A ZIG-ZAG TRIP FROM YORK TO NORWICH
Late in the afternoon we left York over the Great North Road for Retford, from whence we expected to make the "Dukeries" circuit. The road runs through a beautiful section and passes many of the finest of the English country estates. It leads through Doncaster, noted for its magnificent church, and Bawtry, from whence came many of the Pilgrim Fathers who sailed in the Mayflower. This road is almost level throughout, and although it rained continuously, the run of fifty miles was made in record time—that is, as we reckoned record time.
At Retford we were comfortably housed at the White Hart Hotel, a well conducted hostelry for a town of ten thousand. The "White Hart" must be a favorite among English innkeepers, for I recollect that we stopped at no fewer than seven hotels bearing this name during our tour and saw the familiar sign on many others. On our arrival we learned that the Dukeries trip must be made by carriage and that the fifty miles would consume two days. We felt averse to subtracting so much from our already short remaining time, and when we found still further that admission was denied for the time at two of the most important estates, we decided to proceed without delay. The motor would be of no advantage to us in visiting the Dukeries, for the circuit must be made in a staid and leisurely English victoria.
Since this chronicle was written, however, I have learned that the embargo on motoring through the Dukeries is at least partially raised—another step showing the trend in England in favor of the motor car. By prearrangement with the stewards of the various estates, permission may be obtained to take a car through the main private roads. Thus the tourist will be enabled in half a day to accomplish what has previously required at least two days driving with horse and carriage.
In this vicinity is Newstead Abbey, the ancestral home of Byron, and one of our greatest disappointments was our inability to gain access to it. Perhaps we might have done so if we had made arrangements sufficiently in advance, since visitors are admitted, they told us, on certain days by special permission. There has, however, been an increasing tendency on the part of the owner to greatly limit the number of visitors. The coal mines discovered on the lands have become a great source of wealth and the abbey has been transformed into a modern palace in one of the finest private parks in England. The rooms occupied by Byron, it is said, are kept exactly as they were when he finally left Newstead and there are many interesting relics of the poet carefully preserved by the present proprietor.
It would be a bad thing for England if the tendency on the part of private owners of historic places, to exclude visitors from their premises, should become general. The disposition seems somewhat on the increase, and not without cause. Indeed, I was told that in a number of instances the privileges given had been greatly abused; that gardens had been stripped of their flowers and relics of various kinds carried away. This vandalism was not often charged against Americans, but rather against local English "trippers," as they are called—people who go to these places merely for a picnic or holiday. No doubt this could be overcome—it has been overcome in a number of instances, notably Warwick Castle and Knole House—by the charge of a moderate admission fee. People who are willing to pay are not generally of the class who commit acts of vandalism. That this practice is not adopted to a greater extent is doubtless due to the fact that numbers of aristocratic owners think there is something degrading in the appearance of making a commercial enterprise out of the historic places which they possess.
It is only twenty miles from Retford to Lincoln, and long before we reached the latter town we saw the towers of its great cathedral, which crowns a steep hill rising sharply from the almost level surrounding country. It is not strange that the cathedral-builders, always with an eye to the spectacular and imposing, should have fixed on this remarkable hill as a site for one of their churches. For miles from every direction the three massive towers form a landmark as they rise above the tile roofs of the town in sharp outline against the sky. To reach Lincoln we followed a broad, beautiful highway, almost level until it comes to the town, when it abruptly ascends the hill, which is so steep as to tax the average motor. The cathedral in some respects is the most remarkable and imposing in England. The distinctive feature is the great towers of equal size and height, something similar to those of Durham, though higher and more beautifully proportioned. The interior shows some of the finest Norman architecture in the Kingdom and the great Norman doorway is said to be the most perfect of its kind. Near the chapel in the cathedral close is a bronze statue of Tennyson accompanied by his favorite dog. This reminded us that we were in the vicinity of the poet's birthplace, and we determined that the next point in our pilgrimage should be Somersby, where the church and rectory of Tennyson's father still stand.
We planned to reach Boston that evening, and as there were a good many miles before us we were not able to give the time that really should be spent in Lincoln. It has many ancient landmarks, the most remarkable being a section of the Roman wall that surrounded the town about 15 A.D. and in which the arch of one of the gateways is still entire. It now appears to have been a very low gateway, but we were informed that excavations had shown that in the many centuries since it was built the earth had risen no less than eight feet in the archway and along the wall. Lincoln Castle, much decayed and ruinous, is an appropriate feature of one of the public parks. Along the streets leading up Cathedral Hill are rows of quaint houses, no doubt full of interest; but a motor tour often does not permit one to go much into detail.
So we bade farewell to Lincoln, only stopping to ask the hostler for directions to the next town on our way. Generally such directions are something like this: "Turn to the right around the next corner, pass two streets, then turn to the left, then turn to the right again and keep right along until you come to the town hall"—clock tower, or something of the kind—"and then straight away." After you inquire two or three more times and finally come to the landmark, you find three or four streets, any one of which seems quite as "straight away" as the others, and a consultation with a nearby policeman is necessary, after all, to make sure you are right. When once well into the country, the milestones, together with the finger-boards at nearly every parting of the ways, can be depended on to keep you right. These conveniences, however, are by no means evenly distributed and in some sections a careful study of the map and road-book is necessary to keep from going astray.
The twenty miles to Somersby went by without special incident. This quaint little hamlet—it can hardly be called a village—is almost hidden among the hills, well off the main-traveled roads and railway. We dashed through the narrow lanes, shaded in many places by great over-arching trees and the road finally led across the clear little brook made famous by Tennyson's verse. After crossing the bridge we were in Somersby—if such an expression is allowable. Nothing is there except the rectory, the church just across the way, the grange, and half a dozen thatched cottages. A discouraging notice in front of the Tennyson house stated positively that the place would not be shown under any conditions except on a certain hour of a certain day of the week—which was by no means the day nor the hour of our arrival. A party of English teachers came toward us, having just met with a refusal, but one of them said that Americans might have an exception made in their favor. Anyway, it was worth trying.
Our efforts proved successful and a neat, courteous young woman showed us over the rambling house. It is quite large—and had to be, in fact, to accommodate the rector's family of no fewer than twelve children, of whom the poet was the fourth. The oddest feature is the large dining room, which has an arched roof and narrow, stained-glass windows, and the ceiling is broken by several black-oak arches. At the base of each of these is a queer little face carved in stone and the mantel is curiously carved in black oak—all of this being the work of the elder Tennyson himself. There is some dispute as to the poet's birthroom. Our fair guide showed us all the rooms and said we might take our choice. We liked the one which opened on the old-fashioned garden at the rear of the house, for as is often the case in England, the garden side was more attractive than the front. Just across the road stands the tiny church of which the Rev. Tennyson was rector for many years. This was one of the very smallest that we visited and would hardly seat more than fifty people altogether. It is several hundred years old, and in the churchyard is a tall, Norman cross, as old as the church itself.
A rare thing it is to find the burying-ground around a church in England quite neglected, but the one at Somersby is the exception to the rule. The graves of the poet's father and brother were overgrown with grass and showed evidences of long neglect. We expressed surprise at this, and the old woman who kept the key to the church replied with some bitterness that the Tennysons "were ashamed to own Somersby since they had become great folks." Anyway, it seems that the poet never visited the place after the family left in 1837. Near the church door was a box with a notice stating that the congregation was small and the people poor, and asking for contributions to be used in keeping the church in repair. The grange, near the rectory, is occupied by the squire who owns the birthplace, it is a weatherbeaten building of brick and gray stone and perhaps the "gray old grange" referred to in "In Memoriam." Altogether, Somersby is one of the quietest and most charming of places. Aside from its connection with the great poet, it would be well worthy of a visit as a bit of rural England. Scattered about are several great English elms, which were no doubt large trees during the poet's boyhood, a hundred years ago.
For a long distance our road from Somersby to Boston ran on the crest of a hill, from which we had a far-reaching view over the lovely Lincolnshire country. Shortly after, we left the hills and found ourselves again in the fen country. Many miles before we reached Boston we saw the great tower of St. Botolph's Church, in some respects the most remarkable in England. They give it the inartistic and inappropriate appellation of "The Stump," due to the fact that it rises throughout its height of more than three hundred feet without much diminution in size. So greatly does this tower dominate the old-fashioned city that one is in danger of forgetting that there is anything else in Boston, and though it is a place little frequented by Americans, there are few quainter towns in England. Several hundred years ago it was one of the important seaports, but it lost its position because the river on which it is situated is navigable only by small vessels at high tide.
Boston is of especial interest to Americans on account of its great namesake in this country and because it was the point from which the Pilgrim Fathers made their first attempt to reach America. Owing to pestilence and shipwreck, they were compelled to return, and later they sailed in the Mayflower on a more successful voyage from Plymouth. We can get a pretty good idea of the reasons which led the Pilgrim Fathers to brave everything to get away from their home land. One may still see in the old town hall of Boston the small, windowless stone cells where the Fathers were confined during the period of persecution against the Puritans. Evidently they did not lay their sufferings against the town itself, or they would hardly have given the name to the one they founded in the New World. Boston is full of ancient structures, among them Shodfriars Hall, one of the most elaborate half-timbered buildings in the Kingdom. The hotels are quite in keeping with the dilapidation and unprogressiveness of the town and there is no temptation to linger longer than necessary to get an idea of the old Boston and its traditions.
The country through which we traveled next day is level and apparently productive fanning land. The season had been unusually dry and favorable to the fen land, as this section is called. The whole country between Boston and Norwich has scarcely a hill and the numerous drains showed that it is really a reclaimed marsh. In this section English farming appeared at its best. The crops raised in England and Scotland consist principally of wheat, oats and various kinds of grasses. Our Indian corn will not ripen and all I saw of it was a few little garden patches. The fen country faintly reminds one of Holland, lying low and dotted here and there with huge windmills. As a matter of curiosity, we visited one of the latter. The miller was a woman, and with characteristic English courtesy she made us acquainted with the mysteries of the ancient mill, which was used for grinding Indian corn for cattle-feed.
Our route for the day was a circuitous one, as there were numerous points that we wished to visit before coming to Norwich for the night. A broad, level road leads from Boston to King's Lynn, a place of considerable size. Its beginning is lost in antiquity, and a recent French writer has undertaken to prove that the first settlement of civilized man in Britain was made at this point. We entered the town through one of the gateways, which has no doubt been obstructing the main highway for several hundred years. It is a common thing in the English towns to find on the main street one of the old gates, the opening through which will admit but one vehicle at a time, often making it necessary to station a policeman on each side to see that there are no collisions. But the gateways have been standing for ages and it would be sacrilege to think of tearing them down to facilitate traffic. Just outside King's Lynn we passed Sandringham Palace, a spacious modern country house and one of the favorite homes of the Royal Family.
A few hours through winding byways brought us to the village of Burnham Thorpe, the birthplace of Admiral Nelson. It is a tiny hamlet, whose mean-looking, straggling cottages with red tiles lack the artistic beauty of the average English village—the picturesque, thatched roofs and brilliant flower gardens were entirely wanting. The admiral was the son of the village rector, but the parsonage in which he was born was pulled down many years ago. Still standing, and kept in good repair, is the church where his father preached. The lectern, as the pulpit-stand in English churches is called, was fashioned of oak taken from Nelson's flagship, the Victory. The father is buried in the churchyard and a memorial to Nelson has been erected in the church. The tomb of the admiral is in St. Paul's Cathedral in London.
From Burnham Thorpe on the way to Norwich are the scant ruins of the priory of Walsingham. In its palmy days this was one of the richest in the world, and it is said that it was visited by more pilgrims than was the shrine of Becket at Canterbury. In every instance a gift was expected from the visitor, and as a consequence the monks fared sumptuously. Among these pilgrims were many of the nobility and even kings, including Henry VIII, who, after visiting the priory as a votary in the early part of his reign, ordered its complete destruction in 1539. This order was evidently carried out, for only shattered fragments of the ruins remain to show how splendid the buildings must once have been.
Walsingham is an unusually quaint little village, with a wonderful, ancient town pump of prodigious height and a curious church with a tall spire bent several degrees from the perpendicular. Near the priory are two springs, styled Wishing Wells, which were believed to have miraculous power, the legend being that they sprang into existence at the command of the Virgin. This illustrates one of the queer and not unpleasing features of motoring in England. In almost every out-of-the-way village, no matter how remote or small and how seldom visited by tourists, one runs across no end of quaint landmarks and historic spots with accompanying incidents and legends. Twenty miles more through a beautiful country brought us in sight of the cathedral spire of Norwich. This city has a population of about one hundred and twenty thousand and there is a unique charm in its blending of the mediaeval and modern. It is a progressive city with large business and manufacturing interests, but these have not swept away the charm of the old-time town. The cathedral is one of the most imposing in England, being mainly of Norman architecture and surmounted by a graceful spire more than three hundred feet in height. Norwich also presents the spectacle of a modern cathedral in course of building, a thing that we did not see elsewhere in England. The Roman Catholic Church is especially strong in this section, and under the leadership of the Duke of Norfolk has undertaken to build a structure that will rival in size and splendor those of the olden time. No doubt the modern Catholics bear in mind that their ancestors built all the great English churches and cathedrals and that these were lost to them at the time of the so-called Reformation of Henry VIII. Religious toleration does not prevail to any such extent in England as in the United States and there is considerable bitterness between the various sects.
Speaking of new cathedrals, while several are being built by the Roman Catholics, only one is under construction by the Church of England—the first since the days of the Stuarts. This is at Liverpool and the foundations have barely been begun. The design for the cathedral was a competitive one selected from many submitted by the greatest architects in the world. The award was made to Gilbert Scott, a young man of only twenty-one and a grandson of the famous architect of the same name who had so much to do with the restoration of several of the cathedrals. The Liverpool church is to be the greatest in the Kingdom, even exceeding York Minster and St. Paul's in size. No attempt is made to fix the time when the building will be completed, but the work will undoubtedly occupy several generations.
In Norwich we stopped at the Maid's Head Hotel, one of the noted old-time English hostelries. It has been in business as a hotel nearly five hundred years and Queen Elizabeth was its guest while on one of her visits to the city of Norwich. Despite its antiquity, it is thoroughly up-to-date and was one of the most comfortable inns that we found anywhere. No doubt this is considerably due to a large modern addition, which has been built along the same lines as the older portion. Near the cathedral are other ancient structures among which are the two gateways, whose ruins still faintly indicate their pristine splendor of carving and intricate design. The castle, at one time a formidable fortress, has almost disappeared. "Tombland" and "Strangers' Hall" are the appellations of two of the finest half-timbered buildings that we saw. The newer portions of Norwich indicate a prosperous business town and it is supplied with an unusually good street-car system. Most of the larger English cities are badly off in this particular. York, for instance, a place of seventy-five thousand, has but one street-car line, three or four miles in length, on which antiquated horse-cars are run at irregular intervals.