Passing through the forest, we came to Epping, and from there into a stretch of open country that gave little suggestion of proximity to the world's metropolis. Several miles through a narrow but beautifully kept byway brought us to the village of Chipping-Ongar, a place of considerable antiquity, and judging from the extensive site of its ancient castle, at one time of some military importance.
At Ongar we began our return trip to London over the road which we agreed was the most beautiful leading out of the city, for the suburbs do not extend far in this direction and one is comparatively soon in the country. The perfectly surfaced road, with only gentle slopes and curves, runs through the parklike fields, here over a picturesque stone bridge spanning a clear stream, there between rows of magnificent trees, occasionally dropping into quiet villages, of which Chigwell was easily the most delightful.
Chigwell became known to fame through the writings of Charles Dickens, who was greatly enamored of the place and who made it the scene of much of his story of "Barnaby Rudge." But Dickens, with his eye for the beautiful and with his marvelous intuition for interesting situations, was drawn to the village by its unusual charm. Few other places can boast of such endorsement as he gave in a letter to his friend, Forster, when he wrote: "Chigwell, my dear fellow, is the greatest place in the world. Name your day for going. Such a delicious old inn facing the church; such a lovely ride; such glorious scenery; such an out-of-the-way rural place; such a sexton! I say again, name your day." After such a recommendation, one will surely desire to visit the place, and it is pleasant to know that the "delicious old inn" is still standing and that the village is as rural and pretty as when Dickens wrote over sixty years since.
The inn referred to, the King's Head, was the prototype of the Maypole in "Barnaby Rudge," and here we were delighted to stop for our belated luncheon. The inn fronts directly on the street and, like all English hostelries, its main rooms are given over to the bar, which at this time was crowded with Sunday loafers, the atmosphere reeking with tobacco smoke and the odor of liquors. The garden at the rear was bright with a profusion of spring flowers and sheltered with ornamental trees and vines. The garden side of the old house was covered with a mantle of ivy, and, altogether, the surroundings were such as to make ample amends for the rather unprepossessing conditions within. One will not fully appreciate Chigwell and its inn unless he has read Dickens' story. You may still see the panelled room upstairs where Mr. Chester met Geoffry Haredale. This room has a splendid mantel-piece, great carved open beams and beautiful leaded windows. The bar-room, no doubt, is still much the same as on the stormy night which Dickens chose for the opening of his story. Just across the road from the inn is the church which also figures in the tale, and a dark avenue of ancient yew trees leads from the gateway to the door. One can easily imagine the situation which Dickens describes when the old sexton crossed the street and rang the church bells on the night of the murder at Haredale Hall.
Aside from Dickens' connection with Chigwell, the village has a place of peculiar interest to Americans in the old grammar school where William Penn received his early education. The building still stands, with but little alteration, much as it was in the day when the great Quaker sat at the rude desks and conned the lessons of the old-time English schoolboy.
When we invited friends whom we met in London to accompany us on a Sunday afternoon trip, we could think of no road more likely to please them than the one I have just been trying to describe. We reversed our journey this time, going out of London on the way to Chigwell. Returning, we left the Epping road shortly after passing through that town, and followed a narrow, forest-bordered byway with a few steep hills until we came to Waltham Abbey, a small Essex market town with an important history. The stately abbey church, a portion of which is still standing and now used for services, was founded by the Saxon king, Harold, in 1060. Six years later he was defeated and slain at Hastings by William the Conqueror, and tradition has it that his mother buried his body a short distance to the east of Waltham Church. The abbey gate still stands as a massive archway at one end of the river bridge. Near the town is one of the many crosses erected by Edward I in memory of his wife, Eleanor of Castile, wherever her body rested on the way from Lincoln to Westminster. A little to the left of this cross, now a gateway to Theobald Park, stands Temple Bar, stone for stone intact as it was in the days when traitors' heads were raised above it in Fleet Street, although the original wooden gates are missing. Waltham Abbey is situated on the River Lea, near the point where King Alfred defeated the Danes in one of his battles. They had penetrated far up the river when King Alfred diverted the waters from beneath their vessels and left them stranded in a wilderness of marsh and forest.
Another pleasant afternoon trip was to Monken Hadley, twenty-five miles out on the Great North Road. Hadley Church is intimately associated with a number of distinguished literary men, among them Thackeray, whose grandfather preached there and is buried in the churchyard. The sexton was soon found and he was delighted to point out the interesting objects in the church and vicinity.
The church stands at the entrance of a royal park, which is leased to private parties and is one of the quaintest and most picturesque of the country churches we had seen. Over the doors, some old-fashioned figures which we had to have translated indicated that the building had been erected in 1494. It has a huge ivy-covered tower and its interior gives every evidence of the age-lasting solidity of the English churches.
Hadley Church has a duplicate in the United States, one having been built in some New York town precisely like the older structure. We noticed that one of the stained-glass windows had been replaced by a modern one, and were informed that the original had been presented to the newer church in America—a courtesy that an American congregation would hardly think of, and be still less likely to carry out. An odd silver communion service which had been in use from three to five hundred years was carefully taken out of a fire-proof safe and shown us.
Hadley Church is a delight from every point of view, and it is a pity that such lines of architecture are not oftener followed in America. Our churches as a rule are shoddy and inharmonious affairs compared with those in England. It is not always the matter of cost that makes them so, since more artistic structures along the pleasing and substantial lines of architecture followed in Britain would in many cases cost no more than we pay for such churches as we now have.