Part 7

The conversation gives but an idea of the systematic way that a crusade for the antique is carried on. If the hunter makes a "find," and the owner will not part, that unfortunate cottager is persecuted until he or she does part, sooner or later to regret the folly. And, alas! churches are not even sacred from these sharks. How often have we not seen some curious piece of furniture mentioned as being in the church, and, lo! it has vanished--where? And do not the empty brackets over many an ancient tomb tell a tale? What have become of the helmets of the ancient lords of the manors? We can quote an instance offhand. In the fine old church of Bromham, three of the helmets of the manorial lords, the Bayntons, are still there, two of them perhaps only funereal helmets, and not the actual casques of warfare; but there are three if not four vacant brackets which perchance once supported the envied headpieces with pointed visor of the fifteenth century. Aloft also are some rusty gauntlets, and one of the helmets still bears the crest of the eagle's head. The manor descended from the Beauchamps to the Bayntons, the last of whom was the nineteenth in descent from Sir Henry Baynton, Knight Marshal of the household to Henry the Second. His mother was the eldest daughter and co-heiress of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, and Miss Malet the runaway heiress. A recumbent effigy of Sir Roger Touchet in alabaster (resembling in a remarkable degree the late Sir Henry Irving as Richard III.) is covered with the carved initials of vandal visitors, not, we may add, only of our own and fathers' and grandfathers' time, but dating back from the reign of Elizabeth; so it is comforting to see that our ancestors were as prone to disfigure monuments in this way as is the modern 'Arry. One of the initials, I. W., perhaps may be that of the witty and wicked Earl of Rochester, who by repute made Spye an occasional residence, although the Bayntons certainly held the estate some years after the Lady Anne, his daughter's death in 1703. The ceiling of the Baynton chapel is richly carved, and the bosses and brackets show their original faded colouring of blue and gold. There are also coloured niches for saints; and on a canopied tomb of Elizabeth Touchet, a brass of a kneeling figure, and a tablet of the coat of arms is enamelled in colours. There also is a fine brass of John Baynton in Gothic armour.

All that remains of the old Jacobean house of Spye is a subterranean passage beneath the terrace; but the Tudor entrance gate to the picturesque park stands on the left-hand side of the road to Lacock just before the road begins its winding precipitous descent. Evelyn saw the house soon after it was built, and likened it to a long barn. The view is superb, but, strangely enough, not a single window looked out upon the prospect! After dining and a game of bowls with Sir Edward Baynton, the Diarist took coach; but, says Evelyn, "in the meantime our coachmen were made so exceeding drunk, that in returning home we escaped great dangers. This, it seems, was by order of the knight, that all gentlemen's servants be so treated; but the custom is barbarous and much unbecoming a knight, still less a Christian."

A mile or so to the east of the entrance gate of Spye is Sandy Lane, a tiny hamlet with trim thatched cottages and a sturdy seventeenth-century hostelry, the "George," looking down the street; and farther along in the direction of Devizes stands the "Bell," another ancient roadside inn, which, judging from its mullioned windows, knobbed gables, and rustic porch, must date back to the days of the first Charles.

In Bromham village also there are some pretty half-timber buildings, not forgetting the "lock-up" by the churchyard. The exterior of the church is richly sculptured; a fine example of the purest Gothic.

Sleepy old Lacock, with its numerous overhanging gables, is a typical unspoiled village. It was once upon a time a town, but by all appearances it never can have been a flourishing one; and let us hope it will remain in its dormant state now that there is nothing out of harmony, for the Lacock of to-day must look very much as it did two hundred years or more ago. It consists mainly of two wide streets, with a fine old church at the end of one and a lofty seventeenth-century inn at the other. Opposite the latter is a monastic barn with blocked-up arched doorway, and facing it a fine row of timbered houses. Wherever you go the pervading tone is grey, and one misses the little front gardens with bright flowers and creepers. By the school stands the village cross. Farther along a great wide porch projects into the street, and over it a charming traceried wooden window. Nearer the church the road narrows, and a group of timber cottages make a pleasing picture, one of them with a wide entrance of carved oak spandrels above an earlier stone doorway. The church, a noble edifice, has a very graceful spire and some good tombs, including two wooden mural monuments to Edward Baynard who lived in Elizabeth's reign, and to Lady Ursula Baynard in the reign of Charles I.

The monument of Sir John Talbot of Lacock describes him as born of the most noble family of the Duke of Shrewsbury, which is somewhat confusing. Sir John was descended from John, second Earl of Shrewsbury, who died in 1460, and his monument was erected when the twelfth earl and first duke was living. Sir John died in 1713, and his son and heir predeceased him, as mentioned on the monument.

But the principal object of interest at Lacock, of course, is its famous abbey, the early fifteenth-century cloisters being, it is said, the most perfect example in England. It has been a residence since the Dissolution, when the estate was granted by Henry VIII. to Sir William Sherrington, the daughter of whose brother Sir Henry married a Talbot of Salwarpe, the ancestor of the present owner, C. H. Talbot, Esq., a learned antiquary, by whose care and skill so many points of interest have been brought to light. The cloisters, refectory, chapter-house, sacristy, etc., are in an excellent state of preservation, and there are some fine hooded fireplaces, and among the curiosities, a great stone tank in which fish were kept; and the nuns' cauldron, something after the style of Guy of Warwick's porridge-pot. The groined roof of the cloister is remarkable, the bosses showing their original colouring, nearly two hundred or more all being of different design. The sides facing the road are flanked by an octagonal tower of singular beauty, ornamented with balustrades, and a staircase turret crowned with a cupola. This contains the muniment-room, in which is preserved Henry III.'s Magna Charta, which belonged to the foundress, Ela, Countess of Shrewsbury, the widow of William Longespee, the son of Henry II. and Fair Rosamond. Dugdale tells us that the site "Snaile's Mede" was pointed out to this good lady in a vision. An epitaph to the abbess Ela may still be seen within the cloisters.

Sir John Talbot of Lacock was a staunch Royalist, and the first person who received the Merry Monarch in his arms at Dover upon his landing in 1660. Both Sir John and his son Sharington Talbot figure as duellists in the diaries of Pepys and Evelyn. The former was one of the six combatants in that famous encounter at Barn Elms, where Buckingham mortally wounded Francis Talbot, the eleventh Earl of Shrewsbury. Sir John proved a better swordsman than his antagonist Captain William Jenkins, for the latter was left dead upon the field. The Royal pardon from Charles II. is still preserved in Lacock Abbey. The duel between the younger Talbot and Captain Love at Glastonbury, in July 1685, is mentioned by Evelyn. Both commanded a company of militia against Monmouth at Sedgemoor, and after the battle an argument arose as to which fought the best. The discussion grew heated, swords were drawn, and Talbot was killed. He was the eldest and only surviving son of the knight, and had he left issue, upon the death of the eleventh Earl of Shrewsbury's son, the first and only duke, the Lacock Talbots would by priority have become Earls of Shrewsbury.

Beyond the village, just before the road winds upwards towards Spye Park, is Bewley Court, an interesting old farm, with trefoil windows and Gothic entrance door of fine proportions. Its hall is intact, having its wide open fireplace and open timber roof with carved beams. A reed-grown canal, with one of those queer hand drawbridges, serves as the moat of yore. Bewley by some is corrupted into "Brewery," for close by there is such an establishment, and the ancient name has become submerged. There are said to have been four Courts originally belonging to Lacock Abbey, but this is the only remaining one.

Each approach to Lacock is picturesque, but the most pleasing is from the lane which runs up to Gastard and Corsham. This joins the Melksham road by a charming old gabled and timbered cottage, not architecturally remarkable, but pleasing in outline and colour. From the lane above, this roadside cottage stands out against a background of wooded hill, and when the sun is low it presents a picture which must have tempted many an artist. On the way to Gastard and thence to Neston there are many tumble-down old places which seem to be entirely out of touch with the twentieth century. But at the highest point there is a startling notice which might alarm a motorist should he lose his way up in these narrow lanes. "Beware of the trams" is posted up in big letters! You look around in astonishment, for silence reigns supreme; but by and bye you come upon a stone quarry near the dilapidated entrance to what was once probably a manor house, and a light falls upon the meaning of the "trams." An artistic projecting signboard not far off bears the inscription:

"Arise, get up the Season now Drive up Brave Boys God speed the Plough."

Up a narrow lane is a tiny chapel with a stone mullioned window cut down into a semicircle at the top. A little stone sundial over the entrance door, and the smallest burial-ground we have ever seen, are worth notice for their quaintness. Farther to the west is Wormwood Farm, whose ivy-clad gables give the house a more homely look than most hereabouts. Higher up in a very bleak position is Chapel Plaster Hermitage, an older building, whose little belfry surely cannot summon many worshippers. It was a halting-place of pilgrims to Glastonbury, and in Georgian days of lonely travellers, who were eased of their purses by a gentleman of the road named Baxter, who afterwards was hung up as a warning on Claverton Down. Near the wood, the resort of this highwayman, is Hazelbury House, a sixteenth-century mansion, much reduced in size, whose formidable battlemented garden walls are worthy of a fortress. It was once a seat of the Strodes, whose arms are displayed on the lofty piers of the entrance gate. On the other side of the Great Bath road is Cheney Court, another gabled mansion which has been of importance in its day, and within half a mile, Coles Farm, a smaller building, alas! fast falling to decay. Its windows are broken and its panelled rooms are open to the weather. We ploughed our way through garden, or what was once a garden, waist-high with weeds, to a Tudor doorway whose door presumably was more accustomed to be opened than closed. At the foot of the staircase was a little wicket gate leading to the capacious cellars. Somebody had scrawled above an ancient fireplace close by, a plea against wanton mischief; but that was the only sign that anybody was interested in the place. But we learned something from an intelligent farmer who was picking apples in one of the surrounding orchards. It was very sad, he said, but so it had remained for years. The owner was abroad, and though various people had tried to buy it, there were legal difficulties which prevented it. "But why not find a tenant?" we asked. "That would surely be better than allowing it to fall to pieces!" He shook his head. "'Tis too far gone," he said, "and there's no money to put it in repair." So Coles Farm, situated in the midst of lovely hills and orchards, gives the cold shoulder to many a willing tenant.

It is a precipitous climb from here to Colerne, which across the valley looks old and inviting from the Bath road. But the place is sadly disappointing, and Hunters' Hall, which once upon a time was used as an inn and possessed some remarkably fine oak carvings, is now a shell, and scarcely worth notice.

The village of Corsham, approached either from the north or south, is equally picturesque. By the former there is a long row of sturdy Tudor cottages with mullioned windows and deep-set doorways; by the latter, the grey gables of the ancient Hungerford Hospital, and beyond the huge piers of the entrance to Corsham Court. An inscription over the almshouse porch and beneath the elaborate sculptured arms of the Hungerfords, says that it was founded by Lady Margaret Hungerford, daughter of William Halliday, alderman of London, and Susan, daughter of Sir Henry Row, Knight, Lord Mayor of London. The chapel is on the right-hand side, and contains the original Jacobean pulpit, seats, and gallery. The pulpit is a two-decker, and the seat beneath a comfortable armchair of large proportions with an ingenious folding footstool. The screen is a fine piece of Jacobean carving, with pilasters and semicircular arches of graceful design, with the Hungerford arms upon two shields. There is a good oak staircase and a quaint exterior corridor leading to the several dwellings, with trim little square gardens allotted to each. Corsham Court has a stately and dignified appearance. The second entrance gate has colossal piers, which quite dwarf the others previously mentioned. Beyond are the stables, a picturesque row of Elizabethan gables and pinnacles. The south front of the house preserves its original character in the form of the letter E with the arms and the crest of the builder, William Halliday, on pinnacles over the gables, and seven bay-windows. The interior of the mansion has been much modernised, but the picture collection contains some of the choicest old masters. Some of Lord Methuen's ancestors by Reynolds and Gainsborough are wonderfully vigorous. Here is Vandyck's Charles I. on horseback, with which one is so familiar. How many replicas must there be of this famous picture! Charles II. hangs opposite his favourite son in one of the corridors--a fine portrait of the handsome Monmouth. One of the most curious pictures is a group by Sir Peter Lely, representing himself in mediæval costume playing the violoncello to his own family in light and airy dress. One would have thought that he would have clad his wife and daughters more fully than some of his famous beauties: on the contrary. The church, whose tower is detached, has been restored from time to time, and looks by no means lacking in funds. The carved parclose of stone and two altar-tombs to the Hanhams are the chief points of interest. There is a simple recumbent effigy of one of the Methuens, a little girl, which in its natural sleeping pose is strangely pathetic, even to those who know nothing of the story of her early death.

Biddestone, above Corsham, has many good old houses round its village green. The little bell turret to the church is singular, but the eye is detracted by an ugly stove-pipe which sticks out of the roof close by. There is some Roman work within, but the high box pews look out of keeping. About three miles to the north-west is Castle Combe, one of the sweetest villages in Wiltshire or in any other county. It is surrounded by hills and hanging woods, and lies deep down and hidden from view. As you descend, the banks on either side show glimpses, here and there; a grey gable peeping out of the dense foliage or grey cottages perched up high. Still downward, the road winds in the shade of lofty trees, then suddenly you find yourself looking down upon the quaint old market-cross, with the grey church tower peering over some ancient roofs. This presumably is the market-place,--not a busy one by any means, for beyond an aged inhabitant resting on the solid stone base, or perhaps a child or two climbing up and down the steps (for it is a splendid playground)--all is still. The village pump alongside the cross, truly, supplies occasional buckets of water for the various gabled stone cottages around, indeed (as is invariably the case when one's camera is in position) people seemed to spring up from nowhere, and the pump handle was exceptionally busy. The cross is richly sculptured with shields and roses at the base, and the shaft rises high above the picturesque old roof, which is supported by four moulded stone supports. Undoubtedly it is one of the most perfect fifteenth-century crosses in England. The road still winds downwards to a rushing stream crossed by a little bridge, and here there is a group of pretty cottages with prettier gardens abutting on the road. We have seen these under very different aspects, in March with snow upon the creepers, and in October when the creepers were brilliant scarlet, and scarcely know which made the prettier picture. The sound of rushing water adds romance to this sweet village.

The ancient family of Scrope has been seated here for over five centuries and a half. The "Castle Inn" by the market-cross remains primitive in its arrangements, although the "tripping" season makes great demands upon its supplies. Though ordinarily quiet enough, occasionally there is a swarm, and a sudden demand of a hundred or so "teas" is enough to try the resources of any hostess. But it was too much for the poor lady here; her health was bad, and she would have to flee before another season came round. Strange to say, it is the slackness of business that usually sends folks away. The graceful fifteenth-century pinnacled and embattled tower of the church gives the ancient building a grand appearance. The church is rich in stained glass, containing the arms of the various lords of the manor.

Yatton Keynell, a couple of miles eastwards, possesses a fine Jacobean manor-house, with a curious porch and very uncommon mullioned window. The wing to the right was demolished not many years ago, so that now a front of three gables is all that remains; and though it looks fairly capacious, there are but few rooms, the space being taken up with staircase (a fine one) and attics. The exterior of the church is good, but the interior is "as new as ninepence," saving a fine fifteenth-century stone rood-screen. The spiral staircase up to the summit has been cut through, which is a pity, as otherwise the organ would have been less conspicuous. The steps of the village cross now serve as a basement for the village inn.

The churches of Stanton St. Quinton and Kingston St. Michael have suffered internally as much as that of Yatton Keynell, and, alas! the fourteenth-century manor-house of the St. Quintons is now no more. An aged person working in the churchyard, though very proud that he had helped to pull it down, insisted on pointing out the "ould dov-cart" This may be pure "Wilshire," but until we saw the dovecot we did not grasp the meaning. Nearer Chippenham is Bullich House, which fortunately has been left in peace. Beside the entrance gate two queer little "gazebos" were covered with Virginia creeper in its bright autumn tints. The remains of the clear moat washed the garden wall, over which peeped the gables of the house with the waning red sunlight reflected in the casements--this was a picture to linger in one's memory; and there is no telling how far one's fancy might not have been led by speculating upon the meaning of two grim heads which form pinnacles above the porch, had the stillness not been broken by the harsh sounds of the gramophone issuing from a neighbouring cottage! If Bullich possesses a ghost, as it ought to, judging by appearances, surely an up-to-date music-hall ditty should "lay" him in the moat in desperation.

About a mile away on the western side of the main road from Chippenham to Yatton Keynell is Sheldon Manor, a charming old residence with a great Gothic porch like a church, and a Gothic window over it belonging to what is called the "Priest's chamber." Upon the gable end, over it, is one of those queer little box sundials one occasionally sees in Wiltshire. As you enter the porch the massive staircase faces you, with its picturesque newels and pendants, and the little carved oak gate, which was there to keep the dogs downstairs. In the wall to the right, just beyond the entrance door, is a curious stone trough of fair capacity. It is screened by a door, and exteriorly looks like a cupboard; but what was the use of this trough we are at a loss to conjecture, unless in old days the horses were admitted.