmarket to
     Ipswich--Night travelling--A legend of Woolpit--Dull
     Stowmarket--Ipswich at last--Narrow streets and fast
     tramcars--The "Great White Horse"--Why did Dickens
     speak so ill of it?--_Quære_ why the White Horse is an
     East Anglian sign--The "Crown and Anchor"--Ipswich
     oysters and gloves.


The year 1905 had almost run out when this volume was finally decided upon,
and then a good many things happened, according to expectation and
otherwise. Christmas came, surprising the railway companies as usual, but
not the public, and the resignation of Mr. Balfour's Government. The
resignation of Mr. Balfour, with its corollary of a General Election,
involved some unavoidable delay in opening this campaign of pilgrimages in
East Anglia. For during that General Election almost everybody who owned a
motor-car and could drive it, or thought he could drive it, was stirred to
lend his car and his energies to the service of his party by motives of
double cogency. He desired, more or less keenly at the outset, but always
vehemently, and even passionately after he had tasted the joy of battle, to
lend his aid to the political party of his choice; and he knew further that
the General Election of 1906 had provided motorists with a priceless
opportunity of doing missionary work among the electorate at a critical
moment in the history of Automobilism. He felt that the Motor Act of 1903,
of limited duration in any event, needed to be supplanted by a measure
treating him as a reasoning and responsible being, rather than as a
dangerous beast, and, having some hope that the Royal Commission then
sitting would report in his favour (as, on the whole, it has reported), he
recognized that enlightened self-interest made it desirable to educate
public opinion into the frame of mind suitable for the reception of an
enabling measure.

For these reasons, and some that are immaterial, it was not convenient to
make the first raid into East Anglia until nearly the end of January, 1906,
and that was a period calculated to try the reality of man's or woman's
sincerity as a devotee of motoring by a somewhat severe test. How that test
was applied it shall be my endeavour to tell in a narrative form, and to
that form a preference will be given throughout the book, digressions being
made, as occasion serves or fancy calls, to mention matters of practical
utility or of intelligent interest.

Let me, therefore, "cut the cackle and come"--not to "the 'osses" by any
means--but to the country and to the motor-cars. On Monday, January the
23rd, 1906, my daughter and I proceeded first to Oxford, and then to
Cambridge by rail. Both journeys were an object lesson in the inferiority
of the railway train, as it is arranged in England, to the motor-car, for
purposes of cross-country travel. Our starting point being Abingdon,
distant six miles only from Oxford, we were compelled to change trains at
Radley _en route_. A long wait at Oxford would have been irritating if it
had not been providential; as it was it furnished me with a private copy of
Mr. F. J. Haverfield's _Romano-British Norfolk_, extracted from the
"Victoria County History," and the dreadfully tedious journey to Cambridge
allowed me to master that most accomplished and useful work. Cambridge we
reached--not for the first time by any means--well after dusk, and there we
lay, as they used to say in old times, at the Bull Hotel on King's Parade
in reasonable comfort, an undergraduate kinsman of Trinity College having
cheered us by his company at dinner.

Here let me pause for a moment to speak of an all-important matter. It has
been written that we were comfortably entertained at the "Bull"; it might
be added that the hotel seemed much cleaner and brighter than when I had
last entered it, and that the charges were, for an English hotel, not
unreasonable. Unfortunately, it must be said also that the charges at the
"Bull" and throughout the United Kingdom are far in excess of those for
which at least equal accommodation and at least equally palatable fare can
be obtained on most parts of the Continent frequented by tourists, and that
this fact is at once the most serious obstacle to tours by motor-cars at
home, and the principal cause why Englishmen go touring abroad to the
neglect of their own country, the prejudice of British hotel-keepers, and
the profit of the foreigner. They do not, I think, desire to ignore the
beauties of their own country; they are even anxious to study it in detail;
but the hotel-keepers of the provinces, without quite killing the goose
that lays the golden eggs, have a suicidal habit of making nesting
accommodation so expensive that the bird, being a wise bird really, becomes
perforce migratory as the swallow. More unwise in relation to the motorist
even than in relation to the ordinary traveller--it will be observed that
there is no special reference to the "Bull," and that we did not go there
as motorists openly--hotel-keepers frequently behave as if they thought the
owner of a motor-car must needs possess an endless supply of ready money,
whereas the legitimate inference from his ownership of an expensive vehicle
is that he has none to spare. Motor-cars of real value--and no sensible man
will have them of any other kind--cannot be obtained on credit, and
hotel-keepers might have learned from experience that a banking account is
reduced, unless it be an overdraft, not increased, by drawing a heavy
cheque upon it.

Some day, perhaps, there will be an improvement in this respect. In the
meanwhile the path is not altogether clear before him who would fain play
the part of guide to his fellow-men. So long ago as 1799 a correspondent of
the _Norfolk Chronicle_ wrote: "There is room for a most useful work in the
form of an itinerary, which shall give an impartial account of the several
inns of the kingdom under the heads of quality, cleanliness, beds," etc.
There is still just as much room, but until the law of libel shall be
changed the "most useful work" is not likely to be written. Certainly I am
not going to write it--not that I lack the inclination nor the desire to be
of service; not that I have not a nice taste for comfort, nor an experience
of British and Irish hotels possessed by few men other than commercial
travellers--simply because I cannot afford the time or the money to fight a
series of actions, in which a verdict for the defendant would leave me
still liable for the difference between my solicitor's bill of costs "as
between solicitor and client," and the same bill taxed "as between party
and party." The utmost that is possible, and at the same time prudent, is
to point to examples of merit. Demerit, dearness, and dirt must go
unchastised.

[Illustration: CAMBRIDGE--KING'S COLLEGE AND THE CAM]

My arrangement with a friend, who had done as much electioneering as he and
his car could endure, was that he should run down from London and pick us
up at the "Bull" on Tuesday after luncheon.

Tuesday morning, therefore--a frosty, windless, somewhat misty morning--was
spent in what in our domestic circle is called "abroading" in Cambridge,
that is to say, in visiting places of paramount interest. But let the
reader take heart. Some little knowledge of Cambridge, the fruit of many
sojourns and of considerable reading, is not going to be made an excuse for
a topographical, archæological, and architectural chapter upon a subject
worthy of a long book, already treated in many volumes, grave and gay. Even
if such a chapter could be legitimate here it would be wrong for a mere
Oxford man to write it, and I shall never forget how, when I was staying at
Cambridge a year or two ago, a Cambridge friend who took me out
sight-seeing closed my mouth before it was opened, so to speak, by saying,
"You are absolutely forbidden to ask where our 'High' is." As matters
stand, remembering always that this Cambridge friend is not at my elbow,
and firmly believing, with Mr. Ruskin, that "the High" at Oxford is not to
be matched in the world as a whole, I am inclined to think King's College,
as seen from King's Parade, leaves nothing to be desired, and that King's
College Chapel has a claim almost equal to that of St. George's Chapel,
Windsor, to be recognized as the most exquisite example of Perpendicular
architecture to be found in England. Of course, the best way to see all
there is at Cambridge, and to understand it, is to live at Cambridge; and
the next best is to go there often and to study it piecemeal. To try to
absorb impressions of Cambridge in one visit, even one of many days, is to
submit the human brain to too severe an ordeal. On former occasions I had
seen the Backs in summer, had spent an hour or two in the Senate House on a
State occasion, had looked into the University Library and had admired the
delightfully free-and-easy way in which graduates are permitted to borrow
its books, had seen cricket played and had played football on Parker's
Piece, had stayed in college rooms at Caius: and yet impressions remained a
little confused in memory. This time we went to King's College, and to the
chapel especially, again. If it falls behind St. George's at all, it is in
point of lightness, in which St. George's is perfect. So to Trinity
College, where we admired unfeignedly the Great Court, Nevile's Court and
the Library, and spoke politely of the chapel, where the Grinling Gibbons'
carvings are really good. But it was in the library that one would gladly
have spent hours.

A lecture was in progress in the hall, so that was closed to us; but the
library is perfect. Somewhere in the world there may be the equal of it,
but, in a life of fairly extended wandering, I have not entered its match.
One hundred and sixty feet long, forty feet wide, with its carved
bookcases, its abundant busts of famous men, its portraits, its magnificent
collection of coins, its rare books and manuscripts, its unbroken
stillness, and, above all, its ample and all-pervading light, Trinity
College Library is not merely a book-lover's paradise, but even a place to
compel an air-loving man to be bookish. Hence to St. John's, many-courted,
with walls of ancient brick and stone dressings, the most architecturally
individual of Cambridge's colleges, and so, by the Bridge of Sighs, across
the chilly, green, and exiguous Cam to the Backs. These, since there had
been no white frost of the dainty kind that drapes a landscape in a fairy
veil of silvered lace, were not at their best, but in summer they are of
rare beauty. Still this was winter. So the small remaining part of the
morning was devoted to a pilgrimage to Magdalene, the only college entirely
situated on the left bank of the Cam, famous mainly for the Pepysian
Library (everybody knows how the six volumes of shrewd gossip in shorthand
were discovered and interpreted) and itself a quiet and sequestered retreat
in appearance, although the undergraduates are not always in the mood
appropriate to their environment.

By two o'clock the charioteer had come, his face bearing traces of the
black fog through which he had forced his way out of London; the 15 h.p.
Panhard, with a short wheelbase, was in the yard. We must be tolerant, he
said, of his Panhard's shortcomings, after a fortnight of hard
electioneering on the part of master, mechanic, and car; and he had come
down from London on three cylinders. In due course the Panhard came round
to the door, dinted a little by the missiles of partisans, having lost some
of the white paint of her rear number under the impact of voters' iron-shod
toes, a little war-worn and dingy, in fact, to the eye. Her carrying
capacity was, however, soon tested severely, and she bore the trial
unflinchingly. First luggage: a suit-case for the daughter, the same for my
friend the charioteer, a small kit-bag for me, nothing visible for the
mechanic--a stalwart ex-soldier of six feet and 14 stone, if he was an
ounce. Charioteer, in motor-coat, was about 13 stone. He and an
undergraduate of some 9 stone sat in the front seats, the mechanic on the
step. In the back seats were my daughter, say 10 stone, wraps included;
myself, say 13 stone in the like condition; and on the back step a second
undergraduate, say 11 stone 7 lb.--for the two young men were going to
pilot us out of Cambridge. But the little Panhard made no account of these
things, and started off as a greyhound from the slips.

Practical considerations make it desirable to say what my daughter and I
wore. My friend and his mechanic wore a lot, precisely in what detail I
cannot say. My daughter wore a thick tweed dress, a short fur coat, a
mackintosh with sleeves gathered in at the wrists over that, a red
Connemara cloak sometimes--its colour proved to be of incidental advantage
later in quite an unexpected way--a motor-cap and veil, fur-lined gloves,
and a muff. I wore a vest, flannel shirt, lined corduroy waistcoat,
ordinary tweed trousers, a rowing "sweater" over the waistcoat, thick
Norfolk jacket, thick Ulster coat--without inner sleeves gathered, worse
luck--and loose woollen gloves. I was never too warm, often much too cold,
and the woollen gloves turned out a fraud. They were of no use as a
protection against wind and cold combined, and a motor-car makes its own
wind. In fact, there is nothing like leather, with or without fur or wool
within.

The undergraduates were useful as pilots to Jesus Lane, where we turned to
the right, which brought us in fact, although not in name, into the direct
road for Newmarket; not that it is so difficult in Cambridge, as in many
other towns of East Anglia, to solve correctly the all-important problem
how to find the absolutely right exit having regard to the point sought in
the distance. But the streets of the heart of Cambridge are of an
exceptional narrowness, and we were not through them without becoming
witnesses of an incident, almost worthy of the title accident, which
delayed us a little and might have delayed us more but for the camaraderie
of motorists. We were proceeding slowly up a narrow street behind a motor
omnibus, the roadway being wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass, but
no more. On the off-side of the omnibus, facing it, were a motor-car,
attended as the law directs, at rest by the kerb, and a tradesman's cart
and horse behind the car, cart and horse being unattended, as is not
unusual, law or no law. The horse, perceiving the motor omnibus, and being
probably unaccustomed to the sight, proceeded at once to give one of those
convincing exhibitions in equine intelligence which must be the constant
joy of the thick-and-thin champions of that traditionally "noble animal."
Planting its forefeet on to the pavement, it backed the cart violently into
the bonnet of the passing omnibus, of course blocking the route completely.
Somebody, possibly the man who ought to have been in charge, came up and
pulled the stupid brute into line, but not before it had also contrived to
injure a wing of the resting and innocent motor-car. The omnibus was
disabled for a time at any rate; traffic accumulated rapidly behind us; it
seemed likely that we might have to spend the rest of the afternoon in this
street that might justly be called Strait. But the injured motor-car was
most courteously backed out of the way to make a passage for us, and we
proceeded on our journey rejoicing and grateful.

It would be a stretch of imagination--in fact, it would be what the late
Sir William Harcourt once called "a good thumping lie"--to say that the
exit from Cambridge to the eastward has any features of interest, or that
the dead level of the Newmarket road for the first few miles is attractive
on a cold and dull day, when Ely, dominating the low-lying plain in decent
weather, is not visible to the naked eye. This Fen Country has its charm of
appearance no less than of history. Its history, indeed, is an engineering
epic, to which it will be possible to allude, hardly to do justice, at a
later point. January 24, 1906, was not a day calculated to make the
motorist feel in a romantic mood concerning the Fens. The road, straight,
level, muddy where it was not metalled, metalled where it was not muddy,
was lost in grey vapour to the front of us. The prospect on either side was
of flat ploughed land, and of land on which the steaming plough-horses were
even then at work; there was no distant view at all.

Some five or six miles out of Cambridge the undergraduates alighted to walk
home through the mud, and we left them behind with many shoutings of
farewell, reflecting to ourselves the while that one of them, who, with the
true carelessness of a twentieth-century undergraduate of Cambridge (or for
that matter of Oxford), was wearing tennis shoes, would find walking in the
mud to be one of those carnal pleasures whereof satiety cometh soon rather
than late. Soon we passed a church close to the road on the left, a
striking structure of brick and stone, and said to be the finest example of
Decorated architecture in East Anglia. How that can be, having regard to
the existence of Ely and the rhapsodies that are penned concerning its
Decorated portion, it is not for me to say. At any rate Bottisham church,
commanding the landscape as it can only be commanded in a plain, is a
stately and beautiful structure, leaving an abiding impression on the
memory. It is, in fact, essentially a motorist's church--that is to say,
one of which a passing view gives sincere pleasure.

The afternoon had advanced more than was desirable. I did not like to ask
my kindly charioteer to make a detour for Swaffham, which I then believed
to lie on our left. Instead of that I regaled him with memories of
Swaffham, which have their proper place in another chapter. The
conversation helped to pass the time; at any rate it did no harm, and it
was only a month or two later, in the "Maid's Head" at Norwich, that I
learned where the real Swaffham was, and that this detour, if it had been
made, would have shown us nothing but the relics of two churches at
Swaffham Prior and another church at Swaffham Bulbeck.

Now there is an end of the dead level whereof the most eager of motorists
is apt to grow weary, if only because it gives his good car nothing to do.
At Bottisham, among the Fens, in fact, but not in their heart, the road is
but forty-six feet above the sea-level at King's Lynn, but in the course of
two miles to Street Way (surely Roman by its name) the road rises rapidly
and the Panhard climbs cheerfully to a height of 170 feet, an upland having
regard to its surroundings on the western side. The very air, eagerly as it
bites the cheeks of those who are forced through it, seems more bracing,
more exhilarating, more instinct with life than the stagnant atmosphere of
the plain. Here are wide spaces, pines and Scotch firs; but the spaces are
not wild, for innumerable white boards on posts, the marks of galloping
grounds, tell us that we are on the confines of Newmarket Heath and near
the metropolis of the turf. Such it has been since the days of Charles I,
and such, having regard to the fact that it has been for upwards of a
century and a half the head-quarters of the Jockey Club, it is likely to
remain, even though the "going" be better at Newbury in Berks, which is a
little nearer to London.

But we are not at Newmarket yet. There is the Devil's Dyke--irreverently
called the Ditch where it bisects the familiar course--to be crossed. Why
his Satanic Majesty should be credited with so many dykes it is not easy to
see. Devil's Punchbowls, of which there are scores, if not hundreds, in the
kingdom, are more natural and rational, for a being of Satan's traditional
environment might reasonably be credited with thirst upon a large scale and
with a liking for cold punch equal to that which was all but the temporary
ruin of Mr. Pickwick, and quite fatal for the time to his young friend upon
another memorable drive to Ipswich, for that was our destination too. The
devil did not make this dyke, running from Reach, north of the Great
Eastern Railway, to Ditton Green, near Wood Ditton, that is certain; yet
nobody knows exactly who the builders were. What is known is that it has a
rampart on the west side, and that the Iceni, of whom all that is necessary
will be told soon, held the land to the eastward, so far as land was held
in those days. Probably, like their successors in the same territory in
mediæval times, during the Stuart period, and now, they had a good conceit
of themselves and a robust contempt for their western neighbours, and
therefore, perhaps, they built them this rampart and digged this ditch, or
made their captives dig it for them, as a bulwark against the outer world.
It must be confessed, however, that thoughts and conversation ran not on
the Iceni, not on the violent deaths which came to most of them eighteen
centuries and a half ago, but on the death of one man of our time whom
Newmarket Heath had known as a familiar visitor. Only a few days before Sir
James Miller had died full of racing honours, but by no means of years. A
tribute to the memory of this prince of racing men was surely due most
appropriately at Newmarket.

Of Newmarket the story needs no telling. It is not, perhaps, so long as
that of Cambridge, but probably it is better known to a greater number of
persons. Equally well known are the seats of the mighty in the immediate
vicinity. But perhaps the traveller through Newmarket, and to it, by road,
will not only notice the thoroughbreds, if there be any on view--we
naturally saw none late on a winter's afternoon--but will not resent the
fact that his attention is directed to an interesting feature of Newmarket,
as of other racing and training centres. Newmarket may be, as Lord
Chesterfield said in his will that it was, "an infamous seminary of
iniquity and ill manners." Men may back horses at Newmarket, may gamble,
may try every cunning device known to those who have to do with horses--not
that some of those who are concerned with motors are much better--but
Newmarket, in appearance at least, is free from that worst of all evils,
poverty, which is rarely absent from agricultural Arcadia, and, as Dr.
Jessopp has shown, very prevalent in East Anglia. Its houses are trim and
weatherproof, the paint of doors and gates is clearly renewed often. The
whole place has an air of prosperity which disarms curious investigation
into the sources of its wealth. The children are rosy and plump, and that,
at any rate, is a blessing; and, save perhaps for backing a horse with
judgment now and again, which is a great deal less vicious than backing one
without knowledge or judgment, I dare be sworn that their morality and
their standard of life are much higher than those of the Arcadian peasant.

The weak light was growing quite dim as we passed through Newmarket and
out of Cambridgeshire into Suffolk--out of "the Sheers" into East Anglia,
in the narrowest sense of the term. Our course for Bury St. Edmunds lay
along a road of astonishing straightness, having many fine oaks and other
trees on either side; for the matter of levels it was, and of course is, a
series of long ups and downs, of no very severe gradients, and the going on
the newly-frozen road left nothing to be desired. At Kentford, according to
the Ordnance map and the tradition of the antiquaries of yesterday, we
crossed the Icknield or Icenhilde Way. Unfortunately, from the point of
view of one who would like to conjure up visions of ancient Britons, neatly
painted with woad in summer, fur-clad in winter, sweeping down this road
with scythe-chariots to meet an invader from the west, or to make a raid
into the Midlands themselves, the Icenhilde Way has to be numbered among
the pretty traditions which cannot be cherished any longer. It has been
called the warpath of the Iceni, or a principal Roman road. Ickleton, in
Cambridgeshire, Icklingham, in Suffolk, Ickleford, in Herts, have been
imagined to represent points upon its route from Norwich to Berkshire and
the west. But probabilities, philology, and charters are separately fatal
to the theory, and they are irresistible in combination. Over philology I
shall not delay longer than to say, on the best authority, that, according
to well-known laws, if the places now known as Icklingham and so on had
been called after the Iceni, they would have been written otherwise than
they are. Again, if the way had been the warpath of the Iceni, it would
certainly be more clearly traceable in the east, which was theirs, than in
the west, which was not; whereas the contrary is the case. Charters are
even far more deadly to this romance than philology and probability.
Referring to the date of the Norman Conquest and to the Icenhilde Way, Mr.
Haverfield says: "Not till three centuries later do we find its name
applied to roads in Hertfordshire and Cambridgeshire, while east of
Newmarket we never find it at all." This is conclusive, for it is the
considered judgment of a man exceptionally learned and acute upon the
subject to which he has devoted most of the leisure of an academical life,
and so this avenue of romance and to romance is definitely and permanently
closed.

From Kentford to Bury St. Edmunds was a fine, but cold, switchback run
along a very straight road, just before lighting-up time, though it was not
dark enough yet to prevent an impression of the landscape from being left
on the mind. No very great houses were close to the road on either side,
but the trees on the right were of remarkable stature, and on the left were
many belts of Scotch firs, evenly planted, almost like shaws in Kent, which
seemed, as did many similar belts seen on other tours, to indicate the
existence of landowners, past or present, who had prepared the way for the
continental method of driving partridges. For the first time, as our car
coursed along with the subdued and yet lively melody of the true "Panhard
hum," one began to realize how vast an influence has been exercised over
the face of nature in Norfolk and Suffolk, how many new features have been
grafted on to that face, by men who have made good shooting the principal
object of estate management in the part of England better suited to that
purpose than to any other. Arthur Young thought, it is true, of the land
between Thetford and Bury, and probably of this land also, that it would
repay cultivation. It "lies for some miles over a wild heath, overrun with
bushes, whins, and fern, the wild luxuriance of whose growth displays
evidently enough how greatly it would answer to break it up and convert it
into arable farms; for a soil that has strength enough to throw up such
vigorously growing weeds would, if cultivated, produce corn in plenty." But
Arthur Young, as we shall see in a minute or two, had no eye for the
picturesque; he certainly could not have foreseen the present low prices of
various grains; and still more certainly he could have had no idea of the
length to which game preservation would go, or of the amount of employment
to which it would give rise. His advice was followed in a number of cases,
but it may be suspected that some of the famous warrens of Norfolk and
Suffolk pay better in rabbits for the London market in these days than they
would pay under crops.

Soon we glided "through the well-paved streets of a handsome little town,"
to quote the words of Charles Dickens, who was impressed, as Leland had
been three centuries before him, by the cheerful brightness of Bury St.
Edmunds. Arthur Young's editor of 1772, "the author of the _Farmer's
Letters_"--I see I have done Young himself an injustice--tells us that
"Bury is a tolerably well-built town, in a dry and healthy situation; many
of the streets cut each other at right angles; but a parcel of dirty
thatched houses are found in some of them not far from the centre of the
town, which has a very bad effect." We should probably hold a different
view of the thatched houses now, and the motorist who passes through Bury
will certainly desire to know more of it than the author of the _Farmer's
Letters_ deigned to tell. I had been to Bury before January, 1906, and I
have visited it since, though never in such discomfort as the Confessor,
who made the last mile of his pilgrimage to St. Edmund's shrine unshod.
Yet, interesting as Bury St. Edmunds is, it is not as a pilgrimage to St.
Edmund's shrine that a visit to Bury and a fairly long halt there are
recommended. St. Edmund is really rather a difficult saint concerning whom
to wax rapturous, because our certain knowledge of him amounts to very
little and yet gives him a date sufficiently modern to make the monkish
legends about him even more completely absurd than such legends are wont to
be. There is no doubt that he was a king of East Anglia who was defeated by
the Danes in 870 A.D. Hume, one of the most matter-of-fact of our
historians, and surely the most unimaginative man who ever took it upon
himself to tell an historical tale, says this and no more: "They broke into
East Anglia, defeated and took prisoner Edmund, the king of that country,
whom they afterwards murdered in cool blood." (This is quoted from the
edition of 1823, containing Adam Smith's "appreciation" of his friend,
written in 1776, and the "author's last corrections and improvements.") The
_Student's Hume_ of my youth, mindful perhaps of the wisdom of appealing to
the memory of the young through the imagination, gives the date of Edmund's
defeat as 871, for the sake of variety perhaps, and adds that, Edmund
having rejected with scorn and horror a proposal that he should abjure
Christianity and rule under the Danish supremacy, "the Danes bound him
naked to a tree, scourged and shot at him with arrows, and finally beheaded
him." That is not unlikely. A live target was, as the Scandinavian
mythology shows, quite to the taste of the northern barbarians. King
Edmund's body may very likely have been, as Abbo says, "_velut asper
hericius, aut spinis hirtus carduus, in passione similis Sebastiano egregio
martyri_"; "like a rough hedgehog or a thistle bristling with thorns, etc."
(There need be no apology for giving the translation which caused a
classical schoolmaster some trouble, because _hericius_ is not a word used
in classical Latin.) That was a martyrdom sufficient to justify
canonization, an abbey in honour of the martyred king, and pilgrimages to
his shrine, which were undertaken by quite a number of distinguished
persons to the great profit of the institution preserving of it. But the
monkish chroniclers had an unhappy habit of spoiling their stories by
excessive and impossible embroidery. The romantic inventions that, when
Edmund's followers stole back to the scene of his torture, they heard a
voice crying, "Here, here, here," in a wood, and there found a wolf
guarding the saint's head between its paws, and that the head, being
replaced upon the trunk by human hands, was miraculously reunited to it,
only spoil the story for us of the modern world; for 870 A.D. is fairly
late in the history of England really. They suggest the vision of crafty
ecclesiastics plotting how most effectively to advertise the shrine, for
the glory of God of course, but also for the profit of the abbey; and that,
to our minds, is repellent. That the ecclesiastics knew their public is
clear, however, from the results here, as at Walsingham. The wolf legend,
palpably false as it was, passed into ecclesiastical heraldry throughout
East Anglia as generally as the story, probably true, of the manner of the
martyrdom, and East Anglian churches have many traces of it in stone and in
painted glass. Hence came the illustrious pilgrims and their offerings, and
hence, in some measure at any rate, the fact that this little inland city
of East Anglia played in its time a very important part in the history of
England.

How great that part was it is exceedingly difficult to realize as one
stands in the centre of that essentially peaceful town. Yet it really has a
genuine claim to its motto: _Sacrarium regis, cunabula legis_. Of the two
great meetings of barons and clergy held before King John was forced to
sign Magna Charta, one was held in London, at St. Paul's, the other in the
Abbey Church of Bury St. Edmunds, of all places in England, as we should
be inclined to add now. In truth, nothing could be more natural, for the
venue illustrates not only the paramount influence of ecclesiasticism in
those days, but also the characteristic tendencies of the East Anglian
people. Other ecclesiastical centres, of course, there were equal in
importance and wealth, and other mitred abbeys. Only in London, always
jealous for its liberties, and in East Anglia, could such meetings have
been held with confident assurance of the support of the mass of the
inhabitants. Read the scattered history of Eastern England, reflect upon
the many democratic risings that it witnessed; remember the Eastern
Counties Association and the almost complete unanimity of East Anglia for
the Parliament against Charles--then the selection of Bury St. Edmunds for
this memorable assembly becomes easily intelligible. Parliaments were held
there sometimes; royal visits were frequent. In fact, this quiet country
town was one of the most influential places in the kingdom until the
Dissolution. Then it suffered "a knok of a kynge," to quote Piers
Plow-man's prophecy concerning the abbey of Abingdon, and its glory
departed for evermore. It remains a bright town, possessed of a famous old
inn, "The Angel," and of the ruins of the abbey, still of uncommon
interest, which were laid out as a botanical garden before Thomas Carlyle
wrote _Past and Present_. They are a garden and a playground still.

A good deal of imagination is called for before the architectural glories
of the abbey can be reconstructed in a mental picture, and the best help to
be obtained in such an exercise of the imagination comes from reading once
again words spoken of the abbey, words purporting to have been uttered
within what Carlyle called its "wide internal spaces," words conjuring up
realities none the less for that they are themselves the product of an
inspired imagination. Need it be said that the reference here is to the
second part of Shakespeare's _King Henry VI_? Here Suffolk and the Queen
dropped poison into the King's ears concerning absent Gloucester; here
Gloucester pleaded his cause in vain in imperishable lines of despairing
resignation and passionate patriotism:--

    I know their complot is to have my life;
    And if my death might make this island happy,
    And prove the period of their tyranny,
    I would expend it with all willingness.

Here, in some dark recess of a dungeon, Suffolk's hireling villains
"dispatched the Duke." Here was enacted the grim scene, very short, but
infinitely pathetic, wherein Suffolk goes to summon his victim to trial,
knowing him dead already, and the Queen, the very embodiment of
cold-blooded hypocrisy, cries aloud to the King, the Cardinal, and
Somerset:--

    God forbid any malice should prevail,
    That faultless may condemn a nobleman!
    Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion!

Back came Suffolk, trembling and pale, for fear of consequences, to
announce the news that was known to him, for he had made it all too certain
before he left the "room of state" upon his futile errand. We can almost
hear the dull sound of the swooning King's fall, and his agonized lament:--

    For in the shade of death I shall find joy;
    In life but double death now Gloucester's dead.

And what comes next? Surely it is essentially characteristic of the people
of East Anglia:--

    The Commons, like an angry hive of bees,
    That want their leader, scatter up and down.

Here, again, the substratum of authentic fact is, as in the case of St.
Edmund, made the foundation of an imaginative structure; but see how vast
is the difference between the effects produced by the paltry monkish
embroiderer and the Poet, the maker, the creator. The first tale almost
raises a smile of incredulity; the second, written in characters of blood
and tears, stirs the heart to its depths.

Bury has its lighter memories and associations too. Many good Englishmen
who would not step far out of their way to make a pilgrimage to what was
once St. Edmund's shrine, who might even feel that the second part of _King
Henry VI_ was a little above their heads, may be relied upon to take a
great deal of trouble for the sake of treading in the footsteps of the
immortal Mr. Pickwick. It was at the "Angel" in Bury St. Edmunds, still "a
large inn standing in a wide open street, and nearly facing the Old Abbey,"
that Mr. Pickwick enjoyed "a very satisfactory dinner." This was, as we
shall have occasion to see at Ipswich, high praise indeed when uttered by
the author of Mr. Pickwick's being, who, if displeased by the accommodation
and fare offered to him, did not hesitate to express his opinion with
remarkable force of language. In the tap-room of the said "Angel," Mr.
Weller, having been voted into the chair, cracked such jests and evoked
such uproarious laughter that his master's rest was broken. The pump in the
"Angel" yard cooled Sam's throbbing head next morning so effectually that,
shortly afterwards, he was able to describe the stranger in the mulberry
suit, stranger as he deemed him, as looking "as conwivial as a live trout
in a lime basket." In the adjoining tap, again, Sam, "the names of Veller
and gammon" having "come into contract" for the one and only time in that
veracious history, cemented his alliance with the deceitful Job Trotter
over gin and cloves. He took the doubtless fragrant and pungent beverage as
a pick-me-up in the morning; it might have served us, perhaps well, as a
warmth-restorer in the afternoon; but candour compels the confession that,
for the moment, we forgot the _Pickwick Papers_, drew up in front of the
"Suffolk," not the "Angel," and did our best to restore heat to our chilled
bodies by gargantuan consumption of crumpets, tea, and jam. Even this was
mildly Pickwickian (who can forget the story of the gentleman who
demonstrated by devoted self-slaughter the proposition that crumpets _is_
wholesome?). But as we did not drink gin and cloves in honour of Sam
Weller, so we did not blow out our brains to prove the wholesome character
of crumpets.

Yet one more Pickwickian association of Bury St. Edmunds must be set down.
In a private room of the "Angel" the artful Mr. Trotter, having "gammoned"
Sam, proceeded to "gammon" his innocent master also with the story of "the
large, old, red-brick house just outside the town, sir," and the pretended
revelation of his own master's nefarious intentions. Hence came kindly Mr.
Pickwick's ludicrously pathetic vigil in the garden, alarm of maids,
hysterics of Miss Smithers, drenching of Mr. Pickwick, doubts whether he
was burglar or lunatic, imprisonment in the Clothes Closet, rescue and
explanation by Mr. Wardle, rheumatics of Mr. Pickwick, and, last of all,
the Parish Clerk's tale. These things are not history of course, "which
there never war no sich a person" as Mr. Pickwick, but they are
imperishable and essential truths none the less, and the _Pickwick Papers_
are a possession of Bury St. Edmunds at least equal in commercial value to
all the legends of St. Edmund, King and Martyr. So much for Bury on this
occasion. We shall see it again, and foregather this time at the "Angel."

We left the hotel, to find cold and windless darkness in full possession.
It was my first experience of driving in a motor-car on a dark night for
any considerable distance through an unknown country. The first few miles,
through Bayton and Woolpit, were very difficult, the road sinuous as a
corkscrew, the necessity for dismounting to study the sign-posts constantly
occurring. In marked contrast, however, to experience in some of our
southern counties, was the alert intelligence of the country-folk. From
Stowmarket the road to Ipswich, our destination, was straight, but seemed
endless. At first we tried to proceed with oil lamps only; then we were
driven to acetylene; but, with air none too clear at any time and wreaths
of denser mist now and again, even the acetylene rays did not penetrate
very far. On the whole, cold apart, this kind of driving at night is not to
be recommended. I remember nothing of that journey to Ipswich, except the
cold and the mild excitement of trying to guess the species of the splendid
trees passed by their shadowy forms and general character. Oaks I saw, and
elms and beeches for certain--for the form of these may not easily be
mistaken. In the matter of ashes I would not like to pledge my faith, for
one might easily mix up an ash tree in winter, half seen by a light not
thrown distinctly upon it, with some other tree. But the best thing I
remember of that night, out of doors, was the sight of the lights of
Ipswich and of the tall tramcars, which told us that we were there at last.

Neither fate nor inclination has taken me down this same road by daylight
since then, but something may be said of the places passed in the darkness,
with due acknowledgment of the aid afforded by Mr. W. A. Butt's _Suffolk_,
in the "Little Guides Series" (Methuen). The acknowledgment is made the
more gladly, and the aid is borrowed with the more confidence that it will
not prove a broken reed, because "in another place" and at another time I
have had the privilege of knowing Mr. Dutt in MS. as a careful and
fascinating writer, equally learned in antiquities and in ornithology, and
very much at home in East Anglia. Had it been light we might have seen at
Tostock a fine church, Perpendicular in the main, but with an early
Decorated chancel. As motorists, however, we should hardly have been
induced to descend and explore the interior even by the hope of seeing
carved oak benches, one of them showing "the fabulous cockatrice" and
another the unicorn scratching himself with his horn. At Woolpit we might
have seen a new tower to an old church, the tower built no later than 1854.
But the tower is no outrage, for it had to be built to replace an older one
destroyed by lightning. To Woolpit, too, belongs one of William of
Newburgh's strange legends, thus summarized by Mr. Dutt: "One day, while
some men were at work in a harvest field here, they saw a boy and a girl,
whose bodies were green and their dresses of a strange material, appear out
of the pits known as the 'Wolfpittes.' They said they had come from a
Christian land, which had churches, but where there was no sun, 'only a
faint twilight, but beyond a broad river there lay a land of light.' Their
country was called the land of St. Martin; and, one day, while they were
tending their father's sheep, they heard a noise like the ringing of the
bells of Bury Abbey, 'and all at once they found themselves among the
reapers in the harvest field at Woolpit.' The boy, we are told, soon died,
but the girl lived to marry a man of Lynn." The name of the place in
_Domesday_ is "Wlfpeta," which is simply "Wolf-pit," but why this
particular wolf-pit, out of the hundreds that there must have been,
retained the name, there is nothing to show. At Haughley, moved to alight
by some of the guide-books in the hope of finding ruins, we should have
discovered a mound only, its origin quite uncertain; and at Stowmarket
there would have been no temptation to halt. Chemicals and cordite combine
to give the ancient market town some prosperity, some calamities, and no
beauty. Here we began to follow the course of the railway and the River
Gipping, the eponymous river of Ipswich until it is named anew. At Great
Blakenham we passed a manor given by Henry VI to Eton College, and at
Claydon an Elizabethan hall.

But, sad truth to tell, we were in the mood of Gallio that evening, so far
as these things were concerned, and the vision of the lights of Ipswich was
unmixed pleasure. It was generally admitted that the last eight miles into
the ancient city, from the point at which a native stated that they begun,
must have been measured with a very elastic chain. Nor was entry into
Ipswich easy. He who held the steering wheel was one who, for combined
nicety, courage, and consideration in slipping through traffic, has few
equals in this country; but his task was of more than common difficulty.
The streets of Ipswich, or most of them, are of an exceeding narrowness;
the electric tramcars glide through them, swift, monumental, irresistible,
in their usual Juggernaut mood. Hardly anywhere is there room for a vehicle
to be drawn up to the kerb on the inside of the tramway lines. We, indeed,
were not suffered by the police to draw up in front of the "Great White
Horse" at all, even for the purpose of dismounting, but were motioned to a
side street. Moreover, although the immediately local election was over,
the streets were grievously crowded for some reason or other--and surely
there was never seen a population more serenely indifferent to the blast of
a motor-horn! They were, perhaps, inured to peril by the tramcars, swifter
in towns than any motor-car would dare to be, heavier by a long way, and
exceptionally dangerous by reason of the length and height of the moving
veil they draw across the view. At any rate they would not move out of the
way.

Arriving, we were in a far more appreciative mood than that of Mr. Charles
Dickens when he became a guest at the "Great White Horse," and wrote the
account of Mr. Pickwick's arrival on the coach of the elder Weller. We
found no labyrinths of uncarpeted passages, no mouldy ill-lighted rooms, no
small dens for sleeping in, but rather a kindly welcome and attention,
distinctly good rooms, a dining-room having plenty of space, fire and
abundant cheer, and a reasonably moderate bill to discharge at the end of
our stay. Yet I doubt not that the edifice, built round a cobbled courtyard
that is roofed over, the bar parlour on the far side of the yard from the
door, where a good many of the citizens congregate of an evening, the
office window at which mine hostess receives her guests, are precisely the
same as when Boz visited Ipswich. In this view I differ from Mr. Dutt; but
the probability is that the alterations to which he refers were made
before, not after, Dickens saw the house. Dickens did not like the place at
all, that is clear. If there be doubts whether Ipswich was the original of
Eatanswill, as Mr. Percy Fitzgerald suggests, there are none about the
"Great White Horse," which is, of course, mentioned, and abused from floor
to garret, nay, from cellar to garret: for is not "the worst possible port"
mentioned--by name? We found things otherwise, but then it was not the
misfortune of any of us to look out of bed and see "a middle-aged lady, in
yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their
back-hair." It would be easy enough to miss the way in the recesses of the
"Great White Horse"; in fact, to be frank, I did so myself, although I
neither entered the wrong room nor got into the wrong bed. But the censure
of Dickens generally has no reference to the present state of affairs at
this classic hostelry; nay, more, such is the irony of fate, the bad name
given by Dickens to this house is now its chiefest recommendation: prints
of Leech's pictures adorn every wall, and the telegraphic address of the
hotel is "Pickwick," Ipswich. Thus has railing been converted into
blessing; thus is it proved more profitable to be abused by a great writer
than to remain uncensured and ignored. Perhaps Mr. Percy Fitzgerald could
oblige, as the saying goes, by explaining what the real meaning of his
hero's attitude was. It must have had some deeper source than a stuffy
bedroom and a bad dinner, or else the essential kindliness of the
Dickensian attitude towards everything except cruelty and injustice must be
cast aside as an exploded belief. Certainly no public writer would dare to
write in 1906 of any hotel as Dickens wrote of the "Great White Horse" in
the thirties of the last century; and perhaps that is not entirely to be
regretted, for hotel-keepers really are our fellow-creatures, unwilling as
some advocates of the Temperance Cause may be to admit the truth.

By the way, why is the "Great White Horse" an hotel sign in East
Anglia?--not that I can endorse the description of it as "a stone statue of
some rampacious animal, with flowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an
insane cart-horse." It seems to me quite reasonably like to a Suffolk
Punch, except in colour, and one finds Phidias never, although Apelles
sometimes, over inn doors. But why a white horse? One expects such signs in
the parts about Berks, where the classic Vale is named after the gigantic
symbol on the northward side of the Downs, of which a simple explanation
has become impossible, owing to the tiresome growth of knowledge. But why,
despising all commonplace explanations, have we encountered a "White Horse"
in Suffolk? Well, one of the many explanations of the White Horse _par
excellence_ is that it was taken from the horse delineated on Philip's
stater, which was copied a good deal in Britain, and an explanation of the
"White Horse"--I beg its pardon, the "Great White Horse"--of Ipswich may be
that it had its origin in the horse figured on some of the Icenian coins
that have been discovered in East Anglia. Or, again, it may be simply a
survival of the ancient Saxon totem. Some such desultory speculation as
this may serve to soothe the mind of an evening at Ipswich--not that after
motoring all day the mind needs much soothing. But I would counsel all male
motorists to burn their last incense of tobacco, as my friend and I did, in
the warm bar-parlour on the side of the courtyard over against the main
door, for thus shall they see the native of Ipswich in his natural state.
The discovery of "this amazing England," as Mr. Kipling has said well, is
the main joy of motoring; still in the evening one may do much worse things
than pursue the proper study of mankind in easy-going mood, and a
provincial bar-parlour is not a bad place in which to do it.

To Ipswich I have been more than once since that night of freezing cold in
January, and to Bury St. Edmunds also, and more features of both will find
a place in later narratives; but of each there are a few practical things
to be said which must not be delayed. On a second visit to Bury, made in
the course of the most troubled and delightful tour of my existence so far,
I lay at the ancient "Angel" with mighty satisfaction and to the remarkably
small minishing of my store of sovereigns. On a second visit to Ipswich I
was hospitably entertained by a local gentleman at the "Crown and Anchor,"
because he thought it was the best hotel in Ipswich, and behold the fare
was very good! By the same gentleman I was introduced to oysters, in a
little shop near the Butter Market, the best I ever ate, and to hand-made
gloves in a little shop hard by which have motored many a merry mile since
then. There need be no hesitation in advertising them. They are made by a
widow and her daughter out of soft and strong Cape leather, and with them,
it is to be feared, the industry will die, since apprentices will not come
to them in these degenerate days. Since then I have exhibited these gloves,
during the Scottish "Reliability" trials, to a casual acquaintance, and her
criticism, although strictly irrelevant, was too witty to be omitted.
"Mphm! they look as if you had made them yourself." Ipswich gloves, then,
are not for the dandy, but for the motorist they are hard to beat.




CHAPTER II

WINTER. IPSWICH TO NORWICH VIÂ WOODBRIDGE, BECCLES, LOWESTOFT, AND YARMOUTH

     A walk in Ipswich--Sparrowe's House--With Pickwick and
     the Wellers--Start at noon--The glittering car--Another
     passenger--Infantine pilotage--A loose
     clutch--Mechanic's chagrin--A stitch in time--Nuts
     screwed home--Need to watch
     mechanics--Woodbridge--Edward Fitzgerald--Wickham
     Market and Saxmundham--Abyssinian luncheon--Détour to
     Aldeburgh--Aldeburgh described--The dilatory
     Alde--Birthplace of George Crabbe--His views of
     Aldeburgh--Saxmundham to Yoxford--Peasenhall
     adjacent--Yoxford to Blythburgh--A motorist's
     church--Détour to Southwold--Southwold
     described--Battle of Sole Bay--Did Isaac Newton hear
     guns at Cambridge?--Lord Ossory's ride from
     Euston--Blythburgh to Beccles--First view
     disappointing--Better next time--Unforeseen value of
     Connemara cloak--Beccles to Lowestoft--_Norfolk and
     Norwich Notes and Queries_--Their value--Origin of
     Lowestoft harbour--"Norwich a port"--Cubitt and
     Telford--Sir Samuel Peto--Meaning of
     "Lowestoft"--Lowestoft to Yarmouth--Direct route to
     Norwich--Darkness and frozen haze--Straining
     eyes--Norwich at last--The "Royal" formerly "Angel"--An
     ancient hostelry--Colossal window tax--Norfolk election
     memories--Corn Law riot--"Coke of Norfolk"
     sheltered--Always a Whig house--Stroll in
     Norwich--Multitude of churches--The walls and "murage"
     tax--A learned society's day--Fraction of Norwich only
     seen--Wat Tyler's Rebellion--Geoffrey Lister and Sir
     Robert Salle--St. Peter's Permountergate--Memories of
     Nelson--Fascination of Norwich--Its great men and
     women--George Borrow--"Old Crome"--The Norwich school.


Truth to tell, Ipswich on the Gipping, which becomes the Orwell and an
estuary lower down, seemed to me then an ancient city showing, except in a
few picturesque houses and the gateway of Wolsey's College, few signs of
antiquity. If it cannot be called happy in having had no history, for it
was plundered by the Danes in 991, it has had little cause for unhappiness
of that kind since the Conquest; it has produced no really famous man
except Wolsey, though Gainsborough lived in it for some years; and its
churches, although not quite devoid of interest, are not striking enough
to delay a motorist. Note, in passing, not the least advantage of an
exploring tour by motor. You need neither spend time in examining that
which is barely worth the process on the ground that there is nothing else
to be done, nor hurry away from that which is interesting, in order to
catch a train; but, staying so long as seems pleasant and no longer, you
may be transported when you please, rapidly and pleasantly, to scenes you
have reason to believe to be worthy of your regard.

In these circumstances, after an admiring glance at the famous Sparrowe's
House in the Butter Market, close to the hotel, I frankly betook myself to
an effort to follow the Wellers, father and son, Mr. Pickwick and his
followers, through an eventful day. This stable-yard round the corner to
the left, where the Panhard was now being furbished up, was the same on
which Mr. Weller, senior, looked when, "in a small room in the vicinity,"
he discussed a pot of ale and the "gammoning" of Sam, and drank to the
toast, "May you soon vipe off the disgrace as you've inflicted on the
family name." The office in the courtyard was doubtless that at which he
got his "vaybill." Walking about these very streets Sam wormed himself into
the confidence of the lachrymose Job Trotter. In this inn parlour Mr. Peter
Magnus, _alias_ Jingle, splendidly attired, made a hollow pretence of
breakfasting with Mr. Pickwick; here the latter gave his simple hints on
courtship and proposal, and here were seen "the joyous face of Mr. Tupman,
the serene countenance of Mr. Winkle, and the intellectual lineaments of
Mr. Snodgrass." In this room was enacted that memorable scene when Mr.
Magnus presented Miss Witherfield to Mr. Pickwick and Miss Witherfield
screamed, but neither she nor Mr. Pickwick was indelicate enough to mention
the cause--his unwitting invasion of her chamber overnight. Rushing out of
this room the lady, after bolting herself into her bedroom, went forth in
search of Mr. Nupkins and apprised him of the forthcoming duel, which there
was not really much reason to anticipate. Where exactly Miss Witherfield
saw Mr. Nupkins I am unhappily not able to say, nor yet, and for the same
reason, whither Grummer, with his myrmidon Dubbley and his "division," each
with a short truncheon and a brass crown, conducted Mr. Pickwick and Mr.
Tupman in the old sedan-chair; but for all that it is easy to picture the
whole of the never-to-be-forgotten scene, all the more memorable in that it
never was enacted. In fact, it is no mean regret to me that, on that cold
January morning, I was not able to find "the house with the green gate,"
with the "house-door guarded on either side by an American aloe in a tub."
It has eluded me since also. Perhaps it is gone, like a good deal of old
Ipswich; possibly some miscreant has had his gate painted white instead of
green; perhaps I looked in the wrong place, in the vicinity of St.
Clement's Church. It is even within the bounds of possibility that the
house with the green gate never had any more real and substantial existence
than Mr. Pickwick himself. All I know is that I could not find it.

At noon or thereabouts--time does not worry one in a motor-car, unless one
is seeking records--we boarded the Panhard, now "bright as a Birmingham
button," and started off up a long and trying hill, in cold, dry, and
windless weather, for a circuitous drive, its sinuosities determined by the
desires of my friend. A new member was added to the party in the person of
a resident at Norwich, desirous of reaching that ancient city in due
course, who was supposed to know, and probably did know, every considerable
turning of every high road in the two counties of Norfolk and Suffolk. He
had not, however, enjoyed much experience as the pilot of an automobile,
and he found, as I had in years gone by when I was new to the pastime, that
eye and memory were not equal to moving together at a speed proportioned to
that of the car. "Which road?" the charioteer would cry--the new passenger
was riding astern--when we were from fifty to seventy yards from a fork or
a turn, and hesitation would often be visible in the reply, so that it was
necessary to slow down and sometimes, having invaded the wrong road, to
back out again. This is not criticism, it is rather matter of observation
and experience. Only recently have the minds of driving and driven men been
called upon to exercise their judgment, to choose a line, as a fox-hunter
might say, while they are being carried through space much more rapidly
than of yore, and the pace puzzles them at first. You are past a familiar
turning in a car in less time than is consumed over approaching it in a
dog-cart or on horseback, and the aspect of the turning itself has
something strange about it; but you grow accustomed to the new conditions
with experience. In fact, motor-cars sharpen the perceptions and spur the
intelligence. To venture an audacious travesty, and some even more hardy
doggerel:--

    _... Urgendi didicisse fideliter artem
    Exacuit mentem, nee sinit esse pigram._

    He who has learned a car to drive
    Sharpens his wits and looks alive.

Personally, I sat alongside the driver, a place of honour, if cold, and the
mechanic sat at my feet. Pity is wasted on a mechanic so placed at any
time, for he likes the position, and it is not so comfortless as it looks
by a long way, _experto crede_. In any case our ex-soldier was a proud man
that morning, for his car was a joy to the eye. The day before owner and
mechanic were hustings-worn, the car looked battered and dissipated as well
as fog-dimmed. Now the brass shone with a glow that would have satisfied
the proud commander of a man-of-war, who is the most exacting person
living. If that mechanic had read the Greek tragedians he would have known
that Nemesis must needs come soon. Brass glittered, varnish shone, all four
cylinders worked nobly, but the engine would race from time to time. It
became all too clear to him who had the control of the machine, or desired
to have it, that he had it not in entirety, since the clutch kept slipping.
Hence came power wasted, miles per hour lost, and a definite feeling of
discontent in the owner. So, after a hill or two had been climbed without
satisfaction, a halt was called on the level. The mechanic did not like it
a bit, and he had our sympathy. He had worked hard; he had turned out the
car with a creditable appearance; it was crushing to be found out in a
single fault. I knew his feelings from experience. To be blamed when you
thoroughly deserve it is tolerable; to be blamed for no fault at all is to
find consolation in private reflection upon the folly of him, or her, who
administers reproof; to discover that one essential point has been
forgotten when you have tried hard to remember everything is to be
compelled to recognize that, after every willing effort, you only look a
fool after all. The mechanic had our sympathy on another ground too. He
vowed, of course, that the clutch could not be made tighter; he declared
that, if it were, the consequences would be disastrous; for you shall note
that your mechanic dearly loves "a bit o' play" in fittings, and abhors a
nut screwed quite home. All these things were clear to us, but we were none
the less inexorable. As, in starting on a heavy job in carpenter's work,
minutes spent in putting a keen edge on to plane and chisel are hours saved
in the end, so it is sheer idiocy to muddle on with a motor-car if, at the
beginning of the journey, you are aware of something wrong that is capable
of being set right on the road. It is, indeed, in detecting the first
premonitory evidence of trouble, and in meeting difficulties more than
half-way, that the genius of an inspired driver is shown. This little
weakness of mechanics for a "bit o' play" is also worth remembering.

So we were sorry for the mechanic, but the thing had got to be done whether
he liked or no, and for half an hour he lay on his back under the car,
straining, grunting, otherwise eloquently silent, while black and viscous
oil made a little pool on the road alongside of his honest head, and while
we, pacing up and down the frozen road, forbore even to remind him that, if
the road had been muddy, his fate would have been worse. In cases where an
angel would lose his temper under the gentlest persiflage it is only decent
to leave a willing but disappointed man to himself. The half-hour ended;
the job was done; overdone a little, as the mechanic well knew, yet not so
much overdone but that a driver of rare skill could disappoint him by
ignoring the inconvenience; and we took our seats again. The car sprang
forward like a living creature, moving fast and smoothly. There was all the
difference in the world between the motion as it was and the motion as it
had been, and the chagrin of the mechanic yielded to time and to the proud
feeling that all was right with "his car" through his handiwork.

Sooth to say, the scenery was not interesting on a frosty and somewhat
misty day. The route was, to start with, viâ Woodbridge, Wickham Market,
and Stratford St. Andrew to Saxmundham; that is to say, the road runs
along the brow, the very much wrinkled brow, of the upland, which is high
by comparison with the lowland, extending a long way in from the coast,
running from Felixstowe to Aldeburgh and beyond. Of that lowland we could
see nothing. Woodbridge, appearing to consist of one street, long,
straggling, and narrow, was the first village of any consideration through
which we passed. Its chief claim to fame is that Edward Fitzgerald wrote
letters at it, remarking in one, dated 1855, that Woodbridge had not
reached 1842 yet. But we shall see Woodbridge again. Next came Wickham
Market, narrow, straggling, and long. It is quite commonplace. From Wickham
Market we went on to Saxmundham, and there committed a grave error. "Hot
dinner," it was stated, was due in three-quarters of an hour, but it could
be hurried forward if we wished. We wished accordingly, and wished
afterwards that we had not, for the meat, some forgotten joint half-boiled,
was in a state in which, according to the traveller Bruce, the Abyssinians
eat their meat from choice; and the accompanying parsnips, quite hard, may
have been fit to place before sheep. As we were neither Abyssinians nor
sheep, but English travellers, the error was felt the more acutely because
we had ourselves only to blame. Given the same conditions another time, I
should urge a detour to Aldeburgh, a detour of some six miles to be begun
about two miles short of Saxmundham, for Aldeburgh is worth seeing and man
can feed there.

[Illustration: WOODBRIDGE-STREET]

Of Aldeburgh an observation or two may be made on the basis of a sojourn a
few years since. It is certainly one of the most bracing places in this
world. It has a tolerable hotel, good golf-links, and a fine view of the
sea; and the ancient moot-house is picturesque. The abiding impression left
by Aldeburgh is simply that it is the oddest place ever seen. The little
River Alde, starting somewhere near Saxmundham, follows a more or less
southerly course for a couple of miles; then an even smaller river joins
it, and, flowing eastward for a mile or so, the combined streams seem to be
heading for the sea, distant about six miles; but it takes them fifteen
miles, even with the help of another so-called river, purposeless as
themselves, to reach the sea; for first they are lost in a mecranking mere
of sluggish water, which actually approaches within a hundred yards of the
sea at Aldeburgh, where it is stopped by a stony bank. The mere continues,
and the rivers are merged in it, parallel to high-water mark, divided from
it sometimes by a hundred yards or so, sometimes by half a mile, for nine
miles from the point of turning, and soon the water is dubbed River Ore in
the map. By this time it is meandering, mainly under the influence of the
tide most likely, behind and to the west of Orford Ness, and it is not
until somewhere about the middle of Hollesley Bay that this utter absurdity
of a river, this monstrous estuary for three trifling streams, finds its
way into the sea.

A year or two ago the good folks of Aldeburgh celebrated their native poet,
George Crabbe, though why they chose the date, seeing that Crabbe was born
in 1754 and died in 1832, it is not quite easy to see. The celebration,
indeed, was, like the use made of Pickwick by the hotel at Ipswich, an
example of the truth that a community or an individual having a mind for
advertisement will not be stopped by petty considerations of pride. George
Crabbe was born at Aldeburgh, through no fault of his own. He left it in
1768, to be apprenticed to a surgeon at Bury St. Edmunds. He came back to
it to practise as a surgeon, and failed miserably as a medical man,
because his mind was on the making of verses all the time. Then he tried
his fortune in London and beat despairingly on the doors of fame until
Burke introduced him to Dodsley, who brought out _The Library_ with some
success in 1781. At about the same time Dr. Johnson expressed a high
opinion of his verse. Next he was ordained and took up his residence as
curate at Aldeburgh, but he left it soon to become domestic chaplain to the
Duke of Rutland; and he does not seem to have had much, if anything, to do
with his native place during his subsequent career as prosperous poet and
comfortable clergyman. He was a distinctly sound poet, with a queer vein of
humour, although his admirer, Edward Fitzgerald, whom we meet to-day,
valued him perhaps too highly, and Byron, probably for his own purposes,
overpraised him in the words:--

    Nature's sternest painter, but her best.

Crabbe hated Aldeburgh, or Aldeburgh scenery at any rate; or, if he did not
hate them, he took the stern view of them.

    Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er,
    Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor;
    From thence a length of burning sand appears,
    Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears;
    Rank weeds, that every art and care defy,
    Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye.

Thus does he describe the vicinity and thus the so-called river and its
marge:--

    Here samphire banks and saltworth bind the flood,
    And stakes and seaweed withering in the mud;
    And higher up a ridge of all things base,
    Which some strong tide has rolled upon the place.

No, assuredly Crabbe had no liking for Aldeburgh, and to be perfectly
candid, I agree with him that, save for golfers, it is a dreary and
eye-afflicting place. In this view I confess to have believed myself to be
singular and, for expressing it, have incurred scorn more than once. So
Crabbe is quoted in confirmation, yet with the hope that those who visit
Aldeburgh may agree with the general view and not with that of a minority
of two, one of them something better than a minor poet. Be it added, in
justice to Aldeburgh, that you can look for amber among the pebbles on the
beach. So you can anywhere and find as much as I did.

From Saxmundham we laid a course due north for Yoxford--Peasenhall of
murderous fame lies some three miles to the west--and passed by way of
Darsham to Blythburgh. Here, in a village named in _Domesday_, is a really
striking fifteenth-century church, in good Perpendicular and with splendid
clerestory, plainly visible from the road; and we are not far from
Southwold, now known of many as a summer resort, whereas in days not long
past it was visited by few persons save those who knew of the existence of
St. Edmund's Church with its really majestic tower and rare rood-loft.
Here, by the way, is buried Agnes Strickland, the historian. The very
slight inward curve of the coastline here is dignified with the name of a
bay, and as Sole Bay, which is simply Southwold Bay spoken short, it has a
considerable place in history. On 28 May, 1672, "the combined fleets lay at
Sole Bay in a very negligent posture." They were the fleets of England,
under the command of the Duke of York, with Lord Sandwich under him, and of
France; and here De Ruyter, the greatest sea-captain of his age, took his
royal adversary quite by surprise. This was due not so much to the dashing
merit of De Ruyter as to the crass carelessness of the Duke, for "Sandwich,
being an experienced officer, had given the Duke warning of the danger; but
received, they said, such an answer as intimated that there was more of
caution than of courage in his apprehensions." What hasty words, I wonder,
of the rude and haughty admiral were represented by this sonorous
periphrasis? De Ruyter came, with ninety-one ships of war and forty-four
fireships, sailing "in quest of the English," and Sandwich, after giving
the warning in vain, saved the day by a display of gallantry to be ranked
as extraordinary even in the annals of the English navy. Sailing out to
meet the Dutchman, he engaged him at once and gave time to the Duke and the
French admiral. "He killed Van Ghent, a Dutch admiral, and beat off his
ship; he sunk another ship, which ventured to lay him aboard; he sunk three
fireships, which endeavoured to grapple with him; and, though his vessel
was torn to pieces with shot, and of a thousand men she contained near six
hundred were laid dead upon the deck, he continued still to thunder with
all his artillery in the midst of the enemy. But another fireship, more
fortunate than the preceding, having laid hold of his vessel, her
destruction was now inevitable. Warned by Sir Edward Haddock, his captain,
he refused to make his escape, and bravely embraced death as a shelter from
that ignominy which a rash expression of the Duke's, he thought, had thrown
upon him." Admiral and flag-captain, in fact, perished when the fire
reached the magazine, and this time at any rate the "price of Admiralty"
was paid in full.

[Illustration: SOUTHWOLD HARBOUR]

The English claimed a victory and embalmed it in a ballad, although the
truth was that the Duke's fleet was too much shattered for pursuit and the
French fleet, under secret orders, perhaps, from Louis XIV, did next to
nothing; the Dutch, probably, claimed one also, although the battle ended
the hopes with which De Ruyter's expedition started. All that matters
nothing now. The moment that heartens a man is that at which he stands on
this low-lying shore, as spectators stood all the long day in May, 1672,
and remembers the gallant fight and the glorious death of Sandwich. "Sir
Isaac Newton is also said to have heard it [the firing] at Cambridge." So
writes the accomplished author of Murray's Guide in 1875, and there is
nothing incredible in the suggestion. The distance is but seventy miles,
roughly; the cannon of old time with their black powder made a terrible
sound; acoustics are full of mystery, and the noise of the big guns at
Portsmouth is often heard in the heart of the Berkshire Downs. From Euston
to the centre of Sole Bay is about half the distance over which sound is
said to have reached Newton, and it is on record that Lord Ossory, then a
guest of the Duke of Grafton, heard the guns and rode half-way across East
Anglia to witness the battle. Surely it was a majestic and awe-inspiring
spectacle for those on the shore, and surely it is worth while to
reconstruct it now in imagination.

From Blythburgh we went along a road of poor surface, and of no scenic
attraction in winter save that the trees were fine, to Beccles, one of the
three principal towns of Suffolk, possessed, I was content to believe, of a
grand church, and boasting a view over the marshes of the Waveney, once
navigable. But we saw little of Beccles, the name of which reminded Edward
Fitzgerald of "hooks and eyes"; we were indeed quite glad to leave it after
penetrating a quarter suggestive of a new and prosperous Midland town, for
election fever was running high, and car and its occupants were cheered or
hooted by eager crowds; cheered most, perhaps, for the crowds were mostly
"Red," and the Connemara cloak seemed to express a sympathy which, in
truth, was not felt. We had all had enough electioneering and to spare and
were glad to turn our faces for Lowestoft. As will be seen later, Beccles
made a far more pleasant impression on a subsequent visit. At Lowestoft
too--it is a short and easy run--election fever was running high, and the
political excitement of a seething mob does not make for an individual
appreciation of the picturesque. But old Lowestoft is picturesque, hanging,
as it were, over the sea, and South Lowestoft has a peculiar origin worth
knowing.

Among the pleasant enterprises incident to the writing of this book has
been the making of notes from _Norfolk and Norwich Notes and Queries_,
reprinted from the _Norfolk Chronicle_, to which I have added in my
note-book _O si sic omnes!_ Would indeed that all county papers laid
themselves out, as this one does, to collect notes from those interested in
the antiquities of their county. Here as to Lowestoft are found two notes,
one entertaining and suggestive, the other distinctly taking. It appears
that in 1558 one Thomas North published a fantastic explanation of the
origin of herring curing, in which Lowestoft has always rivalled Yarmouth.
Without giving it in detail, it may be stated that in essential spirit, if
on a different topic, it exactly anticipates Charles Lamb's divine theory
of roast pig; but Thomas North has none of that grace of expression which
compels quotation when one encounters Lamb, and one only regrets that Lamb
did not think of describing the origin of herring curing as well as of
roast pork.

The second Lowestoft note deserves a paragraph to itself, for it is full of
moral lessons, and a curious illustration of the way in which the
overweening ambition of one community and the churlishness of a second has
ended in loss to the first and in the profit of a third community to the
prejudice of the second. In the records of St. Peter's Church, at Norwich
(St. Peter's, Permountergate, if memory serves accurately, which is St.
Peter's, Parmentersgate, or Tailors' Street), is an entry of 27 March,
1814: "Ringing the Bells for Norwich a Port. 10/6." Early in the last
century, it appears, Norwich was a very important centre of the wool trade.
Now Norwich thrives on mustard and boots, but let that pass; at the time in
question wool was the staple trade, and it was exported by way of Yarmouth.
In 1812 or thereabouts, like Manchester later, Norwich determined, if
possible, to have direct communication with the sea. Enterprising men
consulted William Cubitt, afterwards Sir William Cubitt, and a very
distinguished engineer in matters relating to canals and docks. They
probably consulted him mainly because he was a Norfolk man, for he was not
yet thirty years old, and his fame, which was to be considerable, was yet
to come. They sought the advice also of that consummate Scottish engineer,
Thomas Telford, then well advanced in middle age and almost at the pinnacle
of his fame. Alternative routes for the proposed canal were suggested, one
by way of Yarmouth, the other by way of Lowestoft. Yarmouth, its safe trade
threatened, opposed from the beginning, and eventually the Lowestoft route
was adopted; the mouth of Lowestoft Harbour was cleared from the sands that
blocked it, a cut was made connecting it with the Waveney through Oulton
Broad, another cut from Haddiscoe to Reedham, and in 1814 the bells rang
gaily to celebrate "Norwich a port." For Norwich it was a short-lived
triumph, since the scheme did not pay its way, and in 1844 it was
practically, possibly indeed formally, bankrupt. At any rate, the Lowestoft
part of the works was bought outright by Sir Samuel Peto, who in that
year--but whether before he acquired the harbour or not I cannot
say--bought Somerleyton hard by, some time the seat of the Fitz-Osberts and
the Jernigans, from Lord Sidney Godolphin Osborne. _Sic vos, non vobis._
The Norwich folk lost their money, or some of it; Sir Samuel Peto took
Lowestoft in hand, "developed" it, as the saying goes, so that South
Lowestoft became a flourishing seaside place; and finally Lowestoft as a
port became a serious rival to Yarmouth. As a seaside place Lowestoft is
pleasing to some tastes now, even as it was in the days when Edward
Fitzgerald would betake himself thither from Woodbridge to spend his days
in sailing and in writing letters which are a treasure to posterity; and
his evenings in reading Shakespeare or _Don Quixote_ with his close
friends, Cowell and Aldis Wright, who often lodged at Lowestoft for a short
time in summer. It would have been good to have their opinion upon the
derivation of Lowestoft, appearing in _Domesday_ as Lothu-wis-toft, which
is said to be "the enclosure by the water of Loth," who in his turn is said
to have been a Norse invader; but nothing is to be discovered of Loth, or
Loo, save that Lake Lothing, now the inner harbour, is named after him, as
was the hundred of Lothingland or Ludingaland; and Edward Fitzgerald is
really much more interesting than a nebulous Norse pirate.

[Illustration: FISHING BOATS AT LOWESTOFT]

Election fever and its ravings, a short glance at picturesque features, and
the inestimable blessings of tea and warmth are the principal memories left
by this particular visit to Lowestoft. Thence we ran along the easy coast
road in the darkness to Great Yarmouth, which, on this occasion, left no
vivid impression on the memory. No such language, however, can be employed
with regard to the remainder of that evening's drive. Doubts had arisen
whether it would be wiser to make for Norwich by the more circuitous route
which fetches a compass round Caister Castle, or by the "new road" running
in a direct line for Acle first, across a salt marsh, and from Acle fairly
straight for Norwich. The new road was much the shorter and, being across a
salt marsh, a dead-level, but our local pilot was doubtful as to the state
of its surface. However, it was decided to make inquiry at the toll-gate, a
mile or so out of Yarmouth, and to abide by the answer, which was
satisfactory. So was the road, so far as its surface went. It ran first for
five miles straight as an arrow; the straightness was apparent at the time,
but the five miles seemed like twenty. A fine mist was frozen over the
watery land, nothing was visible on one side except, at stated intervals, a
towering telegraph pole, and on both sides, at shorter intervals, were puny
and poor trees which may have been poplars or willows. It became my duty,
seated beside the man at the wheel, to peer into the darkness, trying to
distinguish any possible obstacle or turn, to make out the character of any
light that might be seen, and to watch for the bend, which, after another
straight run of some three miles, would take us to Acle. As a rule I could
just see the outline of one telegraph post as we passed its predecessor;
there was, in all probability, a deep dyke on either side, and it was an
ideal night for running into a country vehicle travelling without a tail
light; but happily we encountered none. Indeed, although motorists complain
much, late years have seen a great improvement in this respect. Of lights
on approaching vehicles we saw one or two, appearing at first to be distant
and stationary as a planet on a clear night, and then to be close to us in
an instant. It was, in short, a trying experience to the nerves and to the
eyes, and we resolved to avoid night journeys as much as might be in the
future. The resolution was renewed when we looked at our strained and
bloodshot eyes the next morning, and broken perforce the next evening; but
night travelling by motor-car in winter is not to be recommended unless the
moon is strong. It is a process to be resolved upon when circumstances
suit, not to be planned in advance.

From Acle to Norwich was ten miles more or less of up-and-down travelling,
the hills not serious enough to try a good motor high, and it was an
unfeigned relief to reach the shelter and food of the Royal Hotel. Here,
practically, ends the account of the second day of this excursion, for the
Royal Hotel is comfortable, not expensive as English hotels go, and new;
but mere comfort is fortunately commonplace, its novelty is rather more of
an outrage than usual in this case, and the novelty of the hotel's name is
an offence not to be pardoned. Here, where the modern "Royal" stands, in
the very centre of the city, stood the famous "Angel" from the fifteenth
century at least to the middle of the nineteenth. Local antiquaries, many
and eager, rejoice in tracing the history of this celebrated hostelry,
finding frequent allusions to it in the records of the Master of the
Revels, for here mountebanks performed, and theatrical performances were
given, and strange monsters were shown. It had the glory of paying £115 tax
for thirty windows in the eighteenth century--this makes one understand the
blocked windows in old houses more sympathetically than a bare mention of
window tax does--and it was the great Whig House in the days when Norfolk
elections were, as Mr. Walter Rye tells us, half of the history of Norfolk,
the other half being concerned with trade. It is true that Mr. Walter Rye,
speaking of the election of 1675, says that Sir Nevill Cattyn's party
"used the 'Royal,' (then the 'King's Head,') and the other side, using a
stratagem--singularly enough repeated at the same house last election, two
or three years ago--ordered a great dinner there on the pretence that they
might 'friendly meet and dine' with the other party, and ultimately secured
the whole house as their election quarters; Cattyn, who was brought into
town by four thousand horsemen, having to put up with the 'White Swan' 'at
the back side of the butchers' shambles'" (_A History of Norfolk_, by
Walter Rye. Elliot Stock, 1885). I prefer to pin my faith to _Norfolk and
Norwich Notes and Queries_, not only because its elaborate article on the
topic is evidently based on careful research, but also because its
statements are not contradicted in subsequent issues, and these bear
eloquent testimony to the fact that the local antiquaries of East Anglia
have at least one trait in common with the antiquaries of the wider
world--they contradict with freedom and dispute with endless pertinacity.
Here there is no contradiction (and Mr. Rye's accuracy is by no means equal
to his industry or to his love of antiquity), so it may be taken as
reasonably certain that the "Royal" is on the site of the "Angel," and that
the "Angel" first appeared by that name in 1578, when it was leased to one
Peterson; but the property has been traced back to Mistress Katharine Dysse
in the rolls of the Mayoralty Court of Norwich, and she lived early in the
fifteenth century. Here, in October, 1677, Joseph Argent had "fourteen days
allowed to him to make show of such tricks as are mentioned in his patent
at the 'Angel.'" In 1683 "Robert Austine at ye Angel hath leave given him
for a week from ys Daie to make show of the storie of Edward the 4th and
Iane Shore, and noe longer." In several later years Peter Dolman clearly
made a great success with Punchinello or Puntionella--both forms are used.
There are a score of similar entries, also of displays at the "Angel," of
freaks and monstrosities, waxworks and the like. Hither fled Mr. Thomas
Coke, of Holkham, father of the agriculture of Norfolk, during a Corn Law
riot of 1815, escaping through the back of the house with the then Earl of
Albemarle; in the "Angel" in 1794 the Duke of York stayed when on his way
to Yarmouth to meet the exiled family of the Prince of Orange, and here the
Duke of Wellington changed horses on his way to Gunton in 1820, receiving a
hearty welcome from the citizens. From the "Angel" the Whigs sallied forth
during the election of 1832, and enjoyed a glorious fight in quite the old
style with the Tories in the market-place. An inn-name of such antiquity
and so many associations should not have been changed. Apparently, however,
the house has not changed its political colour, for it is a curious
coincidence that, on the evening of 24 January, Lord Kimberley was a guest
at the "Royal," and next day his son, Lord Wodehouse, won the Mid-Norfolk
election. Now the Wodehouses have been Whigs ever since Whigs were, and it
need not be doubted that Sir Philip Wodehouse, M.P. for Castle Rising, who
died in 1623, was of much the same political temper as those of the name
who came after him.

Next morning I walked about Norwich, and I have done the like many times,
but, short of writing a book on the subject, which is certainly not
necessary, it is by no means easy to decide how to treat it. Norfolk has
more parishes and churches in proportion to its area than any other county
(730 to 2024 square miles, whereas Yorkshire to 5836 square miles has but
613, according to Mr. Rye), and of these, besides a remarkably striking
cathedral, there are no less than thirty-five in Norwich alone. Norwich
has a castle, its history and nature far from free of doubt; some relics of
walls built by the citizens for their own safety in the time of Edward I,
when they were empowered to levy a "murage" tax; an ancient Guildhall of
smooth, black flint (which interested me, although it is said to have "no
regularity or beauty of architecture to recommend it"); St. Andrew's Hall;
the nave of an ancient Dominican church; a school partially domiciled in
what is left of a Dominican convent; a fine museum containing some rare
treasures of antiquity; the curious part known as Tombland; and great store
of ancient houses, each one of them possessed of a history. Also, in the
"Maid's Head," to be described later, it has the most alluring old inn
known to me anywhere. True it is that a mayor of Norwich, conducting a
royal personage on a tour of inspection, is reported to have said "this was
an ancient city, Your Royal Highness, before several of the old houses were
pulled down," but, while there can never be too many old houses left to be
an endless delight to the antiquary, there are far too many to be noticed
in a work of this kind. One learns without surprise, but not without
satisfaction, that a society of persons interested in antiquities meets
periodically for "Walks in Norwich," and it is pleasant to follow their
wanderings. Now they are studying the stately cathedral, with its three
magnificent gateways, and its beautiful fourteenth-century spire, and
listening to its story from the lips, it may be, of Dr. Jessopp. (All I
need say at this moment is that I have never known the grand simplicity of
the prevailing Norman style to strike the imagination so quickly and so
completely as when I first entered it at a time, as it happened, when the
exceptionally perfect organ was being played in the empty church.) At
another time they are investigating the Butter Hills, and learning that
they take their name from John le Boteler, who gave them to Carrow Abbey;
at another finding traces in a malt-house of the house of that stout Sir
Robert de Salle who opposed Wat Tyler's rebellion in these parts, and was
celebrated by Froissart. Here the temptation to quote a little is
overpowering. The insurgents, it should be said, were led by Sir Roger
Bacon and Geoffrey Lister, a dyer.

"The reason that they stopped near Norwich was that the Governor of the
town was a knight called Sir Robert Salle: he was not a gentleman by birth,
but having acquired great renown for his ability and courage King Edward
had created him a knight: he was the handsomest and strongest man in
England. Lister and his companions took it into their heads they would make
this knight their commander and carry him with them in order to be the more
feared. They sent orders to him to come out into the fields to speak with
them, or they would attack and burn the city. The knight, considering that
it was much better for him to go to them than that they should commit such
outrages, mounted his horse and went out of the town alone to hear what
they had to say. When they perceived him coming they showed him every mark
of respect, and courteously entreated him to dismount and talk with them.
He did dismount, and committed a great folly, for when he had so done,
having surrounded him, they conversed at first in a friendly way, saying,
'Robert, you are a knight, and a man of great weight in this country,
renowned for your valour; yet notwithstanding all this we know who you are;
you are not a gentleman, but the son of a poor mason, just such as
ourselves. Do you come with us as our commander, and we will make so great
a lord of you that one-quarter of England shall be under your command.' The
knight, on hearing them thus speak, was exceedingly angry; he would never
have consented to such a proposal; and, eyeing them with inflamed looks,
answered, 'Begone, wicked scoundrels and false traitors as you are; would
you have me desert my natural lord for such blackguards as you are? I had
rather you were all hanged, for that must be your end.' On saying this he
attempted to mount his horse, but, his foot slipping from the stirrup, his
horse took fright. They then shouted out and cried, 'Put him to death.'
When he heard this he let his horse go, and drawing a handsome Bordeaux
sword, he began to skirmish, and soon cleared the crowd from about him,
that it was a pleasure to see. Some attempted to close with him; but with
each stroke he gave he cut off heads, arms, feet or legs. There were none
so bold but they were afraid, and Sir Robert performed that day marvellous
feats of arms. These wretches were upwards of forty thousand; they shot and
flung at him such things that, had he been clothed in steel instead of
being unarmed, he must have been overpowered; however, he killed twelve of
them, besides many whom he wounded. At last he was overthrown, when they
cut off his legs and arms, and rent his body in piecemeal. Thus ended Sir
Robert Salle, which was a great pity, and when the knights and squires in
England heard of it they were much enraged."

On the very same day the party of explorers--I find they were not the
Norwich Society, but the Yarmouth branch of the Norfolk Archæological
Society on a pilgrimage--had visited the old Foundry Bridge, heard the
story of the loss of a Yarmouth packet hard by in 1817, learned that a
neighbouring yard, once known as Spring Gardens, was a resort of fashion in
the eighteenth century, seen the remains of the Austin Friars' Watergate,
visited the Devil's Tower, heard the history of the city walls and St.
Peter's, Southgate. Dr. Bensly had read a paper at Robert de Salle's house
aforesaid. Then St. Etheldreda's Church was visited, the plate was
examined, and Dr. Bensly read another paper in the crypt of the House of
Isaac the Jew, a Norman domestic cellar, clearly to be traced from the days
of William Rufus, to a house subsequently occupied by Sir John Paston and
Lord Chief Justice Coke. Next at St. Peter's, Permountergate, attention was
called to all manner of details--personal, historical, and architectural;
St. Andrew's and Blackfriar's halls were visited and explained; a paper was
read on sundry discoveries made in excavating under the Guildhall; King
Edward VI's Middle School (the one in the ancient convent) was seen; a
paper was read on St. Andrew's Church; and, after dinner at the "Maid's
Head," the vicar of St. Peter's, Permountergate, read a paper on the parish
records. Just a few of the entries it is impossible to resist, for they are
of imperishable interest.

"1798. October 19th. Form of Prayer on the victory obtained by Admiral Sir
Horatio Nelson over the French fleet off the Nile, 1st August /6."

"Nov. 12th. Form of prayer for general thanksgiving on 29 November 1/".

"1805. December 5th. Paid for a form of Prayer and Proclamation on account
of the late glorious victory over the combined fleets of France and Spain
by Lord Viscount Nelson off Cape Trafalgar on 21st October, 1/".

No bells were rung in Norfolk that day, for the calamity of Nelson's heroic
death saddened the heart of every man in his native county. But they were
rung at St. Peter's, Permountergate, merrily enough, no doubt, in 1814,
when there was the entry: "April 12. Putting flag upon the steeple on
Buonaparte's overthrow; beer ditto 7/6."

Does this multiplicity of topics take away the breath, as is intended? Not
without set purpose has this very full day in the life of an archæological
association been set forth with some little of particularity. It is an
illustration, deliberately chosen, of the truth that a learned party, or a
party desirous of becoming learned, can spend a day comfortably in a single
quarter of Norwich under expert guidance and without wasting any time, and
yet leave a vast number of the most interesting places and remains
altogether unvisited. We have no mention here of the city walls, of
Tombland, the meaning of which is still in doubt, of the castle, of the
Guildhall and its treasures, of the Strangers' Hall and a score of matters
besides. This is not criticism, but a preliminary to an excuse in the
nature of confession and avoidance. The Yarmouth archæologists were wise in
their generation in contenting themselves with a single section of the city
on a single day. They had come, perhaps, before; they could come, no doubt,
again. What they saw and heard in a single day is an explanation, combined
with cursory mention of some of the things not seen, at once of the
extraordinary fascination Norwich must exercise over a man or woman of
intelligence, of the immense variety of its attractions, and of the sheer
absurdity of attempting to deal with them in a part of a book with any
completeness. It is better, surely, to give something of detail, if not a
tenth of what is due, to a part, than to attempt the vain task of
stretching the complex whole in outline. To him or her who has time I would
say, "Spend a great deal of it in Norwich, and you will find no hour hang
heavily."

Also it is as well to know a little of Norwich as an historical city and of
its associations, of which indeed the latter are so much the more
interesting that the history may almost be cast on one side. First of all
the idea that Norwich was Venta Icenorum may be dismissed, with Mr.
Haverfield's authority, as untenable for lack of evidence. No considerable
Roman remains of clear authenticity have been found to warrant the theory.
The castle is a complete puzzle. The city was ravaged by the Danes, of
course, under Sweyn in 1003, and it became a diocesan centre in 1094, and
has remained such ever since. It was walled, as has been stated, by the
citizens; it flourished in the wool trade early. "Worsted" owes its name to
an adjacent village, and Sir John Paston wrote: "I would have my doublet
all worsted for worship of Norfolk." It suffered grievously in the time of
the Black Death. It had its share, as we have seen, of trouble from Wat
Tyler's rebellion and from Kett's rebellion in the sixteenth century,
Mousehold Heath being the place of encampment on both occasions. Elizabeth,
also visited it in state in 1578, and it contributed its quota towards the
repulse of the Armada. From the troubles of the Civil War it escaped almost
scot free, mainly because East Anglia, the home of the Eastern Counties
Association, was exclusively Parliamentarian, except in the case of Lynn,
whereof more later. After that it is true to write of Norwich, as Mr.
Walter Rye has written of Norfolk, that the history of the last three
centuries is really one of elections and of trade, neither of them very
alluring from our present point of view.

[Illustration: NORWICH MARKET PLACE]

All these things, however, are but history in the primitive sense. There is
far more pleasure, and perhaps as much profit, in remembering that the
editor of the _Paston Letters_, a mine of information and of interest, was
Sir John Fenn, a man of Norwich; that Dean Hook, Mrs. Opie, Hooker the
botanist, and Harriet Martineau were born in Norwich. These names, except
perhaps that of Fenn, do not stir the imagination much in these days. We
are spared from study of Miss Martineau's _Political Economy_, or of her
history; and Sir John Fenn was really, as his comments in the _Paston
Letters_ and his omissions from them prove, a dull dog; but what man or
woman of literary taste can see, as I did the first day I was in Norwich,
the name Rackham on a solicitor's brass plate without remembering that the
wayward genius, George Borrow, was clerk to Messrs. Simpson and Rackham,
solicitors, or perhaps they were attorneys then, of Norwich, or will omit a
pilgrimage to the house, still unchanged, in which he lived in Willow Lane?
Then, chiefest jewel of all in the crown of Norwich is the Norwich school
of painting that rose in her midst, whereof "old Crome"--his portrait is in
the Guildhall--was the father and the founder. His pictures you may study
in the National Gallery, but only in Norwich, where he was born and
apprenticed to a coach and sign-painter, can you realize his gradual
progress, see him in imagination producing signs for the "Lamb" and the
"Maid's Head," teaching the Gurney children at Earlham, having George
Vincent and James Stark as apprentices, founding, with Ladbroke, R. Dixon,
C. Hodgson, and John Thirtle, the first provincial art society, holding in
1805, and subsequent years, considerable exhibitions, joined in 1807 by
John Tell Cotman. Only here can one realize the depth and justice of the
pride taken by Norwich and Norwich men in their most honourable school of
painting, and the eagerness with which the merchant princes of Norwich
collect the examples of the school. But there are some in the Guildhall,
too, as is but right.




CHAPTER III

WINTER. NORWICH TO LONDON BY ROMAN ROAD

     Crooked streets of Norwich--An appropriate epitaph--To
     the county surveyor of Norfolk many thanks--The London
     Road (Roman)--Roman roads in East Anglia--Mr.
     Haverfield, the greatest authority on--Some history
     necessary to understand paucity of Roman remains in
     East Anglia--The country of the Iceni--Rebellion, brief
     triumph, and defeat of Iceni under Boadicea--The Iceni
     wiped out--Their territory minor part of an unimportant
     province--No military stations--Frontier far to the
     north--Caistor-by-Norwich not a Roman fortress--Roman
     roads of East Anglia enumerated--_En route_--Tempting
     declivities and annoying cross-roads--Long
     Stratton--The first round flint
     tower--Explanation--Scole and county boundary--The
     "White Hart"--Worse roads in Suffolk--A church with
     good parvise--Difficulty of identifying
     villages--Ipswich to Colchester and London--Towns and
     scenery of route postponed--Reasons--Puzzling
     darkness--Familiar villages not recognized--Futile
     demand for tea--Romford discovered--Lights to left
     front--Had we lost our way?--"Stratford Empire" a sign
     of hope--Ichthyophagous Whitechapel--Skill in
     traffic--Journey ended--Observations on winter
     motoring--On general character of East Anglian scenery.


Norwich was left behind in mingled sorrow and regret the next morning, for,
on the one hand, it seemed a sin to leave so fascinating a city practically
unexplored, and, on the other, frost had given place to rain, and the rain
having abated, the air was mild and warm, so that motoring promised to be
entirely pleasant. However, other visits to Norwich were a certainty in the
future, so off we went gaily. But, Lord!--to copy Mr. Pepys--were ever
streets so strait or so prodigal of angles as these where some folk were
hastening to their business at the assizes, while others, on cars garlanded
with significant ribbons, were clearly bound for election work in
Mid-Norfolk, where it was the polling day. Of a surety a pilot was needed,
and we had one; undoubtedly, although Tilney All Saints is far away in
Marshland, the epitaph appearing there, and here quoted, must have been
written by a Norwich man, and by no other.

    This world's a city, full of crooked streets,
    Death is the market-place where all men meet;
    If life was merchandise, then men could buy,
    Rich men would always live, and poor men die.

So hey for Ipswich and London, for at last we are on a straight road, which
hardly curves before Ipswich is reached. The air seems soft and balmy after
the frost of the day before, and, crowning blessing of all, the surface is
good and even. This fact completed and rounded off by plainly legible
milestones, seeming to follow one another at intervals satisfactorily
short, induce us to pass an informal vote of thanks to the county surveyor
of Norfolk, and the heaps of repairing material at regular intervals along
the roadside call for observation on more than one ground. They are
alternate heaps of blue stone, granite probably, broken into commendably
small pieces, and of some whitish matter, probably chalk, doubtless used
for binding. This may not be ideal road-making--in fact, it is not, for the
smaller the stones are broken, and the less the use of any kind of binding
material, the better the road will be in all weathers--but it must be
admitted that this road was remarkably good on a morning when fairly heavy
rain--it turned out that there had been much more of it further south--had
followed shrewdly sharp frost.

For the good surface we had to thank modern times; for a straightness of
direction, having the double advantage of saving labour and sometimes
rendering a really exhilarating speed prudent, we had to thank the Roman
invasion of Britain. It was the first time on this tour when passage
through the air gave one that almost undefinable feeling of thrusting
through liquid and cool purity--for cold is horrid but coolness is
bliss--which is one of the chief pleasures of automobilism. It was also,
after we had passed Caistor-by-Norwich, the first time we had been on a
road that was once undoubtedly Roman.

Here, since in the course of our wanderings we shall be upon Roman roads
fairly often, and upon reputed Roman roads much more often, I am going to
take the bull frankly by the horns and to dispose at once of a problem
which, taken in detail, might be tedious. Nor shall any apology be offered
for saying here once and for all, on the authority of Mr. Haverfield,
almost all that needs to be said concerning the Roman occupation of East
Anglia and of its Roman roads in the course of this volume. The digression
shall be made as brief as may be. It can, of course, be omitted by those
who know the subject and by those who do not desire to learn. Both will
have the consolation of knowing that there is next to nothing of the same
kind afterwards. Those who do desire to learn may be informed of that which
is a commonplace to everybody who has given any attention to the story of
the Romans in Britain, that Mr. Haverfield knows all that is ascertainable
on the subject, and at least as much as any other living man. As for the
dead, none of them, since the fifth century at any rate, have had the
chances we have of ascertaining the truth, although posterity may learn
more, for our sources of knowledge will be available for it, and there is,
or may be, a vast amount of information to be obtained still by the
intelligent use of the homely spade. The antiquary, no less than the
politician, appeals for spade work, especially in East Anglia.

One or two principal facts must be borne in mind. County divisions are, of
course, long Post-Roman; they have no meaning in relation to Roman Britain,
which was simply a remote and not very important province of the Empire. By
the end of the year A.D. 46 the Romans had overrun the south and the
Midlands of England, annexing part entirely, leaving the rest to
"protected" native princes. Such were the princes of the Iceni, who
occupied Norfolk, most of Suffolk, and part of Cambridgeshire, and, for
inter-tribal reasons, took the side of the conquerors at the outset. The
Iceni rebelled twice. The first effort was puny; they were defeated, and
they returned to their native princes. Then, in A.D. 61, came the affair of
Boudicca, better known as Boadicea, "the British warrior queen," and so
forth. It is quite an interesting little story, of which our poetic
dramatists might easily have made use, and it is told shortly because,
judging from personal experience, the details may not be generally
familiar. Besides they are essential to an understanding of East Anglia as
a field for the "prospector," so to speak, on the look-out for Roman
"finds," and to know of how little account East Anglia was under the Romans
is to understand the more easily why many so-called Roman remains are
really not Roman at all.

The Icenian "Prince Prasutagus, dying, had bequeathed his private wealth to
his two daughters and the Emperor Nero. Such was the fashion of the
time--to satiate a greedy Emperor with a heavy legacy lest he should
confiscate the whole fortune. Prasutagus hoped thus to save his kingdom for
his family as well as a part of his private wealth. He did not succeed: the
Roman Government stepped in and annexed his kingdom, while its officials
emphasized the loss of freedom by acts of avarice, bad faith, and brutality
against Boudicca (Boadicea), the widow of Prasutagus, her daughters, and
the Icenian nobles." All this happened when the Roman Governor was away
fighting in North Wales, and his absence enabled the rebellion, which
Boadicea immediately headed, to gain temporary and very substantial
success. Her Icenian warriors destroyed a whole Roman army, three Roman
towns, and seventy thousand lives. Then Suetonius came with his trained
legionaries; a single great battle destroyed the Icenian power for ever,
and their whole country was laid waste. We hear no more of the Iceni in
history. Their sometime territory, of little agricultural value in those
days, simply became a part of the province, thinly populated, having a few
country towns and villas, centres of large estates. In it we have no reason
to look for traces of large military stations of early Roman date for, as
we have seen, the Iceni were wiped out of existence in A.D. 61; and, after
Hadrian built his wall from Carlisle to Newcastle in A.D. 124, the
frontier, on which Rome always kept her soldiery, was never to the south of
that wall. Some military stations there are of later date, fourth century,
which were erected for the specific purpose of beating off the Saxon
pirates (hence, and hence only, the phrase "the Saxon Shore") who began to
raid the southern and eastern coasts of England, running up the rivers in
their vessels of shallow draft. Such were Brancaster, guarding the mouth of
the Wash, and Burgh Castle defending the outlets of the Waveney and the
Yare, and with them we shall deal later, in their place.

As for the roads they all radiated from London, as indeed they do still in
large measure. One passed direct from London to Colchester and thence, viâ
Stratford St. Mary and Long Stratton and Scole, to Caistor-by-Norwich. Such
names as Stratford and Stratton, unless shown to be of modern origin, are
strong evidence of Roman occupation, and at Scole, where the road crosses
the Waveney and enters Norfolk, have been found some Roman remains and,
perhaps, traces of a paved ford. That is the road on which we are now
travelling. Caistor-by-Norwich, where we should not have seen much if we
had halted--that is the worst of these Roman remains--is in all human
probability _Venta Icenorum_, concerning the situation of which debate used
to be carried on vehemently. What we might have seen is a rectangular
enclosure of earthen mounds covering massive walls, having bonding tiles
and flint facing to a concrete core, the walls themselves being visible on
the north and west, and a great fosse surrounding the whole. Its area is
about thirty-four acres, and there were towers at each corner. A careful
analysis of the evidence leads to the sure conclusion that this was a small
country town and not a great military fortress.

This particular road crossed the Ipswich river a few miles to the
north-west of Ipswich, and a branch from it ran by way of Goodenham to
Peasenhall. Thence it can be traced due east to Yoxford, where it ends, so
far as our certain knowledge goes. From Peasenhall another direct road can
be traced as far as the Waveney, near Weybread, and no further. Other roads
there are of uncertain Roman origin, but the most important of them was the
Peddar's (or Pedlar's) Way, which can be traced with certainty from
Barningham, in Suffolk, to Fring, about seven miles from Brancaster, and
perhaps even to Holme, which is nearer, and is, indeed, one of the supports
for the theory concerning the nature and origin of Brancaster, but the
modern roads seldom follow its course. A Roman road was supposed to run
from Caistor viâ Downham Market, and across the Cambridgeshire Fens to
Peterborough, but its existence is hardly proved in Norfolk, and its origin
is hardly clear to demonstration in Cambridgeshire. These are all the Roman
roads which need concern us, and the references to Roman roads in
guide-books and on Ordnance and other maps may be disregarded. This is
written not at all by way of disparaging the ordinary guide-books, some of
which are monuments of learning and industry, and by no means in any mood
of conscious superiority. There is no credit at all in knowing that which
Mr. Haverfield has made easy, and, until he co-ordinated the facts and
sifted the evidence, it was practically impossible for anybody but a
specialist to know the truth. He is a specialist of the true scientific
temperament, eager to acquire knowledge, cautious in inference, and it is
to be feared that he and his like knock a good deal of romance out of
travel in England. What they leave, however, is real; and it is worth
stating once and for all.

At any rate, we were on a Roman road with a sound British surface on this
genial January day, for genial it was by contrast with those which had gone
before; and we sped along gaily, regretting not so much that a great deal
of Norfolk is hilly, as that when there came a tempting downhill stretch
there was generally a village or a cross-road at the bottom to counteract
the temptation. Such were the circumstances as we passed down into Long
Stratton, where our eyes were delighted by the first specimen on the
roadside of the round church towers of flint for which East Anglia is
famous. Many theories there have been as to the origin of this peculiar
form of tower, but the best of them, because the most obvious and simple,
is that of Mr. J. H. Parker: "They are built round to suit the material,
and to save the expense of stone quoins for the corners, which are
necessary for square towers, and which often may not have been easy to
procure in districts where building stone has all to be imported." Now we
bade leave to hills for a while, and at Dickleburgh the floods were out in
some force. Scole came next, a pleasing many-gabled village with a fair
share of Scotch firs, and once a great coaching centre. It also contains
the White Hart Inn, of which Mr. Rye writes: "Of course the best known inn
in the county was that at Scole, built by James Peck, a Norwich merchant,
in 1655, the sign costing £1057, and being ornamented with twenty-five
strange figures and devices, one of which was a movable one of an
astronomer pointing to the quarter whence the rain was expected. There was
also an enormous reproduction of the great 'bed of Ware,' which held thirty
or forty people. The inn itself is a fine red-brick building, with walls
twenty-seven inches thick, and with a good oak staircase." Scole, by the
way, is only just in the county of Norfolk, and there is room for doubt
whether the "White Hart" was ever so famous as the "Maid's Head" at
Norwich. Mr. Rye, however, is entitled to be modest in this matter, even if
modesty lead him into inaccuracy, for he saved the "Maid's Head" from being
modernized by buying it out and out and restoring it in perfect taste. May
the motor-car bring back prosperity to the "White Hart," and may the "White
Hart" merit it. It is well situated at the crossing of two trunk roads,
that on which we were travelling and the Bury and Yarmouth road. In our
case it was not convenient to halt.

Here we entered Suffolk, crossing the Waveney, and a country of road
surfaces far worse than those traversed up to that point. The rain had
apparently fallen more heavily than it had near Norwich; but it had not
rained gravel, an infamous material for roadmaking, nor could it account
for the weary attitude of the tumble-down and illegible milestones. As it
was, when hills were encountered the Panhard was hard tried, and the
driving wheels, although they wore antiskid gaiters, revolved many times
more than the distance covered by them warranted. There was simply no hold
for the wheels in the dirty, porridge-like mud, concealing a crumbling
sub-surface, and, now and again, although no great height above the sea had
to be climbed, the gradients were almost trying, owing to the bad surface.

Shocking bad roads, luncheon sadly deferred in consequence, and the
certainty of much travelling after dark if London were to be reached that
evening, may be accountable for the fact that, between Scole and Ipswich,
the only point that seemed worthy of a passing note was a church on the
left-hand side, I think at Yaxley, clearly visible from the road and having
a good parvise over the porch. It has been written, "I think at Yaxley," in
all honesty, for it is not always possible to identify on a map the village
through which the car is passing, nor always easy to consult the map even
when travelling at moderate speed. Blessed be the villages that proclaim
their titles, even by modest boards on the post-offices, as many do in East
Anglia; for by such boards is the traveller saved from the scorn poured
upon him who asks of the rustic the name of his native village. This is an
almost universal phenomenon, so frequent in occurrence that one is tempted
to speculate as to its origin; and that may be that the normal rustic,
painfully conscious of the narrow limits of his own knowledge, feels that
he has encountered a fool indeed when he meets anybody who is more ignorant
than himself, although it be but as to a single and quite trivial point.

The one important thing about luncheon at the "Great White Horse," thrice
welcome as it was to us, was the sad fact that it did not begin until three
o'clock. Of the places passed through between Ipswich and London, or of
their appearance and their story at any rate, little shall be said here for
two reasons, or even three. The first is that having once stayed at
Colchester for ten days and more, going out motoring every day, and
studying Colchester itself, full of interest, at many odd times, I deal
with Colchester and excursions from it in another chapter. The second is
that, after it grew dark, that is to say not long after we left Colchester
behind, our journey seemed to become exciting and mysterious in a degree
hardly conceivable, of which it is hoped to reproduce an impression; and
the third, last, and most cogent is that this chapter grows full long
already for the small portion of road of which it really treats. We passed
then to Colchester viâ Copdock, Capel St. Mary, and Stratford St.
Mary--here we entered Essex, and the name of the village reminded us again
of the antiquity of the road--and so passing, especially after Capel St.
Mary, we encountered some hills which would not have seemed despicable to a
weak car. Through Colchester, its outlines rendered picturesque by the
fading light, we hastened, setting our course for Chelmsford; but we were
hardly a mile outside Colchester before the lamps had to be lit, and the
darkness came down upon us like a curtain.

Now it was my turn to fail as a pilot and a guide. It has been said that I
had motored round Colchester every day for ten days at least, and that not
long before. I had, in fact, followed the Essex manoeuvres of 1904 in a
Lanchester on business, and had stayed on for pleasure afterwards; but on
that occasion, except in a futile effort to see a night attack on
Colchester during pitch darkness, there had never been occasion to use the
lamps, and it was astonishing to find how vast a difference the darkness
made. We halted at Kelvedon to procure water; we would have taken tea
there, at a roomy inn of old time, if the mere mention of tea had not
seemed to paralyse those who were in charge of the house. I had been
through Kelvedon at least a score of times before, yet I had to ask its
title. In Witham, the long and straggling congregation of houses three
miles beyond, I had been interrupted at luncheon in an inn by a sharp fight
between the armies of Sir John French and General Wynne; yet I could not
recognize the place at all in the gloom. Chelmsford revealed itself by
process of inference; there was no other considerable community to be
expected at this point, and Chelmsford it must be, and was. After this all
was fresh and mysterious. Ingatestone I had visited before, and passing
lovely some of its environment, which we shall see by daylight some day,
had been found to be. To Brentwood there had never been occasion to go, so
there was no shame in failing to recognize it. On we sped a dozen miles
which, what with feeling our way in the darkness and the impossibility of
calculating distance accomplished,--here was one of the cases in which a
recording instrument would have been useful,--seemed to be at least a
score. Surely we must be approaching the environs of London, for there was
a glow of light ahead, and there were railway lights to the left, and
beyond them more lights still. Not a bit of it; the lights ahead turned out
to be merely Romford; those on the left beforehand must have been
Hornchurch. Even Romford was at last detected only by virtue of a fortunate
glance at some public office. Again we were out in the open country, as it
seemed in the dark, although, no doubt, the rural illusion would have
vanished by daylight. After that in a short time lamps began to appear
regularly, but the mystery and ignorance of us who were travellers was not
less than before. The pride-destroying fact must be admitted that a glimpse
of Seven Kings Station only set me thinking of the two kings of Brentford,
with whom the "seven" can have no reasonable connection, that Ilford was
new to me save by name, and that I began half to think it possible that
(like the Turkish Admiral who, having been sent on a voyage to Malta, came
back to say that the island had disappeared) we might have missed our
course by many miles, and might be skirting London to the north.
Multitudinous lights stretching far away over the left front, aided the
illusion. Then came a reassuring advertisement, that of the "Stratford
Empire," a distinct presage of the East End of London, and before very long
on our left was a row of houses quite respectably old among many that were
horribly modern. The old houses were, at a guess, not earlier than Queen
Anne, but the mind went back further to reflect that Stratford had been
Stratford-attè-Bowe in Chaucer's time, and that there his prioress had
learned to speak French "ful faire and fetisly" at the Benedictine Nunnery.

To my friend, at any rate, the environment of the Mile End Road was
familiar, for he and his car had been busy electioneering there; as for me,
the pangs of hunger notwithstanding, I was fascinated by the deft way in
which he slipped through the traffic. Truly the motor-car is capable of
marvellous dirigibility in skilful hands. Eftsoons were we in Whitechapel,
breathing a murky atmosphere of naptha and fried fish, so all-pervading
that, at the moment, the very thought of food seemed nauseous. It is surely
one of the standing mysteries of creation where all this multitude of
fishes can have their origin. So, at precisely nine o'clock in the evening
we passed up Holborn out of the City of London, and, for the purposes of
this book, our subsequent proceedings were of no interest.

Let us, before closing the chapter, see what had been gained by this tour
in mid-winter. Well, first it was a conviction that, although motoring in
winter is a cold occupation, productive of some absolute pain, for it hurts
to be really cold, and of a compensating increase of appreciation for
familiar comforts, it is distinctly better than not motoring at all. This
conviction I should probably retain, in spite of a constitutional dislike
to cold, in all circumstances except those of heavy snow when falling,
which, I am content to believe, without trying it, is all but an absolute
bar to motoring. If you have a screen the snow destroys its transparency;
if you have not a screen it blocks your vision and covers up your eyes or
your goggles. Moreover, on high and fenceless roads, where the motorist is
most liable to be overtaken by snow, the white mantle obliterates the track
and renders movement full of perils. But something more substantial than
this conviction was gained during these three days. They were days, be it
remembered, when the face of Nature, in what may be called a tamed country,
is at its worst; they had been spent in traversing districts up to that
time, for the most part, unknown to me; but there remained much of East
Anglia, familiar to me in summer and in winter dress, which have been
purposely omitted in this effort to gain a general impression of the
country. I pictured to myself the breezy uplands of the Sandringham
district, the pines, the heather, and the bracken, as I had seen them many
a time in summer sunshine and in stormy winter; fancy filled the brown
ploughland we had passed a sea of yellow corn; I remembered the beautifully
umbrageous lanes and roads of Eastern Essex, where they rarely "shroud"
the elms in the barbarous fashion prevailing in Berkshire and other
counties; the strange crops, whole fields of dahlias for example, which I
had seen in the seed-growing districts; the heavy-laden orchards upon
which, it must be admitted, Mr. Thomas Atkins levied heavy toll in 1904. So
remembering I concluded, there and then, that I should find ample
satisfaction in my task. But at that time I had not seen a tithe of the
characteristic scenery of East Anglia. Ely, rising majestic from the plain;
the very singular and impressive run along the sandy coast from Cromer to
Wells-next-Sea; the road on thence to Hunstanton and Lynn; the glorious
expanses of heath in many parts of Norfolk and Suffolk; the extraordinary
hedges of fir along the roadside near Elvedon and in many another
place--all these things, and a score besides--were as a sealed book to me.
The book has been opened now, and its prodigal variety of infinite charm
appals me, even though a substantial part of my pleasant duty has been
accomplished.




CHAPTER IV

SPRING. THROUGH THE HEART OF EAST ANGLIA

     Some books consulted--"Murray" useless to motorists:
     proceeds by rail and observes county boundaries--Arthur
     Young's _Six Weeks' Tour_ dull--Leland's _Itinerary_ a
     mass of undigested notes--_The Paston Letters_ full of
     excellence--Start from Abingdon--The six-cylinder
     Rolls-Royce--Freedom from trouble--Hopes and
     Nemesis--Abingdon to Thame, a bad cross-country
     route--Thame to Royston direct--The gate of East
     Anglia--The "Cave"--Royston's broad hint to James I--To
     Newmarket--Straight road and abundant game--The mystery
     of the Hoodie Crow--Wild creatures and
     motor-cars--Weather Heath--Appropriate name--Value of
     tree "belts"--Scotch fir hedges--- Elvedon Hall and its
     game--Best use for such land--Enter Norfolk--Warrens
     and heaths--Thetford--Its story--Its Mound--Mr. Rye's
     theory dissipated by the learned--Windmills in East
     Anglia--Thomas Paine a Thetford man--Euston
     unvisited--Attleborough--Wymondham's twin towers--Their
     origin--Religious houses and popular risings--Kett's
     Rebellion--Curious legend on a house--Stanfield
     Hall--Its grim tragedy--A monograph quoted--Wholesale
     murders and a famous trial--Extraordinary cunning of
     the criminal--To Norwich and the "Maid's Head."

[Illustration: IPSWICH PORT]

During the interval between the first and second tours in East Anglia many
books, more or less promising of material, were read. Of these books it
will be prudent to say a little before recording an expedition in which
East Anglia was attacked, so to speak, amidships. Many of them it is
needless to mention, though some will come in for passing reference. The
first was Murray's Handbook to Essex, Suffolk, Norfolk, and Cambridgeshire,
which is well-planned, having regard to the needs of its age, and well, no
less than learnedly, written; but it was published more than thirty years
ago, and is therefore rather out of date as to some of its facts, and for
motorists absolutely obsolete in its method. It proceeds, for the most
part, county by county; its routes are railway routes; it almost ignores
roadside scenery, and it enlarges, very usefully sometimes, upon the
internal details of churches and of other edifices, with which the motorist
can rarely be concerned; for, as it is not intelligent to hurry through the
country always, so it is not motoring to "potter" at every place. The good
"Murray" is really rather embarrassing to the motorist. Let me illustrate.
Scole, mentioned in the last chapter, is a little more than two miles from
Yaxley, on the Roman road. A brief account of Scole is found on p. 183. If
Yaxley were mentioned at all (and it is worth mentioning, for the sake of
its church, in a guide-book pure and simple) it would find a place in some
Suffolk route, for only very occasionally does the guide-book writer allow
even a railway to transport him across a county boundary. Amongst other
books studied were Leland's _Itinerary_, the _Paston Letters_, in five
stately quarto volumes, and Arthur Young's _Six Weeks' Tour_. These studies
were not quite in vain, for they will at least show a reader what to avoid.
Young's _Six Weeks' Tour_ is most consumedly dull, reeking of turnips,
sticky with marl, and the accounts of "the seats of the nobility and
gentry, and other objects worthy of notice, by the author of the _Farmers'
Letters_," are very rarely interesting. Some of them which are to our
purpose--for of course the tour was not confined to East Anglia--shall be
quoted in due season. To reading Leland, stimulated by many quaint
quotations in later works, I had looked forward for years, but the second
edition in nine volumes of "The Itinerary of John Leland the Antiquary,
Oxford; Printed at the Theatre, for James Fletcher, Bookseller in the Turl,
and Joseph Pott, Bookseller at Eton. 1745," was a grievous disappointment.
The plums seem all to have been picked out by guide-book writers; few of
them, if any, relate to East Anglia. The only things worthy of note were an
account, perfectly straightforward, and to be quoted in its place, of the
Dunmow Flitch, and some doggerel concerning the "properties of the counties
of England." The material ones for us are:--

    Essex, ful of good hoswyves,

    *....*....*....*

    Northfolk, ful of wyles,
    Southfolk, ful of styles,
    Huntingdoneshyre corne ful goode,

    *....*....*....*

    Cambridgeshire full of pykes.

Leland, in fact, cannot be commended, but that is only because he planned
his _magnum opus_, like many a good man before him and after, without
regard to the allotted span of human life, not to speak of its uncertainty.
In his "Newe Yeare's Gyft to King Henry the viii in the XXXVII Yeare of his
Raygne," Leland talks of his studies, of his six years of travel, and then
sketches his plan. It is "to write an History, to the which I entende to
adscribe this Title, _De Antiquitate Britannica_ or els _Civilis Historia_.
And this Worke I entende to divide yn to so many Bookes as there be Shires
yn England and Sheres and greate Dominions in Wales. So that I esteme that
this Volume will include a fiftie Bookes, wherof each one severally shaul
conteyne the Beginninges Encreaces, and memorable Actes of the chief Tounes
and Castelles of the Province allottid to hit." Leland died when he was
forty-six, but if he had lived another century he could hardly have
achieved his self-imposed task, even if he had been miraculously endowed
with a Mercédès; and he cherished divers other projects. As it is, his
so-called _Itinerary_ is, at best, but a collection of rough notes, having
frequently no sort of coherence, often corrected or added to later in a
distant geographical connection. In spite of a taste for antiquity it may
be put down as stiff and heavy to read, and not sufficiently abounding in
quaintness to repay the trouble of the reader.

The _Paston Letters_ on the other hand, are the best of reading, giving a
wonderfully vivid idea of life in East Anglia at a singularly troublous
period, and there will be occasion to quote them more than once. The
edition by the worthy Sir John Fenn, stately as it is, and a joy to handle,
is far from being the best. Posterity owes to him a deep debt for rescuing
the letters from oblivion, but he omitted as uninteresting precisely the
little fragments upon private and domestic affairs which we value most now
in later editions. His notes, too, prove him to have been a rather dull dog
and lacking in a sense of humour. Sometimes he scents impropriety where
there is clearly none, at others he misconstrues the most obvious badinage.
Thus, where John Paston is addressed in the phrase, "Wishing you joy of all
your ladies," Fenn suggests a reference to the Virgin Mary, Heaven knows
why. Still, Fenn rescued the letters, and the latest edition--far more
complete than his--is at once one of the most entertaining and valuable of
historical documents and essential to the right understanding of life in
old Norfolk. In fact, the _Paston Letters_ is one of the few really old
books which a man not too studiously inclined may not prudently be
contented to take as read. It is vastly entertaining, but, it must be said,
it is not for the young person. A spade was not called a horticultural
implement in those days, and there are many spades, and some knaves of
spades too, in the _Paston Letters_.

Fortified with this literary foundation, and a good deal more of minor
importance, I left my Berkshire home near Abingdon on 9 March in a 30-h.p.
Rolls-Royce car, six-cylindered and equipped with every luxury in the shape
of glass-screens and a cape hood, and driven by Mr. Claude Johnson. For
companions we had my two daughters, and for assistance, if it were needed,
a mechanic. As it happened there was not a particle of trouble with tires,
engine, or apparatus of any kind during the 300 miles and more of this
expedition, and we might have dispensed quite well with the mechanic, and
with his weight. Indeed, at the end of the little tour, and for that matter
after the next on another car, arose a feeling that the days of the
uncertainty of motor-cars were over. Need it be said that Nemesis was in
waiting for this sanguine feeling, and that, before my "travelling days
were o'er" in East Anglia, one of those extraordinary runs of misfortune
came, which, in motoring more than in any other pastime, justify the
sayings that troubles never come singly, that it never rains but it pours?
It is perhaps wise to make this statement now, for a record of motoring
wherein all was plain sailing--the metaphor is hardly mixed, for there is
kinship between the motion of a sailing craft running free and that of a
car in good tune--might run the risk of being dull. How our troubles were
turned into a positive pleasure, at the time as well as in retrospect, by
the skill, patience, and good humour of this same Mr. Claude Johnson, shall
be told in its proper place in another chapter.

One thing, however, may be said by way of preliminary to the account of
this particular tour. There was much controversy at the beginning of 1905
upon the question whether the movement of a six-cylinder petrol car is, or
is not, more luxurious than that of a four-cylinder car of first-rate
design and construction. A prolonged match, not entirely free from flukes,
the bane of motoring trials, has been held by way of attempt to decide the
issue; and it has ended in favour of six cylinders, as illustrated by the
identical car in which this tour was taken. The controversy will probably
go on for ever, none the less, for it is the old case of _de gustibus_
which can never be settled, and it is all but impossible to compare
memories of kindred sensations felt at different times. Who can say, for
example, which cigar, glass of old wine, sail on a strong breeze, gallop
over the Downs, run in a first-rate motor-car, dive into cool water,
which--almost what you will, so long as it be one of the pleasures
classified by old Aristotle as coming into being through the touch--was
absolutely the best of his life? Without scientific certainty, however,
there may be strong conviction, and mine is that a good six-cylinder,
whether Rolls-Royce or Napier, runs more smoothly than any four-cylinder
car, and I have tried nearly all the best of them. In fact, there is very
little to choose in point of smooth running, if indeed there be anything to
choose at all, between it and a White steam car, used on another East
Anglian tour. Tried by the, to me, infallible touchstone of my own spine, a
six-cylinder is a very little, but still distinctly, more luxurious than
the best four-cylinder car; but this is not to say that there are not a
round dozen of four-cylinder cars on the market which make their passengers
as comfortable as any man, or even delicate woman, can reasonably wish to
be in this world.

We started just after ten, on a windy and rainless morning, in an
atmosphere giving beautifully clear views of distant objects, and thereby
raising some reasonable apprehensions for the morrow among the
weather-wise. Our route lay outside my present manor until Royston was
reached, for it was through Dorchester, Thame, Aylesbury, Ivinghoe,
Dunstable, Luton, Hitchin, and Baldock; and the temptation to describe some
of it, especially the run along the Chilterns, is strong, but it must be
resisted. One observation, however, must be made. From Thame onwards, in
spite of the tendency of our road system to radiate from London obstinately
as in Roman times, much as our railways do, and as if cross-country
travelling were not a thing to be encouraged, there was little reason to
complain of want of directness in the road. But to journey from Abingdon to
Thame it is necessary to go round two sides of a rough but large triangle,
whether the route chosen be through Oxford, distant six miles, or through
Dorchester and Shillingford, which is rather longer. In either case the
traveller has been compelled to go a long way out of his true course, and
from the turning point to Thame is about the same distance in both cases.
To Royston the distance is, as nearly as may be, seventy miles, and the
last part of the run, where we followed the north-west edge of the
Chilterns, cutting in and out of Hertfordshire, Bedfordshire, and
Cambridgeshire in bewildering succession, was very exhilarating. A pretty
sight too were the Chilterns, with their swelling undulations of down turf,
marked out near Royston for galloping grounds and showing here and there,
in the form of a flag and a carefully tended green, that the golfer has
found his way to Royston. Indeed, this close down turf, this "skin" of
grass catching the full force of northerly and westerly gales, is suitable
to the golfer's needs as any save that of seaside links.

At Royston we found an ancient and interesting inn, actually bisected by
the ancient boundary line of Hertfordshire and Cambridgeshire, a kindly
welcome, most benign bulldogs, and last, but by no means least, a glorious
pie. The inn is there still no doubt; so probably are the bulldogs; so no
doubt is the kindly welcome; but the pie vanished in a manner almost
miraculous. It came in an ample dish, steaming, succulent, the crust
browned to a nicety. In a surprisingly short time the dish went out, empty,
almost clean as Jack Sprat's and his spouse's platter, and its exit was
accomplished by a gurgle of suppressed laughter from without. Was there
something of a rueful tone in that laughter? Perhaps there was. He who
would feed after March motorists have eaten their fill had best send in to
them a gigantic pasty, else will he go hungry.

At Royston, the gate of East Anglia, we strolled about a little, finding it
to be just a quiet town of the country--there is no sufficient reason to
believe it to be really ancient according to the standard of antiquity in
these islands--and the intersecting point of two great roads, that followed
by us, which went on to the eastward, and the road between Hertford and
Cambridge. Here, according to the antiquaries of yesterday, Icenhilde Way
and Erming Street crossed one another. The antiquaries of to-day question
the Icenhilde Way so far east as this, laugh at the philology which would
make Ickleton evidence of its existence, and make nothing of the authority
of the learned Dr. Guest. Perhaps they would treat with more respect Erming
Street, said to have led from Royston to Huntingdon, and to cross the Ouse
at Arrington, for there appears to be sound evidence that Edgar granted to
the monks of Ely the Earmingaford, or ford of the Earmings, or fenmen.
Walking eastward along the spacious street we found first the turning for
Newmarket, which was of present interest, and, quite by accident, a notice
"To the cave," leading us into a back yard and to a locked gate, and
provoking a little later research. We couldn't get in, of course. The
custodian, if there be one, was at his sacred dinner, as everybody in
Royston seemed to be; but Royston struck us as the kind of place in which
an obsolete notice might hang unmoved so long as the fibre of wood would
support its covering of paint. Investigation in books showed the "cave" to
have been discovered by a fluke in 1472, but the "cave," like a good many
others here and elsewhere, seems to have been merely an ancient boneshaft
or rubbish pit, afterwards excavated sufficiently to be used as a
subterranean chapel. Hence the sketches of saints carved on the chalk walls
which, candidly, I should like to have seen close at hand.

Royston is quiet enough in all conscience now, and it is doubtful whether
the motor-car, rapidly as it increases in the land, will bring much
prosperity to it, although it is placed at important cross-roads. Cambridge
is but 12-1/2 miles distant, and Cambridge is a good deal more interesting
than Royston, as well as a more certain find for refreshment, for pies may
not always be to the fore. Being at the cross-roads, however, Royston is
likely to see as much life passing through its midst and to like it as
little as it did in the days of James I. Nay, it may even like the bustle
less, for more dust will go with it. James, who really was an ardent, if
not a mighty, hunter, planted a hunting-box near Royston, his particular
object being probably to course the Chiltern hares--for this is a
first-rate coursing country, possessed, as is most down-land, of remarkably
stout hares; and, when hares are stout, the open prospect of the downs
makes coursing a very pretty sport. Deer, of course, there may have been;
but the country does not look like them; and as for the fox, of whom the
moderns have written and sung, "Although we would kill him we love him," he
was vermin in the days of King James. To hunt the hare either with
greyhound or harier, on the other hand, was a sport much loved of our
kings even in Saxon times, and in Downland of Berkshire, not dissimilar to
the Chilterns, there are examples of manors held on the condition that the
tenant should keep a pack of hariers for the king's hunting. Whether the
Royston folk had to keep hounds for the king is not clear, but "Murray" has
unearthed a lovely story of their catching his favourite hound and
attaching to his collar a scroll bearing the words "Good Mr. Jowler, we
pray you speak to the king, for he hears you every day and so doth he not
us, that it will please his Majesty to go back to London, for else the
country will be undone; all our provision is spent already, and we are not
able to entertain him longer." Here was a new way of conveying a broad
hint. "Baby Charles" visited Royston twice, immediately before his standard
was raised at Nottingham, and later as a prisoner.

The distinguishing feature of the road from Royston to Newmarket, which
crosses over the south-eastern end of the Gog Magog Hills, is its
undeviating straightness. It is plain from the map that it curves gently
here and there, having indeed almost a sharp turn to the left before it
ascends the Gog Magog Hills--which would be of little account as hills
elsewhere than near a fenny country--but the general impression left was of
wide prospects, Scotch firs, belts planted for partridge driving, and
abundant game birds. The feeling that this is an ideal shooting country,
and not half a bad one for motoring, was at its strongest when Six-Mile
Bottom, famous in the history of sport with the gun, was reached. It was a
day, as luck would have it, on which a bird-lover could take rapid
observations of bird-life as he swept along, for there were no vehicles to
distract him on the empty road, and there was no chance of his coming upon
them unawares. Partridges we saw galore, cock-pheasants strutting on the
ploughland, confident that they were safe from the gun by law till the next
October, and probably knowing quite well--for there are few things a wily
old cock-pheasant does not know--that there would be no serious danger,
away from boundary hedges, until the leaf was clear in November. Less
handsome than the cock-pheasants, but more interesting, because less
familiar to my eyes, were the hooded crows, in their sober suits of
drab-grey and glossy black, walking about in perfect amity with the
pheasants. This bird is a grey mystery. In shape and dimensions he is
identical with the carrion crow; carrion crows and hoodies (or Royston
crows) will interbreed on occasion; their nests and eggs are of identical
situation, structure, colour, and shape. Their common habits include a
partiality for young birds and young rabbits as well as for carrion--I have
heard a rabbit scream, looked in the direction of the noise, shot a carrion
crow which rose, and found it lying within a couple of yards of a
half-grown rabbit, quite warm, and with its skull split--and yet nobody
knows for certain whether the two species are distinct or not. The black
crows may be migrants; the grey crows certainly are. They come over to the
East Coast in hordes in the autumn, mostly from Russia, where they also
interbreed with the carrion crow. They come inland a little, and I have
seen one or two in Berkshire, but west of Berkshire they are certainly very
exceptional in England and Wales, though they are quite common and even
breed in Scotland and Ireland. In fact, they are birds, of whom one would
like to know more, attired in a Quakerish habit according ill with their
disposition. Still, when you have no game coverts of your own in the
vicinity, it is good to see them circling about over these wide spaces near
Royston, and to remember that they used to be called Royston crows. The
marshmen call them Danish crows also, and it is a great pity when
ornithologists omit to specify these local names of birds. Hoodie, Danish
crow, Royston crow are identical, and each of them at least as interesting
as _Corone cornix_. They are all, as Mr. Rowdler Sharpe says, ravens in
miniature, but it is open to doubt whether, as pets, they would be equally
amusing in their tricks. We saw them in great numbers as we swept along,
and, like many wild things, they took no notice of the car. It is strictly
irrelevant, of course, but it may be interesting to say that, since these
words were written, I have found that even a Highland stag is not afraid of
a motor-car, which shows a Highland stag to have far more sense than some
reasoning men.

Newmarket we have seen before, and since this time also it was passed
without a halt, whereas on a later visit we stopped for a while, it need
not detain us now. Our road, which kept to the high ground to the
south-east of Mildenhall Fen, took us first through characteristic environs
of Newmarket not seen on the former tour, past endless training grounds,
trim houses and carefully-built stables, and later through the wild heaths
known as Icklingham and Weather Heath, the latter actually 182 feet above
the sea-level. Right well, no doubt, that last-named heath has earned its
name, for it is easy to imagine, and much more comfortable to imagine than
to feel, how a gale from the north or west would have swept across the fens
over that heath. For that matter there is not a single eminence of more
than 200 feet between Weather Heath and the gales from the North Sea, so
the east wind swept it too. Here the hand of man has wrought a great and
beneficial alteration in the features of nature. Mention has been made
before of the belts, clearly planted for partridge driving, to be seen in
some parts of East Anglia, and they must be noticed more particularly a few
miles farther on, when we pass Elvedon. The landowners who planted them,
and the pheasant coverts, have improved the scenery and their own shooting
at the same time. They cannot, perhaps, be credited with absolute and
unalloyed altruism. And soon, on this naturally bleak upland, the road was
sheltered on either side by close hedges of fir, trimmed to a height of ten
feet or so, such as I never saw before, nor have seen since, out of
Norfolk. They cannot be meant for screens to conceal the guns from the
driven birds, for the British public has to stand a good deal of shooting
in illegal proximity to high roads, but it would hardly tolerate permanent
arrangements to that end, even in Norfolk or Suffolk, where game is
sacrosanct. There can be nothing of this kind here, nor, if there were,
would it have been necessary to plant both sides of the road. No--these
hedges, charming because of their quaintness, can have been planted in no
other spirit than that of humanity, in the widest sense of the word. They
break the monotony of the landscape, and that is something; close and
impervious, they must break also the force of the wind and must form an
effectual barrier to the slashing rain that the wind sends with terrible
force before its breath. They are an unmixed blessing, a wonderful
improvement to the conditions of wayfaring, and it only remains to be hoped
that there may arise no county surveyor who, using the arbitrary discretion
given to him by law, shall decree that these merciful shelters be laid low
in the season of the year when his word is law.

On we glided with supreme ease--the whole distance from Newmarket to
Thetford being eighteen miles, but the "going so good," as foxhunters would
say, that distance counts for little--and the evidence of the cult of St.
Pheasant was more and more conspicuous. Were we not drawing near to Elvedon
Hall--an Italian house built in 1876 for the Maharajah Dhuleep Singh, now
the property of Lord Iveagh--and have not fabulous "bags" been long a
tradition of Elvedon Hall estate? Let it not be supposed for a moment that
this fact is mentioned by way of pandering to the prejudice of protesting
Radicals, or of joining in the chorus of ignorant invective against
game-preservation, now happily seldom heard in the land. Looking at this
bleak upland, having regard to the recent and the probable future history
of British agriculture, and, if a personal allusion be permissible, to the
well-known character of the present owner of Elvedon Hall, it is plain that
this ground could not be better employed than as a game preserve, that as
such it probably produces more food and gives more employment than if it
were in the hands of farmers, and that, if this were not so, Lord Iveagh
would not be the man to preserve game. There is no East Anglian grievance
here, and East Anglia certainly feels none. If there be any grievance at
all it is that some of the money primarily made on the banks of the Liffey
is spent in East Anglia; but, no doubt, much of it comes indirectly from
East Anglia also, and there is no sort of doubt that Lord Iveagh does his
duty, and much more than his duty, by Ireland as well as by England, more
completely than most men.

Leaving Elvedon behind we sped to Thetford, passing, a mile or so beyond
the gates of Elvedon, across the county boundary and out of Suffolk into
Norfolk. The character of the scenery remained unchanged. We were in a land
of heaths, barren and pleasing, and of rabbit warrens, some of them very
ancient and famed for the quality of the skins and fur of the rabbits
reared among them. Arthur Young found this country from Northwold to
Thetford, and again from Thetford to Ingham, "an uncultivated sheep-walk,"
and as he made no suggestion for its improvement generally (in spite of the
success achieved in the neighbourhood by "one of the best farmers in
England [Mr. Wright]," through the use of marl, which was not even "the fat
soapy kind)," it may be taken that the case is a fairly hopeless one. The
rabbits probably pay as well as anything else would, and we have to thank
them, and the sterility of the soil, for the preservation of a fine tract
of wild and open land, and for the sense of freedom in passing through it.

As for Thetford, its motto certainly ought to be "Ichabod." There are few
places in England, possessed in their time of a substantial reputation,
whose glory has departed more completely. It was the scene of a fierce
battle between Dane and Saxon; it was the second city in Norfolk in point
of importance; it had a mint so late as the days of Henry II; its priory
was founded by Roger Bigod, but is now an uninteresting ruin; it had twenty
churches, five market-places, and twenty-four main streets in the time of
Edward III; it was the diocesan centre of East Anglia for nineteen glorious
years, from 1075 to 1094. Also it has always had its vast earthwork,
commonly known as the "mound," commonly believed also to be of enormous
antiquity, Roman at the latest, and by virtue of it Thetford has been
identified with the Roman Sitomagus. It is a little hard that, when all the
rest of the glory of Thetford is gone, even the Mound, which without
excavation is totally devoid of interest, should have the glamour taken
away from it and that investigators on scientific principles have exploded
the Sitomagus bubble. Mr. Rye says:--

"It has been guessed to be Sitomagus, and certainly many signs of Roman
occupation have been found here. But the great 'Castle Mound,' steep and
high, with its grass-grown sides, so difficult even in times of peace to
climb up, is the chief object of interest in the town. There are no traces
of buildings on it, and the platform at the top is so small that the
generally received theory that it was thrown up as a refuge against the
Danes is obviously untenable. The labour and energy necessary to create
such a mound would have been enormous, and surely would have been expended
in comparatively recent times, such as those in which the Pirate Danes
harried our country, to more practical use. That the mound is mainly
artificial I have little doubt; but whether it was a burial mound or not
cannot now be discovered without deeper excavations than are likely to be
allowed."

Considering that the earthwork is a hundred feet high and a thousand feet
in compass it would certainly be rather a large-sized burial mound. Let us
look at what Mr. Haverfield says. He relegates Thetford to an index of the
"principal places where Roman remains have been found, or supposed, in
Norfolk," but does not dignify it by a position in the text, which is
confined to "places where vestiges of permanent occupation have been
found." The "finds" at Thetford have been first Roman coins, according to
Sir Thomas Browne and Blomefield. But coins alone do not carry us far.

"Hoards of coins have their own value for the students of Political
Economy, since they often reveal secrets in the history of the Roman
currency. But they do not so often illustrate the occupation or character
of the districts in which they are found. Sometimes they occur in the
vicinity of dwellings, buried--for instance--in a back garden, which the
owner had constantly under his eye. But they occur no less often in places
remote from any known Romano-British habitation; they have been lost or
purposely hidden in a secluded and unfrequented spot."

This is a general remark on the test applicable to "sporadic finds," such
as those at Thetford, which are banished to the index. There another
sporadic "find," which if it had been real would have conveyed more
meaning, receives very short shrift. "A lamp is said by Dawson Turner to
have been found at Thetford in 1827 under the Red Mound, and the lamp he
figures is now in Norwich Museum." That sounds promising, does it not? Men
might bury hoards of money in odd places and forget them, or meet their
deaths before they unearthed them. They would hardly be likely so to
conceal their household lamps. Alas for this pretty piece of foundation for
an imaginative structure, "the curator tells me it was brought from
Carthage, and presented by Edward Stanley, Bishop of Norwich, and it
certainly has the look of a foreign object." Finally, "Thetford has been
called Sitomagus by Camden and others, and also Iciani; but it does not
seem to be a Roman site at all; its earthworks are post-Roman. Camden's
'river Sit or Thet' is a piece of characteristically bad etymologising."

The learned scholar deigns to write no more than this of Thetford, and,
being concerned only with Romano-British Norfolk, sets up no positive
theory. But why was the Mound built? Exit Mr. Rye's _à priori_ view, that
it could not have been built in such comparatively recent times as those of
the Danish invasions, because the energy and labour would have been
expended to better purpose in those times, for the Mound is post-Roman. It
may have been raised between the date of the Roman "departure," in 410, and
that at which the kingdom of East Anglia was established. This is one of
the most delightful chapters of history, to a persistently boyish mind,
because next to nothing is known about it. There is no reason to suppose
that the Romanized Britons remaining in East Anglia, as it was to be,
welcomed the Saxons with open arms, and every reason to believe that the
Saxons were a thoroughly barbarous crew. The Britons may have raised it
against them. Or again, it may have been raised by the Saxons against the
Danes, as, in the opinion of Dr. Jessopp, were Castle Rising, Castle Acre,
Mileham, Elmham, and the Norwich Mound. The works at some of these places
are certainly post-Roman, and at none of them is there clear evidence of
Roman occupation; in fact, the chances are that they were all of later
date; and the chances are also that there was a great deal more fighting in
these parts between 410 and 800 A.D. than the muse of history has chosen to
reveal. But this problem is glanced at later. As for Mr. Rye's _à priori_
view that the exertion would have been better employed in those days, why,
bless the man, Offa's Dyke was made, from the mouth of the Dee to that of
the Wye, late in the eighth century, and it is a Cyclopean work.

The Mound is "wrop in mystery," that is all about it, and a heap of earth
whereof the meaning is not known to the learned is a precious dull
spectacle. So, to tell the plain truth, is Thetford. To us the most
interesting facts it provided were a substantial tea at the "Bell," itself
quite old enough to please. While tea was in preparation we saw quite as
much of Thetford as any reasonable man could wish to see; when tea came it
was marked by the appearance of weird things in the nature of tea-cakes,
combining something of the toughness of the muffin and the texture of dry
toast, not very new dry toast, with the shape of the crumpet. The other
memory of Thetford is of a strange old man, having toy windmills for sale
and attached to every part of his person, after the fashion of those street
musicians who, by dint of ingenious contrivances in string, can play, or at
any rate make a noise with, some half-dozen rude instruments at the same
time. This wandering toy seller was a blessing in disguise. He was, and is,
a providential reminder that windmills, here, there, and everywhere, are
striking objects in the East Anglian landscape. Travelling eastward from
the Midlands one sees them as far west as Buckinghamshire, and there not in
the Chilterns only, and in East Anglia proper their name is legion. In or
out of working order--and in a country of much wind travelling fast, of
water moving, as a rule, very slowly, they are mostly in working
order--they add picturesque character to the landscape. Moreover, in beauty
they have a distinct advantage over the watermill. The latter may be, often
is, exquisite at close quarters; its foaming stream, its dripping and moss
covered wheel, its gleaming pond with willow-shadowed or elder-girt bank,
are among the loveliest objects in England when seen at close quarters.
Your windmill, on the other hand, must in the nature of things be placed
either on an eminence or in a wide and open space. Not so beautiful,
perhaps, only perhaps, at close quarters, as the watermill, it is still
more than pleasing, and it can be seen for miles. It is as a beacon on the
coast which the mariner can see for many leagues before he passes it, as
the motor-car passes the windmill, at a safe distance. Constable, it is
worth while to remember, learned some of his skill in an East Anglian
watermill.

It was only afterwards that, consulting the faithful "Murray," I learned
that Thetford had been the birthplace of Thomas Paine, "the infamous
author of _The Age of Reason_," and that the house in which he was born was
standing thirty years ago. It would not, perhaps, have been very
interesting to discover whether it was still standing; but it was decidedly
quaint to learn that Tom Paine was the son of a Quaker staymaker. Could
there be anything more incongruous? That a Quaker should be the father of
Thomas Paine was bad enough; that a Quaker should make stays--let us hope
he never measured his fair customers for them, but made them in stock
sizes--was monstrous. Yet on investigation in other books it turned out to
be a true story, and from the investigation came an awakened memory, which
others may need also, that Thomas Paine was a really influential personage
among the founders of American Independence.

During tea and the consumption of the strange tea-cakes (which may, after
all, have been slices of the traditional Norfolk dumpling, more or less
toasted) rose a suggestion that we might turn southward for three or four
miles, cross the Waveney, enter Suffolk again, and take a motorist's view
of Euston Park. It would be the same Euston Park, planted with many of the
same trees, grown bigger, which surrounded the house, when Lord Ossory
heard the thunder of guns from the east and rode off, as has been recounted
before this, to be a spectator of the great sea-fight in Sole Bay. It would
be the same house, too, for it was acquired by the first Duke of Grafton,
with the property, by marrying Lord Arlington's daughter in the days of
Charles II, and the Dukes of Grafton from time to time hold it still. The
decision not to make a detour was reached partly because, as we meant to
make Norwich by way of Attleborough and Wymondham, it would have involved a
return by the same road as that taken on the outward journey, and partly
because the descriptions were unpromising. The reference here is distinctly
not to the description in "Murray." "It is a large, good, red-brick house,
with stone quoins, built by Lord Arlington in the reign of Charles II, and
without any pretensions to beauty, except from its position in a
well-timbered and well-watered park." That description, such is the
perversity of human nature, raised a suspicion that the house might, if it
were visible from the road, turn out to be a very satisfying structure,
conveying that idea of spacious comfort and substance which is completely
lacking in many a more imposing "mansion." Nor was I moved by the fact that
Walpole wrote "the house is large and bad," for it might have been possible
to disagree with Walpole, of Strawberry Hill, on a question of taste. But
Walpole went beyond matters of mere opinion. "It was built by Lord
Arlington, and stands, as all old houses do, for convenience of water and
shelter in a hole; so it neither sees nor is seen." That settled the
question. Euston might, or might not, be one of the stately homes of
England, whose owners permit them to be inspected by strangers on stated
days; this March day might have been such a day; but not even the prospect
of seeing "Euston's watered vale and sloping plains," or some fairly
interesting portraits, or Verrio's frescoes, would have induced me to avail
myself of the privilege, if indeed it had existed. I know what the
legitimate inmates of a great house feel on those occasions. Besides,
motorists are unpopular in ducal parks, and with good reason. It is
absolutely true that a duke, riding a bicycle in his own park, has been
abused, coarsely, violently, and recently, by a motorist who was enjoying
that park by the duke's grace. That park is now closed to motorists, and no
wonder; and the case is not exceptional in character.

So we glided onward--gliding is the true word for the onward movement of a
good car--over the open ground of Croxton Heath first, then past sundry
villages, not lying close up to the high road, between the houses of
Attleborough, and noticed, without halting, Attleborough's fine church.
After this, for quite a long while, there were no more villages, and then,
in front of us and dominating the view, rose a huge church, having two
towers, one at the west end. It stirred memory of pleasant browsings in
_Norfolk and Norwich Notes and Queries_. This could be, and in fact was,
none other than Wymondham, pronounced Windham, where the Benedictine monks
and the parishioners quarrelled over the parish church, which had been
appropriated to the abbey. So bitterly did they quarrel that the east end,
transepts, and part of the nave were walled off for the monks--they
certainly took the lion's share--in 1410, the parishioners being relegated
to a portion of the nave; and there, at the west end, they built them a
tower and hung bells in 1476.

A mighty religious house was this of Wymondham, entitled to all wrecks
between Eccles, Happisburgh, and Tunstead, and to a tribute of two thousand
eels every year from Elingley. This tribute, we may be sure, was paid in
Lent, for it is pretty clear from the _Paston Letters_ that, while herrings
were the stock food of the days of fasting, eels were the luxury that made
them tolerable. Mistress Agnes Paston writes to her husband in London that
she has secured the herrings--from Yarmouth, no doubt, as she lived hard by
at Caister-by-Yarmouth--but that the eels are delayed, which appears to be
accounted very sad. Just because this was a mighty religious house at
Wymondham it is not surprising to find that Kett, of the famous rebellion,
was a Wymondham man. Here, unfortunately, it is necessary to be at partial
variance with Mr. Walter Rye. He writes: "Lingard, as of late Professor
Rogers, has said that Kett's Rebellion had a religious origin; the former
so writing from religious bias, the latter from ignorance." That is rather
a brusque way of putting things, for, although Lingard, as a Roman
Catholic, was a little apt to think too ill of the effects of Henry VIII's
policy towards the religious houses, Professor Rogers deserved to be spoken
of with more respect. Enclosures were, of course, the main cause for Kett's
Rebellion in 1549, and Kett had a private grudge to avenge against one
Sergeant Flowerdew at the outset. But, as a Wiltshire labourer once said to
me, "where there's stoans there's carn," so, where there have been great
religious houses in England, the rebellious spirit manifests itself in the
pages of history before and after those houses came to an end. At Abingdon
and at Bury St. Edmunds--I quote the two places of which the story happens
to be fresh in my memory--conflicts were incessant, and there is no reason
to doubt that the state of things was the same at Wymondham. The religious
houses had become, with exceptions of course, corrupt within and
extortionate without the gates. They were oppressors of the poor, whose
best friends they had once been; there was no limit to the variety of the
tolls they demanded. They were by far the largest landowners in the
country. All this had ceased but a very few years before Kett's Rebellion,
but the spirit which it had created, the very men in whom that spirit had
been raised by extortion and injustice, were very much alive. If Kett's
Rebellion had not such a directly religious origin as Lingard supposed, it
is more than likely that it was indirectly due to the spirit of unrest and
discontent which always arose in the vicinities of religious houses.
Indeed, the very success of Henry VIII's stern treatment of the
monasteries is proof positive that he was supported by popular opinion. As
for the enclosures, some may have been made by the new lords of manors;
others, and probably the vast majority, had been made by the grasping
"religious." Moreover, the petition sent up to the king when the rebellion
was at its height contained express allusions to religious grievances. It
asked "that parsons shall be resident, and all having a benefice worth more
than £10 a year shall, by himself or deputy, teach the poor parish children
the catechism and the primer." Not a very outrageous demand surely; and if
we scan the material grievances complained against--establishment of
numerous dovecots, and claims to exclusive rights of fishing, for
example--we see that they are essentially the grievances which the
religious houses had originated. How Kett and his men marched in due course
to Mousehold Heath, on the outskirts of Norwich, the grievous fighting
which followed in and about Norwich, how they killed Lord Sheffield by the
Palace Gates at a spot marked to this day by a stone with an S on it, how
Warwick, after many reverses, finally defeated Kett, who was hanged, drawn,
and quartered, shall not be told at length in this volume. These things are
an essential part of the history of England; they are far and away the most
exciting events in the history of Norwich, and, since they cannot be dealt
with fully here, they are best passed over with this slight mention.

At Wymondham is, or was, an old house having a very curious inscription,
"_Nec mihi glis servus, nec hospes hirudo_," which is not quite free from
difficulty even as it stands, for a verb is left to be understood, and it
may be "_sit_" or "_est_." In the one case the guest hopes, in the other
the house boasts, the servant to be no dormouse and the host no leech.
Things were worse when somebody read _hirudo_ as _hirundo_, though one
might make attractive translations of that too. But we cannot linger over
that when we are close to the scene of a tragedy far more recent, and
therefore a good deal more affecting, than that of Kett's Rebellion.
Stanfield Hall is close to Wymondham. It is the reputed birthplace of Amy
Robsart, who may or may not have been murdered at Cumner--Lady Warwick says
she was not--and Stanfield Hall was certainly the scene of a series of
remarkably cold-blooded murders in times which may still be counted recent.
Prefacing a frank confession that my personal interest in murders is small,
which seems to be a misfortune judging by the enraptured attention they
attract from many intelligent and cultivated persons, I endeavour to give
some account of these murders partly because I desire to please, partly
because a very old friend, now dead, devoted a vast amount of attention to
them. His meticulous care in studying the _locus in quo_ may serve to
compensate for my lukewarmness as a student of homicide; nay more, his
interest in the subject seems to have been infectious, for, having read his
monograph of some five-and-twenty octavo pages on the subject since the
foregoing sentence was penned, I am now distinctly conscious of being keen
on the subject and of finding interest in it.

Truth to tell, it was not the first time of reading. The late Sir Llewelyn
Turner, of Carnarvon, was one of those rare men who, inhabiting remote
corners of the provinces, escape provincialism and retain intelligent
appreciation of public affairs and a sympathetic interest in all sorts of
events. In the year 1902, having committed to paper his memories and
opinions upon a large number of subjects, and being all but eighty years
old, he entrusted me with the task of preparing his MS. for the printers;
and he had the satisfaction of seeing himself in print, to the extent of
some five hundred pages with illustrations, before he died. Among the
miscellaneous chapters of the book is one entitled "Stanfield Hall and its
Terrible Tragedies." It is, of course, far too long for quotation, but it
is also a treasure-house of nice points, some of them perhaps new even to
precise students of the history of crime.

"In the year 18-- I accepted an invitation from my valued friend,
connection, and old schoolfellow, Colonel Boileau, to pay him a visit in
this interesting old moated house, the scene of fearful murders and
bloodshed, viz., the murders of Mr. Isaac Jermy, the Recorder of Norwich,
of his son Mr. Isaac Jermy Jermy, and the shooting of Mrs. Jermy Jermy, the
son's wife, and her maid, by probably one of the greatest scoundrels that
ever disgraced humanity, James Bloomfield Rush." The quotation will serve
to show that my old friend's literary method is too leisurely and minute to
justify the repetition of the story in his own words. Truth to tell he
rambled somewhat and was not unduly particular about the sequence of
events. Still it may be possible after study of his monograph, to produce a
narrative of this crime having something more of freshness than would
follow from reference to the text-books of crime; for these murders, it
must be remembered, were on a colossal scale, and the case, although simple
enough in its legal aspect, has a place among the celebrated crimes by
virtue of its wholesale character, its beginnings in long-planned roguery,
and its culmination in thorough-paced brutality. The foundations of the
programme of crime which was finished on the 28th of November, 1848, were
laid many years before, and it is a curious study in the wickedness of
which human nature is capable to trace the evolution of the scheme.

In the second half of the eighteenth century the then head of the Jermy
family held Stanfield Hall and its estate as, probably, his predecessors of
the same name had held it for centuries. Jermiin is one of the Norfolk
names of early date for which Mr. Walter Rye claims a Danish origin, and he
was probably a Jermy (or letters to that effect) who, in Tudor times, built
Stanfield Hall, and moated it round and about. At any rate a Jermy held it
when our story opens. A poor relation of the name sold his reversionary
interest in the estate to a Mr. Preston, and Mr. Preston came into the
estate, "in the shoes of" the poor relation, and was able to settle down in
Stanfield Hall. Outside the lodge gates lay the Home Farm, having James
Rush for its tenant, a plausible fellow, it would seem, but a whole-souled
rascal at heart. Ascertaining that his landlord was going to London by
coach on a given day, Rush engaged the three remaining inside places for
himself, and so agreeable did he contrive to make himself to the old man on
the journey that he returned to Stanfield not merely as tenant of the Home
Farm, but also as accredited agent of the estate. As such he had access to
Mr. Preston's title-deeds, which he stole before Mr. Preston died.

So Mr. Preston the elder slept with his fathers, if he had any, and Mr.
Isaac Preston his son reigned in his stead, Rush remaining agent and tenant
of the Home Farm; and, as Mr. Isaac Preston was Recorder of Norwich, the
beautiful old house within easy access of the great town suited his needs
admirably. He settled down in it at once, and later, as we shall see, he
began to think of adding to the estate. When exactly the Recorder
discovered that the title-deeds were missing my authority does not relate,
but probabilities seem to point to an early discovery, coupled with a
suspicion, which was perhaps difficult to bring home, that Rush had
annexed them. That would give Rush a hold over the Recorder, and it is only
on that hypothesis that the Recorder's subsequent conduct in relation to
Rush can be explained. At one and the same time we find Rush practically
bankrupt, and the heirs of the original Jermys egged on by Rush into an
attempt to recover the family estate in the Court of Chancery. The Recorder
really was in rather a tight place, for the simple reason that he could not
have proved his title without the deeds, and that he could not bring the
theft of them home to Rush. Still he was Recorder of Norwich and a person
of consideration, and when the claimants, weary of the delays of the Court
of Chancery, organized a small army of emergency men in Norwich, took
possession of the house by force and held it, barricading the windows and
the bridge over the moat, the dragoons then quartered in Norwich soon
restored the peace. In so acting the claimants were but following an
ancient precedent of the county of Norfolk, for, early in the fifteenth
century, the Duke of Norfolk besieged Caister Castle, built by "that
renowned knight and valiant soldier" Sir John Falstolf, then deceased, and
occupied, on what ground does not appear clearly from the _Paston Letters_,
by Sir John Paston's family. There were, however, material differences
between the two cases: the first of them being that the Duke had apparently
at least a show of title to Caister Castle through the Courts, while in
this case the claimants were anticipating the judgment of the Court, and
the next being a trifle of four centuries, for it was so recently as April,
1839, that John Larner, Daniel Wingfield, and eighty others, the emergency
army in fact, were indicted for riot at Stanfield Hall. Still it is not
easy to understand how, after so lawless a proceeding at so recent a date,
the presiding judge could have passed, as he did, a series of sentences of
from three months' to one week's imprisonment. True it is that the Recorder
recommended them to mercy as ignorant persons "actuated by a mistaken
notion of property"; but the sentences are still hard to understand. So,
for that matter, are many sentences in these days.

At about the same time the Recorder brought a suit (Preston _v._ Rush)
against Rush for breach of covenant, no doubt in relation to the Home Farm,
and it was clearly after this that the Recorder went through the process,
expensive in those days, of taking the name of Jermy because he "found that
it was necessary by the old settlements of the estate that the owner should
bear the name of Jermy."

A year earlier than the riot, so far as I can make out the dates, some land
called the Potash Farm came into the market, and it is clear from the
Recorder's conduct over this matter that he felt himself to be very much at
the mercy of Rush. He must have known Rush to be practically insolvent, he
knew that the title-deeds were missing, and he probably suspected Rush; yet
he sent out Rush as his agent to bid for the Potash Farm, which adjoined
Stanfield Park. Rush came back from the auction, having bought the farm,
not for his master, but for himself, at a price greater than that to which
his master had limited him; and the Recorder actually lent him £5000,
repayable in ten years and secured by mortgage, wherewith to complete the
purchase. Of course the price may have been considerably more than £5000,
and the bargain may have seemed on the face of it as promising as that
which the original Preston made with the "poor relation"; but it all sounds
as if Rush had a stronger hold of the Recorder than even the possession of
the title-deeds would give him, or as if the Recorder were a strangely
nervous and foolish man.

Eight years passed away, one knows not how so far as these persons are
concerned, and the end of them found Rush a widower, with several children,
occupying the Potash Farm and holding another at Felmingham, fourteen miles
off, also from the Recorder, now Mr. Isaac Jermy, by due form of law. At
the end of those eight years Rush advertised for a governess, engaged one
Emily Sandford, who replied to the advertisement, and betrayed her; but she
continued to live with him. Then came November of 1848, on the last day of
which the £5000 was payable, and the Recorder, often entreated, would not
give Rush time. It does not appear that the Chancery suit had failed
utterly and hopelessly, but it is clear from the sequel that the original
Jermys had fallen very low in the world, and the Recorder, recognizing that
they were no longer dangerous, may have found courage. If so, it cost him
his life. The day of fate and blood was the 28th of November. On the
evening of that day Mr. Jermy, according to his usual custom, one no doubt
familiar to Rush, went to the hall door at half-past eight to look at the
prospects of the weather; and the night was fine for the time of year, for
five persons, servant girls and their sweethearts, were, as the evidence at
the trial showed, gossiping by the gate beyond the moat, only thirty-five
yards from the hall door. No sooner did Mr. Jermy come out than Rush, who
was disguised, shot him dead with a pistol, the muzzle of which must almost
have touched his body. "The fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs were shattered,
the entire body of the heart was carried away." The loiterers on the bridge
ran away in terror. Mr. Jermy the younger, rushing from the drawing-room to
see what was the matter, was met, and shot dead on the spot, by Rush in the
corridor. Mrs. Jermy the younger, hurrying into the hall, saw her husband's
body, ran to call the butler, Watson, and was met by her maid Eliza
Chastney. Rush encountered them both in a passage, shot Mrs. Jermy in the
arm and the maid in the thigh and groin. Mrs. Jermy's daughter and the cook
ran out by the back door and took refuge in the coach-house; the coachman
jumped into the moat, swam across, and rode to Wymondham for help. As for
the butler, he heard the first shot, went into the passage, "saw an armed
man with a cloak and mask who motioned him to keep off," and--well, he kept
off.

Rush was arrested at Potash Farm before three o'clock the next morning; his
trial, at which Emily Sandford was a most valuable witness for the Crown
and a most deadly one to him, attracted immense attention. Sir Llewelyn
says: "The excitement throughout the nation exceeded anything of the kind
ever known, and _The Times_ actually sent down a printing press to Norwich
to report daily the incidents of the magisterial and coroner's inquiries."

Perhaps it need hardly be said that inquiry has shown the statement about
_The Times_ and the printing press to be entirely without foundation: for,
since _The Times_ as a whole has always been printed in London, and London
has always been its place of publication, nothing could have been gained by
sending a printing press to Norwich. It would have been just as wise to
send a piano, a plough, or a pump. But it does not follow that Sir Llewelyn
Turner is to be distrusted in other matters because he knew nothing of the
mechanical technicalities of journalism. What happened, no doubt, was that
_The Times_ secured and published a very full report, and good folks,
wondering how the miracle was performed, hit upon the idea of a special
dispatch of a printing press, and were satisfied because an explanation
which they could not understand had been set up. Suggestions quite as
impossible are made in these days. A correspondent, who very likely cannot
write shorthand, is frequently asked whether he hands his shorthand notes
directly to the printers or to the telegraphists, neither of whom would be
able to cope with the notes if he were capable of making them. Huge crowds
attended the funeral of the victims at Wymondham. Immense excitement also
was caused by the trial of Rush at Norwich Assizes, although the issue
cannot have been in doubt for a moment after the evidence of Emily
Sandford. Indeed, the report of the trial is only interesting now as
showing, by comparison with discoveries made later, how little the police
had found out, and as bearing, especially with reference to the violence of
Rush at the trial, upon the kinship of homicidal crime and madness. The
attraction of the case consisted then, and consists now, in its sheer
brutality and prodigality of bloodshed and in the long series of cunning
plots, to be outlined shortly, by which it was preceded. Within the space
of a very few minutes Rush had murdered two persons and had grievously
wounded two others; he had shown himself to be quite an exceptional paragon
of villainy, and public curiosity to see so hardened a ruffian was natural.
Nor need it be matter for surprise that the public execution of Rush at
Norwich, where the remains of the Norman castle on the Mound in the heart
of the city were then the gaol and the place of execution, was attended by
a vast concourse of people. If ever there was a good excuse for gloating
over a wretch ignominiously done to death it was present in the case of
James Rush the wholesale murderer.

In all these thoughts stirred by the sight of Stanfield Hall there is, it
may be, little of novelty to students of crimes and criminals, even though
many of the details may have been forgotten. But my old friend's monograph
has a peculiar interest and value because, although he wrote with the
failing memory of one well-stricken in years, it is possible to follow in
it an elaborate development of criminal cunning almost, if not quite,
without parallel in the history of crime. Also it enables one to see a long
string of earlier crimes, probably committed by Rush, which, while they
could not have been mentioned at his trial, would have well qualified him
for admission to the roll of "unmitigated miscreants," disgracefully
distinguished by "pre-eminence in ill-doing," whom Mr. Thomas Seccombe and
his associates gibbeted in _Twelve Bad Men_ (Fisher Unwin, 1894). His
preparations for the crime were of the most elaborate character; his plans
for taking the most complete advantage of it when it had been committed,
and for so perpetrating it that suspicion might fall upon others, were of
an absolutely diabolical ingenuity. Let some of the details of those plans
be enumerated. He had provided numerous disguises, some of which were not
discovered until long after he had been hanged. He had covered with straw,
as if for cattle, his most convenient path to the Hall, and his footsteps
could not be traced on the straw. He had made Emily Stanford drive with him
towards the Hall, so that she might be seen with him by a turnpike-keeper
and the lodge-keeper, on the 10th of October, 1848, and the 21st of
November, 1848. He had forged documents of both those dates, which were
afterwards found under the floor of a cupboard in Potash Farm. The first
was an agreement between the Recorder and himself whereby the Recorder gave
him three more years for the payment of the £5000; the next was an
agreement between the same parties that, if Rush gave up the missing
title-deeds, the Recorder would burn the mortgage deed of Potash Farm and
give Rush a lease of the Felmingham estate. It was further agreed that Rush
should do all he could to assist the Recorder in retaining possession.
There was also a forged lease of Felmingham to Rush. To all these Emily
Sandford had signed her name as witness without knowing the contents. To
the efficacy of them all the death of the Recorder was indispensable, for
of course he would have denounced the forgery at once, and the death of Mr.
Jermy the younger, who knew his father's affairs intimately, would be a
decided help. But Rush, although he had no scruples at all about taking
life, as he proved very conclusively, had a very considerable regard for
the skin of his own neck. The new Jermys were to be ruthlessly
exterminated; the old Jermys, or some of them (he did not care how many),
were to be hanged, and Rush was to become a rich man. He inveigled some of
the old Jermys into the vicinity of Stanfield Hall on the day of the
murders; he left on the floor of one of the passages in the Hall a warning
in printed letters:--

     "There are seven of us here, three of us outside and
     four inside the hall, all armed as you see us here. If
     any of you servants offer to leave the premises or to
     folloo (_sic_) you will be shot dead. Therefore all of
     you keep in the servants' hall, and you nor anybody
     else will take any arme (_sic_), for we are only come
     to take possession of the Stanfield Hall property.

                   "THOMAS JERMY, the Owner."

The very illiteracy of this document may have been designed, for the
original Jermys, having come down in the world, had, as Rush well knew,
come down with a run to the very bottom. Indeed, one of them, probably this
Thomas, swore at the trial that he did not know how to write. If he had
been in the dock, instead of in the witness-box, as Rush had planned, his
mouth would have been closed and, with the Recorder and his son dead, with
the memory of the riot of 1839 fresh in the minds of the jury, things might
have been very awkward for Thomas and others of the true Jermy family. They
had been seen about the Hall on the day of the murders; the murderer had
disguised himself, most likely so that he might be taken for one of the
true Jermys; he had not been careful to go unseen, though he had avoided
observation in leaving Potash Farm; the rude warning, printed on the cover
of a book, was just the kind of missive an illiterate person might be
expected to produce; and Thomas Jermy would have stood in quite measurable
peril of that last interview with Calcraft which Rush went through with
callous effrontery. Of the penmanship of the other forged documents it is
not possible to speak, but their phraseology is sufficiently clear, and
they might have passed muster. The question whether they would have done so
or not has, however, no bearing on the character of Rush. He had laid his
plan with devilish ingenuity; he had made all things ready in such fashion
as to satisfy his knowledge of what legal documents ought to be. It was a
plan as complete, cunning, and merciless as it was possible for man to
devise.

Sir Llewelyn Turner had little doubt that, if Rush had escaped scot-free,
and the forged documents, or either of them, had been effectual, Rush would
have murdered Emily Sandford also; and, in the circumstances, the view can
hardly be stigmatized as uncharitable. She would have had Rush at her
mercy; she would have been in his way; and Rush had no scruples in dealing
with those who were in his way. It was believed locally that he got rid of
his mother and forged a codicil in his own favour to her will. That
forgery at any rate succeeded, for he obtained £1500 by it; and the
circumstantial story of his stepfather's death, by which the money came to
the mother, raises a strong suspicion that Rush murdered his stepfather
also. It shall be told in Sir Llewelyn Turner's words:--

"His stepfather was shot in 1844. He had gone to sleep after dinner, which,
I believe, was his custom, and from that sleep he was not allowed to wake.
His mother was ill upstairs, and Rush's account was that he (Rush) had gone
upstairs, leaving his gun on a table; that, hearing a shot, he went
downstairs and found the gun and his stepfather on the floor, the gun
having exploded and killed the latter."

Rush himself gave the intelligence to the coroner, and he was the only
witness. His story was believed and a verdict of accidental death was
returned, but the subsequent career of Rush leaves little doubt that the
guilt of this murder also lay upon so much of conscience as he possessed.

Stanfield Hall, then, a very beautiful building still, although full of
tragic memories, may justly claim to have been the scene of crimes as
brutal, planned by a brain as devilish and ruthless, as ever were committed
in England or found in man.

From Wymondham we swung on to Norwich easily, and without difficulty or
incident of any kind, and at half-past six or thereabouts passed under an
archway into the Court of the "Maid's Head"; and the "Maid's Head" is an
absolute reason for ending one chapter and beginning another.




CHAPTER V

SPRING. [IN NORWICH] AND TO ELY AND CAMBRIDGE

     The entry into Norwich--The "Maid's Head"--Preserved
     from modernity by Mr. Walter Rye--A car in the yard
     quite incongruous--Queen Elizabeth's chamber--The Duke
     of Norfolk--Macaulay's description of his predecessors
     in the seventeenth century--Their pomp and
     hospitality--The contrast--Norwich trade, past and
     present--The Pastons and the "Maid's Head"--A cavalier
     house--Surprised Freemasons--Meaning of "Maid's
     Head"--The Cathedral at night--Blocked by
     houses--Cathedral society--Trollope--A vision of the
     east end of the cathedral--The cattle market--Local
     breeds prevail--A wise practice--But Jerseys best for
     private houses--Cleanliness of the general market--In
     the cathedral--Start--Make sure of exits--The Earlham
     Road--The Gurneys of Earlham--Norfolk dialect--The
     breath of spring--Chaucer and Norfolk--Lynn's idle
     claim--Kimberley Hall--The Wodehouse crest--Hingham
     Church--Hingham, Massachusetts--Scoulton
     Mere--Black-headed gulls--Gastronomic advice--A land of
     heaths--Fast running--Another car overtaken--Dust
     realized--Watton and Wayland Wood--not "the Babes'"
     wood--Brandon--Gunflints and
     rabbits--Mildenhall--Fordham--Soham--First view of
     Ely--Glorious but delayed--Better from railway--Later
     view less satisfying--Beauty of Bishop's
     Palace--Distressing verger causes retreat from
     cathedral--Home viâ Cambridge and Royston--A thorough
     wetting.


We had crawled through the narrow and crooked streets of Norwich to its
central Market Place under the Castle Mound; swinging to the left on
entering it. Turning to the left again we were soon in Tombland, a wide and
open space opposite the west end of the cathedral, the meaning of the name
of which is uncertain. We had seen the cathedral spire rising against the
clear sky, had glanced through two great archways leading to the Cathedral
Church itself, had passed on our left the "Stranger's House" already
mentioned, though the quaint fact that the faces of the figures of Hercules
and Samson supporting the arch of its door are adorned with "Imperial"
beardlets was forgotten then. At the end of Tombland we were in Wensum
Street, and the "Maid's Head" was the first house on the right. We entered
it by an archway some way down the street, and forthwith, in the covered
courtyard, there was such a contrast between the old and the new as has
never been matched in my experience. The surroundings, thanks to Mr. Walter
Rye, who bought the ancient house and saved it from destruction, and
thereby won the gratitude of every traveller of taste, were as nearly
identical with those of the fifteenth century (when the Pastons used the
"Mayde's Hedde" and spoke well of its accommodation) as was possible
consistently with some modernisms which are indispensable. The bar parlour
on the left, from which an attentive hostess issued to take our
commands--one felt she ought to have a chatelaine and a wimple--seemed to
be, and was, of almost immemorial age. So did the surroundings generally.
Yet in the centre was the most modern thing in this world, the very
incarnation of novelty, a motor-car, and a six-cylinder motor-car at that,
and staring us in the face was a notice requesting motorists, in effect, to
make no unnecessary noise, but to deposit their passengers or pick them up,
as the case might be, rapidly as possible and then depart. In such
surroundings, surely, no motorist possessed of even decent feeling could
stand in need of this request; but, since it was there, it must be assumed
that it came into existence because misconduct had shown it to be needed.
For ourselves, we almost felt inclined to push the car, instead of
compelling it to propel itself, onwards through the covered court and into
the carriage yard and garage beyond. It was, and it is, a beautiful
car--for cars can be beautiful, and half the assertions that they are ugly
are due to the fact that the generation has not been sufficiently educated
in relation to cars, has not grown familiar enough with them, to know what
the lines of beauty in them are. Still, in the court of the "Maid's Head,"
the car was an anachronism, a jarring note, not in the picture, and the
sooner it was moved out of sight the better. So moved it was and the
original picture remained. The white cap of a _chef_, having a countenance
that might pass for French beneath it, did not spoil the picture in the
least. It was easy, and very likely correct, to imagine that the costume of
male cooks and scullions has changed little with the progress of time, and
the material reflections called up by that white cap were comforting. The
man or woman who will not confess to enjoying a good dinner is usually
either a hypocrite or one who, exiled from a real and innocent pleasure of
life by a contemptible digestion, assumes airs of superiority on the ground
of an abstinence due to fear and not to asceticism.

Meanwhile the daughters had gone up a very ancient and charming staircase,
of real oak, really black, with real age, not through the application of
quick lime and water, and had been shown into "Queen Elizabeth's Chamber";
but a message that I must visit them there met me in the Jacobean bar
parlour, and the visit was more than worth paying. It was a spacious room,
if its floor area alone was considered; but of course the ceiling was very
low, and the dark beams supporting it were still lower. It would have
suited Hannah More, who loved ceilings you could touch as you stood, but it
lacked the bishops she required as an accompaniment. At least it lacked
them then. One great bed was of carved oak, relieved with gilding; another
made no impression on my memory. But the long and low windows, the shining
planks of the ancient floor, which boasted its own hills and valleys,
slopes and hollows, and the cleanliness and brightness of everything made a
very vivid and pleasant impression. Queen Elizabeth may not have slept in
that chamber or in the "Maid's Head" at all when she visited Norwich in
1578 and weird pageants were displayed in her honour; I can find no
evidence that she did, which is not to say that there is none; but the
"Maid's Head" was an old inn even then, and it is reasonably certain that
the chamber called after Queen Elizabeth was there also. It is an ideal
room for those who hanker after the old world, but do not yearn for that
dirt which, the more we think of it, seems to have been an all-pervading
characteristic of the lives of our forefathers. The "Maid's Head" is
spotlessly clean.

I prepared to saunter forth into the city for half an hour before dinner;
but at the foot of the stairs was a person, almost, perhaps, quite a
personage, whose presence was a happy coincidence. It has been noted
earlier that on a first visit to the "Royal," the ancient "Whig House" of
Norwich, Lord Kimberley was found to be a guest; and, by all that was
wonderful, here, at the foot of the stairs of the "Maid's Head," was none
other than the Duke of Norfolk with the Duchess, and both were about to
become guests of the ancient hotel. Heavens! what a contrast was this to
the scene which would have been presented on a similar visit some two
centuries ago! In that wonderful chapter on the State of England in 1685,
Macaulay has a passage which must needs be quoted, although it has been
cited very often before, and although it has the incidental disadvantage,
which I feel rather acutely, of showing the grand style side by side with
mine:--

"Norwich was the capital of a large and fruitful province. It was the
residence of a Bishop and of a Chapter. It was the chief seat of the chief
manufacture of the realm" (clothing, of course). "Some men distinguished by
learning and science had recently dwelt there; and no place in the kingdom,
except the capital and the Universities, had more attractions for the
curious. The library, the museum, the aviary, and the botanical garden of
Sir Thomas Browne, were thought by Fellows of the Royal Society well worthy
of a long pilgrimage. Norwich had also a court in miniature. In the heart
of the city stood an old palace of the Dukes of Norfolk, said to be the
largest town house in the kingdom out of London. In this mansion, to which
were annexed a tennis court, a bowling-green and a wilderness, stretching
along the banks of the Wensum, the noble family of Howard frequently
resided, and kept a state resembling that of petty sovereigns. Drink was
served to guests in goblets of pure gold. The very tongs and shovels were
of silver. Pictures by Italian masters adorned the walls. The cabinets were
filled with a fine collection of gems purchased by that Earl of Arundel
whose marbles are now among the ornaments of Oxford. Here, in the year
1671, Charles and his court were sumptuously entertained. Here, too, all
comers were annually welcomed, from Christmas to Twelfth Night. Ale flowed
in oceans for the populace. Three coaches, one of which had been built at a
cost of five hundred pounds to contain fourteen persons, were sent every
afternoon to bring ladies to the festivities; and the dances were always
followed by a luxurious banquet. When the Duke of Norfolk came to Norwich
he was greeted like a king returning to his capital. The bells of the
Cathedral and of St. Peter Mancroft were rung; the guns of the Castle were
fired; and the Mayor and Aldermen waited on their illustrious fellow
citizen with complimentary addresses. In the year 1693 the population of
Norwich was found, by actual enumeration, to be between twenty-eight and
twenty-nine thousand souls."

What a contrast! On the 9th of March, 1906, the Duke of Norfolk entered a
city of between one hundred and twelve and one hundred and thirteen
thousand souls; the bells of the cathedral and St. Peter's Mancroft were
not rung. (The latter, by the way, is the crowning ecclesiastical glory of
Norwich apart from the cathedral, and not to be confounded with St. Peter's
Permountergate, often quoted because its records are curious.) No guns were
fired. No mayor and aldermen waited upon the Duke in his palace, because
there was no palace any more. All that happened was that a quiet, bearded
English gentleman walked, limping slightly (the reward of service to his
country in South Africa), with a lady into the courtyard of the Maid's Head
Hotel and, after a parley with the hostess, vanished up the stairs and was
no more seen. It was mere luck that I saw him, and that I happened to be
able to recognize, in this unostentatious figure, the Premier Duke and
Earl, the Hereditary Earl Marshal and Chief Butler of England. He was
received with precisely the same courtesy of attention that had been shown
to us, but without servility, received in fact as he desired, and in a
manner which really did credit to him, for it was what he wished, and to
the quiet dignity of the old hostelry; and the city of Norwich at large
knew not who was within its gates. No more was left of the pomp and dignity
of the seventeenth-century palace and reception than of the clothing trade.
The Duke of Norfolk had become, in the interval, an Englishman first and a
great power in Sussex next, and the clothing trade had vanished. The city
of 112,000 souls odd subsisted, as I had been told, on the proceeds of
boots and mustard, the latter industry founded by one of whom a
correspondent of the _Norfolk and Norwich Notes and Queries_ wrote: "The
original Colman [the name means "free man"] was a jolly old fellow who used
to give me sixpence and direct me to the house for refreshment"; it
subsisted also, as I learned for myself next morning, and I venture to say
it prospered also, as one of the largest agricultural and pastoral centres
it has ever been my good fortune to witness. Times were indeed changed; but
he would be a rash man who should say that they were changed for the worse
in all respects.

Dinner in the coffee-room at the "Maid's Head" was pleasant by virtue of
its surroundings, for the room has an air of antiquity, and its deep
fireplace charmed the eye, because the cookery was distinctly good, and the
attendance was quiet and prompt as that in a well-ordered private house.
The final bill next morning too, to introduce a most important
consideration at the earliest possible moment, was quite moderate--for
England. Dinner was the time also for gentle allusion to some of the famous
associations of the inn. The Pastons had used and commended it. That their
words of praise should be blazoned on the outer door seemed right and
proper; but it was a pity to have placed near them the raptures of modern
and not very prominent newspapers. Sitting in this same inn on the morning
of his last fight with Kett and his rebels, Warwick had breakfasted, and
had then led his men, who were camped on the market-place, to victory.
Here, in the time of the rebellion, the Royalists resorted, says Mr. Rye,
and it is certain that Dame Paston's horses were seized here; but it is to
be feared that mine host of the time had but a scantily-filled till, for
Royalists were scarce in the eastern counties. Freemasons held their
lodges in the "Maid's Head" so early as 1724, and it is stated that on one
occasion a Mrs. Beatson hid behind the wainscot of the lodge-room and heard
all the mysteries. Whether such there be, myself innocent of masonry but
closely attached to friends who would certainly have advised me to take
steps to enter the brotherhood if it were likely to be to my advantage, I
have often doubted and still doubt.

My pleasure was decidedly enhanced by the fact that I knew these things in
advance, and perhaps a little increased by being able to mention them. It
was a pride to be able to say that the house was built on the site of an
ancient palace of the bishops of Norwich; that it stood on Gothic arches;
that the assembly room had a minstrel's gallery; that a carving in the
smoking-room represented a fish, possibly a ray, and that, if so, it
probably accounted for the title of the house; for the house was once
undoubtedly called either the "Myrtle Fish" or the "Molde Fish"--readings
vary--and, if either of them be a ray, a difficulty vanishes, for the
sea-fishermen of Norfolk call, or called, the ray "old maid." Certainly the
house did not take its new title on the occasion of Queen Elizabeth's
visit, for it was the "Mayde's Hedde" in 1472, and it is mentioned in a
curious petition to Wolsey, unearthed by Mr. Rye. Bless him again for
having bought and saved the inn!

After dinner, and the necessary interval for rest and burnt sacrifice, two
facts became manifest. It was a glorious moonlight night, mild for the time
of year, and through all the long day we had hardly walked so many yards as
we had traversed miles. So we started forth, and soon came to the firm
conclusion that the "pale moonlight" is every whit as conducive to a
soul-satisfying view of Norwich Cathedral as of "fair Melrose." Our first
view of the west end, after passing under the great archway giving on
Tombland, pleased not a little; but we had read something of the glories of
the cathedral, of the apse and the apsidal chapels, of Jesus and St. Luke,
abutting on the apse at either side of the east end, and the desire to see
them was strong. It was not, however, very easily satisfied; for Norwich
Cathedral, like far too many of the stateliest and best-proportioned
edifices in our congested islands, is so hedged around with houses that it
is difficult to look upon it as a whole from a sufficient distance. They
are interesting houses in their way, venerable some of them, suggestive of
peaceful lives spent in scholarly research; but they exasperate by impeding
the view, and exasperations provoke memories of Trollope's studies of
cathedral society, studies suggesting that its tone is not invariably
peaceful nor high-minded; that petty jealousies and scandal can invade the
most outwardly tranquil precincts and closes. Nay, more, we all know--there
is no direct reference here to Norwich, and I cannot remember to have met
or to have heard any evil of any inhabitant, male or female, of its
ecclesiastical dwellings--that of some cathedral society Trollope's studies
are still essentially true. On this occasion it is the plain and
unvarnished truth that the houses blocked the view, and this not too kindly
thought came to mind. The chances are that it would not have thrust itself
forward if the houses had not done likewise; and that, in point of
narrowness of view or breadth of it, nothing distinguishes dwellers in
deaneries and canons' houses, huddled round the walls of a cathedral, from
those in others which, having been placed at a respectful distance, allow
the outline of the majestic structure to be seen in its pure beauty. At
Norwich, too, there is more excuse for the huddling than in many a
cathedral city, for space was valuable in Norwich from very early times.
Citizens who taxed themselves, as those of Norwich did, to protect their
city by walls, were not likely to encourage open spaces, "lungs," as it is
the fashion to call them now, within the walled space, and the crowding of
the precincts of the cathedral by buildings mean and insignificant compared
to it--the reference is to inhabited houses only--is explained by the same
cause as the narrow streets of the city itself, streets wherein the
tramcars render life full of peril.

By fetching a compass, however, to the south, and without asking directions
of any man, we contrived to penetrate to a narrow walk beyond the east end
of the cathedral and past the cloisters, where, after finding a point of
view giving the eye shelter from the glare of incandescent lamps, we looked
upon a spectacle of indescribable beauty. At the bottom were the swelling
curves of the apse and the chapels, above them, in orderly succession, the
sloping roof and the wondrously graceful and lofty spire, outlined--for the
moon was behind it--with strange clearness and yet softened in the most
mysterious fashion, for in the borrowed light of the moon is no suspicion
of glare to dazzle the eyes. How long we gazed, spellbound and silent,
cannot be said; time passed out of our thoughts; but as we looked, I
remember, a gossamer wreath of detached cloud, lying all alone and at quite
a low elevation, drifted slowly across the face of the heaven and behind
the steeple that pointed towards it. That was all. To describe the scene is
utterly beyond my power, and, probably, to convey a complete impression of
it is not within the compass of human words; for they must proceed step by
step, idea by idea; but the vision was seen long, yet the first upward
glance revealed the whole of it, and the last lingering look showed as
much, and no more. It reduced us to silence then, to that silence which is
always the unconscious tribute to unspeakable beauty. Even now no more can
be said than that the memory of the vision remains, clear and pure, as of
the most perfect combination of man's work and Nature's background it has
ever been my privilege to behold in any part of the world.

"What meaneth this bleating of the sheep in mine ears and the lowing of the
oxen which I hear?" Such was the familiar question that occurred to me
when, early the next morning, I woke to find the light streaming in at my
window in the "Maid's Head." Then I remembered that this was Saturday
morning, and probably market-day, and I went forth quickly, and, unlike
Samuel of old, gladly, for of all beasts which minister to men's needs the
patient kine are to me the most interesting (except dogs); and, besides
that, if one desires to know something of people, as well as of places,
there are few more profitable fields for easy-going study than a large
market. For there the inhabitants of the country-side are assembled from
far and near, with the products of their farms, and one may study both man
and beast at leisure. It was fully quarter to eight before I left the
"Maid's Head," and five minutes more had passed before I was in the heart
of the market. Already droves of cattle were being driven away--to the
station probably--but hundreds, yes literally hundreds and hundreds,
remained behind, and among them circulated drovers, dealers, and butchers,
feeling their backs and loins with intelligent hands, and less rough in
their usage of the beasts, it was a pleasure to see, than is usual in some
other counties. Sheep there were also, and pigs doubtless, perhaps in
another market. It seemed to me, not by any means innocent of cattle
markets, that by some unforeseen piece of luck I must have happened on the
occasion of a customary fair. Inquiry proved that this was not so; that, as
a matter of fact, this was but such a gathering of cattle as is customary
at the season of the year, and that I had not reached the scene until the
bulk of the business had been transacted. It was clear at once that boots
and mustard--in the former I gathered that cut-throat competition had
reduced profits to a _minimum_ and almost to a _minus_ quantity--were not
by any means the only industries by which Norwich stood. It was, and is, an
immense cattle market; and the stock, the general average of quality in
which was distinctly high, was worth a tremendous lot of money. Yet, as I
saw it first, it was a market which had more than begun to dwindle away, a
colossal and altogether gratifying sight notwithstanding.

It was pleasing to observe that, although here and there a black beast or a
mongrel might be seen, and a considerable number of Shorthorns, the Norfolk
farmers as a body cling to the old East Anglian breed of Red Polls. They
could not do better. The Red Polls mature early, make a lot of beef, and
are hardy; the cows of the breed are admirable milkers, and celebrated for
remaining long in profit; and the absence of horns is a distinct gain when
it comes to a matter of transport by train. Far be it from me to compare
the merits of breeds of cattle apart from environment, for that is often
rather a foolish thing to do. Environment matters a great deal and, nobly
as Shorthorns thrive in many parts of the country, and at Sandringham in
Norfolk particularly, there remains in me a strong conviction that the
local breeds, Red Polls in East Anglia, Herefords in the Marches and
Borderland of Wales, Devons in the county from which they take their name,
Castle Martins in South Wales, and Welsh black cattle in North Wales,
thrive best in their appointed districts under the conditions to which the
normal farmer is more or less bound to expose them. They fill in the
picture better, too, than do cattle of a "foreign" stamp. Your white-faced
Hereford seems out of place in Berkshire, a Kerry looks like a toy in
Hertfordshire; only for the gentle Jersey cattle--Mr. Cobbold has a herd of
them at Felixstowe, but that is a story to come later--would I make an
exception. They, however, are not farmers' cattle, for they are worth
little to kill, and their rich milk, sold at ordinary prices, as it must
be, is too small in quantity to be profitable. They are for private owners
and butter-makers only, and, as such, they cannot be surpassed.

Let this headstrong hobby be curbed; but let it be added that these burly,
fair-complexioned farmers of Norfolk, whose very faces, seen in
considerable numbers, convinced one more than much reading of the presence
of abundant Danish blood in the county, looked and acted as if they
understood their business thoroughly. If they go on breeding gentle Red
Polls--the Red Polls are really quiet of disposition, perhaps because
inherited instinct tells them it is poor sport to fight without horns--it
is because the process pays. Let me add, in opposition to a statement seen
elsewhere, that I saw nothing of that brutal treatment of the animals which
is far too usual an accompaniment of the cattle trade. So to the general
market near the Guildhall, a grateful sight because more flowers were for
sale on the stalls than is usual in provincial markets, and the wares,
particularly the butter and the fowls, the latter neatly trussed and
wrapped in coarse muslin of spotless cleanliness, were so nicely exposed
for sale. Leland observed that "Northfolk" were said to be "ful of wyles";
a barber, from Hants, told me that morning, when I said I found the people
very intelligent, that he thought they knew far too much. My own view is
that of the "wyles" which consist in cleanly neatness in exposing food for
sale it is not possible to find too much, and not often easy to find
enough, in this England of ours.

Of the Guildhall, really a very interesting example, dating from the
beginning of the fifteenth century, of ingenious work in flint, and its
contents, some mention has been made before, and of the interior of the
cathedral also. But we entered the cathedral once more, walking on tiptoes
in the grand and empty nave, and certainly not disturbing the worshippers
in the chancel, for service was going on. The organ, as on a former visit,
was remarkably impressive, and, as quite a minor detail, I noted part of an
almost illegible inscription to one Ingloit on the south pillar of the
chancel arch. "In descant most, in voluntary all, he past." What was, or
is, "descant"? None of us knew. The necessary if rather humiliating process
of reference to a dictionary, which it is more honest to confess than it
would be to profess to have understood the legend at first sight, showed
that descant was the first stage in the development of counterpoint. So,
mounting once more to the Norman tower on the Castle Mound, to look at the
entrance to the Museum, but not entering, for time pressed and our
enterprise lay in the open air, we repaired to the "Maid's Head,"
discharged the reckoning, and were off again to the westward, on a windless
and rainless day; but that wisp of cloud no bigger than a man's hand, which
we had seen behind the cathedral spire against the pure blue overnight, had
been the precursor of a grey veil of cloud which overspread the whole face
of the sky.

Always to make sure of your exits is one of the golden rules of successful
motoring. Entrances do not matter so much. If, having followed unknown
roads over strange country for many miles, you eventually strike the town
of your desires, that is enough for all practical purposes. You are sure to
be as near your actual destination as makes no difference to a motor-car
worthy of mention in almost any town or city in England except London. But
a wrong exit is fatal. Our instructions from John Ostler of the "Maid's
Head," who took to a motor kindly as if he had never seen curry-comb or
dandy-brush, were elaborate; but the leading feature of them was that, when
we reached the market-place near the Guildhall, we should ask for what, on
its spelling, we called "Earlham Road." "Ask for the 'Arlam' Road," said
John Ostler; and forthwith sprang into memory the fact that at Norwich we
were in the heart of that part of East Anglia in which the Gurneys and
their kin were never weary of well-doing and, as is the custom of Quakers,
throve amazingly in their business. Of them, of their good deeds, of their
family life, a full account may be found in one of the very best books of
what, for lack of a better description, may be called earnest family
gossip. Need it be added that the book is _The Gurneys of Earlham_, by
Augustus J. C. Hare (London: George Allen)? Well, perhaps it is necessary
to give the information, for the two volumes contain little or nothing
which is sensational, they saw the light of day in 1895, and all but the
very best of books, to say nothing of a good many of them also, pass out of
the mind of a hurrying generation in less than that time, and in much less.
Of the Gurneys, of their manifold relatives and connections, of their
abundant and honourable commerce, of their share in the making of Norwich,
of their sober and intimate family life, it would be a sheer delight to
write at length; but this is hardly the place in which to attempt again
that which has been done remarkably well already. Suffice it therefore to
commend the book, and to quote an unrivalled description of it by a
masterly hand. That it happens to be found in the first three pages of the
first volume is mere coincidence. Those who are so disposed may, if it
pleases them, imagine that they are quoted simply because they come first,
and refuse to believe that the volumes are among the familiar acquaintance
of one who finds a wholesome and hearty appreciation of the joys of the
open air to be entirely consistent with a rational pleasure in books.

"After leaving the hollow where the beautiful crochetted spire of Norwich
Cathedral and the square masses of its castle rise above the dingy red
roofs and blue smoke of the town, the road to Lynn ascends what, generally
called an incline, is in Norfolk a long hill. After passing its brow, at
about three miles from the city, the horizon is fringed by woods--grey in
winter, radiant with many tints in summer--which belong to Earlham. This
delightful old place has for centuries been the property of the Bacon
family, and they have never consented to sell it; but since 1786 it has
been rented by the Gurneys, a period of a hundred and nine years--perhaps
one of the oldest tenancies known for a mansion of the size, though very
frequent in the case of farmhouses. Thus, to the Gurney family, it has
become the beloved home of five generations; to them its old chambers are
filled with the very odour of holiness; its ancient gardens and green
glades and sparkling river bring thoughts of domestic peace and happiness,
which cannot be given in words; its very name is a refrain of family unity
and love.

"The little park of Earlham is scarcely more than a paddock, with its fine
groups of trees and remains of avenues, in one of which a Bacon of old time
is still supposed to wander, with the hatchet in his hand which he was
using on the day of his death. Where the trees thicken beyond the green
slopes, above an oval drive familiarly called 'The World,' stands the
house, white-washed towards the road by the colour-hating Quaker, second
wife of Joseph John Gurney, but infinitely beautiful towards the garden in
the pink hues of its brick with grey stone ornaments, and the masses of
vine and rose which festoon its two large projecting windows and white
central porch. Hence the wide lawn, to which the place owes its chief
dignity, spreads away on either side to belts of pine trees, fringed by
terraces, where masses of snowdrops and aconites gleam amongst the mossy
grass in early spring. The west side of the house is perhaps the oldest
part, and bears a date of James First's time on its two narrow gables.
Hence the river is seen gleaming and glancing in the hollows, where it is
crossed by the single arch of a bridge. From the low hall, with its
old-fashioned furniture and pictures, a very short staircase leads to an
ante-room opening on the drawing-room, where Richmond's striking
full-length portrait of Mrs. Fry, now occupies a prominent place among the
likenesses of her brothers and sisters. Another sitting-room leads to what
was the sitting-room of the seven Gurney sisters of the beginning of the
nineteenth century, with an old Bacon portrait let into the panelling over
the fireplace. The dining-room is downstairs, and was the latest addition
to the house, a handsome, long and lofty room, built by Mr. Edward Bacon,
long M.P. for Norwich, that he might entertain his constituents. Close by
is the humble little study occupied by the father of the numerous Gurney
family of three generations ago. But the pleasantest room at Earlham is
'Mrs. Catherine's Chamber,' always occupied by the eldest daughter, mother
and sister in one, and in which in her old age, with her beautiful
intonation and delicate sense of fitting emphasis, she would assemble the
young Norwich clergy to teach them how the Scriptures should be read in
church."

Surely Mr. Hare, who wrote many a vivid description, was often
entertaining, and sometimes a little spiteful, never penned a passage
better calculated than this to bring home the characters of a home and of
the dwellers in it. The single trace of the old Adam, or the old Augustus,
is the gently sarcastic antithesis of Richmond's "portrait" and the
"likenesses." Earlham's peace and goodwill bewitched Augustus Hare, and
those who had been entertained by his bitterness, no less than those who
have writhed under it, will recognize the strength of Earlham's tranquil
witchery. Somewhere I have read of late that the Gurneys are of Earlham no
more. That is sad indeed.

"Ask for the Arlham Road when you are near the Guildhall," was what John
Ostler said, and we, full of map and guide-book pride, translated it into
Earlham; but we were reduced to Arlham at last. Even in England it is wise
to adopt local pronunciations of place-names when you know them, unless you
have plenty of leisure; and it is easy to do so. (In Wales it is equally
wise, indeed wiser, for collocations of apparently English characters have
totally distinct values in Welsh words, but English lips have, I am given
to understand, some difficulty in expressing those values.) Apart from
place-names it seemed to me, talking often and freely with the natives,
that the spread of education has banished not a little of the Norfolk
dialect, and that the country folk of Norfolk pronounce in a more
clean-cut fashion, use more ordinary English words, and are easier to
understand, than their contemporaries in Berks, Sussex, Devon, Cornwall,
or, infinitely most difficult of all, Durham. Among sundry quaint books
lent to me by way of preparation for this are several containing terrific
examples of Norfolk dialect, which it would be a real pleasure to
transcribe, but it must be confessed frankly that, at the moment of
writing, I have no more excuse in experience for copying them out than for
introducing a sentence or two of Welsh, Gaelic, or Erse. Yet I am, in the
matter of tours to be described, many hundreds of miles ahead of the point
which my lagging pen has reached. Suffice it to say that the Norfolk
dialect may survive, that I have heard it from the lips of cultivated folk
of Norfolk, whose normal talk is the same as that of any educated English
folk, but that it has not come my way as an every day phenomenon. Is that
matter for regret? Sentimentally, perhaps, it is; but practically it is a
decided convenience and, combined with the exceptional intelligence of the
East Anglian people, it seems to argue that the schoolmaster has been
abroad among them to good purpose. Dialects may be picturesque; the words
in them may have philological interest, especially when they are good and
old words like "largesse" (much used in East Anglia, but by no means
peculiar to it), but persistence in sheer mispronunciation, which is the
main ingredient of most dialects, is really a sign of ignorance or of
affectation, and neither is to be encouraged. For example, I can talk, and
can approach fairly near to writing, English "as she is spoke" by the more
ignorant Welsh, without any difficulty; and that is as much a dialect,
really, as that of Devon or of Yorkshire; but it would be a very foolish
and inconvenient thing to do.

Nothing could have been more delightful, for the time of year, than the
travelling, for the air was not too cold, hedges had the unmistakable air
of verdure on the point of coming, tree-twigs seemed to have thickened as
the buds upon them swelled, spring was in the air, and the steaming horses
we passed now and again in adjacent fields, straining at plough or harrow,
added to the pleasing effect of a landscape undulating a little, but rich
in tall trees. Looking on them from time to time I remembered the lines in
the Freer's Tale--

    The Carter smote and cried as he were wode
    Heit Scot! Heit Brock.

This may sound like affectation, but it is nothing of the kind. Although
most travellers in spring are apt to quote, more or less correctly, the
first few lines of the _Canterbury Tales_, because they are familiar and
because, for simplicity, sweetness, and truth, they are not to be surpassed
in the English language, one does not, at least the ordinary man does not,
go about the country with all Chaucer on the tip of his tongue; and that,
on the whole, is a blessing. On this occasion, however, there was an
express reason for having these lines in mind--there were even two
reasons--and for looking for a farm horse as an excuse for letting them
fly. The first reason was that East Anglian antiquaries have long cherished
the tradition that Chaucer was born in Norfolk. There is even a jingling
rhyme--

    Lynn had the honour to present the world
    With Geoffrey Chaucer and the curled
    Pate Alanus de Lenna.

The rhyme may be true of Alanus de Lenna; it does not matter much whether
it be true or false; but it is undoubtedly false about Chaucer, who was
the son of a London vintner and was born at Charing Cross, and at Charing
Cross, London, not Charing Cross in Norwich, as the learned have now
discovered for certain. Still it is a peculiar fact that it is, or is
reported to be, the custom of Norfolk farms to apply the name Scot to a
very large proportion of their farm horses, and it is true that Chaucer's
poetry shows a very intimate knowledge of rural life in Norfolk. The
explanation may be found on family tradition, for Dr. Skeat says "It is
probable that the Chaucer family came originally from Norfolk."

The second reason was soon to come on the left-hand side of the road in the
form of a park, boasting superb trees and ensconcing Kimberley Hall, the
seat of the Wodehouse family, who are of far more ancient standing in
Norfolk than is the present hall. It was built on Italian lines in the
reign of good Queen Anne, but the Wodehouses, of whom Lord Kimberley is the
head, had been in the land long before Philip Wodehouse, Member of
Parliament for Castle Rising, was created a baronet by James I. Not that
the honour attached the family to the Stuart cause, for Sir Thomas, the
second baronet, sat in the Long Parliament and, I think, fought for it
against Charles. Clearly they were a fighting family. "Agincourt" is
inscribed under their coat of arms; their crest is "a dexter arm couped
below the elbow, vested argent, and grasping a club or, and over it the
motto Frappe fort." The quotation comes appositely, or at any rate one
striking word in it does, because the "supporters" are "Two wild (wode)
men, wreathed about the loins, and holding in the exterior hand a club,
raised in the attitude of striking, sable." Yet with this explanation
always before them, staring them hard in the face whensoever a head of the
house of Kimberley has been summoned to sleep with his fathers, some good
folk of Norfolk have, as the _Notes and Queries_ show, been content to
puzzle their brains and to seek far for an explanation of the Wild Man as a
tavern sign. They have even gone so far as to drag in the historic Peter
the Wild Man, quite unnecessarily, for he is modern by comparison with the
"wode" men who support the Wodehouse crest now, as they supported it no
doubt in the spacious days of Queen Elizabeth, when she visited in 1571 a
Kimberley Hall which modern taste would probably prefer to the present
Italian edifice.

Almost immediately after passing Kimberley Hall we came into full view of
Hingham Church, which is exactly what a church should be, and stands
exactly as a church ought to stand, for the purposes of the motorist. That
is to say, it is a very commanding edifice, which has the appearance, at
any rate, of standing with its length at right angles to the road, and both
tower and clerestory--surely there are more clerestories as well as more
churches to be found in Norfolk than in any county--are visible, and very
imposing, from a great distance. It was built for the most part by Remigius
of Hethersett, who was rector for forty years from 1319, and is of most
remarkable height. Inside, most motorists will be content to believe, are
some interesting tombs and much stained glass of admirable quality,
presented by Lord Wodehouse in 1813. In fact, Hingham is emphatically one
of the places at which a halt ought to be made, for old stained glass of
high merit is, unhappily, very rare in this England of ours. This secluded
village of Hingham ought to be--perhaps is--one of the places in England to
which Americans make pilgrimages, for far away in Massachusetts is another
Hingham owing its origin to an emigration, early in the seventeenth
century, of one Robert Peck, vicar of Hingham, and many of his
parishioners. Apparently, parson and parishioners were Puritans of the
violent order, who pulled down the altar rails and lowered the altar,
insomuch that they incurred the wrath of the reigning bishop. Parson Peck
deemed it wise to flee from the wrath to come, and many of his parishioners
went with him. Settling down in Massachusetts, they gave the name of the
old village in Norfolk to the new home, and although the parson returned to
his cure when Puritanism got the upper hand, parishioners stayed in the new
world. At any rate, Hingham, Massachusetts, exists to this day, not,
indeed, as one of America's mammoth cities, but with a population (in 1900)
of 5059, of whom oddly enough more than 900 were foreigners. In fact, in
its minor way, it is as much more important than Hingham in Norfolk, as
Boston, Massachusetts, is greater than Boston, Lincolnshire. But it is not
likely to be more pleasing to the eye, and it is very safe to conjecture
that, in fact, it is not a tenth so pleasing as the Norfolk village.

Before long we reach Scoulton Mere, a silent sheet of gleaming grey, with
not a bird to be seen on or over it, a fine expanse of sedge-girt water.
"Here," says "Murray," "the black-headed gull breeds in enormous numbers,
and their eggs are collected, to be sold as plovers' eggs, by thousands for
the London market." This may readily be believed, for the eggs of _Larus
Ridibundus_, although they vary a good deal in marking, are often
practically indistinguishable from those of the green plover, or grey
plover, except that they are not so sharply pointed at the small end. The
imposture does not matter a straw so long as the two kinds of eggs remain,
as they are at present, identical in point of flavour. Indeed, the subject
prompts a digression, flagrantly irrelevant, but certainly pardonable for
its practical value. Ten or twelve years ago the owner of Hanmer Mere,
which is situate at about the point where Shropshire and Flintshire are so
inextricably mixed that an ordinary atlas will not tell you which is which,
desiring to reduce the number of the coots, spent an afternoon with a
friend in taking some two hundred eggs. It seemed a pity to destroy them
without trying them cold, and hardboiled, like plovers' eggs. They were
every whit as good to eat, and they were distinctly the _clou_ of luncheon
at Chester races next day. This is certainly worth knowing, for, if plovers
be more numerous than coots, there are enough coots and to spare, and their
nests are as easy to find as those of plovers are difficult.

But "Murray" proceeds: "There are only three breeding places of this gull
in Britain." This must be quite wrong. The late Mr. Henry Seebohm, whose
_Eggs of British Birds_ (Paunson & Brailsford, Sheffield) is both admirably
produced and of the highest authority, wrote, and Dr. Bowdler Sharpe left
the passage in editing the book after Mr. Seebohm's death: "The
Black-headed Gull is one of our commonest species. Its colonies are not so
large as those of the Kittiwake, but they are much more numerous. It is a
resident in the British Isles, frequenting the coasts during winter, but
retiring inland in summer to breed in colonies in swamps." Now Mr. Henry
Seebohm was a mighty ornithologist, and the most indefatigable birds-nester
at home and abroad who ever lived, and, having read often before, and now
again, all he has to say of the nesting places of all kinds of gulls
claimable by Great Britain, I am convinced that this claim set up by
"Murray," perhaps on the word of some local fowler, cannot be maintained
either in relation to the Black-headed Gull or any other kind of gull or
tern that breeds in England.

Leaving Scoulton Mere behind we were again in a land of flat heaths of
wide extent, and of sheltering hedges of dense Scotch fir. It was a country
of the most pleasing face but, apart from that, no use for any purposes
save those of the motorist and the rabbit-breeder. That it had been well
used by the latter evidence was soon apparent on the roadside in the form
of a gang of men, with nets, dogs, and ferrets, pursuing their operations
on such a scale, and so completely in the open, that they must surely have
been authorized rabbit-catchers and not poachers. Still the thought
occurred to me that, in bygone days and in far-distant North Wales, we
always found from the advertisements that ferrets, who are the poachers'
best friends, were to be obtained more easily from Norfolk than from any
other part of the country, and that they knew their work very well when
they arrived. In fact, there is a huge head of game in Norfolk, and where
that state of things exists, there poachers will be. Theirs is a lawless
pursuit of course, but Lord! as Mr. Pepys would have said, what good sport
it must be "on a shiny night in the season of the year," and what a vast
and intimate knowledge of animal and bird life these poachers must possess.

If it was a rabbit-catcher's paradise it was a motorist's paradise also.
There was no possible danger to human beings, for, after the
rabbit-catchers, there were none; after the fir hedges had been passed the
road became an unfenced ribbon of tawny grey running through the bare
heath, with no other roads debouching into it, and no cover of any sort for
a police trap. There was no reason in life against a good spin at top speed
except that superstitious regard for the letter of the law which not one
man in a thousand really has. The car simply flew forward; the speed
indicator marked 25, 30, 35, 40, 45, and even 50 miles an hour; the road
seemed to open wide to our advent, to stretch out its arms, so to speak, to
embrace us; the motion, smooth, swifter and swifter still, even as the
flight of the albatross that stirreth not his wings, and absolutely free
from vibration, was, in a single word, divine. Suddenly, a few miles in
front of us, a dusty cloud hove in sight over the road. "There," said my
friend, half in jest, but only half--for a motorist's paradise is at its
best when solitary--"is one of those beastly motor-cars. What a foul dust
it is raising!" So it turned out, on rising and looking back over the cape
hood, were we; not that it mattered, for no wayfarers had been passed or,
therefore, powdered, for many a short mile--I had written "a long mile"
from force of habit, but it would have been inappropriate. Was the other
car meeting us or going in the same direction? In the same direction
surely, for though the cloud of dust was coming nearer to us, it was not
approaching very fast. So we determined to pass as soon as might be, and
"giving her a little more gas," we were very soon "on terms," as a racing
man would say, with a two-seated car going along the middle of the road at
a fair pace. Once, twice, thrice our horn sounded, but the occupants of
that car never heard us. At last, keeping well to the off-side of the road,
and when our bonnet was level with their rear off-wheel, Mr. Johnson and I
gave a simultaneous and stentorian yell; and the two pairs of goggles that
were turned upon us, who were then, as nearly always, un-goggled, clearly
covered four eyes starting with surprise. It was a lesson to them and to us
of the very poor penetrative power of a motor-horn in relation to
motor-cars in front, and of the necessity of looking behind you now and
again, especially if you be in a noisy car. So that two-seated car was
passed as if it had been standing still, and the lot of the
dust-recipient, which one or other must needs endure for a while, was
transferred from us to them; but they were not called upon to endure it,
nor could they have kept it if they had so desired, for any length of time.

So hey for Watton, near which lies Weyland Wood, fondly famous in local
story as being the identical wood in which the ill-fated babes in the wood
were lost. That is a tradition as to the origin and true locality of which,
so far as I know, even the most ardent folk-lorists have not concerned
themselves very seriously, and certainly the likeness of sound between
"Weyland" and "Wailing" may have caused it to be localized here. As it
happens, however, there is a very much simpler explanation of the name of
the wood and of the Hundred in which it is situated. Weyland is simply the
modern representation of the "Wanelunt" of _Domesday_, and that again is
simply descriptive, like Blacklands in Berks, and the names of scores of
Hundreds besides. For "Wanelunt" is just "wan land," and a more wan land
than this, from the agricultural point of view, it would be hard to find.
Islington in Norfolk may be, in all probability was, the place in which the
Bailiff's daughter lived and was beloved by the squire's son, but Weyland
Wood cannot detain us. It has no more claim to this particular honour than
a hundred other woods in other parts of the kingdom have, except upon an
etymological basis, and that has the trifling disadvantage of being quite
wrong.

Nor did Watton detain us, any more than it need detain anybody else.
Brandon, the next place passed, was renowed in ancient times for its
rabbits and its quarries of gunflints, and the "Grime's graves" in the
vicinity are said to be interesting earthworks. The glory of the rabbits
remains, but the gunflint trade was, of course, vanished. "Murray," it is
true, says that flints "are still (1875) exported to Arab tribes round the
Mediterranean," but that was more than thirty years ago, and Mr. Rye is, no
doubt, correct in saying that the old industry has, naturally enough, died
out of late years. But those desert tribes on the African coast of the
Mediterranean still use some charmingly antique pieces, and it may be that
Brandon flints are still fitted to some of them. They were the same kind of
flints which the ancient Briton, or perhaps Neolithic man, used to dig out
at Brandon, for excavations some time since revealed a stag's antler, says
"Murray," in what was clearly a "working" of a prehistoric flint quarry.
Thus much the writer tells us and no more. It would really have been much
more interesting to know something of the nature of the antler; but on that
point he is silent.

If one were in a hurry, and a train happened to be convenient, it would,
for once, be simpler to reach Ely from Brandon by train than by car: for
the railway follows the course of the Brandon River across Mow Fen and then
cuts straight across Burnt Fen and Middle Fen to Ely. On the other hand the
road, dating very likely to a period long before the reclamation of the
fens, and keeping to the high ground, turns south-west by south to
Mildenhall and then, skirting Mildenhall Fen, nearly due west to Fordham
and Soham, and from Soham north-west to Ely: and this is a long way round.
Here there would be a first rate opportunity for saying something of the
romantic history of the Fens, for it is truly romantic, and of the real
glamour which they exercise upon a traveller through their midst. The
opportunity is deliberately reserved to a later point for three reasons.
First, there is much to be said on other matters; secondly, you really do
not see very much of the Fens by this line of route; thirdly, it was found
later that the drive from Lynn to Ely is _par excellence_ the occasion
upon which the peculiar character of the Fens, their limitless extent,
their rich and black soil, and the reflection that all this wealth has been
reclaimed from the wasting waters by the industry and the enterprise of
man, the very spirit of the Fens in fact, enter into the traveller's soul.

Fordham and even Soham, with its remarkable church and its legends of
Canute's passage over the long-vanished mere upon the ice, were passed
almost unnoticed, for our eyes were fixed upon the horizon in front in
longing for the vision, often seen from a train, of Ely Cathedral rising in
beautiful majesty from the centre of the plain-girt isle, once fen-girt, in
which the Saxon made almost his last heroic stand against the
all-conquering Norman. Truth to tell, for this once only, the train has the
advantage of the motor-car in providing a splendid and memorable spectacle.
Approaching Ely from Cambridge by rail one sees the cathedral, and the
cathedral is the only object that catches the eye, for miles, and miles,
and then miles. It is a divine sight, stirring up memories of Canute and of
Emma his Queen, of ravaging William the Conqueror (concerning whom the
Saxon chroniclers probably wrote without exaggerated regard for truth) and
of the heroic figure of Hereward the Wake. Memories of this vision, often
seen, never to be forgotten, had prepared us for something really great and
for prolonged enjoyment of it. As a fact, and it was one which intelligent
study of a contour map might have prepared us for, the vision did not break
upon our eyes until we were through Soham, and speeding along the causeway
built by Hervé le Breton early in the twelfth century across the mere which
stood where the golden corn is reaped and tied and carried every autumn
now. When it came it was, be it stated with the more warmth now in that
what is to be written shortly is not entirely the conventional view,
supremely lovely. The air was of that pellucid transparency which is the
sure prelude of rain. At a distance of four miles or thereabouts the eye
could distinguish shades of colour, could follow all the delicate tracery
of the central octagon and of the huge western tower; and it was natural,
remembering that Ely is one of the largest cathedrals in Europe, to observe
that, so excellent are its proportions, it does not impress the spectator
from a distance by its length. This very excellent effect is due doubtless
to Alan of Walsingham's fourteenth-century design for a grandly broad basis
to the octagon tower under which he lies.

And here rhapsody must cease at the command of candour. I had visited Ely
before as quite a young man; I had read much of the history of the
cathedral, much concerning its architecture. Yet this time it failed to
please as a whole, within or without, when viewed at close quarters. The
octagon, regarded from a distance of not many hundred feet, looked to be
wanting in substance rather than possessed of airy grace. Somehow or other,
in the perverse fashion which is at once irresistible and fatal to cordial
admiration, it suggested to my mind a ludicrous comparison. Resist as I
might, I continued to think of wedding cakes. The western tower, so far as
it was built by Bishop Riddell in the twelfth century, that is to say up to
the level of the clerestory of the nave, seemed, and was, and is, proud,
substantial, massive, impressive; but the Decorated superstructure, an
octagon with turrets alongside, did not satisfy at all; nor do I believe
that it would have been more satisfying even if the slender spire of wood,
long vanished from its top, had survived. On me it produced, and I found
that it has produced on other and more highly cultivated men, an
impression of flimsy and jarring incongruity. Far other was the effect of
looking at the honest red brick of the Bishop's Palace near the west door,
for the gently warm tone of the bricks builded as our forefathers loved in
the reign of the first Tudor king, was a joy and a rest to the eye.

Before entering the cathedral itself we took luncheon at the "Lamb," for a
hungry man is an impatient sight-seer. But even after that, to one
returning in contented mood, the outside of the western tower satisfied
only up to the level of the clerestory. In fact, the original impression,
whether it argued crass ineptitude or no, remained; and it is better to
write oneself down a boor than to invent raptures which would be untrue.
Inside our experiences were unfortunate. The ladies had gone before, had
seen and enjoyed a good deal. My friend and I entered with due reverence.
The vastness of the nave took seisin of us at once; but the charm was
rudely broken. To us approached a verger of immemorial age--he had informed
the ladies that he had been attached to the cathedral for half a
century--wearing a velvet skull-cap and saying in strident tones, "It is a
fine cathedral, gentlemen; have you seen it before?" "Yes," said I,
shortly, and hoping to be rid of him, for to have a babbling guide at one's
elbow on occasions of this kind is fatal to intelligent enjoyment. But the
hope was vain. He joined himself to us and went on talking. In despair we
divided forces, and walked briskly away in opposite directions. Nothing
daunted he stood in the middle and talked louder than ever. So, after
admiring the inside of the octagon, which is very fine, and failing to
admire the roof of the nave, we left in despair without having studied the
architecture in detail, without seeing the hammer beams of the transept
roofs, without lingering over the original Norman work in the transepts.
To us it was a loss and a bitter disappointment; but there are some
inflictions that are beyond bearing, and this doubtless worthy old
gentleman was one of them. Still, there are compensations in things, and
nothing is made quite in vain. One of the objects for which this verger was
created was that of saving the reader from the infliction of an essay on
the architecture of Ely Cathedral by one who has, by his unashamed candour,
demonstrated himself unworthy to indite such an essay.

The rest of this expedition may be condensed into a paragraph, and that not
unduly long. Leaving Ely we reached Cambridge easily by a flat, straight,
excellent, and perfectly uninteresting road, marked in the maps as Roman;
but the wise man, for reasons already given, calls no road Roman until he
knows for certain that it is such. There is, however, some evidence for
this "Roman" road. Passing quickly through Cambridge and over the Gog Magog
Hills without noticing them, we were soon at Royston, and from that
point--to Oxford as it happened--we were beyond my manor. Two things
happened, though, which may occur any day or night. It began to rain hard
just after Royston, and went on raining, and we had trouble in lighting the
acetylene lamps after Aylesbury. Neither mattered. It was something to have
an opportunity of testing the cape hood, and the acetylene lamps were,
after all, only a reminder that everything does not always go absolutely
smoothly even in the best-regulated motor-cars. We got wet, of course, on
the driving seat; but that was of no moment, for we were homeward bound;
and as for the appetite that was carried home, the face glowing with clean
rain, the feeling of overflowing health, and the dreamless sleep of that
night, they were well worth a king's ransom.




CHAPTER VI

LONDON, FELIXSTOWE--DUNWICH, FELIXSTOWE

     In an 18 White steam car--Best exit from London
     eastwards--General ignorance of the White steam
     cars--Some interested prejudice against them--An
     account of them--Independent testimony to
     them--Woodford and Chingford--Popularity of Epping
     Forest--Pepys on the roads--Little improvement--A
     haunting cyclist--Impression of the Forest--"Seeing's
     believing"--True woodland unkempt--Thorn trees as
     evidence of antiquity--Motor-cyclist's
     rivalry--Epping--Ongar--Chelmsford--Rich
     country--Colchester--The "Red Lion"--Memories of the
     Civil War--Deaths of Lucas and Lisle--Through
     Ipswich--Trimley's two churches--Felixstowe--A hotel
     half awake--Felix the Burgundian--Rainy morning--Glance
     at Felixstowe--Mr. Felix Cobbold, M.P.--His perfect
     home--Rock-gardens and pergolas--The walled garden--A
     Jersey herd--An afternoon drive--Nature's garden of
     Suffolk--The motorist's independence--Machine feels no
     pain--A circuit to Woodbridge--Wickham Market and
     Saxmundham--Hey for Dunwich!--Course laid over farm
     tracks--Desolate Dunwich--Irresistible coast
     erosion--Skeletons "all awash"--The lost
     forest--Dunwich in the past--Steady loss of land--Back
     to Felixstowe through byways and by road.


At precisely ten minutes past three in the afternoon of the 17th of March
an 18-h.p. White steam car glided out of Kingly Street, Regent Street. At
ten minutes to four, without any undue haste in driving, it was out in the
open country at Ponder's End, the route taken being by way of York Road
(hard by King's Cross Station) and Seven Sisters Road. This route, which
involves but three turns, if the right ones be chosen, is at once the
quickest way out of London to the eastward; far less unpleasant to eye,
nostrils, and ears than the drive through Whitechapel; far less difficult
in the matter of traffic; and it has the further advantage of leading the
traveller almost at once into scenes of sylvan beauty more often raved
about to the sceptical than seen by the eyes of the wise. For these
reasons it is given with pharmaceutical detail in the "Practical
Observations." The occupants of the car were Mr. Frederick Coleman, London
manager of the White Steam Car Company of the United States; Mrs. Coleman,
a lady possessing the rare gift of a remarkably exact topographical memory;
their child, my wife and myself, and a mechanic who sat contentedly, after
the manner of his kind, at my feet. The car was fitted with cape hood for
use if necessary, and, in the way of luggage, it carried two fair-sized
suit-cases upon a platform astern, containing all the impedimenta which
could reasonably be required by folks who intended to travel by day and to
rest comfortably at hotels in the evening. It may be added that we had no
absolutely fixed plan, for we meant to drift whither we pleased, allowing
fancy or inclination to dictate to us the time for halting and the
resting-place for the night.

The expedition had been anticipated with considerably more than ordinary
interest, because, although it had been my lot to be much in motors since
motors invaded England, it had not been my fortune ever before to take a
long drive in a White steam car. A very large number of motorists must
be--as in fact I know that they are--without personal experience of a White
steam car, although it may well be that they are familiar with reports to
its prejudice, or silent shrugging of the shoulders and raising of the
eyebrows when it is mentioned, which are perfectly natural and excusable. I
can readily imagine that if I had a pecuniary interest in any of the
leading types of petrol-driven cars, between which there is next to no room
for choice, I might show no headlong desire to testify in favour of a car
moving more smoothly than any petrol-car, free from the nuisance of a
starting-handle (it is a danger too sometimes, as the broken arm of a
friend's careless chauffeur has shown recently), absolved from the
necessity of change-speed gear, capable of an astonishing turn of speed,
singularly strong in hill-climbing and--considerably less expensive than
any petrol-driven car of equal power--by power I do not mean horse-power.
The best plan, perhaps, of avoiding the temptation to give such testimony
would be to avoid the preliminary experience, and not to try a White steam
car at all. Having no financial interest in any kind of car, being well
aware that even among motorists crass ignorance on the subject of this type
of car prevails, having heard from private friends, complete strangers to
the motor-car industry, that White cars have given them complete
satisfaction, and that, in their opinion, the public needs enlightenment on
the subject, I deem it right to give some account of the 1906 model of the
White steam cars.

Now this is an age of advertisement and, therefore, of necessity, an age
given to suspect latent advertisement. It is therefore prudent to state
that no consideration of any kind has passed or will pass from the White
Steam Car Company or anybody connected with it to me, or to the publishers,
that nobody connected with the company has even a suspicion that I am going
to attempt to describe the car, that anybody connected with the company
could do it more accurately, and that there is no other motive in writing
than a desire to make known a good thing to those who may be fortunate
enough to be able to obtain it. Every motorist, and many a man and woman
not fairly to be described as such, is familiar with the general principles
underlying every petrol-driven car; and the distinctions between types of
petrol cars are due entirely to little differences of detail in the
application of those principles. That is why no description of a
petrol-driven car is necessary in these pages or could be tolerated in
them. Very few motorists really know anything about White steam cars, and
that is why they are described in short and popular language.

Perhaps the best justification for it is to be found in a personal
explanation. A week or so after this expedition ended I met in Piccadilly a
friend, high in the service of the Crown and of large private means, whose
name it would be a breach of faith to publish; but, as a guarantee of good
faith, I here state that, in the margin of the manuscript, I have written
the name for the private information of the publishers. It is one which
would carry a great deal of weight if it were printed. I had left my
friend's house in May, 1905, after trying with him a French and English
car, both of well-known makes, of which he was very proud. After our first
greeting in March, 1906, I remarked that I had been trying a White steam
car exhaustively, and that I was simply astonished by its capabilities. It
turned out that, in the interval, he had acquired one, and he was entirely
at one with me. "I am delighted with it; so is my man; the public ought to
know about it." Those were the _ipsissima verba_ of an absolutely
independent man, whose mechanical and engineering knowledge is far above
the average, whom, as an exacting judge of sheer comfort, his friends
believe to have no superior in this world. After that, let him who pleases
suspect latent advertisement. In fact, _Honi soit qui mal y pense_, and let
the truth be told.

A White steam car is, in general outline and appearance, very like a
petrol-driven car, and the cautious Mr. Worley Beaumont, who is honorary
consulting engineer to the Automobile Club and consulting engineer to the
Commissioner of Metropolitan Police, has written thus: "The makers of
these cars are to be congratulated upon the possession and development of a
type of steam generator which, in combination with a cleverly designed
engine and well devised and constructed auxiliary gear and parts, has made
it possible to produce a car capable of continuing to compare favourably
with those propelled by the petrol engine." The essential points are the
steam generator, which it is simpler to call the boiler, and the burner, or
fire. The generator is an ingenious arrangement of coiled tubes, fed with
water from the top, always containing, when the fire has been kindled, some
water as well as a sufficient supply of superheated steam. The burner is,
to quote Mr. Beaumont, "in form a shallow drum, the upper face of which is
annularly ridged. The ridges are sawn or slit through at close intervals,
and provide openings through which the combustible gas and air mixture
combines with additional air flowing upwards through the numerous openings
in the tubes." In other words the fuel, petrol, or benzolene ingeniously
vaporized, is forced into the annular ridges, there mixes with air, and the
mixture burns fiercely. The steam temperature is most cleverly controlled
by the "thermostat," which may be described sufficiently for popular
purposes by stating that it regulates the force of the fire automatically
by the temperature of the steam, the automatic regulation being founded on
the different expansions of brass and steel under varying degrees of heat.
There are great opportunities, too, for humouring the engine, through the
burner and generator of course, by the adroit use of the throttle.

These are the essentials. The drawbacks, if such they be, to this kind of
steam car are that it needs to have its burner lighted for a period varying
from three to five minutes in the morning before starting, and that it
requires a fresh supply of water for every 150 miles or so. The second
requirement is really of no moment in this country; the first, it has been
argued with all appearance of seriousness, renders this steam car inferior
to a petrol car in "efficiency." Now this, unless "efficiency" has merely
technical signification, is absurd. Substantially, even if the hour of
setting forth has not been fixed beforehand, one can always afford to wait
three minutes before starting on a drive; if it comes to that so much time
is usually occupied in wrapping oneself up and in bestowing passengers;
and, in any ordinary acceptation of the word, the starting-handle, which
must be applied after every substantial halt, is the most inefficient
device conceivable. Other drawbacks, candidly, I found none, except that,
on our first day, some new asbestos packing made itself perceptible to the
nostrils; and there was no question that the absence of change-speed gear,
and the absolute smoothness with which more power could be applied when
necessary on hills, were a genuine pleasure.

That, however, was the lesson learned in the course of several days. So far
as the narrative went we had only passed out of London to Ponder's End,
which was of no interest. Then we were at Chingford, on an absolutely
lovely day, and the beauty of the Forest of Epping, its popularity among
Londoners, and the villainous quality of its roads became simultaneously
apparent. Concerning the roads, "Murray" says "the Forest Roads are no
longer as in Pepys's days--when he complained that riding in the main way
was like 'riding in a kennel.'" On verifying the quotation it appears
possible that Mr. Pepys has been misunderstood, but not too clear what he
really meant. He had reached Epping overnight, after a visit to Audley End
House, "where we drank a most admirable drink," and his entry of 28
February runs: "Up in the morning. Then to London through the forest, where
we found the way good, but only in one path, which we kept as though we had
rode through a kennel all the way." The meaning of the last clause is
perhaps a little obscure; but it is at least clear that Mr. Pepys,
following the road by which we travelled in 1906 in all probability, found
it tolerable when all the rest were bad. He was more fortunate than we
were, for all the way from Chingford past Buckhurst Hill to Epping the road
was atrocious. It was the sort of road, too, which promised to remain
scandalously bad, until such time as it should be taken thoroughly in hand
on some new principle, since it appeared to be made of gravel and dirt,
fairly firm in the middle, but shockingly ploughed up at the sides. On this
fine day it was crowded with holiday traffic, with persons walking on the
footpath by the side, with bicyclists innumerable struggling over the
broken surface, with hired carriages carrying family parties for a drive in
the sun through the heart of the Forest. If popularity of resort be a
reason why a road should be good rather than bad, as surely it ought to be,
then some authority has a good deal to answer for.

This was, shameful to relate, my first visit to Epping Forest, but, before
giving a first impression of it, there is a ghost to be exorcised. So often
as my mind recurs to this passage through the heart of the Forest it is
haunted by the memory of one particular cyclist. He was thin, pale to the
point of haggardness, anything than robust to look at. He crouched forward
over his handle bars, in the manner beloved of the "scorcher" and depriving
the exercise of any health-giving effects it might produce, until his back
was parallel to the road. We were travelling, designedly as a test of the
car, and accurately as the speedometer bore witness, at a steady and
unvarying pace of twenty miles an hour, on the level, on downward
gradients, and up hills which, while they offered no sort of trouble to a
powerful car, would have made me grunt and grumble and go slowly if I had
been on a bicycle. Yet this apparent weakling clung to us, being in fact
never more than twenty yards behind us for many miles, without showing any
signs of severe effort save in the tense features of his pallid face. It
was really a great achievement, greater probably than the bicyclist was
aware; it exemplified the effect of an air-shield and the value of a
pace-maker in races; but it was a relief when, at last, the pale-faced
bicyclist relinquished the pursuit.

Is it wrong to give an impression of Epping Forest in early spring, an
impression resulting from a single passage through it? Surely not. Did not
James Anthony Froude say, or did not somebody say in defence of James
Anthony Froude--it really does not matter which--something to the effect
that a man may write a tolerable description of a country from a single
visit, or a thorough account of it after prolonged study, but that in the
intervening period he cannot describe it at all? Whosoever said it, or even
if it was never said until now, it is a true saying, for in the period
between first impression and thorough knowledge the mind is so much
hampered with details that it cannot survey the whole in proportion. It
cannot see the wood for the trees. Of this Epping Forest I knew, as most
men do, something from hearsay and from desultory reading. I had read of
the ancient rights, apparently rather problematical as a matter of history,
of the City in the Forest, of the Epping Hunt, of the saving of seven
thousand wild acres, lying cheek by jowl with London, by the Epping Forest
Act of 1871; had read also countless articles, wherein the sylvan beauties
of Epping Forest, its ornithological and entomological treasures, were
proclaimed with emphatic sincerity. Yet the place itself was a revelation.

    Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem
    Quam quæ sunt oculis submissa fidelibus.

So wrote Horace long ago, and "seeing's believing," is a blunt but adequate
translation of his verses. Epping Forest was and is a sheer delight. Apart
from the roads that traverse it, it is as distinctly genuine and unkempt a
piece of English woodland as is to be found on these islands. The reference
here is not to fine timber or to monumental trees, but to the tangled
thickets of ancient hawthorn, rising from beds of bracken--they were the
brown relics of the last year's glory as we saw them--with here and there a
natural alley through their midst, which stretched far on either side.
Nothing of the tree kind gives such convincing testimony of antiquity as
obviously old hawthorns, which have been left to the care of nature. Your
huge and venerable oak may be, and very often is, historic; its story may
be, and often is, traced back over several centuries. Men mourned over the
Fairlop Oak, in Hainault Forest hard by, when it was blown down in 1820,
because it had been forty-five feet in girth "and its boughs shadowed an
area of 300 ft."--the passage is quoted because its meaning is not too
clear--and it is said that the pulpit and lectern of St. Pancras Church
were made of the timber. Your historic oaks are the aristocracy of trees;
their annals are chronicled by the Debretts and Burkes of forestry. But as
there are ancient families of English peasants, their simple pedigrees
never kept because they seemed to be of no moment, which are probably far
older in the land than any noble family, so there are, in all human
probability, thorn trees more ancient by far than the oldest oak. They have
survived, or at any rate they give the impression that they have survived,
which is what really matters, longer than the oaks for the same reasons
which have led to the survival of the rustic families of men. As peasants
were left alone when peers went to Tower Hill, so thorn trees have been
passed unscathed by storms which have torn off the limbs of oaks or laid
them prostrate on the ground, have been spared by the woodcutter in search
of his raw material for England's wooden walls. They were insignificant,
very tough, of no particular value as timber. They have lived on,
unnoticed, growing into impenetrable thickets, bearded with time-honoured
lichen, garlanded with fragrant blossom in the season of the year, haunted
by nightingales which find in them nesting places defying even the most
hardy boy. A few of them have been famous in story, the Glastonbury thorn,
for example, and the _unica spinosa arbor_, round which the battle of Saxon
and Dane raged fiercest at Ashdown; but most of the old thorns in the
country are, like most of the old peasant families, simply of immemorial
antiquity and, when once they have attained maturity, particularly in an
exposed spot, they seem to change little from year to year, or in ten
years, or twenty, or thirty. That is why, to my mind, a thicket of gnarled
and lichened hawthorns, such as you may see by the acre in Epping Forest,
and to a greater extent there than in any other forest known to me, is the
strongest testimony of genuine antiquity; and it is the thorn brakes,
therefore, which charm me more than any other feature of the famous Forest
of Epping. They embody the very spirit of wild and untended woodland.

So we passed on through the long and rather pleasing street of Epping, and
here the cyclist elected to remain behind, being succeeded by a
motor-cyclist, a cheerful wretch who, since the road to Ongar is one of
many angles, had us somewhat at his mercy. His pace was nearly equal to the
best speed it was prudent for us to achieve; he could catch us and go ahead
at severe gradients, especially if there were a corner in front, and he
never failed to do so with a triumphant grin on his face. When he was
behind he knew that the way by which we passed would be clear to him; when
he was in front of us we could entertain no such confidence for ourselves
in relation to him. Barring accidents he could probably have clung to us
all day--that is to say, unless he had jolted his heart out through his
mouth. Motor-cyclists say, of course, that they feel no jolting. They may
say the thing which is true, but motor-cycling looks so vibratory that
their assertion produces no sort of effect on my mind. However, this
particular motor-cyclist grew weary of haunting us before we reached Ongar,
and he was not regretted.

Ongar, though it owns a mound and an entrenchment, made no deep impression
on us, and we passed on quickly to Chelmsford, trim, neat, ancient, and
modern, for the county town of Essex bulks fairly large in far-away
history, and, as for the modern appearance of its environs, especially
those through which we passed _en route_ for Colchester, it has been
written: "The Colchester road, through the northern suburb of Springfield,
is enlivened by an avenue of villas and gardens." Comment, as the
newspapers used to say, would be superfluous.

This Colchester road, through the northern suburb of Springfield, was the
old Roman road of our first tour, through Boreham and Witham and so far as
Marks Tey, at any rate; but we travelled it in more genial conditions this
time, and could see all there was to be seen. The villages and towns--for
Witham is quite a town, and an ancient one at that--did not seduce us into
a halt, although those of more leisurely mind may make one for the sake of
examining Witham Church, in the walls of which are many Roman bricks. But
the country, which pleased Arthur Young by its fertility and by virtue of
the intelligent pains with which it was treated by the Essex farmers, is,
in its peaceful way, one of the most fascinating and characteristic to be
found in all England. I shall not attempt to do justice to it at this
point, partly because our journey was taken too early in the spring for a
landscape, of which the trees are the chief glory to be seen at its best,
but principally because, as I think has been explained before, some account
of the scenic beauties of Essex can be given more suitably in an attempt,
to be made later, to record some of the experiences acquired, during a more
than commonly golden September, in the course of ten days spent in motoring
about Essex from Colchester as a centre. Let no more be said here than that
the Essex elms, or most of them, are not "shrouded," as is the custom of
many southern counties--that is to say, their side branches are not lopped
off periodically, to supply fuel and pea-stocks, a mere tuft being left at
the top--and the result of leaving the trees in their natural state is to
make the roads shady and delightful, although road surveyors might take a
different view of them.

Reaching Colchester, whereof any description is postponed for the reason
already given, in the late afternoon of a market-day, we betook ourselves
to my old head-quarters, the "Red Lion," for afternoon tea. It is a
delightfully old-fashioned house, having much oak timber, carved and black,
on the front, and the motor enters under an overhanging archway into a
courtyard shaded by an immemorial creeper. Here, usually, are military
officers to be found, and the house has military traditions, for it is at
least said that in the "Old Red Lion" were gathered together the ill-fated
Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle and their officers, after the
surrender of the city to Fairfax and Ireton had become inevitable, and, if
tradition be true, as there is no reason to believe that it is not, it was
from the "Red Lion" that they went forth gallantly and cheerfully to meet
their deaths. It was a fine episode, and a sad one. "Lucas was first shot,
and he himself gave the orders to fire, with the same alacrity as if he had
commanded a platoon of his own soldiers. Lisle instantly ran and kissed the
dead body, then cheerfully presented himself to a like fate. Thinking that
the soldiers, destined for his execution, stood at too great a distance, he
called to them to come nearer. One of them replied, 'I'll warrant you, Sir,
we'll hit you'; he answered smiling, 'Friends, I have been nearer you when
you have missed me.' Thus perished this generous spirit."

Darkness was beginning to threaten before we left Colchester for Ipswich,
and it had fallen before Ipswich was reached by the same road used in
leaving it heretofore. So we passed through the streets of Ipswich, still
crooked, of course, still infested with giant tramcars, and still crowded,
into the open country beyond, the light of the acetylene lamps piercing the
gloom for fully a quarter of a mile ahead. We pushed on partly because our
minds had been half made up to spend the night at Felixstowe, partly
because, on the whole, it seemed that Felixstowe would be a more pleasant
resting-place than Ipswich. The drawback was that we saw nothing more of
the country than that, apparently, we crossed a good deal of heathland, and
that at Trimley the towers of two churches appeared in quick succession.
They were in fact in the same churchyard, as was seen another day, and one
was and is Trimley St. Mary and the other Trimley St. Martin. Why they
stand cheek by jowl in this wasteful fashion I am unhappily not able to
say, not for lack of inquiry or curiosity, but because inquiry has not been
addressed to the right authorities and curiosity has therefore been vain.
Of Felixstowe that night we saw nothing much. We gathered an impression of
streets of new villas, detached and semi-detached, leading at last to a
large hotel which, albeit in a state of semi-hibernation, was welcome.
Semi-hibernation means that the dining-room proper was not in use, and that
only the first floor bedrooms were ready for the reception of visitors.
Still, there was dinner ready, and its readiness quite made up for cramped
quarters. Need it be added that the hotel is named after Felix the
Burgundian, as is the town? Felix, every schoolboy knows, but a good many
grown men and women may have forgotten, was the first Bishop of East
Anglia, imported by King Sigeberht in 630 A.D., and had his see at Dunwich,
perhaps the most weirdly forlorn place in all England, which we visited
next day.

That next day opened ill, with abundance of warm rain which, at first at
any rate, showed no signs of abating. That rain was really a blessing in
disguise, for when it abated sullenly, Mr. Coleman proposed a morning call
on Mr. Felix Cobbold, M.P., whom in fact he had been helping in the
election, which ought to be known for all time as the motor-car election,
and Mr. Cobbold was hospitality personified. He kept us willing prisoners,
taking us with him as hostages while he went in search of the ladies, and
hence comes it that, without stepping outside my rule never to inspect
another man's house save as his guest, I can at least attempt to describe
a very perfect gem of an earthly paradise. You must know first that
Felixstowe is fitly, one must not write "happily," named, in that, being
situate on the east coast of England, where the air has been known to
exceed its duties in the way of bracing the constitution of man, it has a
little aspect of its own nearly due south. Along the front of this for some
distance runs a parade, esplanade, promenade, or whatsoever they may choose
to call it, and from this, unless memory is playing a trick, the usual pier
of the modern watering-place runs into the sea in the usual way. It would
appear then that Felixstowe itself made no abiding impression, exercised no
strong fascination, on my mind. That is so. It is just a seaside town, with
lots of new houses, which lays itself out to attract sojourning visitors in
summer, and such places differ little. Some, Clacton-on-Sea for example,
which is also within my manor, are a little worse than others by reason of
the multitudes and quality of the company; some are a little better, and
have golf-links. Felixstowe is of the latter kind, and the golf-links,
which we saw next day, look distinctly good. But for seaside places, as
such, I have frankly no use, and it is the rarest thing in the world for
them to be possessed of any architectural interest.

Such were the feelings with which I walked with Mr. Coleman, having first
seen that the car was feeling well, to the end of the sea-walk, whatsoever
its proper title may be. Edward Fitzgerald, I felt, would not visit
Felixstowe now if he were still in the flesh, and the author of "Murray"
would not recognize "the pleasant village of Felixstowe, frequented in
summer by a few visitors for sea-bathing," and apparently accessible only
by coach from Ipswich even in 1875. At the east end of the walk we reached
a barrier of oak palings, delightfully weathered, and in the palings in
due course a gate, which led us to the haven where we would be. Imagine a
long escarpment of land, facing the midday sun and the sea, and raised
above the sea some forty or fifty feet. On it stands a long, many-windowed
house with spacious verandas, from which, as from the windows, man may look
down on the vast highway of the sea, sometimes smooth, sometimes grandly
rough, and at the wayfarers upon it. He may enjoy all the advantages of
being at sea without what some regard as its disadvantages, may look at the
regular sailings of the Harwich boats, may speculate upon the destination
of this or that "tramp" of the ocean. Between him and the sea are terraced
walks, wonders in the way of rock and wall-gardens, glorious with plants
which revel in the soft sea air and will live in no other. Away to the
right, on the slope towards Felixstowe, is a sheltered yet sunny
rose-garden, and above it a glorious pergola of the substantial kind
beloved of Miss Jekyll. Off to the left, past tamarisks and fuchsias, is a
cunning mixture of trees and grass and flower-borders, of sheltered
rock-gardens and ingenious intricacies of light and shade, with glasshouses
far away, not obtruding themselves on the eye, but glorious when entered.
To a garden lover there could be no more unalloyed pleasure than a tour
round the outside of this house, especially under the guidance of the owner
and maker of the garden, who possesses not merely learning, but also that
sympathy with plants which is of more value than all the horticultural
books ever written by man or woman.

Of the inside of the house it is not fitting to speak in detail. Suffice it
to say that it is, in every respect, the fitting environment of a man of
advanced middle age, sometime scholar of Eton, still a Fellow of King's
College, Cambridge, much travelled, able to indulge a refined and catholic
taste in literature and art, of whose inner life books, pictures and plants
are the most familiar friends. But surely something may be written of the
great walled garden, behind all this and across the public road. It is
emphatically the most perfect "kitchen" garden I have ever seen, and on
this particular I may almost venture to claim to speak with some
authority--the authority, that is to say, which belongs to one who is a
natural lover of gardens, even of those which are useful, and who has had
the good fortune to see many of the finest gardens in England. How great
the space is 'tis hard to guess; it is ample. It is girt on all sides by
high brick walls, and these walls, although by no means ancient, have
already taken a glorious colour. Against them is trained all manner of
wall-fruit, the best aspects being chosen, of course, for the apricots, the
peaches and the nectarines, which delight to "drink the splendour of the
sun." The spacious area within the walls is divided into four parts by
pergolas converging upon a central circle of green turf. Those pergolas,
covering a wide avenue, are delightfully solid, their pillars united at the
top by stout timbers of cambered oak, sound enough to stand for centuries.
The life they support is that of cordon apples and pears, set close
together, and trained to absolute perfection. Both when the blossom is out,
especially when the pink of apple-blossom is at its best in May, and when
the fruit, ruddy, russet and golden, has taken its colour from the sun,
these pergolas must be a sight simply lovely. The central oasis of green
has, if memory serves accurately, a fountain in its midst, and round it
certainly are pillars clad with rambling roses, their tops united not, as
is customary, by drooping chains, but by stout hawsers, two inches or more
in diameter, for which it is claimed that they suit the roses as supports
better than metal, which is subject to rapid changes of temperature and
also to electrical influence. This last consideration was new to me, but
doubtless it rests on substantial ground, and the whole idea is an
illustration of what may be achieved in gardening by sympathy, which we can
all try to give--and by an expenditure which men of moderate means may well
shudder to contemplate.

To round off the picture of this ideal home by the sea, be it added that
Mr. Cobbold farms, and that his dairy cattle are of the gentle Channel
Islands breeds, some Jerseys, all of ascertained pedigree, to which a
little Guernsey blood has been added. At Norwich, seeing the Red Polls in
great numbers, I ventured an expression of opinion that, on the whole, the
native breed of a district is usually "most in the picture" and most
profitable in that district, and the opinion remains unshaken, so far as
wayside pastures and the ordinary stock on farms are concerned. But for the
home farm no cattle are so pleasing to the eye, none are so gentle in their
manners, and none give such eminently satisfactory milk as the Channel
Islands cattle; and Mr. Cobbold's herd is most decidedly a thing in place.
In answer to a leading question, based on personal experience, he writes:
"One of the bulls (imported) was a Guernsey one; and his progeny are in
some instances still to be distinguished by their whitish noses and
lighter-coloured shins. This, of course, would make the cows larger; but
apart from this, I have noticed a decided tendency in all the pure bred
Jerseys to grow larger on our pastures and subject to the conditions they
find here." As a matter of fact the same tendency is visible on pastures
less favoured than those of Felixstowe.

It may be said that this is not motoring; but it was a glorious episode on
a motor tour, and those who pass these modest oak palings on the way to
Bawdsey, as we did next day, may like to know how complete is the paradise
that is close to them. Still we did go a-motoring that afternoon, on the
principle, perhaps, that although true hospitality may have no limits,
nature has supplied one, a fairly high one it is true, to the absorbent
capacities of the sponge. Our expedition of the afternoon, by this time
soft and rainless, was merely half a Sabbath day's journey, from the point
of view of the motorist, for there is no revolutionary pursuit of our age
to which the Greek author's saying concerning the mutability of the meaning
of words is more applicable than it is to motoring. The saying, by the way,
is that in revolutionary times the signification of words as applied to
things is always changed. A Sabbath day's journey, for example, was to the
Hebrew of old seven miles. In the course of that afternoon, merely _pour
passer le temps_, without overstraining ourselves or the car, we travelled
at least eighty miles, starting well after three o'clock, taking our
afternoon tea at a supremely interesting spot, and returning to the
pleasing shelter of the hotel more or less in time for a rather late
dinner.

Our policy, after the first few miles, which were to take us through
nature's wild garden of Suffolk, was a policy of drifting, determined by
circumstances. There is a Greek word [Greek: autarkeia], which exactly
describes one of the chief fascinations of the motor-car for those who have
the strength of mind--for it is really strength and not weakness--to allow
happy chance to determine their course in some measure. It means
"sufficiency in oneself," or "independence," and I am emboldened to refer
to it because it is much beloved by Plato, and because Plato, I am given to
understand, is quite a popular author among the ladies of our day. Here
let a suggestion be offered to the learned gentleman who delivers lectures
to note-taking ladies on Plato in the sympathetic atmosphere of one of our
huge modern hotels. There is nothing like a concrete example for bringing
home to the modern mind the truth of these expressions used by the wise men
of the old world, and two illustrations of [Greek: autarkeia] are offered
freely. "Good horse between my knees" was the very embodiment of the
feeling of independence before motor-cars were in the land. Subject to
sundry risks, not numerous or probable enough to stop a man of courage from
setting forth, the mounted man can go pretty much whither his fancy leads
him and change his mind as often as he pleases, within certain obvious
limits. The motorist is even more happily situated. For the horseman the
risks and the limits remain practically unchanged throughout the ages; for
the motorist the risks, save those of tire trouble, are always being
reduced and the limits are always being extended. There is now practically
no limit, save that of his personal choice and his physical endurance, to
the distance he may go, and he need never be troubled, as the horseman must
be from time to time, by doubts whether his pleasure may not be causing
pain to the organism which carries him willingly from place to place. It is
of course just conceivable that the metals may feel, but it is not in the
least likely that they do. Everybody has heard of mysterious movements
inside apparently solid steel--did not Mr. Ruskin speak beautifully of the
"anarchy of steel"?--and it is a frequent experience that an engine will
seem to grow tired and to require to be driven with consideration for a
while, for no apparent reason. But at any rate, even the wildest fancy can
hardly picture steel in pain in the same sense as the overdriven horse or
the patient ricksha coolie whose short cough is a reminder that the race is
short-lived. No, in motoring, so far as the use of the machine is
concerned, there can be no inhumanity.

It was in this spirit that we set forth on that soft afternoon, with a
half-formed intention of taking tea with friends near Saxmundham and of
going no farther on our outward journey. As it happened we went a great
deal farther, taking a predetermined course at first along roads clearly
marked on every map, and then, having found a new objective, and having
ascertained the direction in which it lay, we made for it by such roads as
seemed, on the face of them, and without any regard to their quality or
surface, most likely to lead towards it. It took a little longer perhaps,
but it was interesting; it gave some exercise to the topographical
intelligence, and it led us out of the beaten track. The first part of the
route was simplicity itself. We simply retraced our tracks from Felixstowe
to Trimley of the twin churches along the Ipswich road, and a mile or two
beyond. Then we turned at an obtuse angle to the right and found ourselves
in what has been called the wild garden of Suffolk, not in any classical
work perhaps, but by word of mouth. A wide stretch it was of gorse and
heather, with trees here and there, singly and in groups, the greater part
of it some eighty or ninety feet above the level of the adjoining North Sea
and, roughly speaking, forty feet above that of the plain, ten miles in
width or thereabouts, following the coast northwards for ever so many miles
from the left bank of the demure and rather dull river Deben. The "garden"
was hardly at its best for, whether kissing was out of fashion or not, the
gorse was very certainly and completely out of blossom; and of course there
was no glory of bracken; but no strong effort of imagination was called
for, no very intimate knowledge of wild nature, to perceive that, later in
the year, this must be a divinely attractive run. As it was, the memory
left is of clear air and wide prospect, of russets and sombre greens, of
two villages--their names turn out to be Brightwell and Martlesham--of no
particular note, and of a nameless brook, a tributary of the Deben, forded
near the former. The surface of the roads, perhaps, left something to be
desired by the fastidious, but that is a matter to which experience and
intelligent curiosity lead one to pay less and ever less attention. Through
such a country, growing a little more disciplined as our route, nearly due
north, took us away from the sea and on to higher ground, we passed to
Woodbridge, whereof enough has been said before, and through Wickham Market
to our old acquaintance Saxmundham, the original objective of this
easy-going drive. But, as it happened, my charioteer's friends at whose
house we called had also been tempted abroad that afternoon, and it
appeared to be considered probable that they had gone to Dunwich. In came
[Greek: autarkeia], independence, and the happy thought, Why not go to
Dunwich too? A hasty glance at a map showed that if we pushed on along the
high road not quite so far as Yoxford, and then began to think of turning
eastward, we must in due course find a road leading us to Dunwich. This was
really hardly a case of "taking chances," as our American friends have it,
for on that desolate coast the dreary remains of Dunwich are the only point
between Southwold and Aldeburgh at which roads converge. Towards Yoxford
was some three or four miles through eminently English scenery, undulations
of land, which the auctioneer's catalogue would describe not ineptly as
"park-like," showing a remarkable succession of well-grown oaks. So
"park-like," indeed, was it that, no doubt, much of it was the real thing.
As it turned out a general sense of direction suggested the wisdom of
bearing to the right, not much more than half-way to Yoxford, and the
suggestion was obeyed. It led us by roads no better than farm tracks, and
probably never intended to be any better, through Middleton and Westleton,
neither of them a village of any note, to a winding road adorned by a
sign-post with the legend, "To Dunwich and the Sea." The latter piece of
information was not necessary to anybody who had learned to note, by the
evidence of the trees, the effects of salt-bearing winds. Wheresoever near
any of our coasts you see single trees all sloping in one direction, or
coverts almost penthouse-shaped, rising gradually from a puny height of a
few feet on one side, to a wall of respectable elevation on the other,
there you may be sure that you are quite near to the sea, and that the
salt-bearing winds have beaten first on the low side of the covert. So the
sign-post was hardly needed on this narrow road of many rectangles, at one
of which my charioteer's friends were happily met. A few more turns, a
sharp descent under the almost overhanging walls of a long deserted priory,
and we were in Dunwich.

[Illustration: DUNWICH AND DESOLATION]

This same Dunwich is without exception the most depressing scene on which
the eye could rest. Down the hill we swept into a bleak hamlet of some
twenty houses and to an inn, where tea was ordered. What time the ladies
thawed themselves over a new-lit fire it seemed good to the men to restore
circulation, and perhaps stimulate the mind a little, by a tour of
inspection, and to ask for guidance beforehand. It was given in grim
language. "If you want only to see the ruins you can go by the road; if you
want to see the bones you must follow the cliff." So desiring to see
everything as quickly as might be, we took the path to the cliff, through a
sandy cutting, and soon were close to the evidence of a recent fall into
the sea of land, rising perhaps a hundred feet above high-water mark, of
which the most reckless speculator would hardly buy the fee simple for any
tangible sum. It has been falling--sometimes in large pieces, sometimes in
small--since the reign of Edward III; it is falling still, and it will
continue to fall. It is of the kind of substance that has no more cohesion,
or very little more, than a child's castle of sand, which, having been a
broad-based cone in the beginning, has been cut till it opposes a sheer and
perpendicular and crumbling obstacle to the advancing tides. Waves and
rains--the latter far more destructive than is commonly imagined--are
destroying this part of England, even while others are being added to, with
remarkable celerity, nor is it easy to see how any protecting works could,
even if the enterprise were worth undertaking, be constructed with any
reasonable hope of success. The last fall--of part of the churchyard of the
derelict All Saint's--was clearly quite recent. The bones, mixed with
crumbling débris of the rotten cliff, were being washed by muddy wavelets a
hundred feet below the perilous verge of the cliff, a grisly and a
saddening sight. The church itself--its west end still standing--hung on
the edge of the cliff; it cannot last long. "Murray" writes in 1875: "It
might have served till the present day, but was abandoned in the middle of
the last century that the townsfolk might sell the bells and lead." He
would be a bold man who should say now that the townsfolk were not justly
prudent, for it is as plain as a pikestaff that All Saint's is liable at
any moment, hurtling down into the insatiable sea, to join St. Peter's and
the other five churches, once the glory of Dunwich; it has already sent
down half its burial ground, and the rest, although burials continued
after the church was abandoned, is sure to follow soon. Opposite my seat of
a Sunday in Winchester Cathedral when I was a boy, was a sepulchral chest
on top of a screen bearing the legend "In hâc et alterâ e regione cistâ
reliquiæ sunt ossium," and then a handful of kings beginning with Canute
were mentioned. It used to seem reasonably grim. But this shallow and
relentless sea round the last relics of Dunwich, with its bottom strewn by
the contents of six churchyards and a half, is to the chest at Winchester
as the earthquakes at San Francisco and Valparaiso are to the slipping of
an Irish bog. The scene is depressing, unspeakably sad; but it is necessary
to visit it in order to realize that Dunwich was once great and to
understand its fall, for it is falling still, and it will go on falling;
and you cannot help seeing how it all happened.

Hardly anywhere else, perhaps nowhere, is it possible at once to localize
and to realize so long and unvarying a story of progressive ruin. Felix,
whom we have met before on these wanderings, landed at Dunwich (another
legend lands him shipwrecked at Hunstanton) in the seventh century, on his
evangelizing mission; doubtless because King Sigeberht of East Anglia
prescribed a landing at the principal port of his kingdom. He found there a
flourishing community, a port which, for the seventh century, was large,
and, says "Murray," remains of a considerable Roman settlement. (But, for
reasons already given and of universal application in East Anglia, I am shy
of accepting Roman remains unless they be supported by definite and
satisfactory evidence.) At any rate the King built himself a palace, and
the saint built a church, the cathedral church of the new diocese of East
Anglia; and whether both or either used the Roman ruins no man may tell
with certainty, for the sea has devoured palace and cathedral church alike.
Perhaps, after all, it does not much matter now of what material they were
constructed, or what its origin was. Fifteen successive bishops, at any
rate, ruled East Anglia ecclesiastically from Dunwich. So early as
_Domesday_ there are records of falls; there is even a legend of an
extensive forest, flourishing east of the town that way, covering miles of
land over which now the "waves wap and the waters wan." Still Dunwich found
forty ships for Henry III, and though "rage and surgies of the sea" ravaged
it in the time of Edward III, it occurs in a quaint list of East Anglia's
contribution to the fleet raised against the Armada, a list which may be
given here once and for all:

    Colchester, 1 shippe.
    Ipswich and Harwich, 2 shippes, 1 pinnace.
    Alborough, Orforth, and Dunwich, 1 shippe.
    Yearmouth and Leistocke (Lowestoft), 1 shippe, 1 pinnace.
    Lynne and Blackney, 2 shippes, 1 pinnace.

In the time of Leland the bitter cry of the people of Dunwich was heard in
the land and the legend of the submerged forest of Eastwood is found on his
pages: "_George Ferras_ told me that the men of Dunewich desiring Sucour
for their Town againe Rages of the Se, adfirme that a great Peace of a
Foreste sumtyme therby ys devourid up and turnid to the use of the Se." Who
George Ferras was, this deponent knoweth not, but by way of exemplifying
the difficulty of reading Leland, it may be mentioned that other places
named on the same folio are New-Windelesore (Windsor), Saresbyri
(Salisbury), Dovar, to say nothing of Edward III, Egidius, Walterus de la
Ville, Nicholas de S. Quintius, and "Mr. Balthazar," all in the space of
twenty-five lines of print. Leland's volumes, through no fault of his, as
has been pointed out before, are like conglomerate or puddingstone, with
here and there a gem, which takes a great deal of finding. Indeed that this
particular gem was found may be attributed to fortune. It shows us Dunwich,
before the untiring sea had reduced the inhabitants to absolute despair,
crying out for help, and crying to deaf ears. Its destruction, in truth,
was very gradual, very certain; and, while the nation would not help, it
was not worth while for the people to show the indomitable spirit of those
in San Francisco to-day, or to set about the task of rebuilding, for in
destroying Dunwich the sea wiped out its excuse for existence, making the
land that was left unapproachable by reason of its girdle of shallow water.
So there is nothing left but memories, a handful of mean houses of no
interest by the sea, the ruins of the Grey Friars monastery on the hill,
and the church of All Saints tottering on the crumbling verge of the
disappearing cliff. How any man or woman can consent to live in this
environment of desolation is a thing difficult to understand; but there
they are, apparently quite cheerful, a living testimony to the elasticity
of human spirits. A stranger, having seen the sights, having mused a little
as his eyes wander over that dreary expanse of monotonous sea, leaves
Dunwich gladly, without the slightest intention of returning, and convinced
that a not very prolonged residence there would assuredly produce
melancholia in one not to the manner born.

The opinion has been expressed already that it is not worth while at this
time of day, and it would probably be hopeless to endeavour, to cope
against the untiring sea in its work of demolishing the glacial cliffs
south of Dunwich. As they are demolished they go, by virtue of the
southerly drift given to the débris, to alter the coastline southward.
Attention has been called, for example, to the childish course pursued by
the River Alde. The fault does not lie with the river but with the
crumbling cliffs of the north, and they are responsible for closing up the
natural mouth it once had at Slaugden, barely half a mile from Aldeburgh.
At Southwold and Lowestoft defensive works are praiseworthy, because they
are feasible and the land is worth protecting, and this is even more true
of the vicinity of Felixstowe. Here much land was lost early in the last
century, owing to the fact that huge quantities of stones, forming a
natural protection, were removed for manufacture into cement, with the
result that the shore was denuded, and the loose pebbles were heaped up by
the drift into a totally undesirable shingle bank at Landguard Fort. This
bank in its turn threatened Harwich Harbour, and a groyne of concrete had
to be set up to arrest its progress. These facts, in detail, came to my
knowledge through the _Engineer_ in 1906, together with the somewhat
appalling estimate of land lost in East Anglia to the extent of 160 square
miles in ten centuries. Land has been gained elsewhere, at Bawdsey, where
we shall find ourselves very shortly, for example. At Bawdsey it has been
gained through human agency to the advantage of humanity, but on the whole
the sea, left to its own devices, works destruction at both ends of its
operation. It removes the earth from places where it is needed, as at
Dunwich for example, and so wipes one flourishing port out of existence: it
does its best to deposit that which it has taken away where it is not
needed, and to block up one port with the ruins of another. At Harwich it
has, we all hope, been stopped, but all the world knows the mischief which
has been wrought south of the estuary of the Thames by the gradual process
of accretion converting thriving ports into meaningless inland places. What
all the world does not realize, and what our most practised engineers in
this kind apprehend, without pretending to comprehend fully, is the
unforetellable character of the results that will follow from every attempt
to interfere with these mysterious processes of nature which takes the form
of opposing an obstacle to the sweep of the tide. Thus to build a groyne or
a sea wall, to say to the sea in effect, "Thou hast taken so much, but thou
shalt take no more," is hardly likely to produce any injurious result. On
the other hand, to stretch a solid pier across the drift, and to divert a
current, may be to affect the coast line for hundreds of miles along the
coast affected by the drift. As an engineer versed in these matters once
said to me, "When you interfere with the tides you must wait for the
effect; you cannot predict it."

So back to Felixstowe, varying the cross-country route to the main road a
little by following the sense of direction without consulting any maps, and
seeing nothing worthy of notice except a belated heron, its long legs
stretched behind its slow-flapping wings, making its way from the sea to
some distant heronry and croaking sadly as it went, as though to say, "The
moon will give no light to-night, so I must perforce go fasting." That is a
Welsh version of the heron's melancholy call--please note that the heron
always wears half mourning--but the marsh men doubtless express the same
thought in some way, for it is sound ornithology, and they know their birds
passing well.




CHAPTER VI--(_continued_)

FELIXSTOWE, BAWDSEY, WOODBRIDGE, IPSWICH, DUNMOW AND LONDON

     A stormy morning--Past golf-links to Bawdsey Ferry--Sir
     Cuthbert Quilter's work of reclamation--A short climb
     but very stiff--Some remote byways to Woodbridge--Heavy
     rain--Value of cape hood--Drawbacks of transparent
     screens--Ipswich again--More Cobbolds, more
     hospitality--Ipswich oysters and gloves--The "Crown and
     Anchor"--An architect and antiquary--Jingling
     prophecy--An abbot's bones and "extra dry"--Another car
     arrives for us--Off for Dunmow--A frightened horse and
     an awkward rider--Rules of conduct in such
     cases--Through Braintree (remarks postponed) to Great
     Dunmow--Little Dunmow the true _locus
     classicus_--Leland and the Flitch--Far-fetched theories
     and an obvious explanation--The heart of the forest
     country--The old forest included Epping, Hainault, and
     Hatfield Forests--Hainault restored--Hardships of old
     forest law--Dunmow to Takeley--Hatfield Broad Oak and
     Heath--A view of hounds--High Ongar, Epping, and
     London, reversing original order--The drive reviewed.


Next morning, in a tearing wind, full of the promise of rain, we took a
road running as nearly N.N.E. as might be, making for the steam ferry which
crosses the mouth of the river Deben, a river whose banks are rich in
memories of the late Mr. C. J. Cornish, one of the brightest open-air
writers of our generation. Golf-links we passed, having plenty of natural
bunkers and hazards, having also that close turf, whereon the ball
"carries" well, which appears to be in better harmony than any inland turf
with the spirit of the royal and ancient game. Martello towers there were
too, on the flat and lonely beach, towers probably more useful now as
affording shelter and concealment to the wild fowler than for any purpose
of defence; and beyond them the shallow sea whipped by the wind into angry
little wavelets. Then the ferry hove in sight, the boat, or floating
bridge, being on the far side of a fretting strath from a quarter to half a
mile in width. On the far side also was the curious house of Sir Cuthbert
Quilter, and around it a considerable area of cultivated land, doing
infinite credit to the enterprise of that most ardent agriculturist; for
has he not converted a wilderness into fairly fruitful land, and is not the
man who does that a benefactor of humanity? Crossing seemed at first likely
to be no easy matter. The boat was on the far side, out of hearing in such
a wind as was blowing; a witless boy of the district, himself desirous of
crossing apparently, thought it came at fixed times, and had no idea when
those times were. It seemed that we might wait for hours; but prowling
round I found a signal post, and thereon directions how to raise the signal
for the ferry, and soon the boat was making for us. Entering it with the
car was no trouble; Avernus has always been easy of descent; but when the
craft had creaked to the far side we were faced with the stiffest task I
have ever seen offered to any motor-car in the shape of a sharply sloping
bank of soft gravel to be ascended without any preliminary run of any kind.
The steam car, however, ploughed slowly through the gravel and up the hill,
and I look back upon those ten or twelve yards of hill-climbing as the
finest exhibition of sheer strength in a motor-car it has ever been my
fortune to witness. So we went by devious and very bad roads, through
Alderton and Hollesley to Woodbridge, through a country not particularly
interesting, I imagine, at the best of times, and rendered less interesting
than ever by the angry curtain of clouds which hung over our path. Rain had
been an open question when we started; it was certainly coming now with a
will; and it was a case of up cape hood and down with the front screen, in
which a large piece of transparent talc, or celluloid, gave something of a
view to him who drove. It was better than getting wet through, that is all
that can be said. The rain for a short time was simply torrential, and as
it poured in waving streams down the transparent surface, one could see as
much as, but not very much more than, one can see with eyes opened six or
eight feet down in fairly clear river water. Outlines of objects were
blurred in the same fashion as they are to the diver (without a diving
dress of course), and one felt as doubtful of the distance of this or that
as one has often felt under water when catching sight of the saucer, the
white stone, or what you will, thrown in beforehand that it might be
searched for afterwards. So there is nothing to be said of this run from
Woodbridge to Ipswich, along the road followed in my first journey but in
the opposite direction, save that it was taken in "demmed, moist,
unpleasant weather," to quote Mr. Mantalini.

However, the rain abated before we reached Ipswich and halted, by previous
arrangement, at Mr. Cobbold's Bank, as a preliminary to receiving
open-handed hospitality from yet another member of that most hospitable of
Suffolk families. It is not suggested that all motorists should do
likewise, although, upon my word, judging by Mr. Cobbold's kindness to a
party upon two of whom he had never set eyes until that day, it seems
probable that a call at the Bank would be a promising venture for any
strangers. But into the secrets of comfort in Ipswich which he revealed to
us others may be admitted without his personal guidance. He showed the
old-world glove shop already mentioned. The oyster shop he showed us also,
almost next door to the glovers, both in a narrow street running parallel
to the main street on the far side from the "Crown and Anchor," and the
"Great White Horse," and better oysters were never eaten by man or woman.
Then he took us to luncheon at the "Crown and Anchor" which, sooth to say,
was more to my taste than the "Great White Horse"--of its charges it is
manifestly impossible for me to speak, but its fare was of the simplest and
best. Last, but not least of the kindnesses shown to me by Mr. Cobbold was
to invite to meet me Mr. Corder, architect and antiquarian--would that the
combination were universal--profoundly versed in the old-time legends of
the district. Mr. Corder it was who gave me a most fascinating print of the
back of the "Crown and Anchor" when it was the "Rampant Horse," and quoted
a jingled prophecy of days gone by, concerning the fate of the various inns
of Ipswich, which appears to have come true--

    The Rampant Horse shall kick the Bear,
      And make the Griffin fly,
    And turn the Bell upside down,
      And drink the Three Tuns dry.

Again, as our talk wandered over matters ancient and men of the past, the
name of the famous Abbot Sampson, much noted in his day as a preacher, was
mentioned, and Mr. Corder had a humorous story of his disinterment in
modern times. With the bones of the clarion-voiced preacher, in the same
coffin, was found the skull of a woman, a grim jest perhaps of those who
were left behind him in this world. The bones, pending reinterment in
decent form, were placed in the first convenient receptacle and, only some
time later was it observed, the relics of the preacher had, by the irony of
fate, been placed in a champagne case labelled "extra dry." Chance, very
likely, supplied an epitaph more truthful than is usual.

At Ipswich too my host and friend had prepared a surprise. Not entirely
satisfied with the behaviour of the car which had covered us, as well as
carried us, hitherto, he had telegraphed to London for another, and it
awaited us in the inn yard. It was uncovered, but the sky was now clear, so
we sped in it merrily along the already familiar route to Colchester,
entering Essex, "ful of good hoswyves," as Leland quotes, as we crossed the
river at Stratford St. Mary. Had we turned to the right a little before
this point we should have made ourselves familiar with the beautiful and
very characteristic scenery of those Stourside places Stoke-by-Nayland,
Sudbury, and Long Melford--all interesting places concerning which
something is said later. But all these matters and places come more
fittingly into the chapter describing a series of short day's drives from
Colchester as head-quarters. So do Marks Tey and Braintree through which,
as a matter of fact, we passed that day to Dunmow. In fact the only fact
about this little run which can be mentioned without impoverishing the mine
to be dug from later is an incident. We had the misfortune to meet a man
who was no horseman mounted on a half-broken colt which had the strongest
apparent objection to a motor-car. The man held up his hand. We stopped.
The horse, more frightened than ever, turned and bolted in the other
direction; but then the rider turning on to the grass beside the road,
dismounted hurriedly and we passed on. It was almost a solitary instance in
which, during much motoring of late, I have seen a horse thoroughly
frightened by a car, all the more alarmed probably because, by that curious
intuition which horses possess, it knew its rider to be incompetent. The
incident exemplified the folly of the existing law requiring a car to be
stopped completely whenever a person in charge of a horse, or with a horse
in charge of him, holds up his hand. Almost every petrol-car brought
suddenly to a stop makes far more noise and is far more alarming to a horse
than when it moves at a reasonable pace, and the car-driver, in a voice at
once audible and soothing, cries "Woa, my lad," or something of that kind,
thus convincing the animal that motor-cars are connected with human beings,
with whom he is familiar. In nine cases out of ten, however, the man is
more frightened than the horse, so that, tugging suddenly at the reins,
after being half asleep before, he compels the animal to start. In any
event the complete stopping is an error from the point of view of horseman
and motorist. It annoys the latter without being of the slightest use to
the former. Moreover, it gives irascible squires an opportunity of
exasperating the motorist, whom they detest. "My horses don't mind a car at
all," said one such to me not long since, "but I always hold up my hand
when I meet the beastly things; I hear they hate stopping." These are the
_ipsissima verba_ of one who, in every other relation of life, is
exceptionally kind and genial.

Passing through pleasant Braintree, and going at a spanking pace along an
open road, we left Little Dunmow, which is the real Dunmow of story,
unnoticed on the left through sheer ignorance, and went on to Great Dunmow.
Our ignorance was in some measure to be excused, because the custom of
Dunmow, although in old times it was established in connection with the
Priory of Little Dunmow, was revived in connection with Great Dunmow. And,
after all, in this case it would probably have been folly to be wise. We
should have found little, if anything, remaining of the Priory of Little
Dunmow, and we were quite happy, in our ignorance, over our tea in a
picturesque inn at Great Dunmow, believing all the time that we were at
the classic spot itself. Of the various accounts of a quaint custom,
mentioned in _Piers Plowman_ and by Chaucer, I prefer that given by Leland,
for its brevity. Writing of "the bacon at Dunmow," and referring to "Robert
Fitzwalter, Lord of Woodham and famous in the time of King Henry the
Thyrd," he continues, "In which Priory arose a custome, begun or instituted
either by him or some of his successors, that he that repenteth him not of
his marriage sleeping or waking in a yeere and a day may lawfully goe to
Dunmow and fetch a Gammon of Bacon." The quotations from Chaucer and _Piers
Plowman_ have been used too often in "seasonable articles" to be repeated
here. It is easy to agree with the curiously learned Dr. Samuel Brewer that
"the attempt to revive this 'premium for humbug' is a mere get up for the
benefit of the town"; but his quotation from Prior is distinctly apt and
unfamiliar:

    Ah, madam! cease to be mistaken;
    Few married fowl peck Dunmow bacon.

Also we may hope that the eight successful pairs of claimants from 1445 to
1772, Essex folk all, took the matter more seriously than those of later
time. One pair, Thomas Shakeshaft, Woolcomber of Weathersfield, and his
wife, are said to have made their successful claim in 1751 in the presence
of Hogarth. The most recent fame of Dunmow arises from its violent
resistance to uninvited Socialist propagandists. It is just the sort of
quiet place in which one would expect a rustic to describe the Socialist
ranters as "a passel o' fools"; and this is precisely what occurred.

Perhaps after all it is well to repeat the oath in verse as preserved by
Fuller, since to do so may save the trouble of reference for the curious:

    You shall swear by the custom of our confession
    That you never made any nuptial transgression,
    Since you were married man and wife,
    By household brawls or contentious strife;
    Or otherwise, in bed or at board
    Offended each other in deed or word;
    Or, since the parish clerk said Amen,
    Wished yourselves unmarried again;
    Or, in a twelvemonth and a day,
    Repented not in thought any way;
    But continued true and in desire,
    As when you joined hands in holy quire.
    If to these conditions, without all fear,
    Of your own accord you will freely swear,
    A gammon of bacon you shall receive,
    And bear it hence with love and good leave;
    For this is our custom at Dunmow well known,
    Though the sport be ours the bacon's your own.

There is a like custom of Wicknor in Staffordshire, but the ultra-learned
seem to me to have overstrained their fancies in imagining a common origin
for these flitches of bacon, and the "sow and pigs" which, according to
"Murray," are frequently seen on the carved bosses of church roofs in
Devonshire, and in suggesting a connection between the Dunmow flitch, which
after all was but a gammon, and the flitch which according to Dion
Halicarnassus, was kept at the Temple of Alba Longa until the time of
Augustus, because Æneas found there the white sow and pigs. It may be true
that it was the custom of the Prussians of old time to offer a flitch of
bacon to the thunder-god whenever a thunderstorm came. As for the sow and
pigs on the roofs of Devonshire churches, they seem to me to have no more
direct connection with the Dunmow flitch than "the sow and pigs" as an inn
sign (which may be seen in Oxfordshire and perhaps elsewhere), or than the
Gadarene swine. Surely, when there is an obvious and historical
explanation there is no sort of need for plunging into the troubled waters
of comparative folk-lore. Robert Fitz-Walter desired to establish a reward
for conjugal fidelity. That is plain, and there was nothing out of the way
about such a desire in times when foundations similar in character, rewards
for constancy in servants and the like, were by no means uncommon. It
probably never occurred to him that the claimants would be other than
peasants. The recorded claimants in fact were in 1445, a labourer and his
wife; in 1510, a fuller; in 1701, a butcher; in 1751, a woolcomber; the
three last with their wives of course; and in the other cases the callings
of the claimants are not recorded.

Fitz-Walter's domain was situate in the heart of the forest country, a land
of innumerable oak trees, whereon herds of swine were fed upon the acorns
in autumn, under the care of the successors in title of Gurth the
Swineherd. To the peasantry the pig was, economically speaking, everything;
for that matter he is a great deal to them still since, take him for all in
all, he is the most profitable of domestic animals. What could be more
natural than that the great landowner should establish as the reward of
fidelity among peasants a part of the familiar beast whom they knew best,
and whom, to this day, they like best on the table. Those who have seen the
excitement of pig-killing at a cottage home, who know how it spells plenty
of fresh meat for a while, and how large a part fat bacon plays in the
meals which the agricultural labourer eats under the lee of a hedge, will
not desire to go to Alba Longa for an explanation of the Dunmow flitch;
nor, in a country where "chaw-bacon" was once synonymous with farm
labourer--unhappily they now consume tinned meat instead--need we think in
their connection of the sacrifices of the ancient Prussians. Robert
Fitz-Walter could not have devised a benefaction more to the taste of the
intended recipients.

Yes, we were some way from the spot truly sacred to the custom at Great
Dunmow; but we were uncommonly near to relics of the ancient forest, in
which the swine, the Dunmow flitches in process of formation, grew fat upon
the abundant acorns.

We were, indeed, in the very heart of the forest land, its principal
products timber, game, which was sacred to the king, and swine growing fat,
as obesity of pigs was reckoned in early days, on the acorns of autumn.
Hard by in Hertfordshire the country folk to this day collect acorns in
great quantity, feeding thereon the swine which, cribbed, cabined, and
confined, no doubt grow fatter than their predecessors roaming in the
woods. A perambulation was made in the twelfth year of Henry III (1228 and
Fitz-Walter's time), which showed nearly the whole of the county to be part
of a Royal Forest. From the Thames on the south to Stane Street, the road
between Colchester and Bishop Stortford, to the north, was a great forest
running right up to the walls of London. It was known as the Forest of
Waltham; it included Epping Forest, part of which has happily been
preserved, to the enduring credit of the City of London, Hainault Forest,
the relics of which have been reafforested of late, and Hatfield Forest,
along the margin of which we were shortly to pass on our way to London.
Hainault Forest once lay, and now again lies, south of Epping Forest, being
to the south of the river Roding. It once consisted of four thousand acres,
but was disafforested by Act of Parliament in 1851, the Crown receiving an
allotment of two thousand acres which, at an expenditure of more than
£40,000, were converted into arable farms. Of the whole six thousand acres
only a small tract retained its character of primitive woodland. This,
through the exertions of the Commons Preservation Society and of Mr. E. N.
Buxton, has now again been dedicated to the public, being vested in the
London County Council. In addition, thanks to Mr. Buxton and also to the
Commissioners of Woods and Forests, five hundred acres of tilled land,
formerly known as the "King's Woods" and later as Fox Burrows Farm, have
been reafforested after being forty years under the plough. For three years
Mr. Buxton, with the aid of the County Council, has been engaged in the
effort to make the tame land wild again. Grass has been sown, acorn and
beechmast have been inserted, seeds of bramble, briar, holly, blackthorn
and whitethorn have been introduced, and some saplings have been planted.
Bracken, perhaps the most essential feature of wild woodland, has come of
itself. So the tame is on its way to become wild and natural again. It will
be a long process which few living men can hope to see fully accomplished;
but that the experiment was well worth trying cannot be doubted.

Nothing, perhaps, illustrates more forcibly the difference between the
conditions of modern life and those of the thirteenth or even the
seventeenth century than our present attitude towards forests by comparison
with that of our forefathers. When, in the time of Charles I, an attempt
was made to declare the boundaries of the Forest of Waltham to be identical
with those prescribed in the perambulation of Henry III, it was regarded
as, and in fact it was, an outrage. It meant the effort to revive the harsh
Forest Law and to expropriate private owners who had acquired rights by a
prescription more than adequate from our modern standpoint. It meant a
determination to extend the rights of the Crown, to deny the rights of the
public. In the days of Edward VII all men rejoice over the patches of
forest which have been preserved, all England congratulates itself when
that which has been disafforested, as Hainault was in 1851, becomes forest
again. This is because the meaning of words as applied to things is changed
when the country passes from an unsettled to a settled state, just as,
according to one of the Greeks, it is changed in revolutionary times.
"Forest" in old times denoted a district and, in respect of that district,
connoted a wicked restriction of public rights, or of rights which, to our
mind, ought to have been public. "Forest" now means a district in which the
public have abundant liberty, limited only by consideration for the rights
of all, and the rights of the Crown in relation to it hardly come into
account. Every remaining forest, whatsoever its governance may be, is a
treasure-house for the naturalist, a sanctuary for wild birds and beasts, a
place to be prized above measure since, in it, the dwellers in our
congested islands may walk face to face with wild nature in pure air.

Of the relics of such a forest we were soon to have a pleasing view. From
Dunmow to Bishop Stortford, as one of the guide-books has it, there is
nothing of interest. We followed this high road along the railway, which
did not make for beauty, for some four miles until, climbing a slight
acclivity, we were at Takeley, where the church is said to possess a very
fine Perpendicular font-cover. Such minutiæ, however, are not for the
motorist. There we turned sharply to the left and, passing along the brow
of a gentle hill for three miles, we were at Hatfield Broad Oak, amid true
forest scenery of wide stretches of turf bordered by wild woodland. Whether
the storied oak, carefully fenced around, still stands, this deponent is
not absolutely prepared to avouch; but his eye was arrested by a tree
which would certainly serve well to represent it. It was good going hence,
among charming sylvan scenery, through Hatfield Heath to Harlow, for five
miles, and at Harlow, as at Hatfield Heath or at Takeley for that matter,
we might have run to the right a little and so have struck the most eastern
of the two main roads from Cambridge to London. But we were out to see the
country; so we stuck to the byways, well worthy of following for their own
sakes and for ours, and we had our reward in a pretty picture. Passing
along an unfenced road, having broad stretches of turf backed by woodlands
on either side, we saw in the distance the pink coats of three or four
riders, and soon we were going slowly and gingerly past a staunch pack of
hounds returning to kennel under the charge of huntsman and whips after
their day's sport. They were good horses, workmanlike hounds, a thoroughly
characteristic English sight and one which, somehow or other, one never
sees from a train, partly perhaps because masters of hounds are prone, for
obvious reasons, to avoid the vicinity of railways as much as possible.
This little spectacle was secured by making a detour from Harlow almost to
Chipping Ongar, and High Ongar and thence back to Epping, from which we
returned to London as nearly as might be by the route taken on our outward
journey. This involved a few more miles of travelling than by the main
road, but it produced a very good general impression of the character of
the forest country. It is an impression well worth treasuring in
remembrance. It also produced an abiding respect for Mrs. Coleman's
topographical memory. Not once or twice but many times was this lady able
to point out the right turning and to save us from going astray. Once only
did she fail, and that was after we had entered the continuous houses of
London. The failure was but the exception proving the rule; indeed it may
not even have been that; for the din of the streets may have drowned her
warning voice. Be that as it may the return to London was not quite so
artistic in point of route as the exit had been.

How far had we travelled that day? An estimate is given in the practical
observations earlier, but in truth distance really hardly counts within
limits which grow wider every year, when one is motoring for pleasure. The
essential things were that we took breakfast at a reasonable time and at
leisure in Felixstowe, went by characteristic cross-country routes to
Woodbridge and to Ipswich, strolled through Ipswich and shopped and
lingered over luncheon, took tea at ease in Great Dunmow, explored many
pleasant byways between it and London, and were back in London in plenty of
time to dine and to go to a first night at the theatre, and not in the
least too tired to do both with enjoyment. That is the new kind of pleasure
which the motor-car has rendered possible, and it is a very real and
genuine one.




CHAPTER VII

LATE SUMMER. COLCHESTER AND EASTWARDS

     Modern motoring and lack of sensational
     events--Colchester and district seen during Military
     manoeuvres--Farcical operations and abundant
     leisure--Study of Colchester--Interesting back
     streets--The Roman walls--Cæsar comes, sees, conquers,
     and departs--King Cunobelin--Claudius at
     Colchester--Was his victory a "put up thing"?--The
     Roman colony--Boadicea--The building of the
     walls--Abundant Roman remains--Legend of King Cole--Not
     necessarily all false--A playful theory--Was the
     Empress Helena a Colchester inn-keeper's daughter?--The
     Civil War--Siege of Colchester--Ireton's cruel
     revenge--Grief of Charles I--Concerning
     oysters--Colchester to Clacton-on-Sea--Sharp hillocks
     and shady elms--Chasing a balloon--Wivenhoe to
     Clacton--A wonderful society seen from a veranda--Great
     Holland--Walton-le-Soken, meaning of--St.
     Osyth--Between estuaries of Colne and Stour--Some hills
     and many windings--A Lanchester as
     hill-climber--Ardleigh and seed grounds--A
     dialogue--Manningtree--"Manningtree Ox" and Thomas
     Tusser--Matthew Hopkins the witchfinder--East
     Bergholt--Constable's birthplace--His struggles and
     career--To Dovercourt and Harwich--Fascinations of
     seaports--Old-time stories of Harwich
     Regatta--Landguard Fort--Lord Avebury on coast erosion
     and accretion--Site of Yarmouth--Back to Colchester.


This little book has been absolutely candid and truthful so far, if it had
not been it might have been more fertile in accidents and incidents; but
the truth of the matter is that the modern motor-car in good hands goes so
well that accidents and incidents are rare. One reads of accidents in the
papers of course, because it is unnecessary to chronicle safe journeys; but
it would be a libel on the motor-car to invent mishaps for the sake of
literary variety. After motoring some tens of thousands of miles, I can lay
my hand on my heart, metaphorically, and say that of the many cars in which
I have driven none has ever touched a human being on the road, or a horse,
or a carriage, or vehicle of any kind. My entire butcher's bill, extending
over a good many years, amounts to one cat (which jumped from a wall in
front of the car), three fowls, and ten sparrows. Therefore, since I am
devotedly attached to Automobilism, and at the same time convinced that,
for many years to come, it will be the pastime of the minority and will
only exist on sufferance, fancy and imagination are ridden strictly on the
curb, throttled down, if the phrase pleases better, and truth is encouraged
to prevail.

In this chapter, and those which follow next, I am going to describe a
number of journeys taken by motor-car from Colchester as a centre, and one
which might have been made from Colchester by car, but was in fact made
from London by train for the sake of its destination. That destination was
very well worth reaching, even by train; how to reach it by car from
Colchester, and what there is to be seen when it is reached shall be told
in due course. This particular chapter involves very little travelling, and
has been written because it is felt that the motorists, liking to take a
holiday on occasion, will like to hear of the antiquities of Colchester,
the social peculiarities of Clacton, some old-time stories of Harwich, and
something from Lord Avebury about coast changes.

Three or four years ago, it will be remembered, an expeditionary force of
horse and foot and artillery, representing imaginary invaders of this
country, embarked in transports at Southampton, under Sir John French, with
orders to carry out the operation of invading the east coast of England,
the point of dis-embarkation being Clacton-on-Sea, supposed to have been
left unwatched. In the course of the business of a special correspondent, I
saw the tall ships--they were not a bit tall really, but the old phrase
clings--steam out of Southampton, and then hurried across country to
Colchester to await events. At Colchester, I found myself a welcome
passenger on an official motor-car, a Lanchester, driven by an Army Service
Corps driver, and I found myself also, by happy chance, in the company of
many soldier friends at the "Old Red Lion," concerning the antiquities and
traditions of which it has been found impossible not to make some
observations at an earlier stage. There could have been no more delightful
task for a conscientious correspondent, for it was his duty to see all he
could, and it was sheer pleasure to scour the country to that end; and on
the other hand, if he were also an honourable man, his task of writing was
of the easiest. There was no censor; but the special correspondents were
placed on their honour not to publish anything which could, by any chance,
help the other side. Theoretically, I was attached to Sir John French's
invading army; in fact, I perambulated the ground occupied by both armies
with perfect freedom; and, since it soon became plain that my illuminating
remarks would be capable of reaching General Wynne, who was defending
England, at the same time as "the rolls and Bohea"--to quote the old
_Spectator_--it became manifest at the same time that the less said about
military matters the better. Recognition of this fact and of its
consequences gave me much leisure, and the farcical character of the
manoeuvres on land--for farcical they were universally allowed to be by
competent military observers--gave me more. For example, General French,
unopposed by previous arrangement, spent some hours of an afternoon in
landing his troops, but not much of his stores and baggage, at Clacton,
amidst a crowd of trippers and bathers. After resting them for a brief
space, and as darkness began to fall, he began a march upon the fat city
of Colchester, over ground not too flat, the distance being some seventeen
miles. I, not anticipating anything of the sort, since there was no moon,
had gone back to Colchester and dinner. Enter, about ten o'clock at night,
a breathless comrade to announce that sharp fighting was in progress. Out
started a car, not the Lanchester, carrying us both; and within a few
miles, but Heaven only knew where, we were in the thick of it. We could see
flashes; we could hear the explosion of cordite in all directions; we could
hear the tramp of men and horses, and many voices. But, speaking as no
warrior at all, I am absolutely convinced that during this engagement,
which was one of many, it was beyond the capacity of any man to distinguish
friend from foe, to aim his rifle at anything, or even to set his sights.
So I went back to bed at the "Red Lion."

With the dawn I was back again, to find the invaders, or some of them,
lying close to the city of Colchester, their guns in positions from which
they commanded the city and from which, in the meanwhile, they poured
imaginary death and destruction upon the flying defenders. Theoretically,
General French had captured the rich city of Colchester. If our mimic war
had been real, the main difficulty of Sir John French and his officers
would have been to check their fierce and hungry soldiery from sacking the
town, looting the provision shops, gorging themselves with Colchester
"natives"--for it was September and the oysters were very good--and
drinking enormous quantities of liquor. But mimic war is sometimes a stern
business, for the conquerors. The theoretical victors had to rest, as best
they could, in an open field in the rain and, for a long time, without
tents. Provisions, sufficient but not sumptuous, were supplied to them by
the Army Service Corps, and the high authorities, whosoever they were,
agreed that an armistice of thirty-six hours was called for by the
exhausted condition of both sides. During those thirty-six hours, which
begun about two o'clock in the afternoon, if memory serves accurately, a
correspondent had no duties to perform.

So, keeping the "Red Lion" for head-quarters, I was free to ramble over one
of the most interesting cities in England, architecturally and
historically. The "Cups," a hotel more celebrated, was not available, being
occupied by the umpiring staff, military grandees generally, and military
and naval attachés of many nations. But there was no cause to regret the
necessity for abiding at the ancient "Red Lion"; and it was an admirable
centre from which to study the city and its characteristic features. To the
front, in the High Street, there is much that is distressingly modern. The
Town Hall, for example, is the kind of building men accounted "handsome" in
1841, when it took the place of a Moot Hall which had been standing since
the Conquest. Most of the buildings near it on the far side of the road
from the "Red Lion," including the "Cups," are modern and the epithet
"handsome" has doubtless been applied to them also a hundred times and
more. No doubt they serve their purposes adequately, but in the full light
of day they offend the eye of him who deems himself cultivated. Only when
the light grows dim above and a red sunset lends enchantment to the
outlines of buildings seen against it, casting details and crude colouring
into shade, does the High Street of Colchester look really picturesque; and
that effect is the more impressive if one enters the town by the
easternmost of the three bridges across the Colne. Then as the car climbs
the sharp hill, the picture is unfolded gradually, and one great block of
buildings at the end of the street (it is really, I fancy, something
connected with the waterworks, but that is of no moment if it be pleasing)
looks distinctly romantic and imposing. In full sun the principal street of
Colchester fails to please any eye save that which is satisfied by the
evidence of an abundant prosperity.

Once inside the "Red Lion," however, the traveller is in an atmosphere of
the old world and, if he pleases to humour his fancy, he may preserve that
fancy for quite a long time and over quite a considerable distance. The
hotel has a courtyard, as of course. The coffee-room and the bar-parlour,
wherein an interesting and characteristic gathering may be found on market
days, are on the left hand as one enters from the High Street, and so is
the principal entrance. It follows that to reach the main street on
emerging from the hotel door, to find commerce, shops, bustle, and
activity, a man must turn to the right. If he have no immediate inclination
for these things, necessary and valuable as they are in themselves, let him
turn to the left instead and pass through the long stable-yard, threading
his way among a series of vehicles, ancient and modern, until he reaches
the back gate of the yard. Once through that he will soon find himself in
old Colchester, among quiet rows of modest houses, in alleys whose names
speak of the Middle Ages, face to face with walls which are manifestly and
essentially of Roman construction. Such will inevitably be his environment.
In such an environment, if in any, will he be willing to hear something of
the story of Colchester, that most ancient city standing on the hill that
is girt to the north, the north-east, and the east by the sluggish waters
of the Colne. If he be unwilling, he had better skip the few pages
following.

A little of that story has been told before what time it became necessary,
or so seemed, to define early in this volume our sceptical attitude towards
so-called Roman remains and Roman roads. These are very often of doubtful
authenticity, and this very scepticism, this proved scarcity of Roman
remains in East Anglia, render the certain truth concerning Colchester the
more valuable. The situation, the commanding hill, half-girt by the river,
renders it more than probable that our rude forefathers (who really knew a
good deal more than the world gave them credit for having known) had a
settlement in pre-Roman times on the spot now known as Colchester. No time
has been spent in research into that matter for the purposes of this book,
for the simple reason that at least enough must needs be said concerning
the place after the Romans first knew it. Cæsar came, saw, and conquered as
usual; and having conquered he went away. For nearly a century after that
the Romans were too much engaged over those troubles at home, about which
every schoolboy really knows a good deal, to concern themselves over an
outlying and unimportant province, and almost everything is uncertain
concerning the British history of the period. This is really a pity,
because it is clear that King Cunobelin, who then ruled at Colchester,
already apparently named as Camulodunum, was a progressive prince, and the
coins of his period show positively that the Britons under him were by no
means ignorant of the peaceful arts. That, very likely, was why they became
poor warriors.

In A.D. 43 came the second and most effectual Roman invasion. That
extraordinary person the Emperor Claudius, persuaded by a British exile
named Berre, who had got the worst of one of the petty quarrels in which
the Britons then, like the Welsh later, were constantly engaged, dispatched
Aulus Plautius with four legions and some Gallic auxiliaries to reconquer
Britain. So much is certain, and there is no doubt that a year sufficed to
quell the resistance of south-eastern Britain, although Caradoc,
Cunobelin's son, held out in the west for a long time. In the next year
Claudius himself crossed the Channel--one authority says he brought
elephants in his train--and joined Plautius on the north of the Thames.
Shortly afterwards he entered Camulodunum, or Colchester. Did he enter it
as having himself conquered, or as an Emperor taking the credit of his
general's victories? It is really almost impossible to say. Merivale,
having previously mentioned the elephants, says, "At Gessoriacum he
embarked for the opposite shores of Cantium (Kent), and speedily reached
the legions in their encampment beyond the Thames. The soldiers, long held
in leash in expectation of his arrival, were eager to spring upon the foe.
With the Emperor himself at their head, a spectacle not beheld since the
days of the valiant Julius, they traversed the level plains of the
Trinobantes, which afforded no defensible position, till the natives were
compelled to stand at bay before the stockades which encircled their
capital, Camulodunum. It is not perhaps too bold a conjecture that the
lines which can still be traced from the Colne to a little wooded stream
called the Roman river, drawn across the approach to a tract of twenty or
thirty square miles, surrounded on every other side by water, indicate the
ramparts of this British _oppidum_. Within this enclosed space there was
ample room, not only for the palace of the chief and the cabins of her
people, but for the grazing ground of their flocks and herds in seasons of
foreign attack; while, resting on the sea in its rear, it commanded the
means of reinforcement and, if necessary, of flight. But the fate of the
capital was decided by the issue of the encounter which took place before
it. The Trinobantes were routed. They surrendered their city and, with it,
their national freedom and independence. The victory was complete; the
subjection of the enemy assured. Within sixteen days from his landing in
Britain, Claudius had broken a powerful kingdom and accomplished a
substantial conquest."

Exactly so, but is not the story a little too complete to gain absolute
credit? Is not the historian, justly indignant at the injustice done by
Suetonius and others to Claudius, inclined to press down the balance too
heavily in his favour? After all, Suetonius says there was no resistance or
bloodshed, and that really is much the more probable story. We all know
that Claudius, the deformed child who was regarded as an imbecile, the
coward who hardly dared to accept power when it was thrust upon him by the
Prætorians, showed a remarkable genius for administration, and had the
ambition to imitate Augustus. He might easily have been a great general in
spite of his gluttony, his vice, and his cruelty. For all that, this rapid
entry into Colchester, combined with what we know of his delight in shows,
and with the suspicious fact that he brought his elephants with him, gives
the whole affair an air of pre-arrangement The chances are that Aulus
Plautius did the work and that Claudius took the credit. Certainly he
returned to Rome and celebrated a triumph in great style; and on his arch
of triumph is an inscription (largely conjectural now) which, says
Merivale, shows the estimation in which his exploits were held. It is much
more likely to show the view which Claudius wished to be taken, for the
incestuous, gluttonous, cowardly, and yet politically sagacious Emperor,
had a pretty style in prose. Of course it is just possible that Plautius
was doing but ill over his campaign, and that the Emperor with his
elephants--tradition says that the Britons were very much afraid of
them--turned the scale; but the probability is that the whole affair was
what they call a "put-up thing" on the far side of the Atlantic, and that
the elephants were brought over simply for the sake of pomp and
circumstance.

Now comes a confusing passage in the usually sinless "Murray," wherein the
author is himself quoting in part from the _Quarterly Review, No. 108_:
"Sixteen years later, 'to overawe the disaffected, and to show to the more
submissive an image of Roman civilization,' a Roman Colony was founded in
the capital of the conquered Trinobantes. 'It was dignified with the name
of Claudian, from the Emperor himself, or Victricensis, from the conquest
of which it was the symbol, which was also typified by a statue of Victory,
erected in its principal place.' The place received indiscriminately the
name of Colonia, Camulodunum,--or sometimes Colonia Camulodunum. It was the
first Roman Colony founded in Britain. 'Claudius determined to inform the
minds of his remotest subjects on the article of his own divinity--and
accordingly directed the Colonists of Camulodunum to consecrate to him a
temple, and appoint from among themselves an order of priests to minister
therein.'" Nothing could be more in this picture, nothing more thoroughly
in harmony with the character of Claudius; but the words "sixteen years
later" give pause. Sixteen years would bring us to A.D. 60, when Nero wore
the purple and misbehaved himself generally; and six years before that
Agrippina, who was already more than wife to Claudius, since she was his
niece also, became his murderess by the aid of the physician Xenophon. But
it is only the date that is wrong. It was in the year 50, six years later,
not sixteen, that the successor of Plautius, having been many times
worsted by the hard-fighting Silures of South Wales, was ordered to found a
colony at Camulodunum.

If Claudius had a political hobby it was the foundation of colonies, which
he usually permitted to be known as _Colonia_, "the Colony," simply. Such
was Colchester; such was Cologne, founded by him a year later at the asking
of Agrippina, who had been born there. But the English Colonia did not
quite come up to expectations, for the image of Roman civilization shown by
it was not attractive, and its military organization was non-existent. The
worn-out veterans, who were the colonists, did not build for themselves a
concentrated city, a sort of stationary camp. On the contrary, they settled
themselves in the scattered houses of the Britons. "The houses even of the
Britons," says Merivale, "were to the rude inmates of the Tent not
inconvenient." The Dean of Ely, as he afterwards became, wrote these words
somewhere between 1850 and 1860, and had not the chances open to us of
knowing that the families of the Britons of this epoch, the period of
Cunobelin's coinage be it remarked, most likely enjoyed quite comfortable
houses. A theatre, too, these colonists constructed, for their own
amusement. To the question of defences they gave no heed. Caradoc and his
fighting Welshmen were far away in South Wales. The Trinobantes around them
were quite subdued. The Iceni, to the eastward, owed and paid tribute to
Rome through their Prince Prasutagus. The luxury of Neronian Rome was
repeated no doubt, on a small scale, in the distant and careless colony.

In A.D. 61 came the ill-treatment of Boadicea, the widow of Prasutagus,
already recorded, and the revolt of the Iceni under her leadership. Then,
the moment being well chosen, for the Governor was away as before stated,
the colonists had bitter cause to rue their previous indolence, for the
colony was quite defenceless. As we have seen before, Boadicea and her
Britons enjoyed a short-lived but very complete revenge. Dion, indeed, goes
into details, making out the Britons to have been, if possible, rather
worse than Bashi Bazouks, as painted by the atrocity-monger. The ultimate
result, of course, was that the Iceni were wiped out of existence, and the
chances are that the Trinobantes also felt the strong wrath of Suetonius.
The steed having been stolen and recaptured, the stable door was locked, so
to speak, once and for ever. That is to say, the walls of Colchester were
built with such strength that no rising of the kind was likely to succeed
again; and that is why in Colchester we have the finest and most complete
Roman walls to be found in the kingdom.

Colchester is rich in Roman relics also, to be found stored in museums, and
in the form of Roman bricks and tiles built into the walls of the Norman
keep to the north of the High Street, and into the ruined walls of St.
Botolph's Priory Church, to the south-east of the town. This same keep, the
largest in England, was probably built by Eudo, high steward to William the
Conqueror, possibly on the site of the temple of Claudius, but as to that
there can be no assurance. What is certain is that much Roman material was
incorporated in the rubble of which the very solid walls are made; and this
is natural enough when we reflect that Colchester was a real Roman colony
for nearly 350 years. The most interesting objects in the Museum, which is
housed in the ancient chapel of the castle, are a curious sphinx, two feet
high, with the wings of a bird, the breasts of a bitch, the head of a
woman, and the paws of a lion, squatting over the lacerated carcase of its
human prey; the famous Colchester vase and a bust of Caligula, and there
have been a number of smaller "finds." Colchester is no doubt derived from
_Colonia_ and _castrum_, but it has a legendary connection with King Cole
of happy memory, and the principal bastion in Balcon Lane is still known as
Colking's Castle. The theory of the Britons, to summarize first and to
quote later a _Quarterly_ Reviewer, was that the descendants of Cunobelin
continued in Colchester under the Romans, and that one of them was Coilus,
_alias_ Cole, the same music and liquor-loving potentate who called for his
pipe a good many centuries before the uses of the soothing herb were known
in this country; of course, his pipe may have been an instrument of
so-called music. After the usurpation of Carausius and his successor, Cole
or Coel, Duke of Kaer-Coloin (Colchester), surrendered the island to the
Romans, "in return for which service he was allowed to retain the nominal
sovereignty in Britain, and has become renowned as the 'Old King Cole' of
popular song. On his dying soon afterwards, the British legends went on to
declare that Constantius the Senator, the representative of the Roman power
on the island, received the crown of Coel, but only in virtue of marriage
with his daughter Helena; and Colchester has hence enjoyed the reputation
of giving birth to Constantine, the first Christian Emperor. There is no
trace, however, of Constantius having been in Britain at all before the
year 296, at which time his son was twenty-four years old; and the most
credible writers assert that his consort was not a Briton, but a Bithynian.
We leave the good citizens of Colchester in possession of their arms 'a
cross intagled between four crowns,' in token of Helena's invention of the
Cross of Christ; but we cannot allow that they have any historical title to
them."

How others may feel in a matter of this kind it is not for me to say, but
in me the serene air of superiority with which the ultra-learned brush away
a tradition usually excites a suspicion, not wholly dissociated from a
desire, that they may be wrong. "The most credible writers" of the
_Quarterly_ Reviewer produce no impression on me. It is the kind of
expression one would expect of a writer who did not feel inclined to be at
the pains of research. Equally, when a presumably learned writer in the
_Encyclopædia Britannica_ says, under the heading "Constantine," "a later
tradition, adopted with characteristic credulity by Geoffrey of Monmouth,
that Helena was the daughter of a British king, is a pure invention," I
reflect that assertion is not argument, although it often passes for such.
After all, this same contemptuous writer can but tell us that Constantine
was born in 274 to Constantius and Helena, "the wife of obscure origin
(daughter of a _stabularia_, or innkeeper, according to St. Ambrose), whom
her husband was compelled to repudiate on attaining the dignity of Cæsar."
And when "Helena" is referred to, we find another learned author saying
that of her nationality nothing certain is known. Again, the statement that
there is no trace of Constantius ever having been in Britain before 296 (at
which time, by the way, Constantine was twenty-two, not twenty-four), does
not satisfy the court. In 273, the year in which the wanderings of the
father of Constantine would be material, Constantius Flavius Valerius was
but a young soldier, of Dalmatian origin, in whom nobody yet recognized the
future Emperor. He was twenty-three years of age, or thereabouts, for so
little is known of his early life that the exact year even of his birth is
unknown. It was not until nearly twenty years later that, having
distinguished himself in Dalmatia, he was adopted and appointed Cæsar by
Maximian. There was no reason in life why he should not have gone to
Britain without attracting notice at the age of twenty-three, every reason
why, if he did so, he should visit the flourishing, comfortable, and very
accessible colony on the banks of the Colne. There he certainly did not
find Coel, or Cole, a reigning sovereign, but he might very possibly have
found a "merry old soul" of an innkeeper, who vowed that he was descended
from Cunobelin, and possessed a charming daughter.

It is not suggested that these things actually happened, but it is most
distinctly suggested that, unless the learned can trace the wanderings of
the father of Constantine all through 273 and show that he was not in
Britain, to say there is no trace of his having been in Britain before 296
is entirely beside the question. Here we have an example of a frequent kind
of historical incapacity, that of failing to realize the life of the past.
The dashing young officer might, in fact, have been in Colchester very
easily, and if he succumbed to the charms of the inn-keeper's daughter, the
event was not of a kind contrary to human experience. It is for the sceptic
to prove an alibi if he desires to upset tradition. Helena may, then, have
been the daughter of a Colchester innkeeper, she was certainly the mother
of Constantine. Equally certainly, when her son became Emperor, she took a
great interest in Britain, which tends to show that she may have been
British by birth. It is true that cities in Syria and Bithynia were named
Helenopolis after her, and this might be cited in favour of her Bithynian
origin, only it could not be more in favour of one than the other, since
she could not have been born in two places.

Here let a little confession and explanation be made. The _Quarterly_
Reviewer's statement that the arms of Colchester might be left to it "in
token of Helena's invention of the cross of Christ," left me quite in the
dark; and the darkness was dispelled in the most commonplace way by
reference to books. Helena did not invent the cross of Christ, in one sense
of the word, because the Romans had done so before her time. But, according
to tradition, she made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and found there the
Holy Sepulchre and the true cross of Christ. That is a tradition which I do
not attempt to justify, or to criticize beyond saying that the pilgrimage
would really be an easy one for the mother of a powerful Emperor who was
absolute in Jerusalem, and that the fabric might easily have been sound in
Helena's time.

Of the siege of Colchester during the Rebellion, and of the cruel vengeance
exacted by Fairfax, under the relentless influence of Ireton, on Lucas and
Lisle, mention has been made at an earlier point, but at the moment of
mention I was not aware that the populace of Colchester, like that of most
of East Anglia, was essentially in sympathy with the Parliament, and had
helped its cause over and over again. It was the necessity of war that
drove the Royalists--"undaunted Capel" was of their number too--into
Colchester, and it may well be that through familiarity with the place
Lucas was enabled to make exceptionally capable use of the outlines of the
town for purposes of defence. For the Lucases were tenants in fee of the
Abbey of St. John, the gate of which still remains, restored it is true.
"The last abbot," says Murray, "was hanged at his own gate for contumacy in
refusing to acknowledge the Royal Supremacy." The last owner, whose
ancestors had come in by purchase and not by force, faced death hard by
with equal resolution and cheerfulness for the cause which he held dear.
The defence had been a gallant but a hopeless enterprise. Reduced to the
last extremity for lack of provisions, "after feeding on the vilest
aliment," worn out by hunger and desperate sallies, surrounded by a hostile
population, the leaders must indeed have been weary of life. How they lost
it we know; but Ireton was not satisfied with the blood of the leaders. The
common soldiers were dispatched to the American plantations, were in fact
converted into white slaves by the champions of freedom and of religion;
and the unhappy townsfolk, who certainly had no wish to take the Royalist
side, although it is probable that many of them felt personal regard for
Lucas and his family, were mulcted in the sum of £12,000, a very large sum
in those days. "Soon after, a gentleman appearing in the King's presence,
clothed in mourning for Sir Charles Lucas; that humane Prince, suddenly
recollecting the hard fate of his friends, paid them a tribute, which none
of his own unparalleled misfortunes ever extorted from him; He dissolved
into a flood of tears." These words, with their peculiar punctuation and
their copious capitals, are those not of the stately and partisan Clarendon
but of David Hume, whom Adam Smith considered "as approaching as nearly to
the idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man as perhaps the nature of
human frailty will permit."

_Leviore plectro._ No wise man will go to Colchester without sampling the
oysters, for which Colchester has been famous since it was Camulodunum.
They are traditionally the best in the world, although perhaps something
may be urged in favour of the Marennes of France (but the green colour is
somewhat against them), or of the giant oysters of New Zealand, which were
unknown, as New Zealand was, when the tradition of Colchester natives was
already ancient.

Our Ipswich oysters most likely came from the celebrated layings in the
Colne, so there was no heresy in singing their praises. Many another place,
and Whitstable above all others, is famous for its oysters, but only at
Colchester are the layings the property of the Corporate body, only on the
Colne is the development of our old friend the "succulent bivalve"
officially watched from the time when it is no bigger than "a drop from a
tallow candle" to that at which it conforms to the dimensions of the
municipal model in silver. Only at Colchester is it eaten, or are they
eaten, with a just combination of civic ceremony and appreciative abandon.
Colchester oysters, indeed, have but one drawback. They are not, in these
days of rapid transport, so cheap as some epicures of scanty purse might
desire. For that matter good oysters are seldom to be found at a moderate
price in the old world. Australia is the oyster-lover's paradise. There, in
any little bay, rock-oysters may be broken off in blocks, opened, and eaten
out of hand; and one orders them not by the dozen, but by the plate, which
holds eighteen or twenty, at the modest price of one shilling.

Oysters were a distinct consolation during these manoeuvres--be it hoped
the military character of the starting point has not passed out of mind--to
those officers who mourned the futility and the cost of the operations by
land: they were a sheer joy to those who were indifferent on the military
question. But there were manoeuvres all the same, and they involved many
journeys by motor-car and by bicycle to all parts of the surrounding
district. The first journey I took by bicycle, fairly early in the morning,
to Clacton. A broiling sun poured down upon roads of yielding surface,
soaked by a night's rain, and one gained a respect for the little hills
which was completely lost in the Lanchester later. They are hills, though,
without doubt, and a car of low power would feel them. The descent from the
centre of Colchester is sharp, the ascent in returning necessarily the
same, and the termination of Wivenhoe spells hill as plainly as Plymouth
"Hoe" does, and for the same etymological reason. It is, in fact, a country
of pretty little hills, abundantly wooded, until the flat land by the
sea-coast is reached. It is to be feared that no halt was made on this or
any other occasion to notice the Roman tiles built into the wall of the
church at Wivenhoe. In the roadside scenery, however, an eye fresh from
Berkshire observed one pleasing characteristic appearing to be singular.
The hedgerow trees were, for the most part, elms, not very tall, for no
tree grows to a stately height near the sea in our islands, but very much
more beautiful than the loftier elms of Berkshire, save those planted for
ornament, in Windsor Park for example. These low elms spread their welcome
shade--true, it keeps the surface damp and renders road-preservation
difficult--well over the way from either side. There was no doubt they
looked better than the ordinary Berkshire elm that, newly mutilated, is
bare as a ship's mast for thirty or forty or fifty feet, and has a mere
tuft at the top like birch broom, or, clipped a year or two ago, supports
the same birch broom upon an apparently solid and most disproportionately
thick column of opaque green. The patulous elms, too, exercised their
little influence on the manoeuvres, but before explaining it, let the
word "patulous," suggested by memory of the first line of Virgil, and
incontinently looked for in a dictionary, be justified. It is not merely a
botanical term, nor of my coinage. No less a poet than P. Robinson, in no
less famous a poem than "Under the Sun," wrote, "The patulous teak, with
its great leathern leaves." Perhaps P. Robinson was not famous; it may be
noticed that courage is wanting to dub him Peter, Paul, or even Percival;
and "Under the Sun" may have been a very minor poem by a quite
insignificant writer; but P. Robinson at least knew where to go for a word
expressing his exact meaning, and mine, better than any other in the
English language. The patulous elms, then, exercised their influence on the
manoeuvres. How? Some days later, when General French, not having burned
his ships, was in full retreat for them his enemy, General Wynne, sent up a
balloon to spy out his movements and those of his troops. Espying that
balloon at a distance of some ten miles, we gave chase in the Lanchester
and came up to it, just after it had been brought down to earth in the
centre of one of the strange crops to be found in this part of Essex. (It
was a crop, as it turned out, of bird-seed, and marked as out of bounds,
but balloons as they descend know no law.) The officer of Royal Engineers
had been up 1000 feet or more in the balloon; he had scanned the whole
country with field-glasses from a bird's-eye point of view. The country
between him and the sea, Layer de la Haye, Layer Breton and the
vicinity--he was at Tiptree of jam fame--was full of French's soldiery.
They were marching in column of route within half a mile of him. Yet, by
reason of the patulous elms, he had seen nothing of them. We had; but we
were non-combatants and neutral, and therefore silent.

After Wivenhoe, the route to Clacton-on-Sea chosen that day, through
Thorrington and Great Clacton, seemed dull and was very flat. But
Clacton-on-Sea was a remarkable sight then, and is always, during the
season, a sight quite _sui generis_. Some of the things witnessed that day
will probably never be seen again. The long line of transports and cruisers
lying a couple of miles out and extending from Great Holland to Clacton,
the horse-boats being towed ashore, were both quite exceptional. Indeed,
the horse-boats will certainly never reappear at Clacton or anywhere else,
for a storm broke most of them up a day or two later, and the wreckage was
sold by auction on the spot. Nor again, most likely, shall we see the Duke
of Connaught and his General Staff, and a brilliant group of foreign
attachés, naval and military, standing on Clacton beach amidst a seething
crowd of East End trippers, and mountebanks, and nigger minstrels, and
shell-fish vendors. But Clacton-on-Sea and its casual visitors were true to
themselves none the less, and between them they made a quite wonderful
spectacle, needing to be seen by the uninitiated before it could be
realized, and certainly worth realizing by any easy-going student of human
nature.

My expeditions to Clacton-on-Sea were not taken by me in the capacity of
motorist simply; indeed, the first of them was made on a bicycle, and the
others, for there were several more to follow, in a car, when my knowledge
of motoring was embryonic. Yet I found in Clacton-on-Sea one of that
peculiar class of places which he who follows what may be called public
motoring learns to know through the motor-car, and would certainly not have
learned to know in any other way. Blackpool is another such place, visited
because in several successive years it has broken out into "speed trials,"
and Douglas in the Isle of Man is another, to which motorists go by reason
of the Tourist Trophy Race. Blackpool and Douglas are grander in their
kind than Clacton. They have more Winter Gardens--I am not sure that
Clacton boasts any at all--huge dancing-rooms, constructed and conducted by
municipal enterprise, in which the dancing is marked by a punctilious
decorum and, it may be added, by an excellence of execution, which would
put the most famous ball-rooms in London to shame. But all three have two
points in common. Every prospect, except that of the houses and public
buildings, pleases. At each the sea gleams in the sun or crashes on the
beach as the case may be. Each has its parade, esplanade, promenade, call
it what you will; and this is crowded, as the beach is also, in the season
of the year. At Clacton-on-Sea a few of the buildings are tolerable to the
eye, and there is one hotel, not the most pretentious of them, which is
more than endurable to look at, and quite reasonably comfortable. It stands
facing the sea, and its broad veranda is screened by a dense fig-tree
carefully trained. A better vantage ground for a weary wayfarer need not be
desired.

From that cool veranda, reflecting that it is every whit as comfortable to
sit under somebody else's fig-tree as under one's own, I looked on the
passing and re-passing crowd on the parade, like Dido gazing from her
watch-tower at the departing ships of Æneas, but in a very different mood.
In truth the spectacle was both amusing and perplexing. At first sight it
seemed for all the world as if hundreds, and even thousands, of smart
ladies, of the kind one sees at Ascot or even at Goodwood, had cast aside
all prejudices of position, and were consorting with men whom the
conventions of society assign to a lower rank. Dresses and sunshades and
hats were all spotlessly clean, colours were subdued and delicate. Closer
inspection would no doubt have revealed to the trained eye of a woman that
the frocks were ill-made and badly "hung," that the materials were cheap,
which is bad, and that they looked cheap, which is worse. To a man it
revealed nothing of this, nothing more at first than a vast number of
girls, walking well, and some of them quite pretty, in the company of young
fellows who, worthy representatives of an excellent class as they may have
been, were clearly not gentlemen. Their dress alone betrayed that, not by
dint of shabbiness, but rather by its excessive and ill-judged smartness.
Then voices became clear; the twang of the male and female Cockney filled
the air as the so-called music of a Jew's-harp, or of an orchestra of
Jew's-harps; and finally a closer view revealed the gruesome fact that
these dainty creatures were consuming periwinkles, with the aid of a pin,
as they walked, were crunching shrimps between their pearly teeth, and
getting rid of the superfluous integument by--well, by the usual process of
the East End of London, without any help from the hand; in fact, by pure
propulsion from pouting lips. Half of the mystery was solved. The elegant
nymphs of Clacton-on-Sea were simply East End girls who had made the cheap
trip by sea. But the mystery of their attire remained, was indeed doubled.
Where were the "fevvers," the flowing ostrich plumes of many hues, without
which the traditional girl of the East End reckons herself disgraced?
Whence had the far more pleasing dresses come? Inquiry made, not of those
who wore them, since their powers of repartee are proverbial, elicited the
suggestion that all this pretty finery was hired for the day from one or
other of the many big drapers at the East End. If so, it can only be said
that the taste shown was, on the whole, excellent, and the general effect
very good and pleasing. So really was the spectacle. Laughing and talking,
eating endless shell-fish, and consuming really very little alcoholic
liquor, these young folks strutted and preened themselves in the sun all
the livelong day. They even found pennies, hard earned no doubt, to bestow
upon the Pierrots and the nigger-minstrels who assaulted the ear on all
sides. Of noise and jesting there was no end, of disorder no beginning.
Even when, on a later occasion, I slept at Clacton for a night or two to
watch the work of re-embarkation, which was as interesting as the
manoeuvres were silly, the sounds of revelry by night were few and far
between. In fact, Clacton serves its patrons well, and they conduct
themselves merrily and yet decently in it. It is a sight well worth seeing,
as Blackpool and Douglas are also, once in a while. It might even serve to
soothe some of the sympathetic anguish of those who mourn over the
monotonous lives of the poor. But this is not to say that, for quiet folk
who do not wish to take their pleasure in the East End way, Clacton-on-Sea
is a desirable place in which to spend a summer holiday. It is worth while
to drive there from Colchester for luncheon, and that is all.

Fortune and the good nature of a newly made friend favoured me. The
transports were discharging horse and foot simultaneously in a long line
extending from Clacton, indeed almost from St. Osyth, to a point beyond
Great Holland to the north-east. The very idea of a bicycle was repugnant
to me when, as luck would have it, I encountered another correspondent who
had a Napier at his disposal. Off we whirred, along conventional seaside
roads, and up, from the flat ground whereon Clacton-on-Sea stands, climbing
a sensible but not difficult acclivity until we had almost reached Great
Holland. A little farther on, but unvisited, was Walton-on-the-Naze,
another of those parts of the east coast which have suffered from the
relentless greed of the sea. Nay, in times past, the sea had gone very near
to sacrilege, for it has devoured the lands with which a prebend of St.
Paul's was endowed. But save for him who desires fossils, and coprolites
especially, the most uninteresting of all fossils, which may be found in
abundance in the cliff, a visit to Walton is not recommended. Walton may be
styled Walton-le-Soken, and Kirkby and Thorpe hard by are also finished off
by "le-Soken." The expression has its legal and historical interest, for it
shows that the lords of each possessed the power of "sac and soc," and, in
fact, a power of holding special courts. But this does not serve to make
the places themselves at all interesting and, to put it bluntly, this
country by the sea in these parts is not attractive. The rest of our day's
drive, before we returned to Colchester--the bicycle, I may say, remained
at Clacton unmourned until the time came for leaving the district--took us
near to a series of bivouacs, of no permanent interest, and as far as St.
Osyth, which lies on the opposite side to Brightlingsea of a little
tributary of the Colne, crossed by a ferry. Time was abundant, and it has
been matter for frequent regret since that, merely through ignorance of
that which was close at hand, I missed seeing the obviously interesting
remains of the Priory, in its restored form, and the church, said to date
back to St. Osyth herself, who was the wife of Suthred, King of the East
Angles. When Suthred flourished I know no more than I do any reason why
others should miss that which I, having then no project of this kind
formed, omitted. Brightlingsea over the ferry is, by all accounts, not
worth a visit, although it was one of the Cinque Ports.

So, as a matter of strict narrative, back I fared that evening to the
temporary home at the "Red Lion" and, as has been stated previously, I saw
something of the country in the immediate vicinity of Colchester to the
south-east by east, and of our soldiery, early the next morning. Later in
the day--for a day beginning at 4 a.m. is not short--there was abundant
opportunity for making preliminary study of Colchester, and during my stay
an immense number of places were seen and many routes were traversed at one
time or another. The places were seen and the routes were taken as the tide
of battle rolled, or as it was expected to roll, which did not always come
to the same thing; but that was an order of visitation dictated by outside
circumstances, and not to be recommended to those who are quite at liberty
to follow their own fancy. So, during a leisurely drive of a morning and an
afternoon, we will go in the spirit to a number of places, every one of
which has been inspected from a motor-car, although not necessarily in the
order named.

Between the estuaries of the Colne and the Stour lies a peninsula, part of
which has already been treated, and the rest of it is now our subject. It
is by no means a mountainous tract. According to a coloured contour map
lying before me no single eminence in it is more than two hundred and fifty
feet above the sea-level; but it would be a grave mistake to put down this
part of Essex as a flat country. It is, in fact, undulating, and if, to
carry on the metaphor, none of the waves are Atlantic rollers, a good many
of them are in the nature of short and choppy seas. The Lanchester, which
there need be the less hesitation in praising in that the makers in all
probability would not construct or deliver its sister machine now, made
merry with most of these hills, but of the other cars, of which the name
was legion in those days of sham-fighting, we passed many crawling up steep
little ascents and many others at a standstill. One such hill, at least,
we encounter in this drive, between Ardleigh and Manningtree, where the
gradient is 1 in 13; hardly a mere nothing even from the standpoint of
1906, but not long since quite worthy to be regarded as a serious obstacle.
Moreover the trees are abundant, the hedges thick and well kept, the land
highly cultivated, and the whole is entertaining and restful to the eye,
although the curvatures of the roads and the screening hedges call for the
exercise of exact care in driving.

We start then from Colchester at such time in the morning as may seem good,
and ask for the Ardleigh road. Five miles take us to Ardleigh, and here we
come at once upon the industry which has the indirect effect of giving to
the scenery of Essex peculiar characteristics of detail. Between Ardleigh
and Dedham--Constable's Dedham--lies the ground cultivated for special
purposes by Messrs. Carter, of Holborn, of whom it is but plain truth to
say that they are among the most prominent seed-growers of this country.
Many of my little tours in Essex were made in company with an officer whose
duty it had been to mark with flags fields which the foot of the soldier
must not trample upon, whose duty it would be afterwards to assess the
compensation to be given to farmers for damage done. One of our early
conversations ran somewhat to this effect:

_Author._ "It seems to me you might save a lot of expense next time by
placing flags where the troops may go, not in the forbidden ground. You
would not need nearly so many flags. How on earth are troops marching along
this road to learn anything? No sooner have they thrown out men to feel
their way for them and to protect them from being taken in flank, than the
men must come back to the road to avoid a patch of common swedes or
mangels."

_Compensation Officer._ "Yes, it looks like that; but you must remember
these are not ordinary swedes or mangles."

_Author._ "What do you mean? They look pretty commonplace. We should think
nothing of walking through roots as good, or better, after partridges at
home."

_Compensation Officer._ "Of course we should; but I tell you these are not
ordinary roots. They are all being grown for seed; they may be choice kinds
produced, for all I know, as the result of years of experiment. You never
know what you may come upon next in this seed-growing country. You will
find whole fields of Delphinium, Dahlia, Penstemon, Lupin, almost any
flowering plant, to say nothing of crops of strange plants, whose very
appearance is unknown to you."

_Author._ "Did the great men of the War Office know all this when they
decided to hold manoeuvres here? If so, it seems to me, they made a
foolish choice of their ground, because, while the value of the training is
reduced by the necessary cramping of movement, the compensation payable is
sure to be out of all reason."

And the Compensation Officer answered never a word, for the purposes of
this book, but probably he thought the more. His description of the country
was justified abundantly. The very grass might be, very likely was, being
grown for special lawn seed, and, over and over again, one passed acres of
early autumnal flowers in full bloom, which set an eager gardener (for man
may be gardener and motorist) thinking of additions to be made to his own
distant plot. On we fared, breasting that hill of 1 in 13, and in 2-3/4
miles we are at Manningtree. Now, Manningtree is ancient, and it has a
history.

"Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of
beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack,
that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted _Manningtree_ ox with the
pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father
ruffian, that vanity in years?"

Thus, in the first part of _King Henry IV_ (Act ii. scene 4), does Harry of
Monmouth, speaking of Falstaff, but himself in the character of his own
father, address himself. Argal, the cattle sold at Manningtree Fair had a
great name even in Shakespeare's day. Manningtree also was, as may be seen
from a memorial slab in the church, connected with Thomas Tusser, the
agricultural poet of the sixteenth century, who, after being educated at
King's College and Trinity Hall, Cambridge, rejected music, for which he
had been trained, for farming on the banks of the Stour. This was "an
employment," says a superior person, "which he seems to have regarded as
combining the chief essentials of human felicity." Well, there are worse
occupations than farming, and the production of indifferent music is one of
them. It is pleasant to muse over Tusser's tablet at Manningtree, to
reflect that he probably was a practical and improving farmer, else a
tablet would hardly have been erected at Manningtree in memory of a man who
was buried at St. Paul's, and to hope that to him, at least in part, was
due that fame of the Manningtree oxen which made Shakespeare select them as
typical. That Shakespeare and Tusser ever met in the flesh is unlikely, for
Tusser died in 1580, and even that strange tribe the Baconians admit that
Shakespeare was born in 1564 and remained at Stratford Grammar School until
he was fifteen. Less creditably connected with Manningtree was Matthew
Hopkins, the "witchfinder," appointed as such by Parliament in 1644--by the
Parliament of Westminster presumably, not by that of Oxford, for Charles
held a Parliament at Oxford in that year--and celebrated in _Hudibras_. His
was the fate of Phalaris, for at last, having "hanged three-score of them
in a shire," he was tried in the same brutal fashion which he had applied
to others, and perished in like fashion. We have no right, after quite
modern experience in Ireland, to be very contemptuous towards our
forefathers in respect of their belief in witches; but still it is a little
startling to be compelled to realize that they set Hopkins and his
fellow-commissioners to their task in a year so full of grim realities as
that of Marston Moor, of Cropredy Bridge, and of the Duke of Newcastle's
departure in despair from the kingdom.

It has been well to reach Manningtree by the fairly good road from
Colchester; but we must go to the westward a little, and cross the Stour,
leaving Essex and our peninsula for a while if we would not miss perhaps
the most precious association of the valley of the Stour. It is East
Bergholt, the birthplace of John Constable, the miller's son, and here we
are in the country which he once had the pleasure of hearing described in
his presence by a complete stranger as "Constable's country." This was the
more strange in that, like many another artist before him and since his
day--the word "artist" is used in its widest sense--he was not appreciated
at his full worth while he lived among men. A few days or a week spent in
Constable's country, by painters or by those who aspire to know something
of the spirit of landscape painting, are now to be regarded as time spent
pleasantly, profitably, and naturally by men and women of cultivated taste;
but the stranger on the Ipswich coach who said in his hearing, "This is
Constable's country," was in advance of the average taste of his
generation, for, although Constable was appreciated in France before those
of his own race were awake to his merits, it is one of the cruel ironies of
fate that, when the great landscape painter died, his studio was full of
unsold pictures. His case, unlike that of Thomas Gainsborough, whom we
shall meet soon, was one in which a stolid parent did his best to choke the
spring of artistic spirit in its efforts to express itself in form and
colour. It was also one compelling the quotation, "God fulfils Himself in
many ways." He showed his leanings in early boy-hood, doubtless in the
usual manner, when he was a pupil in the grammar school at Dedham, in Essex
and close by--the tower of Dedham Church is a prominent object in many of
his landscapes. Again, what country-bred man does not remember how, when
the plumber was called in (he was usually painter and glazier too),
undiluted joy was to be obtained from watching him at work, from working
his divine putty into fantastic shapes, from unlicensed meddling with his
brushes and paints? John Constable, too, watched his father's plumber, one
Dunthune, to some purpose, and Dunthune was no ordinary plumber. He knew
something of landscape painting, and is said to have inspired the boy to
that habit of studying in the open air which, in all probability, stood in
little need of inspiration. In this is nothing of unnatural novelty. Was
not John Crome, of Norwich, apprenticed to a coach and sign-painter, or, as
some have it, to a house-painter? The wonder is rather that more
house-painters do not develop some measure of artistic proficiency.

Constable's father, however, had no sympathy for his son's budding genius.
The boy, leaving school early, as we reckon now, was set to the task of
watching a windmill, and here was one of the many ways in which God
fulfilled Himself. Compelled to study the face of the sky with minutest
care, the boy acquired that intimate familiarity with it, that joy "in
gleaming showers, and breezy sunshine after rain, and grey mists of summer
showers" (to quote Mr. H. W. Nevinson's words in an article he has most
likely forgotten), which was the basis of his fame. Fuseli might sneer at
the painter of "great-coat weather," but Fuseli had the reputation of a
cynical wit to keep up. Englishmen will hail Constable for all time now as
the faithful translator and revealer of the inner spirit of landscape.
Still excuses may be made for the father. Parents have a pardonable habit
of considering ways and means, of preferring the certain to the
problematic, in planning careers for their sons. The apprehensions of
Constable the elder were so far justified by results that Constable the
younger was by no means immediately successful. He went to London in 1795,
being then not twenty years of age. He came back, beaten, to the windmill
and the counting house in 1797. From 1799 to 1816, married, struggling,
unappreciated, he fought the desperate battle against poverty in London
once more. Only in the latter year, when he was forty years of age, and his
father died leaving him £4000, was he able to live in any approach to
comfortable circumstances. Perhaps the deliverance from _res angusta domi_
helped him to paint better. Few men are so cheerfully constituted that,
like Mr. Shandon in the Fleet and in _Pendennis_--in a novel, of course,
but Mr. Shandon is a living reality--can produce good imaginative work amid
squalid surroundings and domestic anxieties--perhaps he was really late in
development. Certain it is that, except _A Lock on the Stour_ and _Dedham
Vale_, few of Constable's better known pictures were painted before he was
forty; and it is equally certain that, to the very end, he was never
properly valued by his generation.

For us he is the inspired revealer of the tranquil beauties of a district
beloved and studied by him dearly and closely as the most ardent of Scots
ever loved and studied Caledonia stern and wild, or the "banks and braes o'
bonny Doon," and he has expressed his affection for his birthplace in
words, not perhaps of fire, but of placid truth, which exactly express the
character of the scenery. Of East Bergholt he writes: "The beauty of the
surrounding scenery, its gentle declivities, its luxuriant meadow flats
sprinkled with flocks and herds, its well-cultivated uplands, its woods and
rivers, with numerous scattered villages and churches, farms and
picturesque cottages, all impart to this particular spot an amenity and
elegance hardly anywhere else to be found." Reflecting thus we return to
Manningtree and our peninsula.

Manningtree lies at the very easternmost part of the estuary of the
Stour--all these estuaries would be fjord-like if they had but higher
banks--and is really quite close to our pretty Stratford St. Mary, on the
Roman road between Ipswich and Colchester, as well as to Dedham and East
Bergholt. From it we turn due east, and, the road following the estuary,
proceed through Lawford, Mistley, and Bradfield, seven miles to Dovercourt
and Harwich. There is a fairly sharp hill of 1 in 13 between Mistley and
Bradfield, and another of 1 in 15 between Bradfield and Dovercourt. Mistley
is part of the port of Manningtree, and its park, praised by Walpole, still
survives sufficiently for the district to be most pleasantly clothed with
trees. Dovercourt bulks large in the history of superstition, its church
having possessed a peculiarly holy rood, to which pilgrimages used to be
made. Now it is a suburb of Harwich, and Harwich, after many ups and downs,
and in spite of the inroads of the sea, is doing fairly well. It was
certainly a Roman station, it is, like Sole Bay, one of the few places on
land from which naval battles of importance have been seen--one between
Alfred and the Danes, and another against De Ruyter; it was the starting
point of Frobisher on his voyage to find the North West Passage, and of Dr.
Johnson for Leyden. All this, to render unto Cæsar the things which are
his, I learn from "Murray." From the same source, too, it is gathered that
the introduction of steamboats lost the port much of its trade, and that
railways revived it. But this particular "Murray" is old (1875). Its views
of commerce need bringing up to date; its views of the aspect of a seaport
are not mine. One does not expect "sweetness and light," concerning the
absence of which complaint is made, in a seaport devoted to fishing-boats
and passenger traffic. I can see more of the picturesque in the narrow and
struggling streets, in spite of some dirt, than the writer of 1875; but on
me a port or a dock exercises a special and peculiar fascination, and that
all the more when, as in the case of Harwich, its waters are the
head-quarters of a Yacht Club.

To the annals of this Yacht Club (the Royal Harwich) I am able to
contribute some little crumbs, probably not generally known, from the
_Memories of Sir Llewelyn Turner_, a book already mentioned in another
connection. Would that he were alive to give permission, as he would have
given it with eager kindness, to reproduce a passage out of his genial work
which gives a vivid impression of a Harwich Regatta of 1846, throws in one
or two useful observations, and recalls some valuable associations, and
leaves a very vivid impression of the manner in which the yachtsmen of
those days enjoyed themselves when the day's sport was over. For
preliminary, it need only be said that the owner of the _Ranger_, a fast
racing yacht, had asked Mr. Turner (as he was then), a resident in North
Wales, and Mr. Parker Smith, an Irish barrister, to race the _Ranger_ for
him at Harwich during his illness. The rest may be told in Sir Llewelyn's
own words, only, beforehand, it must be noted that the yachtsman from
Wales, new to the water as he was, taught the east coast men a useful
lesson. Sir Llewelyn Turner's remarks concerning ignorant interference with
tidal action, too, deserve serious attention.

"We joined the yacht at Gravesend late in the evening, and at once set sail
for Harwich, where we arrived next morning after a rapid run. A more
agreeable and satisfactory companion than Smith I could not have desired,
and we both agreed that we felt as if we had known each other for years.
Soon after our arrival we took up our quarters at the Three Cups Hotel, as
the cabin would be required for the spare top-sails and jibs to be ready
for shifting canvas in the race.

"There was a fine display of racing yachts and others whose owners came to
enjoy the sport. Several of them had come over from the Ostend Regatta, one
of them bringing an enormous silver cup, by far the largest I ever saw in
the numerous regattas in which I was a participator. Most of the yachts'
cabins were given up for the sails to be ready for shifting, and the Three
Cups Hotel was crammed with yachtsmen. Taking it all together, it was one
of the pleasantest yachting proceedings I ever enjoyed. Like too many
harbours on our coast, Harwich had been a terrible sufferer by the
lamentable interference with tidal laws by men entirely ignorant of the
science, and interested workers. The harbour is, or rather was, entered in
a straight line, and then diverges inside up the bed of the River Stour to
the left, and to the right of that river the tide ascends the River Orwell
to Ipswich. Above the right bank of the Orwell is the residence of the man
whose memory every lover of his country should adore--_Philip Bowes Vere
Broke_--the gallant captain of the _Shannon_, who, in less than fifteen
minutes captured by boarding a frigate of superior force. There were on the
Orwell two schooner yachts belonging to Sir Hyde Parker, whose ancestor
commanded the _Tenedos_ frigate which was sent away by Broke that he might
fight the _Chesapeake_ on equal terms.

"Dredging for personal gain was permitted to the westward outside the
harbour, with the result that the deep-water channel was diverted no less
than two thousand feet from the east to the west side, a large sand-bank
forming on the east side below Landguard Fort, and a corresponding
destruction of Beacon's Cliff ensued on the opposite side.

"Four yachts in our class started from a point on the harbour between the
town and Walton Marsh. We had a soldier's wind (side). A brand new yacht,
the name of which I forget, was on our weather-side, and the two others to
leeward; and we three leeward-most vessels headed rather towards the
projecting bank before Landguard Point, the weathermost yacht pressing us
to leeward as much as possible; I kept my eye most of the time on the
weather yacht, the master of which kept his eye on us, taking advantage of
every opportunity of pressing us to leeward. So near was he that I could
see his eyes most distinctly, but he outwitted himself, as he got the whole
four yachts so far to leeward that unless we could cross the bank a tack
would be inevitable.

"I asked the pilot if we could venture to cross the bank, the limits of
which were plainly seen by the broken water. He replied, 'If you don't
mind two or three bumps I will guarantee her crossing,' and Smith agreeing
to my proposal, I said, 'We are an iron vessel, let her go.' We passed
safely over with about three bumps, and our weather companion having gone
too far to leeward in pressing us down, and drawing more water, had to
tack. The two others to leeward funked the bank, and tacked also; we were
then safe out of the harbour into the 'rolling ground' outside, and
spanking before a very strong wind towards the Cork lightships some miles
dead to leeward. My plan of crossing the bank, which we were not prohibited
from doing, gave us an enormous advantage, as in tacking with a side wind
the three yachts had a smooth dead beat to get to windward of the bank.
When we rounded the Cork lightships the other three were, I fancy, about a
mile or more astern of us. We had then to beat up to windward, passed the
mouth of Harwich Harbour, and up to a flag-vessel under the lee of
Walton-on-the-Naze, a long low promontory which gave us the full force of
the wind, but lessened what would have been, I fancy, too heavy a sea for
us. When we had got about half a mile to windward of the Cork lightships,
some one called out 'Look at the----' (name forgotten). And there, far
astern of us, was our weathermost competitor (at starting) dismasted, with
the water rolling in and out of her scuppers. The lower mast had broken
about ten or twelve feet above the decks, as far as we could judge, and we
had the satisfaction of seeing her taken in tow of a large sailing-yacht
that was not racing. In a few minutes we saw another of our competitors in
the same state, her lower mast having gone apparently about the same
distance from the deck. This left us with only one to compete with in the
dead beat up against a very strong breeze, but, as stated, the sea was
mitigated by the Walton projection, and the more so as we approached it. We
rounded that mark, and after a long run before the wind round the flagship
in the harbour whence we had started, and as our single competitor was good
four miles astern, the Rear-Commodore hailed that he would not trouble us
any further, and he stopped the race; the course was twice round, with
power to shorten, which we were glad was done. I was less surprised to see
the first yacht dismantled, as, being a new vessel, her rigging probably
stretched, and left the strain of the sails upon the mast, but in the other
case it was rather odd. I have been at vast numbers of regattas and have
seen many topmasts carried away in races, and in one case a lower mast
_head_ with the topmast, but two lower masts out of four in a class was a
unique experience."

As to the next extract some doubts are felt, on the ground of relevancy
only, but still the "Battle of Harwich," as my old friend liked to call it,
was fought there, and the manner of fighting was eminently characteristic
of the age, after all only sixty years ago; and, if relevance be granted,
the little yarn is, at any rate, entertaining.


"THE BATTLE OF HARWICH.

"There was a fine show of yachts at Harwich at this time, and there was a
great assemblage of yachtsmen in the prime of life, many, like myself,
young fellows of about twenty-three. As there was time before the next port
we were to visit, Yarmouth, we had an idle day at Harwich, and, as Dr.
Watts says, 'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.' As the
yachts' cabins had the sails, etc., in them ready for changing jibs,
top-sails, etc., we were almost all living ashore at the Three Cups Hotel,
and there this memorable battle was fought under these circumstances. My
pleasant companion, Michael Parker Smith, and I went for a long walk up
country, and on our return were met in front of the hotel by some of our
brother yachtsmen, who said they had been in search of us to see if we
would join and make a party of eleven, and they had ordered dinner for that
number, calculating that we would join, which we gladly did. Another lot of
nine had just sat down to dinner in an adjoining room, and the windows of
both rooms, which were upstairs, looked over a lower part of the hotel, so
that any one going out of the window of one room could go along the roof of
the lower building to the window of the other room. It was somewhat curious
that not only were we numerically superior, but we were all the biggest
men. While we were at dinner, one of the nine going out of their window
crept under ours, and threw a squib right along our table. He was a man
with a curious head of hair, and was known amongst us as 'Old Frizzlewig,'
_alias_ 'Door-mat.' Frizzlewig beat a retreat after delivering his shot,
two of us lay in wait for him on each side of our window, and while he was
launching another squib we got hold of him; a detachment of the other army
got out on the lower roof, and it was soon a case of 'pull devil, pull
baker.' We had his upper half inside the room, and his party the lower end
outside. As the other side were being reinforced, the cry on our side was,
'Shut the window,' the result being that to avoid the guillotining of poor
Frizzlewig in the centre, the other side had to let go his legs. We took
him prisoner, and fastened the window, and the other army going back
through their room came to the rescue through our door. Then arose the din
of this memorable engagement, recorded in humorous lines soon after, but
now lost by me. My chum Smith was very neatly dressed, so much so that I
had a light suit made afterwards like it for myself. When the battle
commenced the puddings and pies were on the table. The blood was apparently
pouring down the neat shirt front, pretty waistcoat and white trousers with
the blue stripes of Smith, the ball with which he was struck in the chest
and which called the scarlet overflow being nothing less in size than a
thirty-two pounder. This ball had a minute before graced the head of our
table in the form of a fine red-currant pudding, which one of the attacking
force had seized with both hands, and hurled it into Smith's bosom, and the
red-currant juice gave Smith the bloody look that crimsoned his attire. In
a few minutes the crockeryware and glass had all left the table for the
floor, or been smashed, excepting one big jug. Not to harrow the minds of
the readers by a further account of so sanguinary an engagement, I conclude
by saying that the mortality was _nil_, and the whole of the enemy had to
surrender, the eleven being too much for the nine. Our principal prisoner
was Rear-Commodore Knight, who was not very big, one of the smallest of his
army. We treated our captives with all consideration and humanity, and did
not hang any of them. We then rang the bell for the landlord, and told him
to estimate the damage, and as luckily the crockery, etc., was not of a
costly kind, the whole cost of this great battle only came to 3s. 8d. or
3s. 10d. per head. As far as I saw, the whole thing was conducted with the
greatest good humour, and I heard not a cross word; but my friend Smith
told me afterwards, when I spoke of everybody's good humour, that he and a
namesake of his very nearly got to blows. Those were days when rough jokes
were practised more, I fancy, than now. Every one of us had squibs and
crackers _ad lib._; but a better-humoured lot I never met, the great
battle notwithstanding. After the racing the yachtsmen all dined pleasantly
together at the Three Cups, after a hard day's racing, and some one said
there was a ball to which we could go, and off we went, finding to our
amazement that we had got into a low-class place, where there were a lot of
most disreputable men and women, and on our attempting to beat a retreat we
found the door we had entered by was barricaded. We then burst open
another, and going down stairs found the bottom of that barricaded. Sir
Richard Marion Wilson, who was with his yacht at Harwich, but not racing,
vaulted over the banisters into the middle of a lot of fellows who vowed we
should not go out without paying our footing as they called it. I
immediately vaulted over, and stood by Sir Richard Wilson, and was followed
by the adjutant of the Flintshire Militia. Sir R. Wilson ordered the
ruffians to open the door, saying, 'Any man who touches me will have reason
to repent it.' There was little room for reinforcements from our side as
the place we had jumped into was small, but as there were a lot more
yachtsmen on the stairs, the bargees showed some desire for a compromise,
and said if we would order some liquor the door should be opened. Sir R.
Wilson said, 'Not one drop of anything will we give you, or do anything
else, excepting on our own terms. Bring a flat wash tub, if there is one at
hand,' and they at once found a large shallow wooden one, the place being,
it seems, used for washing. He then told them to bring him a gallon of
beer, which they quickly did. 'Now,' he said, 'pour it into the tub.' He
paid for the ale, and the door was opened, and he said, 'Now let the pigs
drink'; and while they were all struggling for the liquor we all walked
into the street, having been completely sold by whoever gave out that there
was a ball. I never was in such another blackguard assembly in my life."

I am tempted to proceed because Sir Llewelyn gives us a new view of the
Suffolk coast.

"We sailed from Harwich to Yarmouth in company with two of the fastest
25-tonners afloat, viz., the _Ino_, and the _Prima Donna_; the third, the
_Seiont_, though she went to Yarmouth, did not sail in our company. I have
seen every one of the three beat the others at East Coast regattas, and I
fancy yachting men will appreciate the following curious statement.

"The _Seiont_ and _Ino_ were singularly well matched in beating to
windward, and up to the turning-point of a race they were always close
together, but the _Seiont_ had an ugly trick in running before a strong
breeze of cocking up her stern, and the _Ino_ would pass and leave her far
behind in a long run.

"The _Prima Donna_ was not nearly equal on the wind to either of the two
others, but if (which is not often the case) she had a long run without
being close-hauled she beat both, and thus I saw each of the three
successful over the others.

"Our trip from Harwich to Yarmouth was delightful; the land is so low that
farm-carts in the fields looked as if we were higher than they, the gentle
wind was on the land, and the sea was as smooth as a pond with only the
gentlest ripple. We laid a plot to seize the _Ino_ and navigate her into
Yarmouth, we being the largest party; and we thought if we could get aboard
when they were at lunch, and the bulk of the crew at dinner, we could do
it. The wind fell to a dead calm two or three times; but luckily for us--as
will be seen--before we could get our boat ready to board a gentle breeze
arose, and we were all soon doing seven or eight knots. I often think our
beating up the narrow entrance of the river at Yarmouth at low water
against a dead head wind was a masterpiece in sailing, the space being
exceedingly confined to tack in. All the yachtsmen had agreed at Harwich to
dine together at the Star Hotel at Yarmouth, where dinner had been ordered
by letter beforehand, and a most pleasant evening we had. Now my readers
will learn why it was lucky for us that we could not board the _Ino_. I
told them at dinner of our piratical design at sea that day, and they soon
had the laugh against us: they had a powerful machine for wetting the sails
at regattas, that would send water up to the topsail; and the owner said,
'Do you think after the experience we had of you fellows at Harwich that we
would have let a lot of you aboard of us? We had a careful watch kept upon
you, and whenever you were seen to be getting a boat ready the machine was
ready for you, and we would have filled your boat with water in a short
time.' What a pickle we should have been in! We were again successful at
Yarmouth, coming in first and winning a cup.

"It was painful to witness the large number of people in deep mourning at
this curious old town, with its quaint narrow lanes the names of which I
forget ('wynds,' I think). The cause of all this mourning was a most
extraordinary one. A short time previous to our advent some large
travelling show had visited the town, and the clown gave out that at a
particular hour on a day named he would go down the River Yare (a
fresh-water river running from Norwich) in a tub drawn by two geese. A very
large concourse of people assembled on both banks of the river, which is
very narrow, and was spanned by a light iron suspension bridge. The bridge
collapsed, and more than seventy lives were lost. I looked at the place in
absolute amazement, and wondered had anything like a tithe of the loss
have taken place; one lot must have suffocated the others."

No apology is offered for having conveyed some information concerning
Harwich and its yachting memories of the past in the words of a pleasant
gossip who has passed away. But my old friend was not terse, and he had a
rooted objection while he lived, which shall be respected still, to
curtailment by another hand, and so, if we want to proceed with our little
cruise upon wheels of a single day and to finish it, let us take luncheon
at Harwich, without throwing raspberry tarts at one another, and go on our
way. Luncheon over, not being of the type of motorists who cannot endure to
stand on their own feet or to be at rest for a moment, let us look across
the estuary to Landguard Point and, with the aid of the books, think a
little over the astonishing metamorphosis brought about, partly by the
sweep of the tides, partly perhaps by the hand of man, not thoughtless so
much as too confident of knowledge, in the outlines of this part of the
coast during historical times.

"Murray" sets one thinking and no more. "Landguard Fort (mounting 36 guns),
on a spit of land now joined to the Suffolk coast (it is said that the
Stour once passed on the north side of it), was built in the reign of James
I." To say thus much and no more is merely to excite curiosity without
sating it. To consult Lord Avebury (_The Scenery of England_) is to obtain
satisfaction on the general problem and to learn that details are of quite
minor significance. He who has once realized the character, the untiring
and irresistible, but in some respects irregular force, of the influences
at work, will soon see how the outline of the coast may vary from year to
year, even from day to day, in the future as in the past. "One of the
finest spreads of shingle in the United Kingdom is on the left side of the
Ore or Alde in Suffolk, reaching north-eastward to Aldeburgh, and which is
still increasing by the deposit of shingle at its south-western end. A
chart of the time of Henry VIII shows distinctly that the mouth of Orford
Haven was then opposite Orford Castle, whilst a chart of the time of
Elizabeth shows a considerable south-westerly progression. When the
Ordnance map was made (published 1838), North Weir Point, as the end of the
spit is called, was about east of Hollesley. It" (the spread of shingle, of
course) "consists of a series of curved concentric ridges, or 'fulls,'
sweeping round and forming a projecting cape or 'Ness' in advance of the
general coastline." Seen in diagram, from a bird's-eye point of view, these
"fulls" closely resemble a vastly long and narrow field ridged up for the
reception of Cyclopean potatoes. (In passing, the bird's-eye view,
involving an effort of the imagination, is out of date, and there is every
prospect that very soon not one man or woman in a thousand, but a large
percentage, will be in a position to speak without affectation of tracts of
country as seen from a balloon.) This particular bird's-eye prospect,
however, is that of a bird perched on the high lighthouse and looking
south-west over Hollesley Bay and the adjacent land to the Naze, and it
gives a very vivid idea of the struggles of the sluggish Suffolk streams
before they reach the sea.

"The triangular projection encloses salt marshes, and extends from
Aldeburgh to Landguard Point. Successive ridges or waves of shingle are,
indeed, a marked characteristic of such headlands. Under ordinary
circumstances, and when the shore line is stationary, each succeeding tide
obliterates the ridge made by the last; but when the shore is encroaching
on the sea, some great storm will throw up the shingle in the form of a
ridge, after which another accumulation commences, and eventually forms
another ridge. The development of this beach, however, has not been
invariably progressive, breaches made by storms having sometimes given a
temporary exit for the waters of the Ore and of the Butley River at the
Upper Narrows, where the part of the channel to the south would be
partially closed. The Ordnance map of 1831 shows separate knolls of shingle
for a mile southwards from North Weir Point. The point no longer exists as
there shown, the knolls having been united into a continuous bank, as
marked on the Geological Survey map, which has been corrected from a later
survey."

One more short passage is quoted here, as tending to round off the subject
under discussion, although, perhaps, it might have been quoted when we were
at Yarmouth. Still, the shifting shore did not thrust itself upon our
attention then, and now it is pushing itself forward as steadily as North
Weir Point has made its progress on the maps. "The sands of Yarmouth, like
those of Lowestoft, have, in recent years, been comparatively stationary.
The town of Yarmouth stands on a spot of sea-driven sand, thrown up in 1008
A.D."--it is no use therefore to look for Roman remains at Yarmouth
itself--"and which crosses the outfalls of the Waveney and the Yare,
enclosing a large mere--Breydon Water--the outlet of which, like that of
other Suffolk rivers, is being constantly forced southwards by the
accumulating sand from the north." All this is due to the steady trend of
the beach from the north to the south, tending to form a barrier across all
harbours and estuaries, to denude outlying capes, to fill up hollows in the
coastline; and less calculable than the influence of the tide is the
spasmodic influence of storms. What, then, is the moral? Of a truth there
are many morals. He who buys a promontory may become a landless man. His
neighbour in a hollow of the coast to the south may find himself endowed
with salt marshes, whereon the sheep of his posterity will attain a flavour
of supreme excellence. A port may become an inland community. River beds,
the boundary of many an inland county and of many an estate out of reach of
the sea, because they are accepted as eternal and immutable, are the most
unstable of metes and bounds in the low ground by the side of the North
Sea. Lastly, when we find the old maps failing to tally with the
configuration of the land to-day, we shall only be exposing ourselves to
ridicule if we laugh at those who made them.

So we have mused, looking at Landguard Point; and the indulgence has been
taken without hesitation, since travel without thought is mere waste of
time and of the opportunities of amusement. The motorist is not an
infatuated adjunct of a hurtling machine; rather is he one who, passing
through scenes rapidly, learns to observe and to think more quickly than
others, storing, as on a photographic film, memories to be unfolded and
developed later, and by no means averse to linger in here and there a spot
promoting easy reflection. Only he is a motorist still, and, until the
rudimentary device of the starting handle has been improved upon, he will
make his long halts for looking round at leisure simultaneously with
luncheon or tea, or some other reason for stopping the engine.

Home then to Colchester we will go through Dovercourt again, Little Oakley,
Great Oakley, Weeley, and Elmstead. It is no great distance, and there is
no reason why we should not pause for tea on the way in a village inn; for
the inns of these parts are not half bad, the silvan scenery and the hedges
are delightful, and there is no occasion to hurry. Besides, the roads are
exceeding curly, apt to be greasy under the trees also, and altogether the
peninsula between the Stour and the Colne is no place for fast travelling.
It cannot honestly be said that, apart from the tranquil scenery of the
country, combining abundant leafage with plenty of little ups and downs and
a freshness of atmosphere due to the adjacent sea, which is in view
frequently, this drive of the afternoon is worth taking for the sake of any
antiquities or associations which may be taken into account. That is not to
say that there are none such. Personally, perhaps, I should never have
explored this peninsula but for the soldiery, who, I remember, had a great
camp at one time in a park near Great Bentley, and a fierce battle at
another time in the same district. It was rather an interesting battle,
since it exhibited the difficulties of hedgerow fighting, and, still more,
those of umpires compelled to adjudicate upon its results when cartridges
were blank. But to me the most amusing part of it was to come at one point
upon scouts of both armies, theoretically foes to the death, stealing green
apples in brotherly amity from the same orchard. Still, I think, if the
opportunity came without much trouble, I would explore that peninsula again
in early autumn, for, apart from associations in literature or history,
apart from architecture, about which it is far easier to rhapsodize in
print sometimes than it is to spend many interested minutes over it in
practice, there is an undying charm in these green lanes, in the oaks and
elms, in the heavy laden orchards, and in the luxuriant blackberries of the
wayside. They are just England, or one of the features of England, at its
best; and those who have travelled most of this world of ours will agree
that any feature of England, at its best, takes a very great deal of
beating.




CHAPTER VIII

COLCHESTER AND GAINSBOROUGH'S COUNTRY

     An afternoon's drive--Lexden--Close to
     Colchester--Earlier visit assumed--Probable site of
     Cunobelin's city--Position described by the
     _Quarterly_--Boadicea's revenge--Stoke by Nayland--A
     commanding hill--The church--Constable's
     praise--Gainsborough at Sudbury--"Damn your nose,
     madam!"--Gainsborough at school--"Tom
     Peartree"--Gainsborough's Suffolk landscapes--Long
     Melford--A halt for an exceptional
     church--Seventeenth-century monograph on--Inscriptions
     in flint--Long Melford a centre of the cloth trade--The
     Martins, or Martyns, and the church--Its past
     glories--Its splendid treasures--Ancient customs--The
     Cordells--Cavendish, the home of the Cavendish
     family--Clare and "the illustrious family of
     Clare"--Strongbow--The Valley of the Colne--The De
     Veres and Castle Hedingham--Macaulay on their
     fame--Their end--Little Maplestead--A round
     church--Back to Colchester.


A nice little drive, with a pause for tea and antiquarianism, of forty or
fifty miles may be taken from Colchester any fine summer's afternoon by
following something like the route here laid down. Thirty years ago this
sentence would have been held to be proof positive of lunacy in the writer;
now it is a conspicuous illustration of his willingness to be contented
with moderately long journeys. It is a willingness, save the mark, which
grows on the motorist with experience and familiarity with the new
locomotion.

We will start by way of Lexden, but we will not halt there, full of
interest as it is; for Lexden is but two miles from the heart of
Colchester, and it shall be assumed that, at some time or other, the
motorist will walk these two miles for the sake of his health and of his
figure, and spend a little time in examining a spot of real interest. Still
he shall be told its story now. Not many pages back there was occasion to
mention the colony planted near Colchester, as it now is, by Claudius, and
of the lethargy of the veterans who were the first colonists. They ought to
have settled themselves as a community ready for defence at once.
Historians agree that, instead of doing this, they found the dwellings
hitherto occupied by the British sufficiently comfortable for their
purpose, and never troubled themselves upon the question of defensive
position. Those ancient British dwellings, due to Cunobelin's migration
from St. Albans (which is historical, whereas much concerning Cunobelin is
mystery), probably stood where Lexden stands now. Such, at any rate, was
the opinion of a _Quarterly_ Reviewer, who thought the surroundings fitted
in well with his theory, as in fact they do. "To the north of it flows the
Colne in a deep, and what must have been in those days a marshy valley,
while on the south it is flanked by a smaller stream still called the Roman
River, which probably made its way through dense forests. These two
streams, meeting in the estuary of the Colne, enclose on three sides the
peninsula on which Lexden stands, and across this neck of land, or such
part of it as was not occupied by marsh or wood, two or perhaps three
parallel lines of ramparts may now be traced for two or more miles,
supposed to be British, from the flint celts which have been found about
them." (This last sentence would certainly not be permitted in the
_Quarterly Review_ of these days, but its meaning is quite clear.) "...
Near the centre of these lines a conspicuous mound still exists, which we
would gladly believe to be the sepulchre of the great Cunobelin. A small
Roman camp, or more properly a _castellum_, is still well preserved at no
great distance from the south-west angle of this British fortification."
The comment of "Murray," probably in this instance the late Mr. Augustus
Hare, is "Whatever may be thought of these arguments, the suggestion is
interesting and gives a certain importance to Lexden." As to Cunobelin,
obviously there is no attempt at argument, nothing more than a pious
aspiration; the rest of the argument is, on the whole, rather better than
the English in which it is expressed, and perhaps as little of it rests on
mere supposition as we have a right to expect in a case of this kind. The
only weak part of the hypothesis appears to be that the august _Quarterly_
Reviewer assumes marsh or forest where he does not find the lines of the
ancient rampart. It would be safer, it is suggested, to assume marsh only
or, where the elevation of the ground is against marsh and there is no
rampart, vanished rampart, rather than vanished forest. The "celts," to one
who does not profess to have made a profound study of British antiquities,
seem to be neither here nor there in the argument. South-eastern Britons
had some civilization even before Cæsar came. They were tillers of the soil
and, apparently, had commerce with the Continent, even in metals. They
resisted Cæsar by force, and their scythe-chariots (afterwards the model
for the Roman travelling carriages) were not without their effect upon the
legions. A people who could make these scythe-chariots, who severed the
mistletoe with a golden sickle, were hardly likely to use flint knives in
daily life. It follows, or at any rate seems to follow, that the "celts,"
if they are evidence of any period at all, as of course they must be, are
evidence of men who lived near Lexden long before Cunobelin.

Still, on the whole, the argument that Lexden represents the Camulodunum of
the Britons (I wonder what they really called it, for Camulodunum is about
as unBritish as it well can be) is fairly strong. It is strong enough at
any rate to warrant the belief that here "the British warrior Queen,"
letting her barbarian troops loose on the panic-stricken and defenceless
colonists, avenged her wrongs ruthlessly and in a wild abandon of cruelty.
Sluggish Colne and the Roman river really did, we may take it for almost
certain, run with the blood of Romans; and this is no figure of speech, as
it usually is when battles are so described. Camulodunum was not a battle
but a massacre; Boadicea was _furens femina_ with a vengeance, and with
good cause. She really had bled from the Roman rods, her daughters had been
outraged, her just possessions had been stolen; the Iceni were, clearly, in
a wild ecstasy of murderous madness. If ever there was slaughter grim and
great in this world, Lexden saw it in the year of grace 61. Another place,
some say Messing, not far off and near Kelvedon, saw the tables turned a
little later. Then, said the Romans, eighty thousand British fell, and
Boadicea anticipated the vengeance of her foes by taking poison before they
reached her. Still, if she in any way resembled her sisters of to-day, she
had enjoyed at least some measure of satisfaction.

From Lexden, a Roman road runs all the way to Haverhill, at the south-west
corner of Suffolk; but Haverhill is just beyond our route of to-day, and is
certainly not worth a detour. We are going now almost due north, through
Wake's Colne and Bures St. Mary to Stoke by Nayland, in Suffolk and across
the Stour. Wake's Colne is reserved for the return journey to which, since
that journey follows the downward course of the Colne for some considerable
distance, it belongs more properly. Bures St. Mary appears to be far more
probably than Bury St. Edmunds the place of the coronation of King Edmund
of East Anglia; but that and his canonization, as we noted in connection
with Bury St. Edmunds, were long ago, so long indeed, that if Bures St.
Mary fails to attract otherwise, the legend does not matter. For us, at any
rate, Bures St. Mary is but a place passed on one side in entering the
valley of the Stour and Gainsborough's country. Whether any of the views
"near Sudbury" included the remarkably striking hill on which Stoke by
Nayland stands ignorance prevents me from stating, but certainly, that
house-crowned hill, rising as it does from the very flat land below and the
leisurely Stour, makes, as a valued picture in my possession proves to
demonstration, an ideal subject for a modern artist. Its value is due to
abruptness of contrast. At Bridgnorth from the Severn, and at Durham, the
hills with their clusters of old roofs, rise more abruptly and to a greater
height, are more rugged, not necessarily therefore more truly picturesque.
At Durham, however, and at Bridgnorth, we are in country where hills are
many; at Stoke by Nayland a commanding hill seems all the more commanding
in that it is unlike anything in the neighbourhood. No wonder artists love
this quiet riverside scene. Of that scene, apart from the hill and the
ancient houses, the grand Perpendicular church is the conspicuous glory. It
"ranks with the great churches of the Eastern Counties." These are
Constable's words, and they may be trusted the more in that he was not
merely a mighty artist in landscape, a native of these parts, and devotedly
attached to his native county (which, indeed, might make for prejudice),
but also, as his "Salisbury Cathedral" shows, thoroughly and appreciatively
versed in ecclesiastical architecture.

To me, however, Gainsborough has greater charm than Constable, partly,
perhaps, because of the extraordinary fascination of his portraits of
persons. The reference here is not to the fashionable portrait painter of
Bath, but to the later days wherein he limned the features of Georgiana,
Duchess of Devonshire (Heaven forbid that I should enter into the obvious
pitfall of discussion which yawns for the unwary here), of Maria Linley and
her brother (it is at Knole and a proud possession of Lord Sackville), of
Mrs. Sheridan, of Mrs. Siddons, and of the Blue Boy. The model for the Blue
Boy, I learn from Mr. Walter Armstrong's monograph, was the son of a
wholesale ironmonger named Buttall in Greek Street, Soho. An excellent
reproduction of the Mrs. Siddons, in the same monograph (Seeley 1894), lies
under my eye now, and as I look at those wonderfully clean-cut and strong
features, I can almost hear the painter saying, in his comic wrath, "Damn
your nose, madam, there is no end to it." The story, retailed by Mr.
Armstrong, makes one feel that Thomas Gainsborough was a man and a brother,
and here at Sudbury it is a delight to follow the story of his early days.
"He was the youngest of a family of nine, all brought up reputably and well
by his father, a thrifty tradesman variously described as a milliner, a
crape manufacturer and a shroud maker, who, no doubt, combined all these
avocations and, said scandal, occasionally helped them out with a little
quiet smuggling." The shroud-making industry was introduced by Gainsborough
the elder, from Coventry, and he seems to have enjoyed a monopoly of it;
"crape manufacture," as Mr. Armstrong explains, simply meant dealer in the
woollen trade introduced with the Flemish weavers by Edward III into
Sudbury. The house of Gainsborough's birth, once the "Black Horse," is
gone. Stories of his odd but clever brothers and of his pranksome youth
survive and give delight. John was an inventor in many kinds, all but a
genius, never practical. Humphrey began as an inventor, but degenerated or
rose to be a dissenting minister. Still, he invented a novel sundial,
preserved in the British Museum, and a tide-mill for which the Society of
Arts awarded him a prize of £50.

Thomas, England's Gainsborough, went to the Sudbury Grammar School, cut his
name in the woodwork like other boys, covered his books with sketches. Art
was bubbling in him and would not be denied. His holidays were all spent in
sketching, and it is related that he once took in his schoolmaster, who was
also his uncle, with an exact imitation of his father's familiar request
"Give Tom a holiday." At Sudbury it was, too, that he drew a lightning
portrait, afterwards known as "Tom Peartree," of a peasant whom he saw
gazing wistfully at his father's pear trees, which had been sadly lightened
of their burden in the preceding days, and that portrait led at once to the
identification of the thief who, confronted with it, confessed.

Thomas Gainsborough was not a thwarted genius. He was sent to London at
fourteen to study under Hayman, an indifferent artist and a hard liver.
From fourteen to eighteen he was loose about London, under a bad influence
to start with, and that he sowed a fine lot of wild oats was no wonder. But
at eighteen he returned to Sudbury and to landscape, and worked very hard
at it. Here again let Mr. Armstrong be quoted, because his authority is
real: "In his early years Gainsborough painted landscape with the minutest
care. I know pictures dating probably from about 1748 which excel any
Dutchman in the elaboration with which such things as the ruts in a country
road, and the grasses beside it, or the gnarled trunk and rough bark of
some ancient willow, are made out. In the National Gallery of Ireland we
have one such picture. It represents just such a characteristic bit of
Suffolk scenery as Wynants would have chosen had he carried his Batavian
patience over the North Sea. Across a sand-pit in the foreground a deep
country road winds away into the distance, where the roofs of a village
suggest its objective. An old horse, a silvery sky with a fine _arabesque_
of windy clouds, and a few old weather-stunted trees complete the picture.
The execution is so elaborate that the surface is fused into one unbroken
breadth of enamel. The _Great Cornard Wood_," (Suffolk of course) "in the
National Gallery, cannot have been painted very much later than this. Its
colour has the same gray coolness, its tone is as high, and its execution
almost as elaborate." Gainsborough may or may not have been, as Reynolds
said, the greatest living landscape painter. Reynolds probably said it to
annoy Wilson, who was present. But Horace Walpole pronounced one of his
pictures to be "in the style of Rubens, and by far the best landscape ever
painted in England, and equal to the great masters." For us the truly
interesting point is that this was said of Sudbury's greatest man, and that
the valley of the Stour gave to this man, Thomas Gainsborough, all his
early inspiration, all his early subjects in landscape. By the way, in
stating that Thomas Gainsborough was Sudbury's greatest man I had forgotten
Simon of Sudbury, who probably never uttered a coarse oath, nor drank too
much wine, nor was, to quote Gainsborough of himself, "deeply read in
petticoats." But let any reader who has persevered thus far lay his hand on
his heart and reflect honestly whether he can say offhand who Simon of
Sudbury was. Well, he was an archbishop of Canterbury who was hanged during
Wat Tyler's rebellion. His fate leaves me, and probably the reader also,
quite unmoved.

Now let us hie, climbing a hill of 1 in 14, to Long Melford, and tea, and
really fine architecture, for Long Melford is grand and, when one halts
for any long time a-motoring, a good cause must needs be offered.

Assuredly after the 3-1/4 miles to Long Melford, so called from the length
of its street, have been accomplished the excuse needs no making. The
village on one side of the green, the spreading trees of Melford Hall,
itself a typical Elizabethan mansion, the exceptionally stately church and,
last of all, the hill which lends dignity and variety to the whole,
combined to make an ideal halting-place. By all means order tea at one of
the village inns and, after it, make a thorough inspection of the church,
for the interesting particulars concerning which acknowledgment is due to a
monograph, undated and probably published for private circulation,
apparently by the Rev. R. Francis, some time rector. The author, whosoever
he may have been, transcribes much from certain MSS. of 1688 onwards
concerning the former state of the church, and from this we may borrow a
little. "Much about the middle of the Parish of Melford, al's Long Melford,
in Suffolk, upon an hill, most pleasant for air and prospect, there
standeth a large and beautiful Church called Trinity Church, because
dedicated to the Holy and undivided Trinity.... Part of it was an old
erection, viz. the whole North Ile, the Steeple, a great part of the Porch
and p'haps the East End of the South Ile. All the other parts are of a much
later erection, as by the different sort of building, and the several
inscriptions still extant round and about the said Church may most
evidently appear.... The Middle Ile, from the Steeple, exclusive, to the
East End of the Chancell, hath one entire advanced roof, in length 152 ft.
and 6 inches, distant from the pavement beneath 41 feet and 6 inches,
supported on each side with ten arched Pillars, separating the said Middle
Ile from the 2 other Iles, which are in height 24 feet, and in length 135
feet and 4 inches.... The pious Benefactors concerned in the building the
advanced Ile may be known, and let their memories never perish, by the
inscriptions under the Battlements, without the Church, and by like
inscriptions in the windows, undemolished, within the Church." Of this last
sentence an antiquary no doubt could give an exact translation into modern
English, but I must be content to follow the general sense, which is indeed
pretty clear. The reference is to very curious inscriptions, in flints let
into the walls, which, notwithstanding restoration and because it has been
carried out with taste and reverence, still remain in part. The names of
the benefactors follow, amongst them being many Martins, or Martyns, who
are here mentioned to the exclusion of others partly because, when the
church was restored in 1869, the Rev. C. J. Martyn, their patron, bore much
of the expense and their clothmark, a token of the former greatness of Long
Melford and its cause, is frequently mentioned; but most of all because the
monograph, like many another treasure, has been lent to me out of sheer
goodwill by Mr. Paulin Martin, of Abingdon, my neighbour, antiquary and
healer of men. Long Melford "stood by clothing," as the saying went in the
fifteenth century. So did its people, and this majestic Perpendicular
church, built of flint and stone, is an abiding monument of their wealth
and of their piety.

The beautiful church suffered during the Reformation. Roger Martin, of that
date, speaks of many ornaments in the past tense. "There was a goodly
mount, made of one great Tree, and set up at the foot of the window there"
(behind the High Altar), "carved very artificially, with _The Story of
Christ's Passion_.... There was also in my Ile, called Jesus Ile, at the
back of the Altar, a table with a crucifix on it, with the two thieves
hanging, on every side one, which is in my house decayed, and the same I
hope my heires will repaire, and restore again, one day." Other vanished
ornaments good Roger enumerates, and then sundry ceremonies in the church
and customary celebrations of the village, whereof some examples may be
given.

"Upon Palm Sunday, the Blessed Sacrament was carried in procession about
the Church-yard, under a fair Canopy, borne by four Yeomen; the Procession
coming to the Church Gate, went westward, and they with the Blessed
Sacrament, went Eastward; and when the procession came against the door of
Mr. Clopton's Ile" (the Cloptons were large benefactors), "they, with the
Blessed Sacrament, and with a little bell and singing, approached at the
East end of our Ladie's Chappell, at which time a Boy, with a thing in his
hand, pointed to it, signifying a Prophet, as I think, sang, standing upon
the Tyrret that is on the said Mr. Clopton's Ile doore, _Ecce Rex tuus
venit_, &c.; and then all did kneel down, and then, rising up, went and met
the Sacrament, and so then, went singing together, into the Church, and
coming near the Porch, a Boy, or one of the Clerks, did cast over among the
Boys flowers, and singing cakes, &c."

Some there be, doubtless, whose gorge will rise at this account of ancient
usage in and about the church, but surely none can object to the next
extract, pointing as it does to a feeling of real friendship between rich
and poor.

"_Memorand._ On St. James's Even, there was bonefire, and a tub of ale, and
bread then given to the poor, and, before my doore, there were made, three
other bonefires, viz. on Midsummer Even, on the Even of St. Peter and St.
Paul, when they had the like drinkings, and on St. Thomas's Even, on
which, if it fell not on the fish day, they had some long pyes of mutton,
and peasecods, set out upon boards, with the aforesaid quantity of bread,
and ale; and, in all these bonefires, some of the friends and more civil
poor neighbours were called in, and sat at the board, with my Grandfather,
who had, at the lighting of the bonefires, wax tapers, with balls of wax,
red and green, set up, all the breadth of the Hall, lighted then, and
burning there, before the image of _St. John the Baptist_; and after they
were put out, a watch candle was lighted, and set in the midst of the said
Hall, upon the pavement, burning all night."

A list of utensils, furniture, jewels, ornaments and relics follows that
would make a collector's mouth water, but it may not all be quoted.
Thirteen chalices there were, "the best Chalice, gilt," weighing 133-1/2
ounces. Amongst other objects were "a relique of the Pillar that our
Saviour Christ was bound to," several examples of the Pax (a piece of metal
with the picture of Christ on it, to be kissed by all after Mass, typical
of the Kiss of Peace), several silver ships, many rings and jewels,
gorgeous coats for "Our Lady," copes and vestments belonging to the Church
and like articles in great number, but the list is of immense length.
Celebrated in the church were many Cloptons and Martins, and "Sir William
Cordell, Knt. of Melford Hall, Speaker of the House of Commons and Master
of the Rolls, in the time of Philip and Mary, and Queen Elizabeth," who
married Mary, the daughter of Richard Clopton, Esq., of Fore Hall. His
epitaph contained the lines--

    _Pauperibus largus, victum, vestemque ministrans
    Insuper Hospitii condidit ille domum._

Here, to avoid insult to those who have Latin, and to afford them an
opportunity of laughing at me, while at the same time the unlearned may
follow the meaning, let me attempt the rare venture of a translation into
English Elegiacs:

    Good to the poor was Sir William, a giver of food and of raiment,
    And of his own good will founded an Hospital home.

Of the foundation referred to a full account may be found in Sir William
Cordell's will (A.D. 1580) recorded in extracts from the _Visitation of
Suffolk_, edited by Joseph Jackson Howard, LL.D. (printed by S. Tymms,
Lowestoft, 1867). It included a building, a warden, and twelve almsmen, and
it was to be continued--for it had been founded in good Sir William's
lifetime--after his death. It was, in effect, the kind of foundation which
Anthony Trollope took and gave pleasure in describing; nor, as the long
will shows plainly enough, was the benefaction made at his expense of
leaving the testator's relations at all pinched for money. In fact, his
widow, Dame Mary Cordell, in 1584, "being sikelye in body, and nevertheless
of good and p'fecte remembrance," made a will in which she disposed of much
property, devoting some of it to this very hospital, and some, almost as a
matter of course, to Long Melford Church. Dame Mary was prescient. The will
made in 1584 was proved in October 1585.

So thoroughly comfortable were the people of Long Melford in the days of
old that the temptation to mention the fact that a "Long Melford" was once
a name for a purse is irresistible, because the conjunction is so
appropriate. The temptation ought, perhaps, to be resisted because,
although the fact has been read and remembered, it appears to be unfamiliar
to Suffolk natives, and the source of information cannot be traced. It has
eluded fairly diligent search; but the fact has certainly been noticed
since this book was undertaken. I can remember no more than that it was a
purse of some peculiar make; and it would seem fairly safe to imply that it
was of capacious dimensions. Still, as the inscriptions already mentioned
show, those long purses were always laid under contribution for the
adornment of the church which was Long Melford's pride, and among the most
prosperous and the most generous benefactors of it were the Martins or
Martyns. The first of them came from Dorsetshire to Melford and was buried
there in 1438. How the family made its money the "clothmark" proves; and
the _Visitation_ shows how they spread over the county and made their mark
in the country. Roger, who died in 1543, was a Bencher of Lincoln's Inn;
Sir Roger, who died in 1573, had been Lord Mayor of London; Roger, born
1639, was created a baronet; daughters married into good families all over
East Anglia. But it was a tradition of the family that all should be
brought back to Long Melford for burial; and it was also a tradition to do
something for the church. It was a tradition which lasted till 1851 at any
rate, and it may very likely still be held in honour; for we read in
"Murray" that there was, at that time, very large expenditure on the
chantries chancel by Sir William Parker and the Rev. C. J. Martyn, the
patron of the living. Sir William Parker, it may be added, was the owner of
Melford Hall, which formerly belonged to the Cordells and, being
Elizabethan, was no doubt built by the Sir William Cordell already named,
who flourished in the reign of Elizabeth.

At Cavendish, a few miles to the westward, we are at the original home of a
family better known than the Cordells or the Martins, and of real note in
history. "In the chancel of the Church was buried Chief Justice Sir John
Cavendish, beheaded by Wat Tyler's mob. His younger son, John, and Esquire
to Richard II is said to have slain this sturdy rebel." So "Murray," but
the last statement, standing alone, is merely irritating. What is the sense
of saying this, and no more, to a generation taught by painstaking
historians to believe that Walworth, the Lord Mayor, struck Wat Tyler to
the ground "where he was instantly dispatched by others of the King's
attendants"? Of course young John Cavendish may have been one of these
attendants; but in any case Walworth was the protagonist, and should have
been mentioned at least. According to the just custom of Indian sport the
credit belongs to him who gets in the first spear, and in the Highlands the
sportsman who lays the stag low, not the gillie who grallochs him,
possesses the honour of the day.

The story of the Cavendish family shall not be told here, for it is long,
and not free from controversial points, and, of course, they are still in
the land and of far greater consequence now than they ever were when
Cavendish was their chief home. The glory of the village has waned and
theirs has waxed. Of both the next village, Clare, and of the family who
gave it their name or took theirs from it, Ichabod may be written without
reserve. The Earls of Clare flourished from the days of the Conquest to
those of Bannockburn, where the last of the race lost his life, and during
that period of nearly two hundred and fifty years they clearly held high
sway in these parts of East Anglia. Their great seat was at Clare, in a
castle long desecrated by a railway station, the castle itself being built
in connection with one of those great and mysterious mounds, like that of
Thetford, concerning which the ancients were far more willing than the
moderns are to write with assurance. The names of several adjacent places,
Stoke by Clare, for example, serve at once to show how wide was the area
of the Clare influence and to raise the suspicion that the place was named
after them and not they after the place. Not, perhaps, the greatest of
them, but certainly the one whose memory has lasted longest, was "Richard,
surnamed Strongbow, Earl of Strigul," who came to the assistance of Dermot
Macmorrogh, King of Leinster, in 1172. Dermot, it may be remembered, had
carried off the wife of a brother Prince, named Ororic of Breffny, who,
with the assistance of the King of Connaught, Roderic, had invaded Leinster
and had expelled Dermot. Dermot then laid his case before our Henry II,
offering to hold his kingdom in vassalage for Henry, if help to recover it
were forthcoming, and Henry, being busy in Guienne, but having an eye for
the main chance, gave him letters patent authorizing subjects of the Crown
of England to assist him in his efforts. At Bristol Dermot met Strongbow,
and Hume, citing the not unduly truthful Giraldus Cambrensis as his
authority, proceeds: "This nobleman, who was of the illustrious house of
Clare, had impaired his fortune by expensive pleasures, and being ready for
any desperate undertaking, he promised assistance to Dermot, on condition
that he should espouse Eva, daughter of that Prince, and be declared heir
to all his dominions." How Strongbow eventually conquered the Irish princes
in one great battle, how Henry, jealous of Strongbow's power, crossed to
Ireland and made a Royal progress, and how the island was not fully subdued
until Elizabeth's time, are more or less matters of history, so far as the
history of those days in Ireland can really be ascertained. But the most
striking part of the passage quoted is, in these days, the simple
confidence with which the historian speaks of "the illustrious family of
Clare." How little that confidence would be justified now is plain to me
from inquiries addressed in apparently artless curiosity to more than one
highly cultivated man and woman about the time of writing. Macaulay's
schoolboy, the omnipresent paragon of marvellous memory, would no doubt
have known all about this famous family; but it flourished, and perished,
so long ago that the "man on the road" is not likely to be hurt by a
reminder of the associations properly belonging to that valley of the Stour
which was beloved of Gainsborough and of Constable.

On we go through Stoke by Clare, Ridgewell, and Tilbury-juxta-Clare (how
these old place-names serve to stimulate historical curiosity!) to another
valley, that of the Colne, full of memories of another family, bulking
fully as large in the annals of England as the Clares, and lasting far
longer. The valley of the Colne, which we follow on our return journey to
Colchester, was the De Vere country. They were the Earls of Oxford of
course, and in this case there is no affectation of confidence in the
standard of average knowledge in the use of the words "of course." Rather
are they employed in regret, for a good long stretch of my course might be
accomplished at a comfortable canter (or "on my highest gear" over the open
road, if this metaphor be preferred), by mentioning only a few of the great
occasions between the Conquest and the eighteenth century in which this
magnificent House played its part in shaping the destinies of England.
Still, by way of kindly relief to the reader, Macaulay's sonorous passage
summarizing the grandeur of the De Veres must needs be quoted. It was
written by him as the first comment on the list of Lords Lieutenant, who
"peremptorily refused to stoop to the odious service which was required of
them" by James II, that is to say, the service of revising the Commission
of the Peace with the view to retaining upon it only those gentlemen who
were prepared to support the King's policy of packing a Parliament in 1687.

"The noblest subject in England, and indeed, as Englishmen loved to say,
the noblest subject in Europe, was Aubrey de Vere, twentieth and last of
the old Earls of Oxford. He derived his title through an uninterrupted male
descent, from a time when the families of Howard and Seymour were still
obscure, when the Nevilles and the Percies enjoyed only a provincial
celebrity, and when even the great name of Plantagenet had not yet been
heard in England. One chief of the house of De Vere had held high command
at Hastings; another had marched, with Godfrey and Tancred, over heaps of
slaughtered Moslem, to the sepulchre of Christ. The first Earl of Oxford
had been minister of Henry Beauclerc. The third Earl had been conspicuous
among the Lords who extorted the Great Charter from John. The seventh Earl
had fought bravely at Cressy and Poictiers. The thirteenth Earl had,
through many vicissitudes of fortune, been chief of the party of the Red
Rose, and had led the van on the decisive day of Bosworth. The seventeenth
Earl had shone at the Court of Elizabeth, and had won for himself an
honourable place among the early masters of English poetry. The nineteenth
Earl had fallen in arms for the Protestant religion and for the liberties
of Europe under the walls of Maestricht. His son Aubrey, in whom closed the
longest and most illustrious line of nobles that England has seen, a man of
loose morals, but of inoffensive temper and of courtly manners, was Lord
Lieutenant of Essex and Colonel of the Blues. His nature was not factious;
and his interest inclined him to avoid a rupture with the Court; for his
estate was encumbered, and his military command lucrative. He was summoned
to the Royal Closet; and an explicit declaration of his intentions was
demanded from him. 'Sir,' answered the Earl of Oxford, 'I will stand by
Your Majesty against all enemies to the last drop of my blood. But this is
a matter of conscience and I cannot comply.' He was instantly deprived of
his Lieutenancy and of his regiment."

A parenthesis forces itself forward here. The line of the true De Veres, of
the house that earned the motto, _Vero nil Verius_, from the Virgin Queen
in recognition of its steadfast loyalty, of the family concerning whom it
was said, "Let the name and dignity of De Vere stand so long as it pleaseth
God," came to an absolute end in 1703. Yet the last century saw an Aubrey
de Vere of distinguished family and of no mean distinction as a poet. It
will probably occur to others, as it has occurred to me, to wonder whether
the nineteenth-century poet De Vere was a descendant or a kinsman of the
Elizabethan peer and poet. A rapid reference would seem to show that he may
have been--the cautious phrase is used by one who does not aspire to be a
genealogist. The first of the Irish De Veres was, it is true, the son of
the first Sir Vere Hunt, baronet, and assumed the name of De Vere by Royal
License in 1832. But the Irish De Veres have the same motto--_Vero nil
Verius_--as the Essex De Veres of old; their crest is the boar of the Essex
De Veres; the mullet of the Essex De Veres appears in their arms. Heaven
forbid that I should venture into the thickets of genealogy, that I should
attempt to conceal an absolute ignorance of heraldry. But surely, after all
this, it may be assumed to be probably more than a happy coincidence that
Aubrey Thomas De Vere, bearing the Christian name of him who came with the
Conqueror and the surname of the Elizabethan poet, was a poet of
exceptional sincerity and sweetness, albeit little known to "the general
reader." No doubt the whole truth is known to genealogists and to students
of heraldry; but a stranger to their mysteries is too well aware of the
disputatious quality of their temper, and of the existence of doubts
concerning the title to arms of this or that family, to assume that because
crest and motto and arms are described and illustrated in Burke or in
Debrett there is therefore any historical connection between the arms and
those who bear them.

What the De Veres of Essex did for England and for Europe we have seen in
some measure, and this penultimate part of our afternoon's drive takes us
through the country in which they were really at home. Castle Hedingham,
passed on the left a few miles south of Great Yeldham of the famous oak,
was their principal seat. It had been the seat of a Saxon magnate before
the Conqueror granted it and wide lands to his follower, Alberic De Vere.
It was built on "an high hill," which, like most of the knolls in East
Anglia, had probably felt the tramp of martial feet long before the
beginning of authentic history. It was moated, and the moat was crossed by
a bridge, still visible; the Norman keep, of extraordinary solidity and
strength, still looks out, to use the words of White, the topographer of
Eastern England, on "rural beauty of the quiet order, a beauty produced by
centuries of planting and tillage." In many a neighbouring church, at
Earl's Colne and Cole Eugaine, for example, but only for example, the
mullet of the De Veres may be found shaped in enduring stone.

South of Castle Hedingham the wise man will turn some three or four miles
out of his direct route, which runs through Halstead, to see the church of
Little Maplestead, and will even make a halt when he is there, for good
reason. The motorist will, perhaps almost must, be content with a passing
glance at many a church rich in ancient brasses or in the carved bench
heads for which the churches of East Anglia are celebrated; but he can
hardly play the part of the Levite towards one of the very small number of
Round Churches, similar in design and origin to the Temple Church, to be
found in all the length and breadth of England. After this he will probably
be best advised to wend his way to Colchester viâ Halstead, Earl's Colne,
Fordham and Lexden. His road will follow the course of the Colne pretty
closely all the way, and between Fordham and Lexden he will pass quite
close to West Bergholt, which he saw as he went forth for his afternoon's
drive. If, after travelling by road through so much of these two valleys of
the Stour and the Colne he is not satisfied with this restful beauty of
smiling and undulating country, if he does not feel some measure of
interest when he knows that he has traversed the places which were familiar
to Strongbow and Gainsborough, to Constable and to a splendid series of
Earls of Oxford, then is he no true motorist, but rather the "road hog"
before whom it is futile to cast pearls of any kind. Such "road hogs" are,
in truth, few and far between. It is in the belief, based upon very wide
experience, that the average motorist is interested in antiquities no less
than in ascents, in scenery more than in sprockets, in castles at least
equally with carburettors, that these attempts are made to save him from
the labour of research.




CHAPTER IX

FROM COLCHESTER WESTWARDS--COGGESHALL, BRAINTREE, WITHAM, INGATESTONE,
MARGARETTING, DANBURY HILL, MALDON, TIPTREE, MESSING, AND COLCHESTER

     Coggeshall--Pleasant site occupied by Romans first and
     Cistercians later--Braintree--General Wynne as
     Cunctator--Braintree for motorists having daily work in
     London--The plan discussed--Middleton Hub makes
     journeys certain--Routes
     considered--Witham--Ingatestone--Scene of desolation in
     1897--Ingatestone Hall the grange of a Nunnery--How it
     came to the Petre family--"Murray" shows
     malice--Courageous farmers--Margaretting--A church
     tower of wood--Danbury Hill and Camp--Theories
     concerning--The wolf hypothesis--Edward the Elder "puts
     a bridle on East Anglia"--Maldon fortified--Battle at
     Maldon--Tiptree and its jams--Strange crops--Mr. Mechi
     of _Profitable Farming_--Messing--_Quære_ whether site
     of Boadicea's defeat--Mr. Jenkins describes
     position--Compare Jenkins, Merivale and
     Tacitus--Merivale fanciful--Tacitus merely a literary
     gentleman at Rome--Battle may have been anywhere, but
     amusing to localize here--The fight described--Heckford
     Bridge--Lovely country and bad roads--Good run to
     Colchester.


It has, be it hoped, been made sufficiently clear that Colchester and its
immediate environs, Lexden and the Roman river for example, will amply
repay many mornings or afternoons spent away from the car, or with the car
used as an auxiliary only; and so the next drive suggested is one of some
sixty miles only, leaving a morning free. It is a circuitous drive like the
last, beginning and ending at the inn yard at Colchester. Our first
objective is Coggeshall, by way of Marks Tey, which we reach by taking the
left fork at Lexden. It is a straight road and good, but Marks Tey, said to
mean Mark's enclosure, does not tempt a halt by its appearance. It is, in
fact, a commonplace village, noteworthy only for fine timber in the
vicinity. Coggeshall would be a prettier village if it were less
prosperous, but it possesses ancient interest as well as some modern
prosperity, and it has not lacked its _vates sacer_ in the shape of the
Rev. E. L. Cutts, who once discoursed upon it to the Essex Archæological
Society. Here, where a farmhouse now stands, was a Cistercian Abbey
reached, as the farmhouse is now, by a thirteenth-century brick bridge
across the Blackwater. At the top of a hill is a little and very ancient
chapel, once desecrated as a barn, but restored during the last century to
sacred uses. Nor were the monks the first men possessing discernment enough
to see the amenities of Coggeshall as a place of settlement. Situate as it
was on the high road between Camulodunum and Verulamium, otherwise
Colchester and St. Albans, it was the settlement of Romans, _post_ Claudian
Romans no doubt, of whom the customary traces have been found in sufficient
abundance to leave no doubt of permanent occupation. In truth, with its
river, its grove and its hill, Coggeshall is still so pleasant a place that
its early occupation occasions no surprise.

On we go to Braintree, accomplishing a rise of all but a hundred feet in a
couple of miles, a considerable ascent for Essex. I climbed this hill, or
rather my car did, at least a dozen times during my stay at Colchester, for
it happened that General Wynne, upon whom, it may be remembered, the duty
of resisting the invader fell, made the vicinity of Braintree his
head-quarters. Indeed, following the classical example of Fabius, the
gentleman who _cunctando restituit rem_, he abode so long in the
neighbourhood of Braintree that he was laughingly described as the Marquis
of Braintree. His tactics were no doubt correct, for his army held a strong
line in the face of a superior force, and, if his inaction made the
manoeuvres somewhat dull and sterile of incident, he might perhaps be
heard to plead that manoeuvres are not carried on solely for purposes of
entertainment. Be that as it may, I went to Braintree very often, and found
it always wearing an appearance of respectable and middle-aged prosperity.
No building in it made any very definite impression on the memory, but the
air of place and people seemed to me to be one of vigorous contentment, a
result due very likely to the considerable elevation at which the town
stands, relatively to the surrounding country. It is a very old town,
indeed it is the Raines of Domesday, and it is not too densely populated.
It has a fair provision of apparently comfortable houses, well provided
with gardens and the like appurtenances; it is fairly accessible from
London by rail, and there are several good routes from it to London by
road. On the whole it is somewhat strange that, in days of travelling
facilities increased beyond the wildest dreams of our forefathers, more
persons have not followed the example of those bygone Bishops of London who
had in Braintree a palace which has long vanished.

Let us pause for a minute or two to follow the roads by which one living in
Braintree might travel by car to London, every day if need be, remembering
that this mode of living and travelling up and down to business is working
a gradual revolution in the social habits of Englishmen. That revolution
will cease to be gradual and will become rapid when the danger of a burst
or punctured tire becomes, as it surely will become soon, a thing of the
past. It has become more rapid of quite recent years owing to the marked
increase of the trustworthiness of cars. And here, even at the risk of
giving a free advertisement, nothing shall deter me from specific
recommendation of a device which unquestionably has solved the tire
problem, if the users of motor-cars for ordinary purposes, that is to say
the persons who are content with thirty miles an hour or so, had but the
sense to adopt it generally. That device is the Middleton Pneumatic Hub, in
which I have no interest direct or indirect, the owners of which are merely
acquaintances, no more. I have tried it, and sundry other mechanical
devices over very rough roads. Of it alone among substitutes is the
statement possible that, if one had not known beforehand, the absence of
pneumatic tires would not have been noticed. It passed through a
four-thousand-mile club trial at an expense of ten shillings and sixpence
in repairs. The judges made also sundry observations, more or less
critical, of no interest to me because I had made my own trial on the
question of comfort, and my impressions were clear. Finally I write thus
boldly because I know the difficulties which the Middleton Hub has to fight
to be entirely distinct from its structure or from any defects which it may
possess. So long as persons who sell motor-cars are interested in pneumatic
tires, or persons who sell the latter are possessed of substantial
influence over those who sell or make the former, it is simply idle to hope
that the seller of a car will always give disinterested advice to the buyer
who, in these still infant days of motoring, is more often than not a mere
novice, if even that. Again let me say, _Honi soit qui mal y pense_; the
advice to adopt the Middleton Hub and to acquire a mind free from
apprehension of puncture or burst, without any loss of personal comfort, is
given because it is needed. An alternative is the Stepney wheel, which is
capable of being adjusted in a very short time in case of tire trouble. Of
this I cannot speak from personal trial, but amateur friends testify that
it adds immensely to the traveller's peace of mind. One thing, at least, is
certain. He who trusts to pneumatic tires when he is on an important
journey must always allow a margin of time unless he is to be liable to
sudden disappointment and, perhaps, to grave inconvenience and loss of
time.

Let us look then for the routes open to our hypothetical slave of London in
the day who hates trains and would fain breathe country air at night. Ten
miles and a quarter will take him to Bishop's Stortford and to the
easternmost of the great trunk roads out of London, cutting through part of
Herts, of which the Chief Constable of Hertfordshire spoke with so much
feeling in his evidence before the Royal Commission. There he will be
32-3/4 miles from Marble Arch viâ Sawbridgeworth, Harlow, Epping, Loughton,
and Woodford Green, and 4-1/2 miles less from Shoreditch, and he will have
but a few miles to travel in Herts. That, in the present state of the law,
is a consideration, for the account given by Colonel Daniell of his
picketed zone is rather alarming. It goes a long way indeed to explain that
apparent instinct of motorists which leads them to avoid Hertfordshire and
its magnificent roads as much as possible, even when they are northward
bound. Another, and the more obvious route is along the great high-road
through Chelmsford, which is about the same distance; but it has the
disadvantage of entering London through Romford, Ilford, Stratford, and
Whitechapel, and the last ten miles from Ilford to Marble Arch, or 3-1/2
miles less if the City be the destination, are unpleasant and difficult. It
would be a better plan to turn off at Shenfield, ten miles nearer to London
than Chelmsford, to the right and to proceed viâ Bentley and Chigwell, or
even to turn off at Chelmsford and go on viâ Chipping Ongar and Epping.
Both routes are a little longer, but both are through exquisite scenery,
and both involve an easier access to the heart of London.

From Braintree on our present expedition we proceed to Witham, a long and
straggling place, half village and half town, which was fortified, and
perhaps saw fighting, in the days of Edward the Elder, that is to say early
in the tenth century, and heard the crackling of musketry during the last
Essex manoeuvres. Witham, however, strikes me as a place of no special
interest, but the drive should most certainly be extended to Ingatestone.
Nearly ten years have passed since my first visit to Ingatestone, which
needless to say was not made in a motor-car, and I have traversed its
high-road many a time since. It charmed me the first time I saw it, its
charm still survives for me, and, never having seen it in pre-railway days,
I am totally at a loss to understand what the author of "Murray" can mean
by the sentence "The town is small, and has been much injured by the
railway." Improved, in the sense of beautified, by a railway no town could
ever be expected to be. Still Ingatestone and its surrounding district made
a very favourable impression on me, and that in circumstances which
produced a very high opinion of the English courage of the inhabitants of
the district.

The occasion was, I venture to think, really interesting, even pathetic,
and for that reason, as well as because it gave me an opportunity of seeing
more than the traveller can see in the ordinary way, the experience gained
in a day shall be narrated. After all, to arouse healthy interest should be
the first aim of every sensible writer, since only thus can he hope to
secure attention, and people are, or may be, quite as interesting as
places. It may be remembered generally, it is certainly not likely to be
forgotten at Ingatestone for many a long year, that a day or two after the
Diamond Jubilee celebrations of 1897 a veritable tornado swept across
Essex, working havoc to which this happy country is usually a complete
stranger. In my capacity of correspondent to a great newspaper I was sent
to describe the path of the storm, in the centre of which Ingatestone lay,
with such fidelity as I might be able to compass. Sheer good fortune caused
me to travel in the same carriage with Lord Petre on the Great Eastern
Railway, and the kindly nature of this landowner, who was himself
travelling to Ingatestone, with the object of surveying the details of a
disaster affecting him personally in a serious manner, enabled me to see
Ingatestone and its surroundings in a very intimate way without any
preliminary trouble. First we went to the agent's house. It was a dream of
ancient architecture and of splendid trees. One could almost have guessed
from the high walls, the fish-ponds, and a cool green walk shaded by dense
green trees, limes unless memory plays a trick, that this had been once the
home of an ecclesiastical community. To learn that the walk under the close
limes, if limes they indeed were, was known as the Nun's Walk, was no
surprise. The sequestered character of the whole quite prepared the mind
for the intelligence that Ingatestone Hall occupied the site of a
subsidiary establishment attached to the greater nunnery of Barking, and it
was clear that much of its original environment remained. This manor, with
many others, was acquired at the Dissolution by Sir William Petre, the
father of the first Lord Petre, and the old grange of the nuns, with very
slight changes to all appearance, remained the seat of the great Roman
Catholic family until they migrated to Thorndon Hall, near Brentwood,
which, apart from its view and its contents, does not sound nearly so
attractive as Ingatestone. "Murray," by the way, has a passage in this
connection which, by dint of its tone, raises more than a suspicion of the
Roman hand of the late Mr. Augustus Hare. In reference to the church we
read: "Between the chancel and the south chapel is the monument of the
well-known Sir William Petre (the father of the first Lord Petre) who,
'made of the willow and not of the oak,' managed to accommodate his loyalty
and his religion to the various changes under Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary
and Elizabeth." This, it is suggested, was a needlessly spiteful reference
to the direct ancestor of the Roman Catholic peer who at that time (1875)
was Domestic Prelate at the Vatican; and it may well be that uncalled-for
malice of this kind has had the effect of making owners of historic houses
less willing than they might have been to receive and to aid those upon
whom the duty of writing about places is cast in these later days.

There was work to be done on the day of my visit more melancholy than that
of inspecting beautiful houses, more serious than that of speculating upon
the identity and lamenting the ill-nature of a bygone writer of
guide-books. Forth we fared--drawn by a cob whose nose had been scarred to
a depth of half an inch by a hailstone during the tornado--to inspect the
desolation. Here I am going for the first time in my life to quote some of
my own words, words which I am proud to believe were not without influence
in bringing some substantial measure of aid to a stricken country-side.
"All down the street at Ingatestone the windows on one side were smashed to
atoms, and the only cheerful men were the glaziers. The backs of the houses
on the other side were in like condition. An odour, familiar enough later
in the year, when the hedges are clipped, pervaded the air. It was the
scent of green leaves of elm and hawthorn shrivelling in the sun. Soon we
reached a great elm uprooted, and another broken off sharp in the middle.
The elms, with their surface roots, had suffered most. But they were not
alone, for oaks and ash trees had fallen also. From the trees that were not
overthrown hung here, there, and everywhere, great boughs with their tough
fibres twisted like straw ropes at the point of fracture, and repeatedly
one came across cases in which immemorial elms had been hurled across the
road and had blocked it until it was cleared. Others that had survived were
often stripped of leaves by the hail as if it had been mid-winter and the
scorching sun of June had not been beating on our heads. It was a sickening
sight to those who love woodland beauties. But soon the wreck of trees
became of no account, for we were nearing the centre of the storm area.
Hitherto broken windows and chipped tiles had saluted the eye, though it
was noticeable that slates had, for the most part, escaped damage. Now we
reached the house of Mr. Milbank, or what was once his house ... the tiled
roof looked as if it were that of a house which had been subjected to a
heavy fire of musketry for several hours; and this was the story all along
our long drive." So, I remember, we went on noting shattered roofs, and
chimneys collapsed, seeing bare earth where the oats had waved in green
promise, fields which had contained crops of mangels, turnips, and
potatoes, converted into an expanse of sun-baked mud. We fared from farm to
farm, meeting farmer after farmer who had lost his all, after years of
patient struggling against depression, and was settling down with true
English pluck to make the best of the situation and to begin life again.

All that country smiles again now, although that terrible storm has left an
indelible scar on its fair face, or rather a scar which will not be quite
healed over for a hundred years to come. But, without claiming to be more
full of sympathy than any other man, I protest that the memory of that sad
day makes me eager now to pass through Ingatestone as often as may be,
that because of it the beautifully timbered country seems to me perhaps
more attractive than it really is, and that I never see it without an eager
hope that the farmers encountered in June, 1897, saddened by disaster but
dauntless in the resolve to go on fighting against fate, have had, so many
of them as survive, the reward of renewed prosperity.

We ought to have stopped at Margaretting on our way to Ingatestone, with
the special object of inspecting the church, with its tower and spire
composed entirely of timber, the kind of structure which can be seen in
East Anglia only; but after all our next objective after Ingatestone is
Maldon, and the best way of reaching it is to go back on our own wheelmarks
so far as Margaretting, halt there for a few minutes, and then turn to the
right for Galleywood Common and Maldon. On this piece of road the motorist
will find a variation of levels and a frequent stiffness of gradients which
will disabuse his mind for ever of the notion that Essex is a flat county.
Entering Galleywood Common he is just over the 200 feet contour; towering
above him to the right will be West Manningfield, which actually over-tops
the 300 feet contour. Between Sandon and Danbury he will be down as low as
75 feet, and at Danbury he will be up again almost as high as 350 feet. The
hill itself is 380 feet, and has a camp at the top, commonly called Danish.
Danish in one sense it probably was. That is to say the Danes, who had a
sagacious eye for military positions and a particular predilection for
heights from which the sea was visible, in all probability made use of it.
They came by sea, they might have to flee by their boats, and in some other
parts of our islands, in Carnarvonshire for example, one can identify cases
where they had and used one inland camp on an eminence commanding a wide
prospect and much coastline, and another close to the coast. Danbury
commands such a prospect eastward, westward and northward, and it is no
less pleasing to the peaceful pilgrim than it may have been valuable to the
fierce freebooter.

Who made these camps on eminences all over the country, or made the
eminences themselves when nature had not provided them, is a question men
grow more and more shy in answering. Time was when, drawing inferences from
outline only, they said confidently this or that camp was British, Roman,
Saxon, or Danish. Now the tendency is to go farther back still into
prehistoric times, and even to doubt whether the origin of these camps is
military at all. Learned men, who somehow or other contrive to excite
respect and admiration without compelling conviction, argue that many,
perhaps most, of the huge earthworks with which the face of England and
Wales is studded, were piled up by primeval man as a defence against the
wild beasts, and most of all against the ravening wolves which overran the
land and threatened his flocks and herds. To the unlearned it appears that
a mound without a crowning palisade would have been quite ineffectual
against the nimble wolves, and that a palisade without the mound would have
been quite as effectual as mound and palisade. These are amusing
speculations, but they cannot reach a certain conclusion. What is beyond
doubt is that, if an invading foe, Roman, Saxon, or Dane, found these works
ready to his hand, he would use them for military purposes. If the
compilers of _Domesday Book_ called Danbury Hill Danengeberia it was
because the natives, as they doubtless called them, used this title, having
in mind the last warriors who had availed themselves of the commanding
position. Native memory, indeed, had not to tax itself severely in this
case, nor to go back very far. The average man, not the historian steeped
in the study of a period, is apt to allow his memories of histories read to
settle down on broad and accurate lines. For him, as for me, until this
book suggested refreshment of memory, Alfred was the man who conquered the
Danes and secured the freedom of Saxon England. The fact that they made
head again in the time of his son Edward the Elder, that they were indeed
never expelled from East Anglia by Alfred, had passed out of memory. Edward
succeeded to the throne, such as it was, in 901 only--dates are repellent
to eye and mind, but it is worth while to remember how shortly before the
Conquest this was--and Edward spent a good deal of his time in "bridling"
the Danes of East Anglia, who had made common cause with his rival
Ethelwald. Edward, indeed, "conducted his forces into East Anglia and
retaliated the injuries which the inhabitants had committed by spreading
the like devastation among them. Satiated with revenge and loaded with
booty, he gave the order to retire." In fact his orders were disobeyed by
his Kentish followers, who settled themselves at Bury and were attacked and
defeated by the Danes. But in this battle Ethelwald, Edward's Saxon cousin
and rival, was killed, so the Danish victory was Pyrrhic, for Ethelwald's
cause was theirs. For all the rest of his reign of twenty-four years Edward
continued to fight the Danes. It was not a long period, then, over which
the "natives" had to look back, when in 1080 or thereabouts, they gave
evidence before the Royal Commissioners, so to speak, who compiled
_Domesday Book_, and probably most of those "natives" were Danes
themselves.

Our next point is Maldon, situate at the inmost end of the estuary of the
Blackwater, and itself standing on a hill. It is a sleepy little place now,
but it has played no small part in the story of England. It has been stated
that Edward the Elder merely made it his head-quarters while he
superintended the fortification of Witham, but it is much more likely, as
stated by Hume, that it was one of the towns which he fortified with a view
to making the country secure. Seven of the others--Hume takes the list from
the Saxon Chronicle--were outside our purview; Maldon and Colchester were
selected for putting a bridle on East Anglia. And Maldon was well chosen.
It was the place where Edward himself fought and won a signal battle. It
was also the place where the Northmen landed again, in the days of Ethelred
the Unready, "and having defeated and slain at Maldon Brithnot, Duke of
that county, (Essex), who ventured with a small force to attack them, they
spread their devastations over all the neighbouring province." In fact it
was precisely the place open to raiders from over sea, and therefore the
right place to fortify against them also.

Here, crossing at Heybridge, we may say good-bye to history for a while and
devote ourselves to things more mundane. At Heybridge we are about as near
the sea-level as we can be. In two miles and a half we climb two hundred
feet or more, and then we follow the top of a ridge for four miles to
Tiptree. For me, before the Essex manoeuvres, Tiptree simply spelled
"jam" in seven letters, none of them appearing in that familiar word. To be
plain, Tiptree jam is far better than any "home-made" comestible of the
kind it has been my fortune to encounter, because it has all the purity of
the domestic product, while it is made with all care and knowledge that
science and experience can furnish. A cook or a careful housewife has many
distractions of puddings, entrées, sauces, savouries, and what you will.
Tiptree devotes all its energy and intelligence to jam, and the result is a
divine confection, pure ambrosia. Tiptree will not thank me for this
advertisement because the name of Tiptree is established. To many it will
appear as superfluous to praise the jams of Tiptree as it would be to state
that two and two make four, or that '47 port is excellently good. Still,
experience has shown the existence of a benighted but considerable minority
who will infallibly be grateful for the knowledge, if they use it. If they
do not, so much the worse for them. Without doubt the fame of the Tiptree
jams must involve prosperity also, and the district, with its trim
orchards, a sea of bloom in late spring and loaded with rosy fruit in the
autumn, is full of encouragement to one who believes that where land is not
made to pay something is rotten in the state. It is a pretty sight too, and
one recalling sundry speeches of the late Mr. Gladstone which were not
taken very seriously when they were uttered. Other crops you will find
hereabouts--it was at Tiptree, as told elsewhere, that the military balloon
came down in the middle of a crop of bird-seed--and the whole district
gives one the impression of being in the hands of persons, courageous and
competent, who refuse to meet the difficulties of farming with mere
lamentation but, like the farmers of Ingatestone at the time of the 1897
disaster, are resolved to make the best of things.

That spirit is traditional at Tiptree. Was it not there that the great Mr.
Mechi, who flourished in the middle of the last century, produced wondrous
results by plentiful use of liquid manure, and proved the profitable
quality of beans in such fashion as to astonish his contemporaries? To men
of his quality, who made two blades of grass grow where but one grew
before, I for one insist upon giving all praise and honour, and, when one
thinks upon their good work, there is a disposition to feel that, in its
proper place, a trim hedge is not without its attraction, what though it be
not nearly so beautiful as one that is a straggling thicket of hawthorn,
honeysuckle and wild rose. But a doubting afterthought rises. Mr. Mechi
farmed from 1840 to 1870, perhaps longer. His _Profitable Farming_, with
its striking figures, was published during that period, and those were
piping times for agriculture. Could he have shown accounts even half or a
quarter as good for the thirty years from 1875 to 1905?

We have reached Tiptree in imagination from Maldon, and there is no
difficulty in doing so by road from the same place. As a matter of fact, my
first visit to Tiptree was made from Braintree, whither a morning
expedition had been taken to see if General Wynne was at his accustomed
post, and the _ignis fatuus_ which lured me and a companion in that
direction was the balloon, seen in the air from a long distance, which we
found afterwards in the bird-seed field. (In passing, as the officer in the
car of the balloon had seen nothing at all of the troops shrouded from his
view, the inference that balloons are of precious little use in a wooded
country would seem to be fairly obvious.) Leaving the balloon to its
fate--although the officer would have liked to commandeer our car for the
transport of his mass of collapsed silk--we proceeded by way of Messing to
Heckford Bridge. Of these the first-named has been suggested by a learned
antiquary, the Reverend H. Jenkins, as a possible site for the stark battle
in which Suetonius wiped the army of Boadicea out of existence and avenged
the massacre of Camulodunum: "Whoever visits the camp at Haynes Green, near
the village of Messing, will be struck with the resemblance it bears to
the position taken up by Suetonius. Two large woods, Pod's Wood and Layer
Marney Wood, seem to form the narrow gorge in front of the camp which
Tacitus mentions." Merivale, who says that the speculations of Mr. Jenkins
were useful to him, although he could not go all the way with them,
describes the position of Suetonius thus: "In a valley between undulating
hills, with woods in the rear, and the ramparts of the British oppidum"
(Lexden) "not far perhaps on his right, he had every advantage for
marshalling his slender forces.... Ten thousand resolute men drew their
swords for the Roman Empire in Britain. The natives, many times their
number, spread far and wide over the plain; but they could assault the
narrow front of the Romans with only few battalions at once, and their
wagons, which conveyed their accumulated booty and bore their wives and
children, thronged the rear, and cut off almost the possibility of
retreat."

Now there is no doubt that places become manifold more interesting if one
can fill the scene, so to speak, with action and actors of long ago.
Westminster Hall would be majestic if it had no associations, but few men
enter it for the first time without recalling the trial of Charles the
First. A well-known tract near Brussels would attract no pilgrims if the
freedom of Europe had not been won on its fields. The case is the same with
Messing. If there be cause for saluting it as the place where Briton and
Roman met in a conflict to the death every fold in the ground stirs the
imagination. But when an antiquary talks of two large woods as seeming to
form a narrow gorge, and a clerical historian writes of a "valley between
undulating hills," of a wood in the rear, of a plain in front over which
the natives "spread far and wide," and locates the wagons in the rear, only
one course is open to me. It is to forget the six and twenty years which
have passed since last I faced the "small but well-armed tribe" of the
examiners, during which there has been neither occasion nor desire to read
Latin prose works, to ignore the terrors of the historic present and of
what I believe used to be called _oratio obliqua_, and to refer to Tacitus,
upon whom both these clerical gentlemen relied for information. One
sentence disposes of the question of position. Tacitus tells us that
Suetonius had ten thousand armed men when he made up his mind to give
battle, "and he picks a place with narrow jaws and closed in by a wood at
the rear, well assured that there was no part of the enemy save in the
front, and that the plain was open, without fear of ambushes." There is
nothing to suggest that the sides of the defile were wooded, as Mr. Jenkins
thought they might have been, or that there was any wood at all except in
the rear. Indeed, the probability is the other way. Still less is there any
word to explain why Dean Merivale invented "a valley between undulating
hills." Indeed, the description of the defile by the word _fauces_ (which
has been translated literally) conveys a sharper and more rugged idea than
our word "valley," which, of course, comes directly from _vallis_ and
carries the same meaning. In fact, the "gorge" of Mr. Jenkins is the better
translation, and undulating hills would have given Boadicea a chance of
taking Suetonius in flank. The wagons apparently were drawn up in a
crescent behind the British so that their occupants might see the fight.

That is all concerning the position, and it is really mere guess-work on
the part of Dean Merivale to suggest that the great battle was fought
anywhere near Colchester. All we know is that Suetonius determined to leave
London to its fate, and St. Albans also, and that Merivale thought "the
situation of Camulodunum, enclosed in its old British lines, and backed by
the sea, would offer him a secure retreat where he might defy attack and
await reinforcements; and the insurgents, after their recent triumphs, had
abandoned their first conquests to wreak their fury on other seats of Roman
civilization. While, therefore, the Iceni sacked and burnt first Verulamium
(St. Albans) and then London Suetonius made, as I conceive, a flank march
toward Camulodunum, and kept ahead of their pursuit, till he could choose
his own position to await their attack." All this is pure fancy. All we
know for certain is that Suetonius left London, then not a _colonia_ but
already a great centre of commerce and business, and St. Albans to their
fate. There is not a particle of evidence whither he went; and there was
less reason to go to Camulodunum than to any place; for it had recently
been sacked by the Iceni under Boadicea, and resistance had been hopeless
because the colonists had taken no steps in the way of preparing defences.
The "old British lines" of Camulodunum had seemed to the veteran colonists
of so little use when they were attacked that they made their only stand,
and that to no avail, in the Temple of Claudius. In fact there is no
evidence to show which way Suetonius marched, or where the defile was, with
the wood in rear, in which he induced Boadicea to attack him. Tacitus most
likely did not know himself. He was not present. He was merely a Roman
gentleman and an ex-official, of literary proclivities, writing a
picturesque military history, partly from hearsay, partly from official
records. He probably knew very little of the geography of Britain--not a
very important province, be it remembered--and his desire, presumably, was
to interest Roman readers and to give gratification to great men whom he
liked, or from whom he might look for favour. He described the military
position and showed Suetonius in the character of a capable general. To
have done more, to have gone into geographical detail, would have puzzled
his readers as English readers might be puzzled to-day by detailed
allusions to unheard-of places in an unfamiliar part of the globe.

So there is no limit to the number of places--a gorge, with a wood behind
and an open plain in front--capable of being accepted as the field of this
particular battle. It may have been anywhere in southern England. Still if,
like the Trojans when they were hoodwinked by the Greeks into opening the
gates of Troy too soon, men would like to localize the field of battle
somewhere, so that they may conjure up the scene anew, there is no reason
in life why they should not amuse themselves thus at Messing. They can look
at the camp at Haynes Green and conjure up in imagination the fourteenth
legion in close ranks in the centre, with the cavalry massed on either
flank. They can think they hear the general heartening them for the combat
and telling them not to mind the yells of the savages--for that is what a
high-sounding Latin paragraph comes to in effect. They can see in fancy
Boadicea making the circuit of her warriors in a chariot, her outraged
daughters in front of her, inciting her hearers to frenzy. They can gaze in
imagination on the Neronian legionaries when, having exhausted their
javelins on the attacking mobs ("battalions," which Merivale uses, is far
too orderly a word), they charged the Britons _en masse_, and the cavalry
joining them at the gallop with out-stretched lances. They can imagine the
tangle of wagons, warriors, women and children into which the Roman
soldiers plunged, sparing no living thing. _Clara et antiquis victoriis par
eâ die laus parta_, says Tacitus. "The glory of that day was quite like
the old victories. Men say that rather less than eighty thousand Britons
fell as against four hundred soldiers killed and not many more wounded."
They can believe that boast of a military historian who was away at Rome,
if they like; and there is really no harm in their fancying that all this
happened at Messing if they please. To do so will make Messing interesting,
and nobody will ever be able to locate the battle anywhere else with any
more certainty.

During the mimic warfare of a few years ago, as has been stated, I
travelled from Tiptree to Messing on a Lanchester, and from Messing to
Heckford Bridge. My recollection is of a pretty country, with many little
ups and downs, of rich orchards, of oaks overshadowing the roads, and of
green acorns which the soldiery seemed to enjoy, of abundant orchards and,
last but not least, of abominable roads. But let me not be too hard on the
roads. They were equal, no doubt, as byways go, to "the ordinary traffic of
the district"; they were subjected to an extraordinary strain by long
trains of transport wagons, which encumbered my course in such a manner as
to make me full of sympathy now for the Britons who fell among their own
wagons under Roman sword and spear. Even among those endless vehicles one
could not fail to observe the beauty of spreading trees and innumerable
variations of level, especially at Heckford Bridge. Somewhere thereabouts
it was, I remember, that a privileged motor-car came upon companies of
invaders and of defenders, within two hundred yards of one another, and
each totally ignorant of the propinquity of the other. Bored as the
manoeuvring troops were--for men and officers will be bored by continuous
marching during which they have not the slightest idea what is going
on--this ignorance was not their fault. Most of the fields were out of
bounds, and although military imagination might go so far as to imagine
scouts--it imagined one hundred thousand men in support of General Wynne
that day--it can hardly supply the warnings which those imaginary scouts
would give if they were real. But the most cogent reason of this blind
manoeuvring was to be found in the rapid variations of contour, the
patulous trees, and the abundant leafage. This gave to the scenery singular
charm, even while it made the roads such as the merely rushing motorist
would eschew. Not only were they narrow and exceeding crooked, they were
also very wet and greasy, so that a moderate pace would have been
compulsory in any circumstances. Still, if any rational motorists will take
this little drive in a leisurely way, they will agree, as they bowl along
the few miles of good high-road between Heckford Bridge and Colchester,
that it is exceeding pleasant and well worthy to be taken.




CHAPTER IX--(_continued_)

COLCHESTER TO THE EXTRAORDINARY "DENE-HOLES" AT GRAYS, ESSEX

     Early rising a mistake--Fine weather and misty
     mornings--Bound for Grays, near Tilbury--To
     Chelmsford--Great Baddow and Clare College,
     Cambridge--Galleywood Common--A wide
     prospect--Billericay--Origin of name an enigma--Arthur
     Young on the country and roads--Same roads
     to-day--Effect of heavy motors--A plea for overhanging
     trees--Horndon on the Hill--Langdon Hill a fine
     view--Arthur Young rhapsodizes--Defoe at
     Chadwell--Little Thurrock--Hangman's Wood or Hairyman's
     Wood?--If the latter, possible connection with Peter
     the Wild Man--His story--Defoe's interest in him--The
     "Dene-holes"--An antiquary who gave no help--Enigmas
     not solved by designatory titles--The shafts--The
     groups of chambers--Dimensions--Uniformity of
     shape--Groups all separate--Absence of
     Orientation--Known to Camden--Neglected till 1884 and
     1887, then again--No suggestive remains found--Cannot
     be chalk wells--Hardly flint mines as at
     Brandon--Legend of "King Cunobelin's Gold
     Mines"--Conceivably granaries--Not very likely--Why not
     refuges from the Danes, small at first and enlarged
     later?--Harmless speculation at any rate--Suggestion
     for return to Colchester--To Clacton by motor-boat,
     thence by train--Take glance at Burnham on
     Crouch--Quaint and hospitable.


Now doubts arise, and I hover between two opinions. Dinner and rest are
supposed to have intervened before we carry on our little tour or series of
tours. That is a small thing to demand. A playwright thinks nothing of an
interval of years between two acts. The difficulty is that our imaginary
tour of to-day is one of fully one hundred miles, and is much more likely
to stretch out into one hundred and twenty, for few motorists will take the
advice, honestly given, to retrace their wheelmarks for some fifty miles.
That, really, is not half so bad as it sounds, for the eye of the most
practised motorist does not observe so quickly while passing in one
direction that nothing remains to be noticed about the same objects when
passed from another direction. Still there are at least a hundred miles to
go, some of them over familiar roads about which no further observations
are necessary, to see a sight of mysterious interest which has, to all
appearances, not obtained a tenth of the notice it richly deserves. Shall
we, then, rise early in the morning, so that we may have leisure to proceed
quietly and to enjoy "the clear morning air"? The suggestion is declined
without thanks by the wise woman or man. The pleasures of early-rising and
of the cool morning air are a fond delusion of the ancients; just as the
idea that it is virtuous to get up early belongs to a state of opinion in
which actions were believed to be virtuous if they were decidedly
unpleasant. Now that this state of opinion has vanished the one consolation
of rising early has disappeared also. Early-rising, especially in hotels,
is a hollow fraud. It means reluctant relinquishment of the comfort of bed,
futile attempts to eat breakfast served by sulky and half-awakened waiters,
at a time when the body is not ready for that breakfast. Men quarry their
food and crush it at these ghastly hours, but they do not really feed, and
they are none the better for their effort so to do. Motoring loses half its
joy when it is done at the cost of sleep, for it certainly may be held
truth with a nameless poet, who sung that he had tried all the pleasures of
this world,

    And Love it was the best of them,
    But Sleep worth all the rest of them.

Besides, even when the glass is set fair, and the day proper is going to be
all that the heart can desire, the cool, clear, and beautiful air of the
morning by no means always comes up to expectation. The prelude to a really
fine day is very often a dense mist, sure forerunner of heat, from dawn
until seven or eight o'clock; and in a dense mist no man can travel at a
reasonable pace or with any pleasure at all. Moreover, the days when one
gets up early for pleasure, especially in August, September, and October,
are precisely the days on which the tricksy spirit of the mist chooses to
make herself manifest.

Our destination is Grays, a squalid little town near Tilbury, on the
estuary of the Thames, to which no sane person would think of going on
pleasure for its own sake. There is a ferry from Tilbury across the Thames
estuary, forgotten when I wrote earlier of the isolation of East Anglia,
but little used by motorists. Grays is about fifty miles off by our route,
which seems the best, and it will be time enough to explain why Grays has
been chosen when we foregather round the luncheon table there. Better
still, for although I secured a good luncheon in a house of public
entertainment at Grays once the circumstances were exceptional, will it be
to take a well-stocked luncheon basket and to lunch, not at Grays, but at
Hangman's Wood, a mile or two to the east of Grays. We will not start
before 9.30 a.m. and it will be bad luck indeed if we cannot reach it by
1.30 p.m. It is to be feared, however, that there may be some difficulty in
inducing intelligent members of the party to leave Hangman's Wood so early
as 3.30. So, having roused curiosity in the manner familiar to writers of
serial stories, that is to say by breaking off at a critical moment, let us
proceed in a leisurely way.

And first we spin along the familiar Roman road to Chelmsford, enjoying, be
it hoped, the kind of weather invoked for "poor Tom Bowline," and making
the most of good and straight going. The chances are that before the day
ends we shall have to "put up with" something worse in the way of surface,
and it is certain that we shall not have to lament monotonous straightness
later on. In the heart of Chelmsford we ask for the Great Baddow road, and
a short couple of miles takes us to a big Essex village, attractive to the
eye, but not calling imperatively for a halt. The fact that this village
was the birthplace of Richard de Badow, Chancellor of the University of
Cambridge, in the time of Edward II, may be assimilated _en voyage_.
University Hall, Cambridge, was founded by de Badow and the University
conjointly. The Hall exists no longer, had indeed a very brief existence,
for it was one thing to found it, and quite another to keep it going; and
some time before 1360, when Elizabeth de Clare (who was granddaughter to
Edward I) died after founding Clare College, University Hall had been
merged in the college founded by this wealthy heiress of that "illustrious
family of Clare" which has come to the fore in an earlier drive from
Colchester. Great Baddow, therefore, has a connection, and that a distinct
connection, with the college which was nursing mother to Latimer, whose
most celebrated sermon is still part of the literary groundwork of every
cultivated Englishman's style; to Cudworth, whose words used to be read by
aspirants for honours in Greats at Oxford, and may still be so read; to
Tillotson, whose sermons are familiar by name in the literature of the
past; and lastly, if one among the moderns may be named, to Mr. Owen
Seaman, editor of _Punch_ and genial castigator of the weaknesses of all
sorts and conditions of men.

At Great Baddow we turn to the right and then climb to the upland known as
Galleywood Common, and already seen; and after that we climb again, a
hundred feet as nearly as may be in a mile, to a nameless point of the road
two miles west of West Manningfield. The air grows fresher, more
invigorating, and if there be a suspicion of easterly direction in the
breeze the breath of the sea will be recognized. Prospect, to use the
expressive word beloved of the ancient topographer, is wider and more
comprehensive than that to which we have been accustomed of late, for most
of the country between us and the estuary of the Thames is very flat
indeed, and in such a country a hill of 314 feet gives a very wide survey.
Nine miles or thereabouts, mostly on a downward gradient, takes us to
Billericay, but this ancient town itself stands on a hill. Why Billericay?
Of a truth it is not possible to say, for the etymologies suggested are
purely conjectural and not at all convincing, and all we know is that it
was known as Billerica in the latter part of the fourteenth century. This
is rather annoying, for most place-names are either susceptible of some
explanation or of such a simple character that there seems to be no
particular reason why they should not exist. "Billericay," on the other
hand, is an etymological puzzle, and, at the same time, much too odd a
title to have come into existence casually.

Billericay was one of the places visited by Arthur Young on his Six Weeks'
Tour, and his description of the country is quoted both for the sake of
variety and because it contains a useful reference to our destination of
the day. He had been to Chelmsford, which he considered a pretty, neat, and
well-built town, and he had remarked that all the cart-horses he saw from
Sudbury to Chelmsford were of a remarkably large size. "From the latter
town I proceeded to _Billericay_; the country very rich, woody, and
pleasant, with abundance of exceeding fine landscapes over extensive
valleys. The husbandry, I apprehend, not equal to that in use about
Chelmsford; for their principal course is fallowing for wheat, then sowing
oats and laying down with clover and ray-grass, which is a very faulty
custom on land which, like this, lets in general from 15s. to 20s. an acre;
nor did I see many good crops. The principal manure they use about
_Billericay_ is chalk, which they fetch in waggons from _Grays_, and costs
them generally by the time they get it home 5-1/2d. or 6d. a bushel. They
seldom use it alone, but mix it with turf, fresh dug, and farmyard dung,
and then lay it on for wheat, now and then for turnips, which are however
seldom sown in this neighbourhood. All this manure is sometimes spread at
the expense of £10 an acre."

From Billericay to Tilbury, pretty much our route, Arthur Young was
principally interested by the "prodigious size of the farms," a matter of
no present concern. But he has something to say later which is very much to
our purpose. "Of all the roads that ever disgraced our kingdom, in the very
ages of barbarism, none ever equalled that from _Billericay_ to the _King's
Head_ at _Tilbury_. It is for near twelve miles so narrow that a mouse may
not pass by any carriage. I saw a fellow creep under his waggon to assist
me to lift, if possible, my chaise over a hedge. The ruts are of an
incredible depth, and a pavement of diamonds might as well be fought for as
a quarter" [_sic_, meaning?]. "The trees everywhere overgrow the road, so
that it is totally impervious to the sun, except at a few places. And to
add to all the infamous circumstances which concur to plague a traveller, I
must not forget eternally meeting with chalk-waggons; themselves frequently
stuck fast, till a collection of them are in the same situation, that
twenty or thirty horses may be tacked to each, to draw them out one by
one. After this description, will you--can you believe me when I tell you,
that a turnpike was much solicited by some gentlemen to lead from
_Chelmsford_ to the ferry at Tilbury Fort, but opposed by the bruins of
this country--whose horses are worried to death while bringing chalk
through these vile roads? I do not imagine that the kingdom produces such
an instance of vile stupidity; and yet in this district are found numbers
of farmers who cultivate above £1000 a year. Besides those already
mentioned we find a _Skinner_ and a _Tower_, who each rent near £1500 a
year, and a _Read_ almost equal; but who are all perfectly well contented
with their roads."

Essex byways--and yet the road from Chelmsford to Tilbury ferry was hardly
a byway in those days--are not quite so bad as this to-day, but
emphatically they are not good, and in this particular district they are
clearly not likely to improve. Arthur Young's long series of chalk-laden
wagons, stuck fast in the mire and clay until such time as the combined
teams were strong enough to extricate them one by one, are a thing of the
past. But the joint evidence of Mr. Sidney Stallard and of Mr. Seymour
Williams, who were chosen to represent the Rural District Councils
Association before the recent Royal Commission, contains an interesting
piece of information on this point, and on one general point of great
importance. These gentlemen, engineers of considerable experience and
officially familiar with the road question, do not think that light motors
cause any considerable damage to roads, but they hold a very different
opinion as to heavy motors. "At Billericay, which is an agricultural
district, steam motors are used, and they cause damage there to the extent
of £700." Obviously this is a very large annual expense for a district
like that of Billericay, where the great farms of Arthur Young's day do
not, in modern conditions and with modern prices, produce anything
approaching to the profits of days gone by. It seems to follow that, at
present at any rate, it would be unreasonable to hope for any great
improvement in the byways of Essex, and more prudent to expect
deterioration.

One word I would fain say of Arthur Young's complaint, because it is one
often made now and, receiving a great deal of attention, is a menace to one
of the most precious and characteristic beauties of England. He complains
of the trees that overshadow the road, "so that it is totally impervious to
the sun, except at a few places." So do County Surveyors complain and,
since they have certain legal rights in this matter, they insist from time
to time that trees overshadowing the road and hedges by the side of the
road shall be cut down. To this process, within reasonable limits, those
who value the silvan greenery of England would be unreasonable to object.
High hedges near cross roads or at sharp turns of the road are a source of
danger; the surface of roads much overshadowed by trees is far more
difficult to preserve than that of roads in the open, because the shaded
surfaces are seldom thoroughly dried. The drip and the shade combined are
too much for the sun and the wind. On the other hand such stretches of road
are rarely dusty, and that is assuredly something gained. It would be easy,
if somewhat invidious, to point out instances in which County Surveyors,
without exceeding their authority, have caused roadside trees to be hewn
down and roadside hedges to be levelled to the ground, without sufficient
justification, from the standpoint of a regard for the public safety, and
with no justification at all, if the value of beautiful landscapes is to be
taken into account. Let us beware lest, in making travel over the face of
our England easy, we deprive it of half its charm.

After Billericay our next point is Horndon on the Hill, concerning the view
from which "over the rich land of Essex and along the Thames" "Murray"
speaks. The view from Horndon is not, however, to be compared with that
from Langdon Hill, climbed six miles to the south of Billericay, which is
385 ft. high against the 128 of Horndon. It was of this hill, doubtless,
that Arthur Young raved in the annexed passage: "I forgot to tell you," he
wrote from the "King's Head," Tilbury, on 24 June, 1767, "that near
_Horndon_, on the summit of a vast hill, one of the most astonishing
prospects to be beheld, breaks almost at once upon one of the dark lanes.
Such a prodigious valley, everywhere painted with the finest verdure, and
intersected with numberless hedges and woods, appears beneath you, that it
is past description; the _Thames_ winding through it, full of ships, and
bounded by the hills of _Kent_. Nothing can exceed it, unless that which
_Hannibal_ exhibited to his disconsolate troops, when he bade them behold
the glories of the _Italian_ plains! If ever a turnpike should lead through
this country, I beg you will go and view this enchanting scene, though a
journey of forty miles is necessary first. I never beheld anything equal to
it in the West of _England_, that region of landscape."

Some hyperbole there is here, perhaps, but not much of it, for the view of
land and sea is very fine and, best of all, it is hardly necessary to have
the car in order to secure it. The difference between the aspect of the
river, as it presents itself to us, and that which it presented to Arthur
Young is all to our disadvantage. For him an out-going ship was always a
sailing vessel; for us the sailing vessels are few and far between, and
those of large size which still use the Thames must needs rely on a fussy,
black-smoked tug to tow them down the tortuous channel. Our many steamers
are not so picturesque in themselves as the tall ships making for the open
sea of his day were, when the wind was favourable. Our steamers, too, belch
forth clouds of smoke, befouling the air and obscuring the landscape.
Still, as J. M. W. Turner and others, but Turner most of all, have proved
to us, there is a weird beauty of smoke if we will but open our eyes to see
it, and the Rochester barges, floating low on the water and carrying their
delicious brown sails, were of Young's days no less than they are of ours.
Father Thames from a height is still a sight for appreciative eyes.

Two ways to Grays are open from Horndon. By the first, turning to the right
at Horndon, Orsett is reached, and then a left turn brings one to Chadwell.
For the second, one keeps on straight through Horndon and, turning to the
right just before reaching Stanford-le-Hope, and then turning to left a
couple of miles on, one also reaches Chadwell. There is nothing to choose
between the routes. One is dreary as the other. We go to Chadwell simply in
order to attain Little Thurrock, a mile or so from Grays to the eastward,
and just behind Tilbury Docks. In either case we pass through Chadwell,
which has a certain interest in connection with the past, if none in the
present, for here Daniel Defoe lived for some years, as secretary of brick
and pantile works, became prosperous a second time, kept his coach, and
even launched out into a pleasure boat. During this period, too, he lived
at Tilbury, in "a house near the water's edge," but house and brickworks
are alike gone.

We are now close to the object of our quest, "Hangman's Wood" or "Hairy
Man's" Wood. "Murray" says the latter; the local gentlemen who called my
attention to its strange contents certainly said the former. If the former
be the correct name the explanation is obvious. Our ancestors used the
noose freely, for all kinds of offenders, and displayed a partiality for
hanging offenders, especially highwaymen, in a conspicuous place, which was
often called in accordance with its gruesome use. Many examples might be
found; the first that comes to mind is Gallows Point on the Menai Straits,
about a mile on the Menai Bridge side of Beaumari. This wood, clothing a
gentle eminence between Grays and Tilbury, having a road on either side of
it, would have suited admirably the accomplishment of the highwayman's
designs on the public in the first place, and the public's punishment of
the highwayman later. He would be hanged, like a rook over sprouting wheat,
conspicuously at the place of his misdeeds, to serve as an example to
evildoers.

Still, information obtained by word of mouth may always be misheard, and it
seemed worth while to think who could the Hairy Man be? Surely none other
than "Peter the Wild Boy," who afterwards became "Peter the Wild Man," for
he was, to all appearances, twelve or thirteen when he was found in 1724,
and he lived until 1785. Peter was found in a field near Hamelin, the Pied
Piper's Hamelin, naked, brownish, and very hairy, in the act of sucking a
cow; and quite unable to speak. He was brought to England--as the time was
that of our first Hanoverian King this was quite in the natural course of
things--and the Princess of Wales, afterwards Queen Caroline, took an
interest in him. He was placed in a hospital, very possibly in the
neighbourhood of Tilbury, for safety; the name Peter was given to him, and
after the efforts of many teachers had proved futile, he was handed over to
the care of a farmer living near Berkhampsted, where, wearing a collar
with an inscription to the effect that any person bringing him back would
be rewarded, he lived to the end of his life. That he was of a roaming
disposition the inscription on his collar proves, but I have no evidence to
suggest that he ever wandered into this particular wood. On the other hand
there is a faint suspicion that he may have done so, for Defoe, who
doubtless knew the wood intimately, was interested in Peter, visited him,
and made him the peg upon which to hang a pamphlet on education, including
much satire on the men and manners of his time, and a savage attack on his
old enemy Swift.

Hangman's Wood, or Hairy Man's Wood, call it which you will, contains
something very much more interesting than Peter the Wild Man is to us now,
in the shape of what are called locally the "Dene Holes," or sometimes
"King Cunobelin's Gold Mines"; for Peter is dead long since, his enigma
perished with him, and when all is said and done the chances are that he
was neither more nor less than an idiot boy, who grew into an idiot man. On
the other hand, these Dene Holes are with us still, and nobody has
succeeded in reading their enigma. I obtained an entry to them two or three
years ago, having journeyed to Grays for the purpose, simply because the
proprietor of the principal hotel in Grays was anxious that some writing
person should see and describe these very peculiar excavations, which
certainly have not secured anything approaching to adequate notice in
recent years from the learned. The hotel-keeper's motives may not have been
purely altruistic; altruism, indeed, is not the most conspicuous quality of
the average hotel-keeper. He may have suspected that, if the existence of
this curiosity were more generally known, visitors would come to Grays, and
to his hotel, requiring refreshment and conveyance to Hangman's Wood, both
of which he might provide to his profit. To the philosophical mind that
makes no difference. The things are either worth seeing, at the expense of
some trouble, or they are not. My firm conviction is that they are very
well worth seeing indeed, and an attempt shall be made to justify it by
describing that which I saw and that which, no doubt, anybody else may see
upon applying at this hotel, the name of which has escaped memory. That
again does not matter, for once at Grays, there will be no difficulty in
finding the hotel that is interested in the Dene Holes.

Let a word of preliminary warning be given. Not long after this expedition
to Grays, and before its results had appeared in print, it was my fortune
to meet as a fellow-guest an eminent member of the Society of Antiquaries,
an official, I fancy, of that august body, to whom it seemed right that I
should mention these holes in the ground of Hangman's Wood (of which,
indeed, my mind was very full) and describe them to the best of my ability.
He listened patiently, with an appearance of interest, and then observed
that the holes were "dene-holes," and that there were similar cavities in
many other parts of England. The answer was really rather disappointing,
not because it seemed to prick my little bubble of interest, but because it
was what I had found in a good many books, written by persons who were in
no way to blame, because the chance of seeing these particular holes had
not been open to them, and because, judging by descriptions, the other
dene-holes were not in the least identical with those of Hangman's Wood. I
felt very much in the position of the questioner who, on asking what the
duties of an archdeacon might be, received the sterile and stereotyped
reply that an archdeacon performs archidiaconal functions. An enigma is
not explained by giving a name to it. It is worth while to read an account
at first hand of the dene-holes of Hangman's Wood, even though you are
under the impression that you know all about dene-holes, unless indeed you
have seen these particular holes. If so you cannot have failed to be deeply
interested in them.

On the occasion under notice we drove about a mile or a mile and a half
from Grays to the nearest corner of this wood, where the road forks to
Orsett and to Chadwell. From an article written when the scene was fresh in
memory it appears that this wood left the impression on me that it was not
a recent and artificial plantation, that it might even be primeval. In this
wood are some fifty shafts, some of which had been opened at the time of my
visit, while others remained overgrown with brushwood but easily traceable.
Attention had, indeed, been directed towards these shafts not long before
by the horrid discovery of the decaying body of a man at the bottom of one
of them. It was, indeed, a singular thing that traces of more such
catastrophes were not discovered when examination was made of the holes. It
was a consequence, perhaps, of the very unpleasant way upon which the holes
had forced themselves upon public attention that a windlass and cage had
been rigged up over the mouth of one of them--the apparatus was clearly
meant to be permanent--for the purposes of descent and ascent. The cage was
but small--big enough to accommodate one passenger only--for though the
mouths of the shafts are funnel-shaped, because if they were not the gravel
sides would fall in, the shafts become cylindrical so soon as they enter
the coherent Thanet sand, and are of such a width that a man of middle
height may place his back against one side and ascend, or descend, without
much difficulty by the aid of footholes cut on the other side. After the
gravel the shaft passes through the Thanet sand for some twenty feet more
and for a very short space, after the Thanet sand ends, through the chalk.
Then at last the cage feels the bottom of the shaft. The passenger emerges,
and can see dimly that he is in a vaulted chamber of chalk.

The ascending cage, entering the cylinder of the shaft, leaves him in total
darkness, but soon, as one passenger comes down after another, a sufficient
exploring party is formed, lanterns are lit, and examination begins. It
reveals the fact that each shaft communicates with a group of chambers, all
similar in design, all originally distinct from one another. Imagine an ash
leaf pressed between the pages of a book, but having its middle rib cut off
short at the base of the lowest leaflets, and that middle rib seven or
eight times broader, in proportion to the leaflets, than in nature. In that
you have the ground plan of the chambers, in principle at least, but no
object in nature, so far as I am aware, corresponds exactly with the
design. So far we have ground plan only. Let us proceed to dimensions. The
extreme length of each group of chambers is about 80 ft. Each chamber is
vaulted, about 20 ft. high, from 10 to 15 ft. wide, and somewhat wider a
few feet above the floor than at the floor level. The whole is beautifully
and symmetrically hewn out, the marks of the implements used for the
purpose are plainly visible. Of such groups of chambers, all originally
distinct, all hewn with the same exact precision, but directed to all sorts
of points of the compass, so that there is no suspicion of orientation,
there are a large number. If it be asked why learned writers have been so
sparing of allusion to subterranean works of such manifest interest, the
answer is that until the years 1884 and 1887, when the Essex Field Club
made a fairly thorough examination, the materials for learned discussion
were not available. Camden knew the "Dane holes," or knew of their
existence, and figured one of them with tolerable accuracy in his
_Britannia_. Dr. Plot (_History of Oxfordshire, 1705_) talks of "King
Cunobeline's Gold Mines in Essex," and a Cambrian Register of "Gold Mines
at Orsett." For a long time before 1884 the matter does not seem to have
attracted the serious attention of the learned, and it has been neglected
since.

Of the writers who dealt with it at all before 1884 the writer of Murray's
Guide, using for basis Mr. Roach Smith's _Collectanea Antiqua_, Vol. VI,
gives perhaps as clear an account as any other; and it is quoted for
purposes of criticism. "Excavations called _Dane-pits_ are numerous in the
chalk near East Tilbury. A passage is said to have led from these caverns
to others resembling them at Chadwell near Little Thurrock." (Note in
passing that no passage could possibly have led to these pits as a whole,
because each group is entirely separate and distinct, except where the
ancient divisions have been broken through by explorers.) "The entrances
are from above, by narrow circular passages, which widen below and
communicate with numerous apartments, all of regular forms." (Our passages,
or shafts, are wide at the top, narrow as soon as they reach the Thanet
sand, an important factor which "Murray" does not seem to have observed,
and never grow any wider while they remain shafts.) "The size and depth
vary. It is uncertain for what purpose these pits (which occur in various
localities throughout the chalk districts on either side of the Thames)
were originally excavated, although it is now generally believed that they
were made for the sake of the chalk itself which was largely exported at an
early period."

Let us dispose of this hypothesis at once. It is impossible. Chalk wells,
of course, have been known since the time of Pliny, who explains in his
_Natural History_ (XVII 8) that the fine white chalk used by silversmiths
is won out of "pits sunk like wells, with narrow mouths, to a depth of 100
ft. where they branch out like the veins of mines." He adds "_Hoc maxime
Britannia utitur_" (Murray). That may have been, and it still is, the
custom, because the deep-lying chalk is found to be closer and finer in
texture. But the value of the depth of a chalk well is that it reaches the
deep-lying chalk, whereas in Hangman's Wood the shaft ceases and the
excavated chambers begin practically so soon as the chalk has been
penetrated far enough to leave room for the chambers under an adequate
roof. What our unknown ancestors dug out here was surface chalk, not
deep-lying chalk at all, and if surface chalk was good enough to export
there was plenty of it available without being at the pains to dig through
a mass of gravel and Thanet sand. No unprejudiced man, and I was assuredly
such a one when I descended into these holes, can possibly explore the
excavations in Hangman's Wood and go away capable of believing that they
were originally chalk wells. Apart from the question of quality of chalk,
the neatness of the chambers, their precise symmetry, and above all the
fact that they were a distinct and separate group belonging to each shaft,
although the partitions, when broken through by explorers were often only a
foot or two thick, disposes of the theory absolutely.

The explorers of 1884 and 1887 did their work in a most praiseworthy
manner. At the bottoms of shafts that had remained open there was naturally
a good deal of débris, by sifting which they secured sundry bones and
pieces of pottery. But the potsherds, examined by experts, told no story,
and the bones, submitted to naturalists of high authority, were shown to be
such that they might have belonged to animals of the last century. There
are no marks of fire. There are no niches to point to a use for storing
sepulchral urns; the chalk is singularly sterile of flints, so there is no
likelihood that here, as at Brandon, the shafts were sunk for flints. In
any case the symmetrical shape and the unity of design would negative that
theory. The case is one for pure, but not therefore of necessity
unprofitable, speculation. King Cunobelin's Gold Mines, as gold mines, may
be discarded. Neither he or anybody else has yet found, in chalk and placed
there by the process of nature, gold, or anything more like gold than
pyrites, although a Press-man, greatly daring, "interviewed" Sir William
Ramsay not long since on the presence of gold in sea-water. The putative
ancestor of "Old King Cole" may have stored some of his gold there, for our
rude forefathers had considerable store of gold; and the tradition may have
crystallized into the phrase "King Cunobelin's Gold Mines." It is not
likely that any men in the twentieth century will spend money in searching
for gold in chalk. Still, in the days of the South Sea Bubble they were
foolish enough for that, and the legend of King Cunobelin induced them to
try these very excavations. The suggestion has also been made that these
were granaries, similar to some used on the Continent in days gone by; but
again the elaborate shape is a difficulty although the separation of the
groups is not.

We are therefore, as before stated, reduced to pure conjecture, and the
expression "dene-holes" helps us not at all; for _denn_ is simply
Anglo-Saxon for a cave, and a dene-hole is a "cave-hole," bilingual
tautology and nothing more. Ruminating over the known facts on many
occasions during recent years, for it is impossible to see these strange
burrowings and to banish them from the mind, it has occurred to me, often
enough to have become almost a firm theory, that the traditional name of
"Dane holes" may supply the complete explanation. In the absence of
evidence to the contrary tradition is entitled to more respect than it
commonly gains from the antiquary; and here there is no evidence at all
against tradition. "Murray" speaks of British coins found in dene-holes;
certainly none such have been found in the holes in Hangman's Wood. The
terror of the Danes was frequent and very real; and the men who lived on
the banks of the estuary of the Thames were more exposed to Danish raids,
more familiar with their ruthless mood, than most of the inhabitants of our
island. It is not difficult to imagine that the heads of families in these
parts selected Hangman's Wood as a suitable spot in which to dig out hiding
places, separate ones for each family. From its eminence, like rabbits
sitting over their burrow, they could strain their eyes down the estuary of
the Thames to watch for the incoming fleet of warrior-bearing keels; and,
when they saw it, they could scuttle into their holes at once. Fires, of
course, they dare not kindle within, while the invaders were at hand, for
the smoke would have betrayed them; and when the invaders were gone away
they could come above ground again and live their ordinary lives. They did
not, according to this theory, begin by making these groups of chambers in
their full and careful detail. They began by digging a shaft, the mouth of
which they masked with brushwood, and a hole at the bottom in which they
could cower with their families until the tyranny was overpast. But the
danger came again and again for years and hundreds of years. The refuge of
the pits was used many times; quarters were crowded; it was not easy to
pass the weary hours of captivity. The refugees wiled away the time, and
added to their own comfort by gradually quarrying away more and more rooms
round the original hole, some for storage of food, some for sleeping, and
so on; and they showed their true national spirit by keeping all the groups
of chambers absolutely separate. The fancy is at least harmless.

These speculations, it is to be feared, will be apt to weary some of those
who do not see the Dane-pits of Grays, but if they induce any persons to
visit them, those persons will assuredly be rewarded, for the burrowings
are of mysterious and compelling interest. But we are at Grays, where none
except a native would dream of spending the night, so we must go.
Colchester is our imaginary home, and the best way of returning to it by
car is by the roads which brought us here. An alternative is to send the
car back with the man and, if we have prudently made arrangements
beforehand, and the sea be smooth, to run from Tilbury to Clacton by
motor-launch, and at Clacton to take the train for Colchester. Except
Rayleigh there is nothing left of Essex to the eastward worth visiting by
land, and the whole of the peninsula between the estuaries of the
Blackwater and the Thames, permeated as it is by the estuaries of the
Crouch and the Roach, is almost impassable by land, and of a most dreary
flatness into the bargain. It is this part of the county which gives Essex
so undeservedly bad a name. Still it looks well enough from the water, and
the distance by sea to Clacton, for a motor-boat of light draught, cannot
be much more than forty-five or fifty miles. In the estuary of the Crouch,
too, if the tide be full, may be seen a very charming congregation of
white-winged yachts. Moreover, motor-boats congregate there on
occasion--they had a regatta there in 1906. The yacht clubs are very
hospitable, and there is one capital inn. In fact, if the little journey be
made in a motor-boat, it will be quite a wise thing to put in at Burnham,
which is a place not wanting in picturesque quality and as completely _sui
generis_ as may be imagined. But by no means choose the sea unless it be
fairly smooth. A staunch motor-yacht will stand a lot of weather without
suffering much herself, but for her passengers, no matter how hardy seamen
or seawomen they may be, rough water in a motor-yacht spells sheer misery.
She is worse than a torpedo-boat destroyer, and that is very bad indeed.




CHAPTER X

IN SPRING. TROUBLES MADE EASY

     Paucity of incidents so far--They often mean bad
     driving--Good driving and bad--The Grey Ghost in
     Berks--A burst tire--A warning--A puncture at
     Thame--Treasure trove--Meet mechanic at
     Aylesbury--Unready Hitchin--Royston--Advancing
     vegetation--Partridges paired--Tire blown off rim--An
     ancient dyke discovered--Plans changed by delays, but
     the motorist needs no plans--To Newmarket--Exit
     mechanic--To Bury St. Edmunds--A race with a
     train--Bury St. Edmunds and the "Angel"--Moderate
     charges--Spacious rooms--Memories of Pickwick--Mr.
     Weller's pump gone--Two hotel bills compared--Morning
     in Bury--The Abbey Garden--Norman tower--St. Mary's
     Church--The Square--Defoe at Bury--Start at noon--To
     Wortham--Fourth tire trouble--Pleasant children and a
     bye-election--Scole--Harleston--Fifth tire trouble--End
     of tire troubles and chapter.


Hitherto it may have been some cause for dissatisfaction to others, it has
certainly been none to me, that with regard to the portion of this book
which may be considered strictly narrative, there has been a monotonous
immunity from accident of any kind. Yet so it was, and although, unlike
George Washington, I do not profess that I cannot tell a lie, there would
have been no point in telling one, and it would have been unfair. To touch
a human being, another vehicle, or even a dog, with a motor-car, even in
circumstances involving no culpability or legal responsibility in the
driver of the motor-car, is in the vast majority of cases still not to his
credit. The best drivers know it to be their duty never to expect that any
other user of the road except a motorist has himself or his vehicle under
absolute control. The good driver looks out for the signs of alarm in
horses, realizes that cyclists, especially those of the female sex,
"wobble" in their course when they hear the horn, knows that dogs will try
to commit hari-kari, is aware that some men are blind, some deaf, some
obstinate, and some drunk, feels that it is always best and safest to take
stupidity for granted, and to give as wide a berth as possible to every
living object on the high road. It is wiser to miss a horseless cart by
half an inch than to try to pass a carriage and pair with a yard to spare.
If these principles be borne in mind it is astonishing, at least it would
be to the anti-motorist, to see how many thousands of miles may be
travelled without harm done. How many thousands of miles I have travelled
in motors of many kinds in England alone, to say nothing of Scotland and
Ireland, I do not know; certainly a good many. In England, although I have
sat beside some inconsiderate drivers, have I ever been at all near to
hurting a human being; but I have sat beside considerate drivers in
circumstances which, if one of the inconsiderate though skilful ones had
been at the wheel, would have made it worse than a near thing for careless
or frightened wayfarers.

Up to this time in the narrative, although at no period was any
superstitious regard paid to the speed limit, I had not been caught in a
police ambuscade (not that "ambuscade," except for its length, is a word in
the least degree more dignified than "trap") during my travels in East
Anglia; nor need I hesitate to write thus, for, in the first place, I am
touching wood in the shape of a cork penholder, and, in the next, the
narrative being but part accomplished, the travelling days which were its
preliminary are, as the hymn says, o'er. In the journeys by motor-car from
Colchester, which have been pressed into service during the preceding
chapter, I was exempt from the speed limit. Again, so far as the narrative
has gone, I can lay my hand on my heart and say that never, save once
during the Essex manoeuvres, through a burst tire, and then not in the
Lanchester car, did I meet with tire trouble or suffer an involuntary stop
through any failing of machinery.

On the expedition now to be recorded, in itself one of the most interesting
and delightful ever taken by me, we had a whole series of troubles of
different kinds--misfortunes of this kind never occur singly. But I hope to
be able to show that these troubles were, some of them, providential, in
other ways than that of supplying me with topics, which were abundant in
any case, and that skill of hand and knowledge, combined with perfect
imperturbability of temper in a gentleman who drives, and has all the
trouble on his own hands, may convert trouble into sheer pleasure for the
other persons delayed on the road.

Early in the morning of 6 April, a sunny morning worthy of the spring, Mr.
Claude Johnson arrived at my Berkshire cottage with the Rolls-Royce owning
the _sobriquet_ of the Grey Ghost. I had ridden in the car first in Paris,
outside the _salon_ during the exhibition of 1904, and had been fascinated
by its silence and controllability as Mr. Rolls at the wheel threaded the
traffic in the Champs Élysées. Mr. Johnson had been expected overnight; the
chamber in the wall had been prepared; but "he came not, for the ships were
broken in Ezion-Geber." In other words, the back near tire came to grief on
the Oxford Road. Taking it off with his own hands and substituting another,
he had elected to sleep at a favourite inn and to come on to my house in
the morning. This particular burst was simply the act of giving up the
ghost accomplished by canvas which had reached the end of its natural life;
and this, since the term of the natural life of canvas varies, is the kind
of mishap which may occur at any time. Knowing that the tendency of
troubles to come in groups is not mere matter of proverbial superstition,
or, perhaps, being not entirely free from superstition, Mr. Johnson said,
"You must be prepared for plenty more of these pleasant little
interruptions. But, however, I have wired for a mechanic to meet us at
Aylesbury, with more inner tubes and covers, and with luck we may last till
then."

So at 9.35 we started in one of the first Rolls-Royces ever made, four
cylinder and, I think, a 20-h.p. (but horse-power is a mere figure of
speech, and the folks who prattle of it as a basis of taxation talk more
nonsense than they realize). It had a cape hood, glass screens in front of
the driving-seat and between it and the tonneau, and it carried my wife and
younger daughter, with two suit-cases of fair size, in the tonneau, Mr.
Johnson being at the wheel, and I by his side. We did not last so far as
Aylesbury without trouble. On the contrary, just as we were leaving Thame a
sharp whistle of escaping air gave notice that something was amiss, and the
back off-side tire was found to be flabby. So we crawled back to a garage
in that ancient town and wandered in the sun through its empty streets what
time the defect was being made good. The process took the best part of an
hour, and the delay proved to be providential in a small way for, in an old
curiosity shop, we discovered an ancient "Bible box," of oak, curiously
carved, and reputed to have belonged to the great Duke of Marlborough. It
was acquired at no great price, and, whether it belonged to the great Duke
of Marlborough or no, it was in the nature of a treasure, for these Bible
boxes, made to contain family Bibles of large size, are rare, and little
known because they are rare, and likely to become expensive when they are
known because, besides rarity, they can boast substantial beauty.

From Thame we bowled on to Aylesbury without incident, and the scenery must
not be touched upon now. At Aylesbury we had to wait again some time for
the mechanic, whose train had not arrived; however, it came at last, and,
with him on the step, and tire covers strapped on to all sorts of places,
we fared onwards. But our arrangements for luncheon were marred. Mindful of
the pie that vanished at Royston (_ubi supra_ as the pedants would say), we
had planned to take our luncheon there. At Hitchin Nature vowed that she
would no longer be denied. Still Nature was very nearly compelled to take
denial, for the hotel--it looked the best--professed itself destitute of
cold meat; time did not permit of waiting for hot meat; and only after
pressure did the waitress consent to produce some hacked fragments of
discarded joints from which, with bread and butter and cheese, hungry
motorists made a sufficient meal. True the process of finding the fragments
that went to make it called to memory the supper in _Tom Brown's
School-days_, and the wonderful deeds wrought by East with his
pocket-knife. That was no matter. _Fames est optimum condimentum_, as the
old Latin Grammar used to say, and no doubt it was good of the unready
hotel-keeper to give us anything. But why, O why, are hotel-keepers so
often found unready?

Reaching Royston without further mishap we entered our manor, for the
purposes of this book, and glided on at a fine speed along the road,
already traversed, towards Newmarket. Vegetation was more alive, hedges
were growing green, partridges, a heavy stock of them, were paired; that
was all the difference, or seemed to be all. But two miles short of Six
Mile Bottom, or thereabouts, there was not merely a whistle from below but
a loud report. The front off-side Dunlop tire had been blown out of the
rim, the cause being that it was a "retreaded" tire which had stretched
until it was no longer held in its place. This burst also turned out to be
providential. While the mechanic, who was a blessing, was engaged in
attending to the off front wheel, I wandered up and down the road, thinking
at first that this was a dull piece of country. Then my eye was caught by a
bank running from the road on the more southerly side up a gentle slope
until it was lost on the horizon. The bank was several feet above the level
of the ground to the eastward; on the western side was a deep ditch. Both
were clearly visible, were indeed large and unmistakable on the southern
side of the road, which seemed to be old pasture. On the north side they
were traceable, and no more, having been obscured on the east side by trees
and brushwood, and having yielded on the western side to the plough. If
trouble we were to have it was surely lucky to meet it here for, beyond
question, we were at one of those ancient ramparts piled up in the days of
long ago to enable the warriors of Eastern Britain to keep out their foes
of the West. In all probability it was Haydon Ditch, which runs from
Melbourn to Haydon. It really does not matter what its particular name was,
or is. To give it a name teaches one no more than my friend the antiquary
taught me by calling the excavations at Grays "dene-holes." Some race, at
some time long ago, piled up this vast mound with immense labour. It was an
Eastern race, that is certain from the relation of mound and ditch, making
provision against enemies from the West, whom they might harry with stones
and javelins as they strove to climb from the ditch, whose shock heads they
might hammer, with stone axes or clubs perhaps, from above, as they
swarmed up from below. So much is certain inference; the rest is absolute
mystery, and to delay at the rampart for a day would not solve the
outermost wrapper of it. Indeed, so much as a halt is not advised, unless
an involuntary one should occur conveniently, or an excuse for prudent
adjustment to avoid future trouble be desired. Slow down to five miles an
hour, or even to ten, and look towards the off-side when you are
approaching Six Mile Bottom. Then shall you see as much as is necessary, or
indeed possible, of this ancient rampart and its fosse, and understand all
that can be understood about it, to wit that is there, and has been there
since prehistoric times.

Those who worked over the substitution of a new tire and cover were skilful
and expeditious; but it is a task which even in the most competent hands is
tiresome and must not be hurried over unduly. At the best it means dirt and
perspiration; before it reaches the worst it is very likely to involve
broken nails and barked knuckles; and the least excess of haste is likely
to bring in its train a subsequent nip as Nemesis, when all the dusty
labour becomes vain. So, by this time, our plans as to a resting-place for
the night were receding into the distance, or rather our place of abode was
coming nearer to us, if we were not getting appreciably nearer to it. That
is to say the plans of other people in the like circumstances would have
been suffering thus, but ours were not quite definite. We had debated in an
easy-going way the question whether we should dine and sleep at Lowestoft
or at Yarmouth; whether perhaps we might not even push on to Norwich
whither the memories of the "Maid's Head" beckoned us. This was out of the
question now, but the beauty of motoring is that, unless one has made a
definite arrangement to meet friends, nothing of this kind matters. As a
matter of fact we took our tea at Newmarket--we have travelled the
intervening piece of road in print before--and, then deciding where to
sleep, went no farther than Bury St. Edmunds that night and, greatly
daring, having regard to our run of ill-luck up to that time, we shed the
mechanic, as a snake sheds his skin, instructing him to telegraph for yet
another tire and cover to be sent to Bury that night if possible, but at
any rate by the earliest train in the morning.

So on to Bury by the same road as we had followed on the Panhard in
January; but Phoebus! how marked was the difference between the late
afternoon of a mild day in April and the fading light of a frosty evening
in January! Few of the trees were yet showing much green, but the buds were
swelling and we could enjoy the stateliness of the trunks. "Joy runs high,
between English earth and sky" on such afternoons as this. The road was
clear and good, it invited speed, and for a space we raced a train which,
it must be admitted, beat us in the long run pretty handsomely. So a second
time we entered Bury, and this time made no mistake in the selection of our
inn. Let there be no misunderstanding here. Lord Montagu's Road Book, which
is good as any other, and strongly bound to stand the hardships of
travelling (with a flap to fold over the front edges of the pages, which
reminds one of Archbold's _Criminal Pleadings_ armed against the rough
usage of circuit), specifies the "Suffolk"; and the "Suffolk" may be a very
good hotel, but to the pilgrim who has a spark of sentiment in his
composition, the "Angel" addresses a more compelling invitation. One line
of German poetry do I know--no more--and the luxury of quoting it (candidly
confessing that it was got by heart by way of punishment for inattention,
with some others now passed out of mind), shall not be denied to me--

    Es lächelt der see, er ladet züm Bade.

As the sea laughed and said, "Bathe in my sun-warmed waters," so the
"Angel" smiles, broadly and hospitably, saying, "If you are spending the
night in Bury, spend it in the house full of the cheerful memories of
Pickwick and the faithful Weller." That invitation was assumed, for the
"Angel" is most decorously modest, but it was also accepted and never
regretted for a moment, least of all when the time came for discharging the
reckoning. We reached the "Angel" sufficiently early to be able to order
dinner and to stroll about in the darkening town while it was in
preparation. They set our feet in large rooms. Bedrooms, coffee-room, and
sitting-room were spacious and comfortable. Dinner was plain but excellent
in the old-fashioned coffee-room, and I will almost, but not quite, pledge
my word that the wall-paper was of that mellow and ruby red beloved of our
forefathers, probably because it suggested port wine. A pilgrimage through
the hotel, and the yard too, showed that it had altered little, if at all,
since it was described by Dickens, except that the pump was gone. Assuredly
there ought to be a pump, for the sake of appearances, if for no other
reason, although a tap, fed from the Corporation Waterworks, may serve
equally well to cool heads throbbing of a morning from overnight unwisdom
in the still-existing tap-room. The "Angel," in fact, is a thoroughly good
hotel of the old-fashioned type, which it is a rare pleasure to enter and
to praise. More than that, and to complete the well-earned panegyric, one
leaves the "Angel" in a satisfied mood. It is plain truth that we dined
there, slept, had tea in our bedrooms, breakfasted well, and paid for the
car's lodging in a coach-house, and that the bill for three of us was
precisely one shilling less than was paid one day later for the same
accommodation less dinner, and less the storage of the car for the night.
That is why praise is gladly given and those who have suffered from heavy
charges elsewhere will be the first to protest that it ought to be given
out of a grateful heart.

[Illustration: ABBEY GATEWAY, BURY ST. EDMUNDS]

In the morning there was more delay. The same wheel which had given trouble
by the mysterious dyke on the preceding afternoon was found to be standing
on a flat tire again. Messages to the station brought back no substantial
answer in the form of a cover. A local garage had none that fitted in
stock, and had to send a special messenger to fetch one from a distance of
ten or twelve miles on a motor-cycle. As a matter of fact, we found later,
the tire-cover had been at the station all the time, but it had been
addressed to the mechanic, and our messenger had made inquiries for one
addressed to his master. The delay was really welcome. Who could desire a
better fate than to spend a perfect spring morning in sauntering through a
town which was historic not only in fact but also in appearance? My own
case was the more happy in that, during the interval, I had not only
refreshed my memory of Bury and of its associations, but had also learned a
good many things in connection with it which were new to me. Of course, we
entered the Abbey Gateway, to find the Botanical Garden, noted by Carlyle,
less conspicuous than we had feared it might be. In fact, there was no
demonstration of labels, helpful to the student but distressing to the idle
eye, and it may be that the garden is no longer botanical, except in the
sense in which every garden is such. It is a garden in any case, a garden
with such broad stretches of close green turf as England alone can show;
and on this turf little boys were playing games in the morning. A notice
at the gate implied that the ground was not absolutely open to the public
for games; if it were the turf would soon perish; but the price of play
seemed to be very moderate; and perhaps the ground within those ancient
walls serves as useful a purpose by encouraging the young men and maidens
of Bury to take healthy exercise in the open air as it did when it
permitted the student to realize that _cheiranthus_ is another way of
saying "wallflower," or that the weed best beloved of canaries may be
called _Jacobea_. Of the Shakesperian associations of the Abbey we spoke
last time we were at Bury; they came to mind none the less pleasantly for
the fact that sturdy little boys were kicking a football about on the
ground often trodden by kings and abbots. Of course, too, we went to see
the Norman Tower, to the southward of the Abbey Gate and close to it, and
St. Mary's Church. Most pleasant of all, however, was it to linger in the
sun about the spacious square, having the "Angel" on one side and the Abbey
Gate on the other, to rejoice in the abundance of old-world houses, to
reflect that the square, and most of the houses, if not all, looked much
the same as they did when "in order to avoid the public gaze, and also to
recuperate, Defoe repaired in August, 1704, to Bury St. Edmunds, where he
took up his abode in a handsome residence called Cupola House." Defoe was
then fresh from eighteen months in "that horrid place," as Moll Flanders
called it, Newgate Prison. He had stood in the pillory more than once, but,
as his biographer of 1894, Mr. Thomas Wright, observes, we must not pity
him too much. He suffered, after all, as others did in a brutal age.
Moreover, Newgate was not all misery. He was allowed to exercise his pen
freely while in prison, and he published one of the products of his
incarceration, "An Elegy on the Author of the True-born Englishman," while
he was living at Bury. That he did not come out penniless will be very
plain to every pilgrim who is at the pains to look at Cupola House, which
is still standing and, from the outside at any rate, very inviting.

Such are some of the memories of Bury, "the Montpelier of Suffolk, and
perhaps of England," as Defoe called it, and we were not in any hurry to
leave it or them. Still the sun shone, the roads were in good order, and
when the car was ready about midday, we also were ready for the pleasures
of the road. Our road, good and fairly flat, through what may best be
described as comfortable and rich country, lay by Farnham St. Mary,
Ixworth, where Euston Park was five miles to the north along the Ipswich
and Thetford Road, Stanton, Wattisfield, and Richinghall to Wortham. That
is only seven miles in all, and we bowled along merrily, in no mood to stop
if we could avoid it, observing the spacious area of many village greens,
thwarting to the best of our ability the efforts of the geese (which
accounted for the close shorn turf of those greens) to immolate themselves
under our wheels. A fussy turkey-hen, too, courted the same fate, but so
far as our chariot was concerned, the geese and their offspring may have
been eaten with apple-sauce at Michaelmas, and the turkey-hen's poults may
have been hatched and reared, and fattened in the fashion best understood
in East Anglia for the London market.

At Wortham came more trouble. Once more there was the ominous shriek. The
rear off-side inner tube had been blown into a rent in the inner canvas of
the outer cover; it was clean gone, and so, unfortunately, was the
mechanic. Cheerfully philosophical as ever, Mr. Johnson, with such help as
the bystanders and I could give him, addressed himself to the task of
fitting the wheel for the road again and, apart from the trouble and
inconvenience to him, of which he made light for our sake, the experience
was even positively pleasant in its incidents. Bystanders were many. Our
little disaster had come to us half-way on the road passing through a
village green, very spacious, fringed on the left with stray cottages, of
which one turned out to be the post office. Village children thronged round
the disabled car in great numbers, light-haired and rosy-faced children,
all of them wearing the yellow favours of the Liberal candidate. Were we
not in the middle of the Eye constituency, the bye-election in which,
coming shortly after the General Election, was regarded with exceptional
interest by the public? Was not this the election of elections in which, to
judge from the public press, the issue lay not between two mere men, but
between Lady Mary Hamilton and another lady. And the result was due that
day. The district was at least warmly interested as the general public--it
is not always so--and the children were in a fever of childish excitement.
They were "yellow" down to the very babies in arms; they hooted in shrill
and childish derision whenever a carriage passed with blue favours, as some
did, the occupants themselves looking blue in another sense. The most
hardened Tory found it as impossible to be annoyed at their enthusiasm as
to regard their opinions seriously. They were too eager, too delightful,
too healthy. Nobody could have been angry with them. Further than that,
they struck us all as being exceptionally bright and intelligent, and the
keen interest with which they listened to a boy in his shirt-sleeves, not
much older than some of them, but emancipated from school and now a
wage-earning creature, who had attended some village meeting, was entirely
charming. A man or two came up and proffered help, which was accepted. A
Suffolk constable arrived on a bicycle and, seeming to have plenty of time
to spare, remained to talk and to help me in expelling the air from the
discarded tube, and in packing it into its bag for future treatment; and
the children were round us all the time. Suddenly there was a shout, "The
talleygram's come!" and a stampede across the green to the post office. In
a minute or two they were all back, yelling in glee, "Pearson's in!" and at
least one stubborn Tory was not half so sorry as he ought to have been. The
Tory cause in the then Parliament was past praying for in any event; a
Liberal vote more or less really seemed hardly to matter; the
disappointment of those children at the failure of the Liberal candidate,
if it had been announced, would have been far more distressing to me then
than was the defeat of him for whom I should have voted if a vote in the
Eye division had been mine.

On at last we went, merrily enough at first, and in 3-1/4 miles crossed the
Waveney and the boundary of Norfolk and Suffolk simultaneously at Scole;
Scole of the true Roman road, Scole of the ancient hostelry, of both of
which full notice has been taken in an earlier chapter. Four miles more we
carried on gaily, 4-1/4 miles perhaps, for we were almost free from the
long townlet of Harleston when more trouble came. It was precisely the same
trouble in the same tire and cover that had been met with at Wortham. This
time there was a garage, where the rent in the canvas was effectually
repaired, while we took a hearty luncheon at the "Magpie"; and that was the
end of tire-trouble for this expedition. We had certainly had at least
enough of it. And here, since the road immediately in front of us
positively teems with wayside subjects, let a pause be made and a short
chapter ended.




CHAPTER XI

GREAT AMBITIONS CHEERFULLY RELINQUISHED. HARLESTON TO CROMER VIÂ BUNGAY,
BECCLES, LOWESTOFT, GREAT YARMOUTH, CAISTER-BY-YARMOUTH, AND NORWICH

     Harleston--The "Magpie"--Typical East Anglian
     village--Flixton Park--Bungay--Mr. Rider Haggard as
     _vates sacer_--Antiquities of Bungay--Spa projected in
     eighteenth century--The vineyard--Derivations of
     Bungay--Chateaubriand at Bungay--A thatched
     church?--Beccles from the west--A vision--Towards
     Lowestoft--Glance at Oulton Broad--Lowestoft fails to
     please--Towards Yarmouth--Ambitious plans--Moonlight
     drive projected--Yarmouth pleases--Honest sea-faring
     industry--An acrostic and some ancient
     verse--Caister-by-Yarmouth--Sir John Falstolf--A
     precocious fifteenth-century Etonian--To Norwich and
     onwards--A moonlight drive--A sudden check--Grit in the
     petrol tank--An insoluble problem at night--Cheerful
     philosophy--To Cromer for refuge--The Links
     Hotel--Poppyland--Cromer no place for strangers--The
     haunt of a famous circle--Quotation from the Gurneys of
     Earlham--Seaside places are one-sided motoring
     centres--Scenery to westward strange rather than
     charming--A start in the morning--The grit still
     present--Labour of locating and removing--A stroll and
     survey of the country--Commonplace Runton--A taste of
     petrol--I break into jingle--Moral.


The "Magpie" at Harleston--you can hardly miss it, for the sign hangs well
out--entertained us quite abundantly, if humbly, and it was agreed on all
hands that this inconsiderable village of Norfolk responded better to a
surprise visit than had the town of Hitchin. Harleston is not in itself an
attractive village. Indeed candour compels the admission that few East
Anglian villages can fairly be described as attractive by comparison with
those of the southern Midlands. Berks, Bucks, Gloucestershire, and
Oxfordshire certainly can each show half a dozen delightful villages where
East Anglia can show but one. In them the pretty village is normal, the
plain hamlet exceptional; in East Anglia the contrary rule prevails. The
typical East Anglian village, or collection of houses somewhere between a
town and a village in point of size, is a long and double line of
unpretentious dwellings running along either side of a main road for a mile
or more. Harleston is just such a gathering of houses and little shops, and
there are dozens of Harlestons under other names scattered about East
Anglia. This may be the reason why some of the best of gossiping writers
about this part of the country, Dr. Jessopp and Mr. Rider Haggard for
example (and, may I add, the little-known Miss Wilson, author of the
_Friends of Yesterday_, who is now working with her brother in the Orange
River Colony?), tell us more of the ways of the people, and of the
conditions of their lives, than they do of the aspects of the hamlets. When
they talk to us of places it is, as a rule, either of great houses, or of
towns, such as Bungay, possessed of a curious history.

From Harleston, then, we started nothing loth, having accomplished so far
only some thirty miles in 3-1/2 hours, of which, however, only 1-1/2 had
been spent in travelling. Plans we gave up for a bad job; we determined
simply to go on as long as we could and, if trouble came, to grin and bear
it. The first scene noted after Harleston was Flixton Park, a very noble
deer park over which the eye can range from the car, for it is divided from
the road only by thin but very high iron railings. The Hall was built by
Sir Nicholas de Tasburgh in the time of bluff King Hal, and the church
tower is said to be Saxon. But we were all for travel. Such was the mood in
which we passed through Bungay, leaving Ditchingham a mile or two to the
left. The reader, it is hoped, will not travel through Bungay quite so
quickly, will not, be it hoped also, have suffered quite so many punctures
and bursts, and will be in the mood to hear something of it and of
Ditchingham. This district has its _vates sacer_ in Mr. Rider Haggard,
whose book, _A Farmer's Year_ (Longmans, 1899), is, in its rare passages of
topography and of old-time talk, exquisitely attractive to man or woman of
taste. It appeals also, in its agricultural record, with infinite sadness
and with much force to all who have been brought face to face with the
realities of life in rural England. Let there be no shiver of apprehension
here. There is no intention of raising here that question of the unnatural
war between the cities and the country as part of the propaganda relating
to which this book was written. Mr. Haggard, indeed, avows openly his
desire to convert as many persons as possible to his way of thinking, and
this, to put it shortly, is that to permit the cities to starve out rural
England is a hideously mistaken policy. The subject is fertile; but it is
not for me. What is of enthralling interest to all is that in Mr. Rider
Haggard we have a gentleman of estate who, after much travel, after serving
his country in diplomacy and in other ways in South Africa, and after being
called to the Bar (which after all happens to a good many men without
making much difference to them), retired to farm his own acres of heavy
land, and some others in Norfolk, during the very worst period of
agricultural depression. He had done, and he did, much more than this. When
he settled down at Ditchingham to farm, and to do his duty as a country
gentleman, he had written a round score of books of which the graphic power
was, and is, universally admitted. Men have laughed at the impossibilities
of _She_ and of _King Solomon's Mines_, but very few have laid them down
unfinished; they have spoiled many a hundred beauty sleeps; their
absorbing interest and their skill of words is beyond question. All that
power of words Mr. Haggard devoted to his propaganda and, perhaps, by way
of make-weight for passages on "blown" cattle, bush drains, and the
preparation of land for barley--things which interest me deeply, but are
not alluring to those not to the manner born--he goes off from time to time
into talk about places. It is talk which cannot be improved upon, certainly
not by me.

First Mr. Haggard quotes a curious tract of 1738 by one John King, an
apothecary of Bungay, and a letter by way of appendix, saying: "Those
lovely hills which include the flowery Plain are variegated with all that
can ravish the astonish'd Sight; they arise from the winding Mazes of the
River Waveney, enrich'd with the utmost variety the watr'y Element is
capable of producing. Upon the Neck of this Peninsula the Castle and Town
of Bungay (now startled at its approaching Grandeur) is situated on a
pleasing Ascent to view the Pride of Nature on the other Side, which the
Goddesses have chose for their earthly Paradise, where the Sun at its first
Appearance makes a kindly Visit to a steep and fertile Vineyard, richly
stored with the choicest Plants from _Burgundy_, _Champaigne_, _Provence_
and whatever the East can furnish us with. Near the Bottom of this is
placed the Grotto or Bath itself, beautified on one side with Oziers,
Groves and Meadows, on the other with Gardens, Fruits, shady Walks and all
the Decorations of a rural Innocence.

"The Building is designedly plain and neat, because the least attempt of
artful Magnificence would by alluring the Eyes of Strangers, deprive them
of those profuse Pleasures which Nature has already provided.

"As to the Bathing there is a Mixture of all that _England_, _Paris_ or
_Rome_ could ever boast of; no one's refused a kind Reception, Honour and
Generosity reign throughout the whole, the Trophies of the Poor invite the
Rich, and their more dazzling Assemblies compel the Former."

Since the spring was found by Mr. King, the apothecary, on his own land,
the tract, although Mr. Haggard also suggests a more romantic alternative,
was probably merely an advertisement. Mr. Haggard, who states that the
spring still exists and is peculiarly delicious to drink (in which quality
it is unlike any other medicinal water known to me), says also, "Was this
vineyard, furnished with the fruits of the 'East,' an effort of the
imagination suggested by the original name of the place (now oddly enough
superseded by a new name taken from the tradition of Mr. King's bath), or
did it, as the picture suggests, really exist in the year 1738? _Quien
sabe?_ as they say in Mexico. There have, in my time, been several old men
in Ditchingham whose grandfathers may have been living in 1738, yet I never
heard from them any tale of a vineyard on the Bath Hills. But this proves
nothing."

Of course it proves nothing. Rural tradition commemorates the oddest things
and omits the oddest things. It is past all calculation. The picture, a
very quaint print, may suggest the vines. I should be sorry to say for
certain to which part of it Mr. Haggard refers; it suggests swans and a
wherry on the Waveney, a sportsman shooting at four-footed game, presumably
stags (or perhaps it is a shepherd with a crook), a coach-and-four, and, I
think, a quintain in the foreground; but Mr. Haggard says, "Pray observe
the double gallows," as to which I say that there are riders close by, one
of whom looks as if he had just run a course, and that the artist, if he
desired to suggest double gallows, would probably have supplied them with
their appropriate pendants. A little earlier Mr. Haggard cites clear
evidence that a vineyard existed in Bungay in the time of the Bigods, who
dominated Bungay, and continues: "Often have I wondered what kind of wine
they made at this vineyard and who was bold enough to drink it; but since I
have heard that some enterprising person has taken to the cultivation of
the grape in Wales with such success that--so says the wondrous tale--he
sells his home-made champagne at 84s. the dozen, it has occurred to me that
the Bigods knew more than we imagine about the possibilities of viticulture
in England. Or it may chance that the climate was more genial in those
days, although this is very doubtful."

Is Mr. Haggard poking fun, or is it possible that he does not know the
facts? The "enterprising person in Wales" was the late Marquess of Bute.
The vineyard was, and is, at Castell Coch in South Wales, and, although the
price was hardly a market price, and the position of the grower was not
without its influence upon it, the wine was, and I expect still is, sound
wine. Grapes good enough to make fair wine can be grown in the open in
England, were grown, certainly until quite recently, in Swan Walk, Chelsea,
and doubtless would grow, quite well, on a slope in Southern Norfolk,
having such an aspect as the good Mr. King described. There is no reason to
assume a deteriorated climate, no reason to doubt (in the absence of
evidence to the contrary in individual cases) that all the "vineyards" to
be found in Southern England, for the most part, as at Abingdon, in the
vicinity of bygone abbeys, once grew grapes good enough to be trodden in
the wine-press. This, however, is not to say that vine-growing, albeit
possible, would be profitable in England to-day. It is a great deal cheaper
and easier to grow rhubarb, and the wits who are sarcastic at the expense
of "gooseberry champagne" would be a great deal nearer to the mark if they
followed to their ultimate destination some of the huge crops of rhubarb
grown a little further north than East Anglia.

"Bungay has bygone glories of its own. Its name has been supposed to be
derived from Bon Gué or Good Ford, but as the town was called Bungay before
ever a Norman set foot in England, this interpretation will not hold. More
probable is that suggested to me by the Rev. J. Denny Gedge, that the
origin of the name may be Bourne-gay or Boundary Ford. Or the prefix 'Bun'
may, as he hazards, have been translated from 'placenta,' 'a sacred cake,'
indicating, perhaps--but this is my suggestion--that in old times Bungay
was the town that pre-eminently 'took the cake.' Mayhap, for in philology
anything might chance; but if so, alas! it takes it no longer." For my
part, if the reason against Bon Gué be conclusive, it seems to me equally
conclusive against Bun (_placenta_) Gué; and Bun Gué is not merely an
anachronism, but very far-fetched at that. If we are to come to funning,
the derivation "Bung-ay" may be timidly submitted. "Ay" is just a
termination, Danish if you will, as in Billericay, perhaps, and it seems
from Mr. Haggard's own showing that "Mr. Bung the Brewer" rules in Bungay.
He records (p. 110) that on a certain day in February, 1898, the last two
"free houses" in the town were put up to auction, and he records elsewhere
that there is a liquor-shop for every hundred of the population.

Bungay Castle, the castle of the Bigods, is quite gone; so is the
Benedictine nunnery; so is the industry of giving copper sheathing to the
bottoms of ships. But the Bath Hills are still there, and behind them,
protected by barbed wire and the natural kindness of Mr. Haggard's heart,
is a sanctuary for all wild things. He records also that Chateaubriand, a
refugee from the Terror, drifted down to Bungay, where he taught French,
was known as M. Shatterbrain, and made love to a sentimental young lady, to
whose mother, when she took pity on him and offered to look over his
poverty, he was compelled to reply, "Hélas! Madame, je suis désolé; mais je
suis marié." In fact, Bungay is really a very interesting place to linger
at in the spirit; but here we must go on to Barsham and Beccles, as, in the
flesh, we did immediately and agreeably.

Spirits rose as we drew near to Beccles, noting on the way a curiously
attractive church and parsonage on the left, and that, seen by the light of
a strong sun sinking low in the west, the church seemed to have a thatched
roof. That light, however, is exceeding deceptive. So, since thatched
churches are unusual, to say the least of it, and I can find no allusion to
thatched churches in Norfolk, I am content to believe this was a case of
optical illusion. The two structures were of a rare charm in that golden
glow, notwithstanding, and the probability is that they were at Barsham. Is
this word "probability" too audacious? At least, it is candid and prudent.
Motorists know full well that too many halts--and goodness knows we had
stopped often enough that day--are a weariness of the flesh; that it is not
practicable to consult a large scale map _en voyage_; that one must often
be contented to think and to say, "That is a sweetly pretty place" (or a
fine hall, or a striking church, as the case may be); "I wonder what it
is," and to try to locate it afterwards. One must often be in the position
of a visitor to a garden of roses, yet uncertain, rosarian although he may
be, as to the exact name of this or that rose. It does not really matter.
The rose is beautiful. The fatal error is to give it a name when one is in
doubt. In the same way it would be suicidal to say that this pretty place
was Barsham, because it may not have been, though Barsham is quite close in
any case; and it has a round tower to its church, which seems to be
imprinted on my memory in this instance. If Barsham it was, then the
parsonage is a rectory, and it was the birthplace of Nelson's mother,
Caroline Suckling, a daughter of a very famous Norfolk House.

Now the wide valley of the Waveney came again into full view on the left, a
glorious prospect, and Beccles faced us. Approached from the westward on a
glorious April afternoon, Beccles produced an impression absolutely and
completely opposite to that which it left in January when we came to it
from the southward in dull and chilly air. Shall an apology be tendered for
the first mention of Beccles in these pages? Shall it be made needless by
ruthless excision? Of a surety neither is the right course to take. The
first impression was faithful, and it has been found impossible to convince
those who shared it that a good word can be said truthfully for Beccles.
The second is faithful also, and both are true. Fortunately it is possible
to quote the opinion and the words of one who is a master of descriptive
English. First of the view from the Bungay vineyard Mr. Rider Haggard says:
"I have travelled a great way about the world in my time and studied much
scenery, but I do not remember anything more quietly and consistently
beautiful than this view over Bungay Common seen from the Earl's vineyard,
or, indeed, from any point of vantage on its encircling hills. For the most
part of the year the plain below is golden with gorse, but it is not on
this alone that the sight depends for beauty, or on the green of the
meadows and the winding river edged with lush marshes that in spring are
spotted with yellow marigolds and purple with myriads of cuckoo flowers.
They all contribute to it, as do the grazing cattle, the gabled distant
roofs, and the church spires, but I think that the prospect owes its
peculiar charm to the constant changes of light which sweep across its
depths. At every season of the year, at every hour of the day, it is
beautiful, but always with a different beauty. Of that view I do not think
that any lover of Nature could tire, because it is never quite the same."

[Illustration: BECCLES FROM THE WAVENEY]

Mr. Haggard, therefore, is clearly not afraid to match Norfolk scenery
against any of the restful kind on the face of the globe; but we see soon
that even this view of Bungay Common and Waveney is not to his mind the
best. "Had the builders of this house where I write (Ditchingham House),
for instance, chosen to place it four hundred yards further back, as they
might very easily have done, it would have commanded what I believe to be
the finest view in Norfolk, since from that spot the eye travels not only
over the expanse of Bungay Common and its opposing slopes, but down the
valley of the Waveney to Beccles town and tower. But it would seem that in
the time of the Georges the people who troubled their heads about beautiful
prospects were not many. The country was lonely then, and the neighbourhood
of the Norwich road had more attractions than any view. Along that road
passed the coaches, bringing a breath of the outer world into the quiet
village, and the last news of the wars; also, did any member of the
household propose to travel by them, it was easy for the men-servants to
wheel his luggage in a barrow to the gate."

For my own part I deprecate comparisons of scenery, for which there appears
to be no true basis, believing that the real secret of its enjoyment is to
possess a catholic taste and a receptive mind in these matters. It is
enough to say, and to feel, that the scenery of these parts is exceeding
lovely, that the distant view of Beccles and its church, on that proud brow
dominating the placid plain of marsh and meadow and river is, in a single
word, divine, and that Mr. Haggard has analysed the charms of all this
landscape with Pre-Raphaelite accuracy. To admire, to be compelled to
understand why one admires, are pleasant and profitable. To institute
comparisons is unsatisfying and unnecessary.

From Beccles to Lowestoft is any easy run which we have taken before. This
time we saw the eastern end of Oulton Broad more plainly than the last. It
seemed tripper-haunted and bar-tainted, and it had the effect of rather
setting us against the Broads. The preliminary prejudice was strengthened
somewhat by reference to Mr. Walter Rye. "It is painful for one who has
known and loved the Broads as long as I have, in common honesty, to say
that their charms have been grossly exaggerated of late. To read some of
the word-painting about them you would think that you had only to leave
Yarmouth and sail up the North River to get at once into a paradise of
ferns, flowers and fish, where you could not fail to fill your basket or
bag; or to see, at all events, myriads of wild birds of the rarest sorts in
the air, shoals of fishes in the water, and any quantity of rare water
plants on the bank. The first few miles will effectually disillusionize any
stranger who has been taking in the _Swiss Family Robinson_ sort of rubbish
referred to above, for he will be disgusted with the very muddy flint walls
of a tediously winding river dragging itself along through a flat
uninteresting marshy country, varied only by drainage mills in various
stages of dilapidation, and by telegraph poles. Even when at last Yarmouth
Church finally disappears, after having come into view about a dozen times
through the windings, and the river wall with its rats and dirt changes
into the regular river scenery, he will see nothing particularly pretty."
Now Mr. Rye is a Norfolk man _pur sang_. The name has been known in East
Anglia since Eudo de Rye came over with the Conqueror--he was the same Eudo
Dapifer, or high steward, whom we met at Colchester. Mr. Rye has Norfolk
lore and antiquities at his fingers' ends; he is most clearly and
unquestionably a true lover of his native county. This douche of cold water
coming so unexpectedly from him, quenched effectually for the moment the
flickering flame of a desire to stretch a point by including a run or two
on the Broads in a motor-boat among the little adventures legitimately
within the scope of my title. But the flame of desire rose again later,
especially when the car hove in sight of a better Broad than at Oulton, and
with the view of that sheet of water came the thought that, luckily, the
tastes of men are not identical--else every pleasure would be so crowded as
to be deprived of most of its joy, and that many men have waxed exceeding
rapturous over the very Broads of which Mr. Rye has not a good word to say.
So later a little--not so much as I could wish--is said about this strange
and peculiar district.

Now we were in Lowestoft a second time, in beautiful weather too, and we
went slowly up all sorts of streets and a parade, and even on to some sand
hills in order to see Lowestoft from a good many points of view. The
result, it must be confessed, was the very opposite to a desire to revisit
Lowestoft, especially South Lowestoft. True it was before the season, and
Lowestoft, which lives on herrings and holiday-keepers, exporting the first
and importing the second, doubtless presents a scene more gay when the
esplanade is crowded with girls in pretty frocks and men in clean
flannels, when the really splendid sands are thronged with happy children.
Still most of the houses are so painfully modern and, so to speak, raw,
most of them also built for so manifest a purpose that the legends
"Furnished Lodgings," or "Apartments," or "Board and Residence," are surely
superfluous, that it fails to attract a person of only moderately
fastidious taste.

There were scores of houses there recalling my one and only experience of a
boarding-house. In each of these houses I could conjure up the replica of
that terrible evening meal of many years ago; could see the housewife,
obese but anxious, cringing to the guests, but with the eye of a dragon for
the delinquencies of the harassed handmaid; the daughters, in crushed white
frocks and cheap bangles, pertly and persistently garrulous; the all too
affable and white-bearded father of the family, assuming the airs of an
open-handed host when all the time his wife was wondering secretly whether
the flabby fish would "go round," and I, equally secretly, was trying to
guess whether the white-bearded old loafer with the generous air, but the
niggardly carving-knife, had ever tried to do any honest work in his life.

Leaving Lowestoft for Yarmouth by the same road as before, we felt a sense
of relief and with it a glorious consciousness of well-being. An hour or
two of daylight still remained; we had been so long without stopping,
otherwise than by our own will, that we felt as if we could go on for ever;
the sky was clear, and we had not had enough, nor half enough, of
travelling. A moon was due early that evening. It was even visible in the
sky already, giving faint white promise of silvern glory to come. We had
not ordered beds for the night anywhere. How would it be to skip afternoon
tea, push on through Yarmouth for Norwich, dine there at the "Maid's
Head," and consult our inclination as to proceeding by moonlight, perhaps
to Wells, perhaps even to Lynn? It would, indeed, be very well, and in this
mood we glided easily on to Yarmouth. This ancient capital of the
herring-trade pleased us more, as we poked our noses and the bonnet of our
car into various byways, than we had been pleased at Lowestoft. (These
"we's," by the way, represent no editorial assumption, no false modesty
about speaking in the first person, but simply a fourfold consensus of
opinion.) Yarmouth pleased the more because it was and is manifestly a
port. The smell of the herring is there, of course; the serried rows of
steam-trawlers along the quay suggest that this herring fishery is a long
way from being so picturesque a business as it was. Still Yarmouth strikes
one as an honest, workaday place doing a good trade, and not at all ashamed
of it. Yarmouth combined with "Leistocke"--Lowestoft probably--to
contribute "1 shippe and one pinnace" to the fleet which defeated the
Armada; and surely there is something of an Elizabethan ring about an early
acrostic of unknown date, addressed by somebody--the Nymph of Yarmouth,
perhaps--to its people:

    Y-ou, the inhabitants of Mee, [faire towne]
    A-dorned with riches both from sea and land,
    R-eason you have on knees for to fall downe
    M-agnifying God, for all comes from his hand,
    O-ver you all his works and mercies are,
    U-nto his children doth he give to eate
    T-he fyshe in sea, whatever the land doth beare,
    H-ym therefore do yee praise as is right meete.

This is culled from the invaluable _Norfolk and Norwich Notes and Queries_,
as is the following string of verses by Taylor, "the Water Poet"--the
description is given just shortly like this, as one might say "Shakespere,
the dramatist"--who visited the town in 1622 and found it:

    A towne well fortifide
    Well-governed, with all nature's wants supplied;
    The situation in a wholesome ayre,
    The building (for the most part) sumptuous and fayre,
    The people content, and industrious, and
    With labour makes the sea enrich the land.

A sound account of Yarmouth this is, and, by the quality of the
versification, an ample justification for those persons who hear now for
the first time of "Taylor, the Water Poet," and feel no inclination to
ransack the British Museum for further examples of his poesy.

Hard by is Caister-by-Yarmouth, formerly supposed to have been a Roman
fortress, but on quite insufficient evidence. At best, according to Mr.
Haverfield, it was never more than a Roman village; and Mr. Haverfield
knows. That red-brick tower of Caister Castle, however, reminds us of the
_Paston Letters_, already mentioned and one of the most ancient collections
of private letters ever given to the public to be a mirror of life in the
days of long ago. The castle was built by "that renowned knight and valiant
soldier" Sir John Falstolf, who died in 1459. Sir John was not only a hard
fighter, but also clearly a man of extended property. He had land so far
off as Dedham, close to the Suffolk boundary of Essex, the Dedham that
Constable painted, and we find him complaining once, "_Item_, Sir John Buck
parson of Stratford fished my stanks at Dedham and helped to break my dam,
destroyed my new mill and was always against me at Dedham." This complaint
was made to John Paston, afterwards Sir John Paston, then Sir John
Falstolf's steward, agent as we should say now, and residing in his
employer's castle. The employer died; the agent, upon what title the
letters do not make it quite clear, continued to hold the castle, on which
his wife Dame Paston lived while he followed the practice of the law in
London even to the judicial bench. Something has been said of these letters
before, but there are points to be added.

[Illustration: YARMOUTH FROM BREYDON]

The early-printed volumes, stately and calf-bound, are a luxury to read,
and in spite of Sir John Fenn's omissions they contain all manner of
curiosities, the best of them perhaps being a letter written by one of the
young Pastons in 1467, from Eton, where he was at school. In it he shows
anxiety about a consignment of figs and raisins, promised but not arrived,
discusses the fortune of a young lady recently met whom he thinks of
marrying, and says to his brother: "And as for hyr bewte juge you that when
ye see hyr yf so be that ye take y'e laubore and specialy beolde hyr
handys for and if it be as is tolde me sche is dysposyd to be thyke."
(Here, by the way, is an example of Sir John Fenn's weakness as an editor,
since, the original sentence being innocent of stops save at the end, he
places a comma after "hands," and after "be" and another after "me," thus
making his own unnecessary translation far more obscure than the original.)
It is worth while to remember that Eton College had at this time been open
for twenty-five years only, was in fact quite a new school, and that the
headmaster was William Barber.

It was during this run by a circuitous route from Caister-by-Yarmouth to
Acle and Norwich, and when the wide sheet of Filby Broad smiled on either
hand, that the feeling of opposition to Mr. Rye's view of the Broads grew
strong. That magnificent stretch of water appealed with a strength almost
irresistible to one for whom sailing was, before motoring came into
existence, the most perfect of pleasures; and although circumstances, and
circumstances only, tendered resistance possible, it seems but right to
glance at the Broads, to say what they and the country around them are
like, and how, in the opinion of one fairly well versed in watermanship,
they might best be enjoyed. There is a stock delimitation of the Broad
District. Draw a line from Happisburgh to Norwich, another line from
Lowestoft to Norwich, and the rough triangle formed by those lines and the
sea shall be the Broads District. Really the southern side of the triangle
is drawn much too low on the map. Except Oulton Broad and Lake Lothing,
which are close to Lowestoft, and also a long way from the other Broads,
all the Broads, including Breydon Water, would be included in a triangle
having a line from Norwich to Gorleston for its southern boundary. They are
Filby, Ormsby, Burgh, and Rollesby, all connected and covering no less than
six hundred acres between them; Hickling, Heigham, Horsey, and Marlham
Broads, Hickling the finest of them all; and Irstead and Barton; and each
group is approached by its own river. Now, travel by motor-car is not
recommended in this district, for it is much too flat to be enjoyable.
Since that is not recommended, nothing is said about the churches, although
they are of some interest; for so long as men and women remain what they
are, they will not stop to study relics of antiquity, unless they are very
exceptional indeed, when travelling by boat. Nor are they in the least more
likely to linger in this way when voyaging by motor-boat than when using a
sailing-boat. But shall we, voyaging in the spirit, use either sailing-boat
or motor-boat, in the ordinary acceptation of the latter term. In truth,
neither is suggested, but rather a compromise. Candour compels the
admission that, knowing by sight, and in some cases from personal
experience, most of the types of motor-boat built in Great Britain, I
cannot recall one of them which, being roomy enough for comfort, would not
draw too much water to be serviceable. In fact, if one could rely on the
wind, a sailing vessel of one of the types which have been evolved in the
district to meet its needs would really be preferable. Elsewhere than in
these pages I should certainly take it, and enjoy it vastly. But what I
might take in these pages, and what would be much better than either, would
be one of those big flat-bottomed sailing craft with auxiliary
motor-engines, of which one may see some at English exhibitions, but many
more at the annual exhibition in Paris. With them you can really sail, when
there is a wind; and, without a breeze, you are independent. As for the joy
of it, so long as there is wind to fill the sails, the mere act of dashing
through the water and gliding over it, the very sound of the water, the
sense of absolute control that comes to him who holds the tiller and trims
the sails to meet every need, are enough, without worrying over scenery.
Moreover, the wide flatness of the Broads District, the rare buildings
rising as from a lake, have a special charm of their own. As for the sport,
from all that I can learn it is largely a thing of the past so far as duck
and wildfowl are concerned. All the same, it is a bad mistake to omit the
Broads, and one which, _experto crede_, the tourist in East Anglia regrets
deeply when it is irretrievable. However, there is no doubt I made it, but
happily hardly less doubt that, if I had not made it, the results could
hardly have been relevant.

On, then, we went to Norwich by way of Caister, not as before through Acle,
and dined at the "Maid's Head," as on our last visit, and admired the
ancient hotel and the red waistcoat of the head waiter as much as ever; but
afterwards, instead of seeing something of the famous city by night, we
pushed on towards Cromer on the high road by moonlight. That is not the
best way to see the country of course, and it would be sheer hypocrisy
(which happens to be unnecessary) to say anything in detail of the normal
aspect of the places passed, or of their associations if they had any.
Still, of all kinds of travelling yet tried by me, it was emphatically the
most delightful. The air was very transparent and not too cool, the moon
bathed the landscape, which was fairly free from hills, there was little
traffic on the roads save here and there a farmer jogging home in his
dog-cart from Norwich market, the acetylene lamps were doing their duty
nobly (which is by no means always their custom), we felt as if we should
like to go on all night. At Cromer certainly we would not stop. We would
make the coast there and skirt the sea by moonlight, certainly so far as
Wells-next-Sea, possibly so far as Hunstanton. All things went merrily as
marriage bells, the car sped smoothly as a soaring albatross, silently as
death itself. But stay, what was that? A sharp little report, like the
crack of a miniature rifle, was heard from below. It was not a tire again;
that was sure; we knew by heart every noise that a failing tire could make.
A little farther the car went quite well--Cromer was now some five miles
distant--and then the noises began again in quick and _staccato_
succession. In another environment they might have reminded us of a _feu de
joie_; to our present predicament no words could have been more completely
inappropriate. What was the trouble? Was it something wrong with the
ignition? "No," said our philosophic friend at the wheel, "it is not
ignition. There is one of the blessings of experience. A little time ago I
should have wasted time in fiddling with the ignition; now I know it is
not that; and I know there is nothing to be done to-night. There is no
strainer fixed to the tank in this car; the good man who refilled for us at
Norwich used no strainer; and some grit has got into the petrol. To find it
I must first put out all lights and then go right back, piece by piece,
from the carburettor backwards, until I can discover the obstacle. That is
impossible in the dark. We must bear the noise and push on, if we can, to
the hotel at Cromer. Possibly the foreign matter, whatever it is, may have
dissolved by the morning." So, seeing from excellent example, that
misfortune faced with a smile loses three-quarters of its annoyance, we
went on, at quite a good pace too, sometimes silently for a hundred yards,
sometimes with loud reports as of a gun at the covert side, sometimes with
spluttering as of boys' crackers on the 5th of November. But we laughed at
them all and won our way to Cromer, won our way too up the steep and
sinuous hill that leads to the Links Hotel. There we had good fortune
indeed. The hotel had been opened that day only after the winter of sleep
and desolation; a huge fire roared in the ample hall; belated guests were
none the less welcome in that, so far as we could see, there were but two
other guests, golfers both, in that vast hotel. Had we come a night earlier
our fate had been bad indeed. The hotel, judged by bed and breakfast,
seemed to me of the first order of merit. The charges, compared with those
of the "Angel" at Bury, seemed high. Still, it was more "replete with every
modern luxury" than the "Angel"; it possessed bathrooms, for example, which
are indispensable to the motorist, and it was a very present help in
trouble. Such was our view the next morning, when the inevitable bill, not
a very big one after all, having regard to the class of the hotel, was
presented.

Other things also came to mind that following morning, a morning of gauzy
mist not obscuring the view, even lending enchantment to some of it, and
promising a fine day. Some of them were obvious. The position of the hotel,
looking down from a commanding height on town and sea, was perfect for
prospect and for bracing air; the golf-links, close by, were an undeniable
attraction to the large army of men and women who have yielded to the
seductions of that most fascinating game. It would have been unreasonable
to expect low charges; but all the same, the contrast between this bill and
that paid at Bury was a little stronger than it ought to be in a
well-regulated country. Other things were not so immediately obvious, since
for some it was the wrong season, and others were hidden in pleasant and
well-remembered books. We were in the heart of Poppyland, concerning which
Mr. Clement Scott and others raved, but it was too soon for the
poppies--poor Dan Leno's "Red, Red, Poppies," now to be heard only on the
gramophone--to be on view. It was, however, not difficult to conjure them
up in imagination, having seen them before all over those sandy uplands in
the Runton direction. They are very pretty beyond doubt; they add glorious
lakes of colour to a rather monotonous landscape, but they mean poor and
sandy land, and that (although it does not matter to the motorist, unless
he happens to own some of it, and to be unable to let it for building)
spells dust in dry weather, and lots of it too.

[Illustration: CHURCH STREET, CROMER]

Is Cromer a choiceworthy place in which to spend a summer holiday? The
answer, not perhaps the answer which appears at first to be given, lies in
or under this extract from _The Gurneys of Earlham_. Mr. Hare began by
saying, "A picture of the summer family life at Cromer, much like that of
the present day, is given in the following letter." It is one from Richenda
Gurney to Elizabeth Fry--the Elizabeth Fry, good angel of gloomy Newgate
Prison, of course.

"_Cromer, September 8, 1803._--Our party is now complete, as John continues
with us, and the Buxtons arrived yesterday; it was extremely pleasant to
us, seeing them both again, particularly Fowell; their being here will add
very much to our pleasure, as there is a suitability between us and the
Buxtons which always makes it pleasant for us to be together. Our time here
is spent in a way that exactly suits the place and the people. All are left
in perfect liberty to do as they like all day, or to form any engagement.
Yet the party is so connected that hardly a day passes but some plan is
fixed for us all to meet. When all are met it is an uncommonly pretty
sight, such a number of young women, and so many, if not pretty, very
nice-looking. I wish thee could have seen us the other afternoon. Sally
gave a grand entertainment at the Hall, where everybody met--the ladies
almost all dressed in white gowns and blue sashes, with nothing on their
heads. After dinner we all stood on a wall, eighteen of us, and it was
really one of the prettiest sights I ever saw.

"To give thee an idea how we are going on, I will tell thee how we
generally pass the day. The weather since we came has on the whole been
very fine; so imagine us before breakfast, with our troutbecks [hats] on
and coloured gowns, running in all directions on the sands, jetty, etc.
After breakfast we receive callers from the other houses, and fix with them
the plans for the day; after this, we now and then get an hour's quiet for
reading and writing, though my mind has been so much taken up with other
things, that I have found it almost impossible to apply to anything
seriously. At eleven we go down in numbers to bathe and enjoy the sands,
which about that time look beautiful: most of our party and the rest of the
Cromer party come down, and bring a number of different carriages, which
have a very pretty effect. After bathing, we either ride on horseback or
take some pleasant excursion or other. I never remember enjoying the sea so
much, and never liked Cromer a quarter so well. Some of us continually dine
out, whilst the others receive company at home.... John has been a great
addition to our party. I hope he has enjoyed himself; we have had two or
three most merry days since he came. The day before yesterday we spent at
Sherringham, wandering about the woods and sketching all the morning. Every
one met at a beautiful spot for dinner, with three knives and forks and two
or three plates between twenty-six people. All manner of games took place
after dinner, which John completely entered into and seemed to enjoy as
much as any of the party. We completed our day by a delightful musical
evening. Miss Gordon, our old Cromer friend, came to tea: she played and
sang to us all the evening in a wonderful style. John goes away on Sunday;
he stays over to-night to be at a dance which some very agreeable people
who are at Cromer--Mr. and Mrs. Windham--are going to give, and which, I
think, must be very pleasant."

"Could anything be more simply delightful? What can the man mean by hinting
that the answer to the question whether Cromer is a choiceworthy place for
a summer holiday is not plainly to be read on the face of this artless
letter?" Such, it is easy to imagine, would be the question asked if the
early Victorian practice continued, if somebody read these pages aloud,
with pauses for comment and criticism, while ladies of various ages
embroidered or contrived trousers for unwilling heathens to wear as a cover
for their natural nakedness and as a testimony of recently acquired
Christianity. My dear Madam, as Thackeray might have said, pause for a
moment and reflect. Are you a Gurney, a Fry, a Buxton? Do you bear any of
the other names, perfectly well known, which are a password to this most
admirable and worthy society? Read also what Mr. Walter Rye has to say on
the same topic. Pray note that the letter is of 1803, but that Mr. Hare's
book, published in 1895, says that the picture of 1803 would serve very
well for a picture of the present day. Have you ever tried, as a stranger,
a summer holiday at a seaside place which has been frequented by the same
families for a few years, let alone a place to which the same families have
resorted for generations, as is the case at Cromer and in its vicinity? Or,
again, have you ever, being a member of such a society, known what it is to
see new families discover the oasis which seemed your very own, and what
have been your feelings towards those new families? Have you not in the
first case felt uncomfortable, a goat among sheep, in the second case
perceived at once that the new-comers were of goat-like nature? In all this
vivid letter there are but two allusions to persons outside the charmed
circle, Miss Gordon and the Windhams. Miss Gordon was clearly a Cromer
institution, and it is probable to the verge of certainty, if only from the
name, that the Windhams were a Norfolk family. Less than ten years before
"William Windham, the statesman and darling of the county" had
distinguished himself, when stoned during an election at Norwich, by
jumping out of his carriage and collaring his assailant. He was the same
William Windham who quelled a mutiny in the local militia by "seizing the
leader and thrashing two of his followers." Such conduct was not, perhaps,
entirely to the mind of the Gurneys and their friends, but, for all that,
the chances are that this Mr. and Mrs. Windham were kinsfolk of one who was
no man of peace at any price.

Cromer seems to me on a priori grounds and, if the truth may be told, "from
information received" also, to be entirely the place for the members of a
justly respected circle, whose title to it is clear and not to be
begrudged, but a place in which a stranger to that circle is, as the common
saying goes, "out of it." It is emphatically a good place for a golfer; but
otherwise, all along this piece of the coast, there is precious little for
the ordinary man or woman to do. There is the sea of course, but the
coastline is too regular and the sea too open to provide that variety of
scenery which gives to little pleasure cruises their chief pleasure. Also,
of course, there are the roads, upon which the motorist may take his
pleasure, and some of them pass through or near places attractive in the
present as they were in the past, nay, even more attractive, since to see
them stir up the memories of the past. But two things must be said. A
seaside place, as a centre for motoring, walking or bicycling, is by its
very essence one-sided or even less. Lay a pen across the map horizontally
at Cromer, and it is plain that there is no way for the motorist towards
more than half the points of the compass. As for the coast scenery, of
which we shall shortly take a considerable sample, it is full of individual
character, the kind of scenery one may visit with pleasure once or twice or
even three times, but, to a man not of Norfolk blood, it seems no more than
that. Such, certainly, is the final impression left by the coast drive to
the west of Cromer, and in Cromer itself are far too many new houses. To
the eastward, especially if the coast be left behind, the scenery is
better, possessed of, if it may be so put, more abiding charm. To the
westward it is more strange, weird and individual than beautiful, and its
weirdness is of the kind inspiring to melancholy, not to awe. This summary
of opinion, however, is in the nature of an anticipation. It shall be
justified piecemeal so soon as we are fairly under way so that a new
chapter can be begun.

Let this chapter close with the last unhappy episode in a supremely happy
tour, with which episode it would be discordant to mix the undiluted
pleasure of the next chapter. We started, for us, rather early; that is to
say we breakfasted at half-past seven and left the hotel door slightly
after eight. All down the zigzag hill into the town the machinery said
nothing at all. There was no reason why it should make any demonstration,
since it had no work to do. Once called upon to work, however, the car soon
began to crackle and to splutter again. There was no room for doubt what
was the matter. Foreign matter had found its way into the petrol tank and
beyond; and it was hard stuff, genuine grit, undissolved by a night's
soaking. Whether the ostler at the "Maid's Head" or he of Bury St. Edmunds
was to blame, and in justice to the former it must be said that it might
have been either, the nuisance was beyond question. It was Sunday morning,
too; it was hardly likely that the repair shops would be of any assistance,
at any rate so early in the morning, and, empty as the streets were then,
it would not have been seemly to begin in them, at about the hour of the
earliest service, an operation which might very likely consume an hour or
more. So up the hill on the far side of the town we crawled--for Cromer
lies in the hollow of a cup--snorting and grunting not a little, in sickly
fashion and with much trouble, as the Latin exercises used to put it, and
out on to the sandy road, leading between sandy and wind-swept fields,
towards Runton.

There, thanking our stars that few wayfarers were astir, we stopped, and
Mr. Johnson, cheerfully remarking that those who could be of no help,
because there is only room for one big man face upwards under a car, had
better go for a little walk and see some of the country, addressed himself
with a smile and a half-groan to his odious task with its infinite
possibilities in the way of black and viscous lubricant dropping into his
hair or on to his face. In this posture I left him, his legs alone visible,
for a little tour of inspection; but there was no temptation to prolong it.

A walk of a hundred yards or two along a bank, covered sparsely with harsh
and wiry grass, and dividing two fields, both equally poverty-stricken,
brought me to the crumbling edge of a sandy cliff, not high enough to
impose by its grandeur, not rugged enough to please by its outline. Below
was a beach of sand, beyond that the smooth, grey, hazy sea with not a
vessel of any kind visible on its sluggish surface. To the westward was
Runton, a conglomeration of commonplace brick houses, glaringly new,
obviously intended for lodgings. A windmill and its house were the only
buildings in any way calculated to give satisfaction to the eye. From there
it roved on to undulating hills, probably of sand, as indeed was everything
else except the raw houses of Runton. Rambling, in this Poppy Land _sans_
poppies, seemed weary, flat, stale and unprofitable. A return to the car
revealed Mr. Johnson still in the back position, as riflemen say, and
sundry stray bits of the car and tools lying on the road by his side. A
glance at him, obtained by crouching, showed him to be much hotter, much
dirtier than before, more smilingly determined than ever, if possible, to
make nothing of his personal trouble. He was not so much a good man
fighting against adversity as a master of science wrestling with a problem
he knew that he could solve in time: and solve it with triumph he did. A
few minutes more and he half wriggled half rolled into the open road,
dusty, but jubilant, holding a little piece of pipe some five inches long
and of infinitesimal bore in his hand. "Here is the little brute," he said,
with a gentle smile--and then made his one mistake of the day, and it cost
him dear. Just touching one end of the pipe with his lips, and holding his
hollowed palm by the other end, he blew one breath. Out came the
obstruction, hardly bigger than a snapdragon seed, surely the tiniest
little imp of a particle that ever hampered the circulation of a mighty
machine. The mechanical trouble was over for ever, or at any rate for that
expedition. A very few minutes sufficed to prepare the car for the road
again, and she accomplished over two hundred miles more that day without,
so to speak, turning a hair. So did the man who cured her, because he knew
her complaint to a nicety; but he was in my company all that day until
seven or eight in the evening and the thoroughly abominable taste of petrol
was in his mouth to the end. In fact

    You may rinse with raw brandy your mouth if you will,
    But the reek of the petrol will cling to it still.

Such is a valuable little piece of experience gained by proxy. The morals
are three and obvious. First, every tank or funnel should be fitted with an
irremovable strainer. Secondly, if this be not so, superintend refilling
yourself and see that a temporary strainer is used. Thirdly, if grit does
get into the petrol through omission of these precautions, and blowing a
pipe becomes necessary, wrap up the mouth of that pipe with care, or
preferably get somebody else, and best of all an idle bystander, to do the
blowing for you. For this service, if rendered by a boy, a shilling is a
sufficient recompense, and you may depart at your leisure; but if it be
done by a man, especially if he be large and rough, give him half a crown,
and stand not on the order of your going.

[Illustration: BLAKENEY--A CHARACTERISTIC LANDSCAPE]




CHAPTER XII

A PRIORY--GREAT HOUSES AND THE FENS

     Troubles over--Road viâ Lower Sheringham, Salthouse,
     Cley-next-Sea, Blakeney, Stiffkey and
     Wells-next-Sea--Impressive
     desolation--Wells--Binham--The building and making of
     Holkham--"Coke of Norfolk"--The
     Cokes--Walsingham--Remains and history--The
     Shrine--Ecclesiastical trickery and temporal
     gain--Froude quoted--Ceremonial at the shrine--Its
     miraculous transportation--Houghton--The Walpoles--Sir
     Robert's pictures--Horace Walpole and Strawberry
     Hill--The mad Lord Orford--His ruling passion--Stag
     "four-in-hand"--The hounds pursue--Motor-cars many in
     these parts--Fakenham--Lynn--Glanced at in the
     rain--The Fens--Kinship of the Useful and the
     Romantic--The beauty of the Fens actually, and enhanced
     by imagination--The great reclaimers--Resistance of the
     old Fenmen--Charles Kingsley quoted--"The inspiration
     of God"--To Ely and Cambridge--The "Bull"
     unready--Homeward bound and a narrow
     escape--Motor-cyclist towing a girl on a bicycle--A
     wicked practice--Value of care in motorist.


From this point we never looked back, as the saying goes, mechanically. Our
troubles were over, and we looked forward to our drive along the north
coast of Norfolk with intense eagerness. It is a pleasure in retrospect
now, but it was not quite the same sort of pleasure as had been anticipated
in previous topographical innocence. The road we had taken designedly on
leaving Cromer, when it was determined to follow the sea as closely as
possible, left Felbrigg and Sheringham, justly beloved of artists, on one
side, passed through Lower Sheringham, Weybourne, Salthouse, Cley-next-Sea,
Blakeney, and Stiffkey to Wells-next-Sea. They were not in themselves
particularly interesting villages, although I remember that at one of
them--I think it was Weybourne--to which the road winds inwards from the
sea a little, and where there is some shelter of a hill from the salt
winds, there were fine trees about the church, and another little church,
on the left-hand side of the road at Blakeney, had one full-sized tower at
the west end and another funny little tower at the east end. The prevailing
impression left by the whole drive is of impressive desolation. The road,
dead flat for the most part, but not half bad in point of surface, runs as
close to the sea as its makers dared to lay it. On the right, as one
journeys westward, are wide stretches, half sea and half marsh; on the left
is a range of low hills. Sometimes it is close at hand, at others it
recedes a little, and the space between the road and the hills is again a
species of half marsh. The streams, running parallel to the road often,
have a look of being partly tidal. The sides of the road are guarded by a
fence, the bottom part of which clearly shows that at spring tides,
especially if they be aggravated by the wind, the sea must flow over the
road also; else whence came that fringe of withered seaweed hanging round
the bottom of the fence? Small wonder that the folk in these parts have
preserved, in Cley-next-Sea and in Wells-next-Sea, the reminder that the
sea is close at hand. It is with them always, threatening them, devouring
their land, strewing their flat shore with wreckage. From Cley for some
miles to the westward extends a bill of sandy land, not very high,
enclosing a long lagoon, apparently very shallow, and the outlook over this
lagoon, with the dreary ridge of land broken, if memory serves correctly,
only by a lighthouse, is intensely and absolutely characteristic. One feels
no sort of desire to see it again unless indeed it is, as by its appearance
it well might be, a haunt of wildfowl worth shooting; but at the same time
it is good to have seen it once in order to know what this scenery of the
most remote and northerly district of Norfolk is like, and to realize the
kind of life which its scanty population must lead. They live face to face
with Nature in her sourest mood, Nature never majestic, except when the
storms come from the northward, smiling but a hard smile when the sun
shines. In fact, this is a stretch of land, when it is worthy of the name,
dismal as the mind of man can conceive.

When you get to Wells-next-Sea, where the houses are plain but of some age,
and there is a little port on a winding creek, the aspect of the country
changes for the better; or rather it so changed for us, because we
determined to give the coast up and to take the inland road viâ Fakenham
and Flitcham for King's Lynn. For this route there was ample reason close
at hand, in Holkham Hall, Walsingham, Binham Abbey, and Houghton, about all
of which a good deal must needs be said with as little tedium, be it hoped,
as possible. Before saying it, however, it may be as well to state that in
another chapter, and that the last, King's Lynn will be treated as an
imaginary centre for many little drives. Imagination, since it has happened
to me often to stay at Lynn for many days together and to explore the
surrounding country and roads, will not be severely taxed, and the method
is adopted for the convenience of writer and reader. In this chapter we
have before us the historic houses just named and, after them, the Fens
from Lynn to Cambridge. These last we drive through in the early afternoon,
taking in the character of them better than on any previous occasion. So
the material for this chapter is at least ample. If we added to it Castle
Rising, the birthplace of Nelson, the Sandringham country, divine in its
kind, Hunstanton, Brancaster, and King's Lynn last of all, the chapter
must run to unwieldly and intolerable length.

At Binham we have part of the Benedictine abbey, enveloped in ivy and part
still used as a church, a very fine piece of unspoiled Norman work. For
Holkham, _Abbeys, Castles and Ancient Halls_, by Mr. John Timbs and Mr.
Alexander Gunn, is a treasure-house of information. Holkham is Hoeligham,
"Holy Home," and it was the work of the famous Kent under the direction of
Thomas Coke, Lord Leicester, who himself spent many years in Italy studying
the works of Palladio. "Coke of Norfolk," as the Lord Leicester of George
II's time was called, was emphatically a landowner who deserved to be
magnificently housed. An inscription over the entrance to the Great Hall
records the fact that "this seat, on an open, barren estate, was planned,
planted, built, decorated and inhabited in the middle of the eighteenth
century by Thomas Coke, Earl of Leicester." It naturally does not record
the fact that the barren estate, for such it was, is now, mainly by virtue
of Coke of Norfolk's sagacity in planting, one of the most nobly timbered
to be found anywhere in the kingdom and a perfect paradise for game first
and for those who shoot game later. In one respect the great Lord Coke's
plans were changed, one might almost write providentially. It had been
intended to build the outside of the Hall of Bath stone, but an earth was
found in a neighbouring parish which produced bricks of much the same
colour as Bath stone, but heavier and closer in texture. That was as it
should be. Coke of Norfolk had bought much of the land and, by enclosing,
cultivating and planting, had practically made it. It was part of the
fitness of things that a "mansion of almost peerless magnificence, as far
as its noble proportions, its gorgeous decorations, and its art and
literary treasures" were concerned, should be built out of bricks baked
out of Norfolk earth. The Hall stands in a spacious but level park, and a
glimpse of it may be had from the road. In the middle is a great
quadrangular block having, at each angle, a wing, 70 ft. by 60 ft.,
connected with the central block by a corridor. The wings are: the
stranger's wing, the family wing, the chapel wing, and the kitchen wing.
The library and the MSS. rooms are in the family wing; the gallery of
statues and the state apartments are in the central block. This is 114 ft.
by 62 ft., its most noble feature being the hall, suggested to Lord
Leicester by Palladio's plan for a Court of Justice, and having a gallery
round three sides of it. Of the pictures the most notable are Claude's
Apollo and Marsyas in a landscape, and other landscapes, Vandykes,
Poussins, a Raphael, and a Rubens. There is also a group of nineteen
figures by Michael Angelo. The manuscripts are of great value and
curiosity, and contain, amongst other things, the papers of the great Chief
Justice. In fact, Holkham is, in itself, for its contents, and for the
story of its creation, one of the most wonderful places in this marvellous
England of ours; and that is why so much is here written concerning it in a
book whose author is not at all eager to pry into the houses of other and
greater men.

Who were these Cokes who attained so much magnificence? That is a natural
question. The name is first traceable in a deed of 1206, referring to a
Coke of Didlington. From him descended Edward Coke, the commentator on
Littleton, who was Attorney-General, Speaker of the House of Commons, and
Chief Justice of the King's Bench in 1613. Oddly enough, from our modern
point of view, it was after this that he was elected member for
Buckinghamshire, and drafted and moved the Petition of Rights. No doubt he
made a great deal of money himself; he acquired more by marrying first one
of the Pastons, and after her death, the Lady Elizabeth Cecil, daughter of
the first Earl of Exeter. Such was the real founder of the family, who
bought, or acquired by inheritance, much of the existing Holkham estate.
His grandson died unmarried, and the estate fell to a kinsman, Henry Coke,
of Thorington. From him sprung Sir Thomas Coke, the first Earl of
Leicester, whose son died in 1739, when the peerage became extinct. But the
estate went to Sir Thomas Coke's nephew, Wenham Roberts, who naturally took
the name of Coke, and also naturally called his son Thomas; and this son
was "Coke of Norfolk," "the handsome Englishman," as he was called at Rome,
in whose favour the peerage was most justly revived. It was due not so much
to his magnificence as to his service to agriculture. "All the country from
_Holkham_ to _Houghton_ was a wild sheep-walk," writes Arthur Young,
"before the spirit of improvement seized the inhabitants; and this spirit
has wrought amazing effects; for instead of boundless wilds and
uncultivated wastes, inhabited by scarcely anything but sheep, the country
is all cut up into enclosures, cultivated in a most husbandlike manner,
richly manured, well-peopled, and yielding an hundred times the produce
that it did in its former state. What has wrought these great works is the
marling; for under the whole country run veins of a very rich kind, which
they dig up, and spread upon the old sheep-walks, and then by means of
inclosing they throw their farms into a regular course of crops, and gain
immensely by the improvement." For this Coke of Norfolk was principally
responsible, and for this his name deserves all honour.

At Walsingham the remains of the Priory are interesting: a magnificent
door, a gateway, the walls, windows and arches of the refectory, a Norman
arch with zigzag mouldings--the rest of the remains are later, Decorated
and Perpendicular. But the record of the foundation and of the pilgrimages
to the shrine, which was second only to Canterbury in importance, is much
more entertaining. First the Chapel of the Virgin was founded by the widow
of Richoldie, the mother of Geoffrey de Favraches. (Of course everybody
knows all about them!) Then Geoffrey himself started on a pilgrimage to the
Holy Sepulchre, having previously executed a deed in which granted "to God
and St. Mary, and to Edwy, his clerk," the chapel which his mother
Richoldie had built at Walsingham, and other real property, to the intent
that Edwy should establish a priory there. The supreme treasure was a
relic, the alleged milk of the Virgin, purchased, as an inscription seen by
Erasmus high upon a wall stated, from an old woman at Constantinople with
an assurance that it was far superior to any other relic of the same kind,
as it alone had been taken from the breast, the other having fallen to the
ground first. It was enclosed in crystal and set in a crucifix. This, says
the matter-of-fact Erasmus, occasionally looked like chalk, mixed with the
white of eggs, and was quite solid. That the more pilgrims, the richer the
better, might be attracted to visit this relic and to lay down their
offerings, often very costly, it was stated by the monks that the Milky Way
in the firmament pointed to Walsingham. So it did no doubt, so it does on
occasion now, and to a lot of other places besides. "The Virgin and her
Son, as they made their salute, also appeared to Erasmus and his friend, to
give them a nod of approbation."

The sentence last quoted, wherein the meaning is a great deal clearer than
the construction, comes from Messrs. Timbs and Gunn. Let me place side by
side with it another quotation from Froude's lecture on "Times of Erasmus
and Luther." "The rule of the Church was, nothing for nothing. At a chapel
in Saxony there was an image of a Virgin and Child. If a worshipper came in
with a good handsome offering, the child bowed and was gracious; if the
present was unsatisfactory it turned away its head, and withheld its
favours till the purse-strings were untied again. There was a great rood or
crucifix of the same kind at Boxley, in Kent, where the pilgrims went in
thousands. This figure used to bow, too, when it was pleased; and a good
sum of money was sure to secure its good will. When the Reformation came,
and the police looked into the matter, the images were found to be worked
with wires and pulleys. The German lady was kept as a curiosity in the
cabinet of the Elector of Saxony. Our Boxley Rood was brought up and
exhibited in Cheapside, and was afterwards torn to pieces by the people."
No sort of disrespect towards the Roman Catholic religion is involved in
recording this absolutely true statement of historical fact. The trick
described was undoubtedly played upon pilgrims in Saxony and in Kent;
whether it was justifiable from some points of view matters not at all. The
Roman Catholic religion is a great truth, may conceivably be the most exact
and precise truth, behind all this kind of thing. It is considerably more
than likely that similar devices were employed at Walsingham. They may even
have been employed by ecclesiastics otherwise blameless, for the rules of
professional practice still occasionally justify strange conduct, or seem
to justify it. But the evidence, if there was any, was destroyed at the
Dissolution, when Thomas Cromwell took the sacred image away to Chelsea,
and burned it. Henry VIII on this occasion, by the way, got some of his own
back. He, too, like other kings and queens, native and foreign, had made
the pilgrimage to Walsingham before his quarrel with Rome, and had walked
the last four miles or so, from Barsham, barefooted. _Quære_, whether, when
a king was on pilgrimage bent, the roads were spread with soft sand as they
are now, with sand and gravel, when King Edward is going to make a progress
in London. Henry gave an offering in the shape of a priceless necklace; but
he secured it again in later life, and may even have given it to one of the
wives, of whom, it may be remembered, he had several.

[Illustration: WALSINGHAM PRIORY]

An account of the ceremonies used, quoted again from Messrs. Timbs and
Gunn, is not without interest. "The pilgrim who arrived at Walsingham
entered the sacred precinct by a narrow wicket. It was purposely made
difficult to pass, as a precaution against the robberies which were
frequently committed at the shrine. On the gate in which the wicket opened
was nailed a copper image of a knight on horseback, whose miraculous
preservation by the Virgin formed the subject of one of the numerous
legendary stories with which the place abounded. To the east of the gate,
within, stood a small chapel, where the pilgrim was allowed, for money, to
kiss a gigantic bone, said to have been the finger-bone of St. Peter. After
this he was conducted to a building thatched with reeds and straw,
inclosing two wells in high repute for indigestion and headaches; and also
for the rare virtue of ensuring to the votary, within certain limits,
whatever he might wish for at the time of drinking their water. The
building itself was said to have been transported through the air many
centuries before, in a deep snow; and as a proof of it, the visitor's
attention was gravely pointed to an old bearskin attached to one of the
beams. The 'Tweyne Wells,' called also 'the Wishing Wells,' an anonymous
ballad speaks of:--

    A chappel of Saynt Laurence standeth now there
    Fast by, tweyne wallys, experience do thus and lore;
    There she (the widow) thought to have sette this chappel,
    Which was begun by our Ladie's Counsel.
    All night the wedowe permayning in this prayer,
    Our blessed Ladie with blessed minystrys,
    Herself being her chief artificer,
    Arrered this sayde house with Angells handys,
    And not only rered it but sette in there it is,
    That is twyne hundred feet more in distance
    From the first place folk make remembraince."

Of a very truth, as Froude said, "The world is so changed that we can
hardly recognize it as the same." Imagination retires baffled from the
effort to picture kings and queens walking barefoot over primitive Norfolk
roads, passing through a wild waste too, for Coke of Norfolk was not yet
born, to go through these ceremonies and to present their gifts. Erasmus,
with his tongue in his cheek, is easily conjured up; so are the robbers
whom the shrine attracted. But why were there not any number of pilgrims in
the sceptical mood of Erasmus? There seem to have been plenty of robbers.

We pass (the roads hereabout are flat as the sands of the sea, the land
about them richly timbered, and there is nothing else to be said of them)
from the ruins of a religious house to one indissolubly associated with the
names of two men, each exceptionally worldly, each in his own singular way,
and with that of one remarkably eccentric. Houghton Hall was built by Sir
Robert Walpole from the designs of Colin Campbell, while the former was
Prime Minister, and Ripley, say Messrs. Timbs and Gunn (who speak with
authority), undoubtedly improved on Colin Campbell. Pope, it is true,
wrote:--

    Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool,
    And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.

    *...*...*...*

    So Ripley, till his destined space is filled,
    Heaps bricks on bricks and fancies 'tis to build.

Pope, always bitter and not a little of a snob, was hardly likely to have a
good word to say for an architect who had been a working carpenter. It is
true, too, that Lady Hervey wrote in 1765: "I saw Houghton, which is the
most triste, melancholy, fine place I ever beheld. 'Tis a heavy, ugly,
black building, with an ugly black stone. The Hall, saloon, and gallery
very fine; the rest not in the least so." Time, it may be, has given the
stone mellowness; certain it is that Houghton now, in spite of a certain
pretentiousness of Ionic columns, is really pleasing.

Of Houghton's most noted masters, the Walpoles, a few words must be said,
but of two of them not many, for they are well known to all. The first Lord
Orford was Sir Robert Walpole, the great Prime Minister who believed in
letting well alone, in corruption as a method of Government, in the
venality of all men, and in the collection of pictures. It is curious, but
true, that this most sagacious statesman was, in a scholarly age, no
scholar, and that this fastidious connoisseur of Art was, in a coarse age,
exceptionally plain spoken and free-living. When the then Lord Townshend
heard that Lord Orford was at Houghton he made a rule of leaving Rainham
and Norfolk himself. The second Lord Orford was of no account. Of the third
I shall write a little more here than of the fourth, because the
eccentricities of the third are not so well known as are many of the
details, whimsical rather than eccentric, of Horace Walpole, the fourth and
last Lord Orford.

Sir Robert Walpole collected pictures by Guido, Vandyke, Claude, Rubens,
Rembrandt, Salvator Rosa, Teniers, Paul Veronese, Wouvermans, Titian,
Poussin, Snyders--in a word, by most of the best of the old masters, and
housed them in his majestic Norfolk home, girt by a park whose trees
testify to this day to his skill in planting. Horace Walpole, who had loved
Houghton in his youth, himself wrote in after life a catalogue of these
pictures and a description of the apartments in which they hung. The first
Lord Orford slept with his fathers--they had been Walpoles of Walpole in
Marshland since the time of Richard I--and his son reigned in his stead.
Meanwhile his youngest son Horace, of whom it has been suspected on good
grounds that he was not truly the son of the Prime Minister, lived that
curious life in that curious house, Strawberry Hill, details of which are
known to many because they have passed into English literature. He was the
best letter-writer of modern times, or of nearly modern times, and his
eccentricities are easily forgiven. He could afford them by virtue of two
sinecures for life which his all-powerful father had secured for him; and
he appears to have been perfectly happy building and altering his toy
palace, collecting all sorts of curios, writing the most charming letters
to his lady friends, writing for the press also (and childishly vain of his
work), and hardly dreaming that he might succeed to the estate and the
title. Even when, after the death of the second earl, the property fell to
his eccentric son, Horace Walpole hardly seems to me to have realized that
he might some day succeed to the title and the estate. He was growing to be
an old man. His grief over the sale of the celebrated gallery was not that
of an expectant heir.

What of the third earl, who died without issue, and so left Horace Walpole
to be the fourth and last Lord Orford? The world at large knows him as the
madman who sold the first Lord Orford's unparalleled collection of pictures
to Catherine of Russia. But he did many madder things than that for,
commercially speaking, he did not make a bad bargain over the sale of the
pictures, for which he received more than his father had given. In him the
English love of sport ran to insane excess. Indeed it even brought him to
his death. At a time when he was under restraint the date came when his
greyhound Czarina was matched to run a course. Devoted to coursing as he
had always been, he determined to be present and, with the cunning of a
madman, he jumped out of a window while his attendant was out of the room,
ran to the stable, saddled his favourite pony, a piebald, galloped to the
scene of the match, refused to go home in spite of all entreaties, saw
Czarina win, fell from his saddle, and died there and then. George, third
earl, could not have died more appropriately, nor, from his own point of
view, more happily. He was mad, of course, very mad indeed; but he was a
thorough sportsman. Perhaps the maddest and at the same time most sporting
thing he did was to train four stags to go four-in-hand. "He had reduced
the deer to perfect discipline and, as he sat in his phaeton and drove the
handsome animals, he, no doubt, fancied he was performing no inconsiderable
achievement." If the writer of that pompous sentence tried to break four
stags, or even a pair, to harness with his own hands, he would not have
much doubt of the quality of the achievement; that is assuming he survived
the effort. But the stag four-in-hand almost brought Lord Orford to a
sporting death before his time. He was driving his strange team to
Newmarket, where he was a familiar figure, when a pack of hounds came
across the scent and gave chase in full cry. The sequel, except for Lord
Orford, must have been simply paralysingly funny. Picture it for a moment.
Think of the stags, thoroughly panic-stricken, no longer trotting, but
tearing along the road with huge bounds; of Lord Orford helpless on the box
as the phaeton leapt and swayed; of the hounds racing behind and of the
savage music of their cry. It was, it must have been, a sight for gods and
men; and many men saw it; for the run ended in the yard of the "Ram" at
Newmarket, where phaeton, stags, and noble driver disappeared into a barn
and the doors were shut in the face of the clamouring pack. Surely this is
the maddest, funniest true story that ever was told, and the oddest part
about it is that Lord Orford was not then and there clapped into a
madhouse. Yet one cannot help feeling a lurking regard for this mad
sportsman. His foibles are more to the taste of some of us than the
affectations of Horace Walpole.

By the road over which the mad Earl of Orford used to career with his
extraordinary team, over which Horace Walpole doubtless drove when he left
his beloved London and "Strawberry"--for so he called it "all short"--to
fight an election at Lynn, we also drove in a chariot which, to the
eighteenth-century Norfolkian, would have seemed just as strange as the
phaeton and four stags would appear to us in the twentieth. The motor-car,
however, attracts less attention in north-western Norfolk, perhaps, than in
any other part of the kingdom; for at Sandringham are many motor-cars of
many makes, and some there are at the Cottage also. This part of the
country learned before others did the elementary truth that there is no
essential connection between speed and peril, and it was good for
automobolism that an object-lesson should have been given in this respect
by the magnificent cars, Daimlers for the most part, of him whom the law
regards as incapable of offence, because he is the spring and source of the
law itself. Of this country of heather, bracken, fir and oak, of glorious
gorse and of glowing rhododendrons, of the numerous acclivities and
declivities, sufficient to give variety to the scene without trying the
powers of any competent car, of its air, an incomparably sweet mixture of
the breaths of the sea and of the moorland, little will be said at this
moment, for the simple reason that, in the next and final chapter, I hope
to be able to give an impression of its beauties at many times of the year,
from the point of view of a frequent eye-witness.

The whole distance from Wells to King's Lynn, by way of Fakenham, which was
our way, is a generous thirty miles; but the going was so good and the
roads were so clear that we entered the great square of the old-fashioned
Lynn a little too early for luncheon, having regard to the fact that
engagements in the world which we had put out of sight began to bulk rather
large in the near future. The single town of any interest we passed through
before reaching Lynn was Fakenham; and we agreed with Mr. Rye that it is "a
particularly clean and pleasant market town, with several good
old-fashioned inns, especially the 'Crown.'" That is to say the first
statement is endorsed from experience; as to the second the responsibility
rests with Mr. Rye. Here also, for those who care to halt, is a singularly
fine church showing many a crowned "L" in stone to testify that Fakenham
was once the head-quarters in Norfolk of the Duchy of Lancaster. As for
Lynn, some of us had visited it before, one had sojourned in it long (but
his tale is postponed), and time, as has been mentioned, began to press a
little. Drifting on the roads, careless of where you shall eat or where
sleep, is delightful, but for most of us it cannot go on indefinitely, and
therein, probably, consists its chief charm. It is of the essence of a
"treat," to use the good old word of childhood, that it should be more or
less exceptional. So, at King's Lynn, we did but halt for a space at the
"Globe" in the corner of the wide and cobbled square and, although a little
rain began to fall, compel the new-comers to walk about a little, and look
at the narrow streets, the estuary of the Ouse, and the Custom-house. The
compulsion had better have been omitted, for Lynn with its streets empty of
people, with the rain falling, and with the tide out, assuredly does not
allure, and that was the state of things on this Sunday morning in April.
In other circumstances, as it is hoped to prove ere long, Lynn and its
people are much more attractive.

So the halt was not prolonged and, the rain abating, we started on the
drive of forty-five miles roughly for Ely and Cambridge. It took us through
the heart of the East Anglian Fens, and the day was one in which the spirit
of them entered into me, or perhaps I, having set my mind thereto, entered
into their spirit. Of a truth the task was one presenting little
difficulty, so far as the general mood was concerned. For me, at any rate,
there has never been any real gulf between the useful and the romantic. To
one nurtured at the foot of the mighty amphitheatre of the Penrhyn Slate
Quarries, scooped out from the heart of a mountain, rising in purple tiers
of Cyclopean scale, the work of man, so long as it be grand in outline and
in purpose, has always seemed to possess an entrancing beauty of its own.
Men live who find the Fens flat and uninteresting. They demand our
compassion, by no means our censure or our scorn. One does not despise a
blind man because he cannot see; and these men simply suffer from partial
blindness, physical and mental. There is, beyond all question, a beauty of
the Fens as they are, appealing to the eye alone; they had another beauty
for the eye in their original state, original that is to say so far as
human history reaches, and of the nature of that original beauty a
miniature presentment may be seen still at Wicken Fen, which lies between
the Isle of Ely and Newmarket Heath. Happy is the man or woman who can
rejoice in both of these aspects of the Fenland. Happier still, because
more intelligently charmed, are those who, while they travel through the
rich cornland, following the banks of rivers whose waters run at a level
higher than those of the surrounding fields, can picture to themselves the
scene as it was before the skill and the courage of man made the good wheat
grow where the reeds once waved, made firm pasture for sleek cattle out of
the quagmire, caused domestic fowls to thrive in the sometime domain of the
bittern and the heron. Men never tire of singing the praises of the Dutch
who, by dogged courage and centuries of unrelaxing effort, made a country
for themselves, a country to which they cling with a love passing the love
of women. The conquest of the Fens, begun, so far as we know, by the
Romans, was, in its way, an enterprise of equal nobility and courage, and
Vermuyden, Francis, Duke of Bedford, and Rennie deserve credit great as any
given to any Dutch engineer. The details are perhaps dull; they would
certainly be out of place here; the result is grand, a colossal gain for
humanity which can best be realized and valued, be admired most cordially
and warmly, as one rolls along solid roads where the Fenman of old stalked
gingerly on stilts.

Who will not remember the last words of Kingsley's _Hereward the Wake_,
when they are quoted?

"Let us send over to Normandy for a fair white stone of Caen, and let us
carve a tomb worthy of thy grand-parents."

"And what shall we write thereon?"

"What but that which is there already? 'Here lies the last of the
English.'"

"Not so. We will write, 'Here lies the last of the old English.' But upon
thy tomb, when thy time comes, the monks of Crowland shall write, 'Here
lies the first of the new English; who, by the inspiration of God, began to
drain the Fens.'"

Here is absolute truth of sentiment, and to say this is by no means to deny
sympathetic appreciation of the dogged resistance offered by the Fenmen of
many generations to those who rescued the Fens from the condition of a
watery wilderness. Of course the Fenmen hated the very idea of the
subjugation of the Marshland. Their feeling towards those who began the
long and arduous work differed only in degree from that with which the
savage inhabitants of a new country--new to us, that is to say--regard the
advance of civilization. They were not savages, but they were hard men and
hardy, for only the fittest survived the agues and the fevers, accustomed
to a free out-door life, having its pleasures no less than its trials. Let
me quote Kingsley:--

"Overhead the arch of heaven spread more ample than elsewhere, as over the
open sea; and that vastness gave, and still gives, such cloudlands, such
sunrises, such sunsets, as can be seen nowhere else within these isles.
They might well have been star worshippers, those Gervii, had their sky
been clear as that of the East; but they were like to have worshipped the
clouds rather than the stars, according to the too universal law, that
mankind worship the powers which do them harm, rather than the powers
which do them good. Their priestly teachers, too, had darkened still
further their notion of the world around, as accursed by sin and swarming
with evil spirits. The gods and fairies of their old mythology had been
transformed by the Church into fiends, alluring or loathsome, but all alike
destructive to man, against whom the soldier of God, the celibate monk,
fought day and night with relics, Agnus Dei, and sign of Holy Cross. And
therefore the Danelagh men, who feared not mortal sword or axe, feared
witches, ghosts, Pucks, Wills-o'-the-Wisp, Werewolves, spirits of the wells
and the trees, and all dark, capricious and harmful beings whom their fancy
called up out of the wild, wet, and unwholesome marshes, or the dark,
wolf-haunted woods. For that fair land, like all things on earth, had its
dark aspect. The foul exhalations of the autumn called up fever and ague,
crippling and enervating, and tempting, almost compelling, to that wild and
desperate drinking which was the Scandinavian's special sin. Dark and sad
were those short autumn days, when all the distances were shut off, and the
air reeked with foul brown fog and drenching rains from the eastern sea;
and pleasant the bursting forth of the keen north-east wind, with all its
whirling snowstorms. For though it sent men hurrying into the storm, to
drive the cattle in from the fen, and lift the sheep out of the
snow-wreaths, and now and then never to return, lost in mist and mire, in
ice and snow; yet all knew that after the snow would come the keen frost
and bright sun and cloudless blue sky, and the Fenman's yearly holiday,
when, work being impossible, all gave themselves up to play, and swarmed
upon the ice on skates and sledges, to run races, township against
township, or visit old friends forty miles away; and met everywhere faces
as bright and ruddy as their own, cheered by the keen wind of that dry and
bracing frost."

Tumultuously eloquent Kingsley gives here an impression which, as an
overture to the stirring story of _Hereward the Wake_ may not have been
guiltless of anachronism; but it suits our purpose the better. He is too
severe, in this case as in others, on the Roman Catholic clergy. Most
likely the Gervii were not immigrants from oversea, not historical
immigrants at any rate. Their traditions, it may well be, were of that
Druidism which the Romans understood so little. Outlaws and desperate men,
Saxon and Dane, naturally drifted to the Fens, bringing in their own
traditions, and became one people with them. Sledges the denizens of the
Fens doubtless used, and snowshoes perhaps, in the days of Hereward, when
the Fens were indeed the last stronghold of the English; but one would like
to see some kind of evidence for skates. As for the merrymaking on the ice,
the friendly visits and the like, the chances are that they were as much
the products of a happy imagination as the ancient Fenman's joy in the wild
north-easter. Life really was hard and lonely for him. He probably cursed
the north-easter as heartily as a rheumatic man does now, and if he
welcomed the frost it was because it enabled him to approach and kill the
more easily the wild birds with which the Fens teemed. In the main he was
hunter, fisher, fowler, and that was why he resisted civilization.
Junketings on the ice belonged to a later period altogether. Oliver
Cromwell resisted the reclamation of the Fens because he thought he saw in
it a subtle device of the great to enrich themselves. The Fenman resisted
it because he was a fowler and a fisher, and the draining reduced the area
of his happy hunting grounds and of the waters of which he was free and
out of which he could make a scanty living. Men might call him "slodger,"
"yellow-belly"--the first word sounds like the very quintessence of churned
mud, the second is eloquent of sickness--and he might grumble at the
hardships of his lot. Still he knew no other way of living. He could snare
the myriad wildfowl, many of them no longer known in England, which haunted
the fastnesses of the reeds as no other man could. He knew the flight of
each kind at every hour of the day and at every season of the year. No man
so cunningly as he could capture the mighty luce or pike, noosing him
sometimes, at others, and especially in winter, catching him with baits,
craftily let down through a hole in the ice, or could so artfully trap the
fat eels wherewith the clergy of Ely or of Crowland might turn a fast in
the letter into a feast in the spirit. With his stilts and his leaping pole
he could travel over the marshes with the most astonishing celerity; but
that he enjoyed his life so keenly as Kingsley would have us believe is in
the last degree unlikely.

Still the Fenman knew the life, and he knew his powers. He had no ambition
to drive the slow oxen, to turn the fertile furrow, to garner the golden
grain. Indifferent to questions of national welfare he was, as of course.
The rustic of to-day is absolutely indifferent to considerations of the
kind. He likes to see the straw so heavy that it cannot be cut by machines,
laid by storms so that the sickle must needs be employed, because that
means more work for men. Time was, and that not so very long ago, when,
following the example of the artisans and weavers of manufacturing England,
Hodge rioted and broke up the thrashing machines and the like, which did
the work of twenty men and more. "It stands to reason," he used to say,
"that such newfangled notions are bad for the likes of us." It stood to
reason, from the Fenman's point of view, that to drain the Fens would be to
leave him without the only occupation for which he was fit; it probably
never occurred to him that he might adapt himself to altered circumstances
and become a regular worker, tied to fixed hours, instead of an amphibious
wanderer, fowling and fishing when he pleased, or when necessity drove him
to exertion. Who shall blame him? Certainly not the sportsman, the
naturalist, or the botanist, who have felt a pang of regret as they have
watched, elsewhere than in the Fens it may be, the marsh that always held
snipe, from which the bittern has been known to rise, in the recesses of
which some almost extinct herb survived, converted into a fruitful field.
Yet what man familiar with the life of the country has not felt these
regrets, even while he knew all the time that the change was for the public
good and that his own livelihood would not be directly affected? Is it
possible, then, not to sympathize with the resistance of the Fenmen, who
knew nothing of "the public good" and saw their livelihood, or the chance
of obtaining it, destroyed before their helpless eyes. It was the old
story. One man's meat is another man's poison all the world over and for
all time; and there can be no progress, no wholesale and beneficial change
in the ways of life, without much incidental tribulation. Nevertheless,
when all things are weighed in the balance, not a scintilla of doubt
remains that the draining of the Fens was begun and continued, as the old
knight in _Hereward the Wake_ said, "by the inspiration of God." It
banished a few birds; but we could better spare a few kinds of birds than
preserve them with the fevers and the agues which were the inseparable
accident of their haunts. It was the end of the "slodgers" and the
"yellow-bellies," who were but a handful of men; but in their place are
thousands of human beings who, in spite of agricultural troubles which the
drainers of the Fens could not by any means have foreseen, are at least
sufficiently clad and fed, and decently housed.

It is not always, it is not indeed often, that the reflections appropriate
to a scene throng into one's mind when that scene is visited. Sometimes, at
the foot of Niagara, for example, thoughts refuse to come into the mind at
all; it is only afterwards that with Dickens one reflects, it was surely
only afterwards he reflected, that the one abiding impression left by
Niagara is the remembrance from time to time that a like mass of water is
still falling, and falling, and falling, yesterday to-day and for ever.
But, in relation to the Fens, I can truthfully say that most of these
thoughts ran through my mind as we rolled along the road. Details of course
did not. I had forgotten about Sir Cornelius Vermuyden and Rennie, but I
remembered the great deeds of the House of Bedford and boyhood's delight in
Hereward. As the road followed the sinuous bank of cabined Ouse, as I
looked at the flat fields of rich black soil in which the corn showed green
or of pasture springing into life, I felt to realize that on these very
places the reeds had whispered and, as Sir Bedivere said to King Arthur, so
man might have reported, to Hereward if you will, "Nought heard I, save the
waves wap and the waters wan." Each church with its hamlet rose a little
above the general level of the plain, making it the easier to understand
that each stood on firm ground, once an island among the marshes, upon
which the church had set her beacon light. If Downham Church, which we
passed, might be taken as a sample--and it may be with safety--then the
more leisurely topographers who have gone before are abundantly justified
in saying that the churches of the Fen country are of an uncommon
stateliness and beauty. This place, by the way, shares with North Walsham
the honour of having taken a share in the education of Nelson.

With such thoughts flooding into the mind we were quickly, or seemed to be
quickly, at Ely, of which something has been written before, and no more
shall be written. The road thence to Cambridge needs no fresh description,
and at Cambridge, for our purposes, the account of this expedition might
end but for one small incident of a doubly instructive character. First,
however, let it be said, since the "Bull" has been praised before, that on
this occasion it turned out to have been unhappily chosen as a place at
which to take luncheon. Appetites were ravenous, but the meal was not a
success. Perhaps because it was vacation time, the house was not prepared
for guests. At any rate, the stair-carpets were "up"; but Cambridge is a
big place, on an important highway, and, in fact, the guests were many and
the mutton was tough. So, somewhat dissatisfied, to Royston and home, quite
a long way but, so far as Royston, familiar already, and beyond that
outside the present manor. Still, an incident occurring in the next manor
must be recorded, because it was an incident, because it was germane to the
motor-car and its little brother the motor-cycle, and because it had a
double moral. It so fell out that somewhere, between Luton and Dunstable,
if memory serves accurately, we were proceeding at a fittingly careful
pace, and keeping scrupulously to the proper side of a not too wide and
very meandering road. Suddenly, round the corner in front of us, appeared a
motor-cycle, on its proper side of the road too, but proceeding at a good
pace, the motor-cyclist having a young woman on a bicycle in tow. If she
had kept her head all would have been well. As it was she lost it, fell
head over heels into the ditch on her near side of the road, and suffered
nothing worse than a shaking, which, indeed, she deserved. In due course
she was picked up, placed in the tonneau, and taken back to her mother,
while I held her bicycle as it rested on our near foot-board. It appeared
to be the first time this very penitent damsel had tried this suicidal
method of progression; let us hope it was also the last; for that it is
suicidal, potentially at any rate, there is no kind of doubt. She was
really in some danger, for she was just as likely to tumble into the road
as into the ditch. Mr. Johnson could have stopped in time to avoid her if
she had, because he was going carefully, and with a due regard to the
potential dangers of the road. But I know a good many other drivers with
regard to whom I should be sorry to say confidently that they could be
relied upon to have been driving with equal care in the same circumstances.
It was the kind of incident which made one think.




CHAPTER XIII

FROM KING'S LYNN AS CENTRE

PART I

     King's Lynn--The Globe Hotel--English hotels--Reform
     necessary but difficult--Centre of exploration in
     adjacent country--Early history of Lynn--Little
     known--Not Roman--Important in the eleventh
     century--Formerly Lynn Episcopi--Lynn Regis since Henry
     VIII--Chapel of Red Mount--Stopping-place for
     pilgrims--"King John's" cup and sword--Possibly that of
     King John of France--Early prosperity of
     Lynn--Contribution against the Armada--Lynn during the
     Civil War--Sir Hamon le Strange--Cromwell at siege of
     Lynn--Custom-house and Guildhall--A city of
     merchants--Lynn and Eugene Aram--Bulwer's novel and the
     facts--Was Aram guilty?--The theatre--Sea-faring
     men--To Peterborough viâ Wisbech--Its association with
     the Fens--The cathedral--Cathedrals as books in
     stone--Crowland.

PART II

     To Castle Rising--Once a port--Once a borough--The keep
     and surroundings--The mystery of the earthworks--Not
     Roman probably--A suggestion--Robert de Montault's feud
     with Lynn--Rising and the She Wolf of France--Not so
     harshly imprisoned after
     all--Wolferton--Sandringham--Always beautiful
     country--The house--Sports and pastimes of
     royalty--Dersingham--Snettisham--The Hunstantons and
     the Le Stranges--"Twthill"--A suggested
     derivation--Brancaster--The Peddars way--The Saxon
     pirates--Brancaster described by Mr.
     Haverfield--Excavation needed--Burnham
     Deepdale--Burnham Thorpe--The birthplace of Nelson--To
     Fakenham--Rainham Hall--The early
     Townshends--Elmhan--Once seat of
     bishopric--Earthworks--East Dereham and George
     Borrow--His description--Cowper--Swaffham--The first
     Coursing Club--Castle Acre--The Castle's story
     clear--That of the earthworks all darkness.


For the purposes of this chapter we will sleep, if it please you, and take
our meals occasionally, at the Globe Hotel, standing in the south-west
corner of the spacious square at King's Lynn, where, in fact, I have often
stayed for many days together. That is why the "Globe" is recommended, not
with any extremity of warmth, but just as an ordinary and rather
old-fashioned hotel, such as one may expect to find--sometimes the
expectation is vain--in a really old-fashioned town like Lynn. It is no
sumptuous palace, but it provides plain and wholesome food, fair liquor,
and clean bedrooms at about the normal English price. That is much too
high, of course, judged by the Continental standard, and some day one may
hope that the mysterious reason why English hotel-keepers, having to pay
less than the generality of their contemporaries abroad for that raw
material of dinners, of which they too often forget to change the original
condition, charge more highly for the results and certainly, to all
appearance, do not thrive so consistently. They would answer, most likely,
that the hotel-keepers of provincial France and of parts of Switzerland can
afford to charge their very modest prices because they can safely rely on a
regular influx of travellers, principally English, German, and American. "I
can never tell," says Boniface, "how many will want dinner on any day.
Whether five come or fifty, all expect dinner; I must always be prepared
for them"--very often he is sadly unprepared--"and my prices do not do much
more than cover my expenses. Many a beautiful joint have I provided, for I
never buy anything but the very best, that has had to be thrown away."
Quote to him hotels abroad, such as we all know, where guests are taken in
_en pension_, and fed fairly well, at from six to nine francs a day, or put
it at 5s. to 7s. 6d. to simplify matters, and, while it is plain that he
does not really believe you, he will bring up again the same old argument.
Nor can you persuade him that a large part of the annual exodus to the
Continent is due to knowledge that touring in England is, so far as food
and accommodation go, so very dear, and often so remarkably nasty by
comparison with touring on the Continent that men are driven abroad.
Individually, however, Boniface is in rather a difficult position. Our
beautiful islands, for they are very lovely in many kinds of loveliness,
and our roads (which, if not equal to those of France, seem to an American
to have attained an almost ideal perfection) will never attract their due
share of voluntary travellers until the general average of hotels shall be
improved, and the general average of charges shall be reduced. Even then
some years must elapse before the reform would be realized as well as
known, and the set habits of the travelling public, the public which
travels of its own free-will and for its own pleasure, might be slow to
change. They also, like the hotel-keepers, are English men and English
women, Scots and Irish of both sexes, not easy to move out of a fixed
groove. In any case the pioneer, the paragon among hotel-keepers, who
should attempt to gain custom by setting an example of prices really
moderate, not moderate according to English standards, would almost
certainly court bankruptcy. One swallow does not make a summer; the
certainty of finding one cheap and comfortable hotel on a tour would not
suffice to turn the stream of tourists into the route on which that hotel
lay.

So, perhaps, the complaints of motorists and others concerning the charges
of English hotels (and Irish and Scotch hotels too) may be regarded as
being rather in the nature of letting off steam than in that of using it in
the hope of effecting any real result. The fault lies in the system; the
system cannot be reformed without concerted action of hotel-keepers, of
which there is no present evidence; and, if reform came, the actual
reformers would probably be losers, although the next generation of
hotel-keepers would reap a rich harvest. The process of reform would be,
indeed, something like making pasture out of arable land, a costly
enterprise, the profits of which are so long in coming that it is rarely
undertaken by tenants for a short term. Since that is so we must take our
hotels as we find them, praising some as being a little better than others
when all might be vastly improved. On these principles the "Globe" at Lynn
is recommended, although the "Crown" or the "Duke's Head" may, for all I
know, be equally good. It may be added, too, that it used to be, perhaps
still is, the hotel used by Mr. Thomas Gibson Bowles, whose Parliamentary
connection with King's Lynn was long. His presence in it, however, argued
nothing. It may have been the Conservative or Unionist hotel traditionally,
as the "Royal" at Norwich is the Liberal House; or again, Mr. Bowles may
have been no less independent in the choice of a hotel, even in his own
constituency, than he was in selecting his lobby on a division in the House
of Commons.

At any rate the "Globe" will serve as a resting-place. From it we will
examine King's Lynn, thinking a little of its history and associations, and
take a drive of a single day in the first part of the chapter; and in the
second we will take, for purposes of writing, a considerably longer drive
which, for those who desire to see a great number of interesting places at
leisure, would be much better divided into two parts, or even three, than
taken in a single piece. Only, having visited all the places named, by road
too, but not expressly for the purpose of this book, I am disposed to
recommend a return to Lynn for the night, if a day seems to be growing too
long, rather than a sojourn at some outlying place in which the inn or
hotel, where there is one, has not been tested on my vile body. For
example, in this second drive, if my advice be taken, the traveller may
find himself at Brancaster at about the time of afternoon tea. Even on a
summer's day he will hardly be disposed to complete the programme
suggested. He can easily run back to Lynn, in time to dress for dinner
comfortably, along a different road from that which he took in coming, and
if he likes to start again at the next point in the drive on the following
morning, he can reach that again by a new series of roads. He is never
likely to regret his return to Lynn, because it is really an exceedingly
interesting and characteristic place.

"It was an old wild fancy that Catus Decianus," Boadicea's Roman
contemporary in this country, "founded Lynn," says Mr. Haverfield; on the
other hand, according to the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, it is supposed to
have been a British settlement. Its origin is, in fact, "wrop up in
mystery" rather more completely than is usual with old English towns. We
know that the earliest entry in the Red Book of Lynn is 1309, and the last
East Anglian bishop who occupied Thetford as his diocesan capital is
believed to have built a church where St. Margaret's now stands.
Presumably, therefore, Lynn was a place of some importance in his day,
which was at the end of the eleventh and the beginning of the twelfth
centuries. There is an odd tradition concerning the original church, of
which not much is left, for in the eighteenth century the spire collapsed
on to the nave in a gale of wind. The tradition, mentioned by Mr. Rye, is
that the foundation was laid on woolpacks; "but I fancy this only came from
some donation of wool, or of a wool subsidy, in aid of a partial
rebuilding. Whatever it was built on its foundations certainly settled very
much directly, for the tower leans over in such a Pisa-like way that it
makes a nervous spectator quite uncomfortable to go inside it and look up,
though the protecting piers have been there in their present places a
trifle over seven hundred years or so." How to reconcile this with the fact
that the spire was blown down on to the nave in 1741 is Mr. Rye's business,
not mine. Besides that, the fragments of history connected with Lynn are so
interesting that they will leave little, if any, space for those discourses
on ecclesiastical architecture which are the principal parts of the
generality of guide-books.

Of the early history, the really early history of Lynn, little is known. It
had strong walls, relics of which remain, of uncertain date, save that they
were not Roman. It belonged to the East Anglian bishops, or at any rate was
in their temporal jurisdiction, until Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries,
when it became Lynn Regis, no longer Lynn Episcopi. It was a stopping place
for pilgrims on the way to the shrine of our Lady of Walsingham, who were
encouraged to lay their offerings in the Chapel of the Red Mount, to which
chapel, very small and very beautiful within, an ancient avenue still
leads. Observe the distinct entrance and exit, testifying alike to the
business aptitude of those who were in charge, and to the popularity of the
shrine of our Lady of Walsingham. Lynn has a charter of 1216, given by King
John, and preserves a sword and a cup alleged to have been given by him.
Here "Murray" is "too clever by half," and himself supplies, if it had but
occurred to him, a key which it was left to a local antiquary to apply to
this historical problem. "The cup itself, in elegance of shape, might have
come from the hand of Cellini. The figures in enamel of men and women
hunting and hawking are extremely curious. Judging, however, from the
costume and workmanship this cup cannot be older than the period of Edward
III--the period of the greatest prosperity of Lynn. The sword also,
although an inscription on one side of the hilt records that John took it
from his side and gave it to the town, is really no older than the
sixteenth century. Both articles seem to be substitutes for the original
donations." That is not so certain. On the opposite page the same writer
mentions a brass in St. Margaret's commemorating a Mayor of Edward III's
time, and a representation below of the "Peacock's Feast" given by this
same mayor to Edward III, who is represented at table, having before him a
cup very like the one in question. Now Edward III not only visited Lynn,
but also kept King John of France as an honoured prisoner for many years.
He was as likely as not to take John with him to Lynn, and the chances are
that the cup, as a local antiquary has suggested to Mr. Rye, was the gift
of a king of France. As for the inscription on the sword, it is nothing. It
was in the nature of things that whosoever gave the sword, the inscription
should be placed upon it afterwards, and, as to a date suggested by
workmanship, it would be very unsafe to rely upon it.

"Probably it was in the time of Edward III that, speaking relatively, Lynn
was most prosperous." It is assumed that the statement was not made without
evidence of some kind. Otherwise probabilities would seem to point in the
opposite direction, and it would be natural to expect that, as the Fens
were gradually subjugated, producing some things worth exporting and
supporting men capable of buying things imported, the port provided for
them by nature would grow in respect of trade. Still there is abundant
evidence of its importance later than Edward III and long before the great
and good work of reclaiming the Fens had been take seriously in hand. In
the time of Elizabeth, Lynn and Blakeney (!), the latter now no longer
worthy of mention as a port, furnished "2 shippes and 1 pinnace," a
contribution equal to that of Ipswich and Harwich, to resist the Armada.
Then, as we have seen, Oliver Cromwell resisted the first scheme of
Fen-reclamation formed by the illustrious house of Bedford--the Protector
of later years was then a resident at Ely and member for Cambridge in the
House of Commons. Yet the value of Lynn was quickly made manifest during
the Rebellion. Moved thereto by stout Sir Hamon le Strange of Hunstanton,
Lynn showed itself to be veritably Lynn Regis, almost the only part of East
Anglia that adhered to Charles. It was a matter of no small moment. Even
afterwards, when the Restoration was being planned the projected seizure of
Lynn was regarded by the planners and by Clarendon as an enterprise of
exceptional value because Lynn was "a Maritime Town, of great importance in
respect of the Situation, and likewise of the Good Affection of the
Gentlemen of the Parts adjacent." To the first Charles it would have been
of priceless value could he but have held it, for through it he could have
secured from the Continent that supply of ammunition of which, almost from
the beginning of the war, he was in sore need. With Sir Hamon le Strange
for governor, 50 pieces of ordnance, 1200 muskets, and 500 barrels of
powder, Lynn was held in a manner plainly showing how much value the King
set upon it. The Parliamentary generals, however, were equally alive to the
use that might be made of Lynn as a port from which to obtain supplies.
First Manchester, and later Cromwell, took part in the siege; it is even
said the "Virgin Troop" of Norwich, Puritan Amazons, took the field on this
occasion. At any rate, in 1643 Lynn surrendered, to the grievous loss of
Charles and the corresponding gain of the Parliament.

Lynn's commercial history may be described roughly as the dogged and not
entirely fruitless struggle of a town once really great and prosperous to
fight the new conditions of modern trade, conditions tending to make remote
and out of the way a port which was once accessible and almost central. The
glory has not all departed, but a great deal of it has gone, leaving its
traces plainly to be seen in architecture. The Custom-house, Dutch in
appearance (for the trade with Holland was considerable), and the Guildhall
speak of the days gone by; the central market square is far too spacious
for the present needs of the place. The main streets are narrow, but that
was the way of old cities, and their lights, carried on elegant iron arches
across the streets, give it a distinctly foreign air. Drive away from the
main street towards the Custom-house, and you will find another, running
parallel to it, of substantial Queen Anne houses compelling reflection.
They speak of a bygone prosperity. I have found no trace that Lynn ever
was, as Ipswich and Norwich were in the pre-railway days, and as for that
matter nearly every county town in England was, a centre of county society,
in which the county families kept their town houses, occupying them for a
gay season in each year. These houses seem to speak rather of rich Lynn
merchants of the past, trading with the Low Countries on a scale very large
for those days. Again, with the sea to the northward, after a few miles of
navigable river, and the Fens on every side nearly, living on its trade by
sea, Lynn seems to have been placed in a species of natural isolation,
which perhaps goes some way to account for the fact that it is not quite
like any other town in England.

Probably the Lynn "character" of the past most of us would best like to
meet, not for very long perhaps, was Miss Mary Breeze, who died, aged
seventy-eight, in 1789. It is recorded of her that "she took out her
shooting license, kept as good greyhounds, and was as sure a shot as any in
the county." But a corporation minute beginning, "Guildhall, Lynn. At a
congregation there holden on the 14th day of February, 1758," points to a
contemporary of Miss Mary Breeze, in whom the wider world was once keenly
interested. On that day Eugene Aram was approved as usher to the Grammar
School, on the appointment of Mr. Knox, in the place of John Birkes,
"dismissed." Like, probably, most middle-aged men, I remember reading
_Eugene Aram_ with eager interest as a boy; in these later years the task
has been achieved only after heroic efforts and in obedience to a sense of
duty. The noble author, who could describe a chair in front of a
public-house as "cathedrarian accommodation," is not for this age. By the
help, however, of a paper read by Mr. E. M. Beloe to a county society, and
preserved in _Norfolk and Norwich Notes and Queries_, I am able to see
something of this celebrated case, once much discussed, as it must have
appeared to the inhabitants of Lynn.

Aram was appointed usher of the ancient Grammar School, now vanished (but
Lynn has recently acquired a far more important Grammar School, named after
King Edward VII), in February, 1758. He lived in the headmaster's house,
spent his holidays with the Vicar of Heacham, and most of his Sundays with
Archdeacon Steadman, who was Rector of Gaywood. He was gloomy of aspect,
given to solitary walks, in the habit of looking back over his shoulder, as
if some one were following him; but he was also obviously a man of
remarkable attainments. Bulwer gives him all these traits, except (I think)
that of looking over his shoulder, which is local tradition. Bulwer also
makes Aram the impassioned suitor of a local lady; but Mr. Beloe says
nothing on that head. If Aram was such, then his intentions must have been
dishonourable and may have been bigamous: on that point, however, Lynn
could have known nothing. Imagine, then, the surprise of the good people of
Lynn when, in August or September of the year 1758, after Aram had been
among them seven months only, two Knaresborough constables came to Sir John
Turner, the most important magistrate of Lynn, and one of those who had
sanctioned the appointment of Aram, with a warrant against the usher. The
warrant, being issued in Yorkshire, required to be backed. Sir John Turner
backed it, accompanied the constables to the Grammar School, and was
present while Aram, having been summoned to an inner room, was duly
arrested. Next, according to Hood's _Dream of Eugene Aram_--

    Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
      Through the cold and heavy mist,
    And Eugene Aram walked between,
      With gyves upon his wrist.

This was poetic licence; as a matter of fact, Aram started for
Knaresborough in a post-chaise. That was all the people of Lynn saw or knew
of Eugene Aram, save that they learned, through the meagre channels of
information then existing, that he was eventually convicted at
Knaresborough, after lying untried for nearly a year in York gaol, on a
charge of murder fourteen years old. Small wonder, then, that Mr. Beloe
wrote and read aloud "His name has been, from my youth upwards, a kind of
fascination for me"; small wonder that Lynn was and remained deeply
interested to find it had harboured a criminal, whose guilt was doubted by
some, whose career was the theme of a stirring poem, nobly recited by Sir
Henry Irving, and of a novel which was at one time much to the taste of the
age.

Eugene Aram's story is really so full of interest that it is worth
summarizing, very briefly and without introduction of the "love interest"
(as his literary agents have it) with which Bulwer strove to give it human
reality. Of quite humble parentage and meagre education, he early showed a
passion for learning. Born in 1704, he was a married schoolmaster at
Netherdale long before he was thirty, and when he migrated to
Knaresborough, still as a schoolmaster, in 1734, he had acquired
considerable knowledge of Latin and Greek. At Knaresborough he remained ten
years. Then his intimate Daniel Clarke disappeared, having previously been
supplied with a large quantity of goods on credit. Nothing worse than a
common swindle seems to have been suspected at the time. Suspicion of
having been concerned in it fell upon Aram; proceedings were taken against
him; his garden was searched; but no evidence was forthcoming and he was
discharged. However, he left Knaresborough shortly afterwards, deserting
his wife at the same time, and for the next ten years he appears to have
wandered about England, acting as usher in all sorts of schools, and
studying comparative philology. The definite story finds him next an usher
at Lynn, peculiar in manner but, by reason of his attainments probably, an
acceptable associate to the cultivated gentlemen of the district.

It would have been well for Aram if, when he left Knaresborough, he had
taken away his wife also. The deserted woman, whom the noble novelist found
it convenient to forget, had doubtless a feeling of resentment against her
husband, and had certainly a long tongue. Talking over her grievances,
which really were quite considerable, she had been heard to suggest that
her husband and Houseman, "the scoundrel Houseman" of Bulwer, were jointly
responsible for the disappearance of Clarke, but her talk was clearly
regarded as the scurrilous spite of an angry woman. Then a skeleton was
found near Knaresborough, in a place where no recent skeleton had a right
to be, and folks began to say that there was some method in Mrs. Aram's
madness. There was an inquest, at which she gave evidence; Houseman was
arrested and "confronted with the bones." He vowed that they were not the
bones of "Dan Clarke," confessed that he had been present while Aram and
another man murdered Clarke, and that Clarke's bones had been buried in a
well-known cave hard by. In that cave bones were found. Where was Aram? A
clue (this is from Mr. Beloe and does not appear in most accounts) was
supplied by a Yorkshire horse-dealer, who had seen Aram at Lynn during his
travels. So Aram was arrested, as we have seen, tried, convicted and
executed, making full confession after conviction, and suggesting, by way
of motive, that Clarke had made too successful love to his wife.

Was Eugene Aram guilty or not? To his confession, probably, no serious
attention need be paid. The man was highly strung clearly, he had been a
penniless prisoner for nearly a year at a time when our prisons were hells
upon earth, he had conducted his own defence during an arduous and, from
our modern point of view, very unfairly conducted trial, he attempted
suicide by opening a vein on the night before his execution, he was
desperate, probably not master of himself, and last, perhaps not least,
confessions were the custom of the criminals of the age. It has been urged
on his behalf that the trial was unfair, from our point of view, since
counsel might not be retained for the defence of prisoners in those days
nor wives called in defence of their husbands. As to the wife's evidence,
if it had been admissible, the story makes it plain that it would have
been more likely to be damning than favourable. She had been deserted, she
had been left to shift for herself for many years, she had said that Aram
knew all about the disappearance of Clarke. It was a distinct advantage to
Aram that she could not be called. That he suffered from having to defend
himself is in the last degree unlikely. Paley, who travelled all the way
from Cambridge to hear his defence, said he had secured his conviction by
his own cleverness. The original defence, preserved by Bulwer, is indeed
marked by singular ability; but it is not in the very least convincing. I
can imagine the jury saying to one another: "If this obviously clever man
can think of nothing better than this to say, he is guilty sure enough."
Houseman, it might very fairly be said, was not a credible witness. He was,
indeed, on his own showing, a most mean and despicable villain; but the
strength of the circumstantial evidence, the fact that Aram ran away, that
he did not cross-examine Houseman or attempt to overthrow his evidence, and
that his defence really amounted to an essay on the fallibility of
circumstantial evidence, were quite enough to secure his conviction then,
or now. The sympathy felt for Eugene Aram has sprung from the fact that the
villain Houseman escaped, and that Aram was an able and a brilliantly
learned man. Hume, I believe, said he was a century ahead of his age in
Celtic research; but neither the one fact nor the other is inconsistent
with a belief that Clarke was murdered, and that Aram was present at the
murder.

Such are the reflections one may carry about the narrow streets of Lynn,
and sometimes, of an evening, one may go to the theatre, but my one
experience of that was not inviting. The maxim _ne coram populo_ was more
flagrantly trodden underfoot surely than ever before, when, in a play
called (I think) _Slaves of the Harem_, a full-blooded and genuine African
went through with a bowstring the gestures of executing an erring lady on
the stage (who in her turn made appropriate grimaces) to the uproarious
delight of an audience which insisted on encoring the scene. On the other
hand, time spent in talking with the people in warm bar-parlours of an
evening, or among the mariners who idle on the quay by day, as mariners
always have and always will, is apt to be rewarded by no means ill. Among
the sea-faring men, at any rate, hardy fishermen for the most part, the
feeling that one may be talking to lineal descendants of Vikings soon
deepens into conviction. They are fine seamen, too, these men of the east
coast, and the Navy depends upon them not a little; but very prudently, and
without saying anything about it, it is arranged that the same ship's
company shall never be part east and part west countrymen.

It was fore-ordained that this portion of a chapter should end with a
drive. It is a drive to be taken very shortly in print, and quite easily by
road over Fen country, not needing to be described anew, to a cathedral
city situate geographically in the Midlands--that is to say, to
Peterborough. Now Peterborough is in Northamptonshire, and Northamptonshire
sounds Midland as Midland can be. On what pretext is Peterborough
introduced? Really none is needed; our brief detour is but an illustration
of the truth that county boundaries, apart from the matters of police and
road-making, have no more meaning for the motorist than they had for the
Romans. Peterborough is easily accessible from Lynn, viâ Wisbech, by
thirty-five miles of flat road. Its cathedral dominates the Fens from the
west as Ely dominates their southern and central parts; it has been
intimately associated with their troubled history in the past. The
cathedral too, although by no means to be reckoned amongst the most
majestic to be found in England, is very fine in itself, and exceptionally
interesting and suggestive. I had written "instructive," but that is
usually a word raising expectation of tedious discourse. As a matter of
fact, little shall be written about Peterborough Cathedral, although many
personal impressions might be moulded into one. Go to see Peterborough
Cathedral. Remember that it is one of the three Norman cathedrals of
England; that the first church on this site was built in the closing years
of the seventh century, and rased to the ground by the Danes; that the
second was burned in the twelfth century; that the greater part of the
present structure was 120 years in the building before it was consecrated
in the thirteenth century; that the central tower was rebuilt in the
fourteenth century, and that the nineteenth century saw a great deal of
necessary work done. Remembering this, you will surely depart reluctantly,
convinced that of all our English books in stone none contains more
chapters than that entitled Peterborough Cathedral, that in no edifice can
the student of architecture who inspects with the advantage of special
knowledge, or the fairly cultivated man who lacks that special knowledge,
find more details of genuine charm and interest. Here you can trace
developments, early Norman vaulting in the aisles, exquisite
fan-vaulting--it is peculiar to England--in the choir, clustered piers to
columns. Here you may follow the differences in character and arrangement
between a monastic cathedral, such as Peterborough was, served by regular
clergy and monks, and one of the old foundation, like St. Paul's, which,
being served by secular clergy, was not affected by the reforms of Henry
VIII. You may see, too, traces of the iconoclastic zeal of Cromwell's
followers, often credited with the misdeeds of others. In spite of them,
too, you may realize, not more forcibly than elsewhere perhaps, but still
in full force, that which has been remarkably well put by Professor
Banister Fletcher and Mr. Banister F. Fletcher in their _Comparative
Architecture_. "The place in the national life which the mediæval
cathedrals occupied was an important one, and must be realized if we would
understand how they were regarded. In the absence of books, and of people
able to read them, cathedrals were erected and decorated partly as a means
of popular education, the sculpture and the painted glass reflecting the
incidents of Bible history from the Creation to the redemption of mankind,
the sculptured forms and brilliant colouring rendering them easily
understood by the people. The virtues and vices, with their symbols, were
also displayed, either in glass or statuary, along with their reward or
punishment. Saints and angels told of the better life, and the various
handicrafts, both of peace and war, were mirrored in imperishable stone or
coloured glass. They, to a large extent, took the place in our social state
since occupied by such modern institutions as the Board School, Free
Library, Museum, Picture Gallery, and Concert Hall. They were the history
books of the period. Architecture then as now was also the grand chronicle
of secular history, past and present, in which Kings, Nobles, and Knights
were represented."

Nothing conduces more to appreciation of the full meaning of a passage than
the laborious process of copying, and having now performed that process I
am moved to protest that these few lines, while they leave to the
understanding the purely ecclesiastical significance of mediæval
architecture, and are absolutely free from rhetorical artifice, are more
pregnant with meaning than many pages of moving eloquence. So we leave
Peterborough and, if the mood seizes us, make a detour of eight miles to
Crowland before returning to Peterborough. This, personally I cannot speak
for; but there are some remains of the historic abbey.


PART II

The end of these wanderings is now close in sight, and the thought fills
him who writes with feelings in which regret predominates over relief. He
would be a cold-blooded person indeed who, after much travel in East Anglia
had revealed to him many beauties new to him, besides refreshing
acquaintance with those seen before, after steeping himself, to the best of
his ability and opportunities, in the history and legends of the district,
should not have developed a very warm appreciation of the variety and
character of both. But it is needless to say this over and over again, in
various forms of words, in vain imitation of Matthew Arnold's method of
compelling attention, and there is the less excuse for anything of the kind
in that our last drive, or drives, take us through an exceptionally large
number of storied places, and through some of the most breezy and
fascinating of Norfolk scenery.

We will begin, if you please, by going to Castle Rising, lying 3-1/2 miles
N.N.E. of Lynn, and there we must stop for quite a long time. Despite the
local saying "Rising was a seaport town when Lynn was but a marsh," there
is a good deal of doubt about its early history. Concerning its later
history there is none at all. The sand just silted up the harbour, the port
became a mere memory, and of all the "rotten boroughs" disfranchised by the
Reform Act of 1832 none perished more deservedly than Castle Rising, where
the voters were reduced to two. Was it of Castle Rising (it was certainly
of some "rotten borough" in East Anglia) that I read how the nobleman who
kept it in his pocket mockingly caused a waiter to represent it in
Parliament? It was in days at any rate when a waiter, as a member of the
"best club in the world," would have seemed a great deal more out of place
than he would in these days of sectional representation. Let us consider
first what there is to see. Over a bridge and through a Norman gate-house
one enters an almost circular space surrounded by a very high earth bank
and a deep ditch. Inside the commanding object is the keep, its Norman
windows full of character, its walls nine feet thick; the chapel and part
of the constable's lodgings also remain. The hall and gallery remain in
part; everything else is utterly perished. Still, Rising is an impressive
monument of the olden time. How long have the earthworks occupied their
present position? At one period antiquaries of repute placed a Roman "camp"
here, calling some of the earthworks Roman. "But," writes Mr. Haverfield,
"this is most unlikely and no Roman remains have ever been found here." It
is true a coin of Constantine the Great was once dug up in the
neighbourhood; but this would be vague at best, and one coin goes no
further as an argument of a Roman camp than a sixpence dropped by an
explorer does to prove a British settlement in the heart of Thibet. Mound
and ditch may have been British, but there is no suggestion of evidence to
prove it. They are not in the least likely to have been Roman; for the
Romans had little, if any, fighting in these parts, and the defence of this
portion of the "Saxon shore" was, as we shall see shortly, provided for by
the fortification of Brancaster. After all, why should not William
d'Albini, first Earl of Arundel, who at any rate began the building of the
castle, have caused the mound to be heaped up and the ditch scooped out in
the closing years of the twelfth century? It was a period when Norman
nobles were not unduly particular as to the manner in which they extorted
work, and it may well have seemed to him desirable to make a position,
naturally strong, all but impregnable.

The most interesting of the early Lords was Robert de Montalt, who had a
feud and a lawsuit with the people of Lynn. Lynn, it is pretty clear, had
ceased to be a marsh by that time, and the two communities were far too
adjacent to one another for friendly feeling to subsist. De Montalt, too,
claimed certain rights in connection with the tolbooth and tolls of Lynn,
which were not to the taste of the free and independent burghers of Lynn.
It so fell out that one day de Montalt and his followers were in Lynn when
they were espied by the burghers. Thereupon Nicholas de Northampton
and others raised the town against them, chased them to "his
dwelling-house"--surely hardly Castle Rising--besieged it, broke open the
doors, beat him and his men, stripped them of weapons, money and jewels to
the value of £40, kept him in durance for two days, and released him only
upon his solemn promise in the market-place to relinquish all actions
against the Mayor and all claims against the Corporation. De Montalt made
his promise and departed; but he certainly did not keep the spirit of the
compact extorted from him by duress, for he had the law of the Corporation
of Lynn, secured judgment for £6000, a huge sum in those days, and, more
than that, he actually got £4000, for which he compromised, and Lynn was
taxed for years to pay the money by instalments. Of a surety Robert de
Montalt laughed best over that quarrel.

In the case of the next, and for our purposes, the last inmate of Castle
Rising, we have an illustration of the troublesome manner in which
industrious diggers after facts destroy established and easily assimilated
statements by historians. In the case of Isabella, the She-wolf of France,
whose paramour Mortimer had caused her husband, Edward II, to be murdered
with unexampled barbarity in Berkeley Castle, it was nice and easy to learn
that, after the accession of Edward III and the fall and execution of
Mortimer, "the Queen Mother was deprived of her enormous jointure, and shut
up in the Castle of Rising, where she spent the remaining twenty-seven
years of her life in obscurity." If ever there was a thoroughly bad woman,
that woman was Isabella; and to dispose of her in a single sentence was
nice and simple. Unhappily it seems, like the story of Alfred's cakes and
other cherished traditions, to be entirely wrong. While Isabella was at
Rising Edward allowed her £3000 a year first, and £4000 a year later;
letters patent under her hand were issued from her "Castle of Hertford" in
the twentieth year of Edward III; Edward III visited her often at Castle
Rising; she was allowed to make a pilgrimage to Walsingham (which after all
was quite near); she visited Norwich with Edward III and his Queen in 1344;
and she died at Hertford Castle, having been there since 1357. In fact
neither the sufferings nor the obscurity of the She-wolf of France were of
a striking character.

Inland from Castle Rising you may see a ridge of upland, pine and
heather-clad, with here and there some woodland and some agricultural land,
following the line of the coast, but three or four miles from it. Your best
route will be to travel some three miles to Wolferton, along a level and
excellent road. The roads of Norfolk are, indeed, good throughout in my
experience. At Wolferton you can hardly fail to notice the peculiar stone,
of a dark reddish-brown colour, of which the church is built. It is called
"Carr" stone locally, a great deal of it is used in cottages, houses and
churches, and if it seems a trifle redder to you at Wolferton than
elsewhere--it never so struck me--the redness is attributable to a fire of
1486, after which a licence to collect alms for rebuilding was issued! If
such licences were a condition precedent to similar collections now the
Post Office would be much the poorer, and some of us might be richer. What
must also strike the spectator from the road is the very stately tower,
and, by entering, you will see a fine specimen of the not too common
hammer-beam roof. From Wolferton to Sandringham, or to its gates, I have
walked and driven at almost every season of the year, always to find fresh
beauties in that gentle slope. In winter, with snow upon the ground, when
the fresh green is on the larches in spring, when bracken is pushing out
its fronds in embryo knots, when the heather is in its glory, and, best of
all, when the rhododendrons are in bloom, it is as beautiful a sight as any
upon which the eye of man need desire to rest. Moreover, this stretch of
the heath-lands of East Anglia looks the very place for any roving bird to
haunt, and it is a real bond of union between me and the artist, who gives
to these pages more than half their brightness, to learn from him that the
sheldrake nests here habitually.

At the top of the hill on the right you obtain a glimpse of the parish
church of Sandringham, modern, and regularly attended by the King and
Queen, and of the park across which the King walks to service, for all the
world like any other country gentleman. A hundred yards or so farther on
you are opposite the principal gates. These are of exquisite ironwork, and
were presented to the then Prince of Wales in 1864 by the County of
Norfolk, justly proud of its newly acquired landowner, and entitled to be
proud too of the workmanship which turned these gates out at Norwich. Now
Sandringham is not a place that is shown on stated days, as many houses
are. It is too small for that; it is indeed one of the few places where the
King and Queen can enjoy real privacy, but, as luck will have it, I have
seen Sandringham inside, and a brief impression of it is given, partly,
perhaps, because it may be welcome from a careful witness, but mainly
because Mr. Walter Rye has done it injustice. "Sandringham itself," he
wrote in 1885, "is nothing much to see. It was bought vastly dear, and has
had a tremendous lot of money spent on it. Gunton or Blickling would have
been much more suited to him, and with the same amount of money spent on
them would by this time have been little palaces." Very likely, but the
Prince of Wales, as he was then, desired not a palace but a home, in which
he could live during his all too rare holidays from public duty the life of
a country gentleman with his family; in which he could interest himself in
farming, and could enjoy really good shooting; in which his Princess could
indulge her taste for gardening, and for keeping dogs of many kinds; in
which, last and best of all, his children could lead simple lives and be
much in the open air. All that he found in Sandringham. The situation is
pretty and remarkably healthy, the shooting is of the best and full of
variety, the gardens reveal the taste of their Royal mistress, the house is
full of dear memories and of rare possessions. It may not be very beautiful
architecturally, but it is essentially a house to be lived in, and it is
something in its favour that, in an age which believes in the health-giving
power of the sun, it is absolutely suffused with all the light there is. Of
a truth Mr. Rye's sympathy is quite uncalled for, and even rather
needlessly offensive. By the way, as you pass you may chance to hear a
Sandringham clock strike twelve and find that your impeccable watch only
admits half-past eleven; and you may remember to have seen in some of the
papers at various times that it is the King's hobby to have all his clocks
half an hour fast so that he may never be late. It is his hobby, but its
object is not to secure punctuality so much as to cheat the morning out of
an extra half-hour. The evening hours can be prolonged at pleasure, but to
start shooting at 9.30 instead of ten on a winter's day is a great gain.

[Illustration: HEATH NEAR SANDRINGHAM]

Blickling, it should be added, is near Aylsham. It was owned once by
Harold, then by the Bishops of Norwich, and then by Sir Thomas Boleyn,
father of Anne Boleyn. "A sheet of water about a mile long, in the middle
of a beautiful and well-wooded park, is a fitting adjunct to the noble red
house, built in the reign of James I, with its fine ceiled galleries and
carvings, and its grand staircase." So Mr. Rye, and then he passes off to
heraldry. Gunton is, or was, in the same neighbourhood. "Murray" says that
the house "of white brick, enlarged by Wyatt 1785,"--neither statement
sounds alluring--"is without interest." Mr. Rye says elsewhere "the hall
was burnt out not long ago" (he writes in 1885) "and is not yet rebuilt,
and very picturesque it looks with its great gaunt shell pierced by rows of
empty windows. It would make a capital ruin, and might just as well be left
as it is, and a smaller house, more suitable to the fortunes of the
Harbords, built elsewhere in the park."

Shooting and motoring are the great out-door occupations of Sandringham. If
the King be at home the chances of seeing a royal car on these roads are
many, and in late November you may often hear the guns popping like a _feu
de joie_. Nay, on the road, which turns sharply to the left for Dersingham
by the gate, proceeding through fine trees on both sides, and on the level
for a while, and then down a steep hill, I have had the good fortune to
see the Prince of Wales and the German Emperor bringing pheasants down in a
manner more than workmanlike. So to Dersingham, a sunny village lying in a
cup of the modest little hills. Here again you will be struck by the
all-pervading use of the local carr stone, very neatly dressed in minute
blocks, apparently impervious to weather and incapable of taking any tone
from rain and wind and sun. Picturesque to the eye of a stranger it
certainly is not; but the walls and houses built of it are trim to a Dutch
point of neatness, and, to accustomed eyes, it no doubt seems to be part of
the established order of things. It is no harm suggesting again that in
relation to the appearance of things, the product of man's hand, of the
operations of nature, or of the two combined, first impressions are not to
be trusted in all cases. Custom makes a world of difference. A Chinaman, or
a Hottentot, has, for example, ideas completely opposite to ours concerning
female beauty. Without yielding to either in the matter of opinion, even in
these extreme instances, we may possibly concede that standards of beauty
are not to be defined with scientific precision. "Carr" stone buildings to
some of us may look a trifle grim and formal, although their ferruginous
tone is not cold; at worst they represent the resolve to use local
material, which is usually consonant with art and sense, and no doubt their
appearance excites no feeling of distaste in the people of Norfolk who,
after all, are the persons principally concerned. Of this same stone the
church is built. Here the passers by will be struck by the stately
proportions of the lofty tower, and, if he enters, he will notice the
orderly condition of all things, as well as a piscina and a hagioscope. To
the neat condition of things, which should be normal, attention is called
in this case because, apparently, it is the complete opposite of the state
of things prevailing in the early seventies, when everything capable of
suffering from neglect had so suffered. Dersingham is a pleasantly tidy
village, but not "model" in the artificial sense. It boasts a hotel, "The
Feathers," where I stayed for a week a good many years ago. It was then one
of the worst in England, but, in new hands, it is understood to be better.
On the whole, however, Dersingham is not recommended for a sojourn, nor has
it, in all probability, been encouraged to lay itself out to attract
visitors.

[Illustration: BLICKLING HALL]

From Dersingham to the Hunstantons is a pleasant drive of some six miles,
calling for no particular comment at any point save Snettisham, where the
position of the church, embowered in trees, fascinates the eye. "The
Hunstantons" has been written because there are two communities, the old
and the new, whereof the latter, according to Mr. Rye, peremptorily refuses
to be dubbed St. Edmund's, in spite of the tradition that a ruined chapel
near the lighthouse on the cliff commemorates the landing-place of St.
Edmund. It is rather an even question whether the Hunstantons owe most to
the cliff, which is their chief glory, or to the Le Stranges, who have done
all that was possible for their prosperity. How long they have been in the
land, being no genealogist, I do not profess to say. They are not included
in Mr. Rye's list of grantees from William the Conqueror, but the monument
of Henry Le Strange and his wife, dated 1485, to be found in the church, is
ancient enough to be at least respectable, and his epitaph is worth quoting
at once, although we shall soon refer to earlier members of the race.

    In heaven at home, O blessed change,
    Who, while I was on earth, was Strange.

Never were a country-side and a great family connected more consistently to
the benefit of the first and to the honour of the second.

Hard by the church is the ancient "twthill," according to one of the
authorities, "the place of assembly." Since the survival of this expression
is by no means frequent, it may perhaps be permissible to remark that, if
the eye will travel across the map of England, due west from Hunstanton and
as far as it can go, it will come to another "twthill" at Carnarvon. The
spelling looks British, and the ancient British borrowed a good many words
direct from the Latin, _ffenstr_ for example, from _fenestra_, for window,
doubtless a new idea to them. So, being expert neither in philology nor
Anglo-Saxon, but well aware that the Saxons never penetrated to Carnarvon,
and that both "twthills" are remarkably good places of observation, I
hazard the suggestion that "twt" is a British equivalent of _tuitus_, from
_tueor_, of which the proper meaning is "to gaze"; that they were, in fact,
"look-outs." A coincidence in the history of the church of St. Mary,
probably unique, is that it was built by Sir Hamon Le Strange and his son
early in the fourteenth century, and restored in good taste by a Le Strange
of the twentieth century. Whether the places owe most to the family or the
family to the places is not easy to decide, but certainly no family ever
did its duty more consistently by any country-side. On the other hand, but
for the curious cliff, itself remarkably attractive for its outlines and
colouring, the Hunstantons could not have existed to be cherished by the Le
Stranges, for there is still abundant evidence of a submerged forest
between Old Hunstanton and Brancaster. The cliff it was to the sea, "thus
far shalt thou go and no further." The cliff it is that allows the Le
Stranges to live in the ancient hall, fifteenth-century and moated, and to
play the part of a human providence in this most remote corner of Norfolk.
Of the part they played for Charles I mention has been made before.

Eight miles along the coast take us to Brancaster and to history, lately
made far less obscure than it used to be. Here it is clearly the best
course to quote Mr. Haverfield's description, because it is far and away
the best, having first summarized a little of the information leading up to
it. Mention has been made of the Peddar's or Pedlar's Way, traceable, not
very distinctly for the first six miles, but quite plainly afterwards, from
Holme, midway between Brancaster and old Hunstanton, through Fring, Castle
Acre, Swaffham and other places to the boundary of Suffolk and beyond. The
difficulty that it did not lead to Brancaster, further complicated by the
fact that there was no obvious reason why it should not, was the origin of
a theory that it might have led to a ferry from Holme to Skegness; but the
passage would involve some twenty miles of nasty navigation. "Even an
antiquary, when it came to the test of trial, would shrink from such a
_trajectus_." There must have been a road to Brancaster, there is no trace
of any other. It was certainly Roman, it was probably military: that is Mr.
Haverfield's conclusion; and as a slayer of mere fancies he is so just and
relentless that, when at all positive, he is the more convincing. Garrisons
in Roman times were on the north and west, beyond the Severn and Humber,
where they were needed; but by about 300 A.D. "Saxon" pirates began to
harry the eastern and southern coasts, as they continued to do almost up to
the Norman Conquest. So a series of nine forts, of which Branodunum
(Brancaster) was one, was constructed to defend the threatened coast from
this point to Pevensey, in far Sussex. At Brancaster lay the Dalmatian
cavalry, keeping an eye on the Wash and the little harbours and creeks to
the westward.

"The site of Branodunum is at the 'Wreck' or 'Rack' Hill, a short distance
to the east of Brancaster village, between the high road and the creek
which forms the Western Arm of Brancaster harbour. It is still
distinguishable by the fragments of brick and pottery which lie about it,
and by the slight but perceptible elevation of its area; but its walls and
buildings have long ago vanished, and little of them seems to have been
visible even in Camden's days. In size and outline the fort is stated to
have been a square of 570 feet, that is 7-1/2 acres, with gateways on the
eastern and western sides; but no precise measurements have ever been
secured, and I am inclined to consider these figures as somewhat too small.
Excavations made in 1846 showed that the north-east angle of the fort was
rounded, and had within it a small rectangular guard-chamber or turret, and
presumably the three other angles were similar. At the same time it was
found that the walls were 11 feet thick, constructed of concrete, and built
with facing and bonding-courses of a local white sandstone. At the eastern
gate, which apparently had flanking bastions, a road 33 feet wide was found
to enter the fort and run 360 feet across it westwards. Some slight
indications of structures within the fort were also noted, _but much yet
remains to be explored_."

This is Mr. Haverfield's constant plea in relation to East Anglian remains,
and there is much to be said in favour of it. There is neither sense nor
reason in standing outside earth mounds, or in trying to guess their
contents, when the spade would reveal them if they existed, and a nation
which expends so much as ours does in digging up ruins abroad, might very
well do much more work of the same kind at home. The spade, for example,
might resolve the question whether Caister-by-Yarmouth and Reedham were
forts or not, but at present their character is quite uncertain, and the
nearest fort to Brancaster we know is Burgh Castle by Yarmouth. So much, at
least, we know definitely of Brancaster, and it can hardly fail to grasp
the imagination. Here, at this extreme north-east point of Norfolk, the
Dalmatian cavalry, men of the same blood as Constantine the Great, watched
the sea against the enemies of Rome. Taking the comparative conditions of
travel into account, it was almost as it would be if we placed a regiment
of Sikhs in New Zealand to guard it against possible raids from the islands
of the Pacific.

Beyond Brancaster we follow the coast as far as Burnham Deepdale--the brook
in these parts is responsible for many a place-name and for one of undying
fame--and then leave the coast willingly enough, for the sandy waste of the
"meols" soon ceases, if indeed it ever begins, to attract. Then the aspect
of the country soon loses its bleak and wind-swept character; we are in a
peaceful land of little hills and many woods, of brooks and verdure. At
Burnham Thorpe in particular we are in the village to one of whose sons
England and the world owe at least as much as they do to any other hero of
history. Here Nelson was born. Those four words imply volumes, but they are
volumes which positively must not be so much as begun, because they would
never end, and they would be familiar from the first page to the last.
Here, son of a father who was but a country clergyman, and of a mother of
the pure and ancient blood of Norfolk, lived the boy who grew into the man
whose every virtue and every failing are known of all men. He did not live
here long. He was at school at North Walsham and at Downham, and he joined
the _Raisonnable_ at Chatham when he was but twelve and a half years of
age. But he never forgot his birthplace, and it was named conjointly with
the Nile when he was most justly raised to the peerage. One of the most
tranquil spots in the world, and very lovely, is Burnham Thorpe--and it is
holy ground. Not long since, on a pleasure voyage round the extreme north
of Scotland, a perfervid Scot was heard to proclaim the glorious deeds done
for the Empire by Scotland's sons. A west-countryman retorted, "But for
Devon you would all have been Spaniards." An East Anglian might have chimed
in with Burnham Thorpe; an Irishman with the birthplace of the Duke of
Wellington; and it would all go simply to show how futile it is to
institute comparisons.

Possibly at Brancaster, possibly at Burnham Thorpe, the suggestion of a
return to Lynn for the night may have been taken. In that case it is
advised that the return journey of the morning be made to Fakenham only,
taking Rainham Park by the way. Here, in print, we merely drive to Fakenham
through pleasantly undulating and well-wooded country, on the west side of
Walsingham and Houghton which we know. Of Fakenham, too, something has been
said before; but a remark, worth making in passing because it happens to be
true, is that "Fakenham, Norfolk," was an address often used by me as a boy
desirous of acquiring ferrets or spaniels of miraculous quality, according
to the advertisement. The explanation is plain on the face of the land to
him who travels this country. It is very largely and successfully devoted
to game; but whether the vendors of these animals, all paragons in their
kind, were entitled to use the ground on and under which they had trained
them may be an open question.

My recollections of Rainham Hall are so ancient, the circumstances in which
they were acquired were so peculiar, and my ignorance is so complete upon
the questions whether the famous pictures are still there and whether the
Hall is ever open to visitors, that I am not in a position to say whether
it is worth while to go 3-1/4 miles out of the way to it. It may be taken
that it is, if it be possible only to see the park and the outside of the
house; for the latter is by Inigo Jones, and vastly fine; and the park,
containing a magnificent sheet of water famous for its pike, is delightful.
Of the modern representatives of this ancient and once distinguished family
it were unkind to speak. Some of the earlier stock were distinguished. One
took a prominent part for the King in the Rebellion and in the Restoration.
To another the famous Belisarius was given by Frederick the Great. A third
introduced the turnip into Norfolk and was jested at by Pope; but Pope is
not so quotable as a more enthusiastic and less known verse-maker of
Norfolk:--

    Thus Townshend gave the Master-Key
    T' unlock the store of Husbandry;
    Who, like Triptolemus of old,
    From clods made rustics gather gold.
    Friend patriarchal to our county!
    Still, as we taste, we own thy bounty.

One of the great main roads of Norfolk starts from Cromer and runs through
Sheringham and several other places to Elmham and East Dereham. Whether you
start from Fakenham or Rainham you join it by a cross-road just north of
Twyford, and a Norfolk main road is always worth joining, because it is so
good to travel upon. To Elmham it is positively necessary to go. It was, in
all probability, the seat of East Anglian bishops before they deserted it
for Thetford, and then for Norwich; certainly they had their palace there,
and the earthworks are the more rather than the less interesting in that
they are, according to the authority more than once quoted, probably
post-Roman. It is worth while to enter the church too, not merely to see
the carved bench-heads, which are quite common in Norfolk, but because one
of them, of a Roman in a helmet, is said to represent Pontius Pilate.

A short five miles takes us to East Dereham, and it has been described by a
master's hand.

"I have already said that it was a beautiful little town--at least it was
at the time of which I am speaking--what it is at present I know not, for
thirty years and more have elapsed since I last trod its streets." (Of a
truth it seems to have changed very little.) "It will scarcely have
improved, for how would it be better than it then was? I love to think on
thee, pretty quiet D----, thou pattern of an English country town, with thy
clean but narrow streets branching out from thy modest market-place, with
thine old-fashioned houses, with here and there a roof of venerable thatch,
with thy one half-aristocratic mansion, where resided Lady Bountiful--she,
the generous and kind, who loved to visit the sick, leaning on her
gold-headed cane, whilst the sleek old footman walked at a respectful
distance behind. Pretty quiet D----, with thy venerable church in which
moulder the remains of England's sweetest and most pious bard."

The bard of course was Cowper, who lived at East Dereham in his affliction,
died and was buried there. To be perfectly candid, it is in the nature of a
relief to one who has found the works of Cowper, always excepting _John
Gilpin_, sweet and pious, but also a trifle tiresome, to convert to his own
use--the usual word for taking a loan is clearly barred--some panegyric of
Cowper from George Borrow, who was unlike to Cowper as one man can be to
another, and not from some more modern writer making a business of
admiration. Borrow indeed proceeds in a tone of heartfelt sympathy which
none of the professional eulogists can touch. "It was within thee that the
long-oppressed bosom heaved its last sigh, and the crushed and gentle
spirit escaped from a world in which it had known nought but sorrow.
Sorrow! do I say? How faint a word to express the misery of that bruised
reed; misery so dark that a blind worm like myself is occasionally tempted
to exclaim, Better had the world never been created than that one so kind,
so harmless, and so mild, should have undergone such intolerable woe! But
it is over now, for, as there is an end of joy, so has affliction its
termination. Doubtless the All-wise did not afflict him without a cause!
Who knows but within that unhappy frame lurked vicious seeds which the
sunbeams of joy and prosperity might have called into life and vigour?
Perhaps the withering blasts of misery nipped that which otherwise might
have terminated in fruit noxious and lamentable. But peace to the unhappy
one, he is gone to his rest; the death-like face is no longer occasionally
seen timidly and mournfully looking for a moment through the window-pane
upon thy market-place, quiet and pretty D----; the hind in thy
neighbourhood no longer at evening-fall views, and starts as he views, the
dark lathy figure moving beneath the hazels and the elders of shadowy
lanes, or by the side of murmuring trout-streams, and no longer at early
dawn does the sexton of the old church reverently doff his hat, as,
supported by some kind friend, the death-stricken creature totters along
the church-path to that mouldering edifice with the low roof, enclosing a
spring of sanatory waters, built and devoted to some saint, if the legend
over the door be true, by the daughter of an East Anglian king."

Well, the daughter of the East Anglian king was Withburga, and the name of
her father, who reigned in the seventh century, appears to have been Anna
[_sic_]. She was a sister of St. Ethelreda too. But the pilgrimage to East
Dereham is better worth taking for the love of George Borrow than for the
sake of any saint, female or male, seventh or seventeenth century. George
Borrow was assuredly no saint; but a wanderer, an adventurer, a wayward
genius, a very human and fallible man, with "a true English heart," to
quote Mr. Augustine Birrell. At East Dereham he was born, from East Dereham
he drew Philo the clerk to the life, on the East Anglian heaths he met and
studied the gipsies whom he knew as no other Englishman amongst us has ever
known them. He belongs to East Dereham, he is its veritable _vates sacer_.

East Dereham is the intersecting point of two great roads, the one we came
by, which goes on to Thetford and Bury, and the road crossing the county
from Norwich to Lynn. That will give us a straight run home, for Lynn is
home for the nonce, by way of Swaffham, where we must make a detour for
Castle Acre. Swaffham itself is of little apparent interest, although its
church is worth more than a passing glance, since it is a good type of
Norfolk church, and can boast a double hammer-beam roof. But Swaffham
interests me, and is likely to interest a good many other persons, in a
connection with matters more mundane. So early as the first chapter, when
we were passing near to another Swaffham--multiplicity of identical
place-names exceeds the limits of convenience in East Anglia--a casual
observation was made to another Swaffham, the one at which we now are,
where George, Earl of Orford, founded the first coursing club ever started
in England, and I thought as I wrote of an ancient MS. commonplace book in
which a young Welsh parson, breeder of greyhounds and runner of them,
commemorated the mighty achievements of greyhounds in East Anglia. Since
then we have encountered George, Earl of Orford, have felt, perhaps, a
little more sympathy with him than the world which knows him only as a
seller of priceless pictures. Since then, too, I have laid my hand on the
book, and in it is a long note headed, "October 1792. Swaffham Coursing
Society. A cup value 25 guineas subscribed for in honour to the memory of
the founder George, Earl of Orford, to be run for in November annually upon
the following terms and conditions." To give these in full might try
patience too hard, but the foundation of the cup in itself shows that the
eccentric peer was not ill-liked in his county, and some of the rules are
so quaint that the whole may be condensed. If entries are more than
sixteen, or less than sixteen in number, they are to be reduced to sixteen
or eight as the case may be, by lot. If "any of the matched dogs should be
so disabled as to pay forfeit to his antagonist, that antagonist shall be
deemed the winner of the heat in question, but the person paying forfeit
shall produce another dog to run a course against him, which substituted
dog shall have no chance for the cup even if he wins his heat. It is
provided also that no owner may enter more than one dog, that entries shall
be a guinea, and that each owner shall back his dog for a guinea in each
heat." Venues are then laid down, Westacre for the first dog, Smeefield for
the second, Narborough for the third, and Westacre for the final. The club,
a later note informs us, was limited to the number of letters in the
alphabet, applicants for vacancies as they occurred to be balloted for. It
is interesting to think of the scenes on Westacre and the other manors,
some certainly retaining their ancient names still, in 1792, when coursing,
now fallen on evil days, was fashionable. To recall the names of those who
were present is not possible, for 1792 was the date of the birth of the
writer of the commonplace book, and his copy of the rules was apparently
made in a mood of research into the antiquities of his favourite sport. But
I find a list of "Coursers at Swaffham 1825," clearly showing by the
letters appended to the names that the old limitation to the letters of the
alphabet survived, and the names themselves may stir East Anglian memories.
They are, "Mr. Keppel, K, Mr. Tysser (?) F, Mr. H. Hammond, Q, Mr. Gurney,
A, Mr. Denn, D, Mr. Redhead, L, Mr. Ayton, P, Mr. Carter, G, Lord Dunwich,
M, Lord Stradbroke, E, Mr. Buckworth, B, Mr. Young, V, Mr. Gurdon, S."
Members of the Yorkshire, Wiltshire and Berkshire Coursing Clubs were also
at liberty to enter for the Orford Cup.

From Swaffham we make a detour of 4-1/2 miles to Castleacre and to the
mystery of earthworks. It is the last place we visit in East Anglia, and,
having visited it, it will be just as well to return to the good high road
for our return journey to Lynn. What one sees, after a drive across a
gorse-clad common, is simple, what it means is another matter. One sees the
ruins of the Priory, a great mound, and beyond it a village showing what
has become of the ruins of the castle and the Priory. The story of the
castle is easily traced with the help of Messrs. Timbs and Gunn. The site
was granted by the Conqueror to William de Warrenne; he or his son built a
castle, and it remained the property of the family until the fifteenth
century. Edward I went there several times as a visitor, but early in the
fourteenth century the castle was a ruin. Now we can see only two
earthworks, one horseshoe-shaped, the other circular, a faint remnant of
the great gateway, and bare traces of foundations of inner parts of the
castle. "There is no doubt of the fortress having been erected by the
Warrennes, but did they construct the enormous earthworks? Mr. Harrod
considers they are not Norman, but Roman, the occupation of the site by the
Romans being established, and Roman pottery and coins of Vespasian,
Constantine, etc., having been found there. Evidence is then quoted to show
that the walls and earthworks were the works of different people, and that
the Normans availed themselves of these sites in consequence of their
strength. 'And here,' says Mr. Harrod, 'we see the variety of interest
afforded by the study of archæology. Here is a castle, of which all
interesting architectural features have been destroyed. But probably from
that very cause our attention is drawn to the remarkable character of the
earthworks, and a view of this subject is presented to our notice, which
may hereafter be of great use in the investigation of other remains of a
similar kind.'"

"Murray," again, supports Mr. Harrod, adding on his own behalf "the
position of Castle Acre, on the line of a very ancient road, known as the
'Peddar's Way,' must always have been one of very great importance." Of
this argument we may dispose at once. It has been seen that, if the
Peddar's Way was a military road, its importance was due only to the fact
that it led to Brancaster, or towards Brancaster; Brancaster was a fortress
and watch-tower, seawards against the Saxon pirates, and nothing more. Now
let us apply the cold learning and scientific tests of Mr. Haverfield. "The
imperfect rectangular earthwork between the church and the ruins of the
Saxon and Norman castle has generally been taken to represent a Roman
earthen camp of 10 or 12 or (according to others) 22 acres in size, and
various finds of Roman objects have been adduced to support the idea. But
the camp, so far as I can judge without excavation, is not definitely Roman
in character, and hardly any of the objects seem to have been found in or
near it." He then goes through the "finds" systematically, and concludes:
"I cannot regard this meagre and scattered evidence as adequate to prove
the camp Roman, still less to prove it Roman of the first century, as Mr.
Fox suggests. It indicates at the utmost a cottage or two, standing perhaps
by the Peddar's Way (which runs through Castleacre parish, and earthworks)
somewhere about A.D. 300. This may very likely have been to the north of
the parish and not in the vicinity of the 'camp.' In truth the best and
best authenticated 'find,' an intaglio with an emperor's head, was made two
miles north of the 'camp.'"

Where are we then? Merely in a state of knowing that, according to the best
authority, there is no adequate evidence for believing the earthworks to be
Roman. The problem presented by these earthworks and others is a legitimate
subject for conjecture. Dr. Jessopp, in a paper on "The Saxon Burghs of
Norfolk," appears to think that Castle Rising, Castleacre, Mileham, Elmham,
and Norwich represent a line of Saxon fortresses, some of them occupying
sites which were Roman before, erected to resist the Danes in the ninth
century. The Roman hypothesis he would probably drop in the light of
present knowledge, and, looking at the positions of these places on the
map, it is not quite apparent, to say the least of it, why they should have
been chosen for points of resistance to invaders from the sea. Were they,
then, pre-Roman? That is possible; and it is quite consistent with the
absence of Roman remains, for until the Saxon shore became a reality, the
Romans had no occasion to fight in East Anglia after they had wiped the
Iceni off the face of the earth, and so they had no need for fortresses in
it. Or is it just conceivable that here, as has been suggested in the case
of Castle Rising, the haughty Norman grandees compelled the subjugated
country-folk, by scourge and every brutal method, to pile up these huge
mounds?

We can never tell for certain unless the spade be set to work in earnest,
perhaps not then even; but in the meanwhile, as we make the run of some
twenty miles to Lynn, it is amusing, if somewhat unscientific, to
speculate, nor is speculation any the less entertaining in that much of the
basis upon which previous theories have rested has been proved to be
unsound. Let us, then, think of these mysterious works as we roll home to
Lynn; and, having reached it, we have also reached the end.




INDEX


Acle, 45, 46

Agrippina, 190

Alde River, 225

Aldeburgh, 36 _et seq._, 225

Aram, Eugene, 369 _et seq._

Ardleigh, 207

Armada, the, East Anglia's contribution of ships, 163

Attleborough, 91

Avebury, Lord, on changing coastline, 182, 224


Babes in the Wood, the, 132

Badow, Richard de, 274

Barsham, 313

Bawdsey, 165

---- Ferry, 168

Beccles, 41, 314 _et seq._

Bigods, the, 311, 312

Billericay, 275, 277, 278

Birds seen from car, 80

Blackpool, 203

Blakeney, 336

Blickling, 382, 383

Blythburgh, 39

Boadicea, 59 _et seq._, 191, 192, 231, 232, 264, 268

Borrow, George, 55, 307 _et seq._, 393 _et seq._

Bottisham Church, 10

Bowes, Mr. T. G., 363

Bradfield, 213

Braintree, 251

---- as home for London men of business, 252, 253

Brancaster, 61, 387 _et seq._, 397

Brandon, 132

---- flints, 133

Breeze, Mary, 368, 369

Breydon Water, 226, 313

Broads, the, Mr. Rye on, 316

---- Fascination of, 321 _et seq._

Bungay, 307 _et seq._

---- Common, Mr. Rider Haggard upon, 315

---- derivation, 312

---- as a Spa, 309

---- vineyard at, 310

Bures St. Mary, 232

Burnham Deepdale, 389

---- on Crouch, 291

---- Thorpe, 389

Bury St. Edmunds, 16 _et seq._, 21, 261, 299 _et seq._

---- ---- ---- Abbey, 19, 301, 302

---- ---- ---- "Angel," the, 21, 299 _et seq._

---- ---- ---- Carlyle at, 301

---- ---- ---- Defoe at, 302, 303

---- ---- ---- Pickwick at, 302

Butcher's bill, a motorist's, 182


Cæsar, Julius, 187

Caister-by-Yarmouth, 45, 97, 320

Caistor-by-Norwich, 58-61

Cambridge, Bull Hotel, 3, 358

---- King's College Chapel, 6

---- Magdalene College, 7

---- St. John's College, 7

---- Trinity College Library, 6

---- University Library, 6

Camps, ancient theories about, 260, 261

Camden, 286

Camulodunum, 187 _et seq._

Caradoc, 191

Carlyle, Thomas, 19

Carr stone, 380, 381, 384

Castle Acre, 396 _et seq._

---- Hedingham, 248

Castle Rising, 377 _et seq._

Cavendish, village, 242, 243

Chadwell, Defoe at, 280

Charles I, 197

Chateaubriand at Bungay, 313

Chaucer, 125

Chelmsford, 148

Chesterfield, Lord, on Newmarket, 13

Chingford, 143

Chipping Ongar, 179

Civil War, the, 367

Clacton-on-Sea, 182, 183, 201

Clare College, Cambridge, 274

Clare, Elizabeth de, 274

---- Family and village, 243

Claudius, Emperor, 187 _et seq._

Cley-next-Sea, 336

Coast changes, 164 _et seq._, 224 _et seq._

Cobbold, Mr. Felix, M.P., 151, 152

Coggeshall, 250, 251

Coke of Norfolk, 48, 338 _et seq._

Cokes, the, 338

Colchester, 65, 182 _et seq._

---- Abbey of St. John, 196

---- Arms of, 193

---- "Cups," the, 185

---- "Red Lion," the, 149, 183

---- Roman Colony, 190

---- ---- times in, 186 _et seq._

---- ---- relics at, 192

---- siege of, 196

---- Town Hall, 185

Cole, Old King, 193

Colman, the original, 112

Constable, John, 88, 207-10 _et seq._, 233, 320

Constantine, the Great, 193 _et seq._

Coot's eggs, a delicacy, 129

Cornish, late Mr. C. J., 167

Cotman, J. T., 55

Cordell, Sir W., 240, 241

Coursing Club, the first, 394, 395

Cowper, Thomas, 392, 393

Crabbe, George, 37 _et seq._

Crome, "Old," 55, 211

Cromer, 324 _et seq._

---- The Link's Hotel, 325

---- society, 327 _et seq._

Cromwell, Oliver, 366, 367

Cromwell, Thomas, 342

Crowland, 377

Cubitt, Sir W., 43

Cudworth, 274

Cunobelin, King, 187, 230, 231

Cunobelin's gold mine, 282, 288


Danbury Hill, 259

Darkness, driving in, 23, 45, 46, 65

Dedham, 207, 211, 320

Defoe at Bury St. Edmunds, 302, 303

---- ---- at Chadwell, 280 _et seq._

Dene Holes, 282 _et seq._

De Ruyter, 39, 40, 214

Dersingham, 384, 385

De Salle, Sir Robert, 50, 51

De Veres, the, 245 _et seq._

Devil's Dyke, the, 12

Dhuleep Singh, Maharajah, 83

Dickens, Charles, 16

Ditchingham, 307 _et seq._

Douglas, Isle of Man, 204

Dovercourt, 213

Downham, 357

Driving, stray hints on, 293

Dukes of Norfolk, their grandeur in the past, 109 _et seq._

Dunmow custom, 172 _et seq._

Dunmow, Great, 172 _et seq._

---- Little, 172

Dunthune, John, 211

Dunwich, 159 _et seq._

Dutt, Mr. W. A., 24

Dyke, a mysterious, 297


Earlham, 120 _et seq._

East Anglia, definition, xviii

---- Bergholt, 210, 213

---- Dereham, 392 _et seq._

Eastern Counties Association, 19

Erming Street, 77

Edmund, St., 16, _et seq._, 385

Edward the Elder, 261

---- II, 380

---- III, 366, 380

Elections, motor-cars at, 2

Elephants, Roman, at Colchester, 190

Elizabeth, Queen, 54, 108

Elmham, 391, 392

Elvedon Hall, 83

Ely Cathedral, 134 _et seq._

Epping, 148, 179

---- Forest, 143 _et seq._, 176

Erasmus, 341, 342, 344

Essex byways, 269, 270

---- military manoeuvres, 182 _et seq._

---- roads, effect of heavy motor traffic on, 277

---- ---- Arthur Young upon, 276

---- scenery, 68, 69

Euston Park, 89 _et seq._

Exits, importance of, 8


Fakenham, 349, 390

Fairfax, 150, 196

Fairlop Oak, the, 146

Falstaff, 209

Falstolf, Sir John, 97, 320

_Farmer's Year, A_, 308

Felix the Burgundian, 162, 151

Felixstowe, 151 _et seq._

Fenn, Sir John, 54, 55

Fens, fascination of, 350 _et seq._

---- reclamation of, 350 _et seq._

Fir hedges, 82, 130

Fitzgerald, Edward, 36, 41, 44

Flixton Park, 307

Fordham, 134

Forest law, 177

Forest of Waltham, 176

Freemasons watched, 113

French, General Sir John, 182, 200

Froude, J. A., 145, 342

Fry, Elizabeth, 122, 327


Game preservation, influence on landscape, 15, 81

Galleywood Common, 259

Garden of Suffolk, the, 159

Gainsborough, Thomas, 211, 233 _et seq._

---- Horace Walpole on, 236

---- on Suffolk scenery, 235

---- Reynolds on, 236

Gog Magog Hills, 79, 137

Grays, 273, 282

Great Baddow, 274

---- Bentley, 228

---- Holland, 204

Grit in petrol, 324 _et seq._, 332

Gulls, Black-headed, 128 _et seq._

Gunton, 383

Gurneys of Earlham, the, 55, 120 _et seq._, 326 _et seq._


Hainault Forest, 176, 177

Hairy Man's Wood. _See_ Hangman's

Hangman's Wood, 280 _et seq._, 287

Hare, late Mr. Augustus, 120, 256, 257, 326

Harleston, 305, 306

Harlow, 179

Harrod, Mr., 397

Harwich, 182, 213 _et seq._

---- Yacht Club memories, 214 _et seq._

Hatfield Broad Oak, 178

---- Forest, 176

---- Heath, 179

Haverfield, Mr. F. J. (on Roman Britain), 3, 15, 54, 58, 85, 320, 364, 378,
387, 397, 398

Haydon Ditch, 297

Helena, Empress, 193 _et seq._

Henry VIII, 342, 343

Herons, 166

Heybridge, 262

High Ongar, 179

Hingham, Norfolk and Massachusetts, 127, 128

Hitchin, 296

Holkham Hall, 338 _et seq._

Hollesley, 225

Hoodie crows, 80, 81

Hopkins, Matthew, witchfinder, 209, 210

Horndon and Hill, 270

Horses and cars, 171, 172

Hotels, English, 3, 361

Houghton Hall, 344 _et seq._

Hunstantons, the, 385 _et seq._


Iceni, 12, 59 _et seq._, 191, 267, 398

Icenhilde Way. _See_ Icknield

Icknield Way, 14 _et seq._, 77

Ingatestone, 255 _et seq._

---- Tornado at, 257 _et seq._

Ipswich, 23, 30 _et seq._, 150, 169

---- "Crown and Anchor," 29, 170

---- Gloves at, 29

---- "Great White Horse," 25-8, 65

Ipswich Oysters, 29

Ireton, 150, 197

Isabella of France, 380

Iveagh, Lord, 83


James I, 78

Jermy, Mr. Isaac, 95 _et seq._

Jersey cattle, 155

Jessopp, Dr., 13, 49, 307

Johnson, Dr., 214


Kett's rebellion, 54, 91-93

Kimberley Hall, 126, 127

Kingsley, C., on the Fens, 352 _et seq._

King's Lynn, 350, 360 _et seq._, 379

---- ---- "The Globe," 350, 360


Lanchester car, 183

Landguard Point, 224, 227

Langdon Hill, 279

Latimer, 274

Leland, 16, 163, 71

Leland's _Itinerary_ described, 71 _et seq._

Le Soken, meaning of, 205

Le Strange, Sir Hamon, 367

---- ---- family, the, 385

Lexden, 229 _et seq._, 265

Lisle, Sir George, 150

Little Maplestead, 249

Long Melford, 236 _et seq._

---- ---- Church, 237 _et seq._

Long Stratton, 62, 63

---- ---- "White Hart," 63

Lowestoft, 42, 43, 313

Lucas family at Colchester, 196

Lucas, Sir Charles, 150, 197


"Maid's Head," the, Norwich, 105 _et seq._, 323

Maldon, 261, 262

Mannerless motorists, 90

Manningtree, 207-209

Margaretting, 259

Martineau, Miss, 55

Martins of Long Melford, 241, 242

Mechanics, ways of, 34, 35

Mechi, Mr., 263, 264

Melford Hall, 237

Merivale, Dean, 188 _et seq._, 265, 266

Messing, 264 _et seq._, 269

Middleton hub, 253

Mildenhall, 133

Mistley, 213

Montalt, Robert de, 379

Moonlight driving, 324

Morning mists, 273

Motor-boats criticized, 323

Motor-car sufficient in itself, 156

Motor-cars as mental tonic, 33

---- in Norfolk, 348, 349

Motor-cycles, a peril of, 358

Murray's Guide, 70 _et seq._, 88, 128, 190


Napier car, 204

Nelson, 313, 357, 389, 390

---- prayer for thanksgiving, 52

_Norfolk Chronicle_, 4

Norfolk dialect, 124

Norfolk, Duke of, 97
---- Dukes of. _See_ Dukes of Norfolk

North Weir Point, 225

Nero, 190

Nevinson, Mr. H. W., 212

Newton, Sir Isaac, 41

Newbury, 12

Newmarket, 11-13, 81

Norwich, 43, 106 _et seq._

---- "A Port," 43

---- Butter Hills, 50

---- Castle, 49

---- Cathedral, 49, 119

---- ---- by moonlight, 113

---- Cattle Market, 116

---- General Market, 118

---- Guildhall, 49, 119

---- in history, 54

---- "Maid's Head," 49, 52, 63

---- Many churches of, 51

---- Objects of interest in, 51

---- Royal Hotel, 46-48

---- St. Peter's Permountergate, 52

---- School of Painting, 55

---- Tombland, 53

---- Walls, 49, 115


Ongar, 148

Ore River, 225

Orford Haven, 225

Orford, third Lord, 347, 394

Ossory, Lord, 41

Oulton Broad, 316, 322

Oxford, Earl of, 246

Oysters, 29, 170, 184, 197


Paine, Thomas, 89

Panhard car, 7, 8, 34

_Paston Letters_, 54, 55, 71 _et seq._, 97, 320, 321

Pastons, the, 112

Peddars Way, the, 61, 387, 398

Pepys, Samuel, 7, 143

Peterborough Cathedral, 374 _et seq._

Peto, Sir S., 43, 44

Petre, Lord, 256

---- Sir W., 256

Pickwick at Bury, 21, 300

---- at Ipswich, 26 _et seq._

Plautius, Aulus, 187 _et seq._

Pope, A., on Houghton, 345

Prasutagus, 191


_Quarterly Review_ on Colchester, 190, 192 _et seq._

---- ---- on Lexden, 230, 231

Quilter, Sir Cuthbert, 168


Rabbit warrens, famous, 83

Rainham Hall, 391

Rider Haggard, Mr., 307 _et seq._

Ripley, architect, 344, 345

Robinson, P., 200

Robsart, Amy, 94

Rolls-Royce car, 74, 294

Romans in Britain, 59

Roman river, the, 230

---- roads, 58 _et seq._

Round church towers, 62

Royal motorists, 348

Royston, 76 _et seq._

Runton, 326, 332

Rush, James, murderer, 95 _et seq._

Ruskin, Mr. John, 157

Rye, Mr. Walter, 54, 63, 85-7, 92, 316, 349, 364, 382, 383


St. Osyth, 204

Salthouse, 335

Sampson, Abbot, 170

Sandon, 259

Sandford, Emily, 99

Sandringham, 381-3

Sandringham time, 382, 383

Sandwich, Lord, 39, 40

Saxmundham, 36, 158, 159

Saxon shore, the, 60, 398

Scole, 63, 305

Scoulton Mere, 128

Seaman, Mr. Owen, 274

Seedfarms of Essex, 207, 208

Shakespeare, _Henry IV_, 209,
  _Henry VI_, 20

Sheffield, Lord, 93

Sheringham, 335

Sitomagus, 86

Six cylinders, merits of, 75

Six Mile Bottom, 296, 298

Soham, 134

Sole Bay, battle of, 39, 40

Southwold, 39

Stags, a team of, 347, 348

Stanfield Hall murders, 95 _et seq._

Stepney wheel, 253

Stour River, 209 _et seq._, 245

Stratford, 67

---- St. Mary, 213

Street Way, 11

Strickland, Agnes, 39

Strongbow, 244

Suckling, Caroline, 314

Sudbury, 233, 236

Suetonius, 265 _et seq._

Suffolk, bad roads, 63

Swaffham, 11, 394


Tacitus, 265-268

Takeley, 179

Telford, Thomas, 43

Thetford, 84 _et seq._

Thorn trees, their age, 147

Tillotson, 274

_Times, The_, 100

Tiptree, 200, 262 _et seq._

Tire troubles, 294 _et seq._

"Tom Peartree," 235

Tostock, 24

Townshend, Lord, 345

Townshends, the, 391

Trees over roads, 278

Trimley's twin churches, 151

Trinobantes, 188, 189

Trollope on Cathedral Society, 114

Turner, J. M. W., 280

Turner, Sir John, 370

---- Sir Ll., 94 _et seq._, 214 _et seq._

Tusser, Thomas, 209

Twthill, 386

Tyler, Wat, 50, 243


Villages, character in East Anglia, 306, 307

Vineyards, English, 31


Walpole, Horace, 90, 346, 348

---- Sir Robert, 344 _et seq._

Walsingham Priory, 340 _et seq._

Walton-on-the-Naze, 204

Warwick, Lord, 93

Watton, 132

Weather Heath, 81

Weeley, 227

Wellington, Duke of, 48

Wells-next-Sea, 336, 337

West Manningfield, 259

Weyland Wood, 132

White steam car, 138 _et seq._

Wild Boy, Peter the, 281 _et seq._

Wilson, Miss, 307

Windhams, the, 329

Windmills, 88

Witham, 149, 255

Wivenhoe, 199

Wodehouses, the, 48, 126, 127

Wolferton, 380

Woodbridge, 36

Woolpit, legend of, 24

Worby Beaumont, Mr., 141

Worsted, origin of, 54

Wortham, 303, 304

Wymondham, 91 _et seq._

Wynne, General, 183, 200, 251


Xenophon, physician, 190


Yarmouth, 43, 44, 226, 319, 320

Yaxley, 63

Young, Arthur, 15, 71, 275, 276, 279




