Exhall takes the first part of its name, “ex,” from the Celtic word uisg, for water: a word which has given the river Exe its name, and masquerades elsewhere as Ouse, Exe, Usk, Esk, and so forth. But the river Arrow is a mile distant, and Wixford, which comes next, whose boundaries extend to that stream, is much better entitled to its name, which was originally “uisg-ford,” meaning “water-ford.”
“Papist” Wixford is said to have derived its nickname from the Throckmortons, staunch Roman Catholics, who once owned property here. The Arrow runs close by the scattered cottages of this tiny place, which might be styled merely a hamlet, except that it has a parish church of its own. A delightful little church it is, too, placed on a ridge and neighboured only by some timber-framed cottages. Luxuriant elms group nobly with it, and in the churchyard is a very large and handsome yew-tree, whose spreading branches, perhaps more symmetrical than those of any other yew of its size in this country, are supported at regular intervals by timber struts, forming a curious and notable sight. There are monumental brasses in the little church; by far the best of them, however, is the noble brass to Thomas de Cruwe and his wife Juliana, appropriately placed in the south chapel that was founded by him. Thomas de Cruwe—whose name was really “Crewe,” only our ancestors were used to spell phonetically—was scarcely the warlike knight he would, from his plate-armour and mighty sword, appear to be. He was, in fact, chief steward to Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and attorney to the Countess Margaret, widow of his predecessor. He was, further, a “Knight of the Shire,” or member of Parliament, in 1404, and Justice of the Peace; and having filled these various professional and official positions, let us hope with as much satisfaction to his employers and others as obviously to his own advantage, he died at last in his bed, as all good lawyers, even of his date, the beginning of the fifteenth century, ought to do, in the year 1418. The date of his death is, however, not mentioned on the brass, the blanks in the inscription, left for the purpose, having never been filled. His wife Juliana, who had been the widow of one of the Cloptons, predeceased him, in 1411, and Thomas de Cruwe caused this beautiful and costly brass to be engraved in his own lifetime. The incomplete inscription is by no means unusual, numerous brasses throughout the country displaying similar unfilled spaces; pointing to the indifference with which the date of departure of the dear departed was all too often regarded by their more or less sorrowing heirs, executors, and assigns.
This splendidly-engraved brass, which ranks among the largest and finest in England, is mounted on a raised slab measuring nine by four feet; the effigies five feet in height. A curious error of the engraver of this monument is to be noted, in the omission of Thomas de Cruwe’s sword-belt or baldrick, by which the sword hanging from his waist has no visible means of support. The odd badge—apparently unique in heraldry—of a naked human left foot is seen many times repeated on the brass. No explanation of it seems ever to have been offered. We might have expected a cock in the act of crowing, for “Crewe,” for our ancestors dearly loved puns upon family names and were never daunted by the vapidity or appalling stupidity of them; but in this case they forbore.
The penultimate village of these rhymes, “Beggarly” Broom, also stands upon the Arrow. Marston, as we have seen, dances no more, nor does Pebworth pipe; the supernatural no longer vexes Hillborough, and Grafton is not so hungry as you might suppose. Exhall is not difficult to find, and there are not any Roman Catholics at Wixford; while Bidford is not obviously drunken. But Broom is just as beggarly as ever.
Broom was originally a hamlet of squatters on a gorsy, or broom-covered heath, and a hamlet it yet remains. Modern times have brought Broom a railway junction and a bridge across the Arrow, where was until recently only a ford; but Broom is not to be moved into activity by these things, or anything. Anglers come by cheap tickets from Birmingham and fish in the Arrow, and swap lies at the “Hollybush” and “Broom” inns about what they have caught, but there still is that poverty-stricken air about the place which originally attracted the notice of the rhymester, centuries ago. A flour-mill, still actively at work by the river, and a new house being built, do little to qualify this ancient aspect of squalid decay, which seems to extend even to the inhabitants, who may be observed sitting stolidly and abstractedly, as though contemplating the immensities. They are probably only wondering whence to-morrow’s dinner is coming, a branch of philosophical inquiry of poignant interest.
CHAPTER XVI
The ‘Swan’s Nest’—Haunted?—Clifford Chambers—Wincot—Quinton, and its club day.
Twelve miles south of Stratford, across the level lands of the Feldon, you come to Chipping Campden, perched upon the outlying hills of the Cotswold country. The inevitable way southward out of Stratford town lies over the Clopton Bridge, and then, having crossed the Avon, the roads diverge. To the left you proceed for Charlecote and Kineton; straight ahead for Banbury and London; and to the right for Chipping Campden or for Shipston-on-Stour. The point where these roads branch and go their several ways was until recently a very charming exit from or entrance to the town. Here stands the old inn, the “Swan’s Nest,” ex “Shoulder of Mutton,” by the waterside, and opposite are the grounds of the old manor-house, enclosed behind lofty and massive brick walls.
The “Swan’s Nest” is a red-brick house of good design, built in 1677, when an excellent taste in architecture prevailed. The sign was then the “Bear,” a very usual name in these marches of the Warwick influence. It arose upon the site of a hermitage and Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene that had long subsisted upon the alms of travellers this way, generations before Sir William Clopton built his bridge, and remained for some time afterwards, until the Reformation swept all such things away.