Shrewsbury is full of exceedingly interesting remains, and in no town in England are they more scrupulously taken care of. It is almost a matter of regret that the scope of the present work forbids a more detailed account of the Shakespearean recollections of Shrewsbury battlefield, and the church which was erected in memory of the day. There is a fine old window with a representation of Henry IV. in armour, and his face has a singularly sad, majestic look. It was about 150 years old when Shakespeare saw it, and it is not impossible that it might have suggested the lines—
“Doff our easy robes of peace,
And crush our old limbs in ungentle steel.
This is not well, my lord, this is not well.”
And again, farther on—
“But if he will not yield,
Rebuke and dread correction wait on us,
And they shall do their office.”
Indeed to many persons an excursion to the battlefield of Shrewsbury, with a copy of “Henry IV.” in hand, possesses attractions that equal a visit to Waterloo. Prince Henry’s figure in the same window as the king’s is rather disappointing. He seems to be a tall youth, very fair, and somewhat juvenile in his countenance.
Much Wenlock is a charming country town in Shropshire, about twelve miles to the south-east of Shrewsbury; the road to it lies through smiling lanes, and past comfortable homesteads. It was with sincere pleasure that I saw in this part of the country old-fashioned farm-houses that had not kept pace with the requirements of the age, but which, instead of being pulled down and replaced by raw new ones, were tastefully enlarged, and all the creepers and ivy left standing. With a very little taste and ingenuity this may be done, indeed economically, and the exterior weather-stained walls may be preserved to the landscape and the country. Some of the great landowners in the northern and midland counties are seeing the advantage of this,
and not a few farm-houses have been altered so as to be pleasant objects to behold. Bitterley in Shropshire is a notable instance of this, as also is Aldford in Cheshire, and Eccleston in the same county. Eccleston and Aldford belong to the Duke of Westminster, and there is no doubt that their present owner is keenly alive to the charms of an English landscape. One instance of this transformation is here given—the school-house at Eccleston, which, to a passer-by, would be taken for an ancient house: the window with its evergreen is old, but the gable over it and the chimneys are modern. Excellently well they harmonise with the surroundings, and fill a corner of the beautiful village. And here a word may be introduced about “shams,” as they are called in architecture, regarding which there is much misapprehension. The “sham,” pure and simple, is contemptible; such is a manufactured ruin of an abbey or castle, or woodwork painted to represent another material, and intended to convey a wrong impression to a spectator; but where black-and-white gables and walls fit in upon old work, and dark coloured stone chimneys of antique shape look like parts of the original structure, it is a happy circumstance. Indeed I should go much further in this direction, and say that if, as often happens, new stones have to be inserted in old carved façades, richly coloured by age, the effect is not pleasant when the contrast is great. In such cases it would be better to give the new stone a tint to tone it into harmony. The generation who put it into the building will have passed away before its patchy appearance will have gone; and why should they be condemned to look upon a harlequin front, when, by overcoming a little prejudice, it might be prevented? This prejudice, it is true, rose from a proper principle, and was a proper protest against the age of shams and affectation. Hardly more than two generations ago art was at the lowest ebb, and the chances seemed strongly against its ever reviving. Everything was fantastic and false; a gentleman had his portrait taken as Apollo, and a lady as Ceres or Diana; while the veriest country yokels who could not read, no, nor their children after them, were alluded to with the utmost effrontery by the Georgian poets as Phyllises and Corydons playing on lutes to sheep, or occupying their working-hours in some other useful occupation, and spending their leisure moments in composing iambics to their damsels.