The Undercroft: Wingfield.
The undercroft, more often known as the crypt—an ecclesiastical term possessing no right here—is of the same dimensions as the hall above. The ceiling is composed of beautifully wrought stone groins, with large circular bosses, cut with fine traceried designs; the springing of the arches is from the walls on either side and the five stone pillars in the centre respectively. This subterranean chamber has now begun to show most unmistakable signs of the gross neglect which so characterizes the remainder of the house, for the stone ribs of the vaulting have fallen over the eastern entrance—and there they lie. The entrances to this undercroft are four in number—one at the north-west corner, one at the south-west, one at the south-east, and one in the centre of the east end. Three of them communicate directly with the banqueting hall above, whilst the fourth opens into the open air. This cellar-like room has been described as the chapel, and also as the retainers’ hall, but the general opinion of those whose opinion is worthy of consideration is that it was a general store house for the huge retinue of owner, guests, and prisoner; such was no doubt its use, but what the intentions of its builders were is quite another question.
The inner courtyard with which I have just dealt is far better preserved than its southern neighbour, which seems to have proved a better mark for Gell’s big guns and Halton’s destructive genius than the other. The entrance gate to the inner court is fairly well preserved, but the greater part of the rest is in but a sorry plight. The great entrance on the east is shorn of its upper storey, but the adjoining barn is in a delightful state of repair, and is of a nature to arouse the enthusiasm of students of our mediæval barns.
On the east side of the house were the old gardens, now presenting a dismal appearance, for the sole surviving signs of the topiary work of our forefathers are the broken ranks of a long line of stunted yew trees; even these trees have not been spared of late years, and the woodman’s axe has been responsible for considerable gaps. On this side, too, remain traces of the old earthworks thrown up by the Royalist garrison to repel the besiegers on this, the most weakly of the naturally strong defences formed by the slope of the hill. In the farmhouse reposes a collection of old cannon balls rescued from the ruins, methods of destruction far preferable to the stealthy creeping action of the prince of destroying agents—Unchecked Decay—now so busy there.
Let us hope, however, that before it is too late a helping hand may lay its healing touch on these walls which crown the slope, a spot noiseless save for the thousand and one sounds of the neighbouring farmyard, and that distant and discordant triumph of modernity, the railway, which, thanks to the situation of the manor house on its hill, finds no near approach.
BRADSHAW AND THE BRADSHAWES
By C. E. B. Bowles, M.A.
Chapel-en-le-frith, a little old-fashioned town in the heart of the Peak, is fairly encompassed by a range of hills, one of the loftiest of which, rising, indeed, to a height of 1,225 feet, is Eccles Pike. About a mile and a half from the town, and on the southern slope of this hill, which towers above it, safeguarding it from the cold blasts of the north wind, stands the old homestead of the Derbyshire Bradshawes. Built in the more peaceful times of the first Stuart King, Bradshaw Hall is to-day a substantial witness to the fact that, unlike our Georgian ancestors, they who lived in the time when James the First was King were like ourselves—most appreciative of a home commanding a wide expanse of land and sky, and yet beneath the friendly shelter of a hill.
