Near Monksilver is the old seat of the Sydenhams, Combe Sydenham, a fine old mansion, whose lofty square tower is un-English in appearance. The house was built by Sir George Sydenham in 1580, who is locally said still to have an unpleasant way of galloping down the glen at midnight. Perhaps he is uneasy in his mind about the huge cannon-ball in the hall, which he is said to have fired as a sign to his lady-love that he was going to follow after and claim her as his bride. There are portraits of some bewigged Sydenhams of the following century, the famous doctor, perchance, and his soldier brother, Colonel William the Parliamentarian. Some rusty old swords hang on the walls, and there is a curious painted screen of Charles II.'s time which is sadly in need of repairs. The servants' hall, with its open fireplace and tall-backed settle, remains much as it has been for two hundred years or more. All these things point to the fact that the same family has been in possession for generations: at least it was owned by a Sydenham not so many years ago. An effigy of Sir George with his two wives (perhaps this is the cause of his uneasiness) may be seen in Stogumber church, about a mile away.

From here we went farther to the south-east in search of a place locally called "Golden Farm," or properly Gaulden, where, depicted on a plaster ceiling of ancient date, are various scenes from biblical history, from the temptation of Adam downwards. Now, whether the good gentleman who rents the farm has been besieged by classes for the young anxious to learn on the Kindergarten system, or whether the arms of the Turberville family that figure upon a mantelpiece has connected the house with a certain well-known novel and brought about an American invasion, the fact remains that his equanimity has evidently become disturbed. His door was closed, and he was proud that he could boast that he had turned people away who had come expressly across the Atlantic! Sadly we turned away, but with inward congratulations that we had not come quite so far, when, lo! the worthy farmer showed signs of relenting. We might come in for half a guinea, he said condescendingly. We thanked him kindly and declined, observing that the fee at Windsor Castle was more than ten times less. 'Tis little wonder that they call it "Golden Farm."

Equidistant from Monksilver to the north-west is Old Cleeve, a pretty little village near the coast, whose ruined Cistercian abbey has nooks and corners to delight the artist or antiquarian. The grey old gatehouse, with a little stream close by, make a delightful picture, indeed from every point of view the ancient walls and arches, with their farmyard surroundings, form picturesque groups. In one of the walls is a huge circular window: the rose window of the sacristy that has lost its tracery. Viewed from the interior, the round picture of blue sky and meadows gay with buttercups makes a striking contrast with the deep shadow within the cold grey walls. A flight of stone steps leads to the refectory, whose rounded carved oak roof and projecting figure ornaments and bosses are in excellent preservation. There is a great open fireplace and the tracery in the windows is intact. A painting in distemper on the farther wall represents the Crucifixion, and as far as artistic merit is concerned better by far than the colossal figure conspicuous in the Roman Catholic cathedral at Westminster.

The road from here to Dunster is delightful, and as you approach the quaint old town—for it is a town, difficult as it is to believe it—the castle stands high up on the left embosomed in trees, a real fairy-tale sort of fortress it appears, with a watch-tower perched up on another wooded hill to balance it. The Luttrells have lived here for centuries, and during the Civil War it was for long a Royalist stronghold, held by Colonel Wyndham, the governor. The gallant colonel's spirited answer to the threat of the Parliamentarians to place his aged mother in their front ranks to receive the fury of his cannon should he refuse to deliver up the castle, is a fine example of loyalty. "If ye doe what you threaten," he said, "you doe the most barbarous and villanous act was ever done. My mother I honour, but the cause I fight for and the masters I serve, are God and the King. Mother, doe you forgive me and give me your blessing, and tell the rebells answer for spilling that blood of yours which I would save with the loss of mine own, if I had enough for both my master and your selfe." But fortunately matters did not come to a climax, for Lord Wentworth appeared upon the scene with a strong force and relieved the beleaguered garrison. The loyalty of old Lady Wyndham and her son was further put to the test a few years afterwards when young King Charles lay concealed in their house at Trent near Sherborne.[25]

Within the castle there is a curious hiding-place which carries us back to those troublous times. Local tradition has connected it in error with the visit of the second Charles, whose room is still pointed out; but the king was then not a fugitive, otherwise doubtless this secret chamber would have proved as useful to him as that at Trent House in 1651.

The main street of Dunster, with its irregular outline of houses climbing up a hill, and the quaintest old market-house at the top backed by a dense maze of foliage beyond, is exceedingly picturesque. Judging from the hole made by a cannon-ball from the castle in one of the oaken beams of this remarkable "yarn market," poor Lady Wyndham had a lucky escape. The marvel is the old structure has remained until now in so delightful an unrestored condition. It has the colour which age alone can impart, a red purple-grey which, contrasted with the background as we saw it of laburnum and may, formed a picture long to be remembered. The old inn, the "Luttrell Arms," has many points of interest—some fine fifteenth-century woodwork, in the courtyard, a carved ceiling, and a rich Elizabethan fireplace; but doubtless from the fact that the landlord gets too many inquiries about these things, he is tardy in showing them. The church has one of the finest carved oak screens of Henry VI.'s reign in England, which to our mind looks much better in its unpainted state. One has but to go to Carhampton, close by, to make a comparison. The paint may be in excellent taste, and like it was originally; but when the original paint has gone, is it not best to leave the woodwork plain? Under these conditions the screen at least looks old, but the fine screen at Carhampton does not. A smaller screen in the transept of Dunster church presents yet more bold and beautiful design in the carving; and about this and the ancient tombs and altar, the bright and intelligent old lady who shows one round has a fund of information to impart. She is very proud, and naturally so, of the interesting building under her charge. Up a side street is the nunnery with its slate-hung front: a lofty, curious building some three centuries old or more.

Minehead Church is equally interesting. It stands high up overlooking the sea, and commands a magnificent prospect of the hanging-woods of Dunster and the heights of Dunkery. The rood-screen is good, but has been mutilated in parts. The ancient oak coffer is remarkable for the bold relief of its carving, representing the arms of Fitz-James quartered with Turberville as it occurs in Bere Regis church.

There is a fine recumbent effigy of a man in robes, said to be a famous lawyer named Bracton, although he has much the appearance of a cleric. Whether it was considered conclusive proof that the person interred was a lawyer from the fact that on being opened the skull revealed a double row of upper teeth, we do not know, but there are other evidences. A victim of insomnia is said to resemble a lawyer, because he lies on one side then turns round and lies on the other; and this is precisely what this effigy did. We had the good fortune to fall in with the organist of St. Michael, and he declared that he had taken a photograph of the worthy in which the figure had changed its position, the head being where the feet should be—everything else in the picture being precisely in its right position!

In the church is one of those quaint little figures which in former years was worked by the clock "Jack-smite-the-clock," of which there are examples at Southwold, Blythborough, etc. The former rector held the living for seventy years, and some trouble was caused because he had willed that some of the ancient parish documents were to be interred with him robed in his Geneva gown. It is said his wish was duly carried out, but the papers were afterwards rescued.

Bossington, on the coast to the north-west of Porlock, is a delightful little village, lying at the foot of the great heather-clad hills. The rushing stream and the moss and lichen everywhere add much to its picturesqueness, but we should imagine there is too much shade and damp to be enjoyable in the winter. In the middle of the narrow road stands a very ancient walnut tree with twisted limbs and roots, one of many walnut trees in the village. There are cosy ancient thatched cottages in Porlock, and the "Ship Inn," with its panelled walls, is the most inviting of hostelries, but the popular novel Lorna Doone has rather spoiled the primitive aspect of the place by introducing some buildings out of keeping with the rest.

The weary traveller has a great treat in store, for the view from the top of Porlock Hill is remarkable. But it is well worth the climb, and by the old road it is indeed a climb! When we were there it was a misty day in June, and we never remember so remarkable a prospect as from the summit. The brilliant gorse stood out against the varying shades of green and purple of the moorland, and below all that could be seen was one solid mass of snow-white cloud, the outline of which was sharply defined against a distant glimpse of the soft blue sea and the deep blue Glamorganshire hills, looking wonderfully like a glacier-field. Next morning came the news that in the mist the warship Montagu had run on the rocks by Lundy.

The romantic scenery of Lynmouth and Lynton is too well known to call for any particular description here. Little wonder that one sees so many honeymoon couples wandering everywhere about the lovely lanes. Lovers of old oak, too, will find all that they desire at Lynmouth, for here is the most tempting antique repository, calculated to make tourist collectors of Chippendale and oak wish they had economised more in their hotel bills. Motor cars sail easily down into the valley from Porlock, but a sudden twist in the steep ascent to Lynton causes many a snort and groan accompanied by an extra scent of petrol.

But we have overstepped the county line and are in Devon.

IN DEVON AND DORSET

Those who have never been to Clovelly can have no idea of its quaintness, no matter what descriptions they have read or pictures they may have seen. One goes there expecting to find the little place exactly as he imagines it to be, and is agreeably surprised to find it is quite different. It is so unlike any other place, that one looks back at it more as a dream than a real recollection. We do not hint that the everlasting climb up and down may be likened to a nightmare. Not a bit of it. Though we gasp and sink with fatigue, we have still breath enough left in our body to sing in praise. Were the steps more steep and less rambling, perhaps we should not be so satisfied. What excellent exercise for muscular-leg development. But how about the older part of the inhabitants?

We had the honour to converse with the oldest Clovellian, a hale and hearty fisherman, who, by no means tardy in introducing himself, promptly proceeded to business. For twopence we might take his photograph. We thanked him kindly, and having disbursed that sum reserved our plates for inanimate curiosities.

It is gratifying to learn that there is no room for "improvement" at Clovelly, and there are fewer houses than there used to be. Consequently there is nothing new and out of harmony. The cottages are really old and quaint, not as we expected to find them, imitations, like half the houses in Chester.

Even the "New Inn" is delightfully old, with queer little rooms and corners, and little weather-cock figures above the sign, of the time of Nelson. It is a novel experience to arrive there in the dusk and walk (?) down the High Street to the sea. The most temperate will stumble and roll about as if he had sampled the cellar through, and ten to one but he doesn't finally take an unexpected header into the sea.

But granted he reaches the end of the little pier (which projects after the fashion of the "Cobb" at Lyme Regis), he will find a hundred lights from the cottages as if lanterns were hung on the hillside, their long reflections rippling in the water.

The place is as much a surprise as ever in broad daylight. One might be in Spain or Italy. Donkeys travel up and down the weed-grown cobble steps carrying projecting loads balanced on their backs. Indeed, one is quite surprised to hear the people speaking English, or rather Devonshire, the prettiest dialect. In the daylight the little balconied-houses overhanging the sea look more like pigeon-cots nailed to the steep rock, and one almost wonders how the inhabitants can get in. Long may Clovelly remain as it is now, the quaintest little place in England!

The aged inmates of the almshouses point out the bullet-marks in their oaken door, made when the Royalists fortified the town in 1645. Lord Clarendon, who was governor of the town, tells us that here it was Prince Charles first received the fatal news of the battle of Naseby. The prince had been sent to Barnstaple for security. The house he lodged at in the High Street was formerly pointed out, but has disappeared.

The poet Gay was a native of the town, and early in the nineteenth century some of his manuscripts were discovered in the secret drawer of an old oak chair that had passed from a kinsman on to a dealer in antiques who lived in the High Street.

Close to the town is Pilton, whose church is full of interest. The carved oak hood of the prior's chair, which dates from Henry VII.'s reign, serves the purpose now to support the cover of the font. At the side may be seen an iron staple to which in former years the Bible was chained. From the fine Gothic stone pulpit projects a painted metal arm and hand which holds a Jacobean hour-glass. The screen and parclose screen are also good, and the communion rails and table in the vestry are of Elizabethan date. The church pewter is also worth notice, as well as an old pitch pipe for starting the choir. The porch bears evidence that the tower was roughly handled when Fairfax captured Barnstaple in 1646. The existing tower was built fifty years later.

Nowhere have we seen so fine and perfect a collection of carved oak benches as at Braunton, a few miles to the north-west of Pilton. They are as firm and solid as when first set up in Henry VII.'s reign, and are rich in carvings, as is the graceful wide-spanned roof. One of the bosses represents a sow and her litter, who by tradition suggested the idea of the holy edifice being erected by Saint Branock. A window showing some of this good person's belongings, spoken of in the tenth commandment, is mentioned by Leland, but since then possibly some local antiquary may have disregarded what is forbidden in that ancient law. Presumably there have been attempts also to annex the ruins of the patron-saint's chapel, for the villagers pride themselves that all attempts to remove them have failed. What an object-lesson to the jerry builders of to-day!

Farther to the north-west and we get to Croyde Bay, which perhaps one day may have a future on account of its open sea and sands. At present it looks in the early transition state.

Tawstock, to the south of Barnstaple, is said to possess the best manor, the noblest mansion, the finest church, and the richest rectory in the county. Certainly the church could not easily be rivalled (the "Westminster of the West," as it is called) in its picturesque position, surrounded by hills and woods, with the old gateway of the manor-house, the sole remains of the original "Court," flanking the winding road which leads down to it: we almost feel justified in adding to these superlatives the "handsomest Jacobean tomb, and the most elaborate Elizabethan pew," but will not commit ourselves so far. The former, on the left-hand side of the altar, is that of the first Earl of Bath (Bourchier) and his wife. Above their recumbent effigies is a great display of armorial bearings, with sixty-four quarterings hung upon a vine, showing the intermarriages of the principal families of England. There are many other fine monuments, that of Rachael, the last Countess of Bath, who died in Charles II.'s reign, representing a lifelike and exceedingly graceful figure in white marble. She was the daughter of Francis, Earl of Westmoreland, and married secondly, Lionel, third Earl of Middlesex, who predeceased her. The Elizabethan pew of the Bourchier-Wrays, lords of the manor, has a canopy, and is richly carved; but it was originally of larger dimensions. Close by are some fine bench-ends, one of which displays the arms of Henry VII. High aloft is a curious Elizabethan oak gallery by which the ringers reach the tower, upon which are carvings of the vine pattern, a favourite design in Devon. An early effigy in wood must not be forgotten, the recumbent figure of a female, supposed to be a Hankford, who brought the Tawstock estates into the Bourchiers' possession.

From northern Devonshire let us turn our attention to some nooks in the easternmost corner and in the adjoining part of Dorset.

Of all the villages along the coast-line here, Branscombe is the most beautiful and old-fashioned. Many of the ancient thatched and whitewashed cottages have Tudor doors and windows. Some of the best, alas! were condemned as being unsafe some fifteen years ago, among them one which in the old smuggling days had many convenient hiding-places for that industry, for Branscombe was every bit as notorious as the little bay of Beer. The church is, or was not long since, delightfully unrestored, for fortunately the good rector is one who does not believe in up-to-date things, and the sweeping changes which are rampant in places more accessible. It is the sort of comfortable old country church that we associate with the early days of David Copperfield or with Little Nell. Truly the high box-pews are not loved by antiquarians, but is it not better to leave them than replace them with something modern and uncomfortable? If the original oak benches of the fifteenth or sixteenth centuries could be replaced, that is entirely another matter. But they cannot, therefore let those who love old associations not banish the Georgian pews without a thought that they also form a link with the past. The church is cruciform, and principally of the Early English and Early Decorated periods, the old grey tower in the centre standing picturesquely out in the beautifully wooded valley. The village of Beer is also very charming, and the fisher folk fine types of men. It is delightful to watch the little fleet set sail; but in the summer the air in the tiny bay is oppressive, and the effluvia of fish somewhat overpowering. The extensive caves here have done good service in the smuggling days.

Another charming village is Axmouth, situated on the river which gives its name. Old-fashioned cottages with gay little gardens straggle up the hill, down which the clearest of streams runs merrily, affording delight to a myriad of ducks who dip and paddle to their hearts' content. The church has Norman features, and the tower some quaint projecting gargoyles. From the other side of the river at high tide the old church and cluster of cottages around it, backed by the graceful slope of Hawksdown Hill behind, make a charming picture. High up in the hills, through typical Devonshire fern-clad lanes, is Bindon, an interesting Tudor house containing a chapel of the fifteenth century. The entrance from the road, with its circular stone gateway and gables with latticed mullioned-windows peeping over the moss-grown wall, is charming, as are also the old farm-buildings at the back, in which an enormous canopied well is conspicuous. But more gigantic still is the well at Bovey, another Tudor house, near Beer, which bears the reputation of being haunted. But with the exception of some gables at the back, Bovey is less picturesque than Bindon, owing, perhaps, to the fact that the roof has been re-slated.

Most of the old houses hereabouts are associated in some sort of way with the rebellion. Close upon the county border to the north-east stands Coaxden, a much modernised old farm, where stories are told of fugitives from Sedgemoor. How its occupant, Richard Cogan, being suspected as a Monmouth adherent, fled from his house to Axminster, where in the "Old Green Dragon Inn" the landlord's daughter secreted him between a feather-bed and the sacking of a bedstead. Kirke's "lambs" traced him to the house, but failed to hit upon his hiding-place. The story ends as all such stories should, the girl who preserved his life became his wife. The house is further interesting as the birthplace in 1602 of Sir Symonds D'Ewes the historian.

A couple of miles or so to the west is Wylde Court, another interesting old farmhouse, much less restored, dating from Elizabeth's reign, with numerous pinnacled gable ends and characteristic entrance porch and oak panelled rooms. This and Pilsdon, another Tudor house a few miles to the west, at the foot of Pilsdon Pen, belonged to the Royalist Wyndhams, and in the troublous times they were looked upon with suspicion, and searched on one or two occasions by the Parliamentary soldiers. "Hellyer's Close," near Wylde Court, is so named because a Royalist commander, Colonel Hellyer, was taken prisoner and executed here by Cromwell's soldiers. At the time that Charles II., in 1651, attempted to get away to France from the coast of Dorset, Pilsdon was visited by a party of Cromwellian soldiers, and Sir Hugh Wyndham and his family secured in the hall while the house was thoroughly searched, suspicion even falling upon one of the ladies that she was the king in disguise.[26] Sir Hugh's monument may be seen at Silton in the extreme north corner of the county.

Chideock is a charming old-world village in the valley between Charmouth and Bridport, snugly perched between the cone-shaped eminence Colmer's Hill and Golden Cap, the gorse-covered headland, said to be the highest point between Dover and the Land's End. The castle of the De Chideocks and Arundells, a famous stronghold built in Richard II.'s reign, long since has disappeared, but its moat can be traced. The fine old church exteriorly is one of the most picturesque in Dorsetshire, but the inside has been much restored and modernised. A handsome tomb of Sir John Arundell in armour is in the south aisle.

There is a deep picturesque lane near Chideock called "Skenkzies" which at night-time is particularly dark, and held in awe, for there are stories of evil spirits lurking about; and little wonder, for close at hand is a farmhouse called "Hell!" Old customs and superstitions die hard in western Dorset. Forlorn and love-sick maidens as a special inducement for their lovers to appear, place their boots at right angles to one another in the form of a T upon retiring to roost. The charm is said to be irresistible; but there have been cases where it has failed, when the size has exceeded "men's eights."

There are some interesting old mansions within a few miles of Dorchester. Wolverton or Wolfeton manor-house, for example, and Waterstone and Athelhampton, the last two of which appear in Nash's Mansions. Each one is entirely different from the other. Waterstone is a small late-Elizabethan or early-Jacobean house, with a quaint balustraded bay over the entrance porch, and some elaborate and graceful stonework upon a projecting gable that stands at right angles to it. This presumably was once the principal entrance. It is certainly quite unique and somewhat perplexing. At Wiston House in Sussex we remember having seen some very elaborate Elizabethan ornamentation upon a gable which really had no business there, although the effect was very pleasing: and here, perhaps, we have the same sort of thing. Wolverton is a fine early-Tudor building with battlemented tower and a stately array of lofty mullioned windows, and careful restoration has added to its picturesque appearance.

But sympathetic restoration may be seen at its best at Athelhampton. We took some photographs many years ago, when it was occupied as a farmhouse, and upon a recent visit could scarcely recognise it as the same. Not that the house has been much altered exteriorly, but the quaint old-fashioned gardens, with pinnacled Elizabethan walls, ancient fish-ponds and fountains, have sprung up and matured in a manner that had one not seen the gardens as they were, one would scarcely credit it. Wonders have been done within as well, and the great hall is very different from what it was before the present owner came into possession. There are suits of armour and Gothic cabinets to carry us back to the days of doublet and trunk-hose and square-toed shoes. Where formerly were pigsties is now a terrace walk, and the quaint old circular dovecot has been carried off bodily and planted where it balances to best advantage. But one thing we should like to see, and that is the ancient gatehouse that was standing in Nash's time. There is his drawing to go by, and where everything has been done in such excellent taste one need have little fear that in a few years a new building would settle down harmoniously with the rest.

Close by is Puddletown, a pretty old village with a remarkable church, where, as at Athelhampton, everything is in harmony. It is the sort of church one reads about in novels, yet so seldom meets; and now we come to think of it, this village does figure in a popular Wessex novel. Doubtless there are some lovers of ecclesiastical architecture who would like to see the Jacobean woodwork cleared out and modern Henry VII. benches introduced to make the whole coeval. The towering three-decker pulpit is delightful, and so are the ancient pews, and the old gallery and staircase leading up to it. Within the Athelhampton chapel are mailed effigies, and several ancient brasses to the Martin family who originally owned the mansion.

Bere Regis church, some six miles to the east of Puddletown, is also remarkable, particularly for its open hammer-beam roof from which project huge life-size figures of pilgrims, cardinals, bishops, etc., and monster heads suggestive of the pantomime. The whole is coloured, and the effect very rich and strikingly original. One can imagine how the younger school-children must be impressed with these awe-inspiring figures looking down upon them with steady gaze. There are two fine canopied tombs (one containing brasses dated 1596) to the Turburvilles, who possessed a moiety of the lordship since the Conquest. Their old manor-house, a few miles south at Wool, a red-brick Jacobean gabled house with roomy porch in which a great pendant is conspicuous, picturesquely situated by an old bridge and the winding reed-grown river, has of recent years obtained notoriety by Mr. Thomas Hardy's pen. We photographed the old house some years ago before it had been thus immortalised. Upon a recent visit we found the house desolate and empty. Had the good farmer flown in consequence, and sought an abode that had not become a literary landmark?

But the vicinity of Bere Regis had obtained notoriety of a tragic kind many centuries before the birth of Tess of the d'Urbervilles, for that very undesirable lady, Queen Elfrida, retired there for peace and quietness after various deeds of darkness, one of which, according to the Annals of Ely, is said to have been inserting red-hot nails into Abbot Brithnoth's armpits; and from Lytchet Maltravers to the east of Bere came Sir John Maltravers to whose tender mercies the unfortunate Edward II. was delivered before he was done to death at Berkeley Castle. Sir John's monument is in the church; but as it was not the fashion in those days to enumerate the various virtues of the departed in laudatory verse, this particular act of charity is not recorded in suitable effusion.

Wimborne Minster to the north-east is too world-famed to call for any particular description here, but a word may be said about the first Free Library in the country. In past days, when there was no good Mr. Carnegie to cater for the welfare of millions, nor the finest classics to be purchased for sixpence, it was only natural, books being rare, that the local authorities should not have placed the same implicit trust in would-be readers as is shown by the British Museum Library authorities. The rusty iron chains securing the aged tomes to an iron rod above the queer old desks even after the lapse of centuries would hold their own. The literature cannot be said to be of a much lighter nature than the bulky volumes in weight. The rarest specimens are placed in glass cases, and are calculated to make the mildest bibliomaniac full of envy. Before the Reformation the Minster was rich in holy relics, conspicuous among which was a part of St Agatha's thigh. One of the most curious things still to be seen is a coffin brilliantly painted with armorial devices, placed in the niche of a wall, which according to the will of the occupant has to be touched up from year to year; and thus the memory of the worthy magistrate, Anthony Ettrick, is kept more actively alive than good King Ethelred who rests beneath the pavement by the altar. Ettrick lived at Holt Lodge near Woodlands, a few miles away in the direction of Cranborne; and when the Duke of Monmouth was captured in rustic garb in the vicinity, he was brought before the magistrate and removed from Holt to Ringwood, where at the "Angel Inn" the room in which he was kept prisoner is still pointed out. We have elsewhere described the old ash tree near Crowther's Farm beneath which the unfortunate fugitive from Sedgemoor was found. It is propped up, and has lost a limb, but is alive to-day, and surely should be protected by a railing and an inscription like other historic trees. To the north is St. Giles, the ancestral home of the Earls of Shaftesbury, the first representative of which title, Anthony Ashley Cooper, worked so skilfully on Monmouth's ambition. When the Merry Monarch visited the noble politician at St. Giles, he little thought that his favourite son would be taken a prisoner as a traitor within only a mile or so of the mansion. A memento of the royal visit is still preserved in the form of a medicine chest that the king left behind, which in those days doubtless contained some of his favourite specific "Jesuit drops."

Another historic mansion is Kingston Lacy, to the west of Wimborne, the old seat of the Bankes family, which is rich in Stuart portraits as well as other valuable works of art. It is a typical square comfortable-looking Charles II. house, with dormer-windowed roof and wide projecting eaves. The staunch Royalist, James Buder, the great Duke of Ormonde, lived here in his latter years, and died here in 1688. The duke's intimate friend, Sir Robert Southwell, has left a graphic account of the last hours of the good old nobleman, which he concludes with the following:—"His Grace could remember some things that passed when he was but three years old. He was only four years old when his great-great-uncle Earl Thomas died in 1614, but he retained a perfect remembrance of him. That Earl lived in the reigns of King Henry the Eighth, King Edward the Sixth, Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth, and King James; and His Grace had seen King James the First, King Charles the First, King Charles the Second, and King James the Second; so that between them both they were contemporary with nine princes who ruled this land!"[27]

HERE AND THERE IN SALOP

AND STAFFORDSHIRE

The important and ancient capital of Salop would indeed be insulted were it called a "nook" or "corner." Could it so be named, we might be allowed to let our enthusiasm run wild in this most delightful old town. Shrewsbury and Tewkesbury are to our mind far more interesting than Chester, which has so many imitation old houses to spoil the general harmony. At Shrewsbury or Tewkesbury there are very few mock antiques, and at every turn and corner there are ancient buildings to carry our fancy back to the important historical events that have happened in these places. One cannot but be thankful to the local authorities for preserving the mediæval aspect, and let us offer up a solemn prayer that the electric tramway fiend may never be permitted to enter.

Chirk Castle is so close upon the boundaries of Salop that we may include this corner of Denbighshire. It is the only border fortress of Wales still inhabited, and is remarkably situated on an eminence high above the grand old trees of the park, or rather forest, surrounding it. It has stood many a siege, but its massive external walls look little the worse for it. They are of immense thickness, and so wide that two people abreast can walk upon the battlements. The huge round towers, with deep-set windows and loopholes, have a very formidable appearance as you climb the steep ascent from the picturesque vale beneath. It was built by the powerful family of Mortimer early in the fourteenth century. From the Mortimers and Beauchamps it came into the possession of Henry VIII.'s natural son, the Duke of Richmond and Somerset, and to Lord Seymour, brother of the Protector Somerset. Then the Earl of Leicester owned it in Elizabeth's time, and eventually Sir Thomas Myddelton, Lord Mayor in James I.'s reign. His son, Sir Thomas, fought valiantly for the Parliamentary side, and in 1644 had to besiege his own fortress. A letter from the governor, Sir John Watts, to Prince Rupert, which still hangs in the great hall, describes how the owner "attempted to worke into the castle with iron crowes and pickers under great plancks and tables, which they had erected against the castle side for their shelter: but my stones beate them off." In the following year Charles I. slept there on two occasions; and it was here that he learned the defeat of the great Montrose. After the king's execution, Sir Thomas, like many others, began to show favour to the other side; and the year before the Restoration he was mixed up in Sir George Booth's Cheshire rising, and had to fortify his castle against General Lambert, to whom he eventually surrendered. But the general did not depart until he had disabled the fortress, and the damage done after the Restoration took £30,000 to repair. It was Sir Hugh, the younger brother of the first Sir Thomas Myddelton, who made the New River, which was opened on Michaelmas Day, 1613. A share in 1633 was valued at £3, 4s. 2d., and in 1899 one was sold for £125,000!

The various apartments are ranged round a large quadrangle, parts of which remind one somewhat of Haddon. On one side is the great hall, and opposite the servants' hall. The former, with its minstrels' gallery, heraldic glass, and ancient furniture, is full of interest. The walls are hung with various pieces of armour, and weapons, and a Cavalier drum, saddle, and hat, the latter with its leather travelling case, which is probably unique. There is a gorgeous coloured pedigree to the first Sir Thomas Myddelton, recording ancestors centuries before, though perhaps not quite so far back as the pedigree in the long gallery at Hatfield, which is said to go back to Adam.

The servants' hall is a delightful old room, with long black oak tables and settles, those against the wall being fixtures to the panelling. There is a raised dais, and a seat of state to make distinction at the board. There are queer old portraits of ancient retainers, one the bellman who used to ring the great bell in the corner turret of the quadrangle, and another very jolly looking porter, who has his eye on an antique beer barrel perched on wheels in a corner of the room. This apparatus has done good service in its day, as have the great pewter dishes and copper jugs. Above the wide open fireplace are the Myddelton arms. The servants' hall was an orderly apartment:

"No noise nor strife nor swear at all,
But all be decent in the Hall,"

is written up for everybody to see, with the following rules:—That every servant must take off his hat at entering; and sit in his proper place, and drink in his turn, and refrain from telling tales or speaking disrespectfully, and various other things, which misdeeds were to be punished in the first instance by the offender being deprived of his allowance of beer; for the second offence, three days' beer; and the third, a week.

The castle is rich in portraits, especially by Lely and Kneller, many of which hang in the oak gallery, which extends the whole length of the eastern wing; and there are several fine oak cabinets, one of which, of ebony and tortoise-shell with silver chasings, was given to the third Sir Thomas Myddelton by the Merry Monarch.

The wrought-iron entrance gates of very elaborate workmanship were made in 1719 by the local blacksmith.

At the ancient seat of the Trevors, Brynkinalt, nearer to Chirk village, are some interesting portraits of the Stuart period, notably of Charles II.; James, Duke of York; Nell Gwyn, the Duchess of Portsmouth, and Barbara Villiers.

Chirk village is insignificant, but has a fine church in which are some interesting monuments, notably that of the gallant knight who besieged his own castle as before described. He and his second wife are represented in marble busts. It was their son Charles who married the famous beauty of Charles II.'s reign; she was the daughter of Sir Robert Needham, and her younger sister, Eleanor, became the Duke of Monmouth's mistress. There is an old brick mansion called Plâs Baddy, near Ruabon, where "La Belle Myddelton" and her husband lived when the diversions of the Court proved tedious; but buried in these wilds, she must have felt sadly out of her element without the large following of admirers at her feet. She had more brains, though, than most Court beauties, and being a talented artist, was not entirely dependent upon flattery.

Near the entrance of the Ceiriog valley, to the west of Chirk, is a farm called Pontfaen, and beyond, across some meadows, there is a remarkable Druidical circle. Gigantic stones are riveted to the crosspieces of archways, having the appearance of balancing themselves in a most remarkable manner. The entrance to the circle has two pillars in which are holes through which was passed a pole to act as wicket; and in front of the altar is a rock in which may be seen cavities for the feet, where the officiating priest is supposed to have stood. It is secluded, solemn, and ghostly, especially by moonlight when we saw it for the first time. The villages hereabouts, though picturesquely situated, are far from interesting: whitewashed and red-brick cottages of a very plain and ordinary type, and very few ancient buildings.

Some of the most picturesque old houses in England are to be found in the southern and central part of Salop. Take, for example, Stokesay Castle, which is quite unique. A battlemented Early English tower with lancet windows and the great hall are the principal remains. The latter, entered from above by a primitive wooden staircase, is a noble apartment with a fine open timber roof. The exterior has been altered and added to at a later period, making a very quaint group of gables, with a projecting storey of half-timber of the sixteenth century. This is lighted by lattice windows, and the bay or projection is held by timber supports from the earlier masonry. It has a deep roof, and the whole effect is odd and un-English. Not the least interesting feature is an Elizabethan timber gatehouse with carved barge-boards, entrance gate, and corner brackets, and the timbers shaped in diamonds and other devices. Then there is picturesque Pitchford Hall and Condover close by: the former a fine half-timber mansion, the latter a stately Elizabethan pile of stone. Pitchford we believe has been very much burnished up and considerably enlarged since we were there, but we should not like to see it with its new embellishments, for from our recollection of the old house, half its charm was owing to the fact that there was nothing modern-antique about it: a dear old black-and-white homestead, which looked too perfect a picture for the restorer to set to work upon it and spoil its poetry; but for all that it may be improved. The courtyard presents quite a dazzling arrangement of geometric patterns in the timber work, and over the central porch there is a quaint Elizabethan gable of wood quite unlike anything we have seen before. The side facing the north is, or was, quite a picture for the artist's brush. The stately lofty gables of Condover are in striking contrast with the more homely looking ones of Pitchford; and the builder was an important person in his day, as may be judged from his elaborate effigy in Westminster Abbey, namely, Judge Owen, who claimed descent from one of the ancient Welsh kings. Like most Elizabethan houses, Condover Hall is built in the form of a letter E, but the central compartment was probably added to later on by Inigo Jones. The doorway and bay-windows above are of fine proportions, and full of dignity.

At Eaton Constantine, to the east, is the quaint old timber house where Richard Baxter lived; and at Langley, to the south-east, a fine old timber gatehouse; as well as Plash Hall, famous for its elaborate twisted chimneys. Then there is Ludlow with its ruined castle, where poor young Edward V. was proclaimed king before he set out for London: and its famous "Feathers" hostelry with black-oak panelled rooms, its old town-gate, and the ancient bridge of Ludford to the south. The country between Ludlow and Shrewsbury is remarkably beautiful, especially in the vicinity of Church Stretton, which of recent years has grown rabidly as a health resort, meaning, of course, the springing up of modern dwellings to mar its old-world snugness.

There is, or was some twenty years ago, a narrow street of old houses, behind which, backed by beautiful woods, stood the manor-house, long since converted into an inn, and the church. Beyond the woods rise a range of lofty hills; and if we take the trouble to clamber up to the highest peak (which rises to upwards of 1600 feet), we are well rewarded for our pains. Two of the highest points are Caradoc and Lawley, famous landmarks for miles around. The "Raven," when we visited it, was a quaint old hostelry, and an ideal place to make headquarters for exploring the romantic scenery all around.

At the pretty little village of Winnington, close upon the county border, and fourteen miles as the crow flies to the north-west of Church Stretton, stands a tiny little cottage at the foot of the Briedden Hills. Here lived the famous old Parr, who was born there in the reign of Edward IV. and died in that of Charles I., having lived in the reigns of no less than ten monarchs. In his hundred and fifty-second year he went to London for change of air, which unfortunately proved fatal. His gravestone in Westminster Abbey will be remembered near Saint-Evremond's and Chiffinch's, near the Poets' Corner.