The Rivers of Great Britain; Rivers of the South and West Coasts
Author: Various
CONTENTS.
THE SOUTHERN CHALK STREAMS.--_By WILLIAM SENIOR._ PAGE
General Characteristics--The /Canterbury Stour/ and its Branches:
Ashford and Jack Cade--Horton and Lyminge--Canterbury--Fordwich
and Izaak Walton--Isle of Thanet--Minster. The /Lesser Stour/:
"Bourne Ground"--Sandwich. The /Brede/. The /Rother/:
Bodiam--Isle of Oxney--Winchelsea--Seaford. The /Cuckmere/:
Alfriston and Lullington. /The Ouse/: St. Leonard's
Forest--Fletching--Maresfield--Lewes. The /Adur/:
Bramber--Shoreham. The /Arun/: Amberley--Arundel--Littlehampton.
Hampshire Rivers--The /Arle/: The Meon District--Wickham
and the Bishop-Builder--Titchfield. The /Itchen/: A Curious
Example of Instinct--Alresford Pond--Cheriton--Tichborne--The
Winnal Reaches--Winchester and Izaak Walton--St. Cross--St.
Catherine's Hill--Southampton. The /Test/: Romsey and its
Abbey. The /Beaulieu/: Beaulieu Abbey. The /Lymington/
and the /Medina/--The /Hampshire Avon/ and the /Stour/:
Christchurch--Salisbury--Wimborne. The /Frome/: Dorchester--Mr.
Hardy's Country--Poole Harbour 1
RIVERS OF DEVON.--_By W. W. HUTCHINGS._
General Characteristics--Sources of the Devon Streams: Exmoor
and Dartmoor. The /Otter/: Ottery Saint Mary and Samuel
Taylor Coleridge. Exmoor Streams:--The /Exe/: Its Source
in The Chains--The Barle--The Batherm--Tiverton and Peter
Blundell--Bickleigh Bridge and the "King of the Gipsies"--The
Culm--Exeter--Countess Weir--Exmouth. The /Lyn/:
Oareford--The Doone Country--Malmsmead--Watersmeet--Lyndale--Lynton
and Lynmouth. Dartmoor Streams:--The /Teign/:
Wallabrook--Chagford--Fingle Bridge--Chudleigh--The
Bovey--Newton Abbot--Teignmouth. The /Dart/: Holne
Chase--Buckfast Abbey--Dartington Hall--Totnes--The Lower
Reaches--Dartmouth. The Tavy. The /Taw/: Oxenham and
its Legend--Barnstaple--Lundy. The /Torridge/: The
Okement--Great Torrington--Bideford--Hubbastone. The Avon, Erme,
and Yealm. The /Plym/: Dewerstone--The Meavy and Plymouth
Leat--Plympton St. Mary and Plympton Earl--The Three Towns 25
RIVERS OF CORNWALL.--_By HUGH W. STRONG._
The Minor Streams of Cornwall--The /Tamar/:
Woolley Barrows--Morwellham and Weir Head--Morwell
Rocks--Harewood--Calstock--Cotehele--Pentillie--Confluence
with the Tavy--Saltash--The Hamoaze. The /Fowey/: A Change
of Name--St. Neot--Lostwithiel--Fowey. The /Fal/: Fenton
Fal--Tregony--Truro--Tregothnan--Falmouth 54
THE PARRET AND THE LOWER AVON.--_By HUGH W. STRONG._
The /Parret/: Its Source--Muchelney Abbey--The
Tone and Taunton--Athelney Island and Alfred the
Great--Sedgemoor--Bridgwater--Burnham. The /Lower Avon/: Escourt
Park--Malmesbury--Chippenham--Melksham--Bradford-on-Avon--Bath--The
Frome--Beau Nash--Bridges at Bath--The Abbey Church--Bristol--St.
Mary Redcliffe and Chatterton--The Cathedral--"The Chasm"--Clifton
Suspension Bridge--The Lower Reaches--Avonmouth 67
THE SEVERN.--_By the REV. PROFESSOR BONNEY, D.Sc., F.R.S._
CHAPTER I.--/From the Source to Tewkesbury./--Birthplace of the
Severn--Plinlimmon--Blaenhafren--Llanidloes--Caersws--Newtown--
Montgomery--Welshpool--Powys Castle--The Breidden Hills--The
Vyrnwy. Distant Views--Shrewsbury--Haughmond Hill--The Caradoc
Hills--Atcham--Wroxeter--Condover--The Wrekin--Benthall and Wenlock
Edges--Buildwas Abbey--Coalbrook Dale--Ironbridge--Broseley
and Benthall--Coalport--Bridgnorth--Quatford--Forest of
Wyre--Bewdley--Stourport--Worcester--The Teme--Ludlow--Tewkesbury
82
CHAPTER II.--/The Upper or Warwickshire Avon./--The
Watershed of Central England--Naseby--Rugby--The Swift--Lutterworth
and Wiclif--Stoneleigh Abbey and Kenilworth Castle--Guy's
Cliff--The Leam--Warwick and its Castle--Stratford-on-Avon and its
Shakespeare Associations--Evesham--Pershore--Tewkesbury 107
CHAPTER III.--/From Tewkesbury to the Sea./--Deerhurst--
Gloucester--The "Bore"--May Hill--Minsterworth--Westbury-on-Severn
--Newnham--Berkeley Castle--Lydney--Sharpness--The Severn Tunnel--
The Estuary--A Vanished River 119
THE WYE.--_By E. W. SABEL._
"The Notorious Hill of Plinlimmon"--The Stronghold of Owen
Glendower--Llangurig--Rhayader Gwy--Llyn-Gwyn--The Elan, the Ithon,
and the Yrfon--Llandrindod--Builth--Aberedw and the Last Prince of
Wales--Hay--Clifford Castle and the Fair Rosamond--Hereford--The
Lug--"The Wonder"--Ross and John Kyrle--Goodrich Castle--Coldwell
Rocks--Symond's Yat--Monmouth--The Monnow, the Dore, and
the Llonddu--Wordsworth's Great Ode--Tintern Abbey--The
Wyndcliff--Chepstow--The Lower Reaches 124
THE USK.--_By E. W. SABEL._
The Black Mountains--Trecastle--The Gaer--Brecon--The Brecknock
Beacons--Crickhowell--Abergavenny--Usk--Caerleon and the Arthurian
Legend--Christchurch--Newport 149
RIVERS OF SOUTH WALES.--_By CHARLES EDWARDES._
Brecknock Beacons--The /Taff/: Taff Fawr and Taff Fechan--Cardiff
Reservoirs--Merthyr--The Dowlais Steel and Iron Works--The
Rhondda--Pontypridd--Castell Coch--Llandaff and its
Cathedral--Cardiff and its Castle. The /Neath/: Ystradfellte--The
Mellte and its Affluents--The Cwm Porth--Waterfalls and
Cascades--The Sychnant--Pont Neath Vaughan--Neath and
its Abbey--The Dulas and the Clydach. Swansea and its
Docks--Morriston Castle--Swansea Castle--The Mumbles and
Swansea Bay. The /Tawe/: Craig-y-Nos--Lly-Fan Fawr. The /Towy/:
Ystradffin--Llandovery--Llandilo--Dynevor Castle--Carmarthen
and Richard Steele--Carmarthen Bar. The /Taff/: Milford
Haven--Carew Castle--Pembroke Castle--Monkton Priory--New Milford
and Old Milford--Haverfordwest. The /Teifi/: Strata Florida
Abbey--Newcastle Emlyn--Cenarth--Cardigan. The /Ystwith/: The Upper
Waters--Aberystwith 159
RIVERS OF NORTH WALES.--_By AARON WATSON._
CHAPTER I.--/The Dovey, the Dysynni, the Mawddach./--Glories of a
Wet Autumn in North Wales. The /Dovey/: Source of the Stream--Dinas
Mowddwy--Mallwyd--Machynlleth. The /Dysynni/: Tal-y-Llyn--The "Bird
Rock"--Towyn. The /Mawddach/: The Estuary--The Wnion--Torrent
Walk--Dolgelley--Precipice Walk--The Estuary--Barmouth--Harlech
Castle--Portmadoc--Glaslyn--Tremadoc and Shelley--The Traeth Bach
193
CHAPTER II.--/The Seiont, the Ogwen, the Conway./--The /Seiont/:
Llanberis Pass--Lakes Peris and Padarn--Dolbadarn Castle and
Cennant Mawr--Carnarvon and its Castle. The /Ogwen/: Llyn Ogwen
and Llyn Idwal--Bethesda--Penrhyn Castle. The /Llugwy/: Capel
Curig--Moel Siabod--Pont-y-Cyfing--Swallow Falls--The Miners'
Bridge--Bettws-y-Coed. The /Lledr/: Dolwyddelen--Pont-y-Pant. The
/Machno/ and its Fall. The /Conway/: Fairy Glen--Llanrwst--Gwydir
Castle--Llanbedr--Trefriw--Conway Marsh--Conway Castle and
Town--Deganwy--Llandudno 205
CHAPTER III.--/The Clwyd and the Dee./--The /Clwyd/: Rhyl--Rhuddlan
Castle--The Elwy--A Welsh Gretna Green--St. Asaph--Denbigh--Ruthin.
The /Dee/: Bala Lake--Corwen--Vale of Llangollen and Valle Crucis
Abbey--Dinas Bran--The Ceiriog--Chirk Castle and Wynnstay--The
Alyn--Eaton Hall--Chester--Flint 223
THE MERSEY.--_By W. S. CAMERON._
A Modern River--Derivations--The Tame, the Goyt, and
the Etherow--Stockport--Northenden--The Irwell and its
Feeders--Manchester and Salford--The Ship Canal--Bridges over the
Irwell--Ordsall--Eccles--Barton--Warburton--Irlam--Warrington--
Latchford--Runcorn and Widnes--The Weaver--Eastham Locks--Liverpool
and its Growth--Its Docks and Quays--Birkenhead and its
Shipbuilding Yards--New Brighton--Perch Rock Lighthouse 242
RIVERS OF LANCASHIRE AND LAKELAND.--_By WILLIAM SENIOR._
A Birthplace of Rivers--The /Ribble/: Ribblehead--
Horton-in-Ribblesdale--Survival of Old Traditions--Hellifield--The
Hodder--Stonyhurst and its College--The Calder--Burnley--Towneley
Hall--Preston--Its Development as a Port. The /Wyre/:
Poulton-le-Fylde. The /Lune/: Kirkby Lonsdale--The Greta and the
Wenning--Hornby Castle--Lancaster--Morecambe Bay--The Journey
from Lancaster to Ulverston in Coaching Days--Shifting Sands.
The /Kent/: Kentmere--Kendal. The Gilpin and the Winster. The
/Rothay/ and the /Brathay/. Grasmere and Wordsworth--Rydal
Water--Ambleside--Windermere. Troutbeck. Esthwaite Water. The
/Leven/: Newby Bridge--The Estuary. The /Crake/: Coniston
Water--Coniston Hall--Brantwood and Mr. Ruskin. The /Duddon/:
Wordsworth's Sonnets. The /Esk/ and the /Irt/: Wastwater. The
/Liza/: Ennerdale Water. The /Ehen/: Egremont Castle. The
/Derwent/: The Vale of St. John's--The Greta and Keswick--The View
from Castlerigg top--Derwentwater 271
RIVERS OF THE SOLWAY FIRTH.--_By FRANCIS WATT._
The Firth--A Swift Tide. The /Eden/: The Eamont--Eden
Hall--Armathwaite--John Skelton--Wetheral and Corby Castle--The
Caldew and the Petteril--Greystoke Castle--Carlisle, its
Romance and History--_Serva Pactum_--"Kinmont Willie" and the
"bauld Buccleuch"--Executions of Jacobites--The Carlisle of
To-day--The Sark--Gretna Green. The /Liddel/--Hermitage Water and
Castle. The /Esk/: The Tarras--Gilnockie Tower--Carlenrig and
Johnnie Armstrong--Young Lochinvar--Kirtle Water and its Tragic
Story. The /Annan/: The Land of the Bruces--Thomas Carlyle.
The /Nith/: Dumfries--Burns's Grave--Robert Bruce and the Red
Cumyn--Drumlanrig and Caerlaverock Castles--The Cairn and its
Associations--The New Abbey Pow and Sweetheart Abbey. The /Dee/:
Douglas Tongueland--Threave Castle. The /Cree/: Newton Stewart--The
"Cruives of Cree." The /Bladenoch/: The Wigtown Martyrs 301
RIVERS OF AYRSHIRE.--_By JOHN GEDDIE._
Poetic Associations--Headstreams of the Ayrshire Rivers--"The Land
of Burns"--The Ayr and the Doon--Sorn--Catrine--Ballochmyle--
Mossgiel--Mauchline--Barskimming--Coilsfield House and the Fail
Water--The Coyl--Auchencruive--Craigie--Ayr--The Doon 328
THE CLYDE.--_By JOHN GEDDIE._
Clydesdale and its Waters--"The Hill of Fire"--Douglasdale--"Castle
Dangerous"--Bonnington Linn--Corra Linn and "Wallace's
Tower"--Lanark--The Mouse Water--Stonebyres Linn--The Nethan
and "Tillietudlem"--"The Orchard of Scotland"--Hamilton and its
Palace--Cadzow Castle and its Associations--Bothwell Brig and
Castle--Blantyre--Cambuslang--Rutherglen--Glasgow--The City and
its History--The Quays, Docks, and Shipbuilding Yards--The Work
of the Clyde Navigation Trust--Govan and Partick--The White
Cart--Dumbarton Rock and Castle--The Leven Valley--Ben and Loch
Lomond--Greenock--Gourock--The Firth at Eventide 342
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS.
/Cader Idris, from the Dolgelley Road/ _Frontispiece._
_THE SOUTHERN CHALK STREAMS_:--
PAGES
Distant View of Canterbury--Rivers of Kent and Sussex(_Map_)
--Arundel Castle--Sandwich: The Old Bridge and Barbican--General
View of Winchester--St. Catherine's Hill--Winchester Cathedral--
Southampton Docks--The Royal Pier, Southampton--Southampton
from the Water--Romsey Abbey--Christchurch Abbey--Rivers
of Hants and Dorset (_Map_)--A New Forest Stream--The Avon
at Amesbury--Salisbury Cathedral--The Frome at Frampton
Court--Dorchester from the Frome--Poole Harbour--Wimborne Minster
1-24
_RIVERS OF DEVON_:--
Bideford Bridge--Rivers of Devon (_Map_)--The Wear Water--
Exeter--Exmouth, from the Beacon--Watersmeet--Lynmouth and
Lynton--"Clam" Bridge over the Wallabrook--Fingle Bridge--
Teignmouth--New Bridge--Buckfastleigh--Staverton--The Island,
Totnes--Totnes--Dittisham--Mouth of the Dart--Barnstaple, from the
South Walk--The Torridge near Torrington--The Plym from Cadaford
Bridge--In Bickleigh Vale--Plympton Earl--The Hoe, Plymouth 25-53
_RIVERS OF CORNWALL_:--
Danescombe--Rivers of Cornwall (_Map_)--Tavistock New
Bridge--Morwell Rocks--Cargreen--The Hamoaze, from Saltash--The Fal
from Tolverne--Falmouth Harbour--Falmouth, from Flushing 54-66
_THE PARRET AND THE LOWER AVON_:--
The Isle of Athelney--The Parret and the Lower Avon (_Map_)
--Taunton Church--Malmesbury Abbey--The Avon near Tetbury--
Bradford-on-Avon Church, from the North-East--The Avon at Bath--
View from North Parade Bridge, Bath--View from the old City Bridge,
Bath--Bristol, from the Site of the old Drawbridge across the
Harbour--Clifton Suspension Bridge 67-81
_THE SEVERN_:--
CHAPTER I.--/From the Source to Tewkesbury./--Source of the
Severn, Plinlimmon--The Severn, from the Source to Tewkesbury
(_Map_)--Valley of the Severn, from Plinlimmon--The First House
on the Severn, Blaenhafren--Moel-y-Golfa and Breidden, from
Welshpool--The Vyrnwy Embankment, before the flooding of the
Valley--A Quiet Nook on the Vyrnwy--The Boat-house Ferry, between
Welsh and English Bridges--Shrewsbury Castle--Quarry Walk,
Shrewsbury--English Bridge, Shrewsbury--Buildwas Abbey--The Severn
from Benthall Edge--Ironbridge--The Severn in Wyre Forest--Near
Shrawley--Old Houses at Bewdley--Worcester Cathedral, from the
Severn--Ludlow--The Severn at Tewkesbury 82-106
CHAPTER II.--/The Upper or Warwickshire Avon./--The Avon near
Rugby--The Warwickshire Avon (_Map_)--Warwick Castle--The Avon from
Warwick Castle--Stratford-on-Avon Church--Shakespeare's House--The
Avon at Stratford--Evesham--The Avon at Tewkesbury 107-118
CHAPTER III.--/From Tewkesbury to the Sea./--Distant View
of Tewkesbury--The Severn, from Tewkesbury to the Sea
(_Map_)--Gloucester--The Severn Bridge, Sharpness 119-123
_THE WYE_:--
A Bend of the Wye--Views in the Lower Elan Valley--The Wye and the
Usk (_Map_)--Pont-Hyll-Fan, in the Elan Valley--The Shaky Bridge,
Llandrindod--The Wye Bridge and Hereford Cathedral--Goodrich
Castle--Ross Church--Symond's Yat and the Ferry--Monmouth--The
Monnow Bridge and Gate-house, Monmouth--Tintern Abbey, from the
Wye--The Nave, Tintern Abbey--Gateway at Chepstow--Chepstow
Castle--View from the Wyndcliff--Old Monastery on the Wye 124-148
_THE USK_:--
Near the Source of the Usk, Talsarn-side--The
Usk at Brecknock--Bit of the Roman Wall at
Caerleon--Usk--Caerleon--Newport: The Bridge and Castle 149-158
_RIVERS OF SOUTH WALES_:--
The Brecknock Beacons, from the Taff--Llandaff Cathedral: The
West Front; The Nave and Choir; The West and North Doors--Rivers
of South Wales (_Map_)--The Bishop's Gateway, Llandaff--Cardiff
Castle--St. Mary Street, Cardiff--The Drawing Room, Cardiff
Castle--In the Vale of Neath--Neath Abbey--Outskirts of
Neath--North Dock, Swansea--Morriston--The Mumbles--Carew
Castle--Carmarthen Quay--Pembroke Castle and Monkton Priory--The
Royal Dockyard, Pembroke Dock--Haverfordwest--Milford Haven--The
Teifi at Kilgerran--Aberystwith 159-192
_RIVERS OF NORTH WALES_:--
CHAPTER I.--/The Dovey, the Dysynni, the Mawddach./--
Dolgelley--Rivers of North Wales (_Map_)--Torrent Walk,
Dolgelley--The Lower Bridge, Torrent Walk--Between Dolgelley
and Barmouth--Barmouth Bridge and Cader Idris--Snowdon, from
Crib-Goch--The Estuary, Barmouth 193-204
CHAPTER II.--/The Seiont, the Ogwen, the Conway./--Pass of
Llanberis--Carnarvon Castle--The Swallow Falls--Miners' Bridge,
Bettws-y-Coed--Moel Siabod, from the Llugwy--Pont-y-Pair--On
the Lledr--Another View in the Lledr Valley--Fairy Glen,
Bettws-y-Coed--On the Conway--The Conway, from Conway
Castle--Conway Castle--The Bridge, from Conway Castle 205-222
CHAPTER III.--/The Clwyd and the Dee./--View from Rhuddlan
Castle--Rhuddlan Castle--St. Asaph--Denbigh--Bala Lake--Valle
Crucis Abbey--Llangollen--Eaton Hall--The Roodee, Chester--The
Dee at Chester, from the Walls--Chester Cathedral, from the
South-West--Swing Bridge over the Dee near Hawarden--The Sands of
Dee 223-241
_THE MERSEY_:--
The Mersey at Stockport--The Mersey (_Map_)--Northenden--On the
Irwell--Pendleton, from the Crescent--Manchester, from the Grammar
School, showing the Cathedral, the Exchange, the Town Hall, etc.
--Victoria and Blackfriars Bridges--Steamer passing through
Trafford Road Swing Bridge--The Old and the Swing Aqueducts,
Barton--The Irwell at Ordsall, with Worrall's Works--Runcorn
Bridge--The Locks at Eastham--St. George's Landing-Stage,
Liverpool--Swing Bridge over the Entrance to Stanley Dock,
Liverpool--Liverpool, from Birkenhead--St. George's Hall and Lime
Street, Liverpool--The Perch Rock Lighthouse 242-270
_RIVERS OF LANCASHIRE AND LAKELAND_:--
Stainforth Bridge--Towneley Hall, Burnley--Rivers of Lancashire
and Lakeland (_Map_)--Preston, from the West--Lancaster--
Windermere--Rydal Water--Grasmere--Newby Bridge--Another Bit
of the Leven--The Liza flowing into Ennerdale Water--The
Liza at Gillerthwaite--Coniston Water--Ennerdale--The Greta
between Threlkeld and Keswick--The Derwent, with Keswick in
the Distance--The Derwent at Crosthwaite--Derwentwater and
Skiddaw--Derwentwater from Scafell--The Cocker flowing from
Crummock Lake--The Cocker at Kirkgate 271-300
_RIVERS OF THE SOLWAY FIRTH_:--
The Annan, near Annan Town--The Eden, the Petteril, and the Caldew
(_Map_)--Eden Hall--The Weir at Armathwaite--Wetheral Bridge--View
from Brackenbank looking towards Cotehill--Cotehill Island--View
from the Long Walk, Corby Castle--Rock Stairway to the Boathouse,
Corby Castle--Greystoke Castle--Carlisle, looking East--Carlisle,
looking West--Rivers flowing South into Solway Firth (_Map_)--The
Esk, near Gilnockie--High Street, Dumfries--Lincluden
Abbey--Drumlanrig Castle--Caerlaverock Castle--The Dee at Douglas
Tongueland--The Cree at Newton Stewart 301-327
_RIVERS OF AYRSHIRE_:--
The Ayr above Muirkirk--Sorn--Rivers of Ayrshire (_Map_)--
Ballochmyle--The Ayr at Barskimming--Auchencruive--The Twa Brigs of
Ayr--The Dam at Ayr--The Doon: The New and the Auld Brig--Ayrmouth
328-341
_THE CLYDE_:--
One of the Sources of the Clyde--The Clyde (_Map_)--Douglas
Castle--Bonnington Linn--Corra Linn--Roman Bridge near Lanark--
Stonebyres Linn--Bothwell Castle--Glasgow University--The
Broomielaw Landing-Stage--The Clyde at Glasgow--Partick--Paisley--
Dumbarton Rock--Loch Lomond--Greenock--Gourock 342-369
/Rivers of Great Britain./
[Illustration: _Photo: G. W. Wilson & Co., Aberdeen._
DISTANT VIEW OF CANTERBURY (_p. 3_).]
THE SOUTHERN CHALK STREAMS.
General Characteristics--The /Canterbury Stour/ and its Branches:
Ashford and Jack Cade--Horton and Lyminge--Canterbury--Fordwich
and Izaak Walton--Isle of Thanet--Minster. The /Lesser
Stour/: "Bourne Ground"--Sandwich. The /Brede/. The
/Rother/: Bodiam--Isle of Oxney--Winchelsea--Seaford. The
/Cuckmere/: Alfriston and Lullington. /The Ouse/: St.
Leonard's Forest--Fletching--Maresfield--Lewes. The /Adur/:
Bramber--Shoreham. The /Arun/: Amberley--Arundel--Littlehampton.
Hampshire Rivers--The /Arle/: The Meon District--Wickham
and the Bishop-Builder--Titchfield. The /Itchen/: A Curious
Example of Instinct--Alresford Pond--Cheriton--Tichborne--The
Winnal Reaches--Winchester and Izaak Walton--St. Cross--St.
Catherine's Hill--Southampton. The /Test/: Romsey and its
Abbey. The /Beaulieu/: Beaulieu Abbey. The _Lymington_
and the /Medina/--The /Hampshire Avon/ and the /Stour/:
Christchurch--Salisbury--Wimborne. The /Frome/: Dorchester--Mr.
Hardy's Country--Poole Harbour.
The long and strong backbone of the North Downs extends, roughly
speaking, from Kent, by way of Dorking and Guildford, to the source of
the Avon, north of Salisbury Plain; and the South Downs run parallel,
more or less, through Sussex and Hants to the Dorset heights. From
these green hills spring the streams which will be briefly traced from
source to sea in this chapter. They are not rivers of first account in
their aid to commerce; even the pair which combine in the formation
of Southampton Water have never been reckoned in the nomenclature of
dock or port. To the angler, however, some of these chalk streams are
exceedingly precious--as they indeed ought to be, when a rental varying
from fifty to a hundred pounds per mile per annum is gladly paid
(and taken) for the right of fishing with rod and line. Such choice
preserves are stocked with trout of aristocratic quality, trout which
can only be reared in streams issuing from the chalk; their water, when
unpolluted by contact with towns, is crystal clear; and the beds of
gravel and fine sand favour the growth of typical vegetation, which in
its turn favours typical water insects and other food suitable for the
highest class of non-migratory salmonidæ.
Wholly different from such noisy, turbulent, masterful rivers as those
which distinguish North Britain, these chalk streams enter into the
very spirit of that sweet pastoral scenery which suggests repose,
peace, and plenty. They maintain for the most part an even course,
tranquilly flowing without fret or violence through level land,
and pursuing their tireless journey seawards, unobstructed by the
rugged rocks, obstinate boulders, and uneven beds which provoke your
mountain-or moorland-born waters into thunderous roar, angry swirl, and
headlong rapidity. For foam-flecked pools, and mighty leaps in romantic
gorges, the South-country chalk stream offers forget-me-nots by the
margin, and beds of flowers blossoming from its harmless depths. It is
with rivers of this class we have now to deal, presenting such features
as may be noticed within the limits which have been assigned to the
present chapter.
[Illustration: RIVERS OF KENT AND SUSSEX.]
Beginning, as the sun in its progress would have us do, from the east,
we introduce the reader to the fair county of Kent. There are at least
half-a-dozen Stours, great and small, in England; and though the stream
with which we start is entirely Kentish (and might, therefore, take
the name of the county), it is commonly distinguished by the name of
the /Canterbury Stour/. There are others of its namesakes--one
of which we shall meet with towards the end of our journey--of greater
watershed, but there is no more interesting member of the family. As
a rule, a river, with its tributaries, as seen on the map, offers
the appearance of the root of a tree, with its branches gracefully
following in a common direction towards the parent stream, on the
principle that, as the main river ever has marching orders towards the
ocean, all its feeders, in the same spirit, loyally join in a forward
movement. Our Stour, however, is a notable exception. It assumes a
respectable magnitude at Ashford, but near that town, and almost at
right angles to the subsequent direction of the main stream, two
distinct branches join issue. The main stream from Ashford to the Isle
of Thanet runs almost due north-east; branch number one, that comes
from the hills in the direction of Maidstone, travels to Ashford almost
due south-west, and the other branch that rises north of Hythe flows
in a diametrically opposite course. These little rivers are of equal
length, and flow, in their unpretending fashion, through purely rural
country.
The first-named of these branches rises near Lenham, which takes its
name from a feeder of the great river of the northern watershed of
the county. Visitors to the seat of the Dering family at Surrenden,
where there have been Derings since the time of the Conqueror, and to
Little Chart Church, will be, at the latter place, not far from what
is regarded as the real source of the river Stour, but this brook must
not be confounded with the Beult at Smarden, which belongs to the
Medway. Our stream flows the other way, passing Cale Hill, Hothfield,
and Godinton. Hereabouts--if there is anything in tradition--is the
country of troublesome Jack Cade, who must have known a good deal about
the river, for the story is that he was born at Ashford, and that the
squire who had the honour of taking him into custody lived on the
estate known in these days as Ripley Court Farm.
The southern branch takes its rise near Postling, on the famous
Stone Street, or Roman road, which from Westenhanger is a straight
northerly highway to Canterbury. The farmhouse at Horton was a priory
founded in the time of Henry II. Naturally, in this part of England,
where Augustine landed, the countryside is rich in the earliest
ecclesiastical reminiscences. At Lyminge, for example, hard by, was
one of the Benedictine nunneries, and the church where the daughter
of Ethelbert was buried is often visited by admirers of Roman and
Anglo-Saxon masonry, for it is believed that the Saxon church was built
on the site of a basilicon. There are many parish churches in Kent
which are of exceptional interest, but that at Lyminge is generally
accepted as the first of them.
The entire course of the Stour is about forty-five miles, and its
valley from Ashford to Canterbury is one of the loveliest features of
a lovely county. Overlooking it is Eastwell Park, which for many years
was the country-house of the Duke of Edinburgh. The valley of the
Stour, seen from one of its higher knolls as on a chart, is not always
so open as it is in this neighbourhood, though its narrowing means but
the concentration of charming scenery, with wooded heights on the one
side and open downs on the other. For a considerable distance the Stour
follows the railway line, and at Wye, where there is one of the most
lovely miniature racecourses in the kingdom, it is crossed by a bridge
of five arches. Thenceforth, it is a notable trout stream, gradually
widening until it forms the distinctive feature of the well-known
meadows, with the square-towered cathedral always a prominent object of
the landscape.
Canterbury has been so often described, for it is frequently the scene
of great ceremonials (as witness the impressive burial of Archbishop
Benson in 1896, and the enthronisation of his distinguished successor
in 1897), that a few sentences only are required as we muse by the
riverside. But it is impossible to visit Canterbury without recalling
its stirring and suggestive associations, and the distinction it had
in times when other parts of the country were obscure. It was too
near the water to escape the ravages of the sea-kings, who liked to
land at Sheppey and Thanet, and it was more than once devastated by
the Danes. In 1011 it was taken by storm amidst scenes of death and
desolation during which the cathedral and monastery were burnt, the
inhabitants slaughtered in masses, and women and children carried
away into captivity. There is no need to re-tell the story of that
different kind of landing, glorified by the arrival of St. Augustine
and his missionaries. This also honoured the Isle of Thanet, which the
Saxon chronicle mentions as the place of disembarkation of Hengist and
Horsa on their heathen mission to Vortigern. The Stour in its terminal
portion has probably become much cabined and confined since that
period, when it must have been a broad estuary.
[Illustration: _Photo: J. White, Littlehampton._
ARUNDEL CASTLE (_p. 11_).]
About two miles below Canterbury is the village of Fordwich, on the
opposite bank of the Stour. As the tide in old days reached thither,
it ranked as a Cinque Port. According to Izaak Walton, the old name
of Fordwich was "Fordidge," and as such he immortalised it in the
"Compleat Angler" as the home of the Fordidge trout, about which there
was some mystery, until in the present century it was proved to be one
of the migratory salmonidæ. An occasional specimen is now found. This
fish does now and then run into some of our south-east rivers, and no
doubt at the time when the Thames was a salmon river and the waters
were unpolluted, it was common in the Stour, which throughout is an
excellent trout stream.
[Illustration: _Photo: Poulton & Son, Lee._
SANDWICH: THE OLD BRIDGE AND BARBICAN (_p. 7_).]
Below Canterbury, where the water becomes brackish and the conditions
prosaic, the trout gives place to the ordinary coarse fish of our
streams. Grove Ferry is one of the favourite holiday resorts of the
citizens. At Sarr, a few miles from Fordwich, the ferry which now plies
at Grove Ferry was formerly the means of communication with the Isle
of Thanet. This historic island is formed by the Stour separating right
and left, the arm to the north finding the sea a little east of the
Reculvers; while the branch flowing in the opposite direction marks
the boundary of the promontory which includes the watering-places
of Ramsgate, Broadstairs, Margate, and Birchington, and has for the
extreme tip of its snout the lonely North Foreland. This divergence,
which, on a smaller scale, corresponds with the curious right-angled
course of the brooks at the source, used to have a name of its own: it
was called the Wantsum, with a well-known ford at St. Nicholas-at-Wade;
and no doubt this channel was once an arm of the sea. The lesser Stour,
of which something will presently be said, falls into the navigable
portion of the parent river below Sarr. The lower branch runs through
marshes by Minster, which is a deservedly popular village to tourists
exploring Kent who are specially on the lookout for interesting relics
of the past. King Egbert, one of the Christian kings of Kent, founded
a nunnery here by way of atonement for the murder of a couple of
princely cousins, and he agreed to endow it with as much land as a
hind would cover in one course. The Danes had their will of the place.
The restored church in its present form has a Norman nave, with Early
English transepts and choir. Minster is a favourite ramble for seaside
visitors to Ramsgate; it is well situated, and its high ground affords
views of distant Canterbury, the ruins of Richborough Castle, the coast
country about Deal, and a proper expanse of marsh. The Stour, when
nearly opposite the point of coast where it eventually falls into the
Straits of Dover, takes a turn to the east, calling, as it were, at the
ancient town of Sandwich, and then proceeds due north to Pegwell Bay.
Rising somewhere near the source of the lower arm of Stour major,
the /Lesser Stour/ is another charming Kentish trout stream.
It flows through what may be designated bourne ground, as the names
of many of its villages testify. The source is near Bishopsbourne
Church, where the judicious Hooker, a native of the place, performed
the duties of parish priest. There are also Patrixbourne, Bekesbourne,
Nailbourne, and Littlebourne. The last named is well known to tourists,
for the village has a traditional association with the monks of St.
Augustine; here are an Early English church with monuments, and the
park at Lee Priory where Sir Egerton Brydges worked his press; and
within a quarter of an hour's walk is an old church formerly belonging
to some of the Canterbury priors. On the banks of the stream at
Bekesbourne are the remains of a palace of Archbishop Cranmer; and
when the Parliamentarians, according to their custom, laid it under
contribution, in their ransacking they discovered the Primate's will
behind an old oak wainscoting. Wickham Breaux is another of the Lesser
Stour villages, and all around are the fruit orchards and occasional
hopfields which give a distinctive and agreeable character to the
entire watershed. The Lesser Stour for a while runs parallel with its
companion, which it joins at Stourmouth, to assist in outlining the
Isle of Thanet, and mingling therefore with the current which goes
the round of Sandwich to Pegwell Bay. It seems almost incredible that
Sandwich was once a great port, but if a quiet hour be spent in what
is left of it, the town will be found to repay careful inspection. The
Barbican, as the old gateway tower is called, and the bridge indicate
the haven in which refugees from France and the Low Countries found a
safe home.
* * * * *
From Hythe to the ancient and always interesting town of Rye, stretches
the Royal Military Canal; the first stream to claim attention is the
/Brede/, though it is scarcely entitled to river rank. It takes
its rise a few miles from Battle, and its course is held to have been
the old channel of the Rother, near Winchelsea. The "Groaning Bridge"
is on the Brede, and it was on this spot that the Oxenbridge ogre of
ancient legend was said to have been disposed of once for all by being
divided across the middle with a wooden saw.
[Illustration: _Photo: Poulton & Son, Lee._
GENERAL VIEW OF WINCHESTER (_p. 16_).]
[Illustration: _Photo: Poulton & Son, Lee._
ST. CATHERINE'S HILL (_p. 17_).]
But the principal river in the Rye and Winchelsea district, so full
of suggestion in its evidences of past prosperity and present decay,
is the /Rother/, known as the Eastern, to distinguish it
from another of the same name in the western part of the county. At
Bodiam is a famous foss, fed by the river, encircling the excellently
preserved castle, with its round tower, great gateway approached by
a causeway, spacious central court, outer portcullis, and portions
of hall, chapel, and kitchen. This is held by antiquaries to be one
of the best of the feudal fortresses in Sussex. In monkish days the
stream was no doubt one of great value. Near the source, at Gravel
Hill, is Robertsbridge, or Rotherbridge, where a Cistercian abbey,
secluded almost from the world by the river, was visited by Edward II.
and Edward III. There are still fragments of the abbey on a farm which
occupies at least a portion of the site. The Rother is a river of many
tributaries, one of them acting partly as the boundary of Sussex and
Kent. Its scenery is somewhat commonplace, but it is navigable for a
considerable portion of its course, which has much altered since the
old chronicles were inscribed. Two of its branches enclose the Isle of
Oxney, a flat so easily flooded that the villagers within its bounds
often find the use of a boat a necessity.
[Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._
WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL (_p. 16_).]
The railway crosses the Rother by a stone bridge, then comes Rye
Harbour, and at a distance of two miles, set upon a hill so that it
cannot be hid, is the old-world borough of Winchelsea, which the sea
has left high and dry, though it had been the abode of great kings, and
the witness of battles by sea and land. At Hastings the Downs supply
sufficient rivulet-power to maintain glen, waterfall, and dripping
well, for sea-side visitors. Following the coast-line to Seaford, the
quiet and unpretending watering place which was once a Cinque Port, and
which returned members to Parliament until it was disfranchised by
the Reform Act, a short walk over the Downs brings the tourist to the
pretty broken country of East and West Dean.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Photo: F. G. O. Stuart, Southampton._
SOUTHAMPTON DOCKS (_p. 19_).]
The stream crossed by Exceat Bridge is the /Cuckmere/, of which
it need only be said that it has ceased to be a feature of importance
to shipping people. It is worth while, nevertheless, to follow it up
from the reaches where barges still find resting-place. At Alfriston
British, Roman, and Saxon coins have been found; there is a rare
sixteenth-century inn, supposed to have been built as a house of call
for Canterbury pilgrims, a market cross, a church on the plan of a
Greek cross, sometimes designated "the cathedral of the South Downs," a
parish register dating from 1512--possibly the oldest in England--and a
half-timbered rectory of still earlier date. There is some doubt as to
which is now the smallest church in Great Britain, but the claim has
been made for Lullington, which is on the slope of Cuckmere vale. In
rambling by this little river the tourist will make acquaintance with
the South Downs free and unadulterated. The Cuckmere flows into the sea
about two miles from Seaford, having escaped through the opening which
takes the name of Birling Gap.
* * * * *
Within an area of four square miles, and almost in touch with St.
Leonard's Forest, three important Sussex streams take their rise--the
Ouse, Adur, and Arun. This was the centre of the ancient iron industry
of Sussex, and the position would not have been possible without water
supply for the hammer ponds. The /Ouse/ is crossed by the London
and Brighton Railway a little north-west of Lindfield. The river
afterwards winds round the well-wooded seat of the Earl of Sheffield;
and at Fletching Common, hard by, the baronial army spent the night
before fighting the battle of Lewes. Gibbon the historian was buried
in the church, which is noted also for an ancient rood screen and the
mausoleum of the Neville family. Maresfield, where the furnaces and
forges of the old Sussex iron-masters clustered thick, retains vast
expanses of the cinder and slag they created centuries ago. It is
beautified by the trees of Ashdown Forest, and sends a tributary to the
Ouse; another tributary presently arrives from Buxted, where the first
cast cannon ever seen in Europe was made in 1543.
The Ouse is the river of the pleasant county town of Lewes. This rare
old town, on its chalk hill, with downs surrounding it, and with the
Ouse, on whose right bank it is spread, adding to its attractions,
ranks in interest with Chester and Durham. The great battle which was
fought on May 14th, 1264, is the event of which the local historians
are most proud. As we have seen, it was at Fletching Common that De
Montfort encamped his soldiers, and thence he sent a couple of bishops
the day before the battle on a fruitless errand to the king, who was
quartered at the priory. The most sanguinary slaughter appears to have
taken place south of the town, where the Ouse was crossed by a bridge;
and the river with its marshy flats assisted in the destruction, for
many knights were discovered after the battle stuck in the swamp,
"sitting on their horses, in complete armour, and with drawn swords in
their lifeless hands." The Ouse cannot be said to be picturesque; at
Lewes it has long lost the sparkle which characterised it in the forest
outskirts; but from any elevated point of Lewes Castle, notably the
western keep, the easy stream may be seen as it is about to disappear
between the hills. The disestablished locks between Cuckfield and
Lewes indicate a brisk bygone barge traffic. Early in the present
century the river was navigable for barges of forty tons burden for
ten miles without interruption, and thence beyond Lindfield in the
Hayward's Heath country. In early times it was probably a broad estuary
extending to Lewes itself, and at some time found an outlet to the sea
at Seaford, three miles to the east. This, however, is very ancient
history, for the river was brought back to its present channel in the
sixteenth century.
Shoreham, the humble and dull attendant upon Brighton, has an advantage
over the great watering-place--which is streamless--in being situated
on a river. It is not a beautiful place, but it has something of a
harbour, in which you may find port in a storm, and it has a bridge
across the /Adur/. This river comes down from openings in
the hills, having passed through pretty country, with such villages
as Bramber (where there was once a broad estuary in which vessels
anchored) and Steyning. The source of the Adur on the borders of St.
Leonard's Forest has been previously mentioned; but there are at least
two other rills that have an equal claim. From Henfield the river
runs south, through pasture land, and, as we have seen, winds past
Bramber, supposed to be the Portus Adurni of the Romans. There is very
little of the castle left, and that is almost hidden by trees. At New
Shoreham the Adur turns eastward, and runs for a while parallel with
the seashore.
These Sussex rivers which are projected from the neighbourhood of St.
Leonard's Forest can scarcely be considered as akin to the pure, bright
chalk stream which was described at the commencement of this chapter;
and the most important of the trio, the /Arun/, does not in this
respect differ from its fellows. Something more than passing glimpses
of it are obtained from the carriage windows by the railway traveller
as he speeds through the imposing scenery around Arundel. It is
navigable for an unusual distance, and whatever beauty it possesses it
owes to its surroundings. Of late years the river has become the Mecca
of members of the London angling clubs, who charter special trains and
invade the districts by hundreds on Sundays. The first stopping-place
of any account from this point of view is Pulborough, the site of an
old Roman settlement, with traces of camp and buildings, which will
not, however, be found on Arun-side, but at Hardham and elsewhere.
Amberley was rescued from oblivion, and from the desertion enforced
upon it by neighbouring marshes, by the railway; and the scenery
between it and Arundel has always been prized and worked at by artists.
Swanbourne Mill as a picture is probably familiar to many who have
never entered the county.
The splendidly kept castle at Arundel has not been dwarfed by the
cathedral-like Roman Catholic church built by the Duke of Norfolk,
and dedicated to St. Philip Neri. Even now it looks like the splendid
stronghold that it was, and the most venerable in the land that it
is, on its commanding terminal of swelling down, with the stream from
the Weald narrowing between the hills through its beautiful valley,
to the characteristic marsh flats beyond. The river hence to the sea
does not call for admiration or comment, save that there is a remnant
of a priory at Tortington, a point of view from which Arundel with its
castle-crowned heights looks its best. Littlehampton, four miles from
Arundel, is better known as a port of departure for steamships than as
a watering-place competing with the pleasure resorts in more favoured
situations on the coast.
* * * * *
Hampshire is a well-watered county, and classic ground for that new
school of anglers who are classified as "dry-fly" men. The masters
thereof graduated on the Itchen and the Test, most famous of all
South-country chalk streams, and honourably mentioned in angling
literature. To know that a man is a successful fisher upon either is
tantamount to a certificate of the highest skill. The Hampshire rivers,
other than these celebrated feeders of the Southampton water, are few,
and modest in character. There is, it is true, a small trout stream at
Fareham, a busy little seaport which owes its standing to its proximity
to Portsmouth Harbour, and its attractions as a district abounding
in country seats to the rampart of Portsdown Hill, affording at once
protection from the north and opportunity for overlooking the Solent
and the Isle of Wight. Less than three miles west, across the peninsula
that sustains Gosport, is a considerable stream, little known outside
the county, but an ever-present delight to the villages through which
it lightly flows to the eastern shore of Southampton water. This is the
Arle, or Titchfield river.
[Illustration: _Photo: Perkins, Son, & Venimore, Lewisham._
THE ROYAL PIER SOUTHAMPTON (_p. 19_).]
[Illustration: SOUTHAMPTON FROM THE WATER.]
In its course of some score of miles the /Arle/ takes its share
in a diversity of scenery of a soothing rather than romantic character.
Rising in the South Downs, it begins by mingling with village and
hamlet life in a sequestered valley; then it proceeds through an open
forest country, and becomes navigable at Titchfield. The source of
the stream is but a few miles west of Petersfield, but it begins with
a sweep to the north and a loop round a southerly point, passing so
much in the Meon district that it is often marked on the maps by that
name, which was probably its only one in the past. Meonware was a
Pictish province when there was a king of the South Saxons, and Saint
Wilfrid preached Christianity to the British heathen. Indeed a portion
of Corhampton Church, across the stream, is ascribed to that prelate.
Wickham, most beautifully situated on the Arle, is celebrated as the
birthplace of William of Wykeham, the great bishop-builder. Warton the
poet lived his last days at Wickham, and died there in the first year
of the century.
[Illustration: _Photo: A. Seeley, Richmond._
ROMSEY ABBEY (_p. 19_).]
References to William of Wykeham continually occur in county Hants:
thus in the district under consideration there are a Wykeham chancel
at Meonstoke, a Wykeham foundation of five chantries near the coast at
Southwick, and a reputed Wykeham aisle in the church at Titchfield.
The remains of Funtley Abbey are naturally not far from the stream.
They are close to Titchfield, and mark the site of a Priory founded
by Bishop de Rupibus in the reign of Henry III. The house which Sir
Thomas Wriothesley built upon the place acquired in the usual way at
the Dissolution was "right statelie" when Leland described it; and this
was the Titchfield House where poor Charles Stuart found temporary
refuge between the flight from Hampton Court and the grim lodging of
Carisbrooke.
The /Itchen/, as next in order on our westward progress, must
receive first consideration, though it is the smaller of the streams
which pay tribute to the Solent at Calshot Castle. The Itchen and the
Test have many things in common: they both rise out of the chalk downs
which stretch from the Stour in Kent, through Hants, to the confines
of Wilts; they both give Southampton importance; they are both salmon
rivers, but to so unimportant a degree that they have never yet been
considered worthy of governance by a Board of Conservators; and they
have the distinction of being the only salmon rivers in England that
may be fished without a rod licence. But these rivers are so distinct
in one characteristic that they may be quoted as evidence of almost
miraculous instinct. The salmon of the Test hold no communion with
those of the Itchen; no fisherman acquainted with the rivers would be
likely to mistake the one for the other; yet, while the Itchen fish, on
return from the salt water, unerringly turn to the right, and pass the
Docks on their way to Woodmill, the salmon of the Test swim straight
ahead, and pause not till they reach their own river beyond the
furthest of the western suburbs of Southampton.
[Illustration: _Photo: Poulton & Son, Lee._
CHRISTCHURCH ABBEY (_p. 22_).]
When a river issues from a lake it is the custom to regard the latter
as the headwaters. In this sense Alresford Pond may be set down as the
source of the Itchen. Locally, a brook at Ropley Dean, about eleven
miles from Winchester as the crow flies, has been nominated for the
distinction, but there are other rivulets from the high land between
Alresford and Alton which might be brought into competition. The
Bishops of Winchester formerly had a summer palace at Bishop's Sutton,
and it is somewhat of a coincidence that in our own times Archbishop
Longley was one of its vicars. There are stores of pike and mammoth
trout in Alresford Pond, and no doubt they had ancestors there when
Richard I. was king. Even now, in its reduced size, this beautiful
sheet of clear water covers sixty acres.
[Illustration: RIVERS OF HANTS AND DORSET.]
The tributaries are inconsiderable; but it is a land of innumerable
watercourses, and of carriers, kept in action for the flooding of the
pastures. Hence the meads are found in a perpetual freshness of "living
green," and the verdant pastures in the late spring are magnificent
with their marsh-marigolds and cuckoo flowers marking the lines of
the meadow trenches, while the hedges and coppices are a dream of
May blossom. Noble country houses are set back on the slopes, real
old-fashioned farmhouses and thatched cottages are embowered in every
variety of foliage, and the background is frequently filled in by
gently ranging upland clothed with the softest herbage. Here a village
with its mill, and there a hamlet with its homely old church, mark the
stages of the crystal clear river, every foot of which is the treasured
preserve of some wealthy angler. There are golden trout upon the
gravel, and in the deeps, while the shallows, many of which have been
fords from time immemorial, are open to the eye of the wayfarer who
quietly pauses on the rustic bridges to watch the spotted denizens as
they cruise and poise.
At Cheriton the Royalists received a crushing blow on the March day
when Lords Hopton and Forth led their army of 10,000 men against
an equal force of Waller's Roundheads. The engagement was fatal
to the Royal cause, and it gave Winchester and its fort to the
Parliamentarians. Of Tichborne this generation heard somewhat in the
seventies, and the notorious trials brought for many years an increase
of visitors, who would interrupt the discourse upon Sir Roger de
Tychborne, and the Tychborne Dole founded by the Lady Mabell (whose
monument is in the church on the hill), with questions about the
Claimant and the lost Sir Roger. Martyr's Worthy, King's Worthy, and
Abbot's Worthy are within sound of the sonorous Cathedral bells; and
after these villages are the loved Winnal reaches of the stream, one
of them sadly marred by the Didcot and Newbury Railway, which, within
the last few years, has been opened with a station south of the town.
The Nun's Walk is to the right as you follow the Itchen downwards,
often over planks half-hidden in sedges. Sleek cattle graze in the
water-meads; beyond them is the clustering city and its Cathedral,
which at a distance resembles nothing so much as a long low-lying
building that has yet to be finished, the squat tower seeming a mere
commencement. The bye-streams, of which there are several, meet at the
bottom of the town, and the strong, rapid, concentrated current has
much mill work to do before it recovers perfect freedom.
[Illustration: A NEW FOREST STREAM (_p. 20_).]
Izaak Walton lived a while at Winchester, in the declining years of
his long and--who can doubt?--tranquil life. He had friends among the
bishops and clergy, and wrote the lives of contemporary divines. So
he came to Winchester, where a room was kept for him in the Bishop's
Palace, and in this city he died on December 15th, 1683. His grave is
in the Cathedral, marked by a black marble slab, and within the last
few years a memorial statue has been placed in one of the niches of the
newly-erected screen.
[Illustration: THE AVON AT AMESBURY (_p. 22_).]
The ancient hospital of St. Cross is one of the best-known features
of the Itchen in the neighbourhood of Winchester, but there are
charming country-seats along the whole remaining course--fair homes
of English gentlemen, planted above the grass land whence the evening
mists of summer rise to shroud the winding stream and far-stretching
water-meads, and adorned with smooth-shaven lawns intersected by
gravel-walks, winding amidst shrubberies and parterres to the sedgy
banks of the silently gliding river. But St. Cross is unique with its
gateway tower and porter's hutch, where the wayfarer may even now make
the vagrant's claim for dole of beer and bread, the former no longer
brewed on the spot, and for its own sake not worth the trouble often
taken by sentimental visitors to obtain it. Fine old elms surround the
venerable home of the brethren of this cloistered retreat; the river
flows close to its foundations; and, facing you across the stream,
rises the bold rounded steep surmounted by the clump of beech-trees on
St. Catherine's Hill. The speculative builder, however, has long been
pushing his outworks towards this breezy eminence where the Wykeham
College boys of past generations trooped to their sports.
[Illustration: SALISBURY CATHEDRAL (_p. 22_).]
The Itchen as it narrows to serve the South Stoneham water-wheels loses
much of its beauty, and is finally, after its course of twenty-five
miles, abruptly stopped at the flour-mill. Through artificial outlets
it tumbles into the tideway, and becomes at a bound subject to the
ebb and flow of the Solent. Southampton, after a temporary depression
due to the withdrawal of the Peninsular and Oriental Company to other
headquarters, has launched out into renewed enterprise; great docks
have been added, and the extension is likely to continue in the future.
Queen Victoria opened the Empress Docks in 1890; the graving docks were
the next scheme, and in 1893 the new American line of steamers began to
run. In 1833 her Majesty, then the Princess Victoria, opened the Royal
(or Victoria) Pier, which was rebuilt in 1892 and re-opened by the Duke
of Connaught; and from it and other vantage points commanding views are
to be had of the estuary, and of the New Forest on the further side. To
meet this vigorous revival of commercial development, the suburbs have
pushed out in all directions, and the estuary of the Itchen, from the
Salmon Pool at South Stoneham to the Docks, is now bordered by modern
dwellings, and presents an appearance of life in marked contrast to the
dreariness of a quarter of a century ago.
In its general characteristics the Test resembles the Itchen. It is ten
miles longer, and has a tributary assistance which its sister stream
lacks; but there are in its valley similar country mansions, ruddy
farm-houses, picturesque cottages and gardens, water-meads and marshy
corners, mills and mill-pools, rustic bridges, and superb stock of
salmon in the lower, and of trout and grayling in the higher, reaches.
It springs from the foot of the ridge on the Berkshire border, and is
joined below Hurstbourne Park by a branch from the north-east. For
the first few miles it is the ideal of a small winding stream, and is
established as a chalk stream of the first class at Whitchurch. It
skirts Harewood Forest, and takes in a tributary below Wherwell. The
principal feeder is the Anton, which is of sufficient magnitude to
be considered an independent river. For quite sixteen miles the Test
runs a sinuous course, as if not certain which point of the compass
to select, but eventually it goes straight south. Stockbridge is the
only considerable town, and that owes its reputation to ample training
downs, and to the periodical races which rank high in that description
of sport. Between this and Romsey there are many bye-waters, and it
requires one accustomed to the country to distinguish the main river.
Occasionally a salmon, taking advantage of a flood, will ascend as
high as Stockbridge, but this does not happen every year. At Romsey,
however, gentlemen anglers find their reward, though anything more
unlike a salmon river could not be found, unless, indeed, it should be
the Stour and the Avon, to which we shall come presently. The Test in
its upper and middle reaches is seldom so deep that the bottom, and the
trout and grayling for which it is justly celebrated, cannot be clearly
seen. It gets less shallow below Houghton Mill, and at Romsey there
is water enough for salmon of major dimensions. But the current is
even and stately, salmon pools as they are understood in Scotland and
Ireland do not exist, and there are forests of weeds to assist the fish
to get rid of the angler's fly. The most noted landmark on the banks
of the stream is Romsey Abbey, long restored to soundness of fabric,
yet preserving all the appearance of perfect Norman architecture. Near
it the first Berthon boats were built and launched on the Test by the
vicar, whose name is borne by this handy collapsible craft. The Test
enters Southampton Water at Redbridge, which is in a measure the port
of lading for the New Forest.
[Illustration: _Photo: W. Pouncy, Dorchester._
THE FROME AT FRAMPTON COURT (_p. 24_).]
There are tiny streams in the recesses of the New Forest little known
to the outer world. The /Beaulieu/ river is worthy of mark on
the maps, and when the tide is full it is a brimming water-way into
the heart of the forest. The acreage of mud at low-water, however,
detracts from its beauty, and the upper portion, from near Lyndhurst to
the tidal limit, is small and overgrown. The ruins of Beaulieu Abbey,
set in the surroundings of an exquisite New Forest village, far from
the shriek of the locomotive whistle, or the smoke and bustle of a
town, are truly a "fair place." Beaulieu is one of the most entrancing
combinations of wood, water, ruins, and village in the county, and the
Abbey is especially interesting from its establishment by King John,
after remorse occasioned by a dream.
The /Lymington/ river, the mainland channel opposite Yarmouth,
in the Isle of Wight, is tidal to the town, a tortuous creek in
low-water, the course, however, duly marked by stakes and beacons. The
great Poet Laureate, Tennyson, used to cross to his Freshwater home by
this route, and in the late 'fifties the writer of these words often
took passage by the Isle of Wight boats for the privilege of gazing
from a reverent distance at the poet, whose cloak, soft broad-brimmed
hat, and short clay pipe filled from a packet of bird's-eye, filled the
youthful adorer with unspeakable admiration.
[Illustration: DORCHESTER FROM THE FROME (_p. 21_).]
The Isle of Wight, garden of England though it has been called, is
poverty-stricken in the matter of running water, and it is not rich
in woods. Tho principal river is the Medina, which, flowing from the
foot of St. Catherine's Down to the Solent at East Cowes, divides the
island into two hundreds. The pretty village of Wootton is situated on
Fishbourne creek, also called Wootton river. There are two Yars--the
Yar which rises at Freshwater, and is tidal almost throughout to
Yarmouth Harbour; and the eastern Yar, at the back of Niton.
* * * * *
The famous salmon of Christchurch, so much in request in the spring,
when the end of the close time brings out the nets in the long open
"run" between the town and the bay, come up from the English Channel on
their annual quest of the spawning grounds of the Avon and the Stour.
These rivers unite almost under the shadow of the splendidly situated
church and the priory ruins. The church was restored by the architect
who performed a similar office for Romsey; and it is under the tower
at the west end of the nave that the singular Shelley memorial is
erected. The Avon has the finest watershed in the South of England,
and its feeders water much of Hampshire and a large portion of Wilts.
Its tributaries are numerous; even one of the two branches of its
headwaters is formed by the junction of minor streams at Pewsey. It
has a winding way from Upavon, becomes a goodly stream at beautiful
Amesbury, where it traverses the pleasure grounds of the Abbey, and
crosses direct south by Salisbury Plain to Old Sarum. The Wiley and
Nadder are the largest tributaries, the former entering the Avon
near the seat of the Earl of Pembroke at Wilton. The valleys of main
stream and tributaries alike are a succession of fine landscapes, made
distinctive by the downs of varying height, rising on either side,
clothed at intervals with grand woods, and protecting sequestered
villages and hamlets nestling at their feet.
The environs of Salisbury are intersected in all directions by the
abundant water of Avon or its feeders, and the clear murmuring runnels
are heard in its streets. The lofty tapering spire of the glorious
cathedral is the landmark of Avon-side for many a mile around, but the
river equally forces itself upon the notice of the stranger. There is
no cathedral in England better set for a landmark than this, and of
none can it be more literally said that distance lends enchantment. It
is on the watermead level, and probably owes its position to the river.
Old Sarum, perched upon its conical hill, had its fortified castle and
many an intrenchment for defence, had its Norman cathedral and the pomp
and power of a proud ecclesiastical settlement; but it was exposed to
the wind and weather, and the Sarumites looked with longing eye at the
fat vale below and its conjunction of clear streams. Wherefore, under
Richard Le Poer, its seventh bishop, there was migration thither; the
present cathedral was commenced, the site, according to one legend,
being determined by the fall of an arrow shot as a token from the Old
Sarum ramparts; and the new town soon gathered around it. At first
the cathedral had no spire; that crowning glory of the structure was
added nearly a hundred years later, and about the time when the work of
demolition at Old Sarum had been concluded. The stone used in the new
cathedral was brought from the Hindon quarries a few miles distant, and
Purbeck supplied the marble pillars. The best view of the cathedral,
and of the straight-streeted and richly-befoliaged city, is from the
north-eastern suburb; and so gracefully is the building proportioned
that it is hard to realise that the point of the spire is 400 feet in
air.
[Illustration: POOLE HARBOUR (_p. 24_).]
The /Stour/ rises at Six Wells, at Stourhead, in Wiltshire,
and joins the Hampshire Avon, as previously stated, at Christchurch,
but is essentially a Dorsetshire river. It touches Somersetshire, and
receives the Cale from Wincanton, and other small tributaries, passing
Gillingham, Sturminster, Blandford, and Wimborne, where it receives the
Allen, which flows through More Critchell. Canford Hall, an Elizabethan
mansion which received many of the Assyrian relics unearthed by Layard;
Gaunt's House and Park; and St. Giles' Park, reminiscent of "Cabal"
Cooper and the other Earls of Shaftesbury, are also features of the
Stour country. The clean little town of Wimborne, where Matthew Prior
was born, is made rich and notable by its ancient Minster, which as it
stands retains but little of the original foundation, though the fine
central tower dates from about 1100, and the western tower from the
middle of the fifteenth century.
The next river in Dorsetshire is the /Frome/, formed, as
seems to be the fashion in Wessex, of two branches, both uniting at
Maiden Newton. Frampton Court, the seat of the Sheridans, is in this
neighbourhood. The county town of Dorchester rises from the bank of the
river, and has magnificent avenues as high-road approaches. The Black
Downs that interpose between the country that is fairly represented
by the Blackmore vale of the hunting men further north, and the sea
at Weymouth, are bare enough; Dorchester is surrounded by chalk
uplands, and it is, no doubt, because there were few forests to clear
that the entire neighbourhood is remarkable for its Roman and British
remains. The trees around the town have fortunately been sedulously
planted and preserved, and the avenues of sycamores and chestnuts on
the site of the old rampart have somewhat of a Continental character.
The well-defined remains of ancient camps are numerous on the slopes
overlooking the Frome, Maiden Castle and the Roman amphitheatre being
wonderfully perfect in their typical character. Yet, old-world as
Dorchester is in its associations, it has few appearances of age,
standing rather as a delightful example of the clean, healthy, quiet,
well-to-do country town of the Victorian era, pleasantly environed, and
boasting several highways that were Roman roads.
Flowing through the sheep country so graphically described by Mr.
Hardy in his novels, the Frome arrives, after an uneventful course, at
Wareham, and is discharged into Poole Harbour, a place of creeks and
islands, sand and mud banks, regularly swelling with the incoming tide
into a noble expanse of water.
/William Senior./
[Illustration: WIMBORNE MINSTER.]
[Illustration: BIDEFORD BRIDGE (_p. 48_).]
RIVERS OF DEVON.
General Characteristics--Sources of the Devon Streams: Exmoor
and Dartmoor. The /Otter/: Ottery Saint Mary and Samuel
Taylor Coleridge. Exmoor Streams:--The /Exe/: Its Source
in The Chains--The Barle--The Batherm--Tiverton and Peter
Blundell--Bickleigh Bridge and the "King of the Gipsies"--The
Culm--Exeter--Countess Weir--Exmouth. The /Lyn/: Oareford--The
Doone Country--Malmsmead--Watersmeet--Lyndale--Lynton and Lynmouth.
Dartmoor Streams:--The /Teign/: Wallabrook--Chagford--Fingle
Bridge--Chudleigh--The Bovey--Newton Abbot--Teignmouth. The
/Dart/: Holne Chase--Buckfast Abbey--Dartington Hall--Totnes--The
Lower Reaches--Dartmouth. The Tavy. The /Taw/: Oxenham and its
Legend--Barnstaple--Lundy. The /Torridge/: The Okement--Great
Torrington--Bideford--Hubbastone. The /Avon/, Erme, and Yealm. The
/Plym/: Dewerstone--The Meavy and Plymouth Leat--Plympton St. Mary
and Plympton Earl--The Three Towns.
Among the charms which make Devonshire, in Mr. Blackmore's words, "the
fairest of English counties," one need not hesitate to give the first
place to its streams. They who know only its coasts, though they know
them well, may walk delicately, for of much that is most characteristic
of its loveliness they are altogether ignorant. But anyone who has
tracked a typical Devon river from its fount high up on the wild and
lonely moorland to the estuary where it mingles its waters with the
inflowing tide, following it as it brawls down the peaty hillsides, and
winds its way through glen and gorge until it gains the rich lowlands
where it rolls placidly towards its latter end, may boast that his
is the knowledge of intimacy. Commercially, the Devonshire streams
are of little account, for Nature has chosen to touch them to finer
issues. Yet, for all their manifold fascinations, they have had but
scant attention from the poets, who, instead of singing their graces
in dignified verse, have left them, as Mr. J. A. Blaikie has said, to
be "noisily advertised in guide-books." At first sight the omission
seems curious enough, for the long roll of Devonshire "worthies" is
only less illustrious for its poets than for its heroes. Perchance
the explanation of what almost looks like a conspiracy of silence is
that the streams, full of allurement as they may be, are not rich in
associations of the poetic sort. Of legend they have their share, but
for the most part it is legend uncouth and grotesque, such as may
not easily be shaped into verse. Their appeal, in truth, is more to
the painter than to the poet. For him they have provided innumerable
"bits" of the most seductive description; and neither against him nor
against the angler--the artist among sportsmen--for whom also bountiful
provision has been made, can neglect of opportunity be charged.
[Illustration: THE RIVERS OF DEVON.]
It is in the royal "forests" of Exmoor and Dartmoor that nearly all the
chief rivers of Devon take their rise. Of these moorland tracts, the
one extending into the extreme north of the county from Somersetshire,
the other forming, so to speak, its backbone, Dartmoor is considerably
the larger; and in High Willhayse and in the better known Yes Tor,
its highest points, it touches an altitude of just over 2,000 feet,
overtopping Dunkery Beacon, the monarch of Exmoor, by some 370 feet.
Between the two moors there is a general resemblance, less, however,
of contour than of tone, for while Exmoor swells into great billowy
tops, the Dartmoor plateau breaks up into rugged "tors"--crags of
granite that have shaken off their scanty raiment and now rise bare
and gaunt above the general level. Both, as many a huntsman knows
to his cost, are beset with treacherous bogs, out of which trickle
streams innumerable, some, like the Wear Water, the chief headstream
of the East Lyn, soon to lose their identity, others to bear to the
end of their course names which the English emigrant has delighted to
reproduce in the distant lands that he has colonised. Not strange is it
that with loneliness such as theirs, Exmoor and Dartmoor alike should
be the haunt of the mischief-loving pixies, who carry off children and
lead benighted wayfarers into quagmires; of the spectral wish-hounds,
whose cry is fearsome as the wailing voice which John Ridd heard "at
grey of night"; and of the rest of the uncanny brood who once had all
the West Country for their domain. Exmoor, too, is almost the last
sanctuary, south of the Tweed, of the wild red-deer; and hither in
due season come true sportsmen from far and near to have their pulses
stirred by such glorious runs as Kingsley has described.
[Illustration: THE WEAR WATER.]
Of the streams that have their springs elsewhere than in the moors,
the Axe, which belongs more to Dorset and Somerset than to Devon, may,
like the Sid, be passed over with bare mention. But the /Otter/
must not be dismissed so brusquely, for though it cannot vie with
its moorland sisters in beauty of aspect, it has other claims to
consideration. Rising in the hills that divide Devon from South
Somerset, it presently passes Honiton, still famous for its lace, and a
few miles further on flows by the knoll which is crowned by the massive
towers of the fine church of Ottery St. Mary, the Clavering St. Mary
of "Pendennis." It was here, in 1772, that Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
most gifted scion of a gifted stock, was born. His father, vicar of the
parish and headmaster of the Free Grammar School, and withal one of
the most amiable and ingenuous of pedants, whose favourite method of
edifying his rustic congregation was to quote from the Old Testament
in the original Hebrew, as "the immediate language of the Holy Ghost,"
died when Samuel Taylor was in his ninth year; and the pensive child,
who yet was not a child, was soon afterwards entered at Christ's
Hospital. A frequent resort of his was a cave beside the Otter, known
as "The Pixies' Parlour," where his initials may still be seen. Nor
is this his only association with the stream. "I forget," he writes,
"whether it was in my fifth or sixth year ... in consequence of some
quarrel between me and my brother, in the first week in October I
ran away from fear of being whipped, and passed the whole night, a
night of rain and storm, on the bleak side of a hill on the Otter, and
was there found at day-break, without the power of using my limbs,
about six yards from the naked bank of the river." The experience may
well have left its mark upon his sensitive nature, but it is clear
that he carried with him from his native place a store of agreeable
recollections of the stream, of whose "marge with willows grey" and
"bedded sand" he afterwards wrote in affectionate strains.
[Illustration: _Photo: Denney & Co., Exeter._
EXETER (_p. 31_).]
* * * * *
Leaving the Otter to pursue its pleasant, but not exciting, course
to the English Channel, we pass at a bound from the sunny south to
one of the weirdest parts of Exmoor, where the most important of the
streams that rise in the northern "forest" have their birth. The chief
of them, and, indeed, the longest of all the Devonshire rivers, the
/Exe/, which has a course five-and-fifty miles long, oozes out
of a dismal swamp known as The Chains, in Somerset county, some two or
three miles north-west of Simonsbath; and within a space of not more
than two miles square are the sources of three other streams--the
Barle, which merges with the Exe near Exbridge; the West Lyn, which
flows northwards to the finest spot on the Devon coast; and the Bray,
a tributary of the Taw. Looking around, one sees in every direction a
waste of undulations rolling away to the horizon like a deeply-furrowed
sea. Far away eastwards rises Dunkery, his mighty top now, as often,
obscured by clouds which the western winds are slowly driving before
them; on the other hand stretches the North Molton Ridge, culminating
in Span Head, which comes within about fifty feet of the stature of
Dunkery himself.
[Illustration: _Photo: H. T. Cousins, Exmouth._
EXMOUTH, FROM THE BEACON (_p. 34_).]
The infant Exe and the Barle are both brown, peaty streams, and their
valleys, separated from each other by one of the Exmoor ridges, and
following the same general south-easterly trend, have much in common,
though that of the Barle is the less regular and more picturesque of
the two. It is when they have each sped in the merriest-hearted fashion
somewhere about a score of miles that they meet, forming a current
which, as it rushes tumultuously beneath the arches that give to
Exbridge its name, must be a full fifty yards wide. Now the Exe becomes
a Devonshire stream, with a predominantly southerly course; but as it
approaches Oakford Bridge it bends to the west, then curving round to
the east to meet the Batherm, fresh from its contact with Bampton, an
old market town celebrated all over the West Country for its fairs and
markets, whereat are sold the shaggy little Exmoor ponies and the bold
and nimble Porlock sheep. The main stream still shows no disposition
to play the laggard, but by this time it has left the moorland well
behind, and, as we follow it among luxuriantly timbered hills, it
presently brings us to Tiverton, agreeably placed on its sloping left
bank. Here it takes toll of the Loman, which has been in no haste to
complete its course of ten miles, or thereabouts, from the Somerset
border.
Of Twy-ford-town--for so the place was called in former days, in
allusion to its fords across the Exe and the Loman at the points where
now the streams are spanned by bridges--the most salient feature from
the banks of the larger water is the Perpendicular tower of the Church
of St. Peter. The body of the church was virtually reconstructed in
the 'sixties, with the fortunate exception of its most interesting
feature, the Greenaway Chapel, founded nearly four hundred years ago
by the merchant whose name it shares with the quaint almshouses in
Gold Street. What remains of the ancient castle, which stood hard by
the church, has been converted into a modern dwelling and a farmhouse.
The old Grammar School, too, on Loman Green, is now divided up into
private houses, a more commodious structure, in the Tudor style,
having been reared a mile or so out of the town to take its place.
Who will begrudge good old Peter Blundell the immortality which this
famous school has conferred upon his honest-sounding name? A native of
Tiverton, he began life as an errand-boy. With his carefully-hoarded
earnings, as Prince tells the story in his "Worthies," he bought a
piece of kersey, and got a friendly carrier to take it to London and
there sell it to advantage. So he gradually extended his operations,
until he was able to go to town himself, with as much stock-in-trade
as a horse could carry. In London he continued to thrive, and in due
course was able to fulfil the ambition of his life by establishing
himself in the town of his birth as a manufacturer of kerseys; and here
he remained until his death, at the ripe age of eighty.
"Though I am not myself a scholar," the good old man would say with
proud humility, "I will be the means of making more scholars than any
scholar in England." And the school founded under his will in 1604 has
not failed to justify his boast. The roll of "Blundell's boys" includes
a brace of bishops and an archbishop, the present occupant of the
throne of Canterbury, who, before his translation to London, ruled with
abundant vigour the diocese to which Tiverton belongs. Yet, without
disrespect to spiritual dignities, one may be pardoned for remembering
with deeper interest that it was here that "girt Jan Ridd" had his
meagre schooling, and fought his great fight with Robin Snell. John,
by the way, who left Blundell's at the age of twelve, must have been
considerably less stupid than he appeared to his contemporaries, for
when long afterwards he came to describe the combat he was able to say
that he replied to his antagonist "with all the weight and cadence of
penthemimeral cæsura"; and although he modestly protests that he could
"never make head or tail" of the expression, it is clear from his
epithets that he knew perfectly well what he was writing about.
But we have paused at the town of the fords too long, and must gird
up our loins to follow the Exe southwards to the county town, through
scenery which, if on the whole less picturesque than that above
Tiverton, is pleasing as one of the most fertile of Devonshire vales
cannot but be. Four miles lower down we find ourselves at Bickleigh
Bridge, one of the prettiest spots in this part of the Exe valley.
Close by is Bickleigh Court, long a seat of the Devonshire Carews,
and still belonging to members of the family, though sunk to the uses
of a farmhouse. Bickleigh is of some note as the birthplace, towards
the end of the seventeenth century, of Bampfylde Moore Carew, "King
of the Beggars." Son of the rector of the parish, he was sent to
Blundell's School, whence he ran away to avoid punishment for some
trifling escapade, and threw in his lot with a tribe of gipsies.
Next he emigrated to Newfoundland, but after a time came back, and
soon signalised himself by eloping from Newcastle-on-Tyne with an
apothecary's daughter, whom, however, he was afterwards good enough to
marry. Having rejoined the gipsies, he became their king, and ruled
over them until he was transported to Maryland as an incorrigible
vagrant. Before long he contrived to escape, and lived for a while with
a band of Red Indians. When he returned to civilisation it was in the
guise of a Quaker, a part which he successfully played until he grew
weary of it, and once more came back to his native land and his nomadic
life. Some say that he was afterwards prevailed upon to adopt more
settled habits, but of his closing years little is known.
The hill to the right, a little below Bickleigh Bridge, is known as
Cadbury Castle, a Roman encampment, and from its summit may be seen,
away to the south-east, athwart the river, Dolbury Hill, which,
according to the legend, shares with Cadbury a treasure of gold,
guarded by a fiery dragon, who spends his nights flying from one
hoard to the other. Now the Exe, flowing with a dignity befitting
its maturity, receives the tribute of the Culm, which comes from
the Blackdown Hills, on the Somerset border, passing Culmstock and
Cullompton, and Killerton Park, a finely placed and magnificently
wooded demesne of one of the most honourable of Devonshire houses,
the Aclands. Over against the point of junction is Pynes, the seat of
another family of high repute, the Northcotes, now Earls of Iddesleigh,
looking down on the one side upon the valley of the Exe, and on the
other upon that of the Creedy, a western affluent after which the town
of Crediton is named.
As it approaches the ever-faithful city, lying like Tiverton on the
left bank, the Exe is bordered by a green strath, with swelling hills
on either hand. No sooner is the suburb of St. David passed than there
comes into view the eminence which formed the limits of the ancient
Exeter, its summit crowned with trees that half conceal the meagre
remains of the Norman castle, while from its southern slope rise the
mighty towers of the Cathedral. Pointing out that, although surrounded
by hills higher than itself, Exeter is seated on a height far above
river or railway, Freeman remarks that we have here "what we find so
commonly in Gaul, so rarely in Britain, the Celtic hill-fort, which
has grown into the Roman city, which has lived on through the Teutonic
conquest, and which still, after all changes, keeps to its place as the
undoubted head of its own district. In Wessex such a history is unique.
In all Southern England London is the only parallel, and that but an
imperfect one." And he goes on to say that the name teaches the same
lesson of continuity that is taught by the site. It has been changed in
form but not in meaning. Caerwise, "the fortress on the water," as it
was in the beginning of things, "has been Latinised into Isca, it has
been Teutonised into Exanceaster, and cut short into modern Exeter; but
the city by the Exe has through all conquests, through all changes of
language, proclaimed itself by its name as the city on the Exe."
[Illustration: _Photo: E. D. Percival, Ilfracombe._
WATERSMEET (_p. 35_).]
[Illustration: _Photo: E. D. Percival, Ilfracombe._
LYNMOUTH AND LYNTON (_p. 36_).]
The Castle of Rougemont is represented by not much more than an
ivy-clad gateway tower of Norman date, and portions of the walls, which
on one side have been levelled, and the timbered slopes converted into
a pretty little recreation ground, known as Northernhay, where, among
the statues of men whom Devonshire delights to honour, is one of the
first Earl of Iddesleigh, gentlest of protagonists. Of the cathedral
little can be said in this place except that it admirably exemplifies
the development of the Decorated style, which here reaches its
culmination in the venerable west front, its lower stage enriched with
figures of kings and apostles and saints. The massive transeptal towers
that distinguish Exeter from all other English cathedrals, and, indeed,
from all other English churches, with the single exception of that of
Ottery St. Mary, built in imitation of this, are much earlier than the
rest of the fabric, for they were reared early in the twelfth century
by Bishop Warelwast, nephew of the Conqueror, and were left standing
when, towards the end of the thirteenth century, the reconstruction of
the rest of the fabric was begun. Disproportionately large they may be,
in relation both to their own height and to the body of the church;
but, if they cannot be said to contribute to the harmony of the design,
it must be allowed that in themselves they are exceedingly impressive.
The transformation of the cathedral, begun by Bishop Bronescombe, was
continued by his successor, Peter Quivil, whose plans appear to have
been pretty faithfully followed by those who came after him. Not until
the year 1369 was the nave finished, under Grandisson, the bishop who
re-built the church of Ottery St. Mary in its present form; and even
then it was left to Bishop Brantyngham to add the rich west front. What
most strikes one about the interior, which was restored with no lack
of vigour by Sir Gilbert Scott, is the prolonged stretch of graceful
vaulting, extending through all the fourteen bays of nave and choir,
with, of course, no central tower to break the line. There is much
beautiful carving, both ancient and modern, in the church, but the
bishop's throne, attributed to Bishop Stapledon (1307-26), is perhaps
of rather diffuse design, although the craftsmanship merits all the
admiration that has been lavished upon it.
Around the Close, and in a few of the older streets, some interesting
specimens of domestic architecture are to be seen; but, the cathedral
and its adjuncts apart, Exeter is less rich than might be expected in
memorials of the distant past. Of its public buildings, the only one
which may not be ignored is the Guildhall, a stone structure dating
from the end of the sixteenth century, with a balustraded façade
resting on substantial piers, and projecting over the pavement. The
ancient bridge over the Exe, connecting the city with St. Thomas, its
western suburb, was destroyed in 1770, and replaced by the present one.
Hundreds of years have come and gone since the cliffs of Exeter were
lapped by salt water. Towards the end of the thirteenth century
Isabella de Redvers, Countess of Devon, was pleased to cut off the city
from the sea by forming the weir which has given name to the village of
Countess Weir, and it was not till the reign of Henry VIII. that, by
means of a canal to Topsham, communication was re-established. Early
in the present century this waterway was widened, and now Exeter is
accessible to vessels of about 400 tons. It is at Topsham, four miles
below the city, that the river, augmented by the waters of the Clyst,
expands into an estuary. From this point to the embouchure its course
lies through delightful scenery. On the right bank are the woods of
Powderham Castle, the ancestral seat of the Earls of Devon, stretching
from the water's brink to the summit of the high ground behind; away to
the west, Haldon's long ridge rises as a sky-line, dividing the valley
of the Exe from that of the Teign; and finally comes Starcross. On the
left bank, about midway between Topsham and Exmouth, is Lympstone, a
pretty, straggling fishing village. To Exmouth, lying over against
Starcross, belongs the distinction of being the oldest of the numerous
tribe of Devonshire watering-places. A port of some consequence in very
early days, it presently fell into an obscurity from which it was only
rescued in the last century through the agency of one of the judges
of assize, who, sojourning here for the good of his health while on
circuit, was so advantaged by its genial breezes that he spread abroad
its praises, and so gave it another start in life. Its attractions may
be less insistent than those of other places that were mere fishing
villages long after it had become a popular resort, but it has a
pleasant beach and a very respectable promenade, and with still more
reason is it proud of the views to be had from The Beacon.
* * * * *
The /Lyn/, sometimes called the East Lyn, to distinguish it from
the West Lyn, is one of the shortest as it is one of the most wilful
of the Devonshire streams, its length not exceeding a dozen miles,
while in a direct line its outlet is only half that distance from its
source. Rising on Exmoor, a little to the north of Black Barrow Down,
its upper valley is bleak and bare, and in this part of its career
there is little to differentiate it from other moorland waters that
hurriedly leave the dreary solitudes in which they have their birth.
Above Oareford it dashes and splashes along over boulders and rocky
ledges, the hills that rise from either bank being bare of aught but
ling and brake and heather, save that the lower slopes bear here and
there a group of wind-swept scrub-oaks; it is only lower down that the
ravine assumes the combination of wildness and luxuriance in which Lyn
is excelled by none of its sister streams. How can we pass Oareford
without recalling that we are in the country of John Ridd and the
Doones? It was in the parish of Oare that the giant yeoman was born and
bred; it was in the little Perpendicular church of St. Mary that he
married the lovely but elusive Lorna Doone; it was from its altar that
he sallied forth to pursue the man whom he believed to have slain his
bride, his only weapon the limb of a gnarled oak which he tore from its
socket as he passed beneath it. Many there be who come into these parts
to spy out the land, and to such it is a pleasant surprise to find that
there are still Ridds of the Doones engaged upon the soil at Oare.
Less palatable is the discovery that Mr. Blackmore has thought fit to
mix a good deal of imagination with his word-pictures. The Badgworthy
"slide," in particular, which the hero was wont to climb in order to
get speech of the captive maiden, has been the occasion of grievous
disappointment. It is at Malmsmead that the Badgworthy Water--the
dividing line between Devon and Somerset--falls into the Lyn, and
"makes a real river of it"; the "slide," a mile or so up the "Badgery"
valley, as they call it hereabouts, is simply a succession of minute
cascades formed by shelving rocks over which a little tributary stream
glides down out of the Doone Valley.
The novelist has not scrupled to take ample liberties with such of his
characters as are not purely imaginary, as well as with his scenes;
but, unless tradition is a very lying jade, the Doone Valley really
sheltered a gang of robbers, said to have been disbanded soldiers who
had fought in the Great Rebellion. One may still see traces of what
are believed to have been their dwellings, though one writer profanely
identifies them with pig-sties; and it is credibly stated that the
destruction of the miscreants by the country-folk was provoked by the
cruel murder of a child, as described in the romance. Nor may one doubt
that the mighty John was an actual personage, though it were vain to
seek for his history in biographical dictionaries. As to Lorna, what
if Mr. Blackmore has invented her? Is that to be counted to him for
unrighteousness?
[Illustration: _Photo: Chapman & Son, Dawlish._
"CLAM" BRIDGE OVER THE WALLABROOK.]
From Malmsmead, with its primitive bridge of two arches, to Watersmeet,
where the Brendon Water plunges down a charming glen on the left to
lose itself in the larger stream, the Lyn ravine is a very kaleidoscope
of beauty and grandeur. Watersmeet, "an exquisite combination of wood
and stream, the one almost hiding the water, the other leaping down
over rocky ledges in a series of tiny cascades," must tax the painter's
pencil, and is certainly no theme for a prosaic pen; and of Lyndale the
same despairing confession must be made. Every turn in this lovely glen
reveals some new beauty, until, with Lynton lying in the cup of a hill
on the left, one reaches Lynmouth, where, just before the river plunges
into the sea, it receives the waters of the West Lyn as they merrily
tumble out of Glen Lyn. Southey, whose description of these and other
features of the place has been quoted to the point of weariness, was
one of the first to "discover" Lynmouth; and in these days it has no
reason to complain that its unrivalled attractions are not appreciated.
For some years it has had its little mountain railway, to spare those
whose chief need is exercise the fatigue of walking up the hill to
Lynton; and now the lines have been laid which bring it into touch
with the South Western and Great Western systems at Barnstaple. Let
us hope that it will not presently have to complain of defacement at
the hands of the lodging-house builder, and of desperation inflicted
upon it by hordes of day-trippers, with their beer-bottles and greasy
sandwich-papers!
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._
FINGLE BRIDGE (_p. 38_).]
Dartmoor is a much more prolific "mother of rivers" than Exmoor. In
one of the loneliest and dreariest regions of the southern "forest,"
no great way from its northern extremity, is the quagmire known as
Cranmere Pool, and from this and the sloughs that surround it ooze all
the more important of the Devonshire streams except the Exe and the
Torridge. Out of Cranmere Pool itself--a prison, according to local
legend, of lost spirits, whose anguished cries are often borne on the
wings of the wind--the West Okement drains, to flow northwards to
the Torridge; and at distances varying from half a mile to a couple
of miles, the Teign, the Dart, the Tavy, and the Taw have their
birth. The Okement will be noticed presently, when we have to do with
the Torridge; of the other rivers, the /Teign/ rises in two
headstreams, the North and the South Teign, near Sittaford Tor. As is
the way of these moorland waters, they are soon reinforced by tributary
rills, among them the Wallabrook, which flows by Scorhill Down to join
the North Teign. Scorhill Down has in its stone circle one of the
most remarkable of those mysterious relics of an immemorial past in
which Dartmoor abounds. At one time all such remains were regarded,
like those at Stonehenge, as Druidical monuments, but this theory of
their origin is no longer in fashion, and antiquaries now prefer to
say nothing more specific than that they usually have a sepulchral
significance, and betoken that regions now abandoned to the curlew
and the buzzard once had a considerable population. Near Scorhill the
Wallabrook is bestridden by a "clam" bridge, which, interpreted, means
a bridge of a single slab of unhewn stone resting on the ground, as
distinguished from a "clapper" bridge, consisting of one or more such
slabs pillared on others, with no aid from mortar.
The North and the South Teign merge at Leigh Bridge, close by Holy
Street and its picturesque mill, which has furnished a theme for the
pencil of many an artist besides Creswick. Then the Teign flows under
the old bridge at Chagford, a village overhung on one side by two rocky
hills. The fine air of the place and its convenient situation for the
exploration of Dartmoor bring to it many visitors in the summer; but it
is certainly no place for a winter sojourn. The story goes--and racy
of the soil it is--that if a Chagford man is asked in summer where he
lives, he replies, as saucily as you please, "Chaggyford, and what d'ye
think, then?" But if the question is put to him in winter, he sadly
answers, "Chaggyford, good Lord!"
At Chagford the valley broadens out, but soon it again contracts,
and, sensibly quickening its speed, Teign plunges headlong into what
is perhaps the very finest of all the gorges in Devonshire. Near the
entrance is a "logan" stone, a huge boulder of granite about a dozen
feet long, so finely poised that it may with a very moderate exercise
of force be made to rock, though it is less accommodating than when
Polwhele, a century ago, succeeded in moving it with one hand. The
finest view of the gorge is that to be got from Fingle Bridge, a couple
of miles lower down, where, looking back, one sees how the stream
has wound its way amid the interfolded hills, of which the steep
slopes are clad with coppice of tender green. Here, on the left, is
Prestonbury, and on the right the loftier Cranbrook, each crowned with
its prehistoric "castle." Of the narrow, ivy-mantled bridge, simple
and massive, an illustration is given (p. 57) showing the wedge-shaped
piers which serve to break the fury of the torrent in time of spate.
But we must hurry on past Clifford Mill and its bridge to Dunsford
Bridge, another spot of singular beauty. On the right Heltor, on the
left Blackstone, exalt their towering heads, both crowned with large
"rock basins," in which the rude fancy of our forefathers saw missiles
that King Arthur and the Great Adversary hurled at each other athwart
the intervening valley. So, passing more and more within the margin
of cultivation, we come to Chudleigh, with its Rock, yielding a blue
limestone, known to the builder as Chudleigh marble, and its lovely,
richly-wooded glen, down which a little tributary dances gaily into
the Teign. Not a great way beyond, our river is swollen by the waters
of a more important affluent, the Bovey, which, from its source on
Dartmoor, has followed a course not dissimilar from that of the Teign,
lilting along through a rich and often spacious valley, past North
Bovey, Manaton, Lustleigh, with its "Cleave," and Bovey Tracy. At
Newton Abbot, pleasantly placed a little to the south of the Teign,
in a vale watered by the Lemon, we may have fine views of the valleys
of the Teign and the Bovey by ascending the hills up which this neat
little town has straggled. Its most memorable association is with the
glorious Revolution, and there still stands in front of a Perpendicular
tower, which is all that is left of the old Chapel of St. Leonard, the
block of granite from which the Prince of Orange's proclamation was
read.
[Illustration: _Photo: G. Denney & Co., Teignmouth._
TEIGNMOUTH (_p. 40_).]
Now swerving sharply to the east, the Teign develops into an estuary,
and with a background of hills on either hand, those on the left
rising into the broad downs of Haldon, hastens to discharge itself into
the sea, flowing beneath what claims to be the longest wooden bridge
in England, which connects Teignmouth on the north with Shaldon on the
south. Teignmouth is an ancient fishing-village which has grown into a
watering-place. If the story that it suffered at the hands of Danish
pirates in the eighth century is an error due to confusion between
Teignmouth and Tynemouth, it was indubitably ravaged by the French at
the end of the seventeenth century. In these days its chief feature is
the Den, a sandbank due to the shifting bar that obstructs the mouth of
the river, but now converted into an esplanade, whence, looking inland,
one sees the twin peaks of Heytor and other outlying hills of Dartmoor,
while to the south, along the shore-line, appears the bold promontory
known as The Ness, and on the north stand out the quaint pinnacles of
red rock which the patient waves have carved into shapes that have won
for them the designation of the "Parson and the Clerk."
[Illustration: NEW BRIDGE.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: BUCKFASTLEIGH.]
The /Dart/ may be said to attain to self-consciousness at
Dartmeet, where in a deep and lovely valley the rapid East and West
Dart mingle their foaming waters. The two streams rise at no great
distance from each other, in the neighbourhood, as we have seen, of
Cranmere Pool; and they are never far apart, but the western water
follows a somewhat less consistently south-east course, past Wistman's
Wood--a grim assemblage of stunted, storm-beaten oaks, springing up
amidst blocks of granite--and Crockern Tor and Two Bridges; while the
eastern stream, from its source at Dart Head, speeds by Post Bridge
and Bellaford, crossed at both places by "clam" bridges. Hurrying
impetuously along over a shallow rocky bed, with a monotonous clatter
which is locally known as its "cry," Dart washes the base of Benjay
Tor, and rushing beneath New Bridge--a not unpicturesque structure,
despite its unpromising name--enters a richly timbered glade.
Presently, as its valley deepens, it makes a wide circuit to wander
past the glorious demesne of Holne Chase. Beyond the woods which
stretch away for miles to the north-east, Buckland Beacon rears his
giant form; on the other side of the stream is the little village of
Holne, birthplace of Charles Kingsley, whose father was rector here.
A mile or so above Buckfastleigh, on the right bank, are the ruins
of Buckfast Abbey, consisting of little more than an ivy-clad tower
and a spacious barn. Originating in the tenth century, this house was
re-founded in the reign of Henry II., and grew to be the richest
Cistercian abbey in all Devon. From the Dissolution till the beginning
of the present century the site remained desolate. Then a mansion in
the Gothic style was built upon it, and this is now occupied by a
community of Benedictine monks from Burgundy, who have in part re-built
the monastery on the old foundations.
[Illustration: STAVERTON.]
Beyond smoky Buckfastleigh and its spire, the Dart flows among lush
meadows and around wooded hills, past Dean Prior, with its memories of
Herrick, and Staverton, where it is crossed by a strongly buttressed
bridge. Now it again makes a bend eastwards to enclose the fine grounds
of Dartington Hall. The house, partly in ruins, is commandingly placed
high above the densely wooded right bank; and the oldest part of the
structure, the Great Hall, dates from the reign of Richard II., whose
badge, a white hart chained, appears on one of the doorways. Soon
Totnes comes into view, climbing the steep right bank and spreading
itself over the summit, its most salient features the ruined ivy-draped
shell of the Norman castle on the crest of the hill, and the ruddy
pinnacled tower of the church.
Totnes has not scrupled to claim to be the oldest town in England, and,
quite half way up the acclivity, far above the highest water-mark of
the Dart, they show the stone on which Brute set foot at the end of
his voyage from ruined Troy. Few places can better afford to dispense
with fabulous pretensions, for the evidences of its antiquity declare
themselves on every hand. Its name is allowed to be Anglo-Saxon, and
it is thought to be not improbable that its castle mound was first a
British stronghold. A considerable part of the ancient wall is left
standing, and the East Gate still divides High Street from Fore Street.
Very quaint and charming are many of the old houses in the High Street,
with their gables and piazzas; and the venerable Guildhall preserves
its oaken stalls for the members of the Corporation, with a canopied
centre for the Mayor. Below the town is the graceful three-arched
bridge which connects it with Bridgetown Pomeroy, on the left bank; and
from this one may descend by steps to the tiny island in mid-stream,
some years ago laid out as a public garden.
[Illustration: THE ISLAND, TOTNES.]
[Illustration: TOTNES.]
It is the ten miles or so of river between Totnes and Dartmouth
that have earned for the Dart the title of "the English Rhine." The
absurdity of likening the inconsiderable Dart, with its placid current
and its backing of gently-sloping hills, to the broad and rushing
Rhine, flanked by lofty, castle-crowned steeps, has before been
exposed, but the nickname is still current, and while it remains so the
protest must continue. Yet how manifold and bewitching are the graces
of the stream in these lower reaches, where it curves and doubles until
from some points of view it appears to be resolved into a series of
lakes, embosomed among hills of softest contour, their braes either
smooth and verdant as a lawn or rich with foliage! Not long after
leaving Totnes one sees, on the right, Sharpham House, surrounded
by lawns and parterres and by magnificent woods, which border the
stream for at least a mile. Sandridge House, on the opposite bank, is
notable as the birthplace of John Davis, the Elizabethan navigator,
who discovered the Straits which are known among men by his name; and
presently we shall pass the well wooded grounds of Greenway, where
was born Sir Humphrey Gilbert, another of the heroes of great Eliza's
"spacious days," who established the Newfoundland fisheries. Between
these two points comes Dittisham, with its grey church tower, its
famous plum orchards, and its bell, which is rung when one wants to be
ferried over to Greenway Quay. Soon the Dart begins to widen out, and,
threading our way among yachts and skiffs, we come within sight of the
_Britannia_ training-ship, and find ourselves betwixt Dartmouth on the
right, and Kingswear on the left.
[Illustration: DITTISHAM.]
Dartmouth, rising from the bank in terraces, wears an aspect hardly
less ancient than that of Totnes. It was incorporated in the fourteenth
century, but for hundreds of years before that was of note as a
harbour. William the Conqueror is said to have sailed herefrom on
his expedition for the relief of Mans; a century later the English
fleet, or a part of it, gathered here for the third Crusade; and did
not Chaucer think that probably his shipman "was of Dertemuthe"? The
castle, close to the water's edge, at the mouth of the harbour, is
something more than the picturesque remnant of an ancient fortress, for
the wall and foss which surround it enclose also a casemated battery of
heavy guns. On the crest of the hill behind are the ruins of Gallant's
Bower Fort. Nearly opposite is Kingswear Castle, which claims an even
more remote origin; and crowning the hill at whose base it lies are
some remains of Fort Ridley, which, like Gallant's Bower, was wrested
from the Parliamentarians by Prince Maurice, both strongholds, however,
being afterwards stormed by Fairfax. The harbour, though a fine, broad
sheet of water, is almost landlocked, and the entrance to it is through
a strait channel known as "The Jawbones," which in more primitive days
than these was protected by a strong chain stretching from one bank to
the other.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MOUTH OF THE DART.]
Of the two remaining streams that rise in the morasses around Cranmere
Pool, the /Tavy/ runs a course which, though not long, is
remarkable for the grandeur and the richness of its scenery. Did space
permit, one would be glad to follow it from its peaty spring under
Great Kneeset Tor, through the grand defile known as Tavy Cleave, on
between Peter Tavy and Mary Tavy to Tavistock, with its statue of
Drake, who was born hard by, and its associations with the author of
the "Pastorals"; thence past Buckland Abbey, rich in memories of Sir
Francis and of the Cistercian monks from whom the neighbouring village
of Buckland Monachorum gets its distinctive appellation, and so to
Tavy's confluence with the Tamar. Pleasant also would it be to trace
its principal tributary, the Walkham, down its romantic valley, nor
less so to track the Lid from its source, a few miles above Lidford,
through its magnificent gorge, and onwards to its union with Tamar.
But the sands are fast running out, and we must pass on to sketch very
rapidly the career of the Taw as it flows first north-eastwards, then
north-westwards, to meet the Torridge in Barnstaple Bay.
In the first part of its course the /Taw/, which the Exe exceeds
in length by only five miles, is as frisky and headstrong as the rest
of the moorland streams, but as soon as it has got well within the line
of civilisation it sobers down, and thereafter demeans itself sedately
enough. The first place of interest which it passes is South Tawton,
where is Oxenham, now a farmhouse, but formerly the seat of a family
of this name who lived here from the time of Henry III. until early in
the present century. Of these Oxenhams it is an ancient tradition that
a white-breasted bird is seen when the time has come for one of them to
be gathered to his fathers. The last appearance of the portent was in
1873, when Mr. G. N. Oxenham, then the head of the house, lay dying at
17, Earl's Terrace, Kensington. His daughter and a friend, the latter
of whom knew nothing of the legend, were sitting in the room underneath
the chamber of death when, to quote from Murray's "Handbook," their
attention "was suddenly roused by a shouting outside the house, and
on looking out they saw a large white bird perched on a thorn tree
outside the window, where it remained for several minutes, although
some workmen on the opposite side of the road were throwing their hats
at it in the vain effort to drive it away." An interesting occurrence,
certainly; but if we are to see in it more than a coincidence, what is
to be said of the puffin, the only one of its tribe ever recorded to
have visited London, which, having found its way so far inland, flew
into the rooms of the President of the British Ornithologists' Union?
Must we believe that the adventurous bird was moved to call there in
order that its feat might be duly recorded in the Proceedings of the
Institution?
It is below Nymet Rowland that Taw changes its course. Thenceforward it
placidly flows amid rich meadows agreeably diversified with woodland.
At Eggesford it is overlooked by the Earl of Portsmouth's seat,
peeping out from the trees which climb the left bank. At Chulmleigh
it gathers up the Little Dart; and beyond South Molton Road Station
the Mole, which gives name to North Molton and South Molton, brings in
its tribute from the border of Exmoor. Having laved the foot of Coddon
Hill, from whose rounded top one may have far views of the valley in
both directions, the Taw flows by the cosy little village of Bishop's
Tawton on the right; along the other bank stretches Tawstock Park, the
demesne of the Bourchier-Wreys, set about with fine old oaks. Then
with a sudden bend it comes within sight of Barnstaple Bridge, and
beyond the South Walk, on the right bank, bordering a pretty little
park, appear the graceful tower of Holy Trinity Church--an unusually
effective piece of modern Perpendicular work--and the ugly warped spire
of the mother church.
The "metropolis of North Devon," as this comely and lusty little town
proudly styles itself, is a very ancient place, which had a castle and
a priory at least as far back as the time of the Conqueror; but these
have long since vanished, and save for a row of cloistered almshouses
dating from 1627, and its bridge of sixteen arches, built in the
thirteenth century, it is indebted for its savour of antiquity mainly
to the venerable usages that have survived the changes and chances of
the centuries. Like Bideford, long its rival among North Devon towns,
it fitted out ships for the fleet which gave so good an account of
the Spanish Armada. During the Civil War it declared for the popular
cause, but was captured by the king's forces in 1643; and although it
soon succeeded in flinging off the royal yoke, it was re-captured, and
remained in the king's hands until nearly the close of the war.
Just below the hideous bridge which carries the South Western line
across the Taw is the Quay, on the right bank, and beyond it, lined
by an avenue of ancient elms, is the North Walk, now unhappily cut up
for the purposes of the new railway from Lynton. The stream, by this
time of considerable breadth, widens out yet more during the five or
six remaining miles of its course; but its channel is tortuous and
shifting, and only by small vessels is it navigable. A few more bends,
and Instow and Appledore are reached, and Torridge is sighted as it
comes up from the south to blend its waters with those of the sister
stream. Then far away over the curling foam of Barnstaple Bar we get a
full view of Lundy, its cliffs at this distance looking suave enough,
though in truth they are not less jagged than when the Spanish galleon
fleeing from Amyas Leigh's _Vengeance_ was impaled upon their granite
spines; while on the left Hartland Point boldly plants its foot in the
Atlantic, and on the right Baggy Point marks the northern limit of
Barnstaple Bay.
[Illustration: _Photo: Vickery Bros., Barnstaple._
BARNSTAPLE, FROM THE SOUTH WALK (_p. 47_).]
It is at no great distance from Hartland Point that the
/Torridge/, most circuitous of Devonshire rivers, rises. First
flowing in a south-easterly direction past Newton St. Petrock and
Shebbear and Sheepwash, it presently makes a bend and follows an almost
precisely opposite course north-westwards. In about the middle of the
loop which it forms in preparing to stultify itself, it is augmented
by the Okement, which has come almost due north from Cranmere Pool,
brawling down a valley which, near Okehampton and elsewhere, is finely
wooded. Past Yew Bridge and Dolton and Beaford, Torridge continues its
sinuous course; and as it approaches Great Torrington, set on a hill
some 300 feet above its right bank, its valley presents the combination
of smooth haugh and precipitous rock shown in our view (page 49).
Torrington has a history, and little besides. Even the church, enclosed
in a notably pretty God's acre, graced with avenues of beeches and
chestnuts, has no special interest save that it contains the carved oak
pulpit in which the great John Howe preached before his ejectment in
1662; for it had to be rebuilt after the Civil War, having been blown
up by the accidental explosion of a large quantity of gunpowder while
it was being used as a magazine and prison. Two hundred Royalists were
confined in the building at the time, and these, with their guards, all
perished. Winding round Torrington Common, gay in due season with gorse
and bracken, our river glides on past Wear Gifford--an idyllically
beautiful spot incongruously associated with a melancholy tragedy--to
the "little white town" described by Charles Kingsley in the opening
paragraph of his one great story. White it hardly is in these days,
but this is the only qualification that strict accuracy requires. The
famous bridge of four-and-twenty arches dates from about the same
period as that at Barnstaple, which it considerably exceeds in length.
The town itself lays claim to a much higher antiquity, for it traces
its origin to a cousin of the Conqueror, founder of the illustrious
line which came to full flower in the Richard Grenville who, as he lay
a-dying, after having matched the _Revenge_ against the whole Spanish
fleet of three-and-fifty sail, was able proudly to say, in a spirit not
unlike that of a later naval hero, that he was leaving behind him "an
everlasting fame of a valiant and true soldier, that hath _done his
duty_ as he was bound to do." He it was who revived the fortunes of
Bideford after a period of decline, and so increased its prosperity
by attracting to it trade from the settlements in the New World that
it was able to send seven ships to join the fleet that gathered in
Plymouth Harbour to fight the Spaniard. With memories such as these,
the town may surely abate its eagerness to have accepted as Armada
trophies the old guns which have been unearthed from its dustheap.
Pleasant the course of the stream continues to be, past "the charmed
rock of Hubbastone," where sleeps an old Norse pirate, with his crown
of gold, till, with Instow on the right and Appledore on the left,
Torridge meets her sister Taw, and the two with one accord turn
westward and roll towards "the everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic
swell."
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE TORRIDGE NEAR TORRINGTON (_p. 47_).]
[Illustration: THE PLYM FROM CADAFORD BRIDGE.]
[Illustration: IN BICKLEIGH VALE.]
Of the streams that have their fountains on Dartmoor, the longer ones
rise, as we have seen, in the northern division of the "forest"; the
shorter ones, the Avon, the Erme, the Yealm, and the Plym, come to
being in the southern division, at no great distance from each other,
and amid surroundings not unlike those of Cranmere Pool; and all of
them flow into the Channel on the western side of Bolt Head. Neither
of them is without charms of its own; but the /Plym/ is easily
chief among them, and with a rapid sketch of its course from Plym Head,
some three miles south of Princetown, to the Sound, the present chapter
must end. Flowing by rugged, flat-topped Sheepstor on the right, and
Trowlesworthy Tor on the left, Plym presently reaches Cadaford Bridge,
where it plunges into a rocky ravine, the precipitous hillside on the
left crowned by the church of Shaugh Prior, while from the hill on the
right, smothered with oak coppice, projects a huge crag of ivy-clad
granite, the Dewerstone, celebrated for its views. At Shaugh Bridge
the stream is swollen by the Meavy, which, not far from its source
on the moorland, is tapped to supply Plymouth Leat--a work for which
the Plymouth folk are indebted to Sir Francis Drake. Afterwards the
Meavy runs by the grey granite church of Sheepstor, where, under the
shadow of a noble beech, is the massive tomb of Sir James Brooke, of
Sarawak fame. Richly-wooded Bickleigh Vale is one of the beauty spots
of the Plym; another lovely scene is that at Plym Bridge, where, close
to the mossy bridge, is the ruined arch of a tiny chantry, built
by the monks of Plympton Priory that travellers might here pray to
Heaven for protection before adventuring into the wilds beyond. Of the
Priory, founded in the twelfth century to replace a Saxon college of
secular canons, nothing remains but the refectory and a kitchen and a
moss-grown orchard, which may be seen close to the lichened church of
Plympton St. Mary, if we care to wander a little eastwards from the
river. Not far off is the other Plympton, with its scanty fragments of
a castle of the de Redvers, Earls of Devon. More memorable is Plympton
Earl from its association with Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was born
here, and sat at his father's feet in the quaint cloistered Grammar
School, where, too, three other painters of note were educated--Sir
Joshua's pupil and biographer, Northcote, the luckless Haydon, and the
fortune-favoured Eastlake. Reynolds was not without honour in his own
country, at any rate during his life. The Corporation of Plympton once
chose him mayor, and he declared to George III. that the election was
an honour which gave him more pleasure than any other which had ever
come to him--"except," he added as an afterthought, "that conferred
on me by your Majesty." A portrait of himself, which he painted for
his native town, was long treasured in the ancient Guildhall, but the
virtue of the Corporation was not permanently proof against temptation,
and at last the picture was sold, for £150. This happened a good many
years ago.
Below Plym Bridge the river begins to expand into the estuary, known
in the upper part as the Laira and in the lower as the Catwater, the
division between the two sections being marked by the Laira Bridge,
five hundred feet long. Of "Laira" various derivations have been
suggested, the most ingenious, and perhaps, therefore, the least
likely, being that since "leary" in the vernacular means "empty,"
the name may be taken as pointing to the large expanses of mud and
sedge left bare by the tide--larger in the days before the stream was
embanked than they are now. Saltram, a seat of the Earls of Morley, the
first of whom both built the bridge and constructed the embankment, is
on the left shore, embosomed in woods. Below the bridge the estuary
curves round northwards, and, sweeping by Sutton Pool, its waters lose
themselves in one of the noblest havens in the world, studded with
craft of all shapes and sizes, from the grim battleship and the swift
liner to the ruddy-sailed trawler.
To get a _coup d'[oe]il_ of Plymouth and its surroundings, let us take
our stand on the limestone headland known as The Hoe, where, according
to the tradition which Kingsley has followed, Drake was playing bowls
with his brother sea-dogs when the Armada was descried, and refused
to stop until the game was ended. In these days it is surmounted
by a statue of the hero, by the Armada Memorial, and by Smeaton's
lighthouse, removed from the Eddystone from no defect of its own,
but because the rock on which it was based was becoming insecure. On
the east The Hoe terminates in the Citadel, an ancient fortification
which has been adapted to modern conditions; on the low ground behind
crouches Plymouth, effectually screened from the sea-winds; on the
west, beyond the Great Western Docks, lies Stonehouse, and west of this
again is Devonport, its dockyards lining the Hamoaze, as the estuary of
the Tamar is called. Seawards, restraining the rush of the broad waves
of the Sound, is the Breakwater, a lighthouse at one end, a beacon of
white granite at the other, and in the middle, as it seems at this
distance, but really on an island just within it, a mighty oval fort
of granite cased in iron. About half-way to the Breakwater is Drake's
Island, another link in a chain of defences which has, one may hope,
rendered the Three Towns invulnerable to assault either from sea or
from land; and over against this, bordering the Sound on the west, are
the woods and grassy slopes of Mount Edgcumbe, the noble domain which
the Spanish Admiral, Medina Sidonia, is said to have designed for
himself. Away in the dim distance the new Eddystone rears its lofty
head. How the first of the four lighthouses which have warned mariners
of this dangerous reef was washed away, and the second fell a prey
to the flames, every schoolboy knows. Familiar, too, is the story of
the third; yet as we turn to look at it, now that it is retired from
active service, we may be pardoned for recalling how, from this very
spot, Smeaton was wont to watch the progress of the work which was to
be his title to enduring fame. "Again and again," says Dr. Smiles,
"the engineer, in the dim grey of the morning, would come out and peer
through his telescope at his deep-sea lamp-post. Sometimes he had to
wait long until he could see a tall white pillar of spray shoot up
into the air. Then, as the light grew, he could discern his building,
temporary house and all, standing firm amidst the waters; and thus far
satisfied, he could proceed to his workshops, his mind relieved for the
day."
[Illustration: PLYMPTON EARL. (_p. 51_).]
[Illustration: _Photo: W. Heath, Plymouth._
THE HOE, PLYMOUTH.]
Plymouth, beginning as Sutton Prior, an appanage of the Augustinian
Monastery at Plympton, the original harbour being what is now known
as Sutton Pool, has a history extending at least as far back as the
Domesday Survey. Stonehouse is a comparatively modern extension; and
Devonport, though its dockyards date from the days of William III.,
was long in growing into the consequence which now it possesses.
Those who know their Boswell well will remember that Johnson, coming
into Devonshire with Sir Joshua, visited Plymouth at a time when
great jealousy was being felt of the pretensions of Devonport, then
just beginning to assert itself. Half in jest and half in earnest he
vigorously espoused the prejudices of the older town; and when, in time
of drought, Devonport applied to Plymouth for water, he burst out, "No,
no. I am against the dockers; I am a Plymouth man. Rogues! let them
die of thirst! They shall not have a drop!" Since then Devonport has
gone to Dartmoor for a water supply of its own; and Plymouth, while not
oblivious of its glorious memories, is well content to take a maternal
pride in the prosperity of the younger towns.
/ W. W. Hutchings./
[Illustration: DANESCOMBE (_p. 58_).]
RIVERS OF CORNWALL.
The Minor Streams of Cornwall--The /Tamar/:
Woolley Barrows--Morwellham and Weir Head--Morwell
Rocks--Harewood--Calstock--Cotehele--Pentillie--Confluence
with the Tavy--Saltash--The Hamoaze. The /Fowey/: A Change
of Name--St. Neot--Lostwithiel--Fowey. The /Fal/: Fenton
Fal--Tregony--Truro--Tregothnan--Falmouth.
Comparatively insignificant though they may be, the rivers of Cornwall
have peculiar interest alike for the geographer and the geologist, and
are rife with the charms of natural scenery which attract every lover
of the beautiful. If we except the Camel, which is the only river
worthy of mention that flows into the Bristol Channel, the county has
a southern drainage, this arising from the fact that the watershed of
Cornwall is almost confined to the country contiguous to the north
coast. Perhaps it is by way of compensation to the Camel, or Alan, that
it has two sources. By Lanteglos and Advent its course runs through a
romantic country of wood and vale, and it meets the tide at Egloshayle,
thence passing Wadebridge, eight miles below which it falls into
Padstow Harbour.
Of the streams possessing something of historic interest and scenic
charm, the Looe must be mentioned because of the lovely vale through
which it flows between Duloe and Morval and the association of the
river with the ancient Parliamentary boroughs of East and West Looe at
its mouth. The Seaton, the St. Austell river, the Hayle, the Gannel,
and the Hel, each and all have their individuality, owing allegiance to
no other river tyrannous of its tributaries; but the three principal
streams of the county, the Tamar, the Fowey, and the Fal, which have
been selected for special notice here, have a virtual monopoly of
interest and attention. The /Tamar/ possesses, in a singular
degree, the more striking characteristics of the Cornish rivers, and
is fairly entitled to the distinction of first consideration at our
hands. Having its rise at Woolley Barrows, in the extreme east of the
westernmost county, a short distance from its source Tamar becomes the
boundary between the counties of Devon and Cornwall, and so continues
during nearly the whole of its course, some forty miles. Flowing
distinctly southward, the river leads a quiet life for at least a
league, till, gaining in size and importance, it gives its name to the
pretty village and parish of North Tamerton. Thenceforth
"Its tranquil stream
Through rich and peopled meadows finds its way."
At St. Stephen's-by-Launceston it receives the Werrington stream, and
expands into a beautiful lake in Werrington Park. Below the lake the
impetuous Attery stream joins the now brimming river, which, passing
under Poulston and Greston, reaches Tavistock New Bridge, where we are
on the "scientific frontier" of Devon and Cornwall. At this point,
too, the Tamar enters upon a new stage of its existence, leaving its
lowly moorland birth and quiet ordinary youth behind it, and beginning
a career which is henceforth the cynosure of all eyes. Hurrying by
Gunnislake, the busy little hamlet of workers in clay and stone, at
Weir Head the river literally leaps into fame.
From the coaching hamlet it has slided on through a woodland glade of
bewitching beauty, which wins a spontaneous outburst of admiration from
the visitor who, haply, has chosen to approach the favoured scene by
the serpentining sylvan walk from Morwellham to Weir Head. Here its
waters break in a pretty cascade over the artificial ridge of rocks
that reaches from bank to bank. Then they prettily describe a circle
about the islet in mid-stream, gaining new life and movement from the
impetus. With the briskness of a waterslide the Tamar rushes on to
Morwellham. A charming variety of river-glimpses may be gained through
the luxuriant foliage at Weir Head, the views hereabouts having become
the objective of the highly popular steamer-trips from Plymouth,
Devonport, and Saltash, which have constituted "Up the Tamar" quite a
colloquialism in the West.
The winding river gains a new glory from its beautiful and impressive
surroundings as it flows at the base of Morwell Rocks, those wonderful
examples of Nature's carvings, set in the midst of luxuriant foliage
that here hides their shaggy sides and there throws into bold relief
an awe-inspiring pile. The Rocks are unique in their romantic beauty,
even though they figure among the many objects of interest in a highly
picturesque neighbourhood. The Chimney Rock and the Turret Rock are
happier instances of descriptive nomenclature than usual. Bolder
still is that most striking specimen of natural architecture, Morwell
Rock, the massiveness of which doubtless gained for it the capital
distinction. To the giddy height of the topmost rock, above the
far-stretching woodland of Morwellham, scarce a sound of the rippling
river comes; but the silver thread of its serpentine course may be
traced afar through the romantic valley, winding about Okel Tor and the
great bend that forms the peninsula between Morwellham and Calstock,
and then taking its favoured way through cherry orchard-groves on to
the haven under the hill.
[Illustration: THE RIVERS OF CORNWALL.]
The river is navigable to Weir Head, but Morwellham is the highest
point reached by the steamers. Pursuing the line of least resistance,
the Tamar now makes a tremendous sweep about the hill on which Calstock
Church stands. But ere the first view of the "two-faced church" is
caught, an interesting riparian residence is skirted--Harewood, the
scene of Mason's play of _Elfrida_, now the office of the Duchy of
Cornwall, but formerly one of the Trelawny properties. Calstock, if
it please you, is the centre of the old "cherry picking" district,
though to-day its strawberry gardens must rival the orchards in their
remunerative return to the industrious population of the quaint little
town that seems to have grown away from the water's edge to the
pleasant Cornish country beyond Tamar bank. Still, if you would see
Calstock in its daintiest garb and most delightful beauty, come you
when the pretty cherry blossom decks the groves by the river, and the
tender pink and white clothes the orchard lawns to the uplands.
[Illustration: TAVISTOCK NEW BRIDGE (_p. 55_).]
From Calstock on to Cotehele, and thence almost to the junction of
the Tamar and the Tavy, the same delightful eccentricity of the
river-scenery presents itself--every prominent feature re-appearing in
an entirely different aspect, scarce five minutes of the river-trip
passing without a variation of the point of view. A last glimpse of
Calstock Church, and we are encompassed by woodland. Everywhere a
luxuriant living green meets the eye. Apparently, the swelling woods
and orchard lawns approach ahead and form a _cul-de-sac_; but the Tamar
makes a sharp detour to the right or to the left, and another glory
of the leafy way bursts upon the sight. Again and again the pleasing
experience is repeated ere a human habitation relieves a monotony that
for once is wholly charming.
Beyond the limekilns of Cotehele appears the lodge gate of Cotehele
House, one of the residences of the Edgcumbe family, and a place of
some historic interest. By far the most prominent feature in the
fine landscape which may be viewed from a tower at the highest point
of the grounds is Kit Hill, the loftiest eminence on Hingston Down,
which was the scene of a last desperate battle between the Britons of
Cornwall and the invading Saxons in the year 835. A beautiful valley
near Cotehele, known as Danescombe to this day, is said to have taken
its name from the allies whom the Cornish called to their aid in this
sanguinary struggle.
Immediately below Cotehele the zig-zag course of the Tamar is most
strongly marked, and nowhere are its revelations of new views and fresh
charms more entrancing than where it winds about the extensive grounds
of Pentillie. Shortly after we have doffed our caps in deference to
the pious Sir Richard Edgcumbe, devout worshipper of the Holy Mother,
who erected a church by the river-bank to commemorate his miraculous
escape from the soldiers of the royal Richard, we catch a fleeting but
impressive glimpse of another stately residence of a county family, on
a hilly eminence clothed to its crown with thickly grown woods, the
castellated mansion emerging from dense leafy environs well towards the
crest. All suddenly the coquetting stream swerves to the Devonshire
side, as speedily returns to caress the fair meads of Cornwall, and
another glorious prospect is disclosed. A nearer view is now to be had
of Pentillie Castle, lying embowered in the far-stretching woodland,
the Gothic features of the lordly pleasure-house which the late owner,
Mr. John Tillie Coryton, built for himself admirably harmonising with
its beautiful surroundings.
Below Pentillie, the Tamar, in its ampler waters and wider course,
has to be satisfied with less interesting associations. A last big
bend in the river, and, past the pretty hamlet of Cargreen, we shortly
find ourselves abreast of the church of St. Dilpe, at Landulph,
erected very near the river-bank, on the Cornish side. The tower of
St. Budeaux Church, whose melodious bells chime cheerily across the
water, rises high above the Devon bank. Here the Tavy makes common
cause with the Tamar, and the twin rivers flow on by Saltash into the
Hamoaze. Nearly opposite the mouth of the Tavy, on the Cornish side,
is the ecclesiastical parish of St. Stephen-by-Saltash, with the ruins
of Trematon Castle at the summit of a well-wooded hill. The castle is
believed to have been built at the period of the Conquest, and was
subsequently held by the Earls of Cornwall.
[Illustration: MORWELL ROCKS (_p. 55_).]
At Saltash--as the Western men will not forget to remind the boasting
Cockney--the Tamar is wider than the Thames at Westminster. Saltash
itself, by the way, was originally (according to Carew) Villa de
Esse, after a family of that name, and to this was added "Salt," on
account of its "marine situation." The busy little waterside town has
this great dignity--that its Mayor and Corporation take precedence
of those of Plymouth and Devonport. Saltash has gradually, through
many generations, built itself up a steep, rocky acclivity until the
habitations extend to the summit of the hill at Longstone, from which
favoured eminence the prospect is very fine. Here may we see the
broadened river where the ebbing tide swirls by the _Mount Edgcumbe_
training-ship, that is swinging round on its tidal pivot just above
Brunel's great bridge; thence, flowing beneath the wondrous iron link
of the two westernmost counties with which the engineer spanned the
river, here half a mile across, the Tamar, now joined by the Lynher
from the West, loses its identity in the all-embracing Hamoaze, with
its wood-fringed shores; the river passing unremarked into Plymouth
Harbour, from the Harbour to the Sound, and from the Sound to the
Channel--forgotten now in the great affairs of navies, and the
thrilling stories of the seas on which Drake and Hawkins, Raleigh and
Grenville, sailed to fight the Spaniard. From haunts of peace, the
Tamar, itself a pleasant stream, has flowed through scenes of rare
beauty to these so warlike surroundings, where its current eddies about
the decaying hulks on whose decks the old sea-dogs died, where its
waters wash arsenal, dock, and victualling yard, and where it oft bears
on its broad bosom a mighty fleet of men-of-war.
* * * * *
[Illustration: CARGREEN (_p. 58_).]
At the foot of Brown Willy, Cornwall's highest hill, in the parish of
St. Breward, there is an aqueous locality in which the water-finder
might exercise his art of divination with the utmost confidence, if,
indeed, he did not find his occupation gone by reason of the abundance
of the surface water. This is Foy-Fenton, and here the /Fowey/
rises. As, to this day, Fowey becomes "Foy" in the naming of the boats
that boast the prettiest harbour in the county for their port, one may
easily discover a close association in the nomenclature of the sites
and scenes at the beginning and the end of this very charming stream.
In its course, curiously enough, the river changes its name. Where it
flows southward through the moorlands between St. Neot and St. Cleer,
it is called the Dranes (or Dreynes) river; and fishermen from the
"model borough" of Liskeard, who love to flog its pleasant waters for
the toothsome trout that they harbour, would be prepared to contend,
in the face of the maps and in the presence of geographers, that it
is the Dranes river, and no other. In flood-time a strong stream that
gives the road-surveyor endless trouble, the Fowey, leaping along its
bouldered way, here and there lightening its journey by falling in
picturesque cascades, scattering its showers of iridescent spray over
the thick foliage that everywhere clothes its banks, runs almost level
with the main road to St. Neot--a village noted for its window-pictured
legend of St. Neot and the miraculous supply of fish, in the parish
church--where it receives a goodly stream of that name. Increasing the
beauty and interest of its course with every mile it travels, the river
by-and-by glides into the far-stretching woodland of Glynn, the seat
of Lord Vivian, and then becomes one of the principal contributors to
the scenic charms of the railway-side from Devonport to Par, which Miss
Braddon describes as the most delightful of all journeys by rail.
[Illustration: THE HAMOAZE FROM SALTASH (_p. 59_).]
After leaving its moorland haunts, and in order to reach Glynn, the
Fowey took a westerly turn, but, Bodmin once skirted, the river runs
directly southward again, under Resprin bridge and past Lanhydrock
House, the Cornish home of that Lord Robartes who was the leader of
the Parliamentarian forces in these parts. The ancient mansion, of the
Tudor period, passed through many crises, and, together with modern
additions, was practically destroyed by fire in 1881, and rebuilt in
1883-4. The next object of interest seen from the river is the ruin
of Restormel Castle, on the summit of a bold headland a mile from
Lostwithiel. The building of the castle is ascribed to the Cardenhams,
who flourished hereabouts in the reign of the first Edward; and it was
once the residence of the Earls of Cornwall.
At Lostwithiel--the Uzella of Ptolemy--the Fowey is crossed by an
ancient and narrow bridge of eight pointed arches, erected in the
fourteenth century. The bridge is very strongly buttressed, and over
each buttress is an angular niche. A silver oar, which is among the
insignia of the Corporation, bears the inscription: "_Custodia aquæ de
Fowey_." The celebrated Colonel Silas Titus, author of "Killing noe
Murder," Member of Parliament for the borough 1663-79, was the donor of
the oar. Lostwithiel, where the river meets the tide, at once becoming
navigable for small vessels, boasts great antiquity, and in 1664 was
the headquarters of the Parliamentarian forces in Cornwall.
Here, below Lostwithiel's ancient bridge, let us take boat and taste of
the ineffable enjoyment which laureates of the Fowey have attributed to
a sail or a row down the romantic stream to the mouth of the harbour,
where the sailors sing their chanties as they work the merchantmen out
between the old towers whence chains were stretched across the harbour
in the stirring days when the Spaniard sailed the main. Sing hey, sing
ho, for indeed life is worth living when the soft zephyrs blow, and
we glide by the prettily placed church of St. Winnow, and catch the
musical chiming of its melodious peal of bells. "Youth on the prow,
and Pleasure at the helm," our delight knows no surcease, but rather
grows as, something less than three miles below the old Parliamentary
borough, the banks open out, and we behold that daydream of scenic
beauty, the sunlit reaches of the river winding away toward the sea.
One branch of this estuary, by-the-by, flows to St. Veep, which has an
interesting church. The Lerrin and St. Cadoc creeks yet further enrich
a river which Nature has endowed with charms so abundant. Bodinnoc
Ferry is a name to conjure with in yachting circles, since there is not
one log among the many of the pleasure-boats that make for the "little
Dartmouth" of the Far West in the height of summer but contains some
fine compliment to the rare beauty of the view, landward and seaward,
from this familiar tacking point. No wonder that Fowey Harbour shares
with its Devonshire rival the generous tribute of sportsmen, who have
lavished upon each of these picturesque ports effusive praise that has
its point in the proud title of the "Yachtsman's Paradise." Long ere
these pleasure-seeking days was the discovery of Fowey's possession
of a safe and commodious harbour made: "The shippes of Fowey sayling
by Rhie and Winchelsey, about Edward the III^{rd} tyme, would vayle
no bonnet beying required, whereupon Rhie and Winchelsey men and they
fought, when Fowie men had victorie, and thereupon bare their arms mixt
with the arms of Rhie and Winchelsey, and then rose the name of the
Gallants of Fowey." But Leland knew that they deserved the title long
years before, as "the glorie of Fowey rose by the warres in King Edward
I. and III. and Henry V.'s day, partly by feats of warre, partly by
piracie, and so waxing rich fell all to merchandize."
Fowey took so naturally and keenly to the practice of piracy that the
"gallants" had a little affair at sea with the French on their own
account and against the King's treaty and commandment, in the reign of
the fourth Edward, who appears not to have been well pleased, since he
took the head of one of their number, imprisoned the captains, and sent
men of Dartmouth down to seize their ships and remove the chain then
drawn across the mouth of the haven. But the "gallants" were nothing
daunted, and in the time of Charles II. their successors beat off
eighty Dutch ships of war that, greatly daring, had chased a fleet of
merchantmen into Fowey Harbour. St. Finbarrus, first Bishop of Cork,
is said to have been buried in the church, which is dedicated to him,
and is a handsome structure. Place House, the seat of the Treffry
family, besides being a noble mansion, gloriously dight with very
fine specimens of Cornish granite and porphyry, is of great historic
interest. It was Elizabeth, wife of Thomas Treffry--an ancient statue
of whom stands in the grounds--who, in the absence of her husband,
headed his men and beat off the French in an assault on Place House in
July, 1457.
* * * * *
Along its course of but twenty miles, four of which are tidal, the
/Fal/ divides the county into two nearly equal parts. Fenton
Fal, in Tregoss Moor, is the birthplace of the stream; and from the
moorland it receives the tributary waters of many peaty rivulets before
gaining entrance to the romantic vale of Treviscoe, which gives us a
foretaste of that feast of the beautiful which the Fal affords in its
lower reaches. Compared with what goes before and follows after, the
course of the stream by Grampound (the Voluba of Ptolemy), through
Creed valley, where it leaves Tregony on its left bank, and on to Ruan,
is somewhat lacking in interest, and the river itself is of no great
strength. Ere tin-streaming and the sandbanks had done their mischief,
you might have reached Tregony on the top of the tide; nowadays the ebb
and flow affect the river no farther than Ruan. Yet this has sufficed
to gain for the Fal a glorious name. Perhaps the finest compliment ever
paid to the river fell from royal lips. When the Queen, accompanied by
the Prince Consort, made the trip down the Fal from Truro in 1864, she
was visibly impressed with the beauty and splendour of the scenery, and
particularly charmed with the view about Tregothnan. Her Majesty was
reminded by it of the Rhine, but thought it almost finer where winding
between woods of stunted oaks, and full of numberless creeks.
At Truro, the two little rivers, Kenwyn and Allen, flow through the
city into a creek of the Fal, known as Truro river; the first-named
separates St. Mary's from St. Paul's, while the second divides the
parish of St. Mary from that of St. John. The little Kenwyn is
"personally conducted" through the streets of the cathedral town by
the Corporation, in open conduits, and forms a not unpleasant feature
of the tiny city in Western Barbary whose inhabitants were once said
to have a good conceit of themselves: "The people of this town dress
and live so elegantly that the pride of Truro is become a by-word in
the county." The most modern of our English cathedrals is a monument
to the pious zeal, marvellous industry, and unquenchable enthusiasm
of Dr. Benson, the first Bishop of Truro, afterwards Archbishop of
Canterbury. The Prince of Wales laid the foundation stone in 1880,
and its consecration took place seven years later. The style is Early
English of the thirteenth century, and at present the cathedral but
partially realises the ambitious design of the architect, who planned a
very imposing edifice, which, in the event of its ultimate completion,
must inevitably challenge comparison with the most notable of modern
achievements in the Gothic. Already it possesses several splendid
windows and many beautiful specimens of modern sculpture.
[Illustration: _Photo: F. Argall, Truro._
THE FAL FROM TOLVERNE (_p. 65_).]
The prettiest parts of our river lie between King Harry's Passage and
Roseland. Below Tregothnan, where the Fal unites with the Truro river
and St. Clement's creek, both shores are beautifully clothed with
wood, and the fine expanse of water at high tide lends a nobility
and magnificence to the scene which affords ample occasion for the
high-flown descriptions and lavish praise bestowed upon the Fal. On the
right are the grounds of Trelissick; and a picturesque glimpse of the
stream may be caught near the estuary called Malpas Road, by the ferry
at Tolverne. After dividing Mylor from St. Just, the river loses its
identity in forming Carrick Road, and shortly expands into the splendid
haven of Falmouth Harbour. The inner part, between Trefusis Point,
Pendennis, and the town, is called King's Road. Carrick Road, where the
river enters, forms the middle of the harbour, and midway between the
entrance--which is from Pendennis Point to St. Anthony's Head--there
lies the ominously-named Black Rock, around which the Mayor of Truro
sailed in June, 1709, when he sought to exercise jurisdiction over the
port and harbour of Falmouth. But the citizens of the port themselves
had had a powerful friend at Court, in the person of King Charles II.,
who had given Falmouth a charter overriding the ancient claims of
Truro, by which the Mayor of the latter town had levied dues on all
goods laden or unladen in any part of the Fal, from Truro to the Black
Rock; and a trial at law in the same year finally established home rule
in Falmouth Harbour.
[Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._
FALMOUTH HARBOUR.]
Though to-day its prosperity is scarcely commensurate with its natural
advantages, the harbour still remains almost unrivalled. First port
of call for homeward-bound vessels, with a depth of water and safe
anchorage that many another harbour might envy, and sheltered from
all the winds that blow save those from the south-south-east, it is
so capacious that the whole British fleet could ride at anchor in
its waters. Falmouth as a town owes its existence to these striking
features of its harbour. Beholding them, it struck the shrewd sons of
the House of Killigrew, Lords of Arwenack (there is an Arwenack Street
to this day), who flourished in the time of James I., that there was no
earthly reason why vessels should go seven miles to Truro, or two miles
to Penryn, for a port when an infinitely better one might be created at
the very mouth of the harbour. Vested interests, as represented by the
communities of Truro, Penryn, and Helston, offered stout opposition.
But the silver-tongued Lords of Arwenack prevailed in the argument
before King James, and it was not long ere Falmouth was the first port
in Cornwall. Its great era of prosperity exemplifies the adage that
it's an ill wind that blows nobody good, for, during our wars with
the French, Falmouth became a mail packet station, and flourished
exceedingly on "Government service."
It was the boast of proud Falmouthians that a hundred vessels could
ride in the creeks of Falmouth Harbour and yet that no two should be
in sight of each other. How this might be may be understood in part
when it is explained that, besides many smaller arms, there are five
principal creeks. Of these branches not the least is that which was
probably the earliest used, to Penryn; there is a second to Restronguet
and Perranarworthal; a third, also of ancient use, to Truro and
Tresillian Bridge; a fourth running up to St. Mawes and Gerrans; and
the fifth and greatest, to King Harry's Reach, toward Tregony, which is
the main stream of our Fal.
/Hugh W. Strong./
[Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._
FALMOUTH, FROM FLUSHING.]
[Illustration: THE ISLE OF ATHELNLY (_p. 68_).]
THE PARRET AND THE LOWER AVON.
The /Parret/: Its Source--Muchelney Abbey--The
Tone and Taunton--Athelney Island and Alfred the
Great--Sedgemoor--Bridgewater--Burnham. The /Lower Avon/: Escourt
Park--Malmesbury--Chippenham--Melksham--Bradford-on-Avon--Bath--The
Frome--Beau Nash--Bridges at Bath--The Abbey Church--Bristol--St.
Mary Redcliffe and Chatterton--The Cathedral--"The Chasm"--Clifton
Suspension Bridge--The Lower Reaches--Avonmonth.
Of the even, placid course of the /Parret/ one sententious
writer has said, "There is nothing remarkable in it, the country being
flat." A spark of imagination and the merest glimmering of historic
interest would have spared us this dull commonplace. Surely the stream
which saw the dawn of intellect in England, which witnessed the very
beginnings of our modern civilisation, which watered the self-same
mead where walked the first royal patron of learning that the country
boasted, is notable, even if it does not attain to higher rank among
our English rivers.
The Parret--Pedred of the Saxon Chronicle--is not of native Somerset
birth, since it has its uprising a mile over the southern boundary,
at Cheddington Copse, in the Dorsetshire parish of South Perrott.
Flowing in a south-easterly direction, by Crewkerne and the Dorsetshire
border, its basin occupies that portion of the Bridgwater Level lying
between the Mendips and the Quantock Hills. At Crewkerne we have wide
glimpses of its broad green valley, the busy little market town itself
rising in the midst of the natural amphitheatre formed by the distant,
unpretentious hills, lying low, like shadows on the horizon. The fine
cruciform church of St. Bartholomew, whose only real rival among
Somersetshire churches is that at Ilminster, in precisely the same
style of architecture, occupies a pleasant situation westward of the
river.
The ruins of Muchelney Abbey rise above the marshy banks of the river
in the hamlet bearing the same name, which the ancient chronicler would
have us accept as a facile corruption of "Muckle Eye," or Great Island.
Of Athelstan's Abbey there are but scant remains, though these are most
suggestive of a structure of imposing size and great architectural
interest and beauty. By the interesting little town of Langport the
dividing hills are broken, and the Parret receives the waters of the
Isle from the left, and of the Yeo (so common a river name, with
its obvious derivation), or Ivel, from the right. Swollen by these
tributaries, the Parret's lazy waters now creep on under a bridge which
unites the banks that marked the limits of the dominions of the Belgic
and Danmonian tribes.
[Illustration: THE PARRET AND THE LOWER AVON.]
Hereabouts we do indeed appear to be at the very beginnings of
English history, for but a little below the confluence, at Aller, the
Danish king, Guthrum, is said to have received the rite of baptism in
the river, his conqueror, Alfred the Great, magnanimously standing
sponsor to the fallen foe; whilst eight centuries later a fiercer
warrior, filled with zeal for what he conceived to be his righteous
cause--Fairfax, to wit--routed the Royalist forces, giving no quarter,
as he had asked none. Before we take up the other thread of the
historical tale, there is the Tone to be reckoned with. Born in a bog
on the Brendon Hills, this most important of the affluents of the
Parret is seen at its greatest in the picturesque vale of Taunton
Dean. Imparting its name to the handsome town of Taunton, it passes
at least one splendid specimen of ecclesiastical architecture in St.
Mary's Church, which rears its lofty tower in the midst of a delightful
neighbourhood, of which Taunton is the attractive capital.
Below the hill-top village of Boroughbridge the Tone joins forces with
the Parret, and in the slack water at their confluence rises that
little plot of ground made for ever sacred in English eyes by reason
of its being the remote retreat of Alfred the Great when he sought to
escape the slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune. Hurrying thither
from his fierce enemies, the Danes--and, if the fable is in the least
to be trusted, from the equally-to-be-feared anger of the neatherd's
wife--he found a peaceful haven, where he might heal him of his
wounds, recruit his resources, and lay his plans for the meditated
rally. And so, by bold forays from this natural stronghold, he regained
the confidence of his adherents, won over the waverers, and paved
the way for his eventual triumph over the pagan foe and the complete
recovery of his power.
[Illustration: TAUNTON CHURCH (_p. 68_).]
To the honour of St. Saviour and St. Peter, his patron saints, the
pious hero of Athelney raised a monastery on the island, where, in
their holy orisons, the monks chanted the praises of the God who
had so confused the heathen by the shores of the river that stayed
its course and stagnated where the reeds and rushes caught the
water-sprite, heavy with sleep, in their toils. Barely two acres in
William of Malmesbury's day, yet covered by "a forest of alders of vast
extent"(!), the historic spot is now known as Athelney Farm, a stone
pillar telling its great story in this concise inscription: "King
Alfred the Great, in the year of our Lord 879, having been defeated
by the Danes, fled for refuge to the Forest of Athelney, where he lay
concealed from his enemies for the space of a whole year. He soon after
regained possession of his throne; and, in grateful remembrance of
the protection he had received under the favour of Heaven, he erected
a monastery on the spot, and endowed it with all the lands contained
in the Isle of Athelney. To perpetuate the memory of so remarkable an
incident in the history of the illustrious prince, this edifice was
founded by John Slade, Esq., of Maunsell, the proprietor of Athelney,
and lord of the manor of North Petherton, /A.D./ 1801."
[Illustration: _Photo: William Hanks, Malmesbury._
MALMESBURY ABBEY (_p. 72_).]
History in its heroic elements still clings to Parret's banks, for, as
the river flows on near Weston-Zoyland, washing the parish on the south
and south-west, Sedgemoor, the Duke of Monmouth's fatal field, comes
into view, and one looks upon the scene of what in Macaulay's words was
"the last fight deserving the name of a battle that has been fought on
English ground." Emerging from the marsh of Sedgemoor, the Parret now
takes upon itself the new office of patron and benefactor of populous,
busy Bridgwater, two miles to the south-west of "Sowyland." It is the
river which at ebb and flood tide deposits that peculiar sediment of
clay and sand that goes to make "the Bath brick," of which product
Bridgwater has the monopoly. But why "Bath"? Well, presumably, because
the best market for the brick was originally found in Beau Nash's town,
with the result that it eventually became the principal centre of
trading in the commodity. From half a mile above to half a mile below
the three-arched bridge which Walter de Briwere--the first of that
ilk--commenced, and Sir Thomas Trivet completed, in the reign of Edward
I., the brickworks stretch, giving employment to a large number of
hands, and forming a source of considerable revenue.
The current which nearly overwhelmed General Fairfax in Bridgwater's
stirring days of 1645 is said to advance with such rapidity and
boldness on the Parret as to rise no less than two fathoms on one wave.
But, judging from the statement of another authority, this must be but
a moderate estimate of the dimensions to which the bore occasionally
attains, since it is asserted that the upright wave-phenomenon of the
Parret has repeatedly reached nine feet in height! This much, however,
is positively ascertained--that spring-tides in the Bristol Channel
rise a full 36 feet at the mouth of the Parret.
King John gave Bridgwater its charter in 1200, but the Briwere family,
one of whom began the building of the great bridge over the Parret,
were the real founders of the town and the actual authors of its
commercial prosperity. The most striking landmark in the birthplace
of Admiral Blake, the great Republican commander, whose glorious
achievement it was to defeat the "invincible" Van Tromp, is the tall
tower and fine spire of the parish church of St. Mary, 174 feet in
height, and, therefore, one of the loftiest in England. A splendid
altar-piece, said to have been taken from a Spanish privateer, is one
of the features of the church.
Six miles from the sea at Bridgwater, the Parret, as if loth to lose
its individuality, lingers in the rich valley, doubling the distance
by its circuitous course to the Bristol Channel. At Burnham, just
before the Severn Sea claims them, its waters are still further swollen
by those of the Brue, a considerable stream, which, like the Parret,
has a wealth of historical association, and is of some commercial
significance. To the wharves at Highbridge, above Burnham, vessels
of many tons burthen are borne by the tide; here also are the gates
and sluice-locks of the Glastonbury canal navigation. Then the united
streams fall into that part of the Bristol Channel which is known as
Bridgwater Bay. A few miles to the north the Axe indolently pours into
Uphill Bay the waters which it has brought from the flanks of the
Mendips, where it runs a subterranean course some two miles long before
issuing forth in a copious flood from Wookey Hole--a cavern famous for
the prehistoric treasures which it has yielded to the explorer--to flow
through a picturesque glen, and presently to drain the level plains of
West Somerset.
* * * * *
Watering three counties, to the scenic interest and beauty of each of
which it lends an infinitude of charms, the /Lower Avon/ is not
to be measured for its importance by its length (seventy-five miles),
since there are far longer streams that one would willingly exchange
for half the romantic valleys and the rich country of this river, which
has its source in a piece of ornamental water at Escourt Park, in the
neighbourhood of Great Thurston, where the boundaries of Wiltshire and
Gloucestershire almost meet.
Distinction is immediately given to the stream. Just below the
village it enters the grounds of Pinckney House, and after it has
passed Eastongrey and a dozen little thorpes, the river claims proud
association with historic Malmesbury--the British Caer Bladon, and
the Anglo-Saxon Ingelburne--which it enters on the west. This ancient
town stands on the ridge of a narrow hill, sloping down steeply on its
southern and northern sides, and is nearly surrounded by two streams
which, uniting at its southern extremity, form the Avon. On the highest
point of the ridge are seen the ruins of the famous Malmesbury Abbey,
which once covered forty-five acres of ground. Leland, writing in the
time of Henry VIII., described it as a "right magnificent thing." The
present remains are small; but the south porch is one of the finest
specimens of Norman work in the country. A portion of the structure
is still used as a church. Another notable feature of the town in
which William of Malmesbury, the historian, was educated, is a quaint
fifteenth-century market-cross, to which also Leland gave none but
honest praise when he styled it "a righte faire piece of worke."
Malmesbury--which, by the way, was the birthplace of "Leviathan"
Hobbes--has been built on the peninsula between the Tetbury stream,
flowing down from the Gloucestershire town, and the first beginnings of
the Avon, which here accepts its earliest tributary.
[Illustration: _Photo: J. Clark, Tetbury._
THE AVON NEAR TETBURY.]
Bending southward at Somerford, another branch is caught up, this
subsidiary stream hailing from the neighbourhood of Wootton Bassett.
By this time the Avon has become no mean river, and in its course
by Dauntsey and Seagry to woody Christian Malford it forms a very
prominent feature in the fine landscape that may be viewed from the
high hill to the eastward, on the summit of which stood Bradenstoke
Priory, now converted to the use--we will not say ignoble--of a
comfortable farmhouse. Fast gathering its supplementary forces, the
Avon after passing Kellaways and before reaching Chippenham welcomes
the waters of the Marlan. Chippenham, pleasant in itself, but made
still more interesting by reason of its surroundings in the fertile
valley, is well nigh compassed about by the Avon, which here is a clear
stream and of sweet savour. Later in its history it may deserve the
description of a dark and deep river, except where shallows interfere.
In its lower reaches it will be largely affected in colour by storms,
Wiltshire floods tinging it with the whitish hue of the chalk hills,
and the Somersetshire rains with the red of the ochre beds. But here
it is a placid, pleasant stream, which makes a bold sweep round the
environs of the town, driving its mill-wheels and lending that dignity
and interest which a river peculiarly affords.
[Illustration: _Photo: R. Wilkinson, Trowbridge._
BRADFORD-ON-AVON CHURCH, FROM THE NORTH EAST (_p. 74_).]
Hitherto the Avon's gliding way has lain by the low-lying dairy lands
of North Wiltshire, through peaceful pastoral scenes, its banks clothed
with the brightest flowers of the field, and here and there shaded
with willows and elms, But now, beyond Chippenham, it embarks upon the
chequered and romantic phase of its career. The country becomes more
hilly directly we near the clothing district of Wiltshire. For a short
space the Avon renders the useful service of a boundary, effectually
dividing Wilts and Somerset. The scenery of Chippenham Vale, through
which the river flows on to Melksham, Trowbridge, and Bradford--a trio
of interesting towns, each watered by the same stream--is extremely
beautiful.
Melksham, a town of one long principal street, is flanked by rich
meadows, through which meanders the Avon. The quaint, old-fashioned
houses are built on the acclivity of an eminence which may fairly
be ascribed to the river's wearing work through the ages; and the
inhabitants are not without reason proud of their handsome four-arched
bridge.
Again there comes a season of increase, in which the river gains,
from this source and that, a considerable addition to its volume. At
Broughton Gifford a brook by that name surrenders to the brimming river
from the west, whilst from the east enters the Whaddon streamlet.
Then, again, near Staverton the little Biss joineth the great Avon.
So our river swells with importance as it approaches romantic
Bradford-on-Avon. The name of this town--from the "broad ford" over the
river--is by no means its only indebtedness to the Avon, for the highly
picturesque situation of Leland's "clooth-making" centre is entirely
the outcome of Nature's handiwork. Immediately on the north side of
the river a hill abruptly rises, and it is on the brow and along the
sloping declivity of this eminence that most of the tastefully-designed
dwellings have been erected. The deep and hollow valley of the Avon
now extends between two ranges, the hills here and there richly wooded
to their summits; and pretty villages have scattered themselves along
these bold acclivities.
Bradford-on-Avon Church is of considerable interest, and is remarkable
for the success of its highly sympathetic restoration by Canon Jones,
the vicar, a distinguished archæologist. Two bridges here cross the
Avon; the most ancient, in the centre of the town, being described by
Aubrey, two centuries since, as "a strong handsome bridge, in the midst
of which is a chapel for Mass." Bradford gained its original eminence
in the woollen trade mainly from the introduction of "spinners" from
Holland in the seventeenth century, and lost it with the development of
the greater Bradford of the North, in the midst of the coalfields.
Before, following the more impetuous course of the now considerable
river, we quit Bradford and its seductive scenes, the peculiar
loveliness of the valley of the Avon in the vicinity of the town, and
more particularly at such fascinating spots as Freshfield, Limpley
Stoke--just where the river leaves Wiltshire and enters Somerset--and
Claverton, to name but a few, must be remarked upon. Then Bladud's
creation, "Queen of all the Spas in the World," "City of the Waters of
the Sun," "Queen of the West," "King of the Spas," gives greeting to
the noble river that plays so great a part in the beautification of
the historic city lying at the foot of the valley of the Avon, whence
it has grown up its steep banks. Below Bradford the Frome has become
a tributary of the Avon, bringing, besides its goodly stream, many
most interesting reminiscences of its course. After flowing through the
lower part of the agreeably situated town to which it gives its name,
the Frome adds its charms to the manifold attractions of the scenery of
Vallis Bottom. Just half a mile beyond the time-worn Priory of Hinton,
which rears its ivy-clad tower amidst a grove of venerable oaks, Frome
merges itself in the Avon.
As if Nature were here conspiring to make the river worthy of the
city of "Bladud, eighth in descent from Brutus," at Bathford the Avon
receives the Box brook, from the vale of that name in Wiltshire, and,
after a loop to the west, is joined at Batheaston by another small
stream, the Midford, which has enhanced the romantic interest of the
Vale of Claverton; whilst a third brook descends from the heights of
Lansdowne, the fatal battlefield of Sir Basil Grenville and his Cornish
friends, who lost their lives for the Parliamentary cause under the
ill-starred leadership of Sir William Waller.
Approaching the city of "Beau Nash" from the east, and passing between
Bathwick and Bath proper, the Avon washes "Aqua Solis" (or "Sulis")
of the Romans on the south, and plays its part in the fair scene
which, "viewed under the influence of a meridian sun, and through the
medium of an unclouded atmosphere, presents to sight and imagination
everything that is united with the idea of perfect beauty." And yet,
with all the natural advantages of its situation, Bath long awaited the
touch of the wand of the modern magician--the man of enterprise and
speculation. There lay the deep romantic valley, gloriously encircled
by the triple band of splendid hills--towering Lansdowne to the north,
813 feet above the sea; Claverton and Bathwick to the east, some 600
and 400 feet in height respectively; with Beechen Cliff, Sham Castle,
Camden Crescent, and Lansdowne Crescent, all fine natural view-points,
below. Compare with the Bath of to-day the overgrown village to the
practical government of which the famous Beau Nash succeeded in 1704,
when he followed the notorious gambler, Captain Webster, as Master of
the Ceremonies, and you have some idea of the miracle of change and
growth which has been performed. It was after the death of Beau Nash
that the city, waxing great, extended its borders to Bathwick, on
the country side of the river. Towards the close of the seventeenth
century, private munificence caused a bridge to be thrown across the
river, and Bathwick itself, from being a daisied meadowland, became a
thickly populated suburb. And even the bridge thus built was shortly
occupied with rows of dwelling houses and shops, so that the connection
between Bath and Bathwick was complete. Long prior to the building of
this, the Poulteney bridge--nearly five centuries before, in point of
fact--the Avon was crossed by the St. Lawrence's, or the Old Bridge, as
it is now usually called. Originally built in 1304, it became a prey to
the fever of building speculation which had marked the career of the
elder Wood, of the famous family of Bath architects. Out of date, and,
we may presume, somewhat out of repair also, it was rebuilt in 1754.
The Poulteney Bridge, crossing to Bathwick, followed in 1769; and half
a century's growth of the popular lower suburb revealing the need
for further means of communication that would relieve the congested
traffic, the Bathwick, or Cleveland, Bridge was added in 1827. Some
years later the North Parade Bridge was built. With the advent of the
iron horse there had, by this time, arisen a newer necessity still.
In comparatively rapid succession the Midland Railway and the Skew
Bridge--which justifies its name by the remarkable angle at which it
crosses the Avon--with three suspension bridges and a foot-passengers'
bridge near the station, have followed.
[Illustration: _Photo: J. Dugdale & Co., Bath._
THE AVON AT BATH.]
Bath boasts at least one ecclesiastical structure of great interest,
in the "Lantern of England," as the tower of the Abbey Church has been
styled, because of the unusual number and size of its windows. In the
exceptional height of the clerestory and the oblong shape of the tower,
the church is also distinguished from the general.
Out by the Western Gate the Avon runs, with Holloway Hill and Beechen
Cliff conspicuous landmarks on its left. By Twerton--"the town on the
banks of the Avon"--there are large cloth-mills on the riverside,
relics of the monastic industries established by the monks of Bath so
far back as the fourteenth century. Fielding Terrace, in this town, is
the reputed neighbourhood of the residence of the novelist, who is said
to have written a part of "Tom Jones" during his stay.
[Illustration: VIEW FROM NORTH PARADE BRIDGE, BATH.]
[Illustration: VIEW FROM THE OLD CITY BRIDGE, BATH.]
Now the Avon is in its beloved valley, deep and green again. Three
miles, or a little more, from the city, a beautiful circling knoll
seems to shut in the vale. The hill is crowned with a handsome house,
and ornamented with woodland and lawn. Kelston Round Hill, as this
impressive eminence is called, is 730 feet above the sea-level, the
Avon winding at its foot and the ascending groves of Newton Park
reaching to the fine prospect and the highest hill in this part of
Somerset. Ere, at this point, we bid a reluctant adieu to the beauties
of Bath, it should be pointed out that in most of the commanding
and delightful views obtainable from all the vantage points in
and about the city the Avon and its fertile valley conspicuously
figure, heightening the interest of each entrancing scene. It is no
exaggeration to say that the neighbourhood of Bath is rife with scenic
charms. The cliffs, ravines, and deep excavations in the strata lend
endless variety to the landscape, which is finely compact of hill,
vale, rock, wood and water, the striking beauties of the Avon's course
ever and anon lending a crowning grace to the view.
Below Kelston the more expanded vale of the Keynsham Hams succeeds.
Flowing round this rich tract of land, the Avon becomes the dividing
line between Gloucester and Somerset. Just beyond, within the parish of
Keynsham, and midway between the sister cities of Bath and Bristol, the
waters of yet another tributary, the Chow, a stream which has come down
from the north side of the Mendip Hills, are gathered up.
Contracted in its channel for more than a mile between lofty rocks at
Hanham, the Avon, emerging from its straitened circumstances, diverts
itself with the strikingly sinuous course which it then follows between
Brislington and St. George's, ere it is sobered and dignified by its
contact with the traditional Caer Oder, "the City of the Chasm," the
birthplace of Sebastian Cabot, of Southey, and of Chatterton. Before
the river begins to be tidal, it has another, perhaps its greatest,
recruit in the Lower Frome. After a picturesque course, the Frome
washes the Bishop's Palace at Stapleton, enters Bristol, and there
loses itself in the Lower Avon.
Between modern Bristol and the great port of the "spacious times" the
difference is one of degree only, for the commercial spirit is still
strong in the sons of Cabot and Canynge; and, amid the thick smoke
that overhangs the very centre of the city, there rise e'en to-day
the tall spars, fluttering pennons, and the rigging of the ships of
the mercantile marine that made the name of the opulent city known
in every port and on every sea, and brought to Bristol by the tidal
river the trade that trimmed her sails to the breeze of fortune and
set her course fair on the voyage to fame and prosperity. One of the
earliest chapters of the history of the city is connected with the
river. It records the building of the first bridge over the Avon in
1247, an undertaking mentioned in a charter of Henry II. This bridge
united the city with what was then the suburb of Redcliffe. To-day,
this association is splendidly preserved by that golden historical
link, the "finest and stateliest parish church in England," as Queen
Elizabeth pronounced the edifice of St. Mary Redcliffe on her visit
to Bristol in 1753. The style is the Early English, though the richly
sculptured northern doorway and some other portions belong rather to
the Decorated Period. The structure was founded about the year 1300,
but was enlarged, beautified, and, in fact, refounded by William
Canynge, whose effigy, with that of his wife Joan, will be found at
the end of the south transept. The upper part of the stone steeple
was struck down by lightning in 1445, and not rebuilt for upwards of
four hundred years. It was in the muniment room of this church that
young Thomas Chatterton professed to have found a number of curious
MSS. in prose and poetry, the boy-poet's ingenious deception long
escaping detection. Such success, which might never have attended the
confessed productions of his own precocious genius, gave the gifted
lad of seventeen the necessary stimulus, and his growing ambition led
him to London, where he became a mere literary hack, and took a life
threatened by starvation. A handsome monument in St. Mary Redcliffe
churchyard pays Bristol's tribute to her great, but unhappy, son. Of
St. Mary Redcliffe, the "pride of Bristowe," Camden said it was "the
most elegant of all the parish churches I have ever seen."
The present bridge replaced the thirteenth-century causeway in 1768.
It was in 1247 that the course of the Frome was diverted to a new
channel. Anciently, the city boundaries were the two confluent rivers
which environed it with a natural defence on all sides save one, where
a castle stood, protected by a broad deep moat supplied with water from
the Frome, which at that time flowed by its northern walls. In Bristol
Castle the son of the Conqueror, Robert, was shut up by his brother
Henry.
Though it has been justly said of the Cathedral that it is remarkable
neither for antiquity nor beauty, being far inferior to St. Mary
Redcliffe in at least one of these respects, the Berkeley chapel,
forming the north aisle of the choir, is worthy of note as an elegant
example of Early English. The spacious nave, with side aisles and
clerestory in the Early Decorated style, is a modern addition. Among
the animated busts are those of Joseph Butler, of "Analogy" fame--one
of Bristol's famous line of bishops, two of whom were of the "glorious
company" of seven--Robert Southey, and the "Dorcas" of the city, Miss
Mary Carpenter.
In 1809 our river became a fellow-sufferer with the Frome. The course
of the Avon lay through the city, but now a new channel was dug for it
on the south side, leaving the river to fall into its original bed at
Rownham Ferry. For the rest, the old channels of both the Frome and the
Avon were converted into a fine floating harbour, which, at Cumberland
Basin, will accommodate some of the largest vessels afloat.
"The Chasm" itself, or, as it is more familiarly known, the Gorge of
the Avon, lying just below the Basin, is bridged by a triumph of modern
engineering art. The Clifton Suspension Bridge--our English "Bridge of
Sighs" for suicides--admits to a magnificent view of the Avon where it
flows through the romantic defile of St. Vincent's Rocks. As the story
runs, St. Vincent, a rival, caught the Giant Goram asleep, and once
and for ever determined the course of the river by cleaving the ravine
through which the Avon now runs to the sea. Brunel's Bridge, after a
remarkably chequered history--its construction being actually suspended
for a period of nearly thirty years!--was completed for the visit of
the British Association in 1864. The foundations had been laid in 1836.
The chains of Hungerford Suspension Bridge at Charing Cross were taken
down and here re-hung. The centre span--one of the longest in the
world--is 676 feet in extent, and the entire length of the bridge is
1,352 feet. Fifteen hundred tons in weight, the stupendous structure is
a wonderful combination of strength and grace, adding a new interest
and beauty to the impressive view rather than detracting from its great
natural charm.
[Illustration: _Photo: Harvey Barton, Bristol._
BRISTOL, FROM THE SITE OF THE OLD DRAWBRIDGE ACROSS THE HARBOUR.]
When "Cook's Folly" and the "Pitch and Pay" gate, of mournful memory,
have been passed, and we have reached Sea Mills on the right bank,
there is a distinct softening in the character of the scenery. Here is
the supposed site of the Roman station Abona. The Avon at this point is
joined by the small river Trym. Leland, having the St. Vincent legends
clearly in remembrance, wrote of it: "Some think a great piece of the
depeness of the haven, from St. Vincent to Hungo-rode, hath been made
by hande." As we pass Pill, which furnishes pilots for the port of
Bristol, its ancient fish-like smell forces itself upon our attention.
Now we near the last reach of the Avon, Broad Pill, where the river
widens greatly. Sinuous as well may be, and running between low banks,
those "sea-walls" of rich marshland that lie about Birchampton, the
river's course beyond that pretty neighbourhood changes fast, and
gathers a new and picturesque interest when the tide comes in. Now we
are at the mouth of the Avon, and in that fine roadstead which the
loyal Bristol seamen would have styled King's Road.
From the decks of the great ships that here ride out the light gale
in safety a glorious view, up river, along shore, and about the fine
anchorage in the estuary of the Avon and the Severn, may be enjoyed.
The pier and docks at Avonmouth form another splendid enterprise,
which, if it has not come too late, may retain for Bristol something
more than a remnant of its ancient glory as the first port of the
kingdom, a training ground for the British Navy, the haunt and home
of sea-dogs who added many a gallant deed to the proud annals of our
island story.
/Hugh W. Strong./
[Illustration: CLIFTON SUSPENSION BRIDGE (_p. 79_).]
[Illustration: SOURCE OF THE SEVERN, PLINLIMMON.]
THE SEVERN
CHAPTER I.
FROM THE SOURCE TO TEWKESBURY.
Birthplace of the Severn--Plinlimmon--Blaenhafren--Llanidloes
--Caersws--Newtown--Montgomery--Welshpool--Powys Castle--The
Breidden Hills--The Vyrnwy--Distant Views--Shrewsbury--Haughmond
Hill--The Caradoc Hills--Atcham--Wroxeter--Condover--The
Wrekin--Benthall and Wenlock Edges--Buildwas Abbey--Coalbrook
Dale--Ironbridge--Broseley and Benthall--Coalport--Bridgnorth--
Quatford--Forest of Wyre--Bewdley--Stourport--Worcester--The
Teme--Ludlow--Tewkesbury.
The Severn, though a much longer river than the Dee, for it is the
second[1] in Britain, is born among less striking scenery. The latter
issues from an upland lake, enclosed by the peaks of the Arans and the
craggy slopes of the Arenigs. But south of Cader Idris the mountains
become less striking in outline, the cliffs fewer and lower, the
summits tamer. It is a region not so much of mountains as of great
hills, which stretch away into the distance, range after range, like
rollers on the Atlantic after a storm. The central point of this
region, the loftiest summit of Mid-Wales, is Plinlimmon, which, though
so insignificant in outline, attains to a height of 2,463 feet, and
is the parent of quite a family of rivers. Of these, one is the Wye,
the other the Severn; the sources of the two, though their paths are
distinct unto the end, when they mingle their waters in the Bristol
Channel, are some couple of miles apart. Nor is the distance very great
between the founts of the Severn and the Dee. If we suppose, as is
generally done, the actual head of the latter to be on the flank of
Aran Benllyn, the interval between the two is less than twenty-three
miles.
[Illustration: THE SEVERN, FROM THE SOURCE TO TEWKESBURY.]
But to return to the Severn, which rises on the north-east side of
Plinlimmon, at Maes Hafren. Our first illustration gives a good idea of
the scenery near its source: not, indeed, striking in outline--upland
moors without trees, hills nearly without crags, covered for the most
part with herbage, coarse on the lower ground near the rivulets, rank
in the not unfrequent bogs, but finer on the upper slopes; somewhat
monotonous in its tints, yet not without a charm of its own--a sense of
freedom and expansion, which is sometimes felt to be wanting among the
towering peaks and precipitous ravines of the grander mountain ranges.
At first, as is the wont of rivers among such surroundings, the Severn
wanders idly through the moorland, a mere brook rippling among stones
and boulders; then by degrees it begins to fray out a path for itself
and to cut down into the underlying rocks. The second illustration
shows it at this stage of life--the child just beginning to feel its
strength--and, besides this, gives a good idea of the character of the
hill scenery in Mid-Wales, of which we have already spoken. The little
Severn has now begun to strike out a way for itself on its journey to
the sea; the general plan of its course curiously resembling that of
the Dee. Though the two rivers ultimately flow in opposite directions,
and finish their courses at opposite ends of the Principality, yet each
rises well on the western side of Wales--each, though here and there
with some flexures, maintains for long an eastward direction; their
paths only diverging when they arrive at the margin of the lowland
among the foothills of the more mountainous region. But for some
distance there is little material change in the general character of
the scenery, except that the valleys gradually become more clearly
defined. The next picture shows the youthful Severn about a mile
and a half below its source, at Blaenhafren, the first house in the
neighbourhood of its banks, the earnest of many a "thorpe and town" by
which its waters will flow. A flattish valley bed, a few rather stunted
trees, some stone walls, and a rough-built cottage, with great billowy
hills behind, make up a scene which is characteristic of a good many
square miles in Central Wales.
[Illustration: VALLEY OF THE SEVERN, FROM PLINLIMMON (_p. 83_).]
This is, as we have said, a comparatively humble beginning for the
second in length among the rivers of Britain--for a stream which passes
more towns of historic and antiquarian interest than any other in the
land, and has been always the delight of poets. The Britons knew it
as Hafren, the Romans as Sabrina, from which, obviously, the present
name has arisen. For several miles from its birthplace its descent is
comparatively rapid, but gradually the slope diminishes, the stream
ceases to brawl among rocks and stones, the valley widens, and after
a course of from a dozen to fifteen miles, according as its path is
estimated, it arrives at its first town, Llanidloes, where it is joined
on the northern side by the Clywedog, which flows through a pretty
valley and seems to be a longer stream than the Severn itself.
At Llanidloes the Severn plunges abruptly into the bustle of life, for
this is a town with some ten thousand inhabitants, which carries on
a brisk trade in flannels. But, except for its church, which is one
of the finest in Wales, and has a handsome carved oak roof, there is
nothing to hinder the uncommercial traveller. For another ten miles
or so there is little to note along the course of the river; but
on approaching a station rejoicing in the modern name of Moat Lane
Junction, where the line from Machynlleth, descending the wooded valley
of the Carno, joins that which comes down from Llanidloes, one comes
to two places which will repay a halt. Here we are carried back over
seventeen centuries of history. Here Briton and Roman in former days
looked at one another with no friendly eyes across the river; the one,
as was his wont, clinging to the mountains, the other to the valley and
the river-side. The gods of the one were gods of the hills, those of
the other loved the plain. The one preferred the eyrie from which, like
the vulture, he could swoop to plunder, and to which he could fly for
safety. The other made his hold sure on the fields, the river, and the
roads; for where he came there he meant to stay.
[Illustration: THE FIRST HOUSE ON THE SEVERN: BLAENHAFREN (_p. 84_).]
The British earthwork, Cefn Carnedd by name, from its bastion-like hill
between the Carno and the Severn, commands a beautiful view overlooking
both valleys. In plan it is a blunt-ended oval, the longer axis lying
nearly east and west; on the latter side and towards the north it is
enclosed by a triple ditch and rampart, but on the southern side a
single entrenchment, owing to the steepness of the hill, suffices for
defence. The enclosed area, about 300 yards in length, rises slightly
towards the west, and at this end about one-third of the whole is cut
off by a ditch and rampart, apparently with the intention of forming a
kind of keep. Entrances may still be found and the approaches traced;
these evidently were cunningly devised so as to be commanded by the
defences; in fact, this must formerly have been one of the strongest
and most formidable among the hill-forts of Britain. There are others
in the neighbourhood, though these are inferior to Cefn Carnedd.
The Roman fortress, Caersws by name, is in the valley on the opposite
bank of the Severn, at a distance of some 300 yards from the river.
This, too, must have been in its day a place of great strength. It was
enclosed by a high quadrangular rampart, with a ditch outside, which
still remains in most places, though they have been injured here and
there, and one angle of the _vallum_ has been destroyed to make a site
for the railway station. Caersws, the Mediolanum of Tacitus, evidently
was once a stronghold of great importance, for three Roman roads
converge to it. The strategic advantages of the position are obvious.
The valley of the Severn is now broadening, and its scenery becomes
richer and more fertile, although bare hills still rise in the
background. About four miles lower down another manufacturing town is
reached, which, however, is considerably smaller than Llanidloes. This
is Newtown, a place comparatively modern--as the name implies--which,
however, has a certain commercial status as the recognised centre of
the Welsh flannel trade, but is otherwise uninteresting, except for
a carved rood screen and one or two more relics of an older building
preserved in its modern church, and for being the place where Robert
Owen, the father of modern socialism, was born and was buried.
Wandering on through scenery generally similar in character, pleasant,
pretty, and hilly, but without any very bold features, the Severn in a
few miles reaches Montgomery, a town which is peaceful enough now, but
in former days was not at all suited for people desirous of a quiet
life, for it was one of the fortresses of the Marches, over which Welsh
and English fought like dogs over a bone. As can be readily seen,
the castle was a place of considerable strength, for it stands on a
scarped, rocky headland, overlooking the valley. But of its walls and
towers not much remains. Near at hand is a British camp, but the first
castle was built in the days of William the Norman. After being thrice
demolished by the Welsh, it became the residence of a noted family,
the Herberts of Cherbury. The last episode of interest in its history
was a struggle for its possession in the time of the Civil War. The
Royalists were defeated, and the castle was ultimately "slighted" by
the victors. At that time it was owned by Edward, first Lord Herbert of
Cherbury, the eccentric philosopher, statesman, and gallant; and within
its walls, his brother George was born, as noted for the strictness as
the other was for the laxity of his religious views. In fact, this is
the cradle of a distinguished race. The church is cruciform in plan,
and contains old monuments of the Herbert and the Mortimer families. A
romantic story is, or was, told about a bare cross visible in the grass
of the churchyard; it marks the grave of one Newton, who was hanged on
a charge of robbery and murder. He died protesting his innocence, and
prayed that the grass might never grow about his burial-place, as a
witness to the injustice of his doom.
Near Montgomery the Severn begins to change its course, and to trend
more towards the north. Down a fertile valley it makes its way towards
Welshpool, practically the capital of the shire, for it is almost
double the size of Montgomery, and is the assize town. Place and church
date from olden times. Near to the town--approached through a gateway
in the main street--is the family seat of Castell Coch (the Red Castle,
from the stone of which it is built), but more commonly called by the
simpler title of Powys Castle. It has been greatly modernised, but a
good deal is of Elizabethan or of Jacobean date, and some goes back to
the thirteenth century. The site, a rocky knoll, descending steeply in
natural terraces, has been occupied from the beginning of the twelfth
century, and the earlier building had, of course, its due share of
sieges, for, as the centre of the old district of Powysland, it was a
place of some importance. In the surrounding park are some fine old
oaks, and the views from the terraces under the castle are noted for
their beauty; they look over the wooded lowland and down the valley
of the Severn to the arched back of the Long Mountain, and the bolder
outlines of the Berwyns, of which one mass is foreshortened to be like
a huge tumulus and the other forms a sharp pyramid. Entrenchments of
various kinds and sizes show that all the district round was formerly
one of importance. The noted "Offa's Dyke" is only a very few miles
away, and interest is added to the sometimes monotonous aspect of the
Long Mountain by a large earthwork on the summit, where, according to
tradition, was fought in 1294 the last battle for the independence of
Wales.
The Severn, still working in a direction more northerly than easterly,
leaves the Long Mountain at the gap through which a railway passes
towards Shrewsbury, and then sweeps back into its former course as
it rounds the feet of the Breidden Hills. It needs but a glance at
their bold and rugged outlines to see that they must be carved from a
different rock to that of which the Long Mountain and its neighbours
is formed. They consist of masses of lava and of hard slaty rock, of
a more ancient date than the mudstones of the adjoining district,
forming, in fact, a kind of outpost of the Ordovician or Lower Silurian
rocks of the west. The highest point, Moel-y-golfa, is as nearly as
possible 1,200 feet above sea-level, and its pyramidal outline adds
to its apparent elevation. Another, the Breidden proper, is a heavy
mass like a flattened dome; it bears a pillar to commemorate Rodney's
victory in 1782. The hills are well suited for a watch-tower, for they
command a view far and wide--in one direction over the Welsh hills, in
another towards the Shropshire lowlands.
Two or three miles further a tributary enters the Severn, larger than
any which it has hitherto received. This is the Vyrnwy, which drains a
considerable area south of a watershed extending from near Aran Mowddwy
to the Berwyn Hills, though now a heavy tribute has been exacted from
its waters by the town of Liverpool. This great feat of engineering was
completed, after years of labour, in 1890. Up to that time Liverpool
had drawn its main supply from reservoirs on Rivington Pike. A huge
dam, as our illustration (page 89) shows, has been built across the
narrowest part of the Vyrnwy valley. It is 1,255 feet in length and
60 in height; the foundations, which at some parts had to be carried
down to a depth of 50 feet, resting on the solid rock. By this means
a lake has been formed, four miles in length, which hides beneath its
waters--800 feet above sea-level--a little village and its church. A
curious mound rises near the junction of the two rivers, designed, as
some think, to guard the passage; and then the Severn, turning again to
the east, passes on towards Shrewsbury. Its valley now has become more
open: parks and country houses here and there dapple the gentler slopes
within no great distance of the river, and the views of the hills are
always beautiful.
[Illustration: MOEL-Y-GOLFA AND BREIDDEN, FROM WELSHPOOL (_p. 87_).]
[Illustration: _Photo: J. Maclardy, Oswestry._
THE VYRNWY EMBANKMENT, BEFORE THE FLOODING OF THE VALLEY.]
[Illustration: _Photo: Robinson & Thompson, Liverpool._
A QUIET NOOK ON THE VYRNWY.]
The group of the Breiddens is gradually left behind, then rises the
steep mass of Pontesbury Hill, backed by the long ridge of the Stiper
Stones, with their broken crests of rugged and hard white rock, and
behind them the broad backs of the Longmynds or the distant pyramid
of Corndon. But, of course, to enjoy to perfection views of the land
which feeds the upper waters of the Severn, it is necessary to quit
the valley and obtain a Pisgah sight from some commanding hill. Thence
we look over mile after mile of lowland, woodland, cornfield, and
pasture, undulating downwards from bare rough hillsides on which the
copses often are thickly clinging, to the margins of brooks and to the
bed of the main river. To the west, line after line of hills recedes
more dimly into the distance, till at last one shadow is pointed out
as Plinlimmon, and another, yet fainter, as Cader Idris, and sometimes
an apex of a far-off pyramid is said to be Snowdon. South of us, and
yet more to the east, lie the nearer masses already mentioned, while
in these directions the eye may detect, from some points of view, the
peaked summits of the Caradoc Hills, or may rest upon the huge hog's
back of the Wrekin as it rises abruptly from the Shropshire lowland.
There are few prettier districts in our country than the borderland
between England and Wales; and that part of which we now speak can
hold its own with most others. Here and there, perhaps, the hills are
a little bare, and we seldom find much boldness of outline. In the
Shelve district also, the lead mines with their white spoil-banks
are distinctly an offence to the eye; but the wooded glens are often
singularly beautiful, and the outlook from the heath-covered moorlands
gives a sense of breadth and freedom, like the open sea.
As it nears Shrewsbury, the Severn quits for a time the hill-country,
though it is only near the waterside that the land is distinctly a
plain. The town itself is at the edge of a low plateau, and some of
its streets are fairly steep, though the ascents are not long. The
situation is fine, and in former days, when the town was restricted
to narrower limits, must have been much more striking than it is at
present. The river bends in sharp curves, like a reversed S, as though
the hills had made a final struggle to hold it in bondage. Of these
loops, that on the eastern side is the larger; and it forms a kind of
horseshoe, almost enclosing a hilly headland of moderate elevation,
which shelves down towards the neck of the isthmus, but falls steeply,
sometimes almost precipitously, towards the river brink. Thus, with the
Severn for a moat on more than three sides, and a comparatively narrow
and defensible approach on the fourth, the position is almost a natural
stronghold, and it was selected at a comparatively early date as the
site of a fortified town.
If we could believe certain chroniclers, the history of Shrewsbury
would begin more than four hundred years before the Christian era;
but we can hardly doubt that the town existed in the days of the
Romans. Towards the close of the sixth century English invaders came
marauding up the valley of the Severn, and destroyed the old city of
Wroxeter. For a time the fugitives found a refuge in the fortified
palace of the Princes of Powis, which then stood on the headland now
occupied by Shrewsbury; but before long that stronghold also became
a prey to the plunderers, and the Britons were forced to seek safety
among the fastnesses of Wales. Then Pengwern, as it had been called,
became Scrobesbyrig--"the burgh of bushes"--from which obviously
it has obtained its present name. Before very long its importance
as a frontier town was fully recognised, but at first it remained
small--probably because it was too near Wales for merchants or for
men of peace--so that at the date of Domesday Book, though it had
four churches, it contained only 252 houses. The castle was built a
few years later by Roger de Montgomery, a Norman earl, and a gateway
leading to the inner court is a relic of his work. The enclosing wall
of the town was completed in the reign of Henry III. This follows, as
far as possible, the line of the ancient river-cliff, which on the
southward side is parted from the Severn by a strip of level land.
Portions of this wall still remain, and it can be traced more or less
perfectly along the southern and eastern sides.
The fortress resisted Stephen, who besieged it in 1138; on its fall,
by way of reading a lesson to his enemies, he hanged ninety-four of
the defenders. Later on, Shrewsbury was twice betrayed by the Welsh,
and had one or two other "sensational" experiences, till the famous
fight "for a long hour by Shrewsbury clock." It was a race for the
fortress between Hotspur and Henry IV., which was won by the king,
who succeeded next day in forcing an action at a place since called
Battlefield, about a league north of the town, and a mile from the
Severn. The river figures more than once in the accounts of the
marching and counter-marching connected with the battle, in which, as
everyone knows, the king gained a complete victory, Hotspur falling on
the field. Some of his principal associates felt the headsman's axe
a couple of days after the fight. In the Wars of the Roses the town
was for the House of York, and two sons were born to the Duke within
its walls: one died in infancy, and the other was the younger of the
two lads murdered in the Tower. In the great Civil War the townsmen
repaired their ruined walls and declared for King Charles, who spent
a short time in Shrewsbury early in the struggle; but, later on, they
were caught napping, for two parties of the Parliamentary Army effected
an entrance during the night, one of them by scaling the steep slope
below the old Council House. This daring band was headed by Captain
Benbow, who afterwards took part with Prince Charles, was captured at
Worcester, and was shot on the scene of his former exploit. He was
buried in St. Chad's Church, "October y^e 16th, 1651," as may still
be read on his tombstone. Since then Shrewsbury has dwelt in peace,
and during the last half-century has increased greatly and prospered
proportionally. It is now a very important railway junction; the
station, too small for its present needs, being on the lower ground on
the eastern side of the neck of land already mentioned.
In former days the river was crossed by two bridges only, giving access
to the headland--one from the eastern side, and so called the English
bridge; the other, from the north-western, which, of course, bore the
name of the Welsh bridge. Both were fortified in mediæval times, but
they were rebuilt in more modern fashion during the eighteenth century.
South of the Welsh bridge the plateau occupied by the old town slopes
more gently down to the brink of the Severn. This part--a grassy space,
planted with avenues of trees, which has long borne the name of the
Quarries, from some old excavations--now forms a public park, which,
as may be inferred from the illustration (p. 95), adds greatly to the
attractions of the town. Between the Welsh and English bridges is the
Boathouse Ferry.
Shrewsbury has produced its fair share of eminent men, among whom are
the fighting old admiral, Benbow, and the great naturalist, Charles
Darwin; but for many years past its school has been among its chief
glories. This was one of Edward VI.'s foundations, but it assumed its
present high position as a nursery of scholars under Dr. Butler, who
was appointed headmaster about the beginning of the present century.
A few years ago the ancient site had to be discarded, for more room
had become imperatively necessary, and new buildings were erected
on Kingsland, an excellent site near the edge of the plateau to the
south-west, looking towards the town across the Severn. The old school
buildings, which are on the left-hand side of the road going down to
the railway station, are of considerable architectural interest, for
they date from the end of the sixteenth century; they are now used for
a town museum and free library. But to a lover of architecture, the
especial charm of Shrewsbury lies in its old black-timbered houses. In
these it is richer than any town, even in the West of England, with
the sole exception of Chester. Indeed, even after the "improvements"
which have been rendered necessary by the development of commerce, the
street architecture of Shrewsbury is universally quaint and attractive;
for we find, shuffled together like the cards in a pack, houses of
all dates during the last three centuries. This gives a picturesque
irregularity both to the façades and the sky-lines in the streets.
But these black-timbered houses keep the chance visitor in a constant
state of quiet excitement; he never knows what may be disclosed at
the next turning, for Shrewsbury is pre-eminently a town of pleasant
architectural surprises. Some of the houses are dated; as is usual,
they generally belong to the later part of Elizabeth's reign, and all
probably were built during the half century centring on the year 1600.
The best specimens are Ireland's Mansion in the High Street, and the
group of old shops in Butcher Row, which is considered by Mr. Parker to
be the finest example of the kind in England.
[Illustration: THE BOATHOUSE FERRY, BETWEEN WELSH AND ENGLISH BRIDGES
(_p. 91_).]
[Illustration: SHREWSBURY CASTLE (_p. 90_).]
But if the antiquary halts in Shrewsbury he will not find it very
easy to take his departure. Two of the Shrewsbury churches are
unusually interesting; one, St. Mary's, the principal church of the
town, stands almost on the brink of the river-cliff, a little to the
south of the castle, and its tall tapering spire adds greatly to the
picturesque grouping, which, notwithstanding modern changes, the
town still presents on the eastern side. St. Mary's is a church of
various dates, impossible to describe in a few words; for it has been
altered and augmented repeatedly. There is Norman work in the north
and south porches of the nave and in the basement of the tower; Early
English in the transept; Decorated and Perpendicular in the body of
the church, the east window being a very fine example of the former
style. It has recently undergone considerable structural repairs,
for the upper part of the spire was blown down in a gale early in
the year 1894, and its fall greatly damaged the roof of the nave
and the fittings of the interior. Holy Cross, the other important
church, commonly called the Abbey, stands on the low ground, or in the
Foregate, on the English side of the fortress, on the right bank of
the Severn. It is a relic of an abbey founded by the first Norman lord
of Shrewsbury. The vicissitudes which it has experienced are obvious
at a glance. The rather low western tower, with the bays immediately
adjoining, are evidence of a reconstruction in the fourteenth century;
and Perpendicular work is, on the whole, the more conspicuous in the
western and older part. We rail often--and with good cause--at the
restorers of our own age, but they of the century and a half before
the Reformation were no whit better, as this church can testify. The
east end is modern, for it was destroyed after the dissolution of the
monasteries, and was only rebuilt in 1887; but some fine massive Norman
work remains inside the church, especially in the pillars of the nave,
and there are some interesting monuments. The conventual buildings have
been destroyed, except a stone pulpit, which was once in the refectory,
and now remains looking disconsolately at the rails and trucks in the
goods-yard of the railway; for this occupies the site of the monastic
buildings, and is on the opposite side of the Severn to the station.
[Illustration: QUARRY WALK, SHREWSBURY (_p. 91_).]
[Illustration: ENGLISH BRIDGE, SHREWSBURY (_p. 91_).]
On leaving Shrewsbury, the Severn still continues to wind. Immediately
below the town, it strikes off in a north-easterly direction for well
over a mile, then, again swinging to and fro, it almost touches the
foot of Haughmond Hill, from which it recoils, still oscillating, in
a direction rather east of south. It has now entered an undulating
and fertile district, where in one place its waters flow by some
river-cliff or wooded brae; in another, between fields which shelve
gently down to its brink; in a third, through flat meadows, over which,
as can sometimes be detected, it has taken in past ages more than
one course. Now more extensive views may be obtained, even from its
stream--views to which a distinctive character and a special charm is
often added by the peculiar shapes of the hills which here and there
rise quite suddenly from the lowlands. Of them, Haughmond Hill is one;
the Wrekin is another, but on a far larger scale; the Caradoc Hills are
a third instance, but these form quite a little range. All have the
same origin; they are wedge-like masses of very old and hard rock, the
relics of primæval volcanos, which crop out here and there among the
softer sandstones and marls from which the long-continued action of
rain, stream, and river has carved the Shropshire lowland. Haughmond
Hill looks down upon the scene of the battle between the forces of
Henry IV. and of Hotspur, and is associated with its memories, for
the Douglas, who had come to aid the Percies, while seeking to escape
along its craggy slopes, was so disabled by a fall that he was taken
prisoner. On the western side of the Hautmont--for that was the
original name--a priory was founded by William Fitzalan, in the days
of King Stephen. The monks soon found their way to royal, and even to
papal, favour, for they were permitted to say the divine office in
a low voice and with closed doors, even when the land lay under an
interdict. Then the priory became an abbey of the Augustinian order,
until at last it shared the fate of all others at the Reformation,
passing into lay hands and being cared for no longer. It is now a
complete ruin; the church is gone, though just enough remains to
show that it was cruciform in plan. The monastic buildings have been
nearly destroyed, though a couple of Norman doors remain, and the more
important structures can be identified. The best preserved part is
the chapter-house, in the west front of which are three fine arches
in the Transitional-Norman style. The views from the slopes above are
very attractive, as the eye ranges over the Shropshire lowlands, with
their rich alternations of pasture, cornfield, and wood, to the ridges
already named, and still further towards the Longmynds, the Breiddens,
the Berwyns, and the yet more distant ranges of Wales.
[Illustration: BUILDWAS ABBEY (_p. 98_).]
On winds the Severn, gliding with steady flow by meadows, shelving
fields or copses, till it comes at last to Atcham, with its bridge and
picturesque old church near the waterside. Here was born Ordericus,
afterwards historian of William the Conqueror. About a mile below,
the little Tern adds its waters to the Severn, near the home of the
Berwicks; and yet another mile, and the river glides by the parish
church of Wroxeter, with its interesting Norman work, and the site of
the Romano-British city of Uriconium, on the famous Watling Street
road; founded, as is supposed, about the reign of Trajan, to guard the
passages over the Severn and the outlets from Wales. In the year 577 a
band of West Saxons forced their way, plundering and destroying as they
went, up the rich valley of the Severn. Uriconium was taken, and, as
the bard lamented, "The white town in the valley went up in flames, the
town of white stone gleaming among the green woodland; the hall of its
chieftain left without fire, without light, without song: the silence
broken only by the eagle's scream--the eagle who had swallowed fresh
drink--heart's blood of Kyndylan the Fair." The walls of Uriconium
were three miles in extent, and the area enclosed was larger by nearly
a third than that of Pompeii. Excavations have been made which have
disclosed a basilica, or public hall, a hypocaust belonging to the
baths, and many foundations of houses; but no work of a high class,
either in architecture or in decorative art, has been discovered.
Uriconium at best was only a provincial city, and that in distant
Britain; and even if it had possessed any important buildings, they
would have perished, if not from the fury of the barbarian invaders,
at least by the hands of those in later days, who used it as a quarry.
Most of the things dug up are preserved in the museum at Shrewsbury.
"In the corner of the hypocaust three skeletons were found--one of a
man, and two of women; by the side of the former lay a heap of copper
coins, numbering a hundred and thirty-two, which belonged to the days
of the later emperors, and some bits of rotten wood and rusty iron,
which may have been the fragments of a box. It is supposed that some
poor wretches, perhaps servants at the baths, sought refuge here during
the sack of the city, and then perished, either suffocated by the smoke
of its burning or buried alive by the fallen ruins."[2]
[Illustration: THE SEVERN FROM BENTHALL EDGE (_p. 98_).]
Below Wroxeter, the undulation of the country through which the Severn
now flows, for a time with a straighter course, becomes rather
more strongly marked. The Cound brook joins the river on the right,
flowing down by Condover village, with its Hall, "a perfect specimen
of Elizabethan stonework," and its interesting church and monuments.
Then the Severn glides under a red sandstone cliff and beneath the
wooden bridge of Cressage, with its memories of old oak trees; then
through wooded ravines as the ground begins to rise. On its right bank
copse-clad slopes enrich the view, while in one direction or another
the great hill masses stand out against the sky. Among these the
Wrekin is generally the most conspicuous, and now for a time it rises
on the northern side of the river almost without a rival. It is the
Salopian's landmark--his Olympus or Parnassus--"all round the Wrekin"
is his toast. This is no wonder, for few hills in Britain, considering
its moderate elevation--1,320 feet above the sea--are more imposing in
aspect, because it rises so boldly and abruptly from the lowland; and
though the Salopian could not assert that "twelve fair counties saw the
light" of its beacon fire, as was said of the Malverns, still, from far
distances and from unexpected places the Wrekin is visible. In shape it
is a rather long ridge, steep on either side, capped by three fairly
distinct summits, of which the central is the highest. But from many
points the lower summits seem to be lost in the central one, and the
Wrekin assumes a form rudely resembling a huge tumulus. Like several of
the other hills, it is largely composed of very ancient volcanic rocks.
As we look down the stream, the view before long appears to be closed
by a wooded ridge, which seems at first to prohibit further progress.
This is Benthall Edge, which may be said to begin at Lincoln Hill, on
the left bank of the Severn, and on the opposite side to join on to
Wenlock Edge, to the south-west. It is formed of the Wenlock limestone,
belonging to the Silurian system, and so called from the townlet of
Much Wenlock. This owes its origin and part of its name--for "Much" is
a corruption of _monasterium_, like _moutier_ in French--to its priory,
once famed as "the oldest and most privileged--perhaps the wealthiest
and most magnificent--of the religious houses of Shropshire." Now it
is only a ruin, except that the priory-house is still inhabited, and
is a remarkably good instance of a domestic building of the fifteenth
century. The ruins, however, are very extensive, and in parts most
picturesque. But as they are a league away from the riverside, and
are hid by the wooded slopes of Wenlock Edge, we must turn to another
ruin, which stands on the level strath, almost by the waterside, just
before the hills close in upon the Severn. This is Buildwas Abbey,
formerly an abode of the Cistercians, which bears traces of that
strict order in the simplicity of its architecture. Still, its ruins
are admirable in their noble simplicity. "They impress us with the
power of its designer, who ventured to trust simply to the strength of
his composition and the grace of his outlines, so as to dispense with
almost all ornamentation whatever. It thus gives it a sense of calmness
and repose, for which we seek in vain in works of more modern date."[3]
The style indicates the passage from Norman to Early English; the
influence of the latter, on the whole, predominating. The church and
chapter-house are still in fair preservation. The abbot's house--mainly
thirteenth-century work--has been restored, and is inhabited. The date
of the foundation is a little uncertain; but it is believed to have
been about the middle of the twelfth century. Buildwas was a wealthy
abbey in its day, but made no figure in history.
Through the ridge of Benthall Edge the Severn has sawn its way, so that
the river-valley now becomes almost a gorge, along which, on the abrupt
southern side, the Severn Valley railway has been conducted, and this
not without considerable engineering difficulties. Wooded steeps and
grey crags on either side of the strong stream flowing at their feet
form a series of exquisite pictures, though unhappily not for long, for
a change comes where the dirty hand of man has smirched the face of
Nature. To the north and to the east of the limestone hills lies the
most noted of the Shropshire coalfields, that of Coalbrook Dale, which
is rich also in iron, though its mineral wealth is becoming exhausted.
Dismantled engine-houses and great piles of dark rubbish are only one
shade less unpicturesque than tall chimneys vomiting black fumes,
smelting furnaces, the apparatus of the pit-mouth, and smouldering
spoil-banks. But before the days of "smoke, and wealth, and noise,"
this part of the ravine of the Severn, and even Coalbrook Dale itself,
must have been very beautiful.
Ironbridge is a dingy-looking town, built on the steep hillside,
which gets its name from the metal arch--120 feet in span--by which
the Severn was bridged in the year 1779. On the opposite side of the
river, hardly more than a mile away, is Broseley, noted for pottery and
clay pipes; and another mile west of that, Benthall, equally noted for
encaustic tiles. The neighbourhood of the Severn, as far as Coalport,
has fallen off in beauty as it has increased in wealth. But soon, in a
geological sense, "the old order changeth, yielding place to new": the
Severn quits the coal-measures to enter once more upon the red rocks,
which belong to a more recent period. Smoking chimneys and spoil-banks
are left behind, the valley widens, though the scenery continues to be
far from tame, and we pass on by Linley and by Apley Park; the river
sometimes gliding beneath sandstone crags and steeply sloping woods,
till in about four miles we reach Bridgnorth.
The situation is a striking one: the Severn has carved out a deep and
rather narrow valley in the sandstone rock, and a tributary stream
has fashioned another after a like pattern. Between these the upland
forms a wedge-like promontory, defended on either side by a steep,
almost precipitous, scarp. On this, not very much less than a couple
of hundred feet above the river, the upper town, the church, and the
castle were built. The town has gradually climbed down the eastern
slope towards the Severn, it has spread out along its margin, it has
crossed the stream and has occupied the tract of level meadow on the
opposite side, the two portions being connected by a bridge which is
in part far from modern. From the lower town here to the upper one on
the plateau is a steep ascent, even though the principal road winds up.
The church stands near the edge of the scarp, on which the wall of
its graveyard is built. Needless to say, it commands a very striking
view--sandstone crags, and steeply shelving woods and green fields
beyond, with the river and the lower town in the glen beneath. The
most interesting part of Bridgnorth is its broad High Street, bounded
at one end by a gateway, with the old market hall--a black and white
structure, of the date 1652, which is supported on brick arches. This
street also contains one or two fine houses of about the same era.
Others, again, will be found in or near to the churchyard, and yet
another near the end of the street, which descends so steeply as the
main way to the lower town. This, which bears the date 1580, is a
particularly good specimen of the black-timbered houses so abundant
in the valley of the Severn. Here, in the year 1729, Percy was born,
the collector and editor of the "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry."
Bridgnorth Castle also must not be forgotten; occupying the extremity
of the promontory already mentioned, it was a place of great strength
in olden days, and stood more than one siege. It was destroyed after
holding out for a month for King Charles. The most conspicuous remnant
is a massive wall, a portion of the keep, which has heeled over to one
side, at so great an angle--about 17 degrees--that it looks actually
unsafe. The adjacent church was designed by Telford, the eminent
engineer, to whom we are more indebted for the suspension bridge over
the Menai Straits than for this rather ugly Renaissance building.
[Illustration: IRONBRIDGE (_p. 99_).]
[Illustration: 1. THE SEVERN IN WYRE FOREST. 2. NEAR SHRAWLEY. 3.
QUATFORD. 4. OLD HOUSES AT BEWDLEY (_p. 102_).]
For some miles below Bridgnorth the valley of the Severn is extremely
pretty, the banks half slopes of pasture, half masked with trees. "Now
it is a little wider, now a little narrower, the hills a little steeper
here or a little more wooded there, the grass by the riverside always
green, the Severn sweeping on as it swings from side to side of the
valley," and breaking here and there into a series of little rapids.
It passes Quatford, the site of a Saxon fortress, which was erected in
the tenth century, and through the Forest of Morf, long since brought
under cultivation. Quatford was a place of some importance till some
years after the Conquest, when Bridgnorth was built, and most of its
inhabitants removed to the new stronghold. The river leaves on its
western side the old Forest of Wyre, which, though it still retains
some pretty woods, had lost its best trees even so long ago as the days
of Camden. It is now better known as a coalfield, though it is not one
of much commercial importance.
The Severn glides on beneath the wide arch of an iron railway bridge
and across the parting of Shropshire and Worcestershire to Bewdley,
pleasantly situated on a slope by the river-bank, and well worthy
of its name, _Beau lieu_. In olden times it had an extensive trade
by means of the river, when it was a place of import and export,
especially for the Principality. All the country round is pretty,
notwithstanding occasional symptoms of factories. The lanes are
sometimes cut deep in the red sandstone, and here and there the rock is
hollowed out into dwellings after a primæval fashion. Three miles or so
away to the east is busy but unpicturesque Kidderminster, famed for its
carpets. Stourport follows, not less busy, and yet less picturesque,
where the Severn is joined by the river after which the place is named.
Here the construction of the Worcestershire and Staffordshire Canal has
turned a hamlet into a town. Undulating ground on either hand, the long
low line of the Lickey Hills some miles away to the east, the slightly
more varied forms of the Abberley Hills on the west, limit a piece of
country pleasant to the eye through which the Severn flows for several
miles, past Shrawley and Ombersley. Then the valley becomes a little
broader and flatter. The scarp of the Cotswolds, with Bredon Cloud as
an advanced bastion, replaces the Lickey Hills, and on the other side,
as the tower of Worcester Cathedral grows more and more conspicuous in
the view, the Malvern Hills, with their mountain-like outlines, divert
the attention from their humbler advanced post on the north. There are
no places of importance near the Severn, though Hartlebury Palace,
which has belonged to the See of Worcester for over a thousand years,
lies about a league away on the east.
Worcester has no special charm in point of situation, though the river
itself and the distant hills are always an attraction, but some of its
streets are quaint, and its cathedral is grand. The site, comparatively
level, but raised well above the river, early attracted settlers, and
it is believed to have been inhabited before the days of the Romans.
It figures from time to time in our history, but its most stirring
days were in the Civil War, when it took the king's side, was twice
besieged, twice compelled to surrender, and twice suffered severely
for its "malignity." But even the king's death did not bring peace to
Worcester, for it was occupied by the younger Charles, and the decisive
battle which crushed the hopes of the Cavaliers was fought in its
very streets. Since the Restoration it has been undisturbed, and has
prospered, especially since it added the manufacture of porcelain to
that of gloves, for which it has long been famed, the compounding of
sauce to the potting of lampreys, and took to making bricks and yet
more strongly scented chemicals.
[Illustration: _Photo: Harvey Barton, Bristol._
WORCESTER CATHEDRAL, FROM THE SEVERN.]
The cathedral overlooks the Severn, its precincts being almost bounded
by the river-bank. It is a noble pile, the tall central tower being a
conspicuous object for many a mile away in the valley, though it has
been, perhaps, overmuch restored. Parts, however, of the fabric had
become so decayed that it was thought necessary to re-build them. A
crypt belongs to a building erected soon after the Norman Conquest, but
the greater part of the present structure is Early English, and very
beautiful work of its kind, being begun about 1225. The nave, however,
is of later date, with the exception of one or two incorporated
fragments of the preceding cathedral. Some of the monuments also are
interesting. Though King John loved not churches, he lies in the
middle of the choir, where his effigy remains, the earliest one of a
royal personage in England; a beautiful chantry chapel commemorates
Prince Arthur, the elder brother of Henry VIII., and no visitor
is likely to forget the mysterious gravestone with its single and
sorrowful inscription, "_Miserrimus_." Cloisters, chapter-house, and
other portions of the conventual buildings still remain, though the
fine old Guesten Hall was destroyed not many years ago. The town also
retains some fairly interesting houses, though neither these nor the
twelve parish churches are likely to divert the visitors' attention
from the cathedral.
Below Worcester the Teme comes into the Severn from the west. Few
rivers of its size pass through more charming or more interesting
scenery. It collects a group of streams that have risen among the
great hill-masses on the edges of Radnor and Montgomery, and in the
southern part of Shropshire. They have flowed by craggy slopes and wild
moorland, by lonely farms and quiet villages, by ancestral oaks and
ancient halls, by ruined forts and many a relic of primæval folk. But
on these we must not linger; a glance at Ludlow must suffice. It is
one of the most attractive towns in England--church and castle crown
a hill between the Teme and the Corve, and from it the streets run
down the slope. In olden time Ludlow was a place of great importance,
for the castle was the chief of thirty-two that guarded the Welsh
Marches, and here the Lords Presidents of Wales held their courts.
Even after this state had passed away, the town was a centre of county
society. The castle, a picturesque ruin, crowns the headland, the
inner court occupying its north-western angle, and the main block
of buildings overlooks a wooded cliff. These are of various dates,
from Norman to Tudor; the most remarkable being a curious little
circular chapel of Late Norman work, which now stands alone, its small
chancel having disappeared. The castle witnessed sharp fighting more
than once in the Border Wars, and finally surrendered to the troops
of the Parliament. Here died Arthur, Prince of Wales, son of Henry
VII.; here also Milton wrote "The Masque of Comus" and Butler part of
"Hudibras." The church--a grand building in the Perpendicular style,
on a commanding site--is justly designated one of the noblest parish
churches in England. There are several good specimens of timber-work
among the older houses; the most striking, perhaps, being the Reader's
House in the churchyard, and the Feathers Inn. The grand old trees
in Oakley Park, the Clee Hills, Stokesay Castle, Tenbury Church, and
St. Michael's College, are but a few of the many attractions of the
surrounding district.
[Illustration: LUDLOW (_p. 104_).]
For some fourteen miles below Worcester the Severn flows through its
wide and pleasant valley without passing near any place of special
interest, unless it be Kemsey, with its fine church standing within
the enclosure of a Roman camp, or Upton, which makes much vinegar and
enjoys, besides, considerable traffic up and down the river; for its
bridge, in place of a central arch, has a platform which can be raised
to let vessels pass. But the foreground scenery, fertile and wooded,
is often very pretty: the scarp bounding the limestone uplands of the
Cotswolds is pleasant to see, and the range of the Malverns is always
beautiful. Passing thus through a fertile land, we come to Tewkesbury,
with its abbey church, less magnificent but hardly less interesting
than the Cathedral of Worcester, and its black-timbered houses not far
behind those of Shrewsbury. But as this town belongs to the Avon even
more than to the Severn, it shall be described in connection with the
former river.
[Illustration: THE SEVERN AT TEWKESBURY.]
[Illustration: _Photo: E. H. Speight, Rugby._
THE AVON NEAR RUGBY (_p. 108_).]
THE SEVERN.
CHAPTER II.
THE UPPER OR WARWICKSHIRE AVON.
The Watershed of Central England--Naseby--Rugby--The
Swift--Lutterworth and Wiclif--Stoneleigh Abbey and
Kenilworth Castle--Guy's Cliff--The Leam--Warwick and
its Castle--Stratford-on-Avon and its Shakespeare
Associations--Evesham--Pershore--Tewkesbury.
The Avon is a typical river of the English lowlands, and it is
surpassed by few in the quiet beauty of its scenery or in the
places of interest on its banks. It rises in the northern part of
Northamptonshire, on an elevated plateau, the highest spot on which is
nearly 700 feet above sea-level. This forms the watershed of Central
England, for on it also the Welland and the Nen begin their courses
to the Wash. But it is not only the source of an historic stream, it
is also the scene of an historic event. Almost on the highest ground
is Naseby Church, and to the north of that, quite in the corner of
the county, is the fatal "field" where the forces of Charles and of
Cromwell met in a death-grip and the King's cause was hopelessly lost.
It was more than a defeat, it was an utter rout. Henceforth Charles was
"like a hunted partridge, flitting from one castle to another."
From this upland country--pleasantly varied by cornfield, pasture, and
copses--the Avon makes its way to the northern margin of the county,
and then, working round to the south-west, forms for a while the
boundary between it and Leicestershire. Entering Warwickshire, the Avon
passes near Rugby. All know the great railway junction, immortalised
by Charles Dickens, and the famous school, with its memories of old
Laurence Sheriffe the founder, and Dr. Arnold, its great headmaster.
Then the river is joined by the tributary Swift, which, while hardly
more than a brook, has rippled by the little town of Lutterworth.
There, higher up the slope, is the church where Wiclif ministered, the
pulpit from which he preached. There, spanning the stream, is a little
bridge, the successor of that from which the ashes, after his bones
had been dug up and burnt by order of the Council of Constance, were
flung into the water. So the Swift bore them to the Avon, and the Avon
to the Severn, and that to the sea, to be dispersed abroad into all
lands--"which things are an allegory."
[Illustration: THE UPPER OR WARWICKSHIRE AVON.]
The Avon flows on through the pretty, restful scenery of Warwickshire,
which has been rendered classic by the authoress of "Adam Bede,"
twisting in great curves gradually more and more to the south. It
leaves, some three miles away from its right bank, the spires and
ancient mansions of Coventry--once noted for its ribbons, now busy in
making cycles; it sweeps round Stoneleigh Abbey, with its beautiful
park and fine old oaks, where a comparatively modern mansion has
replaced a Cistercian monastery. On the opposite side, half a league
away, are the ruins of Kenilworth Castle, with their memories of
Leicester and Queen Elizabeth. It glides beneath Guy's Cliff, where
the famous Earl, the slayer of the Dun Cow, after his return from the
Holy Land, dwelt in a cave as a hermit, unrecognised, till the hour of
his death, by his own wife, though she daily gave him alms. A little
further, and a short distance away on the left, on the tributary Leam,
is the modern town of Leamington, which began a career of prosperity
just a century ago on the discovery of sundry mineral springs. Then the
Avon sweeps by the foot of the hill on which stands the old town of
Warwick. The site is an ideal one--a hill for a fortress, a river for
a moat--and has thus been occupied from a distant antiquity. Briton,
Roman, Saxon--all are said to have held in turn the settlement, till
the Norman came and built a castle. The town retains two of its gates
and several old timbered houses, one of which, the Leicester Hospital,
founded in 1571, is perhaps the finest in the Midlands; and on the top
of the hill, set so that "it cannot be hid," is the great church of St.
Mary. It is in the Perpendicular style, more or less, for the tower
and nave were rebuilt after a great fire in 1694, the choir escaping
with little injury. Two fine tombs of the Earls of Warwick are in this
part, but the glory of the church is the Beauchamp Chapel, with its
far-famed altar-tomb and effigy of Richard Beauchamp, the founder. He
died in 1439; and near him lie the Earl of Leicester, Queen Elizabeth's
favourite, and other members of the house of Dudley.
[Illustration: WARWICK CASTLE.]
Warwick Castle is one of the most picturesquely situated mansions
in England. It stands on a rocky headland, which descends almost
precipitously to the Avon. One of our illustrations (p. 111) may give
some notion of the beauty of the view over the rich river-plain; the
other (p. 109) indicates the aspect of the castle itself. A mediæval
fortress has been gradually transformed into a modern mansion, yet it
retains an air of antiquity and not a little of the original structure.
It incorporates portions of almost all dates, from the Norman Conquest
to the present day. The oldest part is the lofty tower, called Cæsar's
tower, which must have been erected not many years after the victory
at Hastings. The residential part mostly belongs to the fourteenth
and fifteenth centuries, though alterations and additions have been
made, especially during the restoration, which was rendered necessary
by a lamentable fire in 1871. We must leave it to the guide-books to
describe the pictures, antiquities, and curiosities which the castle
contains--relics of the Civil War, when it was in vain besieged by the
king's forces, the sword and porridge-pot of the legendary Guy, and
the famous Warwick Vase, dug up near Tivoli at Hadrian's Villa. But
the view from the windows is so beautiful that the visitor will often
find a difficulty in looking at pictures on the walls; he will be well
rewarded if afterwards he stroll down towards the old mill by the
riverside.
After leaving Warwick the Avon keeps winding towards the south-western
boundary of the county till, before reaching this, it arrives at
another and yet more noted town. Stratford-on-Avon is a household word
wherever the English tongue is spoken. No American thinks his visit to
the country of his ancestors is complete till he has made a pilgrimage
to the birthplace and the grave of Shakespeare--nay, even our distant
kinsmen in Germany are not seldom drawn thither by the same magnetic
force. The town, till the days of railways, was a quietly prosperous,
old-fashioned place, in harmony with the scenery of the neighbourhood.
This is thoroughly characteristic of the Midlands, and exhibits one
of their most attractive types. "The Avon, a fairly broad bright
stream, sweeps silently along on its way to the Severn, through level
meadows, where the grass grows green and deep. The higher ground on
either side rolls gently down, descending sometimes to the margin of
the stream, but elsewhere parted from it by broad stretches of level
valley. The slopes are dotted with cornfields, and varied by clumps
of trees and lines of hedgerow timber. It is a peaceful, unexciting
land, where hurry would seem out of place."[4] The little house where
Shakespeare was born--in 1564, on the 23rd of April, as they say--after
many vicissitudes has been saved to the nation, and perhaps a little
over-restored. It is a parcel-timbered dwelling without enrichment--one
of those common in the Midlands--such as would be inhabited by an
ordinary burgess of a country town.
[Illustration: THE AVON FROM WARWICK CASTLE (_p. 110_).]
When Shakespeare returned, a prosperous man, to his birthplace, he
lived in a much better house near the church, which he purchased in
1597. This, however, was pulled down by an ill-tempered clerical
vandal in the middle of the last century. Shottery, where we can still
see the cottage of Anne Hathaway, whom Shakespeare loved not wisely
but too well, is a mile away; and about four times that distance is
the picturesque old brick and stone mansion of Charlecote, with its
beautiful park. Here dwelt Sir Thomas Lucy, with whose deer the youth
made too free, and on account of whose anger he ran away to London. The
dramatist, it is said, took his revenge on the knight in the portrait
of Justice Shallow, but when he looked back on the ultimate results of
his flight from Stratford he might have justly said, "All's well that
ends well!"
[Illustration: STRATFORD-ON-AVON CHURCH.]
[Illustration: SHAKESPEARE'S HOUSE (_p. 111_).]
In the month of his birth, 1616, Stratford Church received the body
of William Shakespeare. "Church and churchyard are worthy of being
connected with so great a memory. The former is a fine cruciform
structure, crowned with a central spire; the latter a spacious tract,
planted with aged trees. An avenue of limes leads up to the church
porch, between which, perhaps, the poet often passed to worship, and
whose quivering shadows may one sad day have fallen upon his coffin.
But there is a part of the God's acre where, perhaps, more than any
other, we may think of him, for it is one which can hardly have
failed to tempt him to musing. The Avon bounds the churchyard, and
by its brink is a terraced walk, beneath a row of fine old elms. On
the one hand, through the green screens of summer foliage, or through
the chequered lattice-work of winter boughs, we see the grey stones
of the church--here the tracery of a window, there a weather-beaten
pinnacle--then, through some wider gap, the spire itself. On the other
hand, beneath the terrace wall, the Avon slowly and silently glides
along by bridge and town, by water-meadows, bright with celandine in
spring and thick with lush grass in June."[5]
The church, once collegiate, is an unusually fine one, partly Early
English, partly Decorated, but mostly Perpendicular in style. To the
last belongs the chancel, where Shakespeare is buried, with his wife,
daughter, and other relations. His monument, with the bust, is on the
north wall, and his grave with the quaint inscription is near at hand,
both too well known to need description; but though this one great
memory pervades the place, almost to the exclusion of all beside, there
are other tombs of interest, and the church of itself is well worth a
visit.
About a league below Stratford, the Avon becomes a county boundary,
separating Warwickshire from the north of Gloucestershire. Then it
returns to the former county, and lastly enters Worcestershire. Its
valley becomes more and more definitely marked as the river cuts its
way through the upland, which forms the eastern limit of the broad Vale
of Severn. On a peninsula of Worcestershire made by a southward sweep
of the stream, near the boundary of the two other counties, stands an
historic town, Evesham, which gives its name to the beautiful vale.
A ruined archway and a noble tower are the sole relics of its once
famous abbey. This was founded early in the eighth century, on a spot
where they said both a swineherd and a bishop had seen a vision of the
Virgin. Ultimately it was attached to the Benedictine order, became
one of the most wealthy monasteries, with one of the grandest churches
in the West. It was exceptionally rich in relics and ornaments. The
shrine of the founder was a superb specimen of the goldsmith's work;
the forms of worship were unusually sumptuous. But at last the crash
came, and the spoiler's hand fell with exceptional weight on the abbey
of Evesham. "The estates were confiscated and parcelled out, and the
abbey was dismantled and given away to Sir Philip Hoby, a gentleman of
Worcestershire, who shortly afterwards seems to have leased out the
magnificent buildings of abbey and monastery as a quarry for stone,
and thus it continued to be for many a day." So now "it can hardly be
called a ruin";[6] but the beautiful tower still remains, which stood
at the entrance of the cemetery, and was meant for clock and bells.
This was only completed just before the surrender of the abbey. Near it
are two churches, each of fair size, each with its own steeple, chapels
founded by the monks for the use of the townsfolk. The three, as shown
in our illustration (p. 117), form a very striking group.
But this quiet town in a peaceful valley was once disturbed by the
noise of battle, and witnessed a crisis in English history. Prince
Edward, son of Henry III., had contrived by masterly generalship to
prevent the junction of the armies of Simon de Montfort and his son.
The former was encamped at Evesham. The Prince's army blocked his
one outlet by land; a detachment of it had cut off a retreat by the
bridges over the river. The fight from the first was hopeless; De
Montfort's troops were inferior: "The Welsh fled at the first onset
like sheep, and were cut ruthlessly down in the cornfields and gardens
where they had sought refuge. The little group of knights around Simon
fought desperately, falling one by one till the Earl was left alone.
So terrible were his sword-strokes that he had all but gained the
hill-top when a lance-thrust brought his horse to the ground; but Simon
still rejected the summons to yield, till a blow from behind felled
him, mortally wounded, to the ground. Then with a last cry of 'It is
God's grace,' the soul of the great patriot passed away."[7]
The beauty and richness of the Vale of Evesham are proverbial; it is
a land of corn and orchards, and it widens out as the Avon winds on
in rounding the northern extremity of the Cotswolds. After a time the
stream makes a great undulating sweep to the northward, as if to avoid
the outlying mass of Dundry Hill, and brings us to another country
town and another fragment of a grand church of olden time. Pershore
was founded in the tenth century, as was Evesham, and only a few years
afterwards; it too passed under the rule of the Benedictines, and
was richly endowed by a pious Saxon noble, not only with lands, but
also with relics. Pershore, however, was less uniformly prosperous
than Evesham. Edward the Confessor gave of its lands to his new abbey
at Westminster. William the Conqueror took of them for himself or
his courtiers. For all that, money was found for rebuilding, and for
rearing a glorious structure, resembling those at Gloucester and
Tewkesbury, in the latter part of the eleventh century. The choir was
again re-built in the thirteenth; the central tower dates from the
middle of the fourteenth. The Reformation here, as elsewhere, was
a time of plunder and destruction--nave, lady-chapel, and monastic
buildings were pulled down; the people of Pershore, to their honour,
purchased the rest of the church, and thus saved it from annihilation.
The north transept fell down at a later date; but what is left has been
carefully repaired and restored, and this fragment has been justly
called one of the noblest specimens of Norman and Early English work
that our country possesses.
Though the foreground scenery, as the two valleys merge, becomes less
striking, the more distant views are always attractive; for the scarp
bounding the limestone uplands of the Cotswolds forms a pleasant
feature, and the range of the Malverns is beautiful in its outline.
At last, just before its confluence with the Severn, the Avon brings
us to another interesting town--Tewkesbury, on the left bank of the
latter river, and within half a mile of the former one. Tewkesbury
has an abbey church, not so magnificent, but hardly less interesting
than that of Worcester, while it is not less rich than Shrewsbury in
black-timbered houses. Here the course of the Severn is interrupted by
a weir and a lock, constructed in order to make the river navigable
to Worcester for vessels of larger tonnage, and is crossed by a fine
bridge of iron. It receives the Avon, by the side of which the town
is built, and this stream is spanned by another and ancient bridge of
stone. The streets, with their old timbered houses, are a delight to
the antiquary: they usually have bay windows carried the whole height
of the front, the "Wheatsheaf Inn" being one of the best specimens.
The abbey, however, is the glory of the town, and in ancient days,
before Tewkesbury mustard became a proverb, made its name known all
over England. It claims as its founder two kings of Mercia, rather
more than eleven and a half centuries ago, and in any case appears to
carry back its history almost to this time. But the greater part of
the present church was erected early in the twelfth century, though
the choir was re-constructed about two centuries afterwards. Yet this,
though graceful Decorated work in the upper part, maintains the massive
Norman piers below, the combination producing a rather unusual effect.
But not only so, the choir terminates in an apse, a feature not very
common in our English churches, and certainly not the least among the
attractions of Tewkesbury. Central tower, transept, and nave are mainly
Norman; and the west end is peculiar, for it terminates in a huge arch,
which occupies almost the whole of the façade, and in which a great
Perpendicular window has been inserted. It has a curiously incomplete
look, so, possibly, the architect contemplated the addition of a façade
with towers. The church also is unusually rich in chantries and ancient
monuments, secular and ecclesiastical.
[Illustration: _Photo: Harvey Barton, Bristol._
THE AVON AT STRATFORD (_p. 110_).]
[Illustration: _Photo: Harvey Barton, Bristol._
EVESHAM (_p. 114_).]
Tewkesbury, too, has a place in English history, for on the meadows
south of the abbey was fought the last battle between the houses of
Lancaster and York, and the Red Rose was trampled in the mire. Margaret
of Anjou was taken prisoner; her only son, Edward, was stabbed by the
Yorkists--it is said after the Duke of York had struck him in the
face with his gauntlet; and a large number of the chief men on the
losing side were killed or were executed after the battle. Some of
them fled to the abbey for sanctuary. Edward and his soldiers came
in hot pursuit, but a priest, bearing the Host, confronted them on
the threshold, nor would he move until the victor promised to spare
the lives of the fugitives. But on the third day afterwards a troop
of soldiers broke into the building, dragged out the refugees, and
promptly struck off their heads. Revenge proved stronger than religion!
[Illustration: THE AVON AT TEWKESBURY.]
The young prince lies in a nameless grave beneath the central tower
of the abbey; and other illustrious victims of the battle were
buried within its walls. The building itself has had more than one
narrow escape from destruction: it was seriously injured by a fire
in the later part of the twelfth century; at the suppression of the
monasteries it was placed on the list of "superfluous" buildings and
doomed to be pulled down by the greedy vandals of that age. But the
good folk of Tewkesbury bought it for themselves, and thus preserved
one of the finest and most interesting ecclesiastical buildings in
the West Country. They have well earned the gratitude of posterity.
The monastic buildings, however, to a great extent have disappeared.
The cloisters, which seem to have resembled those at Gloucester, are
unfortunately gone, but the monks' infirmary, with some adjacent
buildings, has been incorporated into a mansion called Abbey House, and
the principal gateway still remains. Tewkesbury, in short, is to the
lover of architecture far the most interesting town of its size in the
valley of the Severn.
[Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF TEWKESBURY.]
THE SEVERN.
CHAPTER III.
FROM TEWKESBURY TO THE SEA.
Deerhurst--Gloucester--The "Bore"--May Hill--Minsterworth--
Westbury-on-Severn--Newnham--Berkeley Castle--Lydney--Sharpness
--The Severn Tunnel--The Estuary--A Vanished River.
Below Tewkesbury several pleasant places, country-houses, parks
and quiet villages are situated on the lowland, or on the gentle
undulations which diversify the width of the valley, but few are of
special interest, except the little church of Deerhurst, standing
near the waterside, which was built, as an inscription now preserved
at Oxford has recorded, in the year 1056. The greater part of the
comparatively lofty tower, with some portions of the body of the
church, belongs to this age; but the latter to a considerable extent
has been rebuilt at various dates, and its plan altered. There was a
priory of earlier foundation, but of this nothing of interest remains.
But for some miles a great tower has been rising more and more
distinctly above the lush water-meadows, as did that of Worcester
on the higher reaches of the Severn. It is another cathedral, on a
scale yet grander than the former one, the centre of the old city of
Gloucester, which for not a few years has been rapidly increasing;
but all about the precincts and in the original streets are many
picturesque remnants of the last and preceding centuries, while its
churches surpass those of Worcester.
Gloucester, as it guards the Severn, and is one of the natural
approaches to Wales, very early became a place of mark. An important
station for the Roman troops, it was in the days of Bede a very notable
town, not only in the Mercian kingdom, but also in all Britain. At
Gloucester the first of its Christian kings founded a monastery about
eighty years after the landing of Augustine; and when the Dane began
to harry England the town had not seldom to fight and sometimes to
suffer. Saxon and the earlier Norman kings often visited it. Probably
in few cathedrals out of London--except, perhaps, Winchester--were
royal worshippers so frequent. Henry III., a boy of ten, was crowned
here, and had a particular affection for the town. Hither the murdered
Edward II. was brought for burial; Parliaments were held in the city;
and most of the kings up to the sixteenth century paid it at least one
visit. But when the great Civil War broke out, Gloucester took the
side of the Parliament. So, presently, the Royal troops and Charles
himself appeared before its walls. For about four weeks it was closely
invested, and its defenders were in sore straits, till Essex raised the
siege. As a penalty the walls were destroyed after the Restoration.
That did no real harm; the city was quietly prosperous, till it was
quickened to a more active life by becoming a railway junction, when
the "break of gauge" provided many a subject for _Punch_.
[Illustration: THE SEVERN, FROM TEWKESBURY TO THE SEA.]
The cathedral stands well within the old city, a good quarter of a mile
from the Severn. One rose on this site before the Norman Conquest, but
that was destroyed by fire--the crypt beneath the choir being the only
relic--and another building was erected in the last dozen years of the
eleventh century. Notwithstanding great and conspicuous alterations,
the shell of this structure is comparatively intact. The nave has
undergone the least change, and is a very fine example of the earlier
work in that style. It resembles Tewkesbury in the increased height
of the piers and consequent dwarfing of the triforium, thus differing
from, and not improving on, the great Norman cathedrals of Eastern
England; the choir is also of the same age, though the older work is
often almost concealed beneath a veil of Perpendicular tracery; and
the east window, of the latter date, is the largest in England. The
roof also is a magnificent piece of vaulting. In fact, all the eastern
part, including the transept, was remodelled between the years 1337
and 1377, but the roof of the nave had been already replaced nearly a
century earlier than the former date. The latest conspicuous changes
in the cathedral were the additions of the grand Lady Chapel and of
the central tower. The former was grafted on to its little Norman
predecessor in the last forty years of the fifteenth century, and its
great Perpendicular east window still preserves the stained glass with
which it was filled on the completion of the structure. The east window
of the choir also contains the original glass, which is a yet finer
specimen of the art, and is older by nearly a hundred and fifty years.
The central tower was begun at the same time, but was not completed
till some thirty years later. It has few rivals in Britain; some
prefer that in the same position at Lincoln, others Bell Harry Tower at
Canterbury. Gloucester, at any rate, is the most ornate, even if it be
not the most beautiful.
[Illustration: _Photo: H. W. Watson, Gloucester._
GLOUCESTER.]
[Illustration: _Photo: Hudson._
THE SEVERN BRIDGE, SHARPNESS (_p 123_).]
The old stained glass, the exquisite tracery of its windows, walls and
roof, give exceptional richness to the eastern half of the cathedral,
but in addition to this, it possesses several remarkable monuments.
The luckless Robert Courthose, eldest son of the Conqueror, who died a
prisoner at Cardiff Castle, was buried before the high altar. His tomb
and effigy, contrary to the usual custom, are of wood (Irish oak), but
whether they are contemporaneous is uncertain. The yet more luckless
Edward II. was brought from Berkeley Castle to lie under the central
arch on the north side of the choir. There his son and successor raised
a memorial, which is not surpassed by any in England. Despised in
life, this Edward was honoured in death--such is the irony of fate.
A constant stream of pilgrims flocked to his grave as to that of an
uncanonised saint, and the magnificent reconstruction of the choir was
the fruit of their offerings.
Telford spanned the Severn with an arch of stone 150 feet in diameter,
and below Gloucester the railway runs on a viaduct across the meadows,
Alney Island, and the river. The valley now is becoming very wide, and
seems to hint that before long the Severn will broaden into an estuary.
The river begins to swing in huge curves through the level meadows.
The tidal wave, called "the bore," sometimes attains a considerable
height, and is one of its "wonders." The Malvern Hills have receded
into the background, and their place is taken by May Hill, famous among
geologists; on the opposite side the scarp of the Cotswolds continues,
though with a rather more broken outline; but outlying hills come
nearer to the city.
The Severn ebbs and flows by Minsterworth, where Gwillim is buried,
whose heraldry was beloved by country squires. The main high road,
when possible, keeps away from the stream, for the land lies low and
is liable to floods. Westbury-on-Severn is the first place of mark--a
small town with a rather large church noted for having a separate
steeple, the spire of which is of wood. The Severn here has pressed
against higher ground and has carved it into a low cliff, which affords
sections well known to every geologist; and in the neighbourhood iron
ore is worked, as it has been for many a century. Newnham comes next,
a market-town, and an outlet for the important mining district of the
Forest of Dean, which lies a few miles away to the west. It still
preserves a sword of state given to it by King John, and there is some
old Norman work in its church.
The Severn is now changing from a river to an estuary. No places of
importance lie near the riverside, and its scenery is becoming marshy
and monotonous; but some distance away to the east is Berkeley, an
old town with an old castle, memorable for the murder of the hapless
Edward; and on the other side is Lydney, a quaint little town with a
small inland harbour, a market cross, and a fine old church. In the
adjacent park, on a kind of elevated terrace overlooking the valley,
are the remains of a group of Roman villas, from which many coins,
pieces of pottery, and other relics have been unearthed.
At Sharpness, above Lydney, a railway crosses the Severn by a long
bridge of twenty-eight arches, a magnificent work; but below it
ferryboats were the only communication from shore to shore till in 1886
the completion of the Severn Tunnel linked Bristol and the West more
closely to the eastern part of South Wales. At this point the river
is more than two and a quarter miles across; but the tunnel itself
is about double that length. This, the greatest work of its kind in
Britain, was completed by the late Sir John Hawkshaw.
The banks become yet farther apart, the water is salt, the tide ebbs
and flows, as in the sea. The estuary, indeed, continues for many a
mile, still retaining the form of a river-valley. Very probably there
was a time when a Severn flowed along a broad valley, where now the
Bristol Channel parts England from South Wales, to join another stream
which had descended over land, now sunk beneath the Irish Sea, and the
two rivers discharged their united waters into a more distant Atlantic
Ocean; but that was very long ago, so that our task is now completed.
We have followed the Severn from its source to its ending--till our
brook has become a river, and our river has become a sea.
/T. G. Bonney./
[Illustration: A BEND OF THE WYE.]
THE WYE.
"The Notorious Hill of Plinlimmon"--The Stronghold of Owen
Glendower--Llangurig--Rhayader Gwy--Llyn-Gwyn--The Elan, the Ithon,
and the Yrfon--Llandrindod--Builth--Aberedw and the Last Prince of
Wales--Hay--Clifford Castle and the Fair Rosamond--Hereford--The
Lug--"The Wonder"--Ross and John Kyrle--Goodrich Castle--Coldwell
Rocks--Symond's Yat--Monmouth--The Monnow, the Dore, and
the Honddu--Wordsworth's Great Ode--Tintern Abbey--The
Wyndcliff--Chepstow--The Lower Reaches.
Like many another thing of beauty, the /Wye/ is born amidst
surroundings dreary and dismal. Plinlimmon, the monarch of the vast
waste of hills that forms the southern portion of the Cambrian system,
has three heads. But no one can point the finger of scorn at him on
that account, for great are his cares as he stands there in that region
of morass and bog, the father of five rivers. His chief head, towering
to the sky, gathers from the heavy clouds as they drift across the land
the raindrops and the mist, and these, trickling down his shoulders,
are gathered into five different courses, and, hurrying on their way,
form the five rivers--the Severn, the Wye, the Rheidol, which flows
to Aberystwyth, and the Dulas and the Llyffnant, which by different
courses flow to the Dovey. Moreover, the rugged, austere mountain has
long been spoken lightly of; for a shepherd--it would never do to call
him an humble shepherd--who, in the early part of the present century,
had the right to sell ale and small beer in his cottage up amongst the
mountain-tops, had a board hung out with this modest sentence, which,
to be sure, soon became classic, painted upon it: "The notorious hill
of Plinlimmon is on these premises, and it will be shown with pleasure
to any gentleman travellers who wishes to see it." So, what with the
clouds and mists resting upon his head, the large family of rivers he
has to feed, and the slighting language that is held towards him, the
"notorious hill of Plinlimmon" is bald and sad and sodden. Unless,
therefore, the traveller is fond of dreariness and dankness, he will
scarcely find this a profitable journey to make--this climb to the very
source of the Wye.
[Illustration: _Photos: Hudson._
VIEWS IN THE LOWER ELAN VALLEY (_p. 128_).]
Legend, however, weaves a charm over many an else dreary waste, and
up amongst the scramble of hills of which Plinlimmon is monarch,
legend and history unapocryphal combine to fill the home of mists with
interest for all who love a stirring tale. Here, at the very source of
the Wye, Owain Glyndwr--the Owen Glendower of Shakespeare's _King Henry
IV._--who could call spirits from the vasty deep, had his stronghold,
and gathered around him his vicious little band of followers:--
"Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head
Against my power: thrice from the banks of Wye
And sandy-bottomed Severn have I sent him
Bootless home, and weather-beaten back."
This he truthfully told his fellow-conspirators. Plinlimmon and the
surrounding country is rich in records and legends concerning this
turbulent prince, whose very birth, on May 28th, 1354, is said to have
been attended by remarkable premonitions of coming trouble, for it is
told that on that eventful night his father's horses were found in
their stalls standing in a bath of blood that reached to their bellies.
This is the popular account, but Shakespeare's imagination created
other and farther-reaching warnings to the world concerning the fiery
spirit that had been ushered upon the scene:--
"At my nativity
The front of Heaven was full of fiery shapes,
Of burning cressets; and at my birth
The frame and huge foundation of the earth
Shak'd like a coward."
From this lofty region, half earth and half sky--for the Wye can lay
claim to trace its source to the very clouds that hang thick upon
Plinlimmon's head--the tiny rivulet bounds down the mountain-side, and
the Fates, catching at a myriad of still smaller rills, braid them
into the main stream, as the tresses of a maiden's hair are woven
together, till united they form a brook. For a number of miles the
land through which the Wye's course is laid continues to be melancholy
in the extreme, and the torrent, like all urchins brought up amidst
harsh, inclement surroundings, goes on its way brawling and turbulent,
playing leapfrog with rocks, flinging itself over precipices, swirling
in little maelstroms, and almost getting blown away in spray; and
it is not until the pretty village of Llangurig is reached that it
comes in part to its senses, and, although still boisterous, shows
itself amenable to the influence of civilisation. Not only does the
Wye here meet for the first time with civilisation, but here, too, it
becomes acquainted with that which later on in its life is one of its
glories, almost its crowning glory--trees. The head and shoulders of
mighty Plinlimmon afford no gracious foothold for these children of
fat lands and lusty air, scarcely a bush raising its branches in the
bog and marsh of the mountain. But up to Llangurig a few of them have
straggled, to break the monotony of the mountainous region. Here, too,
a bridge--one of the few works of man that sometimes add to rather than
detract from the effect of river-scenery, always provided that it is
not a modern railway bridge of iron--crosses the young stream; and a
church, the first of many on the banks of the Wye, stands near by. A
short distance below this village the stream spreads out in its valley,
and flows more gently amongst huge boulders that have been hurled down
from the sides of the mountains.
Between Llangurig and the next village of any importance, Rhayader Gwy,
to give it its full name, although most people are content to call
it by its "Christian" name only, leaving the "Gwy" to take care of
itself--between these two villages the Wye enters Radnorshire; and now
the scenery, although still wildly mountainous, is of a more subdued
description, trees becoming more plentiful, and the rocks, occasionally
shaking their heads free from the thick covering of spongy morass,
beginning to stand out bold and picturesque, and to take their proper
place in the composition of mountain-scenery. A short distance above
Rhayader Gwy the river Marteg pours its tiny volume into the Wye, and
here is one of the choicest bits of scenery in all the upper reaches of
our stream. Nannerth Rocks, lofty crags, confront the river, and narrow
the bed so that the combined waters can only squeeze through at the
expense of a mighty uproar and much plunging and dashing and flinging
of spray and foam, the brawl of the forced passage being audible for a
great distance. After its straitened course between these rocks, the
river enters an easier bed and flows sulkily down to Rhayader Gwy.
This village has a situation as wonderful as any in all the kingdom. On
every side tower the great hills, not harsh and gloomy now, but clothed
with oak forest thick and deep. Not so many years ago there were, as
the name of the village bears record, falls at Rhayader Gwy; but in
building the bridge that spans the stream the good people, little
caring for the picturesqueness of the place, removed the stones and
widened the channel, and so reduced the falls to rapids.
Although the place is of little note now, being only a lovely village,
once upon a time it was of considerable importance in the country, and
saw stirring times. Among other things, it had a strong fortress of
its own, erected by Rhys ap Gruffydd, the Prince of South Wales; but
this was so thoroughly rased to the ground by Llewelyn, in 1231, that
not a vestige remains. At a later day a successor to this stronghold
was built, but it, too, fell, in the stormy days of the Parliamentary
War, and only a mound marks the spot where it stood. Near to Rhayader
Gwy the Wye, like a mountain chief exacting tribute from his weaker
neighbours, secures the overflow from a quaint lake, said to be the
only beautiful lake in Radnorshire--the Llyn-Gwyn. In olden days many
a pilgrim, full of faith in the miraculous powers of this little lake,
made his way through the rugged district to bathe in its waters; and
there can be little wonder at the hope inspired in their breasts by the
sight of Llyn-Gwyn, for it is such a lake as is rarely found, dainty,
clear, cool, its high wooded banks rising nearly perpendicularly--a
veritable fairies' ocean. With the overflow from this the Wye tumbles
along, soon to find tributaries of much more importance.
[Illustration: THE WYE AND THE USK.]
The first of these is the Elan. This river receives the Claerwen; and
near to the juncture of the two streams is Nantgwillt, a house which,
in the momentous year 1812, was occupied by the poet Shelley, while at
Cwm Elan lived Harriet Grove. The journey from Rhayader to Cwm Elan,
a distance of five miles up the valley of the little river, is very
beautiful. Mountains rise on every side, as though guarding the privacy
of the delicious glen; inspiring sights are to be seen at every turn,
dainty views of the Wye and the Elan pleasantly breaking the green of
trees and grass, and the variegated colours of rocks. Further up the
valley is the scene chosen for the illustration on this page, where
the waters of the Elan splash along over the rocks that bestrew their
course, until they come to a sombre and forbidding pool, which might
well be bottomless.
[Illustration: _Photo: J. Owen, Newtown, North Wales._
PONT-HYLL-FAN, IN THE ELAN VALLEY.]
Next, the Ithon, its waters drawn from the Montgomeryshire hills, flows
into the Wye; and then, more considerable by far than any Brecknock
tributary, comes the Yrfon, whose fountain-head is some ten miles
from Llanwrtyd. Long time ago a cave near to the river-bank harboured
Rhys Gethin, an audacious freebooter, who levied contributions from
all and sundry, including his Majesty the King himself. At the Wolf's
Leap, a point on the Yrfon worthy of a visit, the river may be said
to run on edge, for the rocks close in so that the water, while some
30 feet deep, is only a few inches across. This is the place where,
if tradition is to be credited, the last Welsh wolf took matters
into his own paws, and committed suicide. The niche of land formed
by the junction of the Yrfon with the Wye is pointed to as the spot
where Llewelyn, in 1282, made his last stand against Edward I. and
his English hosts, and was there slain and buried. About an equal
distance from Rhayader and Builth, up the valley of the Ithon, is
Llandrindod, long famous for its pure air and healing wells. As long
ago as the seventeenth century, the waters of these wells were known
to have medicinal properties that made them of peculiar value to those
suffering from scrofula and kindred troubles. The water flows out of
the rock high up on a hillside, and guests at the pump-house and hotels
enjoy a magnificent panoramic view of the valleys of the Wye, Ithon,
and Yrfon. In the last century an hotel of extravagant luxury was
erected by the side of these wells, but, proving unprofitable, it soon
became a favourite resort of gamblers, and continued to be the scandal
of the country until a lady of practical piety became possessed of the
property, and, so that there should be no doubt about her ideas on the
subject of gambling, had the building torn down and utterly removed.
That happened long ago, and now other hotels have taken the place of
the one of evil repute; and Llandrindod, having railway communication
with the outside world, is prospering exceedingly. Let us add that it
has not, in its prosperity, come to feel ashamed of its Shaky Bridge--a
primitive arrangement of planks and stretched ropes, which will some
day, it is to be feared, be displaced by a more "imposing" structure.
[Illustration: _Photo: Hudson._
THE SHAKY BRIDGE, LLANDRINDOD.]
Builth, on the Wye, is a fisherman's paradise. Using the little town
as a base, he has within easy reach the waters of the Wye, the Yrfon,
the Edw, the Dihonw, and the Chweffru, all waters rich in sporting
fish; and in the seasons of the sport about as many artificial as
natural flies skim the waters, for anglers come from far and near to a
centre so celebrated. The authentic history of Builth reaches back to
Roman times; and in later days the Danes came with fire and sword, and
levelled the place with the ground. The Castle of Builth was stormed
and destroyed as often as it was rebuilt, the partisans of one chief
after another wreaking their rage upon it, and now nothing but a mound
marks the spot where once a succession of strongholds stood.
History has no more romantic tale to tell, nor one that is more
generally known, than that of the ride of the Prince of Wales,
Llewelyn, from Aberedw, where on the banks of the Wye he had a castle,
towards Builth, which refused to succour him. There is scarce an
elementary schoolboy who has not heard of the ingenious blacksmith who
hastily nailed to the hoofs of Llewelyn's horse the shoes reversed,
so that the tracks in the snow might mislead those who were in hot
pursuit; and alas! heard, too, that the blacksmith, clever as he was
at his trade, was not clever enough to keep the secret, but betrayed
his prince to the enemy, so that the last authentic Prince of Wales was
hounded to his death. It is a story destined to immortality, for it
has drifted into folklore, and, like the curiously barbarous tale of
Little Red Riding Hood, is crooned to each generation of children until
every Welsh child dreams at least once in its lifetime of the harried
prince and the foaming steed, the new-fallen snow, and the marks of the
seven-nailed shoes running, as it were, backwards. The tale has been
transplanted to many quarters of the globe, but the Wye knows that the
prince fled along its banks from the castle to the cruel, inhospitable
town. Of the castle--Llewelyn's--to be sure, almost nothing now
remains; but the village is delightfully situated, and is much resorted
to by anglers, and not by anglers only.
The next place of particular importance is Hay. From the river the
streets of this picturesque and thriving little town rise rather too
abruptly for the pleasurable convenience of vehicular traffic; but
picturesqueness and practicability seldom go hand in hand, and what Hay
streets lack in the latter is fully made up in the former virtue. To
crown them rises the ivy-clad fragments of the famous castle.
[Illustration: _Photo: J. Thirlwall, Hereford._
THE WYE BRIDGE AND HEREFORD CATHEDRAL (_p. 134_).]
It is often found that the same hero ciphers through the history of
a country or district with the persistence of a damaged note in an
organ, although usually with a less irritating effect. In this quarter
of the kingdom, which was once the buffer State between England and
Wales, the name of Owen Glendower crops up continually, and at Hay
among other places. At the head of his wild men from the hills, he
came down like an avalanche upon the castle at Hay; when he retired,
the pile was a mass of ruins, and now nothing stands of the ancient
fort but a gateway--the very stones grey with age--and part of a
tower. Legend, which has a pretty fancy and nimble brain, relates
that the castle was built in one night by the celebrated Maud de Saint
Wallery, alias Maud de Hain, alias Moll Walbee. "She built the Castle
of Hay" (to quote Jones's "Brecknock") "in one night, the stones for
which she carried in her apron. While she was thus employed, a small
pebble, of about nine feet long and one foot thick, dropped into her
shoe. This she did not at first regard; but in a short time finding it
troublesome, she indignantly threw it over the river Wye into Llowes
churchyard, in Radnorshire (about three miles off), where it remains
to this day, precisely in the position it fell, a stubborn memorial
of the historical fact, to the utter confusion of all sceptics and
unbelievers." Americans have long claimed for their Chicago belles the
largest feet; but from this well-substantiated fact it is doubtful if
any one of them ever wore so spacious a shoe as the fair Maud on the
banks of the Wye. King John, in revenge for succour refused, visited
the town with his vengeance; and altogether its early history is as
stirring as any to be met with in these parts.
[Illustration: GOODRICH CASTLE (_p. 138_).]
By the time Hay is reached the Wye is fast becoming a stream of
considerable size. Now entering Herefordshire, it flows through a broad
vale, cultivated and mellow, where Clifford Castle stands a hoary ruin.
Here, if history speak true, was born, in the reign of Henry II., one
of great and general notoriety, whose name--or _nom de guerre_, as
Dryden has it--is woven richly into the ballads of that and later days;
for doubtless her beauty, like her failings, was great, and her death
untimely and cruel:--
"Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver;
Fair Rosamond was but her _nom de guerre_."
Fair Rosamond was born about the year 1140. How much of the story
coming to us through the medium of ballads and folk-tales be true, it
is now quite impossible to discover, but popular fancy still clings
to the idea of a lonely and innocently unfortunate girl installed at
Woodstock, protected by a nurse who proved insufficient when pitted
against the cunning of a scandalised wife and queen. Fair Rosamond was
buried at Godstow, and upon her tomb was carved the famous epitaph:--
"Hic jacet in tumba Rosa Mundi, non Rosa munda:
Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet."
The railway has not improved the situation of this old castle:--
"Clifford has fallen--howe'er sublime,
Mere fragments wrestle still with time;
Yet as they perish, sure and slow,
And, rolling, dash the stream below,
They raise tradition's glowing scene,--
The clue of silk, the wrathful queen;
And link in memory's firmest bond
The love-lorn tale of Rosamond."
Passing between wooded eminences, broad fields, and peaceful farms,
the Wye at length reaches the suburbs, and then the ancient city of
Hereford.
[Illustration: ROSS CHURCH (_p. 136_).]
Hereford was a town of importance even at the dawn of English history.
Outside its walls stood the palace of Offa, the greatest of all the
Mercian princes; and during the reign of the Mercian kings it was the
principal town of Mercia. Ethelfleda, sister of Edward the Elder,
governed the place with great skill, and she it was who constructed
the castle that guarded the town, and constructed it so well that it
proved to be one of the strongest in all England. Leland has this to
say of the keep: "High, and very strong, having in the outer wall
ten semicircular towers, and one great tower within"; and adds that
"it hath been one of the largest, fayrest, and strongest castles in
England."
Here, again, the wily Llewelyn comes upon the scene, for he led his
men from the fastness of the Upper Wye, pillaged and burnt the place,
murdered the bishop and his assistants, set the cathedral ablaze, and
left what had been a fair town a mass of smouldering ruins.
A visitor to this ancient city will find it hard to realise that
anything but peace and goodwill ever reigned in all the district, for
in these days of bustle and worry it would be difficult to discover
in all Great Britain a more placid, steady-going, self-satisfied
city than Hereford. Well laid out, clean, at least reasonably
well-to-do--although it does not lay claim to be a place of great
industry, relying more upon the church and the market than upon the
manufactory--there seems to be a perpetual air of Sunday hovering over
the town. The very visitors--and they are many--move soberly about the
streets, and appear to have become imbued with the spirit of the place.
No one can be many minutes in Hereford without detecting that not
only the people but the very buildings take their key from the grand
cathedral that, calmly gazing into the face of Time, has seen of men
and houses generations come and generations go.
Hereford as an ecclesiastical centre is one of the most ancient in
Great Britain, but until the commission of Offa's grievous crime it
must have been comparatively unimportant, with a small wooden structure
for a church. Offa's perfidy changed all that. It will be remembered
that the ruthless prince treacherously induced Ethelbert, King of the
East Angles, to visit his Court, where he had him foully murdered, and
buried in the church. Offa, of course, then seized Ethelbert's crown.
Having secured this, and being safely installed in the place of his
murdered guest, he found time to repent; and that his repentance might
seem the more real, he endowed with great riches the church in which
lay the body of his victim, and soon the wooden building gave place
to a stone edifice. No doubt the king's offerings greatly assisted
in founding Hereford on a solid ecclesiastical basis, but the effect
of his gifts was evanescent, compared with the value of his victim's
bones, as an attraction to the devout. Ethelbert's remains had not long
been buried in the cathedral ere they began to work miracles, and soon
great numbers of people from near and from afar sought the good saint's
assistance, so that great riches flowed to the church and town; and
from that day to this Hereford has continued to prosper.
For two hundred years the church built over the bones of Ethelbert
stood, before the Welsh, as has been told, laid the place in ruins.
In 1079 Bishop Robert of Lorraine began to rebuild, and the work
was not completed until early in the sixteenth century. This is the
building--many times restored--that stands to the present day. More
than a hundred years ago (in 1786) the western tower collapsed,
bringing down with it most of the west front, and this, as well as many
other parts of the cathedral, was rebuilt.
Inside the cathedral are many interesting monuments of men who played
large parts in the history of England, and, besides these, the
cathedral has a unique treasure in the far-famed "Mappa Mundi," a
production of one De Haldingham, who lived in the fourteenth century.
This map, if not the oldest, is at least one of the very oldest in
the world. Havergal says of it: "The world is here represented as
round, surrounded by the ocean. At the top of the map is represented
Paradise, with its rivers and trees; also the eating of the forbidden
fruit and the expulsion of our first parents. Above is a remarkable
representation of the Day of Judgment, with the Virgin Mary interceding
for the faithful, who are seen rising from their graves, and being
led within the walls of Heaven. The map is chiefly filled with ideas
taken from Herodotus, Solinus, Isidore, Pliny, and other ancient
historians. There are numerous figures of towns, animals, birds, and
fish, with grotesque customs such as the mediæval geographers believed
to exist in different parts of the world. The four great cities are
very prominent--Jerusalem as the centre of the world; Babylon, with
its famous tower; Rome, the capital of the world ... and Troy.... In
Great Britain most of the cathedrals are mentioned, but of Ireland the
author seems to have known very little." Truly a wonderful record of
the geographical knowledge of the Middle Ages!
Hereford was the birthplace of Nell Gwynne, orange-seller, actress,
and Court favourite--short, red of hair or nearly so, and with feet
so small as to cause general amusement. The street in which she was
born is now called Gwynne Lane, and the place is still pointed out to
tourists who are interested in the story of the famous beauty. David
Garrick also was born in the city.
Before leaving Hereford, it may be worth while to note that here, as
at many other places, it was once the custom to insert a clause in the
indentures of apprentices "that they should not be compelled to live on
salmon more than two days in the week." Needless to say, no such clause
is now necessary. In 1234 the wolves became so numerous about the
outskirts of the city, that a proclamation called upon all the king's
liege people to assist in destroying them.
And now leaving the cathedral city, our river flows under the Wye
Bridge, built so long ago as 1490, with six noble arches, and proceeds
on its way towards Ross. Four miles below Hereford, the most important
of all the tributaries that spill their floods into the winding Wye is
met with. This is the Lug, which itself absorbs the waters of several
smaller rivers on its way southwards. The meeting of the Lug with the
Wye takes place at the little village of Mordiford, where once upon a
time an enormous serpent, winged and awful, used to betake itself from
feasting upon men and women and little children to drink of the waters
of the Wye. This terrible serpent was destroyed by a malefactor, who
was offered a pardon should he accomplish the task of ridding the good
people of the sore pest; and it is sad to learn that in killing the
serpent he inhaled so much of its poisonous breath that he died almost
at the same time as the monster he had brought low. But the results of
a later event, almost as important, and awe-inspiring, are to be seen
not far from this part of the Wye. They are known as "The Wonder," a
mile and a half from Woolhope, in a parish which, one would think,
should be called Miracle, but is really called Marcle. To best describe
what "The Wonder" is, we will quote Sir Richard Baker's "Chronicles
of England" as follows:--"In the thirteenth year of Queen Elizabeth
a prodigious earthquake happened in the east part of Herefordshire,
at a little town called Kinnaston. On the 17th of February, at six
o'clock in the evening, the earth began to open, and a hill, with a
rock under it, making at first a great hollowing noise which was heard
a great way off, lifted itself up and began to travel, bearing along
with it the trees that grew upon it, the sheepfolds, and flocks of
sheep abiding there at the same time. In the place from whence it was
first moved it left a gaping distance 40 foot broad and fourscore
ells long: the whole field was about twenty acres. Passing along, it
overthrew a chapel standing in the way, removed a yew-tree planted in
the churchyard from the west to the east; with the like force it thrust
before it highways, sheepfolds, hedges, the trees; made tilled ground
pasture, and again turned pasture into tillage. Having walked in this
sort from Saturday evening till Monday noon, it then stood still."
Surely, this is a record, even in the land of Saturday-to-Monday trips!
[Illustration: SYMOND'S YAT (_p. 140_).]
[Illustration: THE FERRY, SYMOND'S YAT.]
Between Hereford and Ross the Wye flows quietly, and without many
striking features, either as regards the scenery or the stream itself.
Upon its breast float pleasure-boats in great numbers, although in the
dry season of the year, unless the midmost channel is rigidly adhered
to, numbers of shallows interrupt the passage even of skiffs of light
draught, for the river occasionally spreads out to a great surface,
and runs prop
