A CHAPTER OF DIVERS PLACES AND EXPERIENCES
Ten miles north of Oxford is Woodstock, near which is Blenheim Palace, the seat of the Dukes of Marlborough. This great estate and imposing mansion was presented by Act of Parliament to the first Duke of Marlborough in recognition of the victory which he won over the French at Blenheim. The architect who prepared the plans for the great structure was the famous Sir John Vanbrugh, who was so noted for the generally low heavy effect of his creations. While he was still alive a wit proposed a satirical epitaph in the couplet,
"Lie heavy on him, Earth, for he
Laid many a heavy load on thee."
So enormous was the cost of the palace and estate that the half million pounds sterling voted by parliament was not sufficient and more than sixty thousand pounds of the great Duke's private fortune went into it as well. In his fondness for state and display, he was quite the opposite of the other great national hero, the Duke of Wellington, who was satisfied with the greatest simplicity and preferred cash to expensive palaces and great estates. As a consequence, the Dukes of Marlborough have been land-poor for several generations and until recently Blenheim Palace seemed in a fair way to be added to the already long list of ruins in Britain. Something has lately been done in the way of repair and restoration, but there are many evidences of decay still apparent.
Blenheim Palace has been shorn of many of its treasures, among them the great Sunderland Library of 80,000 volumes, sold at auction some years ago. Many valuable objects of art still remain, especially family portraits by nearly every great artist from Gainsborough to Sargent, and there is much fine statuary. The tapestries, in the state rooms, illustrating the achievements of the first Duke, are especially remarkable and were made in Belgium under his directions. But from the English view-point, no doubt the original documents pertaining to the Duke are most notable; among these is the modest note which he addressed to Queen Anne from Blenheim, announcing his "famous victory."
The park is one of the largest in England, but it showed many evidences of neglect and slovenly care. Some of the worst looking cattle I saw in England obstructed the ornamental stone bridge that crosses the stream flowing into a large artificial lake within the park. The driveways were not kept in the perfect manner that is characteristic of the English private park. Despite these evidences of neglect, the beauty of the place was little impaired. There are some of the finest oak trees in England and down by the lake are groups of magnificent cedars through whose branches the bright water shimmered in the sunshine. As we circled about the park, the distant views of the palace well bore out its reputation of being one of the stateliest private homes in the Kingdom. Our guide pointed out the spot where once stood the manor-house of Woodstock, torn down about a hundred years ago. In this house Princess Elizabeth was held a prisoner for a time by her sister, Queen Mary, but it is best known from the story of Walter Scott, who located here the principal scenes of "Woodstock."
The town of Woodstock has a long line of traditions, but shows little evidence of modern progress. It is a quiet, old-world little place with clean streets and many fine trees. Tradition asserts that the father of English poetry, Geoffrey Chaucer, was born here and the old house, alleged to be his birthplace, still stands in Park Street. However, the poet himself declares that London was his native city and the confiding tourist is left with the necessity of balancing the poet's own assertion on this important point against that of the Woodstock guide books. In any event, Chaucer certainly lived in Woodstock—very likely in the house assigned to him today. The town was also a residence of the Saxon kings, and here are many legends of Henry II and Fair Rosamond. Perhaps its most distinguished resident, however, was Oliver Cromwell, who put up at an inn, now a private house, while his army battered down the old palace as described by Scott.
We returned from Woodstock to Oxford and from there directed our course to Wantage, the birthplace of King Alfred the Great and, I might incidentally remark, at that time the residence of a well known expatriated New York City politician. This latter distinction did not occur to us until after we had left the town, and therefore we failed to make inquiries as to how this gentleman was regarded by his fellow-citizens of Oxfordshire. In this connection, soon afterwards I saw an amusing report in the newspapers stating that a libel suit had been brought against a British magazine for having published an article in which the ex-boss was spoken of in an uncomplimentary manner. The report stated that the case had been settled, the magazine editor paying the legal costs and retracting what he had said, as well as publishing an apology for the attack. Here we have an example of the British idea of the sacredness of private character. This politician while in America was almost daily accused by the newspapers of every crime in the calendar and never thought it worth while to enter a denial. No sooner is he fairly established in England than he brings suit against a magazine whose charges appear to have been of the mildest character. One seldom sees in English newspapers the violent attacks on individuals and the severe denunciations of public men so common in American journals. If the editor forgets himself, as in the case cited, suit for libel is sure to be brought and often proves a serious thing. While this to some extent may obstruct the freedom of the press, it is nevertheless a relief to miss the disgraceful and unwarranted attacks on public men that continually fill the columns of many American newspapers.
The road from Oxford to Wantage is a splendid one, running through a beautiful country and bordered much of the way with ancient trees. Wantage is a quiet town, lying at the foot of the hills, and is chiefly noted as the birthplace of the great Saxon king. A granite statute of Alfred stands in the market square, representing the king with the charter of English liberties in one hand and a battle-ax in the other. As he was born more than a thousand years ago, there are no buildings now standing that were connected with his history. The church is probably the oldest building—a fine example of early English architecture. Near it is buried the wife of Whittington, "Lord Mayor of Londontown." Dr. Butler, the theologian and author of "The Analogy," was born in the town and this house is still to be seen.
Leaving Wantage, the road to Reading runs along the crest of the hills, and on either side from the breezy uplands, the green fields, dashed with the gold of the ripening harvest, stretched away for many miles. This was one of the few spots in England where the view was unobstructed by fences of any kind, and while the average English hedge-row is not unpleasing, the beauty of the landscape in this instance certainly did not suffer by its absence. From Kingston-on-Thames, the perfectly kept road closely follows the river. Reading has a population of about one hundred and twenty thousand and is a place of considerable business activity. Though the city has a history stretching back to ancient times, most of the evidences of antiquity have disappeared in modern progress. It was chosen as the seat of Elizabeth's parliament when the plague was devastating London. Fragments of the old abbey hall in which this parliament met still remain and the gateway was restored a few years ago. Reading offered a stout resistance to the Commonwealth and suffered severely at Cromwell's hands. Its chief industries today are biscuit making and seed farming, which give employment to ten thousand people.
From Reading, a few miles through byways brought us to Eversley, a retired village five miles from a railway station, where the church and rectory of Charles Kingsley may be seen. The church is picturesquely situated on the hillside, with an avenue of fine yew trees leading from the gate to the door. The building has been altered a good deal since Kingsley was rector, but the pulpit from which he preached is practically the same. The rectory, which is directly by the church, is a very old building, though it has been modernized on the side fronting the road. It stands in the midst of a group of Scotch firs which were great favorites with Kingsley. Their branches almost touch the earth, while their huge trunks form a strong contrast with the dense green of the foliage. Kingsley and his wife are buried in the churchyard on the side nearest the firs. The graves are marked by a simple Runic cross in white marble bearing the names, the date, and the legend, "God is Love." Eversley and its surroundings are thoroughly typical of rural England. A quieter and more retired little place could hardly be imagined. One wonders why the great novelist and preacher spent so many years of his life here. It may have been that the seclusion was not a little conducive to his successful literary labors.
Thirty miles farther over main-traveled highways brought us for a second time to Winchester. Here we stopped for the night after an unusually long run. An early start soon brought us to Southampton, which is known everywhere as a port of arrival and departure of great merchant steamers and which, aside from its commercial importance, is one of the most ancient and interesting cities in the Kingdom. The most notable relic is a portion of the Saxon wall, the part known as the "Arcade," built in a series of arches, being the most remarkable. Close by, in a little street called Blue Anchor Lane, is a house reputed to have been the palace of King John and said to be the oldest in England, although several others contest that distinction. At the head of Blue Anchor Lane is a picturesque Tudor house, once the residence of Henry VIII and his queen, Anne Boleyn. This is open to visitors and we were shown every part of the house by the tenant, who is also custodian. With all its magnificence of carved oak and wide fireplaces, it must have been a comfortless dwelling measured by more modern ideas.
Leaving the city, we crossed Southampton Water on a steam ferry which was guided by a chain stretched from bank to bank. Two or three miles to the southward lies Netley, a small village with the remains of an abbey dating from the reign of Henry I. The road to Netley followed the shore closely, but on nearing the village suddenly entered an avenue of fine trees which so effectually concealed the ruin that we stopped directly opposite the abbey to inquire its whereabouts. Leaving the car standing in the road, we spent a quarter of an hour wandering about the ruin and trying to locate the various apartments from a hand-book. The custodian here did not act as a guide, and we were left to figure out for ourselves the intricacies of nave, refectory, cloister, etc. Only the ivy-covered walls of the building are now standing, but these are in an unusual state of completeness. The chapel or church was cruciform in shape and built in the early English style. The walls of the west end have practically disappeared, but the great east window is fairly well preserved and its most remarkable feature is its two beautifully proportioned lights, the stone tracery of which remains almost intact. A legend in connection with this abbey no doubt grew out of the desire of some of the people to prevent the destruction of the beautiful building. After the abbey had been dismantled, the church was sold to a contractor, who proceeded to tear it down for the material. He was warned in a dream by the appearance of a monk not to proceed with the work, but disregarded the warning and was killed by the falling of a portion of the wall. If incidents of this kind had happened more frequently England would no doubt be richer in historic buildings.
We were preparing to leave Netley when a man in plain clothes approached us, and civilly touching his hat, inquired if I were the owner of the motor car. I confessed that I was and he stated he was an officer and regretted that he would have to report me to the police captain for leaving the car standing on a public walk. I had inadvertantly left the machine so that it partially obstructed the narrow gravel walk alongside the road, and some of the citizens had no doubt complained to the officer. We were naturally enough much chagrined, not knowing how much inconvenience and delay this incident might cause. The constable took my name and the number of the car and said I could report the circumstance myself to the captain of the police. I desired him to accompany me to call on this dignitary, but he did not seem at all anxious for the job.
This is the general procedure in England. An arrest is very seldom made in a case of this kind. The officer simply takes the name and number and the motorist can call on the proper official himself. The police system is so perfect that it would be quite useless to attempt to run away, as would happen if such a system were pursued in this country. If, in the judgment of the police official, the case should come to trial, a summons is served on the offender and the date is set. This is what I feared might happen in this case, and as it was within a week of our sailing time, I could imagine that it might cause a great deal of inconvenience.
I found the police captain's office in a neatly kept public building with a flower garden in front of it. I put the case to the captain, and after he had learned all the particulars he hastened to assure me that he would waive prosecution of the offense. He said some of the people in Netley were prejudiced against motors and no doubt were annoyed by the numerous tourists who came there to visit the abbey. Thus all the difficulties I had conjured up faded away and I had a pleasant conversation with the captain, who was a thorough gentleman. He said that the motor car was detested by many people, and no doubt with reason in some cases; but it had come to stay and forbearance and common sense were needed on part of motorist and the public generally. Much of the trouble, he stated, is due to reckless motorists who disregard the rights of other people. The week previous they had considerable difficulty in his district with an American who drove his car recklessly and defied regulations, and it was such performances that were responsible for the prejudice against the motor. This incident was my only personal experience with the British police in official capacity, barring a friendly admonition or two in London when I managed to get on the right side of the road—which is literally the wrong side in Britain.
The English police, taken as a whole, is unquestionably the most efficient and best disciplined in the world. A policeman's authority is never questioned in England and his raised hand is a signal that never goes unheeded. He has neither club nor revolver and seldom has need for these weapons. He is an encyclopedia of information, and the cases where he lent us assistance both in directing us on our road and informing us as to places of interest, literally numbered hundreds. He is a believer in fair play and seldom starts out of his own accord to make anyone trouble. It is not the policeman, but the civil officials who are responsible for the police traps which in many places are conducted in a positively disreputable manner, the idea being simply to raise revenue regardless of justice and without discrimination among the offenders. Graft among British policemen is unknown and bribery altogether unheard of. Of course their task is easier than that of the average American policeman, on account of the greater prevalence of the law-abiding spirit among the people. One finds policemen everywhere. Even the country districts are carefully patrolled. The escape of a law-breaker is a difficult if not impossible thing. One seldom hears in England of a motorist running away and leaving the scene of an accident that he has caused. Another thing that greatly helps the English policeman in his work is that a captured criminal is not turned loose again as is often the case in this country. Justice is surer and swifter in England, and as a consequence crime averages less than in most parts of the States. The murders committed yearly in Chicago outnumber many times those of London, which is three times as large. The British system of administering justice is one that in many particulars we could imitate to advantage in this country.
After bidding farewell to my friend the police captain and assuring him I was glad that our acquaintance terminated so quickly and happily, we proceeded on our way towards Chichester. The road for a distance of twenty-five miles led through an almost constant succession of towns and was frightfully dusty. The weather was what the natives call "beastly hot," and really was as near an approach to summer as we had experienced so far.
The predominating feature of Chichester is its cathedral, which dates from about 1100. It suffered repeatedly from fires and finally underwent complete restoration, beginning in 1848. The detached bell-tower is peculiar to the cathedral. This, although the most recent part of the building, appeared to be crumbling away and was undergoing extensive repairs. The cathedral is one of lesser importance among the great English churches, though on the whole it is an imposing edifice.
At Chichester we stopped for lunch at the hotel, just opposite the cathedral, where we had an example of the increasing tendency of hotel managers to recoup their fortunes by special prices for the benefit of tourists. On entering the dining room we were confronted with large placards conveying the cheerful information that luncheon would cost five shillings, or about $1.25 each. Evidently the manageress desired the victims to be prepared for the worst. There was another party in the dining room, a woman with five or six small children, and a small riot began when she was presented with a bill of five shillings for each of them. The landlady, clad in a low-necked black dress with long sweeping train, was typical of many we saw in the old-country hotels. She received her guest's protest with the utmost hauteur, and when we left the altercation was still in progress. It was not an uncommon thing in many of the dingiest and most unpretentious hotels to find some of the women guests elaborately dressed for dinner in the regulation low neck and long train. In many cases the example was set by the manageress and her assistants, though their attire not infrequently was the worse for long and continuous use.
Directly north of Chichester lie the picturesque hills of Surrey, which have not inaptly been described as the play-ground of London. The country around Chichester is level bordering on the coast. A few miles to the north it becomes rough and broken. About twenty miles in this direction is Haselmere, with many associations of George Eliot and Tennyson. This, together with the picturesque character of the country, induced us to turn our course in that direction, although we found a number of steep hills that were as trying as any we had met with. On the way we passed through Midhurst, one of the quaintest of Surrey towns, situated on a hill so steep and broken as to be quite dangerous. Not far from this place is the home of Richard Cobden, the father of English free trade, and he is buried in the churchyard near the town. He was evidently held in high regard in his time, for his house, which is still standing, was presented him by the nation. Among the hills near the town are several stately English country houses, and about half a mile distant are the ruins of Cowdray mansion, which about a hundred years ago was one of the most pretentious of all. There was an old tradition which said that the house and family should perish by fire and water, and it was curiously enough fulfilled when the palace burned and the last lord of the family was drowned on the same day.
