Walks and Talks
OF AN
AMERICAN FARMER IN ENGLAND.
CHAPTER I.
AN IRISH-ENGLISHMAN.—SHREWSBURY CAKES AND BRAWN.—SHREWSBURY SHOW.—ANGLING IN CURRICLES.—SHEEP-WALKS.—EFFECT OF THOROUGH DRAINING ON DRY SOILS.—GORSE.—CHURCH STRETTON.—CHURCHYARD LITERATURE.—ENCOUNTER WITH AN ENTHUSIASTIC FREE-TRADER.
“Can you tell us where the Post Office is?”
“The Post Office? Ye be strangers like?”
“Yes.”
“Was ye never in this town before?”
“Never.”
“It’s a fine old town, Shrewsbury. I know it well, every inch the same as my hand. It’s like ye’ll be wanting to see the——”
“Can’t you tell us where the Post Office is?”
“The Post Office! Wouldn’t you now be havin’ your bit packs carried. Ye’ll be pedestarians like.”
“You are an Irishman like.”
“I believe it’s in England I am.”
“But you were born in Ireland?”
“I just disremember now.”
“Well, can you tell us which way to the Post Office?”
“It’s like I might—but, ye see, it’s mighty dryin’ work entirely to be rememberin’ every thin’ for every body so all the whole time.”
“What do you want?”
“A pint’s tupence.”
Twopence acted on his memory like the spring upon a frozen stream, and as he walked with us towards the Post Office he told us that he came to England ten years ago—had found work near Liverpool, where he remained several years—then went into Warwickshire, and had, a week ago, come hither to see his brother, who was engaged on the railway. He said that when he was in Warwickshire he had always passed himself off for a Lancashire man, and no one ever accused him of being an Irishman. He explained that the local labourers would not let the farmers employ Irishmen; if they did, they would burn their ricks. When Irishmen were employed, it was at very low wages, but he got as good as any. The most he ever earned was about three dollars a week at task-work. He had another brother who was in America, “in the State of Baltimore,” and he was minded to go after him next year.
“Fine old town” it was, Shrewsbury; delightful old town; we found our first letters from home there. It is famous, says the Guide-Book, “for its cakes and brawn.” The former we tasted at the “Baker-of-Shrewsbury-Cakes-to-Her-Majesty,” for sixpence, with a sight of the autograph of Lord ——, communicating the appointment, thrown in. Dear at that. The taste is something like, but by no means equal to, the cookies we used to eat in country towns on “trainin’ day.” That the English, in general, did not know what is good in that line, we had before ascertained, and now discovered that their Queen was equally unfortunate. Shall advise the princes to “run away.”
“Brawn, the flesh of boar or swine, collared so as to squeeze out much of the fat, boiled and pickled.”—Webster. Our host looked like a “man of brawn,” but gave us nothing like that.
Shrewsbury was formerly celebrated also for a ridiculous annual procession, mummery, masquerade, and play-spell, called “Shrewsbury Show.” The Puritans put a stop to it, but lately this ancient glory has been attempted to be restored “under the patronage of the mayor and neighbouring gentry.” The effort, we are told, was entirely successful, the “oldest inhabitant” not being able to recall any thing more completely absurd. Our young democratic towns are sometimes equally fortunate in their civic proceedings without aristocratic assistance.
We were much interested in the old houses, of the same general style as those I described at Chester, but with every conceivable variation of form, and each with something peculiar to itself, so that we could not tire of rambling through the steep narrow streets to study them. There are a great many old churches here, too; one remarkable for a very light, tall, simply-tapering spire: another, the abbey church, has a great mingling of styles, and in some parts is very rich and elegant. There are several curious things about it—an old stone pulpit, battered statues, &c. Near it I noticed that some old religious house, that had been once connected with it, had been built upon, roofed over, and converted into a brewery. The roofs are universally of flat tiles here; a few miles north they entirely give way to slates.
On one of the bridges over the Severn, which here divides into two small streams, between which most of the town is beautifully situated, we saw a number of anglers with curricles, a light portable boat made of hide stretched out like an umbrella-top by a wicker frame. It is easily carried on one arm, and it forms a usual part of the angler’s or salmonfisher’s equipment in Wales.
In the afternoon J. and I walked on to Church Stretton, thirteen miles; our road, most of the way, through a level valley, with high, naked, bleak hills on each side. A man joined us who had been most of his life a miller, and had lately rented a sheep-walk of sixty-three acres on one of these hill-tops, or, rather, mountain-tops. They are to all appearance totally barren, except of gorse, and he said he could only stock at the rate of one and a half sheep to the acre.
I have heard a strange story of the effect of draining on soils of this sort. A considerable estate, mainly on the tops of such hills, (but not in this county,) having come into possession of a gentleman, he immediately commenced under-draining it in the most thorough and expensive manner. The whole country thought him crazy: “Why! the hills were too dry already; the man was throwing away his money;” and his friends, in great grief, endeavoured by expostulation and entreaty to get him off from his ruinous hobby. But he patiently carried it on, and waited the result; which was, that the increased rental, in a very short time, more than paid for the whole outlay, and the actual value of the land was trebled. (This account I had from a friend of the gentleman, and, though he could not give me the figures, he assured me, from his personal knowledge of the circumstances, that it was to be relied upon.)
Gorse, (furze or whins,) is an evergreen shrub, growing about three feet high, rough, thorny, prickly; flourishes in the poorest, dryest land, where if it gets possession it is extremely difficult to eradicate. It is sometimes used as a hedge plant, and for that purpose is planted thickly on high ridges. In some parts of England, fuel is made of it, and when bruised by powerful machines made for the purpose, it forms palatable and nutritious food for horses and cattle. Hereabouts, however, we could not learn that it was made of any use, or regarded otherwise than as a weed.
Church Stretton is a little village mostly made up of inns on the main street. We chose the Stag’s Head, a picturesque, many-gabled cottage, part of it very old, and, as we were told, formerly a manor-house of the Earl of Derby, who spent one night (ever to be remembered!) in it. It was close by a curiously-carved church and graveyard. From among a great many “improving” epitaphs, I selected the following as worthy of more extended influence.
I.
A “NON SEQUITUR.”
II.
“AN HONEST MAN.”
III.
IV.
V.
The following, or something like it, is to be found in almost every churchyard in England, often several times repeated.
VI.
On the other side of the churchyard were two long rows of cottages built closely together, and the street between them only nine feet wide.
After ordering supper, we were shown into a little room where there was a fire and newspapers, and two men sitting. One of them was a young, well-dressed farmer, stupid and boozy; the other, a travelling mercantile agent, very wide awake; both drinking hot slings. The latter almost immediately opened conversation, first asking us to join them at their tipple, which we declined.
“Did you notice the white nag in the stables, gents?”
“No.”
“Ah, you should have done so. It’s not every day you’ll see such a horse, let me tell you. It would be really worth your while, if I may be permitted to advise, to step out and see him. Why! if you’ll believe me, sir, we gave the stage-coach twenty minutes’ start and beat her two and a half in eight, besides stopping—how many times?—a go of gin first and—two of brandy afterwards, wasn’t it, Brom? Yes—we stopped three times and beat her two and a half in eight!—’pon my word it’s a fact, sir!”
“A remarkable performance.”
“Oh, sir, if you could but see him now—eating his oats just like a child!”
We showed no disposition to see this phenomenon, but putting our knapsacks on the table, had commenced reading the papers, when he again addressed us, suddenly exclaiming,
“Hem—wool’s heavy!”
“What, sir?”
“Eh—hops scarce?”
“What?”
“Sheffil line?”
“——!” (Stare of perplexity.)
“Tea?” glancing at our packs.
“Tea! oh no!”
“Oh, I thought it might be tea you were——Brummagem way?”
“We are—”
“Oh! Ah! Good market at Le’m’ster?”
“We are from New York—travelling merely to see the country; our packs have—”
“Tea?”
“Only our wearing apparel.”
“Oh, I really thought it must be tea.”
“No, sir.”
“From New York? why, that’s in America.”
“Yes, sir; we are Americans.”
“What! Americans, are you? Hallo! why, this is interesting. Brom! I say, Brom!—look! do you see? from America; you see? furriners! If you will permit me, sir—your very good health, gentlemen. Brom! (damn it, man,) your health—their health.... Now look here! you’ll allow me, sir—(and he caught my leg,) you brought this, I presume, from New York?”
“Yes.”
“Made there?”
“Probably.”
“And the wool?”
“Very likely from these hills.”
“Exactly, sir, exactly! You see now, Brom—what was I telling you?—that’s Free Trade, Brom. Most happy to meet you, sir; (wonderfully intelligent persons, Brom! first-class furriners;) you are welcome here, sir; and, gentlemen—(your good health, sir)—and no one to molest or make you afraid—(won’t you taste the gin? I can recommend it to you as a first-rate article)—wandering up and down, seeking what you may—eh?—see. Yes, sir, the sea is the highway of nations—else what is it mentioned in Scripture for? ‘the great sea—to bring nations together—with ships thereon, stretching from Tiberia to Siberias, and from Jericher to,’ eh?—hem—eh?—somewhere!”
“Your tea is ready, gentlemen,” said the waiter; and we hastily took leave.