linging limpet-like upon the crest and shoulders of a steep, sandstone crag, on the western bank of the Severn, the ancient town of Bridgnorth occupies a situation of more than ordinary picturesqueness. 'Where Severne runneth, Nature hath made a terrible Dike,' wrote John Leland anent Bridgnorth in the days of Henry VIII.; and to this 'terrible Dike' the town owes its unique aspect among all the towns of Shropshire.

Confronting the river rise, tier above tier, the little old brown-roofed dwellings; so closely packed that the cottager, as he stands in his rustic porch, can almost peep down his neighbour's chimney and see what is cooking for dinner! Bits of garden ground with their varied greenery lend a pleasant, rural air; while in and between wind steep, narrow, stepped paths; reminding one of Clovelly, and of certain mountain townlets in northern Italy.

At the foot of the hill, the Severn is spanned by the old stone Bridge whence the town derives its name. Beyond this bridge lies the riverside suburb of Lower Town, occupying a sort of amphitheatre enclosed by the rocky ridge which flanks the vale upon its eastern side.

To see Bridgnorth at its best, let the visitor stand, about sundown of an early autumn day, upon this old bridge; or, better still, take a boat on the river. Then the old town may be trusted to give one a touch of its quality; its brown walls and roofage blending with the ruddy rock into deep, harmonious tints; a ray of light from some cottage pane here and there reflected in the dark, silent water; while the two tall church towers on the crest of the ridge still glow in the last warm rays of the departing day.

So much, then, for general effect; let us now get to closer quarters. Turning our backs upon the Bridge, we bear to the right and enter the Cartway, in olden times the one and only route by which vehicles could ascend to the Upper Town.

Confronting us as we climb the steep, crooked lane, rises the old half-timbered mansion which figures in the accompanying sketch; one of the few of its kind that have survived the ravages of the Civil Wars. Built in the sixteenth century, its weatherbeaten front shews the delightful irregularity so often seen in structures of that period.

The interior, half workshop, half mean tenement, has lost all interest for the antiquary, the only indigenous feature being a ponderous lintel stone carved with the ensuing inscription: except . the . lord . bvild . the . owse . the . labovrers . there . of . evail . not . erected . by . r . for* 1580. The latter part of the sentence is a cryptic rendering of the name of Richard Forester, secretary to Bishop Bonner, an ancestor of the family which for generations past has dwelt at Willey Hall.

But the name most associated with this ancient residence is that of Dr. Percy, sometime Bishop of Dromore, who was born beneath its roof in 1728. In his day and generation, Bishop Percy was an author and antiquary of no mean calibre; and his 'Reliques of Antient English Poetry' was once widely celebrated.

Mounting upwards again, we pass a group of queer cottages and shops, oddly mixed up amidst the native rock with which they are incorporated; and finally we emerge upon an ample greensward, with St. Leonard's church rising in the middle.

This church has undergone some remarkable vicissitudes. John Leland, in 1536, found it a 'very fayre one'; but during the Civil Wars it suffered much damage through an encounter which took place, between Royalists and Roundheads, in the churchyard; when Colonel Billingsley, commander of the town regiment, was slain.

But of late years St. Leonard's has been admirably restored, and is now worthy of the ancient town it adorns. The original church was mainly of thirteenth-century date; though its noble tower, built of salmon-red sandstone, is of somewhat later style, and rich and handsome to a degree. A fine, open-timbered roof was brought to light during restoration; and the east window has been filled with stained glass in memory of the late Dr. Rowley, who, as Head Master, was for many years the 'bright particular star' of Bridgnorth School. Colonel Billingsley's sword is preserved in the south aisle, where there are also some curious old cast-iron memorial tablets.

In one corner of the churchyard stand Palmer's Almshouses, a series of low, timbered structures, grouped around a small courtyard approached through a modernized archway. This charity owes its inception to Francis Palmer, nephew of Colonel Billingsley, by whom it was established in 1687 for the benefit of ten poor widows.

Close at hand rise the plain, brown brick gables of the erstwhile Grammar School, established in Henry the Eighth's time; a sedate-looking, antiquated edifice, attractive by its very simplicity. A diminutive black-and-white cottage, whose latticed casements look out demurely upon the churchyard, was once the home of Richard Baxter, the divine, ere his name had become famous in the land.

We now pass on into the High Street, a broad, cheerful thoroughfare, over whose uneasy, cobble-stone pavement, we make our penitential progress. Midway adown the street rises the ancient Town Hall, the centre and focus of Bridgnorth, its plain rounded archways bestriding the horse-road, and affording a passage way. Overhead, its half-timbered gable is relieved by oriel windows filled with stained glass; while the steep, tiled roof is surmounted by a slender bell-turret, terminating in a weather vane.

This notable old building dates from the year 1652, having been erected by the burgesses to replace an earlier Town Hall, destroyed during the Civil Wars. Here may be seen the Council Chamber, the Court of Justice, etc., where the town magnates sit in conclave to administer the affairs of this historic Borough; and the modern stained glass windows of the various courts, inserted as a memorial of the Queen's Jubilee, afford a study in the corporate life of Bridgnorth.

Confronting the Town Hall, across the way, appears the ancient many-windowed faÇade of the Swan Inn, a rare specimen of a country-town hostelry of the spacious Tudor times; and scarcely less effective, though more modernized, are the chequered gables and quaintly carved brackets of a neighbouring residence. The North Gate, last survivor of Bridgnorth's town gates, spans the end of the street with its three uneven archways.

Saturday is market-day at Bridgnorth, as it has been from time immemorial. The long ranks of tented booths, with the crowds frequenting them, make an animated scene; for the countryfolk foregather then from long distances around, and hearty Shropshire greetings are heard on every hand. As nightfall wears on the fun waxes faster; and lucky the housewives whose menfolk win their way home at last in no worse plight than 'market-peart,' to use the Shropshire phrase.

We now push on to Castle Hill, the southern horn of the monticle on which Bridgnorth is located. Before us rises the tall, classic tower of St. Mary Magdalene's church, which, though designed by Telford, the celebrated engineer, already shews signs of instability. Despite its quasi-classic garb, this church is one of the oldest ecclesiastical foundations in the town; having been transferred to Bridgnorth, from St. Mary Magdalene's at Quatford, by Earl Robert de Belesme, when he built Bridgnorth Castle. So old, indeed, is this foundation, that, even in Leland's time, the church appears to have been in a state of disrepair; that painstaking chronicler recording, 'there is a college church of St. Mary Magdalene within the Castle; the church itself is now a rude thinge.'

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In the reign of Edward III., William of Wykeham, the famous Bishop of Winchester, held for a time the Prebend of Alveley in St. Mary's church, which was the head of an ecclesiastical district bearing the imposing title of 'The Royal Peculiar and Exempt Jurisdiction of the Deanery of Bridgnorth.'

A stone's-throw farther on we enter the Public Gardens, where, 'all on one side, like Bridgnorth Election,' rises the ancient Leaning Tower, sole remains of Bridgnorth Castle, in its time one of the strongest and most important fortresses in all Shropshire. For some two centuries and a half has this massive, grey, limestone ruin, braved the wear-and-tear of the elements, after Cromwell's men had tried in vain to raze it to the ground.

Built by Earl Robert de Belesme, about the year 1100, Bridgnorth Castle has experienced a chequered and eventful career. Scarcely was the fabric completed, when the rebellious Earl was besieged by Henry I., who, having made himself master of the stronghold, converted it into a royal residence.

Later on came the Second Henry, with Thomas À Beket in his train, and, while investing the castle, had a narrow escape of losing his life by an arrow shot from the wall. In the fourth year of his reign, Henry II. granted to the town its first Royal charter, which has been renewed and amplified by several subsequent sovereigns.

The Castle having been strengthened, and put into a state of defence against 'that great magician, damnable Glendower,' the armies of Henry IV. assembled at Bridgnorth on the eve of the Battle of Shrewsbury, as is recorded in Shakespeare's lines:

'On Thursday we ourselves will march; our meeting
Is Bridgenorth: and, Harry, you shall march
Through Gloucestershire; by which account,
Our business valued, some twelve days hence
Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.'

After a period of comparative tranquillity, Bridgnorth and its castle became involved in the great struggle between Royalist and Roundhead; when the old town showed itself trusty to the core, and true to its loyal motto, fidelitas . urbis . salus . regis. King Charles I. honoured the borough with several visits; and his rival, the 'arch-Rebell,' was within an ace of being picked off by a marksman upon the castle walls, while riding near to view the defences of the town.

After a stubborn siege, Bridgnorth finally passed into the hands of the Parliamentarian forces, on March 31, 1646. Taking warning by the tough resistance they had encountered, the Roundheads did their best to render further resistance impossible by dismantling and demolishing the castle; and how effectually they succeeded in doing so is attested by the battered fragment we see before us.

Says Leland, chronicling the results of his observations: 'This Castle standeth on the south Part of the Towne, and is fortified by East with the profound Valley, instead of a Ditch. The Walles of it be of a great Height. There were two or three strong Wardes in the castle, that nowe goe totally to ruine. I count the Castle to be more in Compasse than the third part of the Towne. There is one mighty gate by north in it, now stopped up; and a little Posterne made of force thereby through the wall, to enter into the castle. The castle ground, and especially the base-court, hath now many dwellinge Houses of tymbre in it, newly erected.'

From the adjacent gardens, we obtain an excellent survey of Bridgnorth and its pleasant environs; a land of smiling meadows, groves and orchards, encompassed by gently undulating hills:

'Such an up-and-down
Of verdure, nothing too much up nor down.
A ripple of land, such little hills the sky
Can stoop to tenderly, and the wheat-fields climb.'

Yonder is Pampudding Hill, the site of a castle built by Ethelfleda, daughter of Alfred the Great, well-nigh a thousand years ago. Beyond it lies the hamlet of Oldbury, the 'Old-Borough'; a place which, as its name suggests, is older than Bridgnorth itself.

Then there is the winding Severn, spanned by its grey stone bridge; and the ancient town clinging to its rocky hold, backed by ruddy heights and feathery foliage where Apley Park closes in the view.

So now let us push our explorations farther afield. Proceeding along the terraced Castle Walk, we descend the Stoneway Steps, and, crossing the bridge, pass the site of the defunct Hospital of St. John, founded in the reign of Richard I. A little farther on we come to an old gabled house standing in an elbow of the road, and known as Cann Hall. In former times, Cann Hall was the town residence of the Apley family, and upon one occasion Prince Rupert found here a hiding-place from his enemies.

Beyond Cann Hall we follow the Wolverhampton road, which, ascending between high, rocky banks, brings us in a short half-mile to a point where the low, red sandstone cliff has been fashioned into a number of irregular chambers, known from time immemorial as The Hermitage.

'In Morfe Forrest,' writes John Leland, 'King Athelston's Brother lead, in a Rocke, for a tyme an Heremite's life.' Prince Ethelwald, who is here referred to, was the first recorded tenant of this Hermitage, about the middle of the tenth century. In 1335, Edmund de la Mare was presented to the Hermitage of 'Athelardeston '; and, eleven years later, Roger Burghton was 'presented to the Hermitage above the High Road near Bridgenorth.'

Time and neglect have played sad havoc with these singular grottoes, but their main features are still in a measure discernible. The 'Chapel,' an oblong chamber hewn in the living rock, is now partially open to the sky, though the 'chancel,' with its rudimentary rounded arch, remains intact; and there is a shallow, round-topped recess in the eastern wall, where the reredos usually stands.

Alongside the chapel we find the Hermitage proper, a low, dark cell, communicating with it by a small aperture, now blocked by the large, ungainly brick oven, which defaces the interior of the chapel.

There is an apocryphal tale that a passage formerly existed, connecting this Hermitage with Bridgnorth Castle; and that chests full of priceless treasure lay hidden away somewhere amidst the recesses of the rocks; but, needless to say, no treasure-trove has ever been brought to light.

A few paces distant stands a lowly cottage dwelling, which, excavated like its neighbours from the solid rock, was until recently tenanted by a family of modern troglodytes, and is still used in the daytime by the good woman who has charge of the Hermitage. So let us glance within as we pass.

Upon entering we find ourselves in the living room, whose roof, walls and floor, consist of the native sandstone; a warm, weatherproof covering, though blotched and variegated with many a mottled stain. A short step-ladder gives access to a small upper chamber, with seats roughly cut in its rocky walls, and a window pierced through the outer one.

A few hundred paces beyond the cottage there is a large projecting rock, which, for some reason unknown, goes by the name of the Queen's Parlour.

Upon taking to the road once more we soon quit the highway, and, following an unfrequented sandy lane, drop to a secluded nook where the river Worf meanders past a small, ivy-clad water-wheel house, with the green glades about Davenport House feathering the hill slope before us.

Through the park we stroll onwards, amidst dappled sunshine and shadow; the rabbits dashing to right and left as we crush through the wholesome-scented bracken, and a nuthatch plying his sturdy beak (like the lusty woodman he is) on the branch of a neighbouring elm. A glimpse of Davenport House, a substantial eighteenth-century brick mansion, and anon we descend the hill past an old circular dovecot, and enter Worfield village.

A pretty perspective of rustic dwellings, each with its narrow strip of garden aglow with oldfashioned flowers, flanks the quiet thoroughfare along which we take our way. This brings us to St. Peter's church, a beautiful edifice whose tall, slender spire is seen soaring far aloft above the cottage roofs as we draw near.

Anent this church there is a legend which runs as follows. The[Pg 179]
[Pg 180] old monks, it seems, intended to erect their church on the top of the neighbouring hill, so that its lofty steeple might be seen from afar, pointing the way to heaven. But they had reckoned without their host, for, built they never so fast each day, the old Enemy set to work at night and removed every stone to the bottom of the hill, where the church stands to this day.

Be that as it may, we will now take a closer look at Worfield church. To the right upon entering the churchyard appears an ancient, many-gabled old manor-house, with timber-and-plaster walls, and chimney stacks planted askew upon its stone-tiled roofs. Of its earlier history we can say nothing, but in recent times the old place has been put into a state of much needed repair, and converted to the uses of a parsonage house.

Passing a great yew tree, shaped like an extinguisher, we have the church full in view before us; a large fabric of warm red sandstone, whose diverse styles of architecture lend variety to its appearance. At the west end rises a fine tower of three stages, surmounted by the lofty spire, which, some 200 feet in height, has scarce a rival in Shropshire. Several good geometrical windows embellish the aisles, and a porch of similar character projects upon the south.

By this porch we now enter the church; not failing to notice the exhortation, bee . sure . as . you . remember . the . poor : 1683, inscribed upon the wooden alms-box near at hand. Curiously enough, the floor of the nave has a downward slope towards the chancel, thus reversing the usual order of things.

A tall, richly carved and traceried roodscreen, divides nave from chancel, which has a plain sedilia and piscina. In the north aisle we notice two admirable, canopied marble monuments, to the Bromleys, and a fine old muniment chest covered with scrolly ironwork.

In the thirteenth century, a certain Henry de Wengham, besides being Rector of Worfield, Alveley, Kirkham and Preston, was Bishop of London, Dean of St. Martin's, and ditto of Tettenhall; a notable instance of pluralism.

Two miles due north of Worfield lies the village of Badger, best known for its celebrated Dingle, a deep, rocky, richly wooded ravine, down which a small tributary makes its way to the Worf. In Badger church are to be seen some well executed monuments to the Cheneys and the Brownes, by Flaxman, Chantrey and others. Isaac Hawkins Browne was a poetaster of some little celebrity in the last century.

Beckbury, with its fine parish church, dedicated to St. Milburga, lies away up the vale of Worf. From Badger we make our way to Chesterton, where are the remains of a prehistoric encampment, half surrounded by the Stretford brook. From these names, and other local circumstances, it appears probable the Romans had a station hereabouts. There are traces, in some neighbouring cottages, of what looks like a desecrated fifteenth-century chapel.

Proceeding on our travels, we traverse Rudge Heath; and presently after come to Ludstone, a stately old moated manor-house, built by one of the Whitmores about the year 1607, probably on the site of an earlier house.

It is a charming abode, well preserved, yet not over-restored; its Jacobean gables and balconies wreathed in ivy and Virginian creeper; and its antique, pleasantly formal gardens encircled by the moat, where amidst the water-lilies we get an inverted replica of the old mansion.

Passing near Danford, or Daneford,—a suggestive name—we descend a lane hewn deep in the sandstone rock, cross a bridge over a stream, and so win on to Claverley, 'quite a place,' as our American cousins say, and the largest village in this part of the county.

Midway along the street we come to the parish church, a spacious sandstone structure of various periods, crowned by a tall embattled tower. Unlike its neighbour at Worfield, Claverley church remains entirely innocent of restoration, and, from the antiquarian point of view, contrasts favourably with that somewhat spick-and-span edifice.

Overlooking the churchyard, where the gravestones crowd 'thick as Autumnal leaves in Vallombrosa,' rises the remarkably fine old half-timbered house seen in profile in our sketch. This is doubtless the subject of an ancient deed whereby, in 1659, one Richard Dovey bequeathed certain tenements, 'over and adjoining to the churchyard Gates,' on condition that a poor man be paid 'for waking sleepers in church, and driving out Doggs during divine serviss.' The office has lapsed; but whether on account of the rousing character of the sermons in these latter days, history recordeth not.

Close beside the churchyard path, we notice the broken fragments of an ancient stone cross. This cross formerly stood in the centre of the village, and probably dates from about the time of Edward III. It is supposed to have been put up to commemorate the plague, called the Black Death, in the fourteenth century.

What with its lofty, whitewashed walls, its plastered ceilings and high-backed box-pews, the interior of Claverley church recalls the Groote-kerk of some Dutch provincial town; the resemblance being heightened by the peculiar arrangement of the pews, which, turning their backs upon the east-end, face towards the pulpit in the nave.

This pulpit is, perhaps, the most striking object in the church. It is a large structure of the 'three-decker' type, overhung by a great sounding-board terminating in elaborate pinnacles. High overhead stretches a fine oak-panelled roof, partially disguised beneath the ubiquitous whitewash, and adorned with the royal arms.

There are some quaint carvings upon the capitals of the pillars; the Norman front is enriched with arcading and sculpture; and the curious tracery of the chancel windows should by no means be overlooked.

The south, or Gatacre, chapel, contains a lordly alabaster tomb, with effigies of Sir Robert Broke and his two wives. A native of Claverley, Sir Robert was Speaker of the Commons, and Lord Chief Justice of Common Pleas under Queen Mary; departing this life in the first year of Queen Elizabeth's reign. Upon the adjacent wall there are two large marble slabs, with quaint figures in 'graffito,' and inscriptions to the Gatacres bearing dates in the sixteenth century.

But the waning daylight warns us to depart. So, setting our faces westwards, we bowl along between the dusky hedgerows, until we strike the main road near a place called the 'Wheel of Worvell.' Here we linger awhile at the open door of the smithy, whose ruddy gleam of firelight, dancing sparks, and cheerful noise of hammering, attract one irresistibly, awakening some slumbering instinct of the primÆval man.

Then putting on the best pace, we spin away along an up-and-down, switchback sort of road, re-cross the bridge over the Severn, and, availing ourselves of the 'Lilt,' or Castle Hill Railway, we ascend swiftly and smoothly to our night's quarters in the 'Faithful' town.

This time-honoured Borough of Bridgnorth boasts a number of ancient charters, the earliest of which is the charter of incorporation granted by King Henry II. in 1157. The handsome regalia comprises a pair of silver-gilt maces, a marshall's staff, and a corporate seal; and, last but not least, a modern Mayoral chain bearing the names of the Mayors, the Borough Arms, and the Town motto, fidelitas . urbis . salus . regis.

A row up the Severn to Apley Park, one of the pleasantest excursions in this locality, introduces the visitor in a leisurely fashion to the green, placid landscapes, characteristic of 'gentle Severn's sedgy banks.'

Drawing clear of the town, we get a good rearward view of Bridgnorth, perched on its rocky eyrie; and then we pass beneath Pendlestone Rock, whose towering crags are draped in luxuriant foliage down to the water's edge. Hoard's Park and Severn Hall, two ancient timbered houses, are presently left behind, though not in sight from the river; and then, skirting the demesne of Stanley, we come by-and-by to a landing-place at a cool, shady nook, on the eastern bank of the Severn.

Winding upwards through the woods, the steep path lands the wayfarer at a spot where a queer little cottage, excavated in the rock, gives upon a kind of platform, whence one may enjoy a widespreading view over hill and dale and winding river.

Another short climb brings us to Apley Terrace, a charming sylvan drive, which, traversing the crest of a richly timbered upland, introduces one to a changing panorama of almost unrivalled loveliness. If 'to see is to possess,' as Beranger affirms, we have here indeed acquired a goodly heritage. Far beneath our feet, the Severn winds through the vale in a long, silvery reach, embracing the rich rolling woodlands and smooth, green, grassy glades of Apley Park; a worthy setting to the old grey mansion, seated so serenely in its midst. Away and beyond spreads a mazy landscape, chequered with cornfields and woodlands, all mellowed by the touch of Autumn; while our old friends, the Wrekin and the twin-crested Clees, look over the shoulders of their lowlier brethren. Nor is this all, for, by turning across the drive, we get a peep at the Malvern Hills; and Clent and Lickey are seen, rising clear and distinct against the mirky haze that overhangs the Black Country.

In Henry the Third's time, the Manor of Apley was held by a family owning the euphonious name of Huggeford; passing subsequently by marriage to Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote, in Warwickshire. By him the estate was sold, in 1551, to one of the Whitmores of Aston, Claverley, an influential family, who remained masters of Apley during some three centuries or more. For 238 years, it is said, the Whitmores represented the Borough of Bridgnorth in Parliament; a circumstance which gave rise to the well-known local adage, 'like Bridgnorth election, all on one side.'

From the Terrace, here, as we look towards the east, a large farmhouse is seen, standing by itself amidst a grove of trees. This is Ewdness, a fine old brick-and-stone, oak panelled residence of the Tudor period, deriving its name from the ancient family of d'Eudinas, mentioned in Domesday Chronicle. Walter d'Eudinas, in 1221, held the estate direct from the King. Long afterwards it passed into the hands of a Mr. Fletcher, by whom the existing mansion was erected. Fletcher's daughter espoused Colonel Berkeley, sometime M.P. for Shrewsbury, who commanded a troop of horse in the Parliamentary wars. Ewdness now forms part of the Apley estate.

Near Ewdness lived, once upon a time, a damsel named Sally Hoggins, daughter of a local market-gardener. Growing aweary of her patronymic, Miss Hoggins played her matrimonial cards to such purpose, that she lived to style herself Sarah, Marchioness of Exeter.

Beyond Ewdness lies Stockton village, with its interesting Norman church, dedicated to St. Chad. Half-a-mile farther on, on the Shiffnal road, is the hamlet of Norton, where, opposite the Hundred House Inn, beneath a big elm tree, stand the ancient stocks and whipping-post, which our artist has drawn for us at the end of the present chapter. In Edward the Third's reign, it will be remembered, the Commons petitioned the King to establish stocks in every village in the realm.

Taking a giant's-stride across the Severn, we come to Astley Abbots, a secluded village composed of about half a score cottages, and pleasant, rural residences of the gentry-folk.

St. Calixtus's church, rising a short distance west of the village, is our next objective; an unobtrusive edifice, topped by a small wooden steeple above its western gable. Founded in 1138, it is of the Norman and Decorated styles, and has been reasonably renovated in modern times. The chancel, rebuilt in 1633, has a little painted glass in its eastern window; and the Norman font and richly carved Jacobean pulpit are worth a passing glance. Suspended in a corner of the north aisle we notice a 'Lover's Garland,' a memorial to Hanna Phillips, of this parish, who died on the eve of wedlock in 1707.

Upon leaving the church, a meadow path soon brings us to Dunvall, a remarkable old timbered mansion of the Elizabethan era. Its massive oak beams display great variety of treatment, and are entirely guiltless of ironwork, being joined together by long wooden pegs; while many of them are scored on the surface with curious lines and hatchings, private marks of the craftsmen who fashioned them, perhaps.

The hall with its open staircase, oak panelling and wide, lattice-paned windows, has a delightfully old-world appearance, and probably remains much as originally built.

Dunvall formerly belonged to a branch of the Acton family, in whose days the old house boasted a library of rare and curious volumes, including a 'Breeches' Bible, dated 1582. But the Actons have long since departed, their relics and curios have been dispersed, and the place thereof knoweth them no more.

So now, having done with Dunvall, we take our departure in a south-westerly direction; faring along, up-hill and down-dale, amidst green meadows and golden wheat-fields, where the labourers are plying their peaceful, rural toil; while the clack! clack! of the 'reaper-and-binder' sounds merrily through the still air.

Emerging from labyrinthine lanes, we strike the Wenlock road three miles from Bridgnorth, and march on thence into the village of Morville. Calling in at the clerk's cottage for the key of the church—a key of Brobdingnagian size—we push on past the pretty, rustic post-office, and the village smithy; and then, espying the old grey church and Hall away in the vale to our left, we climb over a stile, and make our way thitherwards.

St. Gregory's church at Morville is an interesting edifice of great antiquity, though no part of the earlier structure, which stood here in Edward the Confessor's days, is now in existence. Dating from the early years of the twelfth century, the present church constituted a cell subject to Shrewsbury Abbey; and our cherished and most respectable Leland did not fail to take note of the place, as he journeyed by from Wenlock to Bridgnorth, describing it as 'a little priory, or cell, at Morfeilde, on the right hand as I entered the village.'

Morville church has the long chancel usually seen in collegiate foundations, the semi-headed chancel arch being curiously depressed, and having rudely sculptured capitals, and billet mouldings. Large, very quaintly carved wooden effigies of the four Evangelists, are fixed against the wall just below the corbels of the nave roof; but they are probably not now in their original positions.

The large, cylindrical font is enriched with primitive, arcaded ornamentation; and two very ancient oak muniment chests stand in the adjacent aisle. In the course of repairs, some years ago, traces of colour-decoration, or fresco, were detected under the whitewash on the south wall.

Upon regaining the highroad we pass the Acton Arms, a well-to-do-looking wayside hostelry. Then Morville Hall comes in sight, a grey stone mansion with projecting wings, occupying the site of the ancient priory, whose last Prior, Richard Marshall, died in 1558.

En route to Aston Eyres, the tall trees of Aldenham avenue greet the eye pleasantly, though the Hall itself is hidden. At this diminutive village of Aston we find a church of proportionate scale, the only feature whereof that need detain us being the remarkable sculptured panel shewn in our sketch. It stands above the south door, and, protected by the projecting porch, is still in an excellent state of preservation, though evidently of very great antiquity.

As may be seen, there is much quaint character about the several figures, which are carved in high relief. In the centre we see the Saviour, palm-branch in hand, riding into Jerusalem upon an ass, which is followed by its colt; to the right a seated figure strews branches in the way, while another man is in the act of casting his cloak upon the ground.

It is recorded that Robert Fitz Aer caused this church to be built, between the years 1132 and 1148; and to his piety we are doubtless indebted for this interesting piece of sculpture.

Incorporated with some large farm buildings, on the north side of the churchyard, we find considerable remains of the thirteenth-century manor-house of the Fitz Aers; part of the great hall and the two-storied domestic buildings, with a circular newel stairway, being traceable in the fabric of a big stone barn.

In the quiet country towards Wonlock, on the foothills of the Clees, lie the sleepy hamlets of Monk Hopton and Acton Round; the latter boasting a restored church, with tombs of the Acton family, and some remains of a hall of Queen Anne's time, now turned into a farmhouse.

Retracing our steps to Morville, we plunge into a hollow, sequestered lane, and, after passing a rustic mill, and negotiating one or two rather breakneck 'pitches,' we win onwards past Meadowley cover to the brow of a steep, wooded ridge, whose base is washed by the Mor brook.

Presently a little grey church and an old ruddy manor-house are seen, keeping company among the trees that top the hill beyond the narrow vale at our feet; and that is Upton Cressett.

We now bend our steps towards the church, which, rising amidst the fields, a stone's-throw aside from the lane, seems part and parcel of the tranquil landscape. Standing thus alone, enshrouded by trees, under the lee of the sheltering hill, there is something pensive in the attitude of this ancient house of prayer; as though the place were lost in dreams of 'the days that are no more.'

The westering sun, glinting through the trees, spreads the shadows broad athwart the quiet green graveyard. The drowsy hum of insects pervades the autumnal air, the homing rooks make a pleasant sound in the tall elms beside the Hall, and the distant lowing of cattle comes faintly to our ears.

Upton Cressett church is an ancient, stone-built structure, surmounted at its western end by a low, twelfth-century broach spire, a very good and early example of that kind of steeple. The wide timbered porch, seen in our sketch, encloses a fine Norman doorway of three orders, having carved capitals and a semicircular arch ornamented with chevron mouldings.

Of similar but even richer character is the chancel arch, which consists of four distinct orders, with traces of a fifth; a most unusual elaboration for a remote village church such as this.

The thick stone walls are pierced by small Norman and later windows, the east window itself being curiously narrow, a mere lancet light. There was evidently a north aisle at one time, its blocked arches being visible outside the church. The font is of a peculiar shape, like an urn, with slender, rounded arches incised upon it, and rude cable mouldings.

A door in the south wall of the chancel gives access to the Cressett chapel, which has a high-pitched, open-timbered roof, and contains a seventeenth-century oak communion table. Traces of faded frescoes are visible upon the wall; into which is let a small brass, dated 1640, in memory of Richard Cressett, a member of the distinguished family which in bygone times lived in the adjacent Hall.

As 'Ultone,' Upton Cressett figures in Domesday Survey. In 1165, Upton formed part of the Barony of Fitz Alan, being held for some generations by the descendants of Alan de Upton. The Cressetts first appear as Lords of Upton towards the close of the fourteenth century, when, the male line of the Uptons becoming extinct, Thomas Cressett succeeded to Upton, and gave his name to the place. Richard Cressett, builder of the existing house, held the honourable office of Sheriff of Shropshire, as did many of his descendants in after years.

Let us now stroll across to the Hall. As indicated upon a panel let into the wall, the house was erected in the year 1580, and the fine chimney stacks and diapered gables which figure in our sketch date from about that period. Viewed from the north-east, its chequered gables, bronzed, lichen-clad roofs, and wrinkled chimneys, rise with charming effect against the dappled blue of the sky.

Internally the house has been much modernized, but some of the older chambers are nicely wainscoted; and the 'chapel room' upstairs is divided by the great beams of the roof into bays, with arched braces and a sort of embattled cornice, all as massive and simple as possible.

Beyond a green courtyard rises the Gatehouse, a curious little building with ivied gables and quaint angle turrets, apparently coeval with the mansion, and, like it, constructed of fine, timeworn brickwork, of a pleasant mellow hue. The gateway passage shews remnants of antique gothic lettering, now illegible from decay. A stairway in one of the turrets leads to several small chambers, in one of which Prince Rupert is said to have slept. Some fine though damaged plasterwork in this room displays the usual Tudor emblems, and the word . iesv . upon a heart, all delicately executed.

The course of the moat, the ancient well, and the site of the drawbridge can still be identified, a gigantic oak tree marking the outlet of the former. There is said to have been, in the olden times, a subterranean passage running from here to Holgate Castle, in Corve Dale; but, as that is six miles distant as the crow flies, the tradition must be accepted cum grano salis.

Bidding farewell to Upton Cressett, we work a course back to Bridgnorth by a different route. This leads us near to The Hay, a place where, long, long ago, the Lady Juliana de Kenley owned certain lands, which, as is recorded, she disposed of for the moderate rental of one pair of white gloves, value one halfpenny, 'in lieu of all suit of Court and Halimot.'

Once more we pace the now familiar 'petrified kidneys' of the old Severn-side town, and so come at last to our nocturnal lodging place. Turning in for the night, we quickly lose ourselves in the arms of Morpheus, our day's adventures are finally 'rounded with a sleep'—and the rest is silence.

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