Up a narrow lane is a tiny chapel with a stone mullioned window cut down into a semicircle at the top. A little stone sundial over the entrance door, and the smallest burial-ground we have ever seen, are worth notice for their quaintness. Farther to the west is Wormwood Farm, whose ivy-clad gables give the house a more homely look than most hereabouts. Higher up in a very bleak position is Chapel Plaster Hermitage, an older building, whose little belfry surely cannot summon many worshippers. It was a halting-place of pilgrims to Glastonbury, and in Georgian days of lonely travellers, who were eased of their purses by a gentleman of the road named Baxter, who afterwards was hung up as a warning on Claverton Down. Near the wood, the resort of this highwayman, is Hazelbury House, a sixteenth-century mansion, much reduced in size, whose formidable battlemented garden walls are worthy of a fortress. It was once a seat of the Strodes, whose arms are displayed on the lofty piers of the entrance gate. On the other side of the Great Bath road is Cheney Court, another gabled mansion which has been of importance in its day, and within half a mile, Coles Farm, a smaller building, alas! fast falling to decay. Its windows are broken and its panelled rooms are open to the weather. We ploughed our way through garden, or what was once a garden, waist-high with weeds, to a Tudor doorway whose door presumably was more accustomed to be opened than closed. At the foot of the staircase was a little wicket gate leading to the capacious cellars. Somebody had scrawled above an ancient fireplace close by, a plea against wanton mischief; but that was the only sign that anybody was interested in the place. But we learned something from an intelligent farmer who was picking apples in one of the surrounding orchards. It was very sad, he said, but so it had remained for years. The owner was abroad, and though various people had tried to buy it, there were legal difficulties which prevented it. "But why not find a tenant?" we asked. "That would surely be better than allowing it to fall to pieces!" He shook his head. "'Tis too far gone," he said, "and there's no money to put it in repair." So Coles Farm, situated in the midst of lovely hills and orchards, gives the cold shoulder to many a willing tenant.
It is a precipitous climb from here to Colerne, which across the valley looks old and inviting from the Bath road. But the place is sadly disappointing, and Hunters' Hall, which once upon a time was used as an inn and possessed some remarkably fine oak carvings, is now a shell, and scarcely worth notice.
CORSHAM ALMSHOUSE.
The village of Corsham, approached either from the north or south, is equally picturesque. By the former there is a long row of sturdy Tudor cottages with mullioned windows and deep-set doorways; by the latter, the grey gables of the ancient Hungerford Hospital, and beyond the huge piers of the entrance to Corsham Court. An inscription over the almshouse porch and beneath the elaborate sculptured arms of the Hungerfords, says that it was founded by Lady Margaret Hungerford, daughter of William Halliday, alderman of London, and Susan, daughter of Sir Henry Row, Knight, Lord Mayor of London. The chapel is on the right-hand side, and contains the original Jacobean pulpit, seats, and gallery. The pulpit is a two-decker, and the seat beneath a comfortable armchair of large proportions with an ingenious folding footstool. The screen is a fine piece of Jacobean carving, with pilasters and semicircular arches of graceful design, with the Hungerford arms upon two shields. There is a good oak staircase and a quaint exterior corridor leading to the several dwellings, with trim little square gardens allotted to each. Corsham Court has a stately and dignified appearance. The second entrance gate has colossal piers, which quite dwarf the others previously mentioned. Beyond are the stables, a picturesque row of Elizabethan gables and pinnacles. The south front of the house preserves its original character in the form of the letter E with the arms and the crest of the builder, William Halliday, on pinnacles over the gables, and seven bay-windows. The interior of the mansion has been much modernised, but the picture collection contains some of the choicest old masters. Some of Lord Methuen's ancestors by Reynolds and Gainsborough are wonderfully vigorous. Here is Vandyck's Charles I. on horseback, with which one is so familiar. How many replicas must there be of this famous picture! Charles II. hangs opposite his favourite son in one of the corridors—a fine portrait of the handsome Monmouth. One of the most curious pictures is a group by Sir Peter Lely, representing himself in mediæval costume playing the violoncello to his own family in light and airy dress. One would have thought that he would have clad his wife and daughters more fully than some of his famous beauties: on the contrary. The church, whose tower is detached, has been restored from time to time, and looks by no means lacking in funds. The carved parclose of stone and two altar-tombs to the Hanhams are the chief points of interest. There is a simple recumbent effigy of one of the Methuens, a little girl, which in its natural sleeping pose is strangely pathetic, even to those who know nothing of the story of her early death.
CASTLE COMBE.
Biddestone, above Corsham, has many good old houses round its village green. The little bell turret to the church is singular, but the eye is detracted by an ugly stove-pipe which sticks out of the roof close by. There is some Roman work within, but the high box pews look out of keeping. About three miles to the north-west is Castle Combe, one of the sweetest villages in Wiltshire or in any other county. It is surrounded by hills and hanging woods, and lies deep down and hidden from view. As you descend, the banks on either side show glimpses, here and there; a grey gable peeping out of the dense foliage or grey cottages perched up high. Still downward, the road winds in the shade of lofty trees, then suddenly you find yourself looking down upon the quaint old market-cross, with the grey church tower peering over some ancient roofs. This presumably is the market-place,—not a busy one by any means, for beyond an aged inhabitant resting on the solid stone base, or perhaps a child or two climbing up and down the steps (for it is a splendid playground)—all is still. The village pump alongside the cross, truly, supplies occasional buckets of water for the various gabled stone cottages around, indeed (as is invariably the case when one's camera is in position) people seemed to spring up from nowhere, and the pump handle was exceptionally busy. The cross is richly sculptured with shields and roses at the base, and the shaft rises high above the picturesque old roof, which is supported by four moulded stone supports. Undoubtedly it is one of the most perfect fifteenth-century crosses in England. The road still winds downwards to a rushing stream crossed by a little bridge, and here there is a group of pretty cottages with prettier gardens abutting on the road. We have seen these under very different aspects, in March with snow upon the creepers, and in October when the creepers were brilliant scarlet, and scarcely know which made the prettier picture. The sound of rushing water adds romance to this sweet village.