MARKET DRAYTON.
The church, an imposing building finely situated, is disappointing, though there is some good Norman work about it. It has been reseated, and the only thing worth noting is an old tomb showing the quaint female costume of Elizabeth's day, and a tall-backed oak settle facing the communion table. The latter looks as if it ought to be facing an open fireplace in some manorial farm.
Many superstitions linger hereabouts. The old people can recollect the dread in which a certain road was held at night for fear of a ghostly lady, who had an unpleasant way of jumping upon the backs of the farmers as they returned from market. Tradition does not record whether those who were thus favoured were total abstainers; possibly not, for the lady by all accounts had a grudge against those who occasionally took a glass; and in a certain inn cellar, when jugs had to be replenished, it was discomforting to find her seated on the particular barrel required, like the goblin seen by Gabriel Grub upon the tombstone.
There was a custom among the old Draytonites for some reason, not to permit their aged to die on a feather-bed. It was believed to make them die hard, and so in extremis it was dragged from beneath the unfortunate person. The sovereign remedy they had for whooping-cough is worth remembering, as it is so simple. All you have to do is to cut some hair from the nape of the invalid child's neck, place it between a piece of bread and butter, and hand the sandwich to a dog. If he devours it the malady is cured; if he doesn't, well, the life of the dog at least is spared.
A few miles to the east of the town, in the adjoining county, is the famous battlefield of Bloreheath, where the Houses of Lancaster and York fought desperately in 1459. The latter under the Earl of Salisbury came off victorious, while the commander of Henry's forces was slain. A stone pedestal marks the spot, originally distinguished by a wooden cross, where Lord Audley fell.
Of less historical moment but more romantic interest, is the fact that here close upon a couple of centuries later the diamond George of Charles II. was concealed, while its royal wearer by right was lurking fifteen miles away at Boscobel. The gallant Colonel Blague, who had had the charge of this tell-tale treasure, was captured and thrown into the Tower, where no less a celebrity than peaceful Isaak Walton managed to smuggle it. Blague eventually escaped, and so the George found its way to the king in France. At Blore also Buckingham remained concealed, disguised as a labourer, before he got away into Leicestershire and thence to London and the coast. "Buckingham's hole," the cave where his grace was hidden, is still pointed out; and a very aged man who lived in the neighbourhood a few years ago prided himself that he could show the exact place where the duke fell and broke his arm; and he ought to have known, as his great-grandfather was personally acquainted with "old Elias Bradshaw," who was present when the accident happened.
Broughton Hall, a fine old Jacobean mansion, stands to the east of Blore. It is a gloomy house, and has some ghostly traditions. We are reminded of the rather startling fact that upon developing a negative of the fine oak staircase there, the transparent figure of an old woman in a mob-cap stood in the foreground! Here was proof positive for the Psychological Society. But, alas! careful investigation upset the mystery. The shadowy outline proved to be painfully like the ancient housekeeper. The subject had required a long exposure, and the lady must have wished to be immortalised, for she certainly must have stood in front of the lens for at least a minute or so. It is strange this desire to be pictured. Any amateur photographer must have experienced the difficulties to be encountered in a village street. The hours of twelve and four are fatal. School children in thousands will crop up to fill up the foreground. In such a predicament a friend of ours was inspired with an ingenious remedy. Having covered his head with the black cloth, he was horrified to see a myriad of faces instead of the subject he wished to take. However, he got his focus adjusted somehow, and having placed his dark slide in position ready for exposure, he placed the cloth over the lens-end of the camera as if focussing in the opposite direction. Immediately there was a stampede for the other side, with considerable struggling as to who should be foremost. The cherished little bit of village architecture was now free, the cloth whipped away, and the exposure given. "Are we all taken in, mister?" asked one of the boys a little suspiciously. "Yes, my lads," was the response given, "you've all been taken in." And so they had, but went home rejoicing.
Beside the staircase, there is little of interest inside Broughton. There was a hiding-place once in one of the rooms which was screened by an old oil painting, but it is now merged into tradition. The road from Newport passes through wild and romantic scenery. At Croxton, farther to the east, there is, or was, a Maypole, one of those old-world villages where ancient customs die hard. Swinnerton Hall, a fine Queen Anne house to the north-east, and nearer to Stone, is the seat of the ancient family of Fitzherbert, the beautiful widow of one of whose members was in 1785 married to the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV.