At Huntingdon we are on familiar ground with Samuel Pepys. When
he journeyed northwards to visit his parental house or to pay his
respects to Lord Sandwich's family at Hinchinbrooke, he usually
found suitable accommodation at "Goody Gorums" and "Mother"
somebody else who lived over against the "Crown." Neither the
famous posting-house the "George" nor the "Falcon" are mentioned in the Diary, but he speaks of the "Chequers"; however, the change of names of ancient hostelries is common, so in picturing the
susceptible Clerk of the Admiralty chucking a pretty chambermaid
under the chin in the old galleried yard of the "George," we may not be far out of our reckoning.
But altogether the old George Inn is somewhat disappointing. Its
balustraded galleries are there sure enough, with t
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he queer old staircase leading up to them in one of the corners; but it
has the same burnished-up appearance of the courtyard of the
Leicester Hospital at Warwick. How much more pleasing both would
strike the eye were there less paint and varnish. The Inn has been
refronted, and from the street has quite a modern appearance.
Huntingdon recalls the sterner name of Cromwell. Strange that this
county, so proud of the Lord Protector (for has it not recently set up a
gorgeous statue at St. Ives to his memory?), should still harbour red-
hot Jacobites! According to The Legitimist Calendar, mysterious but harmless meetings are still held hereabouts on Oak Apple Day: a day
elsewhere all but forgotten. Huntingdon was the headquarters of the
Royalist army certainly upon many occasions, and when evil days fell
upon the "Martyr King," some of his staunchest friends were here secretly working for his welfare.[1] When Charles passed through the town in 1644, the mayor, loyal to the back-bone, had prepared a
speech to outrival the flowery welcome of his fellow-magistrates:
"Although Rome's Hens," he said, "should daily hatch of its preposterous eggs, chrocodilicall chickens, yet under the Shield of
Faith, by you our most Royal Sovereigne defended and by the King of
Heavens as I stand and your most medicable councell, would we not
be fearful t
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o withstand them."[2] Though the sentence is somewhat involved, the worthy magnate doubtless meant well.
It was the custom, by the way, so Evelyn tells us, when a monarch
passed through Huntingdon, to meet him with a hundred ploughs as a
symbol of the fruitful soil: the county indeed at one time was rich in vines and hops, and has been described by old writers as the garden
of England. Still here as elsewhere the farmers' outlook is a poor one
to-day, although there are, of course, exceptions.
At historic Hinchinbrooke (on June 4, 1647), King Charles slept the
first night after he was removed from Holdenby House by Cornet
Joyce: the first stage of his progress to the scaffold. In the grounds of the old mansion, the monarch, when Prince of Wales, and little Oliver
played together, for the owner in those days of the ancient seat of the
Montagues and Cromwells was the future Protector's uncle and
godfather. Upon one occasion the boys had a stand-up fight, and the
commoner, the senior by only one year, made his royal adversary's
nose bleed,—an augury for fatal events to follow. The story is told
how little Oliver fell into the Ouse and was fished out by a Royalist piscatorial parson. Years afterwards, when the Protector revisited the
scenes of his youth in the midst of his triumphant army, he
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encountered his rescuer, and asked him whether he remembered the
occurrence.
"Truly do I," was the prompt reply; "and the Lord forgive me, but I wish I'd let thee drown."
The Montagues became possessed of the estate in 1627. Pepys
speaks of "the brave rooms and good pictures," which pleased him better than those at Audley End. The Diarist's parental house remains
at Brampton, a little to the west of Huntingdon. In characteristic style
he records a visit there in October 1667: "So away for Huntingdon mightily pleased all along the road to remember old stories, and come
to Brampton at about noon, and there found my father and sister and
brother all well: and here laid up our things, and up and down to see
the gardens with my father, and the house; and do altogether find it
very pretty, especially the little parlour and the summer-houses in the
garden, only the wall do want greens up it, and the house is too low
roofed; but that is only because of my coming from a house with
higher ceilings."
Before turning our steps northwards, let us glance at the mediæval
bridge that spans the river Ouse, to Godmanchester, which is
referred to by the thirteenth-century historian Henry of Huntingdon as
"a noble city." But its nobility has long since departed, and some modern monstrosities in architecture make the old Tudo
[Pg 5]
r buildings which remain, blush for such brazen-faced obtrusion. Its
ancient water-mill externally looks so dilapidated, that one would think
the next "well-formed depression" from America would blow it to atoms. Not a bit of it. Its huge timber beams within, smile at such
fears. It is a veritable fortress of timber. But although this solid
wooden structure defies the worst of gales, there are rumours of
coming electric tramways, and then, alas! the old mill will bow a
dignified departure, and the curfew, which yet survives, will then also
perhaps think it is time to be gone.
At Little Stukeley, on the Great North Road some three miles above
Huntingdon, is a queer old inn, the "Swan and Salmon," bearing upon
its sign the date 1676. It is a good example of the brickwork of the latter half of the seventeenth century. Like many another ancient
hostelry on the road to York, it is associated with Dick Turpin's
exploits; and to give colour to the tradition, mine host can point at a little masked hiding-place situated somewhere at the back of the sign
up in its gable end. It certainly looks the sort of place that could relate
stories of highwaymen; a roomy old building, which no doubt in its
day had trap-doors and exits innumerable for the convenience of the
gentlemen of the road.
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A little off the ancient "Ermine Street," to the north-west of Stukeley, is the insignificant village of Coppingford, historically interesting from
the fact that when Charles I. fled from Oxford in disguise in 1646, he
stopped the night there at a little obscure cottage or alehouse, on his
way to seek protection of the Scots at Southwell. "This day one
hundred years ago," writes Dr. Stukeley in his Memoirs on May 3, 1746, "King Charles, Mr. John Ashburnham, and Dr. Hudson came
from Coppingford in Huntingdonshire and lay at Mr. Alderman
Wolph's house, now mine, on Barn Hill; all the day obscure." Hudson,
from whom Sir Walter drew his character of Dr. Rochecliffe in
Woodstock, records the fact in the following words: "We lay at Copingforde in Huntingdonshire one Sunday, 3 May; wente not to
church, but I read prayers to the King; and at six at night he went to
Stamforde. I writte from Copingforde to Mr. Skipwith for a horse, and
he sente me one, which was brought to me at Stamforde. ——at
Copingforde the King and me, with my hoste and hostis and two
children, were by the fire in the hall. There was noe other chimney in
the house."[3] The village of Little Gidding, still farther to the north-west, had often before been visited by Charles in connection with a
religious establishment that had been founded there by the Ferrar
family. A curious old silk
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coffer, which was given by Charles to the nieces of the founder,
Nicholas Ferrar, upon one of these occasions, some years ago came
into the possession of our late queen, and is still preserved at
Windsor.
A few miles to the north-east is Glatton, another remote village where
old May-day customs yet linger. There are some quaint superstitions
in the rural districts hereabouts. A favourite remedy for infectious
disease is to open the window of the sickroom not so much to let in
the fresh air as to admit the gnats, which are believed to fly away with
the malady and die. The beneficial result is never attributed to
oxygen!
The Roman road (if, indeed, it is the same, for some authorities
incline to the opinion that it ran parallel at some little distance away)
is unpicturesque and dreary. Towering double telegraph poles recur
at set intervals with mathematical regularity, and the breeze playing
upon the wires aloft brings forth that long-drawn melancholy wail only
to make the monotony more depressing. Half a mile from the main
road, almost due east of Glatton, stands Connington Hall, where
linger sad memories of the fate of Mary Queen of Scots. When the
castle of Fotheringay was demolished in 1625, Sir Robert Cotton had
the great Hall in which she was beheaded removed here. The curious
carved oak chair which was used by the poor Queen at Fotheringay
until the day
[Pg 8]
of her death may now be seen in Connington Church, where also is
the Tomb of Sir Robert, the founder of the famous Cottonian Library.
THE BELL, STILTON
A couple of miles or so to the north is Stilton, which bears an air of decayed importance. A time-mellowed red-brick Queen Anne house,
whose huge wooden supports, like cripples' crutches, keep it from
toppling over, comes first in sight. In striking contrast, with its formal
style of architecture, is the picturesque outline of the ancient inn
beyond. A complicated flourish of ornamental ironwork, that would
exasperate the most expert freehand draughtsman, supports the
weather-beaten sign of solid copper. Upon the right-hand gable
stands the date 1642, bringing with it visions of the coming struggle
between King and Parliament. But the date is misleading, as may be
seen from the stone groining upon the adjoining masonry. The main
building was certainly erected quite a century earlier. Here and there
modern windows have been inserted in place of the Tudor mullioned
ones, as also have later doorways, for part of the building is now
occupied as tenements. The archway leading into the courtyard has
also been somewhat modernised, as may be judged from the
corresponding internal arch, with its original curved dripstone
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above.
We came upon this inn, tramping northwards in a bitter day in March.
It looked homely and inviting, the waning sunlight tinting the
stonework and lighting up the window casements. Enthusiastic with
pleasing imaginings of panelled chambers and ghostly echoing
corridors, we entered only to have our dreams speedily dispersed. In
vain we sought for such a "best room" as greeted Mr. Chester at the
"Maypole." There were no rich rustling hangings here, nor oaken screens enriched with grotesque carvings. Alas! not even a cheery
fire of fagots. Nor, indeed, was there a bed to rest our weary bones upon. Spring cleaning was rampant, and the merciless east wind
sweeping along the bare passages made one shudder more than
usual at the thought of that terrible annual necessity (but the glory of
energetic house-wives). But surely mine hostess of the good old days
would have scrupled to thrust the traveller from her door: moreover to
a house of refreshment, or rather eating-house, a stone's-throw off,
uncomfortably near that rickety propped-up red-brick residence.
With visions of the smoking bowl and lavender-scented sheets
dashed to the ground, we turned away. But, lo! and behold a good
angel had come to the rescue. So absorbed had we been with the possibilities of the "Bell" that the "Angel" opposite had quite been overlooked. This rival inn of Georgian date furnished us with cosy
quarters. From our flower-bedecked win
[Pg 10]
dow the whole front of the old "Bell" could be leisurely studied in all its varying stages of light and shade—an inn with a past; an object-lesson for the philosopher to ruminate upon. Yes, in its day one can
picture scenes of lavish, shall we say Ainsworthian hospitality. There
is a smack of huge venison pasties, fatted capons, and of roasted
peacocks about this hoary hostel. And its stables; one has but to
stroll up an adjacent lane to get some idea of the once vast extent of
its outbuildings. The ground they covered must have occupied nearly
half the village. Here was stabling for over eighty horses, and before
the birth of trains, thirty-six coaches pulled up daily at the portal for hungry passengers to refresh or rest.
The famous cheese, by the way, was first sold at this inn; but why it
was dubbed Stilton instead of Dalby in Leicestershire, where it was
first manufactured, is a mystery. Like its vis-à-vis, the "Angel" is far different from what it was in its flourishing days. The main building is
now occupied for other purposes, and its dignity has long since
departed. To-day Stilton looks on its last legs. The goggled motor-
fiend sweeps by to Huntingdon or Peterborough while Stilton rubs its
sleepy eyes. But who can tell but that its fortunes may yet revive.
Was not Broadway dying a natural death when Jonathan, who invar
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iably tells us what treasures we possess, stepped in and made it
popular? Some enterprising landlord might do worse than take the old
"Bell" in hand and ring it to a profitable tune. But judging by appearances, visitors to-day, at least in March, are few and far
between.
Half the charm of Stilton lies in the fact that there is no hurry. It is quite refreshing in these days of rush. For instance, you want to catch
a train at Peterborough,—at least we did, for that was the handiest
way of reaching Oundle, some seven miles to the west of Stilton as
the crow flies. Sitting on thorns, we awaited the convenience of the
horse as to whether his accustomed jog-trot would enable us to catch
our train. We did catch it truly, but the anxiety was a terrible experience.
Oundle is full of old inns. The "Turk's Head," facing the church, is a fine and compact specimen of Jacobean architecture. It was a brilliant
morning when we stood in the churchyard looking up at the ball-
surmounted gables standing out in bold relief against the clear blue
sky, while the caw of a colony of rooks sailing overhead seemed quite
in harmony with the old-world surroundings.
More important and flourishing is the "Talbot," which looks self-conscious of the fact that in its walls are inc
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orporated some of the remains of no less historic a building than
Fotheringay Castle, whose moat and fragmentary walls are to be
seen some three and a half miles to the north of the town. The
fortress, with its sad and tragic memories of Mary Queen of Scots,
was demolished after James came to the throne, and its fine oak
staircase, by repute the same by which she descended to the
scaffold, was re-erected in the "Talbot." The courtyard is picturesque.
The old windows which light the staircase, which also are said to
have come from Fotheringay, are angular at the base, and have an
odd and pleasing appearance.
Two ancient almshouses, with imposing entrance gates, are well
worth inspection. There is a graceful little pinnacle surmounting one
of the gable ends, at which we were curiously gazing when one of the
aged inmates came out in alarm to see if the chimney was on fire.
Fotheringay church, with its lantern tower and flying buttresses, is
picturesquely situated close to the river Nene, and with the bridge
makes a charming picture. The older bridge of Queen Mary's time
was angular, with square arches, as may be seen from a print of the
early part of the eighteenth century. In this is shown the same scanty
remains of the historic Castle: a wall with a couple of Gothic
doorways, all that survived of the formidable fortress that was the
unfortunate queen's last prison-house. As at Cumnor, wher
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e poor Amy Robsart was done to death in a manner which certainly
Elizabeth hinted at regarding her troublesome cousin, there is little
beyond the foundations from which to form an idea of the building. It
was divided by a double moat, which is still to be seen, as well as the
natural earthwork upon which the keep stood. The queen's
apartments, that towards the end were stripped of all emblems of
royalty, were situated above and to the south of the great hall, into which she had to descend by a staircase to the scaffold. Some
ancient thorn trees now flourish upon the spot. The historian Fuller,
who visited the castle prior to its demolition, found the following lines
from an old ballad scratched with a diamond upon a window-pane of
Mary's prison-chamber:
"From the top of all my trust Mishap hath laid me in the dust."
Though Mary's mock trial took place at Fotheringay in the "Presence
Chamber," she was actually condemned in the Star Chamber at
Westminster; and it may here be stated that that fine old room may
yet be seen not very many miles away, at Wormleighton, near the
Northamptonshire border of south-east Warwickshire. A farmhouse
near Fotheringay is still pointed out where the executioner lodged the
night before the deed; and some claim
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this distinction for the ancient inn in which are incorporated some
remains of the castle.
As is known, the Queen of Scots' body was buried first in
Peterborough Cathedral, whence it was removed to Westminster
Abbey. There is a superstition in Northamptonshire that if a body after
interment be removed, it bodes misfortune to the surviving members
of the family. This was pointed out at the time to James I.; but
superstitious as he was, he did not alter his plans, and the death of Prince Henry shortly afterwards seemed to confirm this belief.[4]
But there are other memories of famous names in history, for the
head of the White Rose family, Richard of York, was buried in the
church, and his duchess, Cecilia Neville, as well as Edward of York,
whose death at Agincourt is immortalised by Shakespeare. When the
older church was dismantled and the bodies removed to their present
destination, a silver ribbon was discovered round the Duchess
Cecilia's neck upon which a pardon from Rome was clearly written.
The windows of the church once were rich in painted glass; and at
the fine fifteenth-century font it is conjectured Richard III. was
baptized, for he was born at the Castle. Crookback's badge, the boar,
may still be seen in the church, and the Yorkist falcon and fetterlock
are displayed on the summit o
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f the vane upon the tower. Also some carved stalls, which came from
here, in the churches of Tansor and Hemington to the south of
Fotheringay, bear the regal badges and crest. The falcon and the
fetterlock also occur in the monuments to the Dukes of York, which
were rebuilt by Queen Elizabeth when the older tombs had fallen to
decay. The allegiance to the fascinating Queen of Scots is far from
dead, for in February 1902, and doubtless more recently, a
gentleman journeyed specially from Edinburgh to Fotheringay to
place a tribute to her martyrdom in the form of a large cross of
immortelles bearing the Scots crown and Mary's monogram, and a
black bordered white silk sash attached.
WOTHORPE MANOR-HOUSE.
A few miles to the west of this historic spot are the fine Tudor houses
Deene and Kirby: the former still a palatial residence; the latter, alas!
a ruin fast falling to decay. Deene, with its battlemented towers and
turrets and buttressed walls, is a noble-looking structure, with
numerous shields of arms and heraldic devices carved upon the
masonry. These are of the great families, Brudenel, Montagu, Bruce,
Bulstrode, etc., whose intermarriages are emblazoned in painted
glass in the top of the mullioned windows of the hall. Sir Thomas
Brudenel, the first Earl of Cardigan, who died three years after the
Restoration, was a typical old cavalier afte
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r the style of Sir Henry Lee in Woodstock; and in the manor are preserved many of his manuscripts written during his twenty years'
confinement in the Tower. In the great hall there is a blocked-up
entrance to a subterranean passage running towards Kirby, and
through this secret despatches are said to have been carried in the
time of the Civil War; and at the back of a fireplace in the same
apartment is a hiding-place sufficiently large to contain a score of
people standing up. One of the rooms is called Henry VII.'s room, as
that monarch when Earl of Richmond is said to have ridden from
Bosworth Field to seek refuge at Deene, then a monastery.