AETAT 38.
Beaudesert Cross.
The pilgrim who rambles as far as Wootton-Wawen will surely stroll onward to Henley-in-Arden. The whole of that region was originally covered by the Forest of Arden[42]—the woods that Shakespeare had in mind when he was writing As You Like It, a comedy whereof the atmosphere, foliage, flowers, scenery, and spirit are purely those of his native Warwickshire. Henley, if the observer may judge by the numerous inns that fringe its long, straggling, picturesque street, must once have been a favourite halting-place for the coaches that plied between London and Birmingham. They are mostly disused now, and the little town sleeps in the sun and seems forgotten.[43] There is a beautiful specimen of the ancient market-cross in its centre,—gray and sombre and much frayed by the tooth of time. Close beside Henley, and accessible in a walk of a few minutes, is the church of Beaudesert, which is one of the most precious of the ecclesiastic gems of England. Here you will see architecture of mingled Saxon and Norman,—the solid Norman buttress, the castellated tower, the Saxon arch moulded in zigzag, which is more ancient than the dog-tooth, and the round, compact columns of the early English order. Above the church rises a noble mound, upon which, in the middle ages, stood a castle,—probably that of Peter de Montfort,—and from which a comprehensive and superb view may be obtained, over many miles of verdant meadow and bosky dell, interspersed with red-roofed villages from which the smoke of the cottage chimneys curls up in thin blue spirals under the gray and golden sunset sky. An old graveyard encircles the church, and by its orderly disorder,—the quaint, graceful work of capricious time,—enhances the charm of its venerable and storied age. There are only one hundred and forty-six persons in the parish of Beaudesert. I was privileged to speak with the aged rector, the Rev. John Anthony Pearson Linskill, and to view the church under his kindly guidance. In the ordinary course of nature it is unlikely that we shall ever meet again, but his goodness, his benevolent mind, and the charm of his artless talk will not be forgotten.[44] My walk that night took me miles away,—to Claverdon, and home by Bearley; and all the time it was my thought that the best moments of our lives are those in which we are touched, chastened, and ennobled by parting and by regret. Nothing is said so often as good-by. But, in the lovely words of Cowper,
"The path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown."
