The church, an imposing building finely situated, is disappointing,
though there is some good Norman work about
[Pg 192]
it. It has been reseated, and the only thing worth noting is an old tomb
showing the quaint female costume of Elizabeth's day, and a tall-
backed oak settle facing the communion table. The latter looks as if it
ought to be facing an open fireplace in some manorial farm.
Many superstitions linger hereabouts. The old people can recollect
the dread in which a certain road was held at night for fear of a
ghostly lady, who had an unpleasant way of jumping upon the backs
of the farmers as they returned from market. Tradition does not
record whether those who were thus favoured were total abstainers;
possibly not, for the lady by all accounts had a grudge against those
who occasionally took a glass; and in a certain inn cellar, when jugs
had to be replenished, it was discomforting to find her seated on the
particular barrel required, like the goblin seen by Gabriel Grub upon
the tombstone.
There was a custom among the old Draytonites for some reason, not
to permit their aged to die on a feather-bed. It was believed to make
them die hard, and so in extremis it was dragged from beneath the unfortunate person. The sovereign remedy they had for whooping-cough is worth remembering, as it is so simple. All you have to do is
to cut some hair from the n
[Pg 193]
ape of the invalid child's neck, place it between a piece of bread and
butter, and hand the sandwich to a dog. If he devours it the malady is
cured; if he doesn't, well, the life of the dog at least is spared.
A few miles to the east of the town, in the adjoining county, is the famous battlefield of Bloreheath, where the Houses of Lancaster and
York fought desperately in 1459. The latter under the Earl of
Salisbury came off victorious, while the commander of Henry's forces
was slain. A stone pedestal marks the spot, originally distinguished
by a wooden cross, where Lord Audley fell.
Of less historical moment but more romantic interest, is the fact that
here close upon a couple of centuries later the diamond George of
Charles II. was concealed, while its royal wearer by right was lurking
fifteen miles away at Boscobel. The gallant Colonel Blague, who had
had the charge of this tell-tale treasure, was captured and thrown into
the Tower, where no less a celebrity than peaceful Isaak Walton
managed to smuggle it. Blague eventually escaped, and so the
George found its way to the king in France. At Blore also Buckingham
remained concealed, disguised as a labourer, before he got away into
Leicestershire and thenc
[Pg 194]
e to London and the coast. "Buckingham's hole," the cave where his
grace was hidden, is still pointed out; and a very aged man who lived
in the neighbourhood a few years ago prided himself that he could
show the exact place where the duke fell and broke his arm; and he
ought to have known, as his great-grandfather was personally
acquainted with "old Elias Bradshaw," who was present when the accident happened.
Broughton Hall, a fine old Jacobean mansion, stands to the east of
Blore. It is a gloomy house, and has some ghostly traditions. We are
reminded of the rather startling fact that upon developing a negative
of the fine oak staircase there, the transparent figure of an old woman
in a mob-cap stood in the foreground! Here was proof positive for the
Psychological Society. But, alas! careful investigation upset the
mystery. The shadowy outline proved to be painfully like the ancient
housekeeper. The subject had required a long exposure, and the lady
must have wished to be immortalised, for she certainly must have
stood in front of the lens for at least a minute or so. It is strange this
desire to be pictured. Any amateur photographer must have
experienced the difficulties to be encountered in a village street. The
hours of twelve and four are fatal. School children in thousands will
crop up to fill up the foreground. In such a
[Pg 195]
predicament a friend of ours was inspired with an ingenious remedy.
Having covered his head with the black cloth, he was horrified to see
a myriad of faces instead of the subject he wished to take. However,
he got his focus adjusted somehow, and having placed his dark slide
in position ready for exposure, he placed the cloth over the lens-end
of the camera as if focussing in the opposite direction. Immediately
there was a stampede for the other side, with considerable struggling
as to who should be foremost. The cherished little bit of village
architecture was now free, the cloth whipped away, and the exposure
given. "Are we all taken in, mister?" asked one of the boys a little suspiciously. "Yes, my lads," was the response given, "you've all been taken in." And so they had, but went home rejoicing.
Beside the staircase, there is little of interest inside Broughton. There
was a hiding-place once in one of the rooms which was screened by
an old oil painting, but it is now merged into tradition. The road from
Newport passes through wild and romantic scenery. At Croxton,
farther to the east, there is, or was, a Maypole, one of those old-world
villages where ancient customs die hard. Swinnerton Hall, a fine
Queen Anne house to the north-east, and nearer to Stone, is the seat
of the ancient family of Fitzherbert, the beautiful widow of one of
whose members was in 1785 married to the Prince Regent,
afterwards George IV.
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The palatial Hall of Trentham, farther to the north, is rather beyond
our province, being in the main modern. One grieves that the fine old
house represented in Dr. Plot's quaint history of the county has
passed away; one grieves, indeed, that so many of these fine
Staffordshire houses are no more. The irreparable loss of Ingestre
Hall, Wrothesley Hall, Enville Hall, and of Severn End in the adjoining
county, makes one shudder at the dangers of fire in these ancestral
mansions. Coombe Abbey in Warwickshire was only quite recently
saved from a like fate by Lord Craven's activity and presence of mind.
But the old gatehouse of Tixall to the east of Stafford, and Wootton
Lodge to the north of Uttoxeter, fortunately still remain intact. The
former presents much the same appearance as in Plot's drawing of
1686, but the curious gabled timber mansion beyond has long since
disappeared, and the classic building that occupies its site looks
hardly in keeping with so perfect an example of Elizabethan
architecture. The romantic situation of Wootton Lodge is well
described by Howitt. The majestic early-Jacobean mansion (the work
of Inigo Jones) has a compactness and dignity quite its own, and
there is nothing like it anywhere in England, though more classic,
perhaps, than the majority of houses of its period. It has a battlemen
[Pg 197]
ted roof surmounted by an array of massive chimneys, mullioned
windows innumerable, and a graceful flight of steps leading to the
ornamental porch. It was not at this stately house that the eccentric
Jean Jacques came to bury himself for over a year, but at the Hall, a
far less picturesque building. The philosopher and his companion
Thérèsa le Vasseur were looked at askance by the country folk; and
"old Ross Hall," as they called him, botanising in the secluded lanes in his strange striped robe and grotesque velvet cap with gold tassels
and pendant, was a holy terror to the children. It was supposed he
was in search of "lost spirits," as indeed was the case, for his melancholia at length led to his departure under the suspicion that
there was a plot to poison him.
A bee-line drawn across Staffordshire, say from Bridgnorth in Salop
to Haddon in Derbyshire, would intersect some of the most interesting
spots. In addition to Wootton and Ingestre, we have Throwley Hall,
Croxden and Calwich Abbeys, and Tissington (in Derbyshire) to the
north-east (not to mention Alton and Ham), and Boscobel,
Whiteladies, Tong, etc., to the south-east.
Of Boscobe
[Pg 198]
l and Whiteladies we have dealt with elsewhere too particularly to call
for any fresh description here; but not so with the picturesque village
of Tong, whose church is certainly the most interesting example of
early-Perpendicular architecture in the county. Would that the
interiors of our old churches were as carefully preserved as is the
case here. There is nothing modern and out of harmony. The rich oak
carvings of the screens and choir stalls; the monumental effigies of
the Pembrugges, Pierrepoints, Vernons, and Stanleys; the Golden
Chapel, or Vernon chantry—all recall nooks and corners in
Westminster Abbey. It was Sir Edward Stanley, whose recumbent
effigy in plate armour is conspicuous, who married Margaret Vernon,
the sister of the runaway heiress of Haddon, and thus inherited Tong
Castle, as his brother-in-law did the famous Derbyshire estate.
The early-Tudor castle was demolished in the eighteenth century,
when the present Strawberry-Hill Gothic fortress of reddish-coloured
stone was erected by a descendant of the Richard Durant whose
initials may still be seen on the old house in the Corn Market at
Worcester, where Charles II. lodged before the disastrous battle.[28]
Unromantic as were Georgian squires, as a rule, the Eastern Gothic
architecture of their houses and the fantastic and unnatural grottoes
in their grounds show signs of sentimental hankering. At Tong they
went one better, for there are traditions of Æolian harps set in the
masonry of the farmyard of the castle. The mystic music must indeed
have been thrown unto the winds!
But the Moorish-looking mansion, if architecturally somewhat a
monstrosity, is nevertheless picturesque, with its domed roofs and
pinnacles. A fine collection of pictures was dispersed in 1870,
including an interesting portrait of Nell Gwyn, and of Charles I., which
has been engraved.
In the older building (which somewhat resembled old Hendlip Hall)
was born the famous seventeenth-century beauty, Lady Venetia
Digby, née Stanley, of whom Vandyck has left us many portraits,
notably the one at Windsor Castle,—an allegorical picture
representing the triumph of innocence over calumny, for she certainly
was a lady with "a past." The learned and eccentric Sir Kenelm Digby, her husband, endeavoured to preserve her charms by
administering curious mixtures, such as viper wine; and this, though it
was very well meant, probably ended her career before she was
thirty-three. One can scarcely be surprised that at the post-mortem
examination they discovered but very little brains; but this
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her husband attributed to his viper wine getting into her head!