Walks and Talks of an American Farmer in England (part 2 of 2)

CHAPTER XVIII.. An Arcadian Hamlet.—Out of the World, but Not Beyond the Reach

An Arcadian Hamlet.—Out of the World, but not Beyond the Reach of the Yankee Peddler.—The Cottages of the Downs.—Grout and Cobble-stones.—Character of the Labouring Class of the Downs.—Want of Curiosity.—Old Stockbridge, Winchester, William of Wykeham.—His Legacy to Wayfarers.—The Cathedral.—Some Remarks on Architectural Situation.—Search for Lodgings.—Motherly Kindness.—Railroad Mismanagement.—Waterloo Day at Portsmouth. 146

CHAPTER XIX.

The Deceit of Descriptions of Scenery.—The Soul of a Landscape.—The Isle of Wight, its Characteristics.—Appropriate Domestic Architecture.—Genial Climate.—Tropical Verdure.—The Cliffs of Albion.—Osborne.—The Royal Villa.—Country Life of the Royal Family.—Agricultural Inclination and Rural Tastes.—The Royal Tenantry.—A Rural Fête at Osborne. 154

CHAPTER XX.. The Queen’s Yacht.—Yachts of the R. Y. Club, Their Build and

The Queen’s Yacht.—Yachts of the R. Y. Club, their Build and Rig.—Comparison with American Yachts and Pilot-boats.—Seamanship.—Cut of Sails.—The Navy-yard at Portsmouth.—Gun-boats.—Steamers.—Naval Force of Great Britain.—Evening at Portsea.—Curiosity.—About Boasting and some English Characteristics.—Conversation with a Shopkeeper on the “Glory of England.” 159

CHAPTER XXI.

Rural Police.—The “Anchor” Inn.—The Garden.—“Old Coaching Times.”—Heath Land.—A Dreary Landscape.—Murder and a Highway Adventure.—Human Vanity. 166

CHAPTER XXII.

London Lads.—Railway Ride.—Observations in Natural History. 170

CHAPTER XXIII.

Rural Labourers near London.—Our Mother Tongue.—Cockneys.—Provincialists.—On the Naturalization of Foreign Words.—Authorities.—Suburban London.—London.—The Thames.—“Saint Paul’s from Blackfriar’s Bridge.” 173

APPENDIX. 181

Walks and Talks

OF AN

AMERICAN FARMER IN ENGLAND.

CHAPTER I.. An Irish-Englishman.—Shrewsbury Cakes and Brawn.—Shrewsbury

AN IRISH-ENGLISHMAN.—SHREWSBURY CAKES AND BRAWN.—SHREWSBURY SHOW.—ANGLING IN CURRICLES.—SHEEP-WALKS.—EFFECT OF THOROUGH DRAINING ON DRY SOILS.—GORSE.—CHURCH STRETTON.—CHURCHYARD LITERATURE.—ENCOUNTER WITH AN ENTHUSIASTIC FREE-TRADER.

“Can you tell us where the Post Office is?”

“The Post Office? Ye be strangers like?”

“Yes.”

“Was ye never in this town before?”

“Never.”

“It’s a fine old town, Shrewsbury. I know it well, every inch the same as my hand. It’s like ye’ll be wanting to see the——”

“Can’t you tell us where the Post Office is?”

“The Post Office! Wouldn’t you now be havin’ your bit packs carried. Ye’ll be pedestarians like.”

“You are an Irishman like.”

“I believe it’s in England I am.”

“But you were born in Ireland?”

“I just disremember now.”

“Well, can you tell us which way to the Post Office?”

“It’s like I might—but, ye see, it’s mighty dryin’ work entirely to be rememberin’ every thin’ for every body so all the whole time.”

“What do you want?”

“A pint’s tupence.”

Twopence acted on his memory like the spring upon a frozen stream, and as he walked with us towards the Post Office he told us that he came to England ten years ago—had found work near Liverpool, where he remained several years—then went into Warwickshire, and had, a week ago, come hither to see his brother, who was engaged on the railway. He said that when he was in Warwickshire he had always passed himself off for a Lancashire man, and no one ever accused him of being an Irishman. He explained that the local labourers would not let the farmers employ Irishmen; if they did, they would burn their ricks. When Irishmen were employed, it was at very low wages, but he got as good as any. The most he ever earned was about three dollars a week at task-work. He had another brother who was in America, “in the State of Baltimore,” and he was minded to go after him next year.

“Fine old town” it was, Shrewsbury; delightful old town; we found our first letters from home there. It is famous, says the Guide-Book, “for its cakes and brawn.” The former we tasted at the “Baker-of-Shrewsbury-Cakes-to-Her-Majesty,” for sixpence, with a sight of the autograph of Lord ——, communicating the appointment, thrown in. Dear at that. The taste is something like, but by no means equal to, the cookies we used to eat in country towns on “trainin’ day.” That the English, in general, did not know what is good in that line, we had before ascertained, and now discovered that their Queen was equally unfortunate. Shall advise the princes to “run away.”

“Brawn, the flesh of boar or swine, collared so as to squeeze out much of the fat, boiled and pickled.”—WEBSTER. Our host looked like a “man of brawn,” but gave us nothing like that.

Shrewsbury was formerly celebrated also for a ridiculous annual procession, mummery, masquerade, and play-spell, called “Shrewsbury Show.” The Puritans put a stop to it, but lately this ancient glory has been attempted to be restored “under the patronage of the mayor and neighbouring gentry.” The effort, we are told, was entirely successful, the “oldest inhabitant” not being able to recall any thing more completely absurd. Our young democratic towns are sometimes equally fortunate in their civic proceedings without aristocratic assistance.

We were much interested in the old houses, of the same general style as those I described at Chester, but with every conceivable variation of form, and each with something peculiar to itself, so that we could not tire of rambling through the steep narrow streets to study them. There are a great many old churches here, too; one remarkable for a very light, tall, simply-tapering spire: another, the abbey church, has a great mingling of styles, and in some parts is very rich and elegant. There are several curious things about it—an old stone pulpit, battered statues, &c. Near it I noticed that some old religious house, that had been once connected with it, had been built upon, roofed over, and converted into a brewery. The roofs are universally of flat tiles here; a few miles north they entirely give way to slates.

On one of the bridges over the Severn, which here divides into two small streams, between which most of the town is beautifully situated, we saw a number of anglers with curricles, a light portable boat made of hide stretched out like an umbrella-top by a wicker frame. It is easily carried on one arm, and it forms a usual part of the angler’s or salmonfisher’s equipment in Wales.

In the afternoon J. and I walked on to Church Stretton, thirteen miles; our road, most of the way, through a level valley, with high, naked, bleak hills on each side. A man joined us who had been most of his life a miller, and had lately rented a sheep-walk of sixty-three acres on one of these hill-tops, or, rather, mountain-tops. They are to all appearance totally barren, except of gorse, and he said he could only stock at the rate of one and a half sheep to the acre.

I have heard a strange story of the effect of draining on soils of this sort. A considerable estate, mainly on the tops of such hills, (but not in this county,) having come into possession of a gentleman, he immediately commenced under-draining it in the most thorough and expensive manner. The whole country thought him crazy: “Why! the hills were too dry already; the man was throwing away his money;” and his friends, in great grief, endeavoured by expostulation and entreaty to get him off from his ruinous hobby. But he patiently carried it on, and waited the result; which was, that the increased rental, in a very short time, more than paid for the whole outlay, and the actual value of the land was trebled. (This account I had from a friend of the gentleman, and, though he could not give me the figures, he assured me, from his personal knowledge of the circumstances, that it was to be relied upon.)

GORSE, (furze or whins,) is an evergreen shrub, growing about three feet high, rough, thorny, prickly; flourishes in the poorest, dryest land, where if it gets possession it is extremely difficult to eradicate. It is sometimes used as a hedge plant, and for that purpose is planted thickly on high ridges. In some parts of England, fuel is made of it, and when bruised by powerful machines made for the purpose, it forms palatable and nutritious food for horses and cattle. Hereabouts, however, we could not learn that it was made of any use, or regarded otherwise than as a weed.

Church Stretton is a little village mostly made up of inns on the main street. We chose the Stag’s Head, a picturesque, many-gabled cottage, part of it very old, and, as we were told, formerly a manor-house of the Earl of Derby, who spent one night (ever to be remembered!) in it. It was close by a curiously-carved church and graveyard. From among a great many “improving” epitaphs, I selected the following as worthy of more extended influence.

A “NON SEQUITUR.”

“Farewell, my wife And children dear, in number seven, Therefore prepare yourself for Heaven.”

II.

“AN HONEST MAN.”

“Erected by the Curate of Church Stretton.”

III.

“Farewell, vain world, I have seen my last of thee; Thy smiles I court not, frowns I fear, My cares are past, my head lies quiet here, My time was short in this world, my work is done, My rest I hope is in another, In a quiet grave I lie, near my beloved mother.”

IV.

“A Friend so true, There is but few, And difficult to find; A man more just, And true to trust, There is not left behind.”

“You that are young, behold and see How quickly death hath conquered me, His fatal shaft it was so strong, And cut me off while I was young, But God above, He knew for why, That in my youth I was to die.”

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