Part 3

Personally, I could not blame the proprietor for his disinclination to admit visitors on other than the regular days, and it was impressed on me more than once during our trip that living in the home of some famous man carries quite a penalty, especially if the present owner happens to be a considerate gentleman who dislikes to deprive visitors of a glimpse of the place. Such owners are often wealthy and the small fees which they fix for admittance are only required as evidence of good faith and usually devoted to charity. With a full appreciation of the situation, it was not always easy to ask for the suspension of a plainly stated rule, yet we did this in many instances before our tour was over and almost invariably with success. In the present case we were fortunate, for the gentleman who owned Gad's Hill was away and the neat maid who responded to the bell at the gateway seemed glad to show us the place, regardless of rules. It is a comfortable, old-fashioned house, built about 1775, and was much admired by Dickens as a boy when he lived with his parents in Rochester. His father used to bring him to look at the house and told him that if he grew up a clever man, he might possibly own it some time.

We were first shown into the library, which is much the same as the great writer left it at his death, and the chair and desk which he used still stand in their accustomed places. The most curious feature of the library is the rows of dummy books that occupy some of the shelves, and even the doors are lined with these sham leather backs glued to boards, a whim of Dickens carefully respected by the present owner. We were also accorded a view of the large dining room where Dickens was seized with the attack which resulted in his sudden and unexpected death. After a glimpse of other parts of the house and garden surrounding it, the maid conducted us through an underground passage leading beneath the road, to the plot of shrubbery which lay opposite the mansion. In this secluded thicket, Dickens had built a little house, to which in the summer time he was often accustomed to retire when writing. It was an ideal English June day, and everything about the place showed to the best possible advantage. We all agreed that Gad's Hill alone would be well worth a trip from London. The country around is surpassingly beautiful and it is said that Dickens liked nothing better than to show his friends about the vicinity. He thought the seven miles between Rochester and Maidstone the most charming walk in all England. He delighted in taking trips with his friends to the castles and cathedrals and he immensely enjoyed picnics and luncheons in the cherry orchards and gardens.

A very interesting old city is Rochester, with its Eleventh Century cathedral and massive castle standing on the banks of the river. Little of the latter remains save the square tower of the Norman keep, one of the largest and most imposing we saw in England. The interior had been totally destroyed by fire hundreds of years ago, but the towering walls of enormous thickness still stand firm. Its antiquity is attested by the fact that it sustained a siege by William Rufus, the son of the Conqueror. The cathedral is not one of the most impressive of the great churches. It was largely rebuilt in the Twelfth Century, the money being obtained from miracles wrought by the relics of St. William of Perth, a pilgrim who was murdered on his way to Canterbury and who lies buried in the cathedral. Rochester is the scene of many incidents of Dickens' stories. It was the scene of his last unfinished work, "Edwin Drood," and he made many allusions to it elsewhere, the most notable perhaps in "Pickwick Papers," where he makes the effervescent Mr. Jingle describe it thus: "Ah, fine place, glorious pile, frowning walls, tottering arches, dark nooks, crumbling staircases--old cathedral, too,--earthy smell--pilgrims' feet worn away the old steps."

Across the river from Rochester lies Chatham, a city of forty thousand people and a famous naval and military station. The two cities are continuous and practically one. From here, without further stop, we followed the fine highway to Canterbury and entered the town by the west gate of Chaucer's Tales. This alone remains of the six gateways of the city wall in the poet's day, and the strong wall itself, with its twenty-one towers, has almost entirely disappeared. We followed a winding street bordered with quaint old buildings until we reached our hotel--in this case a modern and splendidly kept hostelry. The hotel was just completing an extensive garage, but it was not ready for occupancy and I was directed to a well equipped private establishment with every facility for the care and repair of motors. The excellence of the service at this hotel attracted our attention and the head waiter told us that the owners had their own farm and supplied their own table--accounting in this way for the excellence and freshness of the milk, meat and vegetables.

The long English summer evening still afforded time to look about the town after dinner. Passing down the main street after leaving the hotel, we found that the river and a canal wound their way in several places between the old buildings closely bordering on each side. The whole effect was delightful and so soft with sunset colors as to be suggestive of Venice. We noted that although Canterbury is exceedingly ancient, it is also a city of nearly thirty thousand population and the center of rich farming country, and, as at Chester, we found many evidences of prosperity and modern enterprise freely interspersed with the quaint and time-worn landmarks. One thing which we noticed not only here but elsewhere in England was the consummate architectural taste with which the modern business buildings were fitted in with the antique surroundings, harmonizing in style and color, and avoiding the discordant note that would come from a rectangular business block such as an American would have erected. Towns which have become known to fame and to the dollar-distributing tourists are now very slow to destroy or impair the old monuments and buildings that form their chief attractiveness, and the indifference that prevailed generally fifty or a hundred years ago has entirely vanished. We in America think we can afford to be iconoclastic, for our history is so recent and we have so little that commands reverence by age and association; yet five hundred years hence our successors will no doubt bitterly regret this spirit of their ancestors, just as many ancient towns in Britain lament the folly of their forbears who converted the historic abbeys and castles into hovels and stone fences.

Fortunately, the cathedral at Canterbury escaped such a fate, and as we viewed it in the fading light we received an impression of its grandeur and beauty that still keeps it pre-eminent after having visited every cathedral in the island. It is indeed worthy of its proud position in the English church and its unbroken line of traditions, lost in the mist of antiquity. It is rightly the delight of the architect and the artist, but an adequate description of its magnificence has no place in this hurried record. Time has dealt gently with it and careful repair and restoration have arrested its decay. It stands today, though subdued and stained by time, as proudly as it did when a monarch, bare-footed, walked through the roughly paved streets to do penance at the tomb of its martyred archbishop. It escaped lightly during the Reformation and civil war, though Becket's shrine was despoiled as savoring of idolatry and Cromwell's men desecrated its sanctity by stabling their horses in the great church.

The next day being Sunday, we were privileged to attend services at the cathedral, an opportunity we were always glad to have at any of the cathedrals despite the monotony of the Church of England service, for the music of the superb organs, the mellowed light from the stained windows, and the associations of the place were far more to us than litany or sermon. The archbishop was present at the service in state that fitted his exalted place as Primate of all England and his rank, which, as actual head of the church, is next to the king, nominally head of the church as well as of the state. He did not preach the sermon but officiated in the ordination of several priests, a service full of solemn and picturesque interest. The archbishop was attired in his crimson robe of state, the long train of which was carried by young boys in white robes, and he proceeded to his throne with all the pomp and ceremony that so delights the soul of the Englishman. He was preceded by several black-robed officials bearing the insignia of their offices, and when he took his throne, he became apparently closely absorbed in the sermon, which was preached by a Cambridge professor.

We were later astonished to learn that the archbishop's salary amounts to $75,000 per year, or half as much more than that of the President of the United States, and we were still more surprised to hear that the heavy demands made on him in maintaining his state and keeping up his splendid episcopal palaces are such that his income will not meet them. We were told that the same situation prevails everywhere with these high church dignitaries, and that only recently the Bishop of London had published figures to show that he was $25,000 poorer in the three years of his incumbency on an annual salary of $40,000 per year. It is not strange, therefore, that among these churchmen there exists a demand for a simpler life. The Bishop of Norwich frankly acknowledged recently that he had never been able to live on his income of $22,500 per year. He expressed his conviction that the wide-spread poverty of the bishops is caused by their being required to maintain "venerable but costly palaces." He says that he and many of his fellow-churchmen would prefer to lead plain and unostentatious lives, but they are not allowed to do so; that they would much prefer to devote a portion of their income to charity and other worthy purposes rather than to be compelled to spend it in useless pomp and ceremony.

Aside from its cathedral, Canterbury teems with unique relics of the past, some antedating the Roman invasion of England. The place of the town in history is an important one, and Dean Stanley in his "Memorials of Canterbury," claims that three great landings were made in Kent adjacent to the city, "that of Hengist and Horsa, which gave us our English forefathers and character; that of Julius Caesar, which revealed to us the civilized world, and that of St. Augustine, which gave us our Latin Christianity." The tower of the cathedral dominates the whole city and the great church often overshadows everything else in interest to the visitor. But one could spend days in the old-world streets, continually coming across fine half-timbered houses, with weather-beaten gables in subdued colors and rich antique oak carvings. There are few more pleasing bits of masonry in Britain than the great cathedral gateway at the foot of Mercery Lane, with its rich carving, weather-worn to a soft blur of gray and brown tones. Near Mercery Lane, too, are slight remains of the inn of Chaucer's Tales, "The Chequers of Hope," and in Monastery Street stands the fine gateway of the once rich and powerful St. Augustine's Abbey. Then there is the quaint little church of St. Martins, undoubtedly one of the oldest in England, and generally reputed to be the oldest. Here, in the year 600, St. Augustine preached before the cathedral was built. Neither should St. John's hospital, with its fine, half-timbered gateway be forgotten; nor the old grammar school, founded in the Seventh Century.

[Illustration: CATHEDRAL, CANTERBURY.]

Our stay in the old town was all too short, but business reasons demanded our presence in London on Monday, so we left for that city about two o'clock. We varied matters somewhat by taking a different return route, and we fully agreed that the road leading from Canterbury to London by way of Maidstone is one of the most delightful which we traversed in England. It led through fields fresh with June verdure, losing itself at times in great forests, where the branches of the trees formed an archway overhead. Near Maidstone we caught a glimpse of Leeds Castle, one of the finest country seats in Kent, the main portions of the building dating from the Thirteenth Century. We had a splendid view from the highway through an opening in the trees of the many-towered old house surrounded by a shimmering lake, and gazing on such a scene under the spell of an English June day, one might easily forget the present and fancy himself back in the time when knighthood was in flower, though the swirl of a motor rushing past us would have dispelled any such reverie had we been disposed to entertain it. We reached London early, and our party was agreed that our pilgrimage to Canterbury could not very well have been omitted from our itinerary.

IV

A RUN THROUGH THE MIDLANDS

I had provided myself with letters of introduction from the American Automobile Association and Motor League, addressed to the secretary of the Motor Union of Great Britain and Ireland, and shortly after my arrival in London, I called upon that official at the club headquarters. After learning my plans, he referred me to Mr. Maroney, the touring secretary, whom I found a courteous gentleman, posted on almost every foot of road in Britain and well prepared to advise one how to get the most out of a tour. Ascertaining the time I proposed to spend and the general objects I had in view, he brought out road-maps of England and Scotland and with a blue pencil rapidly traced a route covering about three thousand miles, which he suggested as affording the best opportunity of seeing, in the time and distance proposed, many of the most historic and picturesque parts of Britain.

In a general way, this route followed the coast from London to Land's End, through Wales north to Oban and Inverness, thence to Aberdeen and back to London along the eastern coast. He chose the best roads with unerring knowledge and generally avoided the larger cities. On the entire route which he outlined, we found only one really dangerous grade--in Wales--and, by keeping away from cities, much time and nervous energy were saved. While we very frequently diverged from this route, it was none the less of inestimable value to us, and other information, maps, road-books, etc., which were supplied us by Mr. Maroney, were equally indispensable. I learned that the touring department of the Union not only affords this service for Great Britain, but has equal facilities for planning tours in any part of Europe. In fact, it is able to take in hand the full details, such as providing for transportation of the car to some port across the Channel, arranging for necessary licenses and supplying maps and road information covering the different countries of Europe which the tourist may wish to visit. This makes it very easy for a member of the Union--or anyone to whom it may extend its courtesies--to go direct from Britain for a continental trip, leaving the tourist almost nothing to provide for except the difficulties he would naturally meet in the languages of the different countries.

When I showed a well posted English friend the route that had been planned, he pronounced very favorably upon it, but declared that by no means should we miss a run through the Midlands. He suggested that I join him in Manchester on business which we had in hand, allowing for an easy run of two days to that city by way of Coventry. On our return trip, we planned to visit many places not included in our main tour, among them the Welsh border towns, Shrewsbury and Ludlow, and to run again through Warwickshire, taking in Stratford and Warwick, on our return to London. This plan was adopted and we left London about noon, with Coventry, nearly one hundred miles away, as our objective point.

A motor car is a queer and capricious creature. Before we were entirely out of the crush of the city, the engine began to limp and shortly came to a stop. I spent an hour hunting the trouble, to the entertainment and edification of the crowd of loafers who always congregate around a refractory car. I hardly know to this minute what ailed the thing, but it suddenly started off blithely, and this was the only exhibition of sulkiness it gave, for it scarcely missed a stroke in our Midland trip of eight hundred miles--mostly in the rain. Nevertheless, the little circumstance, just at the outset of our tour, was depressing.

We stopped for lunch at the Red Lion in the old town of St. Albans, twenty miles to the north of London. It is a place of much historic interest, being a direct descendant of the ancient Roman city of Verulamium; and Saint Albans, or Albanus, who gave his name to the town and cathedral and who was beheaded near this spot, was the first British martyr to Christianity of whom there is any record. The cathedral occupies the highest site of any in England, and the square Norman tower, which owes its red coloring to the Roman brick used in its construction, is a conspicuous object from the surrounding country. The nave is of remarkable length, being exceeded only by Winchester. Every style of architecture is represented, from early Norman to late Perpendicular, and there are even a few traces of Saxon work. The destruction of this cathedral was ordered by the pious Henry VIII at the time of his Reformation, but he considerately rescinded the order when the citizens of St. Albans raised money by public subscription to purchase the church. Only an hour was given to St. Albans, much less than we had planned, but our late start made it imperative that we move onward.

Our route for the day was over the old coach road leading from London to Holyhead, one of the most perfect in the Kingdom, having been in existence from the time of the Romans. In fact, no stretch of road of equal distance in our entire tour was superior to the one we followed from St. Albans to Coventry. It was nearly level, free from sharp turns, with perfect surface, and cared for with neatness such as we would find only in a millionaire's private grounds in the United States. Everywhere men were at work repairing any slight depression, trimming the lawnlike grasses on each side to an exact line with the edges of the stone surface, and even sweeping the road in many places to rid it of dust and dirt. Here and there it ran for a considerable distance through beautiful avenues of fine elms and yews; the hawthorne hedges which bordered it almost everywhere were trimmed with careful exactness; and yet amid all this precision there bloomed in many places the sweet English wild flowers--forget-me-nots, violets, wild hyacinths and bluebells. The country itself was rather flat and the villages generally uninteresting. The road was literally bordered with wayside inns, or, more properly, ale houses, for they apparently did little but sell liquor, and their names were odd and fantastic in a high degree. We noted a few of them. The "Stump and Pie," the "Hare and Hounds," the "Plume of Feathers," the "Blue Ball Inn," the "Horse and Wagon," the "Horse and Jockey," the "Dog and Parson," the "Dusty Miller," the "Angel Hotel" the "Dun Cow Inn," the "Green Man," the "Adam and Eve," and the "Coach and Horses," are a few actual examples of the fearful and wonderful nomenclature of the roadside houses. Hardly less numerous than these inns were the motor-supply depots along this road. There is probably no other road in England over which there is greater motor travel, and supplies of all kinds are to be had every mile or two. The careless motorist would not have far to walk should he neglect to keep up his supply of petrol--or motor spirit, as they call it everywhere in Britain.

Long before we reached Coventry, we saw the famous "three spires" outlined against a rather threatening cloud, and just as we entered the crooked streets of the old town, the rain began to fall heavily. The King's Head Hotel was comfortable and up-to-date, and the large room given us, with its fire burning brightly in the open grate, was acceptable indeed after the drive in the face of a sharp wind, which had chilled us through. And, by the way, there is little danger of being supplied with too many clothes and wraps when motoring in Britain. There were very few days during our entire summer's tour when one could dispense with cloaks and overcoats.

Coventry, with its odd buildings and narrow, crowded streets, reminded Nathaniel Hawthorne of Boston--not the old English Boston, but its big namesake in America. Many parts of the city are indeed quaint and ancient, the finest of the older buildings dating from about the year 1400; but these form only a nucleus for the more modern city which has grown up around them. Coventry now has a population of about seventy-five thousand, and still maintains its old-time reputation as an important manufacturing center. Once it was famed for its silks, ribbons and watches, but this trade was lost to the French and Swiss--some say for lack of a protective tariff. Now cycles and motor cars are the principal products; and we saw several of the famous Daimler cars, made here, being tested on the streets.

Coventry has three fine old churches, whose tall needlelike spires form a landmark from almost any point of view in Warwickshire, and give to the town the appellation by which it is often known--"The City of the Three Spires." Nor could we well have forgotten Coventry's unique legend, for high up on one of the gables of our hotel was a wooden figure said to represent Peeping Tom, who earned eternal ignominy by his curiosity when Lady Godiva resorted to her remarkable expedient to reduce the tax levy of Coventry. Our faith in the story, so beautifully re-told by Tennyson, will not be shaken by the iconoclastic assertion that the effigy is merely an old sign taken from an armourer's shop; that the legend of Lady Godiva is common to half a dozen towns; and that she certainly never had anything to do with Coventry, in any event.