Thos. D. Murphy

Despite the fascination that London always has and the fact that one could scarcely exhaust her attractions in years, it was with impatience that we endured the delay imposed by business matters and preparations for a period of two months or more on the road. We were impatient, surely, or we should hardly have left our hotel at six o’clock in the evening, in the face of a driving rain. Ordinarily, two or three hours would have brought us to Cambridge, only fifty miles away; but we could not depend on this with the caution necessary on the slippery streets in getting out of London.

Once clear of the city there was little to hamper us on the fine Cambridge road and we counted on easily reaching the university town before lamplighting. The rain had nearly ceased, but the downpour had been tremendous, and in three successive valleys we forded floods, each one deeper than the preceding. Almost before we knew it—for in the gas lamps’ glare the rain-soaked road looked little different from the yellow water—we were axle-deep in a fourth torrent and were deluged with a dirty spray from the engine fly-wheel. Manifestly we were not to reach Cambridge that night and we reluctantly turned about to seek shelter somewhere else.

It was only a little way to the village of Buntingford, where we found clean though very unpretentious and not altogether comfortable accommodations at the George, a rambling old relic of coaching days. Our late dinner was fair and our rooms good-sized and neat, though dimly lit with tallow candles; but the ancient feather beds, our greatest terror in the smaller and a few of the larger towns, caused a well-nigh sleepless night. Morning revealed a little straggling gray-stone and slate village, unchanged to all appearances from the days of the coach-and-four. Our inn was a weather-beaten structure, and its facilities for dispensing liquor appeared by odds greater than its accommodation for non-bibulous travelers. Still, it was clean and homelike, in spots at least, and our hostess, who personally looked after our needs, was all kindness and sympathetic attention. Altogether, we had little complaint to lodge against the George, though greatly different from the really admirable University Arms at Cambridge, where we had planned to stop. We were early on the road, from which nearly all trace of the floods of the previous evening had vanished, and before long we were threading the familiar streets of Cambridge, where everything appeared to be in a bustle of preparation—at least so far as such a state of affairs could be in a staid English town—for the closing of the University year on the following week.

There is no finer road in England than that leading from Cambridge to Newmarket. It is nearly level, and having been newly surfaced with yellow gravel, it stretches before us like a long golden ribbon in the sunshine. It leads through wide meadow-lands and at times runs straight away as an arrow’s flight—truly a tempting highway for the light-footed motor car.

Beyond Newmarket the road to Bury St. Edmunds is quite as fine, and no doubt this splendid highway is largely responsible for the intense antipathy to the motor car in the former town. However, one would hardly expect Newmarket to be wildly enthusiastic over the horseless carriage, for this ancient burg contests with Epsom for the position of chief horse-racing town in England—a proud distinction it had held for some centuries before the motor snorted through its streets. Another cause for the grief of the townsmen was the complaint of owners of high-bred horses that the motors jarred upon the nerves of the spirited animals to their great detriment, and naturally enough the citizens sympathized with their patron saint, the horse, against his petrol-driven rival. And thus it was that when we entered Newmarket we were met by the Motor Union scout, who cautioned us to observe rigidly the ten-mile limit or we would more than likely share the fate of a half dozen of our brethren the day before—a journey to police headquarters. Two months afterwards, when we again passed through the town, the war was still on, and it was some months later that I read in the daily papers that after great bitterness on both sides a truce had finally been reached.

Despite its unfriendliness toward our ilk, we must admit that Newmarket is quite a modern-looking town, clean and attractive, with many fine buildings and excellent hotels. It lies in the midst of wide meadow-lands, much used for horseback sports such as polo and racing. Royal visits, so dear to the average Britisher, are a frequent event, and here it is that the King, usually in some new style of hat or cut of trousers, appears, to set the world of fashion agog.

Well clear of Newmarket and its birds of prey, the most glorious of roads brought us quickly into the fine old town of Bury St. Edmunds—and none other in East Anglia has been celebrated by greater pens; for Charles Dickens and Thomas Carlyle sojourned at Bury and left us vigorous records of their impressions. The former set them down in the story of the trials and wanderings of Mr. Pickwick, and that honest old gentleman’s comment on the town and its famous Angel Inn was altogether commendatory. It was later—in 1878—when Carlyle visited Bury, and the description he gave it then is quite applicable today. He saw “a prosperous, brisk town looking out right pleasantly from the hill-slope toward the rising sun, and on the eastern edge still runs, long, black and massive, a maze of monastic ruins.” The “Angel” we found still deserving of the encomiums bestowed by Mr. Pickwick, a delightfully clean and quiet old inn fronting directly on the abbey gardens and presided over by a suave and very accommodating landlord. We were given spacious and well-lighted quarters—we may dwell on “well-lighted,” since we could hardly apply this description, so far as artificial light is concerned, to more than two or three of the hundreds of hotels we visited.

The most impressive feature of the abbey ruin is the massive square tower of the gateway, which stands intact, its ancient state almost undiminished. The abbey has a long history, for Edmund, King of East Anglia, was slain near at hand by the Danes in 870—legend says because he refused to abjure Christianity, and it was this that won his canonization as St. Edmund. To the time of the Dissolution the abbey was by far the greatest in East Anglia, and its ruins, though fragmentary, are quite sufficient to indicate its once vast extent. Near by stand the churches of St. James and St. Mary’s, both rather ill-proportioned for lack of towers—a deficiency due, it is said, to the old-time abbots’ fear that if these churches should be thus ornamented they would overshadow the abbey church, now entirely vanished. Good authorities state that St. Mary’s has the finest open roof in England. It is supported on slender columns and covers a well-proportioned nave. In the church is the tomb of Mary Tudor, sister of Henry VIII. and wife first of Louis XII. of France and afterwards of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

There is not much of historic interest in Bury aside from its abbey and churches. One may occupy a pleasant hour or two in walking about the town, which, despite its antiquity, has a prosperous and up-to-date appearance. Twice in the course of our rambles we visited it and on both occasions our route led to Ipswich, though over different roads—first due south through Lavenham and Hadleigh and later by the way of Stowmarket. The former route is mainly through the retired Suffolk byways, not in the best condition, but bordered by charming country. Nowhere did we see a more delightful brick-and-timber house than the old manor at Brent Eleigh, though it has degenerated into a mere farm tenement rather better cared for than usual. What a world of quaint and ancient beauty there is in its many red-tiled gables surmounted by great clustered chimneys, its double mullioned windows and its black-oak and red-brick walls, splashed here and there with clinging masses of ivy. Our illustration only half tells the story, for it does not give the color or the most picturesque view of the house. We also came across Bildeston, a little out-of-the-way hamlet lost in the hills, which has many old houses not as yet fallen into the clutches of the restorer. This is also true of Hadleigh, a little farther on the road, which is rich in seventeenth century houses with fronts of ornamental plaster and carved oaken beams. Among the very oddest of these is the guildhall, standing quite apart in a graveyard thickly set with weather-worn headstones.

OLD MANOR HOUSE, BRENT ELEIGH.

We reached Ipswich after a half day of slow progress, for signboards were often missing and the winding lanes bordered by high hedges made cautious driving imperative. Later we followed the road by Stowmarket, a much easier though less interesting route. Stowmarket, aside from its old-world streets and its huge church with an odd wooden spire, had nothing to detain us, for one would hardly care to linger at the gun-cotton factory, which is the most distinctive feature of the village.

Little provision was made by the burghers who centuries ago platted the streets of Ipswich, for the coming of the motor or electric tram, and it was with difficulty that our car was able to thread its way through the narrow, crowded main street. It goes without saying that the objective of the pilgrim on entering the city will be the Great White Horse, the scene of some of Mr. Pickwick’s most noted adventures, nor are we deterred by any recollection of his decidedly unpleasant experiences with the inn people. Like many of the incidents in his writings, it was the personal experience of Dickens that called forth the rather uncomplimentary remarks set down against the ancient hostelry; but the very fact that Charles Dickens had stopped there and written—no matter what—of the Great White Horse—is that not enough? And we could not forget if we wished that an exact replica of the Great White Horse was exhibited at the Chicago Fair as typical of the old-time English inn, for the fact is blazoned forth by a large placard in the hall. We were offered the spacious room, with its imposing, tall-posted beds, traditionally occupied by Mr. Pickwick. The Great White Horse, like many other institutions that felt the scourge of the caustic pen of Dickens, has changed; no better ordered, more comfortable and attentive hostelry did we find elsewhere, and we felt that it had outlived the bad reputation the great author gave it, even as America lived down the bitter scourging of the “American Notes,” beneath which our fellow-countrymen writhed at the time. And perhaps we still think of the “Notes” and “Martin Chuzzlewit” with a twinge of bitterness, forgetting that the ridicule which Dickens indulged in concerning America was hardly comparable to the sharp castigations he administered to his own countrymen. His work was productive of good in both countries, and most of the evils he so scathingly rebuked no longer exist.

Ipswich, though a city of some seventy thousand people and of considerable activity, is by no means shorn of its old-time interest and picturesqueness. There are many crooked old-world streets where the soft, time-mellowed tones of the gray walls and antique gables are diversified by carved beams, plaster fronts and diamond-paned windows, each of which has its box of brightly colored flowers. The most notable of the old houses and one of the noblest specimens of Tudor architecture in the Kingdom is “Ye Ancient House,” with its odd dormer windows and richly decorated plaster front, situated near the Butter Market. The interior, now occupied by a bookshop and public library, is as unique and pleasing as the outside. There are paneled rooms, odd passages and corners, and a very quaint though rude chapel directly beneath the heavy arched timber roof. Of course such a striking old house must have its legend of royalty, and tradition has it that Charles II. was hidden in the chapel when seeking passage to France after the battle of Worcester.

But the charm of Ipswich may serve no longer as an excuse to linger. We bid regretful farewell to the Great White Horse and are soon following the King’s highway to the northward. It was a lowering day, with frequent dashes of rain and glints of sun breaking from a sky as blue as one may see in our own prairie states in June time. The road is winding and hilly for East Anglia, which is so generally level, but it passes through a fine country with many retired, old-world villages. Lowestoft we find another of the numerous seaside resorts that dot the southeastern coast. It has figured little in history and doubtless the most notable event in its career was its prompt surrender to Colonel Cromwell in 1642.

It was gray and chilly when we entered Great Yarmouth, where we found a leaden-colored ocean thundering on the finest beach in the Kingdom. Yarmouth is popular as a resort town, though more widely known for its fisheries. Its characteristic feature is its “rows,” a series of very narrow alleys, mostly bordered with shops and opening into the main street, forming, as Dickens puts it, “one vast gridiron of which the bars are represented by the rows.” And one will notice that Dickens is much in evidence in East Anglia. Who can ever forget the freshness of the description of Yarmouth in “David Copperfield”? The hotels, as might be expected, are many, and some of them excellent; nowhere did we have better service than at the Victoria, though cheapness is not one of its attractions.

Historic ruins, as a rule, are now carefully maintained in England and often made a feature of parks and pleasure grounds. But there are exceptions, where the onslaughts of decay are not withstood and where, unhindered, green ruin creeps steadily on. Such we found Caister Castle, four miles to the north of Yarmouth. We were attracted by its imposing appearance at some distance from the main road, and the byway into which we turned led into an ill-kept farmyard. Here stands the impressive ruin, with the stagnant waters of its old-time moat still surrounding the towering keep and shattered walls. It was quite deserted, apparently serving the neighboring farmer as a hen-roost. We learned little of its history, but the mystery, due to our very ignorance, together with the sad abandon of Caister Castle, makes it appeal to our imagination more strongly than many a well-cared-for ruin whose story has become commonplace.

A broad, level road leads to Norwich and we ran through the flat fen country, dotted here and there with the Norfolk Broads. These pretty inland lakes lay dull and motionless under a leaden sky, but we could imagine them very picturesque on bright days, rippling in the sun and gleaming with white sails. The hour was late, but our flight was a rapid one, soon bringing us to the East Anglian metropolis, where we forthwith sought the Maid’s Head Hotel.

On the following morning we set out to explore the northern coast of Norfolk and our route led us through many byways and over much bad road. The day was clear and cool and the fine level country was in the full glory of June verdure. Everything seemed to indicate that the East Anglian farmer is contented and prosperous in the small way that prosperity comes to the common people of England. The countryside had a well-groomed appearance and the houses were better than the average. We proceeded almost due north to Mundesley, a mean, bleak little coast town with a single crooked street, its straggling cottages contrasting sharply with the palatial hotel in the midst of lawns and gardens on the hill overlooking the sea.

Eastward from Mundesley we ran directly along the ocean, which is visible most of the time; the road is stony and steep in places—altogether the worst we had yet traversed. The coast country is decidedly different from the fertile and pleasant fields of the interior. It is bleak and drab-colored; there are vast stretches of sand dunes bordered with stony hills whose dull colorings are relieved by patches of yellow gorse and groups of stunted trees. The villages are in keeping with the country. The houses are of gray stone and broken flints and roofed with slate or dull-red tiles; the lines are square and harsh and there are no touches of ornament. Even the numerous churches partake of these characteristics; they are huge in bulk, with little or no attempt at artistic effect, often crowning some hilltop and looking as if they had defied the wild sea winds for ages. One we especially noted, standing quite apart on a hill overlooking the ocean—a vast weather-worn church with a square-topped tower in front and a queer little minaret to the rear—altogether an imposing and unusual structure. It completely dominates the poverty-stricken country and the mean little villages, the nearest of which is a half-mile away.

The principal resource of the towns of the north Norfolk coast is resort hotels and boarding-houses. We saw them without number at Mundesley, Hunstanton, Cromer, Well-Next-the-Sea, and at solitary points along the road. The fine beach in many places, the rough but picturesque country and the unusual quiet of the surroundings no doubt prove attractive to many seeking rest. At Wells-Next-the-Sea we were glad indeed to forsake the wretched coast road for the broad white highway that leads by the way of Fakenham to Norwich.

A few miles out of Norwich on the Newmarket road is Wymondham, noted for its odd timber cross and its ancient priory church with octagonal towers, which give it, from a distance, a rather unchurchlike appearance. The extent of the ruins still remaining is sufficient evidence that at one time Wymondham Priory was of no little importance. Most remarkable is the open roof, the oaken timbers of which were removed at the Dissolution, and after being stored away for ages, were again put in place at the recent restoration. The caretaker showed us about with the pride so common to his calling; but he heaved a sigh as he pointed out many costly features of restoration, such as the great screen, the massive bronze chandeliers and many elaborate carvings and furnishings.

“Ah, sir,” he said, “these were all donated by the late vicar; he carried out and paid for a large part of the restoration—but he’s gone now!”

“Dead?” we sympathetically asked.

“No, indeed! It was all the fault of his landlady, who became displeased with him somehow and gave him notice.”

“Trouble about the rent?” we suggested.

“Not a bit of it,” was the indignant reply. “The rent was nothing to him. He is the youngest brother of the Duke of W——, and is very wealthy, with a large following. There is only one house to let in the parish that could accommodate him at all; and so he had to leave; yes, he had to leave, for one day he says to me, ‘Did you ever hear of a minister getting the sack?’ And he told me how badly his landlady had treated him and that he had to go. It was a sad day for Wymondham, sir. He had spent ten times his salary on the church and there were many other things he was about to do.”

“How much is the salary?” we asked.

“Six hundred pounds. It is a large parish, covering thirty-five square miles.”

We gave the old man his expected fee and thought it strange to learn of a minister who had restored a great church from his private fortune and then had to give up his charge because there was only one available house to accommodate him and he couldn’t have that. Surely the captious landlady must be execrated by the good members of the Priory Church of Wymondham.

It may seem a far cry from Wymondham, with its ecclesiastical traditions, to Thetford, the birthplace of that arch-heretic, Thomas Paine; yet it is only a few miles over the finest of roads. The village still preserves its old-world atmosphere and the house where Paine was born still stands, and is frequented, we learned, by many pilgrims. The old Bell Inn, the oddest of hostelries, looked cozy and restful, though we did not seek its hospitality. We hastened onward, leaving the Newmarket highway for Mildenhall, a quiet, unprogressive little village with an interesting manor house. This we did not see after all, for it chanced that it was closed during preparations for an open-air Shakespearean play in the park that afternoon. We paused in the market square and were accosted by a friendly disposed native who thought us at a loss for the road. We thanked him and asked him what there might be of interest in Mildenhall. He scratched his head reflectively and finally said:

“Nothin, sir! Hi ’ave lived in Mildenhall for forty years and never saw anything of hinterest.”

Discouraging, indeed! but we dissented, for there is much in the little town to please one in whom familiarity has not bred contempt. The huge, rambling Bell Inn seemed wonderfully attractive, though quite out of proportion to the village at present. Facing the inn is the church, remarkable for its Early English windows and fine open hammer-beam, carved-oak roof, supported from corbels of angel figures with extended wings. Quite as unusual is the hexagonal market cross, built of heavy oak timbers, gracefully carved, which support the leaden roof. Besides these ancient landmarks, there is much else pleasing in Mildenhall. The thatched cottages, brilliant flower gardens and narrow streets, all combine to make it a snug, charming place where one might quite forget the workaday world without.

Later in our wanderings we made another incursion into East Anglia, and retraced our route over many of its fine highways. We paused at Colchester and sought out some of the odd corners we missed before. On leaving the old city we wandered from the London road into quiet byways in search of Layer Marney, of whose stupendous ruined towers we had read years ago. After no end of inquiry, we came in sight of these, only to learn that the ruin had been incorporated into a modern mansion by a London gentleman and was no longer accessible to visitors. Still, we were able to come quite close and found work still in progress—a number of men laying out formal gardens about the house. The interest centers in the gate towers built four hundred years ago by Lord Marney, who planned to erect a mansion to correspond with his exalted station. But his unfinished work stands as a monument to his blighted hopes, for he died before his task was well begun and his only son followed him a year later. The structure is strikingly original in style; the entrance flanked by great octagonal towers eight stories high, with two immense windows—a network of stone mullions—just above the gateway. It was one of the earliest buildings since Roman times to be constructed of brick, and most unusual are the terra cotta moldings, which have a classic touch, due to Italian workmen brought to England by Lord Marney.

The little church near by, of earlier date than the towers, is also built of brick and has so far escaped the ravages of the restorer. It has three black marble tombs of old-time Marneys and one of these must be older than the church, for it bears the mail-clad effigy of a crusader who died in 1414. The interior has scarcely been altered in the four hundred years of its existence; and we hardly saw another to match it in genuine spirit of the olden time. The roof of the nave had been repaired out of sheer necessity, but the dark, sagging beams of the chapel had never been molested. Over the door a black letter inscription, with initial and decorations in still brilliant red, is devoted to a scathing denunciation of “ye riche,” so fierce as to seem almost modern. Perhaps the Marneys viewed it with the more complacency from the fact that their worldly possessions hardly accorded with their high station. One of the oddest features of the interior is the carved oaken effigies of four little monkeys perched on tall posts at either end of the family pews, and an ape is shown on the Marney arms. All because, tradition declares, a pet monkey snatched a prehistoric Marney while an infant from a burning mansion and lost its life to save the child.