When Little Compton church had an Independent minister to hold
forth to the congregation, the prelate held divine service every
Sunday at Chastleton, the grand old home of the loyalist family of
Jones. This stately Jacobean mansion is close to Little Compton, but
is really in Oxfordshire. It has an old-world charm about it entirely its
own; and few ancestral homes can take us back to the days of
Cavalier and Roundhead with such realism, for the old furniture and
pictures and relics have never been disturbed since the house was
built by Walter Jones between the years 1603 and 1630. He
purchased the estate from Robert Catesby, the projector of the
Gunpowder Plot, who sold the manor to provide funds for carry
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ing on that notorious conspiracy.
The great hall is a noble apartment, with raised dais and carved
screen; and the Royalist Joneses looking down upon you on all sides,
conspicuous among whom is Thomas Jones and valiant Captain
Arthur Jones, whose sword beside him shows the good service he
did at Worcester fight. When the day was lost, and Charles was
journeying towards Boscobel, the captain managed to ride his tired
horse back to Chastleton. But a party of Cromwellian soldiers were at
his heels, and his wife had only just time to hurry him into an
ingeniously contrived hiding-place when the enemy confronted her,
and refused to budge from the very bedroom behind whose panelled
walls the fugitive was secreted. But Mrs. Arthur Jones had her share
of tact, and in preparing her unwelcome guests some refreshment,
she added a narcotic to the wine, which in time had effect. Her
husband was then released, and with a fresh horse he was soon
beyond danger. The little oak wainscoted chamber and the adjoining
bedroom may still be seen where this exciting episode took place.
The drawing-room is very rich in oak carvings, and the lofty marble
chimney-piece bears in the centre the Jones' arms. The ceiling with
its massive pendants is a fine example of the period.[16] The bedrooms are all hung with the original tapestry and arras that was
made for them. One of them contains the State bed from old
Woodstock Palace; and there are everywhere antique dressing-
tables, mirrors, and quaint embroidered coverlets, and old chests and
cabinets innumerable containing queer old dresses and coats of the
Georgian period, and, what is more remarkable, the identical
Jacobean ruffs and frills which are depicted in the old portraits in the
hall. Then there are cupboards full of delightful old china, and
decanters and wine glasses which were often produced to drink a
health to the "King over the water." But of more direct historic interest is
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Charles I.'s Bible, which was given by the widow of the last baronet of
the Juxon family—a grand-nephew of the archbishop—to the then
proprietor of Chastleton, John Jones. It is bound in gold stamped
leather, and bears the Royal arms with the initials C. R. It is dated 1629, and is full of queer old maps and illustrations, and upon the fly-leaf is written—"Juxon, Compton, Gloucestershire."
Some of the ancient cabinets at Chastleton are full of secret drawers,
and in one of them some years ago a very curious miniature of the
martyr king was discovered. It is painted on copper, and represents
Charles I. with the Order of St. George, and a set of designs drawn
on talc, illustrating the life of the ill-fated monarch from his coronation
to his execution. They are thus described by one of the past owners
of Chastleton
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: "They consist of a face and bust in one miniature, in a case
accompanied with a set of eight or nine pictures drawn on talc, being
different scenes or dresses, which are to be laid on the miniature so
that the face of the miniature appears through a hole left for that
purpose: and thus the one miniature does duty in every one of the
talc pictures. These were accidentally discovered some twenty years
ago.[17] The miniature was well known, and was supposed to be complete in itself; but one day whilst being handled by one of the
family, then quite a child, it fell to the ground, and being in that way forced open at the back, those talc pictures were brought to light. The
careful manner in which they had been concealed, and the miniature
thereby made to appear no more than an ordinary portrait, seems to
warrant the suggestion that they were in the first instance the
property of some affectionate adherent of Charles, whose prudence
persuaded him to conceal what his loyalty no doubt taught him to
value very highly. There is no direct evidence to show that they
belonged to Bishop Juxon; nor is there any tradition that I ever heard
connected with them. The two concluding pictures of the series
represent the decapitated head in the hand of the executioner, and a
hand placing the martyr's crown upon the brows."
There are two huge oak staircases running up to the top of the house,
where is the old gallery or ballroom, with a coved ceiling of
ornamented plaster-work, and above the mullioned windows
grotesque monster heads devised in the
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pargeting.
The grounds and gardens are quite in character: not made to
harmonise, as are so many gardens nowadays, but the original quaint
cut box hedges and trim walks. The grand old house in the centre
with its rusty roof of lichen, and hard by the little church nestling by its
side with the picturesque entrance gateway and dovecot, form
together a delightful group. Chastleton church contains some good
brasses. The tower is oddly placed over the south porch.
A couple of miles to the north, and the same distance beyond, are
two other interesting manor-houses, Barton-on-the-Heath and Little
Woolford. The former, a gabled Jacobean house, was once the seat
of the unfortunate Sir Thomas Overbury, who was done to death in
the Tower by the machinations of that evil couple, Carr, Earl of
Somerset, and his countess. Overbury, it will be remembered, had
written the Court favourite's love letters and poems, and knew too
much of that guilty courtship.
There are some good monuments to the Overburys in the church: a
Norman one with saddle-back tower. Near here is the Four-Shire
Stone, described by Leland as "a large bigge stone; a Three-
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Mile-Stone from Rollerich Stones, which is a very mark or line of
Gloucestershire, Whichester (Worcestershire), Warwickshire, and
Oxfordshire."
Little Woolford manor-house, the old seat of the Ingrams, is now, or
was some years ago, used as a school. It is very picturesque, and its
gables of half-timber, facing the little courtyard, remind one of the
quadrangle of Ightham Mote. Opposite the Tudor entrance-gate is the
hall, with its open timber roof, minstrels' gallery, panelled walls, and tall windows, still containing their ancient painted glass. Barton, which
properly should have its ghost, presumably is not so favoured; but
here there are two at least,—a certain "White Lady," who, fortunately
for the juvenile scholars, does not appear until midnight; and the last
of the Ingrams, who has a restless way of tearing about on horseback
in the adjacent fields. This gentleman could not die decently in his
bed, but must needs, upon the point of dying, rush into the stable,
mount his favourite steed, and plunge into the raging tempest to meet
his adversary Death. What a pity there are not more educational
establishments like this. They might possibly make the pupils less
matter-of-fact and more imaginative. But we had almost forgotten a
moral lesson that is to be learned from a rude projection in the
masonry on the left-hand side of the entrance gateway. This is the
oven, wh
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ich opens at the back of a wide hearth; and here some seventeenth-
century I O U's are said to have been found for money lost at play;
while some Cavaliers were concealed there in the time of the Civil
Wars. But the punishment for gambling was providentially arranged.
Some Cromwellian soldiers dropping in at the manor-house, lighted a
tremendous fire, and gave the unfortunate fugitives a roasting which
they did not readily forget. This is roughly as the story goes; indeed it
goes further, for by local report King Charles himself was one of the
victims.
Brailes, a few miles to the north-east, is famous for its church, the cathedral of southern Warwickshire; but it is principally interesting
exteriorly, the old benches having been long since cleared away and
many nineteenth-century "improvements" made. Still there are parts of the fourteenth-century roof and a fine font, some ancient
monuments, particularly melodious old bells; and the lofty embattled
fifteenth-century tower is exceptionally graceful.
Buried in a hollow, and hidden from view by encircling trees and hills,
is that wonderful old mansion Compton Wyniates. The name (derived
from the ancient family of Compton and Wyniates, a corruption of
vineyard, for at an early per
[Pg 70]
iod the vine was here cultivated) is suggestive of something quaint,
and indeed a more curious old house could not be found. Its
innumerable gables and twisted chimneys seem to be heaped up in
the most delightful confusion, in abandoned opposition to any
architectural regularity. The eye wanders from tower and turret until it
becomes bewildered by so many twists and angles. Look at the
square box of a house like Moor Park, for example, and wonder how
it is that having arrived at such picturesque perfection, taste should
so degenerate. But half the fascination of Compton Wyniates is its
colour; its time-worn dark-red brick and the grey-green lichens of
ancient roofs. Upon one side the curious gables and countless
chimney clusters are reflected in the moat, part of which now does
service as a sunken garden.
Passing through the bullet-battered door of the main entrance, over
which are the Royal arms of England supported by a griffin and a
dog, we enter a quadrangular court and thence pass into the great
hall, with its open timber roof black with the smoke of centuries. The
screen beneath the music gallery is elaborately carved with leaf
tracery, grotesque figures of mounted knights, and the escutcheon of
the Compton arms. Above the gallery we notice the huge oak beams
which form the half-timber portion of one of the principal gables, and
cannot help comparing these trem
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endous oak trunks with the modern laths plastered in front of houses:
a futile attempt to imitate this popular style, without aiming at its
object—strength.
The screen of the chapel, like that of the hall, is ornamented with
grotesque carvings, including a battle royal between some monks
and his Satanic Majesty, who by the way has one of the ninety rooms
all to himself, and reached by a special spiral staircase. Near the
"Devil's chamber" is another small room whose ghostly occupant is evidently a member of the fresh-air league, for he will persist in
having the window open, and no matter how often it is closed it is
always found to be open. What a pity this sanitary ghost does not
take up his abode where oxygen is scarcer. But these are by no
means the only mysterious rooms at Compton Wyniates, for not a few
have secret entrances and exits, and one dark corridor is provided
with a movable floor, which when removed, drawbridge fashion,
makes an excellent provision for safety so long as you are on the
right side of the chasm. Such ingenious arrangements were as
necessary in a private residence, miles from anywhere, as the
bathroom is in a suburban villa. There are secret "barracks" in the roof, with storage for a regiment of soldiers, if necessary. The popish
chapel, too, has ample provision for the security of its priest. There are four stair
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cases leading up to it, and a regular rabbit-warren between the
beams of the roof and the wainscoting, where if needs be he could
run in case of danger.
"Henry VIII.'s room," and "Charles I.'s room," are both pointed out.
The latter slept a night here prior to the battle of Edgehill, and the bluff king honoured the builder of the mansion, Sir William Compton,
with a visit in memory of old days, when his host as a boy had been
his page. Dugdale tells us that Sir William got his building material
from the ruinous castle of Fulbrooke, so his bricks were mellowed
with time when the house was first erected. The knight's grandson
became Baron Compton in Elizabeth's reign, and his son William,
Earl of Northampton in 1618. A romantic episode in the life of this
nobleman was his elopement with Elizabeth Spencer of Canonbury
Tower, Islington. The lady was a very desirable match, being the only
daughter of Sir John Spencer, the richest heiress of her time.
Notwithstanding her strict seclusion at Canonbury, Lord William
Compton, of whom she was enamoured, succeeded in the absence
of her father in gaining admission to the house in the disguise of a baker, and carried her off in his basket. To perform so muscular a
feat was proof enough of his devotion, so at the end of a year all was
forgotten and forgiven. Their son, the valiant second earl, Spenc
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er Compton, won his spurs and lost his life fighting for the king at Hopton Heath. His portrait by Janssen may be seen at Castle Ashby.
His son James, the third earl, also fought for Charles, and attended
his son at the Restoration; but his younger brother Henry, Bishop of
London, aided the Revolution, and crowned Dutch William and his
queen.
Only within the last half-century has the mansion been occupied as a
residence. For nearly a century before it was neglected and deserted.
The rooms were bare of furniture, for, alas! its contents, including
Henry VIII.'s State bed, had been removed or sold. That delightful
writer William Howitt in 1840 said the house had not been inhabited
for ninety years, with the exception of a portion of the east front,
which was used by the bailiff. The rooms were empty and the walls
were naked. His concluding wish fortunately long since has been
realised—namely, that its noble owner would yet cause the
restoration and refitting of Compton Wyniates to all its ancient state.
Warwickshire is rich in ancestral houses and mediæval castles. Take,
for example, the fortresses of Kenilworth, Warwick, Maxstoke, and
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Tamworth, or the fine old houses Coombe Abbey, Charlecote, and
Baddesley Clinton. The last named perhaps is least known of these,
but by no means the least interesting. This old moated Hall of the
Ferrers family is buried in the thickly wooded country on the high
tableland which occupies the very heart of England. As to the actual
centre, there are two places which claim this distinction; but oddly
enough they are quite twelve miles apart. The one between
Leamington and Warwick, the other to the west of Coventry. The
latter spot is marked by the village cross of Meriden, and the former
by an old oak tree by the main road. Baddesley Clinton is nearly
equidistant from both, south of Meriden and north-west of Leamington
and Warwick.
Few houses so thoroughly retain their ancient appearance as
Baddesley. It dates from the latter part of the fifteenth century, and is
a singularly well-preserved specimen of a moated and fortified
manor-house of that period. Like Compton Wyniates, its situation is
very secluded in its densely wooded park, and formerly there was a
double moat for extra defence; but for all its retiredness and security,
the old house has a kindly greeting for those who are interested in
such monuments of the past. A stone bridge across the moat leads to
a projecting embattled tower with a wide depressed archway,
showing provision for a portcullis with a large mullioned window over
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it. In general appearance the front resembles the moated house of
Ightham, with which it is coeval, and the half-timbered gables of the
courtyard are somewhat similar. Unlike Charlecote, the interior is as
untouched as the exterior. Everywhere there are quaint old "linen"
panelled rooms and richly carved chimney-pieces—windows of
ancient heraldic glass, and old furniture, tapestry, and paintings. The
hall is not like some, that never look cosy unless there is a blazing log
fire in the hearth. There is something particularly inviting in this old room, with its deep-recessed mullioned window by the great
freestone Jacobean fireplace. What pictures could not the
imagination conjure up in this cosy corner in the twilight of an autumn
day! On the first floor over the entrance archway is the "banqueting-
room," with high coved ceiling and tapestry-lined walls. Beyond this is
"Lord Charles' room," haunted, it is said, by a handsome youth with raven hair. Many years ago this spectre was seen by two of the late
Mr. Marmion Ferrers' aunts when they were children, and they long
remembered his face and steadfast gaze. A mysterious lady dressed
in rich black brocade is occasionally encountered in the corridors in
broad daylight, like the famous "Brown Lady" of Raynham Hall.
The ancient chapel was set up by Sir Edward Ferrers when the litt
[Pg 76]
le parish church was taken from the family at the Reformation. In the
thickness of the wall close at hand there is a secret passage which
leads down to a little water-gate by the moat beneath which a narrow
passage runs, so that there were two ready means of escape in
troublous times; and in the roof on the east side of the house there is
a priest's hole provided with a fixed bench. Marmion Ferrers above
alluded to, who died in 1884, was the eighth in descent from father to
son from Henry Ferrers of Elizabeth's time. Both were learned
antiquarians. Marmion Ferrers was a typical squire of the old school,
and we well remember with what pride he showed us round his
ancestral home. But his pride ended there, as is shown by the
following anecdote. One day he encountered an old woman in the
park who had been gathering sticks without permission. She dropped
her heavy bundle and was about to offer apologies for trespassing,
when the good old squire, seeing that her
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load was too much for her strength, without a word slung the burden
on his shoulder and carried it to the woman's humble dwelling.
This calls to mind a story of a contemporary squire who lived some
fifty miles away in the adjoining county, an antiquary who was also
known for his acts of kindness and hospitality. In the vicinity of his ancient Hall a tramp had found a job, and the baronet was anxious to
test his butler's honesty. He therefore offered to lend the man a hand
and help him carry some bundles of faggots into an adjacent yard, if
he would share profits. This was agreed upon, and when the work
was done the tramp went off to the Hall to ask for his money,
promising to join his assistant in a lane at the back of the house.
Meanwhile the squire hurried to his study, and when the butler made
his appearance handed him five shillings. Then donning his shabby
coat and hat he hastened back. Presently the tramp came up with
beaming countenance and held out half a crown, saying they were
both well rewarded with
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one and threepence each. But the assistant grumbled, and said it
was miserable pay, and at length persuaded the man to return and
ask to see the squire and explain the amount of work that had been
done. Again he returned to his sanctum, and hearing the bell ring told
the butler to admit the man, and he would hear what he had to say.
Having enjoyed the fun—the tramp's surprise and the butler's
discomfort, he dismissed them both—one with half a guinea, the
other from his service.
Baddesley Clinton church, shut in by tall trees a bow-shot from the
Hall, is famous for its eastern window of heraldic glass, which shows
the various noble families with whom the Ferrers intermarried. By the
union of Marmion Ferrers' father with the Lady Harriet Anne, daughter
of the second Marquis Townshend, the Chartley and Tamworth lines
of the family were united with that of Baddesley. The altar tomb of Sir
Edward Ferrers, Knight, the founder of the family at Baddesley, his
wife Dame Constance, and son who predeceased him, has above
shields of the alliances with the Bromes, Hampdens, etc. He was the
son of Sir Henry Ferrers, Knight, of Tamworth Castle, and grandson
of William, Lord Ferrers of Groby. Marmion was the thirteenth in
descent from this Sir Edward, not many links between the fifteenth
and end of the nineteenth century. The day of the good old squire's
burial on August 25, 1884, fell upon the three hundred and forty-ninth
anniversary of the dea
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th of the first Ferrers of Baddesley.
SOME NOOKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE