The old house does not wear so prepossessing an exterior as, under these historic circumstances, it should. That is largely due to its stucco facing, painted the colour of decaying liver. The only exterior sign of the house being anything out of the ordinary is the carved and emblazoned shield over the door, displaying the arms of Richard himself, supported by two white boars with gilded manes. Another doorway has a shield with three greyhounds, “in pale, courant,” as a herald would say, and the inscription “I. W., 1580:” the initials standing for “John Whelpdale,” who made extensive alterations to the building.
The pilgrim who sups not merely on gross food and drink, but feeds the finer tissues of his being on historic scenes and antique panelled rooms, will find much delight in the “Gloucester Arms.” He may sleep where that gory Richard slept—and, it may be hoped, with a better conscience, and may look upon a banqueting-hall, now unfortunately subdivided, wherein our ancestors feasted on swans and other curious dishes long obsolete, washed down with nasty drinks unknown to the present age.
Equally interesting is the old “Two Lions” inn near by. It looks out up the street in a shy manner, being hidden upon a narrow entry, in a fashion that to a southron seems a strangely retiring pose for an ancient mansion of the landed classes; a complexion from which, in fact, the house has, since ancient times, declined. Time was—in the reign of the more or less good Queen Bess, to be precise—when what is now the “Two Lions” was the “town house” of Gerard Lowther, a notable member of the always rich and powerful Lowther family; and little though the exterior may attract, there is a very wealth of interest within. The fireplace of the hall has three heraldic shields, and the banqueting-room, now the smoking-room, has an enriched plaster ceiling, dated 1585 and displaying ten shields of the arms of Lowthers and allied families. In an upstairs room is another ceiling heraldically adorned with the arms of Lowther and Dudley, dated 1586, and with the initials of Gerard Lowther himself and Lucy, his wife. More to the purpose of the smaller tradesmen of Penrith, who are the chief frequenters of the “Two Lions,” is the fine bowling-green—bowling rhyming with “howling,” in the speech of the older folk—at the back of the house.
PENRITH CHURCH
There is not much left of the ancient church of Penrith, beside its Gothic tower, for the body of the building dates only from 1722, and is in a classic style that seems rank heresy in a place so historic as this. Not even the monolithic Ionic columns of red marble that decorate the interior, nor the ornate gilded chandeliers presented by the Duke of Portland, in recognition of the loyalty of Penrith in 1745, can compensate the stranger for the loss; although, to be sure, the townsfolk are inordinately proud of them. But there are many ancient monuments in the church, and some interesting fragments of stained glass that have escaped destruction. Among them is represented golden-haired Cicely Neville, youngest of all the two-and-twenty children of Henry Neville, Earl of Westmoreland. This is that “Proud Cis of Raby” who was wife of Richard, Duke of York, and mother of Edward the Fourth and Richard the Third. Here, too, is seen a plaguey ill-favoured stained-glass “likeness” of Richard the Second, with hair of an unpleasant canary-yellow and a couple of chin-sprouts of the same colour.
THE GIANT’S GRAVE.
THE “GIANT’S GRAVE”
Still upon three sides of the church-tower you see sculptured the “bear and ragged staff” device of the great Earl of Warwick, the King-maker, who in his time was lord of Penrith, and rebuilt the upper stage of the tower; but undoubtedly the chief interest—and mystery—of the spot is the so-called “Giant’s Grave,” in the churchyard. No one knows who rests here, but for choice it is the grave of a chief among those Scandinavian settlers who established themselves in these northern counties in the tenth century. Legend, of course, steps in to explain that of which archæology is ignorant. The invincible hardihood of legends is such as to command the astonished respect of the calmest mind; and here we are bidden by old folk-lore to look upon the grave of one Sir Hugh Cæsarius, a man of colossal proportions, but as big-hearted, metaphorically, as he was high, who cleared the surrounding Inglewood Forest of the wild boars that were a terror to the people, at some period not specified. The tall grey sandstone pillars that stand over his grave, at a distance apart of fifteen feet, are supposed to mark his height, and are covered with Runic devices, greatly defaced and pitifully weather-worn. Rude hunch-backed stones between them are popularly supposed to represent the backs of boars.